Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  Seconds later, he was another flight up, squatting beside the window he’d earlier seen curtained. Now the curtains were drawn back and in the faint glow from the street lamps at the end of the alley he could see a glimmer of light in a mirror and the outlines of what looked like a dressing table. The window was sash design, open at the top. He reached up, pulling it down. It moved a little, then stuck. Kingdom cursed, exerting more leverage, beginning to sweat, but the harder he pulled, the more firmly the window bedded itself in. He bent down, trying the bottom frame, but nothing he could do would move it. Finally he gave up, squatting on his haunches, his back to the brickwork, feeling horribly exposed. The least he could do for Mrs Feasey, he thought, was warn her about the state of her sashes. If the place caught fire, she wouldn’t have a prayer.

  He crept to the end of the fire escape. The other window on the second floor was narrower, sash design again, with a couple of feet of sill. This time the bottom sash was open and from where he stood Kingdom could smell the resinous scent of shower gel. He leaned out as far as he dared, one hand against the cold brickwork, trying to measure the distance in the half-darkness. His legs, he knew, were long enough to reach the window but at some point he’d have to transfer his whole weight onto the sill, his hands reaching for the bottom of the open window frame, and if anything went wrong then nothing would prevent him falling backwards. He peered down, over the edge of the fire escape. The kitchen extension didn’t stretch the full width of the property and he could just make out more dustbins in the well of the courtyard below. More half-eaten curries, he thought grimly, wiping the sweat from his face.

  He shut his eyes a moment, taking a series of shallow breaths. Then he inched to the edge of the fire escape. He bent forward and his left foot found the window-sill. Then, for a split second, he was in mid-air, unsupported, his hands reaching for the underside of the open window. He grabbed it, hanging on, his other shoe finding a foothold on the pitted stonework. Then, too late, he remembered the grease from the yard below, the stuff all over the soles of his shoes, and his feet began to slip, his whole body falling backwards. He fought the urge to scream, prickly tides of adrenalin swamping his system. The window-frame was beginning to shake and he twisted sideways, one foot slipping off the window-sill entirely, his body dangling over the drop. Then he made a final lunge, all caution gone, his head smashing against the thick glass, one shoulder at last inside the room, the rest of him following in a tangle of arms and legs.

  He lay on the floor, gasping. He could feel wetness beneath his cheek and a pain in his chest and he thought for a moment that he was having a heart attack. After a while, he got to his feet, feeling his way across the room, finding the toilet beside the bath. He bent over it, vomiting, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when the last of the chicken Madras had gone. Some fucking entrance, he thought, fumbling with the door handle, wondering vaguely about the smells he’d made.

  The first room he searched was at the front of the flat. He pulled the curtains tight, keeping the door open, using the light from the hall outside. The living room was shabby. The nylon carpet was worn bare round the door and the fireplace, and the paper on the walls was beginning to peel. The furniture looked as if it had come from some house clearance or other and the scent of fresh flowers from the vase on the mantelpiece failed to hide the smell of damp. The smell hung like a physical presence in the flat, something you could almost taste, and when Kingdom rearranged the curtains, tucking them in around the bottom of the bay window, he found wads of sodden newsprint stuffed in cracks in the woodwork. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his trousers, remembering a similar smell in the bungalow where Patrick Feasey had taken his life. Maybe damp was something you got used to. Maybe it was something that stuck with you for life.

  Except for a clipframe over the mantelpiece, the room was bare of ornament. The clipframe held a montage of photos, jigsawed together, some cropped, others full-sized, and Kingdom recognised bits of the nursery over at Merstone. The contrast to what he’d seen earlier was absolute. Here was a thriving business, the car park full, the glasshouse newly painted, trays of bedding plants, rows of shrubs, every photo busy with customers. Another shot had been taken from the room at the back of the bungalow, a view dominated by the long polythene growing tunnels, and looking at it Kingdom remembered Chris Wells telling him about the size of the investment these people had made, what you needed, how much it cost. Kingdom stepped back a moment, standing in the middle of the room, trying to imagine what it took to live with a statement like this, a reminder of the days when the gamble had worked, when the risks and the hard graft were paying off, when every morning saw a fresh queue at the cash till, when nothing could ever go wrong. It was a gesture, he thought, at once brave and defiant. That was us once. Bugger what came next.

