She's Leaving Home

by William Shaw

  “Can I remind you that the murder at London Airport and the subsequent disappearance of Officer Tozer are a Scotland Yard operation now?” said Bailey. “They are coordinating this.”

  A groan went round the room.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s procedure.”

  Carmichael ignored him. “We can assume he ran because he was guilty, yes? Of killing Morwenna Sullivan. Right, Paddy?”

  “In his own house, I’m pretty sure.”

  Okonkwo had said Ezeoke would try and make it to Portugal, but then Okonkwo had almost certainly been lying all along. Where could Ezeoke be now?

  “He’s already killed one woman we know of,” said Carmichael.

  “You can’t just lose a bloody police car,” someone said.

  Breen cornered Marilyn in the kitchen. “Are you quite sure she didn’t phone in?” he said.

  “You mean, you think I wouldn’t tell you?” she said, turning her back to him as she spooned coffee into a cup.

  “You’ve made it pretty clear you hate her.”

  She spun round so fast he had no time to raise his hand to protect his face before she slapped him.

  “For fuck’s sake, Paddy. I think she’s an arrogant bitch, but you think I wouldn’t tell you?”

  He stood there blinking at her.

  “You’re such a moron sometimes, Paddy bloody Breen. You don’t have the foggiest, do you? You’re the most heartless man I ever met.”

  She was still shaking with anger when he left her, standing in the kitchen, spilling the sugar she was trying to spoon into a cup.

  “She ever come back to your place?”

  Carmichael and Breen were standing on a traffic island, marooned by speeding cars. Carmichael picked his moments to talk about this stuff.

  “Yes.” Breen was looking at the westbound traffic, waiting for a gap. The skin stung on his face from where Marilyn had slapped him.

  “Bit weird, isn’t she, Tozer? Did you an’ her ever…?”

  Breen shook his head. He would have asked Carmichael the same question but he wasn’t confident he’d get the answer he wanted to hear.

  “I always thought you had,” said Carmichael. A motorbike roared past, just a foot away from them. “Thing is. She’s a pain in the arse. But…” Carmichael changed the subject. “This traffic is ridiculous. In ten years London will have ground to a halt. They’re thinking about building monorails above all the streets.”

  When they made it across the road there was a uniformed copper in front of the steps outside the hospital. Scotland Yard would have stationed him there to keep a lookout for Ezeoke. “You been here all day?”

  The copper nodded. “It’s not like the man’s going to try and walk in the front door. Not after what he’s done.”

  Carmichael grunted again and they strode on. “Prosser came in this morning.”

  “Marilyn said.”

  “What’s that all about?”

  Breen shrugged.

  “Don’t do that, Paddy. There’s been something going on between you and Prosser. He’s jacking it in.”

  “So I heard.”

  “And?”

  Breen shrugged.

  “I’m supposed to be your mate, Paddy.”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Did Prosser tell you why he was going?”

  “Sort of. I can’t say, though. I promised.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad to see the back of him. Just tell me.”

  Breen didn’t answer. However much he loathed Prosser, he’d made a deal with the man.

  “Fine,” Carmichael said. “Suit yourself.”

  The lobby was busy. A patient on crutches leaning against a wall in his striped pajamas. A white-coated doctor talking to a young woman. Staff trotting past with determined steps. Breen turned to the woman on reception. “Where’s the Senior Registrar’s office?”

  “Third floor,” she said, cigarette dangling from her lip. “It’s thick with all your mates up there.”

  Carmichael took the stairs two at a time. When they reached the front door, a nurse pointed the way down the corridor to a door on which was a polished brass plate: Professor Christopher Briggs. Senior Registrar.

  A middle-aged secretary in cat’s eye glasses looked up from her electric typewriter. “Yes?”

  “Is Professor Briggs in?” Breen held out his wallet.

  “He’s busy. He will be free in half an hour.”

  “It’s important.”

  She called through to him on the intercom. “Two more policemen to see you, sir. They say it’s important.”

  They had to wait five minutes before they were buzzed into a large office. An Afghan rug covered a polished wood floor. A portrait of the Queen hung from the wall behind his desk.

  The professor’s hair was thick and gray; it flowed dramatically back from his forehead. He wore a pink shirt and a gray woolen suit and sat at a large oak desk, opposite another man who was taking notes on a clipboard.

  He nodded at Breen, checked the time of his watch. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But do you know where your wife is?” asked Breen before he’d even sat down.

  The professor frowned. “Could you leave us for a minute?” he told the other man, who got up hastily, dropping the clipboard and then scrabbling for it on the floor.

  “I beg your pardon?” continued Briggs. “Is this concerning the investigation into Mr. Ezeoke?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s possible she knows the whereabouts of Samuel Ezeoke.”

  Professor Briggs picked up a fountain pen from his desk and screwed the lid on slowly. “Why would she?”

  “She is Secretary for the Committee for a Free Biafra.” Breen sat in the empty chair; Carmichael stood behind him.

  Briggs fiddled with his pen. “She is very keen on politics,” he said carefully. “Enthusiastic, the word would be.”

