Western Approaches

Nine

MONDAY, 18 APRIL 2011

Suttle was in his office at Middlemoor by eight o’clock next morning. Lizzie had insisted he leave early to beat the rush-hour traffic and had dismissed his offer to return at midday to sort her out a bit of lunch. She had a long list of apologetic phone calls to make. Mea culpa. My fault. Sitting beside the bed, Suttle had wondered whether the list of calls included Pendrick. Given the fact that he’d saved his wife’s life, he fancied the answer was liable to be yes. Lizzie was watching him carefully. In certain moods, like now, Jimmy Suttle was an open book.

‘Don’t worry,’ she’d said. ‘That man’s the reason I’m still here.’

‘How does that work?’

‘It’s complicated.’ She’d kissed him. ‘One day, if you’re good, I might tell you.’

Now, Suttle took a call from D/I Houghton. She had good news and bad. Preferably face to face.

Suttle went upstairs. Houghton had found a traffic cone from somewhere to keep her office door open when she was in the mood for callers. Now she asked Suttle to close it.

He took a seat in front of her desk. A large Manila envelope had his name on it.

‘I had Traffic on first thing,’ she said. ‘About Friday night.’

Suttle owned up at once. He’d been going way too fast. He’d had a couple of drinks. Next time he’d suss these Traffic numpties way earlier.

‘That’s not what bothers me.’

‘It’s not?’

‘No. I understand you’d just been to Modbury.’

‘That’s right.’

‘D/I Hamilton lives in Modbury.’

‘Right again, boss. We had dinner together. I needed to sort some stuff out.’

‘Constantine stuff?’

‘Partly.’

‘Private stuff?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded. The more Suttle saw of her, the more he liked her. It was rare to find someone so astute, so direct, so switched on, who applied that intelligence to the people around her. Suttle had never been quite clear about the phrase grown-up but fancied that it pretty much covered Carole Houghton.

‘D/I Hamilton is neediness on legs,’ she said. ‘You ought to be aware of that.’

‘I am, boss. Believe me.’

‘She has a talent for wrecking other people’s marriages. It may not be her fault but it happens nonetheless. She’s an attractive woman. She can talk a good war. But beware, Jimmy. This job’s tough enough as it is.’

‘Crime wise?’ Suttle was intrigued.

‘No.’ Houghton was reaching for the envelope. ‘Some days I think the bad guys are the least of our problems. Do we understand each other?’

‘We do, boss.’

Suttle took the envelope downstairs. It had come from the force intel department and contained Kinsey’s financial records. Grateful, once again, to have the office to himself Suttle sorted the information into separate piles on a neighbouring desk and began to go through it. Expecting a complicated web of accounts, he was surprised by its simplicity. On the business side, Kinsey had operated two accounts, one for Kittiwake and one for Kittiwake Oceanside. When it came to his personal life, he drew on a single account in his own name.

By mid-morning, after an initial trawl through all three piles, Suttle had enough information to map the shape of Kinsey’s growing business empire. Over the past few months the Kittiwake account had been largely dormant. All Kinsey’s energies had been spent on the development of a series of sites across north Cornwall. Most of these, as far as Suttle could judge, were no more than a wish list of locations that might, one day, host Kittiwake Oceanside gated retirement communities. Cheques drawn on the Oceanside business account had gone to a range of planning and landscape consultants, all of whom had featured in the business files Suttle had analysed earlier. Only one of the sites, Trezillion, showed any signs of happening, and this was reflected in payments to a Leeds-based firm of solicitors. A couple of these tied in with credit card payments to Flybe for return tickets to Leeds Bradford Airport.

Suttle had hung on to Kinsey’s business correspondence in the belief that it might feature in the file he was preparing for the Coroner. Cheque by cheque, he tied the payments to the paperwork. Planning permission for Trezillion was clearly a huge obstacle to the project going forward, but phrases in a couple of the letters to his legal adviser hinted that this problem might be far from insoluble. Hence, Suttle assumed, the £4.5K Kinsey had been prepared to blow on the design and printing of glossy brochures.

He was about to start on the personal bank records when his eye was caught by another large cheque. On 21 January 2011 Kinsey had paid £13,000 to a Mr Waheed Akhtar. The name alone was totally out of keeping with the rest of Kinsey’s disbursements. There was no matching invoice in his business records, and no correspondence that Suttle could find. Was this an Asian businessman Kinsey had tapped up for advice? Was he taking the Kittiwake concept abroad? Would elderly couples with a taste for year-round sunshine be spending their twilight years in Oceanside Dubai?

Suttle thought it was worth a note. He scribbled the details on his pad and reached for the pile of personal bank account statements. Most of this stuff was mundane — direct debits on power, water and council tax, card payments for anything from petrol to booze, plus a recent cheque for £607 to the Exeter Porsche dealer for a service. On top of that came regular expenditure that had to be connected to the rowing club. Repairs to the new quad after a collision with an estuary buoy. Hotel and ferry bills for a winter training camp on Lake Garda. Three-figure payments to Andy Poole for ‘miscellaneous services’.

Month by month, Suttle went backwards, looking for anomalies that might flag something interesting, but after a full year and a half he’d found nothing. Kinsey seemed to have lived his life exactly in step with everything the intel had already established. He kept himself to himself, didn’t go out much, and spent more than was probably wise on his precious rowing.

Only after he’d finished his initial trawl, making himself another mug of coffee in the squad kitchenette, did Suttle realise what he was missing. Where were the payments to the escort agency for his regular Thai girlies? And how come there was no trace of the money he’d spent on Tash Donovan?

Suttle took the coffee back to his desk. His task this time was to revisit all the personal stuff — bank accounts, credit card billings — and look for cash withdrawals. Within the hour he was satisfied that these couldn’t possibly have paid for Kinsey’s sex life. In terms of ready money, he appeared to live on surprisingly little. A hundred and ten pounds a week was his average spend. How many girlies could you buy for that?

