Western Approaches

Six

FRIDAY, 15 APRIL 2011

D/I Carole Houghton was back from Brittany. She’d been enchanted by Saint-Malo but despite some promising intel she still hadn’t found the head.

‘So how’s Constantine?’

Suttle brought her up to date. The Coroner’s file was coming along nicely but he thought it a shame not to explore a new lead or two.

‘Like?’

Suttle explained about the possibility that Kinsey might have had a gaming buddy.

‘Where would that take us?’

‘I’ve no idea, boss, until I bottom it out.’

‘And you can do that?’

‘Yes.’

It was a bold claim and he’d no idea whether Luke Golding could deliver, but Constantine was no longer a mission for the faint-hearted. With everything else falling apart around him, Suttle had decided to pile all his chips on a single square. Shit or bust wasn’t a phrase he’d ever had much time for, but just now he told himself he didn’t have an option. One way or another, something good had to come out of this new life of his.

‘Then there’s a couple of other developments.’

He told her about the Scenes of Crime find in Kinsey’s bedroom, the single blonde hair, and about Peggy Brims keeping watch on the lift. Houghton was even less impressed.

‘He was a rich man, Jimmy. There’s nothing wrong with buying a sex life if he needed it that badly. What’s in it for us?’

‘Here, boss.’

Suttle handed her the photos retrieved from Kinsey’s iPhone. A very beautiful Thai girl was sprawled on Kinsey’s bed doing something inventive with an empty bottle of Krug. The little wave with her spare hand was far from convincing.

‘You’re telling me she did it? She killed him?’ Houghton was having a bad day. First the still-missing head. Now her newest D/S trying to turn a probable suicide into something wildly implausible.

‘Not her, boss. Not the girl.’

‘Who, then?’

‘I’ve no idea. It’s just part of the picture.’

‘And you think the Coroner will be interested in this?’

‘Probably not. But maybe we should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Kinsey simply wasn’t the kind of guy to top himself.’

‘Says who?’

‘Me. And pretty much everyone who knew him.’

‘Have you talked to Mr Nandy about this?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘He doesn’t agree. He thinks people are unknowable.’

‘Maybe he’s got a point.’

‘Sure. And maybe he needs to save on the budget.’

There was a long silence. Suttle wondered whether he’d gone too far. Houghton was studying the photo again.

‘She’s not blonde.’ She looked up. ‘So maybe you ought to find someone else who is.’

Molly Doyle, it turned out, worked as a solicitor at a partnership in Exmouth town centre. In answer to Suttle’s phone call, the Viking had freed up half an hour at lunchtime and was happy to help him in whatever way she could.

Suttle found her in an office at the top of the building. She was wearing a black suit, smartly cut. Her nails were carefully varnished and she’d applied a little make-up to hide the shadows beneath her eyes. The only concession to the woman Suttle had met on Sunday morning was a playful pair of black plastic earrings.

‘You’ve heard about the little ceremony we’re having for Kinsey?’ She told him about the wreath and the escort of boats from the club. The weather forecast, she said, wasn’t brilliant, but fingers crossed they’d be able to launch.

She fetched Suttle a coffee from the machine down the corridor. When she got back she wanted to know how he was getting on.

‘Fine,’ Suttle said.

‘You’ve established what happened?’

‘No, not entirely.’

He began to describe the steps they’d taken to understand the kind of life Kinsey had been leading. An obvious source was his iPhone.

‘I know about all this. I used to be a criminal lawyer. We’re talking intel, yes?’ There was a hint of impatience in her voice. She was a busy woman.

Suttle asked about the emails Kinsey had been sending her. Seven in the past month alone, including Saturday night’s invite to the party in his apartment.

‘Seven?’

‘You’re surprised?’

‘I am. I never kept count. I never answered them either. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’

Suttle didn’t respond. Scenes of Crime had sent him hard copy of all the texts Kinsey had sent her.

‘“Loved the way you handled Andy on the beach tonight. When do we get to have another drink?”’ he read. ‘“Bought a couple of pheasants this morning. My place or yours?”’ Suttle looked up. ‘Are you married, Mrs Doyle?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because it might be germane.’

‘Germane?’ She rolled the word round her tongue. She seemed amused. ‘You think all this has something to do with his death? You think my husband might have nipped along on Saturday night and chucked him off his balcony?’

Suttle held her gaze.

‘Where was your husband on Saturday night?’

‘In Hong Kong. He’s a pilot with Cathay Pacific.’

‘And you?’

‘I was at home. With the kids.’

‘Have you had any kind of relationship with Kinsey?’

‘No.’

‘But you did have a drink with him?’ Suttle gestured at the texts.

‘Yes. That was ages ago when we were sorting out the money for the boat he bought us. Kinsey insisted we did it over a drink. His idea, not mine.’

‘And?’

‘We got it nailed. I had an orange and soda — ’ her smile was cold ‘- if that’s germane.’

‘You’ve never been in his apartment?’

‘Never. He was keen to get me up there but I always said no. If you want the truth, I think he was mad about tall women. Kinsey was a titch. Bedding people like me would make him feel better about himself.’

‘So how did you fend him off?’

‘I told him I had a punchy husband. And I told him I hated heights. In case you’re wondering, neither’s true.’

Suttle scribbled himself a note. Molly was watching him carefully.

‘My husband and I are going through a trial separation,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you now because you’re bound to find out one way or another but it makes no difference as far as Kinsey’s concerned. Of course he pushed his luck. He was that kind of man. But the answer, I’m afraid, was always no.’

‘Afraid?’

‘If I was that desperate, there are nicer men around than Kinsey.’

‘But you’re not that desperate?’

‘No.’

‘So there’s no one who might look at texts like these and draw the wrong conclusion?’

‘No, Mr Suttle.’ The smile again, even chillier. ‘Only you.’

Lizzie spent the morning trying to put her thoughts down on paper. What began as a letter to Gill Reynolds quickly became a confessional Q amp; A to try and fix her bearings in what felt like a gathering storm. Was she still angry with Jimmy? Yes. Did she blame him for everything that had happened to her head since the move west from Pompey? Yes. Was she still determined to make some kind of change to this half-life of theirs? Again, yes. And had the rowing — Jimmy’s idea — made any kind of difference?

