‘Shit.’ Kingdom whistled softly. ‘And Cousins let it run? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘God knows. We’re still working on that.’ He paused, the old briskness creeping back. ‘Thanks for the address, by the way. Queen’s Gate Gardens. Shame you didn’t tell us who lived there.’
‘Why?’
‘They destroyed the place. Took it apart.’
‘Yeah?’ Kingdom grinned, trying to imagine the artists from the A-T Squad with their sledge-hammers and their hydraulic jacks getting to work on the cool grey spaces of Cousins’ flat. ‘So what did they find? Any maps?’
‘No.’
‘Petrol receipts?’
‘One. From a BP place. Near Leeming.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘On the A1.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ Allder was chuckling again, ‘a Lee Enfield Enforcer. SAS-issue. One shot expended from the magazine. He’d parked it in his airing cupboard. If that’s not arrogance, I’d like to know what fucking is.’
Kingdom nodded, grunting in agreement. The day-sack was on the bed beside him and he could see the dull metal butt of his own weapon, still wrapped in yesterday’s T-shirt.
‘So where is he?’ Kingdom inquired, ‘our Mr Cousins?’
‘No one knows.’
‘Have you tried Gower Street?’
‘Of course. They’re saying he’s away. Operationally involved is the phrase they’re using.’ He paused. ‘How’s it going, by the way? You OK up there?’
Ten minutes later, in agony again, Kingdom was crawling back to the spring behind the hut. Another immersion returned the numbness to his ankle and when he looked at it closely he began to wonder exactly how serious the damage was. Already, it was mid-afternoon. Getting back down the path to the valley floor was out of the question. In a couple of hours, it would be dark.
He returned to the hut on all fours, hauling himself into the chair at the table. From here he had a perfect view of An Carraig, although it was several minutes before he realised that the minibus was back on the hardstanding beside the huts. He reached for the binoculars, sweeping the area, coming to rest on the tiny whitewashed house. The front door was open, one of the dogs backing out into the sunshine. Its tail was wagging and the loudest of the barks drifted up through the still air. Kingdom adjusted the focus a little. Seconds later, Dave Gifford emerged. He was wearing trousers and a blazer. He’d even run a comb through his hair. He turned, making a gesture with his left hand, and another figure stepped out of the house. He was taller, younger, blonder. He was wearing jeans and a suede jacket. He was laughing at some joke or other, looking round, enjoying himself.
Kingdom froze at the table, recognising the smile, the easy manner, the attentive nod. The pub, he thought. The pub round the corner from the Home Office. The pub where he’d spent half the evening watching Annie in conversation with a total stranger. This same man below him now. The way he’d played her. The way he’d let her blather on. The angler with the fish. The musician with the prize instrument. What he’d done to her. Where it had all ended. Allder had been right. His phrase. His description. Mr Hugh fucking Cousins.
Kingdom watched for a second or two longer, making quite sure, then he put the binoculars down and reached for the day-sack, pulling out the Browning, checking the magazine, working the slider backwards and forwards, knowing at last what he had to do.
NINETEEN
It was dark by the time Andy Gifford returned to the hut. Kingdom heard his footsteps outside and then a pause as he caught his breath after the long climb. Kingdom was still on the bed, lying full length, his left leg propped up on the day-sack. The only time he’d moved in the last two hours was to call Dave Gifford at the house below. He’d told him he’d walked as far as a village called Elgol. He’d got the name from a map on Andy’s table. He said he’d be staying until next day. Then he’d be back.
Now, Kingdom reached for the Browning in the darkness. The door opened and he could see the outline of Andy Gifford’s slight frame silhouetted against the starlight. The door closed again and Kingdom waited until Andy had found the matches for the Tilley lamp.
‘It’s me, Andy,’ he said quietly, ‘and I have a weapon.’
Andy paused for no more than a second. Then he put the lamp on the desk and lit it. Kingdom stirred, the heavy automatic steady in his right hand.
