She's Leaving Home (27 page)

“Where’s Izzie?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen her for weeks neither.” She looked up from her sandwich suddenly. “Oh God. You think she’s OK?”

Breen looked up at Tozer. She was leaning across the table now, brow furrowed.

“Have you got a photo of her?”

The girl shook her head. “Someone’s bound to. Not me, though. I’m no good with cameras.”

“What’s her last name?”

The girl shook her head. “She never had one. We just called her Izzie.”

“Think hard. Who might know where she lives?”

The girl chewed her lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Think. Please.”

“We spend a lot of time together, us fans. Girls mostly. Just a few boys. We’re waiting for stuff to happen.” She looked away, then back at the detectives. “We’re the sort of people who never fitted in. And then along came these pop stars and we realized we never wanted to belong anyway. So we don’t always tell people about where we’re from.” The girl had left her bacon sandwich on the plate. “Do you think she’s dead too?”

Breen looked at Tozer; she looked back at him. “How can you find out if anyone’s seen her?” he asked.

She pulled out a small Letts diary and turned to a page full of phone numbers.

“I could try calling. Only, I’ve not got no change.”

This time, on the way to the police station, Breen put the siren on as Tozer weaved through the traffic, cars pulling to one side.

“She’s a good driver, isn’t she? Look at them cars bloody move,” said Carol from the back of the car. She wound down the window and stuck her head out, feeling the wind in her hair.

The station was quiet. Carol sat at Breen’s desk calling her friends. “Three guesses where I am.”

Most of them were in at this time of day but not one of them had seen Izzie for the last month.

A boy who lived in Palmers Green had a photo taken in a photobooth, but he said they couldn’t really make out Izzie clearly as there were six of them all trying to squeeze into the shot. The only girl who might have had a proper photo was away in America, visiting her parents.

The girl sat at Breen’s desk, doodling.

“Were they girlfriends? You know?”

The girl nodded. “Didn’t bother me,” she said. Breen watched Carol write her name in big rounded letters and put a heart in place of the “o.” Tozer said, “You want a lift home, then?”

“Can you put the siren on again?”

“I want you to drive me to the Ezeokes’ house after,” said Breen.

“Oh. Right. God.”

“Just a minute.”

He opened his desk drawer, pulled out the envelope Devon and Cornwall police had sent him, took out the photograph of Mrs. Sullivan’s body and examined it again.

“What’s that?” said Carol.

“Nothing,” he said.

Carol-George lived with her uncle in a terraced house in Belsize Park.

“I’m home,” she shouted loudly. “I’ve got two friends with me.”

He was in the kitchen at the table with the wireless on, a thin, silver-haired man in a gray sleeveless jumper. There were Beatles pictures stuck all around the walls.

“I’m hungry,” he said, not looking at them. “You’re late.” The whites of his eyes showed as he talked; Breen saw he was blind.

“I’ll make tea in a minute,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. “Toad in the hole and gravy.”

“Delicious,” the blind man said, smacking his lips. “Introduce me to your friends, then.”

“This is Helen. I don’t know his name.”

“Cathal,” said Breen.

“They’re not any of the ones I’ve met before, are they?”

“No, Uncle.”

She put the electric kettle on. “Come here,” she said to Tozer. “I want to show you something. Back in a minute, Uncle.”

There were bits of newspapers and magazines cut out everywhere around the house, pasted to the walls. The four Beatles getting into an airplane. A headline saying “George Says I Love You Yeah Yeah Yeah.” A picture of John next to a bulldog. An old picture of the group playing in the Cavern. “The house is like a big scrapbook,” said Tozer.

“It’s OK. He doesn’t mind,” said Carol. “I think it brightens up the place a bit. Come on. I want to show you this.”

“You look after him?”

“My auntie died a couple of years ago. I moved in then. It’s better than home. Home is rubbish. Here I get to do what I want.”

She led them up to a back room on the first floor. “This is where I bring all the fans I like,” she said shyly to Tozer.

