Sabbathman (36 page)

‘Enough?’

Ernie nodded and Kingdom returned the cup to the sister. The old man was beginning to groan, turning his face to the wall.

‘What’s the matter? Dad?’

The old man shook his head, refusing to say, and Kingdom glanced up at the sister. She’d already warned Kingdom that the post-operative drugs would soon wear off. Any break in the femur, she said, was bad. The pain would be excruciating. Kingdom turned back to his father, wondering what might help. Something to distract him. Something to take his mind off the pain.

‘Dad?’ he whispered. ‘Why did you do it?’

Ernie eased his head round. He was drowsy now, barely able to focus. ‘Do what?’

‘Go and find Barry … or try to.’

Ernie stared up, barely acknowledging the question. Then he tried to smile, a small rueful grin. ‘Miss him,’ he whispered, closing his eyes.

Kingdom stayed beside the trolley for another hour and a half, watching the steady rise and fall of his father’s chest. When he checked beneath the blanket he saw that they’d plastered his right leg, hip to ankle. There was a dressing on his left leg, too, pinked with fresh blood. Soon, Kingdom thought, they’ll come and take him away. Then he’ll have a proper bed, clean sheets, a fresh dressing, a nurse on call to make sure he was comfortable.

When nothing happened, Kingdom went to find the sister again. She was back in her office, eating a salad sandwich.

‘Ten minutes,’ she said at once, ‘the porters just phoned.’

‘He’ll get a bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘But will he stay? Or what?’

‘I honestly don’t know. You’ll have to talk to admin. And the consultant, of course. He’s OK for the time being, though.’ She offered Kingdom a bleak smile. ‘Until we get someone worse.’

‘But what then? What happens then?’

‘I told you, I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

‘Will they send him home?’

‘Of course. In the end.’

‘When’s that?’ Kingdom forced a smile. ‘Rough guess?’

The sister tidied the crumbs on the plate, refusing to answer. Finally, she looked up. ‘He’s a bit of a mess,’ she conceded. ‘It may take weeks.’

‘Weeks? The doctor said months. Or a month, at least.’

‘Yes.’ The sister was frowning now. ‘Does he live alone, your father?’

‘No. I’m there too.’

‘All the time?’

‘Some of the time.’

‘But can he cope by himself?’

‘No. Definitely not.’

‘Is that why we found the card in his pocket? Your name? And that number we had to phone? Scotland Yard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that where you work? Full time?’

‘Yes.’

The sister nodded. She was gazing out through the glass partition, watching a staff nurse bending over a black youth in the cubicle beside the door. There was a deep gash under his left eye and every time she approached with her kidney bowl and her balls of cotton wool, he turned his head away.

‘Is he incontinent? Your father?’

‘Yes. Just recently.’ Kingdom nodded, Yes.’

‘Confused?’

‘Definitely.’

‘At risk, then? You’d say?’

‘Yes.’

The sister fell silent and for the first time Kingdom realised what it was that awaited his father. After all his attempts to raise money, to somehow make it possible for Barry to take over full time, there was nothing left but residential care. He’d already discussed the possibility with the social worker who’d called round, and he knew now that Charlie Truman had been right. The house would have to go. And so would Ernie’s meagre savings. In exchange for that, the old man would get a bed in some nursing home or other, three meals a day, and a limitless supply of television. It wouldn’t last long, this half-life, because the old man wouldn’t let it. He’d never allowed his wings to be clipped. He’d always loved his freedom. That’s what he’d been doing in the Old Kent Road. God knows, that’s probably why he gave up waiting at the bus stop and tried to leg it across the road. Old and mad, a nursing home would kill him.

Kingdom stood up. The sister was looking speculatively at the coffee pot. Did Kingdom have room for another cup? Kingdom shook his head and thanked her for her help. She’d been very patient. He’d say goodbye to his father and then he’d go. She nodded, extending a hand.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘I wish you luck.’

Kingdom returned to the corridor. The queue of trolleys had lengthened but where his father had been there was now a gap. He looked at the trolleys for a moment, the blank empty faces, the patched-up wounds, the busy little woman hurrying past with an armful of files. Then he turned on his heel and left.

