by William Shaw
Breen shouted, ‘I’m not the one who withheld evidence for two bloody weeks, John.’
Carmichael looked shocked. When he stood, face dark, Breen thought he was going to go for him again. Instead he unhooked his dressing gown off the back of his door and picked up his washing bag.
Breen went downstairs, and he was just about to leave to wait outside on the pavement, when a couple of policemen pushed the front door open. Breen recognised one of them, but it took him a second to remember where from.
‘Phipps,’ he said as the man passed him.
The man stopped, then looked at Breen, puzzled.
‘D Division, CID. I came to you to ask about a woman who was a driver for a murdered prostitute.’
The man from the Vice Squad nodded cautiously. ‘Yeah. Right. I know you.’
‘You live here?’
‘That’s right. Oh, sorry, mate. I never got back to you. You know how it is.’
The man was about to open the door at the bottom of the stairs when Breen said, ‘One thing…’
Phipps stood, hand on the door handle.
‘There’s a Russian called Lyagushin who visits prostitutes in London. Have you ever heard of him?’
‘Lyagushin?’ said Phipps, struggling with the name. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes you do,’ said his companion. ‘He means “Comrade Whip-’em-off”. That’s what we call him.’
‘Oh. Right, yeah. “Whip-’em-off”. The dirty delegate.’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘God, yeah.’
‘By mistake?’ said Breen.
‘He’s a trade attaché. Caught him with his pants down at Madame Kiki’s in Greek Street. “Diplomatic immunity, diplomatic immunity”,’ Phipps called out in a phoney Russian accent, waving his hands. ‘That’s what he said when we found him.’ They laughed.
‘Better hope that’s not the only immunity he has, the way he gets around.’
‘So you arrested him?’
‘Nah. He’s just a john. Besides. We were told to lay off him anyway.’
‘Who by?’
‘Some tin hat upstairs.’ And, laughing, they disappeared up the stairs.
Five minutes later, Carmichael emerged unshaven from the front door of the section house, wearing flares that were too tight around the waist and large dark glasses shading his eyes from the glare of the July light.
‘I need a bloody coffee,’ he said.
It was a Sunday so their options were limited. ‘The Lido,’ said Breen.
They crossed the Bayswater Road and walked diagonally across the park towards the Serpentine. A boy on roller skates rattled past them unsteadily as they approached Carriage Drive.
‘Was she the first?’
‘What if I say she wasn’t?’
Breen nodded.
‘I don’t know why. I didn’t even really enjoy them that much. You get hooked. You get drunk. Everyone else goes home to their wives and girlfriends. Even you. Especially you. Next thing you’re at some place ringing a doorbell.’
‘But you had a girlfriend.’
‘I know. I don’t know what to say. Once you start it’s hard to stop.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘You don’t know me, Paddy. You just think you do.’
‘Tell me about Lena Bobienski.’
They turned right at the Serpentine. Though there was only a thin sun, people were sunbathing on the banks of the lake; girls in bikinis lying on towels while their boyfriends smoked and read novels.
‘Mostly it was convenience. She ran a good place. Not like the other tarts around King’s Cross. There was less chance of getting caught. She was very beautiful, Paddy. You should have seen her. I mean…’
‘How did you hear about her?’
‘When I was in D Division still, last summer. One of the guys in Vice told me about her. She was that close to our station. This woman who was making money pretending to be a teenager.’
‘You like that? Young girls? You’re thirty-three.’
‘It’s just a bit of fun, Paddy. Christ’s sake. You don’t even know what fun is. You’re such a boring bastard.’
They found a metal table and a pair of chairs and waited for one of the waiters to see them.
‘Did you ever meet any of her other men? Or did she talk about them?’
He shook his head. ‘Course not. Once, maybe. Saw another man going in.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘You don’t actually look, do you? It’s kind of an embarrassing situation. It’s dark. I don’t know. It was outside.’
