Western Approaches

Seven

SATURDAY, 16 APRIL 2011

Lizzie was out of the cottage by nine o’clock. Suttle was still in bed with Grace, celebrating last night’s escape with a lie-in. In truth, he’d no idea where Lizzie was really going but supposed the compound clean-up was at least semi-plausible. Whatever happened, he was certain that Pendrick would be around. Time and again he tried to fight off the image of his wife and one of Kinsey’s star rowers on the beach. He’d seen the grin on Lizzie’s face. He knew exactly what it meant.

She’d been that way with him once, playful and reckless, happy to surrender to something new and faintly exotic in her life. Suttle was a cop. She’d never fucked a cop before. More to the point, she really fancied him. That’s what had taken them to bed the first time and all the times after that, and when he’d recognised there was something really substantial there, something important, the knowledge had been all the sweeter because the laughter and the often brilliant sex had never stopped. Even pregnancy and motherhood hadn’t diminished her appetite for that raw enjoyment of each other, and it was only after the move west that married life had begun to seize up. They’d almost stopped talking. They’d definitely stopped laughing. And even the prospect of sex had become strangely awkward, something best avoided in case it sparked a row.

Suttle waited until the burble of the Impreza had disappeared down the lane. The temptation was to have a prowl around the bedroom in case Lizzie had left her mobile. Maybe she’d added Pendrick to her contacts file. Maybe they’d been texting each other. Maybe the other contents of her bag might yield a clue or two. He eyed the scatter of clothes she’d left beneath the window, wondering whether he really wanted to treat his own bedroom as some kind of crime scene, then decided against it. Grace, he knew, would be hungry. Thank God for someone else in his life.

Downstairs, he strapped Grace into her high chair in front of the TV while he went into the kitchen. Lizzie had forgotten to get the puréed banana out of the fridge so he put a saucepan of water on the stove to warm it up. Next door he could hear Grace kicking her legs in time to Horrid Henry. Even with the crap reception, the TV seemed to have become a permanent guest in the house, masking the never-ending drips that penetrated the silence.

Suttle went out onto the patio and put a call through to the Pompey number Marie had given him. The rain had cleared overnight and there was a clarity and brightness to the sunshine that lifted his spirits.

The number answered at once. Pompey accent again but a different voice.

‘I know you,’ Suttle said.

‘You do, son. You do.’

‘Dave Fallon.’

‘The same.’

Dave Fallon was an ex-6.57 who now ran one of Pompey’s biggest cab companies. He’d always been a special favourite of Mackenzie’s, a trusted lieutenant in the legendary Millwall rucks in the late 80s and a tactician of genius when it came to laying siege to some of the tastier away firms. Fallon affected a gruff Pompey swagger that led people to dismiss him as a mush, but Suttle had never been fooled. Mackenzie, he knew, had rated Fallon as one of the city’s top businessmen.

‘We need to meet, son,’ Fallon said.

‘Why?’

‘There’s no way I’m going into this on the phone. It has to be Monday night. You decide where.’

Suttle gave the proposition some thought. He didn’t want to go back to Pompey again. Not yet.

‘How about halfway?’ he said. ‘I’m in Devon.’

‘Wherever, mush. Your call. Have a think and bell me back, yeah?’

The phone went dead. Suttle checked on Grace then stepped back into the sunshine. Gina Hamilton was slower to pick up.

‘You,’ she said.

‘Me,’ Suttle agreed.

‘Get home OK?’

‘No.’

When he told her about the patrol car she laughed.

‘Your own fault,’ she said. ‘You should have stayed.’

She’d decided to turn the memory of last night into a joke, Suttle thought. Better that than more angst.

‘I need a favour,’ he said.

‘Another one?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So was I.’

‘Your husband. .’

‘John?’

‘Yeah. You told me he was in Bournemouth. If I asked nicely, would he mind my back on Monday night?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ She was laughing again. ‘I’ll give you his number and you can ask him yourself. Send him my best, eh?’

