She's Leaving Home (7 page)

He wondered how much more of this he could stand. Maybe he could persuade Jones to drive him. Jones wouldn’t like it, but Bailey might be pleased if he tried to make an effort with Jones. And at least they understood each other.

A little after midday they walked over to the canteen at St. John’s Wood Police Station, where the officers who were still going door to door were taking a break. Breen lit cigarette number two.

“It’s yummy, sir. Sure you don’t want a bite?” She held out her cake. It was thick and rich, dripping with grease.

“No, thank you.”

As they sat on metal chairs drinking tea from enamel mugs, a young red-faced copper approached them. “Sir?”

Breen recognized him as one of the men he’d spoken to yesterday. He was clutching a mug in one hand and a dirty, crumpled brown-paper bag in the other.

“I was looking for you yesterday, only I heard you fell out of a tree, sir,” he said with a smirk.

“Well?”

“’Cause I found this, sir. In one of the bins you asked me to look through.”

Breen unwrapped the top of the bag and pulled out a black cotton evening dress.

Breen and Tozer looked at the dress, then at each other.

“Which bin?” asked Breen.

The flat had two refuse chutes that dropped rubbish down into bins below.

“The far one, sir. Not the one by where the girl was found, know what I mean?”

Breen handed the dress to Tozer and struggled to pull out a notebook from his jacket pocket. Holding it with his sore arm, he flicked through until he found a drawing he’d made of the flats with all the occupants marked on it.

“Why would anybody throw this away?” said Tozer. “I mean, it’s in good nick.”

“Why is it so clean?” said Breen. “If it was in the bins?”

“It was in that bag I just give you, sir.”

Breen put down the bag. “Why didn’t you tell me that before I stuck my own prints all over it?”

“I do something wrong, sir?”

“Never mind.”

“Bourne and Hollingsworth. Oxford Street.” Tozer was reading the dress’s label. “Size fourteen.”

“What?”

“Wellington’s report said she was seven stone ten, didn’t it? Might be a bit big for her.”

“When did you read Wellington’s report?”

“This morning, before you got in.”

“Why?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She fingered the hem. “I had always imagined the girl as a Carnaby Street type. But then she was naked, wasn’t she? So how would I know? Still. This dress doesn’t even look like it’s been worn, hardly. Why would anybody just chuck it away?”

She laid the rumpled dress out on the worn top of one of the tables and then stood back suddenly. “Oh,” she said.

In the middle of the dress, just below the seam that joined the top to the skirt, was a stain; a small pale blot.

She leaned forward and peered.

“What?” Breen asked.

She picked up the dress and examined it closely. Then put it back down and leaned over towards him, whispering, “Do you think it’s…you know?”

He picked up the dress and looked at the stain.

“You know.” Then even quieter: “Spunk, sir.”

He blinked at her. He must have been looking shocked that a girl would have used the word, because she said, “No need to be like that, sir. We have that stuff in Devon too.”

I
n his small office in the hospital basement, Wellington was delighted by the find. “A-ha,” he said.

“‘A-ha’ what?”

“Another Onan shall new crimes invent, and noble seed in selfish joys be spent.” He sat behind the desk and pulled the dress towards him, holding a small magnifier to his eye.

“I was wondering if it was sperm.”

“Yes, yes. Women present, Paddy. But yes. Sperm.”

“You think it may be?”

“I’ll be sure whether in two hours. I’ll do an acid phosphatase test. You realize that if this is the victim’s dress, this may be an indication of some particular deviance? An inability to penetrate?”

Wellington raised the dress to his nose and sniffed it.

In the car, hands on the wheel, Tozer said, “He seemed happy.”

“Yes. You did well, Constable.”

“Thank you, sir. Where next?”

“Soho,” said Breen, settling back into his seat.

Without looking, she reached her left hand behind her and felt for her handbag. “There’s a packet of Juicy Fruit in there,” she said, dumping it on his lap. “Could you pass me some? Have some yourself, if you like.”

