Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (25 page)

‘And did it come?’

‘Yeah. Middle of the night. Turned us over. Total capsize. Kate was crying. She wanted out. She’d had enough. In the end the boat bobbed up again, righted itself, but she cried for hours, really quietly, no big drama. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say. She’d gone. It was hopeless.’

Lizzie wanted to know if this was when she disappeared. Pendrick shook his head. That happened weeks later. By the next day, he said, the storm had blown itself out. They did their best to get everything back together again, to lash stuff down, to figure out what was missing and what wasn’t, but the truth was that the fight had gone out of them.

‘You lose heart,’ he said. ‘Because you keep realising there’s something else you’ve lost, something else you can’t put your hand on. It’s a bit like being burgled. This stuff’s personal. It hurts.’

The worst, he said, was a stone that Kate had kept from the beach at Ao Lok. She’d hung onto it from the day Niran had disappeared, and now it too had gone.

‘We looked for it everywhere. We emptied the cabin, shook everything out, looked under the thwarts, tore the boat apart, but it had gone. That did it for her. After that, I knew she’d had enough.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She wanted to end it all. Slip overboard. Go where Niran had gone.’

‘And that’s what happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you talk about it? Before?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Good question.’ His glass was empty again. Lizzie wondered whether to buy him another Guinness but knew this wasn’t the moment. Her hand was back in his.

‘You know something about the sea?’ He nodded out beyond the promenade.

‘Tell me.’

‘It puts you to the test. Take on a voyage like we did, day after day, and if there’s the slightest weakness in the relationship, the sea will find you out. You set off on a high. You think you’re immortal. You think you’ll conquer the world. And then it turns out you’re wrong.’

‘So what happened?’

‘We got found out.’

‘Because of Niran?’

‘Because of me.’

‘You blame yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I should have been bigger, stronger, more attentive, more loving, more understanding, more . . .’ He shrugged. ‘What the fuck do I know?’

‘You know everything. Because you were there. And from where I’m sitting I doubt there’s anything else you could have done. We’re talking serious depression, right? Depression’s a horrible thing. It eats you away inside. You try really hard to get on top of it, you think you’ve got it nailed, and then you wake up next day and it’s
still
there. That’s Kate . . . no?’

‘Yes.’ He was studying her. ‘So how come you know all this?’

Lizzie held his gaze. Then she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.

‘Don’t ask,’ she muttered.

It was dark by the time Suttle decided to make the call. He’d put together a rudimentary stew and boiled a panful of rice. Twice he’d tried to call Lizzie but both times her mobile was on divert. There was no more Stella in the fridge and he couldn’t find the remains of Gill Reynolds’ Stolly.

‘Gina? Jimmy.’

‘Hi.’ She sounded far away. Non-committal.

‘I was just wondering about a meet.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah. We’re still on?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She paused. ‘Do you always call this time of night? Only I might have difficulty getting my head round that.’

‘Round what?’

‘Becoming your answering service.’

‘That’s not the way it is.’

‘Oh yeah? Tell me more.’

‘Like I said last night, I just need to talk.’

‘About Pendrick?’

‘About me.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s what I want to talk about.’

Another silence, longer this time.

‘Tell me something, Jimmy. Are you married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Kids?’

‘A daughter. Grace. She’s asleep upstairs.’

‘And do you love her?’

‘Yes. Very much.’

‘I meant your wife.’

It was Suttle’s turn to hesitate. The silence stretched and stretched.

‘That’s a no then,’ he said at last.

‘No to what?’

‘No to a meet. No to a conversation. I just thought . . . you know . . . sometimes you meet someone and you think there’s something there and you need someone to share stuff with and you lift the phone and . . . whatever.’

‘That someone would be me?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you think I felt the same? When we met?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re still talking. Because you haven’t told me to fuck off.’

‘You think I’d do that?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Good, because you’re right.’

‘You’re telling me to fuck off?’

‘No, Jimmy, I’m not. I’m telling you to sort out exactly what you’re after in that lovely head of yours and then pay me the compliment of a decent conversation . . .’ she paused ‘. . . at a reasonable hour.’

‘Like tomorrow?’

‘Like when you start to make some kind of sense. I’m in bed, by the way. If that’s important.’

The phone went dead. Suttle could hear Grace beginning to stir. Within seconds she was crying. Suttle brought her down and settled in the rocker again, trying to calm her.

It was gone eleven when Lizzie finally returned. She stood in the open doorway, framed against the chaos of the kitchen. Both the stew and the rice were cold.

Suttle asked her about the rowing.

‘Fabulous evening.’ Lizzie was grinning. ‘The best.’

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 & 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?