Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  Allder’s voice crackled in his ear. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘I think it’s hideous.’

  ‘I meant the paper.’

  Kingdom glanced down at The Citizen again. The headline above the rows of smiling cabinet faces read ‘GOVERNMENT HEALTH WARNING?’. Kingdom smiled, thinking of the conversation he’d had with the archivist at the Eastney museum. The Citizen’s sub-editors had begun to ape the mystery killer. Sabbathman himself might have penned the headline.

  ‘Nice turn of phrase,’ he said, ‘our Mr Angry.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Is this the one he sent to Downing Street?’

  ‘No, but the thought’s the same. And so is their reaction. They’ve been talking to Gower Street again. Five are insisting on operational primacy.’

  ‘And the Commissioner?’

  ‘He’s trying to fight them off.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ll win.’

  Kingdom said nothing, looking down at the construction site. The contractors had built a compound beside the line of the motorway, a small city of portakabins webbed with muddy tyre tracks. From two thousand feet, the landscape resembled a patient in hospital, the victim of some particularly vicious attack. Wherever you looked, there were fresh wounds. Max Carpenter had a neat little phrase for it. You can’t make omelettes, he’d said, without breaking eggs. Too right, Kingdom thought, watching a line of diggers tearing at the exposed chalk.

  They flew south-east, towards the coast. North of Portsmouth, the ground rose beneath them, another chalk escarpment, and then fell away again, the southerly slope of the hill covered with the sprawl of a housing estate. Ahead, silhouetted against the glare of the sun, was the city itself, street after street of terraced houses, high-rise council blocks, and the towering gantry cranes in the naval dockyard. The harbour was bisected by the incoming motorway, and one of the big white cross-Channel ferries was nosing past a line of anchored warships. The helicopter began to lose height. Where the harbour narrowed at its seaward end, Kingdom could see the Camber Dock. The trawler he’d watched unloading yesterday was still there, the fish hold empty, the orange nets spread across the quayside.

  Kingdom signalled to Allder as the pilot brought the helicopter into the hover. ‘This is where we start,’ he said. ‘Gifford turned up on the Thursday. With his son.’

  ‘Andy? The one you told me about?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We can prove that?’

  ‘Yeah. He took a berth down there. The boat’s booked in. I’ve seen the entry. Talked to the guy who took the money.’

  Kingdom gave Allder a moment to get his bearings. The altimeter was showing 150 feet now and the pilot was slowly rotating the Jet Ranger on its axis, giving Allder a panoramic view. Beneath them, on the promontory outside the pub, Kingdom could see faces upturned, coats flapping in the downdraft, eyes shielded against the bright sunlight.

  ‘OK,’ Allder said, ‘what next?’

  ‘Hayling Island.’ Kingdom glanced at the pilot.

  The nose dipped again, and bits of the sea-front began to race past as they flew east, still low, the funfair empty, the long promenade dotted with joggers and mothers with pushchairs. Past Southsea Castle, the pilot climbed to 500 feet, and Kingdom felt the machine juddering as the rotor blades bit into the airstream.

  ‘This is guesswork,’ he said, ‘but I think Gifford’s son took the inflatable over to Hayling Island on the Saturday night. He probably came this way, offshore. There’s an anti-submarine barrage here, goes out about a mile, but you’d be safe enough at high water.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Nine thirty-five.’

  ‘After dark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that have been a problem?’

  ‘No,’ Kingdom shook his head, ‘not if the boy knew what he was doing.’

  Kingdom glanced up at the mirror. Allder was looking down at the sea-front, totally absorbed. The Royal Marine Museum was clearly visible now, the shadow of the statue at the gate falling across the newly surfaced access road. The pilot began to lose height again as the foreshore curled away at the mouth of Langstone Harbour.

  ‘Here’s where he comes back in,’ Kingdom told Allder. ‘With me, sir?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The pilot was back at the hover now, still losing height, the downwash from the rotor blades feathering the water below. The tiny snubnose ferry that chugged back and forth across the harbour mouth had just berthed alongside the Hayling Island landing stage, and half a dozen passengers were filing off. From here, a single road snaked away towards the built-up areas of the island, perhaps a mile to the east.

