Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle)

by Hurley, Graham

  In this, thought Suttle, she was probably right, but leaving a bunch of Pompey heavies to the likes of Parsons wouldn’t work either. They played by different rules. They didn’t care a fuck about ambitious detective superintendents banged up in a bubble of their own making. The Filth, in their view, were like the weather. A minor inconvenience.

  So what to do? As the traffic at last began to inch forward he was no closer to cracking it, but minutes later, as the dual carriageway crested the last hill before the distant sprawl of Plymouth, he thought – quite suddenly – of Paul Winter. A situation like this, back in the day, would have been meat and drink to Suttle’s one-time mentor. He’d have studied it from every angle, looking for advantage, scenting a weakness here, identifying an opportunity there, finally lifting the phone to arrange a meet. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere companionable. Some pub where he could open negotiations, bait traps, orchestrate an outcome that the enemy, far too late, would recognise as a total stitch-up. Suttle could imagine him now. Steady on, son, he’d say. You always have more time than you think.

  Suttle caught the first of the gantry signs indicating the turnoff for Crownhill. He indicated left, slipped into the nearside lane, hoping to God that Winter had it right.

  It was mid-morning before Gill Reynolds left Chantry Cottage. Three ibuprofen and a plate of scrambled eggs had softened the worst of her hangover, and by the time she and Lizzie said their goodbyes she was feeling mildly euphoric. Their little stroll yesterday afternoon, Gill announced, had been fantastic. The rowing was going to do Lizzie a power of good. She wanted – demanded – regular progress reports including Lizzie’s take on the available crumpet. East Devon, to her surprise, was only three hours away. With the right incentive, she could be back any time.

  Lizzie waved as she accelerated away down the lane. To her relief, Gill’s brief visit had turned out to be a real pleasure. Better than that, it seemed to have lifted the depression that had threatened to swamp her little boat. Gill was right about the rowing. She needed exercise. She wanted new people in her life. After her initial misgivings, she was now relishing the chance to conquer something difficult and worthwhile. She took Grace back inside, gazing at the wreckage from last night’s meal. All this, she told herself, could wait. They needed supplies, something for Jimmy to cook this evening while she was down at the rowing club. With the sun out again, she and Grace should make the most of it.

  It was a fifteen-minute push to the village store. Lizzie bought bread, milk, fresh vegetables, bananas for Grace, and – as an afterthought – a bottle of Jimmy’s favourite Rioja. On the way back she paused outside the store to talk to an elderly woman she recognised from her recent visit to the church. The woman was collecting for an Aids charity in Africa and Lizzie dropped a pound coin in her box.

  Shortly before noon, Lizzie and Grace were back at Chantry Cottage. She let herself in, settled Grace in her playpen and returned to the chaos of the kitchen. Minutes later, clearing the table, she caught sight of something tucked beneath the breadboard. It was a Pompey programme, the last home game, Portsmouth vs Preston North End. She gazed at it, trying to work out where it had come from. Gill, to her certain knowledge, loathed football. Jimmy, she knew, had been at home last weekend. So what on earth was this little bit of Pompey doing in her kitchen?

  The phone rang. It was Jimmy. He’d just arrived in Plymouth and he wanted her to know if she was OK.

  Lizzie was still looking at the programme.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Don’t be late tonight, eh? I’m going rowing.’

  Crownhill was the biggest of the force outposts in Plymouth. D/I Gina Hamilton occupied a first-floor office close to the lift. Something had changed since they’d last met and it took Suttle a moment or two to work out what.

  ‘The hair,’ he said. ‘Am I right?’

  Hamilton had got to her feet, extending a hand.

  ‘I had it done last week. I was going for the full butch but it hasn’t worked, has it?’

  She was right. Back in Pompey, five years ago, her blonde hair had been shoulder length, maybe longer. Now, still blonde, it was savagely cropped, giving her face a younger look. Delicate features. Flawless complexion. Full lips. And hints of fatigue shadowing her pale blue eyes.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Suttle nodded at the paperwork on her desk.

  ‘Performance reviews.’

  ‘What did you do wrong?’

  ‘That’s not as funny as you think. Do you want a list?’

  ‘Yeah, if you’re offering.’ Suttle had yet to take a seat.

  She looked at him a moment, amused. Suttle was trying to guess her age. Forty? Maybe a year or two younger?

  ‘Tell me about Mr Pendrick,’ she said. ‘I got hold of the file after you phoned, just to remind myself. Interesting guy.’

  Suttle told her about Kinsey’s death, about the resources Nandy had piled into Constantine, about their fruitless attempts to turn a sus death into something they might one day take to court. In the end, he said, they seemed to have drawn one fat blank with absolutely nothing to show for hundreds of man-hours of investigative effort.

  ‘Except Pendrick?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Suttle sat down at last. ‘So what did you make of him?’