It was still early when Lizzie got to the rowing club. Tessa was already there with a couple of the other girls and they’d wheeled out the heavy boats prior to attacking the tangle of weeds that threatened to engulf the corners of the compound. A young guy Lizzie had never met was trying to coax some life out of a strimmer while a bunch of juniors lounged on the wooden steps of the Portakabin, enjoying the sunshine.

Over the next hour or so more rowers turned up to lend a hand to sort out the Portakabin, and by late morning the job was done. Tessa took Lizzie to one side. She’d broached an idea to the club captain about tomorrow’s tribute on the water and he’d given it the thumbs up.

With the exception of the newest quad, the Kinsey boat, the club’s entire fleet would be holding station off the dock. Upstream, meanwhile, the new quad would be waiting with Kinsey’s crew aboard. The moment the wreath hit the water they’d scull downstream at racing speed, carving a path through the fleet. Kinsey had been forty-one when he died. Once the quad passed the wreath, they’d put in another forty-one strokes before drifting to a halt and waiting for the rest of the fleet to catch them up. This little piece of maritime theatre, in Tessa’s view, would provide a focus for the cameras, the press, and however many spectators chose to turn up.

‘Great.’ Lizzie was wondering what this had to do with her.

‘It’s a question of the crew. Kinsey’s obviously no longer with us and Tom Pendrick’s decided he doesn’t want to do it.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve no idea. Ask him.’

Tash Donovan, she said, had agreed to stand in for Pendrick, which left one empty seat at bow.

‘So who have you got?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah. Clive and I agreed that we needed the newest recruit in bow. Clive thinks it’s symbolic, a vote of faith in the future. It’s a nice line for the press too.’ Clive Knightly was the club captain.

‘But I’m a novice,’ Lizzie pointed out.

‘That’s exactly the point.’

‘Racing speed? Are you serious?’

‘You’ll pick it up. Clive’s impressed already. We all are.’

‘Did you see me in the double the other night?’

‘We did. We think you had other things on your mind.’

‘Like?’

Tessa shot her a look. ‘You think we’re blind?’

Lizzie felt herself blushing. This was juvenile, she told herself. She began to protest again, telling Tessa the whole thing was out of the question, that she’d never hack something like that in front of other people, the whole club for God’s sake, but Tessa was adamant. The Kinsey crew would be on the water at least an hour before the ceremony. Racing starts were a piece of cake. All Lizzie needed was practice.

‘You should be flattered,’ she added. ‘This is as big as it gets in Exmouth.’

Pendrick turned up minutes later. He was driving a yellow VW van and bumped it onto the pavement on the seafront. Lizzie checked her watch. On the phone they’d agreed midday. It was two minutes past.

Pendrick leaned across and opened the passenger door. He was wearing jeans and a bleached-out T-shirt with a skull on the front.

‘You look like a biker,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Cornwall.’ He was looking down the cut towards the club compound. ‘Mystery tour.’

On the way out of Exmouth the weekend traffic was heavy. Lizzie had sneaked a look at the back of the van. Among the clutter of wetsuits and surfboards was a full-size blow-up airbed and a couple of sleeping bags.

‘You kip in here?’

‘When I have to, yeah.’

‘Cosy?’

‘Always.’

She told him about the addition to tomorrow’s ceremony. When she asked why he wouldn’t be rowing himself he just shook his head.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’ve got better things to do. This tribute thing’s a joke. Everyone hated the guy. All he had was money. Does that justify all this bollocks?’

‘But it’s not about him. Not the way I’ve been told. The club needs the publicity.’

‘Why?’

‘To bring in new members. To bring in money. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Profile? Presence?’

‘Sure. You’re right.’ He glanced across, gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Maybe I’ll help with the safety boat. Just in case you go overboard.’

‘Is that in the script?’

