The Kings of London (19 page)

‘Let’s not talk shop, hey?’ said Tozer. ‘I want to get drunk. Only two weeks left and then I’m gone.’

Two weeks, thought Breen, and then she’d be gone.

He turned to Carmichael. ‘So how would I go about finding out who was selling Pugh drugs?’

Marilyn barged in and leaned over to give Breen a kiss on the cheek. ‘We missed you, Paddy.’

‘Only been two days,’ said Breen.

Marilyn leaned forward with a hanky and started scrubbing at the lipstick she’d just left on Breen’s cheek.

Carmichael said to Tozer, ‘Let’s get a move on then. We’ll miss our table.’ He lifted his glass and poured the drink down his throat.

Carmichael grabbed Breen’s arm as he stood up to leave with Tozer. ‘I’ll ask around. No promises though.’

‘Thanks,’ said Breen, and he watched the two of them leave.

By half past eight, Marilyn had drunk four double Bacardi and Cokes on an empty stomach and said she wanted another. She disappeared to the Ladies when Jones sat down next to him and said, ‘I think she was hoping it was just the two of you.’

‘Don’t be nasty.’

‘Because she fancies you. Everybody knows that.’

‘She doesn’t. She’s got a boyfriend.’

‘All the women like you, Paddy. Just tell me what I should say to my missus. Since she’s been pregnant life’s been no fun.’

‘Jonesy’s pissed,’ said a copper.

‘Good to see you, though. You coping OK?’ Jones slung his arm around Breen’s shoulder as if they were the oldest friends in the world.

The pub was full. People standing shoulder to shoulder. Pints spilt on the carpet. The publican barged round with a galvanised bucket to empty the ashtrays into, wiping them with a filthy bar cloth.

‘You should go home,’ said Breen. ‘Spend a bit more time with your wife.’

A couple started dancing in the corner, if you could call it dancing. The man was moustachioed and wore a blue jacket that was at least a size too big for him, the woman in a polka-dot dress. He was drunk, dragging her around a small empty space on the floor. She was reluctant, laughing, trying to push him away. A couple of onlookers cheered. ‘Go on,’ they shouted. ‘Give us a twirl.’

Jones was saying, ‘I’d like to smash his bloody face in.’

‘Who?’

‘My dad of course.’

Another of the constables came over and offered Breen a drink. ‘Suspended on full pay. That’s worth a celebration,’ he said.

The constable sat next to Breen. ‘Terrible thing about Michael Prosser,’ he said. ‘I bet it was his missus.’

‘Who’s saying that?’

‘I bet you. That’s all. A copper’s instinct. I’m not even in bloody CID and I can tell a mile off.’

‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Breen. ‘I know for a fact she can’t have done it.’ Though he didn’t want to explain why he she couldn’t have: he’d have had to explain that he was out with her.

‘Keep your hair on, Paddy. OK, if it wasn’t her, who was it?’

‘Bloody hell. Look at the state of her.’

All eyes went to the door from the public bar. A woman from behind the bar had one hand round Marilyn and was guiding her through the crowd.

‘She had locked herself in,’ said the barmaid. ‘I had to break down the door. Landlord is hopping.’

Marilyn’s mascara had run down her face and her eyes were puffy. ‘I don’t feel well,’ said Marilyn.

‘Almost killed my shoulder doing it. Landlord’s calling a taxi.’

‘Something I ate,’ said Marilyn.

‘Wasn’t nothing you ate ’cept rum and Coke,’ said the constable.

Sorrowful Marilyn, beehive crooked, one of her earrings missing.

‘You’ve got something on your top,’ said Breen.

The barmaid looked down too. ‘God, Marilyn. You sicked on me.’

‘Wasn’t on purpose,’ said Marilyn, flopping down on the bench seat next to Breen. She pressed hard against him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoiled it all.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Breen.

‘Do you mean that, though?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘You’re really nice,’ said Marilyn. She wrapped herself around his right arm.

The copper who he’d been speaking to said, ‘Oi, oi,’ and winked.

‘She’s just a bit drunk, that’s all,’ said Breen.

‘Really nice,’ she said.

‘We’ll put you in a taxi and take you home to your boyfriend,’ said Breen.

‘What you want to do that for?’ slurred Marilyn. Then, ‘He says he wants to marry me.’ She leaned in closer, leaning her head against his arm.

‘You’re well in there, mate,’ mouthed the copper, winking.

‘I don’t love him.’ She smiled lopsidedly.

‘Come on. We’ve got to get you home.’

Outside the air was cold. A frost was settling across the street. The taxi driver was an elderly man with big ears and a flat cap who said, ‘I’m not taking her in my cab. She’ll throw up in it and then I’ll be off half the night cleaning it.’

Breen held up his warrant card and said, ‘You’ll take her or there’ll be trouble.’

‘What’s he do?’ They were walking from the station in Borehamwood. The town sat on the edges of London, like a timid rabbit waiting to be swallowed whole.

‘Quantity surveyor. Works for the GLC and stuff.’

‘Quantity what?’

