Western Approaches

Eleven

WEDNESDAY, 20 APRIL 2011

Tash Donovan and Milo Symons were arrested at dawn. Uniforms took them to separate police stations in Exeter and Torbay. They were booked in by the respective Custody Sergeants and provided with legal representation. Tash Donovan chose a solicitor she’d met at festival last summer. Milo Symons was happy with the duty brief.

Scenes of Crime, meanwhile, went into the mobile home at Tusker Farm. Within the hour they’d unearthed the Jacobson debit card, the associated ATM slips, a decent cache of cannabis resin and just under a thousand pounds in cash. The latter had been stuffed into a Co-op plastic bag and hidden under the mattress, a hidey-hole the CSI thought quaintly retro. By close of play the previous evening, Donovan and Symons had got the credit balance in the Jacobson account down to a shade over £93K.

Houghton chaired a meet of the Constantine inner circle at eight. The PACE clock would give the interview teams twenty-four hours before she’d have to apply to a uniformed superintendent for a twelve-hour extension. Under the circumstances she thought that wouldn’t be necessary. The Scenes of Crime team had failed to locate Kinsey’s laptop but they’d discovered two keys in the glovebox of Donovan’s car. The team had the keys seized from Kinsey’s flat and — subject to trying the new set in the apartment door — they were confident they had a match.

Houghton had asked Suttle to oversee and coordinate the two interviews. He’d already briefed the Tactical Interview Advisers working with each of the teams and agreed a strategy. Open account first, rapidly followed by the challenge phase. In Suttle’s view there was no way either Donovan or Symons could survive the coming hours in the interview suite. They had both the motivation and the opportunity to return to the flat and consign Kinsey to oblivion. It was, he quietly confirmed to Houghton, a definite stone-bonker.

The eight o’clock meet was brief. At the end the interview teams departed to their respective police stations. Solicitors were due at the custody centres at nine o’clock. Disclosure and client meetings would occupy the next hour or so. By lunchtime, with a fair wind, Constantine might be close to a result.

Suttle was about to leave when Houghton called him back.

‘You look tired, Jimmy.’

Suttle shot her a look, then nodded.

‘Rough night, boss,’ he muttered, heading for the door.

Both interview teams called a break at midday. Suttle had judged Symons the likelier to break first and had chosen to spend the morning at the Heavitree nick in Exeter. He was able to monitor proceedings via a video link from an adjoining room in the interview suite and had watched Symons explaining the events of Saturday night. His account exactly mirrored the story he’d told Suttle the first time they’d met in the mobile home: they’d won their race, they’d all had a drink or two, they’d walked across to Kinsey’s apartment for a takeaway curry, and then they’d gone home. Only next day, when the detective guy arrived at Tusker Farm, did he realise anything had happened to Kinsey.

The two D/Cs on the interview team, both experienced, pressed him on a couple of points of detail and then tabled the evidence seized from Tusker Farm. Watching Symons on the video link, Suttle had the impression this moment came as no surprise. Symons admitted at once that they’d been to the ATM in Exmouth. Tash, he explained, needed the money to buy her mum a birthday present. She still had the card from collecting the takeaway and she definitely meant to pay Kinsey back when she next saw him. One of the D/Cs asked whether they’d got a receipt with the money and Symons said yes.

‘How much money was in the account?’

‘A lot.’

‘How much?’

‘Over a hundred thousand pounds.’

‘Did that surprise you?’

‘Of course it did. We knew Kinsey was minted but that’s a huge amount of money to keep in an account like that.’

‘Was your partner surprised?’

‘Yes. She thought it was crazy too.’

‘And did you intend to make more withdrawals?’

‘Of course not. I just told you. We thought Kinsey was still alive. We knew we’d have to give the £200 back.’

‘That’s a lot of money for a birthday present.’

‘That’s what I thought, but Tash is like that. Always over the top. You get used to it in the end.’

The interview continued. The news that Kinsey was dead, admitted Symons, had changed everything. He’d phoned Tash in Yeovil and told her. She still had the card.

‘Did she tell you she was going to make another withdrawal?’

‘No.’

‘When you found out, were you surprised?’

‘Not really.’ A tiny hesitation.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because Tash just gets an idea and goes for it. I was worried, to be honest. I thought there was no way we wouldn’t get found out.’

‘You were right.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And Tash?’

