Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  Kingdom hesitated by the door for a moment, then Allder waved him into one of the chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle in front of the desk. Kingdom wondered whether anyone else was coming, and who they might be, but Allder was already on his feet, crossing the office, making sure the door was shut. Back at the desk, he produced a driving licence from the tray at his elbow. He put it between the two telephones where Kingdom could see it.

  ‘Yours,’ he said, ‘with my compliments.’

  Kingdom reached to pick it up but Allder beat him to it, covering the licence with his hand. Briefly their eyes met. It was Kingdom who looked away.

  ‘Sir …’ he began.

  Allder leaned forward, across the desk. He’d been drinking at lunchtime. Kingdom could smell it.

  ‘Not interested,’ he said softly, ‘not fucking interested. Whatever happened, whatever you were up to, nothing to do with me. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now then …’ Allder relaxed slightly, leaning back in the big leather chair, making a bridge with his pudgy fingers. ‘Read the papers this morning?’

  ‘Only the Telegraph.’

  ‘Read this one, then.’ Allder produced a copy of The Citizen, pushing it across the desk. Kingdom glanced down. The Carpenter murder filled the front page. ‘BLOODBATH AT SEASIDE LOVE-NEST,’ ran the headline, ‘MISTRESS TELLS ALL.’ Kingdom turned over the page, aware of Allder watching him.

  ‘Down the bottom,’ Allder said. ‘Page two.’

  Kingdom found the block of text Allder had already ringed. Three brief paragraphs recalled two earlier murders, both very recent, both still unsolved. The first had taken place in the Channel Isles, two weeks back, 5 September. The chairman of a big clearing bank had been shot on the terrace of his Jersey home. A single bullet from a high-powered rifle had hit him in the throat. An exhaustive search of the garden and the neighbourhood had revealed nothing. No footprints, no disturbance, no sightings by potential witnesses. Nothing.

  Kingdom looked up. ‘Sir Peter Blanche,’ he said, ‘I remember the reports on TV.’

  Allder nodded. ‘And the other one?’

  Kingdom returned to the paper. The second incident had happened a week later, this time in the north of England. A civil servant, Derek Bairstow, had been killed at a Premier League football match at St James’ Park. The game had been a sell-out, and Bairstow had been standing on a terrace packed solid with supporters. He’d been knifed in the back, and it had been several minutes before anyone realised he was dead. The Citizen, the following day, had headlined the story ‘THIRTY THOUSAND WITNESSES – AND NO ONE SAW A THING’, though the rest of the media had been a little more restrained.

  Kingdom looked up again, recognising the brown manila envelope from yesterday. Allder passed it across.

  ‘Open it.’

  Kingdom did so. Inside, he found a single sheet of photocopier paper. On it was a typed message. No indication of where it might have come from. No addressee. ‘Welcome to the Kay Zee,’ it ran. ‘A minute or so before Blanche died, his wife brought him a second mug of tea. If you don’t believe me, ask her. The mug came from Euro-Disney, by the way, which says more about my choice of optics than his taste. Blanche got no more than he deserved. Ditto the rest of the cull. Next time, I’ll be getting a little closer. Yours, at extreme range, SABBATHMAN.’

  Kingdom read the message again. ‘Kay Zee?’ he queried.

  ‘Killing Zone.’ He frowned. ‘I assume.’

  ‘And Sabbathman?’

  ‘Work it out. Look at the dates.’

  Kingdom returned to the newspaper. Kelly had been killed on the 12th, exactly a week after Blanche.

  ‘You think this bloke, whoever he is, killed them both?’

  ‘The dates,’ Allder said again. ‘Look at the dates.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘And yesterday’s date?’

  Kingdom looked at his watch. Today was the 20th. Yesterday was the 19th. He glanced across at Allder.

  ‘Sundays,’ he said, ‘they’re all Sundays. Including yesterday.’

  ‘Quite.’ Allder nodded. ‘Thus Sabbathman.’

  ‘You’re saying Carpenter as well?’

  ‘More than likely.’

  ‘You’re serious? Same bloke?’

  Allder shrugged, holding out his hand for the typed message.

  Kingdom didn’t move. ‘But does it tally?’ he said. ‘This stuff about Blanche? The cup?’

