The Kings of London (34 page)

He looked down at the ground below. No more police had arrived yet to assist them.

‘Come on,’ the constable said, but Breen didn’t move for another minute. They had stopped trying to take the steps two at a time. Now it was just one foot after another.

Breen looked in each flat. They were bare. All identical. Plain walls waiting to be decorated. A bath. A toilet. A kitchen sink.

It was not so much a building as a manifesto: ‘Everyone will be given an opportunity, and that opportunity will be the same shape and colour as everyone else’s.’

Except for those who lived in posh houses in Hampstead. Who steal from everyone else’s opportunity, who buy art and hang it on their walls.

Breen and the constable rested in one of the flats. Another fag break. The copper stood, first with his back to the wall, then edged forward slowly towards the windows. Cautiously, as if the floor were going to give way beneath him.

It was dark now. They looked out at the other three blocks, black against the dark blue of the winter evening.

‘There!’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Thought I saw a light.’ He pointed upwards at one of the two blocks they had not been in yet.

Breen peered up. ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘Maybe it was just the reflection of my fag.’

Breen peered and saw nothing. ‘Reflections don’t work like that. You’re looking up.’

‘Maybe I was imagining it. Let’s go.’

‘No,’ said Breen, and continued looking. Maybe because it was easier than pounding on up the stairs. He stared into the blackness until he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But there was nothing there. It could have been a reflection of an aeroplane, or just imagination.

After a few minutes he gave up. They went on up to the top, searching each room.

By the third block, Breen was exhausted. He had to pause on every landing, legs cramping, waiting in the darkness as the copper looked around with his torch.

‘I think my battery’s going,’ said Breen. The constable’s torch seemed much brighter than his own.

‘He’s not going to be here, is he?’ said the copper.

Fifteenth floor.

‘I wonder who’s winning?’ said the copper. ‘Hope it’s Sheffield. Bloody hate Arsenal. I hope they’re having the shite kicked out of them.’

Sixteenth floor.

‘I mean, we don’t know for sure he’s anywhere near here. They reckon Ronnie Biggs is in Australia, don’t they?’

Seventeenth floor.

‘Do you reckon we’ll be finished by five? I’m supposed to be going to the dog track this evening with the wife.’

Eighteenth floor. Even the lanky copper was panting now.

Breen noticed that the young man took a few seconds longer inside the top flat than he had on all the others.

‘Constable?’

‘Sir. I think you should come in here. I’ve found something.’

The policeman shone his torch around the room. A blanket. Two empty tins of mulligatawny soup. No sign of a fire. He would have had to eat them cold. A pile of cigarettes stubbed out on the floor. Some cigars too. Four Gordon’s gin bottles, three empty, one half full.

‘How do we know it’s him?’ whispered the copper. ‘I mean, we can’t be a hundred per cent, can we?’

‘I’m sure,’ said Breen. A smell of cigarettes still in the air.

Breen opened the window. Wind pushed back at him. There was rain coming. The weather was getting wilder.

‘He was here!’ Breen shouted down. But it was dark and it was a long way down. The roar of the city was too loud for him to know if they’d heard. He could see Deason’s car but no sign of the sergeant himself. And no other officers yet.

‘Here!’ he shouted. But no one seemed to hear him.

The match would be finishing any minute. The streets would be thronged with people. It would be difficult to drive any vehicle through them, even a police car.

‘Stay by the doors!’ he called again. But he couldn’t see anyone below.

If Cox hadn’t made it out of the building already, somehow. Was there some service exit only he knew? He was an architect, after all. He would have seen them coming, seen the torchlight.

They had checked each floor, though, as they had gone up, and there were two staircases. Could he have somehow remained hidden and descended after they had passed?

It was hard to know. The two men were exhausted now from climbing. They could have made a mistake.

He ran his torch around the flat. Into the bath. Into the empty kitchen. No sign. He had been here, and not long ago.

‘Roof?’ said the policeman.

‘Christ!’ said Breen.

They both dashed back out of the room.

‘You stay here,’ shouted the copper.

‘Let me go,’ said Breen.

‘You’re tired. I’ll go – keep an eye. He might be using the roof as a way to get to the other staircase and get down.’

The stairs continued up another floor onto the roof. The constable dashed up them, banging back the door at the top.

Breen waited in the corridor, heart thumping.

Without the other copper there he realised how little light his own torch was giving off. Nearly dead. He switched it off to preserve the batteries.

Pure darkness. With the flat doors closed there were no windows onto the connecting corridor. The shapes of the building disappeared into nothingness. Breen pressed against the wall to reassure himself it was there.

