‘Back for more?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ever thought about the double?’
‘I wouldn’t know what a double is.’
‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’
They walked back to the compound. The club’s double scull was half the length of the big quads and looked, to Lizzie’s eye, a serious challenge.
‘I’m a novice,’ she said. ‘The quad gives me somewhere to hide.’
‘You don’t need it. Just trust me. We’re talking a 1.8 tide tonight. It’s low water at half six. No wind to speak of. We couldn’t capsize this baby if we tried.’
We? She looked up at him, already half persuaded, wanting the chance to prove she could do it. This guy’s probably been rowing for ever, she told herself. And if he thinks I can hack it who is little me to spoil the party?
‘OK.’ She grinned and dropped a little curtsy. ‘As long as you’re sure.’
By the time they’d rigged the double and dragged it across the road towards the slipway, a sizeable group of rowers had gathered on the beach. The club captain was an older man, tall, visibly weathered by life. He was already in full flow, talking about what Kinsey had brought to the club, and as she and Pendrick paused to listen, Lizzie became aware of a younger guy with a video camera circling the group. His long black hair was gathered into a ponytail with a twist of yellow ribbon and he panned the camera to catch a listening face or two before returning to the captain.
By now the shape of the club’s tribute to Kinsey was clear. Weather permitting, the club would be launching all its boats on Sunday. On an ebbing tide they’d row in line abreast towards the dock. Abeam of Regatta House they’d pause and hold formation before releasing a wreath of interwoven flowers. The specially designed wreath had been guaranteed to float. As it drifted down-tide, the club’s boats would form an escort. Molly Doyle, said the club captain, had contacts in the local press. With luck a TV crew might even turn up. The resulting pictures, if they got it right, would do the club no end of good. The flowers, he added, included red camellias. These he understood to be Kinsey’s favourite.
There was a mutter of approval. Several of the younger girls were comforting each other. One of the older boys eyed them in disbelief.
‘Let’s go.’ Pendrick jerked his head towards the water.
They tugged the double scull down the beach beyond the quads. Pendrick untied it from the trailer and began to talk Lizzie through the next stage in the operation. Lizzie, still watching the crowd of rowers on the beach, wasn’t listening.
‘That’s a nice thing to do,’ she said. ‘The wreath should work beautifully.’
Pendrick, steadying the double, shot her a look.
‘It’s bullshit,’ he said.
‘Why? How?’
‘Kinsey was clueless about flowers. He wouldn’t have known a red camellia from a hole in the road.’
‘But what about the juniors? Those girlies?’
‘They didn’t know the first thing about him, probably never met the guy. It’s showtime. Cameras. Grief. These days, unless you shed a tear it isn’t real.’ He frowned, then nodded at the double. ‘Are we going to do this thing or what?’
Despite the fact she was teething, it took Suttle less than half an hour to get Grace settled. Before he’d got to the end of her favourite story she was asleep. Suttle returned downstairs. Lizzie had left a pile of vegetables for his attention but he ignored them in favour of a Stella from the fridge. He opened the tinnie and reached for a glass. The bill for the window refurb was lying on the kitchen table — ninety-five pounds.
He went next door and inspected the window before settling in the Ikea rocker beside the ancient telly. By the time he’d left the office, Suttle had secured Carole Houghton’s permission to explore Kinsey’s affection for video games. He’d explained Golding’s suspicions that Kinsey had developed an online relationship. In the young D/C’s view there might be a special person in Kinsey’s cyber life who would repay a little attention. Maybe, in the vast spaces of the Internet, Kinsey had let slip a confidence or two. Maybe.
Houghton had accepted the logic and checked out the RIPA situation with Nandy. Under the Regulation of Investigative Powers Act, Constantine might need a warrant if Golding was to pose as Kinsey. Nandy loved the idea. A warrant, he said, would be no problem. The more proactive Constantine became, the better he liked it.
