Western Approaches

Thirteen

FRIDAY, 22 APRIL 2011

The search for Pendrick’s body resumed at first light. By now there was no chance he was still alive. Exhaustion and hypothermia would have killed him long before the police chopper appeared once again over the boiling sea.

Suttle went to work as usual. The downstairs office, briefly busy after Constantine rose from the dead, was empty. A house fire in Seaton had taken the lives of two kids and their mother was gravely ill in a burns unit in Salisbury. Growing suspicions about the role of her estranged partner had triggered an MCIT investigation. Nandy, as ever, was blitzing the job, but Houghton had tactfully let Suttle sleep in.

‘Appreciate it, boss, but there’s no need. The last thing I want is time on my hands.’

Lizzie spent the day in Exmouth. She was in regular contact with Molly Doyle, who had the ear of the Coastguard, but by midday the search for Pendrick’s body was called off.

Shortly afterwards, she took a call from a voice she didn’t recognise. D/C Andy Maffett wanted to interview her with regard to a Mr Tom Pendrick. She parked Grace with Tessa and walked to Exmouth police station. With Andy Maffett was another detective called Rosie Tremayne. Offered the services of the duty solicitor, Lizzie chose to say no.

The interview, conducted under caution, lasted longer than she’d anticipated. Lizzie kept the details of her brief relationship with Pendrick to a minimum, only too aware of the detectives’ curiosity. Yes, she’d got quite close to the missing rower. Yes, he’d been more than helpful in all kinds of ways. And yes, he’d finally trusted her with the story of what had really happened to Jake Kinsey. Had she been surprised by his confession? Of course she had. Had she had grounds to suspect anything of the sort earlier? Absolutely not. Had she been shielding him in any way? No.

The interview over, Andy Maffett had fashioned her account into a formal statement which she’d signed. Warned that she might be recalled for a second interview, she had no choice but to say yes. Murder wasn’t something anyone would take lightly. Of course she’d assist in any way she could.

Shaken, she’d returned to Tessa’s house. The last thing she wanted was conversation and in her heart she wanted to hide away with Grace in the silence of Pendrick’s flat but the premises had been sealed off by the police pending a thorough search. For a while she’d thought about contacting her husband but in the end she knew she wasn’t up to hearing his voice. The last few nightmare days seemed to have grown darker still. At the police station she’d sensed that the two detectives wanted a lot more. Chantry Cottage, and now Tom Pendrick, had taken her to a very bad place indeed.

Her mobile rang at just gone seven. Gill Reynolds.

‘How’s life in the country?’

‘Crap.’

Lizzie briefly explained about Pendrick. The man had wanted out. He’d taken a boat and gone to sea. By now, she said, he was probably dead.

‘Christ. So how does that make you feel?’

‘Terrible.’

She described the night that Jimmy had returned to find Pendrick at her kitchen table. Since then, she said, they’d barely exchanged a word.

‘Bloody hell. So what happens next?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘You have to do something, Lou. You have to have a sort-out.’

‘I know.’

‘Then do it. Just do it.’

‘I can’t. I don’t know how to.’

‘That’s pathetic. I’m not hearing this. Of course you can. You’ve shafted that man, Lou. You’ve crapped all over him. You’ve got a child too. Think of Grace. Pull your bloody finger out, kiddo, and do something.’

‘Yeah? Like what?’

The question disappeared into silence because Gill was too busy to talk any longer. In truth there was something Lizzie had done, but since making the call last night she’d heard nothing. It was a long shot, she knew, but just now she couldn’t think of anything better.

He phoned around eleven when she was about to join Grace in Tessa’s spare bed. There was comfort in hearing the voice she knew so well. He wanted directions to the cottage. He’d meet her there next day. She told him how to find Colaton Raleigh. She had to spell the name.

‘What time?’ she said.

‘Midday.’

‘That’s great. I’m having to rely on buses at the moment.’

‘To do what?’

‘To get out to the cottage. It’s the back of beyond.’

‘You’re not even living there?’

‘No.’

‘Fuck. So where’s Jimmy?’

She looked at the phone, realising that she didn’t know.

‘Don’t ask,’ she said.

