Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (29 page)

Hamilton had appeared at the kitchen door.

‘Red or white?’

‘You choose. I’m driving.’

‘Yeah?’ She lingered a moment, then disappeared again. Suttle heard the pop of the cork. When she came back, Suttle asked her about the running.

‘You really want to know?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That was another drama. There’s a bunch of local joggers here and I joined up. They go out a couple of nights a week, decent distances, nice enough people I thought at first, but then some of the guys turned out to be pretty gross. We’d go to the pub afterwards and they’d find out you were living alone and after that they just wanted to get into your knickers. It wasn’t anything personal. They were all happily married, or that’s what they’d tell you, but then they’d come on to me like it was some kind of favour. It was so blatant. They assumed I couldn’t wait to get fucked. Like I say. Totally gross.’

In the end, she said, she’d abandoned the group outings and started running by herself. She had a handful of favourite circuits and lately she’d been wondering about getting a dog for company when winter came and the nights drew in. Either way she felt the exercise was keeping her half sane but there were moments when she doubted even that.

‘It’s really hard to explain. Some nights when I go out I take me with me. Then other nights I’m running with a total stranger. Does that make sense? Is that
normal
?’

Suttle laughed. Mercifully, he always excused himself serious exercise. He asked to use the loo. She directed him upstairs. Afterwards, drying his hands, Suttle could hear the clatter of plates in the kitchen. Her bedroom lay across the tiny landing at the top of the stairs. The door was open and he could see a pair of running shoes abandoned on the carpet. He stepped inside. The bed was turned down. A Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light across the whiteness of the sheet. There were more stuffed animals on the duvet, partly covered by a powder-blue towelling gown. Over the bed, hanging on the wall, a framed poster of Amy Winehouse.

Back downstairs, Suttle found himself looking at a plate of blueberries. His hunger had gone but he accepted a spoonful of cream.

‘You’re big on Amy Winehouse?’

Hamilton was pouring herself another glass of wine. Nearly a bottle so far, thought Suttle.

‘You’ve been in my bedroom.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m curious.’

‘About what?’

‘About you. About this . . .’ He gestured around.

She nodded, sipped the wine.

‘Are we talking intel here? Or something else?’

‘You tell me.’

‘You think your luck’s in? You fancy a quickie before you go?’

Suttle didn’t answer. She was drunk now, something that probably happened night after night, and he sensed her neediness. He very definitely didn’t want to hurt her but he understood all too clearly where this might lead.

He reached out and took her hand.

‘I’m glad I came,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I needed to talk.’

‘Great. Happy to oblige.’ She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded down at the number scrawled on the back of his hand. ‘That’s a Portsmouth code. You want to tell me more?’

Suttle shook his head. He had to go. The meal had been great. Maybe they could meet again, his shout next time.

She looked at him, saying nothing, then her eyes went to the bottle and she lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

She accompanied him to the front door. He was reaching for the latch when he felt her hand on his arm

‘There’s something I meant to tell you,’ she said, ‘about Pendrick.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It turns out he kept half of the insurance settlement. That’s three hundred grand.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I checked on the charity’s website.’ She offered him a weary smile. ‘That’s what detectives do, isn’t it? You get that for free, by the way.’

Suttle nodded, then opened the door. ‘I’ll be in touch, yeah?’

‘Yeah?’

They both stepped out into the night air. Suttle held her for a moment. She was shivering in the cold. He kissed her briefly, thanked her again for the pasta and headed for the garden gate. The car door unlocked, he turned to wave goodbye but she’d gone.

Suttle was pushing 90 mph on the outside lane of the A38 when, too late, he saw the police car tucked into a lay-by. The road was empty. He throttled back and hoped to God they hadn’t tracked him with the radar gun. The patrol car had already pulled out and was accelerating hard. Then came the flashing blue light and Suttle knew they were going to give him a tug.

He was in the slow lane now, still decelerating, trying to play the good citizen. On his side of the carriageway he was the only vehicle for at least half a mile. He had to be the target. Had to be.

The patrol car was beside him now, the pale face in the passenger seat checking him out. He signalled Suttle to pull over. The next lay-by was a couple of hundred metres ahead. At a steady 40 mph, Suttle was trying to work out exactly how many glasses of wine he’d had. Two? Three? Getting pulled for speeding was one thing. Failing the breathalyser would land him with a driving ban, a disciplinary charge and possible suspension. Without a licence, the Job and life in general would become a nightmare. Not good.

The patrol car followed him into the lay-by. Both officers got out and approached the Impreza. The guy in the passenger seat squatted beside Suttle’s door. The wind had got up and rain pebbled on his hi-vis jacket.

‘Do you have your licence, sir? May I see it?’

Suttle produced his licence. The patrol officer scanned it quickly and handed it back. He was in his mid-forties. He looked unforgiving.

‘Where have you come from, sir?’

‘Modbury.’

‘And you’re going to . . .?’

‘Home. Colaton Raleigh.’

‘Are you aware that you were exceeding the speed limit just now?’

‘Yeah.’

The patrol officer nodded. He’d caught the sour taint of alcohol on Suttle’s breath. Then his eyes strayed to the dashboard where Suttle had left a pass for the MCIT car park at Middlemoor.

‘In the Job, are you, sir?’

‘Yeah.’

‘CID?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you been drinking by any chance, sir?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, well . . .’ The beginnings of a smile ghosted across the big face. Uniforms liked nothing better than nailing pissed detectives.

