‘It doesn’t really make sense, though, does it?’ Tozer was saying as they walked across Battersea Park.
‘Women are better at looking after children.’
‘Says who?’ says Tozer. ‘I’m OK with kids. But I can do other stuff too. In the police, men get to do all the proper work and women constables are only supposed to talk to children. Or women. It’s as if that’s too embarrassing for the men. It’s daft.’
‘Because you’re better at it,’ said Breen again.
‘What? And you’re better at talking to men?’ she snorted. It was a cold day. The park was deserted. Breen wanted to find a way to apologise for asking her back to his place last night, though if he tried she’d probably only find some new way to take offence. Instead he said, ‘I’m not sticking up for how it is. I didn’t make the world.’
Tozer said, ‘Besides, you go green whenever you see dead bodies.’
The woman whose name Tarpey had given him had insisted they meet at Battersea Funfair rather than at her house. Mrs Hemmings did not want to have to explain to her husband why the police were visiting her. She was waiting on the steps by the entrance with her two boys, the older dressed in a grey flannel school uniform, the younger yanking on her arm. The coloured lights on the first letter above the turnstiles were not working so the sign read: ‘UNFAIR’.
She looked around twenty-five and was very pretty, in a classy, moneyed kind of way.
Breen and Tozer walked across the tarmac to meet her. ‘There you go,’ said Tozer. ‘I thought you said you never got to meet any women.’
‘Didn’t stop her before. You could be in with a chance, Paddy.’
‘Shut up. She’ll hear you.’
Mrs Hemmings wore a dark-green dress and Jackie Kennedy dark glasses even though the sun was already losing its strength. ‘You’re late,’ she said when Breen held out his hand to shake.
‘Sorry.’
‘Mr Tarpey promised you would keep this confidential.’
Breen said, ‘Did he?’
‘I wouldn’t be here unless he had,’ she said.
Breen paid for the tickets and led them through the turnstile into the park. On a winter weekday the funfair looked bleakly empty. Half the rides were shut.
‘Can we have candyfloss?’ said the youngest of the boys.
‘Go with this nice lady,’ said Mrs Hemmings. ‘So I can have a good chat with this gentleman.’
‘I don’t want to,’ said the little one. ‘She doesn’t look nice.’
Tozer glared briefly at Breen, then put on as much of a smile as she could manage and looked down at the two children. ‘Do you want to go on a roundabout?’
‘I won’t give you any sweets if you don’t,’ said Mrs Hemmings.
‘Don’t care. Don’t want none.’
‘Don’t be common,’ said Mrs Hemmings. ‘ “I don’t want any.” Run along now.’
Tozer pulled the younger one away and the older boy, knees red below his grey shorts, followed.
‘You know why I want to talk to you?’ said Breen.
‘About poor Frankie. Mr Tarpey warned me,’ said Mrs Hemmings.
The sign on the Dolphinarium read ‘Closed until March’.
‘When did you last see him?’ Breen asked.
They walked ten yards behind Tozer, who now had a child clinging on to each arm and was walking towards the the queue for the merry-go-round.
‘I hadn’t seen him since December last year. It was a fling, that’s all. No harm done.’ They were by the fruit machines. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her purse.
‘How long did your affair last, Mrs Hemmings?’
‘Call me Laura. I hate being called Mrs. Two, three months. Tarpey tells me that was about average. I was offended by that. Nobody wants to be average, do they? Not that I minded. It was fun. He was fun.’
‘When did you meet him?’
She delved in her purse, pulled out a silver coin and placed it into a one-armed bandit.
‘It was at a party. He was there with another girl. No, I don’t remember her name, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d hope she wouldn’t remember mine, either.’
The merry-go-round had stopped. Both children ran towards the horses and Tozer followed, lifting them both onto the ride.
‘He had loads of girls. He was single. And lovely, really. Loved life. I was just one of the unlucky ones who got pregnant.’
‘Others got pregnant too?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Did he dump you after he found out?’
