Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle)

by Hurley, Graham

  Constantine, on the other hand, already looked a great deal more promising. An alleged millionaire with no apparent reason to end his days plus five partygoing crew mates who may or may not have wished him well. Molly Doyle had painted a picture of each of these people. These very definitely weren’t lowlife. Eamonn Lenahan was a medic. Andy Poole worked in hedge funds. Pendrick was an electrician. These people had jobs, education, prospects. Booze had undoubtedly played a part last night, but it was a relief not to be looking at SOC shots of fat battered women lying dead on yet another stretch of fag-cratered orange nylon-pile carpet.

  Suttle was about to knock for the last time when the cottage door opened. A small figure in a pair of black boxers was rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d found a pair of pink slippers from somewhere and hadn’t shaved for a while.

  ‘Mr Lenahan?’

  ‘The same. Who the fuck are you?’ Irish accent. Inquisitive smile.

  Suttle offered his warrant card. He’d appreciate a word or two.

  ‘No problem, my friend. Always a pleasure.’ He stooped to retrieve a pint of milk and stood aside to let Suttle in. The house smelled of burned toast. Lenahan blamed his fellow tenant.

  ‘Sweet wee girl. Off out early, she and her lovely friend. How can I help you?’

  The sitting room was tiny and dark – a single tatty armchair, a battered sofa and a trestle table in the corner loaded with books and a copy of yesterday’s Guardian.

  Suttle took a seat. There was a row of framed photos on the opposite wall, randomly hung. Somewhere hot. A village setting. Some kind of open-air market in the background. A crowd of black faces mugging for the camera, many of them kids.

  ‘Sudan.’ Lenahan had found a T-shirt from somewhere and a pair of trackie bottoms. ‘Know it at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame. We all need a bit of Sudan. Keeps you fucking sane.’ He perched on the sofa, his legs tucked beneath him. ‘So what have you got for me?’

  Suttle explained about Kinsey. The news that he’d been found dead sparked no reaction whatsoever. Lenahan just looked at him.

  ‘You’re not surprised?’ Suttle asked.

  ‘Nothing surprises me.’

  ‘You’re not . . .’ Suttle frowned, hunting for the right phrase ‘. . . upset?’

  ‘Never. You go, you’re gone. That’s pretty fucking final. Dying would have upset yer man, for sure. Kinsey was one for the options, you know what I mean? That’s how he operated. Always. Options. Possibilities. That sweet little opportunity no other fucker ever spotted. Dying’s a terrible option. And you’re talking to an expert.’

  Suttle blinked. He’d been right. This definitely wasn’t Torbay. Lenahan hadn’t finished.

  ‘Under that apartment of his, you say?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So you’re going to want to know about yesterday, about last night. Am I getting warm?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘OK, so here’s the way it was. We need to start with the race. The race is everything. And why’s that? Because the race, my friend, is where it begins and ends.’

  Yesterday’s outing, he explained, was a head race, nine and a bit miles down the River Dart from Totnes to Dartmouth, pretty as you like, acre after rolling acre of God’s fucking England. The boats start every thirty seconds and the trick is to knock them off, one by one.

  ‘Knock them off?’

  ‘Pass them. That’s the trick, that’s what we’re there for, that’s what Kinsey wants us to do. Fastest boat wins. And if you pass every other bugger, you’re home safe.’

  Off the start line, he said, they were towards the back of the fleet. Lenahan is in the cox’s seat face to face with Andy Poole. Andy is stroke. He sets the rate. Lenahan’s known Andy for ever, rowed with him for years on the Thames, won oodles of fucking cups. Between them, they’ll boss the race.