  Kingdom exchanged glances with the pilot. They’d discussed the next manoeuvre, back on the ground at Winchester.

  Allder tapped Kingdom on the shoulder. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  Kingdom followed his pointing finger. Across the road from the landing stage was a squat, two-storied building, painted yellow.

  ‘It’s a pub, sir.’

  ‘Busy on Saturday nights?’

  ‘Packed. According to the locals.’

  ‘And you think our friend’s on the move around half-nine? Ten?’

  ‘Best guess,’ Kingdom nodded, ‘yeah.’

  ‘And no one heard anything? In the pub?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. This is supposition. Arthur’s boys can do the legwork.’ He paused, still looking at the pub. ‘And in any case, the outboard’s muffled …’ He shrugged. ‘Dark night, noisy pub, I’d be amazed if anyone bothered even looking.’

  Allder was silent for a moment. ‘OK,’ he said at last, ‘what next?’

  The pilot glanced at Kingdom and then eased the joystick forward. The helicopter was low again, no more than fifty feet, skirting the pebble beach that edged the harbour mouth. Beyond the landing stage, he banked to the right, following the shoreline as the pebbles gave way to marshland. They clattered past a holiday camp, frightening a dog. A minute or so later they were at the hover again while Kingdom twisted in his seat, pointing down.

  ‘Do you see?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘That close of houses. That’s where the guy I mentioned remembered his dog going barmy. The next morning. The Sunday morning. So what I’m saying is chummy came in at high water Saturday night and left the inflatable down there, on the saltings.’

  Allder grunted. Kingdom could see his face pressed against the cold perspex. ‘And?’ he said.

  Kingdom nodded to the pilot and the helicopter dipped slightly as they began to follow the road south.

  ‘This is where it becomes Sinah Lane,’ Kingdom shouted, ‘just here.’

  Allder hadn’t moved. ‘So where’s the house you mentioned? The one you’re saying our friend used?’

  ‘Down there. The white one.’

  Kingdom pointed again, indicating the house that had been for sale. The trees in the garden had lost a lot of leaves in the past ten days and the property was clearly visible. Allder had unbuckled his harness now, trying to get a better view.

  ‘And Clare Baxter’s place?’

  Kingdom glanced across at the pilot, circling his finger, and the helicopter began to revolve, bringing the other side of the road into Allder’s field of view. Kingdom could tell from his tone of voice that he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  ‘Is that the one?’ he was saying. ‘The one with the skylight in the roof?’

  Kingdom peered down. He could see a curl of blue smoke from a bonfire in the back garden. The only sign of Clare Baxter herself was a tea towel pegged to the clothes line. ‘That’s it, sir,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re saying our friend holed up over the road? Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Waited for Carpenter Sunday morning? Knowing he’d be along?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Kingdom paused. ‘He’s got a copy of the key because he knows where she keeps it and he’s taken an impression some previou
s weekend when he was doing the recce. Piece of piss. She used to put it out last thing Saturday night. She told me that herself. Just in case she overslept next day. Lazy cow.’

  He heard Allder chuckling in the back. The pilot was smiling, too, and Kingdom wondered for the first time exactly what he was making of all this.

  ‘So he has the key,’ Allder was saying, ‘and lover boy’s arrived.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Kingdom picked up the story. ‘So chummy nips across the road, lets himself in, goes upstairs, does the business–’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Allder sounded impatient now, ‘but then what?’

  ‘Afterwards?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Kingdom looked at the pilot, and the pilot grinned back, tightening his grip on the controls. The helicopter shuddered for a moment, climbing fast then surging forward as it gained speed. The browns and yellows beneath them began to blur and then they were over the water again, flying low, maximum speed, racing across the flat blue expanses of Langstone Harbour. Ahead, on the mainland, Kingdom could already see traffic on the east/west motorway. Seconds later, the pilot banked sharply to the west where mudbanks and marshland narrowed the harbour to a tidal creek. The creek ran alongside the motorway, perhaps fifty metres wide. A dual carriageway flashed beneath them, choked with traffic, then a railway line. Allder was peering down, his eyes locked on the silver strip of water until it disappeared briefly beneath an enormous roundabout. At this point, the pilot pulled the helicopter into a steep climb, rolling the machine off the top and offering Allder a view back along the length of the tidal creek. Kingdom looked across at the pilot. The manoeuvre had been perfect, a real piece of theatre. He was full of admiration, miming applause.

