Play With Fire

by William Shaw

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because a copper was shagging her. Or one of his mates. What’s the betting? How close is it to your station? Not far is it? Bet it’s one of yours.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Bet you anything,’ she said. Then she looked up from her own chest. ‘Are you staring at my boobs?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I used to put socks in my bra, when I was a kid. Now look.’

  She stood, pale-skinned and bony-legged.

  A day gone and there had been no progress in the case. In spite of what he had said to Mint, in terms of the residents of the house, the only person who was a possible suspect was Haas the caretaker. That left the prostitute’s maid and the clients, but they had no leads on either.

  ‘What if you and I sleep in the same bed tonight?’ he said. ‘If that’s not too bourgeois.’

  ‘Are my bosoms getting you all bothered?’

  ‘No. I mean. Well, they’re supposed to, aren’t they? But I meant just for company.’

  She hesitated, but then said, ‘I would, but it’s too hot,’ and padded to the bathroom on her own. Listening to the sound of water running, he picked up the dress and held it for a minute, then hung it over the back of a dining chair.

  ELEVEN

  On the phone, Wellington complained. ‘I am busy.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Breen.

  ‘You’re a pain in the bloody arse.’

  Breen was at his desk. It was now Tuesday morning, forty-_eight hours since the body had been discovered; no significant progress had been made. ‘I need to know the time of death. I think it’s going to be crucial to the investigation.’

  ‘And I will call you when I know anything.’

  ‘Just a preliminary idea would be useful.’

  There was a sigh. ‘Body temperature is no good. She’d been dead too long. You know how we normally find out the time of death from a cold corpse? I stick as needle in its eye. Checking the amount of potassium in the aqueous fluid is the best way to determine how long a body has been deceased. Only even a plod like you might have noticed, she didn’t have any bloody eyeballs, so there’s not an awful lot to go on, Sergeant. I’ll be investigating her organs and will let you know. On paper she could have been killed any time between Thursday and Saturday morning. Which is what I told you yesterday. Will that be all?’

  Wellington didn’t wait for an answer. Breen was left holding the phone. ‘Bollocks,’ he said.

  ‘Temper, temper,’ said Constable Jones, not looking up. ‘Oi. Where are you going, Sarge? Creamer said there’s a nine-thirty meeting.’

  Breen walked faster, letting the door swing behind him.

  It was easy to see which one Felix was; he had long black hair and a beard.

  They sat at a small table, each with a coffee in front of them. Felix had his black.

  ‘She said absolutely point-blank no. I told her I’d pay her like I was a punter and all she had to do was talk, we didn’t even have to have sex.’

  ‘Generous of you.’

  ‘I know. But she wasn’t interested. I called her up because I’d seen her put an advert in Private Eye. I said you don’t have to waste money on that. We’ll give you free publicity. She said no.’

  Breen sat at the small table with an espresso in front of him. Felix talked fast and unstoppably.

  ‘I didn’t understand it at first. I told her it was a great story. Perfect for OZ. There’s a young Australian lady called Germaine on our magazine, I said, who writes about sex all the time, she’s amazing; she’d love to meet you. She could write all about you. Make you a huge star. It would be amazing. She was perfectly polite, don’t get me wrong, but she turned it down. See? Don’t you think that’s relevant?’

  They were at the 91 in Charlotte Street. It was a rough place, but unlike everywhere else nearby that served instant, this cafe had an elderly but serviceable Gaggia. For Breen, growing up in post-war London, the thunk and hiss of these Italian machines had represented the new world, a long way away from the uniformity of English tea and toast and rationed margarine. He respected anyone who drank his coffee black.

  ‘She turned down free publicity. See? That’s got to be a clue, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Breen said.

  Felix ignored him. ‘She was gorgeous, by the way. Did I mention that? Very, very fuckable. Sort of petite and flat-chested which made her look younger than she was. And I thought she was fantastic. Germaine says the English like that gamine look that Twiggy has because actually they really want to have sex with little boys. I think she has a point.’

  George, the cafe’s owner, leaned over them to wipe their table clean. He was a Maltese man with a razor-scarred face. The artists and lowlifes who crowded here assumed he was a villain of some sort, though Breen had never heard of him being involved in trouble. He was a sweet, mild-tempered man, but the bohemians, who came here for George as much as the coffee, liked a hint of misbehaviour.

  Breen interrupted Felix to thank George, but Felix didn’t stop. ‘All she wanted to do was book an advert. Thing is, she was kind of famous already, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Oh God, yeah. You’d see her at parties. She was on the scene. Everyone knew who she was. I told her she should go to New York. They’d have loved her there. All that Andy Warhol, you know?’

  ‘Not much, no,’ said Breen.

  ‘Awful American artist but some great music around him. You heard of Nico? No? I had seen Julie Teenager before at a party too, I realise. At the Pheasantry.’

  Breen shook his head.

