She's Leaving Home (22 page)

“Bugger off.”

“Mind you don’t spill your tea, love.”

When they’d gone, she said, “Any luck with your man in the fire?”

“He was a dosser, Wellington reckons. So does Prosser.”

“What’s Prosser got to do with it?”

“Bailey put us both on to it. Trying to knock our heads together, I think.”

“Prosser’s still mad at you, you know. He came into the section house last week calling you a…name.”

“What name?”

“A prick, if you want to know.”

Breen smiled. “I hardly see him. He’s never around. Always off on some business. I don’t ask.”

“He’s been visiting his son, I expect. He’s not been well.”

“His son? I didn’t know…”

“A spastic. He don’t talk about it, but everyone knows. He pays for him and everything. His wife looks after him. His ex, I mean. He’s still got the police flat, though. I don’t think he’s told them. That way he keeps it to himself.”

“I never knew.”

She nodded. He put his foot on the next step up.

“What about the girl?” she asked.

“Nothing new. Sometimes these things just grind to a halt.”

“I know.” The hardness in her face again.

“Of course.”

They both stood there, waiting for the other to move on. Police-men and -women came and went up the stairs. “It’s an awful shame. Do you think her father did it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t suppose we ever will.”

“That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? Well,” she said. “My tea will be getting cold, sir.”

“Yes,” he said, and went on his way, up the stairs. When he got to the office he kicked himself for not having the balls to invite her to come to Ezeoke’s party. In case she said no.

Not knowing where to go next with Morwenna Sullivan, he concentrated on the unidentified man, walking around the building sites in the neighborhood where the body was found. “You want to come?” he asked Prosser.

“No. You’re OK.”

“Everything OK with you?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

“I heard your son was ill.”

“Mind your own fucking business,” said Prosser.

Not for the first time, London was being built by the Irish. The men Breen met on building sites were young and muscular, still brown from a summer under the English sun.

“No. No one gone missing from here,” they’d say automatically, not meeting his eye.

They were nervous of the police, unwilling to talk. Only when he told them he was trying to find the identity of a dead man did they start to open up.

“Anyone gone missing?” said a young man from County Offaly. “Sure. We’ve all gone missing—haven’t we, boys?”

As a teenager he’d asked his dad for summer jobs working on the building sites. His father had always refused. He hadn’t wanted him mixing with these men.

He was standing at the bottom of a block they were creating as part of the new Abbey Estate. A tower of concrete rose upwards; a spine onto which the flats were being attached, like ribs to a backbone.

“Is there anyone from this site who’s been missing since October the second?” he repeated, above the churn of a cement mixer.

Heads were scratched. The workforce was often a fluid one. Men would leave if they received a better offer from another foreman. Or they would simply disappear.

“Joey, maybe.”

“No, Joey was in yesterday. He had busted his toe,” said a man with a voice that sounded much like Breen’s father’s. “That’s why he’d gone a bit quiet.”

“Are you a Kerry man?”

“God sakes no. I’m from Cork.”

“Close.”

“That’s libelous talk.” The man’s smile showed broken teeth. High above them a crane dangled a great wing of precast concrete.

“Detective Sergeant Breen. Is that an Irish name?”

“My father was from Tralee.”

“And you’re a policeman now? Oh God. There’s hope for us all.”

He wanted to say his father had been a builder too. Instead he asked, “How big is this one going to be?”

“Eighteen floors,” said the man. “Four flats on each floor. Seventy-two homes on as much land as it takes to keep a horse.”

“If it was you, Spanky, you’d take one of those flats and keep a horse in it too, I expect.”

“Now how would I get it in the lift?”

“What about Paudie?” said another voice.

“You could lure it in with a lump of sugar.”

“Paudie? No. He’s working over Hammersmith this week, I believe.”

“Working? When did they start to call what Paudie did work?”

“It would have to be a fuckin’ big lump of sugar to get a horse into that tiny lift.”

“Is it a missing man you’re after looking for?”

“We have found some remains of a man. We can’t identify him.”

“God there. That’s no good.”

“Poor bastard.”

Breen nodded.

“And you think it may be an Irishman?”

“Maybe.”

“Why not? The odds are great, I would say.”

The Cork man took off his red woolen hat and rubbed his thinning hair. “The unfortunate truth of it is, nobody would really mind a fuck if any of us went missing, ’cept for the publicans,” and he spoke with such a sudden sadness in his voice that all the big men around him were quiet for a second.

