She's Leaving Home Page 2

  Breen couldn’t help looking at that speck of toothpaste. “Yes, sir. On the radio.”

  “What were you doing in a car? Your shift was long over.”

  What had he been doing? He was not sure. Above all, he hadn’t wanted to go home to an empty flat to start to clear out his father’s belongings. “I was driving around looking for vagrants, sir.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.”

  “We think that the body in the fire last week was probably a tramp. I thought if I could find one…”

  Bailey shook his head. “That’s not proper CID work,” he said. “Uniform can do that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you drove to the shop in response to a call from Control. Did you and Prosser enter the shop together?”

  Breen hesitated again. “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Prosser got there first, sir.”

  “He’s an idiot,” said Bailey. “He should have waited for another officer.”

  “He must have known I was just behind.”

  “How could he have known that? He’s a liability. But you went in after him? What, two, three minutes?”

  “I suppose it must have been…”

  “And?”

  “And there was this man holding a knife. He had his arm round Prosser’s neck and was holding the knife out at me.” Breen realized he was holding out his right hand in front of him over the desk, prodding it towards Bailey. He laid his hand back on his lap.

  “And?”

  And? How could he explain what happened next? He had no idea why he panicked. He ran. Back out of the shop towards his car, crouching down behind it, heart thumping, hands shaking. How was he supposed to put that into words?

  “I made an exit, sir.”

  Bailey gave a small grunt. “So I suppose it’s true what they’re saying. You left Prosser on his own?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s when Prosser was wounded, fighting off the assailant?”

  “Yes.”

  Bailey replaced his spectacles and looked at Breen. “This was what time?”

  “Just gone nine.”

  “You left another officer alone with an armed and dangerous man? The men will not like that one bit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bailey looked at him but said nothing.

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “You’ve been on the force, what, twelve years?” Tugging at his ear.

  “Thirteen.” Enough to be due a small pension to supplement his income as a factory nightwatchman, or a PE teacher in a comprehensive. What other jobs did ex-policemen do?

  “This kind of incident can wreck a career forever.”

  “Maybe I should take a couple of days off,” said Breen. “Get back on top of things. I’ve had a lot going on.”

  Bailey’s face twitched. “You were perfectly entitled to take time off when your father died,” he said quietly. “If you’d have taken a couple of days off then maybe this would never have happened…but I’m not giving you time off now. That would be a mistake.” Bailey went back to rolling the pencil back and forth over the blotting paper on his desk. “These things are no good,” he said. “If you turn your back on them, they fester. People talk. Tell me, why doesn’t Prosser like you?”

  “I wasn’t aware he didn’t, sir.”

  “Don’t play simple, Breen. You know he doesn’t like you.”

  “I’m not one of the lads, I suppose.”

  Bailey opened the folder and picked through sheets of paper. “You don’t live on our turf, do you?”

  “Stoke Newington, sir. I was stationed there before I moved to Marylebone.”

  Bailey stood and walked slowly to his windowsill. He grew African violets there. They were lined up in a small row of terracotta pots sitting on jam-jar lids. The east-facing light was ideal for them. He kept a small bucket outside the door to the yard that collected rainwater for the plants. Tap water was too strong for them, he said.

  “Prosser is not a good policeman. He’s uncouth and does what he pleases,” said Bailey, his back still to Breen. “Nor am I convinced of his integrity. I barely recognize the force I joined these days.”

  A familiar speech. They’d all heard it a hundred times.

  “You, on the other hand…until now you’ve been a diligent old-fashioned copper. Steady. One stupid incident and Prosser’s a hero. And as for you. Talk starts. It doesn’t go away unless you make it. Better to face it down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to face Breen again. “How’s the investigation into the body in the fire going?”

  “Nothing yet, sir.”

  Bailey grunted again, overfilling one of the plant pots so water spilled over its saucer onto the carpet. “Bugger,” he said. “Pass me a tissue, will you?” He pointed to a box of tissues on his desk. Breen pulled one out and handed it to him.

  “We are a small team here at Marylebone. There is not room for enmity and division. Whatever his merits, Sergeant Prosser is popular. He has influence. An incident like this only boosts his reputation at the expense of yours. We don’t want that, do we?”

  On his desk, positioned so Breen could see it too, Bailey kept a silver-framed photograph of his wife, round-faced, soft-skinned, smiling.

  “Report. On my desk this afternoon.”

  “You resigned yet, then?” said Jones. People looked up, curious.

  “Shut up, Jones, or I’ll clock you one,” said Carmichael.

  Breen said nothing. Marilyn brought a beige folder over to his desk. Pink Marks and Spencer’s pullover. Bullet bra. Bleached hair with occasional roots.

  “What’s this?”

  “Missing Persons file you asked for. You OK?” she added quietly.

  “I’m OK,” answered Breen. “Your boyfriend got a job yet?”

  She scowled. “I’ve warned him unless he does he’ll be out.”

  “Good for you, Marilyn.”

  “Hasta la bloody vista, know what I mean?”

  She leaned in, straightening the folder she had just left on his desk. “What Jones and the rest is saying, I don’t believe it. Not for a minute. Don’t you worry.”