At this point her faith in the brisk succession of affirmatives began to waver. Twenty-four hours ago, after a night of feeling more alone, more vulnerable, than she could ever have imagined, she’d been ready once again to scoop up Grace and leave. Now, after last night, she hadn’t the first idea how she felt. Meeting a giant of a guy who’d lost his wife to the sea was the last thing she’d ever expected. Among the swamp of emotions he seemed to have unleashed — surprise, curiosity, plus a deep, deep sympathy — was something else. Excitement.

At every level, if she had it right, this man seemed to care about her. More importantly he seemed to understand exactly what she was feeling. After the pub he’d taken her to his place. He lived in an upstairs flat at the back of Exmouth. He’d made her coffee and asked her to sort out a CD for the audio, and agreed that Neil Young could definitely turn a shit day into something altogether more mellow.

For the rest of the evening they’d sat on the sofa and he’d asked about her — who she really was, what she really wanted — and after a while she’d seen no point messing with the truth. She was living with a really sweet guy who was turning out to be different to the man she’d married. He had a job he loved. He adored the countryside. He was crazy about his daughter. But it hadn’t occurred to him for a second that his wife was going nuts.

Until now, she said, that hadn’t really mattered. Until now, she’d been able to cope. Just. But stuff was happening that she didn’t want to talk about and she’d realised, maybe late in the day, that she was living with a stranger.

Pendrick had said very little. The lamp on the bookcase behind the sofa threw his face into deep shadow, hiding the scar, and it was hard to gauge exactly what he was making of this story of hers. When she finally stopped talking, feeling the first twinges of guilt, he drew her towards him and said he’d like to help. When she asked how, he said he didn’t know. The most precious relationships, in his view, were based on conversation, on sharing, on those precious moments when a phrase or a memory or even an opinion proved you weren’t entirely alone. Laughter mattered, he said. And so did the preparedness to take a risk or two.

‘Like rowing the Atlantic?’ she’d asked.

‘No,’ he’d said. ‘Like this.’

She’d left shortly afterwards, kissed him in the darkness of the hall downstairs, thanked him for his patience. He’d walked her to the door, told her to take care on the drive home, given her his mobile number in case she wanted to talk more.

‘There’s more?’ She’d been looking at him from the street. And she’d loved the grin on his face. He feels it too, she’d told herself, driving home.

It was early afternoon before Suttle heard back from the Pier Head property developers. The voice on the phone introduced himself as one of the prime movers in the project and enquired as to the exact nature of Suttle’s interest. Suttle explained about Kinsey and asked whether he’d had any kind of stake in the development.

‘None at all, I’m afraid. It’s way too early for anyone to be buying off-plan. I’m afraid Mr Kinsey isn’t on our radar.’

Disappointed, Suttle thanked him for his time and struck the Pier Head development off the fast dwindling list of possible lines of enquiry. So far, he’d resisted the temptation to trawl through the local escort agencies in search of Thai lovelies, preferring to wait for sight of Kinsey’s financial records. These days, unless they were married and had secrets to keep, most punters paid with their credit cards. On the point of trying Natasha Donovan again, Suttle looked up to find Luke Golding at his door.

‘Sorry, Sarge. I got waylaid this morning. Houghton’s fault.’

‘Has she found the head yet?’

‘No.’

Golding took a seat. Last night, he said, he’d stayed up until two in the morning in the hope that ShattAr might appear.

‘And?’

‘He did. 01.49. I sent him a message through Steam. Asked him for a link to his Facebook profile. Told him I was setting up an account of my own.’

‘Did you get a reply?’

‘No. But that means nothing.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We wait, Sarge. And I get better at playing bastard Counterstrike.’

Minutes later Suttle phoned Natasha Donovan. According to her partner, Milo Symons, she should be back from a couple of days with friends in Bristol. When she picked up, Suttle had the impression she’d been asleep. Yes, she’d be happy to see him. Yes, she was at home. But just now, as soon as she’d got her shit together, she’d be out in the open air, trying to establish contact again.

‘With who?’

‘Come and see.’

‘But how do I find you?’

‘It’s easy. You can’t miss me.’

Intrigued, Suttle made a couple of calls to chase Kinsey’s financial records then headed for the coast again. The lane to Tusker Farm was caked with mud from the big fat tractor ahead. The air smelled sweetly of dung. He turned in through the open gate and parked the Impreza beside the mobile home. A woman he assumed was Donovan was standing in the middle of the meadow. She was wearing something white and floaty. Her back was arched and her head was up and her splayed fingers were reaching for the sky. The fall of purple hair rippled in the wind from the valley below, and as Suttle drew closer her head came down and she folded her hands across her chest as she sank to her knees.

He paused beside her. Her feet were bare, dirtied with soil, and she wore a thin silver chain looped around one ankle.

‘Natasha Donovan?’

For a moment she didn’t move. A second later she opened her eyes and looked up at the proffered warrant card.

‘Mr Policeman?’ London accent. Appraising smile.

She led him to the mobile home. A newish black Toyota sports coupé was parked where the Transit van had been. Milo, she said, was away for the day. Come in.

Inside, the place had been warmed by the sunshine and the musky scent of incense hung in the stale air. Donovan filled the kettle. She was nearly as tall as her partner and she moved with an artful vagueness that, to Suttle, smacked of long practice. He wanted to ask her about the routine out in the field but she was already in full flow.

‘You’ll want to know about my journey,’ she said. ‘It begins with desire and it ends with embodiment. You start with simple movement. Then it gets more complex. The important thing is to connect. The body is a springboard. Once you understand that, anything is possible. You connect with nature. You connect with the clouds, the trees, the buttercups, the river, the wind. And most important of all you connect with yourself. It’s circular, you see.’

‘What is?’

‘The journey.’

She threw him a look over her shoulder and reached for a couple of mugs. Her nails were the colour of her hair. She wanted to know whether Suttle was spiritual or not.

