Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle)

by Hurley, Graham

  Gill had already started on office gossip. It seemed there’d been a big turnover of staff recently, and most of the new people Lizzie had never heard of, but Gill – as ever – had identified a target or two and was currently shagging a married man in his thirties who worked on the sports desk. Three times a week they’d been meeting at the leisure centre for a midday game of squash. Lately they’d given up on the squash and gone straight back to Gill’s new place.

  ‘The guy goes at it like a madman,’ she said. ‘The squash used to knacker me but this is ridiculous.’

  She paused to try and tease a spoonful of chilli into Grace’s mouth. Sex was the closest Gill had got to ever having babies and she’d always been clueless about the dos and don’ts of motherhood. Grace spat the chilli out and started to cry.

  Gill seemed oblivious. A couple of months back she’d been offered the kind of feature pieces that had always gone Lizzie’s way and she’d leapt at the chance. Her speciality just now was celebrity interviews, and she was speculating on the chances of bedding a soap star Lizzie had never heard of when she remembered a call she had to make.

  Lizzie was still trying to settle Grace. Gill poked at her Blackberry, not understanding why it wouldn’t respond.

  ‘You have to take it outside,’ Lizzie said. ‘Point it at the sun and hope for the best.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What about the laptop? Have you got broadband?’

  ‘Dial-up.’

  ‘Dial-up? Christ. You’ll be sending pigeons next.’

  Lizzie offered her landline but Gill was already out of the door. Minutes later she was back. Pointing it at the sun had evidently worked. She’d also remembered there was someone else in the room, another life, so different to hers.

  ‘So tell me,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

  Lizzie had been anticipating this question all morning. In truth she’d have liked nothing better than to get the whole thing off her chest but she was determined to hang on to what was left of her dignity.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Just different.’

  ‘You hate it.’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I can see it on your face. So let’s start again. What’s it really like?’

  Lizzie was nonplussed. This was the last thing she’d expected. Gill Reynolds, it turned out, was infinitely more tuned-in than she’d ever remembered. No wonder they’d given her promotion.

  ‘You want the truth? It’s a nightmare.’

  She talked about what she’d found when they’d first moved down. She described the state of the cottage, and the garden, and the life she seemed incapable of putting together when her husband was at work. She told Gill about Christmas, two long days of unrelieved gloom while Jimmy tried to coax a little heat from the fire. And then she brought the story up to date. She’d decided she was a lousy wife and – even worse – a hopeless mother. By giving in to Jimmy, by agreeing to go along with his rural fantasy, she’d probably inflicted untold damage on her daughter. Kids were smart. They sensed when things were going wrong. For her sake and for Grace’s, before it was too late, she needed to take a few decisions.

  ‘You’ll leave him?’

  ‘Not him, Gill. This. I’ll leave this. We both will, me and Grace. It’s beaten us. I’ve tried. Believe me I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. But every time I think I’m getting somewhere something else kicks off and I’m back where I started. Central heating? Windows that fit? Maybe a little car to get out in? Is that too much to ask?’

  Gill was trying to think this thing through. Another novelty.

  ‘Maybe you haven’t tried hard enough,’ she said at last.

  ‘That’s an insult.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Of course this is different. You must have expected that. No way is this Fratton or Southsea or wherever. It’s the country, Lou. Different mindset. Different everything. Like I say, try harder. Adapt.’

  ‘Christ . . .’ Lizzie turned away. She had an overpowering urge to cry again. Then came an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘I believe you, Lou. I really do. I’m just thinking about the alternative, that’s all. Where will you go? What will you do?’

  Lizzie was back in control of herself. She apologised for losing it and began to get to her feet.

  ‘Don’t.’ Gill put out a restraining hand. ‘Just answer my question. What will you do?’

