Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (16 page)

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

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

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

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

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

‘That’s me.’

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

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

‘That’s right. I did.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lizzie was still looking at the programme.

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

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

‘The hair,’ he said. ‘Am I right?’

Hamilton had got to her feet, extending a hand.

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

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

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

‘Performance reviews.’

‘What did you do wrong?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Except Pendrick?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Just disappeared?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No huge waves during the night?’

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

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

‘Nothing.’

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

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

‘So not at night?’

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

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

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I had no grounds not to.’

‘That wasn’t my question.’

‘I know.’

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

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

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

‘They were their words, not mine.’

‘You talked to these guys?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

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

‘And then?’

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

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

‘Did you
like
Pendrick?’

‘What sort of question is that?’

‘Well? Did you?’

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

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

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

‘Because of his wife?’

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

‘There was other stuff?’

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

‘Meaning he had something to hide?’

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

‘Fuck-off private? Or private private?’

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

‘Because?’

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

Suttle smiled. Nicely phrased, he thought.

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

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

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

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

Hamilton frowned, doing the calculations.

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

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

‘Of course.’

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