Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  Kingdom paused. The painting was awful, a landscape the colour of Brussels sprouts.

  ‘Who phoned back?’

  ‘Your woman at the agency. She found the name. And an address.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They were fake. I had them both checked.’

  Kingdom looked at him for the first time. Allder was already at the door, but he’d stopped too.

  ‘Was there a car?’ Allder said. ‘Did she take the registration?’

  Sperring nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and we checked that too. Her real name’s Feasey.’ Sperring took a folded square of paper from the pocket of his shirt and offered it to Kingdom. ‘Her address and her phone number.’ He smiled. ‘With my compliments.’ Kingdom was staring at him now. Sperring was still holding out his precious piece of paper.

  ‘Ethne Feasey?’ Kingdom asked. ‘From the Isle of Wight?’

  Sperring’s grin disappeared. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘How the fuck did you know that?’

  TWELVE

  They were north of Hindhead, returning to London, when the call came through. The Daimler had a mobile phone, as well as the standard force radio, and the driver passed the handset back between the two front seats.

  ‘For DI Kingdom, sir. Sounds urgent.’

  Allder gave the phone to Kingdom. Kingdom heard a male voice he didn’t recognise and it took him several seconds to realise just who the voice was talking about.

  ‘Ernest Kingdom?’ he said. ‘You mean my father?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘The name’s Farrar. King’s College Hospital. Senior Houseman in the A and E Department.’

  Kingdom frowned. King’s College was a big London hospital south of the river. What on earth had Ernie been up to? The doctor was talking again, explaining that the injury was serious but not life-threatening. The old man had evidently wandered into the path of a Transit van. He’d been queueing for a bus on the Old Kent Road and for no reason at all he’d stepped out into the traffic. The van driver had braked at once but the force of the blow had been enough to shatter his right leg. The femur was broken in two places and the knee was a mess. With luck, he might be on his feet again within a month or two.

  ‘A month or two?’ Kingdom blinked.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ The doctor paused. ‘Your father’s out of theatre now. We’ve pinned the leg. I’m sure he’d like to see you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Kingdom glanced sideways at Allder. Allder was still reading the telephone transcripts Kingdom had given him earlier.

  ‘We’ll go there now,’ Allder said without looking up. ‘Tell him an hour or so.’

  King’s College Hospital stands on Denmark Hill, a gaunt, Victorian redbrick building with the usual twentieth-century additions. The Daimler dropped Kingdom outside the Accident and Emergency Department and Allder leaned across as he bent to the rear window. They’d already agreed the programme for tomorrow. Kingdom would return to the south coast and take the ferry to the Isle of Wight. Allder would be in his office at the Yard, awaiting an update. Now, Allder fingered the button that controlled the rear window. The window purred down.

  ‘Give him my best,’ he said. ‘Hope he’s still smiling.’

  ‘Yeah …’ Kingdom pulled a face. ‘Daft old sod.’

  Kingdom found his father in a corridor behind the A and E Department, one of half a dozen patients occupying trolleys tidied into a neat line against the wall. The young student nurse who’d collected him from reception glanced up. Clearly she hadn’t a clue who to look for.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said brightly, ‘he’s bound to be one of these.’

  Ernie’s trolley was up the far end, several steps from the lavatory for the disabled. He lay under a blanket, flat on his back, his eyes closed, his face the colour of chalk. The graze across his forehead was already beginning to scab and one side of his face was purpled with bruising. A tube on a stand by the trolley dripped fluid into his forearm.

  Kingdom bent to the trolley, the back of his hand brushing his father’s face. His cheek felt stubbly where he hadn’t shaved.

  ‘Dad?’

  The old man stirred, groaned, licked his lips. Then one eye opened. He looked blankly up at Kingdom.

  ‘What happened, Dad?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘What happened? What’ve you been up to?’

