Western Approaches djs-1

by Graham Hurley

  ‘The Witch?’ This from Golding.

  ‘Yeah. Right. The Witch. You’ve played it too?’

  ‘Years ago.’

  ‘Right. So you know you have to get to the safe house? Get inside and like close the door? I was nearly there. I was outside the safe house and I was half blind because a Boomer had puked on me and the other three guys in the game were bleeding out really fast. You know like you watch their health bars? They were gone. End of.’

  ‘Was Jalf one of them?’ Golding again.

  ‘Yeah. That’s the whole point. I got into the safe house and I knew the other guys were fucked. The nearest one, right outside the safe house, was Jalf. I needn’t have done it. I could have just let him die. I was safe in there. But Jalf comes on to me on the headphones, yells for help, really lays it on heavy. And me? I’m trying not to listen but then I think that makes me kinda mean. On the other side of the door I can hear the Boomer just waiting for me to come out so I blew him away with a couple of shotgun rounds through the door and then went out there again and killed a Hunter, and then another one, and then a Smoker, and it ended with me and Jalf back in the safe house. I needn’t have done it, I needn’t, but I did.’ He was still looking at Golding. ‘You understand that? You understand what I did?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. Top move.’

  ‘That’s what Jalf said. That’s when he asked me where I lived.’

  Leeds, as it happened, had become a regular part of Kinsey’s business life. A big law firm in the city centre handled contracts for something called Kittiwake and next time Kinsey was up for a meeting he invited Akhtar for lunch.

  ‘We met at the Mint. You know the Mint at all? It’s a big hotel down by the canal. It were right posh. Fourteen quid for fish ’n’ chips. I had the works. It were lovely.’

  Suttle was a spectator by now. Akhtar was addressing himself exclusively to Golding. Jalf, he said, wasn’t at all what he expected. He thought he’d be meeting someone rough like himself. Instead he found himself sitting with a businessman at one of the city’s top hotels.

  ‘What do you think Kinsey made of you?’

  ‘I think he thought I were all right. I told him a bit about myself, where I lived, my family, all that. My dad especially. He were very good about my dad.’

  His father, he explained, had been badly injured on a building site back home. He came from a village in Mirpur and after a while in hospital he’d decided he didn’t want to live in Pakistan any more and managed to make his way to England.

  ‘Took him two years, that did. It must have been right hard the way he talked about it.’

  Waheed settled in the big Mirpuri community in Leeds and took up with a local girl. Four kids came along. Akhtar was the eldest. By the time he was a teenager his mum was out of it on cheap cider and his dad had become a depressive.

  ‘All he wanted to do was go back. He missed his real home. He missed his brothers and sisters. All he’d do was cry.’

  ‘You told Jalf all this?’

  ‘Yeah. We were playing Team Fortress 2 a lot by then, that’s a favourite of mine. And Jake were good about my dad. Kind. Really kind.’

  Listening, Suttle had the impression Akhtar had never come across much kindness in his young life. With both his parents effectively off the plot, it had fallen to him to look after his sisters. No wonder he’d turned to drug dealing.

  ‘So what did he do? Jalf?’

  ‘He gave my dad some money. A shitload of money, if you really want to know. Enough to get him back to Mirpur and set him up.’

  ‘You knew Kinsey well by now?’

  ‘I knew him OK. We never went to the Mint again but he’d always buy me something to eat.’

  Suttle was leaning back in his chair. Thirteen grand, he thought, Not a bad thank you for getting Jake Kinsey into the Left 4 Dead safe house.

  ‘What did Jake tell you about himself?’

  ‘Not a lot. Not really. Except rowing. Boat stuff. He were really keen on that. He had photos.’

  ‘Did he talk about the guys he rowed with at all?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Akhtar nodded.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said they were good guys. He liked them.’

  ‘All of them?’

  Akhtar paused. He was looking at Golding again. The young D/C gestured for him to go on.

  ‘He had a problem, did Jalf, if you really want to know. You could see it in his face. I thought he was, like, gay to begin with, but that weren’t it.’

  ‘So what was the problem?’

