‘Perhaps he was trying to protect you.’
‘He made sure everything happened behind closed doors after that . . . then packed me off to school. We played musical chairs around Mother so that she could have everything her own way.’
‘And you despise him for that?’
‘Yes.’ He opened and closed his fists till the knuckles cracked.
Privately, Jackson sympathized with him. It would explain a lot about his character, she thought, if he had no respect for the gentler of the parental role models. She even wondered if his problems with his mother stemmed from a confused admiration for her strength. ‘Except it’s hard to break cycles of abuse, Charles. If your dad grew up with an alcoholic wife-beater for a father, it must have taken extraordinary control to put up with similar treatment from your mother . . . then reach a point where it doesn’t happen any more. Most people would commend him for that.’
‘Not me. He wouldn’t have married her unless he enjoys being a doormat.’
‘He might not have known . . . unless her parents tried to warn him –’ Jackson gave a small shrug – ‘which may be the reason why she fell out with them. But even if they did, he wouldn’t have believed the warning. The relationship she had with them would have been very different from the one she had with your father.’
Acland shook his head stubbornly. ‘He lived with his own father long enough. If he’d ever found the guts to stand up to him, he might have done the same with my mother.’
‘Is that how you tried to run your relationship with Jen?’
The question, unanswered, hung in the air between them.
‘You can’t seem to decide which of your parents to emulate,’ Jackson went on. ‘Whether it’s more important to prove who’s boss . . . or to walk away when the abuse gets out of hand. Did you get a buzz from hurting Jen?’
Acland stared at her for a moment. ‘Not as big a buzz as I got from hurting my mother,’ he said before turning away to look out of the passenger window.
Nineteen
LEACHED OF COLOUR, and attached to drips and monitors, Walter more closely resembled a marble effigy than a conscious human being. He lay with closed eyes, and only the minute rise and fall of the sheet across his chest suggested life. Taking his cue from the attendant nurse, who whispered to him to speak clearly, Jones leaned forward. ‘Can you hear me, Mr Tutting? I’m a police officer. My name’s Detective Superintendent Brian Jones.’
‘You don’t need to shout. I’m not deaf.’ The old man half-opened his eyes. ‘Can’t see too well, though. Who’s the other one?’
‘Detective Inspector Nick Beale . . . Metropolitan Police. We’re investigating the assault on you.’
‘About bloody time. I’ve been wondering what I pay my taxes for.’
Jones smiled. ‘Do you remember what happened?’
‘Bastard tried to rob me.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
The old man’s lips chewed against each other as if thinking was a physical process. ‘Fucker with the eyepatch,’ he muttered suddenly. ‘Never stood a chance . . . came up behind me as I was looking for my key.’
‘The man you spoke to at the bank?’
‘That’s the one.’
Jones looked questioningly towards Beale. ‘Do you know this for a fact, sir?’ the inspector asked. ‘Did you get a good look at your attacker?’
The old man’s blue-veined lids closed again. ‘Clear as daylight . . . followed me home because he knew I had cash on me . . . nasty piece of work.’
‘Are you certain about that, sir? You said you couldn’t see too well.’
Walter’s mouth started writhing again and he mumbled something they didn’t catch. ‘Chased him off with my stick after he took a swipe at my head.’
Beale hesitated. ‘Was that inside or outside your house, Mr Tutting? Did you let him in?’
The question seemed to worry the old man. He chattered to himself under his breath and Beale thought he caught silly old fool . . . mustn’t tell Amy. ‘Outside.’
‘Are you certain about that, Mr Tutting? According to our witnesses, you didn’t have a walking stick with you at the bank.’
His mouth worked frantically. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘Has your daughter told you to be careful who you let in?’
‘Wouldn’t do it . . . always known what’s what.’
‘You were found collapsed in a shop doorway on Gainsborough Road, on the other side from your house. What persuaded you to cross over? Did no one offer help on your own side?’
‘Bit of distance.’
It was Beale’s turn to send a puzzled glance towards his boss. ‘Between you and the attacker?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Why didn’t you dial 999 from your house?’
‘Wasn’t going to open the door . . . bloody stupid thing to do.’
Beale was about to point out that what he was saying didn’t accord with the facts, but Jones butted in. ‘You showed a lot of courage, Mr Tutting. There aren’t many pensioners who would take on a man younger and bigger than himself. Did you see the weapon he used to hit you? Do you recall what it was?’
‘Something heavy.’
‘Do you remember doing anything that might have made this person angry?’
‘Refused to pay up.’
‘He wanted money?’
Walter’s eyes snapped open and both men thought they saw fear in his expression. ‘She right, then?’
‘I don’t know, sir. It depends who she is and what she says.’
He made an obvious effort to concentrate. ‘Amy . . . been a silly old fool.’
Jones shook his head. ‘We believe you’re the fourth person this individual has attacked, sir, and the three previous victims are dead. It’s only because you fought back that you’re still alive.’ He paused. ‘If you’re worried that we’re going to repeat what you tell us to your daughter, will you accept my personal guarantee that that won’t happen? You’re the only witness we have. Your information is vital to us.’
There were too many facts for the old man to absorb. ‘It’s nothing I did . . . no one opens their doors any more.’
Stifling a sigh, Jones tried again. ‘Did you manage to land a blow? Do you recall making contact with any particular part of his body?’
Walter’s mouth set to squirming again. ‘Skin and bones ...no better than a stick insect . . . used to watch ’em at school in science lessons . . . never liked ’em.’ The look of fear flared in his eyes again. ‘Don’t tell Amy.’
*
‘How much of that was dementia and how much the after-effects of sedation?’ Jones asked the nurse, a sister, outside the unit. ‘Will he be any less confused tomorrow?’ The woman shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. We’ve been bringing him out gradually and he’s been fully awake for three or four hours now . . . so, in theory, the effects should have worn off already.’ ‘Best guess?’ She pulled a wry face. ‘You’ve seen him at his best. He was a great deal more alert when he was talking to you than when he first came round.’ She paused. ‘For what it’s worth, the first thing he said to me was “Don’t tell Amy” and he’s been repeating it on and off ever since.’
‘Do you know what it is he doesn’t want her to know?’
‘Not for certain, but his daughter’s a dragon – she’s been on our backs from the moment he was brought in – and I’m assuming she’s the same with him. I can take another guess if you like –’ she smiled – ‘as long as you don’t blame me for being wrong.’
‘Go on.’
‘The other things he keeps repeating are “Mustn’t open the door” and “Been a silly old fool”, and I’m sure the three ideas are connected. He more or less told you as much. I suspect his daughter’s been drumming into him that he’s not to let strangers into the house and now he’s trapped in a loop of anxiety because he disobeyed her. Mustn’t open the door . . . don’t tell Amy . . . been a silly old fool.’