Western Approaches

Five

THURSDAY, 14 APRIL 2011

Suttle was on the road early next morning. By five to nine he was mopping up the last of a hangover with an all-day breakfast in a café off the Bridport bypass. The rain had cleared overnight and the hills in west Dorset were a vivid green in the fitful sunshine. He stood in the car park, enjoying the taste of the wind, waiting for Lizzie to pick up. After some thought he’d decided to pretend last night never happened. When she finally answered, he could hear banging in the background.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ve got a guy in from down the road. He’s fixing the window.’

‘Right. .’ Suttle wondered who was paying but decided not to ask. ‘You OK?’

‘We’re fine.’

‘Grace?’

‘She’s teething again. Don’t forget about tonight.’

‘What?’ Suttle was fumbling for his car keys.

‘I’m rowing. You need to be back by half five. You think you can manage that?’

Suttle’s office was still empty when he made it to Exeter. The Office Manager, a resourceful divorcee called Leslie, brought him coffee and a couple of stale biscuits. Luke Golding, she said, was about to be redeployed by Mr Nandy but the lad was still upstairs. She knew he wanted a word.

Suttle nodded. He was looking at the list of messages on his desk. Leslie had already arranged them in order of priority. The first one asked him to bell the CSI at Scenes of Crime.

Mark was en route to an aggravated burglary in Totnes. Suttle heard the tick-tock of his indicator as he pulled in to take the call.

‘Kinsey’s PC,’ he said. ‘Christ knows how but we got bumped up the queue. They haven’t done full analysis yet but they’ve taken a good look.’

Suttle was impressed. The techies were as hard-pressed as everyone else in the force and the wait for hard disk analysis often stretched to weeks, sometimes months. Nandy’s doing, he thought. Has to be.

Mark told him to get a pen. He’d spent a couple of hours with the key data yesterday afternoon and sorted what he thought might be useful.

‘The guy’s a businessman, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Building resort hotels?’

‘Retirement communities. Top-end stuff. High six figures for a nice view and fancy CCTV.’

‘Gotcha.’ For once in his life Mark was laughing. ‘There’s a whole load of emails about a site at a place called Trezillion. It’s hard to get the context without more info but I get the feeling this thing’s still on the drawing board. He’s forever nailing the planning guys to the wall. Telling these people what to do and when. Real fucking arsewipe.’

Suttle reached for a pen. Mark’s language always enriched a conversation. Scene of Crimes guys were a special breed but Mark was a one-off. Mr Gloom one minute. Mr Yippee the next. Definitely bipolar.

‘Where’s Trezillion?’

‘Cornwall. North coast. Lovely little bay with nothing but a public lavatory and a bit of car park. Used to be a top bogging spot for gays down from Newquay. You should give it a go before Kinsey gets his hands on it.’

‘He’s dead, Mark.’

‘Fuck me, so he is. Surprise or what?’ Another growl of laughter. ‘I’ll ping you the meat of this stuff. See what you make of it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. We’ve got a single blonde hair from the floor beside Kinsey’s bed. Proves nothing except he might have got lucky.’

Suttle scribbled himself a note. The Viking, he thought. Definitely worth a return visit.

‘Is that it?’

‘No.’ Mark confirmed that Kinsey hadn’t belonged to Facebook or any of the other social sites. Neither did he appear to have any close mates worth an email or two. There was, however, one chink in his armour.

‘What’s that?’

‘The guy was a huge video gamer. Played most nights.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I don’t know how much you know about all this gaming shit but there’s a service called Steam. It’s a deal you sign up to. You buy games through the site and they organise everything else for you, keep your games in the cloud, help you find friends in multiplayer, keep a record of how you’re doing, sort out the social side.’

‘Social side?’

‘Yeah. Most of these games you can either play solo against the computer or with other people. The guys you’re playing with have weird screen names. Think cyber handles.’

‘Who was Kinsey? What did he call himself?’

‘Jalf Rezi. As in you know what.’ Mark invited Suttle to picture Kinsey bent over the rail of his balcony, barfing mouthfuls of chicken jalfrezi into the night.

Suttle needed to get back to the video games.

‘Kinsey was part of a team? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yeah. Definitely. Some nights he must have played alone. Other nights he logged into a server and went out with his mates.’

‘What kind of games are we talking about?’

‘I can only give you names, I’m afraid. Most of this shit’s way over my head.’

He tallied some of the games in Kinsey’s Steam library: Grand Theft Auto IV, Arma 2, Need for Speed, Shift, Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood, Battlefield 2, Civilisation IV, Half Life 2, Left 4 Dead, Left 4 Dead 2, Counterstrike, God of War, Team Fortress 2, Wings of Prey.

Suttle was scribbling fast. He wanted to know what these games were like.

‘Haven’t a clue. I’ll email you the guy’s Steam profile. You might need someone younger to make sense of it. These guys live under stones during the day, which is why they’ve all got such shit complexions. Good luck, eh? And tell him to get a life.’

Kinsey’s Steam profile arrived by email within minutes. Suttle could make little sense of it. Luke Golding, mercifully, was still at his desk. Suttle drew up a chair while the young D/C explained that Henri Laffont, the Swiss engineer, had definitely spent the weekend in Shanghai. Another name off the suspect list.

‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘No problem. How much do you know about video games?’

‘Why?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘Quite a lot.’

‘OK. .’

Suttle consulted the Steam profile and read out the list of games. Golding wanted to know what this had to do with Kinsey.

‘They were on his computer.’

‘Really? He was a gamer?’

‘Yeah. Surprised?’

‘Very.’

Suttle wanted to know what you could read into a guy by his choice of favourite games.

‘Lots. Show me.’

Suttle gave him the Steam profile. Golding studied Kinsey’s list of games, which included the hours Kinsey had logged on each. His head came up.

