Western Approaches

Three

TUESDAY, 12 APRIL 2011

Suttle was at his desk at Exmouth nick by eight next day. Already the bulk of Constantine’s D/Cs had been redeployed on other inquiries and a text from Houghton instructed Suttle to vacate their temporary office and return to MCIT’s permanent base in Exeter. The message was plain. In the absence of hard evidence, Constantine was effectively over.

An admin assistant from up the corridor supplied Suttle with a couple of cardboard boxes. He filled them with the seized files from Kinsey’s apartment and headed out to the car park. That morning, for once, he hadn’t been woken by Grace. Both Lizzie and Gill had still been asleep when he’d left. With last night’s photos tucked safely in his jacket pocket, Constantine’s demise gave him a little time to frame up some kind of plan.

Houghton’s Major Crime Investigation Team worked out of a converted police house on the sprawling force HQ site at Middlemoor, on the edges of Exeter. Suttle’s desk occupied a corner of a ground-floor office with views of the car park. The other three desks in the room belonged to squad D/Cs, all of whom had been with the MCIT far longer than Suttle. As well as the usual maps and whiteboards on the wall, tracking progress on current investigations, he’d arrived to find a World War Two poster (KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON), a photocopy of the Obama electoral chant (‘Yes, we can’) and a medal for the Exeter half-marathon draped over a framed copy of a Robert Frost poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’.

Suttle was looking at it now. The office was empty.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Really? He dumped the file boxes on the floor and sank into his chair. Twice in the last twenty-four hours he’d had to face the consequences of his move west. First, his wife threatens to leave him. Next, her best friend arrives with evidence that he and his family are under surveillance. On both counts, Pompey’s shadow was far longer than he’d ever imagined.

He got out the note and the photos. His only real lead was the mobile number. He was tempted to add it to the list going to the phone companies but knew that the intel techies would be the first to review the data that came back and he didn’t fancy trying to explain how a Pompey address might fit into the vanishing phantom that was Constantine. In any case, it was odds on that the phone was pay as you go, registered to a hookey name and address. These people weren’t stupid.

His phone began to ring. It was Luke Golding, the young D/C tasked with chasing up Henri Laffont and Kinsey’s ex-wife. More bad news.

‘I’ve nailed Kinsey’s missus, Sarge. I talked to that guy in Bristol again, Bill. He gave me a couple of numbers in Seattle.’

Sonya, it turned out, had spent the weekend with a bunch of religious fundamentalists on a retreat in the Cascade Mountains. If Suttle fancied taking this thing any further, Golding had a list of witnesses who’d willingly attest to her presence. It seemed she’d discovered Christ big time. The Cascade Mountains, he added as an afterthought, were on the west coast of America so it seemed unlikely she’d find the time or opportunity to dispatch her ex-husband to his death.

‘And Laffont?’

‘We’re still working on that but my money’s on Shanghai. I managed to make contact with the woman who organises his diary, Chinese lady, very helpful. I don’t think he ever made it to London.’

‘Great.’

‘Sorry, Sarge. You want me to stick at it? Only time might be a problem now.’

‘Of course.’

The phone went dead, leaving Suttle gazing at the whiteboard. To date, Constantine didn’t even merit a mention because inquiries had been coordinated out of Exmouth. He got to his feet and found a marker pen. The fact that both Sonya and Laffont were probably out of the frame was, he tried to tell himself, a definite plus. It meant that he could concentrate on the ripples that Kinsey had been making locally. The guys in the boat. Maybe other rowers at the club. Possibly someone from Exmouth Quays, or the wider community, who’d nurtured some kind of grudge. This was a guy who was serially offensive. He thrived on pissing people off. That, at the very least, Suttle knew he could prove.

He blocked off a square of the whiteboard and scrawled Constantine across the top. Then he returned to his desk and fired up his PC. It took him seconds to find D/I Gina Hamilton’s details. She was working out of the Plymouth HQ at Crownhill. She answered on the second ring.

Suttle introduced himself, mentioned their previous meeting back in Pompey. For a moment there was silence. Suttle could hear her talking to someone else. Then she was on the line again.

‘You had a beard,’ she said. ‘And an office on the third floor.’

‘That was my boss. D/I Faraday. I was the one who took you for a drink.’

‘The younger guy? Reddish hair?’ She was laughing.

‘That’s me.’

‘Gotcha. What can I do for you, young man?’

Suttle explained about Tom Pendrick. He understood Hamilton had interviewed him down in Penzance after the Atlantic crossing.

‘That’s right. I did.’

‘You mind if I come and see you? Talk about him?’

‘Of course not.’ She paused. ‘What’s he done?’

‘I don’t know.’ Suttle was looking at the whiteboard. ‘Yet.’

It took more than an hour to drive to Plymouth. An accident near Ivybridge had brought traffic to a standstill and Suttle spent the time reviewing his options on the surveillance photos. The thought of a bunch of Pompey heavies sniffing around Lizzie first angered then alarmed him. Last night, with Gill, he’d tried to be cool about it, telling her he’d get the thing sorted, but in the cold light of day he knew that wouldn’t be simple. The temptation was to call in a favour or two from CID mates still working in the city. He could think of a couple, in particular, who’d relish the chance to have a quiet conversation and stir these guys up. But that, he knew, wouldn’t hack it.

Neither was he prepared to make it official by lodging the evidence with Det-Supt Gail Parsons. His ex-boss on the Pompey-based Major Crime Team would doubtless view the photos as yet another opportunity to advance her ACPO prospects. She’d take the issue to the top. She’d knock on the Chief’s door and tell him it was a direct threat to the force’s standing in the city. The moment these people were allowed to get away with a threat this crude was the moment Hantspol should call it a day and look for something else to do. A threat against one of us, she’d say, was a threat against us all.

