She's Leaving Home Page 32

  “You’re not an idealist, I take it?” said Breen.

  Okonkwo opened a drawer and pulled out a small white stick, opened his mouth and dug it into a crevice between his teeth several times. “Of course I am. But the Rhodesians are the best mercenaries in Africa.”

  The phone rang. Okonkwo ignored it. “We already have some Rhodesians in Biafra. The Federals are scared of them. We Africans have not had proper training. You English made sure of that. A few dozen properly trained men can run rings around a hundred Africans. And, with good reason, given what you have done to us, we Africans still fear white men more than our fellow black men.”

  “You should answer the phone,” said Breen.

  “It’s probably no one.”

  “Pick it up.”

  Okonkwo picked up the ringing phone. “Hello?”

  He listened, then said, “I am closed, I am afraid. It will not be convenient. Try again in an hour.” He put the phone back down abruptly.

  “Who was it?”

  “Just a customer.”

  Breen wondered if he was lying, but he could see nothing in his expression. “You were saying. Ezeoke doesn’t like the idea of giving money to Rhodesians.”

  “Sam Ezeoke is a very passionate man. He wants Africans to show other Africans how we can create a noble postimperial era. We can control our own destiny. All we need is some guns. He does not understand the first thing about modern warfare.” He dug the stick between his teeth again. “The Rhodesian mercenaries are racist devils. But they are greedy racist devils. They are our racist devils. Sam has always argued against the rest of the committee. He believes in African solutions for an African continent.” Okonkwo sighed. “It turns out he had a better plan. One he didn’t want to tell us about because he thought we were not true Africanists. We had become corrupted. So he decided to use all our money to buy the arms himself. He met with an arms dealer. A supposed arms dealer.”

  “Major Sullivan,” said Breen.

  “Is that his name? I did not know this. You can always find a corrupt Englishman somewhere.”

  “Major Sullivan?” said Tozer. “Oh God.”

  “It’s my guess,” said Breen.

  Okonkwo spat a wad of chewed stick into a dustbin at his feet. “You might expect me to hate this man for stealing our money,” he said. “I do not. The English are always the English. It is Ezeoke who I hate. I hate him for being stupid and not trusting his fellow Africans. It is the same with all these people, all these Pan-Africanists. Nkrumah. Nyerere. We Africans are all in this together. At least, we Africans are all in this together as long as you do it my way. And now look what happened.”

  “Sullivan probably met Ezeoke through his daughter,” said Breen. “He was up to his eyeballs in debt. He may have strung Ezeoke a story about being able to get him guns.”

  “I don’t know who he gave our money to. I don’t care. All I know is that he had our money. And all of it is gone. All of it.”

  “Did you lose much?”

  “Me. I did not have much. Two thousand pounds. I don’t care for myself. We all gave it freely. It was like a fever. ‘Take our money. Take all of it.’ Ezeoke gave the most, of course.”

  “How many of you?”

  “There are fifty-six of us. Some are rich. Others, like myself, are not. But we all gave what we could to the cause. And it’s all gone. Dogs eat shit, but it’s the goat that gets rotten teeth.”

  “What?”

  “An Igbo saying. It suffers a little in translation.”

  “So what’s the connection with the girl?” Tozer asked Breen.

  “What girl?” said Okonkwo.

  “You said he wanted you to hide him?” asked Breen, ignoring his question.

  “Yes.”

  “And…?”

  “Of course I refused. I am not a lawbreaker, Mr. Breen.”

  Breen walked slowly around the shop. On one shelf, to the right of Okonkwo’s desk, there was a worn wooden board with two rows of little cups. There were beans in some of the cups and none in the others. Breen reached in and scooped up the beans and dropped them back into the cups, one by one. “If you were Ezeoke, where would you go now?”

  “I am not Ezeoke.”

  “If you were.”

  “If I was Ezeoke I would go back to Biafra.”

  “How?”

