Western Approaches djs-1

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Pub called the Angel. Opposite Central Station. You know it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Three o’clock. If you’re not there by quarter past, all bets are off.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You don’t want to know, mush.’

  The line went dead. Suttle slipped the phone back in his pocket and checked his watch. 14.27. Getting into the city centre and finding somewhere to park would take at least twenty minutes, probably longer. And no way was he going into this without back-up.

  In the next office D/C Luke Golding was on the phone. He’d been with Major Crimes less than a month. Suttle barely knew the lad.

  He stood over him, tapping his watch. Get off the phone. Like now.

  ‘Sarge?’ Golding looked startled.

  ‘There’s a meet we have to get to.’ Suttle was already heading for the door. ‘That’s me and you, son.’

  In the car Suttle left the details vague. When Golding asked which bit of Constantine this linked to, Suttle said it was impossible to say. Call it a fishing expedition. Call it any fucking thing. Just do what I say, right?

  Golding nodded. He was small and slight but Suttle had listened to a couple of the other guys on the squad and knew the boy could handle himself. In uniform, still a probationer, he’d evidently faced down a bunch of pissed marine recruits in an Exmouth pub. That very definitely took bottle. Good sign.

  The traffic, mercifully, was light. Suttle was in the city centre by five to three. There was even a parking space outside the Central Station. He killed the engine and sat in silence for a moment. The Angel was directly across the road. He’d never been in the pub in his life but a big plate-glass window offered a view inside. It was dark, impossible to see further than the tables beside the window.

  ‘So what now, Sarge?’ Golding had to be back for a meet by four fifteen.

  ‘You watch my back, OK? I’ll be sitting at one of those tables you can see across the road there in the pub. There’ll be someone with me. If anything kicks off I want you to call for the cavalry. You happy with that?’

  ‘No sweat.’ He could see the lad warming to the task. Maybe he enjoyed physical violence. Maybe he was a stranger to the strokes the 6.57 could pull.

  Suttle got out of the Impreza and crossed the road. The pub was near-empty, a couple of derelicts at the bar, a younger man with a copy of the Independent curled on the sofa beside the brick fireplace. None of them looked remotely Pompey. Suttle asked for a small shandy and took it to the table beside the window. He could see Golding across the road. He was studying his mobile.

  Moments later the door opened. Two guys, one fat, one black. Suttle recognised neither of them. The fat guy muttered something Suttle didn’t catch to his mate and dispatched him to the bar before wedging himself into the chair across the table from Suttle. His tiny shaved skull seemed to wobble on the folds of fat at the back of his neck. Baggy jeans and a black leather jacket over a black woollen polo neck.

  ‘So who’s the kid in the Impreza?’

  ‘A mate of mine.’

  ‘He knows about this?’

  ‘He knows I’m meeting someone heavy.’

  ‘Too fucking right. Does he know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Straight up?’

  ‘Yeah. There’d be no point telling him. Pompey’s a mystery to these people.’

  ‘You’re right, mush. Wrong fucking league, eh? Wrong fucking end of the country. What’s it like then? Life in the sticks?’

  Suttle didn’t answer. He hadn’t any interest in conversation. He was simply here to deliver a message.

  The black guy was back with the drinks. Two pints of Stella and a packet of cheese and onion. Suttle was looking at the fat guy.

  ‘You’ve got a name?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I’ve got a fucking name.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘None of your business. If it helps you can call me Jonno.’

  ‘OK, Jonno, so why don’t you say your piece? What exactly do you want from me?’

  ‘You know what we want.’

  ‘All I know is you’ve been sniffing around my missus. Nice pix, by the way.’

  Jonno had caught sight of the crisps. He was staring at the black guy.

  ‘I said salt and vinegar, didn’t I? Can’t you fucking read?’

  ‘They’ve run out.’

  ‘Run out?’ His eyes revolved. ‘Fucking carrot crunchers.’ He opened the packet and emptied the crisps across the table. ‘Help yourself, mush. Lunch on us, eh?’ He gave the crisps a poke. The back of his right hand carried an eagle tat. On his left, a name framed in an elaborate scroll. Even upside down Suttle had no difficulty deciphering it.

