The Kings of London Page 28

  ‘Only she knew it was you. Why was she so scared of you?’

  Breen looked at her. ‘She didn’t know it was me.’

  Tozer looked at Breen and said, ‘Yes she did. I’d been following them for about twenty minutes.’

  ‘You were following them?’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised. I saw them buying sweets in Woolies. I followed them to the cinema. Some boys talked to them outside and pointed in the cinema. She crept up to the door and peered in. Long enough to see it was you. Then she grabbed Charlie’s hand and they legged it.’

  Breen thought. ‘Why should she trust me, I suppose? She doesn’t trust anyone. Her husband was bent. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  The train had passed. The night outside was dark again.

  She said, ‘It’s not going to look good though. With a copper being involved.’

  ‘No,’ said Breen.

  ‘I could kill for a gin and orange. You open yet?’

  The British Rail man opened one eye, looked at his watch and shook his head.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The horse didn’t seem to mind the noise. It stood on the edge of the dance floor chewing oats from a bag hung around its head. Somebody had decorated the strap with tinsel.

  ‘You missed everything,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Tozer.

  ‘Roast,’ said Jones.

  ‘I’m bloody starving,’ said Tozer. ‘You think they’ve got anything left in the kitchen?’

  ‘Main course was delicious, weren’t it?’ Marilyn poked her boyfriend.

  Danny, Marilyn’s boyfriend, said, ‘My potatoes was burnt.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t invited you,’ said Marilyn. ‘Moan, moan, moan.’

  Normally it was strictly husbands and wives only but Marilyn had organised the invites so she could do what she liked.

  ‘Turkey and all the trimmings,’ said Jones. ‘Superb it was. You should learn to cook like that,’ he said to his wife.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Tozer told Mrs Jones. Jones’s wife was wearing a pink dress with beads sewn in around the top half but which didn’t quite hide the bump of her belly. ‘Doesn’t she?’

  ‘A picture,’ said Jones. ‘Should do. Took her bloody ages to choose which one to put on.’

  The young Mrs Jones glared at her husband. ‘I wasn’t sure it was right, you know? It’s so easy for the fellers. All they do is put on a dress suit. And what with this…’ She placed her hands on her bump and smiled shyly.

  The wives all had their best dresses on. Wigs were in this year. Big earrings. They had spent time in front of the mirrors, knowing they were on show to their husbands’ bosses. And to all the other wives.

  Streamers hung from the chandeliers. Paper chains hung from the walls. Glitterball light spun around the room.

  People were drunk already. Loudly, goofily, hurrah-for-us drunk.

  Breen was thinking that he should have stayed in Margate. He shouldn’t have left Shirley Prosser on her own. She was scared.

  ‘Why is the horse here, anyway?’ asked Breen.

  ‘I already asked that,’ said Tozer. There was a bottle of whisky, a bottle of brandy and a soda siphon sitting in the middle of each table. She leaned forward and poured herself some brandy and then passed the bottle to Marilyn. ‘It brought in the sleigh.’

  ‘A cart, really,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘You’ve had enough, sweetie,’ said Danny.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ said Marilyn, and she poured a wine glass full and gave him a fixed smile.

  ‘Did we miss a sleigh?’

  ‘Santa Claus came just after the main course.’

  ‘Should have been a reindeer then, shouldn’t it?’ said Tozer. ‘If it was pulling a sleigh.’

  Jones said, ‘Isn’t this the best bloody Christmas party ever? D Division. 1968. Kings of bloody London, we are.’

  ‘Kings of London,’ people cheered.

  ‘Is the dancing going to start soon?’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Only I get tired early now. With the baby.’

  ‘I want my pudding first,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘Let’s all do the conga, let’s all do the conga!’ The real dancing hadn’t started, but some constables were snaking around the tables in a line. ‘Don’t be boring, come on.’

  Inspector Creamer came over with a pint of bitter in his hand. ‘And how are all my new CID pals enjoying themselves?’

  ‘Best party yet, sir,’ said Jones.

  ‘Bum lick,’ muttered Marilyn a little too loudly.

