‘Nothing. His big mistake was owning up.’
‘To what?’
‘Vertigo.’
Kingdom blinked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. If you’ve got a weak spot, they’ll find it. It’s almost part of the contract.’
‘And this was a holiday?’
‘Yeah, for people like me it was. You don’t have to be on one of these leadership courses. You can just go for the ride. Choose what you want to do. Design yourself an individual course. They call it “Pick and Mix”.’
‘And you enjoyed it?’
‘Loved it. It was a laugh. A rage. Totally brilliant.’
‘They didn’t find your weak spot?’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Well,’ Jo grinned, looking down at the photos again, ‘only snakes, and there aren’t too many of those in Scotland.’
She passed him more shots. She’d seen a feature on the place, she said, in one of the Sunday magazines. It was tucked away on the Isle of Skye, miles from anywhere, the brainchild of an ex-soldier. He’d been running it now for nearly fifteen years, and it was still known by the name he’d given the place when he first settled.
‘What was that?’
‘An Carraig. It’s Gaelic for the rock. You’ll understand when you get there. The place is a real wilderness.’
Kingdom nodded, thinking of Ethne Feasey again, wondering how she’d ended up at a place like this. Jo was telling him about the routines, the demands the course made on you, the unspoken acceptance that you were there to do your best, to stretch yourself in ways you’d never done before. The living conditions, she said, were frankly spartan and the weather was frequently awful. Each new day brought a fresh set of physical challenges, most of them terrifying, but the instructors were excellent and after a while it began to dawn on you that you might survive. After that, you began to get the hang of it. And after that, if you were lucky, something rather magical happened.
‘What?’ Kingdom inquired drily.
Jo was looking out of the window now. There’d been some kind of race offshore and a line of dinghies were making their way back into the harbour, the wind behind them, their sails gull-winged. In the gathering dusk, they looked like birds.
‘It’s hard,’ she said at last, ‘to describe.’
‘Try.’
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s got something to do with self-belief, self-respect. At least, that’s what they tell you. But it’s more than that. Much more. It’s like’ – she frowned – ‘you’ve opened a box and taken a look inside. Until you’ve done it, until it’s happened to you, you didn’t even know the box existed.’ She shrugged. ‘But now it just makes everything different, somehow. It’s very raw, very powerful. You just know you’ve been there and done it. It’s very special.’
‘Very private?’
‘No, not really, not when you’re with other people, because they’ve got the box too, and they can look inside. Maybe that’s what makes it so special. While you’re there you get close, really close. Yeah …’ She nodded, still gazing out at the dinghies.
Kingdom picked up a photo he’d had his eye on for some time. Three people were squatting in a group in front of a small ridge tent. One of them was Ethne Feasey. Another, Jo. The third, an older man, knelt between them, his arms around both of them.
‘Is that what you’re talking about?’
Kingdom passed the photo across, indicating the same huge grin on both women’s faces.
Jo glanced at the photo and nodded. ‘Exactly. That’s it exactly. The last day, day ten. We’d made it. We’d got there. You can see it, can’t you?’
Kingdom smiled, understanding perfectly. ‘And do you keep up afterwards?’ he asked. ‘Friends for life?’
‘You mean this woman? And me?’
‘Yes.’
Jo looked at the photo again. ‘Off and on,’ she said. ‘We’ve certainly been in touch.’
‘And does she feel the way you do? The box? The magic?’
Jo hesitated a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘To be honest I think that particular lady’s had a few problems. It’s nothing she’s said but, you know … you sometimes get the feeling …’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘But didn’t you get close? Isn’t that what you just said?’
‘Yes, of course. But some things, private things, I dunno … I got the impression with her that the holiday was some kind of present, maybe from her son, something to cheer her up. I think her husband had left her but it wasn’t something she ever wanted to talk about …’
‘And you’d respect that?’
‘Of course.’
Kingdom nodded. One of the Isle of Wight car ferries was pushing out against the tide. He could see the passengers queueing at the bar.
‘When were you up there,’ he said, ‘as a matter of interest?’
