Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (26 page)

At this point her faith in the brisk succession of affirmatives began to waver. Twenty-four hours ago, after a night of feeling more alone, more vulnerable, than she could ever have imagined, she’d been ready once again to scoop up Grace and leave. Now, after last night, she hadn’t the first idea how she felt. Meeting a giant of a guy who’d lost his wife to the sea was the last thing she’d ever expected. Among the swamp of emotions he seemed to have unleashed – surprise, curiosity, plus a deep, deep sympathy – was something else. Excitement.

At every level, if she had it right, this man seemed to care about her. More importantly he seemed to understand exactly what she was feeling. After the pub he’d taken her to his place. He lived in an upstairs flat at the back of Exmouth. He’d made her coffee and asked her to sort out a CD for the audio, and agreed that Neil Young could definitely turn a shit day into something altogether more mellow.

For the rest of the evening they’d sat on the sofa and he’d asked about her – who she really was, what she really wanted – and after a while she’d seen no point messing with the truth. She was living with a really sweet guy who was turning out to be different to the man she’d married. He had a job he loved. He adored the countryside. He was crazy about his daughter. But it hadn’t occurred to him for a second that his wife was going nuts.

Until now, she said, that hadn’t really mattered. Until now, she’d been able to cope. Just. But stuff was happening that she didn’t want to talk about and she’d realised, maybe late in the day, that she was living with a stranger.

Pendrick had said very little. The lamp on the bookcase behind the sofa threw his face into deep shadow, hiding the scar, and it was hard to gauge exactly what he was making of this story of hers. When she finally stopped talking, feeling the first twinges of guilt, he drew her towards him and said he’d like to help. When she asked how, he said he didn’t know. The most precious relationships, in his view, were based on conversation, on sharing, on those precious moments when a phrase or a memory or even an opinion proved you weren’t entirely alone. Laughter mattered, he said. And so did the preparedness to take a risk or two.

‘Like rowing the Atlantic?’ she’d asked.

‘No,’ he’d said. ‘Like this.’

She’d left shortly afterwards, kissed him in the darkness of the hall downstairs, thanked him for his patience. He’d walked her to the door, told her to take care on the drive home, given her his mobile number in case she wanted to talk more.

‘There’s more?’ She’d been looking at him from the street. And she’d loved the grin on his face.
He feels it too
, she’d told herself, driving home.

It was early afternoon before Suttle heard back from the Pier Head property developers. The voice on the phone introduced himself as one of the prime movers in the project and enquired as to the exact nature of Suttle’s interest. Suttle explained about Kinsey and asked whether he’d had any kind of stake in the development.

‘None at all, I’m afraid. It’s way too early for anyone to be buying off-plan. I’m afraid Mr Kinsey isn’t on our radar.’

Disappointed, Suttle thanked him for his time and struck the Pier Head development off the fast dwindling list of possible lines of enquiry. So far, he’d resisted the temptation to trawl through the local escort agencies in search of Thai lovelies, preferring to wait for sight of Kinsey’s financial records. These days, unless they were married and had secrets to keep, most punters paid with their credit cards. On the point of trying Natasha Donovan again, Suttle looked up to find Luke Golding at his door.

‘Sorry, Sarge. I got waylaid this morning. Houghton’s fault.’

‘Has she found the head yet?’

‘No.’

Golding took a seat. Last night, he said, he’d stayed up until two in the morning in the hope that ShattAr might appear.

‘And?’

‘He did. 01.49. I sent him a message through Steam. Asked him for a link to his Facebook profile. Told him I was setting up an account of my own.’

‘Did you get a reply?’

‘No. But that means nothing.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We wait, Sarge. And I get better at playing bastard Counterstrike.’

Minutes later Suttle phoned Natasha Donovan. According to her partner, Milo Symons, she should be back from a couple of days with friends in Bristol. When she picked up, Suttle had the impression she’d been asleep. Yes, she’d be happy to see him. Yes, she was at home. But just now, as soon as she’d got her shit together, she’d be out in the open air, trying to establish contact again.

‘With who?’

‘Come and see.’

‘But how do I find you?’

‘It’s easy. You can’t miss me.’

Intrigued, Suttle made a couple of calls to chase Kinsey’s financial records then headed for the coast again. The lane to Tusker Farm was caked with mud from the big fat tractor ahead. The air smelled sweetly of dung. He turned in through the open gate and parked the Impreza beside the mobile home. A woman he assumed was Donovan was standing in the middle of the meadow. She was wearing something white and floaty. Her back was arched and her head was up and her splayed fingers were reaching for the sky. The fall of purple hair rippled in the wind from the valley below, and as Suttle drew closer her head came down and she folded her hands across her chest as she sank to her knees.

He paused beside her. Her feet were bare, dirtied with soil, and she wore a thin silver chain looped around one ankle.

‘Natasha Donovan?’

For a moment she didn’t move. A second later she opened her eyes and looked up at the proffered warrant card.

‘Mr Policeman?’ London accent. Appraising smile.

She led him to the mobile home. A newish black Toyota sports coupé was parked where the Transit van had been. Milo, she said, was away for the day. Come in.

Inside, the place had been warmed by the sunshine and the musky scent of incense hung in the stale air. Donovan filled the kettle. She was nearly as tall as her partner and she moved with an artful vagueness that, to Suttle, smacked of long practice. He wanted to ask her about the routine out in the field but she was already in full flow.

