The Kings of London Read online

  ‘What about his father? Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘God, no. I always found it rather amusing that I was sleeping with the son of a minister, but Frankie never talked about him. I don’t think they had much to do with each other, really.’

  The children came running up. ‘The lady won’t let us go on the Jet Fighter,’ complained the older boy.

  ‘I didn’t have a proper go on the merry-go-round because Oscar got off his horse and the man stopped it,’ said the younger boy.

  ‘It was boring,’ said his brother. ‘Merry-go-rounds are for girls.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said the little one. UNFAIR, thought Breen.

  ‘I miss him,’ said Mrs Hemmings. ‘He was fun. But rather like a comet whizzing past, you know.’

  ‘Can we have candyfloss? Please, Mummy, please?’

  ‘Your husband doesn’t know about…’ Breen paused. ‘The procedure?’

  She shook her head. ‘I said I was visiting my sister in Cornwall for a couple of days. What you don’t know can’t hurt you,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for him to know, is there?’

  Breen shook his head.

  Afterwards, walking back to the car with Tozer, Breen said, ‘She said she didn’t mind he slept with other women.’

  ‘Why’s that so strange? It would be a little hypocritical of her, wouldn’t it?’ said Tozer.‘So did you ask her out, then?’

  ‘What do you think I am?’

  ‘I bet she’d have said yes. You could have been her bit of rough on the side.’

  ‘Lay off. For a start, she’s a suspect, in theory.’

  Battersea Bridge looked rusty and tired. It could do with a lick of paint.

  ‘Her?’ said Tozer. ‘I don’t know. Doesn’t look like a woman did it, to me.’

  Breen asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just because.’

  She had her own way of thinking, Breen knew. She had had more reason than most to think about what sort of person it took to kill another. Her sixteen-year-old sister had been raped, and stabbed to death. Left under a pile of twigs and leaves.

  ‘I thought you said you were good with children.’

  ‘They weren’t kids. They were nightmares. I’m OK with most kids. Spoilt little brats. “Please, Mummy, please.” ’ They were at the car now. Tozer kicked at the rear wheel a couple of times, like a child herself.

  They met Jones back up at Marlborough Place. The door-to-doors were proving a waste of time. People in houses with large gardens made a point of not knowing each other’s business.

  He walked with Jones and Tozer round to Abbey Gardens, the houses that backed on to Marlborough Place. ‘Nothing here, neither,’ said Jones. ‘I tried already. No point.’

  ‘I’ll just take a look.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  Breen said, ‘It’s just worth looking again, sometimes. That’s all.’ Jones was like a puppy, always wanting reassurance.

  There were two girls in school uniform sitting on a wall halfway down the road. Breen recognised the uniform as St Marylebone’s. They had their white shirts untucked and wore their ties fat. ‘Why aren’t they in school?’ asked Jones after they’d passed them.

  ‘Why not ask them?’ said Tozer.

  ‘That’s your job,’ said Jones.

  ‘Go on,’ said Breen.

  ‘God’s sake,’ muttered Tozer, turning back. She got out her cigarettes and went to offer the girls one.

  Abbey Gardens was a terrace of four-storey Victorian houses. It was less well-to-do than the houses on Marlborough Place. Most had been divided into flats. Because it was an unbroken terrace it was hard to judge which house backed on to the dead man’s garden, but Jones said he reckoned it was the squat.

  ‘Squat?’ said Breen.

  ‘There,’ said Jones. ‘Bunch of funny buggers.’

  It was a house like all the others, except that the small front garden was overgrown and the white paint on the stone around the windows was peeling. The ground-floor window had been boarded up; the boards were painted with large imaginary flowers and vines to make it look like a Rousseau jungle. The curtains of the window above the front door were a Chinese communist flag that must have been nailed to the top of the frame. On the door somebody had painted in big, bubbly letters, ‘The Paradise Hotel’. At the bottom of the door in yellow paint: ‘Marylebone Arts Lab. Volunteers wanted. Free yourself.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Breen.

  ‘Scum,’ said Jones. ‘See what I mean?’

