Play With Fire

by William Shaw

  He put down the magazine. She was lighting a cigarette. ‘You’ve hardly eaten anything,’ he said.

  ‘Well? What if I come with you?’

  There was a man dressed in white shorts and a tennis shirt running along the path. People stopped, stared. Nobody ran anywhere in London unless they were after a bus. The man was muscular and fair-haired, but as he approached, Breen saw he looked older than he had done at a distance. ‘I bet he’s American,’ said Helen.

  ‘You know I’d like you to, Helen, but you can’t come with me. You’re not a policewoman any more.’

  She looked away. ‘I knew you’d say that,’ she said. ‘You’re so… boring.’

  And she re-wrapped her own half-eaten sandwich in the tinfoil and returned it to the raffia bag.

  ‘I know you were trying to help,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘Do it your way.’

  They sat in silence for a while. A small fat boy in school shorts was throwing large chunks of bread at a pigeon. Each time the bird hopped towards one of the pieces the boy would throw another, attempting to hit it.

  The constable was sitting on the bench where Helen had been when he got back to the station.

  ‘Paddy Breen?’ He stood. ‘You wanted to see me.’

  Breen must have looked puzzled. The man added, ‘My beat includes Harewood Avenue. I was just about to go on, only the gaffer said I had to see you first.’

  He was one of the tough old ones, late forties, face veined with red, either from being outside too much, or at the bar too long; one who walked the slow gait of a copper keen not to wear their shoe leather too hard.

  ‘Come on up.’

  When the constable reached the CID office he looked around at the newly decorated walls. ‘My, my. Changed a bit in here, hasn’t it? Fancy nancy. You’ll be getting lace curtains next.’

  ‘Miss Rasper? Do you have a second to make Constable…’

  ‘Jenks,’ said the constable.

  ‘Constable Jenks here a cup of tea?’

  Miss Rasper looked up. ‘Can’t you manage that yourself, Sergeant Breen?’

  Breen hesitated long enough. She pushed back her chair and stood. ‘Fine then,’ she said curtly. ‘How do you like it, Constable Jenks?’

  ‘Time of the month?’ Jenks said aloud when Rasper had left the room.

  ‘Don’t think she has periods,’ muttered one of the constables.

  Breen pulled up one of the plastic chairs to his desk and motioned Jenks to sit in it. The constable ambled across the room.

  ‘Lovely flowers, an’ all,’ he said. ‘Does the cup of tea come with a paper doily?’

  On his desk was a vase of chrysanthemums. Breen stared for a second. ‘Why has someone put flowers here?’ asked Breen looking round.

  ‘Don’t you like them?’; ‘Prefer pansies, Paddy?’ All the usual.

  But before he could say anything, Miss Rasper returned from the kitchen with a single mug of tea. ‘They’re mine, actually. The very nice Constable Mint here bought them for me. Unfortunately, I suffer from hay fever, so I cannot have them near me.’

  Young Constable Mint blushed. ‘I didn’t exactly buy them for you, Miss Rasper.’

  ‘I’m wounded,’ said Miss Rasper, feeding paper into her typewriter.

  ‘No,’ said Mint, blushing more. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  Miss Rasper didn’t smile, just started clacking away at the keys.

  ‘And you, a happily married man,’ said Breen, and this time he thought he saw a twitch in Rasper’s lips.

  ‘I bought them as part of the investigation,’ said Mint.

  ‘For your sergeant. That’s nice,’ said Constable Jenks. ‘I see how it is round here.’

  ‘After you left I stopped at a few of the local florists,’ Mint told Breen. ‘I wanted to ask if anyone had bought yellow roses off them early this morning. Most don’t do yellow roses, but the one outside Warren Street did. I thought I’d ask if he saw anything this morning. Old bloke there said he’d only talk to me if I paid for something, so I did.’

  ‘He bloody did see something,’ said Jenks. ‘He bloody saw you coming for one.’ A big laugh.

  ‘I was hoping I could claim them on expenses,’ he said.

  ‘Expenses? Lah-di-dah.’

  ‘Well?’ said Breen. ‘Did he tell you anything of interest?’

