Western Approaches

Two

MONDAY, 11 APRIL 2011

Lizzie woke early on Monday morning, recognising a sound she dreaded. In the distance, coming down the lane outside the cottage, she could hear a squad of young marines from the nearby Commando Training Centre at Lympstone. They spent all night on Woodbury Common, doing God knows what, and then jogged down through the village to be picked up by trucks at first light. When she’d first got used to this early-morning wake-up call, she’d thought it mildly quaint. If Grace had woken early, they’d stand at the window and wave as the young lads sped by. But then she’d realised that the rhythm of all these boots could tell her what the weather was doing. And this morning, as the splash-splash of the approaching squad grew louder, she knew it was raining again.

She closed her eyes, willing herself back to sleep, telling herself that it was a passing shower, that she’d wake later to bright sunshine and maybe the prospect of a new chapter in this life of theirs. Sleep came more quickly than she expected, and she woke again an hour or so later, reaching for Jimmy’s hand under the sheet, but he’d gone. Downstairs, the kettle and the teapot were still hot to her touch and she realised that the growl of the car that had woken her up was probably the Impreza. She checked the clock on the wall: 07.03. Even earlier than usual.

Suttle was at Exmouth nick by half seven. To his surprise, Carole Houghton was already at her desk, busy on the phone. Suttle sorted a couple of coffees from the adjoining kitchenette. By the time he got back, Houghton had finished her call.

‘We found Pendrick,’ she said. ‘He turned up last night.’

‘Where?’

‘Back home at his place. He told us he never checks his phone. Not on Sundays.’

Pendrick, she said, had evidently gone to north Cornwall in search of some decent surf. He’d returned late afternoon and gone down to the rowing club to use one of their single sculls. You couldn’t waste a sunset like last night’s, he’d told the D/C.

‘We get the feeling he likes exercise.’ Houghton was reaching for a pad of jotted notes.

Suttle was back on the seafront at Exmouth, watching the lone sculler in the red singlet powering back on the flooding tide. This had to be Pendrick, he thought. Had to be.

‘So what did he tell us?’

‘Not a lot, to be frank. He confirmed all the other accounts. They won the race, came back, got pissed, went over to Kinsey’s place. Kinsey, as we know, started throwing up off the balcony. Pendrick thought he’d gone out for a breath of air. He put the guy to bed and soon afterwards they all left in a taxi. Pendrick was the first to be dropped off.’

Pendrick, she said, lived alone in an upstairs flat in an area of Exmouth known as the Colonies. Saturday night the flat below was empty. One of his neighbours in the terrace had heard the taxi arriving but had gone to bed shortly afterwards. Pendrick had stayed up a while to check out the weather on his PC and watch the first half of a DVD. He’d been out of the house by eight the next morning to catch the tide at Widemouth Bay. The surf, he’d told the D/C, had been crap. He’d tried other beaches further north but had drawn a blank. Hence his visit to the rowing club.

Suttle wanted to know what the interviewing D/Cs had made of Pendrick.

‘They thought he sounded pretty credible.’

‘Was he surprised? About Kinsey?’

‘Yes, apparently he was.’

‘Upset?’

‘The guys think not but we can’t do him for that, can we?’

Suttle smiled. The coffee was horrible. He was trying to imagine this man, trying to get beyond the slumped figure in the red singlet. How did he present himself? What kind of place did he live in?

‘Very tidy, very together. Andy says the guy reads a lot. Loads of music too, neat little sound system. Not too much furniture but loads of photos on the wall. Apparently the man’s surfed everywhere: California, Oz, New Zealand, Hawaii, the lot. Been around a bit.’

Suttle nodded. Simon Maffett was one of the older D/Cs on the squad, an ex-marine who’d put in a couple of decent years on the force rugby fifteen until his knees gave out and his missus persuaded him to chuck it in. Andy could build a rapport as quickly as any detective Suttle had met. He also knew a thing or two about pushing the physical limits. Pendrick, Suttle suspected, would have recognised a fellow soul.

‘What else did he say about Kinsey?’

‘Not a lot. Like I say, Andy got the impression there was no love lost but he didn’t press him.’

‘And the rowing?’

‘He loves it. Nearly as much as surfing.’ Houghton paused, a rare smile on her face, and Suttle realised there was something she was holding back.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘What else?’

‘Pendrick? Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?’

Suttle shook his head, remembering the prickle of recognition he’d felt when he’d seen the slightly scary face in the photo Houghton had circulated but failing to suss exactly why.

‘Tell me.’

‘It was last year. Summer. June 24 to be exact. I just looked it up on CIS. You remember the bloke who rowed the Atlantic and lost his wife en route? That was Pendrick.’

CIS was force-speak for the Crime Information System, a database that listed everyone who’d appeared on the Devon and Cornwall radar. Suttle had it now. The story had been all over the media. The couple had been rowing west to east. They’d made the Western Approaches after God knows how long at sea and Pendrick had woken up early one morning to find his wife missing. He’d alerted the Coastguard, and the rescue centre at Falmouth had coordinated an air search that had lasted a couple of days before being called off. At this point Pendrick could have made a landing in southern Ireland or been retrieved by any number of ships in the area, but he’d insisted on completing his voyage alone, ending up in Penzance Harbour, fighting for balance on the quayside as media crews battled for a word or two.