In this, thought Suttle, she was probably right, but leaving a bunch of Pompey heavies to the likes of Parsons wouldn’t work either. They played by different rules. They didn’t care a fuck about ambitious detective superintendents banged up in a bubble of their own making. The Filth, in their view, were like the weather. A minor inconvenience.

So what to do? As the traffic at last began to inch forward he was no closer to cracking it, but minutes later, as the dual carriageway crested the last hill before the distant sprawl of Plymouth, he thought — quite suddenly — of Paul Winter. A situation like this, back in the day, would have been meat and drink to Suttle’s one-time mentor. He’d have studied it from every angle, looking for advantage, scenting a weakness here, identifying an opportunity there, finally lifting the phone to arrange a meet. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere companionable. Some pub where he could open negotiations, bait traps, orchestrate an outcome that the enemy, far too late, would recognise as a total stitch-up. Suttle could imagine him now. Steady on, son, he’d say. You always have more time than you think.

Suttle caught the first of the gantry signs indicating the turnoff for Crownhill. He indicated left, slipped into the nearside lane, hoping to God that Winter had it right.

It was mid-morning before Gill Reynolds left Chantry Cottage. Three ibuprofen and a plate of scrambled eggs had softened the worst of her hangover, and by the time she and Lizzie said their goodbyes she was feeling mildly euphoric. Their little stroll yesterday afternoon, Gill announced, had been fantastic. The rowing was going to do Lizzie a power of good. She wanted — demanded — regular progress reports including Lizzie’s take on the available crumpet. East Devon, to her surprise, was only three hours away. With the right incentive, she could be back any time.

Lizzie waved as she accelerated away down the lane. To her relief, Gill’s brief visit had turned out to be a real pleasure. Better than that, it seemed to have lifted the depression that had threatened to swamp her little boat. Gill was right about the rowing. She needed exercise. She wanted new people in her life. After her initial misgivings, she was now relishing the chance to conquer something difficult and worthwhile. She took Grace back inside, gazing at the wreckage from last night’s meal. All this, she told herself, could wait. They needed supplies, something for Jimmy to cook this evening while she was down at the rowing club. With the sun out again, she and Grace should make the most of it.

It was a fifteen-minute push to the village store. Lizzie bought bread, milk, fresh vegetables, bananas for Grace, and — as an afterthought — a bottle of Jimmy’s favourite Rioja. On the way back she paused outside the store to talk to an elderly woman she recognised from her recent visit to the church. The woman was collecting for an Aids charity in Africa and Lizzie dropped a pound coin in her box.

Shortly before noon, Lizzie and Grace were back at Chantry Cottage. She let herself in, settled Grace in her playpen and returned to the chaos of the kitchen. Minutes later, clearing the table, she caught sight of something tucked beneath the breadboard. It was a Pompey programme, the last home game, Portsmouth vs Preston North End. She gazed at it, trying to work out where it had come from. Gill, to her certain knowledge, loathed football. Jimmy, she knew, had been at home last weekend. So what on earth was this little bit of Pompey doing in her kitchen?

The phone rang. It was Jimmy. He’d just arrived in Plymouth and he wanted her to know if she was OK.

Lizzie was still looking at the programme.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Don’t be late tonight, eh? I’m going rowing.’

Crownhill was the biggest of the force outposts in Plymouth. D/I Gina Hamilton occupied a first-floor office close to the lift. Something had changed since they’d last met and it took Suttle a moment or two to work out what.

‘The hair,’ he said. ‘Am I right?’

Hamilton had got to her feet, extending a hand.

‘I had it done last week. I was going for the full butch but it hasn’t worked, has it?’

She was right. Back in Pompey, five years ago, her blonde hair had been shoulder length, maybe longer. Now, still blonde, it was savagely cropped, giving her face a younger look. Delicate features. Flawless complexion. Full lips. And hints of fatigue shadowing her pale blue eyes.

‘Anything interesting?’ Suttle nodded at the paperwork on her desk.

‘Performance reviews.’

‘What did you do wrong?’

‘That’s not as funny as you think. Do you want a list?’

‘Yeah, if you’re offering.’ Suttle had yet to take a seat.

She looked at him a moment, amused. Suttle was trying to guess her age. Forty? Maybe a year or two younger?

‘Tell me about Mr Pendrick,’ she said. ‘I got hold of the file after you phoned, just to remind myself. Interesting guy.’

Suttle told her about Kinsey’s death, about the resources Nandy had piled into Constantine, about their fruitless attempts to turn a sus death into something they might one day take to court. In the end, he said, they seemed to have drawn one fat blank with absolutely nothing to show for hundreds of man-hours of investigative effort.

‘Except Pendrick?’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Suttle sat down at last. ‘So what did you make of him?’

Hamilton pondered the question. Back last year, she said, she’d been relief D/I down at the far end of Cornwall. The Coastguard had been in touch with force HQ as soon as Pendrick had alerted them to the mystery disappearance of his wife, and Hamilton had been nominated to sit on top of the job. A couple of uniforms had taken a statement after Pendrick made landfall in Penzance and Hamilton had invited him up to the nick a couple of days later to expand on one or two elements in his account.

‘HQ were getting twitchy by then.’ She laughed. ‘The papers were starting to speculate about what might have happened and we needed to be sure we had the thing covered.’

Suttle wanted to know about Pendrick’s account. How much detail had he offered?