  ‘He lives down this way.’ Suttle nodded at the tat. ‘Not many people know that.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘David James.’

  ‘Know him, do you?’

  ‘I’ve met him a couple of times, yeah. He’s big on the charity front. Nice bloke.’

  David James had been a legend at Fratton Park, a commanding goalie with a huge Afro and a string of England caps.

  Jonno was impressed.

  ‘You talk to him at all?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘You’re starting to sound half human.’

  He pushed the crisps towards Suttle. He wanted be out of this khazi of a city and back on the road east as soon as possible. So why didn’t Suttle do himself a favour and help him out?

  ‘How?’

  ‘You know how. That cunt Winter was totally out of order. You think we can let something like that go? In case you don’t remember, Mr Filth, your guys shot the Man dead. That’s life, mush. That’s what happens. Some tosser pulls the trigger and Bazza Mac’s history. You’ll be glad to know we don’t have a problem with that. The arsehole with the shooter’s doing a job. But what we don’t put up with is a fucking two-timing lowlife grass like Winter. Without him, the arsehole with the shooter would never have been anywhere near Bazza Mac. And so our Mr Winter’s on a slapping. Happy to oblige.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t, mush. We’re quality when it comes to slappings.’

  ‘Great. So what do you want from me?’

  ‘An address. Nothing more, nothing less. Give us an address and we’re out of your face. Never trouble you again.’

  ‘I haven’t got an address. I haven’t got a clue where he is.’

  ‘Think again, mush. It happens we know how you cunts operate. Witness protection? New ID? Plastic surgery? Set the fat cunt up in some fucking bungalow on the other side of the globe? Make sure he blends in with the wildlife? Dunsnitching? Dungrassing? We know all that. And so do you.’ He picked at a crisp. ‘So where is he?’

  ‘I just told you. I don’t know.’

  ‘OK.’ Jonno nodded. ‘And if you did know?’

  ‘I still wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Really?’ The expression on his face could have been a smile. ‘So how do we know you’re not lying?’

  ‘You don’t. You have to believe me.’

  ‘But what’s the point, mush?’

  ‘There isn’t one. Our gang’s bigger than yours. Which is why you’re best off forgetting all about Winter.’

  ‘That ain’t going to happen, mush. And you know it. You know something else? Young Karl here, the genius who doesn’t know a salt and vinegar crisp from the hole in his arse, thinks you’re probably wearing a wire. You mind if he checks?’

  ‘Go ahead. Help yourself.’

  The black guy took his cue. He swallowed a mouthful of Stella and then gestured Suttle to his feet. Suttle stood up. A single nudge with his knee was enough to upset all three glasses, sending a tidal wave of cold lager across the table.

  ‘Fuck me.’ Jonno, outraged, was looking at a lapful of soggy crisps. He tried to push away from the edge of the table. More lager.

  Suttle was aware of Golding racing
across the road, body-checking through a line of cyclists. Then he was in through the door. Suttle told him to cool it.

  ‘Little accident, son.’ He shot Golding a grin. ‘I think my new friends are leaving.’

  As promised, Suttle was back at Chantry Cottage by half five. It was a thirty-minute drive to Exmouth, absolute max, and he knew Lizzie wanted to be on the beach by six. He reversed the Impreza and left the driver’s door open.

  Lizzie emerged from the back door. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a trackie top draped over her shoulders. She’d just fed Grace, she said, and there was plenty of food in case Suttle fancied getting some supper together. She’d no idea when she’d be back but imagined it wouldn’t be late.

  Suttle was still standing by the Impreza. There was an edge in Lizzie’s voice he didn’t much like.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s a message on the answering machine. I don’t know what’s going on but maybe you ought to check it out.’

  Suttle watched her drive away without a backward glance. He ducked into the kitchen. The phone had been readied in the living room. Grace gave him a little wave and rattled the bars of her playpen.

