Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  Andy shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Gordon Travis?’

  ‘No.’

  Kingdom saw the automatic jump in Cousins’ hand, heard the crack of the gunshot, watched the frayed denim around the new wound darken. Andy hadn’t made a sound. For the first time, there was a hint of impatience in Cousins’ voice. ‘You’re telling me your father’s making it up? There was no Gordon Travis? Tall guy? Short hair? Up from London?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t take him up the mountain? This Travis? Day before yesterday?’

  Andy shook his head, an almost imperceptible movement, his eyes closed now, and Kingdom marvelled at the man’s obstinacy, expending his last few ounces of courage in an act of simple defiance. He’d taken Cousins on, and for whatever reason, he’d lost. Yet even now, both knees smashed, he was claiming a kind of victory.

  Kingdom stood up. He had a rock in his left hand. He tossed it as hard as he could, beyond Cousins, watching it clatter amongst the loose pebbles on the other side of the hollow. Cousins reacted at once, moving sideways, away from Andy. A second later Kingdom fired, then again, feeling the big automatic kicking upwards in his hands, knowing at once that he’d missed. Cousins was a blur, footsteps on the stony ground. Then he’d gone.

  Kingdom gazed after him, imagining shapes in the mist, the sweat cold on his face. He called to Andy. There was no answer. He called again. Then he peered over the edge of the drop, wondering about the skirt of loose scree. Finally he sat down and pushed himself off, sliding down on a raft of moving stones, holding the big automatic away from his body. He came to rest at the foot of the slope and struggled to his feet, limping across to Andy. Andy hadn’t moved. Blood had pooled around both knees, the flesh pulped beneath the shredded denim, and Kingdom shuddered at the implications. He’d seen injuries like this in Belfast. Short of a miracle, Andy’s days in the mountains were over.

  Andy began to stir, one eye opening. He groaned as Kingdom knelt beside him and muttered something that Kingdom didn’t catch. Kingdom stood up, pulling off his anorak and draping it across Andy’s legs. As he did so, Andy’s hand found his. This time, Kingdom understood every word.

  ‘Shoot the fucker,’ Andy whispered. ‘Kill him.’

  Kingdom nodded, looking down. It had started to rain again and Andy’s tongue was out, licking the moisture from his lips. His face had turned the colour of putty and he was beginning to shake with cold and shock. Kingdom squeezed his hand, searching the gloom for some sign of Cousins, finding nothing. The man had simply disappeared. Andy was peering up at him now, bewildered, but Kingdom was still watching the line of rocks beyond the edge of the hollow, waiting for Cousins to make a move. The rain, if anything, had got heavier.

  He glanced down at Andy a moment. Andy was trying to tell him something, his lips moving, his eyes dulled with pain. Kingdom knelt quickly beside him.

  ‘What is it?’ He put a hand to Andy’s cheek, comforting him.

  Andy was trying to move, levering his body up on one elbow, his breath coming in shallow gasps, a single word forming and reforming. ‘There,’ he managed at last, ‘there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There.’

  He made a vague gesture, a limp movement of one arm before collapsing and Kingdom suddenly understood what it was he was trying to say. He heard the voice first, pleasant, cultured, matter-of-fact.

  ‘Put the gun down,’ it said, ‘and then stand up.’

  Kingdom did what he was told, his ankle throbbing.

  ‘Turn round.’

  Kingdom executed a clumsy pirouette. Cousins was five yards away. He must have circled the hollow, emerging from the rocks behind them. He held the automatic in both hands, his arms out straight in front of his body, the classic pose.

  ‘Move to your left.’

  ‘This guy needs–’ Kingdom nodded at Andy.

  ‘Just do it.’

  The voice had hardened, Cousins making tiny leftward movements with the gun. Kingdom didn’t move, watching Cousins, oblivious now to Andy. The cassette, he thought. The things they’d done to her. Her screams on the tape. The choking noise she’d made at the end.

  ‘Tell me about Annie Meredith,’ he said thickly. ‘Tell me how she died. Tell me how you did it. And for fuck’s sake tell me why.’

  ‘I said move.’

  ‘No.’

  Cousins took half a step forward, dropping into a low crouch.

