A Song for the Brokenhearted

by William Shaw

  ‘One minute,’ said Breen.

  Helen held her finger up to her lips and whispered, ‘Don’t let him know I’m in here.’

  ‘I think you and me need a word.’

  ‘I’ll come downstairs,’ Breen called through the door. ‘Give me a second.’

  They listened to him walking back downstairs.

  ‘He’ll be wanting to know what your intentions are,’ said Helen.

  ‘It’s not my intentions that matter, is it?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said, turning her head away from him.

  Downstairs in the kitchen Mrs Tozer busied herself tidying a shelf, lips pursed tightly, pretending not to notice Breen as he walked through to the living room to talk to her husband.

  TWENTY-SIX

  It the first warm day of the year. Above the new grass, there was an undulating haze of small insects.

  Breen sat on a chair in front of the house with a sketchbook on his lap as a chainsaw buzzed at a tree at the front of the house. The water in the estuary looked oddly blue, the grass frighteningly green.

  ‘There she goes.’

  There was a splintering sound, then a groaning, then silence.

  Breen left his sketchbook and went round to the front of the house to see what had happened.

  One of the ash trees in the copse lay on its side, bare branches still bouncing up and down from the impact, buds like big, black, dirty fingernails.

  Hibou was in the tractor seat in a tatty bright red jumper that was frayed at the neck, looking back at the trunk, while old man Tozer was bent over it, unhitching the chain. She was grinning. ‘Ruddy great,’ she said.

  The tree looked absurd lying on its side, trunk split. It had cracked through the old rusty fence he had crawled through that time when the weather was colder, when he had fallen into the dip.

  But old man Tozer wasn’t looking at the tree. He was looking beyond it, up at the hillside. ‘Ma!’

  There was something in the urgency of the voice.

  Breen followed his eyes. A police car, blue light spinning, slowly coming down the track from the main road, sump scraping on the rise in the centre of the track, wheels bumping into potholes.

  ‘Ma! Come quick.’

  When it was close, Breen made out the shape of Sergeant Sharman hunched over the wheel, a uniformed officer in the seat next to him and another in the back.

  Three policemen and a light still flashing. Sharman got out of the car, looking around him.

  ‘Where’s Helen?’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  The other two policemen were out now, alert, waiting for some kind of instructions.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Old man Tozer had come down the path, out of breath, anxious. Hibou had jumped off the tractor and was running to the house now too, spooking cows that scattered, bucking hooves and snorting in the warm air.

  ‘Where is Helen Tozer?’ Sharman looked flushed, agitated.

  Breen, Mr Tozer and Hibou looked at each other, waiting for someone other to answer.

  ‘What you talking about, Fred?’

  ‘She didn’t do the milking this morning,’ said Hibou. ‘I did that.’

  Mrs Tozer arrived, a dishcloth in her hands.

  ‘These gentlemen want to know where Hel is,’ Mr Tozer said.

  ‘She went to the doctor’s,’ said her mother. ‘She’s having a baby.’

  Sharman blurted, ‘A baby?’ There was an embarrassed pause before Sharman said, nodding at Breen, ‘I need a word with him, then.’

  ‘OK,’ said Breen.

  ‘In private. We’ll need to search the house too.’

  ‘What is it, Freddie?’ Mrs Tozer was asking. ‘What’s all the fuss about this time?’

  ‘Please let us look round the house, Mrs T,’ said Sharman. ‘We won’t be a minute.’

  ‘You don’t have to let them if they don’t have a warrant,’ said Breen.

  Sharman’s lips tightened but he nodded.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Mrs Tozer. ‘No skin off mine.’

  Sharman glared at Breen, then said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Tozer. OK, boys.’ The two constables moved hesitantly towards the front door. ‘Sergeant Breen. In the car please.’

  Breen got into the front passenger seat of the car. Sharman got in beside him.

  ‘All that bollocks about a warrant,’ said Sharman.

  ‘She looks after me. I had to tell her.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Breen. This is serious.’