‘She didn’t see it that way. She said the guy’s dead so we might as well help ourselves. She also said that Kinsey had kept the account secret so no one would know about it.’

‘Why secret?’

‘I don’t really know. To hide the money, I suppose.’

‘To hide the money from who?’

‘I don’t know. The taxman? I don’t know.’

By now, he said, they had £400. A couple of days went by and nothing happened so they made another withdrawal and then another. In the end, he said, it became a kind of routine. Like the money was their own.

‘But it wasn’t, Mr Symons.’

‘I know.’

‘It belonged to Kinsey, to his estate. We call that theft.’

‘Sure.’

‘But you just carried on.’

‘We did.’

The interviewing D/C wanted to know how long these withdrawals would have gone on. Rosie Tremayne was a woman in her thirties, one of Houghton’s stars, and Suttle admired the cool rapport she so quickly established with Symons. It had been Houghton’s idea to put her alongside the man in the belief he responded well to older women, and in every respect it had worked. He told her they’d have kept hammering the ATMs until the account was empty.

‘And what would you have done with the money?’

‘There’s a project I’m trying to get off the ground, a film. Kinsey had helped me already, so in a way I was telling myself it wasn’t really theft, just something he might have done in any case.’

‘But you didn’t know that, did you?’

‘No. He’d promised me £45,000 but not that much, not a hundred grand.’

‘So it was still theft? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes. We stole the money. That’s what we did.’

It was at this point that Suttle felt the first prickles of apprehension. Milo Symons was playing these questions with the straightest of bats. He wasn’t evasive. He wasn’t attempting to justify himself. He didn’t seem to be hiding anything. On the contrary, there was a naivety — even an innocence — in his willingness to cooperate. From Constantine’s point of view, this would be a quick win when it came to a theft conviction. But would this man really have killed someone?

During the coffee break Suttle phoned the Tactical Interview Adviser supervising the other interview. His name was Frank Miller and — like Suttle — was an incomer from another force. After an uneasy start, Devon and Cornwall had definitely grown on him. Not least because major crime investigations exposed him to suspects like Tash Donovan.

‘She’s nuts, mate. Totally barking. We could have sold tickets for this morning.’

Like Symons, her description of the Saturday night in Exmouth Quays hadn’t departed one jot from her initial witness statement. One of the two interviewing D/Cs was Luke Golding. The TIA had told him to press her on the relationship with Kinsey, and when he’d done so she’d happily complied, offering detailed descriptions of the movement sessions they’d shared up in his apartment. Once she’d even got to her feet in the interview room to demonstrate a particular cycle of gesture therapy and it was only her solicitor, in the end, who’d managed to get her to sit down again.

‘What about the rest of it?’

‘The sex, you mean? We got lots of that too. She had this guy for breakfast, but he was paying good money so he must have got something out of it. Five hundred quid for a quickie? Maybe they were both barking.’

‘You think she liked him?’

‘I don’t think liking came into it. The woman’s an actress. She can play a part. Bottom line, Kinsey was a punter. End of.’

Confronted with the evidence from the ATMs, Donovan — like Symons — had admitted everything. Yes, she’d lifted an initial 200 quid from his account that Saturday night. Yes, she meant to give the money back. And yes, once she knew that Kinsey was dead, she’d seen no point letting all that money go to waste.

‘She said that? She used that phrase?’

‘Yeah. It was like she had some right to it. The dosh was hers. It was written in the stars. It was the earth giving her a little prezzie. Total bollocks, of course, but quite amusing. You have to hand it to this woman. Second house starts any time now. If you’re looking for something a bit different, you should pop across.’

Suttle declined the invitation. He wanted to know how Donovan had been so sure they’d never get caught.

‘To be honest, mate, I’m not sure that ever really occurred to her. At one point she told us that Kinsey was always boasting about his money, and how clever he was, making all this moolah. He told her about his ex-wife too, and how he’d managed to dream up some clever scheme to hide loads of dosh from the old dragon. Donovan said he called her the Gobbler. I think she assumed the Jacobson account was part of all that. I guess it was empty when the wife walked out and Kinsey filled it up again and kept it going.’

‘She was specific about that? Donovan?’

‘Not in so many words, but that was the drift. Like I say, Donovan lives on another planet. I don’t think it’s ever dawned on her that some of the stuff she does might have consequences. It’s all hippy shit, I know, but it seems to work for her.’

‘You think she’s worried?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘You think she killed Kinsey?’