She switched the light on.

“Oh my God,” said Tozer. “It’s incredible.”

The wall was plastered, floor to ceiling, in photographs, each overlapping the other, pasted there with glue. Thousands of faces looked out at them. It must have taken her weeks. Breen realized that each Beatle had one wall. Ringo’s wall had a small sash window in it. Paul’s wall had the door they walked in through. John’s was the wall to their left.

“Wow,” said Tozer.

“My pride and joy,” said Carol.

“It’s super,” said Tozer.

“Thanks.”

“You did all this yourself?”

Carol nodded, smiling.

There was a pile of cushions in the middle of the room, from which you could look at the walls. And there were candles stuck to the floorboards with wax around the edge. Tozer walked in and stood in the middle, looking slowly round. Breen stayed by the door with Carol.

George had the wall opposite. In the middle, a large picture of George, surrounded by flowers. Breen watched her revolving slowly in the center of the room. By the time she came round to face them, her eyes looked red.

“Are you OK?” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said.

B
reen rang Mr. Ezeoke’s doorbell. After a minute or so, Mrs. Ezeoke opened the door.

“Can we come in?”

She shook her head. “My husband is away. He is at a conference.”

“When is he back?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Breen nodded. It was late; they had stayed too long at Carol’s.

“Are you sure you are well? You don’t look well to me. Have you come to ask my husband a medical question?”

“No. It’s just something to do with the case.”

“Can I offer you a Coca-Cola?”

“If it’s no trouble.”

She opened the door and led them through into the living room. “I am bored when he is not here. I do not have many friends in London. I miss my country.”

“Will you go back there after the war?”

“My husband tells everyone that we will.” She smiled. “But he has never lived there. I have. Your hospitals are full of Nigerian doctors. They all talk about how they will go back to make the country great, but they all prefer to work here.”

The living room was the same as it had been last time, boxes still unpacked, record sleeves scattered around the floor. She returned from the kitchen carrying three glasses of Coke on a tray. “I must apologize for the mess. I had meant to tidy up, but I have not got around to it yet. Sit, please.”

She sat on the sofa; he perched on a chair; Tozer sat in a modern-looking chair that looked like it came from Habitat.

“How is your husband’s war?”

She laughed. “My husband’s war. I think that is a good name for it. He believes he alone can win it from the distance of so many thousand miles.”

“He’s a very passionate man.”

“Yes. A very passionate man. We have given all we have to the war. If it was me, I would not have given so much.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled. “I do not like this house. I do not like our new neighbors. They are not educated people. We used to have a good house. We have sold it to raise money for the committee. He says we will get our money back when Biafra wins the war. As you say, he is a passionate man.” She was silent for a while, then said, “What did you want to ask my husband?”

“It’s an odd question.”

“I expect it is odd. You are looking for a murderer. There is nothing normal about your job.”

Breen hesitated. “I have a photograph of a woman wearing a bracelet. I think it may be African. It’s like the bracelet you’re wearing now.” He had remembered her wearing it at the party. “I was just wondering if he could tell me anything about it.”

“Why can I not help? I am more African than he is. Show it to me.”

“It isn’t that simple. The bracelet is being worn by a dead woman. She committed suicide with a shotgun.”

“So?”

“So it’s a very disturbing photograph.”

“This photograph. Is it something to do with the dead girl? The one you found by our house?”

“It’s the girl’s mother.”

“She has killed herself? My God. The girl and now the mother?”

“Yes.”

“So you found out who the poor girl was?”

“Yes.”

She held out her hand. “Show me the photograph.”

“Your husband is a doctor. He would be more used to seeing things like this.”

Mrs. Ezeoke smiled. “You underestimate African women. We are much stronger than English ladies.”

“It’s gruesome.”

“The girl is dead. Have you found the killer?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If I can help I should help. You should let me help. Show me the photograph.”

