The Kings of London

by William Shaw

  ‘But they’re all wrong,’ his father had complained once, crossly. A rare sentence for a man who was leaving language behind.

  Breen had stopped caring if his father’s socks matched any longer. He never went out anyway. Why should he bother? But it had still made Breen’s father angry when he looked at his legs and noticed he was wearing odd socks. And it had made Breen angry at the time too. Why did the old man have to be so unpredictable? So difficult?

  Breen crossed the road and walked slowly to the police station. It was almost lunchtime. The cold made him feel hungry. He could go to a cafe and have lunch. Maybe Tozer would be free.

  Jones was coming out of the toilets on the ground floor as he arrived at the station. ‘Tell me’ said Breen. ‘Has Prosser been in touch with you at all since his leaving party?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Has he?’

  Jones blushed. ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Because he was your friend.’

  ‘He was friends with loads of people.’

  ‘You don’t have any idea where he’s living now, do you? Shirley says she thinks he may be in Elephant and Castle somewhere.’

  Jones said, ‘You talked to Shirl?’

  ‘Has he called you?’ said Breen.

  Jones narrowed his eyes. ‘How come you talked to Shirl? You shouldn’t be doing this, Paddy. You should be leaving it to the other coppers. If Bailey found out he’d flip his wig.’

  Breen nodded. ‘And you think they’re doing a good job, do you, these other coppers?’

  ‘Keep your hair on, mate.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘What are you saying, Paddy?’

  Breen looked straight at him. ‘Has he been in touch?’

  ‘No,’ said Jones. ‘He hasn’t. OK? You should take a pill, Paddy. You need to bloody calm down a bit.’

  Breen’s phone was ringing as he reached his desk. He snatched it up. ‘Tarpey here,’ said a voice. I’ve had a phone call from Dr Milwall.’

  ‘That was quick,’ said Breen.

  ‘What has been going on? Why were you speaking to Milwall?’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention Dr Milwall when I spoke to you before?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Was it because Milwall knew that Francis Pugh was a heroin addict?’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘I think that whoever removed the skin from his arms was just trying to disguise the fact that Francis Pugh was a heroin addict who died of an overdose.’

  There was silence on the line.

  ‘So you think it wasn’t murder, after all?’

  Not the work of a madman, collecting skin and blood. Or a torture scene with women’s tights. ‘I’m fairly sure it was not murder,’ Breen was saying. ‘But it was a conspiracy to deliberately mislead the police. Either to cover up who was selling the drugs. Or because it would be embarrassing for a Home Office minister’s son to be discovered to be a drug addict. Have you had anything from the pathologist? I’m sure you’ll be the first to know if I’m right. After all, they work for your minister, don’t they?’

  There was a pause. But only a brief one. ‘Well I suppose the bright side of this is that your investigation can be closed now. You can move on to more useful work.’

  ‘We still need to know who mutilated his body and then tried to destroy the evidence,’ Breen said. ‘We need to know who sold him his drugs.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Tarpey. ‘Death by misadventure would not be your department anymore, would it? While it would be nice to find out whoever did this, given the damage it would do if the truth came out, it’s not really a priority, is it?’

  ‘It’s not your job to decide what is my priority or not,’ said Breen.

  A pause. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Tarpey. ‘It’s not my job. I’ll contact the Home Office and let them know.’

  Breen was left holding the phone.

  Marilyn’s phone rang within a minute. ‘Inspector Bailey? I’ll put you through now, sir,’ she was saying.

  His father’s socks. Pale, vein-circled legs. Spidery hairs poking over the top.

  And a couple of minutes later, Bailey’s door opened. ‘Sergeant Breen.’ He stood with a rigid smile on his face. A bearer of bad news.

  ‘A minute of your time, if you please.’

  EIGHTEEN

  And that was that. The End.

  Fin.

  An incomplete trajectory. A moon rocket blasted upwards, failing to return to earth. It was just an imperfect job. There had been dozens like this before. So why was Breen so angry about it?

  When Wellington called at around three o’clock to let them know that the pathologist had confirmed Pugh’s blood showed traces of the drug the end was official. The lid was being firmly screwed down. The investigation now centred on an individual or individuals causing an explosion likely to endanger life or cause damage to property.

  Bailey was apologetic as he told Breen he would be transferring the case. Slightly embarrassed. The English establishment closing ranks.

  ‘It’s not like it’s a murder case now, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You did well, Paddy. You should be pleased.’

  ‘Only they probably won’t bother much because Rhodri Pugh doesn’t want them to dig up anything that will damage his reputation.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bailey with a nod. ‘That’s probably true. But the good reputation of our leaders is important.’

  Breen said, ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Don’t be arch, Paddy,’ said Bailey. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know why someone went to such extraordinary lengths to cover up why he died? They stripped the skin from his arms and legs.’

  Bailey picked up a pencil and stuck it into a pencil sharpener mounted on the edge of his desk. ‘Of course I do. I’m every bit as curious as you. But it’s not our job anymore.’

  Bailey twisted the handle of his sharpener a few times, scritch, scritch, scritch, pulled the pencil out and touched the sharp point.