  ‘You don’t know it? It’s a commune in the King’s Road. Eric Clapton’s there. He shares it with a couple of the Australians from the magazine. It’s sort of a crash pad. There was some American rock ’n’ roll manager guy who hired Julie Teenager for the night to dangle her on his arm. It was kind of ugly, but I can remember thinking how fucking beautiful she was even then. The thing is, Julie Teenager was a genius. I found that really interesting. She’d have all these rich, middle-aged men’s tongues hanging out. As a business proposition it was pure gold. All your generation have that anger. “How come we didn’t have all this when we were growing up?” It’s like, however powerful they are, they can never have it? You see? It builds up in them when they see the girls in short skirts, screaming at pop stars. It makes them so jealous. That’s what she was exploiting.’

  He picked up his coffee but didn’t bring it to his lips, put it down and started talking again.

  ‘So she’s a mover. Was a mover I mean, poor girl. You know why this country is crap compared to America? We have no innovators. All we have is old industries that are dying. All we have is fucking trade unions. Old men holding on to what they’ve got. A generation knows that it’s missing the boat. All the schoolgirls screaming at DJs and pop stars. There’s Eric Clapton boning some teenager, and you know what? They’re bloody jealous. She saw a business opportunity in that. She gave them a chance to have it, if they were willing to pay to pretend to be young. It’s the revolution as commercial opportunity. And that’s exactly what OZ is too. If England is a nation of shopkeepers, how do you revolt? You take over the whole fucking shop.’ He stopped talking and looked past Breen, a flicker of anxiety on his face, as if he had spotted someone he didn’t want to meet.

  ‘You said we’re angry,’ prompted Breen.

  ‘Well, yes. You’re angry. All your life you did the right thing and look at you.’

  ‘Who says I did the right thing?’

  ‘Sorry. Got carried away. You’re a cop. Course you don’t. But all the other buttoned-down men.’

  Breen wondered if Felix was on drugs, he talked so much. And there was that twitch in the eyes again. Breen checked his watch. There was a morning meeting. He would be late. He picked up the small cup and savoured the taste. ‘So you think one of her clients was so angry he killed her?’

  ‘Fuck, no. You are completely missing the point. She
’s feeding on their anger. They’re not angry at her. The opposite.’

  ‘What then?’

  Felix lifted a briefcase onto the wooden cafe table. Breen was surprised. Felix was the first hippie Breen had ever seen who carried one.

  ‘Look. Think about it. She didn’t take my money. I was even offering her free advertising. So?’

  ‘So?’ said Breen. But he was leaning forward now, interested.

  ‘Don’t you get it? Either she’s earning a fortune already and doesn’t need it or she has something to hide. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Don’t you think, what? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out? That she must have been having sex with someone really important. I mean really big important, you know? Otherwise why would she want to keep it quiet? And why would someone want to keep her quiet?’ He looked from side to side. ‘How much can I trust you?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘My point exactly,’ said Felix.

  ‘Trust me about what?’

  ‘You’re not the first person who’s been looking for me about her since she died.’

  ‘Who else?’ asked Breen.

  ‘There’s a bird been calling me. And I think I’m being followed.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I just catch people looking at me out of the corner of my eye.’

  Breen frowned. ‘Did you question her about it? Did you discuss who her really important clients would be?’

  ‘No. I only figured it out afterwards.’

  Breen looked at Felix and thought of Elfie and what she said last night about the Rolling Stone being murdered. This generation’s sense of self-importance meant that they believed themselves to be the centre of everything. They could only understand misfortune and chance as conspiracies against them.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more likely that she didn’t advertise because she was just worried about becoming too public? Being too famous might scare away her clients.’

  Felix opened the briefcase and took out an old brown envelope, then pulled a photo out. ‘She wasn’t that scared being looked at. Look.’

  It was a black-and-white of Lena, taken in a photo studio. Wearing a crocheted dress, she was sitting on a TV that was on, legs apart, either side of the screen. The television was showing some pop group. Under the dress she appeared to be naked. Breen could see her nipples through the wool. Her eyes were wide and her mouth a round ‘O’ shape.

  ‘Fabulous, isn’t it?’ said Felix. ‘Just fucking fabulous. Apparently she sold these to her… you know, clients. J. Walter Thompson couldn’t have done it better. You’ve got to admit it. She knew exactly who she was teasing. All just a bit old-fashioned, the page-boy haircut and the make-up. Sort of 1967. But actually, that was spot on, because her clientele are a bit old-fashioned. They wouldn’t want to see Marianne Faithful with a half-melted Mars bar. That would be too scary, wouldn’t it?’

  Breen had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘So she clearly wasn’t worried about being too public. She was in business. But don’t you find it interesting she didn’t want to be interviewed? She didn’t want anybody asking her about the details of what she was doing.’

  He studied the photograph. ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘See what I mean? Tasty, isn’t she?’

  ‘Just because she didn’t want to do an interview for your magazine doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she didn’t like the juvenile tone.’

  Felix giggled. ‘We’re very proud of it, that juvenile tone. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. But admit it, you’d like to have fucked her, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘She’s dead, Felix. I saw her body. I wouldn’t want to have sex with her, no.’

  Felix’s eyes widened. ‘Did you? See her body, I mean.’