  Breen pressed the front doorbell, but it made no sound. He waited a few seconds, then thumped on the large wooden door with the side of his fist.

  Nobody came. ‘They won’t let you in, even if they do answer. Called me a pig. Come outside and I’d teach them a lesson.’

  ‘Like you did to that guy in the cells, other night?’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Jones. ‘That was his own fault. He was picking on a woman.’

  ‘A bit like your dad?’

  Jones looked at him, a sneer on his lips. ‘What you on about? You trying to play the big psychologist?’

  Breen stood back, and as he did so the red flag twitched. Somebody was watching them. He knocked on the door again, then knelt down to call through the letterbox, but the flap was nailed shut.

  ‘Police,’ he cried.

  A sash above them rattled open. ‘Morning,’ said a voice. A bearded face emerged from the window, peering down at them. ‘Back again?’ His long dark hair hung down like a curtain around his head.

  Breen craned his head upwards. ‘We’d like to talk to you about a murder.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said the man.

  Breen knew it was going to be like this. ‘Can we come in?’ he asked.

  The man pretended to think for a moment. ‘Er…’ He frowned, pursed his lips, then said brightly, ‘No.’ Breen could hear people tittering behind him.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Jones. Then shouted up, ‘Let us in, or we’ll arrest you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Obstructing the police.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ said Breen.

  ‘We’re all in charge,’ said the man quietly.

  ‘Profound,’ said Jones. ‘Let us in, or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’ muttered Breen quietly. ‘We’ll call the police?’

  ‘Or else,’ replied Jones.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the man, before pulling his head back in and closing the window.

  ‘Bastard,’ said Jones. ‘Want me to bash in the door? I don’t mind.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ shouted Breen.

  ‘What’s yours?’ The same head reappeared.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cathal Breen.’

  ‘I’m Jayakrishna.’

  ‘See?’ said Jones. ‘They don’t even tell you their proper names. Just made-up crap.’

  ‘Would you at least come to the door and talk, Mr Jaya…’

  ‘… Krishna,’ said the man. ‘I’m fine here, thanks.’ A woman squeezed her head through the window next to the man and peered down at them.

  Breen said, ‘I want to ask about last Thursday night. The night of the explosion.’

  ‘And?’ said the man who called himself Jayakrishna.

  ‘Did you see or hear anything suspicious that night?’

  ‘A bloody big bang.’

  The woman giggled. It wasn’t the one Breen had looked at from Pugh’s garden. This woman had shorter, darker hair.

  ‘Mind your language,’ said Jones.

  ‘I mind your language,’ said the man.

  Another giggle.

  Breen said, ‘Did you know the man who lived there?’

  ‘I know he has moved on to a different existence.’

  Breen looked down at his shoes. His neck was aching from looking upwards. He sighed and looked up again. Jayakrishna was smiling back down at him. ‘Before that,’ Breen said.

  ‘No. Is that all?’

  Lat
er, as they were walking away back to Marlborough Place with Tozer, Breen said, ‘It’s this tiresome assumption that they’re enlightened, and everything from our generation is still in the Dark Ages.’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ said Tozer. ‘Looks like it from my point of view.’

  Breen looked at her briefly, but her expression didn’t change. For a woman who wore miniskirts, got drunk and kissed coppers, she had a bleak view of the world. Not surprisingly.

  Jones said, ‘Enlightened, my bum. I should come back here when it’s dark. They’d see who was enlightened then. I mean, how can they live like that? You can smell the damp in the place. We’re building all these new homes and they chose to live in a slum.’

  ‘What about the schoolgirls?’ Breen asked Tozer.

  ‘They said they had a free period at school. Only they changed their mind sharp enough when I said I was going to call their school to check. Know what they said? They said a body had been found in the house in Marlborough Place with its knob cut off.’ Tozer offered Jones a cigarette. Breen shook his head. ‘Only saying what they said. They heard it had been cut off and stuffed up his bum.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Breen. ‘Where did they hear that?’

  ‘Outside EMI studios. That’s what all the girls who hang around outside were saying.’