‘All right?’ he shouted.

The constable would be searching the roof. But how long did it take?

‘Any sign of him?’

No answer. He strained to hear footsteps. Anything at all. But there was nothing. It was as if the man had evaporated.

‘Hello?’ shouted Breen.

He switched on his torch again. At first the beam seemed brighter than it had before. Was that because his eyes had become used to the blackness? But the light dimmed rapidly, lighting less and less of the corridor he was standing in. He switched it off again. It was his only source of light. He should save it.

The blackness inside the building was thick and crushing.

‘Constable?’ He shouted as loudly as he could. He didn’t even know the man’s name.

Scared now, he switched the torch back on. Nothing. Totally dead.

He was alone. It was dark.

Breen felt his way back to the staircase, listening for any sign of movement.

With his hands on the metal banister, he inched his way up the final floor, following where the constable had disappeared.

The door at the top was swinging open. It was a relief to make out the dull light of a night sky beyond.

The wind up here was wild. It felt as if a single gust could blow you off. Breen spread his legs wide to anchor himself to the roof. The roof was flat, apart from two large shed-like rectangles which Breen guessed had been built to house the lift apparatuses.

Far above, the lights of a jet airliner, moving west to Heathrow.

He looked left and right. The roof appeared to be empty. He walked slowly towards the edge and peered over.

He could make out Deason now, clearly. Tiny, far below, sitting on the bonnet of his car, smoking a cigarette. If the constable had fallen there would be a commotion, at least.

But he had not come down the other stairs, so he must be here, somewhere.

‘Hello!’ Breen shouted down to Deason, but his voice was carried away. Deason didn’t even move. There seemed to be no chance of being heard up here above the roar of the city and the rush of the wind. With no light at the top of the building, Breen was in darkness, invisible.

Breen looked around for a stone to throw to attract his attention, but the roof was bare.

A noise behind him.

Breen turned, rapidly. He thought he had seen something ducking behind one of the lift housings. He ran slowly, careful not to trip on unseen obstacles in the blackness.

His foot hit something soft. At first he thought it was a pile of rags or workmen’s tools. Then he realised with a lurch it was the constable.

The man lay face up on the flat black roof. Breen knelt, looking around him.

He felt the man’s uniform. It was warm, wet, soaked.

He held his hand up. Dark with blood.

Head thumping suddenly, Breen went to feel for a pulse on the man’s neck. Instead his finger dipped into a wide warm wound. Right into bone and blood.

He yanked back his hand, horrified. The constable’s head had been blasted apart. Shocked, Breen jumped up to his feet, urgently wiping his hand on his suit jacket, trying to get the dead man’s blood off him.

He could see nothing in the blackness, but it must have been a bullet. Yet he had heard nothing in the darkness and the wind.

He screwed up his eyes and tried to make out his surroundings. He had miscalculated badly. Cox had already tried to kill him. Stupid. Now another man was dead. It was his fault.

‘Cox!’ he shouted, looking around him. ‘I know you’re here.’

But he didn’t know it for certain. Had he taken the chance to run back down the other stairs? Breen had not heard him do it. But the darkness, the wind, the unfamiliarity with the place, made it hard to know anything for certain.

But there. Again. A noise.

Breen went to run, slipped in something – the constable’s blood – and crashed downwards.

He was up on his knees when the torch came on, blinding him.

‘Cox?’ said Breen, holding his bloodied hand up in front of his eyes.

‘Oh, fucking hell. It’s you again.’

Breen managed to stand. He walked towards the torch. ‘It’s finished, Harry.’

‘Stop. I’ll kill you properly this time.’ A laugh.

‘No point. You shouldn’t have killed that man. It’s stupid. It’s over.’

‘I’ll decide when it’s fucking over, thank you very much.’

Breen could only hear him. The brightness was blinding. He held his hands in front of his eyes to shield them. ‘Want a cigarette, Harry?’

Breen reached inside his jacket, but continued tiptoeing.

‘Don’t move. I’ve got a fucking gun,’ said Cox. He was drunk. Breen could hear it in his voice.

Breen stopped. Took his hand slowly out of his jacket.

The light hurt his eyeballs.

‘Fuck off, copper. Go away. I’ve already seen to your friend.’

The wind was cool. Deliciously cool. Drying the sweat on Breen’s face.

‘I wish everybody would fuck off and leave me alone.’ He lowered the torch onto the ground in front of them. For the first time he caught sight of Harry Cox. He was dressed in the same slacks he had been wearing on New Year’s Day. In his other hand was what looked like a .38.

