Sabbathman (2 page)

‘Little incident down on the south coast,’ he said through a mouthful of cream. ‘You probably heard on the news.’

Kingdom shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Local MP got slotted. This morning. His name’s Carpenter, Max Carpenter. Rob’s patch, as it happens.’ Allder looked up. ‘Ever meet Rob?’

Kingdom nodded. Rob Scarman headed the Hampshire Special Branch. Kingdom had met him three years back when Scarman had been an up-and-coming DCI on secondment to SO12. From there, he’d moved on to the A–T Squad, which is where he’d presumably made his number with Allder. Allder drained the last of his daughter’s Coke before starting on the pie again.

‘Rob thinks it could be tricky,’ he said. ‘He’s got the Ops ACC breathing down his neck, and press everywhere. Evidently our friend was over the side.’

‘Carpenter? The MP bloke?’

‘Yes.’

Kingdom nodded. ‘Over the side’ was canteen-speak for what you did when family life got dull. It happened a great deal in the police force and also, Kingdom had always assumed, at Westminster.

‘Is that big news?’ he queried. ‘Bloke having a mistress?’

‘When he gets shot, it is.’

‘Why?’

‘She was there. The only witness.’

‘Where?’

‘In bed. Tucked up with Mr Clean.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly.’

Kingdom began to laugh, but stopped when Allder glanced across at him, crumpling his daughter’s paper cup in his small, neat hands. Then he unzipped the pocket on his shell suit, and produced a creased brown manila envelope. Kingdom watched him flattening the envelope on the table, saying nothing. The shell suit was a mistake, he thought, probably a present from his wife, lovingly bought, loyally worn. But the colours were awful – bright green and white – and the fit was at least a size too big, making Allder look even more suburban than he undoubtedly was.

Kingdom smiled and looked away, remembering a story one of the boys from the Photographic Branch had told him. Commissioned to produce an updated official portrait of the Anti-Terrorist Squad’s commander, he’d pulled every trick he knew to bring depth and interest to the tiny pudding-face. The results, predictably, were awful but Allder had ordered a dozen supplementary copies, distributing them to his huge array of relatives. Back on the Isle of Sheppey, what mattered was gold braid. The rest of it was vanity.

Now, Allder was looking for his daughter. She was sitting in a rubber boat, waiting for the ride to start. She looked terrified.

‘What happened?’ Kingdom said.

Allder lifted an arm and began to wave.

‘Quick in and out. Two bullets from a handgun. Both through the head. They’ve got a description from the woman but nothing useful.’ Allder glanced across at Kingdom. ‘Class job.’

‘Face?’

‘Covered. He was wearing a balaclava.’

‘Voice?’

‘Never said a word.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Not a dickey.’

‘So why us?’ Kingdom frowned. ‘Why me, sir?’

Allder’s eyes were back on his daughter. The boat tumbled down a chute and disappeared behind a curtain of water.

‘Rob’s been on all afternoon. He tells me the Chief’s under siege down there. The press want an angle, a hook, something for the morning papers. Apparently our MP friend was asking for it. Arrogant, careless, and none too popular. You know the sort.’

‘Tory?’

‘Of course.’

‘High profile?’

‘Very.’

Kingdom nodded. ‘So are we talking Belfast? Is that why you phoned?’

‘No.’

‘No, Belfast? Or no, why you phoned?’ Kingdom paused. ‘Sir?’

Allder didn’t answer for a moment. Fifty yards away, his daughter had emerged from the ride, steadied by her mother’s hand. She was soaking wet, and still convulsed with laughter. The pair of them began to walk towards the cafe tables, then Allder’s wife looked up and caught her husband’s eye. Allder shook his head, showing her the remains of the apple pie, and his wife paused, bending to her daughter, lifting her up, changing course, heading for a take-away advertising a million kinds of pizza.

Allder smiled, watching them disappear inside. ‘How’s your dad?’ he said.

Kingdom stared at him, astonished. ‘Nuts,’ he said finally, ‘round the bend.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. I wish I wasn’t, but …’ Kingdom shrugged. ‘… that’s the way it looks to me.’

‘You’ve talked to anyone about it?’

‘Not so far. Only the GP.’

‘He any help?’

‘She.’ Kingdom shook his head. ‘Not really. She says it’s probably a phase. Like adolescence. I told her she had to be joking …’ He frowned. ‘I think she’s very busy. You know, stretched …’

Allder nodded, toying with the envelope. ‘Sounds like Alzheimer’s,’ he said. ‘Have you thought of that?’