The following day was Saturday. It was raining when Suttle awoke. One look at the chaos of the kitchen convinced him he needed to get out. He toasted the last of the bread, piled the dishes in the sink, fed the cat and headed out into the rain. With no particular destination in mind, he pointed the Impreza west. After Exeter he took the A30 up to Okehampton. The word Bude on a signpost seemed to hold some promise but half an hour or so later he changed his mind. By the time he found Trezillion, the rain had stopped.

He parked behind the dunes and set out on foot. The wind was rising and the tide was in, pushing at the line of seaweed and assorted debris at the top of the beach. He skirted the dunes and found a path that led up onto a headland. From here, sitting among the rocks, he could look down on the nearly perfect crescent that was Trezillion. Any decent detective, he told himself, had to be able to get into other people’s heads, other people’s hearts. That was an early lesson he’d learned from Paul Winter. You have to become these guys, he’d always said. You have to see the world through their eyes. Only then can you be sure how to make life tough for them.

So what was Pendrick’s story? And how come this place had meant so much to him? The answer seemed all too obvious. Anyone growing up here would have fallen in love with the place. That might explain the start of his quarrel with Kinsey. It might also account for bringing Lizzie out here. Pendrick had wanted to share an important bit of himself, just the way Suttle had once taken Lizzie back to the New Forest village where he’d spent his childhood years. That’s what you did when you met someone you fell for. It was a kind of homing instinct, impossible to resist, and it meant that you’d stumbled over someone who really mattered.

He shook his head, not wanting to take the thought any further. Pendrick had brought Lizzie here because she’d suddenly become part of his life. More importantly, she’d gone along with him, conspired with him, borrowed the key and let herself into this secret place of his. He wasn’t at all sure that he bought Thursday’s story about Pendrick sculling off into oblivion, but in truth he didn’t much care whether the man was alive or dead. Either way, it was too late. From where he was sitting, among a scatter of spring flowers in the spongy wetness of the turf, the damage had been done.

He got to his feet and headed away from Trezillion, following the cliff path. The next town of any size was Newquay. Maybe he could get a bus back from there to pick up the Impreza. Maybe he’d even be up for the return walk. But after half an hour he’d had enough. Trekking on for mile after mile seemed purposeless. He’d lost some inner sense of direction. He felt like a piece of debris, useless, inert, adrift in deep space. Increasingly depressed, he turned back towards the cove, his head bent against the first flurries of the returning rain.

For maybe a mile the cliff path zigzagged upwards. Then came a fork beneath an outcrop of black granite. A path less trodden led to the very edge of the cliff. The cove lay off to his right, the whiteness of the beach fringed by the sand dunes. That’s where my wife wanted to make love to Pendrick, he told himself. That’s where my marriage came to an end. The wind was gusting now, blasts of cold air off the ocean, and he felt the salty prick of moisture in his eyes. He took a step forward, then another, peering over the edge of the cliff. The sea boiled on the rocks below, surging back and forth. Easy, he told himself. A second or two of gathering terror and then nothing but darkness. For a moment he was perfectly still, telling himself that it would be for the best, that it would offer the kindest way out, but then he shook his head, thinking of Kinsey, of Pendrick, of Lizzie, of Grace, glad of the hot jolts of anger that flooded through him, an anger he could almost taste. He turned and headed inland, away from the cove and the roar of the incoming surf.

The path was steep. Minutes later, maybe a quarter of a mile inland, he found himself climbing through torn rags of grey mist towards a single tree bent almost double by the wind. His doubts had flooded back again. Had all this started way back, with his decision to go for Chantry Cottage? Had he bullied Lizzie into coming with him, into sharing this fantasy life he’d promised her? Should he have been a bit more cluey about the signals she was sending him, about her growing sense of lostness? Should he have been a better husband? A better dad? And just as important in another way, should he be making a bigger effort to get a word of warning to Paul Winter? A man he’d once revered? The questions hammered at his brain: three betrayals, three ways he seemed to have got life so comprehensively wrong. Maybe all this wasn’t Lizzie’s fault at all, but his.

