The bus back into town was full of giggling Girl Guides. They disembarked noisily at Tottenham Court Road, satchels swinging. He changed at Angel but on Sunday only a handful of buses ran. He had to wait an hour in the cold for another to take him towards Stoke Newington.
When he arrived the milk bill was lying on the mat inside the door. Door still open, he picked it up. That’s when noticed another note lying underneath, written in blue biro on the inside of a torn-up packet of Player’s No. 6.
His eyes took a while to focus on it.
Where are you? I am in London. Need to explain. It’s V V important!!
I am at the YWCA. H.
Helen? She had been here. She had been looking for him. If he hadn’t stayed at the section house last night he would have found her.
Just seeing her handwriting made him grin. She was alive and she was in London. Whatever she had done or been involved with, she had tried to seek him out.
The phone book had been propping the kitchen door open. He picked it up and flicked through until he found the Young Women’s Christian Association. They were in Portland Place.
‘All our guests have left. They have to be out by nine thirty a.m.,’ said the woman.
‘When are they allowed back in?’
‘We are not an introductions agency, sir.’
‘It’s important. I am a policeman.’
‘I can check the register for her name, but she is no longer here, sir.’
The milkman usually dropped his bill round with the Sunday delivery. Helen’s note must have been put through his door before that. Breen ran upstairs and knocked on the door.
The young woman opened the door. ‘How was the meat loaf?’ she asked. ‘Was it awful?’
‘Was there a young woman knocking on my door yesterday?’
‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ She smiled at Breen. She was dressed in an orange trouser suit and was holding a pair of crochet hooks with some wool. ‘Is she your girlfriend? Yeah, she knocked here yesterday afternoon.’
He would have been with Carmichael, in Surbiton.
‘She wanted to know where you were. She was trying to call you, she said. I wasn’t sure how I was expected to know. Did you not come home last night then?’
‘How did she look?’
She shrugged. ‘She just asked if I’d seen you. I told her to come in and wait, but she didn’t want to.’
When she’d closed the front door, Breen stood on the step for a few seconds.
Downstairs in his flat, he put on the pan for coffee and paced around the living room as he waited for it to boil.
The phone rang.
Breen ran from the kitchen, grabbing at the handset and knocking it to the floor, wrenching his bad arm as he bent to pick it up.
A pause on the line. ‘Why did you think I was…?’ It was Carmichael. ‘Have you heard from her?’
‘Yes. She left me a note.’
‘She’s in London?’
‘She was at the YWCA last night. She tried to come and see me but we were out.’
‘You should call CID now,’ said Carmichael. ‘Let them know.’
‘Why did you ring?’
‘I just wanted to say, you don’t have to go through with it tonight if you don’t want. Just because Pilcher wants you to. Fuck him, you know?’
Breen stood in front of the full-length mirror in his father’s old room dressed in the full outfit.
He felt ridiculous.
He tried one of his father’s woollen caps on to hide his hair, but it made him look even older than he felt right now. He growled at himself in the mirror. These people dressed in hand-me-downs as if they owned nothing but they were wealthier than Breen had ever been at their age.
He tried running his hand through his hair to mess it up a little, but even with a month’s growth in Devon, it still looked too orderly.
It would have to do. It wasn’t his idea, anyway.
He put on the greatcoat. It smelt of mothballs.
He looked around the cul-de-sac. He was wondering if CID had put a plain-clothes copper on surveillance in case Helen turned up, but he couldn’t spot one. Which was something at least.
Before leaving the flat, he pinned a note to his front door:
He was about to leave the cul-de-sac when he had second thoughts and returned to knock on the front door of the flat above.
The young pregnant woman opened the door again.
The first thing she did was laugh. ‘Are you going to a fancy dress?’
She had changed, now she was wearing a yellow kimono, tied just above the bump on her belly.
‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you could keep an eye out for the lady who knocked on my door yesterday. If she comes while I’m out, will you give her my spare key?’
