Western Approaches djs-1

by Graham Hurley

  ‘We shot a trial sequence. Milo called it a taster.’

  ‘I’ve seen it. He showed me.’

  ‘Us getting it on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Very impressive. Did Kinsey see it?’

  ‘Yes. It was his idea. He’d read the script and when he asked for a taster we left the choice to him.’

  ‘What did he say when he saw it?’

  ‘He thought it was great. That’s why he agreed to fund the rest of the movie. Did Milo tell you about that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the training stuff we’re doing for the club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come.’

  She poured herself more hot water and led Suttle to Milo’s PC. A couple of keystrokes took her into an editing programme. Suttle found himself looking at a bunch of people on a beach, mainly youngsters. They were listening to an older man in a grey tracksuit.

  ‘This was stuff Milo shot yesterday. He’s putting together a little movie for the club to help with fund-raising. That was the deal when Jake paid for the camera. You want to see Jake in the flesh?’

  Suttle was staring at the screen. At the back of the group was a huge guy in a scruffy blue top. Beside him, dwarfed, was Lizzie. They seemed to be swapping glances. They seemed to be sharing a joke. He remembered the photo Houghton had been preparing to circulate, the mugshot she’d ripped from Kinsey’s camera in the pub. On the PC this same face was partially obscured. He had to be sure.

  ‘Who’s that?’ He touched the screen.

  ‘The big guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘His name’s Pendrick. Awesome man. Everything Jake wasn’t.’

  Already she was running backwards through a blur of sequences. Finally she found what she was after.

  Suttle bent to the PC. Another view of the same beach hung on the screen. A new-looking sea boat waited at the water’s edge. Kinsey’s crew were taking their seats, one by one. Suttle recognised the little guy steadying the bow as Lenahan. Big Andy Poole was already in the stroke seat. Pendrick was behind him. Then two other figures stepped into the frame. One of them was Donovan. The other, much smaller, had to be Kinsey.

  He was first to the boat. He bent to adjust Donovan’s seat, then helped her in. His body language spoke volumes. He was bossy, the authority figure, almost proprietorial. This was his boat, his crew, his woman. Once Donovan was safely seated, he clambered into the bow seat and threw an order over his shoulder at Lenahan, who was knee-deep in the water, holding the boat against the current. Lenahan stowed the rope among a press of life jackets, gave the bow a nudge and stepped into the cox’s seat as Donovan and Kinsey eased the quad into the incoming tide. The quad paused a moment, then all four sets of blades were out and the boat was moving quickly upstream.

  Kinsey rowed the way he seemed to do everything else. He was choppy, impatient, over-hasty, and as the camera panned the quad into the blaze of sunshine the blackness of the silhouette was unforgiving. Three sets of blades were in perfect harmony. Kinsey, the little guy in the bow, was always half a beat too early.

  ‘Stick insect,’ Suttle muttered.

  ‘Too right. Even I’m better than he was.’

  Suttle asked her to go back to yesterday’s sequence. Donovan shot him a look.

  ‘You won’t find Kinsey there,’ she said.

  ‘I know. Just do it, please.’

  They were on the beach again. The older guy in the tracksuit was walking back towards the slipway. As the camera panned left across the mill of young rowers, Suttle found himself watching his wife and Pendrick easing a two-seat rowing skiff into the water. The shot tightened as Lizzie made herself comfortable. She was laughing now as she leaned forward to tighten something that seemed to hold the blade in the gate. Then Pendrick knelt beside her in the shallows, talking her through some detail or other, and the camera settled on Lizzie’s face as she tried to follow him. Suttle hadn’t seen this expression for years. There was an eagerness, a hunger for what was coming next, and when the camera eased out again as Pendrick stepped into the bow seat Suttle caught the moment when she reached back to steady him.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Pendrick. I just told you.’

  ‘I meant the woman.’

  ‘Fuck knows. I asked Milo that this morning. Apparently she’s new, just moved into the area, lots of potential. The girls say she responds well to coaching, really quick on the uptake. Definitely does it for Pendrick too. Just look at the guy.’

