Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (28 page)

‘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&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.

Suttle poured more wine and asked how long she’d been in Modbury.

‘Just over a year. John and I went our separate ways and this was all I could afford. We used to have a place in Tavistock. It was sweet.’

‘John?’

‘My husband. He was a D/C on the drugs squad. The best. The very best. And that’s not just my opinion.’

She’d met him, she said, on the operation that had taken her to Pompey five years ago. He’d been driving the intel and she’d fancied him from the off. He was an older man, a grizzly bear of a guy, rock solid. The drugs operation had won her a commendation from the Chief, plus lots of media exposure, and she and John had got married within months.

‘That job was a real result,’ she said. ‘One of those moments when you think you’re immortal.’

Suttle nodded, telling her he’d been through something similar himself back in Pompey. He explained about the u/c operation to pot Bazza Mackenzie and all the plaudits that had followed. This guy had dicked them around for years and it was sweet to have finally nailed him.

‘Literally?’

‘Yeah. It got heavy at the end and the ninjas had to take him out. Incredible evening. He ended up in a shop full of snakes he happened to own. He was about to do something evil to the key informant and we had no choice. Bam-bam. You’re right. After that you feel you can do anything.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Afterwards I came down here.’

‘Good move?’

‘The best.’

‘You mean that?’

‘I do, yeah. But it’s not just about me, is it?’

There was a silence. Then Hamilton asked him whether he wanted to talk about it. Suttle told her about finding the cottage, about moving the family down, about living with a woman who couldn’t wait to take her life in another direction.

‘Why?’

‘Because living in the country drives her nuts.’

‘You still love her?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Then sort it out.’

‘I can’t. I try and I can’t. It just doesn’t work.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s become someone different, a different person. Because everything’s different. Have you ever had kids?’

‘No.’

‘They don’t help. We’ve got a daughter. She’s lovely. I adore her. But she doesn’t help.’

‘That’s harsh.’

‘But it’s true, believe me. If there’s something wrong in a relationship, if something’s not working, a child makes everything worse.’

Hamilton nodded and reached for the bottle. Her third glass. When she offered Suttle a refill, he shook his head. He wanted to know more about Hamilton’s marriage.

‘That didn’t work either.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I couldn’t let go of the Job. I’m good. I know I’m good. I’m ambitious too. It’s not going to end with D/I, not if I have anything to do with it, but these days that kind of pressure eats you up. You have to watch your back all the time. You have to make the right friends in the right places, walk the walk, talk the talk, make sure there’s nothing in your in-tray that’s going to come back and bite you in the arse. At the end of every day you’re wasted. And since you’ve asked, there’s another problem too.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m two people. At work I’m Ms Efficient. Ms Gimme. Ms Sort It. But you know something? It’s all pretend. I do pretend brilliantly. Pretend decisive. Pretend organised. Pretend savvy. People look at me and think wow, that woman’s got it cracked. But you want to know the truth?’ She touched her chest. ‘In here it’s all mush. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. It’s horrible. Just horrible. Some days I think I’m going mad.’

‘And John? Your husband?’

‘He saw right through it. He understood. He tried to make me get a grip, do something about myself, take the Job less seriously, but I never could. He’d got the Job totally sussed. He knew exactly what he was good at and he knew exactly where to draw the line. I don’t do lines. Which is why the marriage turned to rat shit. John gave up in the end and I don’t blame him. You’re right. You become strangers to each other. And after that you’re dead in the water.’

In the end, she said, John applied for a job in another force. She knew that it had been for her sake more than his and the gesture had touched her deeply.

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Dorset. He works out of Bournemouth. They’re lucky to have him.’

‘You’re divorced?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you still talk?’

‘Yes. Occasionally.’

‘And that’s OK?’

‘It’s weird. It’s like we were never married in the first place. You know my theory? We’ve all got a default setting and no matter what you do it’ll always reset.’

‘So what’s yours?’

‘Don’t go there.’

She went into the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine. Suttle was looking at the stuffed animals on the sofa. The biggest, the elephant, was pink.