Play With Fire

by William Shaw

  Maybe not such a long day, after all, thought Breen. Perhaps Helen was right again. Was C Division being taken off the case?

  The door to Creamer’s office opened. ‘Ah. Breen,’ said Creamer, pale and unsmiling. ‘A word, please.’

  Breen walked towards him through a silent room, conscious of the stares of other officers.

  ‘Close the door.’

  There were two chairs in Inspector Creamer’s room: one behind the desk, another facing it. That chair was already occupied by Superintendent McPhail.

  ‘Sir?’

  McPhail turned his head to look up and acknowledge Breen. The room was small, so Breen found himself standing next to McPhail’s chair, looking down at the seated man.

  Creamer sat. ‘Question. Can you account for your movements after leaving the office yesterday, Paddy? Superintendent McPhail would like to know.’

  Breen was puzzled. ‘What’s happening?’

  He noticed Creamer’s hands were shaking slightly. Why? Was it anger? He looked back at McPhail’s face to try and understand. Had there been an argument between them? But McPhail was calm, expressionless.

  ‘Well?’ Creamer said.

  ‘I was working, of course. On the Bobienski murder.’

  ‘Specifically, where were you and what were you doing?’

  Breen turned to Superintendent McPhail. ‘Do you know who searched the premises at Harewood Avenue yesterday? Was it you, sir?’

  ‘Please do not interrupt,’ said Creamer. ‘I was asking you a question. Superintendent McPhail needs to know everyone you talked to after leaving the office yesterday morning.’

  Breen glanced from Creamer to McPhail and back again. ‘Why?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Paddy. Please. Just tell me.’

  ‘I went to Miss Bobienski’s apartment; I spoke to the caretaker and to one of the residents, a Mr Payne. After that… I walked about a little. Then I came back here.’

  ‘Walked about a little? What were you doing?’

  ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘Thinking?’ said Creamer.

  ‘Why not? We have a large number of potential suspects. I wanted to think about ways we could eliminate them.’ Breen looked around. Creamer had put up photographs of himself: as a cadet at Hendon in 1948; one with the Duke of Edinburgh. Another of him in a dress suit, standing next to the Hollywood actor Stewart Granger; the star had a neat white handkerchief in his jacket pocket and a slightly confused look on his face, as if he didn’t quite know what he was doing next to this middle-ranking copper at some social event. ‘So I went for a coffee in order to think, then I came back here to speak to the team.’

  ‘So you spoke to nobody else?’

  ‘Obviously I spoke to people. What is all this about, please?’

  ‘Who else did you discuss the case with?’ asked Creamer.

  McPhail opened his mouth, finally, still not turning to look at Breen. ‘A reporter from the Mirror called Scotland Yard last night,’ he said. ‘He wanted confirmation that we were investigating one of our own for the murder of Lena Bobienski. What we want to know is: who told the journalist?’

  This was not what he had been expecting. ‘Are we investigating one of our own for the murder of Lena Bobienski?’ asked Breen. ‘Is there something I don’t know about?’

  ‘Answer the question, Paddy?’

  ‘So someone went to the press and you think it was me?’

  Superintendent McPhail finally looked around and said calmly, ‘Did you?’

  Breen looked at McPhail; he returned the gaze evenly. ‘No, sir,’ said Breen simply. ‘What makes you think I would have?’

  ‘Well, someone did,’ said Creamer. ‘And, logically, because we were the ones investigating the case…’

  McPhail ignored him. ‘So who else was aware that we believed a policeman was on the list of Miss Bobienski’s customers? Though Inspector Creamer assures me that no one in his department would dream of talking to the press, he would, of course, not want to see any flaws in his own department.’ He looked contemptuously at Creamer as he spoke. ‘And we know that only a handful of people would have known about your new theory about there being a policeman in the list of suspects. It is only a theory, I take it? Had you discussed it with that woman you live with, for example?’

  ‘That woman that I live with?’