‘He had hair then,’ Suttle said. ‘Lots of it. Hippy-looking guy. Never said much.’

‘You’re right. A couple of the uniforms at PZ took a statement, and there was a longer interview afterwards, CID this time.’ Houghton scribbled a name and slipped it across the desk. Suttle stared at it. D/I Gina Hamilton. Another face from the past.

‘You know her?’

‘Yeah. Not well, but yeah.’

Hamilton, he said, had been part of a Devon and Cornwall intel operation a couple of years back. They had a bunch of local dealers plotted up and had successfully traced a supply source back to a Spanish fishing port called Cambados in Galicia. The cocaine, lots of it, was coming into the UK through Portsmouth, and Suttle, then a D/C, had been tasked to give her whatever assistance she needed when she drove east to coordinate the surveillance.

In the event Ms Hamilton been impressively well organised and the operation had ended with a meticulously planned hard arrest on Honiton bypass. The Drugs Squad had actioned a whole pile of warrants that same night, scooping up dealers across the entire force area. Hamilton herself had made a bit of an impact up in the social club at Fratton nick. Tall, blonde, nice leather jacket, bit of a looker. Even Faraday had been impressed.

‘You know her?’ Suttle asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Wouldn’t have done her any harm, that job.’

‘It didn’t.’

‘But?’

‘But nothing.’ Houghton nodded at the contact details. ‘You might want a conversation. I gather she did the interview with Pendrick herself.’

Minutes later, Houghton was gone. She had a meet with Nandy at force HQ in Exeter, and then she was due at the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital for the post-mortem on Kinsey. She’d be back, fingers crossed, in time for a bite of lunch. By which time, the future of Constantine might be a great deal clearer.

Suttle went through the morning’s tasking for Houghton’s squad of D/Cs. In truth, the guys were already beginning to run out of doors to knock on and Suttle knew that the preliminary findings from the PM would probably be decisive. Evidence of injury to Kinsey before the fall would bump up the enquiry to a full murder investigation. Anything else, especially with Nandy at the helm, might well be curtains.

Already Suttle had started the process of applying for the dead man’s financial records, plus billing on his landline and mobile. It would be a day or two before the banks and the phone companies came through with anything solid and in the meantime Suttle needed to get a feel for exactly how this man had led his life. What did he do for a living? Where had his money come from? And who else might have shared his life in Regatta Court?

By late morning, with the help of a couple of phone calls, Suttle had the answers to most of these questions. Kinsey, it turned out, had been an engineer. For a while he’d worked for Boeing in Seattle. Afterwards, still living in the States, he’d run a one-man consultancy, Kittiwake, which specialised in wind-turbine technology. He’d come up with a new way of configuring the power train that converted blade movement to grid-ready electricity, and had sold the process to a major international corporation with operations across the globe. The proceeds of this deal appeared nowhere in the files at Suttle’s disposal but a conversation with a contact in the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills put the figure at not less than $35 million. In three short years Kinsey had made himself a very rich man.

At this point, though, his success had been evidently soured by two developments. An industrial competitor, in the shape of a Swiss engineer called Henri Laffont, had threatened to sue Kinsey for patent infringement. Laffont claimed that Kinsey had ripped off key elements of his own wind-turbine design and owed him compensation that would have taken a huge bite out of the $35 million.

As far as Suttle could judge, this was an ongoing battle. Kinsey had refused Laffont’s claims point blank and hired a firm of expensive commercial lawyers, Zurich-based, to put the Swiss engineer back in his box. The last email in the file was dated 8 February 2011, barely two months ago. Laffont, it seemed, was currently working on a contract in Shanghai. He was due to fly into London ‘in early April’ and was demanding a meet. He was tired of dealing through attorneys and suggested they could sort out a settlement, amicable or otherwise, face to face. Kinsey didn’t seem to have replied to this suggestion but Suttle made a note to check on the seized PC. ‘Amicable or otherwise’ was an interesting phrase and he ringed it before putting the file aside.

Kinsey’s other source of grief was his ex-wife. He’d met Sonya in Seattle. Her half-brother lived in Bristol. Suttle had found a phone number in one of Kinsey’s files and given him a ring. Sonya, of course, needed to be made aware of Kinsey’s death, but the brother-in-law, whose name was Bill, was more than happy to fill in a little of the background.

His half-sister, he said, had been making a decent living in the real estate business when she married Kinsey, but the crash of 2008-9 had wiped her out. At this point Kinsey had decided to return to the UK to look for new business opportunities. With some reluctance Sonya followed, but the marriage was a disaster. After less than a year, she’d maxed out her credit cards, emptied the joint bank account, left a pile of plastic on Kinsey’s desk and flown back to Seattle. Since then she’d been fighting to extract every last cent from the divorce settlement. Even now, said Bill, she was still harassing Jay for money, and lately her demands had escalated. Only last week, to his certain knowledge, she’d been threatening to pay her ex-husband a personal visit.

Surprised by his candour, Suttle had asked Bill how things were between himself and his half-sister.

‘You want the truth?’ he’d said. ‘Those two folks deserved each other. Anything for money. And I mean anything.’