The warrant had been signed off before close of play. Tonight Golding would be settling at his own PC, monitoring both Counterstrike and Team Fortress 2, jumping in as Jalf Rezi and hoping that ShattAr showed up. He’d promised Suttle a call if he struck lucky but was gloomy about his chances of surviving the killing fields of Counterstrike. He’d log on to different servers for a bit of discreet practice but it was years since he’d played the game and he knew how tough it could be.
Suttle swallowed a mouthful or two of Stella, trying to imagine Kinsey at his PC up in the emptiness of his trophy apartment. Tired or drunk, according to Luke, he’d probably take a gentler ride with Team Fortress 2. That way he could rely on being respawned, an endless process of reincarnation, keeping himself from the jaws of death. On screen it had doubtless worked. In real life, alas, it hadn’t.
The brutality of this contrast between the make-believe of cyberspace and the lethal suck of gravity was, Suttle sensed, one of the keys to Constantine. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected that video games must have offered Kinsey the perfect surrogate for real friendship. Any attachments he formed on the Internet were risk-free. He could expose as much or as little of himself as he chose. And every time he logged on there was the prospect of another hour or so in the company of like-minded loners, busy zapping the next shadow lurking at the edge of the screen.
This was fine as far as it went, an intriguing line of enquiry that might yield a name and even a confidence or two. But what was he to make of SOC’s blonde hair retrieved from Kinsey’s bedroom? And of Peggy Brims’ impassioned belief that Kinsey’s interest in real estate extended further than a clutch of picturesque waterside sites in north Cornwall?
The latter had taken Suttle to the East Devon District Council website. These people were the planning authority for Exmouth, and a couple of minutes’ research had revealed an application to develop Pier Head, adjacent to Exmouth Quays.
Peggy Brims, once again, had her thumb on the pulse of local life. The architectural drawings showed a towering apartment block that would dwarf everything else in the area. The application was the work of Devon-based property developers. Accompanying the drawings was the usual tosh about gateway locations, iconic structures and local employment opportunities, and Suttle’s suspicions that the sheer size of this proposed monster would have sparked local opposition turned out to be spot on. A call to the Exmouth Journal confirmed a flood of objections. Many of the locals, said the news editor, were outraged.
But did Kinsey really want to help himself to a slice of the action? Or might his interest be limited to the spec purchase of an apartment or two, something way up at the top of the building, an asset he could flog on when prices started to rise again? Suttle had tried to raise some kind of answer from the developers, leaving a message on their switchboard, but so far no one had returned his call.
He finished the Stella and stole upstairs to check on Grace. She was curled in her cot, a corner of the sheet bunched in her tiny hand, oblivious to the world. Back in the living room Suttle tried to map out the coming days. The key to every live enquiry was the Policy Book. Constantine’s had been in the hands of Carole Houghton. She’d now handed it over to Suttle and already he’d drawn on its contents to better understand Constantine’s brief history. Houghton, as he expected, had been characteristically thorough, recording and explaining every investigative decision she’d taken. Suttle’s next task was to add a sheaf of statements, especially from the winning crew, who’d been the last people to see Kinsey alive.
Andy Poole’s statement was alread
y in the file, as was the account Constantine’s D/Cs had taken from Tom Pendrick the night he’d come back from north Cornwall. But both Eamonn Lenahan and Milo Symons would need a revisit for statementing, and Natasha Donovan — Milo’s partner — had yet to be interviewed at all. These calls would now fall to Suttle and he made a mental note to start with Tash Donovan. The word flux kept coming back to him. His years in CID had taught Suttle to discount the likelihood of coincidence. How come both Tash and Peggy Brims had been so interested in ‘flux’?
Suttle was thinking about the single blonde hair and wondering when to make another call on Molly Doyle when his landline rang. It was Luke Golding.
‘How’s it going?’