She pulled the handle. The reels spun.
‘Yes. But he always said he would dump me. That was part of the attraction. No commitments. I wasn’t the only one. He always had two or three of us on the go.’
The reels stopped. Cherry, Lemon, Bell. She tugged the handle again.
‘He was completely harmless.’ Apple, Cherry, Bar. ‘And he was very entertaining in bed. He knew exactly what buttons to press. Am I embarrassing you, Sergeant?’
‘Are you trying to?’
She laughed and tugged the handle again.
‘The thing about Frankie was you never really knew him, really. He never let you in. Sometimes I used to think the poor boy just needs a good cuddle, but he doesn’t know how to do that. Quite cold at heart, really. But you took him on his own terms. He drank, of course. But doesn’t everyone? Oscar!’ she suddenly shouted. ‘Don’t try and get off. It’s still going around. What is that idiotic woman doing?’
Breen looked. The older child was trying to get off the merry-go-round and Tozer was yelling something at him. A bell rang and the merry-go-round slowed.
‘She’s not very good, is she?’ Mrs Hemmings looked back at the fruit machine. Orange, Cherry, Orange. Then turned back to the roundabout. It had finally stopped. The younger child was getting off. He was crying.
Breen said, ‘Did you meet any of his friends?’
The rollercoaster hurtled past. His question was drowned out by the sound of rattling wood.
‘What?’ she shouted.
He repeated it.
‘He knew lots of people. Loads of artists. He was very passionate about art. Dreadful bores, most of them. But I don’t think he had friends, exactly.’ She watched Tozer trying to guide the two children to another ride. ‘He was a bit lonely, I think, really. No one really kept pace with him, do you know what I mean?’
The two kids were dragging Tozer towards another ride: ‘JET FIGHTERS’.
‘What about places? Was there anywhere special he took you?’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Hotel rooms, mostly. He liked checking into hotels in the middle of the day with no baggage. He used to enjoy it that people thought I must be some smart whore he’d picked up. He found that kind of thing funny.’
‘Did he use prostitutes, do you think?’
‘Perhaps. I doubt it though.’
Breen stepped around a large muddy puddle full of litter. His brogues needed cleaning again. ‘Were any of them jealous?’
‘Jealous enough to kill him?’
‘Yes.’ The rollercoaster rumbled round again. ‘Almost certainly. I mean, he always said he wasn’t interested in anything more than a roll in the hay, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all. People get their feelings hurt.’
‘What about when you found you were pregnant?’
‘He wasn’t interested in children either. And neither was I, of course.’ Her eyes flicked towards her sons. ‘He had moved on by then. He did it very graciously. Afterwards he sent me a Get Well Soon card. That was a nice touch, I thought.’
Breen said, ‘You didn’t see any more of Frankie? Or hear anything?’
‘He stopped turning up to parties. He used to be at all the best ones. But he just wasn’t there anymore. Bored, I expect. I can’t say I blame him. London is becoming very dull and self-righteous these days.’
‘Whose parties?’
‘God. You know. Just parties. Let me think. The last one was a party at Annabel’s. You know, the nightclub? Super place. My husband refuses to go. He’s so dull.’
‘Who were his friends? I need names.’
‘Like I said. He didn’t really have friends, exactly. There was a wall around him.’
‘His circle, then.’
‘I suppose so. As long as you didn’t say you got them from me.’ She dug in her handbag and pulled out a small address book. Flicking through it she read two or three names. Breen noted them down.
‘Robert Fraser,’ she said eventually. ‘He admired him a lot. I didn’t like him much.’
‘Fraser. He runs an art gallery?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Selling pretentious rubbish. Frankie fell for all that stuff. I was surprised, really. But he was terribly modern.’ She said the word as if it were an insult, then laughed.
‘Do you have a number for him?’
‘Probably.’
‘Can you try and find one? Let him know I’d like to speak to him. Was there anyone else?’
