‘You were right about prostitutes. If the daughter’s to be believed, Walter’s been entertaining most of the working girls in south London over the last six months. She’s short on detail – doesn’t know names and can’t describe any particular girls because she’s never seen any of them – but she’s adamant that half a dozen see her father as an easy touch.’
‘How did she come up with a number if she’s never seen them?’
‘Walter let it slip when she told him he was a fool to think a drug-addicted tart would give a damn about him. He said it wasn’t just one, it was more like six.’
‘Why didn’t she tell us this before?’
‘The usual,’ said Beale, flicking the pages of his notebook. ‘We didn’t ask . . . she didn’t think it was important . . . she thought her father had said it was a man who’d attacked him.’ He isolated an entry. ‘I mentioned that none of the fingerprints in Walter’s house matched anything we had – and I said it was odd because I didn’t believe her father had picked on the only six prostitutes in London who didn’t have convictions – and her answer was, “I told him I wouldn’t come back if he didn’t clean up after himself.”’
‘So where’s the evidence of prostitution? You said, “if the daughter’s to be believed”. Are guesses all you’ve got?’
‘He’s been paying them. According to Ms Tutting, he’s so senile he coughs up two or three times for a single session. She says the girls use him as a free banking service every time they need a fix. She even thinks he’s given his PIN to one or two of them.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A list of examples of how disgusting Walter’s been.’ Beale kept his voice deliberately matter of fact. ‘Semen in mugs . . . dirty underpants . . . the smell of cheap perfume round his trouser fly . . . fag ends in the sink. Apparently, he masturbates in front of Ms Tutting when he forgets who she is.’
Jones pulled a grimace of distaste. ‘Is she telling the truth?’
‘I’d say so. She’s had some ding-dong rows with her father about money and he hasn’t denied that he’s spent it on prostitutes . . . claims it’s his right to do what he likes with it. I’ll check with his bank tomorrow, find out how much he’s withdrawn in the last six months.’
‘Why six months?’
‘Ms Tutting found a stack of unpaid bills dating back to February. It could be longer. She says he’s been acting weird since his wife died two years ago.’
‘Weird as in sexually active?’
Beale shrugged. ‘Sexually curious, at least. She claims to have seen a telephone bill from last year which shows he racked up five hundred quid on 0900 lines in a single quarter.’
Jones frowned. ‘Why haven’t we found that? 0900 numbers should have been ringing alarm bells for days.’
‘Walter threw everything away when Ms Tutting threatened to have him certified as financially incompetent. That was two or three weeks ago.’
‘How long’s she known about the prostitutes?’
‘For certain? Not much longer. A month at most . . . from the time she found the unpaid bills and challenged him about them. She’s been trying to persuade him they’re robbing him blind and he’s not to open the door if one of them rings.’
Jones rubbed his hands vigorously over his face. ‘I’ve a damn good mind to have the idiotic woman arrested for obstruction.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Does she know how he contacts these girls?’
Beale shook his head. ‘She says it’s the other way round. They seek him out whenever they need cash.’
‘He must have contacted them in the first place. Did she have any ideas on that?’
‘The only things she’s sure about are that he doesn’t know how to work a computer and he’s been having a drink in the same pub every night for thirty years.’ He consulted his notebook again. ‘The Crown. It’s a couple of streets away from Walter’s house. Do you know it?’
Jones shook his head.
‘I’ve a nagging feeling at the back of my mind that it’s come up before in this inquiry . . . but I can’t remember where. I’m wondering if it’s one of the places that had a mini-cab arrangement with Harry Peel?’ He raised enquiring eyebrows. ‘Strike a chord?’
‘No. Has anyone checked it out since the attack on Walter?’
‘I don’t know. Ms Tutting said she mentioned it when she was asked about her father’s habits, but it didn’t come up when I spoke to one of the team earlier.’ He watched the superintendent’s expression darken. ‘It won’t be anyone’s fault, Brian. Walter’s been on a back burner because of Kevin Atkins’s mobile. Do you want me to call in to the Crown on my way back?’
Jones looked at his watch. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll come with you.’ He jerked his thumb at Ben Russell’s door. ‘Is there anything Ms Tutting told you that might wipe the smile off laughing boy’s face?’
Beale hesitated. ‘Nothing specific, but she has huge issues with teenage girls – the sister was bang on the button about that. I listened to a two-minute rant on how the only thing feminism has created is a generation of sexually active, celebrity-mad, half-naked, binge-drinking wannabes . . . then another two minutes on how easy they’ve made it for teenage boys to take advantage of them.’
Jones smiled slightly. ‘So? Any copper on the beat will tell you the same.’
‘Agreed, but it made me wonder about Ben. He wants us to think Chalky’s his only friend in London and that he still holds a candle for Hannah in Wolverhampton . . . but I’d say that’s a little unlikely, wouldn’t you? He’s been here a while, and presumably he was a healthy sixteen-year-old before the diabetes kicked in.’
‘You think he knows Walter’s prostitutes?’
Beale shrugged. ‘It’s a reasonable bet. They’re the same age group, and I can’t see letters from an absent girlfriend keeping a sexually active sixteen-year-old on the straight and narrow for long . . . or not one with Ben’s capacity for dodging and weaving.’
*
‘Ten minutes,’ Jones agreed with the solicitor as he resumed his seat, nodding to the WPC to resume her note-taking. ‘Just a few more questions and then we’ll call it a day.’ He studied Ben’s bored expression for a second or two. ‘You might prefer your mother to leave the room,’ he murmured, ‘unless you’re happy to discuss your sexual activities in front of her.’ He was rewarded with a flicker of alarm, but the solicitor jumped in before the boy could say anything. ‘We agreed that questions would relate only to those items in Ben’s rucksack that he has freely admitted stealing, Superintendent.’ Jones nodded. ‘But we believe your client received or stole those items from teenage prostitutes, Mr Pearson, and I’m interested in the relationship he has with these girls.’ Pearson gave a perfunctory smile. ‘If you put those questions individually, Mr Jones, I will advise Ben to answer them. If you insist on linking them, I won’t.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer me to do it.’ He turned to the boy. ‘Ben . . . have you ever received stolen items . . . or stolen items yourself . . . from teenage prostitutes?’ ‘No.’ ‘To your knowledge, have you ever had a relationship – sexual or otherwise – with a teenage prostitute?’ ‘Not unless Hannah was one.’ He sniggered at the solicitor’s frown. ‘It was a joke, for fuck’s sake. I’ve never been with a prozzie in my life.’
‘Please continue, Superintendent.’
Jones studied the man’s face and wondered what he really thought about his client. Mid-forties and well spoken, Pearson seemed an unlikely champion for a foul-mouthed Wolverhampton lad. ‘Irrespective of those answers, Mr Pearson, I intend to continue this line of questioning. Ben has a history of predatory behaviour on vulnerable under-age girls. Hannah was twelve when he first had sex with her. He was fifteen.’
‘We’ve dealt with this issue, Superintendent. Hannah’s parents have declined to take the matter any further.’