A knock at the door brought Luke Golding into the office. The young D/C had some good news.

‘TF2, Sarge. I cracked it.’

Suttle had almost forgotten about Team Fortress 2. Golding, it turned out, had spent most of the last couple of days on the Internet. It happened to be his weekend off and he’d hooked up with ShattAr on three separate occasions. During the third game he’d saved the guy’s life, not just once but on four separate occasions, and this had been enough to finally coax a reply from his earlier message. He’d wanted a link to ShattAr’s Facebook profile. And he’d finally got it.

‘His real name’s Zameer Akhtar, Sarge. And as far as I can judge, he lives in Leeds.’

‘Zameer what?’

‘Akhtar.’ Golding wrote it down for Suttle’s benefit.

‘You’ve PNC’d him?’

‘Yeah. The guy just picked up a twelve months suspended for possession.’

Suttle raised an eyebrow. He’d been expecting a sleek Pakistani businessman, not a lowlife druggie.

‘Have you talked to the locals?’

‘Yeah, I got through to their intel set-up in Wakefield. They’re busy as fuck just now but the woman promised to come back before close of play. I gave her your name and number, Sarge. Happy days, eh?’

Suttle was looking at the pile of bank statements. Kinsey had business connections in Leeds. He made regular visits on Flybe. The recurrence of the name Akhtar had to be more than coincidence. Were these two people brothers or was there some other family connection?

He glanced up. He wanted to know how Golding was getting on with the Exeter escort agencies.

‘That was the other thing, Sarge. I think I’ve nailed the girl in the photo we ripped from Kinsey’s phone. She works for an outfit called Twosomes. They operate out of a grungy little room over a Chinese takeaway in Heavitree. Real shit hole.’

‘They ID’d the photo?’

‘Of course not. But there was a mug shot on a wallboard. I swear it was the same woman.’ He paused and shot Suttle a grin. ‘Maybe you should take a look.’

By lunchtime Lizzie was nearing the end of her list of thank you phone calls. Tessa had been more than understanding. The girls, she said, were thinking of buying Lizzie a safety belt for use in the boat, while Clive, the Club Captain, was definitely going to nominate her for the Cock-Up of the Year Award. Molly Doyle had successfully kept the details of the incident from the local press and was anticipating great coverage for the tribute ceremony and the row-through. The Kinsey crew, meanwhile, had been so impressed by Lizzie’s capacity to hold her breath underwater that she was in some danger of becoming a regular sub.

‘Sub? Submarine? Get it?’ Andy Poole roared with laughter, wished her well and hung up.

Lizzie’s last call went to Tash Donovan. When she admitted she still wanted to row, Donovan told her she must have balls of steel.

‘You’re coming out again? After something like that?’

‘Of course I am. If anyone’ll have me.’

‘You’re famous, girl. We talk of nothing else. Invites to row? Shall I make a list?’

Touched by the gentle piss-takes, Lizzie sat down and wrote a semi-formal letter to Molly Doyle. She wanted the club to know that she was sorry for letting everyone down and grateful for all the calls and support she’d received since. She would definitely be keeping her foot straps looser from now on and looked forward to the next outing. Hopefully, she added, she might even make it back in one piece. She signed herself Lizzie Borden in keeping with the pact she’d made with Jimmy.

Sitting at the kitchen table, rereading the letter, she glimpsed a wraith-like presence behind the careful prose. It was like writing to someone about a bereavement. Her old gloomy self seemed to have passed away. All you need, she thought, is a half a minute or so underneath a moving boat with a lungful of seawater sloshing around inside you. Near-death experiences cure anything.

She glanced through the door into the living room. Grace was asleep on a pair of cushions in her playpen. Every day the shafts of sunlight edged down the back wall as the sun rose higher in the sky. At last the house was beginning to dry out. Soon, with a helping hand or two, Chantry Cottage might even feel like a proper home.

The knock at the kitchen window made her jump. For a moment she had no idea who it was, then her blood froze. Pendrick was wearing a pair of blue overalls and a black beanie. He seemed to be tapping his watch. There was no way she could ignore him but her instinct was to pretend he wasn’t there, to somehow turn the clock back to this time last week when she’d never heard of the guy. Then she got to her feet, telling herself that this was the man who’d probably saved her life. The very least she owed him was a thank you.

She opened the kitchen door, standing aside as he stepped past her. He looked around the way a buyer might, noting this detail and that, not bothering to hide his curiosity. Lizzie was fighting hard to keep the smile on her face.

‘Grace?’ Pendrick was peering into the living room.

‘Yeah. Don’t wake her up, whatever you do.’

‘She’s lovely.’

Lizzie didn’t know what he meant, didn’t know what he was doing here. Trespass wasn’t a word she would ever use lightly but this felt very close.

‘How did you know where we live?’

‘You told me Colaton Raleigh. I asked down in the village. Lovely young mum? Sweet little girl? Can’t be that much competition round here.’

Lizzie was filling the kettle. Half an hour, she told herself. Tops.

‘Tea?’

‘Coffee if you’ve got it.’

He’d disappeared behind the living-room door. Lizzie found him crouching in a corner, examining one of the sockets that was fast parting company with the skirting board. She’d mentioned the state of the place when they’d been up in north Cornwall. Bad move.

Pendrick had moved on to the radiator under the windowsill. The bowl to catch the drips from the leak was half full. He gave it a poke and grunted something Lizzie didn’t catch.

‘Sugar?’ she said brightly. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Two.’ He didn’t look round. ‘The socket’ll take no time at all. The radiator’s trickier. I’ll have to drain the system.’

‘Who said you need to?’

‘You’ll have a flood otherwise.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know.’ He was on his feet again, looking down at her. ‘We need to talk about Saturday night. Am I right?’

‘No. I need to thank you for what you did on Sunday morning. I should have phoned. I should have thanked you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Without you, I might have drowned.’

‘Who says?’

‘The people at the hospital. The medics.’