He was still staring at the tree. The way it had shied away from the wind, the way it had given in to the elements, spoke of an implacable force beyond the power of resistance. But then he climbed a little closer, buffeted by that same wind, and stopped again, barely feet away. Despite everything, he realised the tree was still alive. On bough after bough he could see tiny green buds pushing through. Despite the wind, despite the salt off the ocean, despite the mountain of odds stacked against it, the tree was hanging on. Why? Because it hadn’t — wouldn’t — surrender. Because it had clung to a life of its own. Come back in a week or two, he thought, and it would be in full leaf. Climb up here on a glorious day in midsummer, with the temperature in the eighties, and he might pause a while to enjoy the shade it offered. He found himself grinning, suddenly alive again. The rain was harder now but he didn’t care. He’d had enough of chasing the same old questions around and around. Guilt, in the end, took you nowhere. He checked his watch. Early afternoon. Perfect.

He was in Modbury within the hour. A petrol station on the edge of the town had pink carnations in a bucket outside the pay-booth. He bought three bunches and a bottle of Sauvignon. Minutes later he was parked across the road from Gina Hamilton’s house. Her Golf was on the hardstanding. He stood at the front door for a second or two, dripping from the rain. She must have the radio on, he thought. Adele. Bless.

He rang the front-door bell, the flowers and the wine readied. When the door finally opened, he barely recognised her. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a pair of blue overalls, way too big. A crimson scarf was knotted over her hair and the brush in her right hand was threatening to drip white gloss all over the doormat.

She looked at him for a moment, then her eyes strayed to the flowers. If she was in any way surprised, it didn’t show.

‘You’ve come to give me a hand?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘My pleasure.’

He left next morning at five past eight. Lizzie had been trying to get through to him all evening. Finally, he’d texted her back, asking if Grace was OK. ‘Grace is fine,’ came the reply. ‘We have to talk.’ But Suttle didn’t want to talk. Not yet.

Then, in the early hours, came another text. ‘Please meet us in the cafe at St David’s Station. We’re on the 09.28 to Portsmouth.’ Suttle hadn’t responded, rolling over and telling Gina it could wait.

Now he slipped into the Impreza and headed towards the A38. He was in Exeter by nine. Driving into the big car park outside St David’s station, he wondered how Lizzie and Grace had made it over from Colaton Raleigh. The buses were hopeless on a Sunday. Had she got a taxi? Or had someone given her a lift?

He found her at a table in the far corner of the café. She looked pale and drawn. She’d gelled her hair too, and it didn’t suit her. Her coffee mug was empty. Suttle asked her whether she wanted another. She shook her head.

‘And you, young lady?’

Suttle had picked Grace up. She was wearing a dress Gill Reynolds had brought down from Pompey and already it looked too small.

Grace wanted cake. Suttle carried her to the counter. Already this little tableau felt surreal. His wife crouched over her empty coffee mug, staring into the middle distance. A rucksack and a bulging holdall on the floor beside Grace’s buggy. A retired couple by the window having a quiet ruck about God knows what. Horrible.

Suttle carried the cake and a coffee back to the table and settled Grace on his knee.

‘You’ll need a hand with that lot.’ He nodded at the bags.

Lizzie shook her head. She could manage. She’d always managed. It wouldn’t be a problem.

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll give you a hand.’

She shook her head again. She seemed close to tears. She glanced at her watch, fumbled in her bag for the tickets, anything to soak up the silence. Then, for the first time, she met his gaze.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You don’t think we mean it? You don’t think we’re off?’

‘Your decision, Lizzie. Not mine.’

‘Going, you mean?’

‘Yeah. And everything else.’

She looked at him for a long moment.

‘You won’t ever let this go, will you?’

‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t been here before.’

‘But you won’t. I know you won’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because all men are the same. Black and white. One strike and you’re out.’

‘One strike? Is that how you see it? Some kind of game?’

‘Don’t.’ She turned away. ‘This isn’t helping.’

Suttle shrugged. If she wanted the satisfaction of a full-scale domestic, then he was happy to oblige. Otherwise there wasn’t a lot to say.

‘Your mum’s, is it?’ He broke off a chunk of cake and gave it to Grace.