  Hamilton pondered the question. Back last year, she said, she’d been relief D/I down at the far end of Cornwall. The Coastguard had been in touch with force HQ as soon as Pendrick had alerted them to the mystery disappearance of his wife, and Hamilton had been nominated to sit on top of the job. A couple of uniforms had taken a statement after Pendrick made landfall in Penzance and Hamilton had invited him up to the nick a couple of days later to expand on one or two elements in his account.

  ‘HQ were getting twitchy by then.’ She laughed. ‘The papers were starting to speculate about what might have happened and we needed to be sure we had the thing covered.’

  Suttle wanted to know about Pendrick’s account. How much detail had he offered?

  ‘Not a lot, to be honest. The way he told it, the crossing had been pretty boring. Most of the time they just rowed, which you can believe, and the week before it happened they’d had some pretty shit weather. I got the impression the thing had been a bit of a let-down, a bit of a disappointment. And then, of course, the wife disappeared.’

  She talked Suttle through the sequence of events. They’d had a little cubby at the front of the boat. Pendrick used to sleep from two in the morning until four. Then he’d take over from his wife. They’d worked it this way for pretty much all of the crossing. On this occasion, like always, he’d been ready to take over and let her get some kip but when he emerged from the cabin she’d gone.

  ‘Just disappeared?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No huge waves during the night?’

  ‘No. According to Pendrick it was flat calm.’

  ‘No note? No reason she might have gone overboard?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did she ever take a dip? Just slip over the side and paddle around?’

  ‘I asked him that and the answer was yes. But they only swam when the other one was there too. And only when they had knotted ropes trailing in the water.’

  ‘So not at night?’

  ‘Never. He said she was really responsible that way. They both were. House rules.’

  Suttle nodded. He remembered an article in one of the tabloids. They’d never gone as far as directly accusing the hippy rower of getting rid of his wife, but they had run a series of articles profiling other guys who’d tried to fake the death of a spouse or a partner.

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I had no grounds not to.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question.’

  ‘I know.’

  Suttle held her gaze, aware that she was enjoying this exchange. Anything to liven up another Tuesday morning, he thought. Any escape from the pile of performance reviews.

  ‘What about third parties?’ Suttle asked. ‘Did they have som
e kind of shore-based thing? Someone who kept an eye on them? Someone they checked in with?’

  Hamilton nodded. Back in Woods Hole in Massachusetts, where they’d begun the voyage, were a couple of friends who fielded regular reports. Calling them a control centre was a bit of a stretch but they’d sent stuff on to the US media and generally done their best. After a while the reports from mid-Atlantic had become sporadic and – to be frank – a bit thin.

  ‘They were their words, not mine.’

  ‘You talked to these guys?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They didn’t seem to have any cause for concern. Until the wife disappeared.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘It became a bit of a news story. For a day or two.’

  Suttle nodded. He was thinking about the crossing, what it must have taken to make the initial commitment.

  ‘Did you like Pendrick?’

  ‘What sort of question is that?’

  ‘Well? Did you?’

  ‘I liked what he’d done, what they’d both done. Rowing the Atlantic? You had to give the guy a bit of respect.’

  ‘Sure but . . . you know . . .’ Suttle smiled. ‘Did you get through to him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I did. From where I was sitting the man was on another planet.’

  ‘Because of his wife?’

  ‘You couldn’t tell. Did he miss her? Yes, I think he did. Was that the end of the story? No way.’

  ‘There was other stuff?’

  ‘There had to be. He wasn’t difficult or uncooperative, don’t get me wrong. He just didn’t say a lot.’

  ‘Meaning he had something to hide?’

  ‘Meaning there were limits, places you didn’t go. I can’t remember meeting anyone so private.’

  ‘Fuck-off private? Or private private?’

  ‘Private private. We’re not talking aggression. Far from it. I had the impression he’d be a good guy to have a drink with.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because, deep down, he probably had lots to say. And most of it would be worth listening to.’

  Suttle smiled. Nicely phrased, he thought.

  ‘What about other evidence? Did SOC bosh the boat?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing material. They found traces of blood on a runner beneath one of the seats but it turned out to be mackerel. Our man was home safe.’

  ‘What was the gap between his wife disappearing and Pendrick making it back?’

  Hamilton frowned, doing the calculations.

  ‘Over a week. He was single-handed. That boat must have weighed a ton.’

  ‘So he had plenty of time to give the thing a proper seeing-to?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When he could have been picked up? Gone for early doors?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you think that was dodgy at all? Carrying on the way he did?’

  ‘Not really. I put it to him that it was a strange thing to do, rowing single-handed when most people would have been in bits about what had happened, but he just shook his head. The word he used was tribute.’

  ‘Tribute?’

  ‘To his dead wife. To Kate. Finishing was the least he owed her. It’s in the transcript. I remember him saying exactly that.’

  Suttle scribbled himself a note. Finishing was the least I owed her. It was an arresting phrase.

  ‘What about passive evidence?’

  ‘She had a camera which she apparently took with her when she went over the side.’

  ‘Stills? Video?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘And you’re saying it disappeared?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Suttle bent to his pad. Made another note. Then his head came up again.

  ‘Did she keep a diary? Some kind of journal?’

