Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  He walked back to the truck and retrieved a mobile phone from the cab. He put the phone on the bonnet and then sorted through the pile of bricks until he found the one he wanted. He gave it to Kingdom, nodding at the rest of the pile.

  ‘Fareham reds,’ he said, ‘just feel the weight of that.’

  Kingdom agreed it was a nice brick. He knew nothing about bricks. ‘Are you Chris Wells?’ he said. ‘Your truck? Your business?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The young gardener returned the brick to the back of the truck and set off towards the glasshouse, happy to talk. The place, he said, had once been a working nursery. Now it belonged to the bank. If the price was right, he was thinking of buying. The soil wasn’t bad and trade on the island was there for the taking. He’d proved that himself, moving from job to job, redesigning people’s gardens.

  ‘People retire here,’ he explained. ‘They’re at the time of life when they want to get things right. And they’ve got the money to do it.’

  They were standing in the glasshouse. The young gardener had the key and now he bent to inspect the big oil-fired heater that kept the place warm on sunless days.

  ‘What happened?’ Kingdom inquired, looking round. ‘What went wrong?’

  Wells produced a screwdriver and began to dismantle a valve at the bottom of the boiler. ‘More or less everything,’ he said at last. ‘They borrowed at the wrong time, they tried to over-expand, and then it all got sticky.’ He eased the cover off the valve and inserted a finger. When he pulled it out, it was black with grease and dirt. He sniffed it, frowning. ‘Common enough story,’ he said. ‘You raise a hundred thousand, say. Interest rates look reasonable. Then, next year, up they go. Bang.’

  ‘When was this?’

  He glanced up. ‘End of ’90. Early ’91. They were unlucky, mind.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Fireblight.’ He stood up, wiping his finger on his shorts. He had watchful eyes and a wonderful complexion. He was gazing at the boiler. ‘It’s a notifiable disease. Cotoneasters. Pyracanthas. Affects the ends, the growing tips. Once you’ve got it, you have to burn or bury the lot.’

  ‘And that’s what they did?’

  ‘Had to. The Ministry check up.’

  ‘Ah,’ Kingdom followed Wells out into the sunshine, ‘Nasty.’

  The young gardener was examining a standpipe now, trying to turn on the tap. Kingdom offered to help.

  Wells shook his head. ‘Knackered,’ he said.

  The mobile phone began to ring and they returned to the truck. The conversation on the phone was brief and when Wells replaced the receiver, his face was wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Customer of mine,’ he explained, ‘just dug her a pond. Wants to know if I can train frogs.’

  He looked at Kingdom a moment then set off down the path towards the bungalow, moving quickly, his eyes missing nothing. Kingdom caught him up by the bungalow. Another set of keys opened the front door. They stood together in the kitchen. The place smelled musty. The young gardener dropped to his knees, peering at a pile of droppings by the skirting board.

  ‘Mice,’ he said briefly.

  Kingdom was looking out of the window. From the kitchen, he had a clear view of the cultivated strips that led down towards the bottom of the property.

  ‘What happened out there,’ he said, ‘as a matter of interest?’

  Wells was back on his feet again. He didn’t bother looking out of the window. ‘Beds,’ he said briefly. ‘One for growing. The other for selling. You cover them with polythene. We call it multispan. You get a kind of tunnel effect and you blow hot air through to bring the plants on.’ He paused, gazing up, inspecting the mould on the ceiling. ‘Costs a fortune, too. That wouldn’t have helped.’

  He shook his head, tut-tutting at the state of the ceiling, then returned to the hall. A door at the end led to a bedroom. Kingdom found him on his hands and knees again, examining the lead pipe that fed the hand basin. The basin was suspended in a metal cradle. The porcelain was cracked and there were brown rust marks around the single tap.

  Kingdom stood by the door. This room, unlike the kitchen, was sunless. ‘Ethne Feasey,’ he began, ‘she lived here? She ran the place?’

  ‘Yes.’ Wells had a knife out now and was hacking away at something under the sink. ‘She and her husband. They’d put everything into it. The lot. Worked bloody hard, too. From what I hear.’

