A Song for the Brokenhearted

by William Shaw

‘It was a shock,’ said Breen.

  ‘Can say that again.’

  The morning after she’d read the pathologist’s report, Helen had stayed in bed, leaving the farm work to Hibou. Jimmy Young chattered on the transistor on her pillow. ‘I couldn’t sleep, neither,’ she said. ‘It was all going round in my head.’

  ‘Tell me about your sister,’ said Breen. ‘What was she like?’

  Helen sighed. ‘Prettier than me. All the boys fancied her. She was sixteen and she had proper bosoms. Not like mine.’ She looked down at her chest. ‘She loved it that all the boys I knew fancied her more. She was so competitive.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  Helen ignored him. ‘Got a fag? Settle the stomach.’

  ‘Did you remember any boyfriends?’ He took a packet of Regals from his dressing-gown pocket.

  ‘Why you asking?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  Her mother didn’t like her smoking in bed. ‘The boys fancied her, but she didn’t hardly ever go out with them. You know. Proper ones who brought her flowers and wanted to take her out in their cars. I think she enjoyed turning them down. Dad would have never let them take her out anyway.’

  ‘Anyone in particular chasing after her?’

  She shook her head. ‘The police asked me all this. There were a few prats from school. Sixth-formers. But she didn’t really have much to do with them over that last year. I mean, I always thought she must have had boyfriends, but she didn’t let on who.’

  ‘She never said who these boys were?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘Didn’t tell me, case I told Dad.’

  ‘Would you have?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘For her own good.’

  Breen laughed. ‘You sneaked on her?’

  Helen took a pull of the cigarette and a piece of ash fell onto the blanket. ‘There was this bloke who worked in the garage. I’d really fancied him.’ She brushed at the ash. ‘Thought he fancied me too. And then Alex told me she was going out with him. Just out of spite, really.’

  Breen remembered one of the men in the suspect list had worked in a garage.

  ‘She was so annoying,’ Helen said, and wriggled down into the blankets. ‘She used to think it was funny that I never had boyfriends and she had loads.’

  ‘You must have had some boyfriends.’

  ‘I was the shy one, those days. Not really shy, I suppose. But less sure of myself with blokes. Back then, Alex was really… smug. It’s hard. When someone that close dies. You love them. Course you do. But it’s complicated, isn’t it? Half the reason you feel so bad is that you feel guilty for not loving them enough. There were times when I really hated her. I mean, really hated. I was the oldest, only she was the one who got to do everything first.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know. Drinking. Sex. She lost her virginity when she was fifteen and boasted to me about it. My friends all called her a slag, but you could tell they were a bit jealous too.’

  ‘And you weren’t?’ said Breen.

  ‘Bog off.’

  ‘I was only trying to find out what things were like between you.’

  She glared. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. You never even had brothers or sisters.’ She stubbed the half-smoked cigarette out and put the dog-end into an old packet, closed it, then she rolled over, her back towards him.

  It was true. His father had been the only relative he had known. He had grown up wishing he’d had a proper family, a brother to play with.

  ‘Go away now. I’ve got a headache,’ she said.

  He stood.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Don’t go.’ He sat back down again. ‘Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick again.’

  She pushed him out of the way and stood by the bed for a moment, blinking, holding one hand over her mouth, unsure whether she would vomit or not. She was dressed only in a long cotton vest that came down to the top of thighs, her legs long, pale and muscular from working on the farm. Breen looked away.

  The wellingtons were too big, plopping against his calves as he strode across the uneven soil.

  Breen looked around. The fields sloped down to the muddy estuary. There was a footpath that led up from the water’s edge, about a quarter of a mile away. Very occasionally a rambler, binoculars in hand, would come nervously ambling up it.

  Helen had said she didn’t feel like lunch. Hibou had announced she was making some sandwiches and going out for a walk.

  ‘But you’ve only just come in,’ Mrs Tozer had said.

  After she’d been gone a few minutes, Breen had followed. He had watched her walk down to the water’s edge again, turning right along the footpath, just as she had the last time.

