The Kings of London (13 page)

‘Me? No. Any idea where he is?’

‘No.’

‘And he’s not been in touch with anyone else?’

‘No. Keep it quiet though. Bailey doesn’t want anyone to know.’

‘Bloody Bailey,’ said Carmichael. ‘OK then.’

From the other side of the room Marilyn was chewing on a Cadbury’s bar. ‘Want some, Paddy?’ she called after he’d put the phone down.

‘I’ll have a bit,’ said Tozer.

‘I wasn’t offering it you,’ said Marilyn. ‘I was offering it to Paddy. Sugar’s good for shock.’

Breen shook his head.

Marilyn took another square herself. ‘I shouldn’t myself, really. It’s not good for my figure. What do you think, Paddy?’

Tozer stood up and said, ‘I’ll go and buy my own then.’

‘You sure you’re going to be all right staying by yourself, Paddy?’ she was saying. ‘I mean, what if he comes back? I’d say you should
come over to mine and stay there for a bit, but Danny would go doolally if he heard I’d had you over. I mean, you could if you wanted, but…’

Breen wasn’t listening. He was unfolding the graph he’d made on Tuesday afternoon, staring at it again.

On Friday night he piled blankets onto the armchair in the front room, listening for every noise outside in the cul-de-sac. The weather was freezing. He placed a one-bar electric fire by his feet. At four in the morning the meter ran out and he woke, shivering in the cold.

On Saturday he went to the local police station and asked the sergeant if he’d heard whether anybody had made any progress on his case.

The sergeant said, ‘You’d have to ask CID. Not heard anything though.’

He took a bus heading west, changed at King’s Cross and then walked from Piccadilly Circus to Mount Street, the address Carmichael had given him for Robert Fraser, and pressed the bell.

It was 9.30 in the morning. Mount Street was a long, smart Victorian parade of shops that seemed to sell either posh women’s wear or equestrian paintings. He stood outside the large mansion house and looked upwards. A street cleaner was pushing a broom along the pavement, sweeping up dead leaves and rubbish. No one answered the door so he kept his finger on the brass bell.

Eventually a man with a gaberdine mac and wearing a handlebar moustache came out, and Breen stuck his foot in the door to stop it closing.

‘I say…’ objected the man.

‘Police,’ said Breen.

‘Good Lord,’ said the man, and scuttled off down the street.

There was a small lift with a diamond-grid gate, but Breen took the carpeted stairs. Fraser’s flat was on the second floor.

He banged on the large door, but nobody answered. A window looked out on the street below. People were pulling up the shutters on the shops, opening doors and taking in pints of milk.

He banged again.

This time he could hear someone moving behind the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Cathal Breen.’

‘Who?’ A tentative voice.

‘I want to speak to Robert Fraser.’

Breen pressed his ear to the door. He could hear at least two voices.

‘Tell him he isn’t here.’ A woman’s voice?

Breen said, ‘I know he’s in there.’

Another round of whispering.

‘Who is it?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Breen.’

Distinctly, from behind the door: ‘Shit. Fuzz. Wake Robert up.’

‘I’m alone,’ said Breen. ‘I just want to talk to Mr Fraser. This is not a raid.’

On the floor above, Breen heard a door open.

‘What’s going on?’

‘That bloody flat downstairs again,’ an elderly voice grumbled.

The door to Fraser’s opened. Robert Fraser was standing there, unshaven, in a maroon silk dressing gown. ‘You again,’ he said. He looked Breen up and down. ‘Bit early.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Why?’

‘I just need to talk to you about Francis.’

Fraser sighed and held the door open for Breen.

The man who had been behind the door when Breen had knocked was more bohemian. In his mid-twenties, he had thick dark hair that straggled below his ears and large silver rings on his fingers. One was in the shape of a skull, with deep black eyes on it. Unshaven, he
was dressed in a djellaba, a cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘Hi,’ he mumbled quietly.

There was a young woman too. Ash-blonde hair and mascara smudges around her eyes. She was dressed in a short cotton dressing gown and stood next to him.

‘He’s cool,’ said Fraser, as Breen entered the room. ‘Go back to bed.’

Obediently, the young man padded away. The woman said, ‘I’ll make some coffee. I’ve got to be on set in an hour anyway.’ She had a European tinge to her accent.

‘Had a party?’ asked Breen.

‘We just don’t keep the same hours as you lot,’ said Robert opening a drawer and pulling out a fresh packet of cigarettes. He yawned and undid the cellophane. ‘You look pale, Mister Policeman. Having a rough time?’

