Play With Fire

by William Shaw

  ‘There was more than one?’ asked Breen.

  A tiny sideways motion of her head. ‘No. B’stards here. Won’t give me painkillers. Headache.’

  ‘So you were in the flat?’

  ‘’Es.’

  ‘And someone came in and assaulted you and you didn’t see who it was?’

  ‘Too fast. Didn’t even hear him.’

  A nurse arrived. ‘She needs painkillers,’ said Breen.

  ‘She’s near term with that baby. There’s a limit to what we’re allowed to give her.’

  ‘Is the baby OK?’

  ‘You’d have to ask a doctor about that.’

  ‘How did the assailant get in?’ said the constable.

  ‘Did you leave the door unlocked?’

  Helen nodded, winced again.

  ‘She does that,’ said Breen. ‘She never locks doors.’

  ‘Ca…’

  ‘She’s trying to say something.’

  ‘Cut,’ mumbled Helen.

  ‘What?’

  She sighed. Talking was an effort. ‘I got ’im. I was on the floor. Cut his leg with…’ She took a breath. ‘’Encil.’

  ‘A pencil?’ She gave the tiniest of nods as her hand emerged from the blanket. It was bandaged so tightly that only the tops of the fingers showed, but she made small stabbing motions with it.

  ‘You cut him?’

  Another nod and she closed her open eye, tired out from talking.

  ‘What were his shoes like?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Brogues?’

  A tiny nod. ‘Old man…’

  ‘He was an old man?’

  A shake of the head, and a wince. ‘Old man shoes,’ she whispered. ‘Elfie.’

  ‘What’s she saying?’ asked the copper.

  Breen realised it was a question. ‘I don’t know how Elfie is. I’ll go and check after I’ve spoken to the doctor.’

  He beckoned the constable out of the ward. ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘Done door-to-doors already. Nobody seen anything. Not surprising. It’s quiet round your place.’

  Breen waited for the doctor, but he didn’t arrive for another hour, and when he did, he was an elderly man who wore a pink shirt and said things like ‘She had a nasty, nasty knock’.

  ‘Somebody tried to kill her,’ said Breen.

  ‘Didn’t make a very good job of it, did they?’

  ‘Only because she fought back.’

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, yes. Good girl, I suppose. We’ll keep her under observation. A blow to the head like that could have consequences. It’ll take a day or two to know if it’s affected the brain, or whether there’s any bleeding.’

  All this adrenaline going round inside him and nothing to do except wait.

  ‘What about the baby?’

  ‘Seems fine, actually. I think she must have protected him from the worst of it.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Or her. Strong woman. We’ll take a look at her eye in the morning. Might be some damage there. Good sign is she’s alert now.’

  Breen left Helen sleeping and went back to the reception area and then, finally, headed to the maternity ward.

  A lift took him upstairs, and he found himself in Male Surgical. Men with missing limbs turned and looked as he walked between their beds. ‘I was looking for Maternity,’ he said.

  ‘Ain’t bloody in here, that’s for sure.’ One old man wheezed with laughter.

  Another joined in. ‘Eternity, more like it.’

  On the floor above, he finally found the ward fifteen minutes before visiting time was over. ‘That one,’ said the matron, pointing at the row of beds. ‘Are you the husband, at long last?’

  Breen shook his head. Each bed had a small metal cot next to it; they looked like little hostess trollies. Most were empty, the mothers clutching their children in their arms.

  Elfie’s baby was still in the cot, crying. Elfie was sitting up in bed, but her eyes were closed.

  As another young nurse came by holding a bedpan, Breen turned to ask her, ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘A bit weepy. She’s not been feeding well. Some of them are trickier than others. She’s very… difficult.’

  Other women had men with them, or families, clustered round. Elfie was on her own. ‘Has anyone been to visit her?’

  The nurse shook her head. ‘Not that I’ve seen.’

  He waited a while by her bedside while the baby continued to cry. Breen looked at the cot. There was a label. ‘Born: 20/7/69. Sex: M.’ The space after ‘Name’ had been left blank.

