by William Shaw
‘Michael Prosser?’
Like Marylebone, the Stoke Newington CID room was lit by long neon strips, but it was much less tidy. There were piles of paper and folders on every desk. They didn’t have a Marilyn to keep the place in order.
‘Early forties. Been in the police all his life,’ said Bailey.
‘Shocking,’ said the policeman.
‘I wish you’d told me this,’ said Bailey. They were talking in lowered voices. ‘You were wrong to think you could protect him.’
‘Where does he live?’ asked the Stoke Newington man.
‘I don’t know,’ said Breen. ‘He split from his wife in the summer. She’s in a flat somewhere with the boy.’
The officer said, ‘This won’t do us any good if it gets out. The papers would have a bloody field day.’
‘Agreed,’ said Bailey. ‘And there were several death threats before this, Constable Tozer said.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh dear God,’ said Bailey. ‘Why would you stick up for a man like that?’
‘It wasn’t him I was doing it for. He will lose his pension. He has a wife and a crippled child.’
The Stoke Newington inspector shook his head and looked at Breen. ‘What a bloody mess,’ he said. He turned to Bailey. ‘Can we be clear that this happened on our territory and it’s our investigation? Sergeant Breen is a witness. Nothing more.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Bailey.
‘We don’t want this getting out of hand,’ said the inspector. ‘The less your force knows about it, the less chance it’ll get out into the open.’
Bailey nodded. He liked it when clear lines were drawn.
In the Zephyr on the way back to the station Bailey said little.
On the Pentonville Road he spoke just once. ‘ You probably thought what you did was noble. But it wasn’t. It was obstructive and you were an idiot. You should have told me what was going on.’
‘His pension will be stopped now,’ said Breen.
‘Of course it will,’ said Bailey. ‘That’s his own stupid fault.’
Tozer looked up at them as they entered the Marylebone office. A downward flutter of the eyes. She was embarrassed.
Marilyn said, ‘How awful. I can’t believe it.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Breen. ‘A bit shaky, to be honest.’
Jones said, ‘I mean, you sure it’s Prosser? I know he didn’t like you much, but—’
‘Are you in love with Prosser or something, you pouf?’ said Marilyn. ‘He tried to kill a fellow copper. The man’s mental.’
‘Grow up, Jonesy,’ said Tozer.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Jones. ‘I was only saying.’
Tozer said, ‘Sorry, Paddy, only I had to tell Bailey. I know you told us not to say anything about the notes, but that was before he went psycho.’
Breen said, ‘I wish you’d talked to me first, that’s all.’
Marilyn was punching holes in sheets of paper. She paused, turned to Tozer and said, ‘Paddy’d asked us specifically not to tell no one about the notes.’
‘I realise that, thank you,’ said Tozer. ‘But he tried to ruddy kill you, Paddy. I don’t care who knows about it. He’s nuts.’
Breen looked at Tozer, then at Marilyn. ‘As it happens, Bailey said we should keep this to ourselves too.’
‘Why?’ said Tozer.
‘Because if it gets out that Prosser was bent it’ll be bad for our reputation.’
Tozer blew air from between her lips and said, ‘Don’t spoil our reputation? Bit late for that.’
‘I’ll be glad when she’s gone,’ muttered Marilyn, thumping another pair of holes into a pile of paper. ‘Won’t you?’
‘Well, maybe it’s the reputation we bloody deserve,’ said Tozer.
Breen said, ‘If people don’t respect the police then we won’t be able to do our jobs. That’s all Bailey means.’
Tozer raised her voice and said, ‘It’s like bloody everything in this crappy country. Keep it all quiet. Don’t rock the boat.’
‘What’s got into her?’ asked Marilyn.
‘I’m not a her,’ said Tozer.
Bailey yanked open his door and said quietly, ‘Constable Tozer. I can hear your opinions in my office. I would rather you kept them to yourself.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tozer, looking down at her desk.
‘And get rid of that… musical instrument. It has no place in this office.’
‘See?’ Tozer said, more quietly, after the inspector had closed the door.