‘Not a lot, to be honest. The way he told it, the crossing had been pretty boring. Most of the time they just rowed, which you can believe, and the week before it happened they’d had some pretty shit weather. I got the impression the thing had been a bit of a let-down, a bit of a disappointment. And then, of course, the wife disappeared.’

She talked Suttle through the sequence of events. They’d had a little cubby at the front of the boat. Pendrick used to sleep from two in the morning until four. Then he’d take over from his wife. They’d worked it this way for pretty much all of the crossing. On this occasion, like always, he’d been ready to take over and let her get some kip but when he emerged from the cabin she’d gone.

‘Just disappeared?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No huge waves during the night?’

‘No. According to Pendrick it was flat calm.’

‘No note? No reason she might have gone overboard?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did she ever take a dip? Just slip over the side and paddle around?’

‘I asked him that and the answer was yes. But they only swam when the other one was there too. And only when they had knotted ropes trailing in the water.’

‘So not at night?’

‘Never. He said she was really responsible that way. They both were. House rules.’

Suttle nodded. He remembered an article in one of the tabloids. They’d never gone as far as directly accusing the hippy rower of getting rid of his wife, but they had run a series of articles profiling other guys who’d tried to fake the death of a spouse or a partner.

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I had no grounds not to.’

‘That wasn’t my question.’

‘I know.’

Suttle held her gaze, aware that she was enjoying this exchange. Anything to liven up another Tuesday morning, he thought. Any escape from the pile of performance reviews.

‘What about third parties?’ Suttle asked. ‘Did they have some kind of shore-based thing? Someone who kept an eye on them? Someone they checked in with?’

Hamilton nodded. Back in Woods Hole in Massachusetts, where they’d begun the voyage, were a couple of friends who fielded regular reports. Calling them a control centre was a bit of a stretch but they’d sent stuff on to the US media and generally done their best. After a while the reports from mid-Atlantic had become sporadic and — to be frank — a bit thin.

‘They were their words, not mine.’

‘You talked to these guys?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘They didn’t seem to have any cause for concern. Until the wife disappeared.’

‘And then?’

‘It became a bit of a news story. For a day or two.’

Suttle nodded. He was thinking about the crossing, what it must have taken to make the initial commitment.

‘Did you like Pendrick?’

‘What sort of question is that?’

‘Well? Did you?’

‘I liked what he’d done, what they’d both done. Rowing the Atlantic? You had to give the guy a bit of respect.’

‘Sure but. . you know. .’ Suttle smiled. ‘Did you get through to him?’

‘No, I don’t think I did. From where I was sitting the man was on another planet.’

‘Because of his wife?’

‘You couldn’t tell. Did he miss her? Yes, I think he did. Was that the end of the story? No way.’

‘There was other stuff?’

‘There had to be. He wasn’t difficult or uncooperative, don’t get me wrong. He just didn’t say a lot.’

‘Meaning he had something to hide?’

‘Meaning there were limits, places you didn’t go. I can’t remember meeting anyone so private.’

‘Fuck-off private? Or private private?’

‘Private private. We’re not talking aggression. Far from it. I had the impression he’d be a good guy to have a drink with.’

‘Because?’

‘Because, deep down, he probably had lots to say. And most of it would be worth listening to.’

Suttle smiled. Nicely phrased, he thought.

‘What about other evidence? Did SOC bosh the boat?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing material. They found traces of blood on a runner beneath one of the seats but it turned out to be mackerel. Our man was home safe.’

‘What was the gap between his wife disappearing and Pendrick making it back?’

Hamilton frowned, doing the calculations.

‘Over a week. He was single-handed. That boat must have weighed a ton.’

‘So he had plenty of time to give the thing a proper seeing-to?’

‘Of course.’

‘When he could have been picked up? Gone for early doors?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you think that was dodgy at all? Carrying on the way he did?’

‘Not really. I put it to him that it was a strange thing to do, rowing single-handed when most people would have been in bits about what had happened, but he just shook his head. The word he used was tribute.’

‘Tribute?’

‘To his dead wife. To Kate. Finishing was the least he owed her. It’s in the transcript. I remember him saying exactly that.’

Suttle scribbled himself a note. Finishing was the least I owed her. It was an arresting phrase.

‘What about passive evidence?’

‘She had a camera which she apparently took with her when she went over the side.’

‘Stills? Video?’

‘Both.’

‘And you’re saying it disappeared?’

‘Yeah.’

Suttle bent to his pad. Made another note. Then his head came up again.

‘Did she keep a diary? Some kind of journal?’

‘Yeah. Plus an audio account.’

‘You seized them?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘Evidentially it took us nowhere. I got the impression she was quite a literal-minded woman. From time to time the wild life would do it for her — the birds, dolphins, a couple of whales — and sunsets and sunrises always got a mention, but most of the stuff was pretty dull. Distance covered. Weather details. How much water they were making every day. Worries about the food stocks. Housekeeping really. One thing was interesting, though.’

‘What?’

‘I remember thinking the deeper they got into this thing, the less she wrote. It was the same with the audio. You could sense it in her voice. There was a weariness there. You could hear it.’

‘She was probably knackered.’

‘Sure. Of course she was. But there was something else. It was as if she couldn’t be bothered any more.’

‘Right.’ Another note. ‘And what about Pendrick? Was he keeping any kind of diary?’

‘He said he wasn’t.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he was so thoughtful, so deep. Pendrick was exactly the kind of guy to write stuff down. But no way would you ever get to read it.’

‘Because he was hiding something?’

‘Because he was so private.’

‘What about the state of the relationship? What impression did you get about that?’

