The Kings of London (8 page)

‘There’s always a free round if it’s someone’s birthday. Besides, how else is Bailey going to get anyone coming?’

Breen stood up and looked at the line he’d made. Then picked up the red crayon and started joining the red crosses.

‘I don’t mind waiting, mind,’ said Jones. He was watching Breen’s careful hand. ‘Imagine what Prosser would have said if he’d seen you doing that.’

When he’d finished the red line, Breen stood up. He stared at the graph.

‘What’s it mean?’ said Jones.

Breen looked at the graph. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

Tozer joined them now, make-up back in her bag.

‘What’s the green line?’ she asked.

‘All the sums of money he spent on clothes since March 1967.’

‘And the red one?’

‘Cheques made out to cash.’

The green line started high and descended as time progressed. Over the few weeks before Pugh’s death it bumped along the bottom of the X-axis. The red line did the almost exact opposite. Starting low, it began to rise in around March of this year. In the last few weeks it had risen steeply upwards.

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Jones.

‘Maybe he was buying clothes with cash, instead of cheques,’ said Tozer.

‘Maybe,’ said Breen. The two lines crossed in mid-June. He stood there staring at the graph, sure that there was some meaning to it, but not able to figure out what it was.

‘I’m dying for a drink. Aren’t you?’ said Jones.

The Louise was for drinking and little else: lit too brightly, no jukebox, just stools and benches in the public bar. The floor was always thick with cigarette butts and wet from spilt beer. A police pub. There were only three women in the place, including Tozer and Marilyn.

‘Ah, Paddy. Wondered where you were. Let me get you a drink.’ Bailey greeted Breen a little too eagerly. ‘What are you having?’ Bailey’s wife had patched the sleeves of his tweed jacket with leather ovals.

‘Thank you sir. Lager.’

Other officers smirked. ‘Oooh. Teacher’s pet,’ someone muttered.

‘Another one, Jones?’

‘Go on then, sir.’

‘I was hoping there would be a few more in,’ said Bailey. ‘But I suppose people are busy.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Breen had tried his best, but there weren’t many in the pub. Inspector Bailey had grown less popular. The Met was going to hell, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t trust the younger officers with their new ways of doing things, especially when it came to the way they bent the rules. He would be gone soon anyway.

Breen took his drink and sat with his boss. Jones was on Bailey’s other side.

‘Any progress with the Pugh case?’ asked Bailey, offering around a packet of Senior Service. Old-man fags. No one took one.

‘I thought this was supposed to be a birthday drink, sir,’ said Jones. ‘No shop talk.’

‘I hear your wife is expecting, Constable Jones. Congratulations are in order.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ murmured Jones.

‘Best thing that happens to a man,’ said Bailey.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I should do this more often. Take you lot out for a drink.’

Conversation dried.

Until Breen said, ‘Are we recruiting new officers, sir? To make up for the shortfall?’

Bailey said, ‘I thought this was supposed to be a birthday drink.’

‘Good one, sir.’ Though nobody laughed.

‘I don’t know,’ said Bailey. ‘It seems as if we’re not the most popular department.’

‘I mean,’ somebody was saying, ‘I knew why Carmichael wanted to go to the Drug Squad, he was always a flashy git, but I thought Prosser would be carried out of here in a coffin.’

‘Mind if I join you, sir?’ Constable Tozer was standing there with a rum and blackcurrant.

Breen shuffled down the bench to make space for her.

‘You bringing Mrs Bailey to the Christmas party, sir? They got Kenny Ball. Lovely stuff,’ said Jones.

Bailey smiled politely, then turned to Tozer. ‘I hear you are leaving the police too, Miss Tozer?’

‘Yes, sir. Going back to Devon.’

‘She’s going back to the farm. We’re too fast for her up here,’ said someone. ‘Ain’t we, Helen?’

‘My father’s not well,’ said Tozer. She looked at Breen as she did so.

They had never discussed it: looking after sick parents. He’d just finished that; she was about to begin. Not the kind of thing you talked about.

‘Acker Bilk, Chris Barber, Monty Sunshine. Proper music. None of this pop rubbish,’ Jones was saying.

‘Police life is not for everyone,’ Bailey said, sipping on his pint. ‘It’s better to discover that earlier rather than later.’

‘Shame you didn’t discover that earlier,’ someone muttered.

Bailey didn’t seem to hear or pretended he hadn’t. Another drink, lads?’ he said.

Officers smirked. ‘Lads’: sounded ridiculous, coming from Bailey.

A voice said loudly, ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Everybody looked round. Marilyn’s shortarse boyfriend Danny had arrived. Check shirt and rockabilly quiff.

‘He didn’t mean you, you prat,’ said Marilyn. He leaned over and gave her a kiss.

‘Of course I did,’ said Bailey. ‘Daniel, isn’t it?’

‘Lager and black then,’ said Danny with a smile.