This news put a smile on Pendrick’s face. He took a seat at the kitchen table, reached for one of Grace’s toys, a squashy rubber ball, and began to play with it. He looked strangely relaxed. This might have been his own home.

‘Right time, right place.’ He shrugged. ‘If only. . eh?’

‘If only what?’ Lizzie was mystified again.

‘If only I’d been able to do the same for Kate.’

‘But I thought you said she wanted to go overboard. That it was her decision.’

‘Yeah. But it didn’t make it any easier, did it?’

‘For her?’

‘For me.’ He was crushing the ball now. It had disappeared beneath the whiteness of his huge knuckles. ‘You know Tash, right?’

‘Yes. I met her yesterday.’

‘That was her at my place on Saturday night, in case you were wondering.’

‘Fine.’ It was Lizzie’s turn to shrug. ‘And why not?’

‘You don’t care? You don’t want to know more?’

‘No.’

‘OK. So why did you come round?’

‘Because I was upset about something. Because I wanted to talk.’

‘Fine. Go ahead.’

‘There’s no point. It’s resolved. It’s finished. It’s over.’

Pendrick released the ball and watched it roll slowly towards the edge of the table. He seemed to have lost interest in the socket and the radiator.

‘Tash and me are friends. Just friends. She comes round sometimes when Milo’s driving her crazy. We talk. That’s pretty much it.’

‘I believe you. You’re good at that. You must have lots of practice.’

‘Good at what?’

‘Listening.’

‘Is that what this is about?’ He gestured loosely at the space between them. ‘Only I had a different impression.’

‘I expect that was my fault. I always dive into things. It used to get me into all kinds of trouble.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ He caught the ball as it fell from the table and gave it another squeeze. ‘You wanted me to fuck you on Saturday, didn’t you?’

‘I wanted us to make love. There might be a difference.’

‘And were you disappointed when we didn’t? Was that why you got so upset?’

Lizzie gazed at him. There were some men who needed to put their smell on everything they touched, and Pendrick, she was beginning to realise, might just be one of them. Territorial was too feeble a word. She shuddered to think what might be more appropriate.

She got up to turn off the electric kettle. As she passed Pendrick he reached out for her.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because. .’ she couldn’t find the words ‘. . stuff’s happened.’

‘You’re right. And I meant everything I said.’

‘About what?’

‘About this khazi of a country. About arseholes like Kinsey. About getting hold of a yacht and doing something sane for once. You were up for that. I could see it in your face. You thought we could do it. Maybe you thought we should do it. Am I right?’

Lizzie didn’t answer. She wanted this man out of her house, out of her life. The last thing she needed was a rerun of Saturday afternoon.

She poured hot water into two mugs and added a tea bag apiece.

‘I haven’t got coffee,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Fuck the coffee. Tell me about Saturday. Tell me you meant it.’

She felt the first stirrings of impatience. She was being as civil as she could. She put the mugs on the table and sat down again. Then she reached for both his hands, removing the ball and dropping it on the floor.

‘You saved my life,’ she said quietly. ‘Twice. I don’t know how many times I have to say thank you but I mean it. I really do.’

Pendrick stared at her. He was confused as well as angry.

‘And that’s it?’

‘I’m afraid so. I haven’t a clue what it is between you and Tash, and if you want the truth I’m not interested. All I know is that this — the house, my marriage, even poor little Grace — took me to a very bad place. You helped me with that. You helped in ways you’ll never ever suspect. For that, I thank you. And I thank you. And I thank you again.’ She bent and kissed his hand. ‘Does that make any sense?’

‘None at all. I know you, Lizzie. I know what you want. I know what’s real to you. I know what really matters. I’ve been around a bit, believe me. And I know.’

To this Lizzie had no answer. They were heading up a cul-de-sac that held nothing but darkness. The last twenty-four hours, she thought she’d left all that behind. She wanted him gone.

‘I’m due at a clinic in half an hour,’ she said. ‘Grace is due a check.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re just trying to make it easy for me. I love that about you. Just the way I love everything else.’ He gave her hand a little squeeze and then picked up the mug.

Lizzie stared at him. She was fast running out of options. There was a hint of madness in this man. Go for broke, she told herself. Double or quits.

‘She stayed the night, didn’t she?’

‘Tash?’ A smile ghosted across his face. ‘No way. If you want the truth, she came round to try and get me to row.’

‘On Sunday morning?’

‘Yeah. She thought we all ought to be together.’

‘Because of Kinsey?’

‘Yes. That seemed to be important for her.’

‘You instead of me?’

‘Yes. It was nothing personal. She’d never even met you.’

‘And you?’

‘I told her I couldn’t do it. Why? Because I couldn’t stand the guy. I also told her I was glad he’d gone. She had a problem with that. She thought I was totally out of order.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Are we friends now?’

It was an impossible question to answer. Lizzie just shook her head and turned away.

‘Leave me alone, please. Let go of my hand.’

‘No problem. My pleasure.’ He nodded next door. ‘You want me to sort that stuff out or not?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Fine.’ He drained the mug and got to his feet. ‘Next time, eh?’

The Golden Dragon lay at the end of a terrace of shops in Heavitree, a scruffy red-brick suburb to the east of Exeter. Suttle found a parking spot in a lay-by across the road. When he asked at the counter for the Twosomes agency, the woman simply pointed upstairs.

Access was via an exterior staircase at the back of the property. The window in the door at the top had been boarded up after some kind of break-in, and there were fresh-looking chisel marks around the Yale lock.

A youngish guy opened the door. He was pale and thin. His patched jeans hung off his bony frame and his trainers had definitely seen better days. As far as Suttle could judge, he was eastern European.

‘Who are you?’ Poor English, heavily accented.

Suttle flashed his warrant card. He’d appreciate a word or two. It needn’t take long.

The guy spent a long time examining the card. Then he asked Suttle to come inside. The room must once have been a kitchen. A jar of instant coffee and an electric kettle stood on the work surface beside a pile of newspapers. Suttle recognised a shot of Cracow on the front page of the top paper. There were scabs of ageing dog shit on the floor and a powerful smell of drains.