  Suttle recognised the voice at once. The message couldn’t have been simpler. ‘Top mistake, mush. Next time, eh? Looking forward to it.’ Suttle hit the replay button. He and Golding had left the two guys in the pub. Mercifully, Golding hadn’t had time to call for help, deciding that his D/S could do with a bit of physical support. For this Suttle had been genuinely grateful but he’d spent most of the journey back to Middlemoor fending the lad off. Yes, these guys were very definitely the enemy. No, he couldn’t reveal more at this stage. And, by the way, would he mind keeping radio silence for the time being?

  ‘Radio silence’ hadn’t cut much ice with Golding. He was both curious and alarmed. Curious because he had a nose for serious trouble, and alarmed because he didn’t begin to understand why Suttle wasn’t pushing all the panic buttons. The young D/C had seen enough to suss that the two heavies in the Angel had fuck all to do with Constantine. Bosses existed to take care of situations like these and D/I Houghton, in Golding’s eyes, was one of the best. Getting out of the Impreza back at Middlemoor, he nodded up towards Houghton’s office window.

  ‘Just tell her, Sarge. Whatever it is, she’ll understand.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. .’

  Golding had shrugged, leaving him to it, but now — hours later — Suttle suspected he was right. In the pub he’d definitely overstepped the mark. The sudden gust of Pompey, like the stale breath of a party you’d prefer to forget, had irritated him. The cartoon threats hadn’t helped. And when those numpties had played him like he was an extra in some Al Pacino movie, wanting to pat him down, he’d truly had enough. You didn’t put up with stuff like that, not if you had an ounce of self-respect. Hence the spilled lager and the soggy crisps and the fat guy shouting to the barman to bring him a fucking cloth.

  Suttle replayed the message again, sitting in the armchair, Grace in his lap. If he took Golding’s advice and went to Houghton she’d have no choice but to refer the whole matter back to Hantspol. Hantspol meant Gail Parsons and the new Head of CID who’d replaced Willard. He trusted neither of these people not to cook up some clever plan to flush Winter out. Someone at the top of the force would probably have a lead on his whereabouts and one way or another this info would find its way to the 6.57. They’d jump on the next plane, give Winter a thorough battering, maybe even kill him. At Hantspol HQ there’d be a quiet flurry of nods and winks — Winter nailed, justice finally done — and up in his new office in the West Mids force ACC Willard would doubtless raise a glass when Parsons phoned with the news. Did Suttle really want that? Did he want to spend the rest of his life knowing that he’d sent a man he liked and still admired to his death? He thought not.

  He nuzzled Grace and gave her a cuddle. Then, for the first time, he saw the football programme, propped against the bars of the playpen. He picked it up, clocked the date, and leafed through until he found the number at the back. Now he understood why Lizzie had been so iffy. They must have slipped it through the letter box, leaving her to puzzle out the implications. First a Pompey stranger at the door. Then the voice on the answering machine.

  He got to his feet and carried Grace to the window. These people, he knew, were serious. They had reach. They had limitless patience. Winter, in their view, had killed Mackenzie. And, one way or another, they were going to settle the debt.

  He thought of Parsons again. Maybe — after all — he should lift the phone, tell her exactly what had happened, then leave it for his old employers to sort out. That way he might get these animals off his back. But deep down he knew a call like that would solve nothing. There has to be a better way, he told himself. Has to be.

  Lizzie saw the boats the moment she hit the seafront. There were two of them, still on their trailers, down by the water’s edge. Among the gaggle of rowers rigging the oars were the women she’d met in the Portakabin. Spotting a parking place, she pulled in.

  It was Tessa who saw her first. Lizzie waved back. A concrete slip offered access to the beach. She was unaware that anyone was behind her.

  ‘Come back for more?’

  She spun round, recognising the big guy she’d briefly met yesterday. Shaved head. Three-day stubble. And an intriguing scar down the side of his face.

  ‘Tom?’ she said, uncertain.

  ‘Yeah. Tom Pendrick.’

  He fell into step beside her. He was wearing shorts and a scruffy top he must have used for painting. He was tall, way over six feet, and his sheer bulk made her feel almost comically small. Stepping onto the beach, she might have been back at school.