‘Is that the gun you shot Michael Prosser with?’ asked Breen.

Keep him talking at least.

‘I said stop right there. Don’t come any closer.’ The torch came back up. Breen blinked in the light.

‘Fire that and everyone will hear.’

‘Not up here.’

‘There are hundreds of police arriving down there. They’ll be up here soon.’

‘You’re lying.’

Breen said, ‘Your wife is on the way, too.’

A pause. ‘Are you fucking joking? Don’t let her come here. You cretins. Oh, Christ. What a bloody mess. I’m so pissed off with you all.’

Breen inched forward again.

‘What about that cigarette?’ said Breen.

‘Fuck off. Just fuck off.’

They were two hundred feet up in the air. Above London in their own world. Just him and the man who had killed Michael Prosser and who had just murdered another policeman. Would the other coppers be wondering what was taking them so long yet?

‘Why don’t you just give yourself up?’

‘Bugger that. Prison. Actually, I had meant to kill myself, but it’s harder than I imagined.’ A laugh.

Breen edged in, cautious. What could he talk about to keep him calm?

‘Is this one of your buildings?’ said Breen.

‘Shit, isn’t it?’ said Cox. Another laugh. ‘Imagine living in a place like this.’

Cox switched off the torch. Breen could see him now, outlined against the starless sky. His jacket flapping in the breeze. He bent down and picked up the bottle, not taking his eyes off Breen.

‘Give us a gasper then,’ he said. ‘Left mine downstairs. All this place is good for is jumping off it. But I can’t do it. I’m a bit of a cowardy custard.’

‘I don’t think I would be able to, either,’ said Breen.

‘What if you pushed me? No one would see.’

Breen moved forward, holding out the pack.

‘I didn’t mean it, you moron!’ screeched Cox.

‘I was just bringing you a cigarette,’ said Breen.

Cox was pointing the gun right at Breen. ‘Just put them down on the ground.’

Breen stopped and bent down to leave the packet on the roof, then backed off.

Cox stuck the gun in his jacket pocket, approached, picked up the packet, then started tapping his pockets.

‘Do you want a light?’

‘Fuck off. Got some.’ And he pulled out a box of matches from his inside pocket. It took two hands to light the cigarette, gun waving in the air. Breen watched him wobble as he struck the match. He was definitely drunk. Not so drunk that he hadn’t been able to kill the policeman though.

The first match went straight out. And the second.

‘Bastard,’ said Cox.

‘Come inside. It’ll be easier to light in here.’

‘Fuck off. I know what you’re trying to do.’

Breen watched him strike another match.

‘Why don’t we at least sit down?’ said Breen.

‘Prefer to stand,’ said Cox.

A man who liked to control things, even when drunk. A man who turned into a vicious child when control was taken away from him. Breen looked around, trying to get his bearings. The immensity of London, spread out around them, sodium lights as far as the eye could see.

‘Tell me a few things,’ Breen said.

‘Fuck off.’

‘There are things I need to know. Names. Johnny Knight.’

‘Great with numbers, Johnny. Smart man.’

‘You persuaded him to cook the books for you.’

‘And bloody good at it he was.’

‘So you used him to cream money off the top of your contracts with the GLC.’

Cox didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he spoke. ‘Wish I’d never made him do it. Johnny never really wanted to do it. But it was too bloody easy. Honestly. They didn’t deserve to have the money it was so easy. And I’m no good with numbers. Johnny was good. It was all pretty harmless. Just a little bit here and there.’

‘What about Michael Prosser?’

‘Cunt,’ said Cox.

‘Johnny Knight went to Prosser. Said he wanted out. But when
Prosser found out about the scam you were running, he wanted money. He blackmailed you.’

‘Not at first. Poor Johnny. Poor foolish Johnny. He blackmailed Johnny. I had no idea. My fault he’s dead.’ That laugh again.

‘So Prosser just forced him to cut him in on the deal?’

‘Horrible man, Michael Prosser.’

‘And when Johnny couldn’t take any more and threatened to go to the police and shop Prosser as well…?’

Cox took out yet another match and lit it. It lasted long enough to touch the end of the cigarette, but not long enough for the cigarette to catch fire.

‘Prosser couldn’t afford that?’

‘Prosser was a bastard.’

They were standing about ten feet away from each other. The wind was colder now.

‘I mean… I never meant it to go this far,’ said Cox. ‘I’m not somebody who goes around killing people, fuck’s sake. Just a little bit here and a little bit there. Where’s the harm in that? Nobody would have noticed. Got into the art racket. Buy a few paintings. Sell a few paintings. Easy to hide a bit of money that way. Lovely stuff too. You should see my collection some time. And then poor Johnny cracks and says he’s not going to do it anymore… Jesus. Won’t this fucking wind stop?’

