A Song for the Brokenhearted

by William Shaw

  Breen said, ‘Would you like me to take you out to a fancy restaurant, then?’

  She frowned. ‘Why would you do that?’

  She walked into the kitchen, still in her knickers, and started pulling things out of the cupboards. ‘Anchovies. Yuck. Got any proper food?’

  ‘Let’s get out. There’s no point waiting for the phone to ring.’

  She stretched up on her toes and pulled down another can. ‘What the heck are chickpeas?’

  ‘Let’s go to Joe’s. I’ll buy you lunch.’

  ‘Is that your idea of a fancy restaurant?’

  Breen stood in the corridor of Joe’s All Night Bagel Shop at the payphone.

  ‘Any news about Doyle?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Carmichael said. ‘We’re working in the dark here, Paddy. I called my mate in CID. He said he’s not allowed to talk to me any more.’

  ‘Not allowed? What’s going on?’

  Helen was standing next to him, grinning. ‘Have you asked him about his date yet?’

  ‘Seems like CID think about as much of Drug Squad as Helen Tozer does,’ Carmichael was saying. ‘They reckon we’re too close to our snitches. But I get the feeling they’re on to something. I don’t know what.’

  ‘They’re worried if they tell you anything it’ll get back to the drug gangs.’

  ‘That’s my guess too. They’re sure Milkwood was killed over some deal that went wrong and they’re still hauling in every known drug dealer in London. It’s killing us. Pilcher is doing his nut.’

  ‘Go on. What’s he saying?’ Helen mouthed.

  Breen put his hand over the receiver. ‘Nothing. No news at all.’ Then, to Carmichael, ‘What about James Fletchet?’

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like now, Paddy. CID don’t trust us as far as they could throw us.’

  ‘God’s sake, go on. Ask him how his bloody date with that girl went,’ said Helen.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Carmichael.

  Breen could hear Carmichael lighting one of his panatellas. There was a dirty old brick wall on the other side of the road. Someone had graffitied ‘Just let it burn down, baby’ in dripping white paint on it.

  He could hear Carmichael blowing out smoke. ‘And?’ said Breen. ‘How was Amy?’

  ‘Helen was right. I shouldn’t have taken her to the Rib Room. It was too posh. They wouldn’t even let Amy in ’cause she had them stripy tights on.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ said Breen.

  ‘No. It was fine. We went for chips instead. We had a great time.’

  ‘So? What did he say?’ said Helen afterwards.

  Breen shook his head. ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. CID aren’t telling him anything because they think the Drug Squad are up to their neck in the drug gangs.’

  ‘Not about that, you idiot. About Amy.’

  She laughed when he’d told her. ‘I said the Rib Room was all wrong. What a prannock.’

  They sat in silence for a while. Breen picked up a pencil and started doodling.

  ‘I feel we’ve got to be close, haven’t we?’ said Helen. ‘I mean, something’s got to happen. Don’t you think?’

  Workmen in overalls from a nearby building site came in with dirty tea mugs, every other word a ‘fuck’ or a ‘cunt’. As they were leaving two loud Cockney girls entered. ‘Turn up the tranny, love. We like this one.’

  Joe’s daughter turned up Joe’s old valve radio. Breen looked round. One of the girls wore a huge pair of dark glasses and a big floppy hat. Both were in miniskirts, and the one with a hat had a large I’m Backing Britain badge on her pale blouse. She was not wearing a bra.

  ‘Eyes,’ hissed Helen. ‘Back in your head.’

  Breen turned to his paper, picked up his pencil again.

  She leaned over and whispered, ‘I bet you’re drawing Titty Girl, aren’t you? Another of those pervy drawings, like the one you did of me.’

  ‘It wasn’t a pervy drawing.’

  ‘Will you still draw me when I’m big and fat and ugly and pregnant?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Come on. Give us a look.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘See?’ she said. ‘I knew you were.’ She leaned over and snatched at the paper. Breen tried to hold it down. It ripped. ‘Ooops.’

  But when she held the two pieces of torn paper together, all that Breen had drawn was a big black triangle, the pencil going over and over the same lines.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be a bitch. I just can’t help it sometimes.’