She shook her head. ‘I was only with him for a short time, you understand.’
‘But you stopped seeing him around?’
‘The scene has been so dull. I’m not really interested any more. I blame that awful woman Vanessa Redgrave and all her communist pals. Everything is so bloody worthy now. If they care so much about the starving children in Africa, why don’t they go there and bloody feed them?’
‘What about his father? Did you ever meet him?’
‘God, no. I always found it rather amusing that I was sleeping with the son of a minister, but Frankie never talked about him. I don’t think they had much to do with each other, really.’
The children came running up. ‘The lady won’t let us go on the Jet Fighter,’ complained the older boy.
‘I didn’t have a proper go on the merry-go-round because Oscar got off his horse and the man stopped it,’ said the younger boy.
‘It was boring,’ said his brother. ‘Merry-go-rounds are for girls.’
‘It’s not fair,’ said the little one. UNFAIR, thought Breen.
‘I miss him,’ said Mrs Hemmings. ‘He was fun. But rather like a comet whizzing past, you know.’
‘Can we have candyfloss? Please, Mummy, please?’
‘Your husband doesn’t know about…’ Breen paused. ‘The procedure?’
She shook her head. ‘I said I was visiting my sister in Cornwall for a couple of days. What you don’t know can’t hurt you,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for him to know, is there?’
Breen shook his head.
Afterwards, walking back to the car with Tozer, Breen said, ‘She said she didn’t mind he slept with other women.’
‘Why’s that so strange? It would be a little hypocritical of her, wouldn’t it?’ said Tozer.‘So did you ask her out, then?’
‘What do you think I am?’
‘I bet she’d have said yes. You could have been her bit of rough on the side.’
‘Lay off. For a start, she’s a suspect, in theory.’
Battersea Bridge looked rusty and tired. It could do with a lick of paint.
‘Her?’ said Tozer. ‘I don’t know. Doesn’t look like a woman did it, to me.’
Breen asked, ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Just because.’
She had her own way of thinking, Breen knew. She had had more reason than most to think about what sort of person it took to kill another. Her sixteen-year-old sister had been raped, and stabbed to death. Left under a pile of twigs and leaves.
‘I thought you said you were good with children.’
‘They weren’t kids. They were nightmares. I’m OK with most kids. Spoilt little brats. “Please, Mummy, please.” ’ They were at the car now. Tozer kicked at the rear wheel a couple of times, like a child herself.
They met Jones back up at Marlborough Place. The door-to-doors were proving a waste of time. People in houses with large gardens made a point of not knowing each other’s business.
He walked with Jones and Tozer round to Abbey Gardens, the houses that backed on to Marlborough Place. ‘Nothing here, neither,’ said Jones. ‘I tried already. No point.’
‘I’ll just take a look.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
Breen said, ‘It’s just worth looking again, sometimes. That’s all.’ Jones was like a puppy, always wanting reassurance.
There were two girls in school uniform sitting on a wall halfway down the road. Breen recognised the uniform as St Marylebone’s. They had their white shirts untucked and wore their ties fat. ‘Why aren’t they in school?’ asked Jones after they’d passed them.
‘Why not ask them?’ said Tozer.
‘That’s your job,’ said Jones.
‘Go on,’ said Breen.
‘God’s sake,’ muttered Tozer, turning back. She got out her cigarettes and went to offer the girls one.
Abbey Gardens was a terrace of four-storey Victorian houses. It was less well-to-do than the houses on Marlborough Place. Most had been divided into flats. Because it was an unbroken terrace it was hard to judge which house backed on to the dead man’s garden, but Jones said he reckoned it was the squat.
‘Squat?’ said Breen.
‘There,’ said Jones. ‘Bunch of funny buggers.’