  ‘And the business collapsed? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes. Start of the year. I think she hung on as long as she could but once you get behind the game …’ He stood up, shaking his head again. ‘Banks can be bloody evil.’

  ‘So where are they now?’

  ‘They?’ Wells looked up.

  ‘Yes. Ethne Feasey. And her husband.’

  The young gardener examined a cut on his finger a moment, then closed the blade on the penknife. ‘She’s working in Shanklin,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got a number if you want.’

  ‘And her husband?’

  ‘He’s dead. Shot himself. Just about where you’re standing. It all got too–’ He broke off, cocking an ear, looking out of the window, back towards the car park. ‘Sorry,’ he said, heading for the door, ‘I think that’s the mobile again.’

  THIRTEEN

  Back in the village, Kingdom phoned the number he’d been given for Ethne Feasey. The young gardener had been vague about exactly what it was she now did, but suspected it might have been something to do with nursing. In the event, he was right.

  ‘St Boniface Rest Home,’ a voice said. ‘Can I help you?’

  Kingdom asked for Ethne Feasey. The woman at the other end said she wasn’t on the premises. Evidently, she worked nights. Kingdom might like to call back around eleven. Otherwise, he could find her at home.

  ‘Where’s that?’ Kingdom asked.

  ‘5b Pitwell Avenue,’ she said briskly, ‘that’s in Shanklin, of course.’

  ‘And does she sleep during the day? Only–’

  ‘Until mid-afternoon, I believe. I’m sure tea-time would be suitable.’

  Kingdom thanked her and hung up, checking his watch. It was barely half-past two. He stood in the phone box a moment, then reached for the directory. The Isle of Wight’s only newspaper was published from offices in Newport. The town, according to signs he’d passed, was less than ten miles away. Kingdom pushed out of the phone box, still thinking about Ethne Feasey, glad of the chance to conduct a little extra research.

  The newspaper offices were in the middle of Newport, a three-minute walk from the car park where Kingdom had tucked away the Wolseley. The front office dealt with classified adverts and general inquiries. Kingdom said he was interested in back numbers.

  The old man behind the desk peered up at him. An empty sandwich box stood beside his phone and there were crumbs everywhere.

  ‘Any particular date?’ he said.

  Kingdom mentioned Ethne Feasey. Her husband had shot himself. Back towards the end of last year. The old man frowned. The name rang a bell, he said. Something to do with a garden centre?

  ‘Garland’s Nursery,’ Kingdom said, ‘at Merstone.’

  The old man nodded and got up. The bottoms of his trousers were tucked into his socks. He crossed the room and pulled open a drawer in a big mahogany chest. The drawer was full of newspapers. The old man called Kingdom over.

  ‘November and December,’ he said, ‘help yourself.’

  Kingdom found the reports he wanted almost immediately. There were three in all, spanning five weeks. On 15 November, Patrick Feasey had put a shotgun in his mouth and killed himself. On the 18th, the coroner had released his body for burial. And on 21 December, the inquest had passed a formal verdict of suicide.

  The last report had included two paragraphs on Feasey’s business difficulties. Evidently the bank had foreclosed on the couple after two disastrous trading years, and Feasey had been obliged to declare himself bankrupt. An accompanying story referred to other nurser
ies on the island in similar circumstances and quoted a local businessman’s warning about the risks of moving into this particular sector. With luck, and a good accountant, you could make a fortune. But get the thing wrong, for any one of a thousand reasons, and the consequences could be catastrophic.

  Kingdom looked up, thinking about the semi-derelict site he’d just toured with the young gardener. On an island like this he could see the attractions of having a go. Outdoor life. Mild climate. Lots of prospective customers. No hassles with commuter trains or office politics. Ideal for someone with drive, and energy, and a helping or two of self-belief.

  He glanced down at the paper again. Beside the report on the inquest, there were two photos. One was a head and shoulders shot of Patrick Feasey. His eyes were shadowed by the flat cap pulled low against the sun but there was no mistaking the grin on his face. He looked buoyed-up, eager, a healthy middle-aged man embarking on a huge adventure. The other photo pictured the story’s end, Feasey’s widow following her husband’s coffin to the grave. She was a big woman, blonde, bareheaded, handsome. She was wearing a long white trench-coat and a pair of wellington boots, a strange outfit for a funeral, but looking at her Kingdom got the impression that this wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest. She’d come to bury her husband, her partner, and the normal protocols – how one behaved, what one wore – would have been quite irrelevant. Kingdom gazed at the photograph for a long time. The expression on her face told it all, he thought. A mixture of grief, betrayal, and cold fury. He glanced up as a shadow fell across the page. The old man had spotted the date.