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

His answer sparked a small, private smile. She decanted hot water into two mugs. She had loads of stuff on non-stylised body movement if he was interested.

Suttle shook his head. He was grateful for her time. As he’d explained on the phone, he was here to talk about Kinsey.

‘Jake? He was lost. He could have gone so far if he’d only listened.’

‘To who?’

‘Me. Jake lived on the fault line between madness and something worse. You like that phrase? Fault line? That’s Milo. Sometimes that man can be so fucking deep, you know what I mean?’

Suttle didn’t. He was looking at the contents of the mug she’d just given him. Hot water.

‘Do I get anything in this?’

‘No. Hot water’s a cleanser. It has properties you won’t believe. I drink it neat. The hotter the better.’

Suttle put the mug to one side. Donovan had settled on the sofa, her long legs folded beneath her. According to Eamonn Lenahan, this woman had really taken Kinsey’s fancy and Suttle could believe it. She was probably the wrong side of forty but you’d never guess.

Suttle wanted her to tell him about Saturday. Had she gone to watch the race?

‘No. I was doing a workshop with a friend. Movement and dance for the over-sixties. I hooked up with the guys later. Milo had texted me the result. Can you believe that? My lovely boys? Winning?’

By the time she got to the pub, she said, the crew were on their third bottle of champagne. She never touched alcohol herself.

‘So what were you drinking?’

‘Water.’

‘And Kinsey?’

‘The man was out of his head. And very happy.’

‘Was that unusual?’

‘Yeah.’ She smiled. ‘On both counts.’

They’d stayed in the pub for maybe another half an hour before deciding on a takeaway. The best Indian in Exmouth didn’t do deliveries so she’d volunteered to drive into town and get the food. Kinsey, she said, had made a list. In the end the curry had been a big disappointment. Not that anyone was in the mood to complain.

‘So how long were you in the apartment?’

‘Not that long. Jake was ill, poor lamb. And the guys were knackered.’

‘How did you get home?’

‘By car. I was the only one sober so I drove. It’s a little sports car — you probably saw it — just room for Milo and me. I called a taxi for the others.’

‘What time did you get back?’

‘I don’t know. Past midnight but not that late.’

‘And then?’

‘We crashed. Milo was asleep in the car. Never marry an athlete.’

‘You’re married? You and Milo?’

‘No.’ The smile again. ‘Marriage is a killer. Look at Jake.’

The phrase hung between them. Marriage is a killer.

‘What exactly do you mean?’ Suttle asked.

‘I mean that marriage gets in the way. It stops life in its tracks. It makes you lazy. You stop trying.’

‘Is that what happened to Kinsey?’

‘Big time.’ She nodded. ‘Big time.’

‘He talked to you about it?’

‘Of course he did. It was hard to stop him sometimes. I don’t know what he and that woman had to begin with, but marriage killed it. Stone dead.’

‘That woman?’

‘Sonya. He’d show me photos. She was really attractive. Great eyes. He couldn’t understand how she’d changed. He couldn’t understand what she’d become.’

‘And you sympathised?’

‘Not at all. I told him it was his own fault. Poor Jake never looked hard enough, never listened. He lived in a bubble, that man. He needed to get out more. He needed to connect.’

‘You helped him that way?’

‘Of course. We did sessions together, up in his apartment. It’s all about vitality. It’s all about awareness, about tapping into your hidden energy. I’d write simple movement scores, and when the weather was OK we’d go out on the balcony so we could reach for the river, for the beach, for the wind. Jake always found it hard to relax. He’d never close his eyes. I remember that.’

Suttle was trying to imagine Kinsey out on the balcony, showcasing this woman to the world at large, an image totally in keeping with everything else he knew about the man.

‘Was he good at this stuff?’

‘He was crap at it. Like I say, he could never relax. It was always the next thing and the next thing with Jake. I’d tell him to stop, to mark time, to slip his life into neutral and park it for a while. That way he’d be able to give himself to something bigger, something vaguer, something he didn’t necessarily understand, but I think that was beyond him.’

‘You charged for these sessions?’

‘Of course.’

‘How much?’

‘A hundred pounds a go.’

‘That’s a lot.’

‘You’re right. I normally charge forty. That was his price, not mine.’

‘And how often would this happen?’

‘It depended. Sometimes twice a week, sometimes more often. Other times he’d be away on business so we might just meet for a Friday-night session.’

‘And this went on for how long?’

‘More than a year.’

‘And he got better at it? He started to relax?’

‘Never.’

‘So why did he carry on?’

‘Because he fancied me. It was obvious. He wanted to shag the arse off me, and the only way he could do that was by getting me up to that apartment of his. A hundred quid for an hour of dance and movement? A girl could do a lot worse.’

‘But was that enough for him? Dance and movement?’

‘Of course not. Sometimes I shagged him as well.’

‘For more money?’

‘Yes.’ She yawned.

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred quid a pop. He was crap in bed too. Five minutes, tops.’

‘That’s a hundred quid a minute.’

‘Yeah. I tried the oils and everything. I even brought candles sometimes, but he wasn’t interested. Sex was something he needed. It had to be got out of the way. Then he felt better and he could move on to the next thing.’

‘Which was?’

‘Work. Always work. He was into property development. He tried to explain it to me one time, tried to get me interested, but I’m useless at all that stuff. Told him not to bother.’

Suttle looked up from his notes. He’d rarely stumbled on someone so recklessly candid. Constantine, at last, was beginning to pick up speed.

‘Did Milo know about this?’

‘Of course he did.’

‘He didn’t mind?’

‘He thought it was funny.’

‘Funny?’

‘Yeah. He knew Jake like we all did, and if you want the truth I think he felt sorry for the man. What you have to understand about Milo is that the guy’s a bunny, a child. What we have is brilliant. We fuck like angels. He knows that, and he knows I know it, and it makes him feel very good about everything. So when I come home and tell him about Kinsey, how hopeless the guy is, how rich he’s making us, it just makes everything even better.’

‘No jealousy?’

‘None.’

‘And Kinsey? Did it stop with dance and movement and the odd shag?’

For the first time Suttle caught a tiny hint of wariness in her face. She wanted to know exactly what he meant.