Suttle pushed the door shut behind him.

‘I’m investigating a suspicious death,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Exmouth. I need your help. We need to trace this woman.’

He laid the shot from Kinsey’s phone on the work surface. Golding had been right. It exactly matched the photo pinned to the wall board. The guy peered at the proffered shot, then glanced up. He was looking alarmed.

‘You say she’s dead, this woman?’

‘No. I’m saying we need to talk to her. Is that possible?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘Why not?’

‘She doesn’t speak English. She’s not here. She’s gone away.’

‘Where?’

‘Abroad. I don’t know.’

Lies, Suttle thought.

‘You’re responsible for this woman? You take the bookings?’

‘Yes. Me and my partner.’

‘Who’s your partner?’

‘Mr Wattana. He’s away too.’

‘You keep records?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘When people pay?’

‘Ah. .’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Does that matter?’

‘It might.’

Suttle bent forward, closing the distance between them. He needed to get this man onside. He wanted to offer him a word of advice.

‘You need to make a choice here, my friend. Either you let me see your payment records or the whole thing gets much more complicated. The VAT inspector? The tax people?’ He sniffed, looking round. ‘Health and safety?’

The guy shook his head. He wanted to say no. He wanted Suttle out of his face. Suttle was looking at a filing cabinet wedged into an alcove beside the boiler. Judging by the state of the paintwork, it might have come out of a skip.

‘In there, maybe? You want to give me a hand here?’

With some reluctance, the guy followed Suttle across to the cabinet. It was locked. Suttle stepped back while the guy found the key. The middle drawer was packed with files. The guy looked up.

‘You want the same girl?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. The punter’s name was Kinsey.’

He shook his head. He’d never heard of anyone called Kinsey.

‘Little guy? Middle-aged? Drove a Porsche? Big top-floor apartment down in Exmouth? Place called Regatta Court?’

Mention of Regatta Court sparked a nod of recognition. Maybe Kinsey used a false name, Suttle thought.

The guy was riffling through the files. At last he found what he was looking for. He took it out and held it close against his skinny chest.

‘And after this?’

‘I go.’

‘And not come back?’

Suttle smiled. His turn to lie.

‘Never.’

‘OK.’

The guy handed over the file. Suttle opened it and found himself looking at a sheaf of A4 sheets. Each held a scribbled note or two — date, time, name of the attending escort — and stapled to each was a credit-card slip. These were the old sort, letter-box-shaped, bearing the imprint of the card. Suttle lifted out the first one and gazed at the name of the cardholder. Mrs Sonya Jacobson. Kinsey’s ex-wife.

The guy wanted the file back. When Suttle said he was taking it away, the guy tried to protest. Then he was struck by another thought.

‘Mr Jacobson?’ he asked. ‘He’s dead?’

Lizzie was panicking. The only call she could think of making was to Gill Reynolds. Mercifully, she picked up.

‘You’ve got a moment?’

‘Yeah. If you’re quick.’

‘Later maybe?’

‘Later’s worse.’

Lizzie closed her eyes. She was in big trouble with someone at the rowing club. The details weren’t important but she’d done something stupid, really stupid, and now the man wouldn’t leave her alone.

‘How stupid?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘What kind of answer is that? Just tell me.’

Lizzie did her best. By the time she got to Trezillion, Gill was laughing.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to be barking. That husband of yours can be a dickhead sometimes but he’s not that bad.’ She paused. ‘So what’s this guy like?’

‘He’s OK. At least I thought he was OK. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s all over me. Because he won’t listen. Because he won’t take no for an answer.’

‘And are you surprised? After you came on to him like that?’

‘I suppose not. But it gets worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Yeah. Yesterday he saved my life. Major production. Chopper, paramedics, the lot.’

‘Shit. Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. No, that’s a lie. If you want the truth, I’m terrified.’

Lizzie explained about Pendrick and his wife rowing across the Atlantic, about the morning he woke up and found himself alone. It took a moment for Gill to place the story. Then she had it.

‘Big hippy guy? Hair down round his shoulders? Bit of a looker?’

‘That’s him. He’s cut most of his hair off but the rest is pretty much the same.’

‘Fuck. I’m with you now. No wonder.’

‘No wonder what?’

‘No wonder you went to wherever it was.’

‘Trezillion.’

‘Yeah. Maybe you should have fucked him and got it over with. Most men lose interest after that.’

‘Not this one. Not the way I read him.’

‘What about Jimmy?’

‘Jimmy’s being sweet. Jimmy’s noticed who I am at last.’

‘Sure. . but does he know?’

‘About what?’

‘Yer man.’

‘Yes, I think he does. Not the detail. Not Trezillion. He’s a detective, Gill. He does this stuff for a living.’

‘And if he found out about Trezillion? What then?’

Lizzie didn’t answer for a moment. This was the question she’d been dreading. This was the reason she’d made the call in the first place. She needed clarity. She needed to understand exactly where she’d got to in this hideous story.

‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘It’s been rough these last few days, really horrible. Jimmy was brilliant yesterday, really cool with everything. He sorted me out after the accident. We even got it on last night. I don’t want to lose that, Gill. I really don’t.’

‘And this other guy? Pendrick?’

‘That’s what terrifies me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m beginning to wonder about him. And because he won’t let go.’

Suttle phoned Carole Houghton from the car. He was still parked across the road from the Golden Dragon.

‘Boss? We need to bottom out a credit card. Or it could be a debit card. Have you got a pen?’

Houghton, it turned out, was preparing performance reviews. In other circumstances Suttle might have been amused. He gave her the details on the slip.

‘And the name?’

‘Sonya Jacobson.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Kinsey’s ex-wife.’

‘Should I be excited?’

‘Definitely.’

Suttle’s second call went to Eamonn Lenahan In these situations, especially with someone like Lenahan, Christian names often worked best.