Until one of them said, “Speak for yourself, you cunt.” And they all started laughing again, louder than before, as if they were all really having a great time.

For a while he stayed there and watched the crane swing the huge hunks of concrete skywards. He wished he had asked his father which buildings he had made. It would have been good, seeing them still standing and knowing that his father had built them.

That night he pulled out his father’s address book. It had lain untouched for the last couple of years in the drawer beside his bed. It was a small one, the black leather worn and cracked, bought from Boots years ago. His father had been a quiet man; he had not had many friends. Though he had worked with them on the building sites, he had not liked the younger Irishmen who had arrived in waves in the ’50s. He had thought them too loud and wild.

The entries were made in his neat, elaborate handwriting, learned in some small schoolhouse in Kerry. Some names, those with whom he’d lost touch or who had died, had been crossed out. A couple of those Breen recognized he copied into his address book; his handwriting was so different from his father’s.

T
here was a crowd pulsing around a light gray Bentley. A surge of people trying to get close to the man at the center of the crowd. A burst of flashbulbs going off as a young man with long hair lifted his head a fraction. A babble of voices.

He spotted Tozer on the stairs leading up to the front entrance and pushed his way through the crowd towards her.

“This is horrible,” she shouted above the racket.

A ring of police helmets showed above the rest of the crowd. Somewhere in the middle was the pop star, making his way slowly to the waiting vehicle, a tiny dark-haired woman in a fur coat that made her look even smaller clinging to him.

“Do you feel you’ve let your fans down, John?”

“Were you set up?”

“John?”

“Down with the pigs!”

It was a short walk from the steps down to the waiting vehicle, but the police could not get through.

“Over here, John.”

“Since leaving your wife, have things fallen apart for you?”

Men in macs with notebooks pressed forward against the flow. Others holding Leicas and Hanimexes above head height were hoping to snatch a photo.

“Come on now, give us some room.”

Cars slowed to watch the goings-on. Others, behind them, honked, trying to get past. Idle passersby craned necks.

“John! We love you!”

“What a farce,” said Tozer.

They stood on the steps of Marylebone Magistrates’ Court, looking down on the crowd. Breen hadn’t been able to squeeze into the courtroom it was so full. Tozer had been there early and seen it all.

“What did he get?” Breen shouted in Tozer’s ear.

“Magistrate fined him one hundred and fifty, plus twenty guineas costs.”

“Not much, then. Carmichael must be hopping mad. And Pilcher too.”

“They were. Should have seen their faces. Here he is now.”

Carmichael came out of the courtroom looking sullen. “All right, Paddy?” A group of fans stood on the steps near them, teary-eyed.

“His girlfriend had a miscarriage on account of all this,” said Tozer.

“What’s that?” said Breen.

“They said it in court. That Japanese girl Lennon is going out with. She had a miscarriage because she was so upset by it all.”

“Her fault for hanging around with a druggie, then,” said Carmichael.

“He looks smaller in real life, doesn’t he?” someone said.

“He looks scared silly.”

“Pilcher just wanted to nail him, that’s all.”

Carmichael looked at Tozer. “He broke the law, darling.”

“She lost her bloody baby, they said.”

“He’s a pop star. He’s got millions of pounds. He drives a bloody Rolls-Royce for God’s sake. People like him would say anything to get off. People like him…It’s one law for him, another for the rest of us.” Breen had never seen Carmichael so angry.

There was a bunch of fans still trying to get close to Lennon. Breen pointed at them. “Who are they?”

“That lot? They’re the scruffs,” said Tozer, craning her neck.

“Scruffs? Who are the scruffs?”

“They go round everywhere. Camp out on their doors. Rich daddies, mostly.”

“You couldn’t tell by looking at them, though.”

Breen looked back towards them. They were the ones wearing sheepskin coats and screaming, “John!”

The pop star had made it to the car now. They were struggling to close the door behind him. The car started moving through the crowd even before the door was properly closed.

A girl in a Doctor Zhivago coat leaned forward and kissed the glass of the window.

“He’s spoken for, love.”

“Stupid cow.”

The Bentley moved slowly through the crowd until it was free of them, and as soon as it was gone, merging with the traffic on Marylebone Road, people started to move on.

“There,” said Tozer. She dug into her handbag and pulled out a photo. It was the photo of the three prizewinners that Tozer had brought from the Beatles Fan Club.

“It’s Penny Lane. Look.”