‘I get the impression Kinsey wanted to own everything,’ he said.

‘Including me?’

‘That’s my question.’

‘By taking me away from Milo? By moving me into his apartment? Some kind of trophy fuck?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why would I do that? When I’ve got Milo?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’m just asking.’

She nodded. Then her head went down and she picked at a nail.

‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘But he knew there’d never be a way.’

‘And Milo?’

‘He knew too. Which is why he never even asked the question.’

She got to her feet. Her mug was empty. She needed more hot water. Suttle didn’t move. He wanted to know about the film Kinsey was funding.

‘That was for Milo.’

‘I know. But it was you who got the money out of Kinsey.’

‘That’s true. He’d give me anything.’

‘A two grand down payment and forty-five to come? Have I got that right?’

‘Yeah. Jake was minted, though. That sort of money was nothing to him.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He told me. It was a little boast. He thought it might impress me.’

‘And did it?’

‘Never. A day with Milo is better than a lifetime with a man like that. He’d want to bang you up. He’d want to own you. I don’t want to be owned. I want to be set free.’

‘And Milo does that?’

‘All the time. And you know something else? He’s not even aware of how good he is. There’s not an ounce of malice in that man. He’s truly beautiful.’

She talked about the film they’d wanted to make and how excited Milo had been at the concept they’d both shaped. The spirit of the river. The ancient ghosts of long-dead Dutchmen haunting the Warren. And a love affair untainted by either time or circumstance.

‘We shot a trial sequence. Milo called it a taster.’

‘I’ve seen it. He showed me.’

‘Us getting it on?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think?’

‘Very impressive. Did Kinsey see it?’

‘Yes. It was his idea. He’d read the script and when he asked for a taster we left the choice to him.’

‘What did he say when he saw it?’

‘He thought it was great. That’s why he agreed to fund the rest of the movie. Did Milo tell you about that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the training stuff we’re doing for the club?’

‘No.’

‘Come.’

She poured herself more hot water and led Suttle to Milo’s PC. A couple of keystrokes took her into an editing programme. Suttle found himself looking at a bunch of people on a beach, mainly youngsters. They were listening to an older man in a grey tracksuit.

‘This was stuff Milo shot yesterday. He’s putting together a little movie for the club to help with fund-raising. That was the deal when Jake paid for the camera. You want to see Jake in the flesh?’

Suttle was staring at the screen. At the back of the group was a huge guy in a scruffy blue top. Beside him, dwarfed, was Lizzie. They seemed to be swapping glances. They seemed to be sharing a joke. He remembered the photo Houghton had been preparing to circulate, the mugshot she’d ripped from Kinsey’s camera in the pub. On the PC this same face was partially obscured. He had to be sure.

‘Who’s that?’ He touched the screen.

‘The big guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘His name’s Pendrick. Awesome man. Everything Jake wasn’t.’

Already she was running backwards through a blur of sequences. Finally she found what she was after.

Suttle bent to the PC. Another view of the same beach hung on the screen. A new-looking sea boat waited at the water’s edge. Kinsey’s crew were taking their seats, one by one. Suttle recognised the little guy steadying the bow as Lenahan. Big Andy Poole was already in the stroke seat. Pendrick was behind him. Then two other figures stepped into the frame. One of them was Donovan. The other, much smaller, had to be Kinsey.

He was first to the boat. He bent to adjust Donovan’s seat, then helped her in. His body language spoke volumes. He was bossy, the authority figure, almost proprietorial. This was his boat, his crew, his woman. Once Donovan was safely seated, he clambered into the bow seat and threw an order over his shoulder at Lenahan, who was knee-deep in the water, holding the boat against the current. Lenahan stowed the rope among a press of life jackets, gave the bow a nudge and stepped into the cox’s seat as Donovan and Kinsey eased the quad into the incoming tide. The quad paused a moment, then all four sets of blades were out and the boat was moving quickly upstream.

Kinsey rowed the way he seemed to do everything else. He was choppy, impatient, over-hasty, and as the camera panned the quad into the blaze of sunshine the blackness of the silhouette was unforgiving. Three sets of blades were in perfect harmony. Kinsey, the little guy in the bow, was always half a beat too early.

‘Stick insect,’ Suttle muttered.

‘Too right. Even I’m better than he was.’

Suttle asked her to go back to yesterday’s sequence. Donovan shot him a look.

‘You won’t find Kinsey there,’ she said.

‘I know. Just do it, please.’

They were on the beach again. The older guy in the tracksuit was walking back towards the slipway. As the camera panned left across the mill of young rowers, Suttle found himself watching his wife and Pendrick easing a two-seat rowing skiff into the water. The shot tightened as Lizzie made herself comfortable. She was laughing now as she leaned forward to tighten something that seemed to hold the blade in the gate. Then Pendrick knelt beside her in the shallows, talking her through some detail or other, and the camera settled on Lizzie’s face as she tried to follow him. Suttle hadn’t seen this expression for years. There was an eagerness, a hunger for what was coming next, and when the camera eased out again as Pendrick stepped into the bow seat Suttle caught the moment when she reached back to steady him.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘Pendrick. I just told you.’

‘I meant the woman.’

‘Fuck knows. I asked Milo that this morning. Apparently she’s new, just moved into the area, lots of potential. The girls say she responds well to coaching, really quick on the uptake. Definitely does it for Pendrick too. Just look at the guy.’

The skiff was on the move now, silhouetted against the sun, exactly the same effect Milo had conjured for Kinsey’s quad. The sheer bulk of Pendrick had wiped Lizzie from the shot and only her flailing oars were evidence that there was anybody else in the boat. The skiff was wobbling badly. The oars came to a halt. Then a cloud hid the sun and detail returned to the shot. Pendrick was leaning forward, his hand on Lizzie’s shoulder, his mouth inches from her ear.

Suttle had seen enough. He’d wanted to ask Donovan about the word flux and whether or not she knew Peggy Brims, the woman who lived in the apartment beneath Kinsey, but he no longer saw the point. He gathered up his notes and told Donovan she’d have to attend the police station to read and sign a formal statement. He’d do his best to have it ready by midday tomorrow but clerical staff were under enormous pressure and he couldn’t guarantee it.