Breen’s hands were shaking, he realised. A gentle tremble. Delayed shock, he supposed. He went to the toilet and vomited up the breakfast they had given him at Stoke Newington. When he had finished retching he went to the sink and poured cold water into his hands, splashing it onto his hot face.
His lungs felt heavy. He spat in the sink. There was still grey smut in his saliva.
A fat sergeant Breen knew vaguely came out of another cubicle, yanking his belt tight and tucking in his shirt. He paused to inspect himself in the mirror.
‘Sounded rough. Out on the town last night, was you?’
Back in the office, Marilyn placed carbon paper between two sheets and ratcheted them into her typewriter. ‘But what if he tries it again? I mean, we know he’s been getting in here,’ she said, and looked over her shoulder towards the door, as if she expected him to walk in at any second.
‘Exactly,’ said Tozer.
Breen’s phone rang. ‘Mount Street,’ a voice said. It was Carmichael. ‘Number 23.’
‘What?’
‘Where that fancy art dealer lives. You know. Guy who sells a piece of wood with a nail in it. That’ll be five hundred quid please.’
‘Robert Fraser?’
‘Yes. Robert Fraser. Runs the Robert Fraser Gallery in Duke Street.’
‘That’s him,’ said Breen.
‘You were right. We’ve been keeping an eye on him on and off. Only, West Sussex Constabulary barged in and did him for heroin last year. Big party. Pop stars. Naked birds. Some girl naked with a Mars bar up her fanny. Remember? It was all over the papers. Rolling Stones. The lot. Fraser was sent down for six months last year after that raid. Wormwood Scrubs. Our lot was furious that everyone else got a slap on the wrist. Bloody pop stars. They’re like royalty.’
‘So he’s still on drugs?’ Breen asked.
‘They all are,’ said Carmichael. ‘We picked up Georgie Fame the other day. Used to like him. And Tubby Hayes. He looked like a sack of shit. It’s everywhere.’
The line buzzed and popped.
‘Something else. Someone tried to kill me last night,’ said Breen.
From down the crackling line: ‘What?’
‘Someone pushed a burning rag through my letterbox. Around four in the morning.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I’ve been getting death threats as well. At my desk. Typed notes. I’ve had four.’
‘Fuck my boots,’ said Carmichael quietly. ‘Prosser?’
‘I’m pretty sure,’ he said. Carmichael was one of the only colleagues Breen had told about Prosser being bent.
‘He never liked you, but…’ said Carmichael.
‘Has Prosser been in touch with you at all since leaving the job?’
‘Me? No. Any idea where he is?’
‘No.’
‘And he’s not been in touch with anyone else?’
‘No. Keep it quiet though. Bailey doesn’t want anyone to know.’
‘Bloody Bailey,’ said Carmichael. ‘OK then.’
From the other side of the room Marilyn was chewing on a Cadbury’s bar. ‘Want some, Paddy?’ she called after he’d put the phone down.
‘I’ll have a bit,’ said Tozer.
‘I wasn’t offering it you,’ said Marilyn. ‘I was offering it to Paddy. Sugar’s good for shock.’
Breen shook his head.
Marilyn took another square herself. ‘I shouldn’t myself, really. It’s not good for my fig
ure. What do you think, Paddy?’
Tozer stood up and said, ‘I’ll go and buy my own then.’
‘You sure you’re going to be all right staying by yourself, Paddy?’ she was saying. ‘I mean, what if he comes back? I’d say you should come over to mine and stay there for a bit, but Danny would go doolally if he heard I’d had you over. I mean, you could if you wanted, but…’
Breen wasn’t listening. He was unfolding the graph he’d made on Tuesday afternoon, staring at it again.
FIFTEEN
On Friday night he piled blankets onto the armchair in the front room, listening for every noise outside in the cul-de-sac. The weather was freezing. He placed a one-bar electric fire by his feet. At four in the morning the meter ran out and he woke, shivering in the cold.
On Saturday he went to the local police station and asked the sergeant if he’d heard whether anybody had made any progress on his case.
The sergeant said, ‘You’d have to ask CID. Not heard anything though.’