  ‘Yeah. Plus an audio account.’

  ‘You seized them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Evidentially it took us nowhere. I got the impression she was quite a literal-minded woman. From time to time the wild life would do it for her – the birds, dolphins, a couple of whales – and sunsets and sunrises always got a mention, but most of the stuff was pretty dull. Distance covered. Weather details. How much water they were making every day. Worries about the food stocks. Housekeeping really. One thing was interesting, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I remember thinking the deeper they got into this thing, the less she wrote. It was the same with the audio. You could sense it in her voice. There was a weariness there. You could hear it.’

  ‘She was probably knackered.’

  ‘Sure. Of course she was. But there was something else. It was as if she couldn’t be bothered any more.’

  ‘Right.’ Another note. ‘And what about Pendrick? Was he keeping any kind of diary?’

  ‘He said he wasn’t.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he was so thoughtful, so deep. Pendrick was exactly the kind of guy to write stuff down. But no way would you ever get to read it.’

  ‘Because he was hiding something?’

  ‘Because he was so private.’

  ‘What about the state of the relationship? What impression did you get about that?’

  ‘They’d been married for a while. Five, six years, something like that.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But they were tight? Made it work?’

  ‘I imagine so. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Why do something like that with someone you don’t much like?’

  Suttle said he didn’t know. Relationships were complicated enough on dry land. Just imagine what a couple of months alone at sea would do to most marriages.

  Hamilton said nothing. Just shot him a look. Suttle asked her about the couple’s life insurance.

  ‘They’d both taken out policies. They were raising money for some charity and the people in charge insisted on proper cover. That was interesting.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘The insurance thing was a bit of an issue for a couple of the media guys. One of the reporters did a bit of digging and discovered that Pendrick stood to gain half a million dollars from his wife’s death. Of course it wasn’t as simple as that. The insurance company wanted proof of death and it was months before they accepted the claim, but when I put it to Pendrick he just shrugged, said he wasn’t interested, told me the money had never crossed his mind.’

  ‘Did you check with the insurance people? Later?’

  ‘Yeah. We had a wash-up at the back end of last year.’

  ‘Performance review?’

  ‘Very funny.’ She had the grace to laugh. ‘I put a call through and after the usual dramas they confirmed they’d paid out.’

  ‘To Pendrick?’

  ‘To the charity. It turned out that’s what Pendrick and his wife had wanted all along. That was their decision. That’s what they’d stipulated. And I’m guessing that’s why Pendrick was never bothered about the money.’

  ‘OK.’ Suttle was impressed. ‘So which charity are we talking about?’

  ‘I knew you’d ask.’ She opened a drawer and produced a file. Lovely hands, Suttle thought. No rings. Hamilton looked up, one finger anchored in the file. ‘It’s called Phra Mae Khongka. She’s a Thai water goddess. I gather it’s something to do with the tsunami.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘You want the truth?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  Lizzie got Gill on her mobile shortly after lunch. She was speeding through the New Forest with the top down and Muse full blast on the audio. She’d borrowed the CD from Lizzie and would bring it back next time round.

  Lizzie wanted to know whether she’d had anything to do with a football programme that had appeared on the kitchen table.r />
  ‘A what?’

  ‘A football programme. Portsmouth versus Preston. Last weekend.’

  Lizzie heard the music level dip. Then Gill was back on the phone.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said. She wanted to know how come it had got there.

  ‘Good question.’ Lizzie was watching Dexter stalking something in the long grass.

  She rang off as the signal began to fade and went back into the kitchen. The programme was still on the table. When she’d found it she’d done nothing but stare at the front cover. Blue shirts in front of a sea of faces. A white blur might have been a football. Now she went through the programme page by page. She found the phone number at the end, a line of carefully transcribed figures beneath an advert for a demolition company. The number was underlined and there was a question mark at the end. She studied the number a moment and wondered what would happen if she phoned it. Then something else claimed her attention.

  The last time she’d checked the dodgy window in the living room, it had been loosely secured. There was no way it would ever keep anyone out but this way it at least minimised the draught. Now, though, it was completely unlatched. Someone had been at it. She knew they had. There was no other explanation. Someone had reached in, opened the window and climbed inside.

  She peered hard at the windowsill, then at the carpet beneath. Sure enough, among all the ingrained crud, she could see tiny fragments of gravel and dirt. She turned away from the window, feeling a sudden chill despite the warmth of the sun. Grace was in her playpen, taking wet bites at her stuffed rabbit. Lizzie stared at her for a long moment then summoned the courage to venture upstairs. Both bedrooms were empty. She came down again, her pulse back under control, wondering what to do. Should she phone Jimmy? Or should she wait until this evening?

  She glanced at her watch and decided not to bother him. Mercifully, the bolts on both the front and back doors still worked. With a bit of ingenuity, she might be able to re-fasten the window. Whoever had left the calling card was probably miles away by now. Her eyes strayed to the programme again and despite everything she found herself wondering what on earth lay behind its sudden appearance in this tomb of a house. Pompey, she thought. Never lets you down.