Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  Allder asked for an update and the governor stared glumly at his pad for a moment. Wolfe’s body, he said, had been discovered by a fellow prisoner at five in the morning. On the way to the lavatory, he’d spotted blood in the corridor. The trail had led back to Wolfe’s room, and the prisoner had raised the alarm. A CID team from Chichester had arrived by seven, and they’d made themselves a temporary home in one of the prison’s two classrooms. To his knowledge, they were still at work in the accommodation block where Wolfe had been quartered. Two rooms had been sealed off. One was Wolfe’s. The other belonged to the prisoner who’d been gagged and tied up.

  Allder stirred. He’d been gazing through the window at a group of prisoners standing outside on the footpath. They were locked in conversation, muttering to each other, grim-faced.

  ‘Who was he, then,’ Allder inquired, ‘this bloke who got tied up?’

  The governor reached back, closing the window behind him. The prisoner’s name was Weymes, he said. He’d been inside for nearly a year and he had another eighteen months to serve. In civilian life he’d been a freelance journalist.

  ‘What’s he down for?’ Allder asked. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Is that strictly relevant?’

  ‘Yes,’ Allder nodded, ‘it probably is.’

  The governor hesitated a moment, clearly uncomfortable, mother hen to his flock of nervous chicks. This prison, like any other, was a closed world and he obviously resented interference.

  ‘Well?’ Allder said. He had a pad out now, and he was uncapping his fountain pen with his teeth.

  The governor shrugged. ‘Mortgage fraud,’ he said. ‘I understand he raised a lot of money on the same property.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘A quarter of a million. Give or take.’ He paused. ‘Eight loans, to you or me.’

  ‘Whereabouts? Where does he live? Where does he come from?’

  The governor opened a drawer and pulled out a file. He peered at it for a moment or two. ‘Peckham,’ he said at last, ‘I believe the place he bought was up in Greenwich.’

  Allder nodded, making a note. Then he looked up. ‘So how’s he been since? Any trouble?’

  The governor shook his head, emphatic, not bothering to consult the file this time.

  ‘No bother at all,’ he said, ‘good as gold. Runs the library for us. Bloody good at it, too.’

  ‘Mates? Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Of course. But no one you’d look twice at,’ the governor touched the file, ‘if you mean what I think you mean.’

  ‘Visitors? Recently?’

  ‘His wife. Every fortnight.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Not according to the records.’

  ‘Letters?’

  ‘His wife again. Twice a week. Regular as clockwork.’

  ‘You read them at all?’

  ‘Good Lord no. Why should we?’

  Allder gazed at him a moment, amused. Then he stood up, pulling his coat around him. The governor stood up, too, visibly relieved that yet another ordeal was over. Then he nodded at the window. A couple more prisoners had joined the group on the footpath. The discussion, if anything, was even more heated.

  ‘This is an open prison,’ the governor said, ‘Category C blokes, Category D. We’re flexible here. We give them a lot of scope. It’s not a holiday camp, far from it, but it does work, believe me. And that’s partly because we’re seen to care.’ He leaned forward, angry now, fixing Allder with an accusing stare. ‘And you know what’s happened? This morning? Since all this?’

  Allder shook his head, pocketing the fountain pen. ‘No,’ he said.

  The governor rocked on his heels a moment, then looked away, gesturing limply at a list of names on his pad. ‘Seven,’ he said, ‘seven requests. All after the same thing.’

  ‘What? What do they want?’

  ‘A transfer.’ The governor shook his head. ‘Back to what they call a real prison.’

  Allder and Kingdom found the detective in charge of the murder hunt standing by his car outside the building which housed the prison classrooms. Via a handset, he was talking to force headquarters. Evidently he needed someone to deal with the media. Unlike Arthur Sperring, in neighbouring Hampshire, he regarded them as a pain in the arse. Spotting Allder, he brought the conversation to an end. The two men were obviously old friends.

  ‘Tricky Mickey,’ he said, ‘the man himself.’