‘Oh, my God,’ she said, hand on mouth. ‘Are you supposed to be, what, undercover?’
Breen looked away. ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
‘What are you supposed to look like?’ she said, giggling.
Breen sighed. ‘I am supposed to look like someone who would be going to a concert at Middle Earth.’
She put her head on one side. ‘This is priceless. I’ll tell you what you look like.’
‘What?’
‘A bloody copper trying to pretend to be cool. They’ll spot you a mile off.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. He held out his front door key. ‘Will you give it to her?’
‘Are you going to bust it? For drugs or something?’
‘No. Nothing like that. It’s complicated. There’s someone I need to find. Somebody who may have some evidence about a murder. And I know no one will talk to me if they think I’m a…’
‘A pig.’
‘If you like.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop laughing. You look so funny.’ She frowned. ‘Tell you what. Come on in. I can do stuff like that.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be fine.’
‘No, you won’t. You look ridiculous. Besides, it’ll be fun.’
‘Where’s your husband?’ Breen asked.
‘Boyfriend,’ she said. ‘He’s out.’
Breen hesitated on the doorstep.
‘He’ll be cool,’ she said, holding the door open. ‘Come on. I’m getting cold.’
He followed her inside, down a corridor that they had wallpapered with pages from the Beano into a living room. She scooped a magazine off one of the two huge beanbags and dropped it onto an ashtray on the floor to cover it.
‘My name’s Elfie. Short for Elfrida. What’s yours?’
When he told her, she said, ‘That’s an unusual name. Sit down. I’ll get some stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Stuff to stop you looking like an undercover narc.’
They had painted the living-room walls a dark yellow. He chose the old Chesterfield covered in Indian cloth, rather than the white fibreglass armchair or a beanbag.
A reel-to-reel tape recorder played some fluty jazz through a pair of huge Wharfedale speakers. From the ceiling rose hung a huge white paper lampshade. A large art nouveau poster of a half-dressed woman on a bicycle was Sellotaped to the wall, one corner hanging down.
She returned with what looked like a black pencil and a bottle of dark red nail varnish.
‘Give me your hand,’ she said.
‘No.’ Breen put his hands behind his back.
‘Don’t be so sissy,’ she said, sitting on the floor in front of him. ‘The whole place will be full of freaks. Nobody will look twice if you look like one yourself.’
‘I can’t wear that,’ he said.
‘That’s precisely why you should. Zen logic. No copper would paint his nails. Hand,’ she said.
He gave her his right hand, and she started painting the nails one by one.
‘You have nice hands,’ she said. ‘You should be an artist.’
Elfie concentrated, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she painted his nails. As she worked, legs bare on the carpet, he realised her kimono was slightly open at the top. He looked away.
‘What about my shoes?’
Knowing that his brogues would look too polished, he had taken an old pair of his father’s plain boots that he hadn’t thrown out yet.
‘They’re OK, I reckon,’ she said. ‘It’s crazy you’re a policeman, living right underneath us.’ She blew gently onto his hands.
‘Why’s that crazy?’ he said.
‘Because you’re the man,’ she laughed. ‘You know. Authority. Other hand. Don’t smudge it until it’s dry.’
He looked at his hand. The nails were all painted so deep a red it was almost maroon. She started on the other one.
‘I’m not authority,’ he said. ‘I’m just a policeman.’
‘Really?’ she said.
‘I’m just doing a job that needs doing.’
‘So when you came and knocked on our door and ordered us to turn the music down, you weren’t being the man.’
‘I’m not the man,’ said Breen. ‘I just wanted a good night’s sleep.’
‘Course you’re the man. That time you came to our door about the noise, you flashed that police thing with your photograph in it.’
She held his fingers now, keeping them steady.
‘Only because I’d asked you before and you didn’t do it.’
‘Play your own music loud. We wouldn’t care. It’s cool.’ He was looking down again at the ripe curve of her pregnant belly when she looked up. ‘Right. Hold still.’