Breen took the photo out of her hands. He looked at the photo of the three girls. “This why you came?” he shouted over the noise.

“Partly.”

He could feel his face break out into a grin. She had not given up on the girl either. By the time he looked back at the girls who had been pressed against the car, the one from the photo was now walking past with two friends. Tozer was right; it was the girl in Miss Pattison’s photograph.

“Excuse me,” Breen called out to them.

“What?” The girl must have been about seventeen. She was long-haired and wore a lot of eye makeup.

“I just want to ask you something. I’m a policeman.”

“Go away,” she said and walked on, her two friends beside her. They all dressed the same. All three wore sheepskin coats; each carried a large, bulging, cloth shoulder bag. One had a camera around her neck.

“No. Wait.”

He walked after them, but they walked faster.

“Please. I just want to ask you some questions.”

The three girls broke into a run, shoes clattering on the Marylebone paving. Breen sped up too, almost enjoying loosening the muscles for the first time in months. The girls barged their way out of the crowd, down the pavement.

“Penny Lane!” called Tozer.

Breen soon lost sight of them, but he could tell from the startled expressions on pedestrians’ faces that they weren’t far ahead. The girls all wore sandals with big heels. He would catch them easily as they wove their way through the crowd.

He caught them up faster than he thought he would. The one who’d called herself Penny Lane stood with her friend at the corner of Balcombe Street next to the fallen body of a third girl. She was lying on her back, eyes wide, panting and whimpering.

Breen pushed past the other two and knelt down. A crowd of shocked pedestrians stood on the pavement watching, doing nothing. The driver of a Peugeot 204 pulled up in the middle of the traffic said in a loud voice, “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Where did the car hit you?”

“Leg.”

He took her hand. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

“Get off her,” screamed Penny Lane, kneeling down beside him, trying to push him away.

“It’s all right,” said a woman’s voice. “He knows what he’s doing. She needs looking after.” Breen looked up. Constable Tozer had followed and was leaning down beside them.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” Breen asked.

The girl did, but burst out crying from the pain. She clenched Breen’s hand hard. Mascara dribbled down the side of her face.

Tozer always seemed to have a handkerchief on her. She handed it to the girl, who took it with her free hand and scrunched it into her eyes.

“Get an ambulance,” said Breen to the man in the Peugeot. “I think she’s broken her leg.”

The man, who wore a sports coat and a tweed cap, hesitated a second, about to object, then walked off. Traffic was backing up on the main road now, horns starting to sound. Someone offered a coat. They laid it over the girl.

“Don’t worry,” said Tozer, kneeling down beside her. “It’ll be all right.”

“Don’t worry, Carol,” repeated the other girl. Short curly hair, face rounder than Penny’s.

“Why did you run?” Breen asked the girl who’d just spoken. “I only wanted a chat.”

“My bloody leg,” whispered the injured girl, through pale lips.

“’Cause you’re police. Obviously.”

Breen nodded.

“Hospital’s only just over the road,” said Tozer. “Ambulance will be here any sec. Detective Sergeant Breen here knows the place well. He’s in there so often they give him Green Shield Stamps. Swears by it.”

“Back again? You’re a liability, you are.”

Breen recognized the nurse who had been there when they had set his shoulder.

“Not me this time.” He thumbed backwards towards the side room where the injured girl was being treated.

“What’s she mean?” asked the girl with the short curly hair.

“Detective Sergeant Breen was recently injured in the line of duty,” said Tozer.

“Serves him bloody right.”

“You didn’t have to run. He only wanted to ask you a question.”

“He didn’t have to chase us. Are we in trouble?” The girls huddled together, leaning against each other.

“No.”

“Don’t say anything, Fi.”

The injured girl was being examined by a doctor while they waited outside, sitting on hard plastic seats.

“What was the question?”

“Shut up,” said the other girl.

“Who’s your favorite Beatle?” said Tozer. She took out a packet of Polos.

“You chased us to ask us that?”

“Go on. Who’s your favorite?” She unwrapped the mints and offered them to the girls. They both shook their heads.

“I wouldn’t tell her. She’s a copper.”

Tozer laughed. “Don’t tell me then.”

“George,” said Penny Lane.

“Mine too,” said Tozer.

“Really?”

“You like George?”

“Yes. Detective Sergeant Breen here is a Paul McCartney man. Mint, sir?”

“Never,” said the curly-haired one, who seemed to be called Fi.

“No. I really do like George.”

“Fibber.”

“Test me.”