  ‘So we’re half a mile down the course, a long straight bit before the first bend, and already we’ve reeled in the boat ahead. The guys doing the work have no idea what’s going on because they’re all looking backwards, but I haven’t said a thing so far because it’s good to toss the guys the odd sweetie, and so I’m nudging towards the right bank for the overtake and you know what? It’s Kinsey, the man himself, who’s up there in the bow, he’s the one who susses what’s happening and steals a little glance over his shoulder, just a little look now, one of his trademark looks, and here’s the point, here’s what I’m trying to tell you. As we step on these guys, as Andy pumps up the rate and we go surging past, racing past, I get to see the expression on Kinsey’s face. He’s creamed them, he’s fucking buried them, and the sweetness of that knowledge, that big fucking jolt of adrenalin, puts this nasty little smile on his face. He’s top dog. He’s up there with the angels. The heavenly fucking chorus is giving it full throttle and every last cell in his body tells him he can do this for ever. He doesn’t feel a whisper of knackeredness. That man’s got the world by the throat. All the nausea we’ve gone through in training, all the money he’s spent, all that has paid off, big time, in spades, and all he needs now is more of the same. One bunch of muppets crushed. Eleven to go. And you know what? Yer man’s right to think that. Because that’s called winning.’

  Lenahan shifted his weight on the sofa and offered an emphatic nod, driving the point home. There was a moment of silence and Suttle wondered whether to applaud or not. Was Kinsey’s prize cox like this all the time? Or was the performance strictly for Suttle’s benefit? Either way, he needed to find out more.

  Lenahan was cranking up again. By the time they got to Dartmouth, he said, Milo and Kinsey had hit the wall and even the last couple of overtakes couldn’t mask their pain. But they still crossed the line in 58 minutes 27 seconds, an easy win, and an hour or so later they’re in the Dartmouth clubhouse on the right side of a couple of pints and they’re scooping up the trophy and milking the applause and feeling thoroughly pleased with themselves when Kinsey starts again.

  ‘Starts what?’

  ‘Post-race analysis. That’s his fucking phrase, not mine. My friend, you need to make an effort, you need to imagine it. We’ve won. We’ve done the business. We’re all getting happily bladdered and Kinsey starts banging on about post-race analysis. Where we got things wrong. What we could do better next time. How we need to sharpen up on the catch or the extraction or changes of rate or any fucking thing. Can you believe that? We’ve pissed all over the opposition. We’ve come close to setting some kind of course record. And he’s talking about rate changes? The man’s an eejit. Was an eejit. And that’s being kind.’

  Suttle wanted to know what happened later, back in Exmouth.

  ‘This is last night, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘OK. So we tuck the boat away in the club compound and kiss it goodnight and then we go to the pub. This is a proper pub that’s stayed scruffy and real and for once in his life Kinsey uses it the way you should. Maybe Andy’s had a word. Maybe Andy’s told him to lighten up, enjoy himself, tie a couple on. That’s probably the way it was because Andy’s the only one Kinsey ever listens to. The freemasonry of the minted, right? Both these guys have got money, real money, and so Andy deserves a hearing. The rest of us? We’re just bad-arse drinkers, also-rans, trophy fodder for the man’s fucking ego.’

  At the pub, he said, they were joined by Milo Symons’ partner.

  ‘Now this girl is a piece. Her name is Natasha – Tasha if she knows you. She’s late thirties, maybe older, good nick, works out, blonde, describes herself as a resting actress. Way back in the day she probably did it for real on some crap telly series, but we’ve been around her for the best part of a year now and I can’t remember catching a single fucking gig, not one. But fair play to the woman, she’s still got it, she’s still good-looking, and she’s funny and sexy in the way that those two words often go together, you know what I mean? She rows with us sometimes when one of the other guys can’t make it, and while she’ll never win any prizes
for technique she makes us laugh. She’s also taken Kinsey’s fancy big time, which is funny in itself because the guy’s a midget and she’s way taller than he is. Not that little me can talk.’

  ‘So how long were you in the pub?’

  ‘An hour, tops. Kinsey’s ordered champagne. In the end we do three bottles, no problem, and then Kinsey orders us all back to his apartment round the corner for a nightcap or two, and at that point it’s Tasha’s idea to sort out a curry because that woman eats for England. So she takes orders and gets in her little car and then the rest of us halloo round the corner to Kinsey’s place.’

