Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (10 page)

‘So what are you telling me?’

‘Nothing, sir. Except no one seems surprised that the guy’s dead.’

‘You think someone killed him?’

‘I think he may have had it coming.’

‘And we can prove that?’

‘Of course not. Not yet.’

‘But you think we might?’

‘I think it’s possible, sir, yes.’

Suttle was getting uncomfortable. The last thing he wanted was a public pissing match with Nandy.

Houghton stepped in. The post-mortem, she reminded everyone, was scheduled for tomorrow morning. After that, things might be a great deal clearer. In the meantime, D/S Suttle would be pulling together the background intel.

Suttle nodded, glad of the reprieve. There was a pile of Kinsey’s files on his desk, material seized from the apartment, and he’d be spending most of tomorrow trying to build a picture of the man’s life.

Houghton wanted to know what they’d missed. She was still looking at Suttle.

‘Pendrick,’ he said. ‘We still haven’t nailed the guy.’

Houghton nodded. Detectives had returned to his flat throughout the day but failed to raise him. Messages left on his mobile had gone unanswered. She’d tasked two D/Cs to sit on his address throughout the evening. If necessary, they’d be relieved by another shift at midnight. SOC had already retrieved some shots of last night’s celebration from Kinsey’s camera, and a process of elimination had ID’d Pendrick. If the guy hadn’t turned up by first thing tomorrow morning, she’d be circulating the mugshot and other details force-wide.

Houghton had printed a couple of photos. Suttle, reaching for one of them, found himself looking at a big guy in his mid-thirties. A brutal grade one darkened his shaved skull and there was something about the cast of his face that seemed vaguely familiar. He had a deep scar that tracked diagonally down his right cheek and he was wearing jeans and a blue sweat top that had seen better days. Unlike the rest of the crew, he wasn’t punching the air. On the contrary, he seemed preoccupied, almost detached. A loner, he thought, remembering Symons’ parting shot.

The meeting broke up. Nandy told Suttle to stay put. Already Suttle sensed what was to come. It was this man’s job to match ever-thinning resources against the incessant demands on the Major Crime machine. MCIT inquiries were horribly expensive, as the headbangers at HQ were only too eager to point out. In any enquiry the only currency that mattered was evidence.

‘We’ve got Kinsey’s crew alibied. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir. With the exception of Pendrick.’

‘And Scenes of Crime have found nothing material in the apartment?’

‘Not so far.’

‘We’ve no witnesses to what happened?’

‘No.’

‘And not much prospect of finding any?’

This was a question Suttle wasn’t prepared to answer. He didn’t go as far back as Nandy, nowhere near, but his years on the Major Crime Team in Pompey had taught him never to discount a surprise. Solid effort, meticulous investigation and a helping of luck could sometimes transform a faltering enquiry and something told him that
Constantine
was far from over.

Nandy rarely left a suspicion unvoiced.

‘You don’t think this man had an accident, do you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And you don’t think he topped himself?’

‘I think it’s unlikely.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he doesn’t seem that kind of guy.’

‘Who says?’

‘Pretty much everyone.’

‘I see.’ Nandy nodded and turned away.

There was a long silence. Suttle thought the conversation was over. He asked whether the Det-Supt would be down in Exmouth tomorrow. Nandy ignored the question. He hadn’t finished with Kinsey.

‘You think these people knew him, this man? Really knew him? You think anyone knows anyone? You really think there aren’t parts of us we keep hidden? You? Me? Every other poor sod?’

Suttle blinked. This was suddenly personal. He seemed to have touched a nerve in Nandy, stirred feelings much deeper than irritation at defending his precious budget.

Nandy hadn’t finished. He said he’d lost count of the sus deaths he’d tried to stand up as murder. As a younger copper he’d taken far too much notice of people telling him that so-and-so would have been incapable of suicide. They were probably sincere, they probably meant it at the time, but the truth was that deep down we were all in the dark, all strangers to each other.

‘You don’t believe that?’ There was something almost plaintive in his voice. ‘You don’t think that’s the way we really are?’

Suttle left the nick shortly afterwards. He’d phoned ahead, checking in with Lizzie, but had raised no answer. The road back to Colaton Raleigh took him down into the town centre. On an impulse he headed for the seafront. The rowing club lay at the far end of the long curve of yellow sand. He found a parking space on the promenade and got out.

The days were lengthening now and the sun was still high in the west. The tide had turned a couple of hours ago and water was pouring back into the mouth of the river. After a morning of low cloud and drizzly rain Suttle could scarcely credit the transformation. A sturdy little trawler was wallowing in through the deep-water channel, a cloud of seagulls in pursuit. More gulls wheeled and dived over the distant smudge of Dawlish Warren while a pair of cormorants arrowed seawards, barely feet above the churning tide.

Watching the cormorants, Suttle thought suddenly of Joe Faraday. His ex-boss had been a manic birder. On a number of occasions down by the water in Old Portsmouth he’d abandon a review of this job or that to bring some passing blur to Suttle’s attention. Suttle, who knew absolutely nothing about birds, had always been touched by this passion for the natural order of things. Faraday, to his certain knowledge, had despaired of the chaos that passed for daily life, and from the world of birds he appeared to derive both comfort and solace. Nature, he’d once confided, represented sanity. You could rely on a mother to feed her chicks. You could set your watch by the arrival of birds of passage. Spot a skein of Brent geese lifting off for the long flight north, you knew it had to be April.

