Sabbathman (40 page)

Kingdom was about to slip a handful of files into the second box when he noticed a plastic bag full of photos in the bottom. He made a space on the table and shook them out. The landscape looked wild, water everywhere, big brown mountains, torn strips of cloud, peat bogs studded with outcrops of wet rock. Most of the photos featured little groups of people, in threes and fours. They were all dressed for the weather – anoraks, woolly hats, overtrousers, stout boots – and the first face Kingdom saw made him edge the photo into the light. The big, open grin. The pudding-basin haircut. No doubt about it. Jo Hubbard.

Kingdom began to sort through the photos. There were dozens of them. Some featured Ethne herself. He recognised her face from the photo he’d seen in the paper and he began to wonder when, exactly, this holiday had happened. Various references in the phone transcripts would place it around March, and looking at the
weather, and the double layers of clothing, that would seem about right. The wind was clearly arctic, even when the sun was out.

Kingdom looked up, aware for the first time of noises in the flat below. Someone was making a phone call. He could hear the voice. It sounded old, faintly querulous. Kingdom glanced at his watch. Ten past three. Someone’s heard me, he thought. Someone’s heard me breaking in. They’ve lain in bed. They’ve had a long think. And now they’ve summoned the bottle to do something about it. Ten past three in the morning. Who else would you phone but the police?

Kingdom worked quickly, putting the photos back in the box, replacing the files on top. Then he circled the living room, drawing the curtains, shutting the door, retreating down the hall to the bathroom. The bathroom still stank of chicken Madras but he knew there was nothing he could do about it so he stepped into the bedroom, turning on the light. The room was dominated by a double bed. Against the wall, facing the window, was a cheap dressing table with a single drawer. On the floor by the bed was a flannel nightshirt, and Kingdom picked it up, using it to cover his hands while he pulled out the drawer. Emptying the contents on the floor, he crossed quickly to the window. The window was still stuck fast. He stepped back and began to kick out the lower pane. When most of the glass had gone, he wriggled carefully through.

A light came on in the property next door and someone opened a window. Hugging the shadows, Kingdom clattered down the fire escape, pausing for a moment before tackling the ladder. The temptation was to look up but he kept his head down, taking the iron rungs two at a time. At the end of the courtyard he tried the door. It was bolted at the top. Seconds later, the bolt undone, he was off down the alleyway. Only when he was back on the sea-front, in sight of the Wolseley, did he see the first of the Panda cars moving at speed towards Pitwell Avenue. He glanced at his watch, impressed. Twelve minutes, he thought. Not at all bad.

Kingdom phoned Allder next morning from a call box in the town centre. The weather had changed overnight and in the gale force wind the rain was nearly horizontal. Kingdom peered out through
the smeary glass. A man with a dog was chasing his hat along the promenade.

Allder came on at last, and Kingdom knew at once that something had happened. He sounded as gruff as ever but there was a new note in his voice, a tone that Kingdom had never heard before, a brittleness that sounded close to anxiety.

Kingdom frowned, still watching the man with the dog. ‘What’s wrong, sir?’

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘I just …’ Kingdom hesitated, wondering how far to push it. ‘I got the feeling that …’

Allder interrupted. ‘Where are you?’

‘Shanklin.’

‘Phone secure?’

Kingdom blinked, looking around the freezing box. To his knowledge, public phones were rarely tapped. Allder was still waiting for an answer. ‘Yes, sir,’ Kingdom said, feeding in another pound coin, ‘as far as I know.’

‘OK.’ Allder paused. ‘I was with the Commissioner last night. I think I might have mentioned it.’

‘Yeah,’ Kingdom nodded, ‘you did.’

‘He’d been over to Downing Street. Seems they got a billet doux from our friend.’

‘Sabbathman?’

‘Yeah. Arrived in the mail. London postmark. Strictly confidential. Heart to heart job.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He told them to take care, watch their step. He said he was putting them all on report, best behaviour, that kind of thing.’ He paused while Kingdom tried to stifle his laughter. ‘If you think that’s funny, think again. This bloke delivers, and they know it. He says he has a list. It starts with the PM. Home Secretary’s number three, after the Defence Secretary. They’re all shitting themselves. Believe me.’

‘And?’

‘God knows. They’ve put the squeeze on the Commissioner and he’s put the squeeze on me. We have an ultimatum. From Downing Street. We have to come up with a result.’

