Sabbathman (58 page)

Kingdom stumbled on. The path rose before him, bare earth, worn rocks. Disorientated, he was about to stop again when he found himself on the edge of a shallow drop. Below him was a hollow protected from the worst of the weather, a bowl scooped from the flank of the mountain. A wind from nowhere stirred the wet heather, parting the curtains of mist, revealing the shapes of two men. The larger stood astride the smaller. A small, neat automatic dangled from one hand and he had his back to the ridge where Kingdom crouched. From thirty feet, Kingdom could hear every word.

‘Your father says you were here,’ Cousins was saying, ‘all weekend.’

Andy Gifford lay face down, one leg twisted at a strange angle, one cheek pressed to the black earth, and Kingdom knew at once that he was injured. Cousins mentioned the weekend again, turning the comment into a question, and when Andy didn’t answer, he put his foot on the back of Andy’s knee, leaning slightly forward as he did so. At the first real pressure, Andy’s whole body convulsed, as if Cousins had applied some kind of electric shock. The kneecap, Kingdom thought. He’s smashed the kneecap. One bullet at least. Probably two.

Cousins was bending down now, his voice more urgent, every word, every intonation clearly audible. ‘So?’ he queried. ‘Am I right?’

Andy nodded. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘And who else? Who else was there?’ Cousins paused. ‘Those girls in the van? At Inverness? Were they there?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the American?’

‘Yes.’

Cousins stood up again, nodding, and Kingdom withdrew a little, sinking onto his haunches, recognising the exchange for what it was, Cousins adding more names to his list. The two girls and the American would know that Andy couldn’t possibly have killed
Willoughby Grant. Another little problem for the new Controller of ‘T’ Branch.

Cousins stooped a moment and picked something up, tossing it to one side, and it was several seconds before Kingdom recognised the Steyr. Crouching beside Andy, Cousins had put the muzzle of the automatic to the back of his other knee.

‘Who else?’

‘No one.’

‘I said who else?’

‘Nobody.’

‘You’re lying. I know you’re lying.’ He paused. ‘Last time of asking, Gifford. Who else?’

Kingdom had the Browning up now, both hands, waiting for Cousins to move. Crouched beside Andy, the two men were in line. Up on his feet, Kingdom might manage a decent headshot with no risk of hitting Andy. That, he knew, was his only option.

Cousins shifted his weight, the automatic still nuzzling the back of Andy’s knee.

‘Travis?’ he said. ‘Man calling himself Travis?’

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.

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?