  By the time he’d made it to the water’s edge his socks had slid to the bottom of his boots. Hibou was out of sight, having disappeared down the pathway, behind the tall brown reeds on either side. Breen sat on a rock and pulled off the boots, rubbing the side of his calves where the rubber had chafed them. A train rumbled slowly along the side of the water.

  He considered following her but his legs hurt, so he waited on the rock. The wind was starting to come up. A curtain of rain crossed the water. He replaced the boots and lit a cigarette.

  She came back along the path after a little while.

  ‘Where did you go?’ he asked her.

  ‘Just for a walk,’ she said. ‘Like I said. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  He paused, then said, ‘Did you post that letter to your parents?’

  ‘Yes. Course I did.’

  Breen looked at her. She was a good liar, he thought. They walked back up the hill together, saying nothing.

  ‘There was a phone call for you, Cathal,’ said Mrs Tozer. ‘Freddie Sharman. What’s he want?’

  Helen was sitting at the dining table, reading the local paper. ‘Freddie?’

  ‘Poor poppet,’ said Mrs Tozer. ‘You should go to the doctor. Shall I give him a call?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mum,’ she said. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  Val Doonican came on the radio; Mrs Tozer started singing along. ‘“If I knew then what I know now…”’

  ‘God. Please, Mum. Switch it off.’

  ‘Thought you liked the radio.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Out with Hibou mending a gate up at Low Barton. He’s helping her put it back on the hinges. Why’s Freddie calling?’

  ‘May I use the phone?’ asked Breen. He felt in his pocket for change to put in the tin.

  When he returned he asked Helen, ‘Can you give me a lift?’

  Mrs Tozer said, ‘You’re not thinking of going out now, are you, Hel? You’re not well.’

  ‘I’m much better now. Hibou’s out with Dad, you said?’

  Mrs Tozer smiled. ‘I know.’ She paused, potato peeler in one hand.

  ‘How come he never goes out with me?’ Helen said.

  ‘Last few days, I think he’s getting back to his old self, isn’t he? And he did the milking this morning too on account of you were sick. First time in weeks.’

  ‘That’s good, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s the girl, I think. She brings good luck. Best thing you did, bringing her down here.’

  Helen scowled.

  ‘How come you’re meeting up with Freddie?’

  ‘He was thinking of joining the Met,’ lied Helen. ‘Wasn’t he? Wanted to have a chat to Paddy about it.’

  ‘Freddie go to London? I don’t think he’d like it there,’ Mrs Tozer said.

  ‘That’s what Paddy’s going to say, isn’t it?’ said Helen.

  Breen didn’t answer.

  Helen stopped the old Morris up by the gate. Her father was levering it up onto its hinges while Hibou stood over the post, guiding it onto the pins.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ shouted Hibou. ‘Me and your dad will manage.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Helen.

  Her dad was grinning, unable to wave, both arms pressing down on
the length of wood he was using for a lever, gradually releasing the pressure so the gate lowered onto the post.

  ‘Did you see that?’ she said as she drove away. ‘He never smiles like that for me.’

  ‘It’s like she’s taking the place of your sister, isn’t it? You’re competing with her just like you did with Alexandra.’

  ‘That’s the stupidest bloody thing I ever heard you say.’ She ground the gears and said, ‘Is there any chewing gum in the glove compartment? I still got the taste of sick in my mouth.’

  She accelerated into the lane. ‘Slow down,’ said Breen.

  ‘You always want me to slow down.’

  ‘I thought I saw someone there. In the hedge by the gate.’ A man dressed in a long dark coat.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  They were on the main road now, winding towards Torquay. A blast of rain hit them just as they were coming over a rise in the road. The rubber on the left-hand wiper had perished, leaving Breen’s side of the windscreen blurry.

  ‘She’s just like your sister, though, isn’t she?’ said Breen. ‘Right down to the fact that you’re jealous of her.’

  ‘Bog off,’ said Helen. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. As per usual.’

  A car came at them, flashing its lights in the rain. Helen blared her horn in return.

