A Song for the Brokenhearted

by William Shaw

  Another laugh went round the room.

  ‘We can’t just go round asking, “Where’s Doyle?” without them wanting to know why. On the other hand, if we tell CID about Doyle and get them to look for him, then we’ll blow his cover and every other bloody narc in London will stop trusting us. Our options are limited.’

  Pilcher’s concession to being flashy was smoking Lucky Strikes. He banged his pack on the table until a filter emerged, then raised it to his mouth and pulled it out.

  ‘When Big John here came and told us that you had linked Milkwood’s killing to the murder of the girl in Devon,’ he said, ‘and that CID had kindly arranged for you to come and visit, an idea occurred to me. You do it. You go and look for him.’

  Breen blinked. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘Nope.’

  Breen shook his head. ‘I’m on sick leave.’

  ‘Precisely. You’re not even a copper, officially. You don’t have to report what you’re doing to anyone. Our hands are clean. Just go and find him.’

  ‘Why doesn’t one of your boys do it, undercover?’

  ‘Too risky,’ said Pilcher. ‘Lots of people on the hippie scene know who we are now. We’re almost as famous as pop stars these days, ain’t we, boys?’

  A small laugh.

  ‘We’ve got a golden opportunity. Middle Earth’s on tonight. If we don’t go to this one, it’ll be at least a week before the next.’

  ‘So you want me to look for Doyle?’

  Pilcher leaned forward. ‘I know you, Paddy. You wouldn’t mind getting stuck in, would you? That’s why you found out about Milkwood in the first place. And it would be doing us a big favour, wouldn’t it, John? We’re talking about a copper killer.’

  Breen sat in the chair, his undrunk coffee in front of him.

  Pilcher looked at his watch. ‘Almost lunch, then?’ he said, and stood.

  Carmichael came outside to the corridor with Breen. ‘I told him I didn’t think you’d do it. Pilcher said he’d bet me a tenner you would.’

  The other Drug Squad officers were putting on their coats, ready to go out to the pub. Breen looked at the black-and-white photograph of Doyle with his hair coloured in in red biro and said, ‘Doing nothing is driving me mad. Besides, everyone’s convinced Helen is involved. Only one way to find out.’

  Carmichael looked at him. ‘And what if she is? You know, involved?’

  Somebody called, ‘You coming for a pint, John?’

  ‘You go on. I’ll catch you up.’ He nodded his head towards the other end of the corridor. ‘Come with me, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll kit you out.’

  ‘Kit me out?’

  Carmichael led him down towards a door on the right of the corridor. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked it.

  It was a small room; more of a large cupboard. On both sides were racks filled with clothes on hangers. Lined up on a shelf above were shoes.

  The clothes were not the sort you’d normally see the Scotland Yard officers in. There were big army coats and shaggy sheepskins; bright paisley shirts and flared jeans. Old grandad shirts with the collars off. Tie-dyed cotton waistcoats and short-sleeve T-shirts.

  ‘Jesus. Pantomime,’ said Breen, picking up a pair of pink-tinted glasses from a box on the floor.

  ‘It’s for undercover,’ said Carmichael.

  ‘You’re just a bunch of bloody kids, aren’t you?’

  Carmichael said, ‘You know the Roundhouse?’

  ‘The old engine shed?’

  Up at the north end of Camden, the circular brick house had once contained an engine turntable. In the days of steam they had serviced the trains there. Over the last few years, British Rail had phased out the last of the coal-fired engines, leaving the building to become derelict.

  ‘They’ve been using it for parties. It’s where tonight’s concert is. Odds are someone there will know if Afghan’s been around. It’s a small scene. Everyone knows everyone. You never know. He might be there himself.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘We even bought you a ticket.’ Carmichael grinned. He opened his wallet and pulled out a small printed piece of paper. ‘Middle Earth’, it said. ‘Admit one. £1/-/6’.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Carmichael. ‘Fucking hippies. Here. Try this one on.’