Allder rang at midnight. Kingdom was back home in Leytonstone. The house was damp and cold and stank of urine. Even in the depths of his divorce he’d never felt so depressed.

‘How’s your dad?’ Allder asked at once.

Kingdom explained what had happened at the hospital. Ernie had been through a major operation and would slowly get better.
Sooner rather than later they’d doubtless chuck him out. By which time the social workers would have found a drawer that more or less fitted him.

‘Drawer?’ Allder said blankly.

‘Nursing home,’ Kingdom said, ‘some fucking bin or other.’

‘Ah …’

Allder abruptly changed the subject, his manner warmed by some fresh excitement, and as he talked Kingdom realised that for the last six hours he hadn’t once thought about the job. The Sabbathman killings had become utterly remote, momentary interference he’d be more than happy to tune out of his life. Allder was talking about MI5 again. Apparently their ship had hit the rocks and Allder was gleeful at the prospects.

‘Why?’ Kingdom inquired. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Don’t know. Something’s gone wrong in Belfast. No one seems quite sure what but that’s no surprise. Those bastards always play it tight. This time maybe too tight.’

At the mention of Belfast, Kingdom began to concentrate again. Annie would know, he thought.

‘You want me to find out?’ he said. ‘Is that why you’ve phoned?’

There was a brief silence. Then he heard Allder chuckling. If the man had a saving grace, Kingdom thought, then it would have to be a sense of total shamelessness. Sympathy was a wonderful thing. But it didn’t solve serial killings.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘soon as you can.’

Kingdom rang Annie’s flat the moment Allder put the phone down. When there was no answer he hung up, standing in the lounge for a full minute, wondering what to do. Without Ernie, the house had become a shell, a husk, the remains of a life which he knew in his heart had gone. If he stayed the night, if he trailed upstairs to the narrow little bedroom and tried to sleep, he knew he’d regret it. The place was beginning to haunt him. Too many ghosts. Too many memories.

He reached for his coat and checked the pockets. Annie’s key was still there and Ernie’s Wolseley was in the lock-up across the street. This time of night, he could be over in Kew in less than an
hour. Whether Annie was there or not, it was a better prospect than a night by himself in this icy mausoleum.

Kingdom left the house and retrieved the Wolseley from the lock-up. He hadn’t touched it since getting it back from the local CID and there was still half a tank of petrol. He drove south, through largely empty streets, turning onto the Embankment at Blackfriars and following the river as far as Kew Bridge. By half-past one, he was outside Annie’s flat.

He turned off the engine, peering up at the first-floor windows. The curtains in the lounge were still pulled back, the way he’d left them, and there was no sign of Annie’s car. Kingdom got out of the Wolseley and crossed the road. One of the keys on Annie’s ring let him in through the communal front door. He found the time switch on the wall and climbed the stairs. At the top there were two more doors. The one on the left belonged to Annie. He rang the bell twice, in case she’d returned. When there was no response, he used the key to get in.

He knew at once the place had been wrecked. The coats on the hooks in the tiny hall were strewn across the floor and there was a strong smell of perfume. Kingdom paused a moment in the half-darkness, looking left through the open door into the living room. Light from the street lamp outside spilled in through the uncurtained window, bathing the living room in a livid orange. Cushions from the sofa were scattered on the carpet and a bookcase had been overturned. Against the far wall was a small pine Welsh dresser. The audio stack Annie kept on the top had gone and the drawers were hanging out, their contents emptied onto the floor beneath.

Kingdom stepped into the room and pulled the curtains. Then he switched on the light. A framed print of the Galway coast lay at his feet, the glass smashed. There were books everywhere, paperbacks mostly. Even the brass scuttle on the hearth had been upturned and shaken empty, and the wind-gnarled bits of driftwood Annie had collected from visits to various beaches lay heaped on the white shag rug.

Kingdom went to the dresser. In one of the drawers, Annie kept her CDs. She had a sizable collection but when he knelt to inspect the bits and pieces on the floor he knew at once that they’d
gone. He glanced round. The television usually stood on a small table in the far corner, but that had gone, too. Kingdom got up and peered at the books again, stirring the pile with one foot, not touching anything with his hands. Superficially, it looked like a standard B and E. The intruder had been through all the books just like any half-decent thief. Paperbacks were where most people hid their spare cash, and their building society accounts, and other stuff like savings certificates. If you knew what you were after, that’s exactly where you’d look first.

