Western Approaches

by Graham Hurley

‘No. Not there. I’m through with it, Jimmy. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘So it’s over. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘That’s your call. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve no interest in where you might have gone last night. Yeah? Does that make any sense?’

  Lizzie got to her feet. Suttle gazed up at her. For the second time in twenty-four hours he felt totally marooned, adrift in a world he no longer recognised.

  He cradled Grace in one arm and picked up the holdall in the other. The guy at the barrier wouldn’t let him through without a ticket. Suttle dropped the bag, kissed his daughter on the cheek, held her tight. He’d no idea when he’d see her again.

  ‘Bye,’ he said.

  Lizzie had readied the buggy. Suttle strapped Grace in. They had three minutes to make the train.

  ‘Be in touch, yeah?’ Suttle said.

  ‘You’ve got the number. You know where we are.’

  Suttle nodded. He wanted to kiss her but he didn’t. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he’d miss her, that it was all some gigantic fuck-up, but he couldn’t find the words. She looked up at him, a strange expression on her face, her lips puckered, then she gestured him closer.

  ‘Yellow Fiat,’ she said. ‘In the car park.’

  Suttle found the Fiat minutes later. It looked brand new. It carried a Hertz rental badge and it was empty. He was still stooped beside the driver’s window, looking for more clues, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He straightened up, glanced round.

  Paul Winter.

  They drove out of the city, Winter visibly nervous, checking the rear-view mirror, braking at the last minute for turns that would throw anyone in pursuit. Suttle sat in silence, ambushed by a million questions. Was this why Lizzie had been so desperate to talk last night? Had Winter spent the night at Chantry Cottage?

  They came to a stop in the middle of a trading estate on the outskirts of the city. The acre of car park outside B&Q was nearly empty.

  Suttle was looking at Winter. The older man had put on a little weight since they’d last met and he seemed to have acquired an early tan.

  ‘So how come?’ Suttle asked.

  ‘How come what?’

  ‘How come you’re here?’

  ‘Lizzie belled me.’

  ‘She’s got your number?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s had it for ever. She sends me photos of Grace from time to time. That’s me doing the family thing, if you’re wondering. And something else, son. She didn’t tell you because I made her swear she wouldn’t. All right?’

  Winter was angry. Suttle could see it in his eyes. He’d been flattered by Lizzie’s invitation to become Grace’s godfather and had never taken his duties less than seriously. Hence, Suttle assumed, the enormous risk he was taking.

  ‘She told you about the Pompey situation?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Dave Fallon? The Spanish bounty hunter?’

  ‘Yeah. She phoned me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re on the move. It’s under control.’ He didn’t go into details.

  ‘So what else did Lizzie tell you?’

  ‘Pretty much everything, as far as I can judge. You’re living in a shit hole, son. You should have sorted it out.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  Suttle stared out through the windscreen. He didn’t have an answer. This was like talking to his dad, he thought.

  ‘Did she tell you about a bloke called Pendrick?’

  ‘That’s all bollocks. The woman was upset. She’d been upset for months. When that happens, all bets are off. You should have noticed, son. Then there wouldn’t have been a problem.’

  Suttle nodded. Winter was probably right.

  ‘It’s crazy down here. The job’s non-stop. There aren’t the bodies to go round any more. This isn’t Pompey. You work your arse off and then some.’

  ‘Great. Except you happen to have a wife. And a daughter.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And that matters?’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘Then sort it, son. Get a fucking grip.’ His hand was in his jacket pocket. He produced a bulky white envelope. When he tossed it across to Suttle it landed in his lap.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘I don’t want money. I don’t need it.’

  ‘Wrong again, son. You need to get out of that khazi of a place, you need to find somewhere fit to live in, and you need to start behaving like a human being. That little girl loves you. And so does your daughter. So take a few decisions, eh? And make it happen.’

  Suttle had never heard Winter like this, so forceful, so aggressive. Twenty-plus years in CID had made him the master of ambiguity, of the hidden threat, of the carefully prepared traps that littered every conversation. Not this onslaught.

  ‘Do I get a say?’

  ‘Of course you do, son. But do me a favour, yeah? Don’t tell me you’ve been betrayed. Don’t bang on about this guy Pendrick. Lizzie was out of her head. And that was down to you.’

  ‘My fault, then.’

  ‘Yeah. Fucking right. So like I say, get a grip.’ His eyes hadn’t left Suttle’s face. ‘Are you listening or do I have to start all over again?’

  Suttle wouldn’t answer. He fingered the envelope. It felt like a lot of money. Winter was still watching him.

  ‘Euros, if you’re wondering. High-denomination notes.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘None of your business, son. Sell the place. Buy somewhere half-decent. Then she’ll come back.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’m not stupid. Because I watch as well as listen.’ He held Suttle’s gaze a moment longer then checked his watch. ‘I’m off back to Heathrow in an hour. Where can you get something to eat in this town at ten in the morning?’