‘Do you see her at all, Sonya? Fly over for the occasional visit maybe?’

‘Never.’

‘And Kinsey?’

‘I wouldn’t spend a second with the guy. You’ve got an experience to share with him? A holiday, maybe? A trip to some nice Polynesian island? He’s been there already, probably owns the place. You’re proud of your new Prius? Want to show off about it a little? He tells you you’ve just made the dumbest purchase of your life. He knew everything about everything. He just didn’t need the other ten trillion people on the planet. This is a guy happiest in his own company. This stuff about the rowing is news to me. Those other guys must have had a lot of patience.’

The conversation had ended shortly afterwards. Reviewing his notes, Suttle knew he’d unearthed two fresh lines of enquiry, both of which needed serious attention. A multi-million-dollar settlement for patent infringement might offer ample motivation for a personal visit, while a vengeful ex-wife — under the right circumstances — could do worse than dump her ex-husband off his fifth-floor balcony.

He was still deciding how to develop each of these when Houghton returned. She eyed the spread of paperwork on Suttle’s desk. He brought her up to speed. Two more potential suspects for the pot. Maybe.

‘But what has he been doing since selling up?’

‘Property development.’

‘Where? How?’

‘He’s got a new company now, Kittiwake Oceanside. He seems to be catering to a particular demographic. These are couples in their sixties, made a bit of money — often in London — and they want to buy somewhere down here, nice view, private beach, total privacy, total peace of mind, full service, like-minded people, all that bollocks. Think retirement lite.’

Suttle had skimmed the Kittiwake files. Kinsey had been paying estate agents in Cornwall to scout for suitable sites. So far he’d identified three and was in ongoing contact with the relevant planning authorities. In every case his pitch was the same. As a successful businessman committed to developments of the highest standard, he was keen — in his phrase — to add value to outstanding locations. In this context, he defined value in terms of employment opportunities, net capital inflows and what he called ‘the aesthetic and social gain from the provision of signature destinations’.

Kittiwake Oceanside, he said, would attract high net worth individuals to areas of Cornwall that were demonstrably struggling. These discreet, beautifully designed retirement communities would kick-start the local economy. From every point of view, he wrote, ‘we’re looking at the perfect win-win’.

Houghton was studying one of the brochures Suttle had extracted from the Kittiwake files. A sleek collection of apartment blocks towered above a line of sand dunes. There was lots of glass, lots of boasts about sustainability, and lots of hints that slouching in front of crap telly was strictly for losers. Couples playing tennis. A peleton of gym-honed retirees departing for a spin on their bikes. A woman in a bikini heading for the nearby surf. Kittiwake Oceanside, thought Suttle, was selling a kind of immortality. Settle here and your body will never let you down.

‘I wonder what the locals think?’ Houghton was equally unimpressed.

‘Exactly. Maybe we should talk to the local journos and find out. People are getting pissed off with tosh like this. Views are for everyone. They shouldn’t be something you have to reserve with a huge deposit.’

‘Sweet. Where have you been these last few years?’

Suttle ignored the question. He sensed already that Constantine was dead in the water.

‘So what happened at the PM?’

‘Nothing. The guy died of impact injuries. Cranial contusions, severe spinal trauma and heart failure. Quick, if you’re looking for a way out.’

‘And you think he was?’

‘There’s no evidence to suggest otherwise.’

Suttle nodded. Post-mortems were never less than thorough. Scrapings from under the fingernails to indicate some kind of resistance. Special attention to the throat and larynx to determine possible strangulation. Try as he might to find evidence of prior assault, the pathologist had drawn a blank. Houghton was right: there was absolutely nothing to suggest that Kinsey hadn’t been alone when he met his death.

‘But why?’ Suttle asked, ‘Why would he have done it?’

Houghton shrugged. ‘Not our call, Jimmy. People do what they do.’

‘And Mr Nandy?’

‘I haven’t managed to talk to him yet. We’ve got a body in a field down near Bodmin. It hasn’t got a head. I expect Mr Nandy thinks that’s a bit of a clue.’

Gill Reynolds turned up just before lunch. Lizzie, deeply grateful that the sun had come out, met her on the patch of muddy gravel that served as parking for Chantry Cottage. She was driving a new-looking scarlet Megane convertible, a perfect match for her nails. Newsroom pay rates were clearly on the up.

She swung her long legs out of the car and leaned back to retrieve a bag of goodies. Lizzie had Grace beside her. When Gill knelt for a kiss Grace turned away and hid her face in Lizzie’s jeans, plainly terrified by this sudden intrusion.

‘Lunch?’ Lizzie led Grace back towards the open kitchen door, determined to stay ahead of the game. Even when she was fit and well, doing a job she loved, Gill had always had a habit of swamping her.

The kitchen, for once, looked almost presentable. Lizzie had worked all morning to clean the place up. There was nothing she could do about the dripping tap and the state of the units, but she’d brightened the general shabbiness with the last of the daffodils from the garden and she had a pot of chilli con carne bubbling on the stove. Gill had a famous appetite, a tribute to her hours at the gym.

With the chilli went hunks of newly baked bread and a salad Lizzie had bought from the village store. Gill was in the garden, striding through the long grass, peering into a hedgerow, stooping to retrieve something from the reeds beside the stream. Frothy white blossom was beginning to appear on both fruit trees and she paused, gazing up, her face splashed with sunshine.