‘Out of the car if you please, sir.’

Suttle did what he was told. The officer read him the caution and warned him that he faced arrest if he failed a breathalyser test. The rain was heavier now and Suttle was soaking in seconds but he didn’t much care. One way or another, the next minute or so might decide the fate of his entire career.

The officer had returned to the patrol car to fetch the breathalyser. Suttle waited in the rain, wondering whether he should – after all – have stayed at Gina Hamilton’s place. Then he put the thought out of his mind. What will be will be. Fuck it.

The officer returned with the breathalyser. Suttle blew into the tube. The PC watched the figures on the readout climb and climb. His mate had joined him by now. Their backs were turned and Suttle caught a mumbled exchange before the officer was back in his face. The reading was just short of the figure that would haul him back to the nick for a blood test and a great deal of paperwork.

‘Who’s a lucky boy then?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. ‘Would you step this way, sir?’

Suttle sat in the patrol car while the PC wrote up his details for the speeding offence. Ninety-two mph would probably earn him a three-point deduction and a biggish fine. The deduction was no problem, and though the fine was a pain in the arse it was nothing compared to what might have happened.

Swamped with relief, Suttle closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the restraint. When the officer asked him whether he had anything to say with regard to his excess speed, he said he wanted to get home. The officer turned and shot him a look.

‘Little woman waiting up is she, sir?’

Suttle held his gaze and then shut his eyes again.

‘I doubt it,’ he said.

He was wrong. Lizzie was downstairs nursing a glass of red wine. Dexter was curled on her lap, ignoring the remains of a fish pie beside the chair.

She looked up as Suttle came in from the kitchen. His hair was plastered against the whiteness of his skull and the rain had darkened his suit.

Lizzie studied him a moment. The cat didn’t stir.

‘Should I ask where you’ve been?’ she said.

‘Sure. Why not?’

Suttle told her about his drive out to Modbury. A D/I called Gina Hamilton lived there.

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Bit of both.’

‘Nice evening?’

‘Not bad. I got stopped on the way back.’

He told her about the traffic car and the breathalyser.

‘And?’

‘I passed.’

‘Not too pissed then? To come home?’

Suttle knew exactly what lay behind the remarks and ignored them. Lizzie, in the parlance, was after the full account. What was this woman like? How come they’d met at her house? Why hadn’t he phoned her earlier? What was so important it couldn’t be done in office hours?

Suttle fetched a towel from upstairs. He’d never lied to Lizzie, and now wasn’t the time to start. He dried his hair as best he could and hung his jacket over the back of the kitchen door.

‘What do you fancy tomorrow?’ he said. ‘I thought we might go into Exeter. There’s a festival thing on.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Lizzie explained about a call she’d taken from one of the girls at the rowing club. After the wreath tribute on Sunday the crews were returning to the compound for a naming ceremony. The newest boat was to be called the
Jake Kinsey
after the guy who’d so generously signed the cheque. With luck, the media might use it as a photo opportunity.

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Suttle pointed out.

‘I know. We have to sort the compound out. Make it look half decent. A bunch of us are meeting at ten. I couldn’t say no.’

‘And that takes all day?’

‘I’ve no idea. Judging by the state of the place, it might well do.’

Suttle studied her for a moment, loosening his tie.

‘And Sunday?’

‘We’ve got the tribute thing. I have to go, Jimmy. There’s no way I can’t.’

‘OK.’ Suttle shrugged. ‘Whatever . . .’

He turned away, trying to mask his anger, but she knew him too well to be fooled.

‘It was your idea, Jimmy.’

‘What?’

‘The rowing club.’

‘You’re right. So it’s me and Grace then. All weekend.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ She still hadn’t moved. ‘Welcome to my little world.’

Seven

SATURDAY, 16 APRIL 2011

Lizzie was out of the cottage by nine o’clock. Suttle was still in bed with Grace, celebrating last night’s escape with a lie-in. In truth, he’d no idea where Lizzie was really going but supposed the compound clean-up was at least semi-plausible. Whatever happened, he was certain that Pendrick would be around. Time and again he tried to fight off the image of his wife and one of Kinsey’s star rowers on the beach. He’d seen the grin on Lizzie’s face. He knew exactly what it meant.

She’d been that way with him once, playful and reckless, happy to surrender to something new and faintly exotic in her life. Suttle was a cop. She’d never fucked a cop before. More to the point, she really fancied him. That’s what had taken them to bed the first time and all the times after that, and when he’d recognised there was something really substantial there, something important, the knowledge had been all the sweeter because the laughter and the often brilliant sex had never stopped. Even pregnancy and motherhood hadn’t diminished her appetite for that raw enjoyment of each other, and it was only after the move west that married life had begun to seize up. They’d almost stopped talking. They’d definitely stopped laughing. And even the prospect of sex had become strangely awkward, something best avoided in case it sparked a row.

Suttle waited until the burble of the Impreza had disappeared down the lane. The temptation was to have a prowl around the bedroom in case Lizzie had left her mobile. Maybe she’d added Pendrick to her contacts file. Maybe they’d been texting each other. Maybe the other contents of her bag might yield a clue or two. He eyed the scatter of clothes she’d left beneath the window, wondering whether he really wanted to treat his own bedroom as some kind of crime scene, then decided against it. Grace, he knew, would be hungry. Thank God for someone else in his life.