“Pity’s sake.”
“They say they’re sorry.”
“Bet they do.” He looked at the drawing again. The fluid strokes, the oddly inappropriate flourish of an eyelash, the pale glisten on the dead lips. The care of the artist’s hand.
“And how soon can he do another one?”
She got back on the phone to him. “I’m trying to book him in now, but he won’t be able to do it until Monday.”
Breen groaned. “Can’t he do it Saturday?”
“He don’t work weekends,” she said.
That meant next Tuesday’s papers at the earliest, so the newspaper with her picture on it would not be on sale until over a week after the murder. Already opportunities were fading. The longer it took, the less chance there was of a result.
“How you doing with that women’s libber of yours, Paddy?” asked Jones. “Wouldn’t mind seeing her burning her bra.”
“You’re pathetic,” said Carmichael.
“Only joking,” said Jones.
“Nothing to see there. She’s flatter than a bloody snooker table,” said Carmichael.
“You should know,” said Jones.
“She’s nothing but trouble.”
“Didn’t she let you poke her, then?”
Marilyn cupped her hand over the handset and said, “Do you mind, boys? I’m trying to make a phone call.”
“Unlike Marilyn. Now I’d like to see her burning her bra. She’s got something you could get a hold of,” said Prosser, ignoring her. “She’s got nipples like a Lockheed Starfighter.”
“Go on, Marilyn,” said Jones. “They’re wasted on your boyfriend.”
“They’d be wasted on you, mate.” Marilyn flicked a V-sign and carried on with the call.
“I heard Pilch didn’t find nothing,” said Jones. “That he had to take his own gear along, just so he could find something, know what I mean?”
Carmichael glared at him. “Who the hell told you that?”
Breen looked at Carmichael. “That true, John?”
Carmichael said, “Course it bloody isn’t. What are you saying, Paddy?”
Breen didn’t answer.
“Spit it out, Paddy. You’ll turn into Bailey if you don’t watch it.”
Bailey emerged from his office looking pale. “What’s that?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Why have you got no shoes on, Sergeant Breen?” he asked. Breen looked down at his bare feet.
Prosser interrupted. “Sir. I got a question.”
Bailey sighed. “Yes?”
“Is it true we’re all getting women drivers now, Inspector?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Sergeant?” Bailey blinked.
Breen knew what Prosser was doing. “This is called sticking up for your fellow officers, is it?” he said quietly.
Prosser just winked back and smiled. “I must have got the wrong end of the stick,” said Prosser to Bailey. “Only I just heard that you were letting us have women drivers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sergeant Prosser. That would be against regulations.”
“My mistake, Inspector.”
After Bailey had gone back in his office, Prosser walked over to Breen’s desk and said, “Just kidding, Paddy. Keep your hair on. Though just think how angry he’d be if he found out.”
“What’s all that about women drivers, Prossy?” said Jones.
“Never you mind,” said Prosser.
Breen picked up the artist’s drawing again and looked at it. From the photograph, he started drawing the dead girl’s face with his sharp pencil, first the roundness of her face, then shading the curves of her skin. There was an ill-tempered silence in the CID room.
Somewhere out on the stairway, one of the old guys from the force was whistling some old music-hall song in one of those high, quavery tones, all vibrato and swoop. The voice broke into song: “You are my lily and my rose…”
Later, Breen was drinking instant coffee in the canteen and smoking cigarette number three when Marilyn came up and sat down next to him with a cup of tea and a piece of shortcake. “I’m sorry about that mix-up with the drawing, Paddy.”
“It’s not your fault.” She was wearing a tartan polyester dress with a bow at the neckline. Breen noticed she wasn’t wearing the ring her boyfriend had given her.
“So what happened? You just tried to have a word with her and she buggered off?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a mad cow. Bailey will sack her. You should tell him. What were you having a word with her about anyway?”
“It was personal.”
“Personal? What? Bloody hell. You and her?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Thank God. I thought for a minute…”
“No.”
Marilyn dunked her shortbread into her tea and then sucked at it for a little while. “You and her. I think you fancy her.”
“No I don’t,” he said.
“You got to watch things, Paddy. Your dad just died. It’s a classic. You’re vulnerable.”
“Give over, Marilyn. I don’t fancy her.”
“I’d keep well away, Paddy. She’s a weirdo. You can see it a mile off.”
It was late afternoon now. Some people seemed to live in the canteen. There was an elderly officer who always seemed to be sitting by one of the windows doing The Times crossword, sucking on a Bic. Breen had no idea what he did. Some of the cleaning staff had arrived and were having a tea before their shift started.
She unwrapped another biscuit and dunked it in her tea. “You ever want a change, Paddy?”
“Change?”
“I was thinking of jacking it in and going to college.”
“Really?”
“I’ve had enough of it, you know?”
“They’re only playing, you know. They’re not serious. It’s just banter.”
She took a sugar cube, held it in her tea until it had turned brown and then popped it into her mouth. “I’m bored, too, be honest.”
“Bored? What are you going to do?”
She smiled. “You’ll laugh.”
“No I won’t.”
She fiddled with the sleeve of her dress. “I was thinking of studying sociology.”
Breen was surprised. “Sociology? Where did that come from?”
“I’ve always been interested in that stuff. Emile Durkheim. Karl Marx.” She licked her finger and dipped it in the biscuit crumbs on the wrapper, then sucked the end of her finger. In his mind, he had not left space in Marilyn’s life for anything beyond her feckless boyfriend and her police work. “Everything can’t just go on the way it is. Don’t you want things to change?”
“Change?”
“Yes. You know.”
“Of course I do,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Me too. I don’t just want to be a typist all my life.”
Breen nodded.
She smiled at him. “Sure you don’t want to go out for a drink, Paddy? Nothing else. Just a drink? Big John and some of the boys are going out tonight. They’re all excited about having nicked a pop star.”
It was almost clocking-off time. He didn’t want to, but perhaps he should. Maybe Carmichael was right. He should get out among the men more.
He was about to say yes and go for a quick half with them and Marilyn when Tozer walked into the canteen.
She came straight up to Breen as if nothing at all had happened and said, “Do you want anything from the counter?”
“We’re fine, thank you very much,” said Marilyn. “And where have you bloody been?”
Tozer ignored her, came back a minute later with a cheese sandwich and a mug of tea, and sat down in a chair next to Marilyn.
“How’s it going?”
Marilyn said, “Fine till a minute ago. You can’t just bugger off and leave a senior officer behind when you’re supposed to be accompanying him, you know.”
Tozer shrugged. Breen looked at Tozer’s sandwich. It had been on the counter too long and its white crust corners, cut on the diagonal, were beginning to curl at the edges. Tozer picked up the stale sandwich all the same and took a large bite out of it.
“So,” Breen said. “Where have you been all day?”
Tozer looked him in the eye. “Oh, here and there,” she said through a mouthful of crumbs.
“For God’s sake,” said Marilyn.
“Oh,” Tozer said, after she’d swallowed her first bite. “You might want this.” She opened up her handbag and pulled out an open notebook, handing it to Breen. On the page was written in red pen, in her curling, girlish hand: Morwenna Jane Sullivan. Address, Verden an der Aller, Germany, 13 June 1951.