by William Shaw
‘A hat?’
‘Just a cap, really. But he was only in once. Fairly big man. Yes, and a nice car. A Bristol. Don’t see so many of those, do you? Rest of the time I didn’t see nobody.’
Breen thanked him.
‘Tell her hello if you see her,’ said the man. ‘She was a nice lady. Nice lad too. Real cool.’ And he turned to play the record.
‘Friday the thirteenth,’ said Tozer. ‘Bad luck.’
‘What?’ said Breen.
‘Today. It’s the thirteenth of December,’ she said. ‘Typical, hey? Shirley Prosser gone.’
‘You don’t really believe in that stuff, do you?’
‘No. Just saying, that’s all. Course I don’t believe it. Like horoscopes. Rubbish, isn’t it?’
‘He was flirting with you, that man.’
‘He was kind of nice-looking.’
Breen grunted. ‘Teaching a cripple how to dance. It’s not exactly a responsible thing to do, is it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s only encouraging people to take the mickey.’
‘What if they do?’
They were walking away from the record shop, down Edgware Road. The shop window for Woolworths was full of tinsel and cotton-wool snow.
Tozer paused to look into the window. ‘You bought all your presents yet?’
‘Not yet.’ He didn’t say that he had only ever bought Christmas presents for his father.
‘I was thinking of getting my dad a camera. Look at that,’ she said. In the shop window were piles of a game called Twister. The box showed a cartoon of an American man and woman, each on their hands and knees, grinning. The game that ties you up in knots. ‘I don’t think I’ll be getting that for Mum and Dad,’ she said.
‘After work, some of them are meeting up,’ she continued. ‘John Carmichael asked me out.’
‘Carmichael?’
‘No need to look like that. We’re meeting up in the Louise with all the rest of them. I’ve not much time left in London. I want to have some fun, for Christ sake. You know what it’s going to be like for me when I go back down to the farm. Look –’ she pointed to the board game again – ‘I can’t see that catching on in England, can you? Honestly, though? A game where you actually have to touch each other to play it.’
‘I suppose I could come tonight’, Breen said.
‘Poor Paddy. Without your job, you’re like a puppy looking for his stick.’
They sat at a table at the front of the Louise.
‘I just didn’t think you were interested in him,’ said Breen.
The pub was busy. The landlord had put some crêpe-paper streamers over the bar and had written a notice in felt-tip pen that said ‘HAPPY CHRISTMAS 1968’. It was the best they could manage in the Louise.
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘He’s just a mate. Look. You and me. We just had sex once, that’s all. We’re not married or anything. It’s just a laugh. He’s a laugh. He’s not a miserable old arse.’
‘Did you have sex with Carmichael?’
‘None of your business if I did.’
Breen held up his hands. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think he was your sort.’
‘I thought he was your best friend. Don’t act so weird, Paddy.’
‘I’m not acting weird.’
‘I know things are hard on you right now.’ She rummaged in her handbag and brought out her purse. ‘I was thinking. What if you and me went out another night? Last chance before I go.’
‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ said Breen. ‘What with work and everything.’
She pulled out two tickets and handed him one. Breen looked at it:
ROYAL ALBERT HALL.
18 December.
Celebration in December.
20/-
‘What is it?’ Breen asked.
‘It’s this thing. The Alchemical Wedding. It’s kind of a happening.’
He remembered a jester on a train. ‘What’s a happening?’
‘I got the tickets from the squat. Jayakrishna and all of them are doing something there. Want to come?’
‘You’ve been back there?’
‘Yes. A few times.’
Breen frowned, looking at the ticket. ‘I don’t think it’s really me,’ he said.
‘Oh, come on. Leonard Cohen’s going to be there. And the Beatles. All sorts.’
Breen said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Call it research,’ she said. ‘You’ll be helping me out.’
‘With what?’
A drunken man came barging past. He spotted Tozer and started singing, top of his voice. ‘Young girl, get out of my mind. My love for you is—’
‘Go away,’ said Tozer.
‘Better run, girl. I’ll touch your bum, girl…’
‘Research into what?’