‘That’s what my sister thinks.’

‘Can’t she look after him? Help at all?’

‘No. Not really her style.’

‘You serious?’

‘Yes.’ Kingdom looked across at him. ‘She lives in Woodford Green now. Other side of the tracks. Plus she has a family of her own to look after.’

‘So you’re the one? Moves in? Takes over?’

‘Yes …’ Kingdom hesitated, uncomfortable now. ‘I have to, for his sake.’

‘And yours?’

‘I’m not with you, sir.’

‘No?’ Allder studied him for a moment. ‘You’re divorced, right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Two kids? Heavy maintenance? Nowhere to live? After Belfast?’

Kingdom nodded, saying nothing, wondering how many more questions Allder needed to ask, and why.

Allder was still looking at him. ‘So who looks after your Dad? After you’re back in harness?’

‘God knows. I’m working on it. There’ll be a way. Neighbours. The welfare people. I’m, ah …’ he smiled thinly, ‘… making inquiries.’

‘And what if I asked you back early?’

‘Like when?’ Kingdom blinked. ‘Sir?’

‘Like next week.’ Allder paused. ‘Like tomorrow.’

Kingdom smiled, recognising the feeling inside himself, an instant lift of the spirits, the old call to arms, every other responsibility instantly deferred.

‘No problem,’ he said, ‘I’ll find a way.’

Allder looked at him for a long time, a coldness in his eyes. Then he reached for the envelope on the table and got up. ‘There’s another side to this,’ he said. ‘Someone else we ought to talk about?’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Allder nodded, putting the envelope back in his pocket, ‘Annie Meredith.’

They began to walk around the Thunder River ride, the bodyguard several paces behind. Annie Meredith worked for MI5, one of the young highfliers in ‘T’ Branch, the new arm of the service responsible for terrorist activities. It was an open secret amongst certain sections of the Metropolitan Special Branch that she and Kingdom had enjoyed what Allder now termed ‘a close relationship’ Allder was standing by a line of palm trees, peering at an artificial swamp.

‘None of my business,’ he said, ‘But fair comment?’

‘Yes.’

‘Northern Ireland?’

‘There and other places,’ Kingdom nodded, ‘yes.’

Allder glanced across at him. ‘And still friends?’

‘We still meet. She’s a busy woman, as you can probably imagine.’

‘But do you trust her? Are you still close?’

Kingdom frowned, not answering, uneasy again about the drift of Allder’s questions. Annie Meredith was small, tough-minded, vivacious, and resolutely cheerful. She made no secret of her career ambitions, and he’d never met anyone so ruthless, but the times they’d shared in Belfast were the warmest Kingdom could remember. Loyalty wasn’t a word that Annie had much time for, but just now, under these circumstances, it was as good as any other.

Allder was still waiting for an answer. ‘Well?’ he said.

Kingdom looked down at him. ‘It’s an odd question,’ he said. ‘Do I trust her how?’

‘Does she ever lie to you?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

‘Not even to spare your feelings?’

‘Never. Quite the reverse.’

‘So is she frank? With you?’

‘Very. Like I just said.’

‘But does she tell you everything?’

Kingdom stared at him, at last beginning to understand. ‘You mean the job? Gower Street? All that?’

Allder returned Kingdom’s stare, not bothering with an answer, and for the first time that day Kingdom laughed, shaking his head, turning away. ‘Christ, no,’ he said. ‘Why should she want to? And why should I ask?’

Kingdom left Thorpe Park half an hour later, joining the queue of homebound families, the contents of Allder’s envelope still a mystery. He and Allder had returned to the cafe, Kingdom parrying more questions about Annie – where she lived, how often they saw each other, whether they ever went away together – irritated by the advantage the older man was taking of his rank. Kingdom had done his best to terminate the conversation, to indicate that there were certain limits, but Allder simply ignored the signals. When it came to the light touch, the deftly placed question, the need to play the sympathetic boss, the man had all the tact of a pneumatic drill.

Back at the cafe, Allder had sent his wife and child for yet another ride on the Thunder River and pursued the interrogation with renewed vigour.

‘So when are you seeing her next?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Soon?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Don’t you really know? Is it that casual?’

‘No, not at all …’ Kingdom had paused here, seeing no point
in not stating the obvious. ‘You want me to give her a message? Ask her to ring you? Fix a meet, or something? Only it might …’ he shrugged, ‘… be easier if you told me just what you wanted. Then I could oblige.’

‘Or not.’

‘Yeah,’ Kingdom nodded, ‘or not.’

