His wife clucked her tongue. “Mechie onu. These police officers have not come here to hear your political opinions. They are looking for a murderer.”
“I am sorry.” He smiled at Breen. “My wife is right. I wish I could help you more.”
Breen showed them the photo of the dead girl. Mrs. Ezeoke sat on the arm of her husband’s chair and looked at it with him. He furrowed his brow, then shook his head. “I’m sorry,” said Sam Ezeoke. “I wish I could say I recognized her.”
His wife tutted. “She is young. How terrible.”
They were sitting around a small, ornately carved African table, geometric patterns carved into the dark wood. An immense glass ashtray sat in the middle of it.
“I’ve got a question,” Breen said. “Had you noticed that the doors of the sheds next to where the body was found were open?”
“My God yes,” said Mrs. Ezeoke, leaning forward on the sofa. “The doors were banging all night. Every night. My husband almost got into a fight with one of the residents there when he complained because we could not sleep.”
The surgeon chuckled. “It was not that vulgar, Ezi. I was most polite.”
Breen pulled out his notebook and flicked through the pages. “Would that have been with a Mrs.…” He found the name. “Miss Shankley?”
“I didn’t ask her name,” said Ezeoke. “I don’t think she was interested in mine either. Though of course I could have spelled it out for her if she asked.” He giggled. “She told me to go home.” The giggles turned to laughter.
His wife scowled and muttered, “This is not a joke, nna.”
“Of course it is a joke. You cannot expect me to take people like her seriously.”
The doorbell rang. Mr. Ezeoke excused himself and went to answer it. Breen and Tozer could hear him speaking loudly to someone in the hallway.
“I am sorry about my husband,” said the woman. “He is all talk. He would not admit it but he was very offended by the woman he spoke to in those flats. Very upset. She was very rude to him.” She smoothed down her skirt and said more quietly, “I think she would not be rude to him if she was in hospital and her life depended on his work.”
Breen stood to go, and as he did so Ezeoke entered the room with another older gray-haired man.
“Are you going?”
“We’ll leave you. You have guests.”
“This is my good friend Eddie Okonkwo. A staunch supporter of the Biafran cause. Eddie, this policeman is a fan of the Uli school of art.”
“Are you? I have more in my shop,” said the wiry man, holding out his hand to shake. “You must come and visit me.”
“Well…”
“If you like African art, I sell it.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to Breen. Afro Art Boutique. Fine African Antiques and Art. E. Okonkwo. Notting Hill 4732. An address on Portobello Road. “I am very fashionable,” said Okonkwo with a smile. “All the in people come to my shop. Brian Jones. Terence Donovan. Susannah York. You know Susannah York? She is very, very beautiful.”
“Brian Jones?” said Tozer.
“Of course,” said Okonkwo. “My Ashanti stools are very popular. You should come before I have to put the prices up.” He laughed.
“Eddie. Must you turn everything into commerce?” said Ezeoke.
“Just one question. Where were you on Sunday evening?” Breen asked Ezeoke.
“I had dinner in town with a colleague and came back here around eleven.”
“And your wife can confirm that?”
“Naturally.”
“You were here alone until midnight, nna. I was with my uncle.”
“Of course. I forgot,” said Ezeoke.
“My uncle gets homesick. I have to go and cook Biafran chop for him.”
“It’s true. She does. She is the best cook in London,” said Okonkwo.
“You’re…?”
“Yes. I am her uncle,” beamed Okonkwo.
“And your colleague will be happy to confirm you were having dinner with him? Can you give me his name?”
“Her name. Mrs. Frances Briggs. Her husband is Senior Registrar at my hospital.”
Breen noticed Mrs. Ezeoke run her tongue around the inside of her upper lip.
They shook hands on the doorstep. The rain had eased off.
“That was strange,” said Tozer.
“Was it?” said Breen.
“Didn’t you think? All that African stuff.”
Breen shrugged.
“Don’t you think they must feel so out of place in England?”
“If they do, I sympathize.”
“And him going on about how rubbish the British are for supporting the other side, but he’s happy enough to come here and live off us.”
“He’s a surgeon. He probably pays more tax in a year than a copper would in a lifetime. He’s not exactly living off us.”
“You know what I mean,” Tozer said.
They walked down Garden Road to where their car was parked.
Straightaway, Jones appeared out of the alleyway from Cora Mansions. He was out of breath. “Paddy,” he said. “Been looking for you everywhere. I think we’ve got him.”
“What?” Breen and Tozer followed him past the sheds into the courtyard.
“The murderer.”
“Bloody hell,” said Tozer.
Miss Shankley was there at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in her housecoat as always, arms crossed, cigarette in her fist.
“Carters,” said Jones. He was excited, unable to stand still, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“What d’you mean?” said Tozer.
“Come out of the way.” Breen took his arm to pull him out of earshot of Miss Shankley. She craned her neck towards them, still trying to hear.
“You know I said I’d go and ask about the bag?” said Jones. “Struck lucky. Fifth shop I went into, the guy said it wasn’t his, but he knew where it was from. Carters hardware in St. John’s Wood High Street. I talked to the bloke who owns it. He says he buys them special thickness for tools, on account of them being so heavy.”
“Good work,” said Breen.
“Thanks.” A smile. “I got him to check his books, and you’ll never guess who’s got an account with him.”
“Go on.”
“Your Mr. Rider.”
“God,” said Tozer.
“Plus-and you’ll like this-plus, I asked Miss Shankley there, Rider doesn’t have one of the sheds.” Miss Shankley caught the sound of her name and smiled. “So he probably wouldn’t have known the doors had even been fixed. So maybe he was trying to stuff her into one of the sheds after all. Shall we bring him in?”
“This is it, then,” said Tozer.
“We arrest him, right?” said Jones.
Breen turned to Tozer. “Tell Marilyn we need a search warrant for his flat. Give her the address. Is he in?”
Breen could see Miss Shankley following his gaze upwards to the top floor.
“No. He goes out for a walk every morning, apparently.”
“Who said that?”
“His neighbor. He goes out every morning, regular. Back at one for lunch.”
Breen looked at his watch.
“Get one on the front and one on the back, just in case he’s back early. Keep it discreet.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“To talk to the nanny.”
“Haven’t we got enough?”
“Maybe,” said Breen.
Tozer nodded. “Cautious, isn’t he?” she said to Jones.
Jones snorted. “I’ll say he bloody is.”
“If he comes back,” said Breen, “ask him to come to the station to answer some questions. If he refuses, pull him in.”
“It was my idea,” said Jones to Tozer. “You know, to go and check on the bags.”
“Super,” said Tozer.
They were both excited; Breen should have been too. Heading the squad that caught the murderer would do something to clear his slate. And even though he’d initially neglected to search the bins, Jones could now claim his part in the result. But Breen still felt the same pressing anxiety he felt from yesterday, the same leadenness.