  ‘Get over to your bloody side of the road,’ she shouted.

  ‘It’s you who were on the wrong side,’ said Breen.

  ‘Shut up, Paddy,’ she said, gripping the wheel, pushing her foot down onto the accelerator and racing down the narrow roads.

  A storm lashed up waves in the bay; in the far distance white yachts bobbed on their moorings. The sea was grey, waves topped with froth. The view was smeared by rain on the glass of the front of the Palm Court Hotel. Tourist season was still a long way off. The pavements were empty. Cars crawled past along the coast road, drivers peering close to windscreens.

  At a small table, covered in a starched cloth, Helen Tozer was scarfing fondant fancies.

  ‘Feeling better now?’ said Breen.

  ‘Starving. I couldn’t touch breakfast.’

  ‘Don’t you have real coffee?’ said Breen, looking down at his cup.

  ‘He’s from London,’ explained Sergeant Sharman to the waitress, who stood nervously in her black dress and white pinny.

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  Helen shifted her saucer to cover a blot of spilt tea.

  ‘So?’ said Breen.

  ‘I looked,’ said Sharman. ‘You’re right. They must have removed one file.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘Confidential, OK?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just a bit sensitive, is all.’

  ‘Who, then?’ said Helen, leaning forward.

  ‘James Fletchet.’

  ‘Jimmy Fletchet?’ said Helen, crumb-mouthed.

  Sharman nodded.

  ‘Why are you going on about Jimmy Fletchet? Who is he?’ asked Breen, but Sharman had his eyes fixed on Helen now.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Sharman asked.

  Helen wiped her mouth. ‘Know what?’

  ‘James Fletchet was going out with your sister. They had a fling about a month or so before she died.’

  Helen spurted crumbs. ‘You’re joking. He’s bloody your age.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Breen again.

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A local toff. A swank. An MG man,’ said Helen. ‘She never said nothing about him. James Fletchet was… with my sister? Oh, Christ. You think it was him?’

  ‘Shh,’ said Sharman. ‘Keep it down, Pete’s sake. All this is confidential.’

  ‘Oh, my God. What a slimy…’

  ‘Please, Hel. I’m not happy telling you any of this.’

  ‘You’re not happy?’ Helen shook her head. ‘Was it him?’

  ‘No. It was definitely not James Fletchet who killed your sister. That was ruled out. It couldn’t have been.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘If you’d let me explain, Hel. I just spoke to a couple of fellows down the station. They were the ones who interviewed him. Apparently him and your sister met at the races. They went on a few dates. He thought she was older. Was shocked to find she was only sixteen and ended it. That was before the murder.’

  ‘But that doesn’t stop him from having done it.’

  ‘Give us a chance, Hel.’

  ‘How come you found out and I didn’t know anything about it?’

  Sharman said, ‘We found a couple of letters in her room.’

  ‘From him?’

  ‘Yes. They contained details of their… affair. And him ending it.’

  Condensation dripped down the inside of the glass.

  ‘What do you mean, details?’

  Sharman looked past her, out of the window. ‘You know. What they did in private.’

  ‘About him fucking her?’ said Helen.

  The rattle of teacups from an elderly man at next table.

  ‘Quite detailed, yes,’ said Sharman uncomfortably.

  Outside, herring gulls swirled in the air.

  ‘Christ.’

  Helen dug out a cigarette and lit it, not offering her packet around. A trawler was chugging its way across the bay, pitching in the waves.

  ‘At least she had some bloody fun, I suppose,’ Helen said. She blew out smoke.

  A disapproving cough from the next table. Helen ignored it.

  ‘I didn’t see any of his letters in the files you showed me,’ said Breen.

  Sharman said, ‘Apparently we gave the letters back to him. At his request. He had cooperated fully with the investigation. The letters were personal. As I matter of fact, I think he cared for her a great deal.’

  ‘Cared for her,’ sneered Helen.

  ‘They told me he seemed very upset about the whole thing.’