  ‘What’s so serious that you need to frighten the life out of an old woman? You know what she’s been through.’

  ‘A few days back you and Helen went to see Mrs Fletchet. Yes or no?’

  ‘We went to see James Fletchet. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sharman gripped the steering wheel, knuckles tight. Whatever had happened, Sharman was rattled, tense. Breen began to feel less sure of himself. ‘Look. We believe there is a connection between James Fletchet, the death of Sergeant Bill Milkwood and the possible death of a second man, Nicholas Doyle. I think there’s also a connection between their killings and the murder of Alexandra Tozer.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Did Helen know this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she suspect that James Fletchet may have been involved in the death of her sister?’

  ‘Yes. We both did.’

  Sharman breathed out through his teeth. ‘I hope to fuck she is at the doctor’s.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Eloisa Fletchet may have been abducted this morning.’

  Breen felt the blood rush to his ears. The world seemed to slow. ‘What do you mean, abducted?’

  Sharman considered for a minute. ‘She was seen getting into a grey Mini van this morning. A guy driving the milk lorry saw it. He went to pick up the churns from their farm. He may have disturbed the kidnapper as she was taking her away.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘He said it was a woman. He thought Mrs Fletchet appeared to have a cloth bag on her head. It was a bit of a way off, so he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t report it for half an hour.’

  ‘Jesus. Why the hell not?’

  ‘Because he was an idiot. It was early. He thought he must have been seeing things. Or it was a prank. Then he had trouble finding a phone box. A bobby went there, first thing. There were signs of a struggle inside the house. Mrs Fletchet’s dogs were dead. We think they were poisoned. We’ve got a vet looking at them now.’

  ‘A woman?’ Breen’s head was spinning. There was no way he had ever thought that this was a woman’s crime.

  ‘Longish hair, and thin. Wearing a khaki skirt or possibly shorts. The driver was a way off, so he couldn’t see her properly.’

  ‘And you think that’s Helen? She doesn’t even have long hair. Seriously?’

  ‘Of course I fucking don’t, Sergeant,’ Sharman snapped. He turned to Breen, hands still on the steering wheel. ‘You twats at the Met. You think we’re all yokels down here, don’t you? But I know someone has been kidnapped and I have to look where I can. And when I asked if they’ve seen anyone strange coming to the estate these last couple of weeks, the first person they think of is Helen Tozer. And you. We’ve a record of Mrs Fletchet calling us up to complain about you two.’

  Breen looked out at the estuary. ‘A woman, though?’

  Sharman calmed down. ‘And she would have a motive, wouldn’t she? And we have no other ideas. Have you got any?’

  ‘What about signs of entry?’

  ‘Nothing. The front door was open.’

  ‘Do you think she let this woman in?’

  ‘Possible.’

  ‘Someone she knew.’

  ‘’Xactly.’

  ‘No note. No hint of ransom?’

  ‘We’re contacting her family in Italy to see if they know anything but that may take a while.’

  Fletchet wouldn’t kidnap his own wife, Breen thought. He said, ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  ‘What?’
<
br />   ‘Whoever kidnapped Alex tortured her for twenty-four hours before they killed her. The same with Bill Milkwood. Twenty-four hours and when he, or she, had finished, whoever it was killed them. We know that for a fact in those two cases. It may have been the same with Nicholas Doyle, we don’t know yet.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘I know. What time was she taken?’

  Sharman looked at his watch. Just gone quarter to twelve. ‘At around six. You think this is the same person?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Jesus. Things like this don’t happen down here.’

  ‘They did once before.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said again. The two constables arrived back, shaking their heads. They had searched the house. No sign of Helen.

  One of them opened the back door, to get into the car. ‘Not now,’ said Sharman. ‘We’re talking.’

  ‘If not Helen, who?’

  ‘I have no bloody idea,’ said Sharman. ‘But it all started here, didn’t it?’