  “But it’s true,” said Breen.

  “It can’t be.”

  “Can I ask you something? Do you think I’m old-fashioned?”

  She laughed. “Sort of. I don’t mind though.”

  “What, like, stuck in the mud?”

  Not answering, she turned her back on him and returned to her desk. The tidiest in the whole room.

  He looked at the Missing Persons folder, not opening it yet. The same night Breen’s father had gone into hospital there had been a fire in one of the bombed-out houses in Carlton Vale. Locals had been complaining that truanting kids from Kynaston Tech had been setting light to the derelict houses all summer, but when the firemen had dampened the flames they found human remains on what was left of the first floor. The can of lighter fuel next to the body suggested it had been a dosser attempting to light a fire to keep himself warm. The burned body remained unidentified. No time for that now. He put the folder aside. He had Bailey’s report to write.

  Breen placed a sheet of carbon paper between two sheets and wound them into his typewriter. He typed “Detective Sergeant C. Breen 10/14/68,” then stared at the blank page for a minute. He had read the shaky writing that filled six pages of his notebook several times and still failed to make sense of it.

  Marilyn’s phone rang. Distracted, Breen watched her answer it, saw the softness of her face disappear as she listened. “Right,” she said. She picked up a notebook and started writing out details in shorthand. “OK,” she said, pencil still in hand, “got it,” and put the phone down. It rattled on the cradle. She looked up at Breen.

  “One just come in,” she said. She stood and walked straight to Bailey’s office.

  “Sir?” She knocked on the glass of his door.

  Bailey stood, square-shouldered, in the middle of the
office. He was cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief again, listening with the rest of them as Marilyn read from her notes.

  “A young naked woman,” Marilyn said. “Found under debris. St. John’s Wood. Discovered by a woman. Approximately eleven a.m. Local resident called it in. Body appears recent.”

  It was 11:20 now, according to the Bakelite clock that hung above the door.

  “Aye, aye,” said Carmichael. “Young naked woman. Best not send Jones. He’s never seen one of them.”

  “’K off.”

  “Some things we don’t joke about in this office, Carmichael.”

  “No, sir.” Carmichael smirked, looking downwards. Tobacco suede Chelsea boots, finger loop at the ankles.

  “May we continue?”

  “Go ahead,” said Carmichael.

  No one liked Bailey, but people hadn’t used to be so obvious about their feelings.

  Bailey cleared his throat and turned to Marilyn again. “Any sign of a weapon?”

  “Didn’t say, sir.”

  Bailey gazed around the room, looking from face to face. Then he made up his mind. “Breen, by rights I think this one’s yours.”

  “Me, sir? You already put me on the arson one, sir.”

  Bailey sniffed. “I’m aware of that. However, as you might have noticed we’re a little short-staffed today. Nothing wrong with you taking on another case, is there, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Specially as you’re the reason we’re short,” muttered Jones.

  “I’m sure you’re keen to show you’re up to it, aren’t you, Paddy?” said the inspector.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Bailey pursed his lips for a second as if deep in thought. Eventually he said, “Jones? You’ll assist on the murder squad.”

  “Assist Breen, sir?”

  “Yes. Assist.”

  Jones glowered at Bailey. “Yes, sir. If you say so.”

  “Good.” And turned back to his office and his African violets and closed the door behind him.

  They stood there for a second, saying nothing, until Marilyn said to Jones, “You know what he’s trying to do, don’t you? Stop you acting like a total spacker about what happened to Prosser.”

  “Thanks for making that perfectly clear, Marilyn,” said Jones. “Only it ain’t going to work.”

  “I know,” said Marilyn. “You’re still going to be a spacker either way.”

  Breen began looking through the drawers of his desk for a fresh notebook. There was a prescription for some painkillers for his father and a pile of raffle tickets from the D Division Christmas Ball 1967, but no notebook.

  Jones, nylon blazer and brown slacks, dark hair Brylcreemed down below his collar, came up and stood close to him and said quietly, “I said I’d go and do an errand for Prosser. On account of him being in hospital. ’Cause he got stabbed. I’ll be along this afternoon, if you can handle it until then, that is.”

  “Fine by me,” said Breen. “Anyone got a spare notebook?”

  Three

  Two local constables from the St. John’s Wood station stood at the entrance to the alleyway into the back of the flats. They were still waiting for the tarp to cover the victim with.

  “A kid found her,” volunteered one of the constables. “The body was covered up by a mattress. All sorts of people must have walked past her from the back of Cora Mansions this morning, but he spotted her on account of his height. Being short, you see?”

  At the beginning of an investigation, local constables were especially keen.

  “So she could have been there a while, I reckon.”

  “Thanks.”

  The body was out of sight beyond the line of sheds. Breen noticed a man setting up a camera on a tripod.

  “Anybody know who she is?”

  “No, sir. Unidentified so far.”

  “Anybody gone round the houses yet?”

  The policeman, a pale-looking youngster, raised an eyebrow. “We was waiting for you, sir.”