  ‘Funny thing about suicides,’ he said, ‘they always do it round Christmas.’

  Kingdom phoned Allder from a phone box beside the car park.

  ‘Anyone been to Annie’s place?’

  Allder said yes. He’d arranged for a forensic specialist and a photographer as soon as Kingdom had told him what had happened. The two men had been at the flat all day and had already phoned in with a preliminary report. Without an inventory, it was obviously difficult to gauge what was missing, but the job was certainly the work of an expert. They’d managed to isolate two sets of prints – Annie’s and, Allder assumed, Kingdom’s – but after that the trail went cold. There were no rogue finger or palm prints. None of the neighbours had reported anything unusual. And the exact mode of entry remained a total mystery. They’d even taken the front door locks apart in the hope of finding scratch marks but, once again, they’d drawn a blank.

  ‘What about the Bairstow business?’ Kingdom said. ‘Are they sending down those letters?’

  ‘Yeah. When they find them.’

  ‘They’ve lost them?’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying. For now.’ He paused. ‘Did you get hold of a paper? Your friend Weymes?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Bit swift, wasn’t he?’

  Kingdom laughed. ‘Swift’, in Allder’s book, was high praise. It described a talent for spotting the right opportunities and taking maximum advantage. The best criminals had it. And so, in Kingdom’s opinion, did the best coppers.

  ‘How much did he get?’ Kingdom asked. ‘Anyone been to see his missus? She’d know.’

  ‘Pass,’ Allder grunted, ‘but I hope it cheers him up.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Someone at Ford had a go at him. This morning. Did his knees with a hammer and cut his face up. He’s in hospital now. Under armed guard.’

  ‘Shit.’ Kingdom blinked. ‘Do we know who?’

  ‘No, that’s the problem. The governor’s flapping around blaming it all on the media. Says he hates violence. One day it might dawn on him he’s running a prison.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Kingdom was frowning now. ‘But this is important. Find out who did Weymes, and we’re starting to get somewhere.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So who’s down there? Who’s at the hospital? Who’s waiting for a name?’

  ‘One of Macintosh’s blokes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Apparently Weymes isn’t talking. Not yet, anyway.’

  Kingdom was all too aware of the damage the journalist had probably suffered. In the right hands, as he’d seen in Northern Ireland, fifteen seconds with a hammer could cripple a man for life. Taking a Stanley knife to his face was just an extra, a little something for him to carry home and show the wife. Allder was talking about Gower Street now. Apparently MI5’s domestic crisis had deepened.

  ‘How?’ Kingdom asked.

  ‘No one knows,’ Allder chuckled, ‘but I’m seeing the Commissioner in an hour.’

  *

  Kingdom drove east across the island to Shanklin. For reasons he couldn’t quite identify, Allder’s parting phrase had disturbed him. MI5, as far as he was concerned, had always been a race apart, men and women who’d been schooled for a very different war. By and large, the people he’d had to work with had been unimpressive: over-cautious, bureaucratic, determined to maintain the lowest of profiles. They hugged the shadows. They rarely took risks. They even mistrusted each other. In this respect, Annie had always been the exception rather than the rule – headstrong, flamboyant, loyal – and the very fact that she and Kingdom had always got on so naturally together made Kingdom wonder just how well she fitted in at Gower Street. He knew how ambitious she was, and how single-minded, and he knew as well how easily that could make her enemies. MI5 people could be truly vicious. They operated in a world without rules, especially where each other were concerned.

  Kingdom slowed for the outskirts of Shanklin, trying to rid his mind of the darker fears. Annie, he told himself, could handle most situations. She had stamina and she had guts. In a couple of days, she’d be back in Kew, harassing the insurance company for compensation, demanding Kingdom’s attendance at some department store or other. There’d be the telly to replace. CDs to buy. Ernie to visit. Real life, he thought. And the odd half-day to enjoy it.

