She gave them directions on how to find the squat where the group of women lived. ‘I’m afraid it’ll be a waste of time,’ she warned. ‘The police have already spoken to them and they haven’t seen him either.’ She allowed her curiosity to show. ‘What’s made Chalky so popular suddenly?’
‘He helped a boy who went into a diabetic coma,’ said Jackson disingenuously. ‘We thought he might like to know the lad’s on the mend. They seem to have known each other for quite a while.’
The woman nodded. ‘It’s only the youngsters who talk to him in here. They don’t seem as frightened of him as the older men.’
Acland raised his head. ‘What do the youngsters want from him?’
She looked surprised, as if the question was couched in terms she didn’t recognize. ‘I assume they find his stories about the Falklands interesting.’
Acland looked sceptical but didn’t continue.
Jackson picked up the woman’s response. ‘Is that what they talk about?’
‘It’s all he’s ever spoken about to me,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but we only listen in to clients’ private conversations if we’re invited, and I don’t recall Chalky ever doing that.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I’m afraid he’s rather suspicious of us, which is why we only see him rarely.’
‘What does he think you’re going to do?’ asked Jackson.
‘Press-gang him into the God squad,’ said the woman with a deprecating smile. ‘Tie his hands behind his back to stop him drinking . . . shackle him into a bath for two hours and forcibly shave him. Most of the older ones think we have a hidden agenda to sober them up and send them out for job interviews.’
Jackson looked amused. ‘And you don’t?’
The woman’s smiled widened. ‘We dream from time to time.’
*
The squat where the group of women was living was an abandoned house in a back street scheduled for redevelopment. It was part of an ugly 1960s terrace, the middle one of nine, all with boarded-up windows and paint-blistered doors. On his own, Acland would never have gained entry, but Jackson easily passed muster, not least because she had the foresight to hold her ‘doctor on call’ card in front of her during the inspection she was given through a cracked, diamond-shaped pane in the front door. The door opened six inches. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ asked a thin-faced woman with crinkled grey hair, who could have been any age between forty and sixty. ‘I’m Dr Jackson and my friend here is Charles Acland. We’re looking for a man who goes by the name of Chalky.’ ‘The police have already been. We haven’t seen him since we took over this place, which was a couple of months back.’ ‘So I heard,’ said Jackson, ‘but we could still do with any information you have. Are you and the others willing to give us ten minutes . . . tell us what you know about him . . . the kind of places he might be? We need to talk to him about a friend of his who’s in hospital.’ ‘Chalky doesn’t have any friends,’ the woman said dismissively. ‘Everyone gives up on him in the end. He’s a vicious bastard when he’s in drink.’ ‘This one’s a young lad called Ben Russell.’ ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He went into a diabetic coma a few days ago,’ said Jackson, ‘but he’s on the mend now. Maybe you know him? Ginger hair, sixteen years old, thin as a rake.’
‘No.’
‘We think Chalky may have something that belongs to him.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. He always lifts booze when he hangs around with us.’ She seemed to think this contradicted her previous assertion that Chalky was friendless. ‘We’re all in the same boat and he’s done us the odd favour from time to time . . . sees off guys who think we’re an easy target. Are you a real doctor?’
Jackson nodded.
A flicker of interest showed in the thin face. ‘Will you take a look at my partner? She’s had pains in her chest for days. It’s scaring the shit out of me, but she won’t do anything about it. I’ll get her to give you the low-down on Chalky in exchange. She knows him better than I do.’
‘Sure,’ said Jackson pleasantly, gesturing towards Acland, ‘but my friend will have to come in with me. Is that a problem?’
The woman glanced in his direction. ‘As long as he isn’t scared by noisy dykes. There’s a couple of mad ones in here who shout their heads off when they see a guy. They won’t worry about a butch stud like you, but they’ll probably go ape shit at the sight of the pirate.’
‘He’s a soldier,’ said Jackson matter-of-factly. ‘He’s dealt with a lot worse in Iraq.’ She took her keys from her pocket. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Avril.’
‘And your partner’s name?’
‘Mags.’
‘OK, Avril. Well, my car’s parked in the next road. I’ll need five minutes to collect my case.’
Avril pulled the door wide. ‘Let your friend do it,’ she invited. ‘I’ll get one of the others to let him in when he comes back. You can talk to Mags about Chalky while he’s gone.’
Jackson’s eyes creased with amusement. ‘No chance. He doesn’t know which drugs to remove . . . and if he’s on his own, he might be persuaded to hand the case to one of your mad girlfriends and stay outside.’
Avril bridled immediately. ‘We’re none of us thieves.’
‘Good, because the strongest medication I’ll have in my possession when I return is aspirin, and the lieutenant here will be watching my back. Do you still say your partner’s suffering chest pains?’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Just checking,’ said Jackson lightly.
*
Avril’s protestations of honesty appeared highly dubious when Jackson and Acland entered the house. From the glimpses they had into the downstairs rooms, the women had hijacked an IKEA lorry. They seemed to have a passion for rattan chairs, straw matting and russet-coloured throws, and it might have been a regular house but for the hurricane lamps and candles that compensated for the disconnected electricity and boarded-up windows. ‘Everything’s made in China,’ said Avril, pre-empting any questions, ‘so it’s all dirt cheap. A mate got it for us.’ She was carrying a torch and directed it towards a staircase. ‘My partner’s up here but I told the other three to stay in the kitchen. The two schizophrenics are probably more scared of doctors than they are of guys.’ She led the way to the next floor and opened a bedroom door. ‘Mags won’t want a bloke ogling her,’ she told Jackson, jerking her head at Acland. ‘He’ll have to wait outside.’ Over Avril’s head, Acland caught a glimpse of an overweight woman with bloated calves sitting in a low chair. Even by candlelight her face was the colour of lard, and the wide-eyed, anxious gaze she turned towards them suggested she knew she was going to be told something she didn’t want to hear. To Acland’s untutored eyes, death had already come knocking and he withdrew instinctively, taking up a position against the wall in the corridor. ‘Call if you need me,’ he told Jackson. ‘I’ll be right here.’
She nodded and went into the room. As the door closed behind her, the corridor was plunged into darkness, with only a faint glimmer of candlelight shining up the stairwell from below. For the first minute or so, Acland could only hear the murmur of conversation in the room behind him, but as his eye adjusted to the darkness his ears adjusted similarly to the low-level noise in the rest of the house. The hum of women’s voices was audible from the kitchen – one louder and more petulant in tone than the rest – but he couldn’t make out what any of them was saying. Less expected was the muted rasp of a throat being inadequately cleared in the room directly opposite him across the small rectangular landing.
Wondering if it was a trick of tinnitus, he turned his head to listen with his good ear. This time the sound was quite distinct. Whoever was in there was trying to contain a smoker’s cough by holding on to phlegm for as long as possible until the need to expel it produced an involuntary spasm. There was nothing to indicate gender – the rasp was a toneless guttural – but, as no light was escaping from under the door and Acland could think of no reason for a woman to sit in total darkness for fear of drawing attention to herself, his instinct said it was a man.