‘There was a woman who picked up clients and drove them to the flat.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you ever use her?’
‘No. Heard about her. Saw her once. That time I was talking about. He was getting out of the car to come up. His turn next. But he had his back to me, I suppose.’
‘What type of car?’
‘Cortina. Dark blue or maybe black. 1600E.’ The sort of detail that Carmichael would notice.
‘What did she look like?’
‘Pretty nice, actually. Dark hair. I don’t know. Young. Maybe twenty-four, twenty-five.’
‘Good.’ Breen took out his notebook and wrote down the details.
‘Build? Height?’
‘Nice. I mean, probably about five-six. Hard to tell when they’re sitting down.’
‘Did you ever hear Lena say she was under any threat?’
‘No. I mean…’ He looked away. ‘She used to ask me to protect her, but that was just a game.’
‘Big strong man, protect me?’
He had never seen Carmichael looking this embarrassed before.
‘She played you like an idiot, didn’t she?’
Carmichael didn’t answer. Breen looked around for a man hiding behind a newspaper. Was he still being followed, observed? Which of the other people sipping tea, reading newspapers, could be the one? The pretty girl in the sage-green minidress? No. What about that man with the khaki hat and a Kodak around his neck? Or the athletic young man in the cricket jumper?
‘Did she ever try to blackmail you?’
Carmichael’s mouth opened wide. ‘Blackmail? Why?’
‘It’s possible that was one motive for what happened.’
A waiter arrived in a white linen jacket so they ordered large coffees. ‘Do you do any breakfasts?’
‘Sandwiches and cake.’
Carmichael ordered two ham sandwiches and some chips.
‘I mean. She knew I was a copper. She saw my wallet. She thought it was funny. One day she said, “What if I tell your mates on you?” I told her I didn’t care if she did. Nobody would be that bothered. Apart from bloody you.’
‘Did she ask what you did as a policeman?’
He nodded. From the board, a diver launched himself into the water with a splash.
‘I told her. She asked if I had arrested anybody famous. I said that was Pilcher’s department. I suppose she was asking, yes. Why?’
‘Because one of her clients was a Soviet spy. Another one was a journalist who specialised in Soviet politics. She was Polish. And MI6 were watching her flat.’
Carmichael’s mouth dropped wide. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes. And I think I’m being watched too.’
Carmichael removed his sunglasses and looked around, as if looking for someone amongst the crowd of half-naked sun-worshippers and swimmers. ‘MI6?’
‘But you had no idea?’
The coffee arrived. Carmichael picked up his cup and drained it, almost in one. ‘I mean, she was manipulative. She threw tantrums and everything, like a little child. Wanted me to come back every week. Wanted presents. I just thought it was all part of the act, you know? Spoiled little girl.’
‘But you didn’t suspect…?’
‘No. It doesn’t make sense. Are you sure? So she was killed because of this?’
Breen looked at a young boy pulling himself
out of the water, shivering. ‘I don’t know. To be honest, John, I’m not much further along about this than I was when I started. Wasted too much time trying to find a policeman.’
Carmichael nodded. ‘You going to tell Helen? She’ll tear my bloody eyes out.’
‘Good.’
A boy ran past with a balsa-wood model of a plane, shouting, ‘Taka-taka-taka-taka!’
Carmichael winced at the noise. ‘Are we still mates?’
It was Breen’s turn not to answer. He stood and looked around the park. He wanted to be with Helen; for her to put her arms around him and say nothing.
He left Carmichael slowly spooning mustard from a small pot onto his sandwiches.
Buses on Sundays seemed to run to their own timetable; he had promised he would be back in time to visit Elfie in hospital.
Dalston Junction stank of discarded fruit from the early morning market; he walked north from there towards his flat. He put the fact that the police station was quiet down to it being a Sunday, and moved on.
It was when he rounded the corner to the small cul-de-sac that he saw the ambulance and the throng of coppers and broke into a trot. Christ.