  ‘Elfie?’ he said.

  She opened her eyes, smiled at Breen. ‘Where were you? I’ve been waiting.’

  ‘Congratulations. On the baby. What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  Breen blinked. ‘Is he hungry?’ The wailing infant’s arms were pumping slowly into the air.

  Elfie pulled her blanket up a little higher. ‘Where’s Hel?’

  ‘She’s… not well.’

  Elfie looked sadder; she looked down at the cot and the whining infant inside it. ‘I was waiting for her,’ said Elfie.

  ‘She’ll come as soon as she can.’

  Breen suddenly felt exhausted. He had imagined Elfie would be good at this, confident, but she seemed to be struggling. Around the ward, other mothers had boxes of chocolates and vases of flowers crammed onto their small bedside tables, alongside jugs of squash.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Klaus?’

  ‘He hasn’t been to see me,’ Elfie said, and pulled her sheet up to wipe her eyes. ‘He hasn’t even phoned.’

  The nurse who had been carrying the bedpan was striding back down between the beds. She paused at Elfie’s bed.

  ‘You should be feeding him,’ she said. ‘Poor little mite is hungry.’

  ‘I’ve tried,’ Elfie snapped. ‘It’s not working.’

  ‘Just give it another try, love.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Elfie started to cry. ‘I can’t. I can’t.’

  ‘Are there any relations?’

  For the first time, he noticed other people looking disapprovingly. How could this woman be leaving her baby there to cry?

  A bell rang. Visiting time was over. People began leaning over, kissing the babies, standing up and putting on coats and cardigans. There was the sound of chairs being pushed back and kisses on cheeks. They were drawing curtains round the beds now. He stood and said, ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Tell Helen to come,’ she said. ‘I want her.’

  The corridors were full of families going home, laughing and smiling. Breen took the stairs down, but instead of leaving, turned right, into the corridor that led to Helen’s ward.

  ‘Visiting time is over,’ said the woman, when he tried to get back in. He pulled out his wallet. ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘I thought you were her husband?’

  The skin around Helen’s cheek had the dull blackness of old bananas. ‘Elfie?’ she said through her swollen lips.

  ‘A boy. He’s… fine,’ he said.

  ‘’Ood. She must be happy.’ It was still an effort for her to talk. If anything, the swelling was worse, but she looked more relaxed.

  ‘’Een thinkin’.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All the same.’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s the same man too. The one who assaulted Kay Fitzpatrick. He must have seen you. Followed you home.’

  She shook her head agitatedly. ‘But…’

  ‘She needs to sleep now,’ said the nurse. ‘We’re turning the lights off in here. The doctor just gave her pethidine. It’ll help her.’

  ‘Wait,’ Helen said again.

  ‘What are you saying?’ said Breen, suddenly puzzled.

  ‘Same man.’ Her breaths were shallow and rapid.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘Quite strong, that injection they’ve given her,’ said the nurse.
>
  ‘J—’

  ‘Kay?’

  ‘No. No. Julie.’

  Breen was trying to comprehend what she was saying. In her mind, the drugs must have muddled the two cases.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Breen. ‘We can talk about it in the morning.’ He leaned forward and kissed her, but it must have hurt because she flinched and the last look she gave him before her eyes closed was hostile, angry.

  The lights in the room went out.

  ‘Out,’ said the nurse.

  He walked out into a cool summer evening, down the steps into the car park at the front of the building.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  Breen turned. John Carmichael was standing there, unshaven still, looking as rough as he had that morning.

  ‘What are you doing here, John?’

  ‘One of the coppers from Stoke Newington called me. He said something really awful had happened to Helen. He thought you’d be here on your own.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just that. You might want a friend around.’ His eyes were red, as if he’d been crying.

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘Don’t, Paddy,’ said Carmichael. ‘Come and have a drink.’

  ‘I don’t want a bloody drink, John,’ said Breen. ‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just tell me what happened, will you?’

