Play With Fire

by William Shaw

  ‘Russkis? Not many of them to the dollar. What’s he look like?’

  That was the point. There weren’t that many Russians in London – not of an age to go to nightclubs at least. And there weren’t that many nightclubs.

  ‘Slim. Good-looking,’ said Breen.

  ‘Ain’t they all, these days?’

  ‘I just know he was in a nightclub like this on Thursday – a couple of weeks back. He was in a place for about three hours knocking them back. Sounds like he’d be a regular.’ MI6 wouldn’t have picked him up in a place like this by chance; they’d have known his habits.

  ‘Not here. I know everyone who comes.’ He probably did too. ‘Maybe the Cromwellian. That’s full of dodgy foreigners.’

  ‘Wrong part of London,’ said Breen.

  ‘Vile place, anyway. They’d let anyone in. Slip us a Bill-and-Ben and I’ll keep my ears out, if you like.’

  ‘Get lost, Wilco. Do it for me for free.’

  ‘Bought you a drink already, didn’t I? And it’s not even Christmas.’

  Wilco would do it anyway, Breen knew. It’s how it worked. When it was something easy like making a couple of calls, these clubs always wanted to keep on the right side. It helped them stay discreet for the high-end clientele. So if there was trouble, the police wouldn’t make a fuss. Keep it hush-hush for the groovy young people. But just to make sure, Breen leaned closer and said, ‘Between you and me, he’s a suspect in two murders. Both women.’

  ‘Rape?’

  ‘Can’t say,’ said Breen.

  ‘Cunt.’ Wilco drained his pint. ‘I don’t like Russians, best of times. Except for the yids. They’re not so bad. Enough said, Paddy. I’ll ask around.’

  In the world Wilco came from, men hurting each other was fine; he just didn’t like the idea of men hurting women. Not that way, anyway.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘And where were you this time?’ asked Creamer.

  ‘Library, sir,’ Breen said. ‘I’m reading up about the Soviet Union.’

  ‘You can’t just disappear without letting people know where you’ve gone. What on earth’s that got to do with…?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, sir.’ Rasper’s phone started ringing.

  Breen had spent three hours on Wednesday morning at Westminster Library, leafing through back copies of The Times and the Telegraph, at least the last two months’ worth that hadn’t yet been sent away by the library to be bound. Articles warned of the increase in the Russians’ stockpiles of intercontinental ballistic missiles. In return, Nixon was using NATO to ramp up pressure on the Soviet Union. After last year’s Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, there was speculation about what the Soviets were doing to try and tighten their control in Poland.

  All of it seemed so far from London’s messy streets. In The Times he found only a few short articles by-lined with Russell’s name, mostly co-written, generally about Soviet politics or the state of the country’s industrial output. ‘Russians sign up for new car a year in advance’; or ‘Foreign Secretary raises Gerald Brooke spy case’. If he had been hoping for an insight, it had eluded him. All he had to show for it was ink-black fingers.

  Creamer was still standing there, hoping for an explanation.

  ‘I have a Sergeant Hope from K Division for you,’ said Miss Rasper. ‘Do you want to take it at your desk?’

  ‘At my desk,’ said Breen.

  ‘Perhaps you can shed some light on what the hell’s going on?’ Hope demanded, the moment Breen picked up his telephone.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Somebody upstairs has just requested copies of all our documents on the Florence Caulk case.’

  ‘Same,’ Breen said quietly.

  ‘No explanation. Nothing. Why?’

  Breen heard a familiar frustration in the detective’s voice; he said, ‘It turns out, we’ve got a bit of a situation with this case.’

  ‘A situation? What in hell is that?’

  From across the office, Creamer was still glowering at him.

  ‘What are you up to tomorrow morning?’

  Sergeant Hope caught on quickly. ‘You can’t talk now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Breen swivelled his chair away from Creamer’s gaze. ‘Know Joe’s All Night Bagel Shop?’ he asked.

