The Chameleon's Shadow (10 page)

‘I wouldn’t have spoken to him if I’d realized he was –’ Mansoor gave an awkward shrug as he sought for an appropriate expression – ‘well, that he’d been in an accident . . . had surgery . . . whatever.
You
know.’

‘Not really. You’re talking gobbledygook as far as I’m concerned. What were these racist names he called you?’

‘He said I was a murderer and an ignorant Paki.’

‘And what did you call him?’

‘A maniac.’

The policeman turned to Acland. ‘Is there anything you want to say?’

‘No.’

The man eyed him for a moment, then looked enquiringly at Jackson. ‘Either this one’s had too much to drink or he needs a doctor. He’s green to the gills.’

‘He took a kicking from Rashid’s friends . . . so unless Rashid sees it differently I’d say they’re about even in the assault stakes.’

The policeman looked at the Pakistani and nodded when he shook his head. ‘What about you, Jackson? It’s your property. Do you want me to arrest the whole lot for criminal damage and take them back to the station –’ there was a glint of amusement in his eye, as if they’d been down this road before – ‘or give them a warning and throw them out? I can’t make an exception of Captain Kidd here.’

‘What kind of choice is that?’ she said sourly. ‘I’ll lose my business if word gets out that I handed a sick man to you lot . . . even worse if the punters have to clamber over him to reach the front door.’

The officer grinned. ‘I’m guessing he’ll look a lot grimmer if you make me drag him down to the station . . . and it’ll make your job harder.’

‘Mm.’ She took the empty ice bucket from the bar and placed it on the brokers’ table. ‘Five quid each for the aggro you’ve given me, and I’ll let you go . . . but it’s fifty quid to you two jerks,’ she said, aiming her index fingers at Acland and Mansoor. ‘I’m damned if Daisy and me are going to wipe up after you, so you either pay for an agency cleaner or get down on your knees and scrub up the blood yourselves.’

The brokers produced fivers with indecent haste and made a beeline for the exit before anyone could rewrite the rules. ‘That’s my kind of justice,’ said Jackson, passing the ice bucket to Daisy and winking at the policeman. ‘Instant compensation for the victims and no official time wasted on paperwork.’ She rubbed her thumb and forefinger under Mansoor’s nose. ‘OK, my little Muslim friend, it’s your turn. Ante up.’

Mansoor took out his wallet with bad grace. ‘What about
him
?’

‘Oh, he’ll pay, don’t you worry about that.’ She took the Pakistani’s money. ‘But, first, I’m going to do you a favour and keep him alive, otherwise you’ll be down at the police station answering questions about murder.’ She stooped over Acland. ‘Where are you hurting?’

He continued to stare at the floor. ‘Head,’ he muttered through clenched teeth, holding back the bile that rose in his throat with every eye movement. ‘Migraine.’

‘Have you had a migraine before? Do you recognize the symptoms?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did your surgeon say was causing them?’

‘Phantom pain.’

‘From losing your eye?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have pain anywhere else? Ribs? Back? Did any of the kicks do any damage?’

‘No.’

‘Can you stand up?’

Acland made an effort to comply, but the movement sent bile shooting into his mouth. He clamped both palms over his mouth and retched convulsively.

‘Great!’ said Jackson sourly. ‘Chuck us a towel, Daisy.’ She caught the cloth and handed it to Acland. ‘Use that,’ she said, hauling him upright and hoisting him over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift, ‘and don’t mess up my clothes or it’ll cost you another fifty.’ She paused briefly in front of the two policemen. ‘I’ll knock him flat if he’s a nutter and goes berserk,’ she warned, ‘so don’t try pinning GBH on me if he complains to you afterwards.’

‘You’re all heart, Jackson.’

‘That’s the truth of it,’ she agreed, carrying the weight of a grown man on her back as easily as she would a child.

* Acland remembered her lowering him on to a bed and telling him to use the bowl that she placed beside his pillow. Shortly afterwards she came back with a briefcase and asked him about the injuries to his face. Where had the surgery been done? Was he on any drugs? When was the last time he’d seen a doctor? How often

did he have migraines? How did he manage them? Were they getting worse? Was nausea always involved? What remedies did he use?