  In one corner of the room was a cheap plastic table, the kind you buy for patio barbeques. On the table were two cardboard boxes, full of business files. Kingdom began to unpack them, piling the files on the table, opening each one, quickly aware of their importance. This was the small print of the story he’d pieced together during the day, the invoices, and tax returns, and VAT statements, and endless other bits of paper that charted the path from the busy idyll over the fireplace to the chilly adieu at Patrick Feasey’s graveside. Kingdom hesitated a moment, knowing at once that he couldn’t possibly go through all the paperwork. Only an accountant or a lawyer could do justice to the whole story. All he could manage was a sample, a hasty dip into the wreckage of two lives.

  He skimmed quickly through one file, then another, trying to keep the chronology in his head. The key to the early days was a bank loan. For £140,000, the Feaseys had evidently pledged everything: their little house in Ventnor, their two cars, even a sailing dinghy. In return, they’d bought a twenty-five-year lease on the Merstone nursery, plus the hundred and one other items they’d need to start a proper business.

  Kingdom picked up another file, then a fourth. The eighties ended with a half-decent balance sheet and the prospect, quite soon, of pushing the business into the black. Then Kingdom found a press cutting. It came from the paper he’d visited in Newport. The date was February 1990. A storm had swept across the Isle of Wight and amongst the many casualties were the Feaseys’ precious polythene growing tunnels. A photograph showed them shredded, the surrounding meadow littered with scraps of flailing plastic. Beside the photo, in black biro, was a line or two of rueful arithmetic. ‘£9000 each for new ones!’ someone had written. ‘Plus stock!’

  The new decade got worse. The miracle economy faltered. Interest rates soared. Thatcher’s England shuddered to a halt. ‘Dear Mr Feasey,’ wrote the Newport branch bank manager, ‘once again I must draw your attention to the state of your business account. Any further failure to meet due payments will, I’m afraid, meet with …’ The letters got briefer, more terse. A soaring overdraft multiplied the unpaid interest. By August 1992, Patrick Feasey owed the bank £197,768. In the words of his solicitor, himself owed thousands, the game was up.

  Kingdom leaned back at the table. He’d found a small Angle-poise and the light pooled on the pile of correspondence. He knew there was nothing unusual about this story. Something similar had happened to thousands of other small businessmen, naive enough to believe that eighteen-hour days and a good product would somehow earn success, trusting enough to let the bankers bind them hand and foot. Quite where fireblight belonged in all this, the killer disease mentioned by the young gardener, Kingdom didn’t know but he could imagine how devastating yet more bad news would be. Was that what had driven Patrick Feasey to the comforts of his 12-bore shotgun? Was that what had made him pull the trigger?

  Kingdom opened the last of the files. On top was a handwritten letter on Garland’s headed notepaper. It was addressed to the chairman of the bank where the Feaseys had kept their business account. Kingdom was on the second paragraph before his eyes returned to the name of the addressee. ‘Sir Peter Blanche,’ it read, ‘7 Lea
denhall Street, London EC3.’ Kingdom stopped a moment, his finger on the name. Blanche was the first of the Sabbathman victims. Blanche was the man who’d been sitting on his Jersey patio in the warm September sunshine when someone put a bullet through his throat. Blanche was where the trail began.

  Kingdom read the rest of the letter. It came from Ethne Feasey. Unlike everything else he’d read, it wasn’t measured out in carefully balanced paragraphs. It didn’t talk of negative cash flow and factoring contracts. It didn’t make pleas about debt moratoriums or rolled-up interest payments. Instead, it simply stated the obvious. She and her husband had worked hard. They’d done their best. Nature had been less than kind and the recession wasn’t their fault but they were still enthusiastic, still willing, still strong. All they needed was time. Time, and a little faith. The letter ended, ‘I know there’s a way, and I know you’ll help us find it. Yours truly, Ethne Feasey.’ Kingdom read the letter again and then checked the date: 22 October. Almost exactly a month before Patrick Feasey had taken his life.

