She's Leaving Home

by William Shaw

  “Where from?”

  She stiffened. “I do not know. He would not tell me.”

  “Was he in a call box?”

  She frowned. “Yes.”

  Breen nodded. “What did he say?”

  “He said you would come here and tell me he had done a terrible thing. That I was to stand by him. Of course I will stand by him. He is my husband.”

  Breen nodded. A young boy stopped outside on a bicycle, peering at them, wanting to know what was going on.

  She said, “You don’t have to tell me. I know it. You believe he killed the girl.”

  “Well, it’s a mite more serious than that now, missus,” said the uniformed copper standing next to her.

  “So it wasn’t serious before?” Tozer asked him.

  A woman with a wicker shopping trolley stopped by the boy on the bicycle. It wouldn’t be long before a crowd formed. “May we come in?” asked Breen.

  Mrs. Ezeoke hesitated, then held the door open for them.

  “Can I get you a Coca-Cola?” Always polite. Always dignified.

  “No, thank you.”

  She led them back into the Ezeokes’ living room.

  “Can I offer you a cigarette?”

  There was a copy of a magazine called Ebony lying on the coffee table. “On the phone just now, did he tell you he had killed a policeman?”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “You tell us,” said the copper.

  “Please,” said Breen. “Do you mind keeping out of this?”

  “Don’t mind me, I’m sure.”

  There was a pinging noise. Then again. Wondering vaguely what it was, Breen asked, “Why did you move into this house?”

  She sat down on the sofa, straight-backed. “We used to have a very fine house, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “So why did you move here?”

  “Because we could no longer afford our old house.”

  Breen sat on a chair opposite her. “Your husband must make a great deal of money as a senior consultant.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why do you live here?”

  That ping again. Breen realized it was the sound of a stone, half-heartedly thrown against the glass window.

  She put her hands faceup in her lap and said, “We have given everything we have to the cause.”

  “The cause?”

  “The motherland. Biafra.” He stood up and went to the window. There were about ten people outside now, staring in. He wondered which one of them had thrown the stone. Seeing a face at the window, a man started jeering, waving his fist at him.

  “You don’t sound as enthusiastic about the cause as your husband, Mrs. Ezeoke.”

  “When men fight, women suffer.” She looked down at the floor.

  “What exactly happened to your money, Mrs. Ezeoke?”

  She glared at Breen. “Please. Do not expect me to know the details. This was my husband’s business.”

  “Who was he giving the money to?”

  “I do not know.”

  The news would be on the radio now, and in the latest editions of the Evening News and the Evening Standard there would be reports of a murdered policeman.

  “You must have some idea, Mrs. Ezeoke.”

  “Why are you asking me this?” she said.

  “Mrs. Ezeoke. A girl is dead. A policeman is dead.”

  “I do not think this has anything to do with our donations.”

  “So who did he give your money to?”

  “My husband is a good man.”

  “And your own daughter has been sent away from you, which means that we can’t interview her.”

  She put her hands over her ears. “I do not want to listen to any more of this.”

  “Did he tell you where he was going, Mrs. Ezeoke?”

  “Even if I did know, I would not tell you.” Her chin rose.

  Tozer said, “We can arrest you for obstructing our inquiries.”

  “I do not care. Whatever he has done, he is my husband.”

  “I think he killed your daughter’s lover,” said Breen.

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “I would not tell you, even if I did know. And I do not.”

  Breen stood up again and walked to the window. A woman with a pram had joined the small crowd. “Armed police will now be searching for him, you realize that? They are the sort of people who shoot first and ask questions later. They really don’t like people who kill their colleagues. If we can get to him first and persuade him to give himself up, he’ll be OK. It’s his best chance. Where will he have gone?”

  Breen looked at the poster: Biafra victorious.

  “I am not going to talk to you anymore,” she said. “He is my husband.”

  “There are men stationed outside the house at the front and back. If he comes anywhere near here he will be arrested.”

  She turned her head aside, pretending to look out of the window.

  “If he tries to get in touch with you, we will expect you to ask him to give himself up. I’m sure you don’t want anyone else hurt, Mrs. Ezeoke.”

  “I never wanted anyone to get hurt,” she said.

  In the distance, police sirens, gradually getting closer and louder. The cars arrived in the road outside. When they were switched off, the world seemed suddenly silent.

  Bailey was out in front of the house, sitting in his Rover, talking to other officers. He was wearing his old gray mac with a cloth cap and had a pipe in his hand. A man out of time. “London Airport cocked it up, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’re a new force, I believe.” This seemed explanation enough for Bailey.

  Policemen were streaming into the Ezeokes’ house to begin searching the place. From the front door, Mrs. Ezeoke glared at them, arms folded, muttering.

  Sitting in the backseat, Breen told him everything that had happened since he had come to this house yesterday afternoon. Bailey pulled out the cigarette lighter and held it above his pipe, sucking at it from the side of his mouth.

  “Scotland Yard are taking the whole thing over.”

  “I’m still investigating the death of Morwenna Sullivan, sir. That’s a different murder.”

  Bailey frowned. “You met this man. What did you make of him?”