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s the story? What have you told her?’

‘I told her the truth. I told her we’re sick of living in the country. I told her we need a real home.’

‘We?’

‘Me. Does that sound selfish?’

‘Yes, since you ask.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

Suttle fed Grace more cake and then brushed the crumbs off her dress. A voice on the tannoy announced the imminent departure of the Waterloo train. Passengers for Portsmouth should change at Salisbury.

Suttle was nuzzling the warmth and softness of his daughter. At this rate, he thought, he’d be the one in tears.

Lizzie’s hand was back in her bag. Then Suttle was looking at two pairs of keys on the table.

‘Are they for me?’

‘Yeah. They’re both for the cottage.’

‘You won’t be back?’

‘No. Not there. I’m through with it, Jimmy. I’ve had enough.’

‘So it’s over. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s your call. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve no interest in where you might have gone last night. Yeah? Does that make any sense?’

Lizzie got to her feet. Suttle gazed up at her. For the second time in twenty-four hours he felt totally marooned, adrift in a world he no longer recognised.

He cradled Grace in one arm and picked up the holdall in the other. The guy at the barrier wouldn’t let him through without a ticket. Suttle dropped the bag, kissed his daughter on the cheek, held her tight. He’d no idea when he’d see her again.

‘Bye,’ he said.

Lizzie had readied the buggy. Suttle strapped Grace in. They had three minutes to make the train.

‘Be in touch, yeah?’ Suttle said.

‘You’ve got the number. You know where we are.’

Suttle nodded. He wanted to kiss her but he didn’t. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he’d miss her, that it was all some gigantic fuck-up, but he couldn’t find the words. She looked up at him, a strange expression on her face, her lips puckered, then she gestured him closer.

‘Yellow Fiat,’ she said. ‘In the car park.’

Suttle found the Fiat minutes later. It looked brand new. It carried a Hertz rental badge and it was empty. He was still stooped beside the driver’s window, looking for more clues, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He straightened up, glanced round.

Paul Winter.

They drove out of the city, Winter visibly nervous, checking the rear-view mirror, braking at the last minute for turns that would throw anyone in pursuit. Suttle sat in silence, ambushed by a million questions. Was this why Lizzie had been so desperate to talk last night? Had Winter spent the night at Chantry Cottage?

They came to a stop in the middle of a trading estate on the outskirts of the city. The acre of car park outside B amp;Q was nearly empty.

Suttle was looking at Winter. The older man had put on a little weight since they’d last met and he seemed to have acquired an early tan.

‘So how come?’ Suttle asked.

‘How come what?’

‘How come you’re here?’

‘Lizzie belled me.’

‘She’s got your number?’

‘Yeah. She’s had it for ever. She sends me photos of Grace from time to time. That’s me doing the family thing, if you’re wondering. And something else, son. She didn’t tell you because I made her swear she wouldn’t. All right?’

Winter was angry. Suttle could see it in his eyes. He’d been flattered by Lizzie’s invitation to become Grace’s godfather and had never taken his duties less than seriously. Hence, Suttle assumed, the enormous risk he was taking.

‘She told you about the Pompey situation?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Dave Fallon? The Spanish bounty hunter?’

‘Yeah. She phoned me.’

‘And?’

‘We’re on the move. It’s under control.’ He didn’t go into details.

‘So what else did Lizzie tell you?’

‘Pretty much everything, as far as I can judge. You’re living in a shit hole, son. You should have sorted it out.’

‘I know.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

Suttle stared out through the windscreen. He didn’t have an answer. This was like talking to his dad, he thought.

‘Did she tell you about a bloke called Pendrick?’

‘That’s all bollocks. The woman was upset. She’d been upset for months. When that happens, all bets are off. You should have noticed, son. Then there wouldn’t have been a problem.’

Suttle nodded. Winter was probably right.

‘It’s crazy down here. The job’s non-stop. There aren’t the bodies to go round any more. This isn’t Pompey. You work your arse off and then some.’

‘Great. Except you happen to have a wife. And a daughter.’

‘I know.’

‘And that matters?’

‘Of course it does.’

