Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (46 page)

He rang the front-door bell, the flowers and the wine readied. When the door finally opened, he barely recognised her. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a pair of blue overalls, way too big. A crimson scarf was knotted over her hair and the brush in her right hand was threatening to drip white gloss all over the doormat.

She looked at him for a moment, then her eyes strayed to the flowers. If she was in any way surprised, it didn’t show.

‘You’ve come to give me a hand?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘My pleasure.’

He left next morning at five past eight. Lizzie had been trying to get through to him all evening. Finally, he’d texted her back, asking if Grace was OK. ‘Grace is fine,’ came the reply. ‘We have to talk.’ But Suttle didn’t want to talk. Not yet.

Then, in the early hours, came another text. ‘Please meet us in the cafe at St David’s Station. We’re on the 09.28 to Portsmouth.’ Suttle hadn’t responded, rolling over and telling Gina it could wait.

Now he slipped into the Impreza and headed towards the A38. He was in Exeter by nine. Driving into the big car park outside St David’s station, he wondered how Lizzie and Grace had made it over from Colaton Raleigh. The buses were hopeless on a Sunday. Had she got a taxi? Or had someone given her a lift?

He found her at a table in the far corner of the café. She looked pale and drawn. She’d gelled her hair too, and it didn’t suit her. Her coffee mug was empty. Suttle asked her whether she wanted another. She shook her head.

‘And you, young lady?’

Suttle had picked Grace up. She was wearing a dress Gill Reynolds had brought down from Pompey and already it looked too small.

Grace wanted cake. Suttle carried her to the counter. Already this little tableau felt surreal. His wife crouched over her empty coffee mug, staring into the middle distance. A rucksack and a bulging holdall on the floor beside Grace’s buggy. A retired couple by the window having a quiet ruck about God knows what. Horrible.

Suttle carried the cake and a coffee back to the table and settled Grace on his knee.

‘You’ll need a hand with that lot.’ He nodded at the bags.

Lizzie shook her head. She could manage. She’d always managed. It wouldn’t be a problem.

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll give you a hand.’

She shook her head again. She seemed close to tears. She glanced at her watch, fumbled in her bag for the tickets, anything to soak up the silence. Then, for the first time, she met his gaze.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You don’t think we mean it? You don’t think we’re off?’

‘Your decision, Lizzie. Not mine.’

‘Going, you mean?’

‘Yeah. And everything else.’

She looked at him for a long moment.

‘You won’t ever let this go, will you?’

‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t been here before.’

‘But you won’t. I know you won’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because all men are the same. Black and white. One strike and you’re out.’

‘One strike? Is that how you see it? Some kind of game?’

‘Don’t.’ She turned away. ‘This isn’t helping.’

Suttle shrugged. If she wanted the satisfaction of a full-scale domestic, then he was happy to oblige. Otherwise there wasn’t a lot to say.

‘Your mum’s, is it?’ He broke off a chunk of cake and gave it to Grace.

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s the story? What have you told her?’

‘I told her the truth. I told her we’re sick of living in the country. I told her we need a real home.’

‘We?’

‘Me. Does that sound selfish?’

‘Yes, since you ask.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

Suttle fed Grace more cake and then brushed the crumbs off her dress. A voice on the tannoy announced the imminent departure of the Waterloo train. Passengers for Portsmouth should change at Salisbury.

Suttle was nuzzling the warmth and softness of his daughter. At this rate, he thought, he’d be the one in tears.

Lizzie’s hand was back in her bag. Then Suttle was looking at two pairs of keys on the table.

‘Are they for me?’

‘Yeah. They’re both for the cottage.’

‘You won’t be back?’

‘No. Not there. I’m through with it, Jimmy. I’ve had enough.’

‘So it’s over. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s your call. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve no interest in where you might have gone last night. Yeah? Does that make any sense?’

Lizzie got to her feet. Suttle gazed up at her. For the second time in twenty-four hours he felt totally marooned, adrift in a world he no longer recognised.

He cradled Grace in one arm and picked up the holdall in the other. The guy at the barrier wouldn’t let him through without a ticket. Suttle dropped the bag, kissed his daughter on the cheek, held her tight. He’d no idea when he’d see her again.

‘Bye,’ he said.

Lizzie had readied the buggy. Suttle strapped Grace in. They had three minutes to make the train.

‘Be in touch, yeah?’ Suttle said.

‘You’ve got the number. You know where we are.’

Suttle nodded. He wanted to kiss her but he didn’t. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he’d miss her, that it was all some gigantic fuck-up, but he couldn’t find the words. She looked up at him, a strange expression on her face, her lips puckered, then she gestured him closer.

‘Yellow Fiat,’ she said. ‘In the car park.’

Suttle found the Fiat minutes later. It looked brand new. It carried a Hertz rental badge and it was empty. He was still stooped beside the driver’s window, looking for more clues, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He straightened up, glanced round.

Paul Winter.

They drove out of the city, Winter visibly nervous, checking the rear-view mirror, braking at the last minute for turns that would throw anyone in pursuit. Suttle sat in silence, ambushed by a million questions. Was this why Lizzie had been so desperate to talk last night? Had Winter spent the night at Chantry Cottage?

They came to a stop in the middle of a trading estate on the outskirts of the city. The acre of car park outside B&Q was nearly empty.

Suttle was looking at Winter. The older man had put on a little weight since they’d last met and he seemed to have acquired an early tan.

‘So how come?’ Suttle asked.