  ‘Please, Paddy. Don’t look so downhearted. You can have your holiday leave now, if you like.’

  Breen closed the door behind him.

  Jones was already packing up the thin pile of notes he had, preparing to hand them over to whichever copper took on the case now.

  An hour of one-finger typing reports in triplicate that would be filed away and forgotten.

  ‘Where you going?’ said Marilyn as he put on his scarf and buttoned up his raincoat.

  Breen didn’t answer.

  ‘Paddy?’

  Breen yanked the door shut behind him and leaned against it.

  ‘Oooh,’ he heard Jones saying. ‘I think Paddy’s in a bate.’

  Cases rarely ended simply. There were always loose ends. Or the wrong person getting off too lightly. He should not take it so personally.

  As Breen stamped down the stairs, Tozer came clattering after him, folder under one arm, cigarette in the other hand. She called, ‘Hey, Paddy. Slow down. Where you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘You can’t go home. You’re seeing Shirley tonight. Don’t say you’d forgotten.’

  Breen paused. ‘No. Well, yes. I had.’

  She took a quick puff and blew out a thin line of smoke. ‘You bloody gonk. I gave up my ticket to see that new Yardbirds group tonight so you could have a chance to meet a woman. Against my better judgement.’

  ‘I don’t know if I feel like it.’

  Tozer snorted. ‘You invited her out. You can’t just not turn up. And maybe it’s not such a bad idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She needs friends. Almost as much as you do.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Six o’clock. Edgware Road.’ She turned an
d went back up.

  ‘Right,’ said Breen. ‘See you outside.’

  He walked.

  The slow route, passing time, winding through the back streets north of the Marylebone Road, past the chipped iron railings of Dorset Square and westwards, against the stream of head-down commuters pouring towards Marylebone station.

  He still arrived outside Jumbo Records half an hour early. There was nowhere to wait; the cafes were closed and the pubs weren’t open for another hour and a half, so he walked up and down the road, keeping warm. By six, he was standing outside the record shop waiting for Tozer.

  This was a mistake.

  Tozer arrived in a police car, tires skidding to a halt outside. Three young bobbies inside, Tozer’s age, waving, laughing. ‘See you, Helen.’

  ‘Thanks, boys,’ shouted Tozer, waving back as they drove away.

  Tozer had gone back to the section house and changed. She was out of the frumpy suit she wore to work and had a miniskirt and a denim jacket on.

  She looked at him and said, ‘Didn’t you get any flowers?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘God’s sake, Paddy. I brought some Opal Fruits for Charlie at least.’

  ‘I mean it’s not like it’s a date,’ said Breen.

  They rang the bell.

  Shirley Prosser wore heels, had her hair in a headband and wore pink lipstick. ‘God. You look fab,’ said Tozer.

  Shirley Prosser glared at Tozer for just a second. Younger girl. Shorter skirt. Smoother skin. Then broke into a smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Come on up. I’ll talk you through what Charlie needs.’

  Breen waited by the front door at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets. If only he hadn’t told Tarpey anything about his suspicions that Pugh’s death wasn’t a murder… Men who keep secrets should not be trusted.

  Shirley returned again. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Will she be OK with Charlie?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She’s good with children. Shall we get a taxi?’

  ‘If you like,’ Shirley answered.

  So they stood for a while by the kerb and Breen tried to hail a taxi, but the only ones passing had their yellow lights off.

  ‘Maybe we should walk a bit,’ he said. ‘Down to Marble Arch.’

  And Breen marched off southwards, occasionally looking backwards over his shoulder for a taxi.

  ‘Can you go a bit slower?’ said Shirley after a while.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. Still no taxi. Usually they’d be bumper to bumper.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I can’t keep up.’

  Breen held his arm up at a cab travelling the other way and whistled, fingers in his mouth, but it ignored them, roaring on northwards.

  ‘You want to rest?’

  ‘No. Just walk a bit slower, that’s all, can you?’

  Breen hadn’t realised he was walking so quickly. He was about to apologise, explain that he was in a filthy mood, suggest they call the whole thing off and go home when a taxi finally arrived, pulling up next to them.

  The restaurant in Frith Street was downstairs in a basement. The place was crammed, but Jimmy, the short, round Cypriot who owned it, beckoned Breen in and led them to a tiny table at the back. ‘Who’s this beautiful lady, Cathal?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer, hurrying away to the door where another couple were already waiting.

  ‘What did he call you?’

  ‘Cathal. It’s my name.’

  ‘Everyone always calls you Paddy,’ said Shirley.

  ‘Everyone always calls him Jimmy,’ said Breen. ‘His real name’s Dimitri.’

  There were a couple of damp menus on the table. Breen ordered a bottle of the Greek red, poured them both a glass and then drank his too fast. It was thick and vinegary.

  She said, ‘I’ve not been to a Greek restaurant before.’

  Breen was regretting coming here. He liked Jimmy’s and used to come here often on his own, but had never realised what a dive it must look to Shirley. A white-painted cellar, full of taxi drivers stocking up between rides, or the drunken artists who lived around here, after a cheap meal. Paper tablecloths and greasy cutlery. The two girls on the table next to them were almost certainly prostitutes, taking a break before the pubs kicked out and the customers started arriving. He should have taken her somewhere nicer. Somewhere classier.

