A Song for the Brokenhearted

by William Shaw

He drew back the bolt on the front door and pulled it open. Snow tumbled onto the mat he was standing on. He blinked at the suddenness of white. The world outside was transformed.

  Wind had sculpted the thick, clean snow. Waves of it ran along the narrow lane. It had pressed into the side of tree trunks and the red telephone box.

  A set of dark animal paw prints made a line across the lane, from hedge to hedge.

  In front of the granite wall of the pub, the Tozers’ car had vanished. They would need to borrow shovels. Breen shivered, closed the door and went upstairs to wait for Helen to emerge again.

  The journey home was long. Twice the car had got stuck in drifts. The first time a tractor had been nearby and had pulled them free of the thick snow. The second time Breen had had to push the car back into the road, struggling to shove with his bad shoulder.

  They had slid slowly down gullied lanes, snow hanging from the hedges above them.

  Sometime in the late morning they had rounded the corner to come across a horse lying dead in the road. Blood from a gunshot wound had melted the snow under its head.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Breen, as Helen drove slowly around, wheels skidding on the bloody slush.

  She looked up at the broken hedge branches above the dead horse. ‘It must have fallen into the road somehow.’

  The feet-deep snow in the field must have hidden the hedges. The horse would have tumbled into the lane below and must have broken a leg in the fall.

  ‘Couldn’t they just have put a splint on it or something?’

  Helen didn’t answer, leaning forward into the windscreen, peering at the road ahead in the thin light She hadn’t talked much since last night.

  ‘I was thinking of going back to London. I’ll be fit for work again soon. I thought I’d track down Sergeant Milkwood. Find out what was in that report.’

  ‘Right,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe you could come and visit some time, like I said. Get away from the farm?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  But that was all. She didn’t try and encourage him to stay any longer, just gripped the wheel. Did she not care, or was she angry at him for going? He wasn’t sure.

  It was afternoon by the time they arrived home, edging slowly down the icy lane.

  Snow rarely settled along this coast, but the next morning it made everything clear. Breen looked at the boot prints. There was a smaller set going into the henhouse. That would be Hibou, who fed the chickens every morning. The other prints were much larger. A size nine, at least. They came as far as the edge of the chicken coop but didn’t go in. And then the bigger boots retraced their steps towards the estuary.

  He followed them slowly down the hillside, each footfall creaking into the whiteness. At the estuary’s edge they turned towards the town. It must be warmer here, thought Breen. The snow was mushier, the prints harder to read. There was enough of a trail to follow, though. Soon the path wound into the low trees.

  He had gone about fifty yards when the boot prints disappeared. It was dark under the small oaks, so it was hard to see, at first, whether they had just petered out where the snow was thinner. Breen was puzzled. He lowered himself to look at the last boot print. Then as he squatted down, he caught the scent of woodsmoke. He stopped and listened. Nothing.

  He stood again. ‘I know you’re there,’ he said.

  Silence.

  He looked around him and noticed it, finally. A smaller pathway heading into the woods had been obscured by a branch placed across it, but even in this light it was clear enough to see. Someone was trying to conceal themselves there. He lifted the branch and had only walked two or three paces when he saw the grey canvas tent in a tiny clearing beneath the low branches. In a circle of rocks a small fire smouldered, mostly ashes and embers. Placed among them was a small tin billy-can. He half expected to see a stolen egg boiling in it, but in the water sat an opened tin of baked beans.

  ‘You in there. Hello,’ he said, leaning down to the tent. ‘Come out.’

  He expected movement from within the tent; instead, there was a small crackling sound behind him.

  He turned. From under a pile of twigs and leaves that he had taken no notice of, a man was emerging. One moment he had not been there, the next he was, as if he was some supernatural force materialising from the dark undergrowth. As he stood, Breen realised it was the man he had seen in the road. He wore a long, dark woollen overcoat. His hair was long and his beard was thick and matted, his skin tanned brown from woodsmoke and dirt. There were filthy woollen mittens on his hands.

  Breen looked down at his fire. ‘Have you been stealing this food?’

  The man did not look him in the eye. His head was turned half away as if he was afraid. What Breen could see of the man’s face was dark and greasy with soot and dirt. He looked old, but it was hard to tell.

