She's Leaving Home (30 page)

Waiting until he could conceal himself among a crowd of people moving up the street, Breen walked up as far as The Prince of Wales. It was a big square Victorian building on the corner, with large windows from which Breen could get a good enough view of Okonkwo’s front door, a little to the right and across the road.

He went into the pub and ordered a half-pint of best, keeping one eye on the street outside. He sat with his back to the bar. “You got a phone?” he asked the barman.

The barman nodded towards the toilets. The payphone was in a corridor. He wouldn’t be able to see Okonkwo’s shop from there. Breen split a ten-bob note for change. “Five bob if you keep an eye on that door. If anyone goes in or out give me a wave, OK?”

He took a last look. The sign on the front door still read
CLOSED.
Dimly through the glass, he thought he could make out the dark silhouette of Okonkwo moving behind the muddle of bric-a-brac in his window.

Leaving his position at the bar, Breen got through to Marilyn. “How are things?”

“Prosser just came in and resigned.”

“So I heard,” said Breen.

“No reason. Just jacked it in. Weird, hey?” He looked over to the barman. He was polishing glasses, but his eyes were fixed on the street like they were supposed to be.

“Weird.”

Breen told her about Okonkwo. “Tell Bailey. Tell him we need some officers here. Discreetly. And as soon as they can. I think they might lead us to Ezeoke, wherever he is.”

“Is that Constable Tozer woman with you?”

“Just give him the address. I’ve got to go.”

He made it back to the bar; the shop looked the same, still closed. “All OK?” he asked the barman.

Breen must have been away from the window a couple of minutes. He peered into the dark behind the junk in the window and tried to make out if there was any movement, but couldn’t make out anything. He wondered if Tozer had found a safe place from which she could keep an eye on the back of the shop. A light drizzle had started to fall. If she hadn’t found a shelter she would be getting wet.

The barman took the ashtray off the bar in front of Breen and emptied it, then wiped it with a beer towel. The pavements were filling again. He looked at his watch; it was just past five o’clock. They had been watching the shop for just ten minutes. Shopkeepers were switching off lights. Men were returning from work clutching evening newspapers and umbrellas.

“Like another?” said the barman.

“No. I’m OK.”

Another voice said, “It’s Breen, isn’t it?”

He was conscious of someone taking the bar stool next to his. Breen tore his eyes away from the window for a second. He recognized the big Irish man at the bar; it was John Nolan. He was holding his hand out towards Breen and it looked like he had been drinking all afternoon.

“Give this man a whisky on me.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Great news, isn’t it?”

Breen looked away from the shop again. “What?”

“You’ve not heard?”

“Which news?”

“The best news. I left you a message. Did you not get it?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“About Patrick Donahoe. The fellow who I thought must have fried in that fire. Do you remember? I’d been trying to contact his relations in Mayo.”

“I remember.”

“You haven’t heard then?”

“No.”

“Patrick Donahoe. He worked for me on the building site. He’d gone missing. You were afraid—”

“I was.” Breen looked back at the doorway of the shop. A large blue Pickfords lorry obscured his view, crawling so slowly through the early evening traffic that it seemed like an age for it to move. “You said it was good news.”

“I got a letter back from his mother this Friday. The stupid bastard was in prison the whole time, thanks be to God.”

“In prison?”

“Pentonville. He’d only got arrested for trying to hold up a petrol station, stupid bollocks that he is.”

“Really.”

The lorry had passed the shop, finally.

“You’ll like this. He attempted to rob a petrol station with a fork.”

Breen couldn’t help but look at the Irishman again. “A garden fork?”

“No. Just a table fork. Honest to God. A garden fork would have been better, I should say. He was drunk, I believe. And all he wanted was some cigarettes. So he threatened the guy on the petrol pumps with a fork. Like an ordinary table fork that you’d eat your dinner with. True story. And now he’s inside for armed robbery. All for a packet of ten Bensons. Can you imagine?”

“With a fork?” He turned his head. Still no one across the way.

“That’s right. And of course he was so ashamed he didn’t want to call nobody. So that’s why we never heard a whisper. You
would
be ashamed, really, I’d imagine, under the circumstances.”

“Yes.”

“It would be hard enough in prison. ‘You’re in for armed robbery. You must be a tough nut. Was that a double-barreled shotgun you used?’ ‘No, it was a fork.’” The man burst out laughing. He signaled to the barman for another drink.

Breen had seen nothing moving behind the glass since he’d returned from the phone call. Maybe Okonkwo was still at his desk at the back of the shop.

“I can’t say I wasn’t relieved to hear he was alive, at least,” said Nolan. “I’d have felt terrible if it was him. Did you find out who the poor bugger under the bonfire was?”

Breen shook his head. “I thought I had.”

“Well, I’m awful sorry to spoil that for you.”

Breen shook his head. “Sometimes you don’t find out.”

“That’s a terrible thing. A poor man dying and nobody caring enough for him to notice he’s gone.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Let me buy you a drink, Sergeant. It would be an honor to buy a drink for the son of Tomas Breen.”

Breen didn’t want a drink, but he asked for a pint of Heineken just the same so as not to offend the man and then, to be polite, took a sip from the top of it.

He had drunk almost a half by the time Carmichael arrived, with Jones in tow.

“I have to go,” he told the older man.

“Good luck, Mr. Breen,” he replied, swaying gently on his stool.

When they reached the shop, Breen couldn’t see anyone inside. Cautiously he tried the door. It was locked.

The hairs on his neck were prickling now. He started walking up Portobello Road, then broke into a run as he rounded the corner into Blenheim Crescent.

When he reached the corner where he’d left Tozer to stand, she was not there. He turned on his heels and started sprinting back up to where they’d left the police car.

“Paddy?” said Carmichael. “Where are you going?”

Running up the pavement, Breen careened into a woman pulling a shopping basket across the pavement. The basket tipped on its wheels. A cabbage rolled out onto the pavement.

“Oi!”

He didn’t stop. But when he reached the small side street the police car was gone.

A
nd she hasn’t called in?”

“Don’t think so,” said Jones.

“The radio wasn’t working,” said Breen.

“Typical.”

“She’ll phone in,” someone said.

“Oh, Christ.”

The CID room was full of noise. Everybody in the station seemed to be crowding in there. “It’s been the best part of an hour already. You’d have thought she would have had time to call in by now.”

“She’s just gone off somewhere, I expect,” said Marilyn. “You know what she’s like. She’s done it before anyway. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Breen glared at her.

The rush-hour traffic had been torture. Even with the sirens blaring it had taken them over half an hour to crawl back to the station.

“Jesus. You think she’s OK?”

Bailey said, “What in heaven’s name was she doing on surveillance anyway? She’s a woman.” He looked pale.

“She wasn’t on surveillance. It was just till backup arrived.”

“A plonk on a stakeout?” said Jones. “For God’s sake.”

“It wasn’t a stakeout,” said Breen.

Carmichael turned to him and said, “She was doing a sight more than you ever do, Jonesy.”

Breen was surprised by Carmichael coming so strongly to Tozer’s defense. Breaking the brief silence that followed, Carmichael said, “What are we going to do, then?”

“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 receiver. “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.”