Breen lifted his bag onto the wooden coffee table and opened it. The photograph was still in the brown envelope that Block had sent it to him in. He pulled it out and handed it across to her.

At first her face didn’t register shock; it was calm. But that composure only lasted a second or two. Her eyes widened and the hand that wasn’t holding the picture went up to cover her open mouth.

“I warned you it was bad,” he said.

“It is the bracelet.”

“I had been wondering if you or Mr. Ezeoke could suggest where it might have come from.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously. “When was this photograph taken?”

“Several weeks ago.”

“This is my daughter’s bracelet. My mother bought it for her from a Hausa trader, before the war, when she was just a little girl.”

“Your daughter?”

“My daughter Ijeoma.”

“Izzy,” said Breen.

“What?” said Mrs. Ezeoke.

“You never told us you had a daughter,” said Breen.

“She does not live with us anymore.”

“You’re sure it’s her bracelet?”

“One hundred percent. It is a very unusual bracelet. My mother bought it for her. In our country, the Hausa traders come from the north. They are Moslems. They buy goods and travel south with them to sell to us. Since the war, the Moslems and the Igbos hate each other. But when I was pregnant with my Ijeoma, things were friendlier.”

She reached up and touched her earring. “An old Hausa man came every year and he set up a stall outside our house, out on the street. Every year, soon after the rainy season, he would appear and lay out his goods. He knew if he needed water to drink he could come to our house. Every year he would bring us a little present. As a girl I always used to like his jewelry. When Ijeoma was christened, my mother bought a bracelet from him as a christening present. It was too big for the baby Ije to wear, but I wore it for years. When she was big enough I gave it to her, and bought another for myself. See?” She showed the photograph of the thick bronze bracelet. “Why does this dead woman have my daughter’s bracelet?”

“Her daughter gave it to her before she died.”

The woman nodded somberly.

“When did you last see your daughter, Mrs. Ezeoke?”

“Three months ago.”

He rubbed his forehead hard, then cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ezeoke. It seems she was friends with Morwenna Sullivan, the murdered girl. I’m afraid that means there is a chance she might be dead as well.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Ezeoke said abruptly. “She is in Ivory Coast.”

“Ivory Coast?”

She frowned. “It is a country in West Africa. Many Biafran refugees are there. She has gone to look after them.”

“When did she leave?”

“In the summer. In August.”

“And you know she’s there?”

“Of course.”

“Can we contact her?”

Mrs. Ezeoke laughed. “You can send a telegram. Or write a letter. She writes to us sometimes, but not often. She is angry with us. She will not forgive her father for sending her there.”

“Mr. Ezeoke sent her there?” asked Tozer, looking at Breen.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To save her.”

“I don’t understand,” said Breen.

Mrs. Ezeoke said, “My husband is a very complicated man. He grew up in this country. But he is black.”

“We know.”

“He did not have a happy childhood here.”

“I can imagine.”

“I don’t think you can begin to imagine it. He told me that until he was thirteen he never met any other black people. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine? It would be like being a ghost in a land of the living,” she said.

There was a hardness in her voice now. “He never knew what it meant to be an African. You English grew up with an Empire. You believe black people are like children. It is why he worked so hard all his life. He didn’t want to be like one of those lazy, childish black people. When he told his foster parents he wanted to come back to Africa to find his true family, you know what they told him? ‘It would be better if he didn’t.’” She laughed. “But he came anyway. It is when I met him. He was full of excitement at being home in the country of his ancestors for the first time. Our town threw a big party for him when he returned. Dancing, beer. He drank palm wine for the first time and it made him sick as a dog.” She giggled. “Poor Sam looked so happy, and so confused and lost at the same time. Even the water we drank made him sick. He wants so much to be African, but he can never be properly African. Because of that he will always be angry with you. Everything is the fault of the English. It is the English’s fault he was taken away from Africa. It is England’s fault Biafra is not winning the war. They support the Federals who are killing us.”

“And your daughter?”