‘Well, he certainly liked his shooters.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Kinsey was big on two games, right? Counterstrike and Team Fortress 2. Look, he played 400 hours on Counterstrike. That’s serious addiction. Plus nearly 200 on TF2. OK. They’re both shooter games but the likeness ends there. TF2 is basically one big party. The action could come straight out of Looney Tunes. It’s also way more player-friendly than CS, especially when it comes to respawning.’

‘Respawning?’

‘That’s when you’re returned to the game after you die. On most games you wait a couple of seconds and then bang, you’re back in the game. Not with Counterstrike. When you get killed playing CS, that’s it for the rest of the round. You’re dead. End of.’

CS, he said, was pure. It had no fancy bells and whistles, no back story, no million-dollar cut scenes, just a very simple premise: beat the other team. To do that, in Golding’s view, you had to be fucking ace.

‘Plus it’s multiplayer only, Sarge. Which means you’re always playing against real humans so practising against the computer is out of the question.’

‘So you have to play with other people? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the other game? Team Fortress 2?’

‘Completely different. TF2 is way too anarchic for someone as hard core as Kinsey. It’s a bit tongue-in-cheek.’

‘So why would he play it so often?’

‘Good question.’ Golding’s gaze had returned to the Steam page. ‘This must have to do with the company he’s been keeping.’

The notion of company was intriguing. So far, according to dozens of accounts, Kinsey was the near-perfect definition of a loner. On the face of it, all the guys in Saturday’s winning quad had been his buddies, but the closer you questioned them the more obvious it became that Kinsey had bought their friendship, or perhaps just their company. So how come he’d spent most nights banged up in cyberspace with a bunch of gamers? Were relationships simpler this way? No messy stuff like having to talk face to face, or having to cope with the million tiny aggravations that came with having real mates?

Golding was still engrossed in the printouts from Kinsey’s Steam page.

‘I need to have a proper look at this.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going to ask me whether he had a special friend. And the way Steam works, the answer is yes.’

‘So who is he?’

‘This guy.’

Suttle followed his pointing finger. Somehow he’d missed the name on the bottom left of the page. He reached for a pen and ringed it carefully. ShattAr. Then he looked up.

‘So this guy has to be a mate of Kinsey’s? Is that what we’re saying?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So how do we find out his real name?’

Suttle’s question hung in the air. What he dreaded was having to go to one of the companies that controlled the servers. Most of them were in the States and in his experience even a routine enquiry could take months to process.

Golding, it turned out, had another idea.

‘We join the games, Sarge. We play Counterstrike and TF2. And we pretend to be Jalf Rezi.’

‘We? I think not. You mean you.’

‘Sure.’ He was grinning. ‘My pleasure.’

Suttle phoned Nandy from his own office. He caught the Det-Supt emerging from a meeting. A million detectives, he said, had been looking for a head to fit the body at the Bodmin scene of crime and so far they’d got nowhere. He’d like to chalk this up to a superior breed of criminal but his instincts told him it was pure luck. Nandy hated factors like luck. Luck, in his view, had no role to play in a properly run investigation.

‘You’re going to give me a name?’

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘For Kinsey?’

‘I’m afraid not. Not yet.’

Suttle briefly explained about Kinsey’s passion for video games. He needed D/C Golding’s help just a little while longer. He’d have asked D/I Houghton for the go-ahead but she wasn’t picking up.

‘She’s gone to Brittany,’ Nandy said. ‘She’s looking for the head.’

‘Did she mention Kinsey’s bank statements and those phone billings before she went?’

‘Yes. It’ll be a couple of days yet. Are you sure you need them? The banks are charging us the earth.’

Suttle confirmed he’d need the records for the Coroner’s file. Nandy wanted to know how long he’d be hanging on to Golding.

‘Couple of days, sir. Max.’

There was a long silence. Suttle was wondering about the ethics of a police officer impersonating someone else online. Then Nandy was back on the phone.

‘Two days it is, son. Consider yourself lucky.’

Lizzie picked up a copy of the Exmouth Journal at lunchtime. She’d wheeled Grace down to the village store and only caught the headline on her way out. She stopped beside the rack of newspapers. The story occupied the entire front page. Beneath the headline — MURDER SQUAD PROBE MARINA DEATH — was a colour photo of a bunch of guys in a pub. She recognised the biggest at once, Tom Pendrick. Kinsey, according to the paper, was the little guy centre stage.

Lizzie bought the paper and took it home. The handyman she’d found had finished with the window, hammering the metal frame back into line and reseating the hinges. It was a snug fit now and Lizzie told herself it would resist all intruders. The residue of last night had stayed with her, but she saw no point in letting it spoil the sunshine. The last forty-eight hours had taught her a great deal about her marriage, but the lessons she knew she must draw were still unclear. For the time being, boxed in, she’d simply have to bide her time.

Kinsey’s death had spilled onto page 2 of the paper. A reporter looking for another angle had put a call through to the secretary of the rowing club. She’d confirmed that everyone was deeply shocked by what had happened and were discussing what the club might organise in the way of a tribute. Jake Kinsey, she said, had been more than generous in his support for local rowing.

Lizzie went back to the front page, wondering how she’d be dealing with a story like this if she was back in the newsroom. She knew for a fact that the police were treating Kinsey’s death as suspicious and all the chatter she’d overheard in the boat and on the beach suggested that the club’s benefactor had been far from popular. One of the girls had called him The Passenger. Another had said he was creepy. Tonight, maybe, she’d find out more.

Suttle was contemplating a sandwich when he took the call from Exmouth Quays. As the last man standing in Constantine’s abandoned stockade, all inquiries to the central control room were being routed to him.

Suttle bent to the phone and introduced himself. It was a woman’s voice. He didn’t understand why she was shouting.

‘That Kinsey man,’ she bellowed. ‘He’d no right. Absolutely no right.’

‘No right to do what?’

‘To act the way he did. This is enslavement pure and simple. He simply didn’t care. No man should be allowed to do that.’ She paused. ‘Did you get my letter about Prince William?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’

‘His life is under threat. I have the documents, the proof. You should come and see them.’ Another pause. ‘Are you a monarchist, by any chance?’