He took a bus heading west, changed at King’s Cross and then walked from Piccadilly Circus to Mount Street, the address Carmichael had given him for Robert Fraser, and pressed the bell.
It was 9.30 in the morning. Mount Street was a long, smart Victorian parade of shops that seemed to sell either posh women’s wear or equestrian paintings. He stood outside the large mansion house and looked upwards. A street cleaner was pushing a broom along the pavement, sweeping up dead leaves and rubbish. No one answered the door so he kept his finger on the brass bell.
Eventually a man with a gaberdine mac and wearing a handlebar moustache came out, and Breen stuck his foot in the door to stop it closing.
‘I say…’ objected the man.
‘Police,’ said Breen.
‘Good Lord,’ said the man, and scuttled off down the street.
There was a small lift with a diamond-grid gate, but Breen took the carpeted stairs. Fraser’s flat was on the second floor.
He banged on the large door, but nobody answered. A window looked out on the street below. People were pulling up the shutters on the shops, opening doors and taking in pints of milk.
He banged again.
This time he could hear someone moving behind the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Cathal Breen.’
‘Who?’ A tentative voice.
‘I want to speak to Robert Fraser.’
Breen pressed his ear to the door. He could hear at least two voices.
‘Tell him he isn’t here.’ A woman’s voice?
Breen said, ‘I know he’s in there.’
Another round of whispering.
‘Who is it?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Breen.’
Distinctly, from behind the door: ‘Shit. Fuzz. Wake Robert up.’
‘I’m alone,’ said Breen. ‘I just want to talk to Mr Fraser. This is not a raid.’
On the floor above, Breen heard a door open.
‘What’s going on?’
‘That bloody flat downstairs again,’ an elderly voice grumbled.
The door to Fraser’s opened. Robert Fraser was standing there, unshaven, in a maroon silk dressing gown. ‘You again,’ he said. He looked Breen up and down. ‘Bit early.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Why?’
‘I just need to talk to you about Francis.’
Fraser sighed and held the door open for Breen.
The man who had been behind the door when Breen had knocked was more bohemian. In his mid-twenties, he had thick dark hair that straggled below his ears and large silver rings on his fingers. One was in the shape of a skull, with deep black eyes on it. Unshaven, he was dressed in a djellaba, a cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘Hi,’ he mumbled quietly.
There was a young woman too. Ash-blonde hair and mascara smudges around her eyes. She was dressed in a short cotton dressing gown and stood next to him.
‘He’s cool,’ said Fraser, as Breen entered the room. ‘Go back to bed.’
Obediently, the young man padded away. The woman said, ‘I’ll make some coffee. I’ve got to be on set in an hour anyway.’ She had a European tinge to her accent.
‘Had a party?’ asked Breen.
‘We just don’t keep the same hours as you lot,’ said Robert opening a drawer and pulling out a fresh packet of cigarettes. He yawned and undid the cellophane. ‘You look pale, Mister Policeman. Having a rough time?’
‘Actually, yes,’ said Breen. ‘Pretty rough.’
‘I hope you’re not ill,’ he said, not sympathetic.
There was a chaise longue in the middle of the room surrounded by cushions, with a more modern sofa next to it. Old and new, modern and antique, all jumbled up together in a big, light airy room. Without being asked, Breen sat on the sofa, in front of a blue sculpture of a headless angel. An elaborate antique hookah pipe sat beside him.
‘Coffee?’ said the woman.
‘Please,’ said Breen.
‘Me too,’ said Fraser.
She had the husky voice of someone who’d smoked too much the night before.
Fraser sat on the sofa opposite him. Breen said, ‘That’s a Matisse, isn’t it?’ A large painting on the wall.
‘Not m-mine,’ Fraser said. ‘Just between owners.’ As his dressing gown rode up, Breen noticed scars and long scabs on his legs. Lines under the skin as if there were worms burrowing beneath the surface.
‘That sounds good,’ said Breen. ‘To have this kind of thing but not to have the responsibility of owning it.’
Fraser laughed.
‘You can just wake up in the morning and say, “Oh, look. That’s a Matisse.” That’s a…’ Breen pointed at another one. A silhouette of a jug: plain black lines on a blue canvas.