  Tessa was organising crews. Lizzie’s arrival was a godsend. With one seat unfilled in the second boat, she’d slot in perfectly.

  ‘But I’ve never done this,’ Lizzie pointed out.

  ‘No problem.’ Tessa was already rigging the second boat. ‘Tom?’

  The big man did the honours. With the help of Tessa and a couple of others, he slipped the quad off the trailer and into the water. The tide had just turned and was beginning to push back into the estuary. Another rower held the nose of the quad into the current while Pendrick helped Lizzie into the bow seat. Adjusting the footstretchers to the length of her legs, Pendrick told her to push back in the seat. Lizzie watched him tightening the pegs that secured the footstretchers.

  ‘Try now,’ he said.

  ‘Try what?’

  ‘Try moving the seat. Here. .’

  The oars had been stowed across Lizzie’s midriff. Pendrick pushed them out through the gates until Lizzie was in the rowing position.

  ‘OK. Now come forward. Keep the blades out of the water. Just get a feel for the weight and the movement. That’s good. That’s fine. Thumbs on the ends of the handles. No pressure, eh? Just treat them like a friend.’

  Lizzie took a couple of practice strokes. Pendrick would be rowing in front of her. The rest of the crew, all women, were still on the beach, watching.

  ‘How does it feel?’ Pendrick again.

  ‘Fine.’

  It was true. The seat moved sweetly beneath her bum. The oars, to her surprise, were nicely balanced. She couldn’t wait to get going.

  Pendrick was still squatting beside her, briefing her on this detail and that. She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands. Worker’s hands. Big. Calloused. Dirt under the nicely shaped fingernails. He tested the tension on her foot straps, then made an adjustment to a bungee that secured the life jackets on the bulkhead behind her.

  ‘Anyone ask you whether you can swim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I can swim fine.’

  ‘Good. If anything happens, stay with the boat. The guy to listen to is the cox. She’s in charge. OK?’

/>   He got to his feet and threw a look at Tessa. He didn’t seem to smile much.

  Tessa, it turned out, would be cox. She told Pendrick to get in the boat. For such a big man he moved with surprising grace. Tessa steadied the quad as he stepped in and settled his weight on the number two seat. The rest of the crew joined them.

  ‘Just do what I do, OK?’ Pendrick again.

  Lizzie nodded. The woman holding the boat gave the bow a push. Lizzie could feel a shiver of current beneath them as the quad slipped free from the beach. It was an extraordinary sensation and she wanted to cherish it, this first taste of the real thing, but she was concentrating too hard on Pendrick.

  ‘Take a stroke,’ he said. ‘Just the right-hand oar. Help me pull us round.’

  She did her best. Her blade skidded across the surface of the water. She felt hopelessly awkward. She panicked and tried again. This time her blade clashed with Pendrick’s. Horrible sound. Deeply embarrassing.

  ‘No problem. We’ve all done it. Just take it really easy, yeah?’

  He reached forward, took another long slow stroke. Lizzie did the same. This time it worked. They were out now in the current, clear water between the boat and the beach, landmarks up on the promenade slipping by. She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Even pressure.’ Pendrick’s head was half turned.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Both oars.’

  Lizzie did what she was told. Another stroke. Another little triumph.

  ‘Easy up. Sort yourselves out.’ Tessa this time.

  Everyone stopped rowing. The boat drifted on. Tessa wanted to know whether Lizzie was OK, whether Tom was taking care of her. One of the other girls laughed. Lizzie said she was fine. The crew numbered off from the bow, Lizzie first.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Stroke.’

  ‘Come forward to row.’ Tessa again. ‘Ready to row. Row.’

  At the other end of the boat Lizzie had no idea what was happening. All she could do was follow the big man in front of her, do her best to mirror his every move and try not to screw things up. Most of the time it worked, stroke after stroke, fierce concentration, trying to store Pendrick’s muttered asides in her teeming brain, reaching forward to take the catch, keeping her arms straight as she pushed back against the footplate, remembering not to bury the whole blade in the water as she pulled hard before the extraction. By the time they’d made it down to the dock, she was wiped out. Not physically but mentally.