There were policemen standing around it, blocking the way. He pushed past. ‘Is she having the baby?’
A hand grabbed him. ‘Paddy. Don’t go in there,’ said one of them.
‘What?’
The ambulance doors were wide open; he looked inside but it was empty.
‘Where is she? Is it the baby?’
Someone took his other arm. ‘Don’t, Paddy.’ He didn’t even recognise the man.
‘What is it?’
Two coppers, now, holding him back. ‘Let me go. Let me go,’ he screamed. And the neighbours, out on their front steps, peering round the doorways, sad sympathetic looks on their faces.
THIRTY-ONE
They brought her out, strapped to a stretcher, her face coated in congealing blood, thick, dark, still oozing from a wound somewhere under her hairline.
‘She’s in and out of consciousness,’ said an orderly. ‘Get her in. Lift.’
The stillness of Sunday had vanished. Breen shoved forward to get near, almost making one of the coppers lurking around the ambulance tumble to the ground.
‘Watch it, mate.’
He struggled closer. He could see her eyes closed, lids swollen, but there was a flickering under the skin.
‘Get back, sir,’ someone shouted at him and nudged him backwards. Breen was still staggering, trying to regain his balance as they lifted her into the ambulance.
His brain was racing. ‘Please. What happened?’
‘Assault, mate,’ said the copper, letting go of his arm. ‘Sorry.’
‘Who by?’
‘They got a 999 fifteen minutes ago. The operator took a while to understand what she was saying, I heard.’ Breen peered past him, standing on his toes to try and see what they were doing in the ambulance. ‘When we got here she was on the floor. Somebody had really had a go. That’s your place, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, Christ. Is she going to be OK?’
They were closing the doors of the ambulance.
‘Christ, Christ, Christ.’
‘Get out the way. It’s going to need to turn.’
‘I need to go with her. Please.’
A constable he recognised from the Stoke Newington nick put his arm around him. ‘Relax, Paddy. We’ll take you there. Leave it to us.’ A kindly older voice, reassuring, steadying.
He was shaking, he realised. ‘Who found her?’
‘Constable over there.’ He pointed to a pale-faced young copper, holding his helmet under his arm.
Klaus’s MG was still parked outside where Breen had left it. ‘Let me move the car.’
‘You’re not doing nothing, Paddy.’
Hurry up, hurry up. He jerked at the arm holding him.
The man gripped him tighter. ‘Come on. We need to get you sorted out, Paddy.’ The same old constable. Breen couldn’t remember his name. He had worked with him years ago when he’d been stationed here.
Oh, Jesus.
‘I need to go,’ said Breen.
‘No. You need to sit down a minute. You’ve had a bad shock. Come inside. She’s in the best hands now. We’ll take you down there.’
The ambulance had finally turned 180 degrees and was now driving down the narrow exit to the cul-de-sac, its bell ringing.
Shakily, Breen descended the steps to his flat; the front door was wide open.
‘How did he get in?’
‘Sit down, mate. Get your breath back.’
It was the blood he saw. The carpet by his dad’s old chair was dark with it.
The phone had been yanked off its small table and onto the floor where she had lain; she must have called the ambulance from there.
Helen. Helen. Helen.
‘Who?’
‘We don’t know. But we’ll catch him. Don’t you worry. And before we do, we’ll let you have a little go at him, right, Paddy?’
‘A go at him?’
‘You know. Fuck him up a bit.’
Breen shook his head. ‘He broke in?’
‘Squint!’ the copper shouted up the stone steps to the street outside. ‘Paddy here wants to know about the door.’
The young constable came down the stairs hesitantly, putting his head inside the door, but not crossing the threshold.
‘Was the door broken in?’
‘No. It was unlocked. We just walked in when we came.’
She left it unlocked all the time, didn’t she? He’d told her not to. Oh God.