  She scanned the menu.

  ‘They do English food too,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you think I’m adventurous enough to want to try Greek food?’

  Jimmy’s wife appeared at table with a notepad. Shirley ordered stifado, giggling at the name. He ordered lamb kleftiko.

  Shirley sat looking around the restaurant until the food arrived about twenty minutes later.

  ‘It’s nice,’ she said, after a first mouthful. ‘Is yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite sure?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  She put down her knife and fork. ‘Paddy. Tell me something. Why the hell did you ask me out?’

  Breen had a mouthful of lamb. He swallowed and said, ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’ve hardly said a single bloody word to me since we got here. You have barely looked at me. You’re staring into the distance like I’m boring you to death. What did you ask me out for? Did someone put you up to this?’

  Breen frowned. ‘I just thought you might like a break.’

  She pushed her plate away. ‘You felt sorry for me.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was nothing like that. Honestly.’

  ‘What? Single woman. Going through hard times. Easy to lay?’

  One of the tarts snorted suddenly, holding a red-nailed hand across her mouth.

  ‘Is that what it’s about, Paddy? You got Michael the sack and now you want to get his wife in bed?’

  Breen looked at her and said, ‘I liked you. I hadn’t expected to, I’ll be honest. I admire you, what you’re doing for Charlie. I just thought it would be nice to get to know you. I don’t think we’re that different. I promise you that’s all.’

  Shirley put her napkin down on her plate. ‘Well, you have a bloody funny way of showing it.’

  Breen said, ‘To be honest I didn’t have a very good day. Maybe we should go home.’

  She glared at him a second longer, then seemed to change her mind. She lifted up the bottle, poured wine into both of their glasses and said, ‘OK. Why don’t you talk about it, then?’

  Breen looked up at the ceiling with the rickety fan hanging from it. ‘Somebody just took away a case from me. I was getting somewhere, and then I was told to stop. That’s all.’

  He took the glass of wine and gulped some down.

  ‘What case?’ she said.

  ‘I know I should be making conversation, but I don’t really want to talk about it,’ he said. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘Great,’ said Shirley. She looked at her watch. ‘What do you want to talk about then?’

  ‘What about you?’ Breen said.

  ‘Me?’ She looked down at her barely touched plate for a second, then looked up and said, ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK.’ She sucked on her lower lip for a second, then said, ‘I got up today. Put ointment onto Charlie’s sores. He wears a calliper and it chafes sometimes. I had to clean his sheets because he sometimes makes a mess of the bed. He doesn’t mean to. He has to wear a nappy, which he hates, and sometimes he has accidents. The local launderette won’t let me use their machines because they don’t like me washing my stinky stuff in their machines. He’s not exactly a baby any more. So I have to walk about a half mile with it to a Chinese launderette. Charlie has to come with me which is a bit of a struggle for him. And then we have to take the laundry back home. Charlie has to take pills for the pain he gets in his guts, and we’re running low. I wanted to get to the chemist to get some more, but by the time I did, what with the laundry taking all day, it was already shut.’

  Shirley was staring right at Breen as
this poured out of her. He didn’t dare look away.

  ‘Charlie gets bored because he’s just like any boy really. He loves Scrabble so I play it with him, but today he knocked the board over by mistake and upset the tiles all over the floor, then got really angry with me about it. Then got angry with himself. And it took me so long to calm him down that I got behind with his dinner.’

  She paused, took a gulp of wine, but before he could think of anything to say, she continued. ‘And then I spent too long trying to get ready for this and he was angry with me again for not having time to help him with a puzzle he’s been doing. And we were just getting over that when you rang on the doorbell. And I don’t know why I bothered to dress up anyway. OK?’

  A pause. The clatter of cutlery from the kitchen somewhere. Something shouted in Greek by a waiter.

  ‘It must be very hard,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘So I’m sorry. But I couldn’t give a damn that you had a bad day.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Breen. ‘It’s not important.’

  She finally broke his gaze and looked down at her plate. She relaxed. ‘I didn’t mean to do that. It’s not fair.’

  ‘No. I had no idea.’

  She picked up a toothpick and broke it in two. ‘Michael never talked about Charlie, did he?’

  Breen shook his head.

  ‘We should drink this wine. It’ll stop me from being such a bitch.’

  She filled his glass again, even though he hadn’t drunk much. He reached out and took a mouthful to keep her company.

  ‘You’re not a bitch. It’s hard.’

  ‘Thing is, Michael’s not a bad father. But me and Charlie were never right for the police life. And that’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s a life. Michael was just like you. If something bad happened at work he would be angry. Just like you are. It can last days sometimes.’

  She looked at him. He had never liked Michael Prosser. Now she was pointing out how like him he was.

  ‘Angry?’ said Breen.

  ‘Not so much with Charlie,’ she said. ‘But they were all like that in the section houses. The wives all learned to shut up about it. We just accepted it. That’s what it was like, being married to a policeman. That’s why I hated it so much.’