‘Actually, yes,’ said Breen. ‘Pretty rough.’

‘I hope you’re not ill,’ he said, not sympathetic.

There was a chaise longue in the middle of the room surrounded by cushions, with a more modern sofa next to it. Old and new, modern and antique, all jumbled up together in a big, light airy room. Without being asked, Breen sat on the sofa, in front of a blue sculpture of a headless angel. An elaborate antique hookah pipe sat beside him.

‘Coffee?’ said the woman.

‘Please,’ said Breen.

‘Me too,’ said Fraser.

She had the husky voice of someone who’d smoked too much the night before.

Fraser sat on the sofa opposite him. Breen said, ‘That’s a Matisse, isn’t it?’ A large painting on the wall.

‘Not m-mine,’ Fraser said. ‘Just between owners.’ As his dressing gown rode up, Breen noticed scars and long scabs on his legs. Lines under the skin as if there were worms burrowing beneath the surface.

‘That sounds good,’ said Breen. ‘To have this kind of thing but not to have the responsibility of owning it.’

Fraser laughed.

‘You can just wake up in the morning and say, “Oh, look. That’s a Matisse.” That’s a…’ Breen pointed at another one. A silhouette of a jug: plain black lines on a blue canvas.

‘It’s by a friend of mine. Can I interest you in it?’

‘I couldn’t afford it.’ He kept looking down at the marks on Fraser’s legs.

Fraser said, ‘From what I hear there are plenty of members of the Metropolitan Police who rake in more than I’ll ever earn.’

The woman brought two coffees in large French cups. Real coffee.

‘Did you know Francis Pugh as well?’ Breen asked her.

‘Don’t think so,’ said the woman.

‘Frankie,’ said Fraser. ‘You remember him. He was here when we had that party for Dennis Hopper. Quite quiet. Asked you to go to bed with him.’

She shook her head. ‘Most men ask to go to bed with me. I don’t remember.’

‘Well?’ said Fraser. He sat on the chaise longue. ‘Say what you have to say. I want to go back to bed.’ To Fraser, Breen was a man in pressed trousers and polished shoes. An amusing figure they would probably joke about when he had gone.

Breen leaned forward a little and asked, ‘Did Francis Pugh take drugs?’

‘Oh God. I knew it would come back to bloody drugs. It’s all you lot are interested in these days.’ He looked away.

Breen fixed a smile on his face. ‘Did he?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘In the last couple of months he was just drawing out cash. I think he may have been spending it on drugs.’

Fraser took a gulp from the coffee. ‘A lot of people do these days.’

‘Did you take drugs with him?’

‘Got any sugar, darling?’ he called. ‘As you know, I no longer take drugs. I learned my lesson.’

Breen looked around the room for a second, then spoke. ‘Please don’t treat me like an idiot,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not interested in arresting you or any of your friends for what they do. I just want to know about Francis. Please. Otherwise I’ll have to talk to my friends in the Drug Squad.’

‘You’re like a bunch of playground bullies, you lot.’ Fraser smiled again. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Yes. Frankie took drugs. And?’

‘Who did he take drugs with? You?’

Fraser shrugged. ‘As you know, I no longer take drugs. They’re illegal. And much as I enjoyed my stay in the Scrubs, I prefer to come and go as I please.’

‘Was he an addict?’

Fraser said, ‘We’re all addicted to something. Booze. Coffee. An orderly society.’

‘Please answer the question.’

The woman came back with a bowl of sugar. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said. ‘If the car comes to pick me up, tell them to wait.’

Was the woman an actress? Breen didn’t recognise her, though that didn’t mean a great deal.

Fraser said, ‘I wouldn’t say he was an addict, as much as an enthusiast. He was enthusiastic about most things.’

‘Where did he get them from? From you?’

Fraser shook his head. ‘The drugs? God, no. I sell art, not drugs.’

Breen said, ‘Who?’

Fraser paused and said, ‘Tell you what. If I help you, will you get your chums in the Drug Squad off my back?’

Breen paused. He had not intended to come here to strike a bargain with a convicted man. ‘I can tell them you’ve been helpful,’ he said.

Fraser reconsidered. ‘You have to understand how this works. In the scene, you never talk about your connections. For obvious reasons.’

‘Heroin?’

Fraser said, ‘Why would I know?’

‘Because you take heroin yourself.’

‘Took. Past tense.’ Noticing Breen looking at his legs, Fraser pulled them up beneath him and tucked them under his dressing gown. ‘You hear things, obviously. Frankie liked a bit of heroin, it’s true.’

‘So where would he have got it from?’

‘Have you asked his doctor? They always have the good stuff.’