‘Get lost,’ shouted Tozer to the drunken copper. She was still holding the ticket out to Breen. ‘Come on. What else are you bloody doing? Please? I want you to be there.’
‘Why are you so interested in the squat?’
‘I’m just curious. That’s all,’ she said.
Breen looked at her and said, ‘I’ll go if you come to Johnny Knight’s house with me this weekend.’
‘Who’s Johnny Knight?’
‘Shirley Prosser’s brother. He lives in Borehamwood.’ He pulled the notebook he’d found at her flat out of his pocket.
‘This is Shirley Prosser’s address book?’
Breen nodded. ‘Her maiden name was Knight.’
She took the book and flicked through it. ‘You should hand this over to Scotland Yard.’
‘There’s only a few numbers in the book. His is one of them. I’ve been trying to call Johnny Knight since yesterday, to see if he knows where she might have gone. But there’s no answer. I was thinking of catching a train out there on Sunday.’
‘Where’s Boring Wood?’ she asked.
‘About forty minutes away by train,’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
Carmichael came back holding a pint of lager and a rum and black. ‘Did I interrupt something?’ he said, trying to slide the glasses onto the table, spilling lager onto his twill trousers. ‘Bugger,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you can afford the dry cleaning now you’re on Drug Squad,’ said Tozer.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Everyone knows you get a better class of bung on Drug Squad,’ she said.
‘Shut up. Why does everyone always accuse us of being bent?’ said Carmichael. Breen noticed Carmichael had put on weight since he’d left D Division CID. Sitting down, Carmichael’s stomach bulged over the top of his trousers.
‘Just wanted to say, I’m sorry to hear about what happened, Paddy,’ said Carmichael. ‘It’s a bloody shame. I’m sure it’ll all be cleared up in a day or so.’
‘He said he needed a holiday, didn’t he?’ said Tozer. ‘Well now he’s bloody got one.’
Coppers were wandering over to shake Breen’s hand. ‘We’re rooting for you, chum,’ and, ‘Bloody disgrace,’ they said. ‘Ridiculous.’ Even if a lot of them had liked Prosser, nobody liked to see a policeman suspended.
‘Good luck, mate,’ they said. Breen thought he saw a wariness in their eyes, though. As if they didn’t quite trust him anymore.
Carmichael said, ‘They pulled you off the Pugh thing as well, didn’t they?’
‘What I never figured out was where Pugh was getting his drugs from,’ said Breen. ‘I was thinking… Do you keep a list of suspected dealers?’ he asked Carmichael.
‘Yes. Kind of.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t think we know the half of it. It’s getting mad out there. They’re bringing in heroin from Hong Kong now. We have no idea.’
Tozer said, ‘God’s sake. For months you’ve been singing the praises of the Drug Squad. Now you’ve joined them—’
‘No,’ said Carmichael. ‘It’s great.�
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‘Only what?’ said Breen.
‘If they spent more time tracking down the real dealers instead of doing all these raids on pop stars we might be getting somewhere.’
‘You had a row with Pilcher?’ Breen guessed.
‘Thing is,’ said Carmichael, ‘there’s just as much gear out there now as there was before. More, maybe.’
‘Gear?’ said Breen.
Carmichael ignored him. ‘And we’re just giving them Chink gangs a living. It’s them we should be gunning for. Not all these posh nancies.’
‘Let’s not talk shop, hey?’ said Tozer. ‘I want to get drunk. Only two weeks left and then I’m gone.’
Two weeks, thought Breen, and then she’d be gone.
He turned to Carmichael. ‘So how would I go about finding out who was selling Pugh drugs?’
Marilyn barged in and leaned over to give Breen a kiss on the cheek. ‘We missed you, Paddy.’
‘Only been two days,’ said Breen.
Marilyn leaned forward with a hanky and started scrubbing at the lipstick she’d just left on Breen’s cheek.
Carmichael said to Tozer, ‘Let’s get a move on then. We’ll miss our table.’ He lifted his glass and poured the drink down his throat.