  He put the letter to one side. Facing him, on top of the file, was the reply. It came not from Blanche himself but from one of his ‘personal assistants’. It occupied half a page. It said that Sir Peter was distressed to learn of the Feaseys’ situation but regretted that he was powerless to help. Inquiries to the bank’s loan department had revealed a very substantial debt. In view of the bank’s duty to its shareholders, it had no choice but to press for full and prompt settlement. Should that not be forthcoming, it would press for liquidation. ‘Please accept,’ the letter ended, ‘our good wishes for the future.’

  What future? Kingdom got up, chilled to the bone. The letter was devastating, a bullet between the eyes. If Patrick Feasey had ever read it, suicide must have seemed an almost welcome release. A proud man, bankruptcy would have finished him. And what about his wife? How must she have felt? Getting a letter like this?

  Kingdom began to repack the files, replacing them in the cardboard boxes, numbed by the way the tragedy had unfolded in front of his eyes; remorselessly, out of control, two lives skewered by some remote capitalist’s duty to his shareholders. Marx had a point, he thought, reaching for the second box. It’s all about greed, and fear, and exploitation. It’s all about hard-faced men who haven’t got the time, or the imagination, or the simple humanity to think beyond their precious balance sheets. Hand society to these guys, put them in charge, and that’s what you end up with. A pile of fucking mouse droppings where Patrick Feasey took his life.

  Kingdom was about to slip a handful of files into the second box when he noticed a plastic bag full of photos in the bottom. He made a space on the table and shook them out. The landscape looked wild, water everywhere, big brown mountains, torn strips of cloud, peat bogs studded with outcrops of wet rock. Most of the photos featured little groups of people, in threes and fours. They were all dressed for the weather – anoraks, woolly hats, overtrousers, stout boots – and the first face Kingdom saw made him edge the photo into the light. The big, open grin. The pudding-basin haircut. No doubt about it. Jo Hubbard.

  Kingdom began to sort through the photos. There were dozens of them. Some featured Ethne herself. He recognised her face from the photo he’d seen in the paper and he began to wonder when, exactly, this holiday had happened. Various references in the phone transcripts would place it around March, and looking at the weather, and the double layers of clothing, that would seem about right. The wind was clearly arctic, even when the sun was out.

  Kingdom looked up, aware for the first time of noises in the flat below. Someone was making a phone call. He could hear the voice. It sounded old, faintly querulous. Kingdom glanced at his watch. Ten past three. Someone’s heard me, he thought. Someone’s heard me breaking in. They’ve lain in bed. They’ve had a long think. And now they’ve summoned the bottle to do something about it. Ten past three in the morning. Who else would you phone but the police?

  Kingdom worked quickly, putting the photos back in the box, replacing the files on top. Then he circled the living room, drawing the curtains, shutting the door, retreating down the hall to the bathroom. The bathroom still stank of chicken Madras but he knew there was nothing he could do about it so he stepped into the bedroom, turning on the light. The room was dominated by a double bed. Against the wall, facing the window, was a cheap dressing table with a single drawer. On the floor by the bed was a flannel nightshirt, and Kingdom picked it up, using it to cover his hands while he pulled out the drawer. Emptying the contents on the floor, he crossed quickly to the window. The window was still stuck fast. He stepped back and began to kick out the lower pane. When most of the glass had gone, he wriggled carefully through.

  A light came on in the property next door and someone opened a window. Hugging the shadows, Kingdom clattered down the fire escape, pausing for a moment before tackling the ladder. The temptation was to look up but he kept his head down, taking the iron rungs two at a time. At the end of the courtyard he tried the door. It was bolted at the top. Seconds later, the bolt undone, he was off down the alleyway. Only when he was back on the sea-front, in sight of the Wolseley, did he see the first of the Panda cars moving at speed towards Pitwell Avenue. He glanced at his watch, impressed. Twelve minutes, he thought. Not at all bad.