‘They’d been married for a while. Five, six years, something like that.’

‘Kids?’

‘No.’

‘But they were tight? Made it work?’

‘I imagine so. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Why do something like that with someone you don’t much like?’

Suttle said he didn’t know. Relationships were complicated enough on dry land. Just imagine what a couple of months alone at sea would do to most marriages.

Hamilton said nothing. Just shot him a look. Suttle asked her about the couple’s life insurance.

‘They’d both taken out policies. They were raising money for some charity and the people in charge insisted on proper cover. That was interesting.’

‘How come?’

‘The insurance thing was a bit of an issue for a couple of the media guys. One of the reporters did a bit of digging and discovered that Pendrick stood to gain half a million dollars from his wife’s death. Of course it wasn’t as simple as that. The insurance company wanted proof of death and it was months before they accepted the claim, but when I put it to Pendrick he just shrugged, said he wasn’t interested, told me the money had never crossed his mind.’

‘Did you check with the insurance people? Later?’

‘Yeah. We had a wash-up at the back end of last year.’

‘Performance review?’

‘Very funny.’ She had the grace to laugh. ‘I put a call through and after the usual dramas they confirmed they’d paid out.’

‘To Pendrick?’

‘To the charity. It turned out that’s what Pendrick and his wife had wanted all along. That was their decision. That’s what they’d stipulated. And I’m guessing that’s why Pendrick was never bothered about the money.’

‘OK.’ Suttle was impressed. ‘So which charity are we talking about?’

‘I knew you’d ask.’ She opened a drawer and produced a file. Lovely hands, Suttle thought. No rings. Hamilton looked up, one finger anchored in the file. ‘It’s called Phra Mae Khongka. She’s a Thai water goddess. I gather it’s something to do with the tsunami.’

‘How come?’

‘You want the truth?’

‘Please.’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

Lizzie got Gill on her mobile shortly after lunch. She was speeding through the New Forest with the top down and Muse full blast on the audio. She’d borrowed the CD from Lizzie and would bring it back next time round.

Lizzie wanted to know whether she’d had anything to do with a football programme that had appeared on the kitchen table.

‘A what?’

‘A football programme. Portsmouth versus Preston. Last weekend.’

Lizzie heard the music level dip. Then Gill was back on the phone.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said. She wanted to know how come it had got there.

‘Good question.’ Lizzie was watching Dexter stalking something in the long grass.

She rang off as the signal began to fade and went back into the kitchen. The programme was still on the table. When she’d found it she’d done nothing but stare at the front cover. Blue shirts in front of a sea of faces. A white blur might have been a football. Now she went through the programme page by page. She found the phone number at the end, a line of carefully transcribed figures beneath an advert for a demolition company. The number was underlined and there was a question mark at the end. She studied the number a moment and wondered what would happen if she phoned it. Then something else claimed her attention.

The last time she’d checked the dodgy window in the living room, it had been loosely secured. There was no way it would ever keep anyone out but this way it at least minimised the draught. Now, though, it was completely unlatched. Someone had been at it. She knew they had. There was no other explanation. Someone had reached in, opened the window and climbed inside.

She peered hard at the windowsill, then at the carpet beneath. Sure enough, among all the ingrained crud, she could see tiny fragments of gravel and dirt. She turned away from the window, feeling a sudden chill despite the warmth of the sun. Grace was in her playpen, taking wet bites at her stuffed rabbit. Lizzie stared at her for a long moment then summoned the courage to venture upstairs. Both bedrooms were empty. She came down again, her pulse back under control, wondering what to do. Should she phone Jimmy? Or should she wait until this evening?

She glanced at her watch and decided not to bother him. Mercifully, the bolts on both the front and back doors still worked. With a bit of ingenuity, she might be able to re-fasten the window. Whoever had left the calling card was probably miles away by now. Her eyes strayed to the programme again and despite everything she found herself wondering what on earth lay behind its sudden appearance in this tomb of a house. Pompey, she thought. Never lets you down.

Suttle had decided to nail the photos as soon as he got back to Middlemoor. Apart from the Admin Manager and a lone D/C, the MCIT offices were empty. Suttle closed his door and extracted the mystery number from his wallet. Using his own mobile, he keyed in the digits.

The number rang and rang. Finally, a voice. Gruff Pompey accent. No surprise there.

‘My name’s Suttle. You want to talk to me.’

‘That’s right. We do.’

‘When? Where?’

‘How about this afternoon?’

‘You have to be joking. I’m in fucking Exeter.’

‘So are we, mush.’ The voice was laughing. ‘Bet your life we are.’

Suttle was thinking fast. They’ve been back to the village, he told himself. He’d talked to Lizzie a couple of hours ago. She’d seemed perfectly OK.

‘Listen.’ He bent to the phone again. ‘If anyone lays a finger on my family, they’ll regret it. Are we cool with that? Are you listening?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘So leave it out, yeah?’

The guy was still there. Suttle could hear him. Heavy breather. Probably fat. Probably enormous. Finally he came back on the phone.

‘Pub called the Angel. Opposite Central Station. You know it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Three o’clock. If you’re not there by quarter past, all bets are off.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You don’t want to know, mush.’

The line went dead. Suttle slipped the phone back in his pocket and checked his watch. 14.27. Getting into the city centre and finding somewhere to park would take at least twenty minutes, probably longer. And no way was he going into this without back-up.

In the next office D/C Luke Golding was on the phone. He’d been with Major Crimes less than a month. Suttle barely knew the lad.

He stood over him, tapping his watch. Get off the phone. Like now.

‘Sarge?’ Golding looked startled.