  ‘Man said he didn’t know. His son would have been there this morning. I should come back another day.’

  ‘I feel used,’ muttered Miss Rasper.

  Breen sat at his desk; there was a note on it in Rasper’s handwriting: Squadron Leader Zygmunt Wojcik, and an address in West London. When he looked up, he noticed Jenks was frowning at the vase of flowers, so he grabbed it and put it on Mint’s desk on the far side of the room, saying, ‘Give them to your wife.’

  When he returned, he said to Jenks, ‘You’re aware of the murder of the prostitute Lena Bobienski?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  Jenks shook his head. ‘Never seen her, personally. Not until they took her body out.’

  ‘But you knew she was operating a business from that address?’

  The constable nodded. ‘A business. You could say that.’

  ‘How?’

  The constable blinked. ‘Well it’s obvious. Anywhere you see men coming and going in taxis after closing time is either a gentlemen’s club or something else. And I don’t think it was a gentlemen’s club, exactly.’

  The best beat coppers had built years of experience; they learned the fingerprint of each individual street they walked, developing a skill for understanding what normal was, looking for anything that didn’t fit. The overdue tax disc on a car, the milk bottle left on the doorstep.

  ‘Would you recognise any of the men who went in or out?’

  Jenks looked down at his shiny black boots. ‘That’s where it’s more difficult.’

  ‘Because?’

  Again, there was a fraction of hesitation. ‘I don’t know. Just maybe didn’t pay attention because they weren’t no trouble.’

  ‘Really? Well, it looks like one of them was trouble. She’s dead.’

  ‘It’s a busy beat, you know it is.’

  Breen picked up a pencil and flipped it in his hand. ‘Really? You didn’t notice who was going in and out?’

  The man looked around the room, avoiding Breen’s gaze. ‘We get all sorts, you know. Sorry, Sergeant.’

  ‘Maybe I should have a word with your boss. Tell him you might need glasses. Or maybe that you’re getting too old for it.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Jenks, evenly. ‘Tell him I need a nice cushy job like yours. With flowers and everything.’

  Breen had been hoping for more, but CID just rubbed some coppers up the wrong way. Constable Jenks stood, picked up the cup and drained what was left in it. ‘You used to be down the Louise in the old days. I don’t see you in there.’

  ‘My girlfriend is pregnant,’ said Breen. ‘I don’t go out so much.’

  A small frown from the copper at the word ‘girlfriend’. ‘You should do,’ said the constable, slowly. ‘Show your face.’

  Breen sat there for a while after Jenks left, flicking his pencil into the air, wondering what the copper had meant. Vice Squad at Scotland Yard had said they didn’t have a file on either Julie Teenager or Lena Bobienski. He had spoken to the women police, as Helen had suggested, but they had not been any more useful. They had all heard about Julie Teenager but none of them had ever met her. Because she was never any trouble, they said. The optimism of the morning was running thin.

  The office was so much quieter than it used to be. The lino muted the clatter of boots and the modern typewriters were delicate compared to the big iron monsters that Inspector Creamer had thrown out. Even the new phones seemed to ring less urgently. Nobody was allowed to play the radio any more. He had never liked the idiotic chatter and the pop songs, but now he missed the noise. The silence made it har
d to think.

  TEN

  A little after four, Constable Mint returned from the OZ offices, with another copy of the magazine held between finger and thumb. ‘I think they take drugs, too,’ he said.

  ‘Well?’

  The constable opened his notebook. ‘Firstly, it wasn’t exactly an office. It was just a flat, really.’ He looked up.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I encountered a woman there. She assumed I was there as part of a police raid. When I asked what she thought I’d be raiding them for, she said…’ He turned the page. ‘Take your pick.’

  Jones looked up from his desk and laughed.

  Mint continued. ‘The said woman refused to give her name and she said the editor was in Morocco, but the person who’d written the article about Julie Teenager was a man called Felix. She said he sold advertising for the magazine. However, she declined to give me his last name or address because…’ He turned the page again. ‘She said I was a pig.’

  Even Miss Rasper was laughing now. Mint squirmed.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Breen.