‘You’ll want to know about my journey,’ she said. ‘It begins with desire and it ends with embodiment. You start with simple movement. Then it gets more complex. The important thing is to
connect
. The body is a springboard. Once you understand that, anything is possible. You connect with nature. You connect with the clouds, the trees, the buttercups, the river, the wind. And most important of all you connect with yourself. It’s circular, you see.’

‘What is?’

‘The journey.’

She threw him a look over her shoulder and reached for a couple of mugs. Her nails were the colour of her hair. She wanted to know whether Suttle was spiritual or not.

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

His answer sparked a small, private smile. She decanted hot water into two mugs. She had loads of stuff on non-stylised body movement if he was interested.

Suttle shook his head. He was grateful for her time. As he’d explained on the phone, he was here to talk about Kinsey.

‘Jake? He was lost. He could have gone so far if he’d only listened.’

‘To who?’

‘Me. Jake lived on the fault line between madness and something worse. You like that phrase? Fault line? That’s Milo. Sometimes that man can be so fucking
deep
, you know what I mean?’

Suttle didn’t. He was looking at the contents of the mug she’d just given him. Hot water.

‘Do I get anything in this?’

‘No. Hot water’s a cleanser. It has properties you won’t believe. I drink it neat. The hotter the better.’

Suttle put the mug to one side. Donovan had settled on the sofa, her long legs folded beneath her. According to Eamonn Lenahan, this woman had really taken Kinsey’s fancy and Suttle could believe it. She was probably the wrong side of forty but you’d never guess.

Suttle wanted her to tell him about Saturday. Had she gone to watch the race?

‘No. I was doing a workshop with a friend. Movement and dance for the over-sixties. I hooked up with the guys later. Milo had texted me the result. Can you believe that? My lovely boys?
Winning?
’

By the time she got to the pub, she said, the crew were on their third bottle of champagne. She never touched alcohol herself.

‘So what were you drinking?’

‘Water.’

‘And Kinsey?’

‘The man was out of his head. And very happy.’

‘Was that unusual?’

‘Yeah.’ She smiled. ‘On both counts.’

They’d stayed in the pub for maybe another half an hour before deciding on a takeaway. The best Indian in Exmouth didn’t do deliveries so she’d volunteered to drive into town and get the food. Kinsey, she said, had made a list. In the end the curry had been a big disappointment. Not that anyone was in the mood to complain.

‘So how long were you in the apartment?’

‘Not that long. Jake was ill, poor lamb. And the guys were knackered.’

‘How did you get home?’

‘By car. I was the only one sober so I drove. It’s a little sports car – you probably saw it – just room for Milo and me. I called a taxi for the others.’

‘What time did you get back?’

‘I don’t know. Past midnight but not that late.’

‘And then?’

‘We crashed. Milo was asleep in the car. Never marry an athlete.’

‘You’re married? You and Milo?’

‘No.’ The smile again. ‘Marriage is a killer. Look at Jake.’

The phrase hung between them.
Marriage is a killer
.

‘What exactly do you mean?’ Suttle asked.

‘I mean that marriage gets in the way. It stops life in its tracks. It makes you lazy. You stop trying.’

‘Is that what happened to Kinsey?’

‘Big time.’ She nodded. ‘Big time.’

‘He talked to you about it?’

‘Of course he did. It was hard to stop him sometimes. I don’t know what he and that woman had to begin with, but marriage killed it. Stone dead.’

‘That woman?’

‘Sonya. He’d show me photos. She was really attractive. Great eyes. He couldn’t understand how she’d changed. He couldn’t understand what she’d
become
.’

‘And you sympathised?’

‘Not at all. I told him it was his own fault. Poor Jake never looked hard enough, never listened. He lived in a bubble, that man. He needed to get out more. He needed to
connect
.’

‘You helped him that way?’

‘Of course. We did sessions together, up in his apartment. It’s all about vitality. It’s all about awareness, about tapping into your hidden energy. I’d write simple movement scores, and when the weather was OK we’d go out on the balcony so we could reach for the river, for the beach, for the wind. Jake always found it hard to relax. He’d never close his eyes. I remember that.’

Suttle was trying to imagine Kinsey out on the balcony, showcasing this woman to the world at large, an image totally in keeping with everything else he knew about the man.

‘Was he good at this stuff?’

‘He was crap at it. Like I say, he could never relax. It was always the next thing and the next thing with Jake. I’d tell him to stop, to mark time, to slip his life into neutral and park it for a while. That way he’d be able to give himself to something bigger, something vaguer, something he didn’t necessarily understand, but I think that was beyond him.’

‘You charged for these sessions?’

‘Of course.’

‘How much?’

‘A hundred pounds a go.’

‘That’s a lot.’

‘You’re right. I normally charge forty. That was his price, not mine.’

‘And how often would this happen?’

‘It depended. Sometimes twice a week, sometimes more often. Other times he’d be away on business so we might just meet for a Friday-night session.’

‘And this went on for how long?’

‘More than a year.’

‘And he got better at it? He started to relax?’

‘Never.’

‘So why did he carry on?’

‘Because he fancied me. It was obvious. He wanted to shag the arse off me, and the only way he could do that was by getting me up to that apartment of his. A hundred quid for an hour of dance and movement? A girl could do a lot worse.’

‘But was that enough for him? Dance and movement?’

‘Of course not. Sometimes I shagged him as well.’

‘For more money?’

‘Yes.’ She yawned.

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred quid a pop. He was crap in bed too. Five minutes, tops.’

‘That’s a hundred quid a minute.’

‘Yeah. I tried the oils and everything. I even brought candles sometimes, but he wasn’t interested. Sex was something he needed. It had to be got out of the way. Then he felt better and he could move on to the next thing.’

‘Which was?’