  ‘I think it may have started before all that. Fletchet, Milkwood and Doyle all met each other in Africa. And I think Fletchet may have been involved in torturing people in Kenya. Milkwood and Doyle worked with him during the Mau Mau Emergency. I’ve been starting to think that all this may be connected.’

  ‘You’re shitting me?’

  ‘I keep coming back to this. Alexandra was tortured. Milkwood was tortured. There’s at least one dead man turned up in Spain, possibly Doyle. He was tortured, too…’

  Sharman took out some matches and a cigarette.

  ‘You told Scotland Yard about this?’

  ‘I tried to. They didn’t believe me.’

  They sat in the car, side by side, thinking. A crow landed on the drive in front of them, watching them with a shiny eye.

  ‘Are you the father?’ said Sharman.

  ‘I think so.’

  Sharman nodded. He rubbed a little ash off the end of his cigarette into the small ashtray under the police radio. ‘You know she and I were hitched once? I thought the world of her.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m married now. Lovely woman. Great mother, you know? It would never have worked between Helen and me.’ The radio crackled. ‘You should marry Helen, then, if she’s expecting.’

  ‘That’s what I told her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s not bothered.’

  ‘You and me both, then.’

  They smiled at each other for just a second.

  ‘I was supposed to give Helen this,’ he said. He pulled out a piece of folded paper. Breen took it and opened it. It was the list of postal order numbers; next to each number was a date and the location of the post office where it had been cashed.

  But Breen had been hoping for more. ‘No name?’

  ‘No. The postal orders weren’t crossed, so anyone could cash them. Usually it takes the Post Office weeks for them to get back about these things. I told them it was important. Is it?’

  ‘I was hoping it would have showed the identity of someone Sergeant Milkwood had been making payments to.’

  Sharman nodded. ‘Sorry it wasn’t more useful. Come on, lads,’ he called. ‘We can’t mess around. Tell Helen to get in touch the moment she’s back.’

  They left, all three policeman, revving up the hill, the extra weight grounding the car on every bump and pothole as Sharman gunned the engine, blue light on again.

  On the gravel Breen noticed a single blue egg, spilled from a nest that had been in the tree Hibou and Mr Tozer had just brought down.

  Breen packed up his sketchbook and went inside to the kitchen.

  ‘Why were they after Helen?’ said Mrs Tozer.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Breen. He checked his watch. If he was right, Eloisa Fletchet would have only eighteen hours to live. She would be being tortured, just as Mrs Tozer’s daughter had been.

  ‘What kind of mistake?’

  ‘They just needed to check where she was. A woman has been kidnapped,’ said Breen.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Tozer, quietly. The whisk stopped in her bowl.

  He unfolded the piece of paper Sharman had given him and stared at it for a second. Frowned. ‘Have you got an A–Z?’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A map of London.’

  ‘Don’t think so. Maybe Helen’s got one.’

  ‘When’s she back?’

  But just then there was the sound of a car pulling up outside and of a car door slamming, and then Helen was screaming, ‘No!’

  ‘It’s only a tree.’

  ‘It was not only a fucking tree.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Tozer, still holding the bowl.

  Breen looked out of the window. Helen was standing next to the felled ash, shouting at Hibou.

  ‘Christ.’ He ran into the hallway and out of the front door.

  ‘You stupid bloody cow!’ Helen was still screaming at Hibou.

  Hibou stood, wide-eyed and pale, a little frightened.

  ‘Doesn’t what I think count for anything round here?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It was your dad’s idea,’ said Hibou.

  ‘It’s where my sister was,’ screamed Helen. ‘You may not care about your sister, but I still bloody care about mine.’

  Rooks circled above the copse, unsure where to land.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hibou, again. ‘I was only trying to help your father. He wants to take them all down.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, Hel. Not you. But you should let go. Our souls are just passing clouds. You have to learn to detach yourself.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Just shut up, you stupid bloody hippie.’

  Hibou flinched, then said, ‘And the police called in. They were after you.’

  ‘What? The police?’

  ‘It’s Eloisa Fletchet,’ said Breen. ‘She’s been taken. Kidnapped by someone.’