  ‘I think it were to do with a woman and one of the guys in his boat. I don’t know. He never gave me names or anything.’

  ‘But what was the problem?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘You do, Zameer, you do.’ Golding bent forward. ‘Just tell us.’

  ‘But it sounds daft.’

  ‘Tell us.’

  ‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘He thought one of the guys were going to kick off.’

  ‘How?’

  Akhtar shook his head, refusing to go any further.

  Suttle and Golding exchanged glances. Then Golding leaned forward again.

  ‘Are we talking health bars?’ he said softly. ‘Are we talking bleeding out?’

  Akhtar nodded.

  ‘Fucking right,’ he whispered. ‘And it were true, yeah?’

  Suttle and Golding were back in Exeter by half four. Suttle rang Houghton from the airport. She asked him about Akhtar.

  ‘Total result, boss. We need to talk.’

  ‘Indeed. I’ve got Mr Nandy with me. As soon as you like, Jimmy.’

  Nandy was waiting in Houghton’s office. He was on his feet by the window, a mobile pressed to each ear. The Bodmin job was coming to the boil. As, it seemed, was Constantine.

  Nandy finished both conversations. Houghton returned with a tray of coffees and an assortment of snacks.

  ‘You’ve eaten?’ Suttle shook his head. ‘I thought not.’

  Nandy had fetched another chair from the office next door. Suttle was already halfway through a packet of crisps. He summarised Akhtar’s account. Nandy didn’t bother to hide his disappointment.

  ‘No names?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Nothing in the way of hints? The look of the guy? How old he was?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Nothing about the woman involved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then where does this take us?’

  ‘Surely it establishes that Kinsey was worried.’ It was Houghton. She was frowning. ‘And that could be significant, no?’

  ‘Yeah, of course it could. Call me greedy but I’d have liked a little more.’

  ‘There is no more, sir.’ Suttle this time. ‘The way I read it, the lad Akhtar was the closest Kinsey got to a mate. This was an arm’s-length relationship. Most of it happened on the Internet. As it happens, they got to meet. Kinsey was grateful about all this safe-house game shit and Akhtar seems to have taken his fancy. Here was someone with a problem. He’d done Kinsey a favour. Kinsey did him one back.’

  ‘Thirteen thousand pounds? For pressing a couple of buttons on a games console? You call that a favour?’

  ‘Kinsey was showing off. He had money. He was a can-do guy. He liked solving problems. Maybe he felt sorry for the boy. Maybe there are bits of Kinsey we’ll never know about.’

  Houghton interrupted again. She thought Suttle had a point. One of the things about Kinsey’s intel profile that had been bothering her was just how locked-down the guy appeared to have been. No one, she said, could be that alone, that cut-off, that solitary. And here was the proof.

  ‘But he told the lad nothing. Except he was worried.’ Nandy still wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Exactly. Because Kinsey always pulled back. So far and no further. Am I right, Jimmy?’

  Suttle nodded. On the flight back he’d been picturing Kinsey up in the vastness of his apartment, bent over his PC, the lone figure blasting the likes o
f the Boomer and the Witch into oblivion. Video gaming had always been a cartoon world as far as Suttle was concerned but after an hour with Golding and Zameer Akhtar he’d begun to change his mind. Left 4 Dead had taken Kinsey into the no-man’s-land between fantasy and friendship. And the rapport with Akhtar was the direct result. That kind of relationship wouldn’t have been enough for most people but it suited Kinsey very nicely indeed. No real obligations. Nothing you couldn’t settle with a couple of lunches and a cheque.

  Nandy agreed to let the issue ride. Akhtar’s account was a pointer, he said, an indicator. Nothing more. He told Houghton to brief Suttle about the ATMs. This, it appeared, was proper evidence.

  Houghton was amused. The data on the Jacobson debit card had arrived earlier than expected. She ducked her head to a list of figures on a pad. In all the account held £107,638.34. There was a pattern of regular withdrawals going back more than a year, sums that would appear to pay for Donovan’s supply of assorted services.

  ‘Great.’ Suttle had finished the crisps. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Wait, Jimmy. It gets better. Kinsey’s death should have stopped the withdrawals, am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then look at this.’