  ‘She was assaulted. Like you heard.’

  Carmichael sniffed. ‘Suit yourself. I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘Knight in white bloody armour?’

  Carmichael held up his hands. ‘OK. OK.’ But he didn’t leave Breen’s side as he turned and walked west down Homerton High Street.

  ‘What are the injuries like?’

  ‘Her face is pretty bad.’

  ‘Permanent?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  On a small patch of grass by some council flats, a woman in a blue dress was scolding some boys who were trying to play cricket. ‘Any idea who it was?’

  ‘She didn’t see him. Just his shoes.’

  ‘What kind of shoes?’

  ‘Like mine, she said.’ He stopped and looked down at his feet. ‘“Old man shoes” is what she called them. It may be something to do with an assault that was carried out in Sussex last week. She was looking into it.’

  ‘What the hell was she doing that for?’

  ‘It’s complicated. It was for a friend. You know her. If she gets a bee in her bonnet about something…’

  ‘It was her friend who was beaten up?’

  ‘No. Like I said. It’s complicated.’

  ‘And this bloke… was trying to frighten her?’

  ‘Or shut her up.’

  Carmichael nodded. ‘That’s good, isn’t it, anyway? They have something on him, now.’

  ‘Oh yes. Bloody great,’ said Breen, and started walking again.

  ‘You can’t be like this, Paddy. I know you’re pissed off with me. But you’re a fucking policeman. It’s what you do.’

  ‘Go away, John. I want to be on my own.’

  He left Carmichael standing on the pavement on Homerton High Street as he made his way alone on foot back to the flat, which would be empty now. He spent an hour on his hands and knees trying to soak Helen’s blood from the rug on the floor. She must have lost a lot. Each time he wrung the cloth out, the water in the bucket turned pinker.

  ‘Same man,’ she had tried to say.

  In the end he took the rug up, rolled it up and put it outside the front door. He watched as liquid ran off it, onto the bare concrete. Her blood, still. The violence with which she’d been struck.

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  Same man, he realised, wetness pooling at his feet.

  He didn’t sleep. At six on Monday morning, he called the hospital.

  ‘We can’t disturb her.’

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘She’s asleep anyway.’

  At eight, he called Calliope Trading Ltd, but there was no answer. Then he phoned the hospital again. The matron told him to call back after ten, after the doctors had done their rounds. ‘But is she all right?’

  The matron said, ‘She says she’s hungry. That’s a good sign.’

  At nine, at his desk, he called the MI6 number again. Still no answer.

  At 9.30 he tried a third time. A fourth, just before ten. The phone rang and rang and rang. Breen imagined an empty office somewhere, the telephone echoing, unattended.

  At 10.30 he wrote ‘Coffee’ in the exercise book, and walked to the 91. It was quiet there. He could think.

  ‘You sick? You don’t look good,’ said George.

  ‘Tired,’ said Breen. ‘Sick and tired.’

  ‘Coffee,’ said George.

  ‘I’ll need more than that.’ And as he drank George’s coffee, he made up his mind what he had to do. It was what Helen would have done. Normally, he was not such a reckless man.

  Back at his desk, he looked around. It was a good time to do it. Jones was out. All the other desks, apart from Mint’s and Rasper’s, were empty. He picked up the phone and called Felix, the journalist from OZ magazine.

  Felix sounded half asleep. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He had a plan now. ‘You know I promised you a story? I’ve got a scoop for you,’ said Breen. The line clicked and buzzed. In the electric fuzz and static he heard the ghost of his voice, echoing back at him.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Why,’ demanded Felix, ‘would we print what the fuzz feed us?’

  ‘Because you’ll find it interesting. It’s a story about a Russian trade attaché who’s a suspect in the murder of Julie Teenager.’

  At the other end of the phone, Breen could hear Felix scrabbling around for a pen and paper.

  ‘Why are you telling me?’ he said.

  ‘A Soviet trade attaché. What else do you think he does, besides… attaché-ing?’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mint, watching him open-mouthed. ‘I’d tell the papers,’ said Breen, ‘only they can’t report on stories about national security, can they?’