It was a house like all the others, except that the small front garden was overgrown and the white paint on the stone around the windows was peeling. The ground-floor window had been boarded up; the boards were painted with large imaginary flowers and vines to make it look like a Rousseau jungle. The curtains of the window above the front door were a Chinese communist flag that must have been nailed to the top of the frame. On the door somebody had painted in big, bubbly letters, ‘The Paradise Hotel’. At the bottom of the door in yellow paint: ‘Marylebone Arts Lab. Volunteers wanted. Free yourself.’
‘Nice,’ said Breen.
‘Scum,’ said Jones. ‘See what I mean?’
Breen pressed the front doorbell, but it made no sound. He waited a few seconds, then thumped on the large wooden door with the side of his fist.
Nobody came. ‘They won’t let you in, even if they do answer. Called me a pig. Come outside and I’d teach them a lesson.’
‘Like you did to that guy in the cells, other night?’
‘Jesus,’ said Jones. ‘That was his own fault. He was picking on a woman.’
‘A bit like your dad?’
Jones looked at him, a sneer on his lips. ‘What you on about? You trying to play the big psychologist?’
Breen stood back, and as he did so the red flag twitched. Somebody was watching them. He knocked on the door again, then knelt down to call through the letterbox, but the flap was nailed shut.
‘Police,’ he cried.
A sash above them rattled open. ‘Morning,’ said a voice. A bearded face emerged from the window, peering down at them. ‘Back again?’ His long dark hair hung down like a curtain around his head.
Breen craned his head upwards. ‘We’d like to talk to you about a murder.’
‘Go on then,’ said the man.
Breen knew it was going to be like this. ‘Can we come in?’ he asked.
The man pretended to think for a moment. ‘Er…’ He frowned, pursed his lips, then said brightly, ‘No.’ Breen could hear people tittering behind him.
‘See what I mean?’ said Jones. Then shouted up, ‘Let us in, or we’ll arrest you.’
‘What for?’
‘Obstructing the police.’
‘Who’s in charge?’ said Breen.
‘We’re all in charge,’ said the man quietly.
‘Profound,’ said Jones. ‘Let us in, or else.’
‘Or else what?’ muttered Breen quietly. ‘We’ll call the police?’
‘Or else,’ replied Jones.
‘I don’t think so,’ said the man, before pulling his head back in and closing the window.
‘Bastard,’ said Jones. ‘Want me to bash in the door? I don’t mind.’
‘What’s your name?’ shouted Breen.
‘What’s yours?’ The same head reappeared.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cathal Breen.’
‘I’m Jayakrishna.’
‘See?’ said Jones. ‘They don’t even tell you their proper names. Just made-up crap.’
‘Would you at least come to the door and talk, Mr Jaya…’
‘… Krishna,’ said the man. ‘I’m fine here, thanks.’ A woman squeezed her head through the window next to the man and peered down at them.
Breen said, ‘I want to ask about last Thursday night. The night of the explosion.’
‘And?’ said the man who called himself Jayakrishna.
‘Did you see or hear anything suspicious that night?’
‘A bloody big bang.’
The woman giggled. It wasn’t the one Breen had looked at from Pugh’s garden. This woman had shorter, darker hair.
‘Mind your language,’ said Jones.
‘I mind your language,’ said the man.
Another giggle.
Breen said, ‘Did you know the man who lived there?’
‘I know he has moved on to a different existence.’
Breen looked down at his shoes. His neck was aching from looking upwards. He sighed and looked up again. Jayakrishna was smiling back down at him. ‘Before that,’ Breen said.
‘No. Is that all?’
Later, as they were walking away back to Marlborough Place with Tozer, Breen said, ‘It’s this tiresome assumption that they’re enlightened, and everything from our generation is still in the Dark Ages.’
‘Maybe it is,’ said Tozer. ‘Looks like it from my point of view.’
Breen looked at her briefly, but her expression didn’t change. For a woman who wore miniskirts, got drunk and kissed coppers, she had a bleak view of the world. Not surprisingly.
Jones said, ‘Enlightened, my bum. I should come back here when it’s dark. They’d see who was enlightened then. I mean, how can they live like that? You can smell the damp in the place. We’re building all these new homes and they chose to live in a slum.’