  “I would go back to Biafra and let a Federal soldier put a bullet into my brain.”

  A woman, head covered in a scarf against the cold, tried the door, rattling the handle.

  “Go away,” said Okonkwo, waving his hand angrily. “I am closed. Can’t you see the sign?”

  The woman disappeared down the street.

  “Ezeoke told me it was only a matter of time before the Federal troops collapsed.”

  Okonkwo laughed out loud. “We have lost Port Harcourt. We have lost Nsukka and Enugu, our capital. We are fighting from the bush. What does he think? This is some strategic retreat to weaken the enemy? Our only strategy is to prolong the war until the tide of opinion turns to our side.”

  “But all those children are going to die,” said Tozer.

  “It’s not us killing them. It is the Federals,” said Okonkwo.

  “If you were Ezeoke, how would you go back?”

  Okonkwo picked up his polish rag, poured some Brasso onto it and started polishing the metal spoon again. “The country is surrounded. The coast is cut off. There is only one way left to get there now.”

  “By air?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who flies there?”

  “Which airlines, do you mean?” Okonkwo laughed. “No airlines fly to Biafra. Only aid. And only from Portugal now. He would take a plane to Bissau. And from there to the island of São Tomé. That is where the French are flying their aid planes from.”

  “So he’s probably trying to head to Portugal?”

  “How could he get there? You are watching out for his house?”

  “He wouldn’t dare go near there. There must be half the Met there,” said Tozer.

  “What about the committee?” said Breen. “He must have some friends on the committee.”

  “He has no friends on the committee,” said Okonkwo angrily. “Even before he stole our money, we had argued. He did not approve of our tactics. He is a traitor.” He put down the spoon, pulled another cloth from a drawer and dusted down his desk. “You should try the hospital. He could borrow money from a colleague.”

  “Do you have any idea where he was when he phoned?”

  “It was a phone box. He reversed the charges. He could have been anywhere.”

  “Did you hear anything in the background that might have given you a clue?”

  “It was in a street. There were cars. That is all.”

  Breen stood silently in the shop for a minute, looking at the clutter around him. A white-faced wooden figure, standing like a toy soldier on a shelf. A chess set made of tiny wooden carvings of Africans.

  “Maybe we should go to the hospital,” said Breen. “Take a look there.”

  “You seriously think he’ll have gone back there, sir? It’ll be crawling with our lot.”

  Breen looked at the poster that said Save Biafra. The same picture of a young boy who had starved to death for the cause.

  It was dark when they left the shop and walked to the car.

  “So. We going to the hospital now? I don’t think he’ll be there, sir, honest.”

  Breen said, “Just get in the car.”

  “What?”

  “Drive up a little way and park somewhere out of sight.”

  Avoiding a man walking past on the pavement, struggling with an enormous brass candelabra, they got in.

  “Why, sir?”

  “Act normally and just drive away a little bit.”

  “Is he still watching us?”

  “Probably. Don’t look. Just drive.”

  Tozer did as he’d said, pulling up down an alleyway next to a launderette.

  “What are w
e doing?” she asked, switching off the engine.

  “Did you recognize the woman who knocked at the door of the shop?”

  “No.”

  “I think it may have been Mrs. Briggs. Her face was covered up with a scarf but she ran off the minute she saw us in there.”

  “You think Ezeoke is in the shop? Hiding?” Tozer asked.

  “I don’t know. Something’s going on.” It was a small road. People around eyed the police car, wondering what they were doing parked up in their street.

  “But he said he hated Ezeoke.”

  “Well he would, wouldn’t he?”

  “Oh. I see what you mean. God.” She looked at Breen. “So what are we going to do?”

  “The shop has a front and a back entrance. Did you see the corridor at the back? We’ll split up. You take the back. There’s a pub opposite Okonkwo’s shop. It should be open. I’ll call up the station from there. That way I can keep an eye on the front of the shop.”

  “Great. You get to sit in the pub and I get to stand on the street.”