‘How come what?’

‘How come you’re here?’

‘Lizzie belled me.’

‘She’s got your number?’

‘Yeah. She’s had it for ever. She sends me photos of Grace from time to time. That’s me doing the family thing, if you’re wondering. And something else, son. She didn’t tell you because I made her swear she wouldn’t. All right?’

Winter was angry. Suttle could see it in his eyes. He’d been flattered by Lizzie’s invitation to become Grace’s godfather and had never taken his duties less than seriously. Hence, Suttle assumed, the enormous risk he was taking.

‘She told you about the Pompey situation?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Dave Fallon? The Spanish bounty hunter?’

‘Yeah. She phoned me.’

‘And?’

‘We’re on the move. It’s under control.’ He didn’t go into details.

‘So what else did Lizzie tell you?’

‘Pretty much everything, as far as I can judge. You’re living in a shit hole, son. You should have sorted it out.’

‘I know.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

Suttle stared out through the windscreen. He didn’t have an answer. This was like talking to his dad, he thought.

‘Did she tell you about a bloke called Pendrick?’

‘That’s all bollocks. The woman was upset. She’d been upset for months. When that happens, all bets are off. You should have noticed, son. Then there wouldn’t have been a problem.’

Suttle nodded. Winter was probably right.

‘It’s crazy down here. The job’s non-stop. There aren’t the bodies to go round any more. This isn’t Pompey. You work your arse off and then some.’

‘Great. Except you happen to have a wife. And a daughter.’

‘I know.’

‘And that matters?’

‘Of course it does.’

‘Then sort it, son. Get a fucking grip.’ His hand was in his jacket pocket. He produced a bulky white envelope. When he tossed it across to Suttle it landed in his lap.

‘What’s that?’

‘Money.’

‘I don’t want money. I don’t need it.’

‘Wrong again, son. You need to get out of that khazi of a place, you need to find somewhere fit to live in, and you need to start behaving like a human being. That little girl loves you. And so does your daughter. So take a few decisions, eh? And make it happen.’

Suttle had never heard Winter like this, so forceful, so aggressive. Twenty-plus years in CID had made him the master of ambiguity, of the hidden threat, of the carefully prepared traps that littered every conversation. Not this onslaught.

‘Do I get a say?’

‘Of course you do, son. But do me a favour, yeah? Don’t tell me you’ve been betrayed. Don’t bang on about this guy Pendrick. Lizzie was out of her head. And that was down to you.’

‘My fault, then.’

‘Yeah. Fucking right. So like I say, get a grip.’ His eyes hadn’t left Suttle’s face. ‘Are you listening or do I have to start all over again?’

Suttle wouldn’t answer. He fingered the envelope. It felt like a lot of money. Winter was still watching him.

‘Euros, if you’re wondering. High-denomination notes.’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘None of your business, son. Sell the place. Buy somewhere half-decent. Then she’ll come back.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’m not stupid. Because I watch as well as listen.’ He held Suttle’s gaze a moment longer then checked his watch. ‘I’m off back to Heathrow in an hour. Where can you get something to eat in this town at ten in the morning?’

Suttle took him to a hotel back by the station. They ordered a full English each, and prior to its arrival Winter raided a neighbouring table for a bottle of HP sauce. There were plenty of very good reasons for living in Croatia but breakfast evidently wasn’t one of them. Even Misty, he said, was starting to pine for a proper plate of bacon and eggs.

‘How is she?’

‘Barking mad. It was my birthday last week. You know what she bought me? A set of salsa lessons. Nightmare.’

The thought of Winter stepping onto the dance floor with the high-kicking Misty Gallagher put a smile on Suttle’s face. He wanted to know about her daughter, Trudy, the third member of Winter’s little ménage. A car accident last year had broken her neck and left her with serious nerve damage. How was she doing?

‘Fine. She’s got a boyfriend, and you know what he does for a living?’

‘Tell me.’

‘He’s a cop. Mad about her. Nuts. But you know something? He’s another one who can’t see further than the end of his dick.’

‘You think I’m like that?’

‘Only you know, son.’

‘That wasn’t my question.’

‘OK, so what were you up to last night?’

‘I was with a woman called Gina Hamilton.’

‘Shagging?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, was it?’

‘Very nice, since you’re asking.’

‘She’s a D/I, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Divorced?’

‘Nearly.’

‘And what else?’

‘Neurotic as hell.’ Suttle was grinning this time. ‘Stuffed animals everywhere. Just like Misty.’

The waitress arrived with breakfast. Winter attacked his black pudding with relish. A tiny comma of HP sauce attached itself to the corner of his mouth.

Suttle wanted to know more about Croatia. In a year or so it’d be joining the EU. After which Winter was back in the firing line for a European Arrest Warrant.

‘You’re right, son. Unless Dave Fallon gets me first.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Serbia. They’ve got proper gangsters there. Misty thinks she can pull some real animal who can sort out the likes of Dave Fallon. It’s a neat idea. I just hope he’s good with salsa.’

Suttle had no idea whether he was joking or not and knew – in any case – that it didn’t matter. This brief glimpse of the old Winter had revived something deep inside him. They’d finished breakfast. Winter mopped his chin with a napkin and Suttle accompanied him back to the Fiat.

Winter wanted to know how to get onto the motorway north but Suttle had something else on his mind.

‘You want out, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Out of where, son?’

‘Croatia. Serbia. Abroad. Wherever.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I’ve been watching. Like you always told me to.’