Jones gulped down the pint Bailey had just bought him and banged the empty glass on the table. ‘Go on, sir. I’ll have another.’

The inspector stood, trying to get into the role, ‘Righto. Drinks all round,’ he said, leaving Breen, Tozer and Jones sitting together.

‘You like that Bob Dylan feller, don’t you, Tozer?’ Jones was saying. ‘That’s not singing, is it? It’s torture.’

‘He’s OK,’ said Tozer.

‘You wait,’ Jones was saying. ‘Couple of years and nobody will remember any of that. It’s the classics they’re going to remember. Real music. I didn’t know your dad was sick, mind you.’

Tozer nodded, sipped her rum.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Jones.

Tozer nodded again. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘You get on with him?’

Tozer nodded.

‘I hate my dad,’ said Jones.

‘Will you shut up about your bloody dad, Jonesy.’ Marilyn joined them on the bench. ‘That true, Helen? You don’t like police life?’

Tozer said, ‘Just the company you have to keep, that’s all.’

People laughed, thinking she was joking. Tozer said, ‘I heard Prosser had gone because someone had rumbled he was bent.’

‘Don’t talk bollocks,’ said Jones. ‘You don’t know anything.’

Older coppers glared at her. Jones added, ‘Best copper we ever had on CID, Prosser.’

‘What about Paddy?’ said Marilyn, scooching up next to him.

Jones didn’t answer.

Bailey came back with a tray. ‘One for the road, eh, chums?’ he said, sitting down next to Breen. ‘Chin-chin.’

Marilyn leaned round Breen and said to Bailey, ‘I think Paddy’s great, don’t you, sir? He’s lovely.’

‘He’s a good man,’ said Bailey uncomfortably.

‘I feel sorry for him, living on his own,’ continued Marilyn. ‘If you ever want me to come around and cook you a meal, Paddy. Do some laundry. Anything like that.’

‘Stupid woman,’ said Danny, standing across the table from them. ‘You’re drunk.’

Breen stood and went to the toilet. Jones joined him at the urinal. The toilets in the Louise stank of piss. Fag ends blocked the drain.

‘Thing is,’ said Jones. ‘Sometimes I wish I could talk to women. Properly. Like you do.’

Breen was doing up his flies. ‘Me? Are you having me on?’

‘Marilyn and Tozer. They talk to you.’

Jones was splashing noisily against the porcelain.

‘Why do you want to talk to women anyway? You’re married.’

‘My wife is making me sleep on the sofa,’ Jones said, urine still splattering.

Breen was about to go and wash his hands. Jones never talked like this. Not to him, anyway. Breen turned to him and asked, ‘Why?’

‘We row a bit. That’s all. They go a bit funny when they got a baby, I think. I don’t know how to talk to her. So I just go out. You know. Walking. Or to the pub. She don’t like pubs much.’

Breen said, ‘I don’t know. You just talk, that’s all.’

‘I’m just scared I’ll do something wrong,’ said Jones.

Breen moved to the sink and started washing his hands.

‘Like what?’

Jones turned and did up his flies, not answering. There were splashes on his trousers.

Breen looked for the towel. It was lying on the floor, grey with grease and dirt. He wiped his hands on his trousers instead.

Jones said, ‘My dad used to whack my mum. Fucking bastard.’

The door barged open. A copper, still in uniform, lurched in. ‘Jonesy!’ he shouted.

‘What about you? Have you hit your wife?’

Jones ignored the newcomer. ‘God, no. I would never do that.’

‘But you’re frightened you will?’

Jones’s eyes seemed to lose their focus for a second. ‘Frightened? I’m not frightened of bloody anything.’ And he pushed out of the door, ahead of Breen, without washing his hands.

Breen sat down between Marilyn and Bailey. ‘Are you getting the cooperation you need from Rhodri Pugh’s men?’ Bailey asked.

Breen looked across the table. Jones was sitting next to Danny, shouting something in his ear, as if their conversation in the toilets had never happened. He turned back to Bailey and said, ‘The trouble is, we still know almost nothing about the man. I’ve tried everything. All the people I can find, which isn’t many. But nobody’s seen anything of him these last few months. It’s as if he had already disappeared.’

‘Keep at it,’ said Bailey. ‘You’ll find something.’

‘I’m not drunk,’ Marilyn was saying. ‘Just saying what I think.’

Bailey took a sip from his pint of beer. Breen tried to remember if he had ever seen Bailey drunk.

‘What are you two conniving about?’ Tozer barged in next to Breen with a rum and black in her hand, pushing Marilyn to one side.

Marilyn protested, ‘Hey. I was sitting next to Paddy.’

‘Want another?’ Jones said, holding up his empty glass.

‘Don’t mind,’ said Danny.

‘Steady on, Jonesy.’

When he’d gone, Breen said to Marilyn, ‘He ever talk to you about his dad?’

‘Oh God. Jones? Was he talking about his dad?’ She was holding her glass, heavily smudged with lipstick.

