Sabbathman (35 page)

Allder nodded slowly, teasing the theory out, acknowledging for the first time the plate of scones.

Kingdom passed the jam. ‘Getting hold of these engines,’ he said, ‘isn’t easy.’

Allder reached for a scone. ‘So who do we look for?’ he said. ‘Who’d know where to find one?’

Kingdom and Sperring exchanged glances. They’d been through most of this on the phone, though at greater length and with less precision.

‘Special forces,’ Kingdom murmured, taking the last scone, ‘SAS or Royal Marines.’

Allder and Kingdom left Sperring’s house forty minutes later. Kingdom had been explaining the other conclusion he’d reached, his provisional answer to the question of access. How, exactly, had
the killer got into Clare Baxter’s house? How come he’d found, or already possessed, a key? Kingdom had pondered these questions. Then, on his third visit to Sinah Lane, he’d stood beside Clare Baxter’s front door and made a list of all the houses with direct line of sight. In all, there were four. Inquiries at the first three drew a blank. The occupants had been here for years. They knew Clare Baxter well. They’d hardly be part of any conspiracy to kill their local MP.

At the fourth house, though, Kingdom had drawn a very different response. The young couple who owned it had only just moved in. The house had been on the market for more than a year and for most of that time it had been empty. Upstairs, the smaller of the two front bedrooms offered a perfect view of the tiny bed of shrubs where Clare Baxter hid her key.

Armed with the name of the selling agent, Kingdom had pursued the inquiry. One of the three partners in the agency had handled all dealings on the house. Because of the area, it had attracted a good deal of interest. Normally, inspections of the property were accompanied. Occasionally, when things got busy, prospective buyers were handed a key and invited to take a look for themselves. On these occasions, as a precaution, the agency took a covert note of the buyer’s vehicle registration number.

In the case of the property in Sinah Lane, there’d been two such buyers. One of them, a young married executive from IBM, had used the place at lunchtimes to make love to his secretary. He’d done it twice before the agency cottoned on. The second buyer, a middle-aged woman, had spent an hour or so looking round and then returned with the key, explaining that it wasn’t quite what she’d expected.

In the agency, Kingdom had asked for details. What was the woman’s name? When had this happened? Was there anywhere local where she could, if need be, get a key cut? The answer to the last question was straightforward. There were two shops which had the equipment, and both could supply spare keys within ten minutes. The woman’s name and address, though, were more problematic. Normally, this kind of information was kept on file for at least two years but the agency was in the process of moving to smaller premises and some of the paperwork, the agent confessed,
was a mess. If the inquiry was important, she’d certainly have a root around but she couldn’t promise anything.

Kingdom had thanked her, leaving Sperring’s name and the telephone number of the Havant Incident Room in case anything turned up. Twice since then he’d phoned the agency but both times he’d got no further than an embarrassed apology. Times were difficult, the agent had explained. Staff had been laid off. She’d have a proper look as soon as she could.

Kingdom finished the story there, raising his shoulders in a shrug, offering an apology of his own. It had, he said, been a long shot. Maybe this woman had got herself a key cut. Maybe someone had been at the house – upstairs – on Sunday mornings. Maybe they’d kept Clare Baxter’s house under surveillance. Maybe they’d seen where she hid the key. He still didn’t know but there was certainly nothing in Sabbathman’s track record to discredit the thesis. Here was a man who evidently covered every angle, a guy with a real taste for the tiniest detail. To date, he’d probably killed five men and not once had he made a mistake. Given time, and patience, and money, there was no reason to think he couldn’t kill again. Indeed, he could conceivably go on and on until he either tired of it all or – less likely – he simply ran out of victims.

At this, Allder reached for his coat. He had infinite respect for detailed detective work and none at all for long speeches. They were in the hall, looking at one of Mrs Sperring’s water-colours, when Sperring himself took Kingdom’s arm. The front door was already open, the police driver reaching for his ignition key.

