William Shaw - She's leaving home

“How are you going to cope?”

“I don’t know. A couple of old friends of Joe’s have offered to help.” She wiped her eyes.

The cook yelped as he burned himself, trying to pick up a sausage from a pan with his bare hands.

“When are you going to see him next?”

“They don’t let us in till after eleven in the morning. I’ll go down then.”

Breen looked around. Half the late-night regulars were in. The biker couple whom he’d seen here a few weeks ago were sitting in a corner talking to one of the Pakistanis. When the man caught Breen’s eyes he nudged his pretty girlfriend and they waved hello.

“Who’s looking after the baby?”

“She’s with friends. Everybody’s being so kind,” she said, crying again. Breen put his arm around her, but it only made her cry more.

Carmichael ordered double eggs, sausages, chips, beans, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread. Breen ordered a smoked-salmon bagel.

There was a gust of smoke from the kitchen.

“It’s something, though, isn’t it?” she said. “People coming to help.” She returned to the kitchen to help the temporary chef, who was struggling. He had a bandage on his finger when he brought the plates over, from when he had tried to slice tomatoes. Carmichael’s sausages were barely cooked; his egg was black around the edge; there was a dark greasy thumbprint on one side of the plate.

“Bloody hell. I’m sending this back,” Carmichael said, staring at it.

“Over my dead body,” said Breen. He picked up his bagel and took a bite from it.

Carmichael set about cutting the burned part of the egg away. “Oh God. Did you see the state of his hands? By the way, I handed in my request for a transfer,” he muttered.

“Scotland Yard?”

Carmichael stuck his fork into the firm yolk of the egg. “Yes.”

“Drug Squad?”

“Yes,” he said again. “You’re not coming, are you?”

Breen took a sip from his coffee. It was watery and unpleasant, but hot at least. “No. I’m staying put.”

“You’ll be stuck in a dead-end force with Bailey.”

“I’m OK there.”

“Pilcher says I can make another six hundred quid in a year.”

“Best of luck.”

The bagel was too dry. Breen picked off the salmon and ate that on its own.

They ate quickly. Breen left a big tip. “Give Joe my best,” he said.

Carmichael got on the radio as soon as they were back in the car.

“Any news on Constable Tozer?”

“Any news on who?” the woman on the other end of the radio said. “Over.”

“Fuck sake,” said Carmichael, then to Breen, “What if she’s dead?”

“Shut up, John, for Christ’s sake.”

“OK. I was just saying, that’s all.”

They went back to Walthamstow and drove round aimlessly for a while longer. “I could drop you home,” said Carmichael. “It’s not far from here.”

“What about you? Are you turning in?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m OK. I don’t feel like sleeping.”

“Me neither. I wish we could bloody do something. This is driving me nuts.”

“If I hadn’t told her to keep an eye on the back of the shop, this would never have happened.”

“You can’t say that, Paddy.”

On Billet Road they were flagged down by a middle-aged woman in a fur coat. When they pulled over she asked, “Have you seen my husband?”

They both got out. Her breath reeked of brandy. She was tottering on patent leather heels. “Where do you live, love?” said Carmichael.

“London,” she said.

“Can you be a bit more precise?”

The radio crackled. “Delta Mike Five?”

Breen ducked back into the car.

A brief crackle, then: “Delta Mike Three just called in. Have a message. Over.”

Breen checked his watch in the green glow cast by the radio’s light. It was half past midnight.

“Is Mrs. Briggs back at the house? Over.”

“Negative. Delta Mike Three says her husband has just got into his car. Requests urgent instructions. Over.”

“Follow him.”

“Say again.”

“Follow him,” shouted Breen. “Tell him not to let him out of their sight.”

The operator went silent while she relayed the message. When she came back on the air, Breen said, “Tell them to let us know where they’re heading.”

“Will do. Out…”

“Wait. What about Constable Tozer?”

“Nothing so far. Out.”

He called through the window. “Get in.”

Carmichael returned to the car. “What?”

“Briggs is on the move,” he said, replacing the handset in its holder.

Carmichael got in and started the engine. “That toff in the pink shirt? Bloody hell. He’s gone looking for her?”

“It looks like it.”

“Where?”

“They’re following. They’re going to let us know.”

“Hey,” said the woman in the coat. “What about my husband?”

“Go home, love,” shouted Carmichael.

“I’ll report you,” called the woman. “I’ll bloody report you buggers.”

Everything else she said was lost to the roar of the engine.

The next call they received told them that the professor was driving a blue Daimler Sovereign heading out on Whitechapel Road. “Registration Golf Romeo Tango One Nine One Foxtrot.” Breen scribbled it down as they roared off down the Chingford Road.

“Bloody hell. He’s coming our way,” said Carmichael.

“That’s something,” said Breen. “It means he’s heading in the same direction as whoever got Tozer.” He could lead them to her still. Breen was flicking through a road map and traced the A11 towards where they were headed. “Can we make it to Leyton High Road in five minutes?”

“You bet.” Carmichael gunned the car southwards, slowing only for red lights, but not stopping.

They were there in good time; Carmichael swung a U-turn, reversed the car into a side street and turned off the headlights.

“If it’s coming our way.”

“Delta Mike Five. Quarry stopped for petrol on Bow Road. Over.”

“Reckon he’s going far, then?” said Carmichael. “If he needs a full tank?”

“If he’s heading out of London it’s going to be harder once we have to relay the radio with Essex.”

A moment of stillness as they waited in the car, watching the traffic pass. Carmichael lit another cigarette and belched. “My guts are killing me. Bet it was those bloody sausages. If he’s heading out of London we might lose him. We should pull him up.”

“Could do,” said Breen. But if they stopped him they might lose the chance of finding out where he was heading.

“I mean, odds on, if it’s out of London he’ll spot he’s being followed.”

It was true, thought Breen. In the dark, on country roads, you noticed if you were being followed.

“So should we pull him?”

“Let’s wait and see what he does.”

He switched on his torch and shone it on the road atlas. If Briggs wasn’t heading for East London itself, he could be heading anywhere farther north or east.

“Delta Mike Three now heading up…”

The radio faded away to nothingness.

“Say again. Over,” said Breen.

Nothing. Breen and Carmichael looked at each other. “Bloody hell,” said Carmichael.

“Say again. Over,” said Breen. “We’re losing you.”

“I don’t feel that well, to be honest,” said Carmichael.

“Say again.”

Nothing.

“Bloody mess.”

The receiver fizzed and buzzed; ghost voices from some ham-radio conversation drifted into the police frequency.

“Get off the airwaves.” Carmichael thumped the radio in frustration.

“Quiet,” said Breen.

The operator’s voice faded back in. “Rom…Road. Over.”