He pressed the back of his thumb against his eyepatch. ‘Then go and do the business yourself. You know where she lives. You might even prefer her to Daisy. She’ll be all over you as long as the first rush hasn’t worn off.’
Jackson allowed a pulse of silence to pass. ‘I didn’t deserve that . . . and, just for the record, I don’t fancy addicts – they’re too damn twitchy for my liking. But,’ she continued over his muttered apology, ‘even if I did, I wouldn’t turn myself into a martyr over one of them. So Jen initiated sex during cocaine rushes. What’s the big deal?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Does it hurt your pride? Are you thinking she only fancied you with chemical assistance?’
Acland leaned forward abruptly to grind the knuckles of his left hand into his eyepatch. ‘You need to stop,’ he said through gritted teeth.
She glanced at him, saw his pallor. ‘There’s a sick bag in the dashboard pocket,’ she said unsympathetically. ‘I’ll stop when it’s safe to do so.’
‘No.’ Acland’s right hand shot out and grasped the steering wheel, veering the car to the left. ‘You’re doing my fucking head in! Women do my fucking head in!’
Jackson stamped on the brakes and used her own strength to keep the BMW from ploughing into a line of parked vehicles. ‘Take your hands off!’ she snarled. ‘NOW!’
For a moment his grip seemed to slacken, then, with a sudden reversal of pressure, he turned the wheel to the right, using the force Jackson was already applying to steer the car towards the other side of the road. It happened so fast, and the combined strength of both their pulls was so powerful, that any attempt on her part to redress the drift came too late. She watched a lighted bollard in the middle of the road race towards them, felt the offside front tyre strike the kerb, and the only thought she had was that he was trying to kill her.
Her reaction was automatic. She took her left hand from the steering wheel, chopped the point of her elbow into the side of his jaw, then used her forearm to slam his plated cheek against the passenger window...
*
‘Harry was Bob Peel’s eldest . . . did a stint in the army, then followed his dad into dockwork . . . until Maggie Thatcher took agin the unions and sold off the wharves to property developers.’ Pat took a thoughtful slurp from the beer Jones had bought him. ‘Me and Walter always knew Harry was a bit AC/DC . . . very dapper . . . liked his clothes . . . but it came as a shock to Bob. He hoped the army would knock some sense into Harry . . . and, when it didn’t, he married him off to Fred Leeming’s lass.’ ‘Debbie.’ ‘That’s the one. They never had any kiddies, which was a shame. Bob blamed it on Harry’s nancy-boy ways, but Harry told me in private that it was little Debbie who had the problem. She had a fair few women’s problems . . . fibroids and such . . . ended up with a hysterectomy before she was forty.’ He lapsed into silence, as if he’d forgotten what he was talking about. ‘You said you saw more of Harry after he and Debbie separated,’ Nick Beale prompted. ‘That’s right. He was lonely, poor lad. His dad died twenty years back but his mum passed away the night of the millennium . . . never got to see the new century. Good thing, too, some would say. It would have broken the old girl’s heart to know her boy got murdered.’ He bent his head for another mouthful of beer. ‘Walter and me did what we could to keep him chipper. He drove his taxi most nights, but he’d usually find time to drop in here around six for an orange juice and a quick chat. He was a good lad . . . not my generation, of course . . . I was his dad’s friend.’ He smiled vaguely at the superintendent. ‘Did you know Bob Peel? Worked down the docks...’ Derek Hardy broke in. ‘They want to know about Harry, Pat. You need to tell them about the men he took back to his bedsit.’
‘Thieving bastards, more like,’ said the old man, his mouth curving down in disgust. ‘I don’t say I approved of what Harry got up to . . . poor old Bob’d turn in his grave if he knew . . . but Walter said there were some things you couldn’t help . . . and I reckon he should know. He’s a bit that way himself. Him and May got on well enough, but they weren’t exactly soul mates.’
Jones stirred. ‘They had three children.’
‘I’m not saying he didn’t do his duty . . . just that he left the bedroom stuff alone once it was over. The missus said May wasn’t particularly bothered about it . . . in them days, sex wasn’t the be-all and end-all of existence . . . you just got on with the hand you were dealt.’ He took another swallow of beer. ‘Him and May were happy enough, but there’s no denying Walter’d rather sit in here with me and Harry than stay at home with his old lady. Don’t reckon May knew it, though. Walter’d never have hurt her by telling her as much.’
Jones had heard this refrain before. His team had spoken to at least fifty men who hadn’t wanted their families to know they were leading double lives. Kevin Atkins’s wife had been particularly poignant about her husband’s discretion. ‘If he’d loved us less he’d probably still be alive. He went out of his way to keep his gay side secret . . . just to avoid embarrassing the kids.’
‘Did Walter and Harry get together after May died?’ he asked Pat.
‘None of my business . . . never asked.’
‘What about other men?’
‘You talking about Walter still?’
Jones nodded.
‘Doubt it . . . reckon he was scared off by what happened to Harry.’
‘The murder?’
‘Before that . . . Harry got taken for half a grand. Never seen the poor bugger so scared. Said he was frogmarched to a cashpoint with a knife to his throat and made to take out two lots of two fifty, one before midnight and the other after.’
‘Did he report it?’
Pat shook his head. ‘Told him to, but he was scared out of his wits they’d come after him. All he could think about was leaving the place he was in and going back to Debbie . . . Reckon it put him off fagging for good.’
Jones sorted the various pieces of information in his head. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A month or so before he was murdered.’
‘You said “they”. How many people were involved?’
‘Not sure . . . two, I think. Far as I remember, Harry said the lad he took home let a second one in soon as business was completed . . . could have been more, though.’
‘Into Harry’s bedsit.’
Pat nodded. ‘Gave Harry the scare of his life by all accounts . . . he was half-asleep and naked when he found a knife at his throat.’
‘Did he know who these people were? Did he describe them?’
‘He said they were black . . . reckon that’s why he was so frightened. He thought they were going to take his money and stab him anyway. It’s the kind of thing that type does, isn’t it?’
Jones ignored the remark. ‘Afro-Caribbean? Nigerian? Somalian?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Age?’
‘The first one was a youngster, I know that, but I’m not sure about the other. Harry guessed they’d run the scam before . . . went straight to his wallet, took out his card and said they’d report him for sex with a minor if he didn’t come up with a grand.’
‘Did he say where he met the youngster?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Probably a fare . . . he was damn wary who he let into the cab after. Do you reckon they’re the ones who killed him?’
Jones avoided the question. ‘We could have done with this information a bit earlier, Pat. Did you report it after Harry was murdered?’