‘March.’
Kingdom nodded, his earlier guess confirmed. By that time, he thought, Ethne Feasey had been a widow for four months, and a bankrupt for slightly longer. With that much grief, most people would have welcomed a shoulder to cry on, but Ethne wasn’t one of them. Of that, Kingdom was certain. She had too much pride, too much self-respect. He’d seen it only hours ago, talking to her in that Godforsaken room.
‘You’ve seen her a lot, you say? Since?’
‘Once.’
‘And you got the photos out? Compared notes?’
Jo said nothing, reaching for her beer. She was on her second pint, a warm, nutty, slightly sweet brew that Kingdom had never tasted before. She took a couple of mouthfuls, eyeing the photos. Then she put her glass down and sat back against the padded seat.
‘Are you really going to Scotland?’ she said quietly. ‘Only you might as well be honest.’
‘Me? You mean why am I here?’
‘Yes.’
Kingdom looked at her for a long time. Too many questions about Ethne Feasey, he thought. Too obvious. Too crude. ‘What else might I be doing?’ he asked lightly.
‘I don’t know. I can think of a couple of things.’
‘Such as?’
She shrugged. ‘There’s the obvious, I suppose. You might … fancy your chances.’
‘With you, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Or?’ Kingdom smiled. ‘Is there another option?’
‘I dunno.’ She shrugged again. ‘You’re a policeman, a detective. It must be your living, asking questions. You tell me.’
Kingdom frowned, turning his head away, not answering. He’d toyed all afternoon with coming clean about his interest in the photos but his instincts told him to hold off. The direct line to the mountain top was seldom the best route up. As Jo would doubtless know.
‘I’m not here to make a pass at you,’ he said, ‘if that’s the worry.’
‘Good.’
‘Why good?’
‘Because it would be a shame to spoil all this’, she grinned at him, gesturing at the photos and the beer, ‘when I’m enjoying it so much.’
‘Quite.’ Kingdom toasted her with his glass. ‘Boyfriend?’ he inquired. ‘Husband?’
‘Neither.’ She hesitated for a moment, ‘I’m gay.’
‘Ah …’ Kingdom nodded, feeling suddenly foolish. ‘Silly me.’
‘You hadn’t guessed?’
‘No, not at all.’ He paused. ‘On the contrary.’
‘Good. Not that it matters, eh?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘Good,’ she said again, ‘just thought I’d clear it up, that’s all. Just in case …’ She beamed at him across the table, bright-eyed again, mischievous, and for a moment Kingdom wondered whether she was lying. He’d never heard of women pretending they were gay, not under these circumstances, but he could see how effective the tactic might be. He reached for the photograph of the threesome outside the tent.
‘I’m not bei
ng nosey,’ he said, ‘but you and this lady … you weren’t …’
Jo followed his pointing finger, then began to laugh. ‘Ethne? And me? No, definitely not.’ She shook her head. ‘No way.’
‘Not interested?’
‘Not remotely. Quite the reverse, in fact. Can’t you see?’
She nodded at the photo and Kingdom picked it up again, taking a second look at the man kneeling between the two women. He seemed older than both of them, early fifties perhaps. He had a big, windburned face and the lean, spare features of someone who exercised a great deal. He was wearing an old green sweatshirt and his legs were bare under the khaki shorts. His hair, greying but cropped brutally short, gave the smile a certain edge.
‘Who is he?’ Kingdom asked. ‘Volunteer or pressed man?’
‘Neither.’ Jo laughed, still gazing at the photo. ‘Ethne called him Akela. Used to drive him nuts. She was great that way. Nothing fazed her. Absolutely nothing. Whatever he made her do, no matter how tough it was, she just took it in her stride. Imagine. A middle-aged woman. Diving. Abseiling. Running up and down mountains. Whatever it was, she just got on with it, gave it her best shot. No wonder he …’ she began to laugh again as Kingdom completed the sentence.
‘…fell for her?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘Head over heels. Complete infatuation.’
‘And did they …?’
‘Get it on?’
Kingdon nodded.