‘On the table,’ he said, ‘on top of the typewriter.’
In the warm yellow light of the Tilley, he could see Andy examining the ID he’d left earlier. The photograph would put it beyond doubt. Alan Kingdom. Special Branch. New Scotland Yard. Andy looked round for the first time, ignoring the gun.
‘What’s wrong with your leg?’
‘It’s the ankle. I think it’s broken.’
‘How come?’
‘I fell. This morning. On the way up.’
‘You’ve been here since this morning?’
‘Yes.’
Andy nodded, looking at the table again. Kingdom hadn’t bothered returning the photos to the drawer. They were neatly arranged beside the typewriter, each set in their separate envelopes, chronological order, Blanche at the top, Marcus Wolfe at the bottom.
‘You’ve been through all these?’
‘Yes.’
‘Been up in the roof at all?’
Andy indicated the trap door in the ceiling. Kingdom had made one attempt to lever himself up, using the chair for support, but had given up after the first fall.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I thought you’d save me the trouble.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What’s up there.’
‘You know what’s up there.’ He paused. ‘The guns are up there.’
‘Thank you.’
Andy smiled, saying nothing. Finally he laughed, the softest of chuckles, and reached for the bag he’d brought up from An Carraig. Kingdom watched him carefully, levelling the automatic at his head, but Andy ignored the warning.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘even if I had a weapon, I wouldn’t shoot a cripple.’
He produced a tin of tobacco and some Rizla papers. On the window-sill, beside the binoculars, was a small carved wooden box that Kingdom had noticed earlier. Andy opened it, removing a lump of something black. Then he began to roll two cigarettes, crumbling the black resin onto the tobacco.
‘How bad’s the ankle?’ he asked, not looking up.
‘Bad. Hurts like a bastard.’
‘Pity.’ He lifted the first of the roll-ups and moistened the edge of the paper with his tongue. ‘I haven’t got anything fancy but this might help.’
He stepped across the hut and dropped the cigarette beside Kingdom’s hand. Kingdom left it where it lay, the gun still trained on Andy as he returned to the table and lit his own cigarette. The bitter-sweet smell of the cannabis drifted across the room.
Andy picked a shred of tobacco from his upper lip. ‘Am I under arrest,’ he said at last, ‘or what?’
Kingdom didn’t answer. He hadn’t smoked dope since Belfast. Annie, he thought, and those mysterious little matchboxes she’d acquire from an unnamed source at Stormont Castle. The stuff had been sensational, Dutch origin, the softest cosh in the world.
Andy was still waiting for a reply. ‘So why did you do it?’ Kingdom asked him at last. ‘That’s what I really want to know.’
‘Is this on the record? Are you making notes, or what?’
‘No,’ Kingdom shook his head, ‘just asking, that’s all.’
Andy nodded slowly, upending the lid from the tobacco tin to catch the falling ash, and Kingdom could see the disappointment in his face. He and Kingdom had been friends. They’d been in the mountains together. They’d walked and talked. They’d compared notes. And now this.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he said at last. ‘What difference would it make?’
‘Are you denying it?’
‘The editor bloke, definitely. The rest, no.’
‘You killed them?’
‘Yes.’
‘And sent the notes afterwards?’
‘Obviously.’
‘For Dave? For your dad? Was that it?’
Andy studied him a moment, amused. Then he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Dave had nothing to do with it.’
‘But he knew what you were up to? He approved?’
Andy was watching him now, reluctant to go any further, refusing to taint his father with any confession of his own. Kingdom put the gun down, settling back against the pillow.
‘Tell me about Dave,’ he said softly, ‘and the woman, Ethne.’
For the first time, Kingdom took Andy by surprise. He could see it in his face, the way he ducked his head.
‘Ethne Feasey?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Kingdom paused. ‘They met up here, didn’t they? Wasn’t that it?’