She took the pencil she had brought into the room and licked the end.
‘What are you doing now?’
She put her knee on the couch and leaned over him, her face close to his.
‘Your eyes,’ she said. ‘Don’t move or I’ll end up poking one out.’
‘Christ’s sake,’ he said.
‘Shh.’
Staring at the ceiling, where someone had drawn small stars, he felt her thigh press against his as she concentrated.
Standing in the queue on a dark Camden pavement a man in a big black felt hat said, ‘If you got any weed on you I’d ditch it, ’f I were you.’
‘Sorry?’
The man said, ‘Don’t look now. Pig. Right behind us.’
When Breen did look he saw a man wearing an embroidered suede sheepskin coat. It was the young red-faced copper who had been at the meeting with Pilcher, trying to look casual, pretending not to notice Breen. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his wig.
The man in the felt hat leaned closer. ‘I heard a rumour they’re going to raid tonight. You clean? If you’re not, I’ll help you swallow it, man.’
‘Yes,’ said Breen. ‘I’m clean.’
‘Bummer,’ the man giggled. ‘Worth a try, man.’
At the turnstile a long-haired ticket man said, ‘Bands start at midnight.’
The circular engine hall had been stripped bare and seats had been added around the outside of the room. There was loud music playing, strange and modal, all guitars and drums. Globs of coloured water and oil were being projected onto the ceiling.
Breen joined the groups of people milling around. Some were sitting on the floor against the walls, eyes closed. A girl with a round silver spot on her forehead was soundly asleep on the floor next to him despite the music. Were these people on drugs, Breen wondered? Was this what being on drugs looked like?
Despite the fears of the man in the queue on the way in, the air was thick with the oily smell of what Breen guessed was marijuana. The room was dirty too. Old cigarette packets, many torn, lay everywhere. People left empty bottles against the walls, hoping that others wouldn’t kick them over.
Upstairs there was a bar. Breen bought a bottle of beer so he would have something to do with his hands besides leave them in the coat of his pockets. One of the rooms off the walkway that surrounded the main floor was offering massages for five shillings. Another was selling cakes. A sign read: ‘These are NOT hash cakes. DON’T EVEN ASK.’
Breen asked the woman running the stall, ‘Do you know a man called Afghan? I’m supposed to find him here?’
She looked him up and down and said, ‘Never heard of him.’
At around midnight a band came on and started playing long, complicated songs on keyboards and fuzzy guitars.
Breen came across the man in the floppy hat sitting on a blanket on the main floor, nodding his head to to the music. ‘Amazing,’ the man said.
Breen squatted down and asked, ‘Have you seen Afghan anywhere?’
‘You looking to score? There’s a guy backstage selling some green tabs. They’re good.’
Breen had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded anyway.
‘I just have a message for Afghan.’
‘Haven’t seen his arse round here in a while. Maybe he’s on the road. Wasn’t he going to Morocco?’
A group of young women who were dancing together at the back said they thought they’d seen him, but they didn’t seem sure. A bearded man dressed in a black leather jacket said, ‘Afghan? Why would I know him, man?’
‘I was just asking if you’d seen him tonight.’
‘I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about,’ he said, and turned away.
Breen gave up for a while and just observed. A young man was sitting on the floor, against the old brick wall of the building, licking cigarette papers. A woman sat next to him saying something in his ear as he concentrated, carefully attaching the papers together. From a tobacco tin, he pulled a lump of something dark and held it above a lighter for a few seconds. Breen looked around. Nobody else seemed to think what the man was doing was out of place. The woman was large, with heavy eye make-up. She looked a little bored, if anything, watching her boyfriend carefully rolling the joint.
Helen Tozer would probably love it here. She would be one of those dancing in the space in front of the stage, lit by the lamps which projected coloured blobs of oil through the haze of smoke. Moments like this made Breen feel utterly disconnected from this new world.