  At the corners were the names James Fletchet, William Milkwood and Nicholas Doyle. And in the middle was the name Alexandra Tozer.

  When they got home, walking side by side, Breen saw a uniformed copper squatting down at his letter box. ‘Hello?’

  The policeman said, ‘I was looking for Sergeant Careful Breen.’

  ‘What did you call him?’ Helen asked.

  The constable looked at his notebook. ‘Careful?’

  ‘Cathal,’ said Breen.

  Helen laughed. ‘Careful Breen. I like that.’

  Even from the top of the stairs they could see the young copper was blushing. ‘Sorry. Superintendent asked me to call you. Inspector Creamer from Marylebone was trying to get in touch. Said you weren’t picking up your phone.’

  They clattered down the stairs, pushing past the constable, and Breen fumbled with the lock.

  ‘What do you think he wants?’

  ‘We seem to be your answering service while you’re away,’ Creamer said. ‘I had a phone call from Lord Goodstone. He was trying to track you down. Hobnobbing with the aristocrats while you’re away?’

  It took Breen a second to remember that Lord Goodstone was Fletchet’s title.

  ‘He seemed like a nice fellow,’ said Creamer. ‘He a pal of yours or something?’

  Creamer was a Rotarian, easily impressed by titles. Though Fletchet pretended to be embarrassed by the title when they met, he clearly didn’t mind using it if it got him attention.

  ‘He left you a contact. Got a pen?’

  Breen wrote it down: it was a seven-figure number.

  ‘A London address?’ Breen said, surprised. But there was no reason why James Fletchet shouldn’t be in London, he supposed.

  ‘I imagine he’s at the House of Lords or something,’ Creamer answered. ‘Going to meet up? You must come into the station again, Paddy. I’ll take you out for lunch.’

  When Breen rang the number, a man answered with, ‘Good afternoon. Pratt’s.’

  A gentlemen’s club, Breen realised. Not one of the newer, fashionable ones. The more ancient, creaky sort. ‘Is there a James Fletchet there?’

  ‘I shall enquire.’

  After a minute, Fletchet came to the phone. ‘Breen. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’ve had CID turning up mob-handed down in Devon to interview me about Bill Milkwood. My wife was furious. They wouldn’t tell me what was going on.’

  CID would have played their cards as close to their chest as they could; he’d have done the same. ‘Are you a suspect?’ asked Breen.

  ‘God, no,’ said Fletchet. ‘Bloody hell. Am I?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Christ. But I’ve just got back from seeing Gwen Milkwood. To offer my condolences. She told me there was funny business with his body. She didn’t seem to know much, but it all seems very… strange. What the hell is going on, Sergeant?’

  He sounded rattled. Drunk maybe?

  ‘It’s not my case,’ Breen said. ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to speak out of turn, but I have a right to know what’s going on,’ Fletchet said. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Breen considered. ‘I can be there at six,’ he said, looking at his watch. He replaced the handset.

  ‘See? I told you something was going to happen. Shall we get a taxi?’ Helen hadn’t taken her coat off. Now she was holding up a small powd
er compact and putting on lipstick with her other hand, eyebrows raised slightly.

  Breen said, ‘It’s just me, I think.’

  She stopped, lipstick half done. ‘Did he say that? He didn’t want me to be there.’

  ‘No. But he wants to meet at a gentlemen’s club.’

  She thrust her compact back into her bag. ‘So?’

  Breen shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Men only.’

  Helen rolled her eyes. ‘Welcome to the Space Age. Christ. He knows something. I know he does. I feel it in every bloody limb. Don’t you? I mean, I should be there.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘God’s sake, Paddy. You could have said we have to meet somewhere else. You could have insisted.’

  ‘He sounded nervous. I thought it would be best to meet on his terms.’

  She thumped down into his armchair. ‘So what am I supposed to do, then? If he wants to meet, why can’t it be on our terms?’

  ‘We’re not the investigators on this one. It’s not our case.’

  ‘“It’s not our case.” Why are you always so cautious, Careful Bloody Breen?’