  On Wednesday night, the BBC showed the rocket on the news. The immense tube seemed to take an age to rise from the launch pad, but it soon became a tiny stick riding on top of a flare of flame so bright it burned into the camera lenses, while calm men in American accents talked a jargon of speed and distances.

  Breen watched, close to the TV, Elfie on one side of him, Helen on the other. ‘According to a man I met,’ he said, ‘This is just for show, to impress the Soviets.’

  ‘A rocket is like a great big penis,’ said Elfie. ‘The moon is a woman.’

  ‘Shut up, the pair of you. I think it’s amazing,’ said Helen. ‘I would love to do that. Wouldn’t you? Just imagine. Our children will think going to space is like us going to Spain.’

  Our children, thought Breen. Though he’d never been outside the country, let alone to Spain, they were living in the future, where anything was possible.

  Like everyone watching, he wondered what it would be like to be weightless, free of the world’s gravity. Another day had passed. He was no closer to finding the Russian, the driver, or the policeman.

  Joe’s All Night Bagel Shop was always busy this time of the morning, a queue of workmen snaking out of the door. Joe’s daughter made up packed lunches for the single men who had no wives or mothers to make them.

  Breen pushed past the line of men, into the small interior of the building, fuggy with heat from the small kitchen. Hope was there already, a mug of tea and a full ashtray in front of him.

  ‘And?’ Hope said.

  Breen told him everything Sand had; he was not a fan of secrets. Hope sat, slowly shaking his head as Breen spoke. ‘But you don’t know this. And I never told you. They would bloody hang me to dry if they found out I’d told you.’

  ‘Or just hang you, maybe,’ said Hope.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable,’ said Hope.

  ‘I know.’

  Hope leaned closer. ‘So what if it’s some Russian spy thing? What if that bloke you’re on about killed her? How are we ever going to lay our hands on this bastard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Joe’s daughter arrived with a coffee for Breen. She looked exhausted, but asked brightly, ‘How’s Helen? When’s the baby due?’

  ‘You’re having a baby? And there was I thinking you were in enough shit already,’ said Hope when she’d gone. The detective drained his tea. ‘Anyway, listen. I might have got something. Not much,’ he said.

  It was Breen’s turn to lean forward.

  ‘Get this. Two days of interviews and it looks like your constable was the last person we know of who saw Mrs Caulk alive. None of Mrs Caulk’s neighbours saw her leave her flat on that Tuesday night. But we were also asking if they’d seen anything at all unusual. Turns out, a man in the same block, old guy, didn’t even know Mrs Caulk, but said a taxi driver started ringing all the bells about half ten.’

  ‘On the Tuesday night? The day I spoke to her?’

  ‘Right. Apparently someone had called up, ordered a cab to wait outside, but nobody had turned up. So the cabbie started ringing on all the bells. Anyway, as this bloke was talking to the cabbie, saying he didn’t know anything about it, some fellow barged right past them both, through the open door.’

  ‘So the murderer may have got in without a key?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Hat pulled down. Coat pulled up. No chance to see his face. Medium bloody everything. You know what it’s like, sometimes. Anyway, the old bloke who was saying this said it was odd, because he hadn’t seen the man approach. One minute he wasn’t there. Next he was. I reckon he was hiding next to the door. There’s a big kind of shrub thing there.’r />
  ‘Footprints?’

  ‘Checked it. Nothing obvious.’

  ‘You reckon that’s how he got in? The man who killed her? Called a cab, then waited for someone to open the door?’

  ‘It’s a theory. Sounds like the kind of thing a spy would do? Oh yeah. I got this for you.’ Hope reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, handing it to Breen.

  Breen opened up the document. It was a copy of the pathologist’s interim report. Breen read through it as the two men sat together, not talking for a while. Men came and went, preparing for the working day.

  Reading it, Hope watched Breen grimace. ‘Poor old bird,’ he said and stood up to leave, holding out his hand to shake.

  Creamer had called a morning meeting. Officers sat on desks, pads in their hands.

  ‘Looks very much like the same killer, then,’ said Creamer, telling the men what they already knew.