‘Christ knows.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time do you need to be back?’

Suttle took Grace on a tour of the village, mainly because she was beginning to drive him nuts. She was fretful and upset and whatever he did, however he tried to comfort her, nothing seemed to work. She’d stagger round the sitting room, banging into the furniture, yelling for her mummy, totally inconsolable, and in the end he strapped her in the buggy and set off down the road. Within a minute or so, probably exhausted, she’d fallen asleep.

A tour of Colaton Raleigh was a novelty for Suttle. He crossed the main road down by the store and kept walking. A line of cheerless bungalows led to the church. Beyond the church the road petered out. He lifted the buggy and carried it across a cattle grid. A path led towards the river. The meadows, dotted with cows, were boggy underfoot after the rain and the river itself was the colour of peat. He’d remembered to bring the remains of a stale loaf and he stood on the riverbank, wondering whether or not to wake Grace up. There were ducklings on the river, in line astern behind their mum, and he knew Grace would adore them, but in the end he opted for the rare moment of peace. On the way home, after a brief expedition to the village play-park, she was howling again.

The cottage, after the brightness of the sunshine, felt damp and airless. Suttle opened the windows and put the TV back on. He’d no idea whether Grace had any interest in rugby league but he thought it was worth a try. To his relief, it seemed to do the trick. She sat on his lap, peering at the screen, following the players with her tiny finger. After a while he settled her on the floor in front of the TV and went into the kitchen to sort her out something for lunch. He found a jar of mashed apricots in the fridge and cut up another banana to go with it. Grace gobbled up the fruit with evident relish, losing interest in the rugby.

‘You want to come outside? In the sunshine? Help Daddy sort the garden?’

She seemed to nod. Suttle carried the playpen outside and filled it with a small army of cuddly toys. The sight of Grace nursing a stuffed giraffe stirred memories of last night, and he found himself wondering whether Gina Hamilton had ended up preferring the company of stuffed animals to the complications of a proper relationship. Maybe that’s what lies in wait for us all, he thought. At least the animals never betray you.

Trezillion turned out to be a perfect cove nestling between two headlands west of Padstow. The tide was out and the blueness of the water stretched unbroken to the far horizon. Gulls were prowling among the hummocks of seaweed on the beach and a lone cormorant was patrolling the creamy froth at the water’s edge. It was a magical place, Lizzie thought. No wonder Pendrick had always treasured it.

Out of the wind, among the stands of marram grass on the dunes, it was warm enough to sit in the sunshine. They’d detoured through the outskirts of Camelford and Pendrick had shown her the council house where he’d grown up. Kate, he said, had come off the same estate. They’d gone to school together, learned how to get drunk together, and later — both mad about the rave culture — they’d hitchhiked up-country for festival after festival.

By now they’d both become hard-core surfers, and when the winds were right and a big Atlantic depression brought the heavy ocean swells rolling in, there was no better place to be than Trezillion. It wasn’t to everyone’s taste. A heavy break on the far side of the cove was tricky to get right and the shape of the bottom at certain states of the tide didn’t leave much room for beginners, but the sheer intimacy of the place made it one of Cornwall’s best-kept secrets.

‘Which I guess is what turned the little bastard on.’

A brown envelope lay between them on the blanket he’d brought from the van. Lizzie had been intrigued by its contents since she’d spotted it on the dashboard. Pendrick extracted a glossy-looking brochure and handed it across. They’d bought tins of Guinness and a cooked chicken from a Spar store on the Camelford estate. Lizzie licked the grease from her fingers and picked the brochure up.

‘Right here.’ Pendrick gestured at the photo on the front of the brochure. ‘That’s where he wanted to build. That’s the view you’d get. Exactly here.’

Lizzie checked the photo against the real thing. He was right. For £899K you could buy this view for the rest of your life.

‘And it’s going to happen?’