Carmichael grabbed Breen’s arm as he stood up to leave with Tozer. ‘I’ll ask around. No promises though.’
‘Thanks,’ said Breen, and he watched the two of them leave.
By half past eight, Marilyn had drunk four double Bacardi and Cokes on an empty stomach and said she wanted another. She disappeared to the Ladies when Jones sat down next to him and said, ‘I think she was hoping it was just the two of you.’
‘Don’t be nasty.’
‘Because she fancies you. Everybody knows that.’
‘She doesn’t. She’s got a boyfriend.’
‘All the women like you, Paddy. Just tell me what I should say to my missus. Since she’s been pregnant life’s been no fun.’
‘Jonesy’s pissed,’ said a copper.
‘Good to see you, though. You coping OK?’ Jones slung his arm around Breen’s shoulder as if they were the oldest friends in the world.
The pub was full. People standing shoulder to shoulder. Pints spilt on the carpet. The publican barged round with a galvanised bucket to empty the ashtrays into, wiping them with a filthy bar cloth.
‘You should go home,’ said Breen. ‘Spend a bit more time with your wife.’
A couple started dancing in the corner, if you could call it dancing. The man was moustachioed and wore a blue jacket that was at least a size too big for him, the woman in a polka-dot dress. He was drunk, dragging her around a small empty space on the floor. She was reluctant, laughing, trying to push him away. A couple of onlookers cheered. ‘Go on,’ they shouted. ‘Give us a twirl.’
Jones was saying, ‘I’d like to smash his bloody face in.’
‘Who?’
‘My dad of course.’
Another of the constables came over and offered Breen a drink. ‘Suspended on full pay. That’s worth a celebration,’ he said.
The constable sat next to Breen. ‘Terrible thing about Michael Prosser,’ he said. ‘I bet it was his missus.’
‘Who’s saying that?’
‘I bet you. That’s all. A copper’s instinct. I’m not even in bloody CID and I can tell a mile off.’
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Breen. ‘I know for a fact she can’t have done it.’ Though he didn’t want to explain why he she couldn’t have: he’d have had to explain that he was out with her.
‘Keep your hair on, Paddy. OK, if it wasn’t her, who was it?’
‘Bloody hell. Look at the state of her.’
All eyes went to the door from the public bar. A woman from behind the bar had one hand round Marilyn and was guiding her through the crowd.
‘She had locked herself in,’ said the barmaid. ‘I had to break down the door. Landlord is hopping.’
Marilyn’s mascara had run down her face and her eyes were puffy. ‘I don’t feel well,’ said Marilyn.
‘Almost killed my shoulder doing it. Landlord’s calling a taxi.’
‘Something I ate,’ said Marilyn.
‘Wasn’t nothing you ate ’cept rum and Coke,’ said the constable.
Sorrowful Marilyn, beehive crooked, one of her earrings missing.
‘You’ve got something on your top,’ said Breen.
The barmaid looked down too. ‘God, Marilyn. You sicked on me.’
‘Wasn’t on purpose,’ said Marilyn, flopping down on the bench seat next to Breen. She pressed hard against him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoiled it all.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Breen.
‘Do you mean that, though?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘You’re really nice,’ said Marilyn. She wrapped herself around his right arm.
The copper who he’d been speaking to said, ‘Oi, oi,’ and winked.
‘She’s just a bit drunk, that’s all,’ said Breen.
‘Really nice,’ she said.
‘We’ll put you in a taxi and take you home to your boyfriend,’ said Breen.
‘What you want to do that for?’ slurred Marilyn. Then, ‘He says he wants to marry me.’ She leaned in closer, leaning her head against his arm.
‘You’re well in there, mate,’ mouthed the copper, winking.
‘I don’t love him.’ She smiled lopsidedly.
‘Come on. We’ve got to get you home.’
Outside the air was cold. A frost was settling across the street. The taxi driver was an elderly man with big ears and a flat cap who said, ‘I’m not taking her in my cab. She’ll throw up in it and then I’ll be off half the night cleaning it.’