‘Eamonn? Jimmy Suttle.’

Lenahan remembered the name at once. He was doing a shift as a locum registrar in A amp; E at the Royal Devon and Exeter. Trade had been brisk all morning but he’d just seized a chance to put his feet up in the staffroom. Tea and biscuits. God’s answer to terminal stress.

Suttle laughed. Just the mischief in the man’s voice took him back to the hour or so they’d spent in his rented cottage in Lympstone. Interesting guy. Definitely a one-off.

‘Something on that mind of yours?’ he said. ‘Because now would be a good time to talk. Ask for me at A amp; E. Doors will open, my friend. I’ll save you a biscuit.’

Suttle turned the invitation down. The staff might recognise him from yesterday’s drama and the last thing he wanted just now was the likes of Lenahan making the connection between him and Lizzie.

‘I’m stuffed, mate,’ he said. ‘But tell me one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The takeaway you all had on the Saturday night, up in Kinsey’s place. Where did it come from?’

‘Fuck knows. Ask Tash.’

‘I’ve tried.’ Suttle was lying. ‘She won’t pick up.’

‘Bell Pendrick then. I think he uses the same place.’

Suttle scribbled down a number, then checked his watch. Aside from Andy Poole, Pendrick was the one person he’d yet to see.

‘What time does he finish work?’

‘He doesn’t. He’s off today. Number 94, Woodville Road. Fella in the flat down below cracks bones for a living. Charming guy. Give him my best if he opens the door. Canes the arse off us mere practitioners.’

Suttle was in Exmouth by half two. He’d called at Woodville Road days ago, but this time a yellow VW van was parked outside number 94. Suttle resisted the temptation to raise the chiropractor in the ground-floor flat and pressed Pendrick’s bell. Moments later came heavy footsteps down the stairs and Suttle found himself looking at the figure he’d last seen on Milo Symons’ PC screen. The same bulk. The same shaven head. The same scar. The same hint of amusement in the deep-set eyes.

He stooped to inspect Suttle’s warrant card. He was wearing shorts and a thin singlet. The singlet was dark with sweat. He didn’t appear to be surprised to find a detective at his door.

‘You want to come in?’

‘Please.’

Pendrick led the way upstairs. The living room was under-furnished but restful. Suttle liked the Moroccan throws on the sofa and the bookcases brimming with paperbacks. A set of weights lay on a folded towel on the polished floorboards. Miles Davis played softly on the sound system. It didn’t need much imagination on Suttle’s part to put a woman in here, someone maybe a bit stressed, a bit vulnerable. Someone in need of TLC and a listening ear.

Pendrick had departed to the bathroom. Suttle heard splashing. Minutes later Pendrick was back in a dressing gown, towelling his face dry, trailing the scent of shower gel. He wanted to know what Suttle was after.

‘I read the account you gave to our guys back last week. You mind if we go over one or two points?’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘Let’s talk about Kinsey.’

‘Must we?’ The expression on his face might have been a smile, but Suttle wasn’t sure. There was anger in this man. He could feel it.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘No reason. I didn’t much like the guy but you probably know that already.’

‘Something happened between you? Something personal?’

‘Kinsey didn’t do personal. The guy was a robot. If you want the truth, I felt sorry for him.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘Not at all. That was never on offer.’

‘So how did you hook up in the first place?’

‘He bought the boat. Then he bunged Andy Poole to fill it with decent rowers. Andy took advice from people round the club. I was one of the chosen ones.’

‘Chosen’ was laced with contempt. Suttle began to wonder whether anything put a real smile on this man’s face.

‘And the rest of the crew?’

‘They were good rowers. Andy was the best. He had pedigree. But the rest of us weren’t bad either.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant. I’m asking whether they all felt the way you felt.’

‘About Kinsey?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I dunno. We never talked about him really. He sat up in bow and tried to boss us around, but no one took much notice. He should have learned to row properly. That might have helped.’

‘What about Milo Symons?’

‘What about him?’

‘Did he get on with Kinsey?’

‘That guy would get on with anyone. He’s a nice man, Milo, but he’s a child, a puppy dog. Kinsey would give him a pat from time to time, toss him a bone, and the guy would roll over. Quite sweet if you like that kind of thing.’

‘And what about his partner? Tash?’

Pendrick gave Suttle a look. Amusement again? Or something more complex? Suttle couldn’t decide.

‘Tash is a law unto herself,’ Pendrick said softly.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning Kinsey fancied the arse off her. Tash knew that. And made him look a complete dick.’

‘How?’

‘By filling his head with all the hippy crap. By going round there and trying to turn him into a human being.’

‘Round where?’

‘Round to his apartment. She does this stuff for a living. Touchy-feely. Astral therapy. Getting in touch with your inner self. That could have been ugly in Kinsey’s case.’

‘She told you all this?’

‘Tash tells me everything. Tash tells everyone everything. That woman knows no shame.’

Suttle nodded, remembering how candid she’d been about servicing Kinsey’s needs. Five minutes max. A hundred quid a minute.

‘You think she had a relationship with Kinsey?’

‘That wouldn’t have been possible. There was nothing to have a relationship with. Did she teach him to get in tune with himself? Did she shag the man if the price was right? Quite possibly.’

‘But you’d know though, wouldn’t you? If she tells everyone?’

‘I would, yeah.’

‘So did she?’

‘Of course she did.’

‘And was she shagging anyone else?’

‘Like who?’

‘Like you?’

The suggestion appeared to amuse him.

‘Are you serious?’ he started to laugh. ‘Me and Tash?’

Suttle let the silence thicken. Pendrick gave his face another wipe with the towel.

‘Tell me about Milo,’ Suttle said at last.

‘I just did. Mr Puppy Dog.’

‘His partner’s Tash, am I right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And she’s shagging Kinsey and maybe one or two others and not bothering to keep it a secret, yes?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘So how does that make him feel?’