  ‘Mug.’

  ‘The mug? Euro-Disney? All that? Anyone been onto the Jersey boys? Checked it out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And it fits?’

  ‘According to the wife,’ Allder nodded, ‘yes. To the last detail.’ He paused. ‘Which I imagine was the point of the note. No one could have written that. Unless they were there.’

  ‘And Bairstow? Was there another note?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Why probably?’

  Allder didn’t reply for a moment. Then he swivelled the chair behind the desk until he had a good view of the rooftops, receding towards the river. Watching him, Kingdom had the impression it was something he did regularly, practising until he was inch-perfect.

  ‘Where would you say the Jersey note went to,’ he asked, ‘in the first place?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Think, Kingdom. You’re killing people. You want profile. You need an audience. For whatever reason, you don’t want to keep it to yourself. So,’ he glanced over his shoulder, ‘who do you go to?’

  Kingdom blinked. A conversation with Allder was like being at school. ‘Telly?’

  ‘Too risky. They’re not geared for it. Not for something like this …’ Allder’s eyes drifted down towards the desk, his lips beginning to frame another question.

  Kingdom beat him to it, picking the message up. ‘The press?’ he said. ‘The tabloids?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘The Citizen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This went to them? Is that how you got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they’ve got another one? About Bairstow?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  Kingdom nodded, taking it in, quickly sorting through the implications.

  ‘And they haven’t used it?’ he said. ‘A story like that?’

  ‘We haven’t let them,’ Allder said smoothly. ‘They sent across the first note, the way they should do, and we managed to persuade them to hold off.’ He smiled. ‘A mixture of flattery and mild threats. You know the line. National interest. Impending privacy legislation. Favours in the bank. All that. They weren’t happy, but they played along.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’ Allder pursed his lips. ‘Now they’re taking a different line. They’re still holding onto whatever they’ve got on Bairstow, and since yesterday there’s Carpenter, too. Carpenter’s a hot story. And I gather matey’s been in touch again …’

  He waved his hand towards the message, back on the desk, and it moved slightly, disturbed by the draught. Kingdom was still gazing at it.

  ‘What did he say this time? And what did he say about Bairstow?’

  ‘They won’t tell us.’

  ‘They have to.’

  Allder offered a bleak smile. ‘The law’s created by politicians,’ he said, ‘and after the last twelve months, they’re careful who they upset. The Citizen claims four million readers. That’s a lot of votes.’ He paused. ‘The word is to go easy.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what do we do? If you’re sure these notes exist? Bairstow? Carpenter?’

  ‘We wait. Until Wednesday morning. Like everyone else in the country.’

  ‘They’re going to run the story?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why wait until Wednesday morning? Why not go with it now?’

  ‘They’re trailing it in the paper tomorrow. And on TV tomorrow night. They’re putting
on half a million extra copies.’ He shrugged. ‘When it comes to the crunch, they’ll claim the last two messages were late arrivals. Bound to.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Allder got up and went across to the cabinet beside the door. He produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses, returning to the desk. He put the whisky on the desk. Kingdom looked at it. It was Jamieson’s. Nice touch. Allder had the top off the bottle. He glanced at Kingdom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Kingdom nodded.

  Allder poured two generous doubles, apologising for the lack of ice. Kingdom barely heard him, still thinking about the three Sunday killings. MO was CID shorthand for modus operandi, the tell-tale characteristics that linked assorted crimes to a single operator. In this case, at first glance, the MO links looked pretty solid: cold, professional killings executed with some style. No panic. No clues. No silly mistakes. Not a single useful eyewitness, unless you counted 30,000 football fans and a traumatised mistress. And all that to sell half a million extra newspapers. Kingdom smiled. Some serial, he thought. Some killer.

  Kingdom frowned. ‘These blokes he’s offed,’ he began, ‘what’s the link?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ Allder said, ‘apart from our friend.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not that we can find. None of them seemed to have known each other. They all moved in different worlds.’

  ‘Pure chance, then? Names from the phone directory?’

  Allder shrugged, capping the bottle. ‘You tell me.’

  Kingdom nodded, examining the message afresh. Killing zone. Cull. Sabbathman. Phrases to ice your blood.