‘I’m starting to wonder.’

The interviews recommenced at 12.45. This, Suttle knew, was the moment of truth. It fell to Rosie Tremayne, in Exeter, to suggest that Symons’ misdemeanours might not have stopped at theft.

‘In your statement to D/S Suttle you denied that your partner, Tash, had any kind of relationship with Kinsey.’

‘I said he fancied her. Like everyone fancies her.’

‘But you also said it ended there.’

‘Yeah. That’s true.’

‘But it isn’t, is it? Because your partner, Tash, has told us she had regular sex with Kinsey.’

‘For money.’

‘Yes. But it happened, didn’t it? So it didn’t — as you put it — end there?’

‘That’s shagging. That’s all it is. For money.’

‘But you knew.’

‘Yeah. Me and Tash don’t have secrets. The shag money was for the film fund. The one I told you about.’

‘Sure. I believe you. But the fact is your partner was having sex with another man.’

‘He was crap at it. Why would that worry me?’

‘Because it might not end there.’

‘What?’

‘Because Kinsey might want more of Tash than you thought. The man had money, lots of money. Tash is a professional actress. Just lately, as we understand it, she hasn’t done much. She’s still attractive. She might still dream about making the big time. Kinsey could help that happen, couldn’t he? With all his money? All the support he could give her? And all those doors he could open?’

Symons was staring at her. He was visibly upset. Rosie had touched a nerve. Suttle was tempted to applaud. At last, he thought.

‘I don’t have to listen to this, do I?’ Symons was looking at his solicitor.

‘Mr Symons?’ Tremayne was waiting for an answer. ‘Milo?’

Symons, angry now, abandoned his solicitor and turned back to Tremayne.

‘You think Tash lied to me? Is that what you think? You’re telling me she had something else going on with him?’

‘I’m asking you a question. I’m suggesting that might have been a possibility.’

‘Then the answer’s no. No way. We’re like that, me and Tash, always have been.’ He interlinked his forefingers and tugged them hard. ‘You know what I mean? Tash would never do that to me, never.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she wouldn’t.’

‘But why?’

‘Because she knows what it would do to me. How I’d feel about it.’

‘And how would you feel about it?’

‘I’d feel shit about it. I’d hate it.’

‘So what might you do. .’ Rosie gestured at the space between them, which had been warmed by this sudden burst of temper ‘. . if you got really angry?’

Symons stared at her. It was beginning to dawn on him where these questions might be going.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘I’m asking you whether you have a temper. The answer appears to be yes. I’m also asking you whether Tash was — is — important to you.’

‘Of course she’s important. She means everything to me, Tash.’

‘So what would you do to keep her? If you thought she might be tempted to go off with someone else?’

‘But she wouldn’t. Not Tash.’

‘But she might, Milo. Or you might think she might.’

‘Never. I never thought that. Never.’

‘I don’t believe you. Look at it from our point of view. Tash means everything to you. You’ve just admitted it. You know she has sex with this man Kinsey. You know that Kinsey has the kind of money that might make a big difference to her career. You also know he’s mad about her. Are you really telling me you were never — ever — worried she might leave you?’

‘For him, you mean?’ He laughed. ‘You’re mad. This is crazy.’ He looked at his solicitor again. ‘Tell her to stop.’

The solicitor gestured him closer. Suttle wished he could lip-read. Maybe he’s telling his client to relax, he thought. Or maybe he’s starting to see it Tremayne’s way.

‘My client needs to be clear about the precise allegation you’re trying to make,’ he said.

‘Our allegation is this, Milo. That you were drunk on that Saturday night. This we know from your own account. That you had and have a passionate relationship with your partner, Tash. This too we know. That something probably happened that Saturday night, some remark, something inappropriate between Tash and Kinsey that later sparked a row between you both. Are you with me?’

Symons nodded. He looked transfixed. She might have been telling him a story, Suttle thought, about someone else.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘That you went back to the apartment that night, back to Exmouth Quays, either with Tash or without. That you got into the flat with Tash’s key. And that you killed Kinsey.’

‘Killed him?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why? How?’

‘Why, I think we’ve dealt with. How has, at this point, to be supposition. In the end he fell from his own balcony. Perhaps you’d like to tell us exactly what happened before that moment?’

Symons began to shake his head. Disbelief had given way to something else. Fear.

