The Kings of London (4 page)

‘Found anything?’

‘Not really,’ said Tozer. ‘Paddy? Come on. We should go.’

‘They’re going to bulldoze it with the body still in here?’

‘Reckon. It’s not safe to start digging around.’

‘What if we got one of the photographers outside to come in? Some sort of record, at least.’

‘I don’t know.’

He remembered the last time he had stayed too long in a burnt house.

‘What about trying to move the beam?’ he suggested.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Tozer. Then, ‘OK.’

Breen found a ripped curtain to wrap around it. Crouching in the gloom they found one end and tried to lean against it. It was wedged over the dead man’s thighs, crushing the empty skin.

No movement. They changed positions. Breen moved to the other side, ready to pull it towards him.

‘After three,’ said Tozer.

‘One. Two…’

They never got to three.

‘Is that gas?’ said Breen.

Tozer let go of the beam and sniffed.

‘I can’t smell nothing.’

Breen breathed in again. ‘Can’t you smell that?’

Tozer shook her head.

‘I’m sure I can smell something.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Tozer, scrambling away.

Breen paused.

‘What about the body?’

‘Bugger that,’ said Tozer. ‘If you can smell gas… Jesus. Don’t just stand there. We need to get out.’

His papers. Where were they?

‘Leave it,’ hissed Tozer.

‘No,’ said Breen, looking around, trying to remember where he had left them.

‘Bloody leave it.’

She was right. The fire was doused but there could still be embers.

‘Hurry.’

Reluctantly he followed her, stumbling out of the room, squeezing past the small space beside the wedged beam. He was just heading for the front door when he remembered: the papers were on the telephone table behind him.

Tozer looked back, holding her arm out towards him. He tried to follow her but couldn’t. Something held him back. What? He looked down and saw he had snagged his jacket on a shattered piece of stud-work.

‘Come on, Paddy,’ Tozer shouted.

Twisting his body to yank the cloth off, Breen was suddenly free.

‘’Bout time,’ said the fireman, as Breen reached the cold air outside.

‘He smelt gas,’ said Tozer.

‘I thought I did,’ said Breen. ‘I might have been wrong.’

‘Really?’ said the man nervously. Breen paused to squat down and examine the fallen front door. The lock was intact. No sign of forced entry. But the killer could have smashed a window and there would be no evidence of it now.

‘Don’t believe us, go in and see for yourself,’ Tozer was saying to the fireman. She picked up the handbag she’d left by the fallen door. ‘Fag?’

The fireman almost took one, then pulled his hand back at the last second.

Breen laid his pile of documents on the back seat. Tozer looked him over. ‘You OK? Your jacket’s ruined.’

She was right. The trousers could be mended, but there was a six-inch tear that started from one of his pockets through which you could see the the material beneath.

‘What’s that?’ said Tozer.

There was a sudden shout.

Breen stood up and looked. The coppers and the firemen were running down the path, away from the house.

‘Fire!’ At first Breen couldn’t see what they were talking about, but then a jet of flame burst through the fallen rubble just beyond the kitchen where they had been. It burned about four feet into the winter air, so brightly it turned the sky around it dark.

‘Blimey,’ said Tozer.

Breen’s heart started thumping. He felt sick.

They sat in the car for a while as the firemen ran around, shouting at each other and at the gas man.

‘What if we were still in there?’ Tozer said.

‘We weren’t.’

A rush of flame in the London air.

‘Pretty, in’t it?’

Breen nodded.

‘Not going to be much evidence left now, though,’ she said, watching the firemen working. ‘I mean, why’re they not using the hoses?’

‘Gas fire,’ said Breen. ‘No point.’ It would burn until they found some way of shutting off the gas.

Eventually Breen said, ‘Want a lift back to section house so you can get cleaned up?’

‘Suppose,’ said Tozer. ‘What if I drive?’

‘Not on your life,’ said Breen. Women police: not allowed behind the wheel. She rolled her eyes, stuck out her tongue at him, then looked away.

The drive back to the station took longer than it should have. The road was blocked with a queue of cement mixers. Even in the rain, the whole city seemed thick with concrete dust. They were building everywhere.

‘Young, wasn’t he?’