‘No one knows. Kinsey was the driving force, but he’s got a partner up north somewhere, and these days it’s all about property development. If the sums stack up, if there’s a profit to be had, my guess is he’ll make it happen.’

‘But it’s protected, surely. National Trust? RSPB? All that?’

‘Big deal. Money talks round here. Cornwall’s on the bones of its arse. It’s fine if you’re minted like Kinsey was. He’s pitching to people like himself, people with London property, zillions in the bank, not a clue what to do with it. Kinsey made it easy for them. You get the view. You get peace of mind, 24/7 security, high-end catering, like-minded neighbours, the whole deal. He sells this dog wank to the local planners, promises them a couple of memorial benches or a playground or whatever they want, and the rest is conversation. Thank you, Mr Kinsey. We’re grateful, Mr Kinsey. Just sign here, Mr Kinsey, and bung us a few quid to keep the punters happy.’

‘Punters?’

‘Us.’

Lizzie looked away, surprised by the venom in Pendrick’s voice. He really feels it, she told herself. And why not? He grew up here. He fell in love here. He’s carried this view to the other side of the planet and he still treasures it. Except it appears to be doomed, tucked into a developer’s swag bag and sold to a bunch of rich cardigans for silly money.

She took another pull at the Guinness, leaning against Pendrick, letting her head fall against his shoulder. She felt him stiffen, then relax again.

‘So what do you do about it?’ she asked.

‘You fight it whatever way you can. Not just me, dozens of other guys, hundreds of them. But you know what? We don’t have a prayer, none of us, because the whole fucking thing is a game and whoever dreams up the rules gets to win. This country’s fucked, Lizzie. You heard it here first.’

‘So what do you do about it?’ she asked again. Second time round it seemed an even saner question.

He didn’t answer. Instead he picked up the brochure and began to leaf through. His fingers left grease marks over the architect’s impression of life at Trezillion Oceanside. Finally, he tossed it aside. He was gazing out to sea.

‘Do you ever dream of sailing away?’ he said.

‘Yes. Since you ask.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ She reached up for him, kissed the stubble on his cheek. ‘So how would you do it?’

‘I’d buy a yacht. Something that would get me anywhere. I did the nav stuff for the crossing with Kate. I’d need hands-on experience but that wouldn’t be a problem.’ He was looking down at her. ‘How does that sound?’

Lizzie was stroking his arm.

‘It sounds great,’ she said. ‘What would you do for money?’

‘I’ve got money.’

‘Enough?’

‘Yeah. Money wouldn’t be a problem.’ He was lying full length now, his head propped on one arm. ‘So what do you think?’

‘I think it’s brilliant. I think you should do it. Unless. .’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless you want to buy one of these.’ She nodded at the brochure.

He gazed at her blankly. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘It’s a joke, Tom. Of course you wouldn’t do that.’

He looked at her a moment longer, still uncertain, then forced a laugh before popping another tinnie. He took a couple of swallows and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘How about you?’

‘How about me what?’

‘Would you fancy it?’

‘I’m married. I’ve got a little girl. I think I mentioned her.’

‘She could come too.’

‘That’s kind.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Yeah? Do you? Do you really?’

She put her tinnie down and cupped his face in her hands. There was something new in his eyes and it took her a moment or two to realise what it was. Alarm.

‘Does this bother you?’ Her fingers followed the crease of the scar down his face. ‘Because it shouldn’t. You want to know a secret? I’ve got a scar too. Down here. Way down below my belly.’

‘How come?’

‘It happened when I was a kid. I was climbing some railings with a friend and slipped and got caught by the spike. My mum always said it could have been worse, but the older I got the uglier it made me feel.’

He smiled at her. She kissed him on the lips.

‘You’re a beautiful man, do you know that?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘Yes. Believe me. You are. Take it from me, people like you are rare. How does that work? You’re rare because you take a risk or two. You’re rare because you stick to what you believe in. And you’re rare because you dare to care.’