‘I honestly don’t know. Maybe not. But that wasn’t the point. He was besotted with her. I’d never seen it quite like that before. He just couldn’t get enough of her. Looking at her. Being with her. Talking to her. Showing her how to do things. Incredible. Potty about her. Absolutely nuts.’
‘She’s an attractive woman,’ Kingdom pointed out, not bothering to look at the photograph.
‘I know. I know. She is. We all thought that. But even so …’
‘What?’
‘I dunno. He was just …’ She shrugged. ‘Like a puppy. That’s what made it so funny, I suppose. Here was this big butch man, you know, Mr Tough Guy. Been everywhere, seen it all, done it all, waded through the muck and bullets, trust him with your life. All that. And along comes dear old Ethne and he starts behaving like a two-year-old. Sweet, really …’ She shook her head, thinking about it, then swallowed another mouthful of beer.
Kingdom was watching her carefully. Take it easy, he told himself. You’re simply here to look at a handful of holiday snaps. End of a busy day. Act knackered. He began to flick through some of the other photos, smothering a yawn.
‘So was he an instructor, this bloke? Does he work at the place?’ Kingdom glanced up, aware of Jo looking at him.
The expression on her face was a mixture of amusement and pity. ‘Akela?’ she prompted. ‘You ever read Kipling?’
‘No.’
‘Then you should. Akela’s the leader. The boss. The one in charge. What Akela says, goes.’
‘So chummy here …’ Kingdom tried to find the photo.
Jo was nodding now, all smiles. ‘Exactly,’ she said, ‘he’s the one who owns the place. He’s the one’ – she spotted the photo and picked it up – ‘who started it all.’
A couple of minutes later, Jo left the table and went to the lavatory. While she was gone, Kingdom sorted quickly through the photographs. The shot outside the tent he put in his pocket. The rest he began to shuffle into a pile. In doing so he came across another photo he hadn’t seen before. It featured half a dozen or so people milling around the end of a stone quay. Moored to the quay was a white motor cruiser. It was broad in the beam, with a long cabin forward. It looked tough and workmanlike and there was a sizable rubber dinghy tied up alongside. Across the stern, in blue letters, the motor cruiser carried the name Catherine May, and the man Ethne had called Akela was standing in the well. He was bigger than the first photo had suggested, at least six feet tall, powerfully built. By now, Kingdom knew his real name. Jo had written it down for him, along with the address of the adventure centre. Dave, she’d said, Dave Gifford. He was the one to write to if Kingdom was serious about putting himself to the test.
Kingdom was studying the photo when Jo returned.
‘His pride and joy,’ she said, looking over Kingdom’s shoulder. ‘He even let Ethne have a go.’
‘Off by themselves? Into the sunset?’
‘Hardly. We were all on board.’ She nodded at the group on the quay. ‘But only Ethne got to steer the thing.’
She turned away, reaching for her coat, and Kingdom palmed the second print into his pocket. Then he put the rest of the photos into Jo’s envelope and touched her lightly on the arm.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘let’s go eat.’
The restaurant was across the road. Outside the pub they stood for a moment by the water. It was nearly dark now and one of the big cross-Channel ferries was nosing out through the narrow harbour mouth. The ship looked brand new, a wall of white steel towering above them. There were passengers clustered at the rail, dim black dots up on the top decks, and Jo lifted an arm, waving at them. Kingdom was amused, watching her.
‘They won’t be able to see you,’ he pointed out, ‘not down here.’
‘So what?’ she said, still waving.
The restaurant specialised in local fish. Over sea bass and braised vegetables, Kingdom talked about his father. He’d managed to get through to the hospital again, while he’d waited for the car ferry on the Isle of Wight, and the consultant had told him a little more about the operation. They’d had to insert a metal rod into Ernie’s shattered thigh bone, reconnecting the severed ends. Kingdom thought he’d used a German word.
‘Kuntscher,’ Jo said, mopping the juices on her plate with a slice of French bread. ‘It’s called a Kuntscher nail. It’s standard procedure, a case like that.’