‘Or?’

‘Or they take Five off the leash.’

‘But Five are in the shit. You told me yesterday. Grief, you said.’

‘Sure, but this latest thing’s got to them. The Commissioner thinks they’ve lost their bottle. You know these people. You’ve been with them, protected them. They lose touch. They live in a different world. They’re shielded from the likes of you and me. Our friend’s got through all that. They think he’s some kind of force of nature. They want him stopped, binned, taken care of. They want someone to turn the lights on and pull back the curtains and tell them it’s going to be all right.’ He paused. ‘Nightmare time. You getting the drift?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Kingdom was still smiling. ‘But what about the Commissioner? What did he say?’

‘He said we’ve got ten days.’

‘Is he serious?’

‘Very.’

‘And if nothing happens?’

‘Then we’re looking at a lot of Charlie.’

‘Me?’

‘Us.’

‘Charlie’ was Allder’s private code for ‘Charlie Romeo’ or ‘Career Reassessment’, itself a cheerless euphemism for the leaving party and the P45. Life in the A–T Squad was a grand prix without pit stops. If you didn’t deliver, if you couldn’t stay with the pace, you were retired. Simple as that. Kingdom bent to the phone again. In these situations, you always went back to detail. Always. ‘What about Weymes,’ he said, ‘has he coughed yet?’

Allder said nothing for a moment, then laughed. He’d got what he wanted to say off his chest. He’d established the deadline. He’d made the price of failure plain. Now, as ever, it was back to work.

‘No, but his missus has.’ He paused. ‘The lovely Trish.’

Kingdom hesitated a moment, remembering the redhead in the photo on Weymes’ desk. Always the women, he thought. Never the men. ‘What did she say?’

‘We’ve got a name. Bloke at the nick. Apparently Weymes told her a week or so ago. She’s furious.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Bloke called Pelanski. Doing time for flogging dodgy MOTs.’ Allder paused. ‘Weymes mention him at all? During your little chat?’

Kingdom began to doodle the name in the condensation on the cold glass, trying to remember where he’d seen it last. ‘Yeah,’ he said at last, ‘it was down in Weymes’ register at the library. Bloke had borrowed some books last week. Made me laugh because of what Weymes had been saying about the Falklands.’

‘What?’ When Allder was puzzled it often came out as irritation.

‘The Falklands,’ Kingdom said again. ‘Weymes was telling me how popular books about war were. The Falklands especially. This bloke took out four books. Everything Weymes had left. The lot.’

‘Really?’ Allder’s voice was warmer now, even enthusiastic. ‘You know anything about the war? Units? Who went down there?’

‘A bit.’ Kingdom frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Apparently this Pelanski got a medal there, 3 Para.’ He paused. ‘That mean anything to you?’

Kingdom was back outside the New Bengal restaurant by half-past eleven. He’d been watching the property for an hour, sitting in the Wolseley across the street, waiting for the young policewoman to finish her paperwork. When she finally got in the Panda and drove away, Kingdom crossed the road and rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. He rang again. Then a second time. At length, there were footsteps down the staircase and a wrench at the door.

‘Mrs Feasey?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alan Kingdom. Police Special Branch.’

Kingdom showed her his ID. She inspected it carefully, then looked up. She was tall for a woman, nearly six foot, and her complexion wasn’t quite as flawless as Kingdom had somehow imagined. She was wearing a dressing gown, belted at the waist, and a pair of thick woolly socks. She smelled faintly of shower gel.

‘Are you with the girl,’ she said, ‘the one who just left? Only I’d quite like some sleep.’

‘No, I’m not.’ Kingdom feigned surprise. ‘What girl’s that?’

Mrs Feasey studied him for a moment, then told him to come in. Kingdom left a trail of wet footprints up the stairs. At the top, with some reluctance, she took his coat. She had a faintly foreign accent, German or Scandinavian, barely perceptible. She was extremely direct.

‘I’ve had a break-in. Did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Early this morning. While I was at work. You might as well take a look since you’re here.’

She led him into the bedroom. The broken window had been roughly boarded up with a sheet of plywood and there was a line of china bowls on the carpet to catch the drips. The duvet on the bed had been folded back and the nightshirt Kingdom had used earlier was lying on the pillow.

‘You lose much?’ Kingdom inquired.