‘Not that young. Maybe twenty-eight,’ said Breen.

‘I meant, to be so independent.’

‘Family money, I’m guessing.’

Tozer tugged on the lever to tilt her seat back. ‘Will you let me help out on this one?’

‘Oh no,’ said Breen. ‘I’m not doing it.’

‘Who says?’

‘I was just the only one in when it came through. Everyone else was in late because of Prosser’s party. I’m handing it on. I’m going on holiday.’

He looked at her. She was offering him a stick of chewing gum even though she must know by now that he never accepted it.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.

‘I mean, what are you going to do on holiday?’ said Tozer, un-wrapping a Juicy Fruit for herself. ‘Go fishing?’

‘I don’t like fishing.’

‘That’s what I mean. I’m picturing you in a pair of swimming trunks lying on the beach on the Costa del Sol.’

‘I’m going to Ireland. To see where my father came from. I’ve never been.’

The laughing stopped. ‘Right. Sorry.’

Cathal Breen’s father had been a Kerryman who had eloped to England with the love of his life, a local schoolteacher. She died when Breen was only a few years old. A self-contained man, he had raised the boy alone, rarely talking about his home country. Breen had always been acutely aware of being Irish, being different, but his father never discussed his past. Only when he was old and losing his mind, the two of them alone together, did he start talking about Ireland again. Mostly gibberish. Names Breen didn’t recognise. Snatches of Gaelic. By the time Breen had reached the age when he wanted to know about the place his parents had grown up, his father was no longer able to tell him.

‘I’m glad,’ said Tozer. ‘It’ll be good for you.’

‘Tralee. It’s where he was from. I’ll hire a car. I was thinking of booking in to a hotel there for Christmas. Take a few walks, maybe.’

‘On your own?’

‘Yes.’

As long as he could remember, Christmas had been just him and his father, eating in silence. Ham usually. A chicken was too much for two to eat.

‘Impossible,’ said Inspector Bailey. ‘No.’

‘Sir?’

‘No.’

Breen had borrowed a jacket from Constable Jones to replace the one he’d ripped in the escape from the building. A blazer with silver buttons. He was taller than Jones, so the jacket was too small; it made Breen feel like a music hall comedian.

‘But, sir…’

Inspector Bailey’s office was a small rectangular room carved out of the main office floor. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, we are down two men. Sergeant Carmichael has left us for the Drug Squad and Sergeant Prosser has resigned. For no apparent reason. No great loss, but it means we’re short two men. Request refused.’

‘I’m due almost three weeks, sir.’

Bailey’s eye twitched. ‘I have just been contacted by the Home Office. The victim at the site of the gas explosion was Francis Pugh. Had you established that yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, now you know. The son of Rhodri Pugh,’ said Bailey. When Breen didn’t respond, he added, ‘Under-Secretary of State in the Home Department.’

‘A minister?’

‘Exactly.’

Breen’s heart sank. ‘What about compassionate leave, sir? With my father dying…’

‘That was three months ago, Sergeant. No.’

‘Two-and-a-half, sir…’

‘On a case like this we’ll be under a lot of scrutiny.’

Breen understood. The Home Office was in charge of the police. The dead man was the son of a senior politician.

‘It’s not my turn, sir.’

A small sniff. ‘There are no such things as turns. This is not Monopoly, Sergeant. Constable Jones will assist you.’

Constable Jones. Secondary modern boy with just three Certificates of Secondary Education, a fondness for the royal family, and a pregnant wife.

‘With Prosser and Carmichael gone, you are the longest serving officer here. I have contacted Rhodri Pugh’s people. They will wish to meet you to ensure that the case is handled with the sensitivity it requires. I hope you haven’t booked tickets or anything stupid like that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. One more thing.’ Bailey paused as if he had something difficult to say. He smoothed the sheet of blotting paper on top of his desk with the heel of his hand.

‘It’s my birthday on Tuesday,’ he said.

Breen blinked. ‘Congratulations, sir.’

‘It happens to be my sixtieth,’ said Bailey.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Breen.

A pause while Bailey pulled on his ear lobe. A slight tremble in his fingers. ‘I know I’m not always the most popular officer with the younger men,’ he said finally. ‘Probably my fault. Always a bit formal, I expect.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, sir.’