  ‘So much for avoiding scandal,’ said Breen.

  ‘What?’ said Jones. ‘Did they really cut off his prick?’

  ‘No,’ said Breen. ‘Didn’t you read the report?’

  Jones shook his head.

  The longer it took to solve this, Breen thought, the more likely it was to blow up in their faces.

  Tozer stopped at the corner. ‘Maybe if I go back there on my own?’

  ‘Go back where?’

  ‘To the squat. They’d probably let me in, wouldn’t they? On my own?’

  ‘Worth a try,’ said Breen.

  ‘You’re bloody joking, aren’t you?’ said Jones. Breen stopped and knelt to do up a shoelace. When Tozer was a few yards ahead, Jones hissed, ‘She can’t do undercover.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be undercover. She’d just be taking a look.’

  ‘She’s a plonk, God’s sake, Paddy.’

  ‘Which means they probably think she’s just as much of a joke as you do,’ said Breen. ‘So maybe they’ll actually talk to her.’

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t hear that,’ said Tozer.

  When they arrived back at the office Oliver Tarpey was sitting at Breen’s desk. Breen raised his eyebrows at Marilyn, but she was on a phone call. She cupped her hand over the receiver and said, ‘I told him he could wait downstairs but he said you wouldn’t mind. And I’ve got a caller for you. She won’t give her name.’

  Breen strode across the office and picked up the phone on his desk. Tarpey didn’t stand, so Breen had to stand by the desk with the phone by his ear. It was Mrs Hemmings. ‘I spoke to Robert Fraser. He’s not happy, but he’ll agree to meet you. This evening.’ She gave the address of a restaurant called Seed.

  ‘Seed?’

  ‘Yes. As in Onan.’

  ‘What?’ said Breen.

  ‘In the Bible. The poor fellow who was killed for spilling his seed on the ground. Quite appropriate, in Robert’s case.’ Mrs Hemmings hung on to the phone a little longer. Eventually she said, ‘I want you to understand. I’m only doing this because it was Frankie. Whatever it was that happened, he didn’t deserve it. I know you don’t think I’m very nice. But he was.’ And then she put the phone down on him.

  ‘Afternoon,’ said Tarpey, not getting up.

  One of the constables was one-finger typing in the corner. Nobody had taken down Carmichael’s pictures of Lee Marvin that were Sellotaped to the wall. The dust lay thick on top of a row of reference books and manuals. Marilyn was chattering on the phone. Through an outsider’s eyes, Breen saw, the CID room might not look impressive.

  ‘Do you have somewhere private we could talk?’ asked Tarpey.

  Breen looked into Bailey’s small office. It was empty. Breen guessed Bailey wouldn’t mind. He opened the door. ‘Can you make a cup of tea, Marilyn?’

  She had picked up the phone again. She mouthed, ‘I’m on a call.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Tarpey. He picked up a pigskin briefcase and followed Breen into the small room. Tarpey looked around. ‘Violets,’ he said. ‘My mum used to keep them.’ He picked up a small metal watering can and dribbled a little water into one of the pots. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Jealous husband or a woman spurned?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Breen.

  ‘But it is a possibility?’

  ‘Of course. Will you be expecting updates like this regularly?’

  ‘If they’re no trouble,’ said Tarpey. He took a potted plant and sat in Bailey’s chair with it. ‘We’d really like to know.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr Breen. I know you think I’m interfering, but Rhodri Pugh is a very decent man who clawed his way up from nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ He put the plant pot on the desk and slowly turned it around. ‘You’re a Londoner. I don’t suppose you’ve been to Wales much, have you?’

  Breen shook his head. ‘Never.’

  ‘We’re very proud,’ said Tarpey. ‘We are proud our Member of Parliament holds office. We need people like him. He represents the legitimate aspirations of the ordinary working man. Like myself. Like you, as well, Mr Breen. Politically, we Welsh are a progressive people. In other ways we are quite traditional. Or rather, we are men of principle. Frankie was a handful. He was a Londoner, not a Welshman. Like so many of today’s younger men, he didn’t share his father’s values. He was only interested in himself, not in the greater good. I always found that very sad. That’s a personal matter, however. But, if it were to affect Mr Pugh’s reputation, especially back home, I would be concerned.’ He turned and replaced the plant on Bailey’s windowsill.