Allder had left the conversation there, no explanation, no more questions, just a tug on the sleeve of his shell suit, a quick look at his watch, and a gruff reminder about the traffic.

‘Best be off,’ he said, ‘before it gets sticky.’

Now, Kingdom inched forward. The traffic was backed up for at least a mile, nose to tail. Two teenage girls in the back of the estate car in front were giggling at him, pulling faces. One of them was chewing bubble gum, the stuff ballooning from her scarlet lips. Kingdom stared at them, unseeing, still thinking about Allder, still wondering about the bluntness of his interest in Annie. Internal politics, he thought. Has to be. It wasn’t Annie he was after, not the little blond ruffian he’d got so fond of, but the people she worked with, the people in Gower Street, the ones who were suddenly making life so hard for the likes of Allder.

The relationship between Scotland Yard and MI5 had never been simple, but Kingdom knew that the last few years had been especially tricky. The end of the Cold War had left the spycatchers with very little to do, and MI5 had lobbied hard for a change of role. They’d insisted that what they were best at – gathering intelligence – applied as readily to terrorists as it did to foreign agents, and one result of this had been a hefty push onto Special Branch turf. The Yard had fought the incursions tooth and nail, arguing the toss through countless Whitehall committees, but the battle had finally been lost and a recent Home Office announcement had confirmed what many had long suspected inevitable: that MI5 now took the lead in the intelligence war against Provo terrorism on the UK mainland.

Quite how this would work in practice was still anybody’s guess, but Kingdom knew the prospects were far from rosy. The top men at the Yard – good thief-takers, shrewd detectives, natural
leaders – had no intention of simply providing ‘backup’ to the faceless
apparatchiks
of MI5. On the contrary, they saw themselves as society’s rightful shield against the madness of the Provos. Guys who used Semtex in public, who risked spilling kids’ blood for some half-baked Republican ideal, were little more than lunatics. To call them enemies of the state, to accord them warrior status, cut little ice with the Mickey Allders of this world.

Kingdom lit a cigarette, feeling the car juddering as he crawled forward on the clutch. While the mainland battle for primacy was recent news, Belfast was a different story. There, the real war had always been between the local police – the RUC – and the various intelligence arms of the British Army, but even so, there’d still been room for a series of other skirmishes, lower down the pecking order, and in these the winner had, without doubt, been MI5. In the seventies, they’d seen off MI6. In the eighties, under the eyes of the locals, they’d carved out a handful of well-protected foxholes, sheltering behind the authority of the Director of Intelligence at Stormont, running agents on both sides of the water, monitoring Army and RUC activity, quietly thickening their computer files, looking all the time for fresh advantage, more juicy windfalls to put in front of the mandarins in Whitehall.

And the strategy had worked. No question. Indeed, Kingdom’s own posting, the two-year spell in Belfast, was itself evidence that MI5 were firmly in the driving seat. On paper, the job specification had talked of ‘target evaluation’ and ‘intelligence co-ordination’ but face to face the commander in charge of Special Branch operations at the Yard had left him in no doubt about the real priorities. ‘Keep an eye on Five,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t let the bastards grab it all.’ Kingdom hadn’t. And Annie was the living evidence. But that, too, was a different story.

At last the traffic began to move, and Kingdom eased the big old car up through the gear box, hearing the familiar whine as the worn-out syncromesh engaged. Back on the motorway now, he settled in the centre lane, a steady 60 mph, lighting a cigarette and pulling out the little silver ashtray recessed into the dashboard. The car was his father’s prized possession, a 1964 Wolseley, immaculate bodywork, polished walnut interior trim, unmarked dense-pile carpet, deep-stitched leather seats front and back. The old man
never drove any more, but the very thought of the Wolseley, parked in the lock-up across the road, still appeared to be some comfort to him. It had somehow represented everything he’d ever worked for, his reward for all those years in the market, all those pre-dawn starts, driving his ancient van to Covent Garden, collecting the hessian sacks of fruit and veg, dressing the stall on Leytonstone High Road, bagging the stuff out, the parsnips, the spuds, the ice-cold mountains of Brussels sprouts. As a kid, on Saturdays, Kingdom had helped out, responsible for his own corner of the stall, warmed by his father’s enormous popularity. Then, they’d called him Ernie’s boy, Little Ernie, and somewhere he still kept the filthy pair of fingerless gloves he’d worn on the colder winter days. Wendy had once tried to throw them out but he’d rescued them from the dustbin, ignoring her gibes. What would she know about the wonders of being Ernie’s boy? What would anyone?