Andy studied him for a long time, toying with some private decision. Finally, he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he tried to get her into bed. Gave it his very best shot. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
‘And?’
Andy shrugged. ‘He fell in love with the woman. He found out what had happened to her, all the stuff about her business, and the bank pulling out, and her husband killing himself, and that did it for him. Turned her into something really special.’
‘And he meant it?’
‘Absolutely. Dave can’t lie. It’s not in his make-up. What he does, he does body and soul. With Dave you get the works. Nothing held back. He’s a puppy like that.’ He smiled to himself. ‘Daft old bugger.’
Kingdom said nothing for a moment, watching the shadows dancing across Andy’s face. He could see the love the man had for his father, a fondness that was all the more complex for being so clear-eyed.
‘So Dave must have known,’ he pointed out.
‘Known what?’
‘About the killings. You and that list of yours. Blanche. Bairstow. The rest of them …’
Andy frowned, trying to avoid a straight answer. Finally, he gave up. ‘Sure,’ he admitted, ‘Dave knew.’
‘And did he approve?’
‘No, I told you. He did nothing.’
‘That wasn’t my question. I asked you whether he approved.’ He paused. ‘Approval’s not a crime, not in my book. I’m just curious, that’s all. I want to know how he felt about it all. Whether he thought you were crazy. Whether he thought you were wrong.’
‘Dave?’ Andy shook his head. ‘He was for it. Definitely.’
‘Why?’
‘Because …’ He shrugged. ‘The business over the bridge just finished him. He thinks the whole thing’s a fix. He thinks they’re all spivs, in it for the money. He says the only thing they’ll ever understand is the bullet. If he had his way, I’d be doing seven a week. Starting with the cabinet.’
‘That picture. The one in The Citizen–’
Andy nodded. ‘Dave’s idea. He’d been sounding off about the defence bloke for a while, the minister, something to do with getting rid of regimental bands. Dave was always big on music. It meant a lot to him. Apparently the guy was going to some festival or other. Down in Kent. He wanted me to sort him out.’
‘Kill him? The Minister of Defence?’
‘Yes. He didn’t mean it, of course. And I wouldn’t have done it, either.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too public. Too much security. I’m not that crazy …’
‘But you’re saying that Dave sent the picture? To The Citizen?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I did the words but the photo was Dave’s idea. Made his day when they printed it. Bought six copies for his scrap book. Down at the shop by the ferry. Newsagent was amazed.’
Kingdom closed his eyes a moment. ‘So Dave approved,’ he mused aloud, ‘but who planned it?’
‘I did, the nuts and bolts. Leave it to Dave and we’d have been banged up in seconds. He’s great with the blacks and whites but fucking useless with the rest.’
‘So you did the recces?’ The preparations? Everything else?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded at the photos on the table. ‘You’ve seen the evidence. Must have. You weren’t up here to watch the seals …’ He paused. ‘Were you?’
Kingdom was inspecting his ankle again. ‘No,’ he said drily, ‘I wasn’t.’ He looked up. ‘So Dave did approve. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’ Andy nodded. ‘Approved, but that’s all. He thought they were animals, scum. He thought they had it coming to them. Like I say, the rest was down to me. Planning, reconnaissance,’ he smiled, ‘execution.’
‘And you enjoyed it?’
‘I did it.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It was a job. Where I come from, you just get on with it. You’re trained that way. You pick up certain skills, and when the time comes …’ He levelled two fingers at an imaginary spot in the darkness beyond the window. ‘Whammo!’
Kingdom watched him for a moment. The book, he thought. The Falklands. Lots of whammo. And lots of other things that had nothing to do with this neat, orderly dispatch of five sitting targets. Like slaughter, real slaughter, and shredded flesh, and the smoking remains of very close friends.
Kingdom reached for the cigarette and Andy smiled again, tossing him the matches. Kingdom lit the roll-up, lying back, taking down the first deep lungful of smoke, holding it there, wondering whether it would get as far as his ankle.