‘Nothing. That’s what’s so strange.’

‘Someone raise the alarm?’

‘Yes, the woman downstairs. Scared her to death.’

‘Lucky for you, though, eh?’

Mrs Feasey stepped away from the window, stooping to pick up a tiny shard of glass. She was frowning. ‘Lucky?’ she said.

‘Not losing anything.’

Mrs Feasey studied Kingdom a moment then pulled out the drawer in the dressing table. Amongst the balls of cotton wool and the jars of skin cream was a man’s leather wallet. She opened it with both hands, like a book. Inside, plainly visible, was a sheaf of credit cards.

‘Open, like this,’ she said, ‘on the floor. Couldn’t miss-it. Unless you were blind.’

Kingdom looked at the credit cards. ‘Lucky,’ he said again.

They went through to the living room, Mrs Feasey standing beside the mantelpiece, her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for Kingdom to explain what he wanted. Kingdom sat down, uninvited, eyeing the unlit gas fire. The room was freezing and above the howl of the wind he could hear the slow drip of water from the holes around the windows. For someone who’d lost
everything, he couldn’t think of a more depressing place to live. It was the living evidence that life, inconceivably, could always get worse.

‘Been here long?’ he said.

‘Six months. Why do you ask?’

‘Ever think of moving at all?’

Mrs Feasey said nothing, her face quite expressionless. She must have been stunning once, Kingdom thought, and even now, even here, she had enormous presence, the kind of strength you saw in certain paintings. Her cheekbones. The line of her chin. The way she carried herself, straight-backed, erect, undaunted. Kingdom nodded at the other chair. Dirty yellow sponge bulged through a rip in the vinyl cover.

‘Why don’t you sit down? This needn’t take long.’

‘I’m about to go to bed,’ Mrs Feasey said again. ‘I’m quite happy as I am. Just tell me what you want.’

Kingdom was looking at the cardboard boxes on the table across the room. He’d spent most of the morning anticipating this conversation, wondering just where to start.

‘You went to look at a house,’ he said slowly, ‘back in the summer.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, on Hayling Island.’ He paused. ‘The agency were called Saulet and Babcock. As it happened, they remember you well.’ He smiled. ‘June 7th. In case dates are a problem.’

Mrs Feasey nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘I remember now.’

‘Number sixty-five. Sinah Lane.’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘Did you want to buy it?’

‘It was a possibility. This place has its charms but,’ she smiled thinly, ‘a change would be nice.’

‘I’m sure.’ Kingdom frowned, spotting a tiny curry stain on his trousers, looking up again. ‘They wanted quite a lot of money. £175,000 in fact.’

‘Was it that much?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then no wonder I turned it down.’

‘Quite.’ Kingdom looked at her a moment. ‘Were you serious? When you went to look?’

Mrs Feasey shrugged. Smudges of colour had appeared in her cheeks. Irritation rather than embarrassment. ‘I’m not entirely clear what you’re asking me,’ she said coldly. ‘Is it against the law to look at a house?’

‘Not at all. But I was asking you whether you were serious.’

‘Of course I was serious.’

‘You wanted to buy it?’

‘I wanted to see it.’

‘With a view to buying it?’

‘With a view to making a decision.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘And the decision was no?’

‘Obviously.’

‘But it could easily have been yes?’

‘Of course.’

Kingdom nodded, taking his time now. ‘You left a false name with the agency,’ he said carefully. ‘You called yourself Anderson. Elaine Anderson. You left a false address, too. Up in Guildford. The road you mentioned doesn’t even exist.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘No.’

Mrs Feasey nodded, saying nothing. The irritation had gone now. She’d become wary, watchful, one hand straying to a tiny mole, just visible beneath her left ear. She fingered it, waiting for Kingdom’s next question, and the moment he asked it, he knew she’d already prepared the answer.

‘So why?’ he said. ‘Why the false name?’

‘I …’ She shrugged. ‘It’s difficult.’

‘Tell me,’ Kingdom smiled, ‘please.’

‘I’ve been through …’ She shook her head. ‘Things have been difficult. There’s been publicity. My name’s been in the paper. You get nervous about people recognising you, recognising the name. I know it’s unreasonable but there you are. It makes you want to hide. It must seem terribly devious but that’s all it was, really. A little white lie.’

‘But what would have happened had you liked the house? What would you have done then?’