‘She was on the floor, there.’ He pointed. ‘I held her hand till the ambulance came.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Couldn’t really make it out. She was bleeding quite a bit.’
‘Hush, man. Bit of fuckin’ tact.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Run back to the station, there’s a good lad. Get someone to organise a car to take Paddy here to the hospital.’
Breen looked around. There was no sign of open drawers, that the attacker had been trying to steal anything.
How could he still be observing this? How could he still be thinking like a copper at a time like this? He looked at the blood on the floor. There seemed to be so much of it.
‘She was pregnant?’ said the constable.
Breen’s mind was racing with dark possibilities; he couldn’t stop them coming.
The best thing, when you were investigating a case, was for something new to happen so you could see everything you already knew from a fresh angle. The very worst thing was that it would be this.
On a Sunday there was no need for the blue light, but the young copper who was driving put it on anyway, perhaps out of respect for Breen.
The car pulled up right outside the emergency bay, but they had already taken Helen inside. At the open doors, an orderly said: ‘Can’t go in that way. You have to go round the front.’
He ran to the main entrance. ‘A woman has just arrived by ambulance.’
‘Name?’
‘Helen Tozer.’
‘And you are?’
He hesitated. ‘Her husband,’ he lied.
She looked him up and down, then said: ‘Through the door. End of the corridor turn left.’
There was a small seating area with tables with tin ashtrays. A mother sat with a snivelling boy, the front of his shirt wet, presumably from crying, but no one else was here. It was a quiet Sunday; there did not seem to be any staff around.
He walked to the far side of the room, where there were swing doors with round glass windows, and peered through, but could see no one there, either. Pushing the door open, he heard voices.
At a desk cluttered with papers, a West Indian nurse was sitting eating a sandwich, talking to a young man in a white coat. She looked up. ‘You can’ come in here,’ she said, mouth still full.
‘Please. I need to know about someone who’s just been brought in by
ambulance.’
She grunted, put down her sandwich. ‘Go sit down, darlin’. I’ll go find out what’s going on. Patient’s name is…?’
He waited with the snuffling boy and his mother until the lad was taken away by a doctor to have something removed from his nose.
‘The boy’s simple,’ the mother said, after the boy had gone. ‘It’s not his fault.’
The nurse came back.
‘What?’
‘May have a couple of scars, but she’s awake and she can talk.’ She sat down next to Breen and put her arm around him. ‘Got a few tests but she’ll be OK.’ With her free hand, she offered him a tissue. ‘Doctor’s with her now.’
Breen closed his eyes and breathed.
‘What about the baby?’
‘Too early to tell. But your wife, she’s fine, thank the Lord.’ And she sat with him for a minute while his chest heaved.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not normally like this.’
‘Go on. It’s OK.’
‘No. It’s not.’ And he struggled to control himself. He hated this woman, seeing him crying. It wasn’t right.
An hour later, another nurse came down and told him Helen was awake.
‘Can I see her?’
The nurse led him to the stairs and up to the first floor, into a room with six beds. Five were empty. She was in the sixth. They had cleaned the blood off her, exposing the cuts and bruises. They had shaved her head and there were four bloody stitches on her hairline.
It was as if her face had been reduced to a child’s ugly scrawl, careless and disproportionate. Her top lip was enormous, distorting her expression into a cartoon scowl, while her left eye was shut and massively swollen. The eyelid was an even grey-blue. It looked more like an egg laid sideways onto her face; at the bottom of this huge bulge sat a bizarre fringe which Breen realised were her eyelashes.
‘S’ry,’ she whispered, wincing as she tried to speak.
He looked for a hand to hold, but it was under the covers.
‘Who was it?’
‘Don’t know… didn’t see.’
‘Didn’t see?’
The older constable who had been at Breen’s flat arrived, pushing his way through the curtain. ‘She’s talking?’
‘She said she didn’t see who assaulted her,’ said Breen.
‘B’stards,’ she said.