  “He was one of those men who fill the room, if you know what I mean.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  “I wasn’t this morning when we went to pick him up, but I was when he made a run for it. Now I’m sure.”

  “Why? Why did he kill the girl?”

  Breen hesitated. “Ezeoke blamed Morwenna for…corrupting his daughter,” he said. “Though I’m not sure if that’s all there was to it.”

  “Corrupting?”

  “The girls were lovers, sir.”

  “Ah,” said Bailey stiffly. “Right.” He looked away, then said, “Don’t go round thinking it’s your fault, you know. It was good work. You did the right thing.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “After what happened to Prosser, they’ll think you are responsible for that policeman’s death. It’ll be the talk of the canteen.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Breen.

  “They’re an unruly bunch. I don’t feel I have control of them anymore.”

  Breen didn’t answer.

  “There’s a different way of looking at things, I suppose. I’m probably too old for it all now. But I don’t think much of it. They’re like a bunch of football hooligans. Not like members of a police force at all. Talking of Prosser, I expect you heard he resigned?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish. Do you know why? He wouldn’t say.”

  “No idea, sir.”

  “Right.”

  On the doorstep, a constable was shouting at Mrs. Ezeoke to get out of the way. He swore at her as she chewed the inside of her cheek, looking past him.

  Inspector Bailey sighed. “Better get on with it then.”

 
More policemen kept arriving, cars blocking the street.

  When he got out, Miss Shankley was standing in the growing crowd, as always in her housecoat and slippers. “See. I told you it was the darkies. You wouldn’t have it, though, would you?” she shouted loud enough for everyone to hear. “I told them what I thought weeks ago. And what did they do?”

  Someone shouted, “Spazzers.”

  He looked at Miss Shankley, arms crossed in front of her. Her smile was bitter and triumphant. “What you got to say to that, Sergeant Breen?”

  It was true. She had been right all along in her single-minded bigotry. He, on the other hand, with his fascination for the anomalous, his feeling of kinship for the immigrant, had failed to see Ezeoke for what he was: a murderer; a madman? Breen looked away, saying nothing, and walked back into the house. A policeman was yanking paper out of Mr. Ezeoke’s desk in the living room. “Be tidy, please,” said Mrs. Ezeoke. “There is no need to make a mess.”

  “Shut your mouth,” snapped the policeman.

  “You don’t talk to me like that,” shouted Mrs. Ezeoke.

  “I’ll talk to you like I bloody well like.”

  Bailey stuck his head round the door. “There’s no need to act like that, Constable.”

  Mrs. Ezeoke looked down her nose at him and said, “Grow up and act like a man.”

  The other policemen in the room sniggered. “Yeah, Smithy. Grow up and act like a man.”

  Bailey retreated again.

  “There’s no need to act like that, Smithy,” mocked the other policemen.

  Tozer appeared, eating a cheese sandwich. “Lunch,” she said. “You want some?”

  Breen shook his head.

  “How was Bailey?”

  “Could have been worse.”

  “Look at all these coppers. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “It takes a copper to get killed to get all this attention. When it was just our girl, nobody cared. Now it’s going to be all over the evening papers.”

  From the far side of the room, Mrs. Ezeoke tightened her lips. She seemed to grow larger and more immovable the angrier she became.

  Breen crossed the room towards her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For all this.”

  “You’re sorry,” she said. There was almost a laugh in her voice.

  “But we have to look for anything that might let us know where he has gone.”

  “Oi,” said one of the coppers going through Ezeoke’s belongings. “Look at this. He’s only got a medal from the Queen.”

  “That’ll make a great headline, that will.”

  Mrs. Ezeoke closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Your husband has killed at least one person. Probably two. A girl the same age as your daughter. Why?”

  “I have nothing to tell you. Your people have no respect at all.”

  Breen looked behind her at the Free Biafra poster.

  “I think he killed the girl in your own house,” said Breen. “That’s why her body was left by the sheds next to it. You were cooking dinner for your uncle. He was trying to find somewhere to hide her so you wouldn’t find out what he’d done when you came home. He knew the sheds were unlocked because he had complained about the doors banging. Or he thought he knew.”

  Her face turned gray, but her expression didn’t change beyond a tightening of the lips. “Why would he kill anyone?”

  “I don’t know,” said Breen.

  “He is my husband.”

  “What will you do?” he asked her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your husband is a fugitive. Your daughter is a long way away in Africa. Do you have anyone who can look after you? Your uncle?”

  “I do not need anybody,” she said. “I am perfectly fine.”

  Breen nodded. “If he does get in touch again, will you tell him that the best thing he could do is just to give himself up?”

  “My husband does not like to be told what is the best thing for him.”

  There was a loud smashing of glass. A constable, leafing through the papers on Ezeoke’s desk, had nudged a crystal brandy decanter, sending it crashing to the floor, pieces spinning across the polished floorboards.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Get out of my house,” screamed Mrs. Ezeoke. “You are all animals. Get out of my house.”

  Everybody ignored her, returning to their tasks, leaving the shattered decanter on the floor. A thick, rich smell of brandy filled the room as Mrs. Ezeoke sat down on her sofa and began to cry.

