by William Shaw
‘Yes. I think so.’
Carmichael nodded. ‘Good. Get the bastard. Coming together?’
‘My hunch is, it can only be a handful of people. I’ve got a lead on them now.’
‘Good. Good,’ Carmichael said, and slurped an inch out of his pint.
‘Why do you want to know?’
Carmichael rolled his cigarillo between his fingers. ‘So I can tell you how it should be done. Like always.’
‘Did you hear anything about that Rolling Stone who died last week?’
‘Stupid prat,’ said Carmichael.
‘It was drugs?’
‘Should have seen the look on Pilcher’s face. I thought he was going to cry. He’d wanted to nail him once and for all.’
Sergeant Pilcher was Carmichael’s colleague in the Drug Squad; a copper who liked to see his picture in the papers. There were rumours he had a bingo card of pop stars he had his eyes on, and crossed them off, one by one.
‘You know how he likes all the pretty ones,’ said Carmichael. ‘Brian Jones got off lightly last time Pilcher busted him. Pilcher hated that. Wanted to get him back for it. Told the magistrate he was cleaning up his act. But they never do, do they?’
‘Elfie’s going round saying there’s more to it. There’s not, is there?’
‘Doubt it. I hate the Rolling Stones,’ he said. ‘Fake blues crap.’
‘She thinks something went on between the group and Brian Jones.’
Carmichael shrugged. ‘I heard they keep some poor company. Drug addicts, the Soho gang crowd from the Flamingo, you know, a few of the Krays’ old mates. They love all that. Makes them feel tough. But it’s all show. Nothing to it. They’re nice boys. Good families.’
‘Know a man called Tom who works with them? Big guy? Glasses?’
‘Exactly what I mean. Tom Keylock? God, yeah, I know him. Likes a drink. Doesn’t mind throwing the odd punch. Talks shit but he’s OK. Pussycat in real life.’
Over Carmichael’s shoulder, Breen saw Jenks opening the door to leave the pub. On the doorstep he caught Breen’s eye, raised a finger to his lips, then left.
‘You’ll be thinking of moving, then, when the baby’s due?’ Carmichael was saying. ‘Don’t know why you don’t move into a police flat. Save a ton of money.’
‘Can you imagine Helen in police flats? She’d hate it.’
Carmichael lived in a police section house. He preferred to spend his pay packet going out on the town. ‘Serious, though. You two OK? You and Helen?’ he said, draining his glass.
‘Why wouldn’t we be?’
‘Because, you know. With the baby coming.’
‘Look.’ Breen dug inside his mac pocket and pulled out the ring box.
‘Jesus, Paddy.’ Carmichael’s eyes went wide.
‘Will she like it?’ asked Breen.
‘Will she bloody like it! Course she’ll like it,’ said Carmichael. ‘She’s a bloody girl, isn’t she? Everybody! Look at this.’
‘Shut up, John.’
‘Paddy here’s going to bloody propose. To an ex-copper.’
John was roaring now. ‘Get the fuckin’ drinks in, will you, you buggers. My best friend’s going to bloody get married.’
People were turning now, grinning at Breen, raising their glasses. ‘What you drinking, mate? You’ll bloody need it.’
Breen stood in the crowded bar for a while, while people shook his hand and slapped his back until he’d had enough of it and said, quietly, ‘Excuse me, I’ve got to make a call.’
‘Tell the new wife you’re working late, eh?’ Big laugh.
There was a payphone on the wall at the far end of the bar. Breen put in a shilling and dialled the number he had found in the directory. After a few rings, a woman answered.
‘Is that Mrs Russell?’
‘Yes. Who’s calling?’ There was a radio on in the background playing something bright and cheerful.
‘I’m looking for a Ronald Russell.’
‘You phoned earlier, didn’t you? I’m afraid my husband is still out,’ she said. ‘May I take a message?’
‘Will he be in later?’
‘I can’t hear. There’s a lot of noise where you are.’