  Lizzie gazed at her for a long moment. The fact was she didn’t know. On the phone yesterday she’d nearly asked Gill whether there was room for them at this new place of hers but in the end she’d drawn back. That wasn’t something she’d shared with Jimmy last night but it hadn’t seemed to matter because she’d assumed Gill’s answer would be yes. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘You’re think of coming back?’ Once again Gill was ahead of the game. ‘Staying at my place?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind, yes.’

  ‘Forget it, Lou. It won’t happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It just won’t.’

  ‘You don’t want us?’

  ‘Of course I want you. That’s not the issue.’

  ‘So what is? I don’t understand.’

  Gill studied her, then shook her head. No clues. No conferring.

  ‘We’ll go to my mum’s then.’ Lizzie was getting angry again. ‘She’ll definitely have us.’

  ‘Not a great idea.’

  ‘But why? Is it the job?’

  ‘The job’s fine. I’m sure the job’s yours for the asking. It’s just . . .’ She shrugged, picked at her chilli, then looked up again. ‘Never go backwards, Lou. It never works.’

  ‘That’s what Jimmy said.’

  ‘Then believe him. He’s right. One way or another you have to make this work.’ She paused. ‘Is the seaside near here? Only I really fancy a walk on the beach.’

  By mid-afternoon, Jimmy Suttle suspected it was all over. He’d tasked a handful of D/Cs to start exploring the new lines of enquiry – Henri Laffont and Kinsey’s vengeful ex-wife – but Nandy was due any time and Suttle knew that Houghton would have told him about the post-mortem. These days, through no fault of his own, Nandy had become a juggler, forever trying to keep all the force’s investigative balls in the air. As calls increased on precious Major Crime resources, there were balls he knew he’d have to put to one side, and while he’d never abandon an enquiry that showed genuine promise, he was bound by the iron demands of the Criminal Prosecution Service. No one had ever invented a form for a hunch, and if there was no evidence to suggest that Kinsey had died at someone else’s hands, then Detective Superintendent Nandy would be moving swiftly on.

  He arrived at the makeshift office within the hour. Suttle briefed him on the problems Kinsey had been facing in his business and personal life and tallied the actions he’d commissioned to find out more. Nandy nodded, unimpressed. No one, he said, got that rich without making enemies. That was one of the joys of capitalism, something you could rely on, but from where he was sitting there wasn’t a particle of evidence that a pissed-off Swiss engineer or a homicidal ex-wife had chucked Kinsey into oblivion. The thing just didn’t fly. While he was happy to have Suttle’s D/Cs complete their preliminary enquiries in both instances, he was minded to redeploy the rest of the squad.

  ‘Including me, sir?’

  ‘No.’ Nandy closed the door. ‘Carole tells me you’ve been under some pressure lately.’

  ‘Does she?’ Suttle was astonished.

  ‘Yeah. Not much gets by her, believe me. You should be grateful, son.’ He paused. ‘Everything OK at home?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Suttle ducked his head. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Good to hear it. From tomorrow onwards I want you to take over the Constantine file and prepare it for the Coroner. We’re looking at a couple of weeks, max. That’s the good news. The bad news is you’re on your own. Happy with that?’

  ‘Perfectly.’
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  ‘If you really need help D/I Houghton might release D/C Golding on a temporary basis but that’s absolutely last resort. We understand each other?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Any questions? Anything you’re not clear about?’

  Suttle gave the question some thought, then nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir. What happens if . . .?’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘If I end up believing there’s grounds for further investigation?’

  ‘Then you lift the phone –’ he offered Suttle the ghost of a smile ‘– and we crank it all up again.’

  It was gone six by the time Lizzie and Gill returned to the rowing club compound. They’d spent the afternoon on the beach at Exmouth, walking the couple of miles past the ochre jut of Orcombe Point and onwards to the distant wall of rock that marked the end of Sandy Bay. It was low tide and the sand was firm underfoot. Oystercatchers were feasting on the weed-strewn rocks at the water’s edge and in the distance they could hear the pock-pock of live firing from the Royal Marines’ range at Straight Point.