Donovan was still looking at Milo’s shots from yesterday. On the way out, Suttle paused by the door.

‘You dye your hair that colour, right?’

‘Of course.’ She looked up at him, surprised.

‘So what colour was it before?’

‘Blonde.’

Pendrick phoned Lizzie in mid-afternoon. He’d just finished a rewiring job at a house in Woodbury and wondered whether she fancied a coffee.

‘I’m at home,’ she pointed out. ‘With an infant daughter and no car.’

‘You want me to drop round? No pressure.’

Lizzie thought about it for a split second.

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

She could hear the disappointment in his voice but knew she had no choice.

‘Don’t go,’ she said quickly. ‘Talk to me.’

‘About?’

‘You could start with last night.’

‘Last night was great. You know it was great. Except for the bloody rowing.’

‘Bugger the rowing. That was my fault. I meant the rest of it.’

‘The rest of it was what it was.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I’d love to see you again. Talk some more. Get one or two things straight.’

Lizzie giggled. She felt about twelve.

‘Nice idea,’ she said. ‘Let’s work on that.’

‘How about tomorrow? There’s a quad going up to Topsham. One of the girls wants to be subbed on the way back. It’s five miles. Could you cope with that?’

‘No problem.’ She was laughing now. ‘The mood I’m in I could cope with anything.’

Suttle took his interview notes back to the MCIT offices at Middlemoor. D/I Carole Houghton, to his intense relief, was at her desk upstairs. The missing head had finally turned up in a Bodmin wood a couple of hundred metres from the rest of the body, a discovery that had done nothing for her respect for intel.

‘This better be good,’ she warned as Suttle eased himself into her spare chair.

He took her briefly through the bones of the interview. Tash Donovan had freely admitted having regular sex with Jake Kinsey. She claimed that her partner was cool with this arrangement but Symons hadn’t mentioned it in interview. On the contrary, towards the end of their conversation he’d become visibly irritated at Suttle’s suggestion that Kinsey might have had some kind of relationship with Tash.

‘But he didn’t, Jimmy. That’s not how it happened. The way you’re telling it they danced round together and did lots of hippy stuff and had sex from time to time. He was paying her for it. That’s not a relationship. That’s business.’

‘Not to Symons. Not if you’re crazy about the woman. Not if she’s older than you and pretty much controls every aspect of your life. The way I see it, the guy’s hugely vulnerable. We could nick Donovan for child abuse.’

Houghton laughed. But she still wasn’t convinced.

‘There’s no way she’d have told you all that stuff if he didn’t know too. She’s putting it on the record before you get there first. That makes her clever, not guilty.’

‘Wrong, boss.’ Suttle wasn’t having it. ‘She wants me to believe that she and Symons have a great sex life. I’m in no position to know for sure, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Let’s say they get it on loads. Let’s accept it’s great for both of them. Let’s even agree that Symons knows about the deal with Kinsey and is happy to rent out his partner for five hundred quid a pop.’

‘It’s her decision, Jimmy, not his.’ The expression on Houghton’s face might have been a smile.

‘Sure. Fine. OK. But we’re missing something, aren’t we?’

‘What?’

‘Symons is a bloke. He knows about blokes. He knows how territorial they can get. More to the point, he knows Kinsey. And when it comes to territory, he knows that Kinsey has to be top dog. There isn’t a lamp post he won’t piss on. Including Tash Donovan.’

‘That’s unnecessary.’

‘My apologies. But you see the logic? You see where this thing leads? Symons knows Kinsey can’t help himself as far as Donovan’s concerned. He knows the guy probably wants every bit of her, for keeps. They win their race. All the guys get pissed in the pub. They go back to Kinsey’s apartment. Donovan’s the only one still standing. After Kinsey’s gone off to bed they all go home. Donovan and Symons are in their little car together. They have a monster row. Maybe Kinsey’s said something out of turn. Maybe he’s come on to Donovan in the apartment. Whatever. By the time they’re back home, or tucked up in some little lay-by, it’s got really nasty. Symons has had enough. He’s going to sort this guy out. Bosh. Back he goes.’

‘How does he get in?’

‘She’ll have a key. Bound to.’

‘So she’s part of this? She drives him back? Lends a hand? Gets rid of the guy who’s keeping them afloat?’

‘I’ve no idea, boss. All I know is that they’re alibiing each other but they’ve got fuck all corroboration. Plus Symons isn’t comfortable with what his partner’s up to. All it takes is a night on the piss. That and a decent opportunity. From where I’m sitting, Symons had both.’

Houghton nodded. It was true that booze played a huge part in most murders.

‘What about this film of his? Why would he want to kiss all that goodbye?’

‘Because there was something else in his life that was even more important.’

‘Donovan?’

‘Of course. These people are off the planet most of the time, Symons especially. I’m not saying for a moment that his movie wasn’t important. It was huge. But you know why? Because of her input. Because she made the running — the idea to begin with, getting the development money out of Kinsey, starring in their little movie trailer so Kinsey could perve over it, all of that was her. She’s the driver, boss. She’s in charge of this relationship. Without her, Symons would be nowhere. Fuck the movie. When Symons feels under threat, Donovan is what really matters.’

Houghton was silent. Suttle knew she sensed the logic in the case he was trying to make but he knew too that she was under the same cosh as Nandy. In every investigation you think court from the off. So where was the incontestable evidence to pin either of these people to Kinsey’s death? First call in any murder lay with the Crown Prosecution Service. And so far, as Houghton pointed out, the CPS wouldn’t waste a second on this horse shit.

‘It’s supposition, Jimmy. It’s a nice little fairy tale. It’s neat. It sounds more than plausible. But it’s still supposition.’

‘It’s early days, boss. We’re not through yet.’

‘You mean you’re not through yet.’

‘Exactly. Help would be nice but I’m not complaining.’

‘Remind me how long you’ve got on the Coroner’s file.’

‘Another week. Give or take.’

‘And will that be enough?’