  The old man tried to move, struggling upright on the trolley, but when the pain hit him he screwed his eyes shut and collapsed back onto the mattress. When he tried again, Kingdom restrained him gently, reaching over, both hands, feeling his father’s ribcage beneath the surgical smock. Thin, he thought. Just a shadow of the man he’d once known.

  ‘Dad?’ he said again.

  Ernie acknowledged him this time, one bony hand crabbing across the blanket, finding Kingdom’s, holding on tight. ‘My fault,’ he said at length.

  ‘You remember what happened?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So why …’ Kingdom bent closer. ‘What were you doing down there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No, Dad, I’m asking you why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why you were in the Old Kent Road. Why you were waiting for the bus.’

  The old man looked vague, then startled, then vague again. Finally his eyes began to film with tears. ‘Barry?’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You think he’ll mind?’

  ‘Mind what?’

  ‘Me coming like this?’

  ‘You were going to Barry’s? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Eh?’ He was trying to get up again, as helpless as a baby. ‘You know him? You know Barry?’

  For the first time it occurred to Kingdom that his father hadn’t a clue who he was, just another passing stranger, someone who’d paused for a chat.

  ‘It’s me, Dad. Me. Alan. Your son.’

  ‘Who?’

  The old man moistened his lips again and Kingdom glanced round, looking for a nurse, a doctor, anyone who might be able to explain what was going on. Had the houseman on the phone got it right? Had they really operated? And if so, would he be getting a bed of some kind? In a proper ward? Or was Kingdom supposed to borrow the trolley and push him back to Leytonstone?

  At the end of the corridor was a pair of swing doors that led back to the A and E Department. In an office beside the nurses’ rest room he found the sister in charge. She was sitting behind a desk listening to someone on the telephone. She looked exhausted.

  Kingdom stood in the doorway until the conversation was over. When he introduced himself, the sister got to her feet at once, telling him to close the door. She was a small, compact, pretty woman in her late thirties. A pot of coffee bubbled on a hot ring in the corner. She poured him a cup without asking.

  ‘Someone should have explained,’ she said, ‘before you saw him.’

  ‘Explained what?’

  ‘The situation. We ran out of beds. I’m afraid it’s always happening. People we admit, patients like your father, have to wait their turn.’ She nodded at the telephone. ‘We managed to get him into theatre but there’s nowhere for him afterwards. Couple of hours? Tonight maybe? Who knows …’

  ‘But how is he? How did it go?’

  The sister looked at him for a moment, then she said she didn’t know. Clinical prognosis was in the hands of the orthopaedic consultant. It was his job to talk about the medical details.

  ‘Bloke called Farrar?’

  ‘No, he’s the houseman. The consultant is a Mr Ellis-Jones.’

  ‘Where do I find him?’

  The sister glanced at her watch. ‘At home, I expect. Or back at his private clinic.’

  ‘So what happens to Dad?’

  ‘He’ll go up to a ward. As soon as a bed’s available.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes strayed towards the phone again. ‘I
t shouldn’t be too long. I’ve got two definites on one of the general wards and a possible on Gynae. Gynae isn’t ideal, of course, not for your father, but …’ She shrugged, reaching for her coffee. ‘If needs must …’

  ‘But is he OK where he is? Out there? In the corridor?’

  ‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘We pop down and keep an eye on things whenever we can. It’s not quite as bad as it looks.’

  The phone began to ring. She picked it up, listening to the voice at the other end. The conversation over, she smiled at Kingdom. ‘That was the general ward,’ she said. ‘We’re in luck. One of the definites just died.’

  Kingdom returned to his father. The sister came with him. She’d made up a glucose drink in a plastic cup and she gave Kingdom a bendy straw to feed it to the old man. After the operation, she said, he’d be thirsty. The more fluids he took, the better it would be.

  Ernie’s eyes were closed again. Kingdom held his hand a moment, asking him whether he’d like a drink. When he nodded, he took the cup and teased the straw between the old man’s lips. Ernie began to suck, a tiny moist sipping, the noise an injured animal makes. After a while, he stopped.