Seconds later, she was at the kitchen door.

‘Fantastic,’ she announced. ‘So wild. So unspoiled. So fucking authentic. Lucky girl. Lucky old you. You have to keep it exactly this way. Promise me you will.’

Lizzie smiled but said nothing. She was tempted to suggest that Gill stay a while, get a real taste of life in the country, see whether she could cope with the isolation and the damp and the mobile signal that seemed to come and go like the wind. Instead she perched Grace in her high chair and dished out the chilli.

Gill had already started on office gossip. It seemed there’d been a big turnover of staff recently, and most of the new people Lizzie had never heard of, but Gill — as ever — had identified a target or two and was currently shagging a married man in his thirties who worked on the sports desk. Three times a week they’d been meeting at the leisure centre for a midday game of squash. Lately they’d given up on the squash and gone straight back to Gill’s new place.

‘The guy goes at it like a madman,’ she said. ‘The squash used to knacker me but this is ridiculous.’

She paused to try and tease a spoonful of chilli into Grace’s mouth. Sex was the closest Gill had got to ever having babies and she’d always been clueless about the dos and don’ts of motherhood. Grace spat the chilli out and started to cry.

Gill seemed oblivious. A couple of months back she’d been offered the kind of feature pieces that had always gone Lizzie’s way and she’d leapt at the chance. Her speciality just now was celebrity interviews, and she was speculating on the chances of bedding a soap star Lizzie had never heard of when she remembered a call she had to make.

Lizzie was still trying to settle Grace. Gill poked at her Blackberry, not understanding why it wouldn’t respond.

‘You have to take it outside,’ Lizzie said. ‘Point it at the sun and hope for the best.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I am.’

‘What about the laptop? Have you got broadband?’

‘Dial-up.’

‘Dial-up? Christ. You’ll be sending pigeons next.’

Lizzie offered her landline but Gill was already out of the door. Minutes later she was back. Pointing it at the sun had evidently worked. She’d also remembered there was someone else in the room, another life, so different to hers.

‘So tell me,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

Lizzie had been anticipating this question all morning. In truth she’d have liked nothing better than to get the whole thing off her chest but she was determined to hang on to what was left of her dignity.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Just different.’

‘You hate it.’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘You don’t have to. I can see it on your face. So let’s start again. What’s it really like?’

Lizzie was nonplussed. This was the last thing she’d expected. Gill Reynolds, it turned out, was infinitely more tuned-in than she’d ever remembered. No wonder they’d given her promotion.

‘You want the truth? It’s a nightmare.’

She talked about what she’d found when they’d first moved down. She described the state of the cottage, and the garden, and the life she seemed incapable of putting together when her husband was at work. She told Gill about Christmas, two long days of unrelieved gloom while Jimmy tried to coax a little heat from the fire. And then she brought the story up to date. She’d decided she was a lousy wife and — even worse — a hopeless mother. By giving in to Jimmy, by agreeing to go along with his rural fantasy, she’d probably inflicted untold damage on her daughter. Kids were smart. They sensed when things were going wrong. For her sake and for Grace’s, before it was too late, she needed to take a few decisions.

‘You’ll leave him?’

‘Not him, Gill. This. I’ll leave this. We both will, me and Grace. It’s beaten us. I’ve tried. Believe me I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. But every time I think I’m getting somewhere something else kicks off and I’m back where I started. Central heating? Windows that fit? Maybe a little car to get out in? Is that too much to ask?’

Gill was trying to think this thing through. Another novelty.

‘Maybe you haven’t tried hard enough,’ she said at last.

‘That’s an insult.’

‘No, it’s not. Of course this is different. You must have expected that. No way is this Fratton or Southsea or wherever. It’s the country, Lou. Different mindset. Different everything. Like I say, try harder. Adapt.’

‘Christ. .’ Lizzie turned away. She had an overpowering urge to cry again. Then came an arm round her shoulders.

‘I believe you, Lou. I really do. I’m just thinking about the alternative, that’s all. Where will you go? What will you do?’

Lizzie was back in control of herself. She apologised for losing it and began to get to her feet.

‘Don’t.’ Gill put out a restraining hand. ‘Just answer my question. What will you do?’

Lizzie gazed at her for a long moment. The fact was she didn’t know. On the phone yesterday she’d nearly asked Gill whether there was room for them at this new place of hers but in the end she’d drawn back. That wasn’t something she’d shared with Jimmy last night but it hadn’t seemed to matter because she’d assumed Gill’s answer would be yes. Now she wasn’t so sure.

‘You’re think of coming back?’ Once again Gill was ahead of the game. ‘Staying at my place?’

‘It had crossed my mind, yes.’

‘Forget it, Lou. It won’t happen.’

‘Why?’

‘It just won’t.’

‘You don’t want us?’

‘Of course I want you. That’s not the issue.’

‘So what is? I don’t understand.’

Gill studied her, then shook her head. No clues. No conferring.

‘We’ll go to my mum’s then.’ Lizzie was getting angry again. ‘She’ll definitely have us.’

‘Not a great idea.’

‘But why? Is it the job?’

