“Come on,” said Carmichael.
Breen got out, clammy from the speed. The air was heavy with the scent of discarded meat and vegetables from the market. A man was hoicking unsold sacks of potatoes back into a Morris van. Another was stacking up cages full of budgerigars. A radio playing pop music full blast was blaring from another stall.
It was a narrow shop, unoccupied, windows blacked out what had once been a cobbler’s. Some street trader used it now for storing his groceries. Cardboard boxes of tinned tomatoes were piled against the wall. There were stairs at the back. A uniformed policeman was sitting on the bare stairs, smoking a cigarette. “Is this one of the fellers?” he asked.
“This is him.”
“Enjoy yourself,” said the copper, shifting to one side to let the others pass him on the stairs. “Give the bugger what he asked for.”
Breen pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. “Ta-da!” said Jones, like he was presenting an act on a stage.
A small room, probably a bedroom once. The pink-rose wallpaper was old and stained. Pinned to the wall was a picture of Jayne Mansfield sitting on a bed in a white fur bikini.
Tied to a chair was a Chinese man. Breen recognized him straightaway. He was the man who had threatened Prosser and him with a knife at the clothes shop; the man who Breen had run from. The Chinaman was bleeding from his lip and there was an ugly cut under his right eye. Snot and blood bubbled from his nose and had stained his light blue shirt and brown nylon trousers.
“We saved his legs for you,” said Carmichael, holding up a cricket bat. “On account of you won’t have to run so fast next time if you break his.”
Breen looked back at Carmichael, and Jones, hopping up and down behind him like a child.
“Joke. Seriously, though. Don’t hit him too hard. Just a bit of fun.”
“How did you find him?”
“Fridays this Chink runs a clothes stall in Berwick Street outside. You know that shopkeeper from St. John’s Wood High Street? He was down here this morning and spotted this bloke selling Italian suits of his. They’ve still got the bloody labels in and all. Martin and Dawes. He called you up this morning, only you weren’t in. Don’t know where he got your number from. Anyway, Marilyn took the call and passed it on to Jonesy here. Bingo. Picked him up a couple of hours ago. What’s up between you and Marilyn, by the way? She called you a miserable piece of shit. I thought she always had a thing for you. This is the fellow, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s him,” said Breen.
“Go on then, give him one,” Carmichael said, pushing the end of the bat into his belly. “They should learn you can’t go round threatening coppers with knives.”
Breen kept his hands by his side. “Where’s Prosser?”
“Tried to reach him but I think he’s off with his son somewhere. He takes time off on the sly. Everybody knows, but it’s OK. Don’t you worry, he’ll have his turn.”
Carmichael prodded him again with the cricket bat. “Go on. Take it.”
Breen grasped the bat, but didn’t move. “Give me ten minutes alone with him.”
“What’s wrong with you?” said Jones. “You windy?”
The Chinese man didn’t even look scared, he just looked tired. Above his temple, there was blood caked in his black hair. His brown nylon trousers were torn at one knee, and there was something unpleasant about the way the little finger on his left hand was twisted. He looked Breen in the eye sadly.
Breen tried to remember him with the knife in his hand, threatening Prosser. He tried to replay the scene in his head. Him bursting into the back of the shop; Prosser standing there with the Chinese man; the Chinese man wielding the knife. “Give me ten minutes,” he said again, weighing the bat in his hand.
“Can’t we watch?” said Jones, disappointed. “I found him, after all.”
“Come on.” Carmichael tugged his arm. “Leave Paddy alone.”
They left the room and closed the door behind him. Breen stood there holding the bat, looking at the Chinaman. The man looked at him resignedly, knowing what to expect.
“Let’s talk,” said Breen, putting down the bat against the wall.
The man looked warily at Breen for a second, then shook his head. “No talk.”
“Yes talk,” said Breen.
“Go hit me. I don’t mind. You can hit me. I am not afraid.”
“No,” said Breen. “I don’t want to hit you.”
Breen sat down on the floor, his back against the floral wallpaper. The Chinaman looked puzzled.
“I want you to start telling me what really happened the night I found you filching coats in St. John’s Wood High Street.”
“You were afraid.” The man giggled. “You very afraid. You run away.”
“That’s true. What else?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want to know what was going on.”
The man shook his head, becoming agitated now. “Hit me. It’s OK.”
Breen shook his head. “I’m not going to hit you.”
“I was stealing clothes. I’m a bad man.” The man smiled. “You and Sergeant Prosser caught me.”
There was a singing in Breen’s ears. “So you know Detective Sergeant Prosser, then?”
“I don’t know anything. I was just a stupid Chinaman. I got out my knife. ‘Come near and I kill you.’ You run away like a little rabbit.” He giggled again. “That’s all. Cross my heart.”
“You’re not a very good liar,” said Breen. “Why was the back door open? The door to the shop. There was no sign of a break-in. Who opened it for you?”
“You must hit me, please.” The man was starting to sound increasingly desperate.
Breen stood and walked over to him. He laid the cricket bat on the floor and started to untie the sash cord that bound the man’s wrists.
Breen stepped out into the busy street still holding the cricket bat. A pair of kids were sitting on an old armchair that someone had chucked out, listening to a transistor radio. Louis Armstrong sang “What a Wonderful World.” The copper put out his cigarette on the pavement and smiled. “All done in there?”
Leaning against the police car, Carmichael said, “Shall we fetch him and take him down the station, or are we going to wait for Prosser to have his turn?”
“What’s left of him,” smirked Jones.
A white-haired man dressed in black, with a sandwich board that read Repent ye evil doers for the Kingdom of the Lord is at hand, joined the crowd that stood watching the policemen.
“I let him go,” said Breen.
“You let him go?”
“Out the back. He’s long gone now.”
Carmichael opened his mouth wide. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. A blast of music came from an open window from one of the flats above them.
Jones said, “You absolute blinking tosser.”
“Can you drop me back at the station now, or shall I make my own way?”
“I got him in for you and Prosser. I got him in.”
“Paddy. That man, he’s the worst sort,” said Carmichael woundedly. “He stabbed a copper. And you let him go.”
“Prosser’ll be bloody mad with you. He stabbed Prosser in the arm and you let him bloody go.”
“I expect he will be mad with me, yes.”
“I can’t believe you did that,” said Jones. “You’re ridiculous, you fucking Irish arse.”
Carmichael looked puzzled and said, “What’s going on, Paddy? What are you doing?”
The small crowd pressed round the group of policemen, curious to know what so many of them were doing here in their street. Carmichael stood, frowning.
Jones said, “You’ve really lost it,” and pushed angrily through the crowd, back to the police car.
Twenty-five
Tozer had suggested they have a drink before the party. “Dutch courage. Where shall we meet?”
Breen had opted for the York Minster in Dean Street, a known hangout for writers, artists and painters. It was a smug little bar that celebrated its own eccentricity; there were cartoons of French politicians on the wall, and the barmen refused to serve beer in anything other than half-pint glasses, all of which made it the sort of pub where the police would never drink. Which was why Breen chose it. He didn’t want to be in a police pub this weekend, around policemen talking police gossip.