‘What did Dave say when he read the book?’ he asked at last.
‘What book?’
‘The Falklands book you wrote.’
Andy frowned. ‘He hated it,’ he said finally. ‘That was a real problem. Serial killing was fine by him, as long as I slotted the right blokes. But Longdon, shit, he went ape.’
‘Why?’
‘He thought I’d been disloyal.’
‘To the regiment?’
‘To my mates.’
Kingdom took another long pull at the cigarette. Already, the cannabis was beginning to work, stealing through him, relaxing him, loosening his grip a little.
‘Dave was wrong,’ he said quietly.
‘You’ve read it?’ Andy was staring at him now. ‘How come?’
‘I thought it was important.’
‘It is. Except no fucker will give it shelf space.’
‘They can’t. It’s not on sale.’
‘That’s what I meant.’
There was something new in Andy’s voice, a bitterness that Kingdom hadn’t heard before. We’re getting closer, he thought.
‘So what did Dave object to,’ he said at last, ‘specifically?’
Andy was brooding now, his elbows on his knees, his head bent low. ‘He thought I had no right to say what I said. The way I said it. That’s what it boiled down to. That’s what he really meant. He thought it was none of my business. He thought I should never have started the fucking thing, let alone get it into print.’
‘Why?’
‘Because war’s supposed to be a secret, what really happens, what it’s really like. People don’t need that in their lives. They shouldn’t know. They shouldn’t be told. That’s Dave’s line.’
‘Shouldn’t be told what?’
‘The truth.’
‘About what?’
‘About war.’
‘You mean that war? The Falklands? Longdon?’
‘I mean all war. Any war. War, period. Vietnam. Bosnia. Normandy. The Somme. Makes no difference. Dave knows that and so does anyone else who’s ever been there.’
‘Including the politicians?’
‘You’re joking. They want to lock us up. Can you believe that? For killing the enemy?’
Kingdom lifted the cigarette again, remembering the inquiry now under way, the team of detectives dispatched to the Falklands, the holes they were digging on Longdon, looking for dead Argentinians.
‘It’s murder,’ Kingdom pointed out, ‘ki
lling men in cold blood.’
Andy stirred, the smile back on his face.
‘And war?’ he said, ‘What’s that?’
‘That’s different.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s just the same. It’s murder. That’s the problem. That’s Dave’s problem. No one ever talks about it. No one ever admits it. Everyone insists on keeping this silly fucking secret. War’s horrible. War’s obscene. No one survives it. Not even Dave. You either end up dead or maimed inside. And you know what?’
‘What?’
‘Maimed inside’s probably worse.’
Kingdom said nothing, letting the phrase sink in. For the first time he realised that Andy had probably been through some kind of post-traumatic stress counselling. Not that it seemed to have done him any good.
‘So you killed for that?’ he said at last. ‘Blanche? Bairstow? The rest of them? You killed them because war is so horrible? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I killed because no one listens. I killed to make a point.’
‘About what?’
‘The killing. Longdon. My mates. What we’ve all been through.’
‘So why didn’t you say so? In those notes of yours?’
‘You’re joking.’ He looked up. ‘I’d never have got off Jersey. Even your lot would have twigged. Crazed ex-Para in crusade for peace.’ He paused. ‘I thought I was close to the bone as it was. The line about Killing Zones.’
Kingdom returned the smile, remembering the phrase from the first of the communiques. ‘Welcome to the KZ’, it had begun.
‘So how come you chose those targets?’ he said after a while. ‘I understand Blanche. He’d have come from Dave, directly or indirectly. But what about the rest?’
Andy shrugged. ‘We’ve had a lot of people through here the last couple of years. You do a lot of talking, really get to know people. It’s almost part of the deal. The hills. The open air. People have a lot to get off their chests these days. Disappointment. Anger. Frustration. Believe me, there’s a lot of pain around. You’d be amazed.’
‘And you listened?’
Sabbathman Page 44