  He pulled out an embroidered sheepskin coat.

  ‘No bloody way.’

  ‘Keep your hair on. What about this?’ he said, offering a heavy grey army coat. ‘NVA. East German army. Very trendy, I’ve heard.’

  He held it up for Breen to put on. It was too big.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Carmichael. ‘You look like a twat already. We got some wigs too, if you like.’

  ‘Not in a million years,’ said Breen. He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘By the way. This is the piece of paper I found at Milkwood’s house yesterday.’

  ‘God, I was embarrassed standing there in front of Mrs M with all those wank mags. “Sorry about your husband, Mrs Milk.”’ He took the paper from Breen.

  ‘Any ideas?’ said Breen.

  Carmichael frowned. ‘What is it? A code of some kind?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I suppose it was something he wanted to keep safe. That drawer was his secrets. What do you think it is? Bank accounts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘National Insurance numbers?’

  ‘Too many digits.’

  Breen left the room with the army coat, a woollen check shirt and a pair of flared jeans.

  ‘Fancy a quick one in the pub before you go?’

  Breen shook his head and left, carrying the clothes in a large brown-paper parcel. He wanted to get home.

  SIXTEEN

  The bus back into town was full of giggling Girl Guides. They disembarked noisily at Tottenham Court Road, satchels swinging. He changed at Angel but on Sunday only a handful of buses ran. He had to wait an hour in the cold for another to take him towards Stoke Newington.

  When he arrived the milk bill was lying on the mat inside the door. Door still open, he picked it up. That’s when noticed another note lying underneath, written in blue biro on the inside of a torn-up packet of Player’s No. 6.

  His eyes took a while to focus on it.

  Where are you? I am in London. Need to explain. It’s V V important!!

  I am at the YWCA. H.

  Helen? She had been here. She had been looking for him. If he hadn’t stayed at the section house last night he would have found her.

  Just seeing her handwriting made him grin. She was alive and she was in London. Whatever she had done or been involved with, she had tried to seek him out.

  The phone book had been propping the kitchen door open. He picked it up and flicked through until he found the Young Women’s Christian Association. They were in Portland Place.

  ‘All our guests have left. They have to be out by nine thirty a.m.,’ said the woman.

  ‘When are they allowed back in?’

  ‘We are not an introductions agency, sir.’

  ‘It’s important. I am a policeman.’

  ‘I can check the register for her name, but she is no longer here, sir.’

  The milkman usually dropped his bill round with the Sunday delivery. Helen’s note must have been put through his door before that. Breen ran upstairs and knocked on the door.

  The young woman opened the door. ‘How was the meat loaf?’ she asked. ‘Was it awful?’

  ‘Was there a young woman knocking on my door yesterday?’

  ‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ She smiled at Breen. She was dressed in an orange trouser suit and was holding a pair of crochet hooks with some wool. ‘Is she your girlfriend? Yeah, she knocked here yesterday afternoon.’

  He would have been with Carmichael, in Surbiton.

  ‘She wanted to know where you were. She was trying to call you, she said. I wasn’t sure how I was expected to know. Did you not come home last night then?’

  ‘How did she look?’

  She shrugged
. ‘She just asked if I’d seen you. I told her to come in and wait, but she didn’t want to.’

  When she’d closed the front door, Breen stood on the step for a few seconds.

  Downstairs in his flat, he put on the pan for coffee and paced around the living room as he waited for it to boil.

  The phone rang.

  Breen ran from the kitchen, grabbing at the handset and knocking it to the floor, wrenching his bad arm as he bent to pick it up.

  ‘Helen?’

  A pause on the line. ‘Why did you think I was…?’ It was Carmichael. ‘Have you heard from her?’

  ‘Yes. She left me a note.’

  ‘She’s in London?’

  ‘She was at the YWCA last night. She tried to come and see me but we were out.’

  ‘You should call CID now,’ said Carmichael. ‘Let them know.’