  She passed across a list of the latest movements on the Jacobson account. At 23.45 on 9 April £200 had been withdrawn from an ATM in Exmouth. The following day another £200, this time from an ATM in Yeovil.

  Suttle looked up. Moments like this, a sudden breakthrough that transformed suspicion into incontestable fact, were all too rare in complex investigations.

  ‘Donovan’s still got the card, boss. We were right.’

  Nandy wanted to know how he could be so certain.

  ‘Because she was in Yeovil on Sunday. It was her mum’s birthday. Symons told me. It’s in the notes.’

  Suttle returned to the list. There were four more withdrawals: two of them local, one of them in Plymouth, the other in Bude.

  Houghton wanted the list back. She scanned it quickly, then looked up. Excitement showed in her eyes. They glittered behind the rimless glasses. Suttle loved her in these moods.

  ‘Symons’ father runs an antiques business in Topsham. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I sent a couple of guys round after lunch. That Transit Symons uses for pick-ups from auctions? He was down in Plymouth on the 15th. Up in Bude the next day. Bingo. Perfect match.’

  ‘Do these ATMs have cameras?’

  ‘That’s what Mr Nandy asked. We’re still checking. Most do, some don’t.’

  Suttle was doing the sums. Since Kinsey’s death Donovan and Symons appeared to have helped themselves to £1200.

  Suttle looked up, grinning. ‘It’s a stone-bonker, boss.’

  ‘A stone what?’

  ‘Stone-bonker. Pompey phrase. It means we’ve cracked it.’

  Houghton was scribbling herself a note. One of Nandy’s mobiles was ringing again. He spared it a glance then turned it off.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘So we can probably prove theft. What about the rest of it?’

  ‘You mean Kinsey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Suttle nodded. Fair question.

  ‘The way I see it, sir, is this. The guys win their race. They all come back to Exmouth and get hammered. Kinsey retires to bed and they all leave. Donovan and Symons are driving back alone. They stop at an ATM in Exmouth. There may be CCTV as well as an internal camera. We also need to check whether they got a receipt.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then they’d know how much was in the account. A hundred and seven grand? That sounds like motive to me.’ Suttle paused. ‘We should also be talking about Milo Symons. Donovan says he knew all about her and Kinsey occasionally shagging and didn’t much care about it, but I’ve talked to the lad and I don’t think that’s true. I think he cared a lot. I think it upset him. Maybe other people in the crew knew about it too. And that would have upset him more. Either way, you’re now looking at two reasons why he might want Kinsey out of his life. Number one, Tash. Number two, the money. This is a guy with big ambitions. He wants to make a movie. Movies are expensive. A hundred and seven K? Perfect.’

  ‘So they drive back to the apartment?’

  ‘Yeah. Tash has a key.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Kinsey gave it to her. Part of his fantasy, as far as I can gather. The walk-in shag.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. There are two of them. They’re both rowers, both fit. Kinsey’s probably still pissed. He’s not a big guy. Between them, they could bundle him out of the bedroom and chuck him off the balcony. Piece of piss.’

  There was a silence. Even Nandy appeared to be impressed. He was about to say something but Suttle hadn’t finished.

  ‘One other thing. Apparently Kinsey had a laptop. Symons mentioned it in his account. It doesn’t appear on the Scenes of Crime log.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It got nicked. And that has to be down to Donovan and Symons. It’s easy to carry. It’s got value. You could wipe the hard disk and sell it on. We’re dealing with thieves, remember.’

  ‘As well as killers?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Suttle nodded. ‘The way I see it, definitely.’

  Carole Houghton called a Constantine squad meet for six o’clock. She spent ten minutes behind a closed door with Nandy to agree a strategy for the next twenty-four hours before the Det-Supt left once again for Bodmin. He met Suttle on the stairs. By the weekend, he muttered, he was in some danger of closing not just one job but two. He paused for a moment, looking Suttle in the eye. Then he offered a rare smile and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Good work, son.’