  ‘Is this OK?’

  ‘It’s excellent,’ said Breen. ‘Don’t leave anything out.’

  Mint turned another page in his notebook. One of the sergeants stood, walked over to Mint’s desk and picked up the copy of OZ. On the cover there was a cartoon of Mickey Mouse; Mickey was sticking out his tongue. Resting on it was a big, round pill. The sergeant flicked through it and whistled.

  Mint continued. ‘Said woman offered me some free products and I warned her against bribing a policeman.’

  ‘What products?’

  ‘Some… cream. From one of their advertisers.’

  ‘Magnaphall,’ read the sergeant. ‘A sound and successful way of improving virility and increasing the size of the male organ. That the cream she gave you, Minty?’ He put the magazine down on Miss Rasper’s desk. ‘Here you go, love. Show that to your boyfriend.’

  Miss Rasper rolled her eyes.

  ‘She didn’t give it to me,’ said Mint. ‘I wouldn’t take it.’

  ‘On account of how you don’t need it.’

  ‘As a policeman, I don’t accept gifts from members of the public.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Breen. ‘What about this man… Felix?’

  ‘As I said. She refused to give me his contact details. I suggested that we would return with a warrant to search the premises.’

  ‘I don’t think we’d go that far,’ said Breen.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He reached into his wallet. ‘I have a receipt for the magazine,’ he said. ‘Three shillings.’

  Miss Rasper held up the copy and read, ‘Advertising. Contact Felix Dennis on 727-8456.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mint.

  Constable Jones snatched the magazine back from Miss Rasper and looked at it. ‘She’s right. It’s there in black and white.’

  ‘It’s OK. You did well,’ said Breen, writing down the number and reaching for the phone.

  ‘How do they get away printing this crap? They got one thing right though,’ said Jones. ‘There’s an article here saying the Drug Squad are bent.’ He looked up and grinned.

  Monday evening, there was no one in the flat when he got home, but he heard the music playing upstairs.

  Elfie smiled when she saw him standing at the door with his briefcase. She had a smear of tomato puree on her face and was holding a whisk. He smelt chicken. ‘I’m cooking dinner,’ she said. ‘Come and join us.’

  Helen was in Elfie’s living room, sitting on the floor, surrounded by album sleeves and tape boxes. Elfie’s boyfriend had a sophisticated modern hi-fi with a big Ferguson reel-to-reel machine, massive speakers in wooden cases, separate record player, the works.

  He bent down to kiss her, then sniffed. ‘Is that pot?’

  ‘Bog off,’ she said.

  He took out the copy of OZ Mint had bought and tossed it towards her. She took it. ‘Subscriber now, are you? So, what did you find out?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I’ve arranged to meet the journalist who wrote it.’

  ‘Felix?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  She shrugged. ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’

  Elfie appeared with half a bottle of wine. Her eyes seemed red and puffy, like she had been crying.

  ‘Wine? Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ She handed Breen a glass without asking if he wanted to drink or not. Nobody in the East End drank wine apart from Elfie and her boyfriend, especially on a Monday.

  ‘I’m trying a new recipe,’ said Elfie. ‘Chicken Pilaff.’

  ‘I’ll definitely need wine,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be horrid.’

  ‘Anyway. What if I called Felix up?’ said Helen. ‘Ask to meet him.’

  ‘You can’t just do that,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said going to the thick pile of LPs that leaned against the wall. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t. It was best not to argue with her when she was like this.

  ‘What about her customers?’ she was asking. ‘The dirty old men.’

  ‘We’re still trying to track down her maid. The GPO are going to monitor the line at the exchange.’

  She added a single to a stack on the turntable stand and switched it from 33 to 45. ‘You should put me in the flat,’ she said. ‘Pretend to be a tart for you.’ She laughed, low and loud.

  ‘Not with your accent,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with my bloody accent?’

  Living in London had done nothing to soften the Devonshire in her voice. He left her listening to something with wailing guitars on it and joined Elfie in the kitchen. She had recently painted the walls bright orange and all the kitchen’s wooden chairs in glossy green.