  The skiff was on the move now, silhouetted against the sun, exactly the same effect Milo had conjured for Kinsey’s quad. The sheer bulk of Pendrick had wiped Lizzie from the shot and only her flailing oars were evidence that there was anybody else in the boat. The skiff was wobbling badly. The oars came to a halt. Then a cloud hid the sun and detail returned to the shot. Pendrick was leaning forward, his hand on Lizzie’s shoulder, his mouth inches from her ear.

  Suttle had seen enough. He’d wanted to ask Donovan about the word flux and whether or not she knew Peggy Brims, the woman who lived in the apartment beneath Kinsey, but he no longer saw the point. He gathered up his notes and told Donovan she’d have to attend the police station to read and sign a formal statement. He’d do his best to have it ready by midday tomorrow but clerical staff were under enormous pressure and he couldn’t guarantee it.

  Donovan was still looking at Milo’s shots from yesterday. On the way out, Suttle paused by the door.

  ‘You dye your hair that colour, right?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked up at him, surprised.

  ‘So what colour was it before?’

  ‘Blonde.’

  Pendrick phoned Lizzie in mid-afternoon. He’d just finished a rewiring job at a house in Woodbury and wondered whether she fancied a coffee.

  ‘I’m at home,’ she pointed out. ‘With an infant daughter and no car.’

  ‘You want me to drop round? No pressure.’

  Lizzie thought about it for a split second.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She could hear the disappointment in his voice but knew she had no choice.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said quickly. ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘You could start with last night.’

  ‘Last night was great. You know it was great. Except for the bloody rowing.’

  ‘Bugger the rowing. That was my fault. I meant the rest of it.’

  ‘The rest of it was what it was.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’d love to see you again. Talk some more. Get one or two things straight.’

  Lizzie giggled. She felt about twelve.

  ‘Nice idea,’ she said. ‘Let’s work on that.’

  ‘How about tomorrow? There’s a quad going up to Topsham. One of the girls wants to be subbed on the way back. It’s five miles. Could you cope with that?’

  ‘No problem.’ She was laughing now. ‘The mood I’m in I could cope with anything.’

  Suttle took his interview notes back to the MCIT offices at Middlemoor. D/I Carole Houghton, to his intense relief, was at her desk upstairs. The missing head had finally turned up in a Bodmin wood a couple of hundred metres from the rest of the body, a discovery that had done nothing for her respect for intel.

  ‘This better be good,’ she warned as Suttle eased himself into her spare chair.

  He took her briefly through the bones of the interview. Tash Donovan had freely admitted having regular sex with Jake Kinsey. She claimed that her partner was cool with this arrangement but Symons hadn’t mentioned it in interview. On the contrary, towards the end of their conversation he’d become visibly irritated at Suttle’s suggestion that Kinsey might have had some kind of relationship with Tash.

  ‘But he didn’t, Jimmy. That’s not how it happened. The way you’re telling it they danced round together and did lots of hippy stuff and h
ad sex from time to time. He was paying her for it. That’s not a relationship. That’s business.’

  ‘Not to Symons. Not if you’re crazy about the woman. Not if she’s older than you and pretty much controls every aspect of your life. The way I see it, the guy’s hugely vulnerable. We could nick Donovan for child abuse.’

  Houghton laughed. But she still wasn’t convinced.

  ‘There’s no way she’d have told you all that stuff if he didn’t know too. She’s putting it on the record before you get there first. That makes her clever, not guilty.’

  ‘Wrong, boss.’ Suttle wasn’t having it. ‘She wants me to believe that she and Symons have a great sex life. I’m in no position to know for sure, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Let’s say they get it on loads. Let’s accept it’s great for both of them. Let’s even agree that Symons knows about the deal with Kinsey and is happy to rent out his partner for five hundred quid a pop.’

  ‘It’s her decision, Jimmy, not his.’ The expression on Houghton’s face might have been a smile.

