“No.”
“Not to no one?”
Breen shook his head.
Prosser said, “Thanks. I appreciate that. We coppers should stick together.”
“Yes. You said that.”
“I owe you an apology then. I’m sorry, OK? Things just got out of hand.”
Breen’s arm started to ache. He rubbed his collarbone and said, “I spent weeks thinking it was my fault you got stabbed. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
Prosser said nothing.
“The door was open. But there was no sign of a forced entry. I didn’t even think of that until a few weeks ago. I thought it was all my fault.”
Prosser smiled. “He was supposed to make it look like a break-in. What a tosser.”
The sort of smile a man makes to another man when he knows he has ballsed something up. Almost like he was saying, “You really can’t get the staff these days, can you?”
“Did you get him to stab you or did you do it to yourself?”
Prosser sat down on his sofa, put his head in his hands and said, “I did it. I thought it would make the whole thing look proper. And suddenly I was a bloody hero. Even Bailey called me a hero. I’m up for a medal. Funny, isn’t it?” Breen followed him into the room. Prosser picked up a cigarette packet and shook it. It was empty. “Got a cigarette?”
“No,” Breen said, though he knew there were still four left in his packet.
Prosser sighed.
“It was a coathanger job, wasn’t it? You sold the keys to the Chinese guy. He went in to take the clothes and you took the money.”
Prosser nodded. “I’d caught him stealing cars last Easter. A car, leastways. He offered me money to let him off. I never done it with anyone else, promise. I’m not one of those coppers. I know it looks that way, but I’m not. And then I met these CID guys from Peckham who were running a coathanger team, selling the keys to gangs and taking their bit and they were making a fair whack of money. And the shopkeepers were all insured, so where’s the harm? Because we were the ones who had to tell the insurance whether it was a crime or not anyway. And they showed me how easy it was. I mean, we’ve got the keys to half the shops in Marylebone back at the station. I only did it the once, promise. Once or twice, leastways. And never places that couldn’t afford it. That guy Martin Dawes, he’s loaded. You know how much those insurance companies rake in. I really needed the money. Only the Chink turned out to be so stupid he was spotted. Just my luck.” He smiled. “What are you going to do, Paddy? It’s your call.”
All the time he’d been in CID Prosser had never treated him as one of them. He was the Paddy. Now he had one on him, they could be pals.
“Depends. How much would you pay me to keep quiet?”
Prosser’s face fell. “I can’t give you money, mate. I owe a bit here and there. That’s why I was doing all this in the first place. I’ve got this kid-”
“Put a figure on it. What if I said a hundred?”
“I never thought you were like that, Paddy, to be honest,” he said. “I’m disappointed.”
“Two hundred.”
“Christ, Paddy. I haven’t got that much. Hundred maybe. Possibly. I could do favors for you. Take bits of work if you like.”
Breen rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like for me? I ran away from a copper who was about to be killed. I don’t want money. I need to know what happened.”
Prosser looked relieved. “I knew you weren’t like that, Paddy. Look. I know we haven’t been particularly friendly, up till now…” He stood up and went to the window and peered through the nets. “You want some tea? It would have to be powdered milk. I haven’t been out of the flat since I got back on Friday. No? I’ll have to go out now, I suppose. I’m out of fags. Would you go for me?”
“Bugger off. Go yourself.”
Prosser winced, then went back and sat on the sofa again. “Fair enough.”
Breen said, “You got any aspirin?”
“In the cupboard in the bathroom.” Breen picked past the damp towels on the floor and found a small bottle on a shelf.
“I knew he was doing the job on Sunday night,” called Prosser. “I made sure I was on shift in case anything went wrong.”
There was a filthy-looking tooth mug on the sink. Breen took the pills and swigged water from the tap in his hand instead.
“I was in the car parked up on Old Portland Street eating a bag of chips when it came on the radio that somebody had seen somebody in Martin and Dawes.” He tugged at stuffing that was already coming out of the arm of the sofa. “Stupid Chink switched a light on. And I thought I better get there first. And I wasn’t far away so I thought I could do that. Which I did. Only you arrived about a minute later. And I thought, what happens now?” A large piece of stuffing came away. Prosser dropped it onto the floor. “But I knew this Chink always carried a knife so I told him to get it out and wave it at me. Which he did. And you came in. And then you scarpered. Luckily. That’s all. And so I just gave myself a couple of cuts with the knife for good effect. Didn’t even hurt that much. Not then. Let the guy out of the front door. It wasn’t your fault.”
Breen nodded.
Prosser picked up the empty cigarette packet and shook it again. “What’s Bailey been saying? About me not being in?”
“Not that much.”
“And what about the others? Have they been wondering why I’m not in?”
“You’re ill, that’s what they’re saying.”
“I really appreciate this, Paddy. I don’t deserve it. You’re a good mate. I behaved really badly. A disgrace. Know what I mean? But I can make it right. What if I told people that Jones had got the wrong guy? That’s why you let him go? What if I told them you fought the Chink too, as well as me, only it was just me that got injured? You could be a hero.”
Breen looked at him and said, “We don’t have to tell them anything. You just have to go into the office tomorrow and tell Bailey you’re throwing in the towel.”
Prosser frowned. “Sorry?”
“You tell him you’re leaving.”
“Me? Resigning?”
Breen nodded.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Quitting the job?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise I’ll ring the bell.”
Sitting on the sofa looking up at Breen, Prosser, the big hard London lad, seemed like he was about to cry. “Paddy. I’ve been almost twenty years on the force. What else am I going to do? I’d lose my flat and everything. And my kid. His mum relies on me. I got obligations. I really need the money.”
“You’ll lose your pension too if I tell them what really happened. And they’ll put you away. That would be worse.”
He crunched the cigarette packet in one hand. “It’s my life, Paddy. It’s my fucking life.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Think what would happen if the press found out. They’re just waiting for something like this. Corrupt coppers. They’d have a field day. It’s best if you go quietly.”
Breen stood up. He wanted to get back to the station.
“Paddy. We can talk. I’m really sorry for what I did to you.”
Breen didn’t look back at Prosser, just headed for the front door.
“You’re a bastard, Paddy Breen.”
“By tomorrow. Or I’ll go to Bailey.”
Prosser lurched up off the sofa and grabbed Breen’s arm, bunching his other fingers.
“Just try it,” said Breen.
“I might,” said Prosser. He stood there for a second with his fist held in the air. “All this doesn’t change the fact that you were windy, Paddy. You should have seen the look on your face. When he pulled the knife on you you were dirtying your ruddy pants. You’re a fucking coward, Paddy Breen. A lousy Mick coward.”
Breen let himself out and walked away, relieved to be out of the place, keen to put some distance between himself and Prosser. After the hum of dirty laundry and stale cigarette smoke, it was good to get some fresh air in his lungs.
It was a short walk to Pembridge House. Three Victorian houses had been joined together to create the women’s section house. Behind the big front door there was a row of pegs and underneath each one hung a wooden tag with the resident’s name on both sides, green on one, yellow on the other. He tried the door at the bottom of the stairs but it was locked.