  ‘If you don’t move on, I am going to report you to the police,’ Breen said.

  The man twitched. Breen was reminded of the chickens in the coop. He was not right in the head, Breen realised.

  ‘Didn’t steal,’ whispered the man.

  Afterwards, trudging back up the slope, Breen felt stupid. Hibou had been taking food to him; scraps from Mrs Tozer’s kitchen. That was all.

  Mrs Tozer tried to persuade him to stay, but Helen said nothing more about it. On Breen’s last night at the farm they had a chicken as a special treat. Mrs Tozer roasted it until the skin shone like varnished wood.

  They crowded around the kitchen table and ate until their bellies strained. Napkin rings and everything. A candle in the middle. Unusually, Helen only picked at her plate. She had not been the same since seeing Fletchet. Breen got the sense of something burning inside her, hollowing her out.

  The snow had thawed suddenly, turning the yard outside to dark slush.

  ‘Don’t you want that potato?’ said Hibou.

  ‘We managed fine without you when you were stuck in the snow,’ said old man Tozer. ‘Didn’t we, Hibou? Great team. All the milk in churns and out on the lane.’

  Hibou smiled at him. Helen’s mother didn’t even scold her for using her fingers when she lifted the potato off Helen’s plate.

  ‘Just because you’re not here doesn’t mean everything grinds to a halt.’

  ‘No, you didn’t manage without me, Dad. There’s barely enough forage for the winter. The cows are thin as sticks. That’s why the yield’s down.’

  ‘Helen, enough,’ said her mother.

  ‘But it’s getting better now,’ said Hibou. ‘There’ll be new grass coming through once the snow’s gone.’

  Helen rolled her eyes. ‘You saying I shouldn’t have come back to help on the farm? And now I’m here everything’s hunky-dory. I wish I hadn’t bothered.’

  ‘Don’t spoil it, Hel,’ said her mother. ‘It’s Paddy’s last night.’

  Helen glared at Hibou. Hibou put her head down, blushing, busy sawing away at the potatoes with her knife and fork.

  ‘Besides. It wasn’t right for you, the police,’ said her father.

  ‘How the heck would you know?’ said Helen.

  ‘It’s not a woman’s work.’

  ‘And wading ankle high in cow shit is?’

  ‘Language,’ said her mother.

  After Helen had left the room, banging the door behind her, her father had broken the silence by saying to Hibou, ‘She used to be just like this with her sister. Jealous. Don’t mind her.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think it’s anything to do with me,’ said Hibou. ‘She’s all crotchety because Paddy’s leaving, if you ask me.’ She turned to see if Mrs Tozer was watching, and when her back was turned, she slipped what was left of the potatoes and a bit of her meat into handkerchief.

  When she saw Breen had seen her doing it, she blushed, but didn’t say anything.

  That night, Breen lay in bed listening to the snow sliding off the roof above him, crashing down into the yard.

  EIGHT

  Big John Carmichael stood as he approa
ched, arms wide, almost knocking the chair behind him backwards.

  ‘Paddy. Paddy bloody Breen.’

  Other diners stared, harrumphed, looked harder at their food. The restaurant was full of rich foreign tourists, Common Market functionaries talking in French or Dutch and cigar-waving captains of British industry showing off to guests.

  This was a posh place to eat. A place of murmurs and starched napkins.

  Across the round room, Breen smiled at his friend, walked towards him. John was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was a couple of inches longer than when he’d last seen it, his waist a couple of inches thicker. John grasped both of Breen’s arms, then said, ‘Sorry,’ as he saw Breen wince. He gestured at the windows, like the view was his own. ‘Not bad, eh?’

  London surrounded them. Even on this grey, dim day, you could see for miles.

  ‘You are such a bloody lah-di-dah, John.’

  ‘Classy is the word you were looking for, Paddy. This is a celebration. You’ve returned. When are you getting back to work?’

  When he had called Carmichael to tell him he had returned to London, Carmichael had suggested the Top of the Tower, the restaurant at the top of the tallest building in London, the Post Office Tower. The whole seating area spun slowly around the tower, giving diners a view of the entire city. Waiters emerged from the lift in the centre always looking to the left and right, trying to see where the table they were serving had gone. The white heat of technology made concrete. Below them, banks of microwave antennas beaming radio signals across Britain.