  For all their faults, Creamer’s modern methods were not all bad. These regular meetings seemed to be bringing the department together. They felt more of a team than they had done in the old days, when Carmichael had worked here.

  But it was now more than ten days after the first body had been discovered; everyone sensed the inquiry was losing pace. They were still monitoring Bobienski’s phones, but nobody had called up since the weekend. The pathologist had confirmed that Caulk was killed by a blow to the front of her skull. ‘Must have been bloody hard,’ said Breen. ‘Probably a metal bar.’

  Breen repeated what Hope had told him. Though they now had a theory about how the killer had entered the building, a second day of door-to-doors in St John’s Wood had produced nothing; nobody had seen her with anyone on the Tuesday.

  ‘The killer is clearly anxious,’ Creamer said. ‘I’m guessing he killed Mrs Caulk because he was worried that she knew something that could identify him. So that’s our advantage. We need to keep pushing. He’ll do something stupid.’

  Surprisingly, it was true. If Caulk’s death meant anything, it was that the killer felt vulnerable and was acting to cover his tracks. And that he was aware of them closing in, somehow.

  ‘So… we know he knew we had tracked down Mrs Caulk,’ said Breen. ‘How did he know that? Is he an acquaintance of Mrs Caulk’s? Or did he get his information from somewhere else?’

  Mint said it first, though they had all been thinking it. ‘What if he’s the copper?’

  They all looked at each other. That would be the worst scenario. One of their own. And someone who knew what they were up to.

  And though nobody said it, they all thought: What if it’s someone we know?

  Later that morning Helen rang him. ‘Can you find out about an attempted murder? It happened last night. Somewhere around Chichester. It’ll be Sussex Police.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s for Elfie.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. I’m busy, Helen. Things are crazy here. I have two real murders of my own.’

  ‘This is serious too. Take down her name. Kay Fitzpatrick.’

  ‘No,’ said Breen.

  ‘Kay Fitzpatrick,’ she said again. ‘She knew Brian Jones. She was one of his circle. She was one of the people there at his house.’

  ‘The day he died?’

  ‘No. But she’d been there. She knew him well. Someone tried to kill her yesterday.’

  ‘Where does Elfie get this stuff?’

  ‘You know. She has friends who have friends who work for the group’s management. The rumour is that Kay Fitzpatrick knew something about Brian Jones’s death. Now this woman is in a coma. Apparently it was a violent attack.’

  ‘Rumour,’ said Breen.

  ‘Yes. Just a rumour, I know. But still.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Helen. You’re not in the police any more.’

  Breen could sense others in the CID room pricking up their ears, listening in to the conversation.

  ‘If you don’t do it, I’ll go there myself,’ said Helen.

  ‘She’s dragging you into her obsession. She’s been acting strangely since her boyfriend told her he was sleeping with another woman. And you’re going along with it because…’

  ‘Because what, Cathal?’

  ‘Because you can’t accept you’re not a copper any more.’

  ‘Maybe all that’s true. But—’

  ‘It’s nuts. Brian Jones drowned because he’d taken too many drugs.’

  ‘Well, Cathal, this woman didn’t beat herself up. It might have nothing to do with anything, but someone tried to kill her.’

  Breen took a breath. ‘You’re having a baby. You need to accept that. You don’t need this.’

  ‘Please, Cathal.’

  He looked up. Men pretended hard to be reading reports that they had been paying no attention to five minutes earlier. Typewriters click-clacked back into life.

  Later, in the first-floor kitchen, Mint was making tea. ‘Want a cup?’

  Breen shook his head.

  ‘What you said just then,’ Mint said. ‘To your girlfriend. About her needing to accept what she was.’

  ‘It was a private conversation.’

  ‘It’s hard for women, sometimes, to understand that they’re going to be mothers. My wife was the same. It’s, like, a huge change. It’s a whole new responsibility. They can’t be like they were before.’

  Breen stared at him like he was from another planet. ‘You don’t really know my girlfriend very well, do you?’

  Embarrassed, Mint stirred his tea, spilling it onto the counter.

  Breen returned to his desk and called the flat.