  For the next hour or so, the three detectives toured the prison. Allder introduced the local man as Brian Macintosh. He now held the rank of Detective Chief Superintendent, but he’d spent nine years in the Met and for some of that time he’d occupied an adjoining office to Allder when they were both DIs. Despairing of promotion in London, he’d finally transferred to West Sussex. The life, he said, was pleasant enough but undemanding. Once in a blue moon you stumbled on a half-decent piece of villainy and he was pleased to say that the Wolfe killing showed every sign of being exactly that.

  As far as he could judge, the killer had entered the prison grounds at the south-east corner of the compound. Here, in a sheltered corner where two fences met, there was a breach in the wire. It was always under repair because prisoners routinely used it on shopping expeditions to nearby Littlehampton. They’d leave after dark, spend the evening at one of the town’s pubs, and return after closing time with a bagful of tinnies from the off-licence. The cash they’d get from selling these back in the prison would, it seemed, fund the evening’s drinking.

  By now, they’d reached the spot in the perimeter fence that Macintosh had described. It lay in a hollow on the far side of a football pitch. The nearest building, a long low wooden hut, was seventy metres away. Allder squatted by the fence. A pair of angle irons braced the post where the two fences met and the wire sagged at the top where men had obviously climbed over. Allder was still examining the soft mud below. At least three pairs of footprints were plainly visible. He glanced up at Macintosh.

  ‘You say you’ve got prints from the room?’

  ‘Yeah. Perfect set.’

  ‘And they match?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He indicated the smallest of the three prints. ‘That one.’

  Allder nodded, standing up again. A prisoner had appeared on the football pitch. He was young, crop-haired, wearing a track suit and trainers. He had a ball with him and he began to chip shots into one of the two goals. Kingdom watched him for a moment or two, listening to Allder outlining progress on the serial killings. A communiqué to The Citizen, he said, would clinch it but from where he stood Wolfe was another Sabbathman victim. Definitely. The timing, for a start – a Sunday – and the choice of target. Macintosh looked a bit askance at this but Allder patted him on the arm and told him to have faith. After five murders, he said, he’d begun to get inside the man’s head. Sabbathman was choosy. He went after public hate figures, the rich and the powerful, people to whom society owed nothing.

  Macintosh gazed at him, more sceptical than ever. ‘Mr Angry?’ he said. ‘Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Allder nodded, ‘something like that.’

  ‘You pulling my pisser?’

  ‘No,’ Alder beamed, ‘definitely not.’

  He went on to compare the five killings, the care the killer had taken in his preparations, how neat he was, how painstaking. Once, just once, he used the word ‘executions’. At this, even Kingdom looked surprised, catching Macintosh’s eye and permitting himself a quiet smile. Since the news about the killer’s accent, Allder had become positively evangelical. Offered an alternative to the MI5 line, he was now determined to bury the long shadow of Provisional involvement.

  Allder nodded at Kingdom. ‘My friend here’s been developing another line,’ he said. ‘According to him, we should be thinking green.’

  ‘Thinking what?’

  Allder turned away, examining the wire again, while Kingdom explained what he’d been up to. The Max Carpenter killing, in his view, had been somehow linked
to the protests over Twyford Down. It was a big step from stopping bulldozers to cold-blooded murder but times were changing fast and if you cared to listen there was an audible rage at the direction the country had taken.

  ‘You can stand this up?’ Macintosh inquired drily. ‘You’ve got names?’

  ‘No. Nothing firm.’

  ‘But it’s looking promising?’

  Kingdom hesitated a moment. He’d spent the last four days exploring various arms of the ecological movement. The transcripts Annie had got hold of on Jo Hubbard’s number had given him three or four names, moving spirits in the battle for Twyford Down, but all the conversations she’d conducted on the phone had stopped well short of homicide. In fact the closest anyone had got to discussing direct action was a hint from the Anarchists’ Cook Book that earth-moving plant could be crippled by tipping sugar in the fuel tank, but even this suggestion had been hastily withdrawn. ‘NERVOUS LAUGHTER,’ the transcribing clerk had noted, ‘CONVERSATION TERMINATES.’

  Macintosh was still waiting for an answer. ‘Well? What do you reckon?’

