Twenty-three
There was a crowd pulsing around a light gray Bentley. A surge of people trying to get close to the man at the center of the crowd. A burst of flashbulbs going off as a young man with long hair lifted his head a fraction. A babble of voices.
He spotted Tozer on the stairs leading up to the front entrance and pushed his way through the crowd towards her.
“This is horrible,” she shouted above the racket.
A ring of police helmets showed above the rest of the crowd. Somewhere in the middle was the pop star, making his way slowly to the waiting vehicle, a tiny dark-haired woman in a fur coat that made her look even smaller clinging to him.
“Do you feel you’ve let your fans down, John?”
“Were you set up?”
“John?”
“Down with the pigs!”
It was a short walk from the steps down to the waiting vehicle, but the police could not get through.
“Over here, John.”
“Since leaving your wife, have things fallen apart for you?”
Men in macs with notebooks pressed forward against the flow. Others holding Leicas and Hanimexes above head height were hoping to snatch a photo.
“Come on now, give us some room.”
Cars slowed to watch the goings-on. Others, behind them, honked, trying to get past. Idle passersby craned necks.
“John! We love you!”
“What a farce,” said Tozer.
They stood on the steps of Marylebone Magistrates’ Court, looking down on the crowd. Breen hadn’t been able to squeeze into the courtroom it was so full. Tozer had been there early and seen it all.
“What did he get?” Breen shouted in Tozer’s ear.
“Magistrate fined him one hundred and fifty, plus twenty guineas costs.”
“Not much, then. Carmichael must be hopping mad. And Pilcher too.”
“They were. Should have seen their faces. Here he is now.”
Carmichael came out of the courtroom looking sullen. “All right, Paddy?” A group of fans stood on the steps near them, teary-eyed.
“His girlfriend had a miscarriage on account of all this,” said Tozer.
“What’s that?” said Breen.
“They said it in court. That Japanese girl Lennon is going out with. She had a miscarriage because she was so upset by it all.”
“Her fault for hanging around with a druggie, then,” said Carmichael.
“He looks smaller in real life, doesn’t he?” someone said.
“He looks scared silly.”
“Pilcher just wanted to nail him, that’s all.”
Carmichael looked at Tozer. “He broke the law, darling.”
“She lost her bloody baby, they said.”
“He’s a pop star. He’s got millions of pounds. He drives a bloody Rolls-Royce for God’s sake. People like him would say anything to get off. People like him…It’s one law for him, another for the rest of us.” Breen had never seen Carmichael so angry.
There was a bunch of fans still trying to get close to Lennon. Breen pointed at them. “Who are they?”
“That lot? They’re the scruffs,” said Tozer, craning her neck.
“Scruffs? Who are the scruffs?”
“They go round everywhere. Camp out on their doors. Rich daddies, mostly.”
“You couldn’t tell by looking at them, though.”
Breen looked back towards them. They were the ones wearing sheepskin coats and screaming, “John!”
The pop star had made it to the car now. They were struggling to close the door behind him. The car started moving through the crowd even before the door was properly closed.
A girl in a Doctor Zhivago coat leaned forward and kissed the glass of the window.
“He’s spoken for, love.”
“Stupid cow.”
The Bentley moved slowly through the crowd until it was free of them, and as soon as it was gone, merging with the traffic on Marylebone Road, people started to move on.
“There,” said Tozer. She dug into her handbag and pulled out a photo. It was the photo of the three prizewinners that Tozer had brought from the Beatles Fan Club.
“It’s Penny Lane. Look.”
Breen took the photo out of her hands. He looked at the photo of the three girls. “This why you came?” he shouted over the noise.
“Partly.”
He could feel his face break out into a grin. She had not given up on the girl either. By the time he looked back at the girls who had been pressed against the car, the one from the photo was now walking past with two friends. Tozer was right; it was the girl in Miss Pattison’s photograph.
“Excuse me,” Breen called out to them.
“What?” The girl must have been about seventeen. She was long-haired and wore a lot of eye makeup.
“I just want to ask you something. I’m a policeman.”
“Go away,” she said and walked on, her two friends beside her. They all dressed the same. All three wore sheepskin coats; each carried a large, bulging, cloth shoulder bag. One had a camera around her neck.
“No. Wait.”
He walked after them, but they walked faster.
“Please. I just want to ask you some questions.”
The three girls broke into a run, shoes clattering on the Marylebone paving. Breen sped up too, almost enjoying loosening the muscles for the first time in months. The girls barged their way out of the crowd, down the pavement.
“Penny Lane!” called Tozer.
Breen soon lost sight of them, but he could tell from the startled expressions on pedestrians’ faces that they weren’t far ahead. The girls all wore sandals with big heels. He would catch them easily as they wove their way through the crowd.
He caught them up faster than he thought he would. The one who’d called herself Penny Lane stood with her friend at the corner of Balcombe Street next to the fallen body of a third girl. She was lying on her back, eyes wide, panting and whimpering.
Breen pushed past the other two and knelt down. A crowd of shocked pedestrians stood on the pavement watching, doing nothing. The driver of a Peugeot 204 pulled up in the middle of the traffic said in a loud voice, “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Where did the car hit you?”
“Leg.”
He took her hand. “Can you squeeze my hand?”
“Get off her,” screamed Penny Lane, kneeling down beside him, trying to push him away.
“It’s all right,” said a woman’s voice. “He knows what he’s doing. She needs looking after.” Breen looked up. Constable Tozer had followed and was leaning down beside them.
“Can you wiggle your toes?” Breen asked.
The girl did, but burst out crying from the pain. She clenched Breen’s hand hard. Mascara dribbled down the side of her face.
Tozer always seemed to have a handkerchief on her. She handed it to the girl, who took it with her free hand and scrunched it into her eyes.
“Get an ambulance,” said Breen to the man in the Peugeot. “I think she’s broken her leg.”
The man, who wore a sports coat and a tweed cap, hesitated a second, about to object, then walked off. Traffic was backing up on the main road now, horns starting to sound. Someone offered a coat. They laid it over the girl.
“Don’t worry,” said Tozer, kneeling down beside her. “It’ll be all right.”
“Don’t worry, Carol,” repeated the other girl. Short curly hair, face rounder than Penny’s.
“Why did you run?” Breen asked the girl who’d just spoken. “I only wanted a chat.”
“My bloody leg,” whispered the injured girl, through pale lips.
“’Cause you’re police. Obviously.”
Breen nodded.
“Hospital’s only just over the road,” said Tozer. “Ambulance will be here any sec. Detective Sergeant Breen here knows the place well. He’s in there so often they give him Green Shield Stamps. Swears by it.”
“Back again? You’re a liability, you are.”