‘Yes. Just now, in the toilet.’

Marilyn scowled. ‘Never shut him up now. He does it every time he’s on the sauce. Starts talking about his dad. Gets all wound up.’

‘What’s up with his dad?’

‘Jonesy fucking hates him, that’s all.’

‘Language, please.’

Tozer said, ‘His dad put his mother in hospital a few times. Gets drunk. Comes home. You know how it goes. Had a go at Jonesy a few times when he was a nipper too, I think.’

‘He told you that?’ said Breen.

‘More or less.’

Marilyn said, ‘I reckon it’s why he’s so shit scared of having a kid himself.’

‘Is he?’ said Breen.

‘Oh, Paddy! Can’t you tell? Poor lad goes white every time anyone mentions the baby.’

Jones was coming back from the bar, pints in hand. Tozer changed the subject quickly by saying to Bailey, ‘So, sir. Happy Birthday. You planning your retirement?’

Conversation faltered. People turned to Inspector Bailey to hear what he would say. And though Bailey was laughing at her question, there was such a look of sadness in his eyes that Breen felt like giving Tozer a sharp kick under the table. What do people like Bailey do when they retire? They die, mostly. Or start gardening.

And London was surrounded by a belt of semis with gardens that spoke of the horror of it.

Breen couldn’t sleep.

Beer and remorse. He was not good with alcohol.

After Bailey had left, and full of more lager than he was used to, he had realised how soon Tozer would be gone. Then he had asked her if she wanted to come home with him after the pub. Like they had done last time.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she’d said, placing her hand on his.

She had probably been right, but he was annoyed all the same about the way her hand had lain on top of his. It wasn’t her sympathy he wanted.

There were plenty of other girls. She had said that too.

‘Try asking someone else out. Go on. I dare you.’

He could have said he didn’t want to ask just anyone. Instead he’d said, ‘I just don’t meet them.’

It was true. Years of looking after his dad meant he had fallen out of the habit of meeting women.

‘Try harder,’ she’d said.

He needed new habits. New places to go to. He was a man who seemed easier to hate than to love, as the growing pile of death threats in his drawer showed.

Now he was awake and it was two o’clock in the morning, so he made mint tea and drank it and put on one of his father’s records, enjoying the simple misery of Kathleen Ferrier’s ‘When I Am Laid in Earth’. The swell of her voice. The crackle of the needle. His father had listened to music with a seriousness that Breen had never understood, sitting in an armchair, head on hands, only listening, never doing anything else. It was never a background for him. He was never a man for the carelessly played radio. Or the carelessly played anything else, for that matter.

Breen sat in that same armchair his father had sat in, writing notes. Making two piles. Two bodies, both in destroyed houses. One had been silent for two months, because he was a man of no importance. The other was equally silent so far, but for different reasons.

Francis Pugh must have had friends of some kind. But Breen had yet to meet them.

Bailey had laughed the previous night when Tozer had talked of retirement. He was not laughing the next morning.

He was furious, hands quivering, a flicker of spittle on his lips.

‘Who did this?’ the man who barely ever raised his voice shouted at the men in the CID room. Blood pulsed at the vein in his neck.

They sat at their desks. Nobody answered.

‘Marilyn, Constable Tozer,’ said Bailey. ‘Leave the room please.’ The women filed out silently, Tozer looking backwards over her shoulder as she left.

‘Jones? What have you got to say?’

Jones had a packet of aspirin in one hand. ‘Nothing, sir. He must have fallen over in the cell.’

Bailey closed his eyes. ‘Your name is on the arrest sheet, Jones. I’m holding you personally responsible.’

Bailey had left to catch the last train home at ten o’clock. Jones was trying to persuade everyone to play a drinking game called Fuzzy Duck when Breen said he was going home too.

‘We came across him outside the pub, sir. He was drunk. A woman said he had been molesting her. We thought it would be safer for him to spend a night inside, that’s all, sir.’

‘That’s what you say, Jones.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bailey said, ‘You were sober though?’

Jones cocked his head to one side. ‘No, sir, not exactly.’

‘But you felt sober enough to lock a man up for being drunk.’

‘He was assaulting a woman, sir.’

‘And you have her witness statement?’

‘Not exactly, sir. She went off while we were pulling him in. He was drunk, sir. We thought he needed to sleep it off.’

‘And gave him a couple of whacks to make sure he learned his lesson?’

‘He was fine when we locked him up. Swear to God.’

Breen watched the veins on the inspector’s neck pulse. ‘The man has a broken rib and he may lose the sight in one eye. I’ve ordered Wellington to examine him, Constable Jones. If he finds injuries that are not consistent with your explanation I shall kick you off the team.’

Jones said evenly, ‘Ask the duty sergeant, sir. He’ll back us up. He was fine when I brought him in. Just a bit tipsy, that’s all.’ Wellington was on the coppers’ side. He wouldn’t rock the boat.