“My daughter was born in England. She grew up in England. She has never lived in Africa until now. She does not share her father’s obsessions.”

“And she liked pop music.”

Mrs. Ezeoke laughed. “It would make my husband angry that she would not listen to African music.”

Tozer said, “He sent her back to Africa because she liked the Beatles?”

“Our people need help. We have many refugees in Ivory Coast. He wanted her to help.”

Tozer said it again. “He sent her away because she liked the Beatles?”

She looked at the carpet sorrowfully. “No no. It was not just the Beatles.”

“What?”

“This has nothing to do with the murder of your poor girl,” said Mrs. Ezeoke. “I have nothing more I can say.”

“She was friends with the murdered girl. She gave her your bracelet. That must mean she was close to her.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Ezeoke, still looking at the carpet. “I am a mother too. I wore that bracelet myself.”

“Why did he send your daughter away?”

“He wants her to find a husband. An African man.”

“She and Morwenna were lovers,” said Tozer.

The woman stood and turned away, started pulling books out of one of the boxes and arranging them in piles. After a minute she spoke again. “She never brought her friends to us. It is wrong for a man to lie down with a man or a girl to lie down with a girl. My husband says that only white people are like that. He believed it was just a teenage infatuation. An illness, you could say. She had to be cured of it. He is a very proud man, you understand. Everything can be cured. I would have forgiven her. It is more important to be happy. He wanted it fixed.”

Breen nodded.

She abandoned the books and sat down again. “She is gone. I am not sure she will ever come back to us. I think we have lost her forever,” she said, sitting straight-backed.

“And so your husband has sent her away from temptation?”

“He believes girls like that do not exist in Africa. Africa is a perfect place for him. It is Eden. He thinks for a girl to love a girl is just a Western corruption. In some ways he is a very innocent man.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“You never mentioned you had a daughter the same age as the dead girl.”

“I do not speak about her much now. It makes me too sad. It makes him too angry.”

“Did your husband ever meet your daughter’s lover?”

“My daughter was careful to keep her away from us. She knew her father would not forgive her. I know he met the girl’s father once.”

“When?”

“After he sent Ijeoma to Africa. He went to clear her belongings out of her flat and the other girl’s father was there too, doing the same. Moving his girl’s things.”

“Did he talk about him?”

“Why do you need to know this?”

“Please.”

“Yes. They had a lot in common. They both wanted to save their daughters. This other man, he was a military man. Sam liked him. Said he was on our side. He supported Biafra. He wanted to help. They were both men.”

Breen and Tozer looked at each other.

“When will your husband come home?”

“Tomorrow.” She looked around the room. “Could I get you some more Coca-Cola? Or perhaps some cake?”

Breen shook his head.

Mrs. Ezeoke stood suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said, leaving the room. They heard her bustling in the hallway outside. She returned with a pale blue envelope.

She handed it to Breen. It was an airmail letter addressed to Ijeoma Ezeoke. There was a stamp on it, but the address was not filled in. On the back was the sender’s return address:
Morwenna Sullivan, 118c Edgware Road, London
. In big letters on the front, underlined,
Strictly Private!!!!

“She came here?” said Breen.

“I did not see her,” said Mrs. Ezeoke. “She left the letter in our letter box to post to my daughter with a note asking us to post it to her. I did not post it. I thought it was best if Ijeoma forgot about her.”

They sat in silence for a minute while the darkness outside pressed in at the room.

In the car: “Ivory Coast. That sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?”

Breen said, “It does.”

Breen opened the letter. It was dated August 17, 1968.

There were hundreds of little “x”s covering the entire bottom of the thin blue airmail paper.

“You think it was him, then? I do.”

“I don’t know if he killed the girl. But the murder victim was found right next to his house. And he knew the major.”

“And now we know that Morwenna knew where the Ezeokes lived.”

“And he’s been keeping it from us. He has to be able to tell us something.”

“I think it was him.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Helen.”

“Yeah, but I still think it was him.”