‘And it’s his attacker he’s talking about?’
‘I don’t know. It depends how long he’s been inviting people in. It may be a loop that’s been going on for months.’
‘What if the daughter can persuade him she’s not angry? Will that help?’
‘In terms of admitting that he opens his door? I don’t know. You’ll have to ask a geriatric psychiatrist.’
‘Best guess?’ Jones prompted again.
‘Probably not if his daughter’s the one he’s scared of. I’d say you’d have better luck with an expert therapist.’ She paused again. ‘Does it matter? Walter wasn’t confused about who did it. He gave you a good description.’
‘Assuming he was telling the truth. He lied about where the attack took place.’
‘Only because he’s afraid of Amy.’
Thoughtfully, Jones rubbed the side of his jaw. ‘Is that common in dementia? That a person can shift from truth to lie with no difficulty? Don’t you need joined-up thinking for that?’
Beale stirred. ‘He seemed fairly switched on at the beginning,’ he pointed out. ‘Made a joke about paying taxes.’
The sister looked uncomfortable, as if she felt she was being encouraged to stray into areas that were outside her remit. ‘You need to talk to a specialist,’ she told them. ‘Everything I know about dementia could be written on the back of a fag packet.’
‘Which is a lot more than we know,’ said Jones lightly. ‘Do you mind telling us why you think some of what Walter said was true, but not the rest?’
‘I’m not sure—’ She broke off to collect her thoughts. ‘Look, I’ll answer your first question. You wanted to know if dementia sufferers can tell deliberate lies . . . and, yes, of course they can. It depends how advanced the condition is and whether, like Walter, they have something to hide. It’s the three ages of man thing – the vulnerable elderly lie in the same way that children do when they’re afraid they’re going to be given a bollocking.’
‘So why wouldn’t Walter be lying about the man with the eyepatch?’
‘Because he didn’t need to. His daughter isn’t going to be angry with him for describing his attacker. The anxiety loop is about letting the man inside, not about who he was.’ She studied their expressionless faces. ‘I’m not saying I’m right.’
Jones nodded. ‘In fact we’ve already established that our friend with the eyepatch couldn’t have done it. Walter’s lying about him as well.’ He watched irritation thin the woman’s lips. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to trip you up, I was just interested in why you found that part of Walter’s evidence convincing.’
‘He didn’t seem anxious about it.’
‘Until the superintendent asked him if he’d said or done anything to provoke the attack,’ Beale cut in. ‘He started talking about stick insects shortly afterwards. What was that all about?’
The sister shook her head. ‘I’m not the person you should be asking. I’ll call one of the consultants. They’ll be able to tell you far more than I can.’ She made to walk past them but Jones blocked her path.
‘One last question . . . and don’t worry,’ he said, raising a placating hand, ‘it’s a personal opinion I’m after, not a medical one. You described Walter’s daughter as a dragon. What kind of attacker would make her so angry with her father that he’d rather pretend it was someone else?’
She checked her watch. ‘If you hang on for a few minutes, you can ask her direct. When I phoned to say Walter had regained consciousness, she said she’d be in around six.’
‘I’d still like your opinion.’
Unexpectedly, the woman laughed. ‘Young, female and pretty,’ she said flippantly, ‘but I can’t see the dragon admitting to it . . . unless you tell her you’re looking for a girl in a miniskirt...’
*
Jones took out his notebook, turned to a blank page and jotted down some sentences. ‘How old is your mother?’ he asked Beale. ‘Fifty-nine.’ ‘Happy with her life?’ ‘Not particularly.’ ‘What about your kids? How old are they?’ ‘Seven and five.’ The superintendent eyed him with amusement. ‘Good answers, Nick. I’d say that makes you the expert on depressed fiftysomethings and me the expert on bolshie teenagers.’ He tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to Beale. ‘I’ll take Ben, you take Ms Tutting. If you can persuade her to answer these questions, we might get somewhere, but you’ll probably have to talk around the subject first.’ Beale read what Jones had written. Does Walter use prostitutes? Where does he find them? How long’s he been doing it? Does he have a regular? ‘Cheers,’ he said acidly. ‘Do you want to give me some hints on how I’m supposed to discuss an eighty-two-year-old’s sexual habits with his daughter? It’s not something I’ve done on a regular basis.’
‘Use your imagination.’ Jones clapped his number two on the back. ‘Just make sure you speak to her before she gets to her father. We won’t get a sniff at prostitutes if she thinks she can blame the assault on Charles Acland.’
*
Beale parked himself on a chair in the corridor and phoned through to one of his colleagues to find out what Amy Tutting had been asked in previous interviews. Not very much was the answer. ‘She was fairly distraught, so we didn’t press too hard.’ Most of the questions had related to Walter’s regular daily habits, how often she visited him, what she knew of his movements on the day, a check of a police inventory of the contents of his house, and a list of his friends and acquaintances. She had spoken of her father’s increasing forgetfulness but hadn’t mentioned putting pressure on him to keep his door closed. Beale’s colleague described her as ‘a bit uptight’, but only because she burst into tears and let rip at her brothers for refusing to help with Walter’s care. ‘She works full-time as a PA and said it was tiring trying to cope on her own.’ Beale rose to his feet as a smartly dressed, middle-aged woman came through the swing doors. ‘Ms Tutting?’ He offered his hand when she nodded. ‘Detective Inspector Nick Beale. I know you’re keen to see your father, but may I borrow you for five minutes before you do? Sister’s lent me a small office at the other end of the corridor.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘It is important, ma’am, otherwise I wouldn’t ask.’ She was pleasant-looking in a conventional way, with well-groomed dark hair and light make-up, but there were deep grooves at the side of her mouth that suggested it turned down more often than it turned up. She wasn’t smiling now. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’
Beale produced his warrant card. ‘There’s a phone in the sister’s office. You can double-check my credentials from there.’
Uninterested, she returned the card. ‘I’ve already told your people everything I know. What good will another five minutes do?’
‘I’d rather discuss that in private, Ms Tutting. Some of the issues your father’s raised are quite sensitive.’
She frowned unhappily but allowed herself to be shepherded down the corridor. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything he says, you know. He forgot my mother’s name a couple of weeks ago . . . kept insisting it was Ella . . . but that’s the name of one of my sisters-in-law. He remembered Mum the next day, but there was no arguing with him at the time. He doesn’t like being told he’s wrong.’
Beale closed the office door and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Had Ella been to visit him that day?’
‘Hardly. She and my brother live in Australia.’
Beale favoured her with a sympathetic smile as he took the other chair. ‘What about your other brother? Is he any closer?’