Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (30 page)

Downstairs, he strapped Grace into her high chair in front of the TV while he went into the kitchen. Lizzie had forgotten to get the puréed banana out of the fridge so he put a saucepan of water on the stove to warm it up. Next door he could hear Grace kicking her legs in time to Horrid Henry. Even with the crap reception, the TV seemed to have become a permanent guest in the house, masking the never-ending drips that penetrated the silence.

Suttle went out onto the patio and put a call through to the Pompey number Marie had given him. The rain had cleared overnight and there was a clarity and brightness to the sunshine that lifted his spirits.

The number answered at once. Pompey accent again but a different voice.

‘I know you,’ Suttle said.

‘You do, son. You do.’

‘Dave Fallon.’

‘The same.’

Dave Fallon was an ex-6.57 who now ran one of Pompey’s biggest cab companies. He’d always been a special favourite of Mackenzie’s, a trusted lieutenant in the legendary Millwall rucks in the late 80s and a tactician of genius when it came to laying siege to some of the tastier