  In the back, Kingdom heard Allder refastening his harness.

  ‘An island,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused a moment. ‘And you think he came this way? That morning? In the inflatable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can stand it up? You’ve got witnesses?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Give me time. People fish along here, take their dogs for a walk, go cycling. It’s a big city. Someone must have seen him.’

  Allder grunted, saying nothing. His nose was back at the window. They were much higher now, back at two thousand feet, and Kingdom could see the whole city laid out before them, the long oblong shape of the island, the image he wanted Allder to take away with him. Allder was frowning now, shielding his eyes with his hand. Beyond Portsmouth lay the Solent and the dark swell of the Isle of Wight.

  ‘You think the woman was involved?’ he mused. ‘Your Mrs Feasey? You think she came over at all? That weekend?’

  ‘She says not, sir. Says she spends Sundays in bed.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Kips alone?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Allder nodded, falling silent again, then the pilot broke into the circuit, talking for the first time.

  ‘Eleven-twenty, sir,’ he murmured, ‘you’re off the clock.’

  They landed back at Winchester fifteen minutes later. The pilot kept the rotors turning, telling them to duck their heads when they left the aircraft, and Kingdom was still debating whether to offer him a tip when Allder opened his door and tugged him onto the tarmac. When they got to the grass, Arthur Sperring was there to meet them. Allder looked up at him. A camera had appeared in his hand.

  ‘Here,’ he said, giving Sperring the camera.

  The DCS looked at it blankly. Allder took Kingdom by the arm, glancing back over his shoulder, manoeuvring their bodies to get the helicopter in the background. The pilot was already easing the machine off the ground. The noise was deafening.

  ‘Take a picture,’ Allder shouted at Sperring, ‘before he goes.’

  Sperring lifted the camera to his eye, doing what he was told. By the time he gave the camera back, the helicopter had gone.

  ‘What the fuck was all that about?’ he said.

  Allder looked at him a moment, then pocketed the camera. ‘One for the book,’ he said, ‘when I get round to writing it.’

  Rob Scarman was waiting for them upstairs. A WPC was sitting at a desk in the corner of his office, tapping data into the HOLMES computer. When all three men had settled round the conference table, Scarman asked her to leave. Allder was looking out of the window. The last forty minutes had raised the colour in his face, but when the door finally closed behind the departing WPC he was as brisk and businesslike as ever. The anxiety, the self-doubt, had definitely gone.

  ‘Number one,’ he said, ‘who’s talked to Jersey?’

  Scarman was toying with a pencil. He picked it up. ‘Me, sir,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Gifford’s boat was in the St Helier marina on …’ He consulted the pad at his elbow. ‘The 3rd of September. That was a Friday. Left again two days later. Sunday the 5th.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘No, there was someone else with him. They had a couple of meals at one of the local bistros. We’ve got a description. Sounds like the son.’

  Allder nodded, his eyes still fixed on Scarman. If he was pleased, Kingdom thought, it didn’t show. Arthur Sperring leaned forward, uncapping his pen, an unopened box of Marlboro at his elbow. He was scowling again, the expression of a man with an acute sense of trespass, and watching him, Kingdom wondered when the explosion would happen. Sperring’s temper was legendary. Grown men had wept.

  Allder, oblivious, was still looking at Scarman. ‘How about the Bairstow job?’ he said. ‘Anything on that?’

  Scarman smiled, and Kingdom realised for the first time how much he was enjoying himself. The inquiry had been bogged down for far too long. At last he had some answers.