  Kingdom stared down at him, not caring any more. ‘Why?’ he said softly. ‘What did she matter to you?’

  Cousins didn’t answer. The bullet took Kingdom in the leg beneath his right knee, shattering the bone, and he folded onto the wet bracken, hearing the sound of his own scream echoing away into the mist. Kingdom’s hand found the wound and he began to curse, the blood already running down his calf. Cousins had retrieved the big Browning. He was bending over Andy, the way you might check whether someone was asleep. He paused a moment, long enough to see his eyes flicker open, then he put two bullets into his head, high above his ear, before thumbing the safety catch forward and pushing the Browning into the waistband of his jeans. Kingdom lay on the ground, staring at Andy. The bullets must have impacted on the rocky ground, ricocheting upwards again, shattering his skull. Where his face had been, there was nothing but blood, and bone, and gobbets of grey brain tissue.

  ‘Get up.’

  Kingdom didn’t move, aware of Cousins bending over him, hauling him upright. The man was immensely strong. Kingdom looked at him for a second or two, still in shock, then reached out, a gesture of supplication, asking for support, both hands finding a hold on the collar of Cousins’ waterproof, and Cousins hesitated for a moment, long enough for Kingdom to pull as hard as he could, driving his forehead into Cousins’ face. He heard the gristly sound of Cousins’ nose breaking and a gasp of pain as the big man sprang backwards, out of range. Cousins’ automatic lay between them on the black earth. Cousins kicked it away and then retrieved it, one hand to his face. When he spoke, the blood bubbled pinkly around his lips.

  ‘Foolish,’ he said, ‘very foolish.’

  There was another path back to the hut, winding down the side of the mountain beneath a rocky overhang dripping with rain. Kingdom moved slowly, one step at a time, trying to support his shattered leg as best he could, and Cousins followed behind him, pushing him forward when he paused to throw up. Only when they were back beside the hut did he call a halt, bending briefly to the spring and sluicing his own face with water. Kingdom collapsed on the wet peat, his leg folded beneath him, wiping the vomit from his sodden sweater. The last few minutes had numbed him. If he felt anything, it was a curious sense of detachment. What might happen next was irrelevant. All that mattered now was Annie. How she had died. And why.

  ‘Just tell me,’ he muttered, ‘just tell me why you did it.’

  Cousins was still mopping his face, examining the handkerchief as he did so. Hearing the question, he frowned. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘No. But you let it happen. You sent her. I know you did.’

  Cousins gave his face a final wipe and pocketed the handkerchief. ‘She was front-line. Operational. Her choice, not mine. Hard to keep someone like that behind a desk.’

  ‘You’re saying she volunteered? That afternoon?’

  ‘Of course. She was desperate for …’ He shrugged, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Battle honours.’

  ‘But it didn’t work out. She was set up.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘So someone must have known. Someone must have told them.’

  ‘Told who?’

  ‘The Provisionals. The scum that took her out.’

  Cousins looked at Kingdom for the first time. Then he began to laugh. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s true about you lot. You really are thick.’

  Kingdom hesitated a moment, the blood pumping again, all control gone. Then he tried to lunge at Cousins, going for the Browning still tucked in his belt, but Cousins simply
stepped back, taking his time, planting the kick high on Kingdom’s chest. The impact drove the breath from his body, doubling him up, and Cousins closed on him, a chokehold around his neck, hauling him upright and dragging him backwards around the side of the hut.

  The edge of the cliff lay across the turf, a dozen paces, no more. Kingdom was fighting for breath now, his vision beginning to grey, the pain in his leg indescribable. Very faintly, close to unconsciousness, he could smell the wind off the sea and hear the cry of the gulls beneath the cliff edge. Cousins pulled him upright, supporting him. When he let go, Kingdom collapsed.

  ‘Stand up.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Kneel, then.’

  Kingdom’s sight began to return, greys first, then the soft green of the Isle of Soay across the sound. Seals, he thought vaguely, trying not to look down. For a moment or two he thought of saving Cousins the chore of having to kill him. He’d do it himself, tipping his body forward over the drop, bringing an end to all the pain. The fall would be blissful, a release. He’d tumble through the air, feeling the wind against his face, and then there’d be nothing but darkness. They’d probably leave him there, rotting flesh, of no value to anyone, flotsam nudged by the tide, the kind of end he’d somehow always expected.

