Breen called to book a taxi.
‘Spendthrift.’
‘You’re pregnant,’ he said.
‘I hate being pregnant,’ she said.
‘I’m not having you going on public transport.’
‘You’re not having me going on public transport! Who are you to decide how I travel?’
‘Look. Catching a taxi is fine. I keep getting this money from the Police Benevolent Fund. Don’t know what else to do with it.’
‘Worth getting shot, then, was it?’
‘Like I said, you don’t have to go, anyway,’ he said. ‘I’d like it if you stayed.’
‘I’ve been away too long. Besides, I have to go and tell my mum and dad about…’ She looked down at her stomach.
‘Will they be OK?’
‘Dad’ll be hopping. Mum will worry what everyone will say. A baby out of wedlock. There will be lots of wagging tongues.’
‘Stay here, then.’
‘No. We’re bloody losing, Paddy. I thought we were winning, but we’re not. If they’re not connecting Alex’s death to Milkwood’s any more, we’re back to square one.’
He went with her in the taxi to Paddington. Helen didn’t have much in the way of luggage; just a duffel bag and there wasn’t a lot in that. It was true. They could have caught the bus. Breen liked London taxis, though. It seemed to be the most civilised way to travel in the capital, even if it was one of the old ones; an empty space by the driver for the luggage and a ticking meter that crept round. Springs that dug into your behind in the seats.
Helen was biting her fingernails. She took her hand from her mouth and said, ‘My dad’ll want me to marry you. And he’s got shotguns and everything,’ she said. ‘Joke.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t offer.’
‘I know.’
‘It still stands.’
They were on Marylebone Road. Their old turf. Where they had first met. There was a queue of tourists outside Madame Tussaud’s already. He had not liked Helen at all at the beginning. He had found her brash and mouthy; they were the things he liked about her now.
‘Paddy, don’t think you’re going to change my mind. I’m not getting married to anyone. Least, not all because of a mistake with the pill.’
The taxi driver was watching them in the rear-view mirror, listening in.
‘Think of the baby,’ said Breen. ‘You don’t do that, just bring up a child on your own. Nobody does that.’
Helen leaned forward and shut the glass window to the compartment in front.
‘It’s my baby. Nothing to do with you.’
‘Something to do with me.’
She didn’t deny it, at least. At Paddington, she wouldn’t let him buy a platform ticket. She stood by the barrier at Platform 1 and said, ‘You will call me up? Tomorrow evening. After milking.’
Breen said, ‘I’m not the one who disappears for several days at a time.’
‘Don’t be angry,’ she said. ‘I’m just a bit fed up. I’m not myself any more. I don’t mean to take it out on you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll call you,’ she said.
And she leaned forward, stretched up and kissed him on the cheek and then turned, lifting her ticket for the inspector. He stood, waiting for her to wave before she got onto the train.
When Breen arrived at the old snooker hall in Marshall Street, Carmichael was already there playing against himself, knocking the balls around the table. The room was in the windowless basement of an old factory building.
Breen arrived at the bottom of the stairs and stood in the dark corner of the room, watching Carmichael for a moment. He was leaning across the table, cigarette in his mouth, trying to pot an awkward ball in the far corner, the weight of his belly flat against the baize. Smoke disappeared up into the large lampshade above the table.
There were four tables. The other three were empty. They would be closing the building down soon. They were demolishing it to build new shops and offices. Soho was on the up. Now it was all film companies, advertising agencies and pop impresarios. American tourists wandered the streets trying to find the new pizza restaurant on Wardour Street.
They had played in this hall as sixteen-year-olds, him and Big John, sneaking in despite being underage, talking in deep voices and swearing to try and seem as grown up as they could until they figured out that nobody there seemed to mind much anyway.
Carmichael fluffed the ball and it bounced off the cushion, knocking the white into the pocket.
‘It’s something to do with Fletchet,’ said Breen. ‘I’m sure of it. I don’t know what.’
Carmichael looked up. ‘I told CID all that. They’re not interested now. They’ve got a case against that Chinese bloke and they’re happy with that.’
Breen told him about the university lecturer he’d talked to.