She broke off, embarrassed. Rare, dare, care. She hadn’t meant it to come out that way. Garbage like that belonged in a Hallmark card.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘So how would you feel about it? Hopping aboard and sailing away?’

They were nose to nose now, the wind fluting through the marram grass.

‘I don’t know you,’ she said.

‘You do.’

‘No.’ She moistened a finger and traced the shape of his lips. ‘But maybe we could remedy that.’

‘Sure.’ He didn’t sound at all certain. ‘And then?’

‘Then we’d be closer. Then we’d get to know each other. Properly.’

He nodded, said nothing. He seemed to have lost focus. He was gazing out to sea again. He wanted to talk about the places they could go, the beaches he could show her, the people she could meet. Simple people. Real people. People who’d never let you down.

‘Are we talking Thailand?’ she said softly.

‘Yeah. And a thousand other places. Think about it, Lizzie. Please.’

The conversation appeared to be over. They lay in silence for a while. The stiffening wind was blowing sand in Lizzie’s face. She thought about seizing the initiative, about taking him by the hand and going back to the van and making a space in the back for the airbed. It might work. It might even be wildly successful. But something told her that this was the last thing he wanted and she didn’t understand why.

‘Do you find me attractive?’ she asked after a while. ‘Be honest.’

‘I love you.’

‘That’s a big word.’

‘I know. I mean it.’

‘But how do you know?’

‘I just do. It’s something you feel. Don’t ask me how. It’s just there. It’s happened. It’s real. It exists. It just feels. .’ he shrugged ‘. . right.’

Lizzie said nothing. This was a conversation that was fast getting out of control. She closed her eyes. Could you really fall in love that quickly? And if you could, should you ever admit it?

She felt a movement beside her and became aware of his face looming over hers. He was smiling.

‘The answer’s yes,’ he said softly. ‘Of course I find you attractive.’

‘Do you fancy me?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good.’ She nodded. ‘Good.’

Another silence, longer this time. Pendrick lay back again, his huge hands clasped behind his head, his eyes closed. She wanted to kiss him properly, to unpick a little of the mystery that was complicating something that should have been so simple, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It wasn’t meant to be this way. She’d wanted them to make love, to share each other physically, to get to a place beyond the rights and wrongs of stony-hearted developers and the wickedness of the Western world, but deep down she realised it wasn’t going to work. For all his talk of falling in love, something was holding him back.

At length she picked the brochure up and flicked through it again, aware that he was watching her. She looked up at him.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘Kinsey’s apartment.’ He seemed to be smiling at the memory. ‘If you want the truth, I nicked it.’

It was gone six before John Hamilton phoned back. Suttle had left a message on his mobile asking him to call. Suttle was still introducing himself when Hamilton interrupted.

‘I know who you are,’ he said.

‘How?’

‘I got a call from Gina. She seems to think you’re all right. Does that come as a surprise?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘Should I know more?’

‘There isn’t more to know.’

‘Ah. .’ Suttle thought he caught the softest of chuckles. ‘Then I think I understand.’

Suttle briefly described the meet he was setting up for Monday night. Bournemouth seemed a good location, but he didn’t know the town and he needed a steer on an appropriate rendezvous.

‘Is that all you need?’

‘No. I want someone to watch my back. Put me down as paranoid but in this kind of company I need to have a backstop.’

‘Sure. That’s understood.’

Hamilton said he had a flat in Westbourne. There was a Café Rouge up the road at the end of a crescent of shops. Suttle could get directions from Google or his satnav. The parking was fine across the road and the cafe might do nicely. He’d be happy to ride shotgun.

‘That’s good of you.’

‘Not at all. Blame my crazy wife.’

‘You’re still married?’

‘Yes.’ The chuckle again, but louder. ‘She told you otherwise?’

