Borrowed Light (25 page)

D/S Jimmy Suttle drove across to Newport, then took the road north towards Cowes. The rain had cleared at last. It was cold
– ice on the roads overnight – but the mist was clearing ahead of what promised to be a flawless day.

Upcourt Farm lay at the end of a track to the west of the Cowes road. On the surveillance logs the D/C in charge had been
less than precise about the layout. Operational difficulties had restricted his field of view, but he thought the stables
must lie beyond the farmhouse. What was beyond dispute was the target’s passion for riding. Both days, over the weekend, she’d
driven up here and spent a couple of hours in the saddle.

Suttle bumped the Fiesta up the drive and parked beside a barn. He’d phoned Lou Sadler about an hour ago, telling her that
he needed the missing photo as soon as. To his surprise, she said that her web-master would be sending it across this morning.
She’d even apologised for the delay, explaining the guy had been having problems retrieving the image from his system. Even
in e-space, it seemed, Kaija Luik was hard to find.

The farmhouse lay across the yard from the barn. The track continued towards a paddock at the back and Suttle could see a
straggle of outhouses that might, he thought, serve as some kind of stable. Beyond the outhouses was a caravan with a black
four-by-four parked outside. The rest of the paddock was grazed by sheep.

Suttle walked to the farmhouse and knocked on the door. The place looked dingy, unkempt. No one had touched the square of
front garden for months and the wood around the windows was beginning to rot. Inside he could hear someone singing, a woman’s
voice. Finally the door opened.

The woman was in her forties, thin, striking, with a yellow bandanna around a mass of jet-black hair. She looked South American,
brown skin, flattish face. Twenty years earlier, Suttle thought, she’d have been a crowd-stopper.

‘So who are you?’ Heavy foreign accent.

Suttle introduced himself. She studied the warrant card with some care, then looked up at him, smiling.

‘Nice photo.’

Suttle explained that he was making enquiries about stables.

‘Why? Have we done something wrong?’

‘Not at all. You have stables?’

‘We have horses. Not me, not my horses. But horses that live here. With us and the sheep. Up there, you can see.’ She took
him by the arm, a tight bony grip, and walked him back towards the sagging gate. She smelled of joss sticks, a thick heavy
scent that took Suttle back to Valentine’s Day.

‘So whose horses are they?’

‘A friend of mine.’

‘Does she have a name? This friend?’

‘Of course she does. Everyone has a name. You want coffee? Come.’

Suttle felt the pressure on his elbow again. Inside the
house was dark. He’d been right about the joss sticks. They were everywhere, masking a heavy smell of dog. The living room
was a mess. He spotted a guitar on the sofa beside a pile of magazines. A single candle was burning among the scatter of bills
on the mantelpiece and a cat was dozing among the wreckage of the only armchair. The kitchen was at the back. Suttle stepped
over a mountain of washing – men’s clothes mainly – jeans, T-shirts, towels, bedding.

‘I’ll need your name, please.’ Suttle had produced his notebook.

‘Ximena. It’s Spanish.’ She spelled it for him.

‘And your surname? Family name?’

‘Gomez.’

‘You live here alone?’

‘No. You want milk?’ A pot of coffee was bubbling on the stove. Beside it, in a big saucepan, she was boiling underclothes.

Suttle was waiting for more details. She poured coffee into a mug and nodded at the fridge for milk.

‘Sugar?’

‘No, thanks.’ He was looking at the clothes. ‘You’ve got a partner, maybe?’

‘A friend. She’s upstairs. Why do you want to know all this?’

Suttle explained about the fire at Monkswell Farm. She may have read about it in the paper. Four people dead.

‘So?’

‘We’re making enquiries. This is one of them. The horses belong to your friend upstairs?’

‘Eva?’ She laughed. ‘Eva is seventy. Eva hates horses. And you know something? The horses hate her too. Because of her dog.
No, the horses belong to another friend. You want her name? Her name is Lou. Lou Sadler.’

Suttle hesitated. For some reason he’d assumed Sadler hired them from someone else. Not true.

‘You look after the horses for her?’

