Sabbathman (6 page)

‘Nothing. It’s coming off soon.’

Kingdom stepped inside, edging carefully round the Alsatian. Through an open door, across the tiled hall, he could see Steve standing behind a tiny bar. He had a bottle of tequila in one hand and a small cheroot in the other. Like Ginette, he was very tanned.

Steve looked up. He recognised Kingdom at once. He had a deep, slightly gravelly voice that suited the Cockney accent.

‘Al,’ he said, ‘long time, no see.’

Kingdom grunted. Steve sold cars from a huge compound on the A12 out towards Romford. He was a stocky, thickset, powerful man, beginning to run to fat. He’d always been dotty about Ginette, and constantly showered her with presents of his own. The house, years back, had been one of them, and Kingdom suspected that the digger outside had something to do with another. He bent to pat the Alsatian, aware of Ginette waiting for an explanation for his visit. They’d never got along as kids, and now the gap was wider than ever.

Kingdom glanced up at her, still fondling the dog’s ears. ‘What do you call it?’

‘Gary.’

‘You serious?’

‘Yes. Anything wrong with Gary?’

Kingdom smiled, shaking his head, saying nothing. Steve
appeared with a bottle of Pils. Kingdom took it and followed Ginette into the kitchen. At thirty-three, she was a couple of years younger than Kingdom, and Steve’s money – carefully spent – had made her look younger still. She had Kingdom’s build – tall, angular, bony – and she’d learned to highlight the hollow spaces of her face to maximum effect. The tan suited her and the jewellery, for once, was nicely understated: simple gold earrings, a thin gold necklace, and a tiny row of diamonds set in a slender gold ring.

Ginette shut the kitchen door behind Kingdom, and looked pointedly at the bowls of canapes carefully arranged on matching silver trays. The message was obvious. People were coming. Time was short. Kingdom ignored the hint.

‘Been somewhere nice?’

‘Agadir.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Morocco,’ she said heavily. ‘You?’

‘Belfast.’ Kingdom reached for a Twiglet. ‘It rained a lot.’

They looked at each other for a moment, the usual declaration of war, mute, unforgiving, rooted deep in their respective childhoods. Ginette had slunk through adolescence with a long list of grievances and a mild dose of anorexia. Nothing had ever been good enough for her and the blame had always been Ernie’s. He’d had the wrong job. The wrong friends. The wrong tastes. He’d sent her to the wrong school, and he’d never begun to understand the kind of person she’d really wanted to be. Even their mother’s early death, from breast cancer, had somehow been Ernie’s fault. Quite what Ernie had made of all this, Kingdom had never quite fathomed, but he’d certainly done his best to cope, raising a second mortgage on the house when Ginette abruptly announced she was getting married. The loan – £2000 – had let Ernie push the boat out at the reception, though Kingdom had known at first glance that the marriage would never last. At thirty-three, Ginette’s first husband had been twice her age, an art college lecturer with a history of student conquests.

Now, Kingdom buttoned his trench-coat. ‘Seen Dad recently?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Not phoned at all?’

Ginette shook her head. ‘We’ve been away. I told you.’

‘Oh.’ Kingdom nodded. ‘Well, he’s got worse.’

‘Really?’

Ginette reached for a drying-up cloth and opened the eye-level oven. Inside, Kingdom could see a small mountain of couscous in an earthenware dish. Ginette took the lid off a casserole on a lower shelf and sniffed it.

‘So what’s happened now?’ she asked, frowning.

Kingdom explained about the way his father had been, the way he couldn’t cope any more, the tricks his memory played, the fact that he wouldn’t even eat properly. Ginette was busy with the plates, six of them, rimmed in gold.

‘So what are you saying? You want Dad to come here?’

‘It’s a thought. Unless you fancy Leytonstone.’

Ginette shot him a look. She’d always hated Mafeking Street. Wrong address. Wrong area. Wrong vibes.

‘Are you serious?’ she said.

‘About Leytonstone?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘About here. Dad coming here.’