‘No.’

‘Neither am I. Do come round. Number 31.’

‘Where?’

‘Regatta Court. The name’s Peggy Brims. My mother was half-French.’

The phone went dead. Suttle did a reverse number search to check the address. Peggy Brims, 31 Regatta Court. He turned to his PC. A couple of keystrokes took him into the Operational Information System. He needed a couple of checks before he could decide whether to turn this woman’s call into an action.

He waited for a moment or two then keyed in her name and postcode. It turned out she had an entire file of her own. It stretched back more than eighteen months, call after call alerting the forces of law and order to a long list of imminent threats. She’d been worried sick about gunrunning in Cuba, about the activities of a gangster called Marc Puyrol in Marseilles, about a bunch of goths in Whitby who were trying to set fire to a hotel on the harbourside.

In every case these pleas for action had been dismissed as crank calls. This woman had form as well as money. She spent most of her waking life dreaming up fictions to keep the police on their toes. But then Suttle’s eye was caught by another entry. Back last summer she’d reported a local woman speeding out to sea on a borrowed jet ski. It was Peggy Brims’ settled view that this woman had been rendezvousing with one of the huge oil tankers anchored out in Lyme Bay. She’d doubtless returned with thousands of pounds’ worth of cocaine or heroin or something equally noxious, determined to corrupt and subvert the nation’s youth.

In her choice of language and the sheer force of her indignation, there was absolutely nothing to distinguish this call from any of the others. Except that she’d been right. HMCR had been running an intel operation in the bay for months. And a couple of weeks later, partly thanks to her contribution, arrests had been made. There were difficulties producing her as a witness in court because of her looniness, but the fact remained that she kept her eyes open and had — for once — lifted the phone in genuine anger.

Suttle binned the idea of a sandwich and drove down to Exmouth Quays. Number 31 was on the third floor, served by the same lift as Kinsey’s flat. Peggy Brims came to the door the moment Suttle knocked. She was a big woman, nudging sixty, beautifully dressed. She walked with the aid of a stick and was followed everywhere by a small brown dog. The dog’s name was Pétain.

‘As in Maréchal, young man. How much do you know about French history?’

‘Very little.’

‘Petain? The hero of Verdun? The saviour of la belle France? Went to seed later but a great, great man. Do you drink vermouth by any chance?’

She led him through to the sitting room at the front of the apartment. This was a miniature version of Kinsey’s view, smaller but no less impressive. Suttle was watching a yellow kayak crabbing across the tide when he felt a glass in his hand. Dry Martini with a single green olive.

‘Salut. What shall I call you?’

Suttle had already shown her his warrant card. She wasn’t interested in surnames.

‘I shall call you André,’ she announced. ‘We must raise a glass to those imps in the City. Did I mention the Libor rate? I’m deeply, deeply concerned.’

Suttle hadn’t the faintest what she was talking about. The Martini must have been 90 per cent gin. He wanted to know about Kinsey.

Peggy had settled on a long crescent of sofa. Suttle had last seen furniture like this in a National Trust property he’d visited with Lizzie before the baby arrived. There were pictures on the wall, the frames equally ornate, that oozed money and taste. Dark landscapes in oil. Maritime etchings with a naval flavour that took him back to Pompey. He was beginning to wonder whether she entertained coach parties at the weekend when she reached across and tapped him lightly on the arm. She couldn’t get this horrible man out of her mind.

‘Kinsey?’

‘Of course. He was thoroughly unpleasant, I’m afraid. No class. Absolutely no breeding. Which, of course, is why he did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘Had those little girls round.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘The girls. The oriental girls. The girls in the lift. They belonged on my mantlepiece, some of them. Truly exquisite. A couple, one in particular, I even talked to.’

‘Where?’

‘In the lift. A pretty, pretty little thing. I was worried about cholera then. They used to call it the flux. I expect you know that.’

The word flux brought Suttle’s head up. Milo Symons had used exactly the same term when he was talking about his film. Flux, he’d said. Tasha’s idea.

‘You discussed cholera with the girl in the lift?’

‘I did. I think she was alarmed. I hope she was alarmed. She didn’t say much. One has a duty in this life. Bad news should be shared. Don’t you agree, André?’

She emptied her glass and held it out. Suttle refilled it from the cocktail shaker on the sideboard. A line of nicely mounted black and white photos featured a couple in their early twenties. Peggy was watching him in the huge mirror that dominated the wall opposite.

‘My ma and pa, André. Pa served in the Diplomatic Corps before the war. A handsome man, my father. Knew nothing of the flux.’

Suttle wanted to be sure about Kinsey. ‘These girls were definitely going up to his flat?’

‘Of course.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I accompanied them. Just to make sure they came to no harm.’

‘No harm how?’

‘En route, André.’ Her face darkened. ‘Highwaymen.’

‘In the lift?’

‘Everywhere. Partout. Of course they never tell you in the brochure, and there’s another thing.’

‘What?’

‘That man Kinsey. He had twelve fingers, you know. Ten for himself, and two for special pies.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘What don’t you understand? The fingers?’

‘The pies.’

‘Ah, my poor André, mon pauvre. Viens. Come. .’ She struggled off the sofa, gathered up the dog in her spare arm and led Suttle through to a bedroom. The window was framed with heavily ruched curtains and offered a view of the dockside and the waterfront beyond. Immediately below was the stretch of promenade where Kinsey had met his death.

‘There. .’ A quivering finger indicated something in the distance.

‘Where?’

‘There. Beyond those hideous flats. That’s where they’re going to build the next one. They call it Pier Head. And you know who wanted to put his snout in that ghastly trough?’

‘Kinsey?’

‘Of course. My André. . so quick off the mark.’ She patted his arm, delighted at this meeting of minds, then led him back to the sitting room.

‘I need to be sure about these girls,’ Suttle said. ‘Would you recognise them again?’

‘Of course.’

‘If I brought photographs?’