‘She phoned back yesterday,’ Sperring said. ‘That’s why I invited you over.’

Kingdom paused. The painting was awful, a landscape the colour of Brussels sprouts.

‘Who phoned back?’

‘Your woman at the agency. She found the name. And an address.’

‘And?’

‘They were fake. I had them both checked.’

Kingdom looked at him for the first time. Allder was already at the door, but he’d stopped too.

‘Was there a car?’ Allder said. ‘Did she take the registration?’

Sperring nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and we checked that too. Her real name’s Feasey.’ Sperring took a folded square of paper from the pocket of his shirt and offered it to Kingdom. ‘Her address and her phone number.’ He smiled. ‘With my compliments.’ Kingdom was staring at him now. Sperring was still holding out his precious piece of paper.

‘Ethne Feasey?’ Kingdom asked. ‘From the Isle of Wight?’

Sperring’s grin disappeared. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘How the fuck did you know that?’

They were north of Hindhead, returning to London, when the call came through. The Daimler had a mobile phone, as well as the standard force radio, and the driver passed the handset back between the two front seats.

‘For DI Kingdom, sir. Sounds urgent.’

Allder gave the phone to Kingdom. Kingdom heard a male voice he didn’t recognise and it took him several seconds to realise just who the voice was talking about.

‘Ernest Kingdom?’ he said. ‘You mean my father?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And who are you?’

‘The name’s Farrar. King’s College Hospital. Senior Houseman in the A and E Department.’

Kingdom frowned. King’s College was a big London hospital south of the river. What on earth had Ernie been up to? The doctor was talking again, explaining that the injury was serious but not life-threatening. The old man had evidently wandered into the path of a Transit van. He’d been queueing for a bus on the Old Kent Road and for no reason at all he’d stepped out into the traffic. The van driver had braked at once but the force of the blow had been enough to shatter his right leg. The femur was broken in two places and the knee was a mess. With luck, he might be on his feet again within a month or two.

‘A month or two?’ Kingdom blinked.

‘I’m afraid so.’ The doctor paused. ‘Your father’s out of theatre now. We’ve pinned the leg. I’m sure he’d like to see you.’

‘Of course.’

Kingdom glanced sideways at Allder. Allder was still reading the telephone transcripts Kingdom had given him earlier.

‘We’ll go there now,’ Allder said without looking up. ‘Tell him an hour or so.’

King’s College Hospital stands on Denmark Hill, a gaunt, Victorian redbrick building with the usual twentieth-century additions. The Daimler dropped Kingdom outside the Accident and Emergency Department and Allder leaned across as he bent to the rear window. They’d already agreed the programme for tomorrow. Kingdom would return to the south coast and take the ferry to the Isle of Wight. Allder would be in his office at the Yard, awaiting an update. Now, Allder fingered the button that controlled the rear window. The window purred down.

‘Give him my best,’ he said. ‘Hope he’s still smiling.’

‘Yeah …’ Kingdom pulled a face. ‘Daft old sod.’

Kingdom found his father in a corridor behind the A and E Department, one of half a dozen patients occupying trolleys tidied into a neat line against the wall. The young student nurse who’d collected him from reception glanced up. Clearly she hadn’t a clue who to look for.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said brightly, ‘he’s bound to be one of these.’

Ernie’s trolley was up the far end, several steps from the lavatory for the disabled. He lay under a blanket, flat on his back, his eyes closed, his face the colour of chalk. The graze across his forehead was already beginning to scab and one side of his face was purpled with bruising. A tube on a stand by the trolley dripped fluid into his forearm.

Kingdom bent to the trolley, the back of his hand brushing his father’s face. His cheek felt stubbly where he hadn’t shaved.

‘Dad?’

The old man stirred, groaned, licked his lips. Then one eye opened. He looked blankly up at Kingdom.

‘What happened, Dad?’

‘Eh?’

‘What happened? What’ve you been up to?’