  ‘Of course. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Christ. Poor girl. Sorry. I’m an idiot. I just get carried away.’ He stopped. ‘Don’t look behind you now,’ he whispered.

  ‘There’s nothing necessarily suspicious about a prostitute not wanting to be interviewed by the press. Why would men pay money to her to sleep with her if they thought she was going to talk about it to journalists? All men who use prostitutes are men who have secrets.’

  ‘Right behind you. Woman with short hair. She’s watching me. If they weren’t so bad at it, it would be laughable. A cop, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Are you on drugs?’

  ‘You don’t have to believe me. We have the fuzz round all the time. Our phones are tapped. You can hear the click every time you pick up.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I swear. The woman on the table next to us has been listening in to our conversation.’

  ‘Right,’ said Breen.

  ‘Every time I look up, she pretends to look away. It’s hilarious. Don’t look now,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you when.’

  Breen rolled his eyes.

  ‘Believe what you like. I think Lena was mixed up in something. OK. She’s lighting a cigarette. Look now.’

  Finally Breen turned. The young woman waved a cloud of smoke away from her and smiled at Breen.

  ‘See?’ said Felix.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ said Breen.

  ‘I know,’ said Helen. ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Felix.

  ‘This is the woman who’s been following you?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know each other?’

  Helen held her bump. ‘Just a little.’

  ‘Christ. I thought – Well, I mean, it’s not just her. All sorts of people have followed me.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You must be Felix,’ she said, holding out the hand without a cigarette in it.

  He shook it. ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Felix is just going,’ said Breen.

  ‘Am I?’ said the young man.

  ‘Here’s a funny thing, Helen. Felix thought you were tailing him. He thinks he’s being followed.’

  ‘How do you know I wasn’t following you?’ said Helen. ‘Just because you’re being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to… you know.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Felix. ‘We have the Vice Squad after us.’ He turned to Breen. ‘If you see them, tell them our next issue is going to be for homosexuals. Going to drive them nuts.’

  ‘I thought your mag was all naked hippie women,’ said Helen.

  ‘Sexual liberation.’ Felix grinned. ‘That’s what we represent. Homosexual. Bi. Polyamorous. We don’t care.’

  ‘So, you a homo?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Me? Not me, no. God, no. But we see our mission as to blow away all those repressed Victorian attitudes to sex.’

  ‘Hear that, Paddy? Paddy here’s repressed, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very. Thank you for meeting me, Mr Dennis,’ he said, leading him to the door. ‘I’ll be in touch if I need anything else…’

  After Felix had gone, she said, ‘Quite nice-looking too. Shame you’re not allowed to grow a beard, Cathal.’ She tapped cigarette ash into the small tin ashtray on her table. ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘How did you know to find me in here?’

  ‘Intuition.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And it was in your notebook.’

  ‘You’ve been looking through my police notebooks?’

  ‘A little. I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry.’

  He paid for the coffee, looked at his watch again. ‘It’s not the notebook I mind,’ he said.

  She looked down at the Formica tabletop. ‘You don’t understand how boring it is for me.’

  ‘You’ve got Elfie.’

  ‘She’s nuts. And she’s depressed about Klaus. All she wants to bloody do is cook. And clean things.’

  He was about to say something, but before he could, she looked up. ‘So. What did he say?’

  ‘I thought you could hear it all.’

  ‘Some of it. He thinks that she was killed because of something she knew about on
e of the men she was sleeping with. It was someone trying to shut her up. Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘Of course it’s possible,’ said Breen. ‘But it’s not likely.’ He checked his watch again. ‘This was hardly an assassination; she was beaten badly before she was killed. That makes it look much more like anger. A spur-of-the-moment beating that got out of hand, maybe.’

  ‘Rather than just a reasonable, ordinary beating,’ Helen said.

  Breen ignored her. ‘And let’s face it, that would fit. Her whole operation was a tease. Even he was saying that. She was pretending to be a schoolgirl.’

  ‘So she deserved it, you mean?’

  ‘I’m late, Helen. I have to go. There’s a meeting,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He leaned forward to kiss her but her head was back down as she tapped her cigarette into the small red tin ashtray. So he straightened and walked out, looking back to see if she turned to watch him go, but her back was still towards him.

  TWELVE

  The meeting was already underway when he got back to the station. Creamer tapped his watch as Breen hung his jacket on the back of his chair, but he said nothing.

  ‘I assumed it was one of these two,’ Mint was saying. He had found an A–Z fold-out map of London, pinned it on the wall and marked out art schools in a red pen. There were ‘X’s as far west as St Martin’s and as far south as Chelsea. He was pointing to two locations that were within walking distance of Miss Bobienski’s flat. ‘I phoned them up but neither had anyone called Florence or Florrie working for them as a model.’

  Breen gazed at the map, saying nothing. When it came to his turn to speak he repeated what Wellington had told him earlier that morning, discussed how he had been attempting to track down information about the victim’s family, but left out Felix Dennis’s conspiracy theories.

  The meeting petered out. Creamer returned to his office and closed the door. There was a sense that little progress had been made since the day before.

  Mint lingered in front of his map. ‘But we have no suspects. Not actual people.’