‘A great pleasure, André. You’ll take care on the way out? After dark is worse, of course, but daylight can be equally unnerving. You understand my drift?’

Suttle was still on his feet. The interview was evidently over.

‘Of course,’ he said ‘because of the highwaymen.’

‘Wrong, my dear André,’ she was beaming now. ‘Because of the flux.’

Mark was still at Totnes when Suttle phoned him. Suttle wanted to know about Kinsey’s seized iPhone.

‘Did you go through all the pictures?’

‘No. There were hundreds,’ said the CSI.

‘Where’s the phone now?’

‘Back in the office. I’ve bagged it for analysis. Mr Nandy’s definitely got the inside track with the techies. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.’

‘I need it faster than that.’

‘Do it yourself, then. Ask for Lola. She’s got the magic key.’

Suttle drove across to Scenes of Crime at Heavitree Road to take a look at the iPhone. Lola wasn’t prepared to release it. If Suttle was going to go through Kinsey’s pictures there had to be someone else on hand to testify he hadn’t inserted any new material. Otherwise there might be evidential problems down the line in court.

Suttle shrugged. More and more these days detectives had to put up with this kind of procedural nonsense but he understood the logic and knew he had no choice.

‘Splash of milk, please,’ he said. ‘No sugar.’

He settled down to await her return before boredom drove him to scroll through Kinsey’s address book. He had a printout of this already but needed to remind himself about Molly Doyle, the rowing club secretary. A single blonde hair had the makings of a serious interview. He scribbled down her number as his coffee arrived. Lola, it turned out, was a busy girl. Time to browse Kinsey’s gallery.

The first sequence of shots were trophy views from Kinsey’s penthouse. April had sparked a series of sensational sunsets and Kinsey had taken full advantage. Next came photos snapped from an accompanying launch on what Suttle assumed was a training row. He recognised the elfin figure of Lenahan in the cox’s seat and the towering bulk of Pendrick rowing behind the stroke. Milo Symons was in the number two seat with Kinsey himself in bow. These were very telling. Only Kinsey ever stole a glance towards the camera. And only Kinsey’s blades were ever out of sync with the rest of the crew. Stick insect, Suttle thought. Another of Tasha Donovan’s little phrases.

‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Lola was on the meter. She had another ten minutes, absolute max.

‘We’ll know it when we see it.’ Suttle was looking at a matchless crescent of sand softened on the landward side by a line of dunes. An offshore wind had sculpted the incoming tide into surf to die for, and the blueness of the water was dotted with tiny black figures waiting for the perfect wave.

Suttle scrolled on. There were more shots, the same cove photographed from every conceivable angle.

‘Where’s that?’ He offered Lola the phone.

‘Haven’t a clue. Are those the ones you’re after?’

Suttle shook his head. This must be Trezillion, he thought, the jewel in Kittiwake Oceanside’s crown. He scrolled on, finding more shots, a different location this time. Finally, at the back end of last year, came the proof that his afternoon visit to Exmouth Quays had scored a modest result. The date — 24.12.2010 — was the only clue Suttle needed. Jake Kinsey, in his big fuck-off apartment, had bought himself an early Christmas prezzie.

‘That’s gross. That’s horrible.’ Lola turned away. ‘You’d have to pay someone to do that.’

Lizzie was changed and ready half an hour before Suttle got home. She offered a cold cheek for a kiss, reminded him about a bowl of puréed bananas she’d left in the fridge for Grace and asked him to keep an eye open for the cat.

‘Has he gone?’ Suttle sounded hopeful.

‘I doubt it.’ Lizzie got in the car and adjusted the seat. ‘One other thing. There’s a bill needs settling for the window. It’s on the table. I said you’d drop a cheque off tonight. A Mr Willoughby. He’s just up the road. Sweetest man.’

She pulled the door shut, backed into the lane and floored the acclerator. In the rear-view mirror she could see Suttle watching her. He didn’t wave.

At Exmouth once again a couple of quads were already on the beach. Thursdays, she knew already, was a big night for the juniors, and Tessa was doing her best to organise them. The club captain was due down any minute and wanted to have a word with everyone about Kinsey. Coverage in the local paper had made the club front-page news and in his view, according to Tessa, there had to be ways of turning all this publicity to ERC’s advantage.

Lizzie parked, aware at once of Pendrick crossing the road. She got out and gave him a wave. He fell into step beside her.

‘Back for more?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ever thought about the double?’

‘I wouldn’t know what a double is.’

‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’

They walked back to the compound. The club’s double scull was half the length of the big quads and looked, to Lizzie’s eye, a serious challenge.

‘I’m a novice,’ she said. ‘The quad gives me somewhere to hide.’

‘You don’t need it. Just trust me. We’re talking a 1.8 tide tonight. It’s low water at half six. No wind to speak of. We couldn’t capsize this baby if we tried.’

We? She looked up at him, already half persuaded, wanting the chance to prove she could do it. This guy’s probably been rowing for ever, she told herself. And if he thinks I can hack it who is little me to spoil the party?

‘OK.’ She grinned and dropped a little curtsy. ‘As long as you’re sure.’

By the time they’d rigged the double and dragged it across the road towards the slipway, a sizeable group of rowers had gathered on the beach. The club captain was an older man, tall, visibly weathered by life. He was already in full flow, talking about what Kinsey had brought to the club, and as she and Pendrick paused to listen, Lizzie became aware of a younger guy with a video camera circling the group. His long black hair was gathered into a ponytail with a twist of yellow ribbon and he panned the camera to catch a listening face or two before returning to the captain.

By now the shape of the club’s tribute to Kinsey was clear. Weather permitting, the club would be launching all its boats on Sunday. On an ebbing tide they’d row in line abreast towards the dock. Abeam of Regatta House they’d pause and hold formation before releasing a wreath of interwoven flowers. The specially designed wreath had been guaranteed to float. As it drifted down-tide, the club’s boats would form an escort. Molly Doyle, said the club captain, had contacts in the local press. With luck a TV crew might even turn up. The resulting pictures, if they got it right, would do the club no end of good. The flowers, he added, included red camellias. These he understood to be Kinsey’s favourite.