Kingdom shrugged. To his certain knowledge, Ginette had six bedrooms. Even with two kids, that still left a couple spare. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I am. Just for now. While I find something longer term.’

‘But I thought you’d got nowhere to live? That’s what you told me on the phone.’

‘It’s true. I haven’t.’

‘So why don’t you move in with Dad? Kill two birds with one stone?’

‘I would. Will. Except I’m never there.’

‘Why not?’

She turned and looked at him. In certain lights, Kingdom could still see the stroppy child in her face, the slightly tilted jaw, the unspoken accusations.

‘Because I have to work for a living. Like everyone else.’

‘Give it up, then. If it’s that important.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

Kingdom felt the blood beginning to pump, his temper quickening. Ginette always did this to him. Always. She knew exactly where to place the knife, exactly how hard to press. Now
she was turning away, affecting indifference, reaching for a pile of dessert bowls.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if Dad matters that much, I’d have thought he was more important than any job.’

‘And what about the kids? David? Matthew? Where does the money come from for them?’

‘You never see them. You’re always somewhere else.’

‘That wasn’t the question. We’re talking money, Ginette. Maintenance. Hard cash.’

Ginette shrugged. ‘God knows,’ she said. ‘That’s your problem.’

She counted the dessert bowls and put them on the side. Then Steve’s hands appeared through the hatch, a glass in one, a bottle of Pils in the other. By the look of it, Ginette was drinking Campari and soda. She passed the bottle to Kingdom without a word. Kingdom put it on one side.

‘So you’re saying no,’ he said, ‘is that it?’

‘I’m saying it wouldn’t work. It’s not fair on the kids, either. Not at their age.’

‘Not having their grandfather around?’

‘It’s not that. He gets funny. You know he does. You know what it’s like. Dribbling and farting. And all those onions he’s been eating recently …’

Ginette looked up, realising instantly what she’d said. Kingdom looked at her. There was a long silence.

‘So when did you really see him?’ he said at last.

‘A week ago. Just after we got back. While you were still in Belfast.’

‘He never mentioned it.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? He can’t remember anything. Just like you say.’

‘So what was he like? When you saw him?’

Ginette shook her head, biting her lips, refusing to answer.

Kingdom caught her by the arm. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘tell me what happened.’

‘Not much. Enough.’

‘Enough what? Enough for you to know? Enough for you to know he’s off his rocker? Our Dad? Ginette?’

She pulled away from him, and he let her go. She was wearing
perfume, something expensive, and she left the scent of lemons in the air. She stood by the sink, defensive, rubbing her arm.

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she muttered. ‘The state of him. It’s disgusting.’

The front door chimes began to ring. The Alsatian loped out of the kitchen and Kingdom heard Steve’s footsteps in the hall. Ginette was crying now, her head in her hands. Kingdom found another drying-up cloth and tossed it across to her. It fell on the tiles by her feet, but she made no effort to pick it up. Kingdom looked at it a moment, then shrugged and turned away. In the hall, Steve was kissing a woman in a red dress. The man behind her was holding a magnum of champagne. Kingdom brushed past, heading for the door. Outside, it had begun to rain again. He was nearly at the gate when Steve caught up with him. He had an envelope in one hand. He gave it to Kingdom. He was slightly out of breath.

Kingdom took the envelope. What’s this?’ he said.

‘A cheque. It may help.’

Kingdom looked at the envelope, then opened it. Ginette was standing at the front door. She peered out, shielding her eyes against the floodlights, then she disappeared inside, pulling the door shut behind her. Kingdom extracted the cheque and examined it under the floodlights. It was drawn on Steve’s company and made out to E. Kingdom in the sum of one thousand pounds. Steve, for once, was looking awkward.

‘Call it a downpayment,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help listening.’

Kingdom studied him for a moment, then nodded at the digger. ‘What’s that for?’ he said.

‘Swimming pool. Out the back.’

‘Present for the kids?’

‘Ginnie.’

‘Ah …’

Kingdom glanced at the cheque again, then gave it back to Steve.

Steve stared at him. ‘You don’t want it?’

‘No, it’s not that.’

‘What then?’