The silence was much longer this time. There was a logic in these questions and Pendrick knew it.

‘You’re looking for motivation, right?’

‘I’m asking a question.’

‘Because you think someone killed Kinsey? Went up there and chucked him off his balcony?’

Suttle didn’t answer. Pendrick held his gaze.

‘Kinsey was an arsehole,’ he said softly. ‘Arseholes sometimes self-destruct. Fuck knows why, but they do. Maybe it’s God paying debts. Maybe it’s in the stars. Maybe Tash gave him the shag of his dreams and he decided to quit when he was ahead. Who cares? All I know is the guy’s gone. And good fucking riddance.’

‘The shag of his dreams? For winning, you mean?’

‘Whatever.’

‘But that night? Saturday night? After you’d all gone?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You think she might have driven back to Exmouth Quays?’

‘How would I know?’

‘But she had a key to his apartment? Is that what you’re telling me?’

This time Pendrick didn’t answer. At length he checked his watch. Time was moving on. He had a couple of calls to make.

Suttle thanked him for his time. He might come back. He might ask Pendrick to attend the local nick for a more formal interview. In the meantime he had one last question.

‘The takeaway Tash went to on Saturday night. Which one was it?’

Pendrick was picking at a loose thread in the towel. He looked up.

‘The Taj,’ he said. ‘In Rolle Street.’

Rolle Street was a couple of minutes’ drive from Pendrick’s place. The Taj Mahal lay between a hairdressing salon and an estate agency. The door was locked. Suttle got the phone number from the menu in the window. When he rang the number he could hear a phone ringing inside. Then came a recorded message. The Taj could take reservations but takeaway orders had to be collected in person.

Suttle tried again. This time the phone triggered a stir of movement from somewhere upstairs. Then came the clatter of feet on the stairs and a voice in Suttle’s ear.

‘What do you want? Who is it?’

‘Police. Can you open the door please?’

The guy had obviously been asleep. He was middle-aged, portly. He was wearing loose cotton trousers and an Exeter FC football top. He rubbed his eyes, asked Suttle to come in.

‘You own this place?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ratul.’

Suttle gave him Saturday’s date. He wanted to know whether Ratul could lay his hands on the card receipts from takeaway orders.

‘Upstairs,’ he said. ‘They’re upstairs. You’ve got a name for the order?’

‘Either Kinsey or Donovan.’

‘Wait please.’

He disappeared up the stairs. Suttle could hear movement overhead. A drawer opened and closed. He picked up a menu, realising how hungry he was. Then Ratul was back.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘It was a lady. I remember.’

He gave Suttle a copy of the order. It was in Tash Donovan’s name. In all, the food for Saturday’s little celebration had come to £67.49. The debit-card slip was stapled to the order. This time there was no name, just the last four digits of the number on the card.

Suttle had memorised the last four digits of the slips he’d seized from the escort agency: 2865. He checked the numbers: 2865. Ms Sonya Jacobson.

Suttle had time to grab a sandwich from an Exmouth café before he drove back to Middlemoor. He was certain now that Constantine should be revived, and that knowledge made him feel very good indeed. Everyone had put Kinsey’s death in the wrong box. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, it had been quicker and cheaper to assume suicide and consign the file to the Coroner’s office. Only Suttle had taken the harder path. And now it turned out that he’d been right.

Carole Houghton was still in her office. In less than an hour Suttle needed to leave for Bournemouth.

‘This has to be quick, boss.’

She already knew about the card receipt from the Exeter escort agency. Now he told her about the matching slip from the Taj.

‘Same account, boss. Has to be.’

‘So what are we saying?’

‘We’re saying that Tash Donovan was charging the earth for all kinds of stuff with Kinsey, including regular sex. That we can prove because she told me. We’re also saying that Donovan persuaded Kinsey to bung Milo a couple of grand to help with his movie with more to follow.’

‘How much?’

‘Another forty-five grand.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘To keep Symons sweet.’

‘You can prove that too?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re telling me we can evidence all these other payments?’

‘Not so far. The two grand he paid Symons must have come out of the Jacobson account. The forty-five was on a promise. I’m guessing that the rest, the money he was paying Donovan, came out of the Jacobson account too. Donovan would have wanted cash. Kinsey must have had ATM drawing rights.’

‘But what’s he doing with his wife’s account?’

‘Ex-wife’s. So far I don’t know. But my guess is that it was some kind of private stash. Maybe he needed to hide money from the Revenue.’

‘Sure. Or his ex-wife.’

Suttle nodded. Either way, they needed to access the Jacobson account.

‘Donovan may still have the card, boss. And she’s obviously got the PIN number.’

‘The card wasn’t retrieved by Scenes of Crime?’

‘No. I checked just now.’

‘And you’re sure the Jacobson account doesn’t figure in his business records?’

‘Absolutely. And if he operated it through the Internet, there’s no way you’d ever know it even existed.’

‘His PC hard disk?’

‘That’s a possibility. I’ll feed the account number through. See if they can raise anything.’

‘Did he have a laptop?’

‘Not that we’ve found.’

‘Unusual.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

Houghton pushed the performance review files to one side and reached for a pad. Suttle watched her making a neat list of bullet points. Then she looked up.

‘Saturday night,’ she said. ‘Walk me through it.’

Suttle left for Bournemouth at half four, phoning Lizzie as he headed for his car. After the dramas of the past week, it was good to hear the lift in her voice.

‘You’ll be back when?’

‘Tennish. I’ll phone.’

‘Be careful, yeah?’

‘Always.’

‘I love you. Remember that.’

Suttle grinned to himself. Traffic out of the city was already heavy but he edged into the outside lane as soon as he hit the Honiton road, maintaining a steady 70 mph as he headed east. Houghton had wanted him to hang on and talk to Nandy, but Suttle had pleaded a personal crisis at home. He’d be back first thing tomorrow. If she needed to make contact in the meantime she could always bell him.