‘Sure,’ Suttle forced a grin. ‘You’re spoiling me.’

He phoned Gina Hamilton when he got back downstairs. The office was still empty. He could tell at once that she’d been expecting his call.

‘How about an early drink?’ he said.

‘How about supper?’

‘Where?’

‘My place if you don’t mind pasta.’

‘I love pasta.’

She gave him a postcode and a street number. He’d never been to Modbury in his life.

‘What time?’

‘You say.’

Suttle checked his watch. 17.12. He still had a number of calls to make and the rush-hour traffic on the A38 could be brutal.

‘Seven o’clock?’

‘Perfect. If you’re late don’t even bother knocking.’

She rang off, leaving Suttle gazing at the phone. He knew he should be calling Lizzie. He knew, at the very least, he should give himself some kind of cover. A couple of late interviews. A squad meet he couldn’t afford to miss. But then he was back in front of Symons’ PC, watching Lizzie and Pendrick hauling the skiff away from the beach, and he knew he couldn’t be bothered. A moment later the office door opened and he found himself looking at the Office Manager. Leslie had taken a call earlier. It was personal for Jimmy and it sounded urgent.

‘She wouldn’t leave a name but she wants you to bell her,’ she laid a number on Suttle’s desk. ‘It’s a Portsmouth number. I checked.’

Pendrick called again as Lizzie was trying to wrestle Grace upstairs for a bath. Thinking it was Jimmy, she hesitated a moment then decided to ignore it, but when it rang a second time she returned downstairs.

Pendrick apologised for phoning so late. He hoped it wasn’t a problem.

‘It’s not. Did you phone just now?’

‘Yes. Tomorrow’s off. We’ve got a big front coming in and there’s no way we’ll be going to Topsham.’

‘Oh. .’ Lizzie tried to mask her disappointment. ‘Never mind.’

‘I had another idea.’

‘Does it involve rowing?’

‘Sadly not.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’

Pendrick laughed. He was planning a trip to the north coast. Wondered if she’d like to come along.

‘The north coast of where?’

‘Cornwall. Just a place I think you might like.’

‘Is Grace invited?’

‘No.’

‘At least you’re honest.’ It was her turn to laugh.

There was a moment of silence. Lizzie could hear a car approaching up the lane. She very much wanted it not to be Jimmy. The car went past.

‘What time?’ she said. ‘And where?’

Suttle made the call from a lay-by on the A38. As he expected, the number belonged to Marie Mackenzie.

‘I’ve made some inquiries,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I bothered but there it is.’

‘And?’

‘It turns out there’s very little I can do. Your friend Winter has made some serious enemies. These people aren’t as stupid as you might think.’

‘I never thought for a moment they were.’

‘Then this won’t come as a surprise.’

‘What?’

He listened intently for the best part of a minute, doing his best to shield the phone from the thunder of the passing traffic. Finally, at her prompting, he reached for a pen. In the absence of anything else, he wrote the number on the back of his hand. Pompey again.

‘And you really think they’ll leave Lizzie and Grace alone?’

‘Yes. As long as you make the call.’

‘I have your word on that?’

‘It’s not my word you need. It’s theirs. Make the call. That’s my advice. Everything else is down to you.’

Modbury was a small town cupped by rolling green hills south of the A38. Gina Hamilton’s house lay in a small estate of newbuilds. Suttle had looked at similar developments in Exeter last year when he was searching for somewhere they could live and knew he’d die in a house like this. Tiny windows. Tiny rooms. And a scrap of threadbare turf instead of a garden.

Hamilton’s Golf was parked outside, the tailgate open. The front door to the house was open as well and she stepped into the sunshine as Suttle approached.

‘I just got back myself,’ she said. ‘Give me a hand?’

Suttle helped her carry shopping and a couple of tins of paint into the kitchen. She’d been to Sainsbury and B amp;Q on the way home. Lots of stuff for the freezer and four bottles of Australian Chardonnay. Suttle gave her a bottle of red he’d picked up on the way over. The galley kitchen was spotless. A wine rack beside the fridge badly needed restocking and there was a National Trust calendar on the wall above a bowl of fruit. April featured a drift of purple crocuses at Lacock Abbey.

‘What are the green ticks?’ Suttle was still looking at the calendar.

‘I go running. The green ticks make me feel virtuous. Anything else you want to know about my social life?’

Suttle looked harder. Not much seemed to have happened over the last fortnight.

‘You find the Job knackers you?’

‘Yeah. But for the wrong reasons.’

She shot him a look but wouldn’t take the conversation further. She nodded at the vegetable basket beneath the work surface and asked him to sort out an onion and some garlic. Tomato paste in the fridge. Olive oil in the cupboard. She also fancied something to drink.

Suttle was looking at the remaining bottles of wine. The red he’d bought had been on offer, a South African Merlot that Lizzie adored.

‘You’ve got a corkscrew?’

‘Silly question. Drawer on the left.’

They sat down to eat half an hour or so later. The lounge diner extended the full depth of the house: magnolia walls, a big plasma TV and a line of stuffed animals carefully arranged on the Ikea sofa. This house, Suttle thought, might have belonged to Kinsey. No clutter. None of the chaos of normal life. No photos of family or friends. Just somewhere to crash after yet another day among the performance reviews.

Suttle poured more wine and asked how long she’d been in Modbury.

‘Just over a year. John and I went our separate ways and this was all I could afford. We used to have a place in Tavistock. It was sweet.’

‘John?’

‘My husband. He was a D/C on the drugs squad. The best. The very best. And that’s not just my opinion.’

She’d met him, she said, on the operation that had taken her to Pompey five years ago. He’d been driving the intel and she’d fancied him from the off. He was an older man, a grizzly bear of a guy, rock solid. The drugs operation had won her a commendation from the Chief, plus lots of media exposure, and she and John had got married within months.

‘That job was a real result,’ she said. ‘One of those moments when you think you’re immortal.’

Suttle nodded, telling her he’d been through something similar himself back in Pompey. He explained about the u/c operation to pot Bazza Mackenzie and all the plaudits that had followed. This guy had dicked them around for years and it was sweet to have finally nailed him.