  Bailey’s replacement, straw-coloured hair above a red face, shirt buttons ready to burst, was holding the handle of his pint as if it were some kind of statement.

  Mrs Jones said, ‘Somebody told me the horse was deaf. That’s why it’s not bothered. I didn’t know you could get deaf horses.’

  ‘I know you lot have been through some pretty tough times,’ said Creamer. ‘But I know that basically you’re pretty good men.’

  Tozer coughed loudly, but Creamer didn’t notice.

  ‘You need some leadership. Some new blood.’

  Sitting facing away from him, Marilyn was making faces. Breen tried not to smile.

  ‘Come Monday you’ll be seeing some new faces in CID, don’t you worry,’ he said.

  ‘What’s he on about?’ said Marilyn.

  ‘Shh,’ said Jones.

  ‘Righto,’ said Inspector Creamer. ‘You lot enjoy yourselves. You deserve it.’

  ‘Prat,’ said Marilyn, when he’d turned away.

  ‘He could bloody hear you,’ said Jones.

  ‘So?’ said Marilyn and she reached for the brandy again even though her glass was still full.

  Danny hissed, ‘Stop it.’

  Breen stood and followed Creamer. ‘Sir?’

  He was standing with his wife, a short, plump woman who wore make-up that stopped at the sides of her face and who held a wide champagne glass in one hand and a long cigarette in the other. ‘Paddy, isn’t it? What is it, Paddy?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about the Prosser case.’

  Creamer frowned. ‘I heard you were suspended.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  Creamer paused.

  ‘This isn’t the time to talk shop, Paddy. Marilyn will make an appointment.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ A brush-off. Breen made it back to the table just as the lights went down. The hubbub of conversation died.

  A silver trolley came through the double doors. On it was an immense Christmas pudding. It was alight, blue flames flickering in the darkness.

  ‘Magical,’ said Mrs Jones.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Tozer.

  Someone started clapping. Then the whole room.

  ‘Waste of good brandy,’ Marilyn said lighting up a cigarette.

  Carmichael had come along for old times’ sake, though strictly speaking he wasn’t in D Division. He arrived at their table with a pretty, fair-haired typist from the Drug Squad. She was wearing a long sequinned dress and he kept squeezing her bum. She kept pushing his hand away.

  ‘I love your accent,’ she told Tozer. ‘It’s so sweet. Where’s it from?’

  Tozer smiled. ‘My mum and dad,’ she said.

  The woman’s laugh was a high-pitched squeak. Breen watched Carmichael flinching.

  ‘How goes it, Paddy?’ Carmichael asked.

  ‘So-so,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘Your meeting with Deason OK?’

  Breen shrugged. ‘They’re not telling me anything. To be honest, I think they’re dragging their feet. I could be stuck out here in the cold for ever.’

  ‘Why don’t you just relax? It’s fine. It’ll all blow over soon. Tough luck on Bailey. Still in hospital? I’m getting a pint,’ Carmichael said. ‘Want one?’

  After the pudding they moved the horse out through the double doors and Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen started playing ‘Swanee River’, all banjos and trumpets. Marilyn grabbed his arm and said, ‘Come on. Let�
��s dance.’

  Breen said, ‘What about you, Danny? Don’t you want to dance with your girlfriend?’

  Danny sat with his arms crossed. ‘Why should I care?’ He was as drunk as she was.

  Marilyn said, ‘I told you you’d only get sulky if you came.’

  ‘Just don’t like to see you making a tit of yourself, Marilyn.’

  ‘I’ll sit this one out,’ said Breen.

  But Marilyn laughed and yanked on his arm until he stood. The dance floor had filled quickly. Officers showing off their pretty wives and girlfriends. Men in black dress suits, women in colours. Breen hated dancing. He hated the music. His suit felt too big, his clothes too sweaty and crumpled from chasing around in Margate, his Oxfords too small, pinching his toes. Uncertainly stepping this way and that, hobbled by a sense of horror. Shirley Prosser waiting, terrified that they would come for her and Charlie, in a small cold room in a boarding house; her brother, burnt and cold in the basement of the hospital; his colleague Michael Prosser trying to crawl away from the gunman who killed him; and a young man whose father didn’t want to acknowledge him, dying of a heroin overdose in NW8.