As he left her office, she’d been on the phone to Nandy. The Det-Supt was driving the Bodmin job at breakneck speed but Suttle knew there was no way he’d ignore the weight of evidence he’d unearthed. Pausing at the door of Houghton’s office, he’d looked back at her. Still on the phone, she’d smiled at him and raised a thumb. Constantine was obviously back from the dead. Brilliant.

Lizzie was feeding Grace when she got the call from Pendrick. She glanced at it and put the phone to one side. When he tried again, she didn’t even pick it up. Then, moments later, came the beep that indicated a text waiting. With a tiny shiver of apprehension, she retrieved the phone. It was Pendrick again: ‘If you don’t pick up, I’ll drive out to yr place. Yr call. XXX’.

She looked at the row of kisses, angry now. He answered as soon as she keyed recall.

‘We need to talk,’ he said.

‘I can’t.’

‘We have to.’

‘No way.’

‘Is your husband there?’

‘No. But he’s back any minute.’

‘We could meet in a pub. Invent an excuse. Bring the baby. Whatever.’

‘You’re out of your mind. There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Wrong. There’s everything to talk about.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you and me.’ He paused. ‘And other stuff.’

‘What other stuff?’

‘Stuff about Tash. I’ve had the Old Bill round.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. These guys aren’t stupid. I’m in a bad place. I mean it. I need your help. Is that too much to ask?’

The phone went dead. Lizzie didn’t move for a moment or two. Then she stole into the hall, double-bolted the front door and returned to the kitchen.. She bolted the door from the kitchen out into the garden too, then looked at Grace. The biggest of the carving knives was in the drawer under the sink. She took it out, wrapped it in a tea towel and laid it carefully on the table. Then she reached for the cooling spoon of mashed potato.

‘Open wide,’ she said.

Suttle was on the outskirts of Bournemouth a couple of minutes before eight. With the help of his satnav he threaded his way through a tangle of streets and found a parking spot round the corner from the main parade of shops. He’d no idea what John Hamilton looked like but was alarmed to note the yellow no-parking line across the road from the Café Rouge. Traffic was still thick, clotted with buses. This guy’s supposed to be good, he told himself. One way or another he’d have the rendezvous plotted up.

Suttle stepped into the café. Dave Fallon had already arrived. He was sitting at a table towards the back, with another man beside him. Suttle hadn’t seen Fallon for a while, not face to face, and the intervening years had done nothing for his dress sense. The same tired leather jacket with the fraying cuffs. The same baggy jeans. The same curry flecks on his once-white shirt. Fallon had put on weight and it showed.

‘This is Carlos.’ He nodded at the other man. ‘We’re in business together. Right, Carlos?’

The other man said nothing. Younger than Fallon, he was tall and lean. He had steady eyes and the kind of tan you’d pay a lot of money to acquire. Beautiful suit, thought Suttle.

Fallon didn’t want to waste Suttle’s time. Carlos, he said, was in the delivery game. His mission in life was to please people who wanted wrong things put right. In this case they were dealing with a German art dealer who’d lost his daughter, a girl called Renata, to some scumbag thug in a botched contract killing near Malaga.

‘With me so far, mush?’ Fallon was looking at Suttle.

‘Go on.’

‘This German guy’s got money. Quite a lot of money. In fact he’s fucking minted. Losing his daughter like that has really upset him, and way down the line he wants to do something about it.’

‘He’s offering a reward?’

‘Yeah. And a big one. Hundred K.’

‘Euros?’

‘Pounds.’

‘Great. And Carlos?’

‘Carlos is on the case. He’s also fucking plugged in, believe me. Nothing moves along that bit of coast without Carlos being in the know. Good guys, bad guys, local Filth, even the fucking Russians — he’s across them all. Right, amigo?’

Fallon gave Carlos a dig in the arm. Carlos was doing his best to ignore him. Suttle felt a tiny prickle of sympathy.

Fallon hadn’t finished. All this had happened a while back. The contract killer was an animal from London called Tommy Peters. Bazza Mac had hired him to kill a lieutenant called Brett West who’d stepped out of line. Peters had done the job on Westie but had killed his new girlfriend as well for good measure. It was, said Fallon, a witness thing, just tidying up loose ends, and Peters had been good enough not to charge Baz for the extra body. The girlfriend’s name was Renata. Hence the £100K from her dad.

‘So this guy’s after Peters? Is that right?’

‘Yeah. But there’s a problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Peters is dead. Bowel cancer. Which leaves your mate Winter. He was there too. And as far as we can make out, he ain’t got bowel cancer. Not yet anyway.’

Suttle nodded. He knew this story by heart. It was the reason Winter had finally decided to turn police informant, grass Mackenzie up and buy himself a new life abroad. Better that than a guy with a European Arrest Warrant at his door.

‘So Carlos wants to find Winter? Is that it?’

‘Yeah. Me too. We’re in this together, me and Carlos. The minute we deliver Winter, you’re looking at one happy man.’

A waiter approached. Suttle ordered a coffee. He thought he knew what was coming next but Fallon surprised him. Never underestimate this man, he reminded himself. You don’t get to own half the cabs in Pompey by accident.

‘That nice Marie you’ve been talking to? She gave us a look-see at Bazza’s records. Turns out your Mr Winter made a couple of trips before all that election bollocks. Baz thought it was on business. From where I’m sitting, Baz was wrong.’

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘You were part of all this, yeah? The way I hear it, you were the guy pulling Winter’s strings. So it stands to reason you know where he went.’

‘But you know already.’

‘Sure. But how about you tell us too?’

This, Suttle knew, was crunch time. From here on in he had to be very careful indeed. In truth, he was fairly certain where Winter had ended up, but the last thing he intended to do was share that hunch.

‘He went to Poland and Montenegro,’ he said slowly.

‘Dead right, mush.’ Fallon swapped glances with his friend. Carlos had produced an elegant notepad, leather-bound, and was making notes. ‘And where else?’

Suttle studied him for a moment and then laughed. ‘There’s something we haven’t discussed,’ he said.