  ‘I should ruddy think he was,’ said Helen.

  ‘And we were able to rule him out definitively,’ said Sharman.

  ‘I mean, he’s married. What an old bugger. She was a child.’

  ‘Technically she was above the age of consent.’

  Helen closed her eyes.

  A gust of wind whacked at the large glass window with a bang, sending condensation running down in jerky lines. The large hotel lounge was almost empty. The small potted palms looked as if they were struggling to survive in the climate.

  ‘So why wasn’t his name included on the list of suspects? The CID just removed his information from the file?’ said Breen.

  ‘He’s a man of some importance around here, I suppose,’ said Sharman. ‘It was an affair with a teenage girl. I’m guessing he was scared that it would get back to his wife and that’s why he asked us to remove the file. As we had absolutely ruled him out I suppose it must have seemed reasonable to do it.’

  ‘How?’ said Breen. ‘How did you rule him out?’

  ‘He had a pretty watertight alibi,’ said Sharman. ‘And he cooperated fully with the investigation.’

  Helen shivered. Stubbed out her cigarette on the saucer. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t say any of this to me, Freddie. I mean, we were pretty bloody close.’

  ‘Don’t be angry, Hel. I didn’t know all this. I wasn’t leading on it at the time.’

  Breen said, ‘What was the alibi?’

  ‘Good old boys,’ Helen muttered.

  ‘He was with a copper all that day,’ said Sharman.

  Helen said, ‘Let me guess. Milkwood?’

  Sharman nodded.

  ‘Who is Milkwood?’ asked Breen.

  Helen said, ‘Sergeant Milkwood. They were pals. I remember. Milkwood was always dropping his name. What if he was in on it too? I mean, he could have been.’

  ‘No chance,’ Sharman said. ‘Plenty of witnesses. Otter hunting. Nutty about it, both of them. Fletchet was master of the hunt. The kennels are up on his estate. Milky and him used to run the dog
s over the moors once a week to keep them fit. Make a day of it. They were both there when your sister was killed. Several of them from the hunt confirmed they were both there all day. No question.’

  ‘Otter hunting?’

  ‘They’ll kill pretty much anything round here,’ said Helen. ‘Badgers. Foxes…’

  ‘What about his statement? He might have had things to say about Alexandra,’ said Breen.

  Sharman said, ‘It wasn’t me who made the decision to remove that file. Between you and me, I would rather it hadn’t been done. I’m guessing it was Sergeant Milkwood. As you say, they were friends.’

  ‘And Fletchet is posh.’

  Sharman said, ‘Probably true.’

  ‘Could I talk to him?’ said Breen. ‘James Fletchet?’

  Sharman looked uneasy.

  ‘She had secret lovers. We know that. What if the killer was one of them that you hadn’t identified?’ said Breen.

  ‘But we ruled every one of them out.’

  ‘God,’ said Helen, putting her head in her hands. ‘You make it sound like there were loads.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’ Breen asked.

  ‘You’ve seen the files, Paddy.’

  ‘I only had one afternoon. And besides, I didn’t see Fletchet’s file.’

  Helen looked up. ‘Maybe there was something important in the interview.’

  ‘I can’t help you there,’ Sharman said. ‘It’s not my department any more.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You do what you need to. Just don’t let it come back on me, right?’

  ‘What about Milkwood?’

  ‘He transferred three years ago. With your lot now.’

  ‘The Met?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He stood and pulled out a pound note for the tea and put it on the table. ‘Look after yourself, Helen,’ he said.

  Helen scooped up crumbs from her plate with her finger and sucked thoughtfully.

  A woman in a sequinned dress sat down at a grand piano behind the arches and began playing ‘Some Enchanted Evening’.

  ‘What if Fletchet did it?’ said Helen when he’d gone. ‘I mean. I bet it’s him. Maybe got someone else to do it. What if he got her pregnant or something?’

  ‘She wasn’t pregnant. It would have been in the report.’

  ‘I mean, a bit convenient, isn’t it, that he’s there with trillions of other people when she’s getting killed?’