  Suttle tried to imagine this little knot of revellers making its way through the windy darkness. Kinsey, it turns out, has more champagne in his fridge but no Guinness. Pendrick thinks that’s a shame and so Milo gets on the mobile to Tash and tells her to pick up some resupplies.

  ‘Tash has gone for the takeaway by herself?’

  ‘Yep. Now I’m with Pendrick on the Guinness. Excellent fucking call. So we’re all lying around Kinsey’s pad, helping him with the Krug, and then Wonder Woman turns up with a whole load of takeaway plus an armful of tinnies. Me and Pendrick split the tinnies between us and we’re drinking toasts to how fucking invincible we are and all the time the temperature’s dropping because the sliding door to one of the balconies is open and then it occurs to us that Kinsey’s out there chucking up over the rail. You can hear the splat-splat on the promenade below. Nice.’

  Suttle made a note, remembering the CSI telling him about the puddle of vomit on the other side of the apartment block round the corner from the body. Then he looked up again, asking what had happened to Kinsey. It was Pendrick, it seemed, who’d sorted Kinsey out, taken him to his bedroom and tucked him in. Meantime the rest of the crew were getting stuck into the curry, which turned out to be a big disappointment.

  ‘Splodge, you know?’ Lenahan pulled a face. ‘No theme. No story. Nothing to remember it by. It’s one of those nights you pick at the best bits but our hearts aren’t really in it. A lounge that big isn’t the cosiest place in the world and the truth is we’ve all had enough. Nine hard miles? Our collective fucking bodyweight in Guinness and champagne? Definitely time for bye byes. So Tash dumps the curry in the waste bin and does the washing-up. She’s got the little sports car for her and Symons but we need a cab so she makes the call. The guy’s there within five minutes. He has to do a bit of a circuit to drop the three of us off. Andy lives in Exeter so he’ll be the last man standing but you know what yer man does? He gets a price from the driver and then takes a whack from each of us before we even get in the bloody car. That’s how you get rich, I guess. That’s the kind of stroke Kinsey would pull.’

  Suttle wanted to know more about Kinsey. Was he still in bed at this point? Or had he got up again?

  ‘Still in bed. Yer man’s spark out. This guy and alcohol are strangers. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. But that’s not the point. The place has got three en suite bathrooms and we’re still all thinking why hasn’t the eejit used one of those if he wants to be ill, but it’s Pendrick who puts his finger on it. Guy’s a dog, he says. The man has to leave his smell everywhere.’

  It was a neat phrase. Suttle scribbled it down. Later Lenahan would have to volunteer a formal statement, but in the meantime – as precious background – this stuff was gold dust.

  ‘So you left . . .’ Suttle suggested.

  ‘Sure we did.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Gone midnight. Ask the cabbie.’

  ‘And you pulled the door shut behind you?’

  ‘Yeah. We do that grown-up stuff really well.’

  ‘No one else around? No one you saw? Inside the building? Out by the marina?’

  ‘Didn’t see a soul.’

  ‘And no calls when you were up in the apartment?’

  ‘Nothing. Just us.’

  ‘But a couple of hours later the guy’s dead.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Don’t you find that odd? Being a doctor?’

  The word doctor brought the ghost of a frown to Lenahan’s face.

  ‘How do you know I’m a doctor?’

  ‘Molly Doyle told me.’

  ‘Ah, the Viking.’ The smile was back. ‘And did she tell you what kind of doctor?’

  ‘She said you worked abroad a lot. Médicins Sans Frontières.’ Suttle nodded at the photos on the wall. ‘I take it she’s right.’