‘There’s a meet we have to get to.’ Suttle was already heading for the door. ‘That’s me and you, son.’

In the car Suttle left the details vague. When Golding asked which bit of Constantine this linked to, Suttle said it was impossible to say. Call it a fishing expedition. Call it any fucking thing. Just do what I say, right?

Golding nodded. He was small and slight but Suttle had listened to a couple of the other guys on the squad and knew the boy could handle himself. In uniform, still a probationer, he’d evidently faced down a bunch of pissed marine recruits in an Exmouth pub. That very definitely took bottle. Good sign.

The traffic, mercifully, was light. Suttle was in the city centre by five to three. There was even a parking space outside the Central Station. He killed the engine and sat in silence for a moment. The Angel was directly across the road. He’d never been in the pub in his life but a big plate-glass window offered a view inside. It was dark, impossible to see further than the tables beside the window.

‘So what now, Sarge?’ Golding had to be back for a meet by four fifteen.

‘You watch my back, OK? I’ll be sitting at one of those tables you can see across the road there in the pub. There’ll be someone with me. If anything kicks off I want you to call for the cavalry. You happy with that?’

‘No sweat.’ He could see the lad warming to the task. Maybe he enjoyed physical violence. Maybe he was a stranger to the strokes the 6.57 could pull.

Suttle got out of the Impreza and crossed the road. The pub was near-empty, a couple of derelicts at the bar, a younger man with a copy of the Independent curled on the sofa beside the brick fireplace. None of them looked remotely Pompey. Suttle asked for a small shandy and took it to the table beside the window. He could see Golding across the road. He was studying his mobile.

Moments later the door opened. Two guys, one fat, one black. Suttle recognised neither of them. The fat guy muttered something Suttle didn’t catch to his mate and dispatched him to the bar before wedging himself into the chair across the table from Suttle. His tiny shaved skull seemed to wobble on the folds of fat at the back of his neck. Baggy jeans and a black leather jacket over a black woollen polo neck.

‘So who’s the kid in the Impreza?’

‘A mate of mine.’

‘He knows about this?’

‘He knows I’m meeting someone heavy.’

‘Too fucking right. Does he know why?’

‘No.’

‘Straight up?’

‘Yeah. There’d be no point telling him. Pompey’s a mystery to these people.’

‘You’re right, mush. Wrong fucking league, eh? Wrong fucking end of the country. What’s it like then? Life in the sticks?’

Suttle didn’t answer. He hadn’t any interest in conversation. He was simply here to deliver a message.

The black guy was back with the drinks. Two pints of Stella and a packet of cheese and onion. Suttle was looking at the fat guy.

‘You’ve got a name?’ he asked.

‘Of course I’ve got a fucking name.’

‘What is it?’

‘None of your business. If it helps you can call me Jonno.’

‘OK, Jonno, so why don’t you say your piece? What exactly do you want from me?’

‘You know what we want.’

‘All I know is you’ve been sniffing around my missus. Nice pix, by the way.’

Jonno had caught sight of the crisps. He was staring at the black guy.

‘I said salt and vinegar, didn’t I? Can’t you fucking read?’

‘They’ve run out.’

‘Run out?’ His eyes revolved. ‘Fucking carrot crunchers.’ He opened the packet and emptied the crisps across the table. ‘Help yourself, mush. Lunch on us, eh?’ He gave the crisps a poke. The back of his right hand carried an eagle tat. On his left, a name framed in an elaborate scroll. Even upside down Suttle had no difficulty deciphering it.

‘He lives down this way.’ Suttle nodded at the tat. ‘Not many people know that.’

‘Who?’

‘David James.’

‘Know him, do you?’

‘I’ve met him a couple of times, yeah. He’s big on the charity front. Nice bloke.’

David James had been a legend at Fratton Park, a commanding goalie with a huge Afro and a string of England caps.

Jonno was impressed.

‘You talk to him at all?’

‘Of course.’

‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘You’re starting to sound half human.’

He pushed the crisps towards Suttle. He wanted be out of this khazi of a city and back on the road east as soon as possible. So why didn’t Suttle do himself a favour and help him out?

‘How?’

‘You know how. That cunt Winter was totally out of order. You think we can let something like that go? In case you don’t remember, Mr Filth, your guys shot the Man dead. That’s life, mush. That’s what happens. Some tosser pulls the trigger and Bazza Mac’s history. You’ll be glad to know we don’t have a problem with that. The arsehole with the shooter’s doing a job. But what we don’t put up with is a fucking two-timing lowlife grass like Winter. Without him, the arsehole with the shooter would never have been anywhere near Bazza Mac. And so our Mr Winter’s on a slapping. Happy to oblige.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘You shouldn’t, mush. We’re quality when it comes to slappings.’

‘Great. So what do you want from me?’

‘An address. Nothing more, nothing less. Give us an address and we’re out of your face. Never trouble you again.’

‘I haven’t got an address. I haven’t got a clue where he is.’

‘Think again, mush. It happens we know how you cunts operate. Witness protection? New ID? Plastic surgery? Set the fat cunt up in some fucking bungalow on the other side of the globe? Make sure he blends in with the wildlife? Dunsnitching? Dungrassing? We know all that. And so do you.’ He picked at a crisp. ‘So where is he?’

‘I just told you. I don’t know.’

‘OK.’ Jonno nodded. ‘And if you did know?’

‘I still wouldn’t tell you.’

‘Really?’ The expression on his face could have been a smile. ‘So how do we know you’re not lying?’

‘You don’t. You have to believe me.’

‘But what’s the point, mush?’

‘There isn’t one. Our gang’s bigger than yours. Which is why you’re best off forgetting all about Winter.’