  ‘Why did you ring?’

  ‘I just wanted to say, you don’t have to go through with it tonight if you don’t want. Just because Pilcher wants you to. Fuck him, you know?’

  Breen stood in front of the full-length mirror in his father’s old room dressed in the full outfit.

  He felt ridiculous.

  He tried one of his father’s woollen caps on to hide his hair, but it made him look even older than he felt right now. He growled at himself in the mirror. These people dressed in hand-me-downs as if they owned nothing but they were wealthier than Breen had ever been at their age.

  He tried running his hand through his hair to mess it up a little, but even with a month’s growth in Devon, it still looked too orderly.

  It would have to do. It wasn’t his idea, anyway.

  He put on the greatcoat. It smelt of mothballs.

  He looked around the cul-de-sac. He was wondering if CID had put a plain-clothes copper on surveillance in case Helen turned up, but he couldn’t spot one. Which was something at least.

  Before leaving the flat, he pinned a note to his front door:

  Helen. I will be back. PLEASE wait for me. Important.

  He was about to leave the cul-de-sac when he had second thoughts and returned to knock on the front door of the flat above.

  The young pregnant woman opened the door again.

  The first thing she did was laugh. ‘Are you going to a fancy dress?’

  She had changed, now she was wearing a yellow kimono, tied just above the bump on her belly.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you could keep an eye out for the lady who knocked on my door yesterday. If she comes while I’m out, will you give her my spare key?’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, hand on mouth. ‘Are you supposed to be, what, undercover?’

  Breen looked away. ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

  ‘What are you supposed to look like?’ she said, giggling.

  Breen sighed. ‘I am supposed to look like someone who would be going to a concert at Middle Earth.’

  She put her head on one side. ‘This is priceless. I’ll tell you what you look like.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bloody copper trying to pretend to be cool. They’ll spot you a mile off.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He held out his front door key. ‘Will you give it to her?’

  ‘Are you going to bust it? For drugs or something?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. It’s complicated. There’s someone I need to find. Somebody who may have some evidence about a murder. And I know no one will talk to me if they think I’m a…’

  ‘A pig.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop laughing. You look so funny.’ She frowned. ‘Tell you what. Come on in. I can do stuff like that.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You look ridiculous. Besides, it’ll be fun.’

  ‘Where’s your husband?’ Breen asked.

  ‘Boyfriend,’ she said. ‘He’s out.’

  Breen hesitated on the doorstep.

  ‘He’ll be cool,’ she said, holding the door open. ‘Come on. I’m getting cold.’

  He followed her inside, down a corridor that they had wallpapered with pages from the Beano into a living room. She scooped a magazine off one of the two huge beanbags and dropped it onto an ashtray on the floor to cover it.

  ‘My name’s Elfie. Short for Elfrida. What’s yours?’

  When he told her, she said, ‘That’s an unusual name. Sit down. I’ll get some stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Stuff to stop you looking like an undercover narc.’

  They had painted the living-room walls a dark yellow. He chose the old Chesterfield covered in Indian cloth, rather than the white fibreglass armchair or a beanbag.

  A reel-to-reel tape recorder played some fluty jazz through a pair of huge Wharfedale speakers. From the ceiling rose hung a huge white paper lampshade. A large art nouveau poster of a half-dressed woman on a bicycle was Sellotaped to the wall, one corner hanging down.

  She returned with what looked like a black pencil and a bottle of dark red nail varnish.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ Breen put his hands behind his back.

  ‘Don’t be so sissy,’ she said, sitting on the floor in front of him. ‘The whole place will be full of freaks. Nobody will look twice if you look like one yourself.’

  ‘I can’t wear that,’ he said.

  ‘That’s precisely why you should. Zen logic. No copper would paint his nails. Hand,’ she said.

  He gave her his right hand, and she started painting the nails one by one.

  ‘You have nice hands,’ she said. ‘You should be an artist.’