  ‘I’ve been talking to VISA,’ he said carefully. ‘Both the Giffords have cards. That’s how we managed to point the Jersey boys at the bistro in St Helier.’ He got up and fetched a fax from his desk. Back at the table, he spread it carefully beside the pad. ‘On the 10th, Andy Gifford bought a railway ticket. The Visa entry only records the amount and the issuing office. The entry was for sixty-seven pounds. He bought the ticket at Southampton.’ Scarman paused, glancing up. ‘Sixty-seven pounds is the price of a return to Newcastle, and that’s where Bairstow died.’

  Sperring grunted, saying nothing.

  Allder looked visibly impressed. ‘What else did he use the card for?’ he inquired, ‘that weekend?’

  ‘Nothing. Just the ticket.’

  ‘Are there any marinas in Southampton?’

  ‘Yes. Huge place. Ocean Village.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. Gifford’s boat definitely wasn’t there. I checked Hamble, too. And Warsash. Nothing. However,’ he leaned back in his chair, ‘one of our blokes was onto the people in Cowes.’

  ‘Cowes?’ Allder blew his nose. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Isle of Wight,’ Sperring growled.

  Scarman glanced across at Kingdom and Kingdom nodded, thinking of Ethne Feasey again as Scarman confirmed that Gifford had hidden himself away in a berth on the Medina River, upstream from Cowes, the dates of his stay neatly bridging the gap between Jersey and his arrival in the Camber Dock.

  Allder’s eyes were still on Scarman. ‘It’s all circumstantial,’ he said, ‘so far.’

  Sperring nodded, spotting his opening. ‘Too fucking right.’

  ‘But persuasive,’ Allder looked at Sperring for the first time, ‘don’t you think, Arthur?’

  Sperring said nothing for a moment. Kingdom was trying to work out whether it was real anger or just a pose.

  ‘Yeah,’ he muttered at last, ‘but why? Why would he do it? What’s in it for him? Them?’

  ‘I don’t know. But that’s hardly a question we need bother about. Not yet, anyway. It’s method that interests me, not motive.’

  ‘You think the son’s this Sabbathman?’

  ‘I think he’s the kill
er.’

  ‘Same thing.’ Sperring frowned. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He glared at Allder, trying to provoke him, but Allder refused to take the bait. Finally, Sperring leaned forward, his huge hands flat on the table, the honest provincial copper, tired of this Metropolitan flannel. ‘If you think you’ve got the evidence,’ he said slowly, ‘why don’t we pick them both up?’

  Allder considered the proposition for a moment or two. Then he shook his head. ‘It’s Wednesday,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a bit of time yet.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Time before the next one. If there is a next one.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, the kind of blokes he’s knocked off so far, I’m not sure it matters.’

  Sperring frowned, uncertain whether Allder was taking the piss or not. Finally, he threw his pen on the table and sat back. ‘If it’s that fucking obvious,’ he said, ‘you should pick them up. And if you don’t, I should.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Allder shook his head. ‘Gifford’s back in Scotland. We checked this morning. So is his son. Under the Home Office arrangements, I have lead authority. So until I say different, we keep pulling in the evidence.’ Allder looked directly at Sperring. ‘Understood?’

  Kingdom gave Allder a lift back to London in the Wolseley. The traffic was heavy on the M3 and a tanker spill near Basingstoke brought all three lanes to a halt. Kingdom fed another cassette into the slot beneath the radio. Chris Rea, he thought. One of Annie’s favourites.

  Allder had his head back against the scuffed leather neckrest. He’d been asleep for nearly half an hour and Kingdom wondered whether he’d spent the entire night in the office. They’d had a couple of lengthy phone conferences the previous afternoon, Kingdom still down in Winchester telling Allder exactly what he’d been up to, adding light and shade to the version of events which seemed – to him – to make most sense. Ethne Feasey, he’d kept saying. Ethne Feasey is where it begins and ends. A woman with a story. A woman who’d touched Dave Gifford’s heart. A woman whose grief had turned to fury, and whose finger pointed squarely at Sir Peter Blanche. Kingdom had told Allder about the letter the woman had written to the banker. More important still, he’d said, was the reply. A letter like that, in his opinion, was a gun to Patrick Feasey’s head. As far as his wife was concerned, the man had probably died at Blanche’s hand, not his own.