Authors: Graham Hurley
There was a long pause. Kingdom heard the squeal of bed-springs and the pad of Scarman’s footsteps as he went to another extension. When he came back on the line his voice was icy.
‘You never mentioned she’d been wired before,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well, she’s already on line. In fact we nearly ended up with two taps.’
‘Great,’ Kingdom laughed, ‘stereo.’
‘Very funny. Gower Street are taking first bite, though when I asked they seemed surprised we should be interested.’
‘That’s their way of saying fuck off,’ Kingdom muttered. ‘Don’t be fooled.’
‘You sound like Allder.’
‘Yeah,’ Kingdom nodded, ‘occupational hazard.’ He paused. ‘So when do we get transcripts? And what about your guys outside? What’s she up to? What’s she been doing?’
Scarman swallowed a yawn. He said he’d found room in the budget to send two DCs. One of them was first-rate, a real flier. The other one was brand new. So far they’d not been in touch but between them Scarman was sure they had the job sorted. As for the phone tap, he was expecting the first cassette in the morning’s internal post. Under the circumstances, he’d skipped the formality of a properly-typed transcript. A waste of time, he said heavily, and a waste of money.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ Kingdom said. ‘When shall I phone again?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’ Scarman yawned for the second time. ‘On the office number.’
The phone down, Kingdom dialled Annie’s flat again. He’d been trying off and on all day, increasingly anxious, but still there was no answer. He let the phone ring and ring, thinking she might be asleep, wondering why Gower Street had any kind of interest in Ethne Feasey. The only possible link he could think of was her son’s involvement in the Twyford Down campaign. MI5 were always on the look-out for fresh conquests to add to their empire, and eco-terrorism – just now – seemed promising. Protest groups were springing up all over the country and sooner or later someone would pursue the debate with Semtex, rather than letters to the
Guardian
. Maybe they’d both been shaking the same tree, Kingdom thought, though he was now certain in his own mind that there was nothing remotely green about Sabbathman.
He waited another minute, listening to the burr-burr on Annie’s line. When there was still no answer, he put the phone down. By tomorrow, she’d have been gone four days. Quite a while, he thought, when she’d only popped out for lunch.
Next morning, after a night in another bed and breakfast, Kingdom was back in Old Portsmouth. He drove slowly round the area, getting his bearings. The city’s first settlements had sprung up around the harbour mouth. A medieval stone tower guarded the
harbour entrance and a warren of cobbled streets led away from the waterfront. Between this finger of land and the city’s cathedral was a pocket of water known locally as the Camber Dock. Protected on three sides, it had served as the town’s first harbour and even now it was still busy with shipping of all descriptions.
Kingdom parked the Wolseley on the dockside and got out. It was a bright, windy day and a trawler was berthing alongside a tall line of sheds. Forward of the wheelhouse, beneath a cloud of seagulls, men were already working in the hold, stacking the plastic crates of fish while a fork-lift truck whined to and fro on the quayside, depositing wooden pallets. Kingdom watched for a moment, as fascinated as ever by the life these men must lead. In reality, he knew it was probably a terrible job – long hours, indifferent pay, lousy working conditions – but in his heart he’d always wanted to go to sea. It had long been a dream of his, a door that would open to limitless freedom. At sea, he thought, they’d never get you. At sea, at last, you could be safe.
The first crates of fish swung out of the hold and Kingdom picked his way around the waiting pallets. In another part of the Camber, away from the trawlers and the big Isle of Wight car ferries, developers were building a small marina, floating walkways quartering the oily water. It was here, according to the manager Kingdom had already talked to on the phone, that visiting boats would tie up. Kingdom looked at the neat rows of moored yachts, wondering what the next few minutes would turn up. The manager had told him to try knocking at the Berthing Master’s door. Behind the Keyhaven Restaurant, he’d said helpfully, next to the Pilot’s Office.
Kingdom found the restaurant. The Berthing Master had just arrived for work. Kingdom showed him his ID and took the proferred seat while the Berthing Master sorted himself out. He was a small, balding man with a slight squint. The badge on his blazer said ‘Royal Yachting Association’. He finished unpacking his briefcase while Kingdom explained what he was after.
The Berthing Master opened a drawer and took out a clipboard. ‘Do we have a date in mind?’
Kingdom nodded. He knew the chronology by heart now, the stepping stones that led from a banker’s clifftop estate in Jersey to
room 26, block A, Ford Open Prison. ‘Around the weekend of the 18th and 19th September,’ he said. ‘That’s last month.’
The Berthing Master flicked back through a sheaf of computer print-outs clipped to the board. He extracted the entries for the relevant weekend and ran a finger down the list.
‘And the name again? The boat?’
‘Catherine May.’
The Berthing Master nodded, showing Kingdom the list. A motor cruiser called the
Catherine May
had berthed on Thursday 16 September. She’d left again three days later, on Sunday 19. Dues of £20 had been paid in cash.
Kingdom produced the photograph of the boat he’d removed from Jo Hubbard’s collection. He showed it to the Berthing Master. ‘Is this the one? Would you recognise it?’
The Berthing Master glanced at the photo, then shook his head. ‘I was on leave,’ he said. ‘You need to talk to Harry.’
Harry turned out to work as a book-keeper for a local crane company. They were based in one of the sheds on the quayside, and Kingdom found him bent over an electric fire in the glass-partitioned office at the back of the building. He introduced himself and explained about the boat. Harry peered at the photo. He was a stout, cheerful man in his late fifties. His ginger beard was greying but there was nothing wrong with his eyes.
‘Yep,’ he nodded, ‘that’s her.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive. I went on board.’
‘You met the owner?’
‘Yep.’ He nodded again, indicating the figure in the photo. ‘Him. That one. I collected the money and we had a chat.’
‘When? When did he pay?’
‘Up front, as soon as he arrived. I gave him a berth over by the pub. He knew he was going on Sunday, see, so he paid the twenty quid up front. Cash in hand, like.’
Kingdom bent over the desk, feeling his pulse beginning to slow again. In any investigation there came a moment when you knew, with total certainty, that you were closing on the truth.
‘Was he alone?’ Kingdom asked.
‘No. He had another chap with him, a younger chap. Didn’t say a lot, mind.’
‘Big? Small?’
Harry glanced up. The tea at his elbow was getting cold. ‘Titch,’ he said, ‘half your size.’
‘And younger, you say?’
‘Yep. ’Bout thirty odd. Sandy hair.’ He looked at the photo again. ‘Nice boat, mind.’
Kingdom took out his notepad, scribbling Harry’s name and address. Later, he told him, someone would return for a full statement. It was possible, at some future date, that he might have to appear as a witness in court.
Harry began to look troubled. ‘Don’t know about that,’ he mumbled. ‘What’s he done? This bloke?’
Kingdom ignored the question. He still had the photo. ‘What about the inflatable?’ he said. ‘Did you see that as well?’
‘On the cabin roof, lashed down.’
‘Did they use it at all?’
‘Dunno.’ He shrugged. ‘Might have done.’
‘But you’re not sure.’
‘No.’
Kingdom pocketed the note-pad and thanked Harry for his time. As he began to back out of the hot little office, Harry looked up.
‘You try the museum at all?’ he said.
‘What museum?’
‘The Royal Marine place. Up at Eastney. Only he got me to phone a cab for him. Take him there. That first day he arrived.’
The Royal Marine Museum lay at the other end of the sea-front, part of the original barracks that had once housed thousands of serving troops. Kingdom found it without difficulty, turning into the car park beneath a ten-foot statue of a patrolling trooper. The car park was empty. A path led through a litter of Marine trophies to an imposing flight of steps. Inside the tall glass doors was a reception desk. Kingdom showed his ID again and asked to see the
officer in charge. At length, an archivist appeared, a tall young man in a checked shirt. Kingdom explained his interest. Bloke called Gifford. Probably an ex-Marine. Thursday 16 September. Might have popped in for a chat, or a beer, or simply a look-round.
The archivist was frowning. The name, he said, sounded familiar. He led the way down to a basement office. Bookshelves lined the walls. The archivist waved Kingdom into a chair and produced a blue visitors’ book, and Kingdom watched him checking back through September, marvelling at the footprints Gifford had left behind him. Always the same, he thought. If you know where to look, everyone makes mistakes.
At length the archivist glanced up. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘Dave Gifford. He had an inquiry about an oppo he’d served with. I remember now.’
‘And?’ Kingdom had his notepad out again.
‘Couldn’t help him, really. They’d served together in 45 Commando, mainly in Aden. His mate had done something heroic in one of the Crater riots. I gather this bloke had just died and Gifford had been contacted by the widow. She’d never been clear about the details of the incident and she wanted something official to show the son. Gifford said he’d oblige.’
‘But you couldn’t help?’
‘No. I got out some of the standard reference but I think he was after something more personal. Field reports, maybe even a citation if a medal was involved. He seemed a bit vague about that.’
‘So what did you say to him?’
‘I told him to go to the Public Records Office.’
Kingdom nodded, making a note. ‘How did he behave when he was here? How did he seem to you?’
‘Fine.’ The archivist shrugged. ‘Fit for his age. Big man. Said he missed it. Like they all do.’
‘Missed what?’
‘The Corps.’ He paused. ‘It’s quite a blow for some of them, leaving it all behind. He’d been out for a while, ’78 I think he said, but it’s often hard, making the adjustment. Life can be physically tough inside, but you’re well protected. Money. Food. Heating. Mates. They miss all that. You can tell.’
‘You’re talking about Gifford now? Dave?’
‘Any of them really. They can get a bit …’ He frowned, searching for the right word. ‘Lost. That’s all. Marines are funny people. Very black and white. Give a Marine a job to do and you’ve never met a happier bloke. Give him his gratuity, cut him adrift, and who knows?’
He pushed the visitors’ book across the desk, asking Kingdom to sign it. While Kingdom was scribbling his name, he sat back, brooding, and Kingdom wondered just how many of these conversations he’d had, old campaigners dropping by, inquiring about mates, reminiscing about favourite postings, trying to puzzle out the world to which they now belonged.
Kingdom closed the visitors’ book.
The archivist rubbed his eyes. ‘You know this man Gifford?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘You know his son at all? Andy?’
‘No.’
‘You should.’ He smiled at last. ‘He’s quite a talent.’
Kingdom waited, his notepad open in front of him. ‘Talent?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ The archivist nodded. ‘He was down in the Falklands. The Paras, not the Marines. He was involved on Longdon and wrote some stuff about it. Got published too, much to some people’s disgust.’
‘Published?’ Kingdom blinked, remembering Jo Hubbard’s line about the son writing some kind of book. The communiqués, he thought, Sabbathman’s regular post-mortems. Nicely done. Neat turns of phrase. Kingdom picked up his pen. ‘So what did he write about? This Andy Gifford?’
‘The truth, as far as I can make out. How bloody dreadful the whole thing was.’ He paused. ‘Interesting guy. Interesting job, too.’
‘In the Paras?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he do?’
The archivist yawned, glancing at his watch. ‘He was a sniper,’ he said, getting up, ‘good at it too, according to the stuff I read.’
*
Kingdom was in Winchester by lunchtime. He found Rob Scarman at his desk in the big fifth-floor office, halfway through a pile of corned beef sandwiches. Beside the sandwiches was a thermos of hot consommé and an audio-cassette. He tossed the cassette to Kingdom.
‘It’s been here since ten,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I cancelled a haircut because of you.’
Kingdom eyed the sandwiches, realising how hungry he was. Scarman pushed them across.
‘You got a player for this?’ Kingdom indicated the cassette.
‘Over there. In the corner.’
Kingdom crossed the room, sinking his teeth into the sandwich, wiping crumbs off the brand new Sony tape machine. When he pressed the play button there was a crackle or two on the soundtrack then the long hollow sound of a telephone line interrupted by the burr-burr of an incoming call. Someone picked up the receiver. Then Kingdom heard a woman’s voice.
‘Four-eight-five-six-seven-four,’ she said.
Scarman was looking at Kingdom. ‘That her? Your Mrs Feasey?’
‘Yeah.’
A man’s voice was talking now, rougher than Kingdom had anticipated, a flat, ugly southern accent, Essex maybe, or Kent. The conversation was brief. He called Ethne ‘luv’. He said she was to phone back. The line went dead. Kingdom looked up, crossing the room for another sandwich.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘She went out. Almost immediately.’
‘Where?’
‘Call box on the sea-front.’ Scarman shrugged. ‘She reversed the charges. That’s all we know.’
‘Anyone been on to the exchange?’
‘Yes. But we haven’t heard back yet. And there won’t be a tape. Just the number.’
‘Was she on long?’
‘Ten minutes. Give or take.’