Sabbathman (41 page)

‘I don’t know. You don’t think these things through. They just happen. I suppose …’ She frowned, then shook her head. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

Kingdom shifted his weight in the chair. One of the springs was on the point of collapse. ‘Let’s go back to the money,’ he suggested.

‘What money?’

‘The money you’d need to pay for the house. Assuming you’d liked it.’

Mrs Feasey nodded. Her eyes had settled on the photo montage over the mantelpiece. Her face had softened. She looked wistful and a little lost. ‘This is a game,’ she said quietly. ‘You know the answers already.’

‘What answers?’

‘Me,’ she nodded at the photographs, ‘Paddy. What happened to the business. That’s why you weren’t surprised next door, when I showed you the credit cards. You know I’m a bankrupt. You know the cards are worthless. You know I didn’t have the money to pay for that house.’ She paused. ‘What else did Chris tell you?’

Kingdom gazed up at her. ‘Who?’

‘Chris. Chris Wells. The young man you met out at the nursery yesterday.’

‘You’ve talked to him?’

‘He phoned me, last night, saying he’d met someone. You fit the description.’ She paused, fumbling in the pocket of the dressing gown for a cigarette. ‘It’s called friendship,’ she said bitterly, ‘in case you were wondering.’

Kingdom sat back in the chair, saying nothing. Rain drummed at the window. At length he bent forward, offering Mrs Feasey a match, smelling the shower gel again. She must have been ready for bed, he thought. She might even have been half-asleep when he started ringing the front door bell.

‘Tell me about the house,’ he said softly. ‘I want to know about the house.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You don’t?’

She looked down at him a moment then finally sank into the chair opposite. A tiny flicker beneath her left eye betrayed her exhaustion and Kingdom began to wonder exactly how much stress the average human being could take. This woman’s last couple of years would have been enough for anyone. It was a miracle she was still in one piece. Strength, Kingdom thought again. And immense courage.

‘You had the key for an hour,’ he said. ‘Were you alone?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Why of course?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head vigorously, as if to dislodge something. ‘I don’t know.’

‘So what did you do with the key?’

‘I looked round the house.’

‘But why do that? If you couldn’t buy it?’

She glanced up at him, then away again. She looked haunted now, and the accent in her voice was a little stronger.

‘Someone else,’ she muttered, ‘I was looking on behalf of someone else.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘They wanted a second opinion.’

‘A woman’s view?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’ Kingdom nodded. ‘So who was he?’

There was a long silence. Then she shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Please. Don’t.’

She was on her feet again, looking at the photos, and it took Kingdom a moment or two to realise that the tears were genuine. Real grief. Real despair.

‘Someone’s husband?’ he said. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

She nodded, turning her head away, covering her eyes with her hand. ‘Yes, she whispered. ‘Something like that.’

*

Kingdom left the flat an hour and a half later. He’d led her back to the house on Hayling Island a thousand times, trying to pin her down, asking for a name, an address, just a little more information about this mystery friend for whom she’d been doing a favour. But the blunter his questions became, the more reluctant she was to continue the conversation. The man’s wife, she implied, had been a good friend. Nothing had happened. Nothing would ever happen. But the woman concerned was jealous by nature and deeply vulnerable. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her.

At last, recognising the futility of pressing any harder, Kingdom had changed the subject. Without explaining why, he asked her about her movements in recent weeks. Specifically, he was interested in weekends. How did she normally spend her Saturday nights? Who could vouch for her whereabouts on Sundays? Composed again, Mrs Feasey had answered the questions with a weary indifference. Saturday nights, she said, were easy. She’d been at work. As for Sundays … She’d shrugged, shepherding Kingdom out into the narrow, dark little hall, handing him his coat, indicating the open bedroom door, explaining that daytimes were reserved for sleeping. Sundays included. Kingdom had asked for corroboration, the name of someone who could confirm the arrangement, but she’d shaken her head. How can I do that, she’d asked coldly, when I sleep alone?

Now, Kingdom found a phone box. Allder, according to his secretary, was still at lunch. After that, he had a meeting at the Home Office. The earliest he’d be back was four. He thanked her and dialled another number, police headquarters in Winchester. The switchboard answered and he asked for Special Branch. The line went dead for a moment, then the duty sergeant came on.

‘Rob Scarman, please,’ Kingdom said. ‘Tell him it’s urgent.’

Scarman came to the phone at once. The two men exchanged greetings and Scarman mentioned Arthur Sperring. Apparently he’d been boasting about some lead or other, crumbs he’d tossed to Micky Allder.

‘He’s right,’ Kingdom said grimly, ‘more right than he fucking knows.’

He explained about Ethne Feasey. He said he had nothing concrete but he was certain she’d repay a little further investment. Kingdom began to describe one or two bits of the conversation he’d just had but Scarman cut him short.

‘What are we talking?’ he said. ‘What do you need?’

‘I want her watched. And I want a tap.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as possible.’

‘Have you got a warrant? For the tap?’

‘You’re joking. I’ve only just left her.’

Scarman put the phone down a moment and Kingdom heard him talking to someone else. Then he came back.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘Leave it to me.’

Kingdom gave him the address and the phone number he’d memorised during his visit to the flat. The phone number would save a lot of time with the telephone tap. With the right authority, both incoming and outgoing calls could be intercepted at the exchange.

Kingdom paused. ‘Got all that?’

Scarman said yes. ‘Arthur’s worried,’ he added, ‘thinks you’re not to be trusted.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Christ, no. Quite the reverse. Means he thinks you might be getting somewhere.’ Scarman began to laugh and then put the phone down.

Kingdom was still grinning when he got through to his next number. The receptionist at the Queen Alexandra Accident and Emergency Department confirmed that Dr Hubbard was on duty. She answered her bleep within seconds.

‘Jo? Alan …’

‘Hi.’

Kingdom’s grin widened. Their last encounter hadn’t quite exhausted her patience. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m in Pompey tonight. Thought we might eat.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘I’m interested in that Scottish thing you mentioned. That adventure course. Remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought I might try it myself. You take any snaps at all?’

‘Loads.’

‘Great.’ He paused, gazing out at the rain. ‘Then why don’t you bring them along?’

‘Are you serious about going to Scotland? Do you know what you’d be in for?’

‘No,’ Kingdom grinned, ‘tell me.’

They were sitting in a harbour-side pub in Old Portsmouth. It was still early, half-past six, and the last of the sunshine gilded the churning tide beneath the big picture windows. Jo Hubbard selected one of the photos she’d spread on the table between them. It showed a sweep of broken rock climbing steeply towards a leaden sky. Looking at the photo, Kingdom could count six shades of grey.

‘Day one,’ Jo said, ‘Ben Leacach.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A mountain. Bloody big one, too. You climb it before lunch. All of you. Regardless.’

‘Of what?’

‘The weather. The wind, especially.’ She took the photo out of his hand and studied it fondly. ‘That day wasn’t too bad. Twenty, twenty-five knots. Apparently it gets tricky when you can’t stand up.’

‘But you got to the top?’

‘Of course.’ She looked genuinely startled. ‘Too right we did.’

Kingdom reached for his beer. He’d picked her up half an hour earlier. She’d just got in from the hospital and he’d waited in the car outside the neat little terrace house while she fed the cats and changed into jeans and a big old rollneck sweater. The more he saw of her, he thought, the more he liked her. She was always so
cheerful and uncomplicated. She had a sense of optimism so powerful it was almost catching.

‘Then there’s this,’ she said, selecting another photo and passing it across.

Kingdom studied it. Half a dozen people stood knee-deep in peaty brown water. Floating amongst them were a gaggle of single-seat canoes. Kingdom peered at the faces. Ethne Feasey’s wet-suit was black and purple and she’d tied her hair in a tight blonde bun at the back. Another storm was looming over the mountains in the distance and she looked less than happy.

‘So what kind of people go on these courses?’ Kingdom asked. ‘What should I expect?’

‘All sorts. Young, old, men, women …’ Jo shrugged. ‘You all muck in. There’s nothing fancy up there. You just get on with it. All you really need is a sense of humour. And a reasonable degree of fitness, of course. That helps.’

‘But why do people go? What makes them want to do these things?’ Kingdom fingered another of Jo’s photos. A man in his forties was hanging off a cliff face, supported by a harness and two lengths of rope. The sea boiled on the rocks several hundred feet below.

Jo grinned. ‘People like that guy have no choice,’ she said. ‘He was volunteered.’

‘Who by?’

‘His firm. The centre runs leadership courses for key managers. Companies decide who they want to send along and the people at the centre do the rest. They swear it’s character-forming.’

‘And is it?’

‘Depends who you talk to.’ She nodded at the photo. ‘He’d tell you it was a waste of time.’

Kingdom inspected the photo again. The man on the cliff looked terrified. His glasses were pebbled with rain and his knuckles were white with strain.

‘Was this some kind of punishment?’ Kingdom inquired. ‘What exactly had the guy done?’

‘Nothing. His big mistake was owning up.’

‘To what?’

‘Vertigo.’

Kingdom blinked. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. If you’ve got a weak spot, they’ll find it. It’s almost part of the contract.’

‘And this was a
holiday
?’

‘Yeah, for people like me it was. You don’t have to be on one of these leadership courses. You can just go for the ride. Choose what you want to do. Design yourself an individual course. They call it “Pick and Mix”.’

‘And you enjoyed it?’

‘Loved it. It was a laugh. A rage. Totally brilliant.’

‘They didn’t find your weak spot?’

‘I haven’t got one.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Well,’ Jo grinned, looking down at the photos again, ‘only snakes, and there aren’t too many of those in Scotland.’

She passed him more shots. She’d seen a feature on the place, she said, in one of the Sunday magazines. It was tucked away on the Isle of Skye, miles from anywhere, the brainchild of an ex-soldier. He’d been running it now for nearly fifteen years, and it was still known by the name he’d given the place when he first settled.

‘What was that?’

‘
An Carraig
. It’s Gaelic for the rock. You’ll understand when you get there. The place is a real wilderness.’

Kingdom nodded, thinking of Ethne Feasey again, wondering how she’d ended up at a place like this. Jo was telling him about the routines, the demands the course made on you, the unspoken acceptance that you were there to do your best, to stretch yourself in ways you’d never done before. The living conditions, she said, were frankly spartan and the weather was frequently awful. Each new day brought a fresh set of physical challenges, most of them terrifying, but the instructors were excellent and after a while it began to dawn on you that you might survive. After that, you began to get the hang of it. And after that, if you were lucky, something rather magical happened.

‘What?’ Kingdom inquired drily.

Jo was looking out of the window now. There’d been some kind of race offshore and a line of dinghies were making their way
back into the harbour, the wind behind them, their sails gull-winged. In the gathering dusk, they looked like birds.

‘It’s hard,’ she said at last, ‘to describe.’

‘Try.’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s got something to do with self-belief, self-respect. At least, that’s what they tell you. But it’s more than that. Much more. It’s like’ – she frowned – ‘you’ve opened a box and taken a look inside. Until you’ve done it, until it’s happened to you, you didn’t even know the box existed.’ She shrugged. ‘But now it just makes everything different, somehow. It’s very raw, very powerful. You just know you’ve been there and done it. It’s very special.’

‘Very private?’