‘It isn’t, Sarge. I got Scenes of Crime to rip Kinsey’s Steam password from his hard drive and logged on as Jalf.’
‘And?’
‘I got zapped within seconds. Total fucking disaster.’
‘Counterstrike?’
‘Too right. I waited until the game ended and respawned. Survived for a whole minute this time then crashed and burned again. Horrible.’
By now, he said, his performance had begun to attract attention. He wasn’t on headphones for obvious reasons but he’d got a couple of messages. One of the players had asked whether he was pissed. Another, interestingly, thought that Kinsey might have been subbed by his brother. Or more likely his granny. Either way, there was a general consensus that Kinsey had stepped out of his former persona and become someone else. Which was, of course, exactly right.
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. There was a third message. This was definitely kinder.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It wanted to know what the problem was. You want to guess the sender?’
‘ShattAr.’
‘Spot on.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘Nothing. But that’s not the point, Sarge. This one used Kinsey’s real name. He called me Jake. The guy’s in touch. He’s out there. He exists.’
Suttle thought about the implications. At last Kinsey might have found someone he could confide in.
‘So how do we progress this?’ he said at last. ‘What do we do next?’
‘I log on again. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever. Wait for the guy to reappear.’
‘But you’re still pretending to be Kinsey, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So how do you handle him? What do you say?’
‘Number one, I’m still going to be crap at Counterstrike. So the guy’s going to start wondering if I really am Kinsey. So maybe I should go on headphones and have a conversation.’
‘Saying what?’
‘I could tell him Jake’s had a bit of an accident. I could tell him I’m standing in. That way I could maybe get a steer on who this guy is.’
Suttle smiled. A bit of an accident, he thought. He bent to the phone again.
‘And you think that might work?’
‘It might. It’s possible. But there’s another way. Maybe better.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like I log on again as Jalf and wait for him to appear. Then I send him a message asking him to be a Facebook friend.’
‘What if he’s a Facebook friend of Kinsey’s already?’
‘He can’t be. You told me Kinsey wasn’t on Facebook.’
‘You’re right. He wasn’t. Brain-dead, me. So what do we do about that?’
‘I get myself a Facebook page.’
‘As Kinsey?’
‘Of course. Then send this guy a friend request and add a message about Counterstrike so he knows who I am. Fingers crossed, he friends me.’
Suttle nodded in approval. Once ShattAr got in touch, his Facebook profile might give them everything they’d need to have a proper conversation.
‘You really think he’ll do it?’
‘I’ve no idea, Sarge. Worth a try though, eh?’
The line went dead. Outside, after a decent sunset, the light was beginning to die. Suttle got up and went to the window, peering into the gathering darkness. Lately he’d made an effort to tally the jobs that badly needed doing around the property but knew that lists were no substitute for the real thing. He checked his watch, wondering how Lizzie was getting on. Nearly half eight. Late.
Lizzie’s outing with Pendrick was a disaster. Rowing in the double turned out to be a circus act after the comforting embrace of the quad. The slightest wobble, a single mistake with either blade, seemed to threaten a capsize. By the time she and Pendrick got down to the dock, she was ready to give up.
Pendrick was rowing in the bow seat, checking their progress over his shoulder, feeding her instructions as they picked their way through the buoys and moorings. Heavy on green. Go red. Equal pressure. Lizzie tried to process all these commands, turning them into strong tugs on the right-hand oar or the left, but her brain had turned to mush.
In the end Pendrick beached them on the long curve of Dawlish Warren and helped Lizzie get out.
‘Useless,’ she said. ‘Totally fucking hopeless.’
He told her not to be dramatic. Rowing the double after a single outing in the quad was a tough call.
‘So why are we doing it?’
‘Because I thought you could hack it.’
‘Wrong. I can’t.’
‘You can. You just have to relax. Listen to me.’
With infinite patience he pointed out what she was doing wrong. She had to ride the double like a horse. She had to feel the river through her bum. She had to think of the double as a musical instrument, amplifying the suck and nudge of the tide.