  Happy Christmas to everyone.

  ‘D Division. The best in London,’ read the banner that hung on the stage behind Kenny Ball. The seven-piece band were dressed in pale-blue jackets with pink shirts and black trousers. Must have cost a fortune to book them.

  Tozer had started dancing with one of the constables, a young man with hair longer than it should have been. He had his hand on her bottom. As she passed, she stuck her tongue out at Breen. He watched the younger man’s hands.

  Jones was up now too, with his wife. She looked uncomfortable in heels, her face red from the heat.

  ‘Kenny Ball,’ Jones shouted. ‘I bloody love him. Proper music, that is.’

  The band played one song after another. Marilyn clung on to him harder with each dance.

  ‘Don’t you want a break?’ Breen said.

  ‘No,’ Marilyn said and she squeezed even closer. He could feel the press of her large breasts against his chest. She wobbled as if some string that was holding her up was giving way. He tried to push away, but she was grasping him tightly.

  Marilyn was saying something above the music.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said you’re different, Paddy. Not like the other men. You’re sensitive. Do you like me, Paddy?’ said Marilyn. ‘Sometimes I think you don’t like me at all.’

  Her fingers dug into the shoulder of his jacket.

  ‘Everybody likes you, Marilyn.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said.

  Jones swept past again, and wriggled his eyebrows.

  ‘You must get lonely,’ she said. ‘Living on your own. You should have a girl. To look after you.’

  ‘I need to pee,’ Breen said, and he pressed her away from him.

  ‘You’re coming back, aren’t you?’

  Someone had already thrown up on the floor in the Gents. Breen backed out again and tried to find another toilet. Opening doors, he found a small yard at the back of the hotel behind the ballroom.

  The air was cold and fresh. Breen sucked in a lungful.

  The horse was standing in the middle of the yard behind where the stage was, its harness tied to the bars on a window. There were crates full of empty beer bottles piled up along the wall. Someone had put a blanket over the horse but it stood trembling in the cold. The band sounded just as loud here as they had in the ballroom. They had been paid to play until midnight.

  ‘Count yourself lucky you’re deaf,’ said Breen and he unzipped his flies and urinated into a drain.

  When he’d finished, he pulled out his packet of cigarettes and checked the side of it. He made marks with his thumbnail to count how many he’d had each day. But it was dark in the yard, and he couldn’t see how many he’d had. He pulled one out and lit it anyway and laid his head against the horse’s neck.

  The hair was coarse, but he could feel the warmth of the blood pumping under the hide. He took a pull on the cigarette and closed his eyes. Kenny Ball making ‘Beale Street Blues’ sound tacky and maudlin. He should go to his empty home and leave Helen Tozer to be kissed by young constables. He should have rented a hotel room in Margate. Two rooms. That way he could have made sure Shirley Prosser was OK.

  Tomorrow was Sunday. Nothing to do except tidy up his flat and sit on his own. The terrifying loneliness of a day with no place to go, no work to do, nobody to talk to. A day wasted on nothing when the person who killed Sergeant Prosser could get away.

  He felt the horse tense suddenly. He looked and saw the horse’s eyes widen. He turned in time to see Marilyn’s boyfriend.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he said.

  ‘The toilets were full,’ said Breen. ‘I came out here instead.’

  Danny nodded. ‘I heard you been suspended.’

  Breen said, ‘I should go back in.’

  Danny said, ‘I’m glad. It keeps you out of Marilyn’s way.’

  ‘You should go back in too. Marilyn’s a bit tipsy.’

  Danny laughed. ‘Pissed, you mean.’

  ‘So are you.’

  Breen tried to push past him, but Danny stood firm. ‘She talks about you all the time.’

  The horse shivered, ripples of muscle moving under the hair. Breen stood back.

