A Song for the Brokenhearted Read online

  A round man in a Norfolk jacket came in and called to the waiter, ‘George, any kidneys today? I’m starving. Evening, Jimbo.’ He waved at Fletchet.

  Fletchet waved back, smiled, then said to Breen, ‘Look. Why are you interested in Kenya? Milkwood’s murder has nothing to do with that, surely? Are you on to something?’

  Breen ignored his question. ‘Would you say you worked together closely?’

  ‘We were a good team and we ended up spending a lot of time together under trying circumstances. Remember, I had a farm to run too. But terrorism is a cancer. It spreads fast and drags everybody down with it unless you find the cancerous cells and cut them out first. It’s about using intelligence to take out the leaders.’

  ‘And that’s what you were doing? Cutting out cancerous cells?’

  Fletchet frowned. ‘Always within the law, obviously. It was a mixture of interrogation and intelligence.’

  ‘Paid informers?’

  ‘When necessary. Look. I’m not actually very interested in talking about this stuff right now. Why are you so bloody interested in Kenya? What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘I’m just curious because you both spent time there.’

  Fletchet was quiet for a second. Then he said, ‘Right. I’ve told you about my bit of it. What about yours? Surely you can tell me something.’ He reached forward to fill Breen’s glass, but it was still full. ‘Drink up, man,’ he said. ‘It’s good stuff.’

  Breen paused.

  ‘Where were you when Milkwood was killed?’

  ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake. Don’t you start. I already told that to the police who interviewed me. I was on the farm all day. I’m not stupid, you know. There’s a reason why you’re so interested in me. I have a right to know what it is. Am I in any danger?’

  A servant’s bell rang somewhere. The room was stuffy, overheated and smoky. Breen wondered what he was doing here anyway. This was not his investigation. It was not his place to ask these questions. But he made up his mind to take a risk. It was Helen’s ‘Careful Breen’ taunt that did it. First he leaned forward, took a sip from his glass of red wine. It was dark and rich and unlike any wine he had tasted before.

  ‘Tell me about Nicholas Doyle,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Nicky?’ Fletchet’s head jerked back a fraction of an inch. ‘Why do you want to know about him?’

  Breen observed Fletchet, trying to assess his reaction. ‘You and Milkwood served with him in Africa, didn’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely. How did you…?’

  ‘I saw a photograph of you with him at the Milkwoods’ house. I asked who he was. When did you last speak to Doyle?’

  ‘Me? I don’t know. Not for bloody yonks, I don’t expect.’ A pause. Apart from that small twitch of the head when he had first mentioned Doyle’s name, Fletchet’s face was a mask again, fixed into a small smile. ‘Would you prefer a brandy? I expect they’ve got some beer, if that’s more your thing. George?’ He beckoned the waiter.

  ‘How long ago?’ said Breen.

  ‘Give this man a large brandy. One for me too.’

  ‘Doyle,’ nudged Breen.

  ‘I probably haven’t spoken to him much since we left Africa. We didn’t rub along so well.’

  Fletchet’s calm was too studied. Breen felt that almost childish thrill. He had believed Fletchet had something to hide. Now, at the mention of Doyle’s name, he was surer of it than ever. He asked, ‘Did you know Milkwood was still in touch with him?’

  ‘Was he? I had no idea. Why are you interested in Doyle all of a sudden?’

  George arrived with two huge balloons of brandy. Fletchet seemed to be thinking. Eventually he looked at Breen and said, ‘What’s bloody going on, Breen?’

  Breen shook his head. ‘As I said, it’s not my case. But I wouldn’t be surprised if CID wanted to interview you again.’

  ‘That’s their choice, obviously.’

  Breen said, ‘What did Doyle do for you out in Africa?’ The tiniest flicker of the eyelid again. ‘Was he part of your intelligence gathering operation?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have invited you to my club if I knew you were going to be such a… bloody copper.’

  ‘I believe something happened in Africa and Doyle was involved. What was it?’

  Fletchet raised his voice. ‘Tell me. What’s fucking Doyle got to do with this?’