  A shot rang out, and another, and a third, and Kingdom stayed rigid for a moment or two, wondering why he hadn’t felt the impact, wondering whether he wasn’t dead already. Then he turned round, very slowly, his broken limbs folded beneath him, and saw the figure in the red singlet and the khaki shorts, bent over Cousins’ body. Dave Gifford had the rifle in his hands, the Steyr, and he put it in Cousins’ mouth before pulling the trigger for the last time.

  TWENTY

  A week later, Thursday 21 October, they buried Annie Meredith. Kingdom was still in hospital in London, occupying a private bed on the west side of St Thomas’ Hospital. Across the river lay the Houses of Parliament, and during his two previous visits Allder had developed a fondness for the view.

  Now he indicated the wheelchair beside the door. Behind it stood a uniformed policeman.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Allder said. ‘Funeral starts at twelve.’

  The policeman wheeled Kingdom to the lift. The nurses had already dressed him and Allder had brought an extra rug in case it turned cold. Outside the hospital, the policeman helped Kingdom into the back of the Daimler, collapsing the wheelchair and storing it in the boot.

  They drove south, out through Peckham and Deptford. Since Kingdom had returned from Scotland, Allder had been almost fatherly, the soul of reassurance. Now he patted Kingdom gently on his good knee.

  ‘Done,’ he said.

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘The typewriter. The photos. The rifle. The Walther. All those goodies of Gifford’s you brought back.’

  Kingdom nodded, gazing out at the boarded-up shops and abandoned supermarket trolleys. Dave Gifford had found his son in the hollow where Cousins had killed him. The Steyr had been nearby. Kingdom glanced across at Allder.

  ‘And the SOCO’s happy?’ he said.

  ‘As Larry. Loves the idea. Loves it.’ The hand again, on Kingdom’s knee. ‘Very swift indeed.’

  Kingdom smiled for the first time. He’d put the idea to Allder six days ago, the moment the medivac plane touched down at Northholt. The material he’d brought down from Skye, the keys to the Sabbathman puzzle, should join everything else they’d removed from Cousins’ flat. At the time, Allder had been dubious, slow on the uptake, shaking his head when Kingdom had explained the logic. Cousins, he said, should be fingered as Sabbathman. He was genuinely down for the Willoughby Grant murder. Why shouldn’t he have done the rest?

  ‘Don’t see it,’ Allder had said. ‘Why should he have done it? What’s in it for us?’

  ‘Everything. You told me we’re in a war. Wasn’t that the phrase? Us and Five?’

  ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘So if Cousins turned out to be Sabbathman? Renegade MI5 officer? Recently promoted? Totally out of control? Wouldn’t that settle it?’

  Allder had nodded, warmed by the proposition but ever-practical. ‘Proof?’ he’d inquired drily.

  ‘Won’t matter. Gifford’s stuff is proof enough. Cousins is dead. The case’ll never see the light of day.’

  ‘But what’s the objection to Dave Gifford? He’s an accessory. We’ll get a result. Bound to.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Kingdom had nodded, ‘but he saved my life, too.’

  Kingdom hadn’t taken the idea any further, letting the ambulancemen manhandle him onto the wet tarmac, knowing that the RUC boys had yet to deliver their report to New Scotland Yard. He’d spoken to them on the phone from hospital in Inverness. They were promising Wednesday lunchtime.

  Now, the car swept south-east towards the crematorium at Chatham while Kingdom waited for a verdict. Allder would have seen the report by now. Bound to have. On the outskirts of Bexley, the Daimler swerved to avoid an old man crossing the road. Allder hung onto the strap over the window.

  ‘They’ve found the bloke in the photo,’ he said, ‘the one you brought back from Dublin.’

  ‘Who have?’

  ‘Your friends from Knock. The RUC lads. They picked him up on Sunday. They’ve been at him ever since.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘UFF fella. Not a name you’ll know.’

  ‘UFF?’ Kingdom was staring at him now. The Ulster Freedom Fighters were one of the loyalist killer groups operating in Northern Ireland, a particularly vicious splinter from the Unionist block. Protestants, not Catholics, he thought. Loyalists, not Provos.