  A sudden moment of realisation. It might have been the lager going to his head after an exhausting day. But it suddenly seemed so obvious and so absurd. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  Breen couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘It was just you, wasn’t it?’ he said again.

  ‘Me what?’

  Breen had to shout to make himself heard above the band. ‘Who set fire to my door. Who sent all those notes. Who took a shit in my drawer. All the time I thought it was someone serious.’

  Danny seemed to shrink. He said, ‘Don’t bloody laugh at me.’ He lifted up his fists. ‘Let’s have it out now. You and me.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Danny. You’re drunk. I’m bigger than you.’

  ‘Fuck you. Fucking Irish twat.’

  ‘Everybody thought it was Prosser, but he’s not that stupid,’ said Breen. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. But it’s so bloody ridiculous. You got into the office and left those notes. You were outside my house the other night, weren’t you?’

  Danny was almost a foot shorter than Breen. He held up a fist in front of Breen’s face, jabbing at him. ‘OK. Come on then.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Breen. ‘I could knock your head right off. Go in and have a drink of water.’

  ‘I should stove your face in. Maybe she’d shut up about you, then.’ His lips curled, lower teeth showing.

  Breen tried to turn away. ‘I’m not doing this here,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a coward, that’s why,’ said Danny. ‘When that guy pulled a knife on you a few weeks back, you legged it, didn’t you?’

  And, from the pocket of his suit, he pulled out a knife, clicked open the blade and held it up in front of his face.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Breen, brain suddenly working again. How drunk was he? He had misread the situation completely. He had not thought about Danny being a real threat. He had treated him as a joke. Yet he had almost killed him once before.

  Breen looked at the knife and felt sick. It was true. He had run from one once, leaving another policeman to do the fighting.

  He had stopped laughing now.

  ‘Put it away. I’ll pretend you never did that.’

  Danny started laughing. ‘You’re bloody windy, aren’t you? I knew it.’

  Breen backed up until he was against the horse. The warm skin against the back of his neck.

  Danny came towards him, holding the knife up to his face.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. They’ll put you away for life.’

  One push and it would be in him.

 
‘I can see you shaking. You’re trembling like a baby.’

  Breen kept his eyes fixed on the blade, watching it for any sign of sudden motion.

  ‘Please,’ said Breen.

  The door swung open and the music was louder, and the horse tugged at its short leash.

  ‘Paddy?’ said a voice. ‘You all right?’

  At his back, Breen felt the horse balk, spooked. As it kicked out, the full weight of its quarters slammed into his shoulders, catapulting him straight at the knife. He skittled straight into Danny, knocking him to the ground and tumbling down on top of him. A crack as Danny’s head hit the hard step.

  A glimpse of the horse, still jerking at its halter, legs still kicking out dangerously, shoes clacking on the yard floor. Danny was struggling to get to his feet to avoid being trampled.

  Above Breen, Jones pulling back a fist, and thumping it into the side of Danny’s head. Danny crashed down again, knife skeetering onto the cobbles.

  Danny went down hard, face first this time, on the pavement. The horse, still wheeling left and right above him, whinnying. Jones dragged Danny away by the sleeve, but only so he could get enough space to start kicking him, once, twice, again and again.

  Breen checked his body. No wound. No blood. He had missed the knife.

  Danny curled on the floor, twitching and groaning. Jones trying to aim his boot to best effect. ‘Keep still, you bastard.’

  When Marilyn came out of the back door, everyone stopped and stared at her. For a minute she seemed to be struggling to understand what was going on. A horse. Breen. Her boyfriend with his eye pouring blood, snivelling.

  Breen had pulled Jones off Danny, but the boy would need an ambulance.

  And then she turned and swung her handbag so hard at Danny’s head he didn’t have a chance to duck, slapping him right on the temple with a noise that could be heard above the band.

  ‘You’re bloody chucked,’ she said.

  ‘Terrific,’ said Jones rubbing his hands together. ‘Enjoyed that. Best party yet. Shall I take him down the station then?’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Breen. ‘We know what happens to people you get down the cells.’

  ‘I just saved your life,’ muttered Jones. ‘Ungrateful cunt.’