  The round man who had greeted Fletchet looked up, frowned at the sudden outburst.

  Breen persisted. ‘Where was Doyle when you last heard of him?’

  The smile returned. ‘Sorry. Bit worked up. Too much wine, probably. And all this beastliness. But you have to tell me, old man. What’s he got to do with all this? It’s crucial I know.’

  Breen had said too much already, but he had no choice but to press on. ‘I asked you just now if you had met Doyle since you’d been in Africa together. When did you last see him?’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’ Fletchet looked at his watch. ‘Damn. Promised to call my wife. Short leash and all that. Excuse me.’

  And he stood abruptly and held out his hand to shake.

  ‘You’re going?’ said Breen.

  ‘Sorry. Yes. Please, stay as long as you like.’ Fletchet called to another of the club’s servants, who was collecting empty plates. ‘George, look after this man, will you? He’s my guest.’

  ‘He’s called George too?’ said Breen.

  ‘Oh yes. All the staff at Pratt’s are George,’ Fletchet said, as if it was perfectly normal. ‘It’s a sort of tradition. That’s right, isn’t it, George?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  After he’d gone, Breen sat alone with his wine and the untouched brandy in front of him.

  ‘Pal of Jimbo’s, are you?’ said the round man.

  ‘Acquaintance.’

  ‘Been to his estate?’

  ‘Just once.’

  ‘I hear the shooting’s very good,’ said the elderly man, who was still playing patience. ‘Wouldn’t mind going there myself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Breen.

  ‘More of a fishing man, are you? It’s always either one or the other in my experience.’

  Breen sat thinking. The man in the Norfolk jacket hummed a snatch from the ‘Radetzky March’ to himself.

  ‘Balls,’ the man playing patience said. ‘I think I’m going to have to cheat.’ And he lifted up a card and put it on another pile.

  ‘Nothing wrong with cheating,’ said the round man. ‘That’s a game in itself.’

  ‘Very true,’ said the other.

  A large, badly-varnished wall clock struck quarter to and then the hour. Breen took a gulp from the brandy glass, angry at himself. He had the feeling he had given away something of value but was not sure what. Nor was he sure he had received anything in return.

  ‘Well? What?’ said Helen.

  She was sitting in his father’s armchair with an open packet of digestives, crumbs in her lap and on the floor around her, and the TV on loud. ‘Yes, it’s Number One! It’s Top of the Pops!’ The set was up much louder than he usually had it. He went to turn it down.

  ‘So? What did he have to say for himself?’

  Breen took off his mac and put it on a hook. ‘Not much, actually.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ She prised her eyes from the television to look at Breen.

  ‘He wanted to know why the police were interviewing him about Milkwood. He kept asking me about it. But when I mentioned Doyle, something spooked him. He tried not to show it, but there was definitely something. And then he just sort of ended the conversation and left.’

  ‘Because you mentioned Doyle’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  She picked up another digestive and chewed on it thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you were right, then,’ she said, looking back at the long-haired man in a polo neck and silver chain, introducing the songs. ‘Fletchet, Milkwood and Doyle.’

  ‘I may be,’ said Breen. ‘But I’m just not sure wha
t I’m right about.’ He pulled out one of the dining chairs and sat next to her. Cliff Richard sang, ‘Boom boom boom, now the whole world’s singing, good times!’

  ‘I hate Cliff Richard,’ said Helen. ‘That smile. He makes my skin crawl.’

  Breen had never watched a whole episode of Top of the Pops. The cameras lingered on a girl in a black fringed bikini top who was bending at the knees as she danced, arms swinging in tandem. He hated the vacuousness of it. Helen wasn’t enjoying it either. A middle-aged man came on to sing a ballad and she snorted. ‘Why’s it always so rubbish? There’s Marvin Gaye, Nina Simone, Martha Reeves, Sam and Dave in the charts this week. I bet they don’t play any of them. It’s crap, that’s what it is.’

  ‘I suppose some people like it,’ said Breen.