  The Constantine squad now numbered three D/Cs plus Suttle and Houghton. In the light of the latest developments, Nandy had decided to keep the investigation paper-based and not bother with a transfer to the HOLMES suite. There’d be plenty of time to reorganise the file ahead of formal submission to the Crown Prosecution Service. Assuming, of course, that Constantine drew a cough from Donovan and Symons.

  Houghton wanted thoughts on this issue. The more they could put on the table in the interview suite, the likelier they were to score a confession. So where should they look next?

  Among the D/Cs there was a consensus for an early-doors arrest tomorrow morning. Bosh the mobile home and both vehicles. Nail the debit card and any ATM receipts they might have kept. Have a good look for the laptop. Keep Donovan and Symons apart — separate police stations, separate interviewing teams — and sweat their accounts until one or both of them broke.

  Suttle wasn’t so sure. Delay the arrest twenty-four hours, and he’d have a chance to talk to Eamonn Lenahan again.

  ‘Why would you need to do that?’ This from Houghton.

  ‘Because he’s the brightest guy in the boat. He listens. He watches. If anyone knew about Donovan and Kinsey it would have to be him.’

  ‘How about tonight?’

  ‘That’s possible. I’d have to ring him.’

  ‘How about Lizzie?’

  ‘She’ll be cool about it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was a brief silence. A couple of the D/Cs exchanged glances. Then Houghton nodded at the door.

  ‘You want to bell him now? Then we can frame up the arrest strategy and sort the interviewing teams.’

  Suttle made the call from his office. Lenahan, it turned out, had just come back from another shift at A amp; E. He was eyeballing the beginnings of a stir-fry and had plenty for two.

  Suttle smiled. He wanted a chat, not a meal. Lenahan wouldn’t budge.

  ‘This is non-negotiable, my friend. Either we break bread together or you might find I’m busy. Give me half an hour. And bring something to drink.’

  The line went dead. Suttle put his head round Houghton’s door and promised to bell her later. Only when he was in the Impreza, wondering about an off-licence, did he remembe
r to give Lizzie a call.

  She was on the point of preparing supper. Suttle told her not to bother. Something had come up.

  ‘Something that involves a meal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a lonely policewoman?’

  ‘Do me a favour.’

  He was relieved to hear her laughing. He said he’d be back later, no real idea when but it shouldn’t be late.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Another wild night in with my knitting? Bring it on.’

  Suttle arrived in Lympstone with time to spare. He parked beside the railway halt and walked down to the Londis in the village centre. He’d already decided to end the day with a modest celebration and bought two bottles of Côtes-du-Rhône, one for Lenahan and one for afterwards once he’d got home.

  Lenahan was alone once again in the tiny cottage. His lodger, he said, was doing Christian things at some night shelter in Exeter and wouldn’t be back until God knows when. The kitchen formed part of the living space downstairs and Suttle caught the rich tang of ginger the moment he stepped in. When Lenahan broached the wine and offered him a glass, Suttle shook his head.

  ‘You’ve got tea?’

  ‘Has to be green, I’m afraid. Goes with the meal.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Lenahan returned to his wok.

  ‘We nearly had another body on Sunday. Did you hear about that? A fancy little tribute to our dead leader and this slip of a girl goes overboard. Another minute or so and we’d all be talking to the Coroner. Jesus, am I glad I listened when they taught us all those resus drills.’

  Suttle expressed polite interest. One day, when Constantine was history, he’d come back and buy this man a serious drink. For the time being, he wanted to find out more about Donovan.

  ‘Tash?’ Lenahan was giving his rice a poke. ‘That girl’s a force of nature. Truly. I mean it. Astral Tash. Forty-plus years old and still at it.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Everything. With pretty much anyone. You know the story with Tash? Pendrick tells it best. It’s Christmas Day. Pendrick’s having a quiet one because he’s that kind of guy and there comes a knock at the door and he looks out of the window like you do and there’s Santa Claus outside, red coat, hat with a bobble on, funny beard. He thinks it’s a piss-take to begin with but Santa’s not going away so in the end he does the seasonal thing and opens the door. It’s not Santa at all. It’s Tash. She’s spent half the day with Angel Dust and she’s bored to death, and when she opens that red coat of hers it’s pretty plain what kind of present she’s got in mind.’