He answered as well as he could, mostly in monosyllables, but when the retching continued unabated, she offered him an injection of an anti-emetic to help him take on fluids and keep a painkiller down. Worn out, he agreed. He fell asleep soon after the sedative properties of the analgesic took effect, but not before he had revealed rather more about himself than he’d ever told Willis.

* Sunshine filtered through a gap in the curtains when Acland woke the next morning and he could hear the clatter of crockery in the kitchen downstairs. There was no confusion about where he was or what had happened. He remembered every event of the previous evening – or thought he did – right up to the question he’d put to Jackson shortly before she gave him the anti-emetic. ‘Are you a doctor?’ But he couldn’t recall if she’d answered. He was lying on his left side, facing the window, and he noticed his shoes and socks on a chair beside it. He was naked except for his underpants but had no idea when his clothes had been removed or who had done it. He levered himself into a sitting position to look around the rest of the room. It was small and utilitarian with a pinewood wardrobe in one corner and a pedestal basin and mirror on the wall opposite the window. The vomit bowl, emptied and washed, stood with his wallet, watch and eyepatch on the bedside cabinet, and a hand towel lay folded next to his pillow. There was no sign of his jacket, shirt or trousers. He strapped on his eyepatch, then checked the time by his watch. Almost nine o’clock. Wary of squeaking floorboards, which would tell whoever was in the kitchen that he was awake, he slid out from under the duvet and tiptoed to the wardrobe. At the very least he was hoping for a dressing gown, but all he found were five empty coat hangers. Feeling foolish, he put on his socks

and shoes, tucked his wallet into the waistband of his underpants, then stripped the pink floral cover from the duvet and wrapped it round his middle.

He eased open the door to the landing and poked out his head, looking for a bathroom, but all the adjoining rooms were firmly closed. To his left was a staircase, and the sounds from the kitchen carried clearly up the well. Aromas, too. Someone was grilling bacon and the smell shot pangs of hunger through his empty stomach. He couldn’t tell if he was in a private part of the building or if the nearby rooms were to let, so with an increasing sense of awkwardness he edged quietly along the landing, looking for anything that might indicate a lavatory.

It was sod’s law that when he finally plucked up the courage to try a handle he’d find Jackson inside. She was sitting astride a bench press, facing the door, with her arms stretched out at shoulder height and a dumbbell in each huge fist. She gave a throaty chuckle at Acland’s appearance as she bent her elbows to bring the dumbbells back on to her chest. ‘Nice skirt,’ she said. ‘If you’re looking for the bathroom it’s the room opposite yours. You can borrow the robe on the back of the door, but don’t go using my razor. I’ll be through in five minutes.’

A flush stained the lieutenant’s neck and cheeks as he backed out with a muttered apology, and Jackson wondered if he was younger than the thirty-something she’d estimated last night. It was difficult to age him with his buzz-cut hair and damaged face, but she’d certainly thought him older than Mansoor and his friends. As she straightened her arms to raise the dumbbells again, she revisited some of the answers he’d given her about his medical history.

What caused your injuries?
A piece of metal.
In a car accident?
If you like.
What does that mean?
Nothing . . . it was an accident.
Did you have migraines before?
No.
What do you take for the pain?
I don’t. I put up with it.
Why?
It helps me function.
Most people function better without pain.
IdoOK.
Sure you do. You look like shit and attack the first person who annoys you. What kind of functioning is that?
I’m alive, aren’t I ...?

The answers he’d given after the retching ceased but before the painkiller took effect were even more interesting. Who died?
Two of my men.
Are you in the army?
Not any more.
Why not?
I’m not good enough.
How did Rashid Mansoor upset you?
I’ve been trying to avoid them.
Pakistanis?
Murderers.
Will anyone be worrying about you?
Only me...

* Acland was sitting on his bed with his door wide open when Jackson emerged at the end of her exercise session. He was wearing her navy-blue bathrobe and he greeted her with more confidence than he’d shown five minutes earlier. ‘Are you a doctor?’ She folded her beefy arms across her chest and subjected him to a close scrutiny. She looked to be in her mid-forties and was as tall as he was, over six feet, but her muscular jaw, short spiked hair and sloping shoulders made her look more like a man than a woman. She was dressed in similar singlet and shorts to the ones she’d been wearing the previous evening, showing off thigh muscles that were so developed she had to stand with her feet apart. ‘You keep asking me that . . . and I keep telling you I am . . . but I can’t seem to convince you. Don’t I look like a doctor?’ He contemplated the inflated biceps and disproportionately flat chest. ‘Not one that I’ve ever seen. You called yourself a three-hundred-pound weightlifter yesterday.’ ‘I exaggerated. I’m more like two-fifty, but it doesn’t have the same scare factor as three hundred. Have you never met a doctor who does weight training before?’ Not a female one that looked like you, he thought. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve never met a doctor who runs a pub either.’ She watched him struggle to hold her gaze. ‘It’s Daisy who runs it, I just have an interest in the property. I used to be a full-time GP, now I’m employed through the local primary care trust