  Suttle took him to a hotel back by the station. They ordered a full English each, and prior to its arrival Winter raided a neighbouring table for a bottle of HP sauce. There were plenty of very good reasons for living in Croatia but breakfast evidently wasn’t one of them. Even Misty, he said, was starting to pine for a proper plate of bacon and eggs.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Barking mad. It was my birthday last week. You know what she bought me? A set of salsa lessons. Nightmare.’

  The thought of Winter stepping onto the dance floor with the high-kicking Misty Gallagher put a smile on Suttle’s face. He wanted to know about her daughter, Trudy, the third member of Winter’s little ménage. A car accident last year had broken her neck and left her with serious nerve damage. How was she doing?

  ‘Fine. She’s got a boyfriend, and you know what he does for a living?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He’s a cop. Mad about her. Nuts. But you know something? He’s another one who can’t see further than the end of his dick.’

  ‘You think I’m like that?’

  ‘Only you know, son.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question.’

  ‘OK, so what were you up to last night?’

  ‘I was with a woman called Gina Hamilton.’

  ‘Shagging?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, was it?’

  ‘Very nice, since you’re asking.’

  ‘She’s a D/I, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Neurotic as hell.’ Suttle was grinning this time. ‘Stuffed animals everywhere. Just like Misty.’

  The waitress arrived with breakfast. Winter attacked his black pudding with relish. A tiny comma of HP sauce attached itself to the corner of his mouth.

  Suttle wanted to know more about Croatia. In a year or so it’d be joining the EU. After which Winter was back in the firing line for a European Arrest Warrant.

  ‘You’re right, son. Unless Dave Fallon gets me first.’

 
‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Serbia. They’ve got proper gangsters there. Misty thinks she can pull some real animal who can sort out the likes of Dave Fallon. It’s a neat idea. I just hope he’s good with salsa.’

  Suttle had no idea whether he was joking or not and knew – in any case – that it didn’t matter. This brief glimpse of the old Winter had revived something deep inside him. They’d finished breakfast. Winter mopped his chin with a napkin and Suttle accompanied him back to the Fiat.

  Winter wanted to know how to get onto the motorway north but Suttle had something else on his mind.

  ‘You want out, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Out of where, son?’

  ‘Croatia. Serbia. Abroad. Wherever.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I’ve been watching. Like you always told me to.’

  Winter shot him a look, then extended a hand.

  ‘Glad to hear it, son. Take care of her, eh? And Grace too.’

  Winter turned to go but Suttle called him back. He was holding the envelope. There was no way he could take this money.

  ‘Leave it then.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. Any fucking where. It’s not for you, son. It’s for them.’

  Three weeks later Lizzie was back behind her old desk at the Pompey News. The editor had agreed to let her work three regular days a week plus freelance payments for supplementary features she put together in her spare time. This was a blessing for her mum, who found Grace a bit of a handful, and it also permitted Lizzie to kid herself that very little had really changed. She still got her daughter up every morning. She still put her to bed every night. The only difference was that now she had more to think about than dripping taps, elderly neighbours and incessant rain.

  Suttle, meanwhile, banked nearly £37,000 in euros. That same afternoon he wrote a cheque for exactly the same amount and sent it to Lizzie. He’d talked to her a couple of times on the phone, prior to nonsense conversations with his daughter, and had managed to avoid a row. Soon, he promised Grace, he’d be down to Pompey to take her out for a treat or two. Whatever else happened, he explained sternly, she wasn’t to forget him.

  His relationship with Gina Hamilton, meanwhile, appeared to have stalled. Performance reviews had given way to some kind of operational involvement in a long-running corruption case and she was working all hours. For his own part, Suttle was equally under the cosh. A pensioner couple had been found battered to death in their Sidmouth bungalow and to date no one had a clue who’d done it.

  Late one night, as knackered as ever, Suttle lifted the phone to Gina Hamilton. Still numb from losing his daughter, he’d begun to hate the silence of Chantry Cottage. Most television these days was for the brain-dead, and conversations with the cat were a poor substitute for real life.

  ‘I miss you,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Be honest, Jimmy. I know exactly what you’re missing.’ She laughed. ‘Me too, as it happens.’

  Three weeks later, for the first time, Lizzie had a girlie night on the town with Gill Reynolds. Gill had forgiven her for walking out on Chantry Cottage and they were friends again. They went to a bar in Gunwharf, a minute’s walk from Paul Winter’s old apartment. Lizzie had banked the cheque from her estranged husband and was quietly checking house prices in Southsea. Jimmy would, in the end, turn his back on the West Country. Of this she was quite certain.

  For a Friday night the bar was unusually empty. Gill had just booked a holiday in Sri Lanka, a fortnight she intended to share with her latest conquest. This was a guy she’d been dating for less than a month, but already she knew that she’d stumbled on someone who would change her life.