‘It’s like an accountant for builders.’

The pavement was half built, disappearing into mud. A road still in the making.

‘Any idea why this quantity whatsit is not answering his phone?’

‘Holiday, perhaps.’

‘Nobody goes on holiday this time of year.’

‘I tried.’

‘Exactly.’

They had to ask directions three times to find the house. The new streets didn’t have signs yet. It was a place that didn’t know what it was. Johnny Knight’s home turned out to be a new house about ten minutes’ walk from the station. Modern, flat roof and white wood fascia boarding. Big glass windows and sliding doors. Very cool. Very with it.

‘Who’d want to live here?’ said Tozer. ‘The suburbs. It’s not here and it’s not there either.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Breen. ‘A bit of peace and quiet.’

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘You just sound even older than you are when you say things like that.’

‘
Even
older?’

A short gravel driveway, just enough to park a car on, but no car.

Breen rang the bell. A new electric chime. Two notes. Nobody answered.

Breen called, ‘Hello? Mr Knight?’

‘Maybe he’s with his sister. Wherever she’s gone.’

‘Maybe.’

A rambling rose, dark with blackspot, snagged on his jacket as he pushed past. He stopped to disentangle himself. Tozer squatted at the letterbox.

‘Wherever he’s gone, he’s been away a while. There’s a pile of post a mile high,’ she said.

Breen struggled on through to the back of the house. A row of cypresses had been planted at the back, presumably to hide the houses behind when they grew.

There were no nets on the window and a large picture window looked out onto the overgrown lawn. Breen put his forehead against the cool glass. It was a neat living room with new G Plan furniture, a revolving chair and a cream rug. A hi-fi with a Jazz Messengers disc leaning against it. A bachelor’s house. Breen imagined living in a place like this. Leaving the darkness of his basement behind.

‘There’s not been anybody in for weeks by the look of it,’ said Tozer. She joined him, head against the glass. On a coffee table there was a pile of books about art and architecture. The one at the top was called
Streets in the Sky
.

‘Very contemporary,’ said Tozer. ‘Not sure about the white carpet. I’d spill tea on it in five minutes.’

The sofa was brown with orange cushions. There was a pouffe and a big 22-inch colour TV.

Breen noticed the flies first, all huddled up in the top corner of the window. There must have been thousands of them, crammed on top of one another. His heart started to jump around in his chest.

‘So cool and light, mind you,’ Tozer was saying.

The feeling of clamminess when you know something is wrong but before you know what it is.

‘I bet he’s good-looking too. Broad shoulders. Maybe a little moustache.’

Tozer hadn’t noticed the black mass of insects yet. She was still saying, ‘The farmhouse I grew up in is like, two hundred and fifty years old. It’s so dark and poky. This is beautiful… Hey! What’s that brown thing on the carpet down there?’

Breen peered closer.

‘Oh God,’ said Tozer. ‘Is it?’

Breen said, ‘I think it is.’

‘Shit. The flies,’ she said.

In the shadow of the sofa, the body of a cat lay curled on the carpet, just skin and bones. There was a dark pool of seepage around it where the body had rotted.

Breen banged the window and the flies exploded into motion, fizzing into the air and clattering pointlessly against the glass.

Tozer jumped back, startled.

‘I hate flies,’ said Breen.

Breen found a hammer in a toolbox in the garden shed.

‘Careful, Paddy,’ said Tozer.

The glass panel in the house’s back door gave way easily and he reached inside to find the back of the Yale, snagging the sleeve of his jacket and feeling the cloth rip. Flies buzzed past him into the clean air.

‘Damn,’ he said, looking at another torn sleeve.

But the door was locked with a mortice too, so he raised his foot and kicked at the door a few times.

‘Want me to have a go?’

‘I’m fine.’ He thumped again.

‘Only saying,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s just the cat?’

‘How many weeks you think the letters have been piling up?’

‘God.’

He pushed his shoulder against the door and felt a sting of pain down his arm. He gave the door one last thump and heard the jamb start to splinter. A second thump and the wood started to shift. A third and it finally swung open.

The house smelt thick and sweet, the stench of putrefying meat. They went in cautiously. Breen took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose, but it didn’t do much to stop the smell.

The ground floor was three rooms and a kitchen.

‘Posh,’ said Tozer. ‘Downstairs lav.’

But apart from the rotting cat and the pile of letters there was nothing out of the ordinary there.

Breen led the way up the stairs. Two bedrooms, a bathroom and a study, all empty. The main bed was neatly made. There was an electric alarm clock by the bed and a book of naval history sat on the bedside table, a leather bookmark poking out of it. Not a single picture on the walls save for a pair of Churchill crown coins mounted in blue velvet. A couple of incongruous horse brasses.

Breen exhaled. ‘I thought…’

‘So did I. You wouldn’t have thought a dead cat could make such a stink.’

‘Central heating,’ said Breen. ‘That will do it, with a dead animal, I suppose.’

‘All mod cons,’ said Tozer.