to cover out-of-hours services and the drunks and drug addicts in the police cells. It means I’m on call at weekends and two or three nights a week. It was my evening off yesterday, so I should have been sitting with my feet up instead of playing nursemaid to you.’

He couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or being ironic. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No need to be. You went out like a light once you agreed to let me give you something.’ She saw his suspicion. ‘The injection was a metoclopramide anti-emetic to stop you dehydrating and the painkiller was codeine combined with paracetamol. Nothing more sinister than that. What did you think I was giving you? Heroin?’

Acland found her difficult to read. Her intense stare was unnerving and he decided it was easier to look at his hands. ‘I don’t take drugs.’

‘So you told me last night. You said you function better without them.’ She paused, as if expecting him to answer. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

‘OK.’

‘Hungry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Daisy’s cooked enough bacon and eggs to feed the five thousand, and I’m damned if I’m going to eat it on my own. I’ve too much respect for my cholesterol levels. Your clothes are in the laundry room, so you can come down in the robe . . . and don’t forget your wallet. You owe me a hundred quid from last night – fifty for Rashid’s blood and fifty for vomiting down my back – plus an extra fiver to Daisy for the breakfast.’

He followed her on to the landing. ‘What about paying for the bed?’

‘You get one night free, but if you make a habit of falling sick on the premises it’ll cost you thirty quid every time you use it. No cheques.’ She set off down the stairs.

It was on the tip of Acland’s tongue to say he had no intention of ever returning to her pub. ‘It was a one-off,’ he told her instead. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘We’ll see. You haven’t tried Daisy’s breakfast yet.’

* Daisy was the complete antithesis to Jackson – a warm, friendly, curvaceous blonde who looked ten years younger than her partner. She was also quite uninterested in money. When Acland tried to pay for his food, she laughed and told him not to be so silly. ‘If you hadn’t eaten it, Jackson would. She’s the resident dustbin.’ Jackson had no such qualms. ‘Where’s my hundred?’ she asked, washing down a mouthful of fried bread with a huge swallow of tea. ‘Daisy’s a pinko liberal. She thinks profit’s a dirty word and all criminals come from broken homes.’ She held out her palm. ‘I expect people to pay their dues.’ ‘You gave me a choice,’ Acland reminded her mildly. ‘Pay up or clean.’ ‘Too late. Daisy did the business last night. Blood and puke stains are the devil to get out once they’ve soaked in.’ Her partner frowned, as if she were about to contradict, but Jackson spoke again before she had the chance. ‘You’re lucky I’m not charging you for a new vest. It’ll need ten washes at least to get rid of the lager you spewed down my back.’ Acland counted off five twenties and handed them over with the fiver that Daisy had refused. Jackson took the lot and twisted in her chair to put it in the drawer of a unit behind her. He had a brief glimpse of a smaller stack, topped by a ten-pound note, before she closed the drawer again. ‘Mansoor’s contribution,’ she said, catching his eye as she turned back. ‘Not a bad night, all in all.’ He felt a sudden dislike for her, or perhaps he’d disliked her all along and it was distrust that now set his teeth on edge. She was an ugly woman – gross and greedy – and she clearly enjoyed bullying anyone who was at a disadvantage. He wondered briefly

about Daisy’s role in the relationship. Was she Jackson’s obedient slave? A piece of eye-candy to be discarded when someone prettier came along? Was she there out of love? Necessity? Was it an equal partnership? He watched her butter some toast for Jackson and realized he didn’t care. Revulsion against the whole set-up had him scraping his chair legs across the floor and standing up.

‘I need my clothes,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you point me in the right direction, I’ll get them myself.’

Surprised by his tone, Daisy gave a doubtful smile. ‘Are you all right?’