Sabbathman (8 page)

Kingdom glanced at the uniformed constable who’d escorted him upstairs. ‘Arthur Sperring?’ he asked.

The constable nodded, showing Kingdom into an adjacent office. ‘You’d better wait here, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll fetch some tea.’

Sperring emerged from the interview five minutes later. Kingdom could hear the TV crew collapsing the light stands as he stepped into the office and shut the door. Kingdom was sitting behind the desk. He stood up, extending a hand. ‘DI Kingdom, sir. A-T Squad. My guv’nor sends his regards.’

‘Micky Allder?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He was on this morning.’ He paused. ‘How is he?’

‘Fine, sir. Thriving.’

‘Thank fuck someone is.’ Sperring gestured over his shoulder, an assumption that Kingdom had been briefed about the TV interview. ‘You know the angle those clowns are missing?’

Kingdom shook his head. The reporter was standing outside in the corridor. Face-on, she was very pretty.

‘Haven’t a clue, sir.’

Sperring waved Kingdom out of his way and sank into the chair behind the desk. Like many big men, he wore an air of almost permanent irritation. He growled something Kingdom didn’t catch, and then he rubbed his face. His flesh tones were awful, more grey than white, with blotches of colour where the veins had broken on both cheeks. He fumbled for a cigarette and pushed the packet of Kingdom.

‘Carpenter,’ he said briskly, ‘was an arsehole.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. He’s been trying to shaft us for years. Him and his fat friend.’

Sperring didn’t wait for a response but began to rummage through a wire tray at his elbow. Towards the bottom, he found a Police Federation leaflet. On the front, in heavy black capitals, it said SHEEHY: THE TRUTH. Kingdom took it, beginning to understand. Patrick Sheehy was an industrialist who’d made his name heading the British-American Tobacco Company and the government had asked him to run his management slide-rule over the police. His report, recently published, had argued that the police were over-paid and under-motivated, and one of his prime targets had been officers in the senior ranks. The service, according to Sheehy, was top-heavy. There should be no more guarantees, no more jobs for life. The buzzwords now were ‘performance’ and ‘value for money’, and old-style coppers like Sperring were still in shock.

Kingdom looked up. ‘You feel that strongly?’

‘Dead fucking right. As I understand it, Carpenter’s the pillock who suggested Sheehy in the first place. They needed someone to set the dogs on us and Carpenter obliged. He’s the one who put his name forward. Some bloke who’d been flogging cigarettes all his life. What would he know about coppering, eh?’ Sperring nodded at the packet of cigarettes, still lying on the desk. ‘Spends his entire career poisoning us with these fucking things, then has the nerve to pass judgment on what we do. What does he think we are? Box of filter tips?’

‘And Carpenter?’

‘Deserved everything he got. Live by the axe. Die by the fucking axe.’

‘You said that?’ Kingdom nodded towards the reporter, still standing in the corridor outside. ‘On the record?’

‘Christ, no.’

‘But you’re serious? You mean it?’

‘Of course I do. Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone?’ He narrowed his eyes, the way he’d done in front of the camera. ‘I’m telling you, son, anyone looking for a motive for Carpenter should start here, with me, with my boys. I can think of a hundred blokes who’d have taken a pop at him. Good fucking riddance, I say …’ He let the sentence expire in a thin stream of blue smoke. Then he laughed, a gravelly noise deep in his throat, and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘of course I don’t mean it. But it just goes to show, doesn’t it?’

‘Show what?’

‘Divine retribution.’ He laughed again, ‘Bless Him.’ Sperring tipped his head back, drawing down the next lungful of smoke, another tiny victory for Mr Sheehy. Then his eyes settled on Kingdom again. ‘So what do you want, son?’ he said, ‘How can I help you?’

Kingdom framed a careful answer, knowing now that Allder had already been in touch. When he mentioned Sabbathman, Sperring looked interested.

‘What do you make of that, then?’

Kingdom shrugged. ‘Dunno, sir,’ he said, ‘yet.’

‘But you think it might be a runner?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Single bloke? Nutter? Appears every Sunday? Has a pop?’

‘Maybe.’ Kingdom paused. ‘Have you talked to Jersey at all?’

‘Yeah.’ Sperring nodded. ‘They’re definitely interested but then they would be, wouldn’t they? So far they’ve got fuck all. Just Blanche in the fridge. You ever been to Jersey? The place runs on imported money. They need a name, any name, something to get them off the hook. Sabbathman, whatever he’s called, does just fine. Just fine. Perfect. A real gift.’

‘And here?’