They opened the cupboards. Breen took a chair and stood under the loft hatch, peering around. Flies in every window buzzing to get out, but nothing else.

He was relieved and simultaneously disappointed.

Tozer put it into words. ‘But if he’s not here, where the bogging hell is he?’

The low hum of electricity filled the study. The slick new electric typewriter was switched off but an adding machine had been left on. A fancy German model with grey and red keys. There was a large white
planning chest. When Breen opened it up it was full of drawings of flats and high-rises. Breen leafed through them. There were maps of roads too. Big curving roads on stilts that were bedded deep into the ground. One drawer was full of stationery. Breen took a couple of unused notebooks out of it.

Downstairs, Tozer had opened the picture window to let the flies and the stink of dead cat out.

‘He lived here alone, then?’

There was a silver-framed picture on the sideboard in the living room. Breen recognised Shirley Prosser in it, though she was only a girl, standing in front of a car with her parents. She was pretty, confident, untroubled. There was a younger boy standing next to her, solemn-faced and tall. Breen guessed it must be Knight. He slid the photo out of the frame.

There were a few maggots still writhing on the cat, but mostly it had been picked dry, ribs showing beneath fur. Tozer found a tea towel in the kitchen and placed it over the remains.

‘How awful. Poor little cat.’

‘I thought you were a farmer’s girl. Used to dead animals.’

‘Don’t mean people should leave them to starve. Whoever did that should be put away.’

‘I somehow think he’s beyond that.’

‘Oh,’ said Tozer. ‘I got you.’

Breen went to the hallway, picked up the post and took it into the kitchen.

‘You think he’s dead too?’

There was a single dirty cornflake bowl in the sink, a spoon and an empty mug. It was the only thing out of place in the entire house. He had had breakfast and left, leaving the washing-up until he came home. Except he hadn’t.

He opened a cutlery drawer, found a sharp knife and set about slicing open the pile of letters.

‘What are you doing?’

He tore open a letter and slipped out the contents. ‘Why don’t you go and knock on the neighbours’ doors and ask if they know anything about him and where he is?’

‘Scotland Yard are going to be hopping if they find out we’ve been through it all first.’

She watched him making piles on the table. Bank statements. Bills. Personal correspondence. ‘I’ll go then,’ she said.

The December days were short. It was dark outside by the time she returned.

‘Next-door neighbours say they haven’t seen him for weeks. Apparently they didn’t see much of him, best of times. Didn’t say boo to a goose.’

The bank statements looked very ordinary. Much like his own. The personal letters were dull, mostly cheerily stiff news from ex-army friends Knight had done National Service with. There was a single postcard from his sister Shirley, passing him her address above the record shop: ‘Been trying to call. Where are you, Johnny? I’d come and visit but you know what Charlie’s like with buses. Everything OK??? Miss you. Big sis.’

He took a cigarette, notched the packet and lit it. There was no ashtray so he put the dead match back in the box. She sat on the kitchen table kicking her legs backwards and forwards like a bored child as he patiently copied details from all of the letters into the notebooks he had taken from Knight’s drawer.

‘So,’ she said.

Breen ignored her, still writing.

‘I wonder how bored I’m going to be back on the farm. Scale of one to ten. A ten, I reckon.’

‘Can I just finish this?’

‘Sor-ry,’ she said. ‘Only it’s supposed to be my day off, remember? Not the best day out with a boy I’ve had.’

‘I’ll be done in a minute.’ He looked at a company name on a
letterhead. The company Johnny Knight had been working with at the time he disappeared. Noted the date.

‘You just take me out to a dead cat’s house.’

‘On the way back she said, ‘Are you limping?’

‘I think I’ve done something to my foot.’ His right foot hurt when he put weight on it.

‘What? Kicking in that door?’

‘Don’t laugh,’ he said.

‘Christ, Paddy. You really think this one is dead?’ She was smoking a cigarette in the darkness. The red end glowed as she walked.

‘Maybe. I think so.’

‘I mean… This is something, isn’t it? So someone’s gone and killed Michael Prosser and maybe his brother-in-law too? What’s it about?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’ve got to tell Scotland Yard about this. I mean, it’s got to be connected,’ she said.

He reached into his pocket and handed her the address book he had taken from Shirley Prosser. ‘You tell them. Call them up tomorrow. Give them this and tell them you had a hunch.’

She snorted. ‘They’re not going to believe me,’ she said. ‘ I’m just a Temporary DC.’

‘I can’t tell them, can I?’

‘I’m a girl, so I couldn’t be expected to do any of this on my own. God’s sake.’

‘It doesn’t really matter if they believe you or not. Say you came down here on your day off…’

She dropped her cigarette and paused to grind it into the pavement.

‘That’s why you asked me along, isn’t it? Because if you found anything you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I just wanted company. Honestly.’

‘Say what you like about Carmichael,’ she said, ‘but at least he takes me out for a Chinese meal.’

By the time they got to the station his foot was hurting like hell. He went to the men’s toilets and rolled up his trouser leg and pulled down his sock. There was blood, plenty of it. His big toe looked pink and swollen.