  ‘They’re idiots, then. Another thing. CID phoned. I’m allowed to leave London,’ she said, eyes fixed again on the TV. ‘I can go home.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Breen.

  ‘Good news, eh?’ she said.

  ‘Any idea why they’ve said you can leave London now?’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t think I didn’t ask. I got the idea something was going on, but they wouldn’t say what.’

  It meant she would leave soon. He wished they hadn’t called. What had happened, he wondered, that made CID so sure that it couldn’t have been her?

  He watched her as she pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then blew out the match and put it down on the arm of the chair. Breen went to the sideboard, picked up an ashtray in the shape of an Irish harp and put the match into it, then put the ashtray down beside her.

  She said nothing, just watched the TV, volume still too high.

  ‘I was bloody right. They didn’t even play Canned Heat,’ she said as the credits rolled. ‘They didn’t play anything decent at all.’

  She lit another cigarette.

  At 10 p.m. she was still in the chair watching the ITV news. She had slumped right down, legs spread wide, feet sprawling onto the carpet. Breen went back to washing up. He had cooked omelettes with tarragon and cheese; Helen had carefully picked out what she called ‘the green bits’.

  ‘Paddy, come quick,’ she shouted from the living room.

  By the time he had dried his hands and reached the television set she said, ‘You missed it.’

  ‘What?’

  She was sitting up now. ‘I was bloody right. Look. They gone and bloody arrested someone for Milkwood’s murder. There was something going on.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Chink.’

  ‘A Chinese man?’

  ‘I think they said gang. I don’t know.’

  ‘A Chinese man from a gang?’

  ‘Something like that. It was halfway through before I realised what they were saying, then it was over.’

  The weather forecast had already started. Breen picked up the phone and called Carmichael, first at Scotland Yard, then at the section house, but he wasn’t at either place. He left a message instead.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Helen. ‘I was sure Milkwood’s killing was going to be something to do with Fletchet.’

  Breen stood, dripping washing-up water on the carpet. ‘We don’t know anything yet. It’s just a report on the news.’

  ‘I know, but…’ She slumped back down and felt for her cigarette packet. ‘I just thought… God. I don’t know what to think any more.’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  Everything felt wrong, thought Breen. The odd conversation with Fletchet; the man arrested for Milkwood’s murder. Nothing fitted.

  And Helen was free to go now, back to the farm.

  TWENTY-THREE

  That night she slept in the spare room again. She said his bed was too small for both of them.

  At eight in the morning she was still asleep. Breen looked in on her, opening the door as quietly as he could. She lay on her back, mouth open, one foot dangling out of the bed.

  She was still asleep when he returned from buying an early edition of the Standard. The report started in a small box on the front page and was continued inside, but it didn’t say much. A member of a Chinese gang had been arrested in Limehouse ‘on suspicion of the abduction and murder of Police Sergeant William Milkwood’. The arrest had been made ‘following a tip-off’. There were no details.

  ‘I don’t know any more than that,’ said Carmichael on the phone later. ‘But everybody here has been going nuts. CID cracked out a couple of Party Sevens and a case of Bell’s last night. They were up till three.’

  Breen said, ‘You think it’s kosher?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Why?’ said Carmichael.

  ‘Does it feel right to you?’ said Breen.

  Another pause.

  ‘It doesn’t, does it?’

  ‘Let’s talk about this later,’ Carmichael said.

  They had arranged to meet Ijeoma Ezeoke at the School of Oriental and African Studies that afternoon. There was a demonstration outside. Three students were asking for signatures. One held a banner reading: ‘ALWAYS CREATE ART AND DESTROY PROPERTY’.

  Helen had been uncommunicative all day. She had read the report in the paper and said nothing. When Breen said she didn’t have to go home until she was ready, she could stay in the flat for as long as she wanted, she just shrugged. She had sat listening to Radio 1 all morning, drinking tea and smoking more cigarettes. By the afternoon, he’d been grateful they had a reason to get out of the flat.