‘Listen to your body,’ he said, ‘and you won’t go wrong.’
Lizzie began to laugh. This sounded wildly karmic. She’d tried yoga once and been just as challenged.
A smile ghosted over Pendrick’s face. Maybe he’d got the wrong metaphor, he said. Maybe she should start thinking about the grain of the river, how to feel it, how to make it a friend.
‘That’s even worse. We’re talking water, not wood.’
‘Same difference. It’s a living thing. And so are you. Fight it, like just now, and the river will always win. Make it your friend — ’ the sudden grin took her by surprise ‘- and anything can happen.’
They tried again. This time, Lizzie was worse. Sheer concentration made her nervous. Nervous, she began to wobble. Wobbling finally brought them to a halt. By now they were back beside the stretch of beach that led to the compound.
At slack tide the water was like a mirror. Downstream, Lizzie could see a couple of quads heading seawards. For a moment she envied them but then she felt the gentlest tap on her shoulder. It was Pendrick.
‘Drink?’ he suggested.
They went to a pub on the seafront. To Lizzie, it was the sanest decision they’d made all evening. There were benches and tables on the big apron of forecourt and Pendrick disappeared inside to the bar. Lizzie gazed out at the beginnings of a decent sunset. For mid-April, it was still warm.
‘Cheers. Here’s to your lovely bum.’
Pendrick was back with the drinks. He slid into the bench across the table. The same subtle grace, she thought. The same instinctive sense of balance that had just steadied the bloody double.
‘Thanks for putting up with me.’ She lifted her glass.
Pendrick shrugged. The double was history. They’d have another go when she was ready. Meantime he’d just remembered what date it was.
‘You know what I was doing this time last year?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Rowing.’
‘I said surprise me.’
‘We were a week out from Cape Cod. It was an evening like this. I remember it like yesterday.’
Lizzie was staring at him.
‘Cape Cod’s in Massachusetts,’ she said.
‘You’re right.’
‘You’re telling me you were on the Atlantic? For a whole week? Rowing?’
‘Yeah. And the next week and the week aft
er and. .’ his hand closed around the pint of Guinness ‘. . for ever really.’
Lizzie had abandoned her drink. Something in this man’s face had been nagging at her since she’d first met him and now she realised what it was. The hair, she thought. He had hair then.
‘You’re the guy who rowed the Atlantic,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
‘And lost his wife.’
‘Yeah.’
‘It was all over the papers.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Happy anniversary, eh?’
Lizzie didn’t know where to take this conversation next. As a working journalist she’d have had no problems. There were ways you could get people to open up. But this was different. She felt she’d begun to know this man a little. She’d shared something precious with him. She might have fucked up just now in the double but she’d fallen in love with rowing and that she owed to Pendrick.
‘You want to talk about it?’ she said at last.
‘You want to listen?’
‘Of course.’ Lizzie fought an urge to reach for his hand. ‘Tell me.’
He gazed at her then looked away. For a moment Lizzie thought she’d blown it — too hasty, too blatant — but then he was back with her. He wanted to start somewhere else. He wanted to start in Thailand.
He and his wife, he said, had spent the best part of three years bumming round the world with a couple of surfboards and not much else. They’d spent time in California, in Oz, in New Zealand. He was an electrician by trade, and Kate had nursing qualifications, and whenever the money ran out they’d work for a couple of months then hit the beaches again.
‘Is that when you got your scar?’ Lizzie had been dying to ask.
‘Yeah. I got dumped on a reef down near Melbourne. Place called Suicide Beach. Split my face open from here to here. .’ His finger tracked down from the corner of his eye. ‘Thank Christ Kate was there. She stopped most of the bleeding and got me to a hospital. My own bloody fault.’
‘It didn’t put you off?’
‘Never. Surfing’s a drug. You can’t get enough.’
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