Breen repeated the question, louder this time.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘He called to say he will be working late.’
‘Does he often work late?’ Breen asked.
There was a shriller tone in her voice when she said, ‘Just who is this?’
On the bus home Breen dozed, head against the window, and almost missed the stop at Stoke Newington. What Jenks had said to him was going round in his head. Why had beat officers been told not to patrol Harewood Avenue? What had been going on there that they hadn’t wanted ordinary policemen to notice?
His head felt heavy and dull with alcohol.
FIFTEEN
When he arrived home, Helen was cooking, which was nice, but he knew better than to make anything of it. Instead, he stood behind her, leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, smiling.
‘Are you drunk?’ she said.
‘Bit.’
‘You stink of beer, Cathal Breen.’
‘I met John Carmichael.’
‘Did you ask him why he’s pissing off Amy by never turning up when they have a date?’
‘Not really.’
‘What do you talk about, then?’
He sniffed. ‘What is it?’
‘Rice casserole. I thought I’d take a leaf out of Elfie’s book. It was in a magazine.’
Breen resisted the temptation to peer into the pot, and maybe make a few suggestions to improve the dish. Helen cooking was rare enough. His mother had died young; for as long as he could remember he had cooked for himself and his father. It was a change to have a woman doing this for him.
‘Look on the table,’ she said. There was a copy of the Daily Express there. The headline was: ‘COLOUR: WHAT BRITAIN REALLY FEELS’. Next to that: ‘Would YOU like immigrant neighbours?’
‘Not that,’ said Helen. ‘Inside.’
He turned the pages. Here he saw it: ‘BRIAN JONES (AFTER DRINK AND DRUGS) IGNORED SWIM WARNING FROM NURSE’.
It was the report of the coroner’s inquest. A pretty woman who had been with him that night had told the coroner that the pop star was drunk and had taken some black pill called Durophet.
He read to the bottom. ‘Verdict: misadventure.’
She put the pan down and said, ‘I’m not even hungry. Maybe I’ll have some later.’
He lifted the lid.
‘Elfie thinks it’s a cover-up.’
‘A cover-up of what?’ said Breen.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Taste it.’
He did so. ‘It’s nice,’ he said. ‘Lovely.’
‘Really?’
‘Maybe a bit of salt?’
‘You hate it, don’t you?’
‘No. Really. It’s fine.’
‘I got you a bottle of beer if you like, too. Only you’ve probably had enough.’ She took one out of the fridge and poured it for him, while he ladled some of the casserole onto a plate and sat down. He ate another forkful. It was glutinous and stuck to the roof of his mouth and he was grateful for the beer to wash it down with.
‘You don’t have to finish it,’ she said. ‘It’s OK.’
He put down his cutlery. ‘It’s quite filling, though.’
She slumped her shoulders. ‘I’m rubbish at this, aren’t I?’
‘You’re not used to it, that’s all,’ he said.
He turned back a page and started reading a short article. ‘SPY EXCHANGE MAY GO AHEAD SOON.’ Two Soviet spies, the Krogers, were to be exchanged for a British lecturer called Gerald Brooke.
‘But it would be pretty easy, wouldn’t it?’ Helen said. ‘Drowning someone who was already stoned and making it look like an accident.’
‘What’s got into you?’
‘Wouldn’t it, though?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. But
who would want him dead? He was on drugs all the time, anyway, John said.’
‘“John said”,’ she mimicked.
‘It’s his job to know things like that,’ said Breen.
‘The Drug Squad don’t know anything,’ she said.
‘That’s why they need someone like John. He’s a great copper.’
‘You’re drunk, Cathal Breen.’
She took the paper away from him and turned back to the article about the dead pop star. In the photo, a man who was described as Brian Jones’s builder was clutching the witness, a voguish young woman in dark glasses who was trying to hide her face with her large floppy hat.