‘Then sort it, son. Get a fucking grip.’ His hand was in his jacket pocket. He produced a bulky white envelope. When he tossed it across to Suttle it landed in his lap.

‘What’s that?’

‘Money.’

‘I don’t want money. I don’t need it.’

‘Wrong again, son. You need to get out of that khazi of a place, you need to find somewhere fit to live in, and you need to start behaving like a human being. That little girl loves you. And so does your daughter. So take a few decisions, eh? And make it happen.’

Suttle had never heard Winter like this, so forceful, so aggressive. Twenty-plus years in CID had made him the master of ambiguity, of the hidden threat, of the carefully prepared traps that littered every conversation. Not this onslaught.

‘Do I get a say?’

‘Of course you do, son. But do me a favour, yeah? Don’t tell me you’ve been betrayed. Don’t bang on about this guy Pendrick. Lizzie was out of her head. And that was down to you.’

‘My fault, then.’

‘Yeah. Fucking right. So like I say, get a grip.’ His eyes hadn’t left Suttle’s face. ‘Are you listening or do I have to start all over again?’

Suttle wouldn’t answer. He fingered the envelope. It felt like a lot of money. Winter was still watching him.

‘Euros, if you’re wondering. High-denomination notes.’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘None of your business, son. Sell the place. Buy somewhere half-decent. Then she’ll come back.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’m not stupid. Because I watch as well as listen.’ He held Suttle’s gaze a moment longer then checked his watch. ‘I’m off back to Heathrow in an hour. Where can you get something to eat in this town at ten in the morning?’

Suttle took him to a hotel back by the station. They ordered a full English each, and prior to its arrival Winter raided a neighbouring table for a bottle of HP sauce. There were plenty of very good reasons for living in Croatia but breakfast evidently wasn’t one of them. Even Misty, he said, was starting to pine for a proper plate of bacon and eggs.

‘How is she?’

‘Barking mad. It was my birthday last week. You know what she bought me? A set of salsa lessons. Nightmare.’

The thought of Winter stepping onto the dance floor with the high-kicking Misty Gallagher put a smile on Suttle’s face. He wanted to know about her daughter, Trudy, the third member of Winter’s little ménage. A car accident last year had broken her neck and left her with serious nerve damage. How was she doing?

‘Fine. She’s got a boyfriend, and you know what he does for a living?’

‘Tell me.’

‘He’s a cop. Mad about her. Nuts. But you know something? He’s another one who can’t see further than the end of his dick.’

‘You think I’m like that?’

‘Only you know, son.’

‘That wasn’t my question.’

‘OK, so what were you up to last night?’

‘I was with a woman called Gina Hamilton.’

‘Shagging?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, was it?’

‘Very nice, since you’re asking.’

‘She’s a D/I, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Divorced?’

‘Nearly.’

‘And what else?’

‘Neurotic as hell.’ Suttle was grinning this time. ‘Stuffed animals everywhere. Just like Misty.’

The waitress arrived with breakfast. Winter attacked his black pudding with relish. A tiny comma of HP sauce attached itself to the corner of his mouth.

Suttle wanted to know more about Croatia. In a year or so it’d be joining the EU. After which Winter was back in the firing line for a European Arrest Warrant.

‘You’re right, son. Unless Dave Fallon gets me first.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Serbia. They’ve got proper gangsters there. Misty thinks she can pull some real animal who can sort out the likes of Dave Fallon. It’s a neat idea. I just hope he’s good with salsa.’

Suttle had no idea whether he was joking or not and knew — in any case — that it didn’t matter. This brief glimpse of the old Winter had revived something deep inside him. They’d finished breakfast. Winter mopped his chin with a napkin and Suttle accompanied him back to the Fiat.

Winter wanted to know how to get onto the motorway north but Suttle had something else on his mind.

‘You want out, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Out of where, son?’

‘Croatia. Serbia. Abroad. Wherever.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I’ve been watching. Like you always told me to.’

Winter shot him a look, then extended a hand.

‘Glad to hear it, son. Take care of her, eh? And Grace too.’

Winter turned to go but Suttle called him back. He was holding the envelope. There was no way he could take this money.