‘Like what?’

‘Like what do I get out of this?’

‘You want money?’ Fallon was looking outraged.

‘Of course I don’t want money. The deal was simple. I help you as best I can and you call the dogs off.’

‘Jonno? The fat bastard that came down with the black cunt?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Dogs my arse.’ It was Fallon’s turn to laugh. ‘That’s a bit harsh, ain’t it? On the fucking dogs?’

‘You know what I mean. I help you. I tell you what I know. And you leave us alone. Not just now. Not just tomorrow. For ever.’

‘Sweet. So where else did he go? Your grassing arsehole mate?’

‘You haven’t answered the question.’

‘That’s because you haven’t told us nothing.’

‘Fine.’ Suttle stood up. ‘There’s a spare coffee coming if you’re interested.’

It was the Spaniard who reached over. ‘Please, my friend. Sit down.’

Suttle didn’t move. He looked at Carlos. Then he looked at Fallon. A woman a couple of tables away had started to take an interest. Boots, jeans and a tight grey T-shirt.

Fallon muttered something that might have been an apology. Suttle resumed his seat.

‘Carlos? I have your word?’

‘Of course.’ He extended a hand. Suttle shook it.

‘The Ukraine,’ Suttle said. ‘Winter went to the Ukraine.’

Fallon’s head came up. He couldn’t mask his surprise.

‘That’s a big fucking place. We went there once. Away game. Europa Cup. Got stuffed 3–1. Horrible night.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. That’s abroad. That’s real abroad.’

‘You’re right. And it’s not in the EU. Not yet.’

This, Suttle knew, mattered a great deal. Only EU countries recognised the European Arrest Warrant. Extradition treaties existed with a lot of other states but extradition was often a pain in the arse.

Fallon wanted to know where in the Ukraine.

‘I know he bought a train ticket to Kiev. Beyond that I can’t help you.’

‘How? How do you know?’

‘Because he kept dicking us around. In the end we had to have a sort-out. The trip to Kiev was nothing to do with our operation. Neither, as far as I know, did it have anything to do with Mackenzie. So there you go. The Ukraine. Kiev.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Fallon shot another look at Carlos. Then he turned back to Suttle.

‘He also went to Montenegro, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Carlos here has been to Montenegro, talked to some people, a Russian bloke in particular, ex-cop, turned out to be a big mate of Winter’s.’

‘And?’

‘Winter went to Croatia after. Took a taxi first. Then a coach. Carlos found the taxi driver too. Apparently your mate Winter was asking about a place called. .’ He frowned, checking with Carlos.

‘Porec. Winter wanted to know about Porec.’

‘There. Porec.’ Fallon turned back to Suttle. ‘Ring any bells?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘I’m not, Dave. I’ve told you what I know. The Ukraine is definitely a runner.’

‘Says you.’

‘Says me.’

Fallon was giving him the hard stare. Suttle didn’t flinch. Finally, it was Carlos’ hand on his arm.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you for coming.’

Outside the café Suttle checked as best he could for any signs of the surveillance he’d been expecting. Either these guys are as good as Gina Hamilton had promised, he thought, or I’ve been stiffed. Back in the Impreza, he was picking his way towards Poole and the road home when his phone began to trill. He pulled in, checking caller ID. John Hamilton.

‘OK? Are we off the clock now?’

‘Fine. Of course you are. And thanks, I owe you.’ Suttle paused. ‘Where were you, by the way?’

‘I was in the pub across the road.’

‘How does that work?’

‘It doesn’t. I was back-up in case anything kicked off.’ He chuckled. ‘Did you notice the woman a couple of tables away? Bit of a looker?’

‘Boots? Grey T-shirt? Don’t tell me.’

‘Yeah. Class operator. Good on obs too.’

Suttle was back in Chantry Cottage by a quarter to ten. Lizzie was halfway through a bottle of red. She fetched Suttle’s dinner from the oven and turned the TV off. She wanted to know what had happened.

It had taken a while for Suttle to tease the real meat out of the encounter in the Café Rouge. Now he saw no point keeping his conclusions to himself. Lizzie was part of this. Christ, if it came to more nonsense from the likes of fat Jonno, she’d be the one in the firing line.

‘Dave Fallon’s hooked up with a bounty hunter, a Spanish guy. I’m not sure I believe the figures but you’re probably looking at the thick end of a hundred grand.’

‘To do what?’

‘To find Winter, stick him in the boot and take him back to Malaga. The Spanish police would take care of everything else and Fallon and his mate would cash the cheque.’

He explained about the killing of Brett West and the German girl who’d also died. Lizzie was horrified.

‘Paul did that?’

‘He was there. He could have stopped it. He didn’t.’

‘And the money?’

‘It comes from the dead girl’s father. Christ knows what it buys him. Peace of mind sounds nice but it can’t be that simple.’

‘So what did they want from you?’

‘A steer on where Winter might have gone. I told them the Ukraine.’

‘Was that wise?’

‘It was a lie. I looked at the map this morning. The Ukraine’s next to Poland. It’s the best I could do.’

‘And did they believe you?’

‘Not for a moment.’

He told her about Carlos’ enquiries in Montenegro. He seemed to have tracked Winter to Croatia. Worse still, he’d got the name of a specific town.

‘What’s it called?’

‘Porec.’

‘And you think he’s there? Paul?’

‘I’ve no idea. But Croatia makes perfect sense. It’s bang next door to Montenegro. It’s handy for flight connections. It’s full of bloody tourists in the summer. And it’s not in the EU. In his situation you could have done a lot worse.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘I think I did my best.’

‘I meant about us?’

‘I think they’ll leave us alone.’

‘You think they’ll leave us alone?’

‘I’m pretty certain. No guarantees but. .’ he shrugged ‘. . I’d be amazed if they turned up again.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You really want to know? Because I think they’re a couple of days away from finding the old bugger. And you know what? That makes me fucking upset.’