‘A politico,’ said Carmichael. ‘A red. Someone trying to stir it up against the British. The world is full of them. None of that ever happened. We weren’t like that. Maybe the Belgians in the Congo. But not us.’
‘Maybe,’ said Breen.
‘All those academics love to stir it. They’d rather be living under Ho Chi Minh or Mao. Fuck them, I say.’
‘But the details of torture are too much of a coincidence.’
‘Torture is torture,’ said Carmichael. ‘Even if these men did it, which I don’t believe for a minute… Think of the vilest, most degrading thing you can do to someone. You’re going to end up doing the same things. Pliers? The Richardson Gang use bolt cutters. Same effect. And they did the electrocution thing too. Stuck the old Tucker Telephone on their balls and electrocuted them. About as logical as saying Dr Mengele did it.’ He picked up a frame and placed it on the table. ‘Amy’s been in touch. She sent me a note. Invited me to the theatre.’
Breen broke, scattering the balls with a loud crack. ‘That’s good.’
‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘But theatre. I’ve never really been. I’m a bit bloody worried about that.’
Breen hadn’t played pool in months, but it felt good, hearing the clack of the balls again. ‘Milkwood and Alexandra Tozer were tortured before they were killed,’ he said. ‘And if Doyle is one of those bodies, he would have been tortured too.’
‘You’re saying this person, whoever it was, travelled to Spain to kill Doyle.’
‘I don’t know. But nobody’s looking into it.’
‘She wants me to see some political play. It’s called Strike, for God’s sake. Alternative theatre. Alternative to what, exactly?’
‘I’m thinking of going back down to Devon,’ said Breen. ‘Helen’s gone back.’
‘I thought you hated the place.’
‘I do. She’s pregnant,’ said Breen.
‘Christ.’ Carmichael fluffed a ball and knocked the white into the pocket again. ‘Two shots,’ he said.
‘Thing is, John. I want to marry her.’
Carmichael stood up straight, lifted the cue, put the end of the shaft on his shoe and looked at Breen. ‘You want to marry her? Or think you ought to because she’s up the duff?’
‘I love her.’
Carmichael nodded slowly. ‘Love? You sure?’
‘I think so. I’ve been thinking about her all the time.’
‘Jesus. I mean, that’s serious.’
‘But you’re in love, aren’t you? With Amy?’
‘I am nuts about her. But I’m not ruddy proposing or nothing. Christ sake.’
They had known each other since they were kids, but they never talked about stuff like this.
Carmichael said, ‘But you think you could actually get along with her?’
Breen laughed. ‘Not really. But.’
Carmichael laughed too. ‘Your funeral, mate. I mean, good luck to you. So when are you going to ask her?’
Breen said, ‘I already did. She said no.’
Carmichael looked genuinely shocked. ‘She never? You’re a sergeant. You got your own flat and everything.’
‘She doesn’t want to get married just because she’s pregnant.’
Carmichael turned the edges of his mouth down. ‘Thought that was the only reason anyone did it.’ He leaned over the table again with his cue, missed the pocket. ‘Your shot.’
Breen picked up his cue, knocked a spot ball into the corner pocket. And then another into the side pocket. And a third.
Carmichael sighed. ‘I thought you had a bad shoulder.’
‘I have,’ said Breen. ‘Still beating you, though.’
‘Maybe that’s for the best. I mean, you and her. She’s a bit nuts. And you’re…’
‘Conventional.’
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’
Breen’s last shot tucked the white behind two of his balls.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Breen. ‘I didn’t mean to talk about all of this.’
Carmichael said, ‘Forget it.’
The rest of the evening they played without talking much, concentrating on the game. It was better just to play. Breen won the first two games. Then they played best-of-five. Breen won the next two as well. Carmichael was usually the better player. Breen had never won so many games against him in his life.
When they were younger, he would have been elated at the victory. But tonight he felt oddly flat. Helen had gone. He understood nothing. All he had was a head full of nightmares.
It was dark outside. They walked east, still not talking. The streets were quiet; the pubs were full.