There was a mutter of approval. Several of the younger girls were comforting each other. One of the older boys eyed them in disbelief.

‘Let’s go.’ Pendrick jerked his head towards the water.

They tugged the double scull down the beach beyond the quads. Pendrick untied it from the trailer and began to talk Lizzie through the next stage in the operation. Lizzie, still watching the crowd of rowers on the beach, wasn’t listening.

‘That’s a nice thing to do,’ she said. ‘The wreath should work beautifully.’

Pendrick, steadying the double, shot her a look.

‘It’s bullshit,’ he said.

‘Why? How?’

‘Kinsey was clueless about flowers. He wouldn’t have known a red camellia from a hole in the road.’

‘But what about the juniors? Those girlies?’

‘They didn’t know the first thing about him, probably never met the guy. It’s showtime. Cameras. Grief. These days, unless you shed a tear it isn’t real.’ He frowned, then nodded at the double. ‘Are we going to do this thing or what?’

Despite the fact she was teething, it took Suttle less than half an hour to get Grace settled. Before he’d got to the end of her favourite story she was asleep. Suttle returned downstairs. Lizzie had left a pile of vegetables for his attention but he ignored them in favour of a Stella from the fridge. He opened the tinnie and reached for a glass. The bill for the window refurb was lying on the kitchen table — ninety-five pounds.

He went next door and inspected the window before settling in the Ikea rocker beside the ancient telly. By the time he’d left the office, Suttle had secured Carole Houghton’s permission to explore Kinsey’s affection for video games. He’d explained Golding’s suspicions that Kinsey had developed an online relationship. In the young D/C’s view there might be a special person in Kinsey’s cyber life who would repay a little attention. Maybe, in the vast spaces of the Internet, Kinsey had let slip a confidence or two. Maybe.

Houghton had accepted the logic and checked out the RIPA situation with Nandy. Under the Regulation of Investigative Powers Act, Constantine might need a warrant if Golding was to pose as Kinsey. Nandy loved the idea. A warrant, he said, would be no problem. The more proactive Constantine became, the better he liked it.

The warrant had been signed off before close of play. Tonight Golding would be settling at his own PC, monitoring both Counterstrike and Team Fortress 2, jumping in as Jalf Rezi and hoping that ShattAr showed up. He’d promised Suttle a call if he struck lucky but was gloomy about his chances of surviving the killing fields of Counterstrike. He’d log on to different servers for a bit of discreet practice but it was years since he’d played the game and he knew how tough it could be.

Suttle swallowed a mouthful or two of Stella, trying to imagine Kinsey at his PC up in the emptiness of his trophy apartment. Tired or drunk, according to Luke, he’d probably take a gentler ride with Team Fortress 2. That way he could rely on being respawned, an endless process of reincarnation, keeping himself from the jaws of death. On screen it had doubtless worked. In real life, alas, it hadn’t.

The brutality of this contrast between the make-believe of cyberspace and the lethal suck of gravity was, Suttle sensed, one of the keys to Constantine. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected that video games must have offered Kinsey the perfect surrogate for real friendship. Any attachments he formed on the Internet were risk-free. He could expose as much or as little of himself as he chose. And every time he logged on there was the prospect of another hour or so in the company of like-minded loners, busy zapping the next shadow lurking at the edge of the screen.

This was fine as far as it went, an intriguing line of enquiry that might yield a name and even a confidence or two. But what was he to make of SOC’s blonde hair retrieved from Kinsey’s bedroom? And of Peggy Brims’ impassioned belief that Kinsey’s interest in real estate extended further than a clutch of picturesque waterside sites in north Cornwall?

The latter had taken Suttle to the East Devon District Council website. These people were the planning authority for Exmouth, and a couple of minutes’ research had revealed an application to develop Pier Head, adjacent to Exmouth Quays.

Peggy Brims, once again, had her thumb on the pulse of local life. The architectural drawings showed a towering apartment block that would dwarf everything else in the area. The application was the work of Devon-based property developers. Accompanying the drawings was the usual tosh about gateway locations, iconic structures and local employment opportunities, and Suttle’s suspicions that the sheer size of this proposed monster would have sparked local opposition turned out to be spot on. A call to the Exmouth Journal confirmed a flood of objections. Many of the locals, said the news editor, were outraged.

But did Kinsey really want to help himself to a slice of the action? Or might his interest be limited to the spec purchase of an apartment or two, something way up at the top of the building, an asset he could flog on when prices started to rise again? Suttle had tried to raise some kind of answer from the developers, leaving a message on their switchboard, but so far no one had returned his call.

He finished the Stella and stole upstairs to check on Grace. She was curled in her cot, a corner of the sheet bunched in her tiny hand, oblivious to the world. Back in the living room Suttle tried to map out the coming days. The key to every live enquiry was the Policy Book. Constantine’s had been in the hands of Carole Houghton. She’d now handed it over to Suttle and already he’d drawn on its contents to better understand Constantine’s brief history. Houghton, as he expected, had been characteristically thorough, recording and explaining every investigative decision she’d taken. Suttle’s next task was to add a sheaf of statements, especially from the winning crew, who’d been the last people to see Kinsey alive.

Andy Poole’s statement was already in the file, as was the account Constantine’s D/Cs had taken from Tom Pendrick the night he’d come back from north Cornwall. But both Eamonn Lenahan and Milo Symons would need a revisit for statementing, and Natasha Donovan — Milo’s partner — had yet to be interviewed at all. These calls would now fall to Suttle and he made a mental note to start with Tash Donovan. The word flux kept coming back to him. His years in CID had taught Suttle to discount the likelihood of coincidence. How come both Tash and Peggy Brims had been so interested in ‘flux’?

Suttle was thinking about the single blonde hair and wondering when to make another call on Molly Doyle when his landline rang. It was Luke Golding.

‘How’s it going?’