  ‘Sure. Fine. OK. But we’re missing something, aren’t we?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Symons is a bloke. He knows about blokes. He knows how territorial they can get. More to the point, he knows Kinsey. And when it comes to territory, he knows that Kinsey has to be top dog. There isn’t a lamp post he won’t piss on. Including Tash Donovan.’

  ‘That’s unnecessary.’

  ‘My apologies. But you see the logic? You see where this thing leads? Symons knows Kinsey can’t help himself as far as Donovan’s concerned. He knows the guy probably wants every bit of her, for keeps. They win their race. All the guys get pissed in the pub. They go back to Kinsey’s apartment. Donovan’s the only one still standing. After Kinsey’s gone off to bed they all go home. Donovan and Symons are in their little car together. They have a monster row. Maybe Kinsey’s said something out of turn. Maybe he’s come on to Donovan in the apartment. Whatever. By the time they’re back home, or tucked up in some little lay-by, it’s got really nasty. Symons has had enough. He’s going to sort this guy out. Bosh. Back he goes.’

  ‘How does he get in?’

  ‘She’ll have a key. Bound to.’

  ‘So she’s part of this? She drives him back? Lends a hand? Gets rid of the guy who’s keeping them afloat?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, boss. All I know is that they’re alibiing each other but they’ve got fuck all corroboration. Plus Symons isn’t comfortable with what his partner’s up to. All it takes is a night on the piss. That and a decent opportunity. From where I’m sitting, Symons had both.’

  Houghton nodded. It was true that booze played a huge part in most murders.

  ‘What about this film of his? Why would he want to kiss all that goodbye?’

  ‘Because there was something else in his life that was even more important.’

  ‘Donovan?’

  ‘Of course. These people are off the planet most of the time, Symons especially. I’m not saying for a moment that his movie wasn’t important. It was huge. But you know why? Because of her input. Because she made the running — the idea to begin with, getting the development money out of Kinsey, starring in their little movie trailer so Kinsey could perve over it, all of that was her. She’s the driver, boss. She’s in charge of this relationship. Without her, Symons would be nowhere. Fuck the movie. When Symons feels under threat, Donovan is what really matters.’

  Houghton was silent. Suttle knew she sensed the logic in the case he was trying to make but he knew too that she was under the same cosh as Nandy. In every investigation you think court from the off. So where was the incontestable evidence to pin either of these people to Kinsey’s death? First call in any murder lay with the Crown Prosecution Service. And so far, as Houghton pointed out, the CPS wouldn’t waste a second on this horse shit.

  ‘It’s supposition, Jimmy. It’s a nice little fairy tale. It’s neat. It sounds more than plausible. But it’s still supposition.’

  ‘It’s early days, boss. We’re not through yet.’

  ‘You mean you’re not through yet.’

  ‘Exactly. Help would be nice but I’m not complaining.’

  ‘Remind me how long you’ve got on the Coroner’s file.’

  ‘Another week. Give or take.’

  ‘And will that be enough?’

  ‘Sure,’ Suttle forced a grin. ‘You’re spoiling me.’

  He phoned Gina Hamilton when he got back downstairs. The office was still empty. He could tell at once that she’d been expecting his call.

  ‘How about an early drink?’ he said.

  ‘How about supper?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘My place if you don’t mind pasta.’

  ‘I love pasta.’

  She gave him a postcode and a street number. He’d never been to Modbury in his life.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘You say.’

  Suttle checked his watch. 17.12. He still had a number of calls to make and the rush-hour traffic on the A38 could be brutal.

  ‘Seven o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect. If you’re late don’t even bother knocking.’

  She rang off, leaving Suttle gazing at the phone. He knew he should be calling Lizzie. He knew, at the very least, he should give himself some kind of cover. A couple of late interviews. A squad meet he couldn’t afford to miss. But then he was back in front of Symons’ PC, watching Lizzie and Pendrick hauling the skiff away from the beach, and he knew he couldn’t be bothered. A moment later the office door opened and he found himself looking at the Office Manager. Leslie had taken a call earlier. It was personal for Jimmy and it sounded urgent.

  ‘She wouldn’t leave a name but she wants you to bell her,’ she laid a number on Suttle’s desk. ‘It’s a Portsmouth number. I checked.’