  “You’re in uniform. You’ll be more conspicuous out front.”

  “I suppose.” They walked back down the street towards Okonkwo’s store. Ten yards before the shop was Blenheim Crescent, which led down into an alleyway.

  “That’s the back door to the shop there, isn’t it? I’ll be OK here.”

  Breen said, “Don’t worry. The station will send people soon. If anyone moves, don’t follow. Just tell us who it is and which way they’re headed.”

  “I’ve always wanted to do surveillance,” she said. “Like in the films.”

  Waiting until he could conceal himself among a crowd of people moving up the street, Breen walked up as far as The Prince of Wales. It was a big square Victorian building on the corner, with large windows from which Breen could get a good enough view of Okonkwo’s front door, a little to the right and across the road.

  He went into the pub and ordered a half-pint of best, keeping one eye on the street outside. He sat with his back to the bar. “You got a phone?” he asked the barman.

  The barman nodded towards the toilets. The payphone was in a corridor. He wouldn’t be able to see Okonkwo’s shop from there. Breen split a ten-bob note for change. “Five bob if you keep an eye on that door. If anyone goes in or out give me a wave, OK?”

  He took a last look. The sign on the front door still read CLOSED. Dimly through the glass, he thought he could make out the dark silhouette of Okonkwo moving behind the muddle of bric-a-brac in his window.

  Leaving his position at the bar, Breen got through to Marilyn. “How are things?”

  “Prosser just came in and resigned.”

  “So I heard,” said Breen.

  “No reason. Just jacked it in. Weird, hey?” He looked over to the barman. He was polishing glasses, but his eyes were fixed on the street like they were supposed to be.

  “Weird.”

  Breen told her about Okonkwo. “Tell Bailey. Tell him we need some officers here. Discreetly. And as soon as they can. I think they might lead us to Ezeoke, wherever he is.”

  “Is that Constable Tozer woman with you?”

  “Just give him the address. I’ve got to go.”

  He made it back to the bar; the shop looked the same, still closed. “All OK?” he asked the barman.

  Breen must have been away from the window a couple of minutes. He peered into the dark behind the junk in the window and tried to make out if there was any movement, but couldn’t make out anything. He wondered if Tozer had found a safe place from which she could keep an eye on the back of the shop. A light drizzle had started to fall. If she hadn’t found a shelter she would be getting wet.

  The barman took the ashtray off the bar in front of Breen and emptied it, then wiped it with a beer towel. The pavements were filling again. He looked at his watch; it was just past five o’clock. They had been watching the shop for just ten minutes. Shopkeepers were switching off lights. Men were returning from work clutching evening newspapers and umbrellas.

  “Like another?” said the barman.

  “No. I’m OK.”

  Another voice said, “It’s Breen, isn’t it?”

  He was conscious of someone taking the bar stool next to his. Breen tore his eyes away from the window for a second. He recognized the big Irish man at the bar; it was John Nolan. He was holding his hand out towards Breen and it looked like he had been drinking all afternoon.

  “Give this man a whisky on me.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Great news, isn’t it?”

  Breen looked away from the shop again. “What?”

  “You’ve not heard?”

  “Which news?”

  “The best news. I left you a message. Did you not get it?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “About Patrick Donahoe. The fellow who I thought must have fried in that fire. Do you remember? I’d been trying to contact his relations in Mayo.”

  “I remember.”

  “You haven’t heard then?”

  “No.”

  “Patrick Donahoe. He worked for me on the building site. He’d gone missing. You were afraid—”

  “I was.” Breen looked back at the doorway of the shop. A large blue Pickfords lorry obscured his view, crawling so slowly through the early evening traffic that it seemed like an age for it to move. “You said it was good news.”

  “I got a letter back from his mother this Friday. The stupid bastard was in prison the whole time, thanks be to God.”

  “In prison?”

  “Pentonville. He’d only got arrested for trying to hold up a petrol station, stupid bollocks that he is.”

