Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘What?’ When Allder was puzzled it often came out as irritation.

  ‘The Falklands,’ Kingdom said again. ‘Weymes was telling me how popular books about war were. The Falklands especially. This bloke took out four books. Everything Weymes had left. The lot.’

  ‘Really?’ Allder’s voice was warmer now, even enthusiastic. ‘You know anything about the war? Units? Who went down there?’

  ‘A bit.’ Kingdom frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Apparently this Pelanski got a medal there, 3 Para.’ He paused. ‘That mean anything to you?’

  Kingdom was back outside the New Bengal restaurant by half-past eleven. He’d been watching the property for an hour, sitting in the Wolseley across the street, waiting for the young policewoman to finish her paperwork. When she finally got in the Panda and drove away, Kingdom crossed the road and rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. He rang again. Then a second time. At length, there were footsteps down the staircase and a wrench at the door.

  ‘Mrs Feasey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alan Kingdom. Police Special Branch.’

  Kingdom showed her his ID. She inspected it carefully, then looked up. She was tall for a woman, nearly six foot, and her complexion wasn’t quite as flawless as Kingdom had somehow imagined. She was wearing a dressing gown, belted at the waist, and a pair of thick woolly socks. She smelled faintly of shower gel.

  ‘Are you with the girl,’ she said, ‘the one who just left? Only I’d quite like some sleep.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Kingdom feigned surprise. ‘What girl’s that?’

  Mrs Feasey studied him for a moment, then told him to come in. Kingdom left a trail of wet footprints up the stairs. At the top, with some reluctance, she took his coat. She had a faintly foreign accent, German or Scandinavian, barely perceptible. She was extremely direct.

  ‘I’ve had a break-in. Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Early this morning. While I was at work. You might as well take a look since you’re here.’

  She led him into the bedroom. The broken window had been roughly boarded up with a sheet of plywood and there was a line of china bowls on the carpet to catch the drips. The duvet on the bed had been folded back and the nightshirt Kingdom had used earlier was lying on the pillow.

  ‘You lose much?’ Kingdom inquired.

  ‘Nothing. That’s what’s so strange.’

  ‘Someone raise the alarm?’

  ‘Yes, the woman downstairs. Scared her to death.’

  ‘Lucky for you, though, eh?’

  Mrs Feasey stepped away from the window, stooping to pick up a tiny shard of glass. She was frowning. ‘Lucky?’ she said.

  ‘Not losing anything.’

  Mrs Feasey studied Kingdom a moment then pulled out the drawer in the dressing table. Amongst the balls of cotton wool and the jars of skin cream was a man’s leather wallet. She opened it with both hands, like a book. Inside, plainly visible, was a sheaf of credit cards.

  ‘Open, like this,’ she said, ‘on the floor. Couldn’t miss-it. Unless you were blind.’

  Kingdom looked at the credit cards. ‘Lucky,’ he said again.

  They went through to the living room, Mrs Feasey standing beside the mantelpiece, her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for Kingdom to explain what he wanted. Kingdom sat down, uninvited, eyeing the unlit gas fire. The room was freezing and above the howl of the wind he could hear the slow drip of water from the holes around the windows. For someone who’d lost everything, he couldn’t think of a more depressing place to live. It was the living evidence that life, inconceivably, could always get worse.

  ‘Been here long?’ he said.

  ‘Six months. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Ever think of moving at all?’

  Mrs Feasey said nothing, her face quite expressionless. She must have been stunning once, Kingdom thought, and even now, even here, she had enormous presence, the kind of strength you saw in certain paintings. Her cheekbones. The line of her chin. The way she carried herself, straight-backed, erect, undaunted. Kingdom nodded at the other chair. Dirty yellow sponge bulged through a rip in the vinyl cover.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down? This needn’t take long.’

  ‘I’m about to go to bed,’ Mrs Feasey said again. ‘I’m quite happy as I am. Just tell me what you want.’

  Kingdom was looking at the cardboard boxes on the table across the room. He’d spent most of the morning anticipating this conversation, wondering just where to start.

  ‘You went to look at a house,’ he said slowly, ‘back in the summer.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, on Hayling Island.’ He paused. ‘The agency were called Saulet and Babcock. As it happened, they remember you well.’ He smiled. ‘June 7th. In case dates are a problem.’

  Mrs Feasey nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Number sixty-five. Sinah Lane.’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘Did you want to buy it?’

  ‘It was a possibility. This place has its charms but,’ she smiled thinly, ‘a change would be nice.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Kingdom frowned, spotting a tiny curry stain on his trousers, looking up again. ‘They wanted quite a lot of money. £175,000 in fact.’

  ‘Was it that much?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then no wonder I turned it down.’

  ‘Quite.’ Kingdom looked at her a moment. ‘Were you serious? When you went to look?’

  Mrs Feasey shrugged. Smudges of colour had appeared in her cheeks. Irritation rather than embarrassment. ‘I’m not entirely clear what you’re asking me,’ she said coldly. ‘Is it against the law to look at a house?’

  ‘Not at all. But I was asking you whether you were serious.’

  ‘Of course I was serious.’