  ‘Inspector Creamer tells me your common-law wife is a former constable. Miss Tozer. According to files I’ve just looked at, she was a suspect in a previous murder inquiry. Did you discuss the case with her?’

  ‘Are we more concerned that a policeman, possibly a senior policeman, is on the suspect list for the murder of a prostitute, or about whether the press find out?’ Breen said.

  McPhail was calm. ‘Please answer the question.’

  ‘Yes. I discussed the case briefly with my girlfriend. She is interested in what I do. We talked about the case last night before I went to bed. No, she didn’t call up a reporter and tell them.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘But she was aware that a witness had alleged that a policeman may have been one of Miss Bobienski’s clients?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Breen. ‘While we’re at it, permission to ask a question. I believe some men searched the building yesterday. You may be able to help me, sir. What were they looking for?’

  For the first time, Breen saw a flicker of uncertainty in McPhail’s face. ‘Our men?’

  It wasn’t uncommon that the Met’s left hand didn’t know what its right one was doing; it could have been a mix-up. But Carmichael had already told Breen that it wasn’t C1. Was McPhail pretending he didn’t know who had searched Bobienski’s place?

  ‘After the forensics team had packed up, somebody else came in yesterday and tore the place apart,’ Breen said. ‘They identified themselves to the caretaker as policemen. I have no idea who they were. So unless they share what they found with me, a crime scene that had already been tampered with once has now been totally destroyed. Unless someone was deliberately trying to make sure it was destroyed.’

  McPhail said nothing.

  Sensing his advantage, Breen pressed on. ‘I’m not sure how we’re supposed to make any progress if another department barges in. And if there is another department involved, why do you assume it was D Division who went to the press?’

  McPhail looked increasingly less certain of himself. Creamer sat up a little in his chair.

  ‘And what about the prostitute’s maid, Mrs Caulk?’ continued Breen. ‘She was the one who alerted us to there being a copper on Bobienski’s list. She is a key witness. And she has gone missing.’

  ‘Missing, you say?’

  ‘She appears to have absconded.’

  ‘She sounds to me more like a suspect than a witness.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And you let her get away?’ McPhail said, accusingly.

  Breen didn’t answer.

  ‘So she could have gone to the papers?’ said Creamer hopefully.

  McPhail said nothing.

  Creamer relaxed a little. ‘You can rest assured that we shall look into this, sir.’

  ‘Are they publishing the story?’ Breen said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A certain Chief Super at Scotland Yard told the journalist it was not in the public interest and would prejudice an investigation. He was not happy about being disturbed at home, you understand. But we’re going to find out who did this and if it’s a copper, they better start looking for another job.’ McPhail stood, picking his cap off Creamer’s desk. ‘And do you have any idea who this supposed policeman who has been having sex with a prostitute may be?’

  Did McPhail know the answer to that question already? Was he playing some kind of game with him? ‘We don’t know, that either, sir.’

  ‘You don’t really know much, do you?’

  ‘No, sir. However, we’re working hard on trying to find that out, sir.’
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  McPhail made a face like he’d just eaten something sour. ‘It’s to your advantage that I believe in taking a copper’s word for something, even when the evidence points in the other direction. It’s the kind of thing that holds us apart from the mob,’ he said. ‘But if I get so much as a sniff that it was you who went running to the papers because you thought your toes were being trodden on, I’ll dismiss you without a second thought.’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ said Breen.

  ‘The Yard don’t like it when they have to lean on the press to kill an article. Right now they would love nothing better than to run a dirty story on the police. In days gone by, they had respect for the institutions of state. All that is changing. Right now, it’s like we’re in a game of catch with the newspapers. We have three chances. Once you’ve used them up, you’ve nowhere left to hide. One day soon, the press are going to turn up something really nasty on us and we’ll have no lives left. And then the trouble is going to really start. Think about it.’ He glared down at Creamer. ‘Everything we respect will go. Do we really want a police force which is run by the newspapers? There are a lot of naive people out there who imagine that if everybody just knew the whole truth, things will be better. There are some things it’s better not to know. But the way things are, these people are getting the upper hand. And believe me, when it starts to come down around here, there’s going to be one almighty mess.’

