‘Certainly did,’ said the old man in an affronted tone. ‘Me and Walter both. A couple of uniformed coppers took statements from everyone in here the day after Harry was found. We told them you should be looking for blacks . . . but nothing’s been done. Sometimes wonder if you lot are as afraid of them as the rest of us.’
The superintendent took a sip from his own glass. ‘You’ll have to accept my apologies on this one, Pat,’ he murmured diplomatically. ‘It seems that none of your information has got through. You have my word I’ll look into it.’
‘No need to cause a ruckus. You’ve got it now.’
Jones nodded. ‘Except I’m having a problem understanding why Harry would invite the same young black man back to his bedsit a month after he stole money from him.’
‘Who’s saying the boy was invited? Maybe him and his mate came back for a second helping.’
‘Harry’s bedsit was on the second floor of a block. He had to use an intercom to let people in and he had a spyhole in his door. We are as sure as we can be that his killer was there by invitation.’
‘Never went to his place. Didn’t know that.’
‘What about Walter? Would he invite a black man into his house after what happened to Harry?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Can’t see it.’
Jones nodded. ‘What about a young white guy? You said Walter was scared off by what happened to Harry . . . but would that have applied to all young men, irrespective of colour?’
In the absence of an answer from Pat, who seemed to flag when his long-held belief that blacks were responsible was undermined, it was Derek Hardy who spoke.
‘He brought a lad in here one time,’ he said. ‘The kid wanted a lager but I refused to serve him alcohol because he didn’t look eighteen and he didn’t have any ID on him.’ He nodded to the notice on the bar. ‘Walter was pretty annoyed about it and took him away.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Not sure. A couple of months?’
‘Can you give me a description of the lad?’
‘Ginger hair . . . bit of a beanpole . . . fifteen or sixteen at a guess. He may have been one of Walter’s grandchildren. They seemed pretty close and the kid was carrying a rucksack. I got the impression he’d come to London on a visit.’
*
It was arguable who was more put out when Jackson suddenly appeared at the other end of the bar and signalled to Derek Hardy – she, Jones or Beale. Certainly, none of them looked pleased to see each other. Jackson cursed herself for not recognizing their back views as she came in, and Jones cursed the fact that she was the one who’d interrupted his conversation with the landlord. He wondered how much she’d heard before they noticed her.
‘Drinking on duty, Doctor?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘I might ask you the same, Superintendent.’
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
Hardy glanced from one to the other with a look of curiosity on his face. ‘What can I do for you, Jacks? If it’s Mel you’re after, she said she’d be back by ten.’
Jackson glanced at the clock above the bar but seemed in two minds about what to do.
Jones, who thought of her as a decisive woman, couldn’t resist a barbed comment. ‘Would you like us to move to a table so that you can speak to this gentleman in private?’ he asked. ‘Presumably it’s something you don’t want the police to hear.’
‘You have a suspicious mind, Superintendent. You’ll draw the wrong inferences whatever I do.’
He watched her for a moment. ‘I’ll admit to being curious about where the lieutenant is. According to Dr Campbell, he’s safe as houses . . . couldn’t possibly harm anyone . . . because you never go out without him. Should I be concerned that you’re on your own?’
‘He’s in my car.’ ‘Then we don’t have a problem.’ Jones glanced at his inspector.
‘Invite the lieutenant in, Nick. I’d hate Dr Jackson to think I inferred anything from Charles’s absence.’
Jackson gave an abrupt sigh. ‘He’s vomiting into a sick bag . . . and my car has a crumpled offside wing and a flat tyre,’ she said. ‘As things stand, I can’t change the wheel unless someone helps me lever out the wing. I’m running late, I don’t have time to wait for the AA, and I was hoping Derek would lend me a hand. I also need to report a damaged bollard fifty yards down the road that’s likely to cause an accident.’
‘All of which sounds right up our street,’ said Jones with a smile as he eased off his stool. ‘We’d better take a look, hadn’t we?’
Twenty-three
WHILE DI BEALE WENT to check on the bollard, the superintendent accompanied Jackson to the BMW, which was parked on a double yellow line beyond the Crown. The passenger door was open and Acland was sitting immobile in the seat, with his hands in his lap and his head pressed back. The fact that he’d put his jacket back on was of no interest to Jones, who was unaware that he’d ever taken it off, but Jackson noticed it.
She raised her voice unnecessarily. ‘Best I could do on the parking front, Superintendent Jones,’ she said loudly. ‘All the other spaces were taken.’
Jones watched the lieutenant’s head jerk away from the seat rest and turn to look at them, but the sudden movement set him heaving into the bag he was holding. There was no question he was ill. The undamaged areas of his face were deathly white, making the grafted skin of his tapering scar seem more prominent than usual, and his hands shook visibly as he lowered the bag into his lap when the bout of nausea ended.
Jones squatted in the open doorway to take a closer look. He thought he could make out areas of bruising around the young man’s jawline – a faint blue flush under the skin – although Acland’s growth of stubble created its own shadow. There was certainly no mistaking the diagonal weal of the seat belt on the left-hand side of the neck, or the raw split along his bottom lip where his teeth had sliced the flesh. ‘You seem to have come off rather worse than the doctor, Charles. She doesn’t have a mark on her.’
Jackson spoke before Acland could. ‘He didn’t know it was going to happen,’ she said, propping her hand on the side of the car and dropping to her haunches beside the superintendent. ‘He couldn’t see the bollard from where he was sitting.’
‘Have you called an ambulance?’
‘Not yet.’
Gingerly, Acland opened his mouth. ‘I don’t want an ambulance,’ he slurred. ‘It’s migraine.’
‘You look as though you could do with a hospital trip to me. What do you say, Doctor?’
Jackson addressed Acland direct. ‘I’d be happier if you went for an X-ray,’ she told him. ‘That was quite a bang you took to the side of your head. I’d hate to think there are any more fractures in that cheek of yours.’
His mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. ‘Hardly felt it.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not taking you with me,’ she said firmly, as if to pre-empt any such request on his part. ‘The choice is a trolley in A&E or a bed here for the night . . . assuming Derek agrees to put you up. I can give you an anti-emetic before I go, and you can make your own way to the Bell in the morning. But I’ll have to tell Derek you’ll need watching. You understand that, don’t you?’
Acland nodded. ‘Nothing will happen.’ He drew a cross on his chest. ‘I promise.’
Jackson straightened abruptly, but Jones thought he saw annoyance – incomprehension? – in her face before she stepped back. ‘People can die from inhaling vomit,’ she said to neither in particular. ‘It’s important to keep an eye on them.’
‘You’re the expert,’ Jones remarked lightly, using the armrest on the door to push himself upright. ‘Shall we take a look at the wing?’
The damage wasn’t as bad as he was expecting. The collision had been absorbed by the BMW’s front offside impact unit, although it was clear that the side of the car had scraped along the bollard for several feet before Jackson managed to steer it free.