  Kingdom shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said truthfully, ‘but I’m starting to doubt it.’

  Allder chuckled and took Macintosh by the arm again, leading him back towards the football pitch, and Kingdom followed at a distance, listening to the little policeman completing the brief. Sabbathman was obviously a professional. He knew a great deal about violence. He applied it with great skill. Accordingly, one or two of Allder’s blokes were talking to people in the private security world. They were also doing a trawl of known hit-men, underworld specialists with certain talents for sale. They’d even begun to compile a list of mercenaries, ex-soldiers taking a break from Bosnia, in the belief that this might be fruitful.

  Kingdom ticked off the various lines of inquiry in his mind. They were all sensible, and Allder would have been negligent not to pursue them, but he somehow doubted that anything would turn up. In his own opinion, the key to the puzzle lay closer to home. He’d been back to Hayling Island twice in the last week, and he was now reasonably certain he’d answered two key questions about the Max Carpenter killing. The first was access: just how had the killer got into Clare Baxter’s house? The second was equally bewildering: what had happened to him afterwards? Where had he gone? How come he’d simply disappeared? On both counts, Kingdom now considered that he was close to the truth. So far, prudently, he’d said nothing to Allder but soon, he knew, he’d have to declare his hand.

  He was crossing the football pitch by now, ten yards or so behind the two detectives. The prisoner in the tracksuit was juggling the ball from foot to foot. After thirty seconds or so he pivoted on one leg and floated the ball neatly into the net. He punched the air, grinning to himself, then looked up, catching Kingdom’s eye as he walked past.

  Kingdom paused a moment. ‘Playing this afternoon?’ he said. ‘Got a game?’

  The prisoner shook his head, bending to adjust one of his socks. ‘Cancelled,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  The prisoner stood up again. The disgust showed on his face. ‘Mark of respect for Wolfie,’ he said. ‘Fat little yid.’

  By mid-afternoon, the scenes-of-crime team had finished with the ground floor room where the killer had gained access. The white tape across the door had come down and the room’s occupant was back inside. Kingdom found him sitting at the desk beside the bed, scribbling notes on a lined pad. He looked up as Kingdom stepped inside. The expression on his face was at once curious and wary, a half-smile deadened by exhaustion.

  ‘Press?’ he said at once.

  Kingdom shook his head. ‘Alan Kingdom,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Special Branch.’

  ‘Local?’

  ‘Met.’

  ‘Ah …’ He pushed his chair back and got up. ‘Peter Weymes. Glad to meet you.’

  Kingdom sat down in the single armchair, refusing the offer of tea or coffee. Weymes was in early middle age. He had neatly cut blond hair, slightly receding, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on a cord around his neck. Like everyone else in the prison, he was wearing dark grey trousers with an open-necked blue shirt. The shirt was on the small side and too many helpings of chips had begun to strain the bottom buttons. Back at the desk, he leaned forward, the pose of a man eager to get one or two things straight. He had a strong cockney accent.

  ‘You part of the team,’ he said, ‘or is that a leading question?’

  ‘What team?’

  ‘This Sabbathman thing. Mr Angry.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s got anything to do with him?’

  ‘Nothing …’ He hesitated, more cautious now. ‘Except the guys out there can’t talk about anything else.’

  He gestured vaguely at the window. A camera crew were shooting the prison governor emerging from the dining hall. When something went wrong with the first take they asked him to do it again. Kingdom watched them for a moment longer, then turned back into the room.

  ‘I thought you lot had been gagged,’ he said. ‘No talking to the press?’

  ‘We have.’ Weymes returned the grin. ‘But it’s Sunday.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘They’re working the weekend roster and they’re understaffed as it is. It’s a numbers game here, just like any nick. You’d know that, surely …’

  Kingdom conceded the point with a rueful nod. Weymes had an easy warmth coupled with a natural curiosity, striking up a rapport at once, his questions heavily larded with a thick layer of bonhomie. Before you’d know it, Kingdom thought, this man would be your friend. And after that, you’d find yourself in cold print, a list of quotes, half of them probably fictitious.

