William Shaw - She's leaving home

The barman took the ashtray off the bar in front of Breen and emptied it, then wiped it with a beer towel. The pavements were filling again. He looked at his watch; it was just past five o’clock. They had been watching the shop for just ten minutes. Shopkeepers were switching off lights. Men were returning from work clutching evening newspapers and umbrellas.

“Like another?” said the barman.

“No. I’m OK.”

Another voice said, “It’s Breen, isn’t it?”

He was conscious of someone taking the bar stool next to his. Breen tore his eyes away from the window for a second. He recognized the big Irish man at the bar; it was John Nolan. He was holding his hand out towards Breen and it looked like he had been drinking all afternoon.

“Give this man a whisky on me.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Great news, isn’t it?”

Breen looked away from the shop again. “What?”

“You’ve not heard?”

“Which news?”

“The best news. I left you a message. Did you not get it?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“About Patrick Donahoe. The fellow who I thought must have fried in that fire. Do you remember? I’d been trying to contact his relations in Mayo.”

“I remember.”

“You haven’t heard then?”

“No.”

“Patrick Donahoe. He worked for me on the building site. He’d gone missing. You were afraid-”

“I was.” Breen looked back at the doorway of the shop. A large blue Pickfords lorry obscured his view, crawling so slowly through the early evening traffic that it seemed like an age for it to move. “You said it was good news.”

“I got a letter back from his mother this Friday. The stupid bastard was in prison the whole time, thanks be to God.”

“In prison?”

“Pentonville. He’d only got arrested for trying to hold up a petrol station, stupid bollocks that he is.”

“Really.”

The lorry had passed the shop, finally.

“You’ll like this. He attempted to rob a petrol station with a fork.”

Breen couldn’t help but look at the Irishman again. “A garden fork?”

“No. Just a table fork. Honest to God. A garden fork would have been better, I should say. He was drunk, I believe. And all he wanted was some cigarettes. So he threatened the guy on the petrol pumps with a fork. Like an ordinary table fork that you’d eat your dinner with. True story. And now he’s inside for armed robbery. All for a packet of ten Bensons. Can you imagine?”

“With a fork?” He turned his head. Still no one across the way.

“That’s right. And of course he was so ashamed he didn’t want to call nobody. So that’s why we never heard a whisper. You would be ashamed, really, I’d imagine, under the circumstances.”

“Yes.”

“It would be hard enough in prison. ‘You’re in for armed robbery. You must be a tough nut. Was that a double-barreled shotgun you used?’ ‘No, it was a fork.’” The man burst out laughing. He signaled to the barman for another drink.

Breen had seen nothing moving behind the glass since he’d returned from the phone call. Maybe Okonkwo was still at his desk at the back of the shop.

“I can’t say I wasn’t relieved to hear he was alive, at least,” said Nolan. “I’d have felt terrible if it was him. Did you find out who the poor bugger under the bonfire was?”

Breen shook his head. “I thought I had.”

“Well, I’m awful sorry to spoil that for you.”

Breen shook his head. “Sometimes you don’t find out.”

“That’s a terrible thing. A poor man dying and nobody caring enough for him to notice he’s gone.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Let me buy you a drink, Sergeant. It would be an honor to buy a drink for the son of Tomas Breen.”

Breen didn’t want a drink, but he asked for a pint of Heineken just the same so as not to offend the man and then, to be polite, took a sip from the top of it.

He had drunk almost a half by the time Carmichael arrived, with Jones in tow.

“I have to go,” he told the older man.

“Good luck, Mr. Breen,” he replied, swaying gently on his stool.

When they reached the shop, Breen couldn’t see anyone inside. Cautiously he tried the door. It was locked.

The hairs on his neck were prickling now. He started walking up Portobello Road, then broke into a run as he rounded the corner into Blenheim Crescent.

When he reached the corner where he’d left Tozer to stand, she was not there. He turned on his heels and started sprinting back up to where they’d left the police car.

“Paddy?” said Carmichael. “Where are you going?”

Running up the pavement, Breen careened into a woman pulling a shopping basket across the pavement. The basket tipped on its wheels. A cabbage rolled out onto the pavement.

“Oi!”

He didn’t stop. But when he reached the small side street the police car was gone.

And she hasn’t called in?”

“Don’t think so,” said Jones.

“The radio wasn’t working,” said Breen.

“Typical.”

“She’ll phone in,” someone said.

“Oh, Christ.”

The CID room was full of noise. Everybody in the station seemed to be crowding in there. “It’s been the best part of an hour already. You’d have thought she would have had time to call in by now.”

“She’s just gone off somewhere, I expect,” said Marilyn. “You know what she’s like. She’s done it before anyway. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Breen glared at her.

The rush-hour traffic had been torture. Even with the sirens blaring it had taken them over half an hour to crawl back to the station.

“Jesus. You think she’s OK?”

Bailey said, “What in heaven’s name was she doing on surveillance anyway? She’s a woman.” He looked pale.

“She wasn’t on surveillance. It was just till backup arrived.”

“A plonk on a stakeout?” said Jones. “For God’s sake.”

“It wasn’t a stakeout,” said Breen.

Carmichael turned to him and said, “She was doing a sight more than you ever do, Jonesy.”

Breen was surprised by Carmichael coming so strongly to Tozer’s defense. Breaking the brief silence that followed, Carmichael said, “What are we going to do, then?”

“Can I remind you that the murder at London Airport and the subsequent disappearance of Officer Tozer are a Scotland Yard operation now?” said Bailey. “They are coordinating this.”

A groan went round the room.

“I’m sorry, but that’s procedure.”

Carmichael ignored him. “We can assume he ran because he was guilty, yes? Of killing Morwenna Sullivan. Right, Paddy?”

“In his own house, I’m pretty sure.”

Okonkwo had said Ezeoke would try and make it to Portugal, but then Okonkwo had almost certainly been lying all along. Where could Ezeoke be now?

“He’s already killed one woman we know of,” said Carmichael.

“You can’t just lose a bloody police car,” someone said.

Breen cornered Marilyn in the kitchen. “Are you quite sure she didn’t phone in?” he said.

“You mean, you think I wouldn’t tell you?” she said, turning her back to him as she spooned coffee into a cup.

“You’ve made it pretty clear you hate her.”

She spun round so fast he had no time to raise his hand to protect his face before she slapped him.

“For fuck’s sake, Paddy. I think she’s an arrogant bitch, but you think I wouldn’t tell you?”

He stood there blinking at her.

“You’re such a moron sometimes, Paddy bloody Breen. You don’t have the foggiest, do you? You’re the most heartless man I ever met.”

She was still shaking with anger when he left her, standing in the kitchen, spilling the sugar she was trying to spoon into a cup.