He looked at her like she was mad. “I’m not going rooting in your handbag.”

“Right. Sorry.”

He pushed the bag over to her. She dug around with one hand while driving with the other. He was thinking, why shouldn’t a woman her age know what sperm looked like? It was 1968, after all. If she had been coy about it, like women were supposed to be, it might have gone unnoticed. He wasn’t sure if he was disturbed by this, or fascinated.

“You’re quiet, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

She parked the car in Soho Square. “Wait here. I’ll be back in an hour,” he said.

“What am I supposed to do for an hour?”

“I don’t know. Do some shopping?”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” she said.

In the square a group of people in their twenties and thirties were giving away pale blue bits of paper. A young man with a beard and a duffel coat stood with a sign that read
Free your mind
. A girl in a headscarf and a badge with a red clenched fist handed one of the leaflets to Breen. “You should come,” she said, and smiled.

He read it: “ANTIUNIVERSITY of London. Courses: Future of Capitalism. Black Power. Counterculture. Revolution. Imperialism. Faculty includes Allen Ginsberg, Stokely Carmichael, C. L. R. James, R. D. Laing, Jeff Nuttall. No formal requirements. £8 10/- for each course.” He handed it back. “Not me. I’m too stuck in the mud for a revolution,” he said.

She shrugged and took it back from him, holding it out for the next passerby.

Detective Sergeant Carmichael was waiting for him in Pollo’s, sitting on the red-and-black-striped vinyl banquette seats. Pollo’s had always been one of Breen’s favorites. An Italian.
Italiano
. Gaggia coffee machine, the works. Proof, against all the evidence of his Irish ancestry, that Catholics could have class.

“You’re late,” said Carmichael. “He’s only gone and left now.”

“Who?”

“The man I invited you to meet.”

“Sorry. Had to drop by to see Wellington. Who were you fixing me up with, anyway?”

“Pilch.”

“Pilch? Drug Squad Pilch?”

“I was putting in a word for you, believe it or not,” said Carmichael.

“A word for me? Why?”

“Because D Division is a mess. Everybody knows it. Especially CID. It’s going to blow up, sooner or later. Bailey doesn’t run it, Prosser does. He has all the ranks running around after him. And call a spade a spade, he really don’t like you much. You’d be better off out.”

“Drug Squad? Not my thing.”

“He’s a coming man, mark my words. On the up-and-up. And let’s face it, you need some help right now. You should get off murder anyway.”

“I don’t think so,” said Breen.

“Murder is murder. But drugs is going to be big, I tell you.”

“So you say.”

“Stands to reason. We’re on the tip of the iceberg. Come aboard, Paddy. Ship’s about to sail. Murder is just the same old same old. And I’m on vice. That’s even worse. Vice is done for. This is the permissive society. When there’s people starkers on stage up the Shaftesbury Theatre singing about the age of the Hairy-Arse, who needs to pay for it anymore? Did you go? No? I did. God, there’s some ugly bloody women in that. I felt like shouting, ‘For God’s sake put your clothes back on.’ In a couple of years we’ll be like Sweden, I tell you. The point is, nobody even has to pay for it these days. These young girls, nowadays they’ll fuck anybody. Drugs though. Nobby Pilcher’s got it right. Growth industry. I’m serious, Paddy. You need to get out of D Div.”

The restaurant had filled. All the tables were taken. A queue formed outside on Old Compton Street.

Soho was changing; it was full of advertising men and filmmakers who didn’t wear jackets and drank wine with their meals. Grown men wore flared trousers and scent. They carried notebooks and diaries with them wherever they went. They slouched. They smoked cigars.

“And I’ll stick up for you, you know that. But…”

“I know.”

“We all fuck up sometimes. But you need a fresh start.” Carmichael cracked a breadstick, sending crumbs flying. “I’m sorry ’bout your dad an’ everything.”

“Thanks.”

“I know he never liked me much. But all the same.”