The sound of a shower coming on down the hallway. From another room, a guitar strumming.

‘What’s it like out there? The weather?’ said Fraser.

‘Cold and wet,’ said Breen.

‘I’ve had enough of this bloody country. Is that all?’ said Fraser. ‘I want to go back to bed.’

Breen had almost finished his coffee. Delicious black sludge at the bottom of a cup. He asked, ‘Did you ever meet a man called Oliver Tarpey?’

‘Tarpey? Thin man? Looks like a toilet brush in a suit,’ said Fraser.

‘You met him with Frankie?’

‘His father’s minder. I met him once. He didn’t like me. Told me to stay away from Frankie. Thought I was a corrupting influence.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘He called me a fraud. He said, “You pretend to like this art rubbish and they fall for it.” Typical of the English at their most venal. They only understand money. They don’t understand what’s happening in the world. That everything is changing. That people are waking up. Everywhere apart from England.’

Breen said, ‘What’s it like, taking heroin?’

‘Try it and see,’ said Fraser.

‘Do you lose interest in women? When you’re on drugs.’

Fraser said, ‘I’ve never really had that much interest in women.’

‘In sex then?’

Fraser suddenly looked sad. ‘Maybe that’s the real attraction. Sex is everywhere, these days, isn’t it? The permissive society means sex is a chore, almost. I wonder if that’s one of the things that makes dope so attractive. It makes sex less important.’

Breen said, ‘I thought you take drugs to feel more.’

Fraser laughed. ‘Lots of people think that. Even the people who take drugs. Doors of perception and all that. That’s why everybody’s so interested. But it turns out they’re quite wrong. I thought so myself for a while. I’m sad to say it’s precisely the opposite.’

The man was still strumming away on the guitar, the same riffs over and over again.

‘Your hands are shaking,’ said Fraser.

Breen looked down at his hands. He was right.

‘You should see a doctor about that,’ he said.

Breen placed his hands firmly on his thighs so that Fraser wouldn’t be able to see them move.

Afterwards, Breen walked northwards. There was a small delicatessen open in Duke Street. Smoked mackerel hung in the window, shiny and orange. Since the fire he had not been eating properly. His appetite had gone. He went in and bought one for his supper, walked out with it wrapped in paper.

Back at home he took a ten-pound note from the tin cash box and bought a fire extinguisher and asked for the change in florins. He fed these into the electric meter.

That night he slept in the armchair again. He woke, covered in sweat, imagining that the place was burning again. It was just the heat from the electric fire.

On Sunday morning he spent three hours alone in the CID room going through notes from the door-to-doors. He used the phone in the office to call up Stoke Newington CID, but no one picked up.

In the afternoon he was back home, sponging the soot off the ceiling with turpentine when Tozer called up. ‘I was just speaking to my mother. She was asking after you. She wanted to know, are you OK? You know, with the fire and everything.’

‘So it’s not you asking. It’s your mother?’

‘Of course I’m asking too,’ she said.

‘I’m OK. I’m cleaning the place up a bit. What are you doing?’

The line was silent for a while, then she said. ‘I’ve been practising the guitar. I should come over and give you a concert of my one good chord.’

Breen stretched the phone cord over to his father’s old chair and sat down. ‘The place stinks,’ he said. ‘I’ve been cleaning the smoke off the ceiling. I’d say come and give me a hand, but I’m almost finished.’

‘I was going to go back to the squat this evening to ask for some tips, anyway. They do a thing they called an Arts Lab there on Sundays.’

Breen said, ‘What is it you are after in that place?’

‘Guitar lessons,’ she said.

‘Is that all?’

‘Maybe I fancy men with long hair and beards.’

Another pause. ‘I think I should go and see Shirley Prosser,’ said Breen. ‘Find out if she knows what’s going on.’

‘Shouldn’t you leave that to Stoke Newington?’ she said.

‘You think I should just sit here and wait for Prosser to try it again? Will you come with me?’

She was calling from the women’s section house phone. Breen could hear the sound of someone in the background saying, ‘How long you going to be, Hel?’ It was Sunday. There would be a queue for the phone.

‘See you Monday then, Paddy.’

And he went back to sponging off the dark, thick residue left by the fire. A curiously satisfying, mindless occupation.

He woke at three in the morning, thinking he had heard someone outside the front door. Heart banging, he went to the kitchen, took a meat knife from the drawer and went back to the front door, the knife in his right hand.

Quietly he slid back the bolt, then yanked the new door open.

Blackness and silence. A prickling of stars. Nobody there.

Just his imagination.