  Breen sat down in the chair opposite Tarpey. ‘We’re not sure how he was killed. Suffocated, possibly. The skin was then peeled from his arms and legs. His body was then bled.’

  Tarpey frowned. ‘Definitely after he died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He touched the tips of his long fingers together. ‘Sounds like the work of a lunatic.’

  Breen said, ‘That’s what the police surgeon thinks. Some sort of ritual mutilation.’ He looked at Tarpey. A well-groomed sort. A well-cut suit for a Labour Party man. ‘All I know is they removed the skin and the blood for a reason. I don’t know what reason.’

  ‘Because they were insane, presumably?’

  ‘Why did they leave the gas on? I think they were assuming that the explosion would mutilate Mr Pugh’s body enough so that it wouldn’t be obvious what they had done to him. So what happened to his arms and legs is important. It’s not just a random act.’

  ‘But that’s just a guess?’

  ‘If you want to put it that way,’ said Breen. ‘You realise that the longer we take to solve this, the more likely there are to be rumours about the death? They’re already starting. And in the absence of information about who he mixed with, there’s no guarantee we can make headway.’

  Tarpey sighed. ‘I understand your argument. But shining a spotlight on Frankie’s… style of life. It’s a risk we can’t take.’

  Breen tugged at the knee of his trousers, then looked Tarpey in the eye. ‘If you are holding back any information about Francis because you think it might harm his father’s reputation, you’re only making it more likely that this whole thing will blow up in his face.’

  ‘Believe me, we want this wrapped up as much as you do.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to his solicitor and his doctor,’ said Breen. ‘They were helpful but told me nothing that I couldn’t have guessed already.’

  His doctor had been a Harley Street man. Vague, hand-wringingly sincere, uninformative. He had only been Francis Pugh’s doctor for a few months. ‘Frightfully sorry… Barely knew the man…’ Another blank.

  Breen said, ‘We ju
st don’t know enough about Francis Pugh. We have no idea of his movements in the week up to his death. None at all. We don’t know who his friends were. He was paying for everything in cash so we have no idea of where he was and who he was visiting. It’s extremely frustrating. At this stage, we have no idea why. The simplest thing for us would be for the case to be in the papers. That would give the people who knew him, who cared about him, the chance to come forward.’

  Tarpey said, ‘As his father said, that’s a very last resort. We really don’t want that to happen. We are happy to put you in touch with anyone we can. And of course I will be in regular contact myself.’ He stood, holding his hand out for Breen to shake.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Breen.

  ‘Would you like me to stay longer?’ replied Tarpey, eyebrows raised.

  After Tarpey had left, Marilyn knocked on Bailey’s door. ‘You look like you swallowed a lemon. ‘Who was that woman calling earlier who wouldn’t give her name, anyway?’

  Breen looked up from the notes he’d been making.

  ‘Just a friend of Francis Pugh’s.’

  She smiled. ‘And there was I, thinking you’d got yourself a girl-friend,’ she said.

  TWELVE

  It was in the basement of an old hotel on Westbourne Terrace. Under the restaurant’s name, hand-painted, the words ‘Organic & Macrobiotic’. Breen stood looking at it for a second or two, puzzled.

  He descended the stone steps and peered into the room. He could see by the light of paper lanterns that it was already half full of young people. He looked around. Nobody appeared old enough to be a gallery owner.

  ‘Is there a Mr Fraser here?’ he asked the young man in jeans who seemed to be in charge.

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘A table for two, then.’

  ‘Sit where you like…’ The man gestured. ‘We don’t book tables.’

  The tables were giant cable-reels, lying on their side. Around them were arranged giant cushions covered in Indian cloths on which the diners sat, cross-legged.

  There was only one of the tables left without any diners round it, so Breen lowered himself onto one of the cushions and scanned the menu. It was less of a list of what you could buy, more of a manifesto: