Sabbathman (49 page)

Allder, it now seemed, needed no more convincing that the serial killings were down to Dave Gifford and his son, and he’d therefore reinforced surveillance on the Scottish west coast landfalls from Skye. To his certain knowledge, both men were still on the island, weathered in at
An Carraig
. According to a phonecall from one of the Special Branch team at Kyle of Lochalsh, the whole area lay under a heavy blanket of cloud, with the winds gusting to sixty knots and the mountains largely invisible. Conditions like these, said Allder, were a blessing and the forecast was even better. Another deep depression was racing east, across the Atlantic. By Monday, the weather on Skye would be horrible.

Kingdom sat back, pushing his list to one side. All of it was important, he knew it was, but what preoccupied him now was the news about the phone box on the Shanklin sea-front. It was more than possible that Ethne Feasey had been using it for some time to talk to Dave Gifford. For a man with a lot to hide, it would have
been an obvious precaution, especially if he’d thought that Ethne Feasey’s own line might have been tapped. Her son, after all, had got himself involved with the Twyford Down people and Dave Gifford would have been experienced enough to suspect a tap on these grounds alone. So far, so good. But what Dave Gifford couldn’t have known was that the public phone box had also been bugged. Which meant that someone, somewhere would have a complete record of all calls on the sea-front number.

Kingdom toyed with his pen, exploring the implications. Men as love-struck as Dave Gifford had loose tongues. If he was campaigning – killing – on Ethne Feasey’s behalf, he may well have shared the secret with her. God knows, they may even have been in it together, and if so, the transcripts of their conversations would have provided a blueprint for the entire campaign. So who had ordered the transcripts in the first place? And exactly how revealing had they been?

Kingdom was still pondering the questions when the phone rang on his desk. The mini-cab had arrived from Kingston. It was waiting for him downstairs. Kingdom rode the lift to the ground floor, still thinking about the transcripts. The mini-cab was a dirty blue Datsun with 93,000 miles on the clock. The driver, a young Moroccan, was yawning behind the wheel. Kingdom got in beside him. The man looked half-asleep.

‘Kew,’ he confirmed, giving Annie’s address.

They drove west, towards Hammersmith, the traffic heavy for a Saturday. By the time they’d crossed the river at Chiswick, Kingdom and the young driver had become friends, both overworked, both underpaid, both completely knackered. When they got to Annie’s turning, the driver began to indicate left. Kingdom reached across, cancelling the indicator. Then he nodded at the two-way radio under the dashboard, a constant stream of messages from the dispatcher.

‘Take me to your leader,’ he said, ‘change of plan.’

Kingston Cabhire operated from premises behind the railway station. The dispatcher, a middle-aged woman, was too busy to answer Kingdom’s questions and told him to talk to the boss. The boss, just now, was having a snack in the Wimpy Bar round the corner. Kingdom found him at a table beside the deep fryer, a
thick-set, middle-aged man with a day’s growth of beard and a collarless shirt, open at the neck. His half-pounder dripped with ketchup and after every mouthful he carefully wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

Kingdom slipped into the seat opposite. He showed his ID long enough to register the look in the man’s eyes. Someone’s been here before, he thought. Someone’s told him to expect me.

Kingdom helped himself to a chip. ‘Customer of yours from Kew,’ he said, ‘a woman called Annie Meredith.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Last Saturday. You’d have the records.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I want to know where she went. The address.’

The man looked at Kingdom for a moment or two. The remains of the burger lay on his plate. Kingdom wondered briefly about ordering one himself, then thought better of it.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘shall we go back to the office?’

‘No point.’

‘Why not?’

‘We don’t … ah … keep records.’

‘At all?’

‘Of the destinations?’ The man shook his head. ‘Never.’

‘Then maybe you’ll tell me who took her. I’m sure you’ve got a record of that.’

The man frowned a moment, reaching for a paper napkin, buying time. ‘Bloke’s left,’ he announced at last, ‘gone.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Yeah.’ He finished with his chin and started on his forehead, leaving a thin film of ketchup below the hairline. ‘Fucking typical. These days.’

Kingdom nodded, saying nothing. Then he sat back, smothering a yawn, a smile on his face. ‘You pay your drivers shit,’ he said at last, ‘they’re all on the black. No stamps. No NI. Half the poor bastards are foreign, and I’m sure most of them don’t even have work permits.’ He reached for another chip. ‘You’ve gor ten minutes to tell me what I want to know. Otherwise …’ He shrugged. ‘It might get heavy.’

‘How heavy?’

Kingdom licked his fingers, taking his time. ‘Inland Revenue. The VAT people. DSS. The Immigration lot …’ He smiled. ‘Then me again.’

Kingdom took the train back into Central London. By half-past six he was standing outside Gloucester Road tube station, watching the Saturday traffic inching past, wondering quite how late he should leave it. According to the A-Z, Queen’s Gate Gardens was five minutes away. If Cousins was at home, then now would be as good a time as any to knock on the door. If nothing else, they had Annie in common. The least the man owed him was some kind of clue, some kind of indication about how and why she’d died. With that, he told himself, he could begin to make his peace.

Kingdom crossed the Cromwell Road, heading north towards Hyde Park. Queen’s Gate Gardens was next on the right, a handsome square of tall mid-Victorian houses, each entrance with its separate portico. Kingdom mounted the steps to number 318 and paused beside the wall-mounted speakerphone. Cousins, to his surprise, had used his own name. Second bell. Ground floor flat.

Kingdom rang the bell a couple of times. Nothing happened. He rang it again. Finally it answered, a man’s voice. Kingdom gave his name and asked for Hugh Cousins.

‘Who are you again?’

‘A colleague.’

There was a pause and then the lock slid back in the big front door and Kingdom stepped through into the carpeted hall. The flats smelled of money: fresh flowers, expensive perfume, and the skins of very young animals. A door at the end of the hall opened and a tall figure stood waiting for him. He was wearing jeans and a nicely-cut white shirt. He had dark, curly hair and a quizzical smile. The handshake was light, the merest touch of flesh on flesh.

‘Hugh’s away,’ he said at once, ‘back tomorrow afternoon.’

Kingdom registered his disappointment with a scowl. He could smell burning toast now.

‘Shit,’ the man said, ‘hang on.’

He turned on his heel and disappeared. Kingdom ran his fingers over the lock. Double mortice, he thought. The best you
can buy. He peered around, looking for the tell-tale signs of a security system – photoelectric sensors, pressure pads – knowing already that he’d have to come back tonight, and lay the ghost the proper way. No flannel. Nothing face to face. Just a thorough search of the flat on the off-chance that he might find something worth the effort and the risk. Men like Cousins often made mistakes that way, leaving stuff around, and Kingdom remembered his face again in the pub. He’d had that look, that arrogance.

The man who’d opened the door now was back again, newly apologetic. ‘I’d ask you in,’ he said, ‘but I’m off out.’

‘Back later?’

‘No.’

‘I meant Hugh.’

‘No.’ The man was frowning now, studying Kingdom a little harder. ‘I thought I told you. He’s away until tomorrow.’

Kingdom grinned, stepping back into the hall, saying he’d phone Hugh in a day or two. The man at the door was still watching him as he paused at the end of the hall and let himself out.

It was dark before Kingdom saw him again. He emerged from the flats, pulling the front door shut behind him and testing it to make sure it was locked. He was wearing a suit now and when he got to the pavement he put on a long black raincoat, turning up the collar against the blustery wind that was stirring the leaves in the garden which occupied the middle of the square. He set off towards Gloucester Road, then paused, patting the pockets of the raincoat. Standing in the shadows across the road, Kingdom heard the soft curse as he turned back to the flat, running up the steps to the front door, pausing to let himself in. A minute later he was out again, pocketing the keys, walking briskly in the direction of Earl’s Court.

For a minute or two, half an hour later, Kingdom thought he’d lost him. They were walking east along the Brompton Road, and the pavement was thick with pedestrians. Scaffolding covered a parade of shopfronts, with a walkway underneath, and by the time Kingdom emerged, Cousins’ friend had vanished. Kingdom began to run, stepping out into the road, hugging the kerb, careful not to find himself suddenly abreast of the man. Maybe he’s taken a cab,
he thought. Or maybe he’s ducked into one of the several restaurants he’d already passed. Then he spotted him again, the other side of the road this time, just the back of the long black raincoat as he disappeared into the lobby of a big hotel.

Kingdom waited for less than a minute. Inside the hotel, the lobby was crowded with guests. Cousins’ friend was nowhere to be seen. Kingdom paused at the reception desk. The girl gave him directions to the cloakroom. He followed the stairs to the basement. Cousins’ friend was standing beside the counter. He had a ticket in his hand and the attendant was busy putting his coat onto a hanger. Kingdom slipped past, pushing open the door to the men’s lavatory. Locked in a cubicle, he waited a full minute, emptying his coat pockets. When he emerged again, Cousins’ friend had gone.

At the cloakroom counter, Kingdom handed over his coat. The attendant gave him a ticket.

Kingdom smiled at him. ‘Expecting a busy night?’

The attendant was young. The broad Geordie accent sat oddly with the pressed brown uniform. ‘I’m off out, sir,’ he said, ‘as soon as the relief arrives.’

Beside the lobby was a small cocktail bar. Kingdom limited himself to a single Pils before he returned to the cloakroom. The attendant who’d given him his ticket had gone. In his place was a much older man. Kingdom stood at the counter, turning out his pockets. The ticket he’d collected for his own coat was number 92. When the attendant shot him a sympathetic smile, he shook his head.

‘Gone,’ he said.

‘Number, sir? Can you remember?’

‘Ninety-one. My wife’s age,’ he grinned, ‘last birthday.’

The attendant offered a dutiful chuckle, then disappeared into the line of coats. ‘Can you describe it, sir?’ he called.

‘Black raincoat. Ankle-length.’

‘Make, sir?’

‘Pass,’ Kingdom grunted, ‘The missus, again. Never look too hard at a present. Never know what you might find. My theory, not hers.’

The attendant emerged with the raincoat. Kingdom gave
him a pound before he folded it over his arm and made for the stairs.

The keys were still in the pocket. Kingdom took a taxi from the hotel forecourt, and was outside Cousins’ flat again less than ten minutes later. There were seven keys on the ring, including one for a Mercedes. By this time, he’d also found a number of other objects in the pockets of the raincoat. They included a pair of leather gloves and a balled-up credit card sales slip. The signature was a scrawl, but Kingdom finally deciphered the name Devereaux.

Kingdom paused outside the big front door, trying the keys, one after the other. A newish Yale finally did the trick and he stepped into the empty hall, closing the door behind him. At the door to Cousins’ flat, he went through the keys again. Within a minute he was inside, wondering about the security, whether or not Cousins had a system, and if so whether it was fully activated.

A small table lamp in the living room was already on, light spilling through the open arch in front of him. Kingdom dropped to his knees, crawling carefully forward. A small square of Afghan rug lay on the carpet in front of him, and when he lifted it he found the pressure pad beneath. He paused, scanning the pale grey walls, looking for the tiny glass eyes that would indicate a sensor system. Somewhere, he thought, there’d be a master switch, a way of turning off the security alarms. He examined the bunch of keys again, knowing that Devereaux would have the same problem. Then he began to search the area round the front door, aware that most systems work on a time delay. Once the front door had been opened, the occupant would have a pre-set period of grace to deactivate the system, otherwise the alarm would sound.

Kingdom worked quickly, first one wall, then another. Beside the arch was a shelved recess. The shelves were bare except for a couple of railway timetables and junk mail from the AA. At the back of the middle shelf, painted the same colour as the wall, was a small square flap. Kingdom pulled on Devereaux’ gloves and opened it. Inside was a time clock and an electrical switch. The switch was down. Kingdom peered at the clock. It had been preset on a two-minute delay and a neat little digital read-out was counting down to the moment when the system would signal an
intruder. With seven seconds left, Kingdom reached for the switch and deactivated the system. The digital read-out stopped and then returned to two minutes. Kingdom watched it, his finger still on the master switch. When nothing happened, he began to relax.

The flat was spacious. Kingdom moved from room to room, pulling the curtains, getting the feel of the place. As far as he could judge, Cousins lived here alone and everywhere Kingdom looked he found more evidence for the neat, tightly ordered life this man must lead. The Marks and Spencer ready-to-eat meals in the freezer. The tidy piles of newly-ironed shirts in the airing cupboard. The membership card for a Bayswater health club tucked behind the black and white digital clock on the mantelpiece. The copies of
The Economist
carefully indexed beside the Technics audio stack. The flat had a cool sense of function. There were no photographs, no souvenirs, no silly knick-knacks. It wasn’t a place you’d find it easy to relax in.