  ‘Enough?’

  Ernie nodded and Kingdom returned the cup to the sister. The old man was beginning to groan, turning his face to the wall.

  ‘What’s the matter? Dad?’

  The old man shook his head, refusing to say, and Kingdom glanced up at the sister. She’d already warned Kingdom that the post-operative drugs would soon wear off. Any break in the femur, she said, was bad. The pain would be excruciating. Kingdom turned back to his father, wondering what might help. Something to distract him. Something to take his mind off the pain.

  ‘Dad?’ he whispered. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Ernie eased his head round. He was drowsy now, barely able to focus. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Go and find Barry … or try to.’

  Ernie stared up, barely acknowledging the question. Then he tried to smile, a small rueful grin. ‘Miss him,’ he whispered, closing his eyes.

  Kingdom stayed beside the trolley for another hour and a half, watching the steady rise and fall of his father’s chest. When he checked beneath the blanket he saw that they’d plastered his right leg, hip to ankle. There was a dressing on his left leg, too, pinked with fresh blood. Soon, Kingdom thought, they’ll come and take him away. Then he’ll have a proper bed, clean sheets, a fresh dressing, a nurse on call to make sure he was comfortable.

  When nothing happened, Kingdom went to find the sister again. She was back in her office, eating a salad sandwich.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ she said at once, ‘the porters just phoned.’

  ‘He’ll get a bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But will he stay? Or what?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. You’ll have to talk to admin. And the consultant, of course. He’s OK for the time being, though.’ She offered Kingdom a bleak smile. ‘Until we get someone worse.’

  ‘But what then? What happens then?’

  ‘I told you, I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

  ‘Will they send him home?’

  ‘Of course. In the end.’

  ‘When’s that?’ Kingdom forced a smile. ‘Rough guess?’

  The sister tidied the crumbs on the plate, refusing to answer. Finally, she looked up. ‘He’s a bit of a mess,’ she conceded. ‘It may take weeks.’

  ‘Weeks? The doctor said months. Or a month, at least.’

  ‘Yes.’ The sister was frowning now. ‘Does he live alone, your father?’

  ‘No. I’m there too.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Some of the time.’

  ‘But can he cope by himself?’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Is that why we found the card in his pocket? Your name? And that number we had to phone? Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that where you work? Full time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sister nodded. She was gazing out through the glass partition, watching a staff nurse bending over a black youth in the cubicle beside the door. There was a deep gash under his left eye and every time she approached with her kidney bowl and her balls of cotton wool, he turned his head away.

  ‘Is he incontinent? Your father?’

  ‘Yes. Just recently.’ Kingdom nodded, Yes.’

  ‘Confused?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘At risk, then? You’d say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sister fell silent and for the first time Kingdom realised what it was that awaited his father. After all his attempts to raise money, to somehow make it possible for Barry to take over full time, there was nothing left but residential care. He’d already discussed the possibility with the social worker who’d called round, and he knew now that Charlie Truman had been right. The house would have to go. And so would Ernie’s meagre savings. In exchange for that, the old man would get a bed in some nursing home or other, three meals a day, and a limitless supply of television. It wouldn’t last long, this half-life, because the old man wouldn’t let it. He’d never allowed his wings to be clipped. He’d always loved his freedom. That’s what he’d been doing in the Old Kent Road. God knows, that’s probably why he gave up waiting at the bus stop and tried to leg it across the road. Old and mad, a nursing home would kill him.

  Kingdom stood up. The sister was looking speculatively at the coffee pot. Did Kingdom have room for another cup? Kingdom shook his head and thanked her for her help. She’d been very patient. He’d say goodbye to his father and then he’d go. She nodded, extending a hand.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘I wish you luck.’

