Marilyn came in at a little after 8:30. “Do you sleep here now? Cup of tea?”
Breen shook his head without looking up. Writing on bits of paper and arranging them on his desk, looking for obscure signs, for overlooked facts. With Rider he had been too eager to believe in the easy connection between a dress and the murder.
She brought him a cup anyway. “What’s with all these drawings and diagrams? I’m going to have to order more paper if you carry on like this. You OK, Paddy? You look done in.”
Breen didn’t answer. He picked out his first cigarette of the day. It was early, for him, but he felt the need. As he pulled it out, he noticed there were only four cigarettes in the pack of ten. That was odd. He had only bought the packet yesterday morning. He thought back and tried to remember if he had offered anyone else a cigarette during the day.
“Houston calling Apollo?”
“Sorry. Can you call the social services, Marilyn? Check we’ve got a list of all the hostels here?” He passed her the second map he’d drawn.
“Is this for the dosser? The burned guy?”
“Yes.”
She took the map off him. “You probably won’t find out who he was, you know,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Why him?”
“It’s our job, isn’t it?” he said, but when he glanced up at her she was looking at him with a disbelieving air.
At nine he lit the cigarette he’d taken out of the packet and took a long pull, feeling the nicotine calm him. Then he called Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. “Do you have any record of an incident involving a girl called Alexandra Tozer?” he asked a woman down a line so poor and crackly that he had to spell out the name twice. They promised they would call back.
Jones came in late with a hangover. “Started the weekend early, Jonesy?” said Marilyn.
“Lightweight,” said Prosser.
“I don’t know how you do it.” Jones grinned. “And you were on brandy too.”
“Like I said, lightweight.”
Bailey emerged from his office. “Constable Jones. What time do you call this?”
“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“Bad news about Sergeant Breen’s case, eh, sir?” said Prosser. “Turns out he was chasing the wrong suspect.”
“So it seems. Will there be any fallout?” asked Bailey.
Breen shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Sure?”
“Quite sure.” The man would be too embarrassed by what he’d done to make a complaint.
“That’s something.” Bailey nodded and returned to his room.
“Imagine tickling the pickle like that, on your dead wife’s dress,” said Jones. “That’s sick.”
“Feel big, do you, beating up old men?”
“He fell.” Jones smiled. “Not my fault.”
“You shouldn’t have treated him like that,” said Breen. “It was cruel. If I catch you doing something like that I’ll report you.”
“He’s an old wanker.”
“Language,” said Marilyn. Prosser looked straight at Breen and slowly shook his head.
Breen’s phone rang.
“Actually, I think what that old man did is quite romantic, in a way,” Marilyn said as she picked up the handset.
At ten he found Tozer in the canteen talking to two policewomen from A4, the women’s branch.
She smiled at him. “Where are we going?”
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“Oooh,” said one of the girls.
“Who’s the lucky one?” said the other.
“Is it about my driving?” Tozer said.
“No. Nothing like that.”
“What she mean, driving?” said one of the girls.
“About what I said to Mrs. Broughton? No? What, then?”
“Not here,” he said.
“Oooh,” said the girls again.
“Shut up,” Tozer told them.
“Let’s go for a coffee somewhere else.”
On the way out of the back of the building, Breen heard someone shouting his name. Prosser pushed open the swing door and was coming after them.
“Go on,” he said to Tozer. “Get in the car.”
“What?” he said to Prosser.
Prosser grabbed him by his bad arm and said, quietly, “Lay off Jones. Nobody who bad-mouths their fellow officers in front of everybody like that belongs in the force.”
“Let go of my arm,” said Breen.
“Let go of my arm? You’re a bloody joke, Paddy Breen.”
Breen looked Prosser in the eye and said, “Jones beat up an old man. He didn’t fall. You know that.”
“This isn’t primary school, Paddy. Jones was doing his job. Which makes him twice the policeman you’ll ever be.” Prosser released his grip on Breen’s arm. “About time you started sticking up for coppers…”
Breen turned his back and started walking across the tarmac.
“Instead of just running away,” Prosser called.
“What did Prosser want?” said Tozer, when they were changing seats a hundred yards up Gloucester Road.
“I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you been taking my cigarettes?” Breen demanded.
“What?” she said, looking at him.
“Have you?”
“Bloody hell. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No. But, have you?” he asked again.
“No.” Then: “Well, maybe a couple. I ran out. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“It’s OK. Just ask.”
She started the engine. “You mean you actually count the number of cigarettes you have left?” she said.
They went to the cafe in Paddington Rec and ordered a tea and a coffee.
“Anything else?” said the woman behind the counter.
“What’s that?” said Tozer, pointing at the counter. Cake 4d.
“Lemon drizzle.”
“Ooh,” said Tozer. “I’ll have one of them.” The woman picked it up with her fingers and put it on a white plate. The radio finished playing a song by Matt Monro.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” said Breen.
“What’s this about?”
They took their drinks to the bandstand, an old, rickety wooden hexagon whose roof kept off the rain. Breen sat down on the bare boards and crossed his legs. Tozer sat down a couple of feet away. “This is very mysterious,” she said. She pulled a chunk off the cake. “Want some?” she said, tucking her legs under her.
Breen shook his head. He hadn’t noticed her legs before. They were long and thin, but not in a bony way. He pulled his eyes away from them. “Why did you apply to CID?” he asked.
“It’s interesting work. It’s why I joined in the first place. Are you disappointed it wasn’t Rider?” she asked.
“More disappointed in myself. Just because things fit together doesn’t mean they’re right.”
“I was gutted,” she said. “I thought it was him.”
He looked at the thin rain falling down, making rings in the dark puddles around them. “Tell me about your sister,” he said.
She pursed her lips and looked away. After a minute she said, “Why should I?”
“Because if we’re working together on the death of a young girl, I’d like to know about her.”
“How did you know?”
“You change when you talk about her. Plus you talk about her in the past.”
“So?” She reached out for her tea, fumbled it and knocked the mug over. The brown pool dripped away quickly through the gaps in the worn boards.
“Alexandra Tozer. She was murdered in 1964.”
Quietly she said, “You got no business-”
“Yes I have.”
Tozer turned away. When she wasn’t looking, he found himself glancing back down at her legs again. “It has nothing to do with the job,” she said.
“Yes it does.” A wet pigeon landed on the bandstand handrail and cocked its head, eyeing Tozer’s cake. “She had been raped. She was found naked like our girl.”