‘We could go inside.’

‘I’d never met Michael Prosser. And then he comes up one day to my house. To my fucking house. And he tells me he knows everything. And he’s killed poor Johnny. And if he doesn’t get money, he’ll kill me too. Keep everything quiet. He has the power because he’s a copper. He got away with killing Johnny and he’s going to kill me too. I was scared.’

Breen said, ‘Let me light a cigarette. Throw me the pack. You can light yours off mine.’

‘Good plan.’ He dug in his pocket and picked out Breen’s packet.
Threw it. The wind carried it too far, to within a couple of feet of the edge of the building. Breen went to pick it up, hunkering down as he approached the edge, keeping his eyes on Cox all the time.

‘So Prosser blackmailed you instead?’ he shouted above the noise of the wind.

‘Yes.’

‘So you decided to kill him.’

Cox started to laugh. ‘I decided? Not really. Not my idea at all.’

‘Shirley Prosser,’ said Breen.

‘Poor bloody Shirley Prosser,’ he said. ‘A murderer for a husband and a cripple for a child. She’s a clever girl,’ he said.

‘She and you…?’

‘She first came to my house one night in November. My wife was out. I had no idea who she was. Then she told me how her husband had killed her brother. Started crying. She loved her brother. Imagine what it’s like, suspecting your own husband of killing him. God, she hated her husband. So one thing leads to another. I put my arm round her. There, there. Poor girl. Not a bad body. Knew a thing or two in bed. Made me feel like I could save her. Fell in love. I’ve had sex with loads of people. Pretty wife. But I have urges, like any man. Always other women you want to fuck. But Shirley was different. Made me think I really had to save her, know what I mean? Any man can fuck a woman. But saving a woman… that’s special.’

‘Yes,’ said Breen. ‘I know.’

Cox snorted. ‘Poor little dark-eyed woman with the cripple. I wanted to be her fucking warrior. Her white knight. And fuck her too, of course. I used to go to her little flat above the record shop late at night. I offered her money but she wouldn’t take it. Dirty money. She didn’t like it. Funny thing was, I was having to give it to her cunt of a husband and he was passing it to her anyway. So I don’t know why she wouldn’t take it from me. That was peculiar, don’t you think?’

He was tiring, Breen thought. Speaking more slowly. Perhaps he should try to overpower him.

‘Then one night she told me the only way to stop this was to kill her husband. We could run away together. Place by the sea. You know, that sort of bullshit. Christ, I thought. She wants me to kill him. I thought, she can’t be serious. Until she pulled open a drawer. Gave me this gun.’

‘It was all her idea?’

He snorted. ‘Completely. I didn’t bloody want to do it. Squeamish. But she said it was the only way. And that way she could have revenge on the man who killed her brother. I didn’t actually think she meant it. It was a game. Saving the princess from the dragon.’

A thick gust of wind made Cox wobble. For a second Breen thought he would fall, but he didn’t.

‘Then about three weeks ago she called me up and said you have to do it tonight. She gave me the address and told me exactly what to do. How to pull the trigger. Everything.’

Breen could see him starting to sag. Keep him talking. The longer he could keep him going, the less focused he would be. The easier it would be to take him on.

‘I tried to put her off. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. “I don’t actually fancy killing your husband tonight.” No, she said. It has to be tonight. We have the perfect alibi.’ Cox started laughing.

‘What?’

‘ “Some policeman has invited me for dinner,” she said.’ He giggled.

‘Me.’

‘You. You were the chump,’ he said. ‘Her get-out-of-jail card.’

She had taken revenge on her husband by getting Cox to kill him. And she had used Breen to cover it up.

‘First shot, I cocked it up. Just wounded him. He came crawling over towards me, trying to get the gun. I was so angry at him for not being dead I shot him right in the head that time.’

Would the other police be here soon? Surely they would have noticed how long they had been away by now?

‘And you know what? It felt bloody good. I walked out of that
horrid boarding house like I was on a bloody cloud. I wanted to fuck Shirley again right then. But she had told me to stay out of touch for a week. Otherwise people might suspect. She’d call me when it was safe. Then we could be together. And of course she vanished. Last I heard of her. Clever bitch,’ he said. ‘She had it all planned out.’

‘Because it wasn’t just Prosser she wanted to nail. It was you too,’ said Breen. ‘She wanted to destroy you because you were the one who corrupted her brother.’