They reached Charing Cross Road. London’s shops were usually all shut by 5.30, but there was one still open: a bookshop that had neon lights blazing. They crossed the road to look at what was happening there.
It was different from the other dusty booksellers along Charing Cross Road that sold rare bound editions or piles of cheap paperbacks. This one seemed to be selling mostly pamphlets and comics. A sign in the window read: ‘POETRY TONIGHT! LIVE.’
Breen placed his face against the glass. Inside, under the bright lights, dozens of people were sitting cross-legged on the floor. Some had brought cushions. Others sat with their chins on their knees, arms wrapped around their legs.
At the far end of the shop, a thin, gaunt-faced man with a wispy moustache was reading something from a typed sheet of paper, stalking across the floor as he read, grinning like a madman. A younger man in a mac was next to him, squeezing notes from a soprano saxophone.
Without asking Carmichael whether he wanted to go in, Breen pushed open the door. A bell rang. Momentarily distracted, some of the audience looked round, glared.
‘I’m not going in there,’ hissed Carmichael. ‘I hate bloody poetry.’
‘I bet Amy likes poetry,’ said Breen, grinning, and went inside.
Reluctantly, Carmichael followed. Breen found space at the back next to the sales counter. There was a burst of laughter. Applause.
‘A class society so tight and proper / Such accents, clipped and kempt. Assholes!’ shouted the poet.
The audience whooped and cheered more at the profanity. A girl with a bandanna round her head shouted, ‘Right on.’
From his accent, the poet was an American. He wore a fringed suede jacket, the type that bikers sometimes wore. ‘He needs a hot poker up his ass / Before he’ll feel a think,’ he recited.
‘Profound,’ said Carmichael, joining Breen on the floor.
‘Shh,’ hissed the girl in the bandanna.
The poet continued, dropping pages as he finished them. As the saxophone wailed higher and higher, the poem climaxed with the shouted line ‘A nation of gardens, surrounded by fences’, which several in the audience seemed to know and shouted back at the poet.
People stood, clapped. The poet did a little dance.
‘Call that poetry?’ muttered Carmichael. ‘Anyone could do that. Even me.’
Afterwards, as the crowd surrounded the performer, Breen stood and walked to the counter. There was a young man in a waistcoat covered in badges standing behind it reading a book.
‘Do you have something called The Book of the Dead?’ Breen asked the young man.
The man looked puzzled at the question. ‘We have several editions. Do you mean Timothy Leary’s?’
‘I don’t know. What is it?’ asked Breen.
‘It’s instructions for how to die. How to pass over to the other side so you can be reincarnated as a pure soul. Which edition do you want?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Breen.
The man pushed past them to the other side of the room.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ hissed Carmichael. ‘Can we go now?’
The girl with the bandanna was talking earnestly to the poet, nodding at whatever he was saying. The bookseller returned with three books. One had The Tibetan Book of the Dead in big letters on the cover. The other two were called The Psychedelic Experience; one of those was a comic. Breen stared at them, unsure which he wanted.
‘The first one is the original translation of the Bardo Thodol. The second is Timothy Leary’s translation. Basically, it riffs on the concept that the three stages of transition to the dead are the same as when you trip on LSD. You can reach enlightenment without having to, like, die.’
‘Fuck sake,’ muttered Carmichael.
Breen pulled out a pound note and bought the book called The Psychedelic Experience.
‘Can we go now?’
They meandered back west again.
‘What was all that about?’
‘Something Doyle’s girlfriend mentioned, that’s all.’
Soho was on the move again. In the cramped roadway of Lisle Street, a couple of Chinese restaurants had opened just in the last couple of months, hanging red silk lanterns outside. They looked gaudy and exotic, out of place, in the dark London evening. Until now, the Chinese had always lived around the docks. Even the bombs hadn’t shifted them. Ducks hung in the window of one restaurant, their skins roasted shiny and darkly gelatinous.
‘Well, look who it is,’ said Carmichael.
The Chinese waiter, dressed in black suit and bow tie, looked up and caught Breen’s eye. There was a definite flinch. His eyes darted to the kitchen door behind him. Breen held up his hands and smiled. It’s OK. You’re safe. After a second, the man relaxed, smiled back.