  Breen was at the door now. He opened his mouth to reply, but said nothing. He just left her smoking, dropping ash on his upholstery.

  From the address in St James’s, Breen imagined a grand house. And it was. The club, however, was just two rooms in the basement. It was a simple arrangement. In one they served drinks; in the other they served food. Fletchet was sitting in the dining room at a small table. He had been eating. There was a bottle of HP Sauce on his table, cap off, with a dribble of brown running down the outside. From looking around at the other diners, all they seemed to serve was bacon, eggs, sausages and chops, even at this time of evening.

  ‘Breen. Take a seat,’ said Fletchet.

  It was an ordinary-looking place, slightly grubby even, which probably meant it was very exclusive, Breen guessed. A nouveau-riche establishment would be showier. These red-painted walls, covered with mediocre etchings of politicians and boxers and a few stuffed birds, spoke of that very English sense of class you couldn’t possibly buy. Breen imagined that a senior common room at Eton would probably feel like this, serving the kind of meal a nanny would cook for a child. The British aristocracy had never quite left the nursery.

  ‘George, bring this man a drink. Fix him some eggs or something.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Fletchet noticed cigarette ash on his tie and brushed it off. A club tie of some kind. He said, ‘I don’t mind admitting I’m seriously bloody concerned.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Breen.

  ‘I don’t like having the police turn up at my house. It’s not good.’

  ‘They are investigating a murder.’

  Fletchet picked a piece of meat from his teeth. ‘How was Billy Milkwood killed? I need to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the whole bloody thing is creepy. Seriously strange. He was tortured, wasn’t he?’

  Breen nodded warily. For all sorts of reasons, the police never liked to give details of a murder away. Especially one like this. Sensationalising a case always made it harder to bring it to trial, and keeping the public in the dark gave investigators leverage. Not to mention that in this particular case, the force wouldn’t like to admit that they had let one of their own down so badly.

  ‘I asked Gwen Milkwood how he had been hurt, she didn’t seem to know. Why is that? What’s bloody going on, Breen? Tell me. Why is it all so hush-hush? I mean, who goes around torturing police officers in England? What were they trying to find out?’

  ‘If CID didn’t tell you, why do you expect me to?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sergeant. You’re not one of those bloody stuffed shirts, are you? Sorry. I’m a bit drunk already. Been at it since I came back from Gwen’s. The whole thing gave me the heebie-jeebies, to be honest. It stirs you up.’ He picked up the bottle of claret and poured Breen a glass. The label was faded and stained, which Breen guessed meant expensive. ‘Obviously you know best. But you must have some lead on the suspect, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘It’s not my case,’ said Breen.

  ‘Of course not. But they must know bloody something,’ said Fletchet.

  Breen looked him in the eye. ‘Why are you so keen to know the details?’

  ‘He was a friend, for God’s sake.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. Isn’t that enough? Let me explain something. I don’t know if it’s the same for a man like you. I’m sure it is, you being a policeman. It’s not just personal. I grew up with a sense of duty. Duty to my country. Duty to my family. Duty to my fellow men. It’s sort of bred into you, and it’s no bad thing. Not so fashionable these days, I know, but it’s something I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Duty to your family?’

  Fletchet pushed his fair hair out of his eyes. ‘I’ve said my piece about sleeping with that girl. That was a mistake. I let myself down. Mea culpa. But Bill Milkwood is an excellent man. Was. We served together in Africa. When he came back home we stayed pals. Solid as a bloody rock. And I refuse to let a man like that die the way he did without doing my best for him. Do you understand that?’

  ‘And I’m sure CID are doing their best to find out who killed him and to bring him to justice,’ said Breen. ‘Why did you go and see Gwen Milkwood?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? She’s the wife of an old pal. Why did the police want to interview me about Milkwood’s death?’

  ‘As you said, you’re an old pal.’

  ‘Come off it. Billy had dozens of old pals. I know for a fact they haven’t gone round talking to everybody. What made me so special?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Breen.

  Two crabs circling each other at the bottom of a bucket, thought Breen. Fletchet wanted to know something. For Breen, the question was what.