‘It isn’t, Sarge. I got Scenes of Crime to rip Kinsey’s Steam password from his hard drive and logged on as Jalf.’

‘And?’

‘I got zapped within seconds. Total fucking disaster.’

‘Counterstrike?’

‘Too right. I waited until the game ended and respawned. Survived for a whole minute this time then crashed and burned again. Horrible.’

By now, he said, his performance had begun to attract attention. He wasn’t on headphones for obvious reasons but he’d got a couple of messages. One of the players had asked whether he was pissed. Another, interestingly, thought that Kinsey might have been subbed by his brother. Or more likely his granny. Either way, there was a general consensus that Kinsey had stepped out of his former persona and become someone else. Which was, of course, exactly right.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. There was a third message. This was definitely kinder.’

‘What did it say?’

‘It wanted to know what the problem was. You want to guess the sender?’

‘ShattAr.’

‘Spot on.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘Nothing. But that’s not the point, Sarge. This one used Kinsey’s real name. He called me Jake. The guy’s in touch. He’s out there. He exists.’

Suttle thought about the implications. At last Kinsey might have found someone he could confide in.

‘So how do we progress this?’ he said at last. ‘What do we do next?’

‘I log on again. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever. Wait for the guy to reappear.’

‘But you’re still pretending to be Kinsey, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So how do you handle him? What do you say?’

‘Number one, I’m still going to be crap at Counterstrike. So the guy’s going to start wondering if I really am Kinsey. So maybe I should go on headphones and have a conversation.’

‘Saying what?’

‘I could tell him Jake’s had a bit of an accident. I could tell him I’m standing in. That way I could maybe get a steer on who this guy is.’

Suttle smiled. A bit of an accident, he thought. He bent to the phone again.

‘And you think that might work?’

‘It might. It’s possible. But there’s another way. Maybe better.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I log on again as Jalf and wait for him to appear. Then I send him a message asking him to be a Facebook friend.’

‘What if he’s a Facebook friend of Kinsey’s already?’

‘He can’t be. You told me Kinsey wasn’t on Facebook.’

‘You’re right. He wasn’t. Brain-dead, me. So what do we do about that?’

‘I get myself a Facebook page.’

‘As Kinsey?’

‘Of course. Then send this guy a friend request and add a message about Counterstrike so he knows who I am. Fingers crossed, he friends me.’

Suttle nodded in approval. Once ShattAr got in touch, his Facebook profile might give them everything they’d need to have a proper conversation.

‘You really think he’ll do it?’

‘I’ve no idea, Sarge. Worth a try though, eh?’

The line went dead. Outside, after a decent sunset, the light was beginning to die. Suttle got up and went to the window, peering into the gathering darkness. Lately he’d made an effort to tally the jobs that badly needed doing around the property but knew that lists were no substitute for the real thing. He checked his watch, wondering how Lizzie was getting on. Nearly half eight. Late.

Lizzie’s outing with Pendrick was a disaster. Rowing in the double turned out to be a circus act after the comforting embrace of the quad. The slightest wobble, a single mistake with either blade, seemed to threaten a capsize. By the time she and Pendrick got down to the dock, she was ready to give up.

Pendrick was rowing in the bow seat, checking their progress over his shoulder, feeding her instructions as they picked their way through the buoys and moorings. Heavy on green. Go red. Equal pressure. Lizzie tried to process all these commands, turning them into strong tugs on the right-hand oar or the left, but her brain had turned to mush.

In the end Pendrick beached them on the long curve of Dawlish Warren and helped Lizzie get out.

‘Useless,’ she said. ‘Totally fucking hopeless.’

He told her not to be dramatic. Rowing the double after a single outing in the quad was a tough call.

‘So why are we doing it?’

‘Because I thought you could hack it.’

‘Wrong. I can’t.’

‘You can. You just have to relax. Listen to me.’

With infinite patience he pointed out what she was doing wrong. She had to ride the double like a horse. She had to feel the river through her bum. She had to think of the double as a musical instrument, amplifying the suck and nudge of the tide.

‘Listen to your body,’ he said, ‘and you won’t go wrong.’

Lizzie began to laugh. This sounded wildly karmic. She’d tried yoga once and been just as challenged.

A smile ghosted over Pendrick’s face. Maybe he’d got the wrong metaphor, he said. Maybe she should start thinking about the grain of the river, how to feel it, how to make it a friend.

‘That’s even worse. We’re talking water, not wood.’

‘Same difference. It’s a living thing. And so are you. Fight it, like just now, and the river will always win. Make it your friend — ’ the sudden grin took her by surprise ‘- and anything can happen.’

They tried again. This time, Lizzie was worse. Sheer concentration made her nervous. Nervous, she began to wobble. Wobbling finally brought them to a halt. By now they were back beside the stretch of beach that led to the compound.

At slack tide the water was like a mirror. Downstream, Lizzie could see a couple of quads heading seawards. For a moment she envied them but then she felt the gentlest tap on her shoulder. It was Pendrick.

‘Drink?’ he suggested.

They went to a pub on the seafront. To Lizzie, it was the sanest decision they’d made all evening. There were benches and tables on the big apron of forecourt and Pendrick disappeared inside to the bar. Lizzie gazed out at the beginnings of a decent sunset. For mid-April, it was still warm.

‘Cheers. Here’s to your lovely bum.’

Pendrick was back with the drinks. He slid into the bench across the table. The same subtle grace, she thought. The same instinctive sense of balance that had just steadied the bloody double.

‘Thanks for putting up with me.’ She lifted her glass.

Pendrick shrugged. The double was history. They’d have another go when she was ready. Meantime he’d just remembered what date it was.

‘You know what I was doing this time last year?’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Rowing.’

‘I said surprise me.’

‘We were a week out from Cape Cod. It was an evening like this. I remember it like yesterday.’

Lizzie was staring at him.

‘Cape Cod’s in Massachusetts,’ she said.

‘You’re right.’

‘You’re telling me you were on the Atlantic? For a whole week? Rowing?’