Suttle paused on the front, enjoying the sun on his face. Nandy, somewhat to his surprise, seemed to share a little of Faraday’s view of the world. In Faraday’s case, deep pessimism had hardened into despair – and it was that despair, in the end, that had taken him to his death. Nandy, on the evidence of six busy months, appeared to be far more robust, but after their last exchange, just minutes ago, Suttle was beginning to wonder. Was there something that came with higher command, some subtle alteration to your DNA, that took you to a very bad place? Had Nandy been serious about the stranger at the heart of every friend?

In truth, he didn’t know, and just for a moment, standing in this puddle of sunshine, the wind in his hair, he knew he didn’t much care. He liked this new job of his. There wasn’t much of a social life as far as work was concerned because most of the guys lived a fair distance away, scattered across the hugeness of Devon. Some lived up near the north coast, an area they referred to as the Tundra. A commute like that didn’t leave much room for a pint or two after work, and in any case most of his new colleagues had young families to think about, a gravitational tug about which Suttle knew a great deal.

He grinned to himself. Despite the grief he was occasionally getting from Lizzie, he loved going back to Chantry Cottage. He wasn’t the least bit daunted by the ever-lengthening list of jobs he had to sort and rather liked the way they’d managed to turn camping into a way of life. Nocturnal scufflings from the mice, he told himself, brought you closer to nature. That had to be good for Grace, and good for all of them in the end, and if Lizzie occasionally lost her sense of humour then so be it. Faraday, he thought, would have definitely approved.

On the point of returning to the car, his eye was caught by wheel marks tracking down to the water’s edge. Then he spotted a boat trailer, tucked up beyond the tideline. The trailer was tiny, way too small for the big sea boats he’d seen earlier in the club compound, and he peered out at the water, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, not quite sure what he might find.

For a long moment he could see nothing but the dance of the incoming tide. Then he caught a movement, a black speck, away to the east.

The speck was moving fast, buoyed by the tide. Within seconds he could make out the shape of a single rower. He was big, powerful. He was wearing a red singlet. Each stroke seemed to flow effortlessly into the next one, his long arms reaching forward, his legs driving hard, his hands tucking the oars into his body until the cycle started all over again and he leaned forward over his knees, his hands feeling for the grain of the water, driving the tiny scull closer and closer.

Suttle grinned to himself, suddenly recognising what Lizzie needed in her life, what would chase the demons away, what would put the sunshine back. She should be down here. She should have her three free rows and get stuck in. She’d never been frightened by exercise. Back in Pompey she’d been running two or three times a week. She loved the water too, and they’d often fantasised about getting a little dinghy and sailing across to the Isle of Wight.

Suttle fumbled for his mobile, hoping Lizzie would pick up. Good news was for sharing. The sculler had stopped now and was drifting down with the tide, his body sagging, his head on his chest. Then came Lizzie’s voice on the phone. She sounded exhausted. And there was something else there. Anger.

‘Thank Christ it’s you,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough.’

He found her curled in a ball in the darkness of the living room. He’d never seen her sucking her thumb before. Even Grace, safe in her playpen, was looking anxious.

Suttle squatted beside her. She’d been crying. He knew it. Another first.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I don’t know.’ She clung to him. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘Shit.’ He held her close. ‘Tell me. Just tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. I’m just . . . Fuck . . .’ Her hand felt blindly for the tissues balled beside her. ‘This is horrible . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m really sorry.’

‘But what is it? Tell me. What’s happened?’

She began to cry again, gulping for air, real pain, real misery. Suttle tried to get to his feet but she wouldn’t let go. Grace couldn’t take her eyes off her.

At last she released her grip. Her face was shiny with tears.

‘I’m useless,’ she whispered. ‘Totally pathetic. Ignore me. Forget it. I’m sorry to get you back like this.’

‘I was coming home anyway,’ Suttle pointed out.

‘I know but . . .’ She sniffed. ‘This is the last bloody thing you need.’

Suttle struggled to his feet and she stared up at him then turned her head away. Grace was agitated now, shaking the wooden bars of her pen in bewilderment. Suttle lifted her up and gave her a cuddle. She struggled in his arms. She wanted to be with her mum.

Lizzie reached out, taking the baby.

‘It’s on the table,’ she said.

Suttle found her mobile. It was still switched on. He read the message.

‘Who’s this from?’

‘Gill.’

‘Gill Reynolds?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she wants to come down?’

‘She
is
coming down.’

‘You said yes?’

‘I did.’

‘Shit.’

‘Quite.’

Suttle absorbed the news. He’d never had any patience with Reynolds. Once you got past the obvious there was nothing there but self-obsession. As long as she’d just been a mate of Lizzie’s, Suttle had bitten his tongue, but after what happened to Joe Faraday he’d consciously blanked the woman from his life.

‘I’ll cancel her,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’

‘I’ve tried.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. I gave myself a talking-to. I knew you wouldn’t want her down. It took me for ever to make the call but in the end I did it.’

‘And?’

‘It made no difference. You know what she’s like. She never listens.’ She took a deep breath and held Grace tight. ‘Tomorrow morning. Around twelve.’

‘I’ll phone her again.’

‘It’s pointless. You could go one better though.’

‘How?’

‘By being here.’

Suttle thought about it, tallying the work he had to get through by lunchtime. Day two of
Constantine
. No chance.

‘I can’t, my love.’

‘You could. If it was that important.’

‘Of course it’s important. You’re important. You’re both important. All this is important. But I can’t just—’ He broke off. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll phone her.’

Lizzie began to protest again, telling him she’d cope somehow, but Suttle wasn’t listening. The weakness of the signal drove him onto the patio. It was a beautiful evening, the sun sinking in the west, the wind beginning to die. They’d discovered a troop of ducklings on the stream at the bottom of the garden only yesterday. Suttle could hear them pestering their mother.

‘Gill?’ Suttle could feel the patio slabs moving under his weight. ‘Is that you?’