Kingdom tapped the cheque. ‘It’s the name,’ he said. ‘You should make it out to me, not Ernie.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ he hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Ernie’s a goner, mate. He’s off his head. You should know that. Being part of the family.’ He looked at Steve a moment longer, then patted him on the arm. ‘Bon appetit,’ he said, turning away, back towards the road.

Next morning, Tuesday 21 September, Kingdom spent nearly an hour on the phone to the local Social Services Department. Half a dozen calls took him from office to office as he explained his father’s situation, until finally he secured the promise of a visit from a social worker. Meeting Ernie face to face, the social worker would be able to assess his needs and start work on a Care Plan. In the meantime, with a confirmation from Steve that another £1000 cheque was on the way, Kingdom phoned an agency and bought the services of a contract nurse. For £7.25 an hour, she’d call round three times daily and make sure Ernie was watered and fed. Her name, the agency manager said, was Angeline. She’d worked in nursing homes all over the country, and she was especially fond of what the manager delicately called ‘characters’.

Kingdom gave Ernie the good news and told him to open the front door when Angeline knocked. The old man did his best with the name, muttering it to himself as he shuffled across the hall to see Kingdom out. The last Kingdom saw of him, waving goodbye, was a bemused smile as the old boy stood blinking in the pale autumn sunshine. He had a chopping board in one hand and the briefcase in the other, and there were dribbles of soup down the front of his dressing gown.

From Waterloo, Kingdom took the train to Winchester. He’d still had no time for a haircut and the young uniformed WPC who met him at the station asked him for ID before escorting him out to the car park. Kingdom sat beside her for the brief five-minute drive to police headquarters.

‘Is it that bad?’ he said, not expecting an answer.

She glanced across at him, unsmiling. ‘We like to check, sir,’ she said, ‘especially these days.’

Rob Scarman occupied an office near the top of the tall, slab-sided block that housed the headquarters staff of the Hampshire police force. He was a thin, lanky man with a taste for homespun jumpers and worn tweed suits. When he’d been at the Yard on attachment, he’d deliberately fostered the image of the slow, provincial copper but Kingdom hadn’t been fooled. Behind the soft country burr and the schoolmasterly stoop, Scarman was very sharp indeed.

The two men shook hands. Sunshine flooded the office, gleaming on the polished emptiness of Scarman’s desk. Scarman, Kingdom remembered, had a hatred of paperwork, preferring to keep as much information as he could in his head. Now, he waved Kingdom into a chair and briefed him on progress in the Carpenter case.

The murder had taken place in a private house off the sea-front on Hayling Island, a retirement and holiday area east of Portsmouth. An incident room had been established at the police station in Havant, on the mainland, but the investigation had taken the usual twenty-four hours to bed down. The publicity, Scarman said wryly, had been a blessing, and neither manpower nor overtime were proving a problem. The Detective Chief Superintendent in charge had budget coming out of his ears, and was deploying three teams on the ground. One of them, mainly uniformed men, was still combing the immediate area. Another was doing house-to-house inquiries in a slowly widening circle. A third, Scarman’s own boys, was tramping through the small print of Carpenter’s public and private lives, trying to put together a detailed profile of the man: his financial interests, his political debts, his sexual preferences. The key word, as ever, was elimination, chucking every particle of evidence into the sieve in the hope that something, sooner or later, would slip through the mesh and offer a decent lead.

Kingdom nodded, recognising the textbook approach. ‘And?’ he said.

Scarman pulled a face. ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘so far.’

‘Nothing as in nothing? Or nothing wonderful?’

‘Nothing wonderful. Plenty of rubbish, bits and pieces, but nothing worth killing for. Not in my judgment.’

‘What about the lady he was in bed with? Where does she fit?’

Scarman opened a drawer and took out a sheaf of photographs. The one he gave Kingdom showed a woman in her late forties: well-preserved, fetching dimples, steady eyes and a fringe of artfully-cut blonde hair. The photo had recently come from a frame of some kind. Kingdom could feel the indentations on the edges. Scarman reached for the photograph, glancing at it before putting it back with the others.