  But then Hibou said quietly, as if she’d just understood what Helen had said, ‘What was that you said about my sister?’

  Breen looked at Helen. She stood open-mouthed. He was not used to her looking embarrassed.

  ‘I never told anyone I had a sister.’

  Helen looked at the ground. The shouting had stopped; their voices were quiet.

  ‘How did you know I had a sister?’

  Helen floundered. ‘I… We… We went to see your house. Where your mum and dad lived.’

  Breen turned to Hibou and said, ‘I found the letter you never posted. It had the address.’

  ‘You went to my mum and dad’s house?’

  She stood there in her tatty pullover, mouth open, eyes big.

  Helen nodded. ‘Just to take a look. What’s been going on, Paddy? Why were the police here?’

  ‘Did you tell them where I was?’ said Hibou.

  ‘Course we didn’t.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Your dad,’ said Helen. ‘He wanted to know where you were. We didn’t say.’

  She nodded. ‘So you saw my sister and my mum and everything?’

  ‘Only for a sec.’

  ‘They OK?’

  ‘They looked fine. I’m really sorry, Hibou,’ said Helen. ‘I shouldn’t have gone. I was just worried about you.’

  Hibou nodded again, looked away. ‘I think I’ll just go and check on the heifers.’

  They watched her trudge up the track towards the path. He realised he still had the piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘Can you drive me to a library?’ he said. ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Paddy. What is it? A dangerously overdue book? And what’s that about Eloisa Fletchet? What was she saying about the police?’

  Mrs Tozer emerged at the front door, a dishcloth in her trembling hand. She was looking older, suddenly, the wrinkles around her eyes deeper. A woman had been kidnapped. It was happening again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They stood on the small tarmac square in front of
the farmhouse. Breen said quietly, ‘Eloisa Fletchet was kidnapped this morning. If I’m right, she’ll be being tortured now, just like your sister. She was spotted being led away from the house by a woman. Because Mrs Fletchet had made a complaint about us being there, they had to come and check it wasn’t you.’

  Helen said, ‘A woman? Christ. I’ve never for a second imagined that.’

  She went to her mother and put her arms around her, and squeezed tightly. Mrs Tozer stood there, arms by her side, embarrassed.

  ‘Everything OK at the doctor?’ said her mother.

  ‘Fine, Mum. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her daughter released her. ‘There’s something going on. I need to speak to Paddy. We need to go somewhere. Will you go inside?’

  ‘Yes, dear. But what about lunch?’

  ‘Not today, Mum.’

  Obediently, Mrs Tozer went back inside the house.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was hoping for a name to be on the postal orders where they’d been countersigned, but there wasn’t one. But Sharman had made a note of where they’d been cashed. I didn’t notice it at first, but the first one was cashed in London, all the rest were cashed down here at the post office in Newton Abbot.’

  ‘Shit. When?’

  ‘Between October and February. If this was done by a woman, I’ve a hunch about the address in London. I need to look at a map.’

  The air was still full of the noise of rooks, cawing over their broken nests.

  Helen drove down the narrow Devon roads, horn blaring. When they reached the town, the streets were quiet. Helen pulled up right outside the big, grey, granite building and they ran out, leaving the car half on the pavement.

  ‘Where’s there a map of London?’

  The reference library was on the first floor; the librarian was a thin, elderly man who explained that the maps were kept under lock and key. ‘People steal them, otherwise,’ he said.

  The man had spider-like fingers, and spent a long time going through his desk drawers, one after the other, before his hand emerged with the right key. At the cabinet on the far side of the room, he spent just as long struggling to fit the key into the lock. Tucked in among the atlases was an old street map. Breen flicked through it until he found the street: St Helen’s Gardens.

  Breen pointed at the small street that ran north from Oxford Gardens, close to where they they had demolished buildings to make space for the new Westway. ‘Look.’ Breen took a pen from his pocket and drew a circle around them on the map. The circle intersected Ladbroke Grove. The post office was about five hundred yards from it.