  ‘Not if they’re part of the D-Notice system.’

  ‘But you can, because you’re amateurs.’

  There was a pause. ‘“Alternative press” is what we prefer to call ourselves.’

  ‘Off you go and be alternative, then.’

  The moment he’d got off the phone, Mint hissed, ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Let’s just say you didn’t hear any of that.’

  Mint was agitated, scrubbing his hand through his thick hair. ‘You said they’d throw me off the police when I spoke to a journalist.’

  Miss Rasper looked up.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Breen.

  ‘You’ll be sacked. Don’t you care?’

  Breen thought for a second. ‘Actually, no. Not any more. I really don’t.’

  And he picked up the phone again and called the hospital, asked to be put through to the ward. ‘No. She’s fine,’ a woman said. ‘Stroppy, though. She’s asking for more painkillers, but she just ate scrambled eggs and asked for more.’

  He was smiling this time, when he put the receiver down.

  ‘She’s in hospital? Is the baby coming?’ Mint frowned at him.

  ‘Are you listening to all my calls as well?’

  ‘As well as who?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘No. Just…’ Mint looked at him. ‘Call him. Whoever you spoke to. Tell him you made a mistake. You’re about to become a father,’ whispered Mint. ‘You have responsibilities.’

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ said Breen. ‘I’m about to become a father. I have responsibilities.’ He looked at his watch and stood up.

  Breen left Creamer’s exercise book blank this time, walking out into sunny, exhaust-filled air. He headed north until he reached the Regent’s Canal and descended to the towpath. There were fishermen dotted at regular intervals along the path, lines dipp
ing into the greasy water. They fished to the calls of macaws and parrots and the occasional screeching monkey, the sound drifting over the water from London Zoo.

  He arrived back a little after twelve.

  ‘Oh, boy. Are you in the shit,’ said Jones with a grin.

  Mint looked up, worried. ‘You OK?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  But before he could answer, Creamer bolted out of his office. ‘Upstairs. Superintendent McPhail has been asking to see you. I should warn you. He’s in a bit of a temper.’

  ‘I thought he might be,’ said Breen. He took a breath and turned to go out of the room again.

  ‘What is going on?’ Creamer shouted after him. ‘What have you gone and done, Paddy?’

  On the next floor, he knocked on the door to McPhail’s office. ‘Sergeant Breen, sir,’ he called.

  There were two people in the room when Breen entered, saluting the Superintendent. ‘I think you two have already met,’ said McPhail.

  ‘Mr Sand.’

  ‘Sergeant Breen.’

  The man from MI6 was sitting on the wooden chair in front of McPhail’s desk, a small smile on his shiny, round face. He wore a pale summer suit and an ordinary striped tie, presumably some club or school.

  ‘I’m very surprised, an officer of your experience,’ said McPhail, tugging on the sleeve of his uniform. ‘Surprised and disappointed.’

  ‘Just out of interest, how did you know?’ said Sand.

  Breen asked him, ‘That MI6 were bugging OZ magazine? It was pretty bloody obvious. Unless it was someone else in this office?’

  ‘I won’t dignify that with an answer,’ said McPhail.

  Sand looked from McPhail to Breen. ‘I wonder if you would let us have a word in private, Superintendent?’ said Sand.

  McPhail looked at his watch, nodded. ‘Of course.’

  When he’d gone, Sand pointed towards McPhail’s chair. Breen took McPhail’s place. ‘You see, I thought we understood each other,’ said Sand. ‘I was mistaken.’

  ‘His name is Harry Lyagushin,’ said Breen. ‘He is a Soviet trade attaché who claims to be selling cameras to the West. He visits nightclubs and casinos to ingratiate himself with the rich and powerful. Do you want me to go on?’

  Sand raised his eyebrows. ‘Very clever. I had no idea how much you knew.’

  ‘You think we’re all a bit dim on the Met, don’t you? We didn’t go to nice universities.’