  Kingdom phoned Allder next morning from a call box in the town centre. The weather had changed overnight and in the gale force wind the rain was nearly horizontal. Kingdom peered out through the smeary glass. A man with a dog was chasing his hat along the promenade.

  Allder came on at last, and Kingdom knew at once that something had happened. He sounded as gruff as ever but there was a new note in his voice, a tone that Kingdom had never heard before, a brittleness that sounded close to anxiety.

  Kingdom frowned, still watching the man with the dog. ‘What’s wrong, sir?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘I just …’ Kingdom hesitated, wondering how far to push it. ‘I got the feeling that …’

  Allder interrupted. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Shanklin.’

  ‘Phone secure?’

  Kingdom blinked, looking around the freezing box. To his knowledge, public phones were rarely tapped. Allder was still waiting for an answer. ‘Yes, sir,’ Kingdom said, feeding in another pound coin, ‘as far as I know.’

  ‘OK.’ Allder paused. ‘I was with the Commissioner last night. I think I might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kingdom nodded, ‘you did.’

  ‘He’d been over to Downing Street. Seems they got a billet doux from our friend.’

  ‘Sabbathman?’

  ‘Yeah. Arrived in the mail. London postmark. Strictly confidential. Heart to heart job.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told them to take care, watch their step. He said he was putting them all on report, best behaviour, that kind of thing.’ He paused while Kingdom tried to stifle his laughter. ‘If you think that’s funny, think again. This bloke delivers, and they know it. He says he has a list. It starts with the PM. Home Secretary’s number three, after the Defence Secretary. They’re all shitting themselves. Believe me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘God knows. They’ve put the squeeze on the Commissioner and he’s put the squeeze on me. We have an ultimatum. From Downing Street. We have to come up with a result.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or they take Five off the leash.’

  ‘But Five are in the shit. You told me yesterday. Grief, you said.’

  ‘Sure, but this latest thing’s got to them. The Commissioner thinks they’ve lost their bottle. You know these people. You’ve been with them, protected them. They lose touch. They live in a different world. They’re shielded from the likes of you and me. Our friend’s got through all that. They think he’s some kind of force of nature. They want him stopped, binned, taken care of. They want someone to turn the lights on and pull back the curtains and tell them it’s going to be all right.’ He paused. ‘Nightmare time. You ge
tting the drift?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Kingdom was still smiling. ‘But what about the Commissioner? What did he say?’

  ‘He said we’ve got ten days.’

  ‘Is he serious?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And if nothing happens?’

  ‘Then we’re looking at a lot of Charlie.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘Charlie’ was Allder’s private code for ‘Charlie Romeo’ or ‘Career Reassessment’, itself a cheerless euphemism for the leaving party and the P45. Life in the A–T Squad was a grand prix without pit stops. If you didn’t deliver, if you couldn’t stay with the pace, you were retired. Simple as that. Kingdom bent to the phone again. In these situations, you always went back to detail. Always. ‘What about Weymes,’ he said, ‘has he coughed yet?’

  Allder said nothing for a moment, then laughed. He’d got what he wanted to say off his chest. He’d established the deadline. He’d made the price of failure plain. Now, as ever, it was back to work.

  ‘No, but his missus has.’ He paused. ‘The lovely Trish.’

  Kingdom hesitated a moment, remembering the redhead in the photo on Weymes’ desk. Always the women, he thought. Never the men. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘We’ve got a name. Bloke at the nick. Apparently Weymes told her a week or so ago. She’s furious.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Bloke called Pelanski. Doing time for flogging dodgy MOTs.’ Allder paused. ‘Weymes mention him at all? During your little chat?’

  Kingdom began to doodle the name in the condensation on the cold glass, trying to remember where he’d seen it last. ‘Yeah,’ he said at last, ‘it was down in Weymes’ register at the library. Bloke had borrowed some books last week. Made me laugh because of what Weymes had been saying about the Falklands.’