  There was a photograph on the registrar’s desk, turned halfway so that anyone coming into the room could see what a beautiful wife he had. A black-and-white portrait of a young, confident woman with a look of Audrey Hepburn about her: Mrs. Briggs.

  “And she was close to Mr. Ezeoke.”

  “I wouldn’t say close.”

  “Really, sir? They seemed quite friendly last time I saw them.”

  “Are you trying to insinuate something, officer?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “At home, I expect, cooking our dinner.”

  Breen leaned across the desk, picked up the telephone and held the receiver out across the desk. “Can you call her for us?”

  Briggs frowned. “Why?”

  “Call her, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Carmichael.

  “I do mind. I’m not particularly happy about policemen coming into my office giving me orders.”

  Breen said, “We are looking for a senior consultant from your hospital in connection with two murders, one of a policeman, another of a young woman. She knows him well, I believe.”

  Briggs colored. “As you said, she is on a committee with him,” he said.

  “And are you involved in the committee?”

  “Of course I’m not. She has her own business, I have mine.”

  “Call her, please.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting my wife might be harboring a criminal? I should warn you that I know the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police well.”

  “Of course not, sir. We just want to know where she is,” said Breen.

  “At this point,” added Carmichael.

  “Please, sir,” said Breen.

  Briggs eyed them both for a second, then took the receiver from Breen and dialed a number. Breen watched his face as the call connected. His eyes betrayed nervousness, flickering from the phone to the two policemen, and back again.

  “Well?” said Breen.

  “It’s ringing.” He held the receiver to his ear a while longer. They could hear the regular burr of the tone. On the other end nobody picked up the rec
eiver. “She could be out,” he said, still holding the telephone.

  “Out where?”

  “The shops perhaps?”

  “Which shops?”

  “How would I know? She is an independent woman.”

  “How independent?” said Breen. Briggs put down the phone. Breen noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. Seeing Breen looking at them, Briggs placed them on his lap out of sight.

  “What my colleague means,” said Carmichael, “is do you know if she is having an affair with Samuel Ezeoke?”

  The man pursed his lips. He picked up the glass jug and poured himself a glass of water. A little water spilled onto the oak desk; he swiped it off the surface with his hand. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

  The registrar opened a drawer and pulled out a jar of large white pills. He dropped two into the glass where they fizzed, loud as a dentist’s drill, rising and falling in the clouding water.

  Frances Briggs was not at home. The house in Russell Square was a large Georgian building, four stories tall, and she wasn’t in any of the rooms. Her Hillman was not outside either. They sat with Professor Briggs in his living room while he slowly worked his way through his address book, calling friends, dialing the numbers, a glass of Glenfiddich by his side.

  “Just wondering if you’d seen Frankie…No?”

  They had no children; it was just the pair of them to fill this massive house. The place was very modern, very up to the minute. There was a huge abstract painting above the chimney, and next to it a screenprint of a girl in a white bikini under which were the words BABE RAINBOW. A pair of modern chairs in front of a white television. The walls were white. A huge domed orange lampshade hung from the ceiling. A couple of African carvings that had probably come from Okonkwo’s shop. She did the decorating, Breen guessed. This was not the professor’s taste.

  “No? Nothing important. Yes. A dreadful business. Listen. Must go. Lunch? Of course. Next week maybe. Goodbye.” A man keeping up appearances.

  Another number. “Teddy? It’s me. Ah. You’ve heard? Yes. Awful for the hospital. No, he’d always seemed so in control. It’s been a shock for all of us. Quick question…”

  Every now and again, the professor poured a little more whisky, turned another page and dialed again.

  “What now, Paddy?” said Carmichael.

  The professor was talking into the phone: “No. I’ve tried her sister. Not a peep. Yes, of course I’m sure she’ll turn up any second. Of course I’m not worried.”

  Breen looked at Carmichael. “I don’t know.”

  “No one has seen her,” said Professor Briggs, replacing the receiver. “I don’t understand it. You don’t think she’s in any danger, do you?”

  “How much time did she spend with Ezeoke?” asked Breen.

  “I’m tired of these innuendoes, Detective Sergeant. She was very committed to the cause. Of course she spent time with him.”

  “Where would she have gone?”

  “I don’t know,” Briggs said. “I don’t understand.”

  Breen and Carmichael sat side by side on a chesterfield; Briggs had not offered them a drink. “Have you checked her clothes?” asked Breen.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You’d better go upstairs and see if she’s packed a bag.”

  Briggs’s face twitched. He upended the glass into his mouth and stood.

  “Do you think she’s OK?” said Carmichael. They sat outside in the car.

  “Briggs or Tozer?”

  “Either. Both.”

  Breen picked up the radio. “Delta Mike Five,” he said. “Requesting a radio car to keep an eye on 19 Russell Square. One, nine, Russell Square. Over.”

  It was past eight o’clock. Breen had been up since seven in the morning, but he was wide awake. Today had been relentless, from chasing Ezeoke at the airport, to the discovery of the murdered policeman, to the disappearance of Helen Tozer. After the slow days since returning from Devon, events had cascaded around him, but if anything, his senses were clearer, his shoulders lighter. Tozer might be dead. The thought made him feel physically ill. Yet he felt more alive than he had done in months.

