She now had a pile of all the photographs she had put on the walls. She laid them carefully inside the lid of her suitcase. Then she unplugged her Dansette and fastened the lid with a click. “How old was she?” she asked.
“Around sixteen, seventeen, we think.”
“You haven’t found out who she is, then?”
“No. Not yet. But we’re close.”
“Same age as me,” said the girl. “Scary, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tozer. “It is.”
“Was she hurt bad? You know. Before she died.”
“I don’t think so,” said Tozer.
“I dreamed about her,” said the girl. “Couple of times.”
“Oh yes?” said Tozer.
“Yeah. Both times I’m looking at her and she wakes up. Only she’s still dead, like. In one she started singing.”
“Singing?” said Tozer.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to say about that.”
“It’s OK. It must have been a nasty shock.”
“It was a weird song. In a language I didn’t understand. And I think if only I can understand the words she’s singing I’ll be able to help her. But they’re all gobbledygook.”
“And what happened then?”
“I don’t know. I think I woke up.”
She turned and sat on her suitcase, trying to close it.
“Are you going to catch him? The one who did it to her?”
“You know what?” said Tozer. “I think we’ve got him already.”
“Wow. Who is it?”
“Tomorrow’s papers. Keep them peeled. I think we’ve got the bugger.”
“Cor,” said the girl.
“Enough,” said Breen.
They left her alone in her room, sitting on her bed.
“We have, though, haven’t we? Got him?”
On the way out they paused to say goodbye to Mrs. Broughton. She was still on the sofa, a pack of patience cards dealt out in front of her now on the coffee table. A novel by Alistair MacLean, spine cracked, beside the ashtray.
“What did she have to say for herself?”
“Not a lot,” said Breen.
“She never does,” said Mrs. Broughton.
“Right.”
“She’s a waste of time, that girl. Girls today are lazy. They just want to be models or film stars. They don’t understand the meaning of service. Will that be all?” She moved a card from one pile to the next. Breen turned to go.
“She did mention that your husband is a Peeping Tom, though,” announced Tozer.
“I beg your pardon?” The woman sat there on the sofa, her mouth an O of red lipstick.
“It’s not legal to spy on teenage girls when they’re in the shower, you know. You might want to tell him that. I wouldn’t say anything to the agency about the girl if I were you. She could make a complaint against you. That’s the kind of thing the papers would be much more interested in.”
Mrs. Broughton found her voice. “How dare you!”
Breen took Tozer’s arm and pulled her towards the door. “We’ll see ourselves out, Mrs. Broughton.”
Mrs. Broughton was standing now, patience cards knocked onto the floor, mouth opening and closing in fury.
“I mean. I mean, for God’s sake.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Breen fumbled with the handset in the car. “Can you check with Marilyn to see if a search warrant has been issued yet?” he asked the controller.
“I mean,” Tozer said. “Why bloody not? Sometimes I think all of you must be perverts.”
He remembered last night, lying in bed, thinking about her.
“Scratch the surface and it’s bloody everywhere,” she said.
“There’s a difference between a harmless fumble and actually killing someone.”
“Says who?” said Tozer.
Breen opened his mouth to answer, but decided against it. His shoulder ached. He looked in the glove compartment for an aspirin.
“Still, I mean, we got Rider for it.”
“If the link to the dress is right, then yes,” said Breen.
She picked a piece of gum from a packet and started to roll it between finger and thumb. “What’s he like?”
“Shy. Buttoned-up. One of the old guard.”
“See? It’s them. The ones who never learned to let their hair down.” When the chewing gum was rolled tight she popped it into her mouth.
“There’s nothing wrong with not letting your hair down,” he said.
She chewed for a little bit, then said, “God. Do you believe that? I think if you don’t let yourself go once in a while, all that rage and fury just builds up inside you until you go off. Like an H-bomb.” She looked at her watch. It was only a quarter past twelve. “Can we head back there now?” she said.
Just then their call sign came on the radio. Delta One Five. Breen picked up the handset. “That you, Paddy Breen?” said the voice. “Better get down to the nick. Jones has just pulled in your suspect.”
“Damn.”
As always, the traffic was thick.
If he did it by the book, Jones would wait for them to start the questioning, but he didn’t trust Jones to do it by the book. “Stick the siren on,” he said.
“Yippie-ay-yay,” she said.
She drove south, diving between traffic. He banged sideways against the door as she looped round a roundabout. When he tried to reach out to steady himself with his bad arm, pain flooded through it. “Slow down.”
“Always wanted to do the siren,” she shouted back.
Eleven
The room was too small. The one they normally used for questioning was being decorated so they were using a storeroom on the second floor instead. Each time anyone came in, Breen had to shuffle his chair out of the way. With filing cabinets lined up along the far wall, there was little standing room.
“You said to nab him if he made a move,” said Jones.
The room was bright. One of the two neon strips above their heads buzzed. It had a dark blueish patch near one end of the tube and would occasionally flicker off and on.
When Breen had interviewed Rider in his flat he had been full of the quiet confidence of his years. Early sixties, roughly. Retired on sick pay. Now he looked smaller, jacketless, dressed in shirtsleeves and tie. He was bleeding from a cut on his upper lip.
“He was rude,” said Mr. Rider. He looked confused and frightened. “I was just walking on Primrose Hill. I’ve not done anything wrong.”
“Has he said anything yet?”
“Only that he shouldn’t be here,” said Jones.
“It’s a mistake,” said Mr. Rider. “You’ve made a very serious mistake.”
“Why is he bleeding?”
“Nobody is telling me why I am here. You’ve no right to bring me here without asking me.” Mr. Rider’s voice had a reedy, wheedling tone. There was a patch of sweat under his right armpit.
“Did Constable Jones explain that we were asking you to come to the police station for questioning?”
“He just grabbed me and marched me to the police car. In front of the whole world.”
“Why is he bleeding? Tozer? Can you get some cotton wool from First Aid?”
“He didn’t give any reason at all.”
“He banged his head getting into the car, Paddy. That’s all. Just a bump.”
“He shoved me. He deliberately pushed me.” Rider’s voice sounded curiously childlike. Breen looked at the man’s hands. They were trembling.
Breen looked away at Jones; Jones shrugged as if to say, “So what?” “We have a warrant to search your flat,” said Breen.
“Search it for what?”
“Would you mind giving Constable Jones the keys?”
“I’m not giving that thug anything. He hurt me.”
“If you don’t give the keys to us, I’m afraid he’ll have to break the door down. As I said, we have a warrant, so he is allowed to do that. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” the man screamed, his voice suddenly loud. “This is all a mistake.”
Jones held out his hand. “Just give me the keys, if you don’t mind.”
From the corridor outside came the sound of laughter. “I should let you know, I’m in the Conservative Club and I happen to be very good friends with my MP.”