  The Afro Art Boutique was a small shop on the Portobello Road between a dry cleaner’s and a newsagent’s. The windows were full of strange trinkets and carvings. A cardboard box piled with small metal sculptures, each different; some were tiny men holding sticks or spears, others were shaped like chairs or cars. The box was labeled Ashanti gold weights 3 Guineas. A huge, black mask with massive cowries for eyes hung from two pieces of string, raffia streaming from the edges of its face. Old black stools of odd shapes and sizes, ancient and worn, were piled haphazardly everywhere. A rusting model of a cruise liner made from tin cans lay at a perilous angle, perched on top of a box carved with intricate zigzag patterns.

  Okonkwo’s unshaven beard was graying and his eyes were red and tired. He sat at a desk with a tin of Brasso and a dark rag, buffing a ceremonial bronze spoon. Somewhere, a record player was playing Bach’s suites for cello.

  “Good afternoon. I was expecting you,” said Mr. Okonkwo, putting down the rag.

  Like the window, the shop itself was piled full of African carvings, boxes, stools and totems. There were masks everywhere, some hung on the walls, others piled untidily on the floor. A heavy looking black stool, seat curved in a gentle “U” shape, sat on a table. On top of it, a clay statue of a small boy, squatting.

  “We’ve come about Ezeoke.”

  “Yes. Of course you have.”

  On the wall behind Okonkwo, Breen recognized the same poster as he had seen in Ezeoke’s house. There was another too: Save Biafra. A picture of a young boy looking up at the camera with dead eyes, stick-thin hands folded around his massively distended belly.

  He picked up his rag again and started polishing. “Ezeoke told me the police were looking for him.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “He telephoned me. About an hour ago.”

  “Where did he call from?”

  “I asked. He would not say.”

  “You should have called us right away,” said Tozer. “He’s a fugitive.”

  The man shrugged. “I knew you would be here.”

  “We could arrest you for withholding information,” Tozer continued. “You know he’s killed two people?”

  “Two?” Okonkwo frowned. “I only heard he killed a policeman.”

  “Why did he call you?” asked Breen.

  “He called to confess. Oh, and to beg for money and for me to hide him.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Did you offer to help him?”

  “I told him to go fuck himself.”

  Okonkwo spat onto the spoon, then continued buffing it.

  “Why?”

  “You have to understand. I loved Ezeoke like a brother. He was the most successful among us. But now I learn that he has lied to us and cheated us. I told him to go fuck himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I understand now is he never was one of us. He is just playing at being one of us. He never listened to us.” Okonkwo seemed to be staring at a single spot on the spoon. “He always thought he was better than the rest of us because he was raised in England.”

  Breen looked around. The bookshelves were full of thick books with weighty titles: Shakespeare Criticism 1919–1935, Hamlet and Oedipus, Ashanti and the Gold Coast, Tristes Tropiques.

  “Cheated?” said Tozer.

  “He has taken our money.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He called to say sorry.
‘I have lost sixty-two thousand pounds of your money. Please, Eddie. Save me. The police are after me.’ Go fuck yourself, Samuel Ezeoke.” He peered at the spoon and then put it down on the table.

  “God,” said Tozer. “Sixty-two thousand pounds? Your money?”

  “Not just my money. The committee’s money. All of us contributed. Expatriates over the world. Sam Ezeoke is our treasurer.”

  “That’s a great deal of money for propaganda,” said Breen.

  Okonkwo smiled.

  “You gave him the money for Biafra and he embezzled it?” said Tozer.

  “Oh, no, no, no. It is far worse than that. Embezzling it would at least have been an African thing to do. No. He lost it.”

  “He was conned out of it,” said Breen.

  Okonkwo banged the table loudly with the spoon. “Exactly.”

  He stood, went to the front door and locked it, turning the sign that said OPEN round, so it faced the inside of the shop.

  “There is nothing as dangerous as a man who imagines himself superior to the rest of us.”

  “What is the money for?” asked Breen.

  “What we were doing is not illegal.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “It is completely legal.”

  “What is?”

  Okonkwo spat into a dustbin. “How much do you know about Africa?”

  “Very little.”

  “You ruled us until eight years ago but you know nothing about us.” He smiled. “Our history and our culture mean nothing to you. You have heard of Rhodesia, I suppose?”

  “Of course.”

  “As a continent, we rarely agree with each other. However, one thing all black Africa agrees on is we hate Rhodesia. It is ruled by a white man. Ian Smith. And you have heard of him too?”

  “Is he being lippy?” Tozer asked.

  “Rhodesia supports Biafra. South Africa too. Ironic, don’t you think? White men in Africa suddenly find it convenient to support the cause of ethnic self-determination.”

  “We’re in a hurry, Mr. Okonkwo,” said Tozer.

  “Publicly we are raising money for propaganda. But we are also raising money to pay for mercenaries. Rhodesia supports us. Rhodesia supplies mercenaries.”

  “So that party we went to. That was really raising money for mercenaries?” Tozer said.

  “Yes.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Ezeoke is an idealist,” said Okonkwo. “From the start he has never liked the idea of us paying white men to fight our war.”