‘No.’ A shake of the head. ‘Lou has a friend. The world is full of friends, no?’ She laughed and poured another mug of coffee
before disappearing back into the living room. Suttle heard the clump of footsteps on wooden stairs and then a murmured conversation
overhead. He was looking at the washing again when she reappeared.

‘Lou’s friend is called Max. Max lives in the caravan. You know the caravan?’ A jerk of the head towards the paddock. ‘Max
looks after the horses, and a little bit the sheep as well.’

‘And that lot?’ Suttle nodded at the jeans on the floor.

‘Max. You’re right. Very good. Very clever. You want something to eat? Toast maybe?’

Suttle shook his head. The coffee was vile.

‘Were you here on Saturday night?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I was in Ventnor. You want me to prove it?
No problema.
I sing in a pub. You know the Spyglass Inn? Many people come. You should talk to them all. Many clappings. Much applause.’

‘And afterwards? You came back here?’

‘No. I have a friend as well. He lives in Shanklin.’

‘You spent the night with him?’

‘Of course. Why not?’

Suttle asked for his name and contact details. Pete Rafferty. A road near the seafront. Ximena watched him write it down.

‘You gonna check him out? He hates the police. He’s a mad guy sometimes.’ She laughed, a full throaty cackle, her head tossed
back. ‘Me? I love this man. Go and see him.
Muy guapo.
’

Suttle wanted to know about Eva. Where was she on Saturday night?

‘Eva? She sleeps. She sleeps like sometimes you think maybe she is dead. A deep, deep sleep.’ She mimed it, put her head on
her clasped hands. ‘So, you want to talk to Max, you go up to the caravan. Maybe he’s there, maybe not. This week he works
all the time, cleaning and
cleaning. It’s springtime, no? So –’ she nodded at his brimming mug ‘– my coffee is shit? Is that what you think?’

Suttle made his way out. As he closed the door behind him, Ximena was singing again, something bouncy and feel-good that told
him this visit of his hadn’t bothered her one jot.

The caravan was at the top of the paddock. Suttle paused beside the row of outhouses. These must once have been storage of
some kind, and one was still home to a biggish trailer. The next two units had been converted to stables. The doors had been
crudely sawn along a horizontal line with the top half hanging open.

Suttle paused and looked in. As a kid back in the New Forest he’d grown up with animals and he had no fear of horses. This
one, a big bay, eyed him for a moment before lumbering towards the door. Suttle extended a hand to give it a pat and it sniffed
his palm for a moment before tossing its head and rolling an eye. Suttle loved the smell of horses and the bigness they brought
with them and for a split second he found himself wondering whether, rather than staying in Pompey, he and Lizzie might somehow
raise the money to find themselves a place in the country. Somewhere like this maybe, a bit neglected, a tad shabby, somewhere
not too pricey where they could put down roots, raise a few chickens, hide away from the madness of the city.

This evening, by the time he got home, Lizzie would have had the results from the amnio. They’d discussed whether they wanted
to know the sex of the child ahead of the birth and they’d both agreed yes, though they differed when it came to preference.
Lizzie quite fancied the idea of a boy while Suttle was already convinced it had to be a little girl. He’d get her a pony
to begin with, he told himself. Then something like this fella when she was a bit bigger.

‘Who are you?’

The question took Suttle by surprise. He glanced round, understanding now why the horse had stepped back so abruptly.

The guy was big, in shape, late twenties, maybe older. He was wearing jeans, boots and a heavy leather jacket against the
cold. The fall of long black hair and a startlingly white T-shirt gave him the look of a rock star. Max, Suttle thought. Has
to be.

Suttle produced his warrant card. The guy scarcely spared it a glance.

‘A cop?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What do you want?’ The tone was businesslike. A foreign accent again.

Suttle asked his name.

‘Max,’ he said. ‘Max Oobik.’

‘And you live here?’ Suttle nodded at the caravan.

‘Yes.’

‘It belongs to you? The caravan?’

‘No.’ A brisk shake of the head. ‘What is this? What do you want?’

Suttle explained about the fire at the farm. He was making
enquiries, needed a conversation.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I have stuff to do. Later maybe?’

‘Now, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure.’ He gave Suttle a hard stare. ‘You think it’s that important, why not?’