  “So maybe this darkie from the shop would have come out and met Mrs. Briggs. Or maybe he had Ezeoke with him in the shop. And they came out. And Tozer didn’t have time to call you.”

  “Something like that,” said Breen.

  “Delta Mike Five,” said the woman’s voice. “Delta Mike Three on the way. With you in ten to fifteen minutes. Over.”

  “So she just went to the car and followed. Because if she’d have gone to get you, she’d have lost him,” said Carmichael.

  “Probably. Possibly.”

  “This is a mess, isn’t it?” Carmichael lit another Benson & Hedges, though one was still smoking in the full ashtray. “I’m not blaming you, but you’ve got to admit. It is, isn’t it?”

  Breen said nothing. He looked at the Briggses’ house.

  “So. Like I said, what now?”

  “It should be here in a minute.”

  “Delta Mike Five,” barked the radio.

  “That’s us,” said Carmichael.

  Breen picked up the handset.

  “Thought you’d want to know. They’ve found Constable Tozer’s car, sir. Over.”

  “Where?”

  “Walthamstow. Over.”

  “Walthamstow?”

  “Right.”

  “And what about Tozer?”

  Crackle and fizz. “Hold on.”

  Carmichael said, “Oh God.”

  The radio went quiet for a while. Carmichael leaned forward and banged his head twice on the steering wheel.

  It seemed like an age before the woman came back on the air.

  “No sign. Over.”

  “Bollocks,” said Carmichael.

  Walthamstow was way to the east, miles from where Breen had last seen Tozer.

  Carmichael already had the blue light flashing.

  “Repeat that address,” Breen said, trying to write the street name down as Carmichael tore away.

  The car was parked in a cul-de-sac a little way up Chingford Road from the greyhound track. It was nothing more than a short, rubbish-strewn path leading to allotments. The doors had all been locked and the police had had to smash a quarter-light to get into it. Apart from a lipstick on the dashboard and the wrapper from a packet of Polos, there was nothing of Tozer’s in the car.

  “No sign of blood or anything,” said a copper, standing by the car. “No sign of a struggle.”

  “That’s good, right?” said Carmichael. Local police had spent the last halfhour knocking on doors in the area, talking to people on the allotments, but no one remembered seeing the police car arrive.

  “Did she drive it here, or someone else?” said Carmichael. “Why here? Where were they going?”

  Breen and Carmichael drove around the streets themselves, peering at endless postwar terraces and semis, looking over cypress hedges and larch lap fences, hoping to spot something. The streets were empty now. People were at home watching the news on television, or on their way to bed.

  “I don’t mind saying, I’m quite worried now,” said Carmichael.

  Breen was too; he just wasn’t inclined to say it out loud.

  At one point they found a couple of black teenagers riding around on a bike, one sitting on the handlebars. When they asked them if they’d seen a couple of black men with two white women the boys said, “We haven’t seen nothing.”

  At around ten they passed another police car coming the other way. Carmichael wound down his window. “Anything?”

  “Not a sniff,” said the other cop.

  It was pointless just driving around, but the alternative was to go home, which felt like giving up.

  At ten-thirty Carmichael parked outside a corner pub and returned with three packets of Bensons and a box of matches. Around eleven, he said, “You hungry?”

  Breen had eaten nothing since Tozer had made him to
ast that morning but he didn’t feel hungry in the slightest.

  “I could eat a donkey and still have room for a doughnut,” said Carmichael. “Shall we take a break?”

  “I know a place. It’s not far.”

  “This better be good,” Carmichael said, parking outside. “It looks like a dive.”

  “It’s good,” said Breen.

  Aside from a fading Rembrandt print on the yellowing walls, the cafe was normally a plain place. Tonight, though, there were flowers. Some flowers were in jugs, others in old coffee tins, or oil cans. There were red roses and yellow lilies. One bunch of orange delphiniums was propped in a glass measuring jar.

  He couldn’t see Joe anywhere. His daughter was behind the counter working with an elderly man Breen didn’t recognize.

  “What’s with the flower shop?” Breen asked.

  “Joe’s in the Homerton. He had a stroke.”

  “Joe? A stroke?”

  He noticed now her eyes were red-rimmed and raw. She spooned Nescafé into a couple of cups and held them under an urn. “Night before last. I got a call around three in the morning. One of his regulars came in and he was sitting on the floor down there.” She pointed behind the counter. “He couldn’t speak or move.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded.

  “How long had he been like that?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again.

  “I shut the shop. I had to.”

  “Of course.”

  “Joe wouldn’t have liked it, but there was only me.”

  She opened the counter and walked out to put the coffees on a table in the far corner.

  “How is he?” asked Breen when she came back.

  She busied herself deliberately wiping the counter. “He’s going to need a bit of looking after.”

  “Are we getting some food?” called Carmichael. “Or what?”

  “How are you going to cope?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of old friends of Joe’s have offered to help.” She wiped her eyes.

  The cook yelped as he burned himself, trying to pick up a sausage from a pan with his bare hands.

  “When are you going to see him next?”

  “They don’t let us in till after eleven in the morning. I’ll go down then.”