‘You really think I killed him? Kinsey? Jake? You think I did that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Why would I have done it?’

‘I think we’ve covered that. You were jealous. And you knew he had money.’

‘How?’

‘Because you’d seen the slip from the ATM. One hundred and seven thousand pounds, Milo. Think about it.’

‘So I killed him? You really believe that?’

‘Yes.’

From this point on, the interview went nowhere. The two D/Cs came at Symons from every point of the compass. They pointed out how heavily all the circumstantial evidence weighed against him. They thought it entirely reasonable that he would want to remove the threat of Kinsey from his private life. They agreed that one hundred thousand pounds would ease a lot of problems about funding Symons’ precious film. Rosie Tremayne even hinted that the idea might have been Tash Donovan’s in the first place, in which case Symons would earn himself a much lighter sentence by testifying against her.

The latter suggestion sparked another outburst from Symons. Tash had never said anything of the sort. And even if she had, there was no way he’d grass her up. To think otherwise was totally vile. This whole thing, he kept saying, is sick. He’d never hit anyone in his life, let alone killed anyone. After stopping at the ATM in Exmouth, he and Tash had gone home. Theft? Yeah. Murder? No way.

Mid-afternoon, Houghton called a meet in a borrowed office at Torbay. Donovan and Symons had been escorted back to their respective cells to ready themselves for the next round of questioning. In the meantime Houghton had to assess where Constantine might go next.

Suttle had driven over from Exeter with Rosie Tremayne. He was still convinced there was a way to go with Symons.

‘We haven’t bottomed him out yet,’ he said. ‘The guy’s more of a firework than I thought. Press the right buttons and we might still be in business.’

Houghton wanted Tremayne’s opinion. She said she was doing her best but deep down thought Symons was telling the truth.

‘How does that work?’

‘He gave us everything on the ATMs. He coughed the lot. Frankly, I think murder’s a bit out of his league. He wouldn’t have the bottle for starters. Plus he comes over as quite a gentle guy.’

‘He was pissed,’ Suttle said. ‘And that can change everything.’

Houghton turned to Frank Miller. She wanted the TIA’s take on Tash Donovan. How had she reacted to the suggestion that she’d been complicit in Kinsey’s death?

‘She laughed. I think she was genuinely amused. This is a woman who plays a thousand roles before breakfast. I think the killer thing quite appealed to her.’

‘But she denied it?’

‘Big time. She said Symons was too pissed to manage a shag that Saturday night, let alone kill anyone. She also said that vegetarians try and avoid that kind of thing.’

‘She’s a veggie?’

‘So she says.’

‘And that’s some kind of defence?’

‘Definitely. She says veggies never kill people.’

‘What about Hitler?’

‘Good point, boss. Maybe we can bring that up in the next session.’

Houghton didn’t share the ripple of laughter that went round the room. She and Nandy would be conferencing on the phone any time now. She had to know where this thing was headed next.

It was Suttle who broke the silence.

‘We keep on at them both. That’s the only option we’ve got.’

‘We’ve nothing new to throw at them?’

‘No.’

‘So without a confession. .?’

‘You’re right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘We’re fucked.’

The next session began at half past four and lasted into the early evening. This time Suttle was monitoring the Donovan interview. Sitting beside Miller, watching the video feed, he knew the TIA had called it exactly right. Donovan was putting on the performance of her life. Not because she was trying to hide something but because she at last had an audience. She said she felt sorry for Kinsey. That last second and a half of his life, she said, would have been seriously crap. Exmouth Quays in the rain was a shit place to die. She hadn’t the first idea why he’d done it, and if she’d ever suspected him of suicidal tendencies she might have put a lot more effort into keeping him happy.

The latter phrase appeared to offer at least the hint of an opening. Had this relationship of theirs been more substantial than she’d ever admitted? Might he have ended his life because she wouldn’t commit to more than visiting rights? To both questions she answered with a flat no. Kinsey, she said, was an impossible man to get close to. No wonder his wife had done a runner.

In his heart Suttle knew she was right. At ten past seven he took a call from the TIA at Heavitree. After consultations with his lawyer, Symons had decided to go No Comment.

Within half an hour both interviews had been terminated. Det-Supt Nandy was waiting with Houghton in her office at Middlemoor. She’d obviously briefed him already. The atmosphere was grim.