‘Don’t fib, Paddy.’

Unlike the other men in D Div, CID, Breen actually liked Bailey. Secretly, at least. The way he put the photo of his wife and children on his desk. The way he collected rainwater to feed the African violets he kept on his windowsill. The way he stuck to the rules, irritating all the younger, more impulsive coppers.

‘I don’t like to be thought of as stand-offish. My wife was planning a dinner for me at home, but I suppose there’ll be plenty of time for that when I’ve retired. So I thought maybe I should go out for a drink with my mates on the job.’

His mates on the job. The phrase sounded absurd in Bailey’s mouth. He was one of those stiff-backed men. One of those who had fought in the war. One of those who believed conformity was a sign of trustworthiness.

‘What do you think?’ asked Bailey.

‘Well, sir…’

‘You think they’ll want to come?’

‘Of course they will,’ said Breen.

‘Splendid.’ Bailey smiled. ‘I shall look forward to that, then. Perhaps you could spread the word?’

Breen hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if the invite came from you, sir?’

‘I don’t think so. Nothing formal, you see. Just a jolly evening with the lads.’

‘Right, sir.’ Breen turned to go.

‘I meant to ask,’ said Bailey. ‘Was there any talk last night about why Sergeant Prosser was leaving us?’

‘No, sir,’ said Breen. ‘Not a thing.’

‘I just wanted to get to the bottom of it, that’s all. Sergeant Prosser was a lifer.’ Breen turned to face the inspector again. ‘He was in it for the full pension. He has a family to support. People like that just don’t resign out of the blue unless something’s going on. Something is up. I want you to be my eyes and ears, Paddy.’

‘Sir?’

‘To find out why he left us so suddenly. If there’s any muck there, I need to know. Eyes and ears, Paddy.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Breen.

‘Don’t look so glum, Sergeant. I wouldn’t give this case to anyone. I hope you appreciate that. Do it well and it’ll be good for you.’

Breen down looked at his shoes. The scratches in the leather. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What’s wrong?’ said Marilyn, standing up at her desk. ‘What did Bailey want?’

Breen said nothing. He walked on straight past her to the shelves behind her desk.

‘You in a bate about something, Paddy?’

He took two old box files. They had been emptied, but they still had the names of old cases written on them. Cases that had happened long before Breen’s time here at Marylebone.

‘Paddy?’ said Marilyn again. ‘Are you OK?’

The CID room was brightly lit by neon strips that flickered occasionally. He took the box files and dropped them on his desk. Sat down. Called up the travel agency he had been talking to about his holiday. ‘What about if I went to Ireland in January instead?’ he asked.

‘After the New Year, the ferries stop sailing until Easter,’ the woman said.

Marilyn padded alongside him after he’d finished the call.

‘Anything I can do, Paddy?’

‘No thank you, Marilyn,’ he said, too loudly. ‘And my name’s not Paddy. It’s never been Paddy. It’s Cathal.’

And the room was silent for a minute. The neon buzzed a little more loudly. The thing about Marilyn was that everybody knew she was a pain sometimes, but she kept the office working. Without her there was chaos. And Breen, of all people, was never rude to her.

Finally Constable Jones said, ‘Shock, I expect. From the explosion.’

‘Jesus,’ said Breen.

A pencil rolled off a desk and clattered onto the floor, unnaturally loudly.

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Marilyn eventually. ‘Excuse me for trying to help you, Sergeant Cathal Breen.’

Breen concentrated on the pile of documents he had grabbed from Pugh’s house. He divided them into two even piles and put each into one of the two box files.

When he snapped the clip shut on the first he looked up to see everyone in the office staring at him.

He realised he was shaking. Could they see that? He ignored them, picking up the picture he had used as a tray to carry the documents out of the house, turning it over for the first time.

It was a print, but modern. Very modern. Several perfectly round black dots on a white background. The dots were three different sizes. They were spaced as if in a pattern, but what the pattern was was not easy to discern. It had been mounted in a plain white frame a little more than two foot square.

Breen held it upright on his desk and looked at it, trying to work it out.