‘Leave it then.’

‘Where?’

‘Here. Any fucking where. It’s not for you, son. It’s for them.’

Three weeks later Lizzie was back behind her old desk at the Pompey News. The editor had agreed to let her work three regular days a week plus freelance payments for supplementary features she put together in her spare time. This was a blessing for her mum, who found Grace a bit of a handful, and it also permitted Lizzie to kid herself that very little had really changed. She still got her daughter up every morning. She still put her to bed every night. The only difference was that now she had more to think about than dripping taps, elderly neighbours and incessant rain.

Suttle, meanwhile, banked nearly £37,000 in euros. That same afternoon he wrote a cheque for exactly the same amount and sent it to Lizzie. He’d talked to her a couple of times on the phone, prior to nonsense conversations with his daughter, and had managed to avoid a row. Soon, he promised Grace, he’d be down to Pompey to take her out for a treat or two. Whatever else happened, he explained sternly, she wasn’t to forget him.

His relationship with Gina Hamilton, meanwhile, appeared to have stalled. Performance reviews had given way to some kind of operational involvement in a long-running corruption case and she was working all hours. For his own part, Suttle was equally under the cosh. A pensioner couple had been found battered to death in their Sidmouth bungalow and to date no one had a clue who’d done it.

Late one night, as knackered as ever, Suttle lifted the phone to Gina Hamilton. Still numb from losing his daughter, he’d begun to hate the silence of Chantry Cottage. Most television these days was for the brain-dead, and conversations with the cat were a poor substitute for real life.

‘I miss you,’ he said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Be honest, Jimmy. I know exactly what you’re missing.’ She laughed. ‘Me too, as it happens.’

Three weeks later, for the first time, Lizzie had a girlie night on the town with Gill Reynolds. Gill had forgiven her for walking out on Chantry Cottage and they were friends again. They went to a bar in Gunwharf, a minute’s walk from Paul Winter’s old apartment. Lizzie had banked the cheque from her estranged husband and was quietly checking house prices in Southsea. Jimmy would, in the end, turn his back on the West Country. Of this she was quite certain.

For a Friday night the bar was unusually empty. Gill had just booked a holiday in Sri Lanka, a fortnight she intended to share with her latest conquest. This was a guy she’d been dating for less than a month, but already she knew that she’d stumbled on someone who would change her life.

‘He’s really bright, Lou.’ She sucked the last of her vodka and Red Bull. ‘And the good news is he loves me.’

‘Married?’

‘Yeah. For now.’

‘Kids?’

‘Two.’

‘So how’s he going to explain a couple of weeks in Sri Lanka?’

‘No idea. I’ve already bought the tickets, though, so there has to be a way.’

It was at this point that Lizzie’s mobile began to ring. Not recognising the number, she ignored it. Moments later it rang again. Same number. This time it was a text with an accompanying photo. Gill had gone to the bar for refills. Lizzie stared at the text. For a second or two it made no sense, a message from a distant planet, just random nonsense. Then she forced herself to look again, to piece it together and try and understand. ‘She’s a beauty, I promise you. Any time you fancy it. XXXX’

Lizzie’s finger strayed to the attachment. She opened the photo. It was Pendrick. He looked thinner and somehow younger. He was standing in the cockpit of a sizeable yacht. The yacht was anchored in some kind of lagoon. Pearl-white sand. A fringe of palm trees. Not a soul on the beach. Pendrick was grinning the way she recognised from the photos she’d found in his file box. And he was blowing her a kiss.

Lizzie stared at the image, at the beach, at the nut-brown figure so carefully posed against the view. This was a face that she barely remembered, from a time she wanted to forget. So far, the police had shown no interest in calling her back for another interview and for that she was deeply grateful.

‘Lou?’ Gill was back with the drinks. She’d seen the photo. ‘Who’s that?’

Lizzie didn’t answer, shielding the phone. Gill wasn’t having it.

‘Show me, Lou. Gimme, you old slapper.’

Lizzie shook her head. The image of Pendrick still hung on the tiny screen. She gazed at it a moment longer, telling herself to get a new mobile, then her finger found the delete command and the face was gone.