‘That ain’t going to happen, mush. And you know it. You know something else? Young Karl here, the genius who doesn’t know a salt and vinegar crisp from the hole in his arse, thinks you’re probably wearing a wire. You mind if he checks?’

‘Go ahead. Help yourself.’

The black guy took his cue. He swallowed a mouthful of Stella and then gestured Suttle to his feet. Suttle stood up. A single nudge with his knee was enough to upset all three glasses, sending a tidal wave of cold lager across the table.

‘Fuck me.’ Jonno, outraged, was looking at a lapful of soggy crisps. He tried to push away from the edge of the table. More lager.

Suttle was aware of Golding racing across the road, body-checking through a line of cyclists. Then he was in through the door. Suttle told him to cool it.

‘Little accident, son.’ He shot Golding a grin. ‘I think my new friends are leaving.’

As promised, Suttle was back at Chantry Cottage by half five. It was a thirty-minute drive to Exmouth, absolute max, and he knew Lizzie wanted to be on the beach by six. He reversed the Impreza and left the driver’s door open.

Lizzie emerged from the back door. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a trackie top draped over her shoulders. She’d just fed Grace, she said, and there was plenty of food in case Suttle fancied getting some supper together. She’d no idea when she’d be back but imagined it wouldn’t be late.

Suttle was still standing by the Impreza. There was an edge in Lizzie’s voice he didn’t much like.

‘Everything all right?’

‘No.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘There’s a message on the answering machine. I don’t know what’s going on but maybe you ought to check it out.’

Suttle watched her drive away without a backward glance. He ducked into the kitchen. The phone had been readied in the living room. Grace gave him a little wave and rattled the bars of her playpen.

Suttle recognised the voice at once. The message couldn’t have been simpler. ‘Top mistake, mush. Next time, eh? Looking forward to it.’ Suttle hit the replay button. He and Golding had left the two guys in the pub. Mercifully, Golding hadn’t had time to call for help, deciding that his D/S could do with a bit of physical support. For this Suttle had been genuinely grateful but he’d spent most of the journey back to Middlemoor fending the lad off. Yes, these guys were very definitely the enemy. No, he couldn’t reveal more at this stage. And, by the way, would he mind keeping radio silence for the time being?

‘Radio silence’ hadn’t cut much ice with Golding. He was both curious and alarmed. Curious because he had a nose for serious trouble, and alarmed because he didn’t begin to understand why Suttle wasn’t pushing all the panic buttons. The young D/C had seen enough to suss that the two heavies in the Angel had fuck all to do with Constantine. Bosses existed to take care of situations like these and D/I Houghton, in Golding’s eyes, was one of the best. Getting out of the Impreza back at Middlemoor, he nodded up towards Houghton’s office window.

‘Just tell her, Sarge. Whatever it is, she’ll understand.’

‘Sure.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Yeah, thanks. .’

Golding had shrugged, leaving him to it, but now — hours later — Suttle suspected he was right. In the pub he’d definitely overstepped the mark. The sudden gust of Pompey, like the stale breath of a party you’d prefer to forget, had irritated him. The cartoon threats hadn’t helped. And when those numpties had played him like he was an extra in some Al Pacino movie, wanting to pat him down, he’d truly had enough. You didn’t put up with stuff like that, not if you had an ounce of self-respect. Hence the spilled lager and the soggy crisps and the fat guy shouting to the barman to bring him a fucking cloth.

Suttle replayed the message again, sitting in the armchair, Grace in his lap. If he took Golding’s advice and went to Houghton she’d have no choice but to refer the whole matter back to Hantspol. Hantspol meant Gail Parsons and the new Head of CID who’d replaced Willard. He trusted neither of these people not to cook up some clever plan to flush Winter out. Someone at the top of the force would probably have a lead on his whereabouts and one way or another this info would find its way to the 6.57. They’d jump on the next plane, give Winter a thorough battering, maybe even kill him. At Hantspol HQ there’d be a quiet flurry of nods and winks — Winter nailed, justice finally done — and up in his new office in the West Mids force ACC Willard would doubtless raise a glass when Parsons phoned with the news. Did Suttle really want that? Did he want to spend the rest of his life knowing that he’d sent a man he liked and still admired to his death? He thought not.

He nuzzled Grace and gave her a cuddle. Then, for the first time, he saw the football programme, propped against the bars of the playpen. He picked it up, clocked the date, and leafed through until he found the number at the back. Now he understood why Lizzie had been so iffy. They must have slipped it through the letter box, leaving her to puzzle out the implications. First a Pompey stranger at the door. Then the voice on the answering machine.

He got to his feet and carried Grace to the window. These people, he knew, were serious. They had reach. They had limitless patience. Winter, in their view, had killed Mackenzie. And, one way or another, they were going to settle the debt.

He thought of Parsons again. Maybe — after all — he should lift the phone, tell her exactly what had happened, then leave it for his old employers to sort out. That way he might get these animals off his back. But deep down he knew a call like that would solve nothing. There has to be a better way, he told himself. Has to be.

Lizzie saw the boats the moment she hit the seafront. There were two of them, still on their trailers, down by the water’s edge. Among the gaggle of rowers rigging the oars were the women she’d met in the Portakabin. Spotting a parking place, she pulled in.

It was Tessa who saw her first. Lizzie waved back. A concrete slip offered access to the beach. She was unaware that anyone was behind her.

‘Come back for more?’

She spun round, recognising the big guy she’d briefly met yesterday. Shaved head. Three-day stubble. And an intriguing scar down the side of his face.