  Shanklin turned out to be a sprawling Victorian resort, built around a wide sweep of bay. The bay was flanked by headlands, north and south, and a stubby pier bisected the miles of sandy beach. Kingdom drove slowly along the sea-front, looking for Pitwell Avenue. According to the street map he’d bought in Newport, it lay at right angles to the promenade, leading in towards the town’s railway station. Kingdom spotted the street sign, pulling the Wolseley into a parking bay and killing the engine. While he still had daylight he wanted to take a good look at the property where Ethne Feasey had made her new home. Meeting her could wait until tomorrow. By then, if he turned up in the morning, she’d be exhausted. Tonight, once she’d left for work, he’d go through the flat.

  Kingdom locked the car door and strolled up Pitwell Avenue. Most of the properties, at street level, had been converted into shops. Number five was an Indian restaurant, the New Bengal. Kingdom paused outside, studying the menu. In a recessed entrance beside the restaurant door there was a speakerphone. The phone had three buttons; 5b was labelled ‘E. Feasey’. Kingdom stepped back into the street and gazed briefly up at the face of the building. Above the restaurant, there were three stories. The curtains in all the windows were open. If Ethne Feasey was still asleep, then the bedroom was probably at the back.

  Kingdom walked on down the street and found the alley at the back. Access to the rear of the restaurant was barred by a high brick wall and a locked door but there were knotholes in the woodwork and Kingdom bent to peer through. A tiny paved yard lay inside. At the end of the yard was a newish extension which obviously housed the kitchen. On top of the flat roof, zigzagging up the brickwork, was an iron fire escape. Kingdom smiled. He’d had some easy B & Es in his time, but nothing quite as simple as this. He studied the windows at the back of the building. If the flats went sequentially upwards then Ethne Feasey lived on the second floor. In one of the two windows, the curtains were pulled. The bedroom, Kingdom thought, wondering whether she might be the kind of person to take extravagant security precautions. Somehow, remembering the photo in the paper, he do
ubted it.

  Shanklin was full of signs for bed and breakfast. Kingdom booked into a quiet boarding-house behind the sea-front and spent the early part of the evening at the cinema. At nine o’clock, bored and hungry, he slipped out and returned to Pitwell Avenue. At the New Bengal, the table in the window was empty. Kingdom ordered a chicken Madras curry and an assortment of side dishes. He’d bought the Daily Telegraph earlier, and when he’d finished the meal he asked for a second coffee and settled down to wait. At half-past ten, he heard footsteps on the staircase beside the restaurant. Then there was a squeal of unoiled hinges and a shadow lingered briefly in the street, pulling the door shut. Right height, Kingdom thought, watching the white trench coat hurrying past.

  He waited in the restaurant for another hour. The hot towel in the wicker basket slowly cooled. When the waiter asked him for the third time whether he wanted anything else to eat, he glanced up.

  ‘What time do you close?’ he asked, ‘as a matter of interest?’

  ‘One o’clock, sir.’

  ‘People upstairs not mind? All the noise? From the kitchen?’

  The waiter looked confused. Then he understood. ‘No, sir, not at all. Very old people, most of them.’ He put his fingers in his ears, smiling sheepishly, miming deafness.

  Kingdom walked the beach until two in the morning. Then he retraced his steps to the alley behind Pitwell Avenue. Someone had left the lid off the dustbin outside the back of the restaurant and there were two cats fighting over the carcass of a chicken. Kingdom shooed them away, replacing the lid and using the dustbin to lever himself over the wall. The tiny square of backyard was thick with spilled grease and he stood in the shadows for a full minute, watching the darkened windows at the rear of the property.

  When nothing happened, he skirted the bicycles propped against the wall and crouched beside the kitchen extension. One of the louvre windows was open and he could hear the slow drip-drip of a leaking tap. There was an iron ladder inset into the brickwork, part of the fire escape, and he climbed up. The fire escape proper started on the roof. The rungs felt cold and scabby to the touch and outside the window on the first floor he narrowly missed stepping in a saucer full of milk.