“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.