Breen held up his warrant card and said, ‘You’ll take her or there’ll be trouble.’
TWENTY-TWO
‘What’s he do?’ They were walking from the station in Borehamwood. The town sat on the edges of London, like a timid rabbit waiting to be swallowed whole.
‘Quantity surveyor. Works for the GLC and stuff.’
‘Quantity what?’
‘It’s like an accountant for builders.’
The pavement was half built, disappearing into mud. A road still in the making.
‘Any idea why this quantity whatsit is not answering his phone?’
‘Holiday, perhaps.’
‘Nobody goes on holiday this time of year.’
‘I tried.’
‘Exactly.’
They had to ask directions three times to find the house. The new streets didn’t have signs yet. It was a place that didn’t know what it was. Johnny Knight’s home turned out to be a new house about ten minutes’ walk from the station. Modern, flat roof and white wood fascia boarding. Big glass windows and sliding doors. Very cool. Very with it.
‘Who’d want to live here?’ said Tozer. ‘The suburbs. It’s not here and it’s not there either.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Breen. ‘A bit of peace and quiet.’
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘You just sound even older than you are when you say things like that.’
‘Even older?’
A short gravel driveway, just enough to park a car on, but no car.
Breen rang the bell. A new electric chime. Two notes. Nobody answered.
Breen called, ‘Hello? Mr Knight?’
‘Maybe he’s with his sister. Wherever she’s gone.’
‘Maybe.’
A rambling rose, dark with blackspot, snagged on his jacket as he pushed past. He stopped to disentangle himself. Tozer squatted at the letterbox.
‘Wherever he’s gone, he’s been away a while. There’s a pile of post a mile high,’ she said.
Breen struggled on through to the back of the house. A row of cypresses had been planted at the back, presumably to hide the houses behind when they grew.
There were no nets on the window and a large picture window looked out onto the overgrown lawn. Bre
en put his forehead against the cool glass. It was a neat living room with new G Plan furniture, a revolving chair and a cream rug. A hi-fi with a Jazz Messengers disc leaning against it. A bachelor’s house. Breen imagined living in a place like this. Leaving the darkness of his basement behind.
‘There’s not been anybody in for weeks by the look of it,’ said Tozer. She joined him, head against the glass. On a coffee table there was a pile of books about art and architecture. The one at the top was called Streets in the Sky.
‘Very contemporary,’ said Tozer. ‘Not sure about the white carpet. I’d spill tea on it in five minutes.’
The sofa was brown with orange cushions. There was a pouffe and a big 22-inch colour TV.
Breen noticed the flies first, all huddled up in the top corner of the window. There must have been thousands of them, crammed on top of one another. His heart started to jump around in his chest.
‘So cool and light, mind you,’ Tozer was saying.
The feeling of clamminess when you know something is wrong but before you know what it is.
‘I bet he’s good-looking too. Broad shoulders. Maybe a little moustache.’
Tozer hadn’t noticed the black mass of insects yet. She was still saying, ‘The farmhouse I grew up in is like, two hundred and fifty years old. It’s so dark and poky. This is beautiful… Hey! What’s that brown thing on the carpet down there?’
Breen peered closer.
‘Oh God,’ said Tozer. ‘Is it?’
Breen said, ‘I think it is.’
‘Shit. The flies,’ she said.
In the shadow of the sofa, the body of a cat lay curled on the carpet, just skin and bones. There was a dark pool of seepage around it where the body had rotted.
Breen banged the window and the flies exploded into motion, fizzing into the air and clattering pointlessly against the glass.
Tozer jumped back, startled.
‘I hate flies,’ said Breen.
Breen found a hammer in a toolbox in the garden shed.
‘Careful, Paddy,’ said Tozer.
The glass panel in the house’s back door gave way easily and he reached inside to find the back of the Yale, snagging the sleeve of his jacket and feeling the cloth rip. Flies buzzed past him into the clean air.
‘Damn,’ he said, looking at another torn sleeve.
But the door was locked with a mortice too, so he raised his foot and kicked at the door a few times.