  ‘How the heck did you get a table here?’ asked Breen.

  ‘Friends in low places. Sit down, Christ’s sake. Enjoy yourself,’ said John.

  A waiter in a red-trimmed jacket and bow tie took Breen’s coat.

  ‘How’s the shoulder? How’s Helen and all her yokel pals? Tell me everything.’

  The place was decorated in swanky bright red and dark blue, as if it was a BOAC airline lounge at London Airport. A series of clocks showed the time zones around the world. Very international jet set. Below them, Regent’s Park gave way to the distant terracotta pointy-ness of St Pancras Station. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Carmichael said, looking past the other diners out of the window.

  ‘Yes, it really is,’ Breen said.

  ‘So. What are you having? It’s all in Frog. Why do they have to do that? Can’t read a word.’

  When the waiter arrived Breen ordered Moules Normandes.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Carmichael.

  ‘Mussels,’ said Breen.

  ‘What’s Escalope de Veau Holstein?’ The waiter disappeared and returned with a menu in English.

  ‘I hate that,’ muttered Carmichael. ‘What about a bottle of red?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to drink.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ said Carmichael.

  ‘How’s the Drug Squad?’ said Breen.

  Carmichael leaned forward. ‘Busy. Always busy.’ He grabbed a waiter. ‘Got a light, mate?’

  The stony-faced waiter reached in his pocket and gave him a black book of matches: Top of the Tower.

  ‘Give us a handful,’ said Carmichael. ‘Souvenirs.’

  The tables by the windows were all taken. At the one closest to Breen and Carmichael, a classy-looking woman with straw-coloured hair and red lipstick sat with a businessman, smiling at something the florid-faced man was saying.

  ‘Look at her,’ said Carmichael. ‘God’s sake. What’s she doing with a wrinkled old arse like him? He must be sixty if he’s a day.’

  ‘When she should be with you?’

  ‘And she would if I was as rich as he was.’

  ‘Tell me, John, do you know a man called Milkwood?’

  ‘Course. You know Milky. Everyone does.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You must have met him at some point at New Scotland Yard.’

  Breen frowned. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Don’t know how you made detective, Paddy. You never notice anything. Why you asking?’

  ‘Tozer wanted to know, that’s all,’ Breen said. ‘Apparently he’s from her neck of the woods.’

  ‘Suppose he must be.’ Carmichael frowned. The waiter arrived with a bottle of wine and offered it to Carmichael to taste. ‘Four quid a bottle and you’re not sure if it’s any good or not?’

  Other diners twitched.

  ‘Just leave it,’ he ordered, and picked up the bottle, holding it by the bottom, and filled Breen’s glass to just under the brim.

  ‘What’s he like, Milkwood?’

  Carmichael grinned. ‘He’s not one of her… you know?’

  ‘Her what?’

  ‘You know what she’s like. Oh. I forgot. You’ve got a thing for her.’

  ‘Milkwood must be twice her age.’

  ‘Only joking, chum. Only ringing your bell.’

  Carmichael was expansive, full of himself. Breen took the cigarette Carmichael was offering. First of the day.

  ‘What’s Milky like?’ said Carmichael. ‘Devoted to his missus.’

  ‘Good copper?’

  ‘Very good. Dedicated. One of the few straight ones in the squad.’

  ‘You’re not getting cynical, are you?’

  Carmichael sighed. ‘Drug Squad. We’ve got a reputation. You know.’

  ‘What’s happened to you? You used to say all that was bollocks.’

  ‘He’s a good man. I’ll admit it. A lot of the lads on the squad just want to nick the stars, get their names in the paper. Milky’s been working on importers. That’s what we’ve got to go after. This last year, all the gangs have got into drugs. Big money. The game’s changing.’

  The large businessman stood up unsteadily and went to the bathroom. The woman was now on her own. Carmichael called over to her. ‘Do you reckon if you paid them enough, they’d speed this roundabout up? It’s a bit slow, isn’t it?’

  She smiled back at him. ‘Who are you, Jack Brabham?’

  He lifted up his glass. ‘Might spill the vino though.’