‘You don’t really believe Elfie, though, do you?’ said Breen. It wasn’t that he didn’t think that you could cover up a murder. He thought about Jenks again and felt suddenly uneasy.
‘Of course not.’ Helen took his plate away from him. ‘I’m not doing the washing-up though,’ she said.
He fingered the ring box in his trouser pocket. Now would not be the time to give it to her. She was right. He was drunk. He should go to bed.
Cathal Breen rose early, thirsty.
It was light by five. Helen was still asleep. He tucked the ring box into his sock drawer, made himself a coffee, drank it quickly, then let himself out quietly.
Morning was a good time to travel, because though not all the routes were running yet, the buses that were were still half empty. The only other person on top of the 76 was a nurse coming home after a night shift.
London looked magnificent in low summer light. Behind St Paul’s, the cranes from where they were building the new skyscrapers of the Barbican caught the sunlight. The city was remaking itself again.
He got off at the Aldwych and took another bus towards Notting Hill and, clutching his A–Z, found the Russells’ house easily: a large, white, four-storey Georgian mansion set back from the road.
Around him curtains were being drawn. There was the whine of a milk float. A milkman got out, left one pint at the Russells’ door and returned with an empty.
One pint. No children. The paperboy staggered up each path with a huge canvas bag. Russell took The Times and the Telegraph. Two girls marched sullenly, hand in hand, up the pavement.
Mr Russell emerged out of his front door at a quarter past eight. He called, ‘Goodbye darling,’ before he pulled it to behind him, and walked, whistling, down the short pathway. He was dressed in a grey summer suit, carried a black case and looked about the same age as Breen.
Breen fell into step with him as he strode north towards the main road. Russell sped up; Breen kept pace.
‘Mr Russell?’
The whistling stopped. The man turned and looked.
‘I’m a policeman. I would like a word with you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Marylebone CID,’ he said.
Russell looked confused.
‘About Julie Teenager.’
Russell turned his head. There was a brief moment in which, when caught unawares, a suspect’s face could tell you a lot. That glance could have been a man looking for an escape route, calculating whether he could outrun Breen, or it could have simply been the panic of a man assumed to be respectable by his neighbours, anxious they might see him talking to a policeman.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cathal Breen,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m here to ask you some questions.’
The look was one of shock, but that didn’t necessarily signify much. All men who visited prostitutes believed they could keep that life separate.
Briefcase in one hand, Russell looked down at his watch. ‘I’m going to be late,’ he said.
‘That’s a shame, but you’ll have to think of an excuse. Because I need to talk to you.’ Breen was quiet but firm.
‘Yes. But…’
‘I can see you at home, then, if you prefer.’
‘It’s just it’s not awfully convenient now.’
‘Then I shall have to be inconvenient, Mr Russell.’ He took Mr Russell by the elbow and led him up the street. At Shepherd’s Bush there was a small cafe called Florian’s run by a young West Indian man who wore knitted sleeveless jumpers. Breen ordered himself a coffee and bacon and eggs.
‘Pepper sauce?’ asked the man.
‘Do you recommend it?’
‘Always.’
‘Nothing for me,’ said Russell, when Breen asked him what he wanted.
‘Sit down then,’ said Breen. ‘Come on. None of your friends are going to see you in here. I’m sure this isn’t the kind of place they go.’
Russell looked at his watch, then sat; Breen took the mismatched chair opposite.
‘How often have you used the services of Julie Teenager?’ Breen asked.
Russell was a neatly dressed man; suit and tie, hair fashionably slightly over his ears, but nothing too showy. ‘What makes you think I ever did?’
Breen breathed out. ‘I can always call on you at home and continue this conversation in front of your wife, if you prefer.’
The man stared at the wooden table and said, ‘She is a bit of fun, that’s all.’
‘She offered sexual services for money,’ said Breen.
Another pause, then a cautious, ‘Yes.’
‘How did you find out about her?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Breen.
He looked away. ‘Probably a men’s magazine. She advertises.’