Lizzie was back in Exmouth by half six. She and Pendrick had shared the journey back in a companionable silence. He’d reached for her hand from time to time, a form of physical solace that made Lizzie begin to suspect that Pendrick — in some dimly understood way — was damaged goods. When he stopped on the seafront and let her out beside her car, he wanted to know when he’d see her again.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m the girlie in bow making a fool of herself.’

She drove home, increasingly perplexed. In many respects it had been a lovely afternoon. In others, though it shamed her to admit it to herself, it had been deeply disappointing. On the way up to the north coast she’d rather assumed they’d get it on. She was curious to know whether they’d work together, and to be blunt there was only one way of finding out. Yet it hadn’t happened, and the more she thought about it the more she realised that it probably never would.

There was a wariness in Pendrick that seemed to stand guard against the encroachments of the outside world. You stepped towards him and extended a hand only to watch him back off. To begin with she’d blamed herself for being too eager, too pushy, but then she found herself wondering why he and his wife had never had kids. Did they ever screw? Or had the marriage been based on something else?

In truth she didn’t know, and as she turned the Impreza onto the parking area beside Chantry Cottage she found herself confronting another surprise. Driving up the lane, she’d assumed that the curl of blue smoke had come from the adjoining farm. Now she was watching her husband circling a sizeable bonfire with his daughter in his arms.

She got out of the car. Suttle met her on the patio. He smelled of woodsmoke. He told her he’d had a great day. Even Grace was beaming. Together, they toured the garden. Suttle, it turned out, had parked Grace in her playpen in the sunshine and taken a scythe to the long grass. He’d hacked away at the dead vegetation along the wall that led down to the brook and raked a small mountain of twigs and assorted leaves into a monster bonfire. A lot of the stuff was still wet, he said, hence the lack of a proper flame, but if the weather held over the coming week he’d have another go.

Lizzie was surprised and impressed. With her eyes half closed the garden resembled a savage grade two. Far more importantly, her ever-distracted husband had at last made a start on the chaos of their domestic life. She lifted Grace from Suttle’s arms and gave her a hug. Suttle wanted to know how the clear-up at the club had gone.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But it took for ever.’

Later, after Lizzie had put Grace to bed, Suttle made supper and explained about Monday night. Lizzie, who knew Dave Fallon by reputation from her days on the Pompey News, warned Suttle to be careful. He said he’d already taken care of it.

‘How?’

‘The D/I I saw last night? She’s got an estranged husband who lives in Bournemouth. He’s agreed to keep an eye on me.’

‘That’s nice of him.’

‘Gina’s doing. Not mine.’

‘She vouched for you?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So what’s in it for her?’

The moment she said it Lizzie knew she’d kicked open a door she should have left well alone.

Suttle was standing by the cooker, stirring a pan of fried rice.

‘How about you?’ he said softly.

‘How about me what?’

‘How about you and all your new buddies?’

‘You mean the rowing club?’

‘Sure. Unless it’s gone beyond that.’

‘Beyond what? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘You haven’t? A couple of nights ago you’re back at eleven. What’s going on with these people? Do they row in the dark?’

‘We had a drink.’

‘Who had a drink?’

‘A bunch of us. They’re very social. That’s nice. Bit of a novelty, if you want the truth.’

‘And today? Out at nine? Back at six? That’s a lot of sweeping-up.’

‘It was a shit heap. I told you.’

‘Sure.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘No.’

‘You think I’m lying?’

‘I think you’re hiding something.’

‘Same thing, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘It is.’

‘Great. You want the truth? Then here it is.’ Lizzie stepped towards him. A vivid blush of colour pinked her face. He could feel her anger. ‘Just for the record I object to this cop routine. I’m your wife, not some bloody suspect. I’m sure you’re great in interview but marriage is a different gig. Have I been fucking some he-man rower? No. Have I been tempted? As it happens, yes. Why? Because I can’t stand living the way we live.’

Suttle nodded. He’d given up on the fried rice.