‘Literally?’

‘Yeah. It got heavy at the end and the ninjas had to take him out. Incredible evening. He ended up in a shop full of snakes he happened to own. He was about to do something evil to the key informant and we had no choice. Bam-bam. You’re right. After that you feel you can do anything.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Afterwards I came down here.’

‘Good move?’

‘The best.’

‘You mean that?’

‘I do, yeah. But it’s not just about me, is it?’

There was a silence. Then Hamilton asked him whether he wanted to talk about it. Suttle told her about finding the cottage, about moving the family down, about living with a woman who couldn’t wait to take her life in another direction.

‘Why?’

‘Because living in the country drives her nuts.’

‘You still love her?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Then sort it out.’

‘I can’t. I try and I can’t. It just doesn’t work.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s become someone different, a different person. Because everything’s different. Have you ever had kids?’

‘No.’

‘They don’t help. We’ve got a daughter. She’s lovely. I adore her. But she doesn’t help.’

‘That’s harsh.’

‘But it’s true, believe me. If there’s something wrong in a relationship, if something’s not working, a child makes everything worse.’

Hamilton nodded and reached for the bottle. Her third glass. When she offered Suttle a refill, he shook his head. He wanted to know more about Hamilton’s marriage.

‘That didn’t work either.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I couldn’t let go of the Job. I’m good. I know I’m good. I’m ambitious too. It’s not going to end with D/I, not if I have anything to do with it, but these days that kind of pressure eats you up. You have to watch your back all the time. You have to make the right friends in the right places, walk the walk, talk the talk, make sure there’s nothing in your in-tray that’s going to come back and bite you in the arse. At the end of every day you’re wasted. And since you’ve asked, there’s another problem too.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m two people. At work I’m Ms Efficient. Ms Gimme. Ms Sort It. But you know something? It’s all pretend. I do pretend brilliantly. Pretend decisive. Pretend organised. Pretend savvy. People look at me and think wow, that woman’s got it cracked. But you want to know the truth?’ She touched her chest. ‘In here it’s all mush. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. It’s horrible. Just horrible. Some days I think I’m going mad.’

‘And John? Your husband?’

‘He saw right through it. He understood. He tried to make me get a grip, do something about myself, take the Job less seriously, but I never could. He’d got the Job totally sussed. He knew exactly what he was good at and he knew exactly where to draw the line. I don’t do lines. Which is why the marriage turned to rat shit. John gave up in the end and I don’t blame him. You’re right. You become strangers to each other. And after that you’re dead in the water.’

In the end, she said, John applied for a job in another force. She knew that it had been for her sake more than his and the gesture had touched her deeply.

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Dorset. He works out of Bournemouth. They’re lucky to have him.’

‘You’re divorced?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you still talk?’

‘Yes. Occasionally.’

‘And that’s OK?’

‘It’s weird. It’s like we were never married in the first place. You know my theory? We’ve all got a default setting and no matter what you do it’ll always reset.’

‘So what’s yours?’

‘Don’t go there.’

She went into the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine. Suttle was looking at the stuffed animals on the sofa. The biggest, the elephant, was pink.

Hamilton had appeared at the kitchen door.

‘Red or white?’

‘You choose. I’m driving.’

‘Yeah?’ She lingered a moment, then disappeared again. Suttle heard the pop of the cork. When she came back, Suttle asked her about the running.

‘You really want to know?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That was another drama. There’s a bunch of local joggers here and I joined up. They go out a couple of nights a week, decent distances, nice enough people I thought at first, but then some of the guys turned out to be pretty gross. We’d go to the pub afterwards and they’d find out you were living alone and after that they just wanted to get into your knickers. It wasn’t anything personal. They were all happily married, or that’s what they’d tell you, but then they’d come on to me like it was some kind of favour. It was so blatant. They assumed I couldn’t wait to get fucked. Like I say. Totally gross.’

In the end, she said, she’d abandoned the group outings and started running by herself. She had a handful of favourite circuits and lately she’d been wondering about getting a dog for company when winter came and the nights drew in. Either way she felt the exercise was keeping her half sane but there were moments when she doubted even that.

‘It’s really hard to explain. Some nights when I go out I take me with me. Then other nights I’m running with a total stranger. Does that make sense? Is that normal?’

Suttle laughed. Mercifully, he always excused himself serious exercise. He asked to use the loo. She directed him upstairs. Afterwards, drying his hands, Suttle could hear the clatter of plates in the kitchen. Her bedroom lay across the tiny landing at the top of the stairs. The door was open and he could see a pair of running shoes abandoned on the carpet. He stepped inside. The bed was turned down. A Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light across the whiteness of the sheet. There were more stuffed animals on the duvet, partly covered by a powder-blue towelling gown. Over the bed, hanging on the wall, a framed poster of Amy Winehouse.

Back downstairs, Suttle found himself looking at a plate of blueberries. His hunger had gone but he accepted a spoonful of cream.

‘You’re big on Amy Winehouse?’

Hamilton was pouring herself another glass of wine. Nearly a bottle so far, thought Suttle.

‘You’ve been in my bedroom.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m curious.’

‘About what?’

‘About you. About this. .’ He gestured around.

She nodded, sipped the wine.

‘Are we talking intel here? Or something else?’

‘You tell me.’

‘You think your luck’s in? You fancy a quickie before you go?’

Suttle didn’t answer. She was drunk now, something that probably happened night after night, and he sensed her neediness. He very definitely didn’t want to hurt her but he understood all too clearly where this might lead.

He reached out and took her hand.

‘I’m glad I came,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I needed to talk.’

‘Great. Happy to oblige.’ She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded down at the number scrawled on the back of his hand. ‘That’s a Portsmouth code. You want to tell me more?’

Suttle shook his head. He had to go. The meal had been great. Maybe they could meet again, his shout next time.

She looked at him, saying nothing, then her eyes went to the bottle and she lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

She accompanied him to the front door. He was reaching for the latch when he felt her hand on his arm

‘There’s something I meant to tell you,’ she said, ‘about Pendrick.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It turns out he kept half of the insurance settlement. That’s three hundred grand.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I checked on the charity’s website.’ She offered him a weary smile. ‘That’s what detectives do, isn’t it? You get that for free, by the way.’