  ‘So who’s next?’ he said aloud. ‘And where does it stop?’

  ‘Quite.’ Allder offered a smile of his own. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Allder was back in the chair now, nursing his drink. Kingdom studied him for a moment, not knowing quite what to say next.

  ‘So why me?’ he asked at last. ‘Where am I in all this?’

  Allder looked at him for a while. Then he began to swill his whisky round the glass. ‘So far,’ he said, ‘we’ve managed to keep it pretty tight. The editor came to us first, thank Christ. That meant the top floor and me. Half a dozen people at the most. But then the Commissioner told Downing Street, and that’s when the wheels came off.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘They roped in Five.’

  ‘Of course they bloody did.’

  ‘And what did they make of it?’ Kingdom paused, then answered his own question. ‘Are they saying Belfast? An away team operation? Our Baltic Exchange friends?’

  Allder nodded. ‘Of course they are. They have to. It makes the case for them. It makes it theirs for the asking. It gives them carte blanche …’ He shook his head. ‘If they can hang this on the Provos, they’ve won the bloody contest. We’ll end up making the sandwiches. I’m serious, Kingdom. I’m telling you. We let them get away with this, it’s all over. Game, set and match.’

  ‘And you? What do you think?’

  Allder shrugged. ‘Me? I’m like you, Alan. I’m a copper. Coppers deal in facts. No parlour games. No fannying around. No fancy tricks. Just good old-fashioned spadework. The kind they teach at Hendon.’ He paused. ‘You with me?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  Kingdom looked hard at his drink a moment, trying to mask a smile. Allder was as political an animal as any of the MI5 drones in Gower Street. The only difference was that just now he was losing. Badly.

  ‘So,’ Kingdom looked up, trying to phrase the question anew, ‘what can I do?’

  ‘You know Belfast. Better than most of us.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You know the current state of play. You’ve worked with some of these guys before. You’re no fool. You won’t have the wool pulled. So …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m putting you into play. All three killings. You’ll have temporary DI rank, effective immediately, and I’ll smooth the path wherever you have to go. You’re answerable to me and me alone. Anyone makes it hard for you, they’ll be dealing with me. Understood?’

  Kingdom blinked, his heart sinking. ‘You want me to go back to Belfast?’

  ‘Only if it’s necessary.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Hampshire first. Talk to Rob Scarman. And the DCS in charge. Have a poke around. Then Jersey. And Newcastle. And wherever else. Get yourself briefed. Find out what they’ve got. Use your loaf. And for God’s sake keep an open mind.’ He paused. ‘Who knows, it may well turn out to be Belfast. If it is, too bad. But equally, it might be something totally different. A loner. A nutcase. Some other conspiracy.’ He leaned forward, his glass empty now. ‘I’m serious, Kingdom. The truth never hurt anyone. There are names at the end of all this, and I want you to find them. That make sense?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Kingdom nodded. ‘It does.’

  Kingdom lifted his glass to his lips, feeling the whisky scorching the back of his throat. He swallowed most of it in a single gulp, eager to end the conversation. The list of things he had to do was endless. Alcohol, for once, wouldn’t help. He drained the last of the Jamieson’s and stood up.

  Allder was watching him carefully. ‘There’s one complication,’ he said, ‘Not my idea. Someone much higher up.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Allder unscrewed the bottle and tipped it towards his glass. ‘Five are in the frame, like I said. In fact they’ve already set up a special desk. Generous staffing. Extra monies from the secret vote. Lots of support from Downing Street. You know how easily politicians scare.’

  Kingdom nodded. ‘So?’

  ‘So we’ve had to agree an extra measure of collaboration.’ He poured the whisky until the glass was a third full. ‘Downing Street want an insurance policy. They’re nervous about the pair of us getting in each other’s way. Five have nominated a liaison officer. Someone they trust implicitly. I’m doing the same. The two of you have to stay in close touch. Five’s phrase, not mine. Otherwise we’re all in the shit.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Kingdom reached inside his jacket for a pen. ‘So who is it? And where do I find him?’

  ‘Her,’ he said softly, ‘find her.’

  ‘Her?’