The girl bit her nails for a second, then asked, “What was the first song George ever wrote for the Beatles?”

“‘Don’t Bother Me.’ It was on
With the Beatles
.”

A pause, then the girl with short hair whispered something in the other’s ear.

“Come on. I’m waiting.”

More whispering, until: “Who played banjo on the soundtrack disc he’s just released?”

“Peter Tork from the Monkees. Rubbish, in’t it?”

“Yeah.” The girls both laughed.

The short-haired one said, “I been to George Harrison’s place.”

“You never. Inside?”

“Have so. He invited us in one time when we were outside and it was weeing down. He’s nice. He made us tea.”

“What’s it like?”

“Fabulous. He had a chair that hung from the ceiling.”

“You lucky cow.”

The girl smiled. She nodded at Breen. “He really a Paul McCartney fan?” she asked.

Breen shrugged. Tozer wrinkled her nose. “Not really, no.”

“Thought not. He’s a square.”

“Hear that, sir? You’re a square.”

Breen said, “You quite done now?” But he was smiling at her when he said it.

“You won that ‘Hey Jude’ competition that the Beatles Fan Club ran,” Tozer said to the girl with the long hair. “Penny Lane.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know that?”

Tozer pulled out the photograph of the three winners again. “Miss Pattison gave me this. I tried to find you at the address you gave. That squat. But the people there said you don’t live there anymore.”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “That dump was horrible. The toilets don’t work.” Then, “Oh my Christ. This is about Morwenna, isn’t it?”

Breen reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the photo of Morwenna Sullivan. “You recognized this picture when you visited the Beatles Fan Club, didn’t you?”

The girl took the picture and stared at it, then looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”

Breen turned to the other short-cropped girl, Fi.

“What about you? Did you know her?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

They were suddenly quiet again. Nurses walked briskly past in sensible shoes on the work-gray lino.

“You see,” said Breen, “Morwenna was murdered last month. Possibly by her own father. We don’t know why. We’re trying to find out. If you can tell us anything at all, it would be really helpful.”

“God.”

“God.”

And they held each other’s hands, squeezing them tight.

Eventually the one who’d called herself Penny Lane said, “Well, we knew her, yes. But not that well.”

“She was just around a couple of times.”

“Quite a few times.”

“When you said she was around,” said Breen, “around where?”

“The Apple shop mostly. And EMI sometimes.”

“The Apple shop?”

“The boutique. In Baker Street,” said Tozer. “You know. That shop with the big wizardy mural thing on the corner of Paddington Street. Went bust after six months.”

“We all got some clothes when it went bust. Did you?”

“No,” said Tozer. “I was on bloody duty that day.”

“It was a bit of a riot, wasn’t it?”

“What did you get?” Tozer asked.

“I got a shirt. It was a men’s shirt. Don’t really fit me. I give it me brother but he says it’s too like what a wog would wear for him.”

Breen said, “What about the girl?”

“She was just around. That’s all.”

One girl said, “She was a George girl, wasn’t she? I saw her outside George’s a couple of times, I think. You should ask Carol. She’s the number one George girl. She knows all the George fans.”

“Isn’t the girl who was knocked over just now Carol?”

“That’s Carol-John. She means Carol-George.”

“Everyone’s got their own Beatle.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s Sue-Paul and Sue-John, for instance. She’s Sue-John”—the short-haired one pointed to her friend—“because she’s a John girl.”

The girl nodded solemnly.

“Carol-George. Haven’t seen her for a bit.”

“Where’s the best place to find her?”

“Where do you think?” she asked.

“Kinfauns?” said Tozer.

The girls nodded.

“She’s always there. A bit weird if you ask me. She never goes anywhere else,” said Sue-John.

“
She’s
a bit weird? What about you? You sleep outside John and Yoko’s flat.”

“Not every night, though.” She pulled out a packet of Juicy Fruit and offered one to Tozer. She took one. “You want one?”

“Who’s Kinfaun?” asked Breen.

The girls burst out laughing.

“Kinfauns. It’s the name of a house.”

“George and Pattie’s house.”

“Pattie?”

“George’s girlfriend.”

Breen shook his head. “So, what? You just wait outside their houses?”

The girl nodded. “Or the recording studio, yes.”

“Why?”

The girls looked at him like he was from Mars.

“Because they’re the Beatles.”

A nurse emerged from the room where they were putting a plaster cast on the broken leg of the injured girl. “You lot still here?” she said.