  Gill’s delight at what they’d stumbled on was unfeigned, and even Lizzie had to admit that this stretch of God’s coastline was pretty special. Gill had insisted on carrying Grace, who was already getting too big for the chest sling, but she and Gill seemed to be friends at last, and Gill paused every now and again to show her something that had caught her eye. The beach was big and bare and flawless, gleaming as the sun began to sink, and when a couple of horses appeared, clattering awkwardly down the concrete slip from the caravan camp above, the picture was complete. They thundered past, splashing through the shallows, heading back towards Exmouth, and the noise and the movement drew shrieks of pleasure from Grace. Lizzie had remembered to pack a couple of spare bottles and some mashed-up swede in case she got hungry, but as they approached the rowing club she seemed content.

  Gill’s Megane was parked beyond the compound. Lizzie had told her all about Jimmy’s suggestion that she join and Gill was adamant that she should, at the very least, give the thing a try. She was curious about this new departure in Lizzie’s life and demanded a look at what lay in store. When they got to the compound, the doors to the clubhouse were open. Lizzie hung back, a little uncertain, but Gill wasn’t having it.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘We need to do this.’

  Lizzie knew she was right. She negotiated the steps up to the clubhouse and pushed in through the door. The near-darkness took her by surprise. She could make out shapes on the rowing machines, three of them. Slowly, one by one, they came to a halt. They were all women.

  Lizzie explained she’d come for a look, apologised for the interruption.

  ‘Not at all. Are you interested?’ The nearest woman had got off her machine and extended a hand. She said her name was Tessa. When Lizzie confirmed that she fancied having a go, Tessa grinned.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If you like. You don’t need the anorak. Runners and jeans are fine. Nothing strenuous. Just the basics.’

  Lizzie gave her jacket to Gill. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She perched on the seat which slid up and down towards a tiny electronic screen. A handle was attached to a flywheel by a chain. The trick, said Tessa, was to use the muscles that really mattered to get the flywheel spinning.

  She strapped Lizzie’s feet into the footstretchers beneath the screen, asked her to take a pull or two and stepped back to watch. With a glance towards Gill, Lizzie did her bidding. She’d never been on a rowing machine in her life.

  ‘You’re bending your arms way too early.’ This from Tessa. ‘The real power comes from your legs. Push away and use your arms as levers. Only bend them at the end of the stroke. You’ll be amazed at how much difference that makes.’

  ‘Difference how?’

  ‘Watch the readout. The figures never lie.’

  The other two girls laughed. Too right, they seemed to be saying. Lizzie gave it another go, keeping her arms straight this time. Tessa was right. The numbers zipped forward.

  ‘Much better. But you’re holding the handle way too tight. It needs to be loose. Right. That’s it. Now concentrate on getting the rhythm. It’s a cycle. Your body leans forward, your hands go over your knees, you push back with the legs to take the stroke, you tuck the handle under your ribcage, then it’s hands away quickly and you repeat the cycle all over again. Excellent. You’re a natural. I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Lizzie.’

  ‘I’m serious, Lizzie. This could be for you. Am I right, girls?’

  There was a murmur of approval. Lizzie was still on the machine, still rowing, trying to get one of the numbers down. According to Tessa this calculated how long she’d take to cover 500 metres. Two minutes seventeen seconds, for a novice, appeared to be OK.

  ‘More than OK. Now give it some welly. We’re talking flat out. You’ve got a minute. After that we stop.’

  Lizzie took it as a challenge. She increased her rate, driving hard against the footplate, trying to keep her back straight as she took the stroke, throwing her hands forward, keeping the movement going, chasing the numbers on the readout. By now she was fighting for breath, the lactic acid beginning to scald the muscles in her calves and thighs, the numbers dancing in front of her eyes. She could feel the sweat beneath her T-shirt, on her face. Two minutes ten. Two minutes seven. Two minutes six.

  ‘Twenty seconds to go, Lizzie. Work for it. Want it.’