‘Yeah. And the next week and the week after and. .’ his hand closed around the pint of Guinness ‘. . for ever really.’

Lizzie had abandoned her drink. Something in this man’s face had been nagging at her since she’d first met him and now she realised what it was. The hair, she thought. He had hair then.

‘You’re the guy who rowed the Atlantic,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

‘And lost his wife.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It was all over the papers.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Happy anniversary, eh?’

Lizzie didn’t know where to take this conversation next. As a working journalist she’d have had no problems. There were ways you could get people to open up. But this was different. She felt she’d begun to know this man a little. She’d shared something precious with him. She might have fucked up just now in the double but she’d fallen in love with rowing and that she owed to Pendrick.

‘You want to talk about it?’ she said at last.

‘You want to listen?’

‘Of course.’ Lizzie fought an urge to reach for his hand. ‘Tell me.’

He gazed at her then looked away. For a moment Lizzie thought she’d blown it — too hasty, too blatant — but then he was back with her. He wanted to start somewhere else. He wanted to start in Thailand.

He and his wife, he said, had spent the best part of three years bumming round the world with a couple of surfboards and not much else. They’d spent time in California, in Oz, in New Zealand. He was an electrician by trade, and Kate had nursing qualifications, and whenever the money ran out they’d work for a couple of months then hit the beaches again.

‘Is that when you got your scar?’ Lizzie had been dying to ask.

‘Yeah. I got dumped on a reef down near Melbourne. Place called Suicide Beach. Split my face open from here to here. .’ His finger tracked down from the corner of his eye. ‘Thank Christ Kate was there. She stopped most of the bleeding and got me to a hospital. My own bloody fault.’

‘It didn’t put you off?’

‘Never. Surfing’s a drug. You can’t get enough.’

‘Sounds great.’

‘It was. Kate and I? We had nothing in the world except the ocean. It’s amazing how rich that can make you feel.’

‘I’m sure. Did Kate think that way as well?’

‘Most of the time.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

After New Zealand, he said, they took a flight to Bangkok, bought an old camper van from a Scouser heading home and drove south.

‘You know Thailand at all?’

‘No.’

‘The best bits are down by the Malay border. We ended up in a village just inland from the beach, place called Ao Lok. We spent the whole summer there, Mr and Mrs Idle, just surfing, swimming, making friends with the locals, totally lovely people. It was a brilliant time.’

After a while, he said, they’d become part of the village. They were renting a hut from someone who’d gone off to work in Phuket. Pendrick would do the odd wiring job for various neighbours while Kate would help out with the kids when they got sick. In return, families would give them food and invite them along for the party when a daughter was getting married or a long-lost cousin flew in from Europe or the States.

‘It was like we belonged.’ He was smiling. ‘It was a nice feeling.’

‘And Kate?’

‘She was cool with it. In fact she loved it. I think it gave her something we’d never had before. We both came from broken homes. The last thing these people were was broken.’

Ao Lok, he said, was as perfect as perfect can be.

‘Like how? Tell me.’

‘You could hear the surf at night through the trees. We lived on fruit and bread and fish and rice. Like I say, we were in the water most days. Kate used to look after this little boy, Niran, and she taught him to swim. Once he’d got his confidence, I’d paddle him out on the surf board. He loved it. Fantastic little kid. Always grinning. Happiness on legs. We wanted to kidnap him. Tuck him in the back of the camper and drive away. But what would be the point? Where in the world would ever be more perfect than Ao Lok?’

Lizzie mistook this as a question. She was trying to offer something similar in her own life but failed completely. Pendrick hadn’t finished.

‘You know something really strange?’ he said. ‘For years we’d always been moving on. It becomes a kind of habit, maybe stronger than that, maybe a kind of addiction. You’re convinced there’s always something better round the next corner, and so you look and you look and then you find somewhere like Ao Lok and you realise you’ve found it. It’s the end of the line. It’s where you belong. It’s where you want to stay. Maybe for ever. Except we couldn’t. Because it became impossible.’

‘How come?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Daft question.’

Pendrick got up to fetch another Guinness. Then he was back.

‘Boxing Day.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘We’re up and about and Kate’s taken Niran down to the beach. I’ve told them I’ll be along later. We’ve sold the camper and I’m trying to sort an old moped we’ve just bought. Next thing I know, there’s this roaring noise, a bit like thunder. It gets louder and louder then there are people running up from the beach through the trees. They’re yelling about a huge wave coming. I run down towards the beach and get there in time to see this wave breaking way out in the bay. They’re right. It’s vast. Kate’s down there too. The water is being sucked out to sea ahead of the wave and she’s running after Niran. By the time she catches him, the wave’s on top of them both. That’s the last I saw of the kid. No one ever found him.’

‘And Kate?’

‘She survived. Sort of.’

Afterwards, he said, he and Kate went to America. They’d made friends a while back with a couple from California, surfers like themselves. Kate was really close to the woman — nice girl, half Sri-Lankan. They picked up casual jobs for a while, then got green cards, which made it all legit. They were still spending time by the ocean, he said, but it was never the same.

‘That was five years ago.’ He was studying his hands. ‘Time’s supposed to be the healer, isn’t it? Time’s supposed to make the difference. No chance. Kate had lost it. She became someone else.’

Lizzie nodded. This, at last, sounded familiar. She was getting to know a lot about strangers in her life.

‘Difficult,’ she said simply.

‘It was, believe me. And it was especially hard because I couldn’t see an end to it. There was no way Kate could make peace with what had happened because there was no peace to make. Ao Lok and Niran and all the rest of it had taken us to a place we could never get back to. And once that happens, believe me, you’re fucked.’

Lizzie reached for his hand. It seemed the simplest thing in the world.

‘So what did you do?’ she said.

‘In the end, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘I figured we had to do something big, something amazing. Double or quits time. The ocean again. Another crap decision.’

