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“I visited Prosser this morning in hospital.” Bailey rolled a yellow pencil back and forth on the table. “He’s not so badly hurt. He’ll be up on his feet in no time. Naturally, he wouldn’t tell me precisely what happened.”

“No, sir.”

Bailey looked Breen in the eye. “So I’m asking you.”

A pause. Breen looked at Bailey’s desk and saw there was a dark blue folder with his name written on the front. His records. “It was dark,” Breen said. “There were two men in the shop. One of them pulled a knife.”

Bailey took off his black-rimmed spectacles and polished them with a cotton handkerchief, lifting them occasionally to breathe moisture onto the glass.

“I’m quite aware of what the men are saying. They think it’s your fault Prosser was injured. They think you were windy and left him to face the assailant alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“What, sir?”

“Please don’t be obtuse, Sergeant. I expect that from a man like Prosser, but not you. Start at the beginning. You presumably heard there was a robbery in progress?”

Breen couldn’t help looking at that speck of toothpaste. “Yes, sir. On the radio.”

“What were you doing in a car? Your shift was long over.”

What had he been doing? He was not sure. Above all, he hadn’t wanted to go home to an empty flat to start to clear out his father’s belongings. “I was driving around looking for vagrants, sir.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake.”

“We think that the body in the fire last week was probably a tramp. I thought if I could find one…”

Bailey shook his head. “That’s not proper CID work,” he said. “Uniform can do that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you drove to the shop in response to a call from Control. Did you and Prosser enter the shop together?”

Breen hesitated again. “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Prosser got there first, sir.”

“He’s an idiot,” said Bailey. “He should have waited for another officer.”

“He must have known I was just behind.”

“How could he have known that? He’s a liability. But you went in after him? What, two, three minutes?”

“I suppose it must have been…”

“And?”

“And there was this man holding a knife. He had his arm round Prosser’s neck and was holding the knife out at me.” Breen realized he was holding out his right hand in front of him over the desk, prodding it towards Bailey. He laid his hand back on his lap.

“And?”

And? How could he explain what happened next? He had no idea why he panicked. He ran. Back out of the shop towards his car, crouching down behind it, heart thumping, hands shaking. How was he supposed to put that into words?

“I made an exit, sir.”

Bailey gave a small grunt. “So I suppose it’s true what they’re saying. You left Prosser on his own?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s when Prosser was wounded, fighting off the assailant?”

“Yes.”

Bailey replaced his spectacles and looked at Breen. “This was what time?”

“Just gone nine.”

“You left another officer alone with an armed and dangerous man? The men will not like that one bit.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bailey looked at him but said nothing.

“Is that all, sir?”

“You’ve been on the force, what, twelve years?” Tugging at his ear.

“Thirteen.” Enough to be due a small pension to supplement his income as a factory nightwatchman, or a PE teacher in a comprehensive. What other jobs did ex-policemen do?

“This kind of incident can wreck a career forever.”

“Maybe I should take a couple of days off,” said Breen. “Get back on top of things. I’ve had a lot going on.”

Bailey’s face twitched. “You were perfectly entitled to take time off when your father died,” he said quietly. “If you’d have taken a couple of days off then maybe this would never have happened…but I’m not giving you time off now. That would be a mistake.” Bailey went back to rolling the pencil back and forth over the blotting paper on his desk. “These things are no good,” he said. “If you turn your back on them, they fester. People talk. Tell me, why doesn’t Prosser like you?”

“I wasn’t aware he didn’t, sir.”

“Don’t play simple, Breen. You know he doesn’t like you.”

“I’m not one of the lads, I suppose.”

Bailey opened the folder and picked through sheets of paper. “You don’t live on our turf, do you?”

“Stoke Newington, sir. I was stationed there before I moved to Marylebone.”

Bailey stood and walked slowly to his windowsill. He grew African violets there. They were lined up in a small row of terracotta pots sitting on jam-jar lids. The east-facing light was ideal for them. He kept a small bucket outside the door to the yard that collected rainwater for the plants. Tap water was too strong for them, he said.

“Prosser is not a good policeman. He’s uncouth and does what he pleases,” said Bailey, his back still to Breen. “Nor am I convinced of his integrity. I barely recognize the force I joined these days.”

A familiar speech. They’d all heard it a hundred times.

“You, on the other hand…until now you’ve been a diligent old-fashioned copper. Steady. One stupid incident and Prosser’s a hero. And as for you. Talk starts. It doesn’t go away unless you make it. Better to face it down.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to face Breen again. “How’s the investigation into the body in the fire going?”

“Nothing yet, sir.”

Bailey grunted again, overfilling one of the plant pots so water spilled over its saucer onto the carpet. “Bugger,” he said. “Pass me a tissue, will you?” He pointed to a box of tissues on his desk. Breen pulled one out and handed it to him.

“We are a small team here at Marylebone. There is not room for enmity and division. Whatever his merits, Sergeant Prosser is popular. He has influence. An incident like this only boosts his reputation at the expense of yours. We don’t want that, do we?”

On his desk, positioned so Breen could see it too, Bailey kept a silver-framed photograph of his wife, round-faced, soft-skinned, smiling.

“Report. On my desk this afternoon.”

“You resigned yet, then?” said Jones. People looked up, curious.

“Shut up, Jones, or I’ll clock you one,” said Carmichael.

Breen said nothing. Marilyn brought a beige folder over to his desk. Pink Marks and Spencer’s pullover. Bullet bra. Bleached hair with occasional roots.

“What’s this?”

“Missing Persons file you asked for. You OK?” she added quietly.

“I’m OK,” answered Breen. “Your boyfriend got a job yet?”

She scowled. “I’ve warned him unless he does he’ll be out.”

“Good for you, Marilyn.”

“Hasta la bloody vista, know what I mean?”

She leaned in, straightening the folder she had just left on his desk. “What Jones and the rest is saying, I don’t believe it. Not for a minute. Don’t you worry.”

“But it’s true,” said Breen.

“It can’t be.”

“Can I ask you something? Do you think I’m old-fashioned?”

She laughed. “Sort of. I don’t mind though.”

“What, like, stuck in the mud?”

Not answering, she turned her back on him and returned to her desk. The tidiest in the whole room.

He looked at the Missing Persons folder, not opening it yet. The same night Breen’s father had gone into hospital there had been a fire in one of the bombed-out houses in Carlton Vale. Locals had been complaining that truanting kids from Kynaston Tech had been setting light to the derelict houses all summer, but when the firemen had dampened the flames they found human remains on what was left of the first floor. The can of lighter fuel next to the body suggested it had been a dosser attempting to light a fire to keep himself warm. The burned body remained unidentified. No time for that now. He put the folder aside. He had Bailey’s report to write.