  “Really.”

  The lorry had passed the shop, finally.

  “You’ll like this. He attempted to rob a petrol station with a fork.”

  Breen couldn’t help but look at the Irishman again. “A garden fork?”

  “No. Just a table fork. Honest to God. A garden fork would have been better, I should say. He was drunk, I believe. And all he wanted was some cigarettes. So he threatened the guy on the petrol pumps with a fork. Like an ordinary table fork that you’d eat your dinner with. True story. And now he’s inside for armed robbery. All for a packet of ten Bensons. Can you imagine?”

  “With a fork?” He turned his head. Still no one across the way.

  “That’s right. And of course he was so ashamed he didn’t want to call nobody. So that’s why we never heard a whisper. You would be ashamed, really, I’d imagine, under the circumstances.”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be hard enough in prison. ‘You’re in for armed robbery. You must be a tough nut. Was that a double-barreled shotgun you used?’ ‘No, it was a fork.’” The man burst out laughing. He signaled to the barman for another drink.

  Breen had seen nothing moving behind the glass since he’d returned from the phone call. Maybe Okonkwo was still at his desk at the back of the shop.

  “I can’t say I wasn’t relieved to hear he was alive, at least,” said Nolan. “I’d have felt terrible if it was him. Did you find out who the poor bugger under the bonfire was?”

  Breen shook his head. “I thought I had.”

  “Well, I’m awful sorry to spoil that for you.”

  Breen shook his head. “Sometimes you don’t find out.”

  “That’s a terrible thing. A poor man dying and nobody caring enough for him to notice he’s gone.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Let me buy you a drink, Sergeant. It would be an honor to buy a drink for the son of Tomas Breen.”

  Breen didn’t want a drink, but he asked for a pint of Heineken just the same so as not to offend the man and then, to be polite, took a sip from the top of it.

  He had drunk almost a half by the time Carmichael arrived, with Jones in tow.

  “I have to go,” he told the older man.

  “Good luck, Mr. Breen,” he replied,
swaying gently on his stool.

  When they reached the shop, Breen couldn’t see anyone inside. Cautiously he tried the door. It was locked.

  The hairs on his neck were prickling now. He started walking up Portobello Road, then broke into a run as he rounded the corner into Blenheim Crescent.

  When he reached the corner where he’d left Tozer to stand, she was not there. He turned on his heels and started sprinting back up to where they’d left the police car.

  “Paddy?” said Carmichael. “Where are you going?”

  Running up the pavement, Breen careened into a woman pulling a shopping basket across the pavement. The basket tipped on its wheels. A cabbage rolled out onto the pavement.

  “Oi!”

  He didn’t stop. But when he reached the small side street the police car was gone.

  Thirty-one

  And she hasn’t called in?”

  “Don’t think so,” said Jones.

  “The radio wasn’t working,” said Breen.

  “Typical.”

  “She’ll phone in,” someone said.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  The CID room was full of noise. Everybody in the station seemed to be crowding in there. “It’s been the best part of an hour already. You’d have thought she would have had time to call in by now.”

  “She’s just gone off somewhere, I expect,” said Marilyn. “You know what she’s like. She’s done it before anyway. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Breen glared at her.

  The rush-hour traffic had been torture. Even with the sirens blaring it had taken them over half an hour to crawl back to the station.

  “Jesus. You think she’s OK?”

  Bailey said, “What in heaven’s name was she doing on surveillance anyway? She’s a woman.” He looked pale.

  “She wasn’t on surveillance. It was just till backup arrived.”

  “A plonk on a stakeout?” said Jones. “For God’s sake.”

  “It wasn’t a stakeout,” said Breen.

  Carmichael turned to him and said, “She was doing a sight more than you ever do, Jonesy.”

  Breen was surprised by Carmichael coming so strongly to Tozer’s defense. Breaking the brief silence that followed, Carmichael said, “What are we going to do, then?”