“Yes. They had a lot in common. They both wanted to save their daughters. This other man, he was a military man. Sam liked him. Said he was on our side. He supported Biafra. He wanted to help. They were both men.”
Breen and Tozer looked at each other.
“When will your husband come home?”
“Tomorrow.” She looked around the room. “Could I get you some more Coca-Cola? Or perhaps some cake?”
Breen shook his head.
Mrs. Ezeoke stood suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said, leaving the room. They heard her bustling in the hallway outside. She returned with a pale blue envelope.
She handed it to Breen. It was an airmail letter addressed to Ijeoma Ezeoke. There was a stamp on it, but the address was not filled in. On the back was the sender’s return address: Morwenna Sullivan, 118c Edgware Road, London. In big letters on the front, underlined, Strictly Private!!!!
“She came here?” said Breen.
“I did not see her,” said Mrs. Ezeoke. “She left the letter in our letter box to post to my daughter with a note asking us to post it to her. I did not post it. I thought it was best if Ijeoma forgot about her.”
They sat in silence for a minute while the darkness outside pressed in at the room.
In the car: “Ivory Coast. That sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?”
Breen said, “It does.”
Breen opened the letter. It was dated August 17, 1968.
Darling, darling Izzie,
I miss you so much. I cry every night and every day. I hate your father for what he has done. Both our dads are EVIL. I hate everybody. I love only you.
Please don’t worry. I know what you are like. Everything is going to be FAB. I’m moving out of the flat to a squat to save??? and I’m going to get a job as a shop girl or a secretary or even a DANCER so I can earn even more???. (I told you my mummy was a MODEL-if she can do it so can I!!!!)
I asked my dad for money but of course he’s useless LIKE ALL DADS. (If you’ve opened this Mr. Samuel Ezeoke then know that I HATE YOU (sorry Izzie darling but it’s true)).
Don’t worry. I am going to come and save you. I promise. We can live in a mud hut together. I have worked it out. There are cargo ships from Liverpool that take passengers to Aberjan (sp???) for only?45 (I called up the Embassy and a Nice Girl told me).
My love for you is bigger than the planet. I promise. All we need is ¦! You are always my SUPER FAB GIRL 4 ever.
There were hundreds of little “x”s covering the entire bottom of the thin blue airmail paper.
“You think it was him, then? I do.”
“I don’t know if he killed the girl. But the murder victim was found right next to his house. And he knew the major.”
“And now we know that Morwenna knew where the Ezeokes lived.”
“And he’s been keeping it from us. He has to be able to tell us something.”
“I think it was him.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Helen.”
“Yeah, but I still think it was him.”
Twenty-nine
He went to bed exhausted and slept dreamlessly. A thick, honeyed sleep that was hard to emerge from when the time came.
Tozer’s knocking woke him eventually. He fumbled in the dark for the flex to his bedside light. The brightness of the light stung his eyes.
“You said you’d be ready,” she shouted through the letter box.
Half asleep, he struggled to remember why Tozer was there. He had overslept. The travel clock by his bed said it was already past seven in the morning. He remembered how, last night, he had phoned Bailey at home to tell him about Ezeoke; that he intended to bring him in for questioning. With Bailey’s blessing, he had called the police at London Airport to request their assistance.
He shaved while Tozer put toast under the grill, then struggled into his clothes, Tozer helping him yank a shirt past his shoulder. “Is that all the butter you got?” she complained.
At 8:20 the winter sun was starting to light up the buildings around them.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
“You sure?”
The roads were surprisingly empty but for bread wagons, newspaper lorries and the occasional red GPO van. Breen felt nervous but he no longer had Tozer’s driving to blame for it. He would have felt happier if he could have called up control to ask them to check that the London Airport police had received their instructions from last night’s shift, but it was not a radio car, so he could only hope.
“You OK, Paddy?”
“I think it’s him,” he said as they sped up the Great West Road, past dark rows of offices and factories.
“And I thought you weren’t one to jump to conclusions.”
There were roadworks on the A40 and the traffic moved slowly, single file, behind a bus that stopped every couple of hundred yards to pick up people who were on the early shift.
Once they were past Gillette Corner the traffic moved more quickly. They parked outside Terminal 1. The policeman on duty there, a sergeant, strode over straightaway. “You going to be long?”
“We called up last night. We’re picking up someone for questioning from the ten-forty flight from Brussels.”
“That space is for emergencies only.”
“Where can we stop, then?”
“Car park.” He pointed towards a concrete building.
The car park faced the main terminal building. The attendant came out of his hut wearing mittens, and took an age to issue a ticket. “Don’t matter if you’re police or not. You got to have a ticket.”
When they returned to the terminal on foot the same policeman was still there. He looked at his watch. “Ten forty? Cut that a bit fine, didn’t you?”
“So we should hurry.”
The sergeant spoke into his walkie-talkie and then said, “Come with me then. Gate Number Seven. Don’t worry. They’re expecting you. We do this all the time.”
The policeman led them into the terminal and through a small anonymous door to the left hand of the check-in desks, where weary businessmen queued with briefcases and children clambered over mountains of luggage. They passed down a narrow corridor, past a row of interview rooms and through a locked door into the back of a duty-free shop, squeezing between a queue of passengers clutching large packs of Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes and bottles of Johnnie Walker.
“Can we hurry?” said Breen.
“Not supposed to run,” said the policeman. “This way.”
They were in a public corridor now, passengers coming the other way, lugging carrier bags, holdalls and kids.
Tozer broke into a trot.
“You’re not supposed to run,” said the policeman again, panting, but Tozer was too far ahead, flat shoes clacking on the lino.
Ahead was Gate No. 7. A man stood there in a blue BOAC uniform; he waved Breen and Tozer on, down the concrete staircase, to the door that opened out onto the runways.
After the brightness of the inside of the terminal, the world outside was abruptly cold and dark. A couple of lights shone onto the gangway. The passengers were already pouring out of the Britannia and up into the main building.
“Where are the other police?”
“They’re on their way,” said the sergeant, gasping for air.
“But they’re already getting off the plane,” said Breen.
“Any sign of him?” Policemen started to arrive. “Who are we looking for?”
“The plane got in early. They didn’t let us know,” complained the sergeant. “Don’t worry. Chances are, he’s still onboard. Is he important?”
Businessmen clutching leather briefcases, yawning, families tugging fractious children, an elderly lady carrying a cat in a basket, all moved slowly down the staircase, single file.
A jet roared into the black sky.
The stream of passengers soon slowed to a trickle. The cabin crew started to emerge.
“You sure he’s on this plane?” the sergeant asked.
Breen grabbed a startled air stewardess. “Was there a black man on this plane? A large man, about forty years old?”