They walked the twenty metres to the caravan. There was another horse in the stable beside the bay. Despite the recent rain,
everything looked neat and newly tidied.

Inside, the caravan was equally immaculate: everything squared away, room to move about, even a vase of early daffs beside
the heavy-metal CDs on the folding table. Suttle’s footsteps rang hollow on the metal floor as he made his way towards the
couch at the end. There was a pile of newly ironed shirts on it and a poster of somewhere Suttle didn’t recognise Blu-tacked
to the wardrobe door. A view of the sea was framed between pine trees. A couple of kids were playing on the otherwise empty
sand dunes. In the far distance the faint white triangle of a sailing boat, barely a shadow in the haze.

‘So where’s that?’ Suttle nodded at the poster.

‘Sarema. It’s an island in the Baltic.’

‘And that’s where you’re from? That area?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which country?’

‘Estonia.’

‘Do you have a passport here?’

‘Of course.’

Suttle said nothing, just waited. Oobik didn’t move.

‘You want to see it?’ he said at last.

‘Yes, please.’

He shrugged. The passport was in a rucksack under the table. Suttle made a note of the details, carefully transcribing the
passport number and taking a good look at the photo. A couple of years ago Oobik had been a skinhead.

At length he looked up. There was a smell in the air and he’d only just recognised it. Bleach, spiked maybe with something
else.

‘Do you know a woman called Lou Sadler?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she comes up here to ride the horses?’

‘The horses belong to her. I look after the horses.’

‘I see.’ Ximena had said the same thing. ‘So how would you describe the relationship?’

‘With the horses?’

‘With Mrs Sadler.’

‘Ms Sadler.’ The smile was icy. He was making a point, answering the question.
Ms
Sadler. No one else’s property but her own.

Suttle reached for his pen again, taking his time.

‘So are you close?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not just the horses then?’

‘No.’

‘OK.’ Suttle sat back, enjoying the thin warmth of the sun through the window. ‘There’s someone else I’d like to ask you about.
Her name’s Kaija Luik. Do you know this person?’

‘Sure.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s Estonian, like me. We talk a couple of times.’

‘So do you know where I could find her?’

‘No. I think she went back home. I don’t know.’

‘When? When did she go?’

‘Recently. Maybe last week.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No.’

‘But she’s definitely gone? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes … I think so.’

‘Do you have an address for her in Estonia?’

‘No.’

‘Not even a city? Or a town?’

‘No.’

Suttle nodded, his eyes returning to the poster. Max wanted him out of here. The man was acutely uncomfortable. Suttle could
sense it.

‘So where was Kaija living before she left?’

‘In Cowes. She had a flat.’ He mentioned a road but said he couldn’t remember the number. Suttle made another note. Darcy
Road was where Lou Sadler had the property. Same place. For sure.

Suttle looked up again.

‘Do you know someone called Johnny Holman?’

‘No.’

‘Kaija never mentioned him?’

‘No.’

‘Did she ever mention having an English boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘What was she doing? Kaija?’

‘She was …’ Oobik studied his bitten nails ‘… a girl, an escort girl. She worked for Lou.’

‘Do you mean a prostitute?’

‘I mean an escort girl.’ The voice had hardened.

‘Same thing, isn’t it?’

The big head came up, the face curtained by the fall of hair, and Suttle glimpsed the anger in his eyes. The question seemed
to have touched a nerve.

‘Lou has a good business. She employs good girls. She looks after them – good pay, good conditions. Kaija met interesting
people, nice people. So –’ it sounded like a warning ‘– she was
not
a prostitute.’

‘Was?’

‘Sure. Like I say, she went home.’

Suttle let the moment pass. This was the guy in Lou Sadler’s bed, he told himself, the morning he and Patsy Lowe called in
for a chat.

‘So you work for Lou Sadler, is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Looking after the horses. I told you.’

‘And the girls too?’

‘No.’ That same curt note of irritation. ‘The girls look after themselves.’

‘And she owns all this? The stables? The horses?’

‘Only the horses. The buildings, this place …’ he waved a huge hand around the interior of the caravan ‘… belongs
to the farm.’