  Elfie concentrated, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she painted his nails. As she worked, legs bare on the carpet, he realised her kimono was slightly open at the top. He looked away.

  ‘What about my shoes?’

  Knowing that his brogues would look too polished, he had taken an old pair of his father’s plain boots that he hadn’t thrown out yet.

  ‘They’re OK, I reckon,’ she said. ‘It’s crazy you’re a policeman, living right underneath us.’ She blew gently onto his hands.

  ‘Why’s that crazy?’ he said.

  ‘Because you’re the man,’ she laughed. ‘You know. Authority. Other hand. Don’t smudge it until it’s dry.’

  He looked at his hand. The nails were all painted so deep a red it was almost maroon. She started on the other one.

  ‘I’m not authority,’ he said. ‘I’m just a policeman.’

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘I’m just doing a job that needs doing.’

  ‘So when you came and knocked on our door and ordered us to turn the music down, you weren’t being the man.’

  ‘I’m not the man,’ said Breen. ‘I just wanted a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Course you’re the man. That time you came to our door about the noise, you flashed that police thing with your photograph in it.’

  She held his fingers now, keeping them steady.

  ‘Only because I’d asked you before and you didn’t do it.’

  ‘Play your own music loud. We wouldn’t care. It’s cool.’ He was looking down again at the ripe curve of her pregnant belly when she looked up. ‘Right. Hold still.’

  She took the pencil she had brought into the room and licked the end.

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  She put her knee on the couch and leaned over him, her face close to his.

  ‘Your eyes,’ she said. ‘Don’t move or I’ll end up poking one out.’

  ‘Christ’s sake,’ he said.

  ‘Shh.’

  Staring at the ceiling, where someone had drawn small stars, he felt her thigh press against his as she concentrated.

  Standing in the queue on a dark Camden pavement a man in a big black felt hat said, ‘If you got any weed on you I’d ditch it, ’f I were you.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  The
man said, ‘Don’t look now. Pig. Right behind us.’

  When Breen did look he saw a man wearing an embroidered suede sheepskin coat. It was the young red-faced copper who had been at the meeting with Pilcher, trying to look casual, pretending not to notice Breen. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his wig.

  The man in the felt hat leaned closer. ‘I heard a rumour they’re going to raid tonight. You clean? If you’re not, I’ll help you swallow it, man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Breen. ‘I’m clean.’

  ‘Bummer,’ the man giggled. ‘Worth a try, man.’

  At the turnstile a long-haired ticket man said, ‘Bands start at midnight.’

  The circular engine hall had been stripped bare and seats had been added around the outside of the room. There was loud music playing, strange and modal, all guitars and drums. Globs of coloured water and oil were being projected onto the ceiling.

  Breen joined the groups of people milling around. Some were sitting on the floor against the walls, eyes closed. A girl with a round silver spot on her forehead was soundly asleep on the floor next to him despite the music. Were these people on drugs, Breen wondered? Was this what being on drugs looked like?

  Despite the fears of the man in the queue on the way in, the air was thick with the oily smell of what Breen guessed was marijuana. The room was dirty too. Old cigarette packets, many torn, lay everywhere. People left empty bottles against the walls, hoping that others wouldn’t kick them over.

  Upstairs there was a bar. Breen bought a bottle of beer so he would have something to do with his hands besides leave them in the coat of his pockets. One of the rooms off the walkway that surrounded the main floor was offering massages for five shillings. Another was selling cakes. A sign read: ‘These are NOT hash cakes. DON’T EVEN ASK.’

  Breen asked the woman running the stall, ‘Do you know a man called Afghan? I’m supposed to find him here?’

  She looked him up and down and said, ‘Never heard of him.’

  At around midnight a band came on and started playing long, complicated songs on keyboards and fuzzy guitars.

  Breen came across the man in the floppy hat sitting on a blanket on the main floor, nodding his head to to the music. ‘Amazing,’ the man said.

  Breen squatted down and asked, ‘Have you seen Afghan anywhere?’