  ‘He’s really bright, Lou.’ She sucked the last of her vodka and Red Bull. ‘And the good news is he loves me.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Yeah. For now.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘So how’s he going to explain a couple of weeks in Sri Lanka?’

  ‘No idea. I’ve already bought the tickets, though, so there has to be a way.’

  It was at this point that Lizzie’s mobile began to ring. Not recognising the number, she ignored it. Moments later it rang again. Same number. This time it was a text with an accompanying photo. Gill had gone to the bar for refills. Lizzie stared at the text. For a second or two it made no sense, a message from a distant planet, just random nonsense. Then she forced herself to look again, to piece it together and try and understand. ‘She’s a beauty, I promise you. Any time you fancy it. XXXX’

  Lizzie’s finger strayed to the attachment. She opened the photo. It was Pendrick. He looked thinner and somehow younger. He was standing in the cockpit of a sizeable yacht. The yacht was anchored in some kind of lagoon. Pearl-white sand. A fringe of palm trees. Not a soul on the beach. Pendrick was grinning the way she recognised from the photos she’d found in his file box. And he was blowing her a kiss.

  Lizzie stared at the image, at the beach, at the nut-brown figure so carefully posed against the view. This was a face that she barely remembered, from a time she wanted to forget. So far, the police had shown no interest in calling her back for another interview and for that she was deeply grateful.

  ‘Lou?’ Gill was back with the drinks. She’d seen the photo. ‘Who’s that?’

  Lizzie didn’t answer, shielding the phone. Gill wasn’t having it.

  ‘Show me, Lou. Gimme, you old slapper.’

  Lizzie shook her head. The image of Pendrick still hung on the tiny screen. She gazed at it a moment longer, telling herself to get a new mobile, then her finger found the delete command and the face was gone.

  Acknowledgements

  New series. New setting. New police force.

  My thanks to Paul Netherton, Russ Middleton, Antonia Weeks, Jez Capey, Alan Barnsley, Mike West, Jane Williams, Larry Law and Jacquie Cox, all of whom opened doors, shared impressions, explained procedures and generally briefed me on the realities of criminal investigation in Devon and Cornwall. And a special thank you to Steve Carey who was extremely generous with his time and his long experience at the cutting edge of CID in south-west England. Top man.

  My son Jack guided me through the netherworld of video gaming and, with his partner Hannah, masterminded a memorable stroll through the badlands of Harehills in his adopted city of Leeds. Rob Williams, a good friend, shared his memories of moving into a near-derelict country bungalow in a damp fold of the Otter Valley, an account which sparked Chantry Cottage. Mia Marchant-John from Regatta Court gave me an extensive tour of Jake Kinsey’s extraordinary apartment, while Richard Soper offered a thought or two about the realities of life in Exmouth Quays. Most important of all, Deb Graham shared her memories of growing up in Exmouth – a recent past that has shaped a town I’ve grown to love. Sadly, Deb died suddenly this year and, as a consequence, this book is dedicated to her memory. An inspirational woman, much missed.

  I also owe a substantial debt of gratitude to Dr John Maskalyk, whose book Six Months in Sudan is a must-read for anyone interested in what happens when one culture collides head-on with another. Eamonn Lenahan grew out of those pages and sharpened what I always felt to be the real thrust of this book: that we in the West live in a bubble of our own making and may be neither the wiser nor the richer as a result.

  To everyone at the Exmouth Rowing Club, another sincere thank you. Offshore rowing, to be personal for a moment, has transformed our lives. Lin and I and our fellow Vulcaneers (don’t ask) are the luckiest guys.

  This is a step away from the Faraday series and represents an act of faith on behalf of my editor, Simon Spanton, my agent, Oli Munson, and – fingers crossed – my readers. Faraday’s was a very different journey. Where this one may lead is anyone’s guess.

  Also by Graham Hurley:

  Fiction

  RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
>
  REAPER

  THE DEVIL’S BREATH

  THUNDER IN THE BLOOD

  SABBATHMAN

  THE PERFECT SOLDIER

  HEAVEN’S LIGHT

  NOCTURNE

  PERMISSIBLE LIMITS

  Detective Inspector Joe Faraday Investigations

  TURNSTONE

  THE TAKE

  ANGELS PASSING

  DEADLIGHT

  CUT TO BLACK

  BLOOD AND HONEY

  ONE UNDER

  THE PRICE OF DARKNESS

  NO LOVELIER DEATH

  BEYOND REACH

  BORROWED LIGHT

  HAPPY DAYS

  Non-Fiction

  AIRSHOW

  Copyright

  AN ORION EBOOK

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Orion Books

  This ebook first published in 2012 by Orion Books

  Copyright © Graham Hurley 2012

  The right of Graham Hurley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978 1 4091 3154 0

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

  London, WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prelude

  Chapter One