Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (23 page)

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

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

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

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

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

‘Has he gone?’ Suttle sounded hopeful.

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

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

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

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

‘Back for more?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ever thought about the double?’

‘I wouldn’t know what a double is.’

‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pendrick, steadying the double, shot her a look.

‘It’s bullshit,’ he said.

‘Why? How?’

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

‘But what about the juniors? Those girlies?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How’s it going?’

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

‘And?’

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

‘Counterstrike?’

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

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

‘Anything else?’

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

‘What did it say?’

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

‘ShattAr.’

‘Spot on.’

‘So what did you say?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Right.’

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

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

‘Saying what?’

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

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

‘And you think that might work?’

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

‘Like what?’

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

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

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