  It was the longest speech he’d ever heard McPhail give.

  ‘So D Divison is more interested in protecting the reputation of the police than investigating a murder in which a policeman might, at best, be a witness, sir?’

  ‘Sergeant Breen!’ said Creamer. ‘Enough.’

  ‘Don’t caricature what we’re doing here, Sergeant,’ said McPhail. ‘If the Met loses its reputation it will have nothing. Without respect, there can be no authority.’ He looked hard at Breen.

  ‘In the meantime, sir –’ Breen returned his stare – ‘perhaps if you have some information about the identity of the policeman who paid for Miss Bobienski’s services, you could share it.’

  ‘Why would you expect me to know that?’ asked McPhail blankly. ‘However, if you find out, I will expect you to tell me before anyone else. Especially the fourth estate. I’m sure we all understand the importance of protecting the reputation of the firm. Good morning.’

  Creamer and Breen saluted, and McPhail stepped out of the office into the main CID room.

  ‘Wait a minute, sir.’

  Without waiting to be excused by Creamer, Breen left the office. McPhail paused by the CID-room door that led out onto the stairwell. ‘What now?’

  ‘Question, sir. Why did you tell beat policemen to avoid Harewood Avenue?’

  McPhail frowned.

  ‘Is it true? You told them to skip it from their patrols.’

  ‘Who did you hear that from?’ he demanded.

  ‘Can’t say, sir,’ Breen said. ‘It would be squealing.’

  ‘Don’t mock me, Sergeant,’ McPhail said, quietly. His head was lit by a shaft of sunlight in the dark stairwell.

  ‘No, sir. But if it was something relating to Lena Bobienski, we should know.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to tell you, and you will proceed as best you can with the resources you have.’

  ‘You see, I had assumed it was Scotland Yard that were treading all over this case, but I’m beginning to think maybe I’m wrong. Because I called C1 and asked them, and they didn’t know anything about it. Or anything about who searched Miss Bobienski’s flat yesterday. Which makes me wonder.’

  ‘As I said, I am not at liberty to discuss it with you, and I would appreciate you not asking me again.’

  ‘It’s just that there’s a limit to how much we can find out, sir.’

  In the shaft of light, dust swirled around him. ‘I don’t like whiners, Sergeant Breen.’ McPhail pursed his lips. He seemed to be thinking.

  ‘Does what you know have anything to do with our inquiry about an officer?’

  ‘I have said before, I am not at liberty to tell you that.’

  ‘If it’s not C1, do you know which department they were from, sir?’

  McPhail didn’t answer directly; he simply said: ‘That’s not your business. In the meantime I expect you to proceed as best you can. And if I find out who has talked to the press, I will seriously fuck up their career for ever.’ McPhail was already walking out of the light and up the stone steps. ‘OK?’

  When he returned to the CID room, Miss Rasper looked up from her typewriter and whispered, ‘So? What was all that about?’

  ‘Someone went to the press last night,’ answered Breen, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. ‘About the Bobienski case. Leaked that a policeman might be among the suspects.’

  At the back of the room, Constable Jones whistled.

  ‘McPhail thinks it might be someone from D Division.’

  The room was full of resentful muttering. ‘No one from our lot would dare snitch on another copper, would they? Doesn’t deserve to be on the firm.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Breen was suddenly conscious of the eager-faced Mint, with his nylon shirts and gold crucifix, staring hard at his desk. Breen considered for a minute, then approached his desk. ‘Constable Mint?’

  ‘Sarge?’ Mint looked up anxiously; miserably.

  ‘Anything on Mrs Caulk?’

  ‘Possible sighting of a woman of that description getting on the ferry at Ramsgate. Nothing else.’