Sperring took another lungful of Silk Cut and leaned forward, tapping ash into Kingdom’s empty cup.

‘You should go out to Hayling and take a look,’ he said. ‘My
blokes next door will tell you how to find the place. It’s a nice house, hundred grand easy, nice neighbourhood too. They stick together, those kind of people. Hayling’s a village, especially down their end. It’s not easy, getting in and out, shooting a guy. Not easy at all.’

‘Was the door locked? That morning?’

‘Yes, she swears it was. He was very particular, our Max. Hated interruptions.’

‘And no sign of forced entry?’

‘Nothing. Not a dicky bird. Not a single mark. Matey had a key. Assuming he exists …’

‘Meaning?’

Sperring spread his hands wide. ‘It could have been her. Fuck knows, of course it could. He’s married. He won’t leave his wife, his kids. He’s told her that. He’s made no bones about it. OK, he’ll turn up when it suits him. He’ll do the business, tell her she’s wonderful, tell her she’s the most important woman in his life. But what’s that when you’re on short rations? Eh? Couple of hours a week?’ He paused. ‘People have killed for much less. As we all fucking know.’

‘Was she that keen?’

‘Yes, according to the letters.’

‘Whose letters?’

‘His. We’ve got about a dozen. They go back a fair way, about a year and a half. He doesn’t actually spell it out, but you can tell. She’s dying for it. When he can be bothered.’

‘And what’s her version?’

‘She hasn’t said much but she obviously loved the bloke, crazy about him, no question. Terrible taste, but we can’t do her for that.’

‘And the weapon?’

‘Fuck knows. Definitely a hand-gun, probably an automatic, but it’s a goner. If it was her, she could have done anything with it. You can make a lot of plans in eighteen months.’

‘Forensic? Anything on her hands?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And nothing in the house? No traces of gun oil? Some place she might have hidden a weapon? Nothing like that?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘Not yet.’

‘You’re still looking?’

‘Of course we fucking are. We want a result, don’t we?’

There was a long silence and Kingdom remembered Allder, how confident he’d been, Carpenter cut down by the lone assassin, the mysterious Sabbathman.

‘You really think she might have done it?’ he said at last.

‘I don’t think anything. All I know is nobody saw anyone come or go. Now that’s pretty extraordinary, son, whichever way you look at it.’

‘So why haven’t you pulled her in?’

‘Clare Baxter? With her connections? On the evidence we’ve got? Are you serious, son?’

Kingdom didn’t answer for a moment, eyeing the ash floating in the remains of his tea.

‘How about Carpenter’s wife?’ he said at last. ‘She’d have plenty of motive. If she knew.’

‘She says she didn’t.’

‘You believe her?’

Sperring frowned. Like most detectives, black and white answers weren’t really his style. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘I do.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s an honest woman. She’s naive, too. She trusted him.’

‘But where was she? When it happened?’

Sperring glanced up. For the first time, he was smiling. ‘Half-past ten?’ he said. ‘Sunday morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Church. With the kids.’ The smile widened. ‘Not too many witnesses. But enough.’

‘A hit-man, then? A contract? Someone she paid to do it?’

Sperring looked briefly pained. Then he got up and brushed the ash from his trousers.

‘You London blokes are all the same,’ he said, yawning. ‘You think life’s one long fucking movie.’

Before he left the police station, Kingdom returned to the Incident Room. Sperring put him in the hands of a young detective sergeant
and the DS took him across the room to a big street map pinned to a board. The map showed the whole of Hayling Island. The island itself was about five miles by three, a wedge of land, wider at the coastal end, cut off to the north by a tidal creek. Access to the mainland was by a single road bridge. Immediately to the west, across the mouth of Langstone Harbour, lay the city of Portsmouth. To the east, across another harbour mouth, was the long curve of sand and shingle that led to Selsey Bill.

Kingdom studied the map a moment. There were coloured pins dotted round a grid of roads on the south-west corner of the island. A black pin marked the murder site. The name of the road was Sinah Lane. The house, according to photos displayed on the wall beside the board, was called ‘Little Douglas’. Kingdom looked at the pins, recognising the pattern of house-to-house calls, an ever-widening circle that would expand and expand until Arthur Sperring chose to call a halt. To the west of Sinah Lane, about a quarter of a mile away, was a holiday camp. Kingdom nodded at it.

‘Nothing there?’

‘We’re still checking. They’ve got individual units, chalet places. You rent them for a week or a fortnight, depending. We’re going through the bookings at the moment.’

‘How far back?’

‘Two years.’