‘Tom?’ she said, uncertain.

‘Yeah. Tom Pendrick.’

He fell into step beside her. He was wearing shorts and a scruffy top he must have used for painting. He was tall, way over six feet, and his sheer bulk made her feel almost comically small. Stepping onto the beach, she might have been back at school.

Tessa was organising crews. Lizzie’s arrival was a godsend. With one seat unfilled in the second boat, she’d slot in perfectly.

‘But I’ve never done this,’ Lizzie pointed out.

‘No problem.’ Tessa was already rigging the second boat. ‘Tom?’

The big man did the honours. With the help of Tessa and a couple of others, he slipped the quad off the trailer and into the water. The tide had just turned and was beginning to push back into the estuary. Another rower held the nose of the quad into the current while Pendrick helped Lizzie into the bow seat. Adjusting the footstretchers to the length of her legs, Pendrick told her to push back in the seat. Lizzie watched him tightening the pegs that secured the footstretchers.

‘Try now,’ he said.

‘Try what?’

‘Try moving the seat. Here. .’

The oars had been stowed across Lizzie’s midriff. Pendrick pushed them out through the gates until Lizzie was in the rowing position.

‘OK. Now come forward. Keep the blades out of the water. Just get a feel for the weight and the movement. That’s good. That’s fine. Thumbs on the ends of the handles. No pressure, eh? Just treat them like a friend.’

Lizzie took a couple of practice strokes. Pendrick would be rowing in front of her. The rest of the crew, all women, were still on the beach, watching.

‘How does it feel?’ Pendrick again.

‘Fine.’

It was true. The seat moved sweetly beneath her bum. The oars, to her surprise, were nicely balanced. She couldn’t wait to get going.

Pendrick was still squatting beside her, briefing her on this detail and that. She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands. Worker’s hands. Big. Calloused. Dirt under the nicely shaped fingernails. He tested the tension on her foot straps, then made an adjustment to a bungee that secured the life jackets on the bulkhead behind her.

‘Anyone ask you whether you can swim?’

‘No.’

‘Well?’

‘I can swim fine.’

‘Good. If anything happens, stay with the boat. The guy to listen to is the cox. She’s in charge. OK?’

He got to his feet and threw a look at Tessa. He didn’t seem to smile much.

Tessa, it turned out, would be cox. She told Pendrick to get in the boat. For such a big man he moved with surprising grace. Tessa steadied the quad as he stepped in and settled his weight on the number two seat. The rest of the crew joined them.

‘Just do what I do, OK?’ Pendrick again.

Lizzie nodded. The woman holding the boat gave the bow a push. Lizzie could feel a shiver of current beneath them as the quad slipped free from the beach. It was an extraordinary sensation and she wanted to cherish it, this first taste of the real thing, but she was concentrating too hard on Pendrick.

‘Take a stroke,’ he said. ‘Just the right-hand oar. Help me pull us round.’

She did her best. Her blade skidded across the surface of the water. She felt hopelessly awkward. She panicked and tried again. This time her blade clashed with Pendrick’s. Horrible sound. Deeply embarrassing.

‘No problem. We’ve all done it. Just take it really easy, yeah?’

He reached forward, took another long slow stroke. Lizzie did the same. This time it worked. They were out now in the current, clear water between the boat and the beach, landmarks up on the promenade slipping by. She couldn’t believe it.

‘Even pressure.’ Pendrick’s head was half turned.

‘What’s that?’

‘Both oars.’

Lizzie did what she was told. Another stroke. Another little triumph.

‘Easy up. Sort yourselves out.’ Tessa this time.

Everyone stopped rowing. The boat drifted on. Tessa wanted to know whether Lizzie was OK, whether Tom was taking care of her. One of the other girls laughed. Lizzie said she was fine. The crew numbered off from the bow, Lizzie first.

‘I’m fine,’ she repeated.

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Stroke.’

‘Come forward to row.’ Tessa again. ‘Ready to row. Row.’

At the other end of the boat Lizzie had no idea what was happening. All she could do was follow the big man in front of her, do her best to mirror his every move and try not to screw things up. Most of the time it worked, stroke after stroke, fierce concentration, trying to store Pendrick’s muttered asides in her teeming brain, reaching forward to take the catch, keeping her arms straight as she pushed back against the footplate, remembering not to bury the whole blade in the water as she pulled hard before the extraction. By the time they’d made it down to the dock, she was wiped out. Not physically but mentally.

Tessa had called for another stop. Pendrick turned in his seat. Lizzie was staring up at the biggest of the apartment blocks on the waterfront. It had to be at least six storeys.

‘What’s that place?’ she asked.

‘Regatta Court.’

‘It’s gross.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do. And the colour. Who ever let that happen?’

‘Fuck knows.’

The big man was shaking his head. And when he turned to her again, he at last had a smile on his face.

An hour or so later, back on dry land, he walked her to the Impreza.

‘You were good,’ he said. ‘I mean it.’

Lizzie was touched. She wanted to thank him. She wanted to thank them all. She’d arrived with zero expectations, preoccupied with not making a fool of herself. She sensed it might be tricky and she hadn’t been wrong, but there was something about these people that gave her immense confidence. They’d made room for her. They’d expected her to measure up. And that’s exactly what she’d done. No drama. No girly hysterics. Just the calm sweep of water at the end of each new stroke and the comforting tug as the boat surged forward.

Pendrick wanted to know whether she’d enjoyed it.

‘It was brilliant,’ she said.

‘You mean that?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘You’ll come again?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Thursday?’

‘For sure.’

They were at the car by now and she was looking for her keys. Pendrick was gazing out at the water. Another crew was pushing hard against the tide.