The boy lit the joint and sucked. The pale smoke drifted around his head, then he blew out of his mouth slowly. Breen half expected him to slump into a narcotic coma, or perhaps leap up, wild-eyed. But he looked much the same as he did before he’d smoked the drug; he just passed the long cigarette to the woman.
There was a phone near the box office. He put one finger in his ear and dialled the number for the YWCA.
‘Is there a Helen Tozer staying there tonight?’
‘I can’t hear you,’ complained the woman on the other end of the line. ‘There’s too much noise.’
A thump of drums drowned out everything.
‘Helen Tozer,’ he said again. He spelled out the letters, one by one. ‘It’s very urgent.’
After he’d put in another pile of pennies, she came back on the line and said, ‘No. No one of that name.’
It was after two in the morning that the main band came on. By now the place was full, the floor was crowded. The band were all very thin and had beards, but dressed more neatly than the crowd who were now standing on the floor in front of them. They seemed to be playing music that was caught between a Californian trippiness and a kind of very cartoonish Englishness. It was so loud Breen wanted to put his fingers in his ears but he knew he’d look out of place if he did, so he stood, nodding his head and wishing the music would finish.
Someone was tugging at the back of his coat. He turned. The man in the floppy hat was swaying slightly, a goofy look on his face.
‘I’m so stoned,’ he said.
Breen nodded.
He said something else.
‘I can’t hear,’ shouted Breen.
The man pulled Breen by the lapel of his coat and said, right into his ear. ‘I said, the General is looking for you.’
‘Who?’
‘The General. You know, friend, the General.’
Breen looked around. All the other people’s eyes were fixed on the stage, faces changing colour in the lights.
‘I don’t know him. Who is he?’
‘The man who has soldiers all over him.’
Breen looked at the man. He was giggling now, his pupils like saucers.
‘Right,’ said Breen.
‘Little soldiers marching up and down. Left right, left right.’
Breen left him idiot-grinning, waving his fingers in front of the lights. So that’s what someone on drugs looked like. Breen knew what it was like to feel out of place; it was something he had lived with for as long as he could remember. But he had never felt as out of place as he did here. None of this was his world.
There were flashing lights. A squeal of feedback filled the hall. People cheered. Some annoying saxophone was playing the same phrase over and over again. The voice of the thin man on the stage had a strange tremolo that was getting to Breen.
He rubbed his forehead. This morning’s headache had returned. The entire front of his skull throbbed. He should head home. He had tried, at least.
‘This one’s called “Hey Mr Policeman”,’ said the singer.
A huge cheer went up. The guitarist was trying to tune his guitar, crouching down by his amp. A squeal of feedback emerged.
‘Do we have any policemen in the Roundhouse tonight?’
Now the hall was full of boos.
Breen looked around the crowd to see if there was any sign of any other undercover police from the Drug Squad, but he couldn’t see any, not even the red-faced boy he’d spotted earlier.
The band had started playing a drawn-out, bluesy riff. How long could these people endure this noise? There seemed to be no end to their enthusiasm for it.
If Breen listened to any music, it would be jazz. As a younger man he and Carmichael had gone to see the Jazz Couriers or Charles Mingus on his rare London visits. Though these blaring electric chords shared the same kind of ambition, to make something entirely new, they seemed too leaden, too deliberately simple. It was as if they were saying, ‘Anyone can do this. Anyone can be part of this.’ An ideological statement of the age of Aquarius. The line between performer and audience was blurring. Everybody was an artist now. He hated this idea. It seemed so dull, so unambitious.
A tall young woman in front of him moved her hands in the air in strange, expressive shapes that reminded him of someone trying to walk through cobwebs. Was she audience or performer? Or was she just on drugs? Were they all on drugs? How could you tell?
A man in an army coat walked past. It seemed to be covered in matted fur. Breen looked again and realised that the coat was adorned with little bits of plastic. He looked again, closer, and saw toy soldiers. Hundreds upon hundreds of small plastic toy soldiers, carefully attached to his coat with small safety pins.