They’d saved like crazy for a couple of years and moved east to Cape Cod. Backers had paid for the boat and the provisions and everything else they needed, and they’d made contact with one of the charities that had sprung up after the tsunami. They’d put together a support team in a town called Woods Hole and spent a week or two rowing up and down the coast to get the feel of the boat.

‘And then?’

‘We went for it. April’s supposed to be kind, and to be fair the weather wasn’t that bad, but what nobody ever tells you about is the rowing, the routine, the sheer fucking monotony of going on and on, day after day, just on and on. If you’re not careful, if you’re not strong, something like that can break your heart.’

‘And did it?’

‘You’re talking about me?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I more or less survived.’

‘But Kate?’

‘Definitely.’

‘It broke her heart?’

‘Yes.’

He looked up. His eyes were glassy. He gave Lizzie’s hand a squeeze and then withdrew his own.

‘We had a couple of storms on the way over.’ He reached for his drink. ‘In that kind of sea there’s no way you can keep rowing so you get into this shithole of a cabin, the pair of you, and try and make sure the hatch is watertight, and just ride the storm out. This kind of stuff can go on for days. The cabin’s tiny, just room for the two of you. Kate had done her best to cheer the place up. She’d put photos everywhere, places we’d been, friends we were missing, but it’s dark most of the time because you’re trying to preserve the batteries, and the boat’s all over the place and you start to recognise the pattern of the waves, the intervals before they hit you, and you realise after a while that you’re just helpless, a sitting target, tense as fuck, waiting for the big one.’

‘And did it come?’

‘Yeah. Middle of the night. Turned us over. Total capsize. Kate was crying. She wanted out. She’d had enough. In the end the boat bobbed up again, righted itself, but she cried for hours, really quietly, no big drama. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say. She’d gone. It was hopeless.’

Lizzie wanted to know if this was when she disappeared. Pendrick shook his head. That happened weeks later. By the next day, he said, the storm had blown itself out. They did their best to get everything back together again, to lash stuff down, to figure out what was missing and what wasn’t, but the truth was that the fight had gone out of them.

‘You lose heart,’ he said. ‘Because you keep realising there’s something else you’ve lost, something else you can’t put your hand on. It’s a bit like being burgled. This stuff’s personal. It hurts.’

The worst, he said, was a stone that Kate had kept from the beach at Ao Lok. She’d hung onto it from the day Niran had disappeared, and now it too had gone.

‘We looked for it everywhere. We emptied the cabin, shook everything out, looked under the thwarts, tore the boat apart, but it had gone. That did it for her. After that, I knew she’d had enough.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She wanted to end it all. Slip overboard. Go where Niran had gone.’

‘And that’s what happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you talk about it? Before?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Good question.’ His glass was empty again. Lizzie wondered whether to buy him another Guinness but knew this wasn’t the moment. Her hand was back in his.

‘You know something about the sea?’ He nodded out beyond the promenade.

‘Tell me.’

‘It puts you to the test. Take on a voyage like we did, day after day, and if there’s the slightest weakness in the relationship, the sea will find you out. You set off on a high. You think you’re immortal. You think you’ll conquer the world. And then it turns out you’re wrong.’

‘So what happened?’

‘We got found out.’

‘Because of Niran?’

‘Because of me.’

‘You blame yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I should have been bigger, stronger, more attentive, more loving, more understanding, more. .’ He shrugged. ‘What the fuck do I know?’

‘You know everything. Because you were there. And from where I’m sitting I doubt there’s anything else you could have done. We’re talking serious depression, right? Depression’s a horrible thing. It eats you away inside. You try really hard to get on top of it, you think you’ve got it nailed, and then you wake up next day and it’s still there. That’s Kate. . no?’

‘Yes.’ He was studying her. ‘So how come you know all this?’

Lizzie held his gaze. Then she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.

‘Don’t ask,’ she muttered.

It was dark by the time Suttle decided to make the call. He’d put together a rudimentary stew and boiled a panful of rice. Twice he’d tried to call Lizzie but both times her mobile was on divert. There was no more Stella in the fridge and he couldn’t find the remains of Gill Reynolds’ Stolly.

‘Gina? Jimmy.’

‘Hi.’ She sounded far away. Non-committal.

‘I was just wondering about a meet.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah. We’re still on?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She paused. ‘Do you always call this time of night? Only I might have difficulty getting my head round that.’

‘Round what?’

‘Becoming your answering service.’

‘That’s not the way it is.’

‘Oh yeah? Tell me more.’

‘Like I said last night, I just need to talk.’

‘About Pendrick?’

‘About me.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s what I want to talk about.’

Another silence, longer this time.

‘Tell me something, Jimmy. Are you married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Kids?’

‘A daughter. Grace. She’s asleep upstairs.’

‘And do you love her?’

‘Yes. Very much.’

‘I meant your wife.’

It was Suttle’s turn to hesitate. The silence stretched and stretched.

‘That’s a no then,’ he said at last.

‘No to what?’

‘No to a meet. No to a conversation. I just thought. . you know. . sometimes you meet someone and you think there’s something there and you need someone to share stuff with and you lift the phone and. . whatever.’

‘That someone would be me?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you think I felt the same? When we met?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re still talking. Because you haven’t told me to fuck off.’

‘You think I’d do that?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Good, because you’re right.’

‘You’re telling me to fuck off?’

‘No, Jimmy, I’m not. I’m telling you to sort out exactly what you’re after in that lovely head of yours and then pay me the compliment of a decent conversation. .’ she paused ‘. . at a reasonable hour.’

‘Like tomorrow?’

‘Like when you start to make some kind of sense. I’m in bed, by the way. If that’s important.’

The phone went dead. Suttle could hear Grace beginning to stir. Within seconds she was crying. Suttle brought her down and settled in the rocker again, trying to calm her.

It was gone eleven when Lizzie finally returned. She stood in the open doorway, framed against the chaos of the kitchen. Both the stew and the rice were cold.

Suttle asked her about the rowing.

‘Fabulous evening.’ Lizzie was grinning. ‘The best.’