  Kingdom leaned back in the chair. The room was small. A line of paperbacks on a shelf included three slim novels by Elmore Leonard. Kingdom was grinning again. ‘What’s it like then,’ he said, ‘easy bird? Like everyone says?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s fine. Dull, but OK. There’s things you miss but I suppose it could be worse.’

  Kingdom nodded, looking at the desk. The photo propped against the Millwall mug showed a pretty redhead. She was wearing the bottom half of a bikini and a huge pair of sunglasses. Behind her, on the beach, was an Arab on a camel.

  ‘That your missus?’

  ‘Partner. Trish.’ Weymes glanced over his shoulder at the photo. ‘We went to Monastir a couple of years back. Tunisia’s a steal. Ridiculous prices.’

  Kingdom nodded. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. If you like couscous.’

  ‘I meant your friend.’ He smiled. ‘Trish.’

  Weymes looked nonplussed for a second and Kingdom leaned forward, stifling a yawn. ‘Second thoughts,’ he said, ‘maybe a coffee would be nice.’

  Weymes got up and left the room. Kingdom could hear him in the kitchen down the corridor, filling a kettle. Kingdom was on his feet now, inspecting the desk. His knowledge of shorthand didn’t extend to the scribble on Weymes’ pad but when he flicked back through the pages he found what he was after, a central London number, 071-675 1234. He made a note of it, leaving the pad the way he’d found it, returning to the armchair. Of all the prisoners on site, Weymes – more than any of them – would know the value of the story unfolding outside in the pale autumn sunshine.

  Weymes came back with two mugs.

  ‘I read the statement you gave the CID blokes about last night,’ Kingdom said. ‘You must have been shitting yourself.’

  ‘When the fella came in?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I was. Bet your life I was. It’s not my style, all this. I’m a journo outside. White collar job. Closest I normally get to the sharp end is talking to blokes in pubs.’ He shook his head, tipped milk from a plastic screw top bottle into the steaming mugs. ‘No kidding,’ he said again, ‘frightened me silly.’

  ‘So why did he choose’ – Kingdom made a loose gesture with his right hand – ‘your room?’

  ‘That�
�s what the CID guys asked.’

  ‘I know. And you told them you hadn’t a clue.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s a dozen other rooms on the ground floor. You tell me.’

  ‘Pure chance? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Has to be. Except mine’s the only window that opens right up. Most of them have little catches, just here.’ Weymes was at the window now, indicating a metal stop half-way up the bottom frame. The windows were of the sliding type, double-glazed. Kingdom followed Weymes’ pointing finger. The window frames had been dusted by the SOCO and a greasy white powder still clung to the bare metal.

  ‘Yours broken?’ Kingdom asked.

  Weymes nodded. ‘Since last week.’

  ‘Aren’t they fussy about that kind of thing? Don’t they check?’

  ‘Never. Or very rarely.’

  ‘But aren’t you supposed to report something like that?’

  ‘Yeah, but …’ Weymes shrugged, returning to the desk. ‘You forget sometimes, don’t you? Plus, to be honest, I like fresh air. These rooms are centrally heated. It’s like a sauna sometimes.’

  ‘You’re telling me you broke it?’

  ‘No,’ Weymes shook his head, ‘I’m telling you it doesn’t work. Just like everything else around here.’

  Kingdom smiled, sipping the coffee. ‘I understand you run the library,’ he said at last. ‘Blokes in here do a lot of reading, do they? Banged up all day?’

  ‘Too right. The ones that know how.’

  ‘And what sells? What’s popular?’

  ‘Crime, believe it or not. And war. War’s huge, the Falklands especially. Very big with the head-bangers, believe me. When I get out, I’m going to–’ He broke off. ‘Huge,’ he repeated, ‘colossal.’

  Kingdom nodded, getting up, going to the window. Outside, the camera crew were packing up their gear. Kingdom put his coffee on the window-sill and fingered the metal stop. It was loose to the touch, sliding up and down at the slightest pressure.

  ‘You might be right about this Sabbathman bloke,’ he mused. ‘Wolfe’s a dead ringer, for a start. Right up his street.’