  ‘Need a hand?’

  ‘The recipe says walnuts but I don’t have any. D’you think peanuts will do?’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Yoghurt.’

  He dipped his finger in and sucked it. It was surprisingly tart. He was about to try it again when Elfie slapped his wrist.

  ‘Where’s Klaus?’

  ‘Oh. You know. He works.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  She didn’t answer; instead she dipped a fork into the rice to test it. ‘Fuck. Burned my tongue.’

  Breen took the fork from her and tried the rice himself. It was overcooked. He took it off the gas to drain it.

  They sat at a pine dining table in Elfie’s crowded kitchen, eating from mismatched crockery. Helen had put some music on and turned it up next door so they could listen while they ate. Breen’s father would have hated it. When he had been growing up, alone with his dad, eating had always been a silent affair. His dad never even switched the radio on.

  ‘What if,’ said Elfie, pushing the food around her plate with a fork, ‘someone had Brian Jones killed?’

  Helen laughed, spraying rice across the table. ‘Why would someone kill him?’

  ‘Just saying. I mean, what if someone did? To get him out of the band. Klaus thinks so.’

  ‘He was out of the band already,’ said Helen.

  ‘Brian Jones was a drug addict,’ said Breen, putting down his fork. ‘Drug addicts don’t need people to kill them.’ He had had some wine and was a little drunk.

  ‘Not everyone who takes drugs is an addict,’ said Helen.

  ‘No, but Brian Jones was. Drug Squad arrested him last year—’

  ‘Pilcher arresting anyone doesn’t prove anything. He planted dope on Lennon,’ said Helen.

  ‘Planted dope?’ said Breen. ‘When did you start calling drugs “dope”?’

  Elfie laughed.

  Breen went back to his food. Elfie’s cooking was unreliable. Sometimes it tasted terrible, but tonight it tasted good – in spite of the rice. Having grown up in the war, when food was meagre and basic, having chicken in a rich, sp
iced sauce and drinking wine was like pretending he was middle class for a moment.

  He looked up. Helen had only eaten a tiny amount. ‘It’s not fair. I’ve got nowhere to put it,’ she said. ‘I used to eat twice as much as him.’ She nodded at Breen. Breen grinned back at her.

  A fork clattered to the floor. Elfie stood abruptly, pushing back her chair and walking out of the room so fast she was almost running.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Klaus is having it off with another girl,’ Helen whispered.

  Klaus: Elfie’s cool, posh, long-haired boyfriend, who wore velvet jackets and flares and who had brought her here to live and have his babies. Breen looked towards the kitchen and said, ‘Should you go and…?’

  ‘Elfie only found out yesterday. The cow he’s having sex with called her and told her she was sleeping with him. Elfie told me all about it when I got back from seeing you today. Apparently this girl he’s fucking is a model for Vogue. When she asked Klaus if it was true, he told her that monogamy is bourgeois.’ She reached out for an ashtray. ‘Unlike being an advertising copy writer, which is a revolutionary act.’

  ‘What is she going to do?’

  ‘She’s in love with him,’ she said, as if that explained it all.

  Breen lifted his glass of wine and finished it.

  On the doorstep, Elfie acted as if nothing had happened. ‘So lovely. I feel so good having you around. We should just knock a staircase through from the basement,’ she said, laughing. ‘You’re my best friends, now, you two.’

  Back downstairs, Helen said, ‘She’d be better off without him. He’s a prick.’

  ‘I thought you liked him?’

  ‘I’m stuffed,’ said Helen. She was wearing a plain, blue dress. Standing in the middle of the living room she pulled it over her head and stood in white knickers and tan bra. ‘I’ve got boobs,’ she said, as if surprised. ‘Look.’

  He looked. They had grown along with the bump.

  ‘Something else,’ said Breen. ‘The street the prostitute was murdered in. The local beat copper says he didn’t notice anyone going in and out of Julie Teenager’s flat.’

  ‘Didn’t notice?’

  ‘I know. I thought it was weird.’

  She was still standing with one hand under each bosom, testing them for weight. ‘You know why, though, don’t you?’