  Kingdom returned to the corridor. The queue of trolleys had lengthened but where his father had been there was now a gap. He looked at the trolleys for a moment, the blank empty faces, the patched-up wounds, the busy little woman hurrying past with an armful of files. Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Allder rang at midnight. Kingdom was back home in Leytonstone. The house was damp and cold and stank of urine. Even in the depths of his divorce he’d never felt so depressed.

  ‘How’s your dad?’ Allder asked at once.

  Kingdom explained what had happened at the hospital. Ernie had been through a major operation and would slowly get better. Sooner rather than later they’d doubtless chuck him out. By which time the social workers would have found a drawer that more or less fitted him.

  ‘Drawer?’ Allder said blankly.

  ‘Nursing home,’ Kingdom said, ‘some fucking bin or other.’

  ‘Ah …’

  Allder abruptly changed the subject, his manner warmed by some fresh excitement, and as he talked Kingdom realised that for the last six hours he hadn’t once thought about the job. The Sabbathman killings had become utterly remote, momentary interference he’d be more than happy to tune out of his life. Allder was talking about MI5 again. Apparently their ship had hit the rocks and Allder was gleeful at the prospects.

  ‘Why?’ Kingdom inquired. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Don’t know. Something’s gone wrong in Belfast. No one seems quite sure what but that’s no surprise. Those bastards always play it tight. This time maybe too tight.’

  At the mention of Belfast, Kingdom began to concentrate again. Annie would know, he thought.

  ‘You want me to find out?’ he said. ‘Is that why you’ve phoned?’

  There was a brief silence. Then he heard Allder chuckling. If the man had a saving grace, Kingdom thought, then it would have to be a sense of total shamelessness. Sympathy was a wonderful thing. But it didn’t solve serial killings.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘soon as you can.’

  Kingdom rang Annie’s flat the moment Allder put the phone down. When there was no answer he hung up, standing in the lounge for a full minute, wondering what to do. Without Ernie, the house had become a shell, a husk, the remains of a life which he knew in his heart had gone
. If he stayed the night, if he trailed upstairs to the narrow little bedroom and tried to sleep, he knew he’d regret it. The place was beginning to haunt him. Too many ghosts. Too many memories.

  He reached for his coat and checked the pockets. Annie’s key was still there and Ernie’s Wolseley was in the lock-up across the street. This time of night, he could be over in Kew in less than an hour. Whether Annie was there or not, it was a better prospect than a night by himself in this icy mausoleum.

  Kingdom left the house and retrieved the Wolseley from the lock-up. He hadn’t touched it since getting it back from the local CID and there was still half a tank of petrol. He drove south, through largely empty streets, turning onto the Embankment at Blackfriars and following the river as far as Kew Bridge. By half-past one, he was outside Annie’s flat.

  He turned off the engine, peering up at the first-floor windows. The curtains in the lounge were still pulled back, the way he’d left them, and there was no sign of Annie’s car. Kingdom got out of the Wolseley and crossed the road. One of the keys on Annie’s ring let him in through the communal front door. He found the time switch on the wall and climbed the stairs. At the top there were two more doors. The one on the left belonged to Annie. He rang the bell twice, in case she’d returned. When there was no response, he used the key to get in.

  He knew at once the place had been wrecked. The coats on the hooks in the tiny hall were strewn across the floor and there was a strong smell of perfume. Kingdom paused a moment in the half-darkness, looking left through the open door into the living room. Light from the street lamp outside spilled in through the uncurtained window, bathing the living room in a livid orange. Cushions from the sofa were scattered on the carpet and a bookcase had been overturned. Against the far wall was a small pine Welsh dresser. The audio stack Annie kept on the top had gone and the drawers were hanging out, their contents emptied onto the floor beneath.

  Kingdom stepped into the room and pulled the curtains. Then he switched on the light. A framed print of the Galway coast lay at his feet, the glass smashed. There were books everywhere, paperbacks mostly. Even the brass scuttle on the hearth had been upturned and shaken empty, and the wind-gnarled bits of driftwood Annie had collected from visits to various beaches lay heaped on the white shag rug.