  ‘And what did he tell them?’

  ‘Everything. In the end.’ Allder glanced across at him, a man settling down after the meal of his dreams. ‘The Unionists have been trying to wreck the peace talks. The last thing they want is Sinn Fein at the negotiating table. As far as they’re concerned, there’s nothing to negotiate.’

  ‘And Cousins?’

  ‘Came up with a little plan to wreck the talks. To prove once and for all that the Provos would always be at it.’

  Kingdom nodded, following the smoke upwind. ‘Sabbathman,’ he said quietly, ‘just fell into his lap.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Way back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When Dave Gifford met his ladyfriend. And Andy obliged with the rest. And someone took a good look at those Twyford Down transcripts.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said again. ‘Cousins was running a two-track plan. He knew all about the Downing Street contacts with the Provos, the secret channels. It was his job to be part of all that. But it went against the grain. He saw it the way the Loyalists see it. He hated the Provos. He didn’t want them legitimised. He wanted them to stay terrorists for ever. He wanted a war without end. Thus Sabbathman.’

  ‘And Fishguard?’

  ‘Yeah, that was the second track. Anything. Anything to preserve the Union. Anything to keep the war going.’

  Kingdom nodded, saying nothing. They were negotiating a stretch of roadworks now, the driver trying to avoid the worst of the ruts. Kingdom’s hand went to his knee. In a couple of months, they’d said, he’d be walking again. After that, Allder had promised a lengthy convalescence. Time enough to put some sense back into his life, pick up with his kids, even make friends with his wife again.

  ‘And Annie?’ Kingdom said.

  ‘Killed by our UFF friend.’

  ‘The voice on the tape?’

  ‘His.’

  ‘Did he’ – Kingdom shrugged – ‘say anything about her?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno …’ Kingdom shook his head. ‘Daft question, really.’

  They got to the crematorium forty minutes later. They turned in at the gates and drove slowly towards the chapel of rest. Close by, there was a car park. Allder was sitting up beside the window, looking for someone.

  ‘There,’ he said to the driver, ‘the blue Toyota.’

  They parked bes
ide it. Allder got out and joined a thin, greying man in his late fifties. He was wearing a dark suit with a raincoat folded over his arm. He was carrying a file. Kingdom watched the exchange of handshakes, then the older man gave Allder the file. His head turned towards the car, and Kingdom saw Allder nodding.

  Allder opened Kingdom’s door. ‘Francis Wren,’ he muttered, ‘wants to say hallo.’

  Kingdom reached forward. Wren had an awkward, slightly wooden handshake.

  ‘I understand you and Annie …’ he nodded towards the chapel of rest. ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear the news. How sorry we all were.’

  Kingdom began to thank him but he stepped back, turning away, pulling on the raincoat against the bitter wind blowing off the river. The policeman helped Kingdom into the wheelchair and Kingdom caught Allder’s arm as he tossed the file into the back of the car and closed the door.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  Allder looked down at him. ‘Cousins kept strange company,’ he said, ‘Ulster Unionists and the odd cabinet minister. Tory Central Office too, the backroom boys, one or two of the blokes who really matter. He did them all a lot of favours. Ending with Willoughby Grant.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t think there’ll be a problem with Five any more.’

  The service lasted barely half an hour, a couple of dozen mourners scattered amongst the rows of seats. The pallbearers from the undertakers shouldered the coffin and walked slowly down the aisle. The organist played a hymn and when it came to talk about Annie’s life the priest did his best with what few facts he’d been able to gather. Annie had evidently been born in Dartford. Her father had disappeared early on and her mother had died when she was scarcely four but she’d stayed in the area, brought up by an aunt. The aunt, sadly, had recently died as well leaving, Kingdom concluded, absolutely no one. As the priest intoned the final committal and the curtains closed behind the coffin, he felt a chill steal over him. It shouldn’t have been like this, so cold, so cheerless. Not if he’d been bolder, more assertive. Not if he’d thought a little harder and cared a little less. The organist reached up for a bank of audio switches on a panel above his keyboard, and Kingdom suddenly found himself listening to the song he’d lived with for the best part of a year.