‘What about the schoolgirls?’ Breen asked Tozer.
‘They said they had a free period at school. Only they changed their mind sharp enough when I said I was going to call their school to check. Know what they said? They said a body had been found in the house in Marlborough Place with its knob cut off.’ Tozer offered Jones a cigarette. Breen shook his head. ‘Only saying what they said. They heard it had been cut off and stuffed up his bum.’
‘Charming,’ said Breen. ‘Where did they hear that?’
‘Outside EMI studios. That’s what all the girls who hang around outside were saying.’
‘So much for avoiding scandal,’ said Breen.
‘What?’ said Jones. ‘Did they really cut off his prick?’
‘No,’ said Breen. ‘Didn’t you read the report?’
Jones shook his head.
The longer it took to solve this, Breen thought, the more likely it was to blow up in their faces.
Tozer stopped at the corner. ‘Maybe if I go back there on my own?’
‘Go back where?’
‘To the squat. They’d probably let me in, wouldn’t they? On my own?’
‘Worth a try,’ said Breen.
‘You’re bloody joking, aren’t you?’ said Jones. Breen stopped and knelt to do up a shoelace. When Tozer was a few yards ahead, Jones hissed, ‘She can’t do undercover.’
‘It wouldn’t be undercover. She’d just be taking a look.’
‘She’s a plonk, God’s sake, Paddy.’
‘Which means they probably think she’s just as much of a joke as you do,’ said Breen. ‘So maybe they’ll actually talk to her.’
‘Don’t think I didn’t hear that,’ said Tozer.
When they arrived back at the office Oliver Tarpey was sitting at Breen’s desk. Breen raised his eyebrows at Marilyn, but she was on a phone call. She cupped her hand over the receiver and said, ‘I told him he could wait downstairs but he said you wouldn’t mind. And I’ve got a caller for you. She won’t give her name.’
Breen strode across the office and picked up the phone on his desk. Tarpey didn’t stand, so Breen had to stand by the desk with the phone by his ear. It was Mrs Hemmings. ‘I spoke to Robert Fraser. He’s not happy, but he’ll agree to meet you. This evening.’ She gave the address of a restaurant called Seed.
‘Seed?’
‘Yes. As in Onan.’
‘What?’ said Breen.
‘In the Bible. The poor fellow who was killed for spilling his seed on the ground. Quite appropriate, in Robert’s case.’ Mrs Hemmings hung on to the phone a little longer. Eventually she said, ‘I want you to understand. I’m only doing this because it was Frankie. Whatever it was that happened, he didn’t deserve it. I know you don’t think I’m very nice. But he was.’ And then she put the phone down on him.
‘Afternoon,’ said Tarpey, not getting up.
One of the constables was one-finger typing in the corner. Nobody had taken down Carmichael’s pictures of Lee Marvin that were Sellotaped to the wall. The dust lay thick on top of a row of reference books and manuals. Marilyn was chattering on the phone. Through an outsider’s eyes, Breen saw, the CID room might not look impressive.
‘Do you have somewhere private we could talk?’ asked Tarpey.
Breen looked into Bailey’s small office. It was empty. Breen guessed Bailey wouldn’t mind. He opened the door. ‘Can you make a cup of tea, Marilyn?’
She had picked up the phone again. She mouthed, ‘I’m on a call.’
‘Never mind,’ said Tarpey. He picked up a pigskin briefcase and followed Breen into the small room. Tarpey looked around. ‘Violets,’ he said. ‘My mum used to keep them.’ He picked up a small metal watering can and dribbled a little water into one of the pots. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Jealous husband or a woman spurned?’
‘But it is a possibility?’
‘Of course. Will you be expecting updates like this regularly?’
‘If they’re no trouble,’ said Tarpey. He took a potted plant and sat in Bailey’s chair with it. ‘We’d really like to know.’
‘We?’