‘Got far to go?’

‘Colaton Raleigh.’

‘Country girl?’ He seemed surprised.

‘Far from it.’

She’d found the keys at last. She thanked him again, then paused.

‘You mind me asking a question?’ she said.

‘Of course not.’

‘This guy who was found dead the other day. The one on the TV news. The guy the girls were talking about in the boat.’

‘Kinsey?’

‘Yeah.’ Lizzie bent to re-tie her shoe lace. ‘You knew him?’

‘Sort of.’

‘So. .’ Lizzie glanced up. ‘What do you think happened?’

Suttle was at the stove when Lizzie got back. There was a pile of sliced potatoes ready for the frying pan and he’d opened a tin of baked beans to go with the sausages. Grace had been bathed and might fancy a story. So far, Lizzie hadn’t said a word.

‘So how was it?’ he asked at last.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘Fantastic. They’re all talking about Kinsey. Fascinating.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Don’t worry. No one knows I’m married to a cop.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

‘So how’s it going? This Kinsey thing?’

Suttle studied her a moment, then turned back to the stove.

‘Later,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sort Grace out first?’

She was back downstairs within minutes. Grace was already asleep. She’d showered and changed and now she had something else on her mind.

‘That message on the answering machine,’ she said. ‘What was that about?’

Suttle explained. Lizzie had always had a soft spot for Winter. ‘You’re telling me they want his address?’

‘I’m telling you they want to hurt the man. Maybe worse than that.’

‘You mean kill him?’

‘These things can get out of control. It’s best if they never catch up with him.’

‘Shit.’ Lizzie told him about finding the Pompey programme on the kitchen table.

Suttle stared at her.

‘On the where?’

‘There.’ Lizzie pointed at the table. ‘I was out for maybe an hour. Maybe less. When I came back, there it was. They must have got in through the window next door.’

Suttle gave up on the potatoes. His briefcase was still in the car. When he returned he had the photographs. Lizzie was horrified.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘Gill brought them down.’ He explained about the envelope that had landed on her desk at work. It would have come from mates of Mackenzie, he said. And Gill had been chosen to play postman.

‘Why?’

‘Because they know you two are mates.’

‘How?’

‘Because Gill had been shagging Mackenzie and probably told him.’

‘Christ.’

Lizzie sat down. She understood now why Gill was less than keen to have her and Grace around the new flat. The last thing she needed in her life was a bunch of middle-aged heavies from the 6.57.

‘So what do we do?’ She was looking at the photos again. ‘These people frighten me. They shouldn’t but they do.’

Suttle had already decided to spare her the details of this afternoon’s meet in the Angel. Now he told her that he had the thing under control.

‘I don’t believe you.’ She looked up. ‘Have you told someone? Reported it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who? Who have you told?’

‘Someone in Pompey.’

‘Police? Someone in the Job?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t trust them.’

‘Don’t trust them? Christ, Jimmy, this is our daughter we’re talking about, our house, everything we have. The police are supposed to look after us, protect us. Isn’t that the way it works or have I got this thing wrong?’

Suttle did his best to explain. It was about Winter, he said, not them.

‘You think he’s more important? More important than us? Than Grace?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘It’s not? Jesus, you’re supposed to be my husband. My daughter’s father. What is this?’

Suttle held his ground. He’d thought the thing through. Tomorrow he’d be going to Pompey. By Thursday he’d have everything sorted.

‘How can I know that? How can I be sure?’

‘You have to trust me.’

‘Sure, but. . fuck, Jimmy, these people are creepy. Worse than that they want to hurt us.’

‘No.’ Suttle was emphatic. ‘That won’t happen.’

‘You say.’

‘I say.’

She looked at him for a long moment.

‘I could phone the police myself,’ she said at last.

‘You could. Of course you could. Then it would be your fault.’

‘My fault what?’

‘Your fault when they get to Winter.’

‘You really think that would happen?’

‘I think it might. And that’s enough.’

Lizzie had slumped in the chair. The fight had gone out of her. She felt physically smaller. Suttle went back to the stove, started cooking again.

After a while Lizzie stirred. ‘What would the police do?’

‘I’ve no idea. We’re thin on the ground just now. Plotting up the house would be a no-no. What with the cuts and everything, there just aren’t the bodies any more. If we’re lucky we might get some kind of alarm.’

‘Like old people? Wear it round our necks?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Call for help after they’ve burned the house down?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘You win. Just make sure Grace stays in one piece, yeah?’

Suttle served the meal. The sauté potatoes were fried to a crisp and the sausages in the oven had dried out. So much for the meal of his dreams.

Lizzie mentioned Kinsey again. She’d been chatting to a guy at the club. He’d sorted her out in the boat, been really helpful.

Suttle speared a sausage, dipped it in a puddle of mustard.

‘He’s got a name, this guy?’

‘Tom. Tom Pendrick.’

Suttle nodded. The mustard had done nothing for the sausage.

‘So what did you make of him?’ he said after a while. ‘This Pendrick?’

‘I liked him. He was solid. He was kind too. Rowing isn’t as easy as it looks.’

‘I’m sure.’ Suttle’s face was a mask. ‘So what did this guy have to say about Kinsey?’

‘You’re fishing.’

‘I am.’

‘He said he was rich. He said he wanted to be a winner. And he said something else too.’

‘What?’

‘He said guys like that are driven. They never lift their heads up, never look around, never see the obvious in front of their noses. In Kinsey’s case that might have been fatal.’

‘He said that last bit?’

‘No.’ She pushed her plate away. ‘I just did.’