‘The job’s fine. I’m sure the job’s yours for the asking. It’s just. .’ She shrugged, picked at her chilli, then looked up again. ‘Never go backwards, Lou. It never works.’

‘That’s what Jimmy said.’

‘Then believe him. He’s right. One way or another you have to make this work.’ She paused. ‘Is the seaside near here? Only I really fancy a walk on the beach.’

By mid-afternoon, Jimmy Suttle suspected it was all over. He’d tasked a handful of D/Cs to start exploring the new lines of enquiry — Henri Laffont and Kinsey’s vengeful ex-wife — but Nandy was due any time and Suttle knew that Houghton would have told him about the post-mortem. These days, through no fault of his own, Nandy had become a juggler, forever trying to keep all the force’s investigative balls in the air. As calls increased on precious Major Crime resources, there were balls he knew he’d have to put to one side, and while he’d never abandon an enquiry that showed genuine promise, he was bound by the iron demands of the Criminal Prosecution Service. No one had ever invented a form for a hunch, and if there was no evidence to suggest that Kinsey had died at someone else’s hands, then Detective Superintendent Nandy would be moving swiftly on.

He arrived at the makeshift office within the hour. Suttle briefed him on the problems Kinsey had been facing in his business and personal life and tallied the actions he’d commissioned to find out more. Nandy nodded, unimpressed. No one, he said, got that rich without making enemies. That was one of the joys of capitalism, something you could rely on, but from where he was sitting there wasn’t a particle of evidence that a pissed-off Swiss engineer or a homicidal ex-wife had chucked Kinsey into oblivion. The thing just didn’t fly. While he was happy to have Suttle’s D/Cs complete their preliminary enquiries in both instances, he was minded to redeploy the rest of the squad.

‘Including me, sir?’

‘No.’ Nandy closed the door. ‘Carole tells me you’ve been under some pressure lately.’

‘Does she?’ Suttle was astonished.

‘Yeah. Not much gets by her, believe me. You should be grateful, son.’ He paused. ‘Everything OK at home?’

‘Yeah. .’ Suttle ducked his head. ‘More or less.’

‘Good to hear it. From tomorrow onwards I want you to take over the Constantine file and prepare it for the Coroner. We’re looking at a couple of weeks, max. That’s the good news. The bad news is you’re on your own. Happy with that?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘If you really need help D/I Houghton might release D/C Golding on a temporary basis but that’s absolutely last resort. We understand each other?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Any questions? Anything you’re not clear about?’

Suttle gave the question some thought, then nodded.

‘Yes, sir. What happens if. .?’

‘If what?’

‘If I end up believing there’s grounds for further investigation?’

‘Then you lift the phone — ’ he offered Suttle the ghost of a smile ‘- and we crank it all up again.’

It was gone six by the time Lizzie and Gill returned to the rowing club compound. They’d spent the afternoon on the beach at Exmouth, walking the couple of miles past the ochre jut of Orcombe Point and onwards to the distant wall of rock that marked the end of Sandy Bay. It was low tide and the sand was firm underfoot. Oystercatchers were feasting on the weed-strewn rocks at the water’s edge and in the distance they could hear the pock-pock of live firing from the Royal Marines’ range at Straight Point.

Gill’s delight at what they’d stumbled on was unfeigned, and even Lizzie had to admit that this stretch of God’s coastline was pretty special. Gill had insisted on carrying Grace, who was already getting too big for the chest sling, but she and Gill seemed to be friends at last, and Gill paused every now and again to show her something that had caught her eye. The beach was big and bare and flawless, gleaming as the sun began to sink, and when a couple of horses appeared, clattering awkwardly down the concrete slip from the caravan camp above, the picture was complete. They thundered past, splashing through the shallows, heading back towards Exmouth, and the noise and the movement drew shrieks of pleasure from Grace. Lizzie had remembered to pack a couple of spare bottles and some mashed-up swede in case she got hungry, but as they approached the rowing club she seemed content.

Gill’s Megane was parked beyond the compound. Lizzie had told her all about Jimmy’s suggestion that she join and Gill was adamant that she should, at the very least, give the thing a try. She was curious about this new departure in Lizzie’s life and demanded a look at what lay in store. When they got to the compound, the doors to the clubhouse were open. Lizzie hung back, a little uncertain, but Gill wasn’t having it.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘We need to do this.’

Lizzie knew she was right. She negotiated the steps up to the clubhouse and pushed in through the door. The near-darkness took her by surprise. She could make out shapes on the rowing machines, three of them. Slowly, one by one, they came to a halt. They were all women.

Lizzie explained she’d come for a look, apologised for the interruption.

‘Not at all. Are you interested?’ The nearest woman had got off her machine and extended a hand. She said her name was Tessa. When Lizzie confirmed that she fancied having a go, Tessa grinned.

‘No problem.’

‘Now?’

‘If you like. You don’t need the anorak. Runners and jeans are fine. Nothing strenuous. Just the basics.’

Lizzie gave her jacket to Gill. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She perched on the seat which slid up and down towards a tiny electronic screen. A handle was attached to a flywheel by a chain. The trick, said Tessa, was to use the muscles that really mattered to get the flywheel spinning.