  ‘She is. Fine woman.’ He studied his hands a moment, then his head came up again. ‘You really want to know about death, my friend? Then let me tell you. It’s getting towards sunset. It’s hotter than you can believe. Even the lizards are getting fucking stressed. But yer family are desperate and so they bring little you into the clinic. They’ve probably walked ten miles to get you to where it matters, and a journey like that hasn’t done you any good at all. So there you are on the knackered old trolley we use as a bed and after your last ten breaths your breathing stops and then you’re gone.’ He nodded, his voice soft, his eyes never leaving Suttle’s face. ‘You’re a couple of years old, maybe younger. Your mother screams and leaves the room. All the relatives outside, dozens of the fuckers, start to wail. Your father squats on the cracked old plastic chair which is the only one we’ve got and puts his face in his hands. A nurse cleans you up, removes the IV, swabs all the fucking blood and mucus away and then drapes something half clean over your face. Then your dad ties your big toes to keep your little legs together and wraps your feet and puts your hands together and binds your thumbs like this.’ He mimed the action, showing Suttle. ‘Then your dad lifts you onto a piece of coloured cloth and wraps you for a final time and takes you away. Me? I’m watching all this. It’s something I’ve got used to. It happens maybe five times a week. It’s like a little piece of theatre. The gennie’s fucked again and the lights are flickering on and off and you stand there in the dark and you listen to make sure they’ve all gone. You have absolutely nothing to say. You padlock the drugs cupboard and then step outside. With luck, you’re alone. You have a cigarette, you look up at the stars, and you wonder if the rest of the guys back in the compound have left any beers in the fridge. But on no account do you allow yourself to think. No way. Never. Why not? Because that’s the truth about death. It’s ugly. It’s unsparing. And it’s fucking everywhere. So from where I sit, Kinsey probably had it easy.’

  There was a long silence. Gulls again, more distant this time, and a stir of wind in the street outside. Suttle, for once in his life, was lost for words. He wasn’t sure if any of this stuff served any evidential purpose but it was hard not to be touched.

  ‘You’re going back? To Sudan?’

  ‘Sure. And to Uganda and to Somalia and to all the other fucked-over places.’

  ‘So what does it do to you? Long term?’

  ‘I dunno. I guess that’s a treat to come.’

  ‘Are you worried?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you think it damages you?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Hope so?’

  ‘Sure. Because it’s real. Because this is what’s waiting for us all, some place down the road.’ He stirred again in the chair, his hand reaching for a packet of Gitanes on the floor. Suttle shook his head at the offered cigarette, watched Lenahan light up and suck the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘Look at it this way,’ he said finally. ‘You go to some fancy dinner party. It happens a lot around here. You’re heading for the cheese course and everyone’s still talking about house prices or private schools or which four-by-four is best for towing jet skis or the horse fucking box, and then comes a bit of a lull, because there’s always a bit of a lull, and you sense it’s your turn. But what the fuck can you offer by way of conversation? Have any of these people got a clue about Sudan? About cholera, malnutrition, pneumonia, kidney infections, measles, meningitis, gunshot wounds, snakebite, sepsis after female fucking circumcision? Has any one of them ever heard an infant’s heart stop? No fu
cking chance.’

  ‘So who do you talk to? Who understands?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then it has to be Pendrick. This is a guy who lives in a dark part of the forest. He lives in the shadows. He lives in his head. But he’s good, bloody good, and he’s done a bit too, one way or another. Jesus, has he . . .’ He tailed off, took another drag, expelled a thin line of blue smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘If you want the truth, we talk about it a lot. Once you’ve been out there, I tell him, once you’ve seen it, lived it, been part of it, been swamped by it, you’re ruined. There’s a gap between you and the rest of the world. Nothing’s real. And nothing matters. You knock at my door and tell me Kinsey’s dead and you know what? I couldn’t care a fuck.’

  ‘You think he killed himself?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You think he fell by accident?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What else might have happened then?’

  Lenahan’s eyes drifted to the copy of the Guardian, then he was looking at Suttle again. He was smiling.

  ‘You tell me.’

  Suttle was with Houghton by half past twelve. One of the other desks was occupied by a young D/C trying to raise someone in the marina. Suttle pulled a chair towards Houghton. Boiling down Lenahan’s account to the kind of brisk summary the D/I favoured was beyond him so he stuck to the essentials.

  ‘The guys all left in a taxi around midnight,’ he said. ‘We need to check out the booking and statement the driver, but I’ve talked to the girl Lenahan shares with and she confirms he got back around that time. There’s no way he could have got up and gone out later because the girl’s best mate was kipping on the sofa downstairs and the front door opens straight out into the street.’