  Allder smiled and raised his glass again. ‘Annie Meredith … on the usual number.’ He paused, savouring a mouthful of Jamieson’s. ‘How’s your dad, by the way?’

  By the time Kingdom got to his sister’s house, it was nearly eight o’clock. Ginette lived at the expensive end of Woodford Green, a leafy suburb on the edge of Epping Forest. Kingdom had always thought the house grotesque: a sprawling, ranch-style hacienda set in nearly an acre of garden. Security floods bathed the front of the property in a harsh, white light, and there was a yellow mechanical digger parked on the sweep of gravel drive. Between the digger and the gate was one of the family’s two Mercedes. It belonged to Steve, Ginette’s second husband, and the numberplate had been a recent present to mark his fortieth birthday. HUNK, it read, 21.

  Kingdom pushed in through the gate and squeezed between the Mercedes and the digger. As ever, he hadn’t warned Ginette he’d be coming. Passing one of the wide picture windows at the front of the house, he glanced in. By the look of the table in the dining room, she was expecting guests.

  Ginette came to the front door. Steve had recently bought her an Alsatian, and now it stood by her side, sniffing the night air. Kingdom was still wearing the trench-coat, the collar turned up against an earlier shower. He could tell by the expression on his sister’s face that she hadn’t a clue who he was.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said, ‘Alan.’

  Ginette blinked, turning on the porch light, not quite believing him.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ she said. ‘What have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s coming off soon.’

  Kingdom stepped inside, edging carefully round the Alsatian. Through an open
door, across the tiled hall, he could see Steve standing behind a tiny bar. He had a bottle of tequila in one hand and a small cheroot in the other. Like Ginette, he was very tanned.

  Steve looked up. He recognised Kingdom at once. He had a deep, slightly gravelly voice that suited the Cockney accent.

  ‘Al,’ he said, ‘long time, no see.’

  Kingdom grunted. Steve sold cars from a huge compound on the A12 out towards Romford. He was a stocky, thickset, powerful man, beginning to run to fat. He’d always been dotty about Ginette, and constantly showered her with presents of his own. The house, years back, had been one of them, and Kingdom suspected that the digger outside had something to do with another. He bent to pat the Alsatian, aware of Ginette waiting for an explanation for his visit. They’d never got along as kids, and now the gap was wider than ever.

  Kingdom glanced up at her, still fondling the dog’s ears. ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘Gary.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Yes. Anything wrong with Gary?’

  Kingdom smiled, shaking his head, saying nothing. Steve appeared with a bottle of Pils. Kingdom took it and followed Ginette into the kitchen. At thirty-three, she was a couple of years younger than Kingdom, and Steve’s money – carefully spent – had made her look younger still. She had Kingdom’s build – tall, angular, bony – and she’d learned to highlight the hollow spaces of her face to maximum effect. The tan suited her and the jewellery, for once, was nicely understated: simple gold earrings, a thin gold necklace, and a tiny row of diamonds set in a slender gold ring.

  Ginette shut the kitchen door behind Kingdom, and looked pointedly at the bowls of canapes carefully arranged on matching silver trays. The message was obvious. People were coming. Time was short. Kingdom ignored the hint.

  ‘Been somewhere nice?’

  ‘Agadir.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Morocco,’ she said heavily. ‘You?’

  ‘Belfast.’ Kingdom reached for a Twiglet. ‘It rained a lot.’

  They looked at each other for a moment, the usual declaration of war, mute, unforgiving, rooted deep in their respective childhoods. Ginette had slunk through adolescence with a long list of grievances and a mild dose of anorexia. Nothing had ever been good enough for her and the blame had always been Ernie’s. He’d had the wrong job. The wrong friends. The wrong tastes. He’d sent her to the wrong school, and he’d never begun to understand the kind of person she’d really wanted to be. Even their mother’s early death, from breast cancer, had somehow been Ernie’s fault. Quite what Ernie had made of all this, Kingdom had never quite fathomed, but he’d certainly done his best to cope, raising a second mortgage on the house when Ginette abruptly announced she was getting married. The loan – £2000 – had let Ernie push the boat out at the reception, though Kingdom had known at first glance that the marriage would never last. At thirty-three, Ginette’s first husband had been twice her age, an art college lecturer with a history of student conquests.