‘Two years’

‘Yes. It’s not as bad as it sounds. We’ve got contact phone numbers for most of them through the booking people, and we’re leaning on other forces for the follow-ups. Otherwise …’ he shrugged, ‘… it would take forever.’

‘But two years …?’

Kingdom shook his head. For a man who’d evidently done his best to butcher the police force, Carpenter was certainly getting star treatment. Kingdom returned to the map. Beyond the holiday camp, the island narrowed into a little curl of land that reached north into Langstone Harbour. From here, a ferry crossed to Portsmouth.

Kingdom looked at the DS. ‘How quickly did the woman get on the phone? After matey was shot?’

‘Pretty quickly. Her own phone was dead so she used a neighbour’s. But we’re talking minutes. No more.’

‘So you closed the island down?’

Kingdom indicated the bridge to the north, the single road to the mainland. The DS nodded.

‘Yes. The log’s over there.’ He pointed to a loose-leaf binder on a shelf beneath the photos of the house. ‘We put a traffic car on the bridge first, couple of our motorway guys. Then armed backup half an hour later.’

‘And here?’ Kingdom’s finger found the ferry.

The DS nodded again. ‘Three blokes. Two on the beach, on the seaward side. One on the landing stage.’

‘When?’

‘Within the hour.’

‘An hour? That long?’

‘We phoned the harbourmaster first off. He’s got an office down by the ferry. He cancelled all sailings for the rest of the morning. Until our lads arrived.’

‘And?’

‘He saw nothing.’

‘No cars abandoned? Motor bikes?’

‘Nothing.’

Kingdom frowned, trying to picture the scene, trying to match the time frame to the distances involved, trying to calculate the odds on getting off the island before the police and the harbourmaster between them sealed it off. Getting to the mainland over the bridge was at least a ten-minute drive, probably longer. Using the ferry, on foot from the house, would have meant walking into the arms of the harbourmaster. Whichever way you looked at it, Hayling Island was a lousy place to plan a murder.

Kingdom glanced at the DS again, following his eyes to a line of winking telephones on the other side of the room. He still had questions to ask, things to get straight in his mind, but now clearly wasn’t the time. In any case, Sperring was right. He ought to get down there himself. He ought to put a little flesh on the bones of the map on the board. He touched the DS lightly on the arm.

‘This house,’ he said, nodding at the black pin on the board, ‘who’s got the key?’

‘No one.’ The DS frowned. ‘Why?’

‘I want to get in. Have a nose around.’

‘Then knock, sir.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure the lady will oblige.’

It was late afternoon by the time Kingdom found the house on Hayling Island. He’d driven round the area for half an hour or so, trying to get a feel for the place. By mid-September, the holiday-makers had long gone, and a grey chill had settled on the streets of endless bungalows. On the seafront there was a tiny funfair. A neon sign still winked on the roller coaster but tarpaulins shrouded the line of empty cars, and the turnstile entrance was padlocked shut. Across the road, in a bus shelter, three schoolgirls picked moodily at bags of chips. Kingdom watched them for a moment, depressed by the bleakness of it all, then turned right on the seafront, heading west towards the area where Sperring had so far based his inquiries.

Carpenter himself had lived along the coast, a two-acre property on the edge of a village called Bosham, and Kingdom tried to visualise him making this same drive, two or three Sundays a month, establishing the pattern with his wife, dressing up adultery as some kind of weekly chore, the need to stay abreast of constituency affairs. In this respect, Carpenter’s choice of mistress had been ideal: Clare Baxter, the woman who handled all the constituency correspondence, the woman who, above all others, would know exactly what was going on. Back at the police station, Kingdom had read the statement Carpenter’s wife had made. In it, she said that Carpenter had called Clare Baxter his ‘early warning system’. She was good at spotting problems. She had a real nose for trouble. She was, in another of Carpenter’s phrases, ‘a treasure’.

‘Little Douglas’ lay half a mile back from the sea-front in a quiet, tree-lined avenue already thick with fallen leaves. The area was visibly more prosperous than the rest of the island. ‘K’ reg BMWs. Expensive house alarm systems. Glimpses of tennis courts and the odd swimming pool behind the dense, well-trimmed hedges. There were flattened scabs of horse dung on the road, and when Kingdom parked and got out he found a sign on a tree threatening a £20 fine for leaving his car on the grass verge.
Kingdom ignored it, turning to look at the property across the road, recognising the place from the photos in the Incident Room. It was an ample, handsome, thirties house with leaded windows and warm red brick. Virginia creeper enveloped one corner, the leaves already scorched with autumn. To Kingdom’s surprise, there was no sign of any police vehicles.