Breen didn’t contradict him. His father had never liked Carmichael and had thought even less of him after Breen followed him into the police.

The waitress appeared. Carmichael ordered lasagna with chips and a pint of Harp.

“Nothing,” said Breen. “I’m OK.”

“Not eating?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“You got to eat, Paddy. You’re bloody skin and bones.”

Breen ordered a spaghetti al burro and a glass of Chianti.

“Give him a Bolognese. He needs a bit of
carne
.” She disappeared with the order. “I just want to help,” said Carmichael. “That’s all.”

“I know,” said Breen. They had trained at Hendon together in the fifties. Looking at the advertising men and go-getters around him, he realized that Carmichael was one of them. He fitted in here. He was a professional. A go-getter.

“Seriously. You used to be one of us.”

“My dad was sick.”

“We all know that. But we’re a tight bunch, coppers. And you’re either one of us or you’re not.”

“And I’m not.”

“Not what I’m saying. But all of us at the nick, we’re all tight. Used to be, anyway. These days the lads all think you’re Lord Snooty and all of his pals.”

“There was nobody else to look after him.”

“And all I’m saying is if you were still one of us, they’d be, ‘Oh, Paddy had a wobble but it could have happened to any of us.’ People would be giving you a second chance.” The drinks came and Carmichael sucked three inches off his pint, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your dad’s dead now. It’s time to clean the slate. Don’t forget, I can put in a word with Pilch for you.” Carmichael took out a packet of Pall Malls and removed a cigarette, tapping it on the table a few times before he put it in his mouth to light it. “So. Arm OK?”

Breen nodded.

“What’s that girl like?”

“She hasn’t stopped talking once.”

“I mean. A plonk on CID. How can you be expected to work like that?”

“She’s not that bad.”

Carmichael raised his eyebrows.

“No, seriously. She’s OK. She’s keen.” To his surprise, Breen realized he was sticking up for Constable Tozer. He was on the verge of explaining to Carmichael about what she’d spotted on the black dress but Carmichael butted in.

“You can’t have women on CID. It’s not going to work. What would happen if you ran into some serious trouble?”

“She might run away, you mean?”

It took a second, then Carmichael said, “Ha, very funny. Why are you always trying to be so bloody obtuse? I’m offering you a chance here and you’re throwing it back in my face.”

They looked at each other. He had deliberately irritated Carmichael. “Sorry, John,” he said. “I’m a bit tired.”

“World’s changing, Paddy. Just say you’ll think about it, OK? About Drug Squad.”

Sitting at the next table was a slender young man with shoulder-length hair, a flowered shirt and a gaudy women’s scarf wrapped around his neck. He was talking to a large middle-aged man in a pale suit. The waitress simpered round the hippie-looking one, so Breen reckoned he was probably an actor or a musician. He didn’t look like he was even twenty years old.

Carmichael caught him looking at them. “Swinging bloody London,” he said.

It was as if some kind of coup had taken place. The young and the beautiful had seized power. They had their own TV programs, their own radio stations, their own shops, their own language. In his early thirties, Breen felt cheated. Jealous even.

Nodding vigorously, the large man in the suit laughed loudly at something the young man said.

The food arrived. Breen looked at his plate, a pile of pasta slathered in meat sauce, and regretted ordering it. He picked up the fork and tried to lift the spaghetti. The pasta slid straight off his fork.

“Eat up,” said Carmichael. “You need feeding.”

Afterwards, Breen walked north towards Tottenham Court Road. The sun came out as he reached Soho Square and the small square park was filled with the unexpectedly vivid browns and greens of all the fallen leaves. The suddenness of color left him feeling exhausted. He reached a damp park bench on the path that ran through the middle of the square and sat down.

He put his head between his knees and closed his eyes. He felt bloated after the meal with Carmichael. After a few breaths he sat back and opened his eyes again. A pigeon fluttered down in front of him, cocking its head expectantly, flashing the wild iridescent pinkness of its neck feathers. The world seemed to contain a new level of indiscriminate significance he had never noticed before.

