Low-ranking policemen wandered around the scene, uncertain of procedure. An ambulance arrived, but the body had not yet been photographed, so the crew waited inside the vehicle looking bored.
Unperturbed, the blackbird continued foraging at the weeds close to the dead man.
They crossed London, siren nee-nawing. Breen marveled at his own calm as he weaved through the traffic.
By the time they arrived at the Ezeokes’ house there were two police cars already outside. Breen got out and tapped at the window of one of them. “Anyone been in?”
“There’s a copper in there now with her. Our orders was just to wait here and keep an eye out for a big black bloke. There’s a couple of officers around the back and all.”
Breen left them and walked up the steps and rang the bell. He heard it echo through the house.
He banged on the door. It was opened by a policeman. Mrs. Ezeoke was there by his side, trembling slightly, but straight-backed. “My husband told me you would come back,” she said.
“He’s here?”
“He telephoned. Half an hour ago. Before your colleagues arrived.”
“Where from?”
She stiffened. “I do not know. He would not tell me.”
“Was he in a call box?”
She frowned. “Yes.”
Breen nodded. “What did he say?”
“He said you would come here and tell me he had done a terrible thing. That I was to stand by him. Of course I will stand by him. He is my husband.”
Breen nodded. A young boy stopped outside on a bicycle, peering at them, wanting to know what was going on.
She said, “You don’t have to tell me. I know it. You believe he killed the girl.”
“Well, it’s a mite more serious than that now, missus,” said the uniformed copper standing next to her.
“So it wasn’t serious before?” Tozer asked him.
A woman with a wicker shopping trolley stopped by the boy on the bicycle. It wouldn’t be long before a crowd formed. “May we come in?” asked Breen.
Mrs. Ezeoke hesitated, then held the door open for them.
“Can I get you a Coca-Cola?” Always polite. Always dignified.
“No, thank you.”
She led them back into the Ezeokes’ living room.
“Can I offer you a cigarette?”
There was a copy of a magazine called Ebony lying on the coffee table. “On the phone just now, did he tell you he had killed a policeman?”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
“You tell us,” said the copper.
“Please,” said Breen. “Do you mind keeping out of this?”
“Don’t mind me, I’m sure.”
There was a pinging noise. Then again. Wondering vaguely what it was, Breen asked, “Why did you move into this house?”
She sat down on the sofa, straight-backed. “We used to have a very fine house, you know.”
“I know.”
“So why did you move here?”
“Because we could no longer afford our old house.”
Breen sat on a chair opposite her. “Your husband must make a great deal of money as a senior consultant.”
“Yes.”
“So why do you live here?”
That ping again. Breen realized it was the sound of a stone, half-heartedly thrown against the glass window.
She put her hands faceup in her lap and said, “We have given everything we have to the cause.”
“The cause?”
“The motherland. Biafra.” He stood up and went to the window. There were about ten people outside now, staring in. He wondered which one of them had thrown the stone. Seeing a face at the window, a man started jeering, waving his fist at him.
“You don’t sound as enthusiastic about the cause as your husband, Mrs. Ezeoke.”
“When men fight, women suffer.” She looked down at the floor.
“What exactly happened to your money, Mrs. Ezeoke?”
She glared at Breen. “Please. Do not expect me to know the details. This was my husband’s business.”
“Who was he giving the money to?”
“I do not know.”
The news would be on the radio now, and in the latest editions of the Evening News and the Evening Standard there would be reports of a murdered policeman.
“You must have some idea, Mrs. Ezeoke.”
“Why are you asking me this?” she said.
“Mrs. Ezeoke. A girl is dead. A policeman is dead.”
“I do not think this has anything to do with our donations.”
“So who did he give your money to?”
“My husband is a good man.”
“And your own daughter has been sent away from you, which means that we can’t interview her.”
She put her hands over her ears. “I do not want to listen to any more of this.”
“Did he tell you where he was going, Mrs. Ezeoke?”
“Even if I did know, I would not tell you.” Her chin rose.
Tozer said, “We can arrest you for obstructing our inquiries.”
“I do not care. Whatever he has done, he is my husband.”
“I think he killed your daughter’s lover,” said Breen.
A tear rolled down her cheek. “I would not tell you, even if I did know. And I do not.”
Breen stood up again and walked to the window. A woman with a pram had joined the small crowd. “Armed police will now be searching for him, you realize that? They are the sort of people who shoot first and ask questions later. They really don’t like people who kill their colleagues. If we can get to him first and persuade him to give himself up, he’ll be OK. It’s his best chance. Where will he have gone?”
Breen looked at the poster: Biafra victorious.
“I am not going to talk to you anymore,” she said. “He is my husband.”
“There are men stationed outside the house at the front and back. If he comes anywhere near here he will be arrested.”
She turned her head aside, pretending to look out of the window.
“If he tries to get in touch with you, we will expect you to ask him to give himself up. I’m sure you don’t want anyone else hurt, Mrs. Ezeoke.”
“I never wanted anyone to get hurt,” she said.
In the distance, police sirens, gradually getting closer and louder. The cars arrived in the road outside. When they were switched off, the world seemed suddenly silent.
Bailey was out in front of the house, sitting in his Rover, talking to other officers. He was wearing his old gray mac with a cloth cap and had a pipe in his hand. A man out of time. “London Airport cocked it up, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re a new force, I believe.” This seemed explanation enough for Bailey.
Policemen were streaming into the Ezeokes’ house to begin searching the place. From the front door, Mrs. Ezeoke glared at them, arms folded, muttering.
Sitting in the backseat, Breen told him everything that had happened since he had come to this house yesterday afternoon. Bailey pulled out the cigarette lighter and held it above his pipe, sucking at it from the side of his mouth.
“Scotland Yard are taking the whole thing over.”
“I’m still investigating the death of Morwenna Sullivan, sir. That’s a different murder.”
Bailey frowned. “You met this man. What did you make of him?”
“He was one of those men who fill the room, if you know what I mean.”
“And you’re sure?”
“I wasn’t this morning when we went to pick him up, but I was when he made a run for it. Now I’m sure.”
“Why? Why did he kill the girl?”
Breen hesitated. “Ezeoke blamed Morwenna for…corrupting his daughter,” he said. “Though I’m not sure if that’s all there was to it.”
“Corrupting?”
“The girls were lovers, sir.”
“Ah,” said Bailey stiffly. “Right.” He looked away, then said, “Don’t go round thinking it’s your fault, you know. It was good work. You did the right thing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“After what happened to Prosser, they’ll think you are responsible for that policeman’s death. It’ll be the talk of the canteen.”
“Yes, sir,” said Breen.