Suttle nodded, then opened the door. ‘I’ll be in touch, yeah?’

‘Yeah?’

They both stepped out into the night air. Suttle held her for a moment. She was shivering in the cold. He kissed her briefly, thanked her again for the pasta and headed for the garden gate. The car door unlocked, he turned to wave goodbye but she’d gone.

Suttle was pushing 90 mph on the outside lane of the A38 when, too late, he saw the police car tucked into a lay-by. The road was empty. He throttled back and hoped to God they hadn’t tracked him with the radar gun. The patrol car had already pulled out and was accelerating hard. Then came the flashing blue light and Suttle knew they were going to give him a tug.

He was in the slow lane now, still decelerating, trying to play the good citizen. On his side of the carriageway he was the only vehicle for at least half a mile. He had to be the target. Had to be.

The patrol car was beside him now, the pale face in the passenger seat checking him out. He signalled Suttle to pull over. The next lay-by was a couple of hundred metres ahead. At a steady 40 mph, Suttle was trying to work out exactly how many glasses of wine he’d had. Two? Three? Getting pulled for speeding was one thing. Failing the breathalyser would land him with a driving ban, a disciplinary charge and possible suspension. Without a licence, the Job and life in general would become a nightmare. Not good.

The patrol car followed him into the lay-by. Both officers got out and approached the Impreza. The guy in the passenger seat squatted beside Suttle’s door. The wind had got up and rain pebbled on his hi-vis jacket.

‘Do you have your licence, sir? May I see it?’

Suttle produced his licence. The patrol officer scanned it quickly and handed it back. He was in his mid-forties. He looked unforgiving.

‘Where have you come from, sir?’

‘Modbury.’

‘And you’re going to. .?’

‘Home. Colaton Raleigh.’

‘Are you aware that you were exceeding the speed limit just now?’

‘Yeah.’

The patrol officer nodded. He’d caught the sour taint of alcohol on Suttle’s breath. Then his eyes strayed to the dashboard where Suttle had left a pass for the MCIT car park at Middlemoor.

‘In the Job, are you, sir?’

‘Yeah.’

‘CID?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you been drinking by any chance, sir?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, well. .’ The beginnings of a smile ghosted across the big face. Uniforms liked nothing better than nailing pissed detectives.

‘Out of the car if you please, sir.’

Suttle did what he was told. The officer read him the caution and warned him that he faced arrest if he failed a breathalyser test. The rain was heavier now and Suttle was soaking in seconds but he didn’t much care. One way or another, the next minute or so might decide the fate of his entire career.

The officer had returned to the patrol car to fetch the breathalyser. Suttle waited in the rain, wondering whether he should — after all — have stayed at Gina Hamilton’s place. Then he put the thought out of his mind. What will be will be. Fuck it.

The officer returned with the breathalyser. Suttle blew into the tube. The PC watched the figures on the readout climb and climb. His mate had joined him by now. Their backs were turned and Suttle caught a mumbled exchange before the officer was back in his face. The reading was just short of the figure that would haul him back to the nick for a blood test and a great deal of paperwork.

‘Who’s a lucky boy then?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. ‘Would you step this way, sir?’

Suttle sat in the patrol car while the PC wrote up his details for the speeding offence. Ninety-two mph would probably earn him a three-point deduction and a biggish fine. The deduction was no problem, and though the fine was a pain in the arse it was nothing compared to what might have happened.

Swamped with relief, Suttle closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the restraint. When the officer asked him whether he had anything to say with regard to his excess speed, he said he wanted to get home. The officer turned and shot him a look.

‘Little woman waiting up is she, sir?’

Suttle held his gaze and then shut his eyes again.

‘I doubt it,’ he said.

He was wrong. Lizzie was downstairs nursing a glass of red wine. Dexter was curled on her lap, ignoring the remains of a fish pie beside the chair.

She looked up as Suttle came in from the kitchen. His hair was plastered against the whiteness of his skull and the rain had darkened his suit.

Lizzie studied him a moment. The cat didn’t stir.

‘Should I ask where you’ve been?’ she said.

‘Sure. Why not?’

Suttle told her about his drive out to Modbury. A D/I called Gina Hamilton lived there.

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Bit of both.’

‘Nice evening?’

‘Not bad. I got stopped on the way back.’

He told her about the traffic car and the breathalyser.

‘And?’

‘I passed.’

‘Not too pissed then? To come home?’

Suttle knew exactly what lay behind the remarks and ignored them. Lizzie, in the parlance, was after the full account. What was this woman like? How come they’d met at her house? Why hadn’t he phoned her earlier? What was so important it couldn’t be done in office hours?

Suttle fetched a towel from upstairs. He’d never lied to Lizzie, and now wasn’t the time to start. He dried his hair as best he could and hung his jacket over the back of the kitchen door.

‘What do you fancy tomorrow?’ he said. ‘I thought we might go into Exeter. There’s a festival thing on.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Lizzie explained about a call she’d taken from one of the girls at the rowing club. After the wreath tribute on Sunday the crews were returning to the compound for a naming ceremony. The newest boat was to be called the Jake Kinsey after the guy who’d so generously signed the cheque. With luck, the media might use it as a photo opportunity.

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Suttle pointed out.

‘I know. We have to sort the compound out. Make it look half decent. A bunch of us are meeting at ten. I couldn’t say no.’

‘And that takes all day?’

‘I’ve no idea. Judging by the state of the place, it might well do.’

Suttle studied her for a moment, loosening his tie.

‘And Sunday?’

‘We’ve got the tribute thing. I have to go, Jimmy. There’s no way I can’t.’

‘OK.’ Suttle shrugged. ‘Whatever. .’

He turned away, trying to mask his anger, but she knew him too well to be fooled.

‘It was your idea, Jimmy.’

‘What?’

‘The rowing club.’

‘You’re right. So it’s me and Grace then. All weekend.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ She still hadn’t moved. ‘Welcome to my little world.’