It took him a second.
By the time he had made the connection, the man had pushed into the crowd closer to the stage. Breen went after him, shoving his way between the swaying hippies. A young man with a woollen hat over his long hair glared at him. ‘Chill out, man.’
Breen ignored him, looking to the left and right. He was there, talking to a woman with a long, flowery dress on.
He reached out and grabbed the man’s coat. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘You’re the General?’
The man saluted. Breen now saw that the front of his coat was covered in medals too.
He leaned towards him, shouting above the roar of music, ‘I was looking for Afghan.’
‘I heard.’ The man tugged him away to one side of the hall. He had one of those faces where smooth skin sat tightly on the skull. Small crow’s feet by each eye deepened as he peered at Breen. ‘Who are you?’
‘Just a friend of a friend. I need to find him. I need to get a message to him.’
‘Afghan’s long gone, man. Long gone. On the road. What’s the message?’
‘He was here?’
‘No. He’s gone. Disparu.’
The riff they were playing was getting louder and louder.
‘Left London?’
‘Maybe. What’s the message?’
‘I’d tell you if I could, but I can’t. I have to speak to him face to face. It’s important.’
The General looked him up and down, then said, ‘How important?’
‘Life and death.’
‘Crazy.’
Breen shook his head. ‘No. I’m serious.’
The General nodded. ‘His old lady’s kind of been looking for him too.’
‘His mother?’
The General was laughing now, all his little soldiers shaking. ‘His girlfriend. Penny. You know Penny?’
Breen shook his head. ‘I’m not from round here,’ he said.
‘If you were from round here, I’d know you,’ said the General. ‘So you have this message for him. Is it about the cops?’
‘The cops?’
‘They’re always after him, man. They’re crazy.’
Breen said, ‘No. A friend of his is dead. I need to tell him.’
The General nodded. ‘You should tell Penny. She’s freaking out about him already.’
‘Freaking out?’
‘You know Afghan. Sometimes he just goes places. On the road. He’s always on a journey, right? Only she has these bad vibes about him.’
‘Vibes?’
‘You know. She does the I Ching. Tarot. Something like that. I don’t know. Want to split?’
‘What?’
‘Now. We’ll go and see Penny.’
‘At this time of night? Will she be awake?’
‘It’s early, man. Besides, Penny doesn’t sleep much since Afghan disappeared. And she’s always got some gear on her.’
Breen looked at his watch. It was approaching three in the morning.
The General’s car was parked by Camden Lock. He drove an Austin A30, painted to look like camouflage.
‘Want some speed?’ he said, holding up a small packet of neatly folded paper.
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘Suit yourself.’ They were parked off the road on a piece of derelict land that was used on Sundays as part of the market. The General started the engine, but instead of driving away, he reached across to Breen’s side of the car, opened the glove compartment and pulled out a mirror, which he set on his lap.
He tipped a little of the white powder onto the mirror and produced a razor blade and started chopping at the powder.
‘Can I borrow a quid?’ he said.
Breen pulled a pound note from his wallet and the General rolled it carefully into a tiny tube, then leaned over the mirror and sucked up the first of two neat lines he’d made into his nose.
Breen watched, appalled and fascinated, trying not to look as if this was the first time he’d seen anybody do this.
The General held out the pound note towards him.
‘You sure you don’t want some?’
Breen shook his head.
‘I understand. Want to stay mellow, right?’
‘Right.’
The General leaned down again and sniffed the second white line, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand and passed the note back.
As Breen unrolled it and returned it to his wallet, the General crunched the car into gear.
‘Let’s go then.’
Breen looked ahead, anxious not to betray any reaction to watching a man take drugs so openly. He knew nothing of this world. But the man who called himself the General seemed to assume that he would find this behaviour perfectly normal.
The man jolted the car into motion and set off down Camden High Street, driving straight across Parkway even though the lights were still red.