Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (47 page)

Winter shot him a look, then extended a hand.

‘Glad to hear it, son. Take care of her, eh? And Grace too.’

Winter turned to go but Suttle called him back. He was holding the envelope. There was no way he could take this money.

‘Leave it then.’

‘Where?’

‘Here. Any fucking where. It’s not for you, son. It’s for them.’

Three weeks later Lizzie was back behind her old desk at the Pompey
News
. The editor had agreed to let her work three regular days a week plus freelance payments for supplementary features she put together in her spare time. This was a blessing for her mum, who found Grace a bit of a handful, and it also permitted Lizzie to kid herself that very little had really changed. She still got her daughter up every morning. She still put her to bed every night. The only difference was that now she had more to think about than dripping taps, elderly neighbours and incessant rain.

Suttle, meanwhile, banked nearly £37,000 in euros. That same afternoon he wrote a cheque for exactly the same amount and sent it to Lizzie. He’d talked to her a couple of times on the phone, prior to nonsense conversations with his daughter, and had managed to avoid a row. Soon, he promised Grace, he’d be down to Pompey to take her out for a treat or two. Whatever else happened, he explained sternly, she wasn’t to forget him.

His relationship with Gina Hamilton, meanwhile, appeared to have stalled. Performance reviews had given way to some kind of operational involvement in a long-running corruption case and she was working all hours. For his own part, Suttle was equally under the cosh. A pensioner couple had been found battered to death in their Sidmouth bungalow and to date no one had a clue who’d done it.

Late one night, as knackered as ever, Suttle lifted the phone to Gina Hamilton. Still numb from losing his daughter, he’d begun to hate the silence of Chantry Cottage. Most television these days was for the brain-dead, and conversations with the cat were a poor substitute for real life.

‘I miss you,’ he said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Be honest, Jimmy. I know exactly what you’re missing.’ She laughed. ‘Me too, as it happens.’

Three weeks later, for the first time, Lizzie had a girlie night on the town with Gill Reynolds. Gill had forgiven her for walking out on Chantry Cottage and they were friends again. They went to a bar in Gunwharf, a minute’s walk from Paul Winter’s old apartment. Lizzie had banked the cheque from her estranged husband and was quietly checking house prices in Southsea. Jimmy would, in the end, turn his back on the West Country. Of this she was quite certain.

For a Friday night the bar was unusually empty. Gill had just booked a holiday in Sri Lanka, a fortnight she intended to share with her latest conquest. This was a guy she’d been dating for less than a month, but already she knew that she’d stumbled on someone who would change her life.

‘He’s really bright, Lou.’ She sucked the last of her vodka and Red Bull. ‘And the good news is he loves me.’

‘Married?’

‘Yeah. For now.’

‘Kids?’

‘Two.’

‘So how’s he going to explain a couple of weeks in Sri Lanka?’

‘No idea. I’ve already bought the tickets, though, so there has to be a way.’

It was at this point that Lizzie’s mobile began to ring. Not recognising the number, she ignored it. Moments later it rang again. Same number. This time it was a text with an accompanying photo. Gill had gone to the bar for refills. Lizzie stared at the text. For a second or two it made no sense, a message from a distant planet, just random nonsense. Then she forced herself to look again, to piece it together and try and understand. ‘She’s a beauty, I promise you. Any time you fancy it. XXXX’

Lizzie’s finger strayed to the attachment. She opened the photo. It was Pendrick. He looked thinner and somehow younger. He was standing in the cockpit of a sizeable yacht. The yacht was anchored in some kind of lagoon. Pearl-white sand. A fringe of palm trees. Not a soul on the beach. Pendrick was grinning the way she recognised from the photos she’d found in his file box. And he was blowing her a kiss.

Lizzie stared at the image, at the beach, at the nut-brown figure so carefully posed against the view. This was a face that she barely remembered, from a time she wanted to forget. So far, the police had shown no interest in calling her back for another interview and for that she was deeply grateful.

‘Lou?’ Gill was back with the drinks. She’d seen the photo. ‘Who’s that?’

Lizzie didn’t answer, shielding the phone. Gill wasn’t having it.

‘Show me, Lou. Gimme, you old slapper.’

Lizzie shook her head. The image of Pendrick still hung on the tiny screen. She gazed at it a moment longer, telling herself to get a new mobile, then her finger found the delete command and the face was gone.

Acknowledgements

New series. New setting. New police force.

My thanks to Paul Netherton, Russ Middleton, Antonia Weeks, Jez Capey, Alan Barnsley, Mike West, Jane Williams, Larry Law and Jacquie Cox, all of whom opened doors, shared impressions, explained procedures and generally briefed me on the realities of criminal investigation in Devon and Cornwall. And a special thank you to Steve Carey who was extremely generous with his time and his long experience at the cutting edge of CID in south-west England. Top man.

My son Jack guided me through the netherworld of video gaming and, with his partner Hannah, masterminded a memorable stroll through the badlands of Harehills in his adopted city of Leeds. Rob Williams, a good friend, shared his memories of moving into a near-derelict country bungalow in a damp fold of the Otter Valley, an account which sparked Chantry Cottage. Mia Marchant-John from Regatta Court gave me an extensive tour of Jake Kinsey’s extraordinary apartment, while Richard Soper offered a thought or two about the realities of life in Exmouth Quays. Most important of all, Deb Graham shared her memories of growing up in Exmouth – a recent past that has shaped a town I’ve grown to love. Sadly, Deb died suddenly this year and, as a consequence, this book is dedicated to her memory. An inspirational woman, much missed.

I also owe a substantial debt of gratitude to Dr John Maskalyk, whose book
Six Months in Sudan
is a must-read for anyone interested in what happens when one culture collides head-on with another. Eamonn Lenahan grew out of those pages and sharpened what I always felt to be the real thrust of this book: that we in the West live in a bubble of our own making and may be neither the wiser nor the richer as a result.

To everyone at the Exmouth Rowing Club, another sincere thank you. Offshore rowing, to be personal for a moment, has transformed our lives. Lin and I and our fellow Vulcaneers (don’t ask) are the luckiest guys.

This is a step away from the Faraday series and represents an act of faith on behalf of my editor, Simon Spanton, my agent, Oli Munson, and – fingers crossed – my readers. Faraday’s was a very different journey. Where this one may lead is anyone’s guess.

Also by Graham Hurley:

Fiction

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

REAPER

THE DEVIL’S BREATH

THUNDER IN THE BLOOD

SABBATHMAN

THE PERFECT SOLDIER

HEAVEN’S LIGHT

NOCTURNE

PERMISSIBLE LIMITS

Detective Inspector Joe Faraday Investigations

TURNSTONE

THE TAKE

ANGELS PASSING

DEADLIGHT

CUT TO BLACK

BLOOD AND HONEY

ONE UNDER

THE PRICE OF DARKNESS

NO LOVELIER DEATH

BEYOND REACH

BORROWED LIGHT

HAPPY DAYS

Non-Fiction

AIRSHOW

Copyright

AN ORION EBOOK

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Orion Books
This ebook first published in 2012 by Orion Books

Copyright © Graham Hurley 2012

The right of Graham Hurley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN:
978 1 4091 3154 0

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