‘Groovy young girl seeks rich older man?’
‘I suppose you think it’s all very foolish,’ said Russell.
The West Indian put a single coffee down in front of Breen.
Breen said, ‘How long have you been doing it?’
‘Three… four months.’
‘That all?’
‘Maybe a little longer. Probably, yes. I’m not sure.’
Breen said, ‘What do you do with her?’
The man looked startled. ‘What do you think I do with her?’
‘Tell me.’
He leaned forward a little and whispered. ‘She is a prostitute, for God’s sake.’
‘There are plenty of prostitutes. What makes her special?’
The cafe owner raised his eyebrows and took a step back from the table.
‘She is innocent. Almost child-like. Not like other prostitutes.’
‘You often slept with prostitutes?’
‘No. I mean… Not like what I imagine prostitutes to be. She is… sweet, I suppose. Just like a little girl.’
‘She was twenty-six.’
‘Was?’
‘She is dead.’
‘Christ. No. Fuck.’ His reaction seemed genuine enough. ‘How?’
‘Did you know she was twenty-six?’
‘I thought she was younger. How did she die?’
Breen ignored his question. ‘Did she tell you she was younger?’
‘I suppose she did, yes.’
‘And you like to have sex with little girls?’
‘Are you enjoying this? I presume she was killed, yes? Poor Julie.’
Breen took a sip from his coffee. Not as bad as he had imagined it would be. ‘You liked her because she pretended to be a little girl.’
‘It was a play-act, of course. I knew that. Jesus. This is horrible.’
‘What was the attraction?’
‘The same as it always is. You know.’
‘Not really, no. I would like you to explain.’
Breen was reminded of arriving at school as a young boy; he had grown up in a house with no women. His mother had died when he was young; he had no sisters. His father raised him alone. He had been amazed to discover how much boys talked about sex in the playground. Imaginary sex was easy for them to talk about, he quickly realised; it was the reality they were coy about.
‘But it wasn’t a play-act, was it?’ he continued. ‘You bought her a ring.’
He looked shocked. ‘How did you know that?’
Breen reached into his
briefcase and brought out the two receipts.
‘She asked me for it,’ he said. ‘She liked to get presents.’
‘Is that all? She asks you for a ring worth sixty guineas and you just buy it for her? And then give her the receipt.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
‘This one was for your wife, I suppose.’ He showed the second receipt.
‘Oh my Christ. You’re not actually going to tell her any of this, are you?’ asked Russell.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
Russell looked like he was going to be sick. An ordinary-looking man, the kind you passed in the street without thinking twice about him.
‘Right,’ Breen said. ‘What about her other clients?’
‘She said they didn’t mean anything to her.’
‘But you did, naturally?’
‘I suppose you think I’m a silly arse?’ said Russell.
‘Did she ever tell you anything about them?’
Russell shook his head. She had created a drama in which every client was the star; of course she hadn’t let any of her customers see each other. That would have spoiled the illusion. Which meant that Mrs Caulk was the only person who saw all the men who visited Lena Bobienski.
‘When did you see her last?’
‘A couple of weeks ago, I suppose.’
‘You must have been very angry at her, asking you to buy her expensive jewellery, when it was all a big play-act.’
‘I wasn’t angry at her. I bought it for her willingly. Look here, I had nothing to do with her death.’
‘I would have been angry.’
‘I know it was just a game. I’m not entirely stupid.’
The bacon and egg arrived with a red pepper sauce in a small pot. He tried a little with his little finger. It was searingly hot.
‘Like it?’ said the cafe owner.
He placed a small dollop in the centre of the yolk and cut into it.
‘Where do you work?’
‘I’m a journalist. Foreign Correspondent.’
‘With an expertise in Polish affairs.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Russell drily. ‘I’m a Soviet specialist, actually.’
‘Who for?’
‘The Sunday Times.’
‘You knew she was Polish, then?’
Russell coloured. ‘Of course.’
‘She talked about it?’