‘The PACE clock stops at five tomorrow morning,’ he pointed out. ‘The briefs will kick up if we insist on another session tonight, and to be frank I can’t see what we’d achieve. We could try for an extension and start again tomorrow morning but D/I Houghton’s right. We’ve got nothing left to fire at him. We’re out of bullets. There’s nothing left.’ He paused. ‘Jimmy?’

Suttle knew the question was coming. This was his party, his idea. He’d led them up this cul-de-sac. How did he propose to get them out?

‘Are we talking fresh lines of enquiry?’ Suttle asked.

‘Yes.’

‘There aren’t any, sir. Not immediately. Not that I can see.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I suggest we charge them anyway. And leave it to the jury.’

‘You mean the CPS.’

‘Of course.’

‘Charge them with what?’

‘Theft, obviously. Plus murder.’

There was a silence. Bold move. Two of the D/Cs exchanged glances. Rosie Tremayne was looking at her hands.

‘But we have no evidence, Jimmy. All we have is supposition, which, if my memory serves me correctly, is where we began.’

‘I still think he was killed.’

‘By them? By these two?’

‘Everything points that way. Motive. Opportunity. You said it yourself, sir. Other people are a mystery. No one really knows. What you see isn’t necessarily what you get.’

‘That’s true. Do you think the CPS feel the same way? We need evidence, Jimmy. And we haven’t got it. This is very nice, very tidy. But it doesn’t prove they did it.’

‘No, sir. It doesn’t.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘I don’t know, sir. It’s your call not mine.’

He nodded. Suttle thought he caught a hint of disappointment in his face. Maybe I’ve given up too easily, he thought. Maybe Nandy was expecting more of a fight. Fat chance.

‘Carole?’ Nandy had turned to D/I Houghton.

‘I suggest we go for an extension, sir. A night in the cells sometimes does the trick.’

‘And what are we proposing in the way of fresh evidence? Mr Cattermole will need to know.’

Cattermole was the duty uniformed Superintendent. Without active ongoing inquiries, he wouldn’t sanction a custody extension.

Suttle stirred. He was looking at Houghton.

‘There’s still one call I need to make,’ he said.

‘On who?’

‘Pendrick.’

It was gone nine when Suttle made it down to Exmouth. The light was on in Pendrick’s flat, and Suttle’s finger on the bell brought him to the door. His lower face was still swollen from last night and when he led the way upstairs he seemed to have difficulty walking.

‘Is this personal?’

‘No.’

‘What do you want then?’

‘I need to talk about Kinsey. We made a couple of arrests last night, Tash and Milo Symons. We’ll be charging them tomorrow.’

‘For what?’

‘Theft and murder.’

‘Murder?’ The word drew the faintest smile. ‘You think they killed Kinsey?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can prove it?’

‘We can get a result in court.’

‘How does that work?’

Suttle walked him through the evidence: a hundred grand’s worth of motivation and the key to Kinsey’s door.

‘But why? Why would they do it?’

‘You know why they’d do it. Symons was jealous as fuck and they both wanted the money. A couple of minutes in the apartment? The two of them? No CCTV? Middle of the night? Job done.’

Pendrick was brooding. Suttle wanted him to say something. Anything.

‘Well?’

‘Kinsey was an arsehole. He deserved it.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means he’s better dead. It means there’s one less of his breed to fuck things up.’

‘So we owe Tash and Milo a thank you? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Are you surprised they did what they did?’

‘I’m glad he’s gone.’

‘That wasn’t my question. I asked you whether you were surprised or not.’

Pendrick’s head came up. He held Suttle’s gaze.

‘Nothing surprises me any more,’ he said.

Suttle was in Colaton Raleigh by half ten. He stopped for a beer at the pub up the road, brooding on the day’s developments. He’d rarely felt so knackered. The last couple of weeks seemed to have emptied him of everything. He toyed with the pint for a while, then took a couple of mouthfuls and left it on the counter.

At the cottage the lights were off downstairs. He found a note from Lizzie on the kitchen table telling him there was food in the oven but he didn’t even bother to look. Upstairs, he checked on Grace then went into their bedroom. Lizzie appeared to be asleep, her face turned towards the wall. Suttle got undressed in the bathroom, hanging his suit on the door ready for tomorrow morning. He sponged his face, brushed his teeth and spent a long minute eyeballing the image in the mirror. When he returned to the bedroom, Lizzie hadn’t moved. He slipped into bed and turned his back on her. Enough, he thought.