‘So where did you go this afternoon?’

‘I’m not answering that question.’

‘But you did go somewhere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great.’ He turned back to the pan and gave the rice a savage poke. ‘Thanks for fucking nothing.’

‘You spent last night with a woman who just happens to live alone.’ Lizzie was in his face now. ‘You came home at God knows what time. Good was she? Worth it?’

‘She’s nuts, if you really want to know. Totally out of her tree.’

‘Perfect.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you could fuck the arse off her and walk away. No commitment on your part. No comeback. A totally risk-free screw. Like I say, perfect.’

‘And you think that’s what I did?’

‘I don’t know. Because you won’t tell me. And even if you told me, even if we had a conversation, I’m not sure I’d believe you.’

‘You wouldn’t?’

‘No. Not now. Not here. Not the way we are.’

‘Great. Then that’s it, yeah?’

‘That’s what?’

‘Everything. You. Me. Grace. This khazi of a house you hate so much. Let’s just bin it, shall we? The lot.’

‘Call it a day?’

‘Sure. If that’s what you want.’

She stared at him for a long moment. She was shaking inside. She’d never imagined a scene like this. Never.

‘I’m sorry.’ She reached for the car keys. ‘I’ll go.’

She drove fast, keeping to the country lanes, swamped by her anger, fighting to concentrate on the next bend and the bend after that. Among the trees on top of the common, she nearly killed a fox. She had time to register the piercing redness of its eyes in the darkness as it turned to face her headlights. Instinctively, she stamped on the brakes and swung the wheel to the right, heading for woodland at the side of the road. The car shuddered and began to slide sideways. Finally it stopped. Lizzie closed her eyes. She was shaking again. Then she opened the door and threw up.

Exmouth was fifteen minutes away. She knew that Pendrick lived in a web of streets near the river and the station. She drove up and down, looking for his van, trying to fix his front door in her mind. There’d been some kind of card in the window of the flat downstairs. A tatty knocker and peeling paint on the door itself.

Finally, she found it. She parked across the road and switched the engine off. The light was on in the upstairs flat and the curtains were pulled back. She stared up at it for a long moment, trying to steady her pulse, trying to regain control of herself. She’d never snapped like that in her entire life, and the knowledge of where it might lead alarmed her deeply. She’d never been frightened of making decisions. On the contrary, especially at work, she’d won a reputation for being on top and ballsy in the trickiest situations.

This, though, was different. She’d pushed married life to the very edge of the cliff and she wasn’t at all sure what she wanted to happen next. She needed to talk this thing through. She needed a listening ear, someone who’d understand, someone who wouldn’t take advantage. Pendrick, she knew, would give her that kind of space, that kind of attention. If necessary, she could stay over. Whether she slept in his bed or not didn’t matter. She wanted to be close to somebody. She wanted to be touched, to be held, to be told she wasn’t some ditzy slapper cheating on her husband. Chantry Cottage had never been a great idea. She wanted out.

She rinsed her mouth with water from the bottle Jimmy kept in the glovebox. Then, reaching for the door handle, she paused. There was movement in the upstairs window. Someone was standing there, staring down at the street, a black silhouette against the light inside. It was a woman. She turned her head and must have said something because she was joined by another figure, bigger, broader. It was Pendrick. For a moment or two he and the woman were both immobile, watching her, then Pendrick reached out for the curtains and the tableau was gone.

Lizzie stared up at the window, trying to make sense of this image. Then her gaze lowered to Pendrick’s van at the kerbside. Parked in front, neatly wedged into a tiny space, was a small black sports car.

Suttle was asleep when Lizzie slipped into bed beside him. She touched his face, told him she loved him, told him she was sorry, promised it would never happen again. Suttle stirred, grunted something she didn’t catch, then rolled over. When dawn broke, hours later, she was still lying there, staring up at the damp patches on the ceiling, the tears cold on her cheeks.