Sabbathman (28 page)

‘I can take the train if it’s that important,’ she said, ‘and be back here tonight.’

There was a silence at the other end. Then Cousins was giving her an address: 318 Queen’s Gate Gardens.

Annie looked at it. ‘That doesn’t sound like Belfast,’ she said.

‘It isn’t,’ Cousins said briskly, ‘it’s London. I’m back home again.’

The flights out of Dublin were half empty and Annie had no trouble getting a seat on the 10.30. She sat near the back, still nursing the remains of the headache. Her bewilderment about Cousins had hardened into anger. She’d done well, she knew she had. She’d spent less than twenty-four hours on Irish soil and she had evidence that would probably connect the Fishguard explosives to sources in the north.

Politically, that was highly significant. It meant for one thing that someone at the sharp end of the republican movement had gone to enormous trouble to implicate the Irish government in an arms scandal. To clear their name, Dublin had offered unprecedented co-operation. Only yesterday, en route to Heathrow, Andrew Hennessey had told her how important it was to nurture this new openness. Dublin, he’d said, had always been pathological about the Brits. They’d never trusted a word we said. That made most negotiations a non-starter. It also made their security files a closed book. Anything, he’d said. Anything that might prise open the doors of Dublin Castle would be a major intelligence coup.
Major intelligence coup
. That had been his phrase. Exactly. So what on earth was she doing, airborne again, en route back to London? What could possibly be more important than staying in Dublin, knocking on doors, nurturing relationships, building up trust?

She thought about Dermot Reilly. Last night, at the end of the meal, she’d wondered aloud about buying a toothbrush and some spare underwear, and he’d offered to turn up the next day and take her to Dunne’s, a big department store. Drunk or otherwise, that wasn’t the kind of offer you turned down. Not if it came from a Special Branch inspector who probably fancied you. Not if you
were openly working for MI5. Not if you were serious about grabbing as much of this glorious windfall as you could. So why was Cousins calling her out of the orchard? What was suddenly so important it couldn’t wait a day or two?

The British Airways flight landed at 11.45. Ignoring Cousins’ instructions about lunch, Annie took a cab to her flat in Kew. The headache had gone now but she felt grubby and travel-worn. The least Cousins owed her was ten minutes in the shower and a clean pair of knickers.

She was still towelling herself dry when the chimes went on the front door. She slipped on a dressing gown, recognising Kingdom’s long shape through the frosted glass. When he stepped inside, he was smiling. Pleased to see me, she thought. Definitely.

‘I tried to raise you,’ he said, ‘first thing this morning.’

‘I was in Dublin.’

‘Dublin?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him a moment, her hair still dripping wet. Then she reached up and kissed him, letting the dressing gown fall open, leaving the wet imprint of her body on his jeans. ‘That was for the flowers,’ she said, ‘they were beautiful.’

Kingdom made coffee while she got dressed. He said he’d been down on the south coast but he didn’t trouble her with any details. For once in their relationship, she found herself wanting to know more. She stood in the kitchen doorway, combing her hair back.

‘Did you see your lady friend?’ she said.

‘What lady friend?’

‘Your little doctor friend.’

Kingdom glanced round. He was heaping coffee into the cafetiere. She could tell how much the question had pleased him.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘since you ask.’

‘In the line of duty?’

‘Of course.’

‘Fruitful?’

Kingdom laughed, turning back to the cafetiere, scalding the coffee with boiling water. ‘If it was that great, I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ he said. ‘If it was that great, I’d never have left.’

‘I’m not sure I like that.’

‘I’m not sure you’re entitled to care.’ He began to stir the coffee. ‘Aren’t there house rules about all this? You and me? Stuff we don’t talk about, stuff we do?’

Annie eyed him a moment, wondering if her relationship with Cousins would sustain another hour or so’s delay. Then she shrugged and turned away. ‘OK, OK,’ she said, ‘just asking, you know, routine inquiries.’

She was back in the bedroom, applying a thin line of mascara under each eye, when Kingdom appeared with the coffee. He’d also found some croissants and they were piled on a tray beside an open half-pound of butter.

Annie looked at him in the mirror. ‘They’re stale,’ she said.

‘I put them under the tap. Then I grilled them.’