  ‘Get out and look for her then.’

  ‘What? Now? Where?’

  ‘Use your initiative,’ Breen snapped. ‘Ask around. Interview the neighbours. And find a minute to call up your wife and let her know you’re going to be working late.’

  ‘Tonight, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Tonight. It would have been a working night for Lena Bobienski. We’re going to see who turns up. We can put some faces to these names. And I’m guessing that anyone who turns up doesn’t know she’s dead. Is tonight a problem?’

  ‘My wife goes to a women’s social. I usually look after the kids.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Breen raised his voice. ‘You’re going to have to tell her you’re working. Get out there. Now. Quick.’

  Mint looked stung.

  Breen looked down at his desk. ‘Get a bloody move on.’

  Across the room Miss Rasper looked up from her work and frowned. Breen was not normally like this. He was the polite one. But Breen wanted Mint out of the office before anyone started to ask questions about who it was who had tried to leak the story to the press.

  ‘Oh, and Mint.’ Mint was just picking up his mac. ‘Get into her flat. Find out what she’s taken. See if she’s left an address book or anything that might tell us where she’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t have a key, sir.’

  ‘Just bloody go.’

  Miss Rasper’s glance had turned to glare. ‘By the way, Sergeant Breen,’ she called across the room. ‘You have something on your shirt.’

  Breen looked down and saw a streak of yellow down his pale blue button-down shirt. It was the mustard from when he had made the sandwiches that morning. It would have been there through his meeting with McPhail. He sighed and went to the Gents, removed his shirt and ran it under a cold tap.

  A constable he didn’t recognise came in and stared for a second, then looked away, pretending he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  Breen looked into the mirror above the sink. The knife wounds on his stomach showed as maroon streaks on his white flesh, cuts made by the man who had killed Helen’s sister. He had caught the man, but not before another woman had died. The cuts had healed well, but he didn’t like people seeing them. He was ashamed of them; and what they represented.

  NINETEEN

  On the way to Bobienski’s flat that evening he bought a copy of the Evening News to pass the time. He had hoped Mrs Caulk would be there to answer the telephone; they would have to manage without her.
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  Constable Mint was waiting outside.

  ‘Did you find anything? Any address book?’ he asked Mint.

  ‘No, Sarge. I think she must have took it.’

  Haas answered the door, saying nothing.

  On Miss Bobienski’s pink sofa, still surrounded by feathers, Breen unwrapped his salt beef sandwiches, bit into one and ate it, slowly, waiting for the phone to ring. He had made the mustard with a little vinegar, in the French way. It gave it just a little tang that he liked.

  As he finished, he noticed Mint watching him from the stool he was sitting on. Mint had nothing. He had not known he would be working late. Breen sighed and said, ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘Only if you have enough.’

  He handed one over and watched Mint mumbling Grace over it before he took his first mouthful.

  ‘It was you who went to the papers, wasn’t it?’

  Shocked, Mint spat out a crumb of bread. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Well, someone talked, and it wasn’t me. And all day you’ve been looking like you’re terrified the sky’s going to fall.’

  ‘Does Creamer know then?’ Mint reddened.

  ‘No. I told them it could be anyone in CID. I think they actually believed me.’

  Mint laid the sandwich on his lap. ‘They’re trying to cover up the fact that a policeman was one of the prostitute’s clients. You said it. It’s wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was hoping it wasn’t you who told them.’ Breen picked at a bit of beef that was lodged in his teeth. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘The papers haven’t published anything.’

  ‘I wish they had.’

  ‘They won’t. Not without calling up the Met first. It’s the way things work. And obviously the Met denied it point blank, so they don’t have anything to go on. But it was a stupid thing to do,’ he said.

  ‘It was the honest thing to do,’ said Mint. ‘Police are supposed to be honest, aren’t they?’

  Breen nodded. ‘Yes. Supposed to be.’

  ‘Just because I’m not as cynical as you are.’