  ‘You wanted to buy it?’

  ‘I wanted to see it.’

  ‘With a view to buying it?’

  ‘With a view to making a decision.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And the decision was no?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But it could easily have been yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Kingdom nodded, taking his time now. ‘You left a false name with the agency,’ he said carefully. ‘You called yourself Anderson. Elaine Anderson. You left a false address, too. Up in Guildford. The road you mentioned doesn’t even exist.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  Mrs Feasey nodded, saying nothing. The irritation had gone now. She’d become wary, watchful, one hand straying to a tiny mole, just visible beneath her left ear. She fingered it, waiting for Kingdom’s next question, and the moment he asked it, he knew she’d already prepared the answer.

  ‘So why?’ he said. ‘Why the false name?’

  ‘I …’ She shrugged. ‘It’s difficult.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Kingdom smiled, ‘please.’

  ‘I’ve been through …’ She shook her head. ‘Things have been difficult. There’s been publicity. My name’s been in the paper. You get nervous about people recognising you, recognising the name. I know it’s unreasonable but there you are. It makes you want to hide. It must seem terribly devious but that’s all it was, really. A little white lie.’

  ‘But what would have happened had you liked the house? What would you have done then?’

  ‘I don’t know. You don’t think these things through. They just happen. I suppose …’ She frowned, then shook her head. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  Kingdom shifted his weight in the chair. One of the springs was on the point of collapse. ‘Let’s go back to the money,’ he suggested.

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The money you’d need to pay for the house. Assuming you’d liked it.’

  Mrs Feasey nodded. Her eyes had settled on the photo montage over the mantelpiece. Her face had softened. She looked wistful and a little lost. ‘This is a game,
’ she said quietly. ‘You know the answers already.’

  ‘What answers?’

  ‘Me,’ she nodded at the photographs, ‘Paddy. What happened to the business. That’s why you weren’t surprised next door, when I showed you the credit cards. You know I’m a bankrupt. You know the cards are worthless. You know I didn’t have the money to pay for that house.’ She paused. ‘What else did Chris tell you?’

  Kingdom gazed up at her. ‘Who?’

  ‘Chris. Chris Wells. The young man you met out at the nursery yesterday.’

  ‘You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘He phoned me, last night, saying he’d met someone. You fit the description.’ She paused, fumbling in the pocket of the dressing gown for a cigarette. ‘It’s called friendship,’ she said bitterly, ‘in case you were wondering.’

  Kingdom sat back in the chair, saying nothing. Rain drummed at the window. At length he bent forward, offering Mrs Feasey a match, smelling the shower gel again. She must have been ready for bed, he thought. She might even have been half-asleep when he started ringing the front door bell.

  ‘Tell me about the house,’ he said softly. ‘I want to know about the house.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  She looked down at him a moment then finally sank into the chair opposite. A tiny flicker beneath her left eye betrayed her exhaustion and Kingdom began to wonder exactly how much stress the average human being could take. This woman’s last couple of years would have been enough for anyone. It was a miracle she was still in one piece. Strength, Kingdom thought again. And immense courage.

  ‘You had the key for an hour,’ he said. ‘Were you alone?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head vigorously, as if to dislodge something. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So what did you do with the key?’

  ‘I looked round the house.’

  ‘But why do that? If you couldn’t buy it?’

  She glanced up at him, then away again. She looked haunted now, and the accent in her voice was a little stronger.

  ‘Someone else,’ she muttered, ‘I was looking on behalf of someone else.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘They wanted a second opinion.’

  ‘A woman’s view?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Kingdom nodded. ‘So who was he?’

  There was a long silence. Then she shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Please. Don’t.’

  She was on her feet again, looking at the photos, and it took Kingdom a moment or two to realise that the tears were genuine. Real grief. Real despair.

  ‘Someone’s husband?’ he said. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  She nodded, turning her head away, covering her eyes with her hand. ‘Yes, she whispered. ‘Something like that.’

  *

  Kingdom left the flat an hour and a half later. He’d led her back to the house on Hayling Island a thousand times, trying to pin her down, asking for a name, an address, just a little more information about this mystery friend for whom she’d been doing a favour. But the blunter his questions became, the more reluctant she was to continue the conversation. The man’s wife, she implied, had been a good friend. Nothing had happened. Nothing would ever happen. But the woman concerned was jealous by nature and deeply vulnerable. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her.

  At last, recognising the futility of pressing any harder, Kingdom had changed the subject. Without explaining why, he asked her about her movements in recent weeks. Specifically, he was interested in weekends. How did she normally spend her Saturday nights? Who could vouch for her whereabouts on Sundays? Composed again, Mrs Feasey had answered the questions with a weary indifference. Saturday nights, she said, were easy. She’d been at work. As for Sundays … She’d shrugged, shepherding Kingdom out into the narrow, dark little hall, handing him his coat, indicating the open bedroom door, explaining that daytimes were reserved for sleeping. Sundays included. Kingdom had asked for corroboration, the name of someone who could confirm the arrangement, but she’d shaken her head. How can I do that, she’d asked coldly, when I sleep alone?

  Now, Kingdom found a phone box. Allder, according to his secretary, was still at lunch. After that, he had a meeting at the Home Office. The earliest he’d be back was four. He thanked her and dialled another number, police headquarters in Winchester. The switchboard answered and he asked for Special Branch. The line went dead for a moment, then the duty sergeant came on.

  ‘Rob Scarman, please,’ Kingdom said. ‘Tell him it’s urgent.’

  Scarman came to the phone at once. The two men exchanged greetings and Scarman mentioned Arthur Sperring. Apparently he’d been boasting about some lead or other, crumbs he’d tossed to Micky Allder.

  ‘He’s right,’ Kingdom said grimly, ‘more right than he fucking knows.’

  He explained about Ethne Feasey. He said he had nothing concrete but he was certain she’d repay a little further investment. Kingdom began to describe one or two bits of the conversation he’d just had but Scarman cut him short.

  ‘What are we talking?’ he said. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I want her watched. And I want a tap.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon as possible.’

  ‘Have you got a warrant? For the tap?’

  ‘You’re joking. I’ve only just left her.’

  Scarman put the phone down a moment and Kingdom heard him talking to someone else. Then he came back.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘Leave it to me.’

  Kingdom gave him the address and the phone number he’d memorised during his visit to the flat. The phone number would save a lot of time with the telephone tap. With the right authority, both incoming and outgoing calls could be intercepted at the exchange.

  Kingdom paused. ‘Got all that?’

  Scarman said yes. ‘Arthur’s worried,’ he added, ‘thinks you’re not to be trusted.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Christ, no. Quite the reverse. Means he thinks you might be getting somewhere.’ Scarman began to laugh and then put the phone down.

  Kingdom was still grinning when he got through to his next number. The receptionist at the Queen Alexandra Accident and Emergency Department confirmed that Dr Hubbard was on duty. She answered her bleep within seconds.

  ‘Jo? Alan …’

  ‘Hi.’

  Kingdom’s grin widened. Their last encounter hadn’t quite exhausted her patience. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m in Pompey tonight. Thought we might eat.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘I’m interested in that Scottish thing you mentioned. That adventure course. Remember?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought I might try it myself. You take any snaps at all?’

  ‘Loads.’

  ‘Great.’ He paused, gazing out at the rain. ‘Then why don’t you bring them along?’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Are you serious about going to Scotland? Do you know what you’d be in for?’

  ‘No,’ Kingdom grinned, ‘tell me.’

  They were sitting in a harbour-side pub in Old Portsmouth. It was still early, half-past six, and the last of the sunshine gilded the churning tide beneath the big picture windows. Jo Hubbard selected one of the photos she’d spread on the table between them. It showed a sweep of broken rock climbing steeply towards a leaden sky. Looking at the photo, Kingdom could count six shades of grey.

  ‘Day one,’ Jo said, ‘Ben Leacach.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A mountain. Bloody big one, too. You climb it before lunch. All of you. Regardless.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The weather. The wind, especially.’ She took the photo out of his hand and studied it fondly. ‘That day wasn’t too bad
. Twenty, twenty-five knots. Apparently it gets tricky when you can’t stand up.’

  ‘But you got to the top?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked genuinely startled. ‘Too right we did.’

  Kingdom reached for his beer. He’d picked her up half an hour earlier. She’d just got in from the hospital and he’d waited in the car outside the neat little terrace house while she fed the cats and changed into jeans and a big old rollneck sweater. The more he saw of her, he thought, the more he liked her. She was always so cheerful and uncomplicated. She had a sense of optimism so powerful it was almost catching.

  ‘Then there’s this,’ she said, selecting another photo and passing it across.

  Kingdom studied it. Half a dozen people stood knee-deep in peaty brown water. Floating amongst them were a gaggle of single-seat canoes. Kingdom peered at the faces. Ethne Feasey’s wet-suit was black and purple and she’d tied her hair in a tight blonde bun at the back. Another storm was looming over the mountains in the distance and she looked less than happy.

  ‘So what kind of people go on these courses?’ Kingdom asked. ‘What should I expect?’

  ‘All sorts. Young, old, men, women …’ Jo shrugged. ‘You all muck in. There’s nothing fancy up there. You just get on with it. All you really need is a sense of humour. And a reasonable degree of fitness, of course. That helps.’

  ‘But why do people go? What makes them want to do these things?’ Kingdom fingered another of Jo’s photos. A man in his forties was hanging off a cliff face, supported by a harness and two lengths of rope. The sea boiled on the rocks several hundred feet below.

  Jo grinned. ‘People like that guy have no choice,’ she said. ‘He was volunteered.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘His firm. The centre runs leadership courses for key managers. Companies decide who they want to send along and the people at the centre do the rest. They swear it’s character-forming.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘Depends who you talk to.’ She nodded at the photo. ‘He’d tell you it was a waste of time.’

  Kingdom inspected the photo again. The man on the cliff looked terrified. His glasses were pebbled with rain and his knuckles were white with strain.

  ‘Was this some kind of punishment?’ Kingdom inquired. ‘What exactly had the guy done?’