‘Is that why I can smell burning?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled at him, swopping the mascara for a lipstick. Stale croissants with this lovely man sounded infinitely nicer than lunch with Hugh Cousins. Kingdom was sitting on the bed. He’d kicked his shoes off and now he was undoing the buttons down the front of his shirt. Annie shook her head, finishing with the lipstick, testing the effect in the mirror.

‘Can’t,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘Got to go out.’

‘But you’ve only just come in.’

‘I know.’

‘And it’s Saturday.’

‘I know that too. You don’t have to tell me. I’m supposed to be in Dublin. Buying silk underwear.’

Kingdom was looking at her in the mirror, trying to make up his mind whether she was joking or not.

She stood up, adjusting her skirt. She was thinking about Cousins again. ‘You could hang on,’ she said, ‘until I come back.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Seriously.’ She knelt down in front of him, running her fingers along the waistband of his jeans. ‘Then we could do it justice.’

‘Are you really going out?’

‘Yes. Since when did I put lipstick on for you?’

She got up again, reaching for her coffee. Then she went into the lounge and dialled for a minicab. When the dispatcher asked where she wanted to go, she reached back with her foot, pushing the bedroom door closed before giving an address.

‘About five minutes,’ the dispatcher said, hanging up.

Annie sat on the sofa a moment, nursing her coffee. The clock on the mantelpiece was a quarter of an hour slow. That meant it was already 1.15. If the traffic was heavy, she’d be lucky to be at Cousins’ place by two. She thought of blaming it on British Airways, then she shrugged. The summons back was crazy. Why should she apologise to a madman?

The bedroom door opened and Kingdom reappeared with the tray. She could read him like a book and she realised how disappointed he was. She got up and followed him into the kitchen, wondering for the second time exactly what had happened down in Portsmouth.

‘I meant it about coming back,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to be long. You could settle in for the afternoon. We could go out somewhere tonight. Or just …’ she shrugged, ‘…whatever.’

Kingdom put his arms round her. She nestled into him.

‘What happened to those flowers?’ he said.

‘They’re still at the office.’

‘Why?’

‘This is the first time I’ve been back since you sent them, since yesterday. I got back just now. Just before you arrived.’ She looked up at him. ‘Honestly.’

‘And you’ve really been to Dublin? You’re serious?’

Annie hesitated a moment, then nodded. Another rule broken, another dam breached. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘all of …’ She frowned. ‘Fourteen hours.’

‘Productive?’

She nodded, her hands cupping his face, one finger sealing his lips. ‘Very,’ she said. ‘But no more questions.’

‘I love you.’

‘That’s different.’

‘I know,’ he grinned, ‘just checking.’

The minicab came soon afterwards. Annie sorted quickly through her handbag and said goodbye at the door. When Kingdom
reminded her to take the key, she said she had a spare one. If he fancied staying, she’d be back later. Otherwise, maybe he’d phone. She kissed him on tip-toes and touched him lightly on the face before heading for the stairs. At the bottom, in the communal hall, she looked back up at him.

‘Me, too,’ she said, ‘if you’re asking.’

Queen’s Gate Gardens lay to the north of Gloucester Road, handsome mid-Victorian terraces around a rectangle of newly-mown grass. Number 318 was along from the Kuwaiti embassy and Annie recognised the yellow Volvo at the kerb. The car on the other side of the road looked familiar, too, though it wasn’t until Rupert Devereaux opened the door of Cousins’ flat that she realised where she’d seen it last. The Mercedes, she thought. The one he’d been driving in Fishguard.

Devereaux stepped aside, a long cheroot in one hand, inviting her in with an extravagant bow. Through an open archway Annie could see the main living room. It was somehow bigger than she’d anticipated, with tall French windows giving onto a small, sheltered patio. The room was cool and austere, grey walls, black leather chairs, and it was dominated by a long pine table. Cousins was sitting at one end, surrounded by the remains of lunch. There was a young child perched on his lap and he introduced the woman beside him with a casual wave of his right hand.

‘Olivia,’ he said, ‘Rupert’s wife.’

Annie shook hands. Through the open hatch into the kitchen she could see a pile of dirty plates stacked neatly beside the sink.

‘We thought you’d gone astray,’ Cousins said, ‘so I’m afraid we got on with it.’