  Breen stepped back. On the fire escape at the back of Cora Mansions, a woman in a pale housecoat stood leaning over the metal banister looking down at the group of men working around the body. “You going to take a look, sir?”

  A ginger cat sat on the roof of one of the sheds, glaring at the activity. The police camera’s flash went off.

  The cameraman was lowering his tripod to alter the angle of his shot. The police doctor looked up from his kitbag. “Bugger me,” he said. “Paddy Breen. Heard you were last seen running away from the scene of the crime. What are you doing here?”

  “Good to see you too, Dr. Wellington,” said Breen.

  “If I die,” said Wellington, “please don’t let me be found with my naked behind sticking up to the sky. What a way to go.” Early forties. Balding. Hair swept over the top. Rakish sideburns and a cravat.

  They had moved the mattress off the body and stood it against the brick wall next to her. The woman—not much more than a girl really—lay awkwardly, head jammed down on the earth, legs above her, tangled in a rusted bicycle frame. Absurd in her nakedness. Drizzle trickled unevenly from her upturned bottom down her pale, dead back. A small drip of blood had dried at the upturned corner of her mouth. Her pale blue eyes were wide and glassy.

  Breen looked away. “Excuse me,” he said.

  He managed to walk four paces before he was sick into a patch of straggly nettles a little farther down the alleyway. There had not been much in his stomach besides coffee. When he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth, he felt his hand shaking.

  “You all right, sir?” said a constable.

  Breen looked away. His nostrils, throat and mouth stung. His stomach churned. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Christ,” said Wellington.

  “I think it’s just a bug…”

  He bent over and vomited again. He spat a long dribble of saliva onto the grass next to his small, pink pile of sick.

  “I think that’s what the college boys call contaminating the site, Breen,” called Wellington, rummaging in his equipment bag and eventually pulling out first a thermometer and then a small jar of Vaseline.

  “Do you want a cough drop, sir?” said the local copper.

  Still leaning over the patch of weeds he answered, “No, I’ll be fine,” spitting onto the grass again to try to clear the stinging taste from his mouth.

  He straightened himself up, stomach aching from the convulsions. “Was she killed here, or dumped?” he asked Wellington. His voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper.

  “Dumped,” said the doctor.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I don’t think she bloody walked here looking like that. Looks like she was lying on her side for an hour or so after she was killed. Come here. Only don’t go chucking up on the evidence, Breen.”

  Breen took a deep breath, stood up straight and approached the corpse again. “Look here,” said Wellington, leaning over the woman. “Blood pooling in the tissue of her left-hand side.” He pointed to a blueness in the skin on her pale thigh. “A prettier corpse than the last pile of bones you brought me,” he said.

  Still leaning, he reached out and, holding it between finger and thumb, inserted the thermometer into the dead girl’s anus. “Convenient, at least,” said Wellington, twisting the glass rod a few times to push it in farther. “This won’t hurt a bit,” he muttered.

  Breen quelled the spasm in his throat.

  “Charming,” muttered one of the coppers.

  Satisfied that it was in far enough, Wellington stood and looked at his watch. “You don’t look well, Breen,” he said. “You want me to take your temperature too? When she’s finished with it?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Dr. Wellington. Thank you for asking.”

  “How was she killed?”

  “I’ll go a tenner on asphyxiation. No other signs of injury so far.”

  “Strangled, like?” said a constable.

  Wellington glanced
at the young man, irritated. He was not an investigating officer and had no right butting in. “Possibly,” he said. “Faint petechiae on the face. Blood spots. Her head appears to be congested with blood.”

  The rain was starting to come down harder now, forming puddles in the dirty earth. Water dripped off the dead girl’s white fingers. Wellington carried on counting the seconds on his watch.

  For constables who spent most of their time on the beat, a murder was a treat. They crowded round, eager, notebooks at the ready. Breen started by dividing them into two groups. The first were to start with a fingertip search of the whole back alley, working out onto the road and then spreading out from there.

  “What are we looking for?” said one.

  Breen paused. He felt another lurch in his stomach.

  “Anything,” he said.

  The policemen looked at each other, puzzled. Breen pulled out his handkerchief again and held it to his mouth. He turned his back to them and stared hard at the ground as the world around seemed to dip and weave.

  A voice behind him. “Sir?”

  “Give me a minute,” he muttered.

  He could hear the buzz of conversation growing behind him. Someone laughed.

  “Clothes,” he said. The murmuring stopped. He took another breath of air. “Clothes. Dress. Blouse. Bra. Knickers.” He paused, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, then continued. “She’s naked, isn’t she? Where are her clothes? Handbag. Coat. Purse. Think of anything a girl carries around. Lipstick. Powder. Women’s things. You”—he pointed to a ruddy-faced copper who looked a little older than the rest. “You’re in charge of checking out these flats’ bins, OK?”

  A groan.

  “Shrubbery. Front gardens. Knock on doors and ask to look in back gardens. Any railways or canals round here?”

  “There’s the underground up there.”

  “Good. How far?”

  “’Bout a quarter-mile.”

  “You. Call up the Transport Police. Give them my name. Say we want to search the banks, especially around road bridges. You two do the canal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You…” Breen pointed to one of the constables.