‘Ask him,’ said Carmichael. ‘After all. He owes you one.’
It was true. The man was a criminal; a thief. Breen had saved him from a beating a few months earlier, letting him go when the other coppers had wanted to see his legs broken at the very least.
‘You reckon?’
‘Why not?’
Breen turned to his friend. ‘It’s just that it might not be what you need to hear.’
Carmichael nodded. ‘I know.’
The restaurant was nearly empty. The interior smelt rich and sweet. There was a hint of seared onions. Sat beneath a gaudy picture of a dragon, an elderly Chinese couple were bent over bowls of watery noodles.
‘Do you have a minute?’ asked Breen.
Without saying anything, the man nodded towards the swing door at the back of the tiny room. Breen and Carmichael followed him there. The first thing Breen saw were the huge knives hanging on meathooks. He stopped in the doorway, gripping the edge of the door.
The Chinaman grinned. ‘Don’t worry. The knife is not for you this time.’
Breen tried not to look at the blades. They made him feel nauseous. The kitchen was hot and cramped. Tins cluttered the shelves. Ugly-looking dried fish hung from a string, white blots where eyes had been. A tiny man, less than five foot tall, was holding a huge rounded dish over a gas flame. The Chinaman said something incomprehensible. The small man shouted back angrily, but eventually turned off the gas, picked up a dishcloth, wiped his hands and left the room for the cool of the alley behind.
In the fetid, thick-smelling air, Breen felt sweat breaking out on his face. The waiter pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Breen said, ‘Have you heard about a Chinese gang who were arrested recently for the murder of a policeman?’
The waiter’s smile vanished; he looked from Breen to Carmichael and back again.
‘Well?’
The man nodded, slowly, sucked deeply on his cigarette.
‘Do you know them?’
Another hesitation. His nostrils blew streams of smoke. ‘A little, maybe.’
‘Did they do it?’
‘Why does it matter if they did it?’ said the waiter. ‘The police say they did.’
‘It matters to us.’
‘Well?’
‘These men. They are shit,’ said the Chinaman. ‘They deserve it, anyway. Nobody is crying apart from them.’
Breen looked at Carmichael. ‘But they didn’t kill Sergeant Milkwood?’
The man shook his head. ‘Everyone talking about it. One day before the arrest, some people arrive at their house with search warrant. Nobody understands why. Next day different police arrive and find photographs of dead man there.’
‘The police planted the evidence?’
‘Of course.’ The man shrugged. ‘Only a fool keeps a photo of the man he kills.’
‘Who planted the evidence?’
‘They say they were looking for heroin.’
‘The Drug Squad?’ Breen said. ‘You know anything about this?’
Carmichael said, ‘A few days back, Pilcher picked a couple of the lads for a raid in the East End. I was surprised. He doesn’t normally bother with lowlifes like that.’
‘Did they find any drugs?’ asked Breen.
The Chinese man shook his head. ‘They were not looking for drugs,’ he said. ‘They could have found plenty. Heroin. Everything.’
Outside Breen was grateful for the cool air. The smell of spices and meat had made him feel sick. ‘My bus will be along in a minute,’ he said.
Carmichael was deep in thought
‘Well?’ said Breen. Carmichael didn’t answer. Breen said, ‘It was a stitch-up. Drug Squad framed them. Why?’
‘Why would you believe a man like him?’ said Carmichael. ‘You’d stick up for a guy like that before your fellow coppers. Always.’
Breen could see his bus, coming up Charing Cross Road.
‘You’re the one who said I should ask him.’
‘I know.’
‘You call sticking up for your fellow copper letting whoever killed him go free?’
‘Fuck off. You know I didn’t mean that.’
‘Your lot are bent, John. Something’s going on.’
‘I know,’ Carmichael said, shaking his head. ‘It’s all shit, isn’t it?’
On the bus, he looked for Carmichael on the crowded pavement to wave goodbye, but he had gone already. He opened the book he’d bought in the hippie bookshop and read two or three pages, but couldn’t make head or tail of it. He was never much good at reading at the best of times.