Kingdom returned to the hall and checked the two bedrooms. Annie’s was a mess. The bed had been stripped and the built-in wardrobe had been emptied. There was a small mountain of clothes beside the open door and both drawers in the dressing table had been torn from their runners and upturned over the bare mattress.

Kingdom sat on the bed for a moment, looking at the contents of the drawers. The cap was off the bottle of L’Air du Temps and most of the perfume had spilled over a corner of the mattress. Kingdom closed his eyes, smelling Annie in the room, imagining her sprawled on the bed, that mischievous half-smile she reserved for the wilder nights. Half of him wanted to know where she was, what she was up to, who she was with. But the other half of him knew it was better that he’d been the one to find the flat in this state. At least, before she returned, he could get the place tidied up. No one deserved to walk back into this.

Kingdom quickly checked the rest of the flat. The spare bedroom, bare of furniture, seemed untouched. Ditto, for some reason, the kitchen. He returned to the living room. On the kitchen window-sill he’d found an old cassette, an Andy Shepperd recording that Annie had treasured, and when he’d carefully opened the cupboard beside the fridge, there was the ancient Sony radio-cassette recorder she often listened to when she was cooking. He put the radio on the Welsh dresser and loaded the cassette. It was Annie who’d introduced him to Andy Shepperd and there was a particular track on this album – sax, piano, double bass – that still haunted him. He played it now, circling that flat, a glass of Rioja in his hand from the bottle he’d been saving for her return. The bottle, out in the kitchen in plain view, was something else that
hadn’t gone, and the more he thought about it, the odder the break-in began to seem. Alcohol was usually a prime target, easy to carry, nice to celebrate with afterwards. So why hadn’t they taken that?

Kingdom chased the questions around his head for nearly an hour. When the bottle was empty, he picked his way across the living room and up the hall. Tonight, he’d kip in the spare bedroom. Tomorrow, before he drove south again, he’d get Allder to sort something out about the flat. The local boys would botch it. The place needed a thorough going-over, a real seeing-to. At the door, he remembered the file he’d read a couple of days back, the one Annie had left on the table beside the sofa. It had been there yesterday, too. He knew because he’d seen it.

He stepped back into the room, knowing already that it had gone but quartering the carpet again, just in case. Not finding it, he went to Annie’s bedroom. He’d need some bedding for the room next door and he was in the process of gathering up the big double duvet when he saw the photographs. There were a handful of them, colour prints, sticking out of an air mail envelope.

He sank onto the mattress. The wine had made him less fussy about disturbing the evidence and he held up the envelope by one corner, letting the prints fall onto the bed. There were four in all. Three of them showed a man in his middle thirties. He was on a boat of some kind, leaning against a rail. He was tall and good-looking with a strong open face and a quiet smile. He carried a jacket, looped on one finger over his shoulder, and the sleeves on the crisp white shirt were rolled up. In the background, beyond the river bank, there were mountains, summer-green. Kingdom looked at the fourth photo. It showed the same man – an almost identical pose – but this time he had a companion, smaller, slighter, tucked in beside him. Her head was on his shoulder. She had the same cropped blonde hair, the same tight white singlet, but it was the smile on her face that Kingdom found hardest to take. Annie Meredith. Looking pleased with herself.

Kingdom turned the photo over. There was a line or two in German that he didn’t understand, and a name. He peered at the name. It might have been Bernd. He couldn’t tell. He reached for
the envelope. The stamp was German and the town on the postmark was smudged, but the date was still legible: 8/86, it said. August, 1986.

Kingdom put the photos back in the envelope, half-wishing he’d never found them. Another cupboard Annie had never wanted him to open. Another part of her life that belonged to nobody but her. Kingdom hesitated a moment, looking down at the envelope. Should he ask her about it? When the time was right? When they were next together? Maybe in this flat? Maybe in this very bed? Should he bring it up, a chance comment, a joke maybe, smuggling himself into her previous life? Or should he simply forget it? Accept the relationship for what it was? No baggage? No ghosts? Every day a glad return to Year Zero?