‘Mr Breen. I know you think I’m interfering, but Rhodri Pugh is a very decent man who clawed his way up from nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ He put the plant pot on the desk and slowly turned it around. ‘You’re a Londoner. I don’t suppose you’ve been to Wales much, have you?’
Breen shook his head. ‘Never.’
‘We’re very proud,’ said Tarpey. ‘We are proud our Member of Parliament holds office. We need people like him. He represents the legitimate aspirations of the ordinary working man. Like myself. Like you, as well, Mr Breen. Politically, we Welsh are a progressive people. In other ways we are quite traditional. Or rather, we are men of principle. Frankie was a handful. He was a Londoner, not a Welshman. Like so many of today’s younger men, he didn’t share his father’s values. He was only interested in himself, not in the greater good. I always found that very sad. That’s a personal matter, however. But, if it were to affect Mr Pugh’s reputation, especially back home, I would be concerned.’ He turned and replaced the plant on Bailey’s windowsill.
Breen sat down in the chair opposite Tarpey. ‘We’re not sure how he was killed. Suffocated, possibly. The skin was then peeled from his arms and legs. His body was then bled.’
Tarpey frowned. ‘Definitely after he died?’
‘Yes.’
He touched the tips of his long fingers together. ‘Sounds like the work of a lunatic.’
Breen said, ‘That’s what the police surgeon thinks. Some sort of ritual mutilation.’ He looked at Tarpey. A well-groomed sort. A well-cut suit for a Labour Party man. ‘All I know is they removed the skin and the blood for a reason. I don’t know what reason.’
‘Because they were insane, presumably?’
‘Why did they leave the gas on? I think they were assuming that the explosion would mutilate Mr Pugh’s body enough so that it wouldn’t be obvious what they had done to him. So what happened to his arms and legs is important. It’s not just a random act.’
‘But that’s just a guess?’
‘If you want to put it that way,’ said Breen. ‘You realise that the longer we take to solve this, the more likely there are to be rumours about the death? They’re already starting. And in the absence of information about who he mixed with, there’s no guarantee we can make headway.’
Tarpey sighed. ‘I understand your argument. But shining a spotlight on Frankie’s… style of life. It’s a risk we can’t take.’
Breen tugged at the knee of his trousers, then looked Tarpey in the eye. ‘If you are holding back any information about Francis because you think it might harm his father’s reputation, you’re only making it more likely that this whole thing will blow up in his face.’
‘Believe me, we want this wrapped up as much as you do.’
‘I’ve spoken to his solicitor and his doctor,’ said Breen. ‘They were helpful but told me nothing that I couldn’t have guessed already.’
His doctor had been a Harley Street man. Vague, hand-wringingly sincere, uninformative. He had only been Francis Pugh’s doctor for a few months. ‘Frightfully sorry… Barely knew the man…’ Another blank.
Breen said, ‘We just don’t know enough about Francis Pugh. We have no idea of his movements in the week up to his death. None at all. We don’t know who his friends were. He was paying for everything in cash so we have no idea of where he was and who he was visiting. It’s extremely frustrating. At this stage, we have no idea why. The simplest thing for us would be for the case to be in the papers. That would give the people who knew him, who cared about him, the chance to come forward.’
Tarpey said, ‘As his father said, that’s a very last resort. We really don’t want that to happen. We are happy to put you in touch with anyone we can. And of course I will be in regular contact myself.’ He stood, holding his hand out for Breen to shake.
‘Is that it?’ said Breen.
‘Would you like me to stay longer?’ replied Tarpey, eyebrows raised.
After Tarpey had left, Marilyn knocked on Bailey’s door. ‘You look like you swallowed a lemon. ‘Who was that woman calling earlier who wouldn’t give her name, anyway?’
Breen looked up from the notes he’d been making.
‘Just a friend of Francis Pugh’s.’
She smiled. ‘And there was I, thinking you’d got yourself a girl-friend,’ she said.