  She shut her eyes, pushing ever harder. She was hurting now and the sheer effort lifted her bum from the seat at the start of every stroke. Then it was over and she slumped on the seat, sucking in the cold air, aware of the whine of the flywheel as it began to slow.

  From somewhere above her came a noise she dimly recognised as applause. All the girls were clapping. Gill was clapping. Even Grace looked pleased. Lizzie grinned, trying to get to her feet. She hadn’t felt so good, so complete, for months.

  ‘Thank you, ladies,’ she managed.

  Tessa helped her up, said she’d done well, better than well, then her attention was caught by a movement in the doorway and Lizzie turned to see someone else silhouetted against the brightness of the sunshine outside. It was a man, tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly still. He was wearing shorts and a red singlet. He didn’t have much hair.

  ‘This is Tom.’ Tessa laughed. ‘Impress him, and you’ll never look back.’

  On the way home Suttle made a detour to Pendrick’s flat. He was still in two minds about Nandy’s real motivation in charging him with the preparation of a file for the Coroner. A task like this usually fell to a D/C, and something in Nandy’s manner told him there was more to this decision that met the eye. Maybe Nandy wasn’t convinced that Constantine had really hit the buffers. Maybe this was a clever move to keep the investigation at least semi-active. Either way, he didn’t much care. Suttle had never had a problem working by himself. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed it.

  Pendrick lived in the top half of a terraced house a couple of minutes’ drive from the nick. A sign in the downstairs window read, Dominic Widdows – Chiropractor. For appointments ring 01395 268078. Suttle made a note of the name and number and rang Pendrick’s bell. No reply. He rang again. Nothing. He stepped back into the road, gazing up at the top window. The curtains were pulled tight against the world outside.

  Suttle drove home. Expecting to find evidence of Gill, he was surprised to find the parking area empty. He killed the engine and checked his watch. Nearly seven. He sat in the Impreza a moment, aware of the acids churning in his stomach. It’s a beautiful evening, he told himself. They’ve gone for a walk.

  The house was locked. He fumbled for his key, pushed at the door and stepped into the kitchen. Plates were piled in the sink and the remains of a chilli con carne had crusted in the saucepan. He wondered about a note but found nothing. There were still a couple of Stellas in the fridge. He fetched one out and snapped open the tinnie, trying to resist the obvio
us conclusion. Lizzie had spent the morning packing. Gill had arrived. Lunch would have been over in no time at all. Lizzie had strapped the baby in the back of Gill’s car, stuffed her bags in the boot, and all three of them had fucked off back to Pompey. Job done. Game over. End of.

  At this time in the evening a long low slant of sunshine added a rare warmth to the kitchen. Suttle inched his chair sideways, taking full advantage, reaching for the tinnie again. Was this what was left of his marriage? A sink full of washing-up and a spoonful or two of cold mince? He fought the hollowness inside, knowing that life banged up by himself would be a hard ask. He’d miss Lizzie like hell. He’d probably miss Grace even more. Family life, with all its imperfections, was what softened his working days. He was lucky enough to love what he did for a living, at least most of the time, but never for a second did he kid himself that it was enough.

  Over the years he’d met countless cops who’d let the Job drive everything else out of their lives, and in every case they’d come to regret it. These were the guys suggesting a drink or two in the pub around the corner after work. These were the loners desperate for company and a listening ear. Suttle had always resisted these invitations, telling himself he’d never make the same mistake, but now – for the first time – he realised how easy it was to miss the obvious clues. He was a detective, for fuck’s sake. So how come he’d let his marriage come to this?

  He was contemplating the prospect of the other Stella when he heard a car slowing outside. Then came the crunch of wheels on gravel and a peal of laughter as a door opened. Moments later he was out in the sunshine. Lizzie hadn’t laughed like that for weeks. Months. She was standing there with Grace in her arms. She had a huge grin on her face. Suttle put his arms round her, kissed them both. Relief had seldom tasted so sweet.

  ‘And me?’

  He kissed Gill too. She had a bottle of vodka in her hand. Bliss.