‘What the hell’s that?’ said a voice behind him. Constable Jones.

‘A picture I took from the house in Maida Vale.’

‘Modern art?’ said Jones. He held a comb in one hand.

‘Yes.’

‘I mean, who do they think they’re kidding?’ said Jones, tugging the comb through his thick hair to try to keep his side parting in place.

Breen nodded, still looking at the picture.

‘I mean, a five-year-old could do that. Even I could do that.’

‘Even you, Jonesy,’ said Marilyn.

Jones had a cut on his face just below his left eye. A graze on the cheekbone where someone had thumped him. He’d been fighting last night. He often got into fights after a late night drinking. It was part of the fun.

Breen stared at the picture still. The dots were printed onto perspex. In the bottom left-hand corner, a signature had been etched, but Breen could not make it out. Below that a number: 14/75.

Marilyn joined them. She said. ‘You sure it’s meant to be that way up?’

Breen said, ‘Sorry I was rude, Marilyn. I’m a bit out of sorts.’

Marilyn nodded. ‘No holiday then?’ she said.

Breen shook his head.

‘That jacket would look OK on you if it was a couple of sizes bigger,’ she said. ‘Turn around.’ And she started brushing flecks of lint from the cloth, tugging at it to smooth out the wrinkles.

The box files and the print sat awkwardly on his lap on the bus home. On Kingsland Road the bus stopped, and the conductor ordered all the passengers out because the bus had changed its route.

‘Everybody off,’ the conductor said. ‘This bus don’t go nowhere.’

The passengers refused to move at first. ‘It said Stoke Newington on the front, you stupid coon.’

The West Indian just stood by the stairs, arms folded, metal ticket machine strapped to his stomach, a weary smile on his face. A wiry old man in a wool cap said, ‘I ought to smash your ugly black face in.’

The black man said nothing, still smiling. The old man quivered with anger, but after a couple of seconds moved on and stepped off the bus.

When he’d gone, the black man spat out of the bus after him.

‘Everybody off now,’ he said.

An old lady in a hairnet was struggling to pull a shopping trolley out of the luggage compartment under the stairs. The conductor moved to help her but she elbowed him aside. ‘I’ll do it myself, thank you very much,’ she said loudly, and carried on yanking at the trolley’s walking-stick handle.

There were around fifty people already queueing for the next bus and at this time of day it would be full when it arrived, so Breen decided to walk the quarter-mile home, still using the picture to balance the boxes. He passed The Scala. A poster advertised a late-night showing of
The General
; though he didn’t like modern pictures much, his father had once talked about seeing the Buster Keaton at the cinema in Killarney when he was a boy: ‘Greatest film ever made.’ Breen had never seen it.

His flat was a basement in Stoke Newington. He had moved in back when he was working at the local police station. It had given him somewhere to look after his father in the last years.

Tomas Breen had not approved of his son joining the police. He had wanted better for him. A schoolteacher like his dead mother, perhaps. Or a lawyer.

‘What you do makes you who you are,’ he had said. His father, who had dreamed of being a great writer but who had been a builder all his life.

‘People who spend time in sewers end up smelling of excrement,’ his father had said.

He placed the pile down on the steps and struggled with the lock for a minute before opening the door. He reached for the light switch, but the meter had run out.

Walking into a dark flat, he banged his shins on the boxes of his father’s possessions.

When the lights were back on he took off his clothes and set them on hangers above the bath and put on his pyjamas and dressing gown.

There was a tin of sardines already open in the fridge. There wasn’t much fresh veg on sale by this time of the year but he’d found some firm-looking tomatoes at the weekend. They weren’t very ripe but he fried them with some mixed herbs and then crushed the sardines onto the toast and put the tomatoes on top, then settled down to eat them with a glass of milk.

He spent the evening in front of the television, leafing through Francis Pugh’s documents. They were not in any particular order. A few bank statements. Some receipts. One or two letters. He owned shares that paid regular dividends. Sums of over £100 a month were paid in from an account named ‘Pugh Trust’; the estate of some rich relation, he supposed.

Breen spent a while sorting the dead man’s bank statements into their correct order. With gaps, there were just over two years’ worth.