She strapped Lizzie’s feet into the footstretchers beneath the screen, asked her to take a pull or two and stepped back to watch. With a glance towards Gill, Lizzie did her bidding. She’d never been on a rowing machine in her life.

‘You’re bending your arms way too early.’ This from Tessa. ‘The real power comes from your legs. Push away and use your arms as levers. Only bend them at the end of the stroke. You’ll be amazed at how much difference that makes.’

‘Difference how?’

‘Watch the readout. The figures never lie.’

The other two girls laughed. Too right, they seemed to be saying. Lizzie gave it another go, keeping her arms straight this time. Tessa was right. The numbers zipped forward.

‘Much better. But you’re holding the handle way too tight. It needs to be loose. Right. That’s it. Now concentrate on getting the rhythm. It’s a cycle. Your body leans forward, your hands go over your knees, you push back with the legs to take the stroke, you tuck the handle under your ribcage, then it’s hands away quickly and you repeat the cycle all over again. Excellent. You’re a natural. I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Lizzie.’

‘I’m serious, Lizzie. This could be for you. Am I right, girls?’

There was a murmur of approval. Lizzie was still on the machine, still rowing, trying to get one of the numbers down. According to Tessa this calculated how long she’d take to cover 500 metres. Two minutes seventeen seconds, for a novice, appeared to be OK.

‘More than OK. Now give it some welly. We’re talking flat out. You’ve got a minute. After that we stop.’

Lizzie took it as a challenge. She increased her rate, driving hard against the footplate, trying to keep her back straight as she took the stroke, throwing her hands forward, keeping the movement going, chasing the numbers on the readout. By now she was fighting for breath, the lactic acid beginning to scald the muscles in her calves and thighs, the numbers dancing in front of her eyes. She could feel the sweat beneath her T-shirt, on her face. Two minutes ten. Two minutes seven. Two minutes six.

‘Twenty seconds to go, Lizzie. Work for it. Want it.’

She shut her eyes, pushing ever harder. She was hurting now and the sheer effort lifted her bum from the seat at the start of every stroke. Then it was over and she slumped on the seat, sucking in the cold air, aware of the whine of the flywheel as it began to slow.

From somewhere above her came a noise she dimly recognised as applause. All the girls were clapping. Gill was clapping. Even Grace looked pleased. Lizzie grinned, trying to get to her feet. She hadn’t felt so good, so complete, for months.

‘Thank you, ladies,’ she managed.

Tessa helped her up, said she’d done well, better than well, then her attention was caught by a movement in the doorway and Lizzie turned to see someone else silhouetted against the brightness of the sunshine outside. It was a man, tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly still. He was wearing shorts and a red singlet. He didn’t have much hair.

‘This is Tom.’ Tessa laughed. ‘Impress him, and you’ll never look back.’

On the way home Suttle made a detour to Pendrick’s flat. He was still in two minds about Nandy’s real motivation in charging him with the preparation of a file for the Coroner. A task like this usually fell to a D/C, and something in Nandy’s manner told him there was more to this decision that met the eye. Maybe Nandy wasn’t convinced that Constantine had really hit the buffers. Maybe this was a clever move to keep the investigation at least semi-active. Either way, he didn’t much care. Suttle had never had a problem working by himself. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed it.

Pendrick lived in the top half of a terraced house a couple of minutes’ drive from the nick. A sign in the downstairs window read, Dominic Widdows — Chiropractor. For appointments ring 01395 268078. Suttle made a note of the name and number and rang Pendrick’s bell. No reply. He rang again. Nothing. He stepped back into the road, gazing up at the top window. The curtains were pulled tight against the world outside.

Suttle drove home. Expecting to find evidence of Gill, he was surprised to find the parking area empty. He killed the engine and checked his watch. Nearly seven. He sat in the Impreza a moment, aware of the acids churning in his stomach. It’s a beautiful evening, he told himself. They’ve gone for a walk.

The house was locked. He fumbled for his key, pushed at the door and stepped into the kitchen. Plates were piled in the sink and the remains of a chilli con carne had crusted in the saucepan. He wondered about a note but found nothing. There were still a couple of Stellas in the fridge. He fetched one out and snapped open the tinnie, trying to resist the obvious conclusion. Lizzie had spent the morning packing. Gill had arrived. Lunch would have been over in no time at all. Lizzie had strapped the baby in the back of Gill’s car, stuffed her bags in the boot, and all three of them had fucked off back to Pompey. Job done. Game over. End of.

At this time in the evening a long low slant of sunshine added a rare warmth to the kitchen. Suttle inched his chair sideways, taking full advantage, reaching for the tinnie again. Was this what was left of his marriage? A sink full of washing-up and a spoonful or two of cold mince? He fought the hollowness inside, knowing that life banged up by himself would be a hard ask. He’d miss Lizzie like hell. He’d probably miss Grace even more. Family life, with all its imperfections, was what softened his working days. He was lucky enough to love what he did for a living, at least most of the time, but never for a second did he kid himself that it was enough.

Over the years he’d met countless cops who’d let the Job drive everything else out of their lives, and in every case they’d come to regret it. These were the guys suggesting a drink or two in the pub around the corner after work. These were the loners desperate for company and a listening ear. Suttle had always resisted these invitations, telling himself he’d never make the same mistake, but now — for the first time — he realised how easy it was to miss the obvious clues. He was a detective, for fuck’s sake. So how come he’d let his marriage come to this?