  ‘If the Chinese bloke killed Milkwood, I don’t see the point of all this anyway,’ said Helen.

  ‘Don’t give up now.’

  ‘But that means the police think they know what happened. They’re not going to connect it to Alex.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m not giving up, anyway. I’m just frustrated. I’m tired now. I thought we were getting somewhere.’

  ‘You’re… you know. Expecting. It’s bound to affect you.’

  ‘Will you shut up, Paddy? Please. You’re giving me a headache.’

  Ijeoma appeared out of the crowd and walked past the demonstrators, ignoring them. ‘Come this way.’

  Breen and Helen followed.

  ‘His name is Sam,’ Ijeoma said as she walked them up the staircase. Inside the building, every single inch of the walls seemed covered in posters and cards advertising events, shared rooms or second-hand books. ‘He’s very earnest. Except when he’s drunk, and then he’s very boring.’

  She knocked at a plain white door in a corridor and then opened it.

  ‘Izzie.’ He greeted her with a kiss.

  Sam wore a white shirt and a tie with no jacket. He had a young, round face, and sat in a small study with books piled haphazardly on shelves. There were several chairs, presumably for students, stacked against the wall.

  ‘You are the man who arrested Miss Ezeoke’s father?’ he said, unsmiling.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s OK, Sam,’ said Ijeoma. ‘He did the right thing. I’ll tell you about it one day.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Sam gestured to the chairs. ‘So. Miss Ezeoke says you want to know about the Emergency? Would you like tea?’

  ‘Do you have coffee?’

  ‘I’m a Kenyan. Of course I have coffee.’

  ‘Izzie, do you mind? You know where our kitchen is.’

  Ijeoma left the room. There was a black-and-white portrait of a bearded African leader on the desk, a man with a patterned kofia hat holding a fly whisk in his hand: Jomo Kenyatta.

  ‘So. What do you want to know?’

  ‘There’s an investigation going on into the murder of a London policeman. I believe it’s connected to another murder that happened four years ago.’

  ‘I don’t understand what this has to do with Kenya.’

  ‘It may be a coincidence, but both murders are linked by three people, all of whom worked together during the Emergency. One of them is definitely dead. Another probably.’


  ‘I repeat, what does this have to do with Kenya?’

  Breen said, ‘Honestly? I haven’t any idea at all. That’s why I wanted to speak to you.’

  The man called Sam put his fingers together and leaned across the desk. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you asking me? Why don’t you ask the High Commission? Or the Kenyan Embassy?’

  Ijeoma came back with a tray with four cups on it and some coconut biscuits.

  ‘Because I’m not officially connected to the investigation. I’m just an interested party. Besides, going through official channels takes time. I just want some background.’

  ‘I am an academic, not a policeman. Why should I help you with this?’

  The young man was acting like some court barristers; policemen and barristers never got along at the best of times.

  ‘If you don’t have time, I understand,’ said Breen.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with time. I just want to understand why you’re interested.’ He held out a cup to Breen.

  ‘Because he’s investigating the death of my sister,’ said Helen. ‘She was murdered.’

  Ijeoma spilled coffee on the carpet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, lowering her eyes.

  ‘You can clean it up later,’ said Sam.

  ‘It wasn’t you I was saying sorry to, you pompous idiot,’ said Ijeoma fiercely. She put the coffee on the floor and sat next to Helen. ‘Was it one of these men that killed your sister?’

  ‘We don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  Ijeoma nodded. ‘Stop pretending you’re all high and mighty, Sam. You’re only a junior lecturer. Just tell them what they want to know.’

  Sam picked up his own cup and sipped it. Then he asked, ‘I assume these are all white men, yes? Do you know what they were doing during the Emergency?’

  Breen closed his eyes and tried to remember what Mrs Milkwood had called it. ‘One minute,’ he said, and pulled a notebook from his jacket.

  Ijeoma caught Helen’s eyes while he was flicking through the pages. Helen looked away.

  ‘They were screening people to find out if they were members of the Mau Mau.’

  ‘They ran a screening station?’