When you were a policeman you were trained to spot things that were out of the ordinary: a man waiting outside a bank, a broken window, a car with an unusual registration number. Right now, everything seemed to be out of the ordinary.

The small crowd of students was still giving away leaflets. One of them was strumming a guitar hung on string around his neck.

He waited another minute, and the sudden brightness passed. Clouds obscured the sun again, though the unfathomable sense of unease stayed with him, filling his chest again.

“You OK?”

He looked up. Constable Tozer stood by the bench. “I had a cheese sandwich. It was horrible. What did you have?”

He stood.

“So anyway. I went to Bourne and Hollingsworth.”

“Buy anything?”

“No.” She grinned. “I asked about the dress.”

“What? On your own?”

“It’s only just over the road. I couldn’t face finishing my cheese sandwich so I thought I’d drop in.”

“You’re supposed to have a CID officer with you. You know that. You’re just probationary. You’re not supposed to do anything without my say-so.”

Tozer’s smile vanished. Now she looked hurt. “I just thought it would be good, that’s all. What’s the point of me just hanging around doing nothing?”

“It’s procedure, that’s all,” he said, realizing as he said it that it was the sort of thing that Bailey would say. “Well? What did you find out?”

“No luck. I found a floor manager in women’s wear. She said they hadn’t sold anything like that in a couple of years.”

“OK. Next time, you should ask.”

“Yes, sir. Only…”

“Only what?”

“You’re not going to like this either, then.”

“What?”

She drew a circle on the tarmac path with her right toe. “I’ve got somewhere else we could go, if you like.”

“What do you mean?”

“Beatles Fan Club. It’s a ten-minute walk from here. I called them up.” She nodded towards the police box just at the north side of Soho Square.

“You did?”

“Only took a minute.”

“You shouldn’t…” He swallowed his words, remembering how he’d defended her to Carmichael in the restaurant a few minutes earlier.

“You were having lunch. I was just wasting my time otherwise.”

“OK, OK.”

In the car as she hurtled down Tottenham Court Road, he thought: men like Carmichael had grown up in houses full of women. They understood the company of sisters and their friends. At the age when Breen had been puzzling over the underwear section of the Littlewoods catalogue in the privacy of his bedroom, Carmichael had already heard what girls talked about amongst themselves. He knew how to charm them, to cajole them. To Breen, women could be a different species.

He looked at his watch. “I suppose we’ve got the time.” He peered at her in the autumn sunlight and said, “Is that makeup you have on?”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

“Did you have that on earlier?”

“No.” A small smile.

“Is it in case the Beatles are there?”

“Don’t be daft.” She laughed.

The address turned out to be a nondescript new block in Covent Garden, a narrow street that had recently started to fill with shops selling flowery shirts and flared trousers. The office was on the first floor.

“Welcome,” said the woman at the desk, in a voice that had little in the way of welcome in it. “I’ve been expecting you.” She was young and plump in a motherly way, soft-skinned and pink, with dark hair and two yellow plastic hoop earrings. Her name was Miss Judith Pattison and she sat behind a typewriter in a room that smelled of copying ink and Miss Dior. On the wall there was a framed photograph of the Beatles as they used to be three or four years ago, clean-shaven and smiling; they were on a beach somewhere, blue sky above them, blue water behind them. John Lennon was wearing a straw hat turned up at the front. Each had signed his name in black felt tip pen. One of them had written: “To Rudith Miss Pattison. Wish you were here!” They were looking right at the camera. Did he resent it, that four young men could look so aggressively at ease?

The room was crammed with filing cabinets and heaps of paper. A huge tower of brown envelopes sat on the floor; next to it were piles of photographs and a newsletter titled
Official Beatles Fan Club
. The filing cabinets had more mounds teetering on top of them. From the room next door came the clattering of keys and the blaring of a transistor radio.