I wanna see sunshine after the rain
I wanna see bluebirds flying over the mountain again
Kingdom peered round, wondering whose idea this was, Elkie Brooks’ ‘Sunshine After the Rain’, Annie’s all-time favourite, the song she always sang to him when she was really happy, the lyrics she always got wrong. Allder was studying his hands, looking faintly embarrassed. One or two others assumed it was a cue to leave. People began to file out.
Oh where is the silver lining
Shining at the rainbow’s end?
Outside, in the tiny garden of remembrance where the wreaths were displayed, Kingdom recognised the face for the first time. He was taller than the photograph had suggested but he had the same smile, the same strong chin, the same neatly barbered hair.
Kingdom looked up at the policeman, back behind the wheelchair. ‘Over there,’ he said, ‘the blond bloke.’
The policeman pushed him over. The man in the photo was examining the cards on the wreaths. Kingdom touched him lightly on the leg. He looked up, surprised.
‘Excuse me?’ he said blankly.
Kingdom caught the intonation in the voice, unmistakably foreign. German, he thought. Just like the letter he’d found in Annie’s bedroom the night they’d wrecked her flat.
‘My name’s Alan Kingdom,’ he said, ‘friend of Annie’s.’
The man looked down at him a moment, the smile widening. He was older than Kingdom had first thought. Perhaps late thirties, even forty.
He knelt beside the wheelchair. ‘Yes?’ he said.
Confused now, Kingdom nodded back towards the chapel. ‘I was just wondering about the music. The last bit. Elkie Brooks.’ He paused. ‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Mine.’
Kingdom thought about the photo again, the pair of them by the rail, the smile on Annie’s face, the mountains in the background.
‘You knew her?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ the man nodded, ‘she was my wife.’
They talked for twenty minutes, a light rain beginning to fall. His name was Bernd. He’d met Annie in Dusseldorf when she’d joined a big German travel company. They’d married within a month. Kingdom nodded, recognising the pattern, the headlong dash down the highway, the absolute refusal to consult a map.
‘And what happened?’ he said.
‘We split up. After six months.’
‘Divorced?’
‘No. She just left. There was never time.’
‘Yeah,’ Kingdom grinned, ‘I can believe it.’ He paused. ‘You see her again? Keep in touch?’
‘I wrote to begin with. Years ago. But then I gave up. She never answered the letters. Never.’ He lifted a gloved hand, wiping the rain from the end of his nose. ‘But she phoned recently. Found my number.’
‘Why?’
‘She wanted a divorce.’
‘Really?’ Kingdom was frowning now. ‘Why?’
‘She said she’d met this man, this guy. A policeman, she said. A detective from Northern Ireland. She said she wanted to marry him.’ He paused, apologetic. ‘Would that be you?’
‘Yes,’ Kingdom felt himself blushing, ‘I suppose it would.’
‘And she never told you?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘But she never told me anything. Maybe that’s why I loved her so much.’
Allder pushed Kingdom back to the car park. The rain had got heavier.
‘I’ve been thinking about your dad,’ he said. ‘How is he?’
Kingdom looked up, still brooding about Annie and his conversation with her husband. On reflection he didn’t know whether finding out about her plans was good news or bad. Maybe it would have been better not to have known.
‘Dad?’ he said vaguely. ‘You mean Ernie?’
‘Yes. Is he getting better. Or what?’
Kingdom shrugged. He’d tried to get through to his father twice but both times the staff nurse on the ward had been less than helpful. ‘Still very poorly,’ Kingdom said. ‘That’s the phrase they’re using.’
‘And what happens afterwards? Once he’s better? Once he gets out?’
‘God knows.’
Allder nodded. They were back in the car park now. The police driver was already at the wheel of the Daimler and there was someone else sitting in the back. Allder brought the wheelchair to a halt beside the rear window, gesturing for the stranger to lower it. He did so, leaning out. He was a youngish man with a mop of curly hair and a well-cut linen suit. Kingdom recognised the face from the news report he’d watched at An Carraig.
‘This bloke’s taken over from Willoughby Grant,’ Allder was saying, ‘at The Citizen. They’re offering a reward for the Sabbathman jobs. Information leading to the killer. I’ve told him you’re the one who cracked it. Singlehanded.’
Kingdom blinked. It sounded a bit strong but he could see where Allder was driving. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I did.’
‘So my feeling is,’ Allder was looking pointedly at the new editor now, ‘that my friend has some money coming to him. Quite a lot of money.’
The man in the back was frowning. He’d clearly been through this before with Allder. ‘I told you we need information,’ he said. ‘Facts. Faces. Names. Colour. I can’t just blow fifty grand on bugger all.’ He paused, looking at Kingdom. ‘So why don’t we talk? Either here and now, or maybe later?’
Kingdom began to answer but Allder got in first.
‘Because we can’t, my friend. I’ve told you. Not now. Not ever.’
‘So what am I supposed to do? Invent it?’
Allder looked at him for a long time. Then he bent to the car window. ‘You’re a journalist,’ he said quietly. ‘If I were you I’d be keeping my eyes open.’
He stood up again, gazing out across the car park at the last of the mourners drifting back from the garden of remembrance. His hand found Kingdom and rested lightly on his shoulder, and for the first time Kingdom remembered Wren’s file, still lying on the Daimler’s back seat. He peered into the car, watching the smile spread across the newspaperman’s face. The file was already open on his lap and he was uncapping a fountain pen with his teeth.
The wheelchair began to move.
‘I thought we might take another look at those flowers,’ Allder was saying, ‘just you and me.’
Sabbathman Page 47