He was contemplating the prospect of the other Stella when he heard a car slowing outside. Then came the crunch of wheels on gravel and a peal of laughter as a door opened. Moments later he was out in the sunshine. Lizzie hadn’t laughed like that for weeks. Months. She was standing there with Grace in her arms. She had a huge grin on her face. Suttle put his arms round her, kissed them both. Relief had seldom tasted so sweet.

‘And me?’

He kissed Gill too. She had a bottle of vodka in her hand. Bliss.

Gill had collected two bags of assorted Bangladeshi dishes from a takeaway in Exmouth. Suttle fired up the oven while Lizzie disappeared for a shower. The shower never got beyond lukewarm but on this occasion she didn’t seem to care. By now Suttle was upstairs readying Grace for bed. Lizzie joined him, drying her hair with a towel.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Where did you go?’

Lizzie explained about the walk, and then the rowing club.

‘They let you have a go?’

‘They insisted. We’re talking machines not the real thing but — hey — who cares?’

‘It was good?’

‘It was better than good.’

‘Difficult?’

‘Yeah. But good.’

She explained about the three girls in the Portakabin, the warmth of their welcome, her five-minute introduction to the mysteries of rowing and her dash for the line when Tessa cranked up the pace.

‘The longest sixty seconds of my life,’ she said.

Suttle was delighted. Was this Gill’s doing?

‘Yeah. I’d have wimped. She’s been great, really supportive, really strong.’

Suttle was impressed. Maybe he’d got Gill Reynolds wrong. Maybe life had dealt her a wonderful hand these past few months and turned her into a human being. Either way, he wasn’t complaining.

He found her downstairs, laying the table. He poured her a huge vodka and found some lemonade to go with it. The lemonade was flat but she never said a word. Another first.

By the time Lizzie came down, Suttle was dishing out the curry. Gill had brought a couple of bottles of wine too, and proposed a toast to life in the country before they started on the food. Barely hours ago, thought Suttle, his wife would have turned her head away, her glass untouched, but now Lizzie was the first to respond.

‘Salut,’ she said. ‘And thanks.’

The evening slipped by in a warm fug of alcohol and laughter. They never left the kitchen. Suttle sorted the dodgy fuse in the plug that fed the one-bar electric fire, shut all the windows, left the oven door open and found a couple of candles for the rough wooden table. The soft throw of light danced on the walls, the perfect counterpoint to Lizzie’s Muse CD, and Suttle allowed himself to get gently pissed. The girls at the rowing club, it seemed, were insisting that Lizzie return for a proper training session the following evening. Tuesday nights were club nights and boats would be on the beach from six onwards. When Gill suggested that Suttle drive her down there, he shook his head. This was Lizzie’s gig, he insisted. He’d stay behind and play mum.

By half ten, with both bottles empty, Lizzie was knackered. She’d made up a bed for Gill in the spare room upstairs. She’d see them tomorrow. She gave Gill a hug and offered Suttle a lingering kiss. Then she was gone.

Suttle was suggesting a nightcap when he felt Gill’s hand on his arm. She was very close. For a moment he thought she was coming on to him but then she ducked below the table, rummaged in her bag and emerged with a letter.

Suttle peered at it. Manila envelope. A single scribbled name. Suttle.

‘What’s this?’ he mumbled.

Gill told him to open it. She had the impression it was important. Something in her voice told Suttle she wasn’t as pissed as he was. Far from it.

‘This is why you came down? To give me this?’

‘Partly, yes.’

‘So what is it?’

‘I don’t know. Like I say, open it.’

Suttle did what he was told. Moments later he was looking at a single sheet of paper. The message, poorly typed, was brisk: ‘You’ll know where to find Paul Winter,’ it went. ‘We need an address. leave a message on the number at the bottom and there won’t be a problem.’ Suttle reached for the candle, trying to read the handwritten number. Mobile. For sure.

Problem? He looked up.

Gill was shaking the envelope. A photo fell out. Then another. She took a quick look then slid them across to Suttle. He stared at them for a moment, side by side on the table. In one shot Lizzie was emerging from the village store with Grace in the buggy. In the other, presumably the same day, mother and child were walking away towards the road that led to Chantry Cottage. Same clothes. Same weather.

Suttle studied the photos a moment longer, his brain beginning to function at last. Paul Winter was the guy who’d taught Suttle everything he knew as a rookie detective on divisional CID. The guy who’d copped the lead role in a complex undercover operation to snare Mackenzie. The guy who’d resigned in earnest after Operation Tumbril had gone tits up and nearly got Winter killed. After that Winter had joined Pompey’s top criminal. For real.

For years afterwards Mackenzie had laundered his drug millions and gone from strength to strength as a legit businessman. Paul Winter, as Bazza’s key lieutenant, had been at the wheel for most of that ride, but a couple of episodes had opened his eyes and by last year he was ready to grass Mackenzie up. The result was Operation Gehenna, in which both Suttle and Gill Reynolds had played key roles.

This time Mackenzie had ended up the loser, shot dead by the ninjas from the Tactical Firearms Unit. Now Mackenzie’s mates were obviously interested in settling a debt or two. And the guy they needed to find was Paul Winter.