He looked up for a moment or two, the faintest smile on his face, then Devereaux sat down again and the two men resumed a conversation that Annie had obviously interrupted. They were talking about a sailing holiday they’d all taken a couple of months back. Somewhere in Greece. The way the conversation went, the jokes, the innuendos, the peals of laughter, it was obvious that the three of them spent a great deal of time together. Once or twice
another name was mentioned, Colette, but it was a while before Annie began to suspect the truth of it: that Colette was Cousins’ ex-wife, and that the marriage had only recently collapsed.

Cousins and Devereaux were drinking Armagnac. The bottle was three-quarters empty.

Devereaux offered some to Annie. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘puts hairs on your chest.’

Devereaux’ wife exchanged glances with Annie and then left the table. Annie could hear her out in the kitchen, starting work on the dishes. Cousins had his mouth to the child’s ear now, whispering some story or other, and Annie found herself wondering whether he had any kids of his own. There were no clues in the flat, no photographs or toys. On the contrary, the place was bare of the usual personal touches, as if Cousins had deliberately settled for a life without unnecessary ballast.

Devereaux drained his glass. He was looking at Annie. ‘Time for the off,’ he said. ‘How’s the traffic?’

‘Fine. Are you going far?’

‘Cotswolds. Chipping Campden.’

He crushed his cheroot in an ashtray and stood up. Then he took the child from Cousins, holding it awkwardly, like a parcel he didn’t quite trust. His wife appeared from the kitchen, wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves. Some signal passed between them and the woman nodded, peeling off the gloves. Annie was still sitting at the table when they both kissed Cousins goodbye. Evidently they were meeting again in a week’s time. Their place this time. Some people Hugh might like to meet.

Annie heard the voices receding into the hall. Then the front door opened and closed and Hugh Cousins was back again, sinking into the chair across the table from Annie and reaching for the bottle of Armagnac.

‘My godson,’ he said absently. ‘Lovely boy.’

Annie shook her head when Cousins pushed a brandy glass towards her. She had the photo she’d brought back from Dublin in her handbag. She laid it carefully on the table in front of Cousins and repeated the story she’d already told him on the phone. Cousins picked up the photo and gazed at it. When Annie had finished, he looked up.

‘Which one?’

‘On the right. In the background.’

Cousins frowned, examining the photo again.

Annie watched him carefully. ‘You know who it is?’

‘No, but,’ the frown returned, ‘what did the Garda say? Did they have a name? Apart from Quinlan?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Nothing on file?’

‘I don’t know. I was about to find out but …’ Annie shrugged, gesturing at the remains of the meal. ‘You had other ideas.’

‘You think they might know? You got that impression?’

‘No. I got the impression they hadn’t a clue. What matters is getting O’Keefe off the hook. Where Quinlan takes us is irrelevant. Just as long as it’s in the north. That’s all they care about.’

Cousins nodded. He was still fingering the photograph. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘that’s good.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re in the clear. Good for them.’ He nodded. ‘And good for us.’

‘You know who it is?’ Annie said again. ‘Only it might save us both a lot of time.’

Cousins glanced up at her, that same faint smile, and Annie began to wonder whether he ever relaxed. Once you got past the charm and the good looks, there was a chill about the man, an icy self-control that no amount of brandy or repartee seemed to penetrate. It went with this flat of his, its bareness, its lack of clutter. It spoke of self-discipline, and a tightly ordered life. Dawn circuits of Hyde Park, Annie thought, and half an hour in a cold bath afterwards.

Cousins was on his feet again. From a cupboard in the corner he produced a tin. On the lid it said ‘Sharp’s Toffees’.

‘Are you sure you’re not hungry?’

‘Yes. It’s OK, thanks. I had something on the plane.’

‘Coffee? Tea?’

Annie shook her head. She wanted this to be over. She wanted to be back in her flat in Kew with Alan Kingdom, and a couple of bottles of good red wine, and nothing to think about but each other. Flowers, she thought. He sent me flowers.

Cousins sat down and opened the tin. Inside was a copy of one of the standard-issue contact notes in use at Gower Street.

‘This might sound a bit brisk,’ Cousins began, ‘but there isn’t much time.’

Annie looked across at the contact note. Upside down, she recognised the name. ‘Bobby McCrudden?’ she said.
‘My
Bobby McCrudden?’