Tozer was not there when he arrived, so he took a stool by the bar, within earshot of a fat man who was talking to half a dozen listeners who laughed at all his jokes. A couple of elderly queens played chess in the corner, ignoring the noise, each with their elbows on the table in front of them.
It was a Saturday night. The pub was full, the air so rich already you could hardly see from one side of the small room to the other. He caught snatches of conversation. A man in a tweed jacket with arm patches telling another man, “In the next ten years we’re going to see worldwide mass starvation. Believe you me.” “Judy Garland,” said a short fellow with a quiff. “So drunk she couldn’t get her coat on.” A man holding hands with a young woman who wore a blue felt hat said, “What about Kettner’s?” She pulled her hand away and said, “You know I hate Kettner’s.”
Tozer arrived at 8:30 and said, “Double brandy. Sorry I’m late. Why are you only drinking a half?”
Breen had never noticed her wearing full makeup before. Blue eye shadow and pinkish lipstick. She had dressed for the occasion, wearing a knee-length green frock and heels that Breen thought looked too feminine on her, though he said, “You look nice.”
“Do I? I feel ridiculous. I never wear dresses. I didn’t know what the code was for a shindig. The girls made me buy it today. You look nice yourself. That shirt suits you. It makes you look younger.”
The blue shirt he’d bought from Martin amp; Dawes. He should buy more new clothes, he thought.
The pub was crowded, so Breen offered her his stool to sit on. She shook her head and stood. She leaned over towards him so he could hear above the noise and said, “There was talk this morning at the section house. About you.”
“My ears were burning,” he said.
“They were saying you’d gone mental again yesterday.”
Breen nodded.
“Why are you smiling? It’s serious.”
“I’m not smiling. I know it’s serious. I can’t help it.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Jones had arrested this guy for a robbery, but he hadn’t charged him yet. I let him go.”
“So he was innocent?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“I was doing Prosser a favor.”
“By letting the guy who stabbed him go?”
Breen paused. “Sort of.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Can we leave it just for now? I don’t want to say. Not yet.”
“You still don’t trust me, do you?”
She was wearing earrings too. Small silver birds that hung from each ear.
“I do.”
“No you don’t.”
“You think everything is about you just being a policewoman, don’t you?”
“You’re not going to tell me why you let that guy who stabbed Prosser go, are you?”
“No.” He paid for her drink and another half-pint.
“Well, you keep it all to yourself, then,” she said. “Keep it all bottled up in there.”
“I will.”
“One day you’ll go really mental. Really, really mental. You’ll explode.”
“Are you Sigmund Freud now?”
“It’s no wonder you don’t have any mates.”
“I do have mates.”
She laughed. “Who exactly?”
“Carmichael for one.”
“I see more of him than you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“None of your beeswax. So when did you last meet up with your great friend outside of work?”
He tried to remember. “The last few months have been different.”
She made a face.
He said, “And I’m out with you, aren’t I?”
“Aren’t I the lucky one?” She took too big a gulp of brandy and then burst out coughing until Breen slapped her on the back. “Went down the wrong way,” she said when she’d got her breath back.
“Maybe this party isn’t such a good idea.”
“Sorry, Paddy. I’m in a bad mood. All day shopping for clothes in Oxford Street. Give us another brandy and I’ll be nicer. What’s that white stuff they’re drinking? Maybe I’ll try that.”
He turned back to the bar, trying to attract the attention of the barman who was filling a tray with glasses of Pernod.
She made a face after the first sip, but after the second she decided she liked it.
The basement of the St. Moritz was already full by the time they arrived. The crowd was mostly black, but there were a few white people there. There was loud African music, full of drums and spiky guitar lines. A long table down one side of the room was piled high with food that included a big bowl of rice with unfamiliar looking meat in it and a large pot of dark brown stew. Breen peered in. “Groundnut stew,” said a voice next to him. “It’s very spicy. Very delicious.”
Breen recognized Mrs. Ezeoke; she held out her hand to him.
“I didn’t know Sam had invited you,” she said. She was wearing a loud pink-and-gold floor-length African dress with a matching cloth headwrap.
“He didn’t. Mrs. Briggs invited us.”
Breen noticed how Mrs. Ezeoke’s smile disappeared at the mention of her name. “Are you a friend of hers?”
“No. We just met her at the hospital…She gave us tickets.”
At the end of the table was a large silver bowl, full of coins and notes. A sign read: Donations.
“And you have brought your policewoman friend. How nice.” Mrs. Ezeoke held out her hand to Tozer. The African woman wore a thick bangle on her wrist. It looked huge next to her small hand. “You look very pretty, my dear,” she said to Tozer.
“I love your bracelet,” Tozer said, fingering the metal. It was a heavy piece of patterned bronze. Breen wondered how drunk she was already.
“Thank you.”
“And your dress is fabulous,” Tozer went on. “A British woman would never dare wear anything so gorgeous. Where did you get it?”
Mrs. Ezeoke’s smile remained fixed. “I think you have met Mr. Okonkwo?” she said.
Breen recognized him as the man they’d met at the Ezeokes’ house; older than the Ezeokes, a short, wiry man holding a plate of food.
“Ah, the detective. We meet again. Did you find your murderer?” He laughed.
Mrs. Ezeoke was not the only woman there in traditional dress. Every black woman in the small club was wearing voluminous bright clothes and elaborately folded headdresses. A few were dancing together, holding one hand up in the air, shuffling their feet around in circles.
A young black man in a suit approached. “You are much too thin. Eat, eat. We have plenty of food. You need African food,” he said to Tozer. “Have you ever eaten jollof?”
Tozer laughed. “I need a drink first.”
Okonkwo said to Breen, “Do you think it strange to see us dancing while our brothers are fighting a war?”
“What are you raising money for?”
“We must convince the politicians and the journalists of our cause. We must let them know about the crimes being committed by the Federals and by the British. Money helps change minds.”
“British crimes?”
Okonkwo smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. Even the British are capable of crimes. Our Biafran people are being systematically starved to death by an army that your government is supporting. Even in the Second World War the women and the children were spared. Not in our war. You are supplying an army that is creating a total blockade. It is indiscriminate warfare. Their original intention was to kill us all. Now they have found a way to do it with the world’s approval.”
There were banners on the walclass="underline" God bless Biafra-Free Biafra-Biafra ga adi ndu!!-Biafra win de war!! Balloons hung from the ceiling.
“But I am sure you are a good man,” grinned Okonkwo. “You would not support this. Your government keeps you ignorant. Nobody in Britain has heard about how tens of thousands of our Igbo people have been slaughtered in the north by the Moslems, urged on by the Federals. And when people are ignorant, a word is worth a thousand guns.” He paused and looked at the dancers. “Although not everyone agrees. They would rather just have the guns.”