  Pendrick called again as Lizzie was trying to wrestle Grace upstairs for a bath. Thinking it was Jimmy, she hesitated a moment then decided to ignore it, but when it rang a second time she returned downstairs.

  Pendrick apologised for phoning so late. He hoped it wasn’t a problem.

  ‘It’s not. Did you phone just now?’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow’s off. We’ve got a big front coming in and there’s no way we’ll be going to Topsham.’

  ‘Oh. .’ Lizzie tried to mask her disappointment. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I had another idea.’

  ‘Does it involve rowing?’

  ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’

  Pendrick laughed. He was planning a trip to the north coast. Wondered if she’d like to come along.

  ‘The north coast of where?’

  ‘Cornwall. Just a place I think you might like.’

  ‘Is Grace invited?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At least you’re honest.’ It was her turn to laugh.

  There was a moment of silence. Lizzie could hear a car approaching up the lane. She very much wanted it not to be Jimmy. The car went past.

  ‘What time?’ she said. ‘And where?’

  Suttle made the call from a lay-by on the A38. As he expected, the number belonged to Marie Mackenzie.

  ‘I’ve made some inquiries,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I bothered but there it is.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It turns out there’s very little I can do. Your friend Winter has made some serious enemies. These people aren’t as stupid as you might think.’

  ‘I never thought for a moment they were.’

  ‘Then this won’t come as a surprise.’

  ‘What?’

  He listened intently for the best part of a minute, doing his best to shield the phone from the thunder of the passing traffic. Finally, at her prompting, he reached for a pen. In the absence of anything else, he wrote the number on the back of his hand. Pompey again.

  ‘And you really think they’ll leave Lizzie and Grace alone?’

  ‘Yes. As long as you make the call.’


  ‘I have your word on that?’

  ‘It’s not my word you need. It’s theirs. Make the call. That’s my advice. Everything else is down to you.’

  Modbury was a small town cupped by rolling green hills south of the A38. Gina Hamilton’s house lay in a small estate of newbuilds. Suttle had looked at similar developments in Exeter last year when he was searching for somewhere they could live and knew he’d die in a house like this. Tiny windows. Tiny rooms. And a scrap of threadbare turf instead of a garden.

  Hamilton’s Golf was parked outside, the tailgate open. The front door to the house was open as well and she stepped into the sunshine as Suttle approached.

  ‘I just got back myself,’ she said. ‘Give me a hand?’

  Suttle helped her carry shopping and a couple of tins of paint into the kitchen. She’d been to Sainsbury and B amp;Q on the way home. Lots of stuff for the freezer and four bottles of Australian Chardonnay. Suttle gave her a bottle of red he’d picked up on the way over. The galley kitchen was spotless. A wine rack beside the fridge badly needed restocking and there was a National Trust calendar on the wall above a bowl of fruit. April featured a drift of purple crocuses at Lacock Abbey.

  ‘What are the green ticks?’ Suttle was still looking at the calendar.

  ‘I go running. The green ticks make me feel virtuous. Anything else you want to know about my social life?’

  Suttle looked harder. Not much seemed to have happened over the last fortnight.

  ‘You find the Job knackers you?’

  ‘Yeah. But for the wrong reasons.’

  She shot him a look but wouldn’t take the conversation further. She nodded at the vegetable basket beneath the work surface and asked him to sort out an onion and some garlic. Tomato paste in the fridge. Olive oil in the cupboard. She also fancied something to drink.

  Suttle was looking at the remaining bottles of wine. The red he’d bought had been on offer, a South African Merlot that Lizzie adored.

  ‘You’ve got a corkscrew?’

  ‘Silly question. Drawer on the left.’

  They sat down to eat half an hour or so later. The lounge diner extended the full depth of the house: magnolia walls, a big plasma TV and a line of stuffed animals carefully arranged on the Ikea sofa. This house, Suttle thought, might have belonged to Kinsey. No clutter. None of the chaos of normal life. No photos of family or friends. Just somewhere to crash after yet another day among the performance reviews.