‘It’s by a friend of mine. Can I interest you in it?’
‘I couldn’t afford it.’ He kept looking down at the marks on Fraser’s legs.
Fraser said, ‘From what I hear there are plenty of members of the Metropolitan Police who rake in more than I’ll ever earn.’
The woman brought two coffees in large French cups. Real coffee.
‘Did you know Francis Pugh as well?’ Breen asked her.
‘Don’t think so,’ said the woman.
‘Frankie,’ said Fraser. ‘You remember him. He was here when we had that party for Dennis Hopper. Quite quiet. Asked you to go to bed with him.’
She shook her head. ‘Most men ask to go to bed with me. I don’t remember.’
‘Well?’ said Fraser. He sat on the chaise longue. ‘Say what you have to say. I want to go back to bed.’ To Fraser, Breen was a man in pressed trousers and polished shoes. An amusing figure they would probably joke about when he had gone.
Breen leaned forward a little and asked, ‘Did Francis Pugh take drugs?’
‘Oh God. I knew it would come back to bloody drugs. It’s all you lot are interested in these days.’ He looked away.
Breen fixed a smile on his face. ‘Did he?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘In the last couple of months he was just drawing out cash. I think he may have been spending it on drugs.’
Fraser took a gulp from the coffee. ‘A lot of people do these days.’
‘Did you take drugs with him?’
‘Got any sugar, darling?’ he called. ‘As you know, I no longer take drugs. I learned my lesson.’
Breen looked around the room for a second, then spoke. ‘Please don’t treat me like an idiot,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not interested in arresting you or any of your friends for what they do. I just want to know about Francis. Please. Otherwise I’ll have to talk to my friends in the Drug Squad.’
‘You’re like a bunch of playground bullies, you lot.’ Fraser smiled again. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Yes. Frankie took drugs. And?’
‘Who did he take drugs with? You?’
Fraser shrugged. ‘As you know, I no longer take drugs. They’re illegal. And much as I enjoyed my stay in the Scrubs, I prefer t
o come and go as I please.’
‘Was he an addict?’
Fraser said, ‘We’re all addicted to something. Booze. Coffee. An orderly society.’
‘Please answer the question.’
The woman came back with a bowl of sugar. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said. ‘If the car comes to pick me up, tell them to wait.’
Was the woman an actress? Breen didn’t recognise her, though that didn’t mean a great deal.
Fraser said, ‘I wouldn’t say he was an addict, as much as an enthusiast. He was enthusiastic about most things.’
‘Where did he get them from? From you?’
Fraser shook his head. ‘The drugs? God, no. I sell art, not drugs.’
Breen said, ‘Who?’
Fraser paused and said, ‘Tell you what. If I help you, will you get your chums in the Drug Squad off my back?’
Breen paused. He had not intended to come here to strike a bargain with a convicted man. ‘I can tell them you’ve been helpful,’ he said.
Fraser reconsidered. ‘You have to understand how this works. In the scene, you never talk about your connections. For obvious reasons.’
‘Heroin?’
Fraser said, ‘Why would I know?’
‘Because you take heroin yourself.’
‘Took. Past tense.’ Noticing Breen looking at his legs, Fraser pulled them up beneath him and tucked them under his dressing gown. ‘You hear things, obviously. Frankie liked a bit of heroin, it’s true.’
‘So where would he have got it from?’
‘Have you asked his doctor? They always have the good stuff.’
The sound of a shower coming on down the hallway. From another room, a guitar strumming.
‘What’s it like out there? The weather?’ said Fraser.
‘Cold and wet,’ said Breen.
‘I’ve had enough of this bloody country. Is that all?’ said Fraser. ‘I want to go back to bed.’
Breen had almost finished his coffee. Delicious black sludge at the bottom of a cup. He asked, ‘Did you ever meet a man called Oliver Tarpey?’
‘Tarpey? Thin man? Looks like a toilet brush in a suit,’ said Fraser.
‘You met him with Frankie?’
‘His father’s minder. I met him once. He didn’t like me. Told me to stay away from Frankie. Thought I was a corrupting influence.’