  Helen picked up after the second ring.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as you can,’ she said.

  This time it was him who put down the receiver in anger. He shouldn’t be doing this. But he phoned Chichester police station, as she’d asked. The sergeant who took the call promised to get back to him within the hour with whatever details he had managed to find out.

  That evening, they argued again.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t go running off to Sussex. Creamer would never give you the day off.’

  ‘You can’t go either. You’re not even a policewoman. You’re eight months pregnant. You could have a baby any moment.’

  ‘Course I can,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. It’s just an hour’s train journey.’

  Sussex Police had said that the woman who had been attacked, Kay Fitzpatrick, was in a hospital in Chichester. She had been discovered, beaten bloody, outside her house, lying in the street. She had been unconscious since the attack; there was a chance she would not wake up.

  ‘It’s like you’ve both gone nuts,’ said Breen.

  ‘I’m just curious, that’s all.’

  Breen wasn’t enjoying the food. Helen had cooked bangers and mash with Bisto gravy. The sausages were from the local Fine Fare and were cheap, plain and textureless.

  ‘What’s this woman’s connection to the Rolling Stones anyway?’

  ‘She works with this bloke who did odd jobs for Brian Jones; goes out with him, though he’s married. He’s a fixer for the group, like that guy we met in Hyde Park, Tom. He was there at his house the day he died. He was actually in the swimming pool with Brian before he died. It was in the inquest. You read it. Elfie reckons somebody tried to kill this Kay because of something she knew about Brian. I know Elfie’s full of mad theories, but what if this is true? You’ve got to admit, it is a coincidence.’

  ‘You miss being a copper, don’t you?’

  She looked at him and the anger had vanished. ‘Yes. I do.’

  He pushed the sausages to one side of the plate. ‘You should go then. Though you might find it hard persuading the local plod to talk to you.’

  ‘I already spoke to them on the phone. I charmed the pants off them.’

  ‘You never charmed the pants off anybody, Helen Tozer.’

  She had made str
awberries-and-cream Angel Delight for pudding. ‘It’s very modern,’ she said.

  ‘It’s kids’ food isn’t it?’ He dipped his spoon into it.

  ‘This is what they eat in space,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ll have yours if you don’t want it,’ she said.

  Later, when he was doing the washing-up, she said, ‘About Sussex. I wasn’t asking your permission, anyway.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and when she took a plate from the rack to dry it, he noticed she was smiling at him.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Creamer had had another new idea. Officers who left the office had to log in and out of the CID room, writing in a school exercise book kept by the door, noting where they had gone and why.

  Breen had written ‘Gone for walk’ in its pages.

  The CID room had been muggy, full of cigarette smoke and sweat. It was good to get outside. There was something about walking and thinking that went together.

  There were too many sides to this case, but no distinct shape; the darkness of Bobienski’s trade; the involvement of Russian spies; the presence of a policeman among her customers, and the all-round duplicitousness of the men who paid her. Time was moving on. Unless they could make real progress soon, another murder would come along in their area and then the team would fracture, their concentration waver. The notes would be put into a filing cabinet and they would move on.

  He walked east, towards Harewood Avenue. The Marylebone Road was thick with traffic. Buses blew black smoke. Taxis swerved at likely fares standing by the kerb.

  At Warren Street, just outside the tube station, he spotted a man walking back and forward over the same section of pavement. After about thirty yards he would return, passing the front of the station. Anyone who had spent their time as a beat policeman, as he had, developed a knack of spotting people who were up to no good; you never quite lost it. Ordinary people went about their lives, noticing little. Being on the beat made you aware of another world around you.

  This man: khaki jacket, black shoes, straggly sideburns. There was definitely something about him, but he wasn’t sure what.

  It took Breen a minute to work it out. The second he bent down to the ground, Breen realised he was doing the ring scam. He had seen it once or twice before. Breen watched him pretending to scoop it up and hurry after a woman who was standing at the flower stall. ‘Excuse me, love. You just dropped this.’ He held up the cheap gold ring he had had in his hand all the time.