  She lifted her handbag from the chair next to her to look for a cigarette. Carmichael was standing in a second, holding a match from the matchbook at the ready.

  Back at the table he whispered, ‘See the way she smiled at me?’

  Breen grinned. ‘You’re the one who used to be on Vice. She’s a posh tart. See it a mile off.’

  ‘You think?’ said Carmichael, still looking at the woman, less certain of himself.

  ‘Don’t know how you made detective, John. You never notice anything.’

  ‘Not really interested, anyway.’

  ‘You’re always interested.’

  He tore his eyes off her. ‘No. As a matter of fact, I’m spoken for.’

  Breen’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’ve got a girl?’

  Carmichael shifted in his seat. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What do you mean, kind of?’

  ‘It’s complicated. Anyway, what’s Milky to Tozer?’

  ‘Don’t try and change the subject. Are you seeing someone?’

  ‘Maybe. Only she don’t know it yet. Milkwood’s still waters. Keeps himself to himself. Doesn’t come out drinking with the boys. Bit like you only less ugly. Sup up,’ he said, lifting his glass and draining it.

  The woman’s dining partner returned, scanning the room for his table. It was hard to remember where you sat when the room kept revolving.

  Their plates arrived. Carmichael’s eyes widened. Carmichael’s had a large lump of meat on it, covered in a fried egg, with anchovies laid over it. ‘Ruddy fantastic,’ he said, lifting his knife and fork.

  Through the window, Breen watched planes heading west, towards London Airport. Carmichael was talking about getting tickets for some jazz trumpet player. Breen nodded. OK. He would go out more. See some art. Hear some music. Be part of London as it woke up from the long dark half of the twentieth century.

  ‘We should go to the movies. You’d like that.’

  Opposite them, the woman
whose cigarette Carmichael had lit and her dining partner stood. As she walked towards the lift, the older man’s hand on her bottom, she turned and gave John another smile.

  ‘See?’ said Breen.

  ‘I’m irresistible,’ said Carmichael. ‘That’s all.’

  They ate together until they had to loosen the buttons on their trousers. Afterwards Carmichael insisted on ordering brandies. Doubles.

  ‘How you getting home?’

  ‘Bus.’

  ‘Stuff that. I’ll call you a squad car.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said Breen.

  ‘Watch me.’

  Breen hadn’t drunk anything for weeks.

  ‘You were the copper who was shot, weren’t you?’ said the young, spotty-faced policeman who arrived to drive him home, glancing in the rear-view mirror. As they sped eastwards through the streets, alcohol flooded his brain with a sense of connectedness. The nightmares would go; he was the copper who had survived being shot. Everything could begin again. He would get behind his desk again. Life would be better. Life would be great.

  NINE

  He woke at nine in the morning, mouth tasting of tin and his shoulder aching. He must have slept on the wrong side.

  Yesterday’s euphoria was blunted by a dull head. In winter, his basement flat was dark. The back bedroom was empty now and smelt damp and unused.

  He ground beans and made a coffee, then sat at his table with it, looking around him. The living room had a small dining table, a couple of armchairs and a black-and-white TV. The room didn’t look like it belonged to anyone in particular, certainly not to him. Some possessions seemed to make it look more like a home, but mostly these had been his father’s. A mantelpiece clock; an ivory letter knife. Others had been acquired carelessly. The two mismatched armchairs with antimacassars. That brown rug. The last year’s calendar, still on the wall, hung a little too high because the nail had been there when he had moved in. It was, he supposed, a woman’s talent, making a home.

  Maybe he should spend some money. New curtains. Maybe candlesticks. Buy a colour TV. Switch from mono to stereo.

  He took out the copy of the pathologist’s report he had stolen from the files in Devon and started to read it again, making notes. Whoever had carried out the autopsy had been thorough. There was the detail of the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles (‘Thin rope. Possibly sash cord’). The detailing of the nature and position of each cigarette burn (‘Left upper arm 1. Second degree. Left upper arm 2. First degree’). And so on. Though the assault with the egg was of a sexual nature, there was no sperm present. Was it the murder itself that was methodical, or just the way it was written about? He found it hard to discern. After an hour, he put the report aside and went to heat up the rest of the coffee.