The old man tried to move, struggling upright on the trolley, but when the pain hit him he screwed his eyes shut and collapsed
back onto the mattress. When he tried again, Kingdom restrained him gently, reaching over, both hands, feeling his father’s ribcage beneath the surgical smock. Thin, he thought. Just a shadow of the man he’d once known.

‘Dad?’ he said again.

Ernie acknowledged him this time, one bony hand crabbing across the blanket, finding Kingdom’s, holding on tight. ‘My fault,’ he said at length.

‘You remember what happened?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So why …’ Kingdom bent closer. ‘What were you doing down there?’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘Yeah.’

‘No, Dad, I’m asking you why.’

‘Why?’

‘Why you were in the Old Kent Road. Why you were waiting for the bus.’

The old man looked vague, then startled, then vague again. Finally his eyes began to film with tears. ‘Barry?’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘You think he’ll mind?’

‘Mind what?’

‘Me coming like this?’

‘You were going to Barry’s? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Eh?’ He was trying to get up again, as helpless as a baby. ‘You know him? You know Barry?’

For the first time it occurred to Kingdom that his father hadn’t a clue who he was, just another passing stranger, someone who’d paused for a chat.

‘It’s me, Dad. Me. Alan. Your son.’

‘Who?’

The old man moistened his lips again and Kingdom glanced round, looking for a nurse, a doctor, anyone who might be able to explain what was going on. Had the houseman on the phone got it right? Had they really operated? And if so, would he be getting a bed of some kind? In a proper ward? Or was Kingdom supposed to borrow the trolley and push him back to Leytonstone?

At the end of the corridor was a pair of swing doors that led
back to the A and E Department. In an office beside the nurses’ rest room he found the sister in charge. She was sitting behind a desk listening to someone on the telephone. She looked exhausted.

Kingdom stood in the doorway until the conversation was over. When he introduced himself, the sister got to her feet at once, telling him to close the door. She was a small, compact, pretty woman in her late thirties. A pot of coffee bubbled on a hot ring in the corner. She poured him a cup without asking.

‘Someone should have explained,’ she said, ‘before you saw him.’

‘Explained what?’

‘The situation. We ran out of beds. I’m afraid it’s always happening. People we admit, patients like your father, have to wait their turn.’ She nodded at the telephone. ‘We managed to get him into theatre but there’s nowhere for him afterwards. Couple of hours? Tonight maybe? Who knows …’

‘But how is he? How did it go?’

The sister looked at him for a moment, then she said she didn’t know. Clinical prognosis was in the hands of the orthopaedic consultant. It was his job to talk about the medical details.

‘Bloke called Farrar?’

‘No, he’s the houseman. The consultant is a Mr Ellis-Jones.’

‘Where do I find him?’

The sister glanced at her watch. ‘At home, I expect. Or back at his private clinic.’

‘So what happens to Dad?’

‘He’ll go up to a ward. As soon as a bed’s available.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes strayed towards the phone again. ‘It shouldn’t be too long. I’ve got two definites on one of the general wards and a possible on Gynae. Gynae isn’t ideal, of course, not for your father, but …’ She shrugged, reaching for her coffee. ‘If needs must …’

‘But is he OK where he is? Out there? In the corridor?’

‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘We pop down and keep an eye on things whenever we can. It’s not quite as bad as it looks.’

The phone began to ring. She picked it up, listening to the voice at the other end. The conversation over, she smiled at
Kingdom. ‘That was the general ward,’ she said. ‘We’re in luck. One of the definites just died.’

Kingdom returned to his father. The sister came with him. She’d made up a glucose drink in a plastic cup and she gave Kingdom a bendy straw to feed it to the old man. After the operation, she said, he’d be thirsty. The more fluids he took, the better it would be.

Ernie’s eyes were closed again. Kingdom held his hand a moment, asking him whether he’d like a drink. When he nodded, he took the cup and teased the straw between the old man’s lips. Ernie began to suck, a tiny moist sipping, the noise an injured animal makes. After a while, he stopped.