  Breen looked around the club. The men here were of a kind. They wore tweeds and blazers. The upper classes at rest. The old prime minister, Macmillan, was a member here, he had heard. Then he looked back at Fletchet.

  ‘I was thinking about that girl you brought to see me the other day. Alex’s sister,’ said Fletchet.

  ‘Helen,’ said Breen.

  ‘She didn’t like me at all. No surprises there, I suppose. But I liked her,’ said Fletchet. ‘You could tell she had it. You know? A sense of duty to her sister. She was still angry about what had happened to her. I respect that. That’s what I’m on about.’

  An elderly man at the next table had started playing patience, dealing out rows of cards.

  ‘Perhaps I should offer to help their family in some way. It must be an awful thing to have gone through. Do you think they’d be offended?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ said Breen.

  Snap-snap-snap, went the playing cards.

  ‘Right. Me speaking out of turn, I suppose,’ said Fletchet. ‘Just a thought. What about drugs?’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Milky was in the Drug Squad. All these dreadful drug pushers I’m hearing about. All over the newspapers. Was he on to something? Could that have been it? Revenge.’

  ‘It’s certainly one line of investigation.’

  ‘Just one? So you’re confirming there are others?’

  Breen was trying to work Fletchet out. He seemed like a straightforward man. A decent chap, as they’d say. But something was definitely rattling him. He was determined to dig; and the more determined he was to sound Breen out, the keener Breen was to know why he needed to know. Keep him talking. Breen tried another approach.

  ‘What were you and Milkwood doing in Africa together?’

  ‘The Emergency in Kenya. It was bloody brutal, I’ll tell you that. We saw things you would not believe. You needed men around you you could trust. Milky was that kind of man.’

  ‘You were a farmer, not a policeman or a soldier.’

  ‘Yes, but it was the farms they were attacking, the Mau Mau. They wanted to drive us off our land. To be fair to
the Kikuyu, there was a land shortage. It was an issue that needed addressing, but this lot were terrorists. They forced ordinary decent black folk to commit the most ghastly atrocities. They used all sorts of ju-ju to scare them into taking part. Forced them to swear an oath. A disgusting ritual involving drinking blood. They had to eat sheep’s eyeballs. Honest to God. Once they’d got them, they forced them to do anything. Sounds incredible, doesn’t it, sitting here in St James’s? But these things really went on. A man I knew, owned a farm nearby, hacked to death in the night by his own servants. His son and wife too. Perfectly loyal one minute–the next… The servants did it because they were terrified of what would happen to them if they didn’t. Terrorism, pure and simple.’

  ‘And you and Milkwood…?’

  ‘The Mau Mau tried to enforce secrecy. That was their weapon, if you like. Of course, lots of the poor people didn’t want to be part of it at all. They loved us. Respected us, at least. The only way the Mau Mau could operate was by terrorising people. The Kikuyu are weak-minded people. Superstitious. Easily led. The trick was getting to the ringleaders before they got to you and protecting the locals from them. Milky and I, we ran what was called a screening station.’

  ‘Screening?’

  ‘Standard investigative procedure. A series of interviews designed to flush out members who had taken the oath. Target the right suspects. Find out whether they were or were not Mau Mau. If they weren’t, fine. If not, they were sent to prison. It wasn’t just about protecting our land. It was about protecting the people who worked for us. And Milkwood was a very good investigator.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. So how did you meet Milkwood?’

  ‘It was all hands on deck. Milkwood was a policeman, but he wasn’t from Kenya. He’d been seconded out to Nyeri before the Emergency started. In the early days, when the violence first started, most of the Colonial Office johnnies were way out of their depth. He came round in a Land Rover one day. Milkwood was much smarter than most. He knew he needed local knowledge. Someone who knew these people, who understood the way their brains worked. Understood the subtleties. The Kikuyu are different. Different values. Cattle men. They have a web of family loyalties that it’s hard for an outsider to understand. I had worked alongside these men. I knew them. So Eloisa suggested he moved into one of the bungalows on our estate.’