‘So where did this lot come from?’

‘They came to the News in another envelope.’

‘Addressed to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hand delivered?’

‘By post. First class.’

‘Postmark?’

‘Pompey.’

‘With my envelope inside?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right.’ Suttle was looking at the photos again. ‘So why did it come to you in the first place?’

Gill wanted to read the note. Suttle passed it across.

‘Because these people knew where to find me,’ she said. ‘My name’s in the paper most days.’ She looked up. ‘So where’s Winter?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. And if I did I wouldn’t be telling these numpties.’

‘Even if they. .’ Her eyes strayed to the photos again. Lizzie and Grace. These people knew where they lived. They knew where to find them. Scary.

‘They wouldn’t.’ Suttle shook his head. ‘They won’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t. But I’ll make sure it never happens.’

‘That might be difficult.’

‘You’re right.’

Gill was watching him carefully.

‘You really think Winter’s more important than Lizzie and Grace?’ she said at last.

‘Of course he’s not. But that’s not the point.’

Winter, he explained, had done a deal with Hantspol in return for a significant cash settlement. With this, Suttle suspected he’d bought himself a new identity and moved abroad.

‘Like where?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. If you were Winter, you wouldn’t tell a soul.’

‘You think he’s alone?’

‘Pass.’

Gill frowned, not quite believing him, then leaned forward. Suttle could smell cardamom on her breath.

‘Mackenzie knew Winter had got it on with Misty Gallagher.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. He told me himself when we were shagging. He said I was as good as her. I think he meant it as a compliment.’

‘I’m sure he did.’

‘So it stands to reason they might be still together, Winter and Misty.’

Suttle, far later than he should, realised she was fishing for details. Once a journalist always a fucking journalist. He told her again that he knew nothing. He liked Winter. He’d always liked Winter. He owed the man a lot. Winter’s move to the Dark Side had disgusted him and he’d told Winter so, but their friendship had survived pretty much intact.

‘And you’re telling me you’re not in touch?’

‘I’m telling you the best favour I can do the guy is to stay well clear. What I don’t know I can’t pass on.’

Gill didn’t want to believe him. He could see it in her face. Too bad.

‘Have these guys been in contact with you?’ Suttle was back with the photos. ‘A name would be handy.’

‘No. All I ever got was the envelope.’

‘No phone calls? No pressure?’

‘Nothing.’

Suttle didn’t believe her. Mackenzie had always been able to call on muscle from the 6.57, a bunch of tooled-up football hooligans at the core of Pompey’s away support. These guys were middle-aged now but no less handy. In any situation, no matter what kicked off, they always favoured direct action.

‘They’ve been down here,’ he said.

‘Obviously.’

‘So who told them where to find me? Who knew where we lived?’

There was a edge of accusation in his voice. Gill caught it at once.

‘You think that was me? You think I’d sell my best mate down the river?’

‘I’m asking, that’s all.’

‘Then the answer’s no. Fuck knows how they found you. Maybe they looked in the phone book. Maybe they did a Google search. Maybe they’ve got sources in the Filth. There’s nowhere to hide these days.’

‘Really? You believe that?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘So how come they can’t find Winter?’

It was the obvious question and she sat back, annoyed at falling into Suttle’s little trap. Filth, thought Suttle, was an interesting word. This was fighting talk. This was what the 6.57 called the men in blue. Gill had definitely been mixing in bad company.

Suttle pushed his chair back and confected a yawn. He wanted to know whether Lizzie knew anything about the photographs.

‘Of course not. They’d scare her to death.’

She stared at him. She was upset now. She’d started by bossing this conversation and somehow she seemed to have lost control.

‘There’s something you ought to know,’ she said. ‘Lizzie wants to move back to Pompey. And guess who told her she shouldn’t?’

‘You.’

‘Yeah, me.’

‘Because of these?’ Suttle was looking at the photos again.

‘Yeah, partly.’

‘You knew they were in the envelope? You’d taken a look?’

‘Fuck off. Mail turns up out of the blue. I find an envelope with your name on. You don’t have to be super-bright to know it’s not going to be good news.’

‘So you’re telling me you guessed the rest?’

‘Pretty much. Don’t look surprised. It’s what I do for a living.’

Suttle offered her a nod. Touché. He was about to offer an apology but Gill hadn’t finished.

‘If you want the truth, I came down because of you guys, because of Grace, the family thing, the whole shtick. Fuck knows how but you’ve got a great thing going. That was the way I read it in Pompey. That woman loves you, believe it or not. I’m not sure living in the country was a brilliant decision but that’s something you have to sort out. Me? I’m just the messenger.’

She checked her watch and bent down for her bag again. Time for bed.

Jimmy reached across as she began to get to her feet. He put his hand on her arm, gave it a little squeeze. She hesitated, looking down at him, a new expression on her face, surprise salted with something else.

‘I just want to say thank you,’ he muttered.

‘For the note? For the photos?’

‘For what you did this afternoon.’

For a moment Gill was lost. Then she remembered.

‘The rowing, you mean?’ She bent and kissed him on the lips. ‘You need to be careful, Jimmy Suttle. You might lose that woman one day.’