Kingdom nodded, recognising the phrase. ‘So what’s the outcome?’ he said. ‘What happens next?’
‘He’ll stay there for a bit while they try and mobilise it. He’ll need lots of physio. It’ll be bloody painful. Really nasty. Poor man.’
‘But how long will they keep him?’
Jo shrugged. ‘Depends. They tend to be very aggressive these days. Get people on their feet as soon as possible. It’s beds, really. They need throughput to keep the accountants happy. It’s called productivity.’
‘He’s seventy-three,’ Kingdom pointed out. ‘Does that make any difference?’
‘Of course it does. It means he’ll be there longer. That makes him a management nightmare. Daring to be injured at that age …’
She shook her head, refusing to take the conversation any further, and Kingdom thought of the last time he’d seen his father, grey with pain on a stretcher in some hospital corridor. They’d wheeled Ernie away when he wasn’t looking, and in his bleaker moments Kingdom wondered whether he’d ever see the old man again.
Jo reached for another piece of bread and Kingdom tried to rid his mind of the image of his father. Motor cruiser, he told himself. With an inflatable dinghy.
‘This guy Dave Gifford,’ he said casually, ‘Mr Akela. What exactly did he do? In the Army?’
‘Not sure. There was a kind of bunkhouse they’d built where we had our meals and there was some regimental stuff up on the walls. Photos, the odd shield.’ She frowned. ‘Royal Marines? That sound about right?’
‘Yes. Could be. Or the SAS. Or the Paras.’
‘No,’ Jo shook her head, emphatic, ‘it definitely wasn’t the Paras. That was his son. His son had been in the Paras. They were always going on about it. The son used to call him a cabbagehead. No,’ she shook her head again, ‘Dave Gifford must have been in the Marines. I’m sure of it.’
Kingdom was leaning forward now, newly alert. Another Gifford. Another ex-soldier. But younger. ‘Son?’ he said idly.
‘Yes, he had a boy, Andy. I say boy. He must have been in his late twenties, maybe older. It was hard to tell. He had one of those faces.’
; ‘And built like his dad, I expect. Brick shit-house.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘Andy was much smaller, slighter. Not much taller than me, actually. That’s why he’d gone into the Paras. That’s why Dave couldn’t resist all the little digs.’ She looked up. ‘Dave used to call him “PS” when Andy said he was a cabbagehead.’
‘PS?’
‘Yes. We all assumed it was something to do with an afterthought, you know, a kid that comes along late in a marriage. But it turned out to stand for Pint Sized. Didn’t do too much for Andy, as you might imagine. He was nice, actually. What I saw of him. Very quiet. Very thoughtful. Not like Dave at all.’
‘And is he in these snaps? The ones you took?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He wasn’t around that much. He helped on one or two of the abseiling days but not much else. Apparently he was writing a book of some kind. I think he was just up in Skye for a couple of months. His real home was in London.’
Kingdom nodded, saying nothing. One more question, he thought. One more tiny question. He looked at Jo. Her mouth was shiny with melted butter. He reached across with his napkin, wiping it away, deciding that it no longer mattered about cover, about his fantasy trip to Scotland. Not now, not this far down the road.’
‘Tell me,’ he said carefully, ‘this Andy’s eyes. What colour were they?’
Jo stared at him a moment. Her fingertips stopped exploring the corner of her mouth. ‘Blue,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t miss them.’
Kingdom phoned Rob Scarman at midnight. Scarman was in bed with his wife. Kingdom didn’t waste time on apologies.
‘Did the tap go on?’
‘What?’
‘Mrs Feasey’s place. In Shanklin.’
There was a long pause. Kingdom heard the squeal of bed-springs and the pad of Scarman’s footsteps as he went to another extension. When he came back on the line his voice was icy.
‘You never mentioned she’d been wired before,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well, she’s already on line. In fact we nearly ended up with two taps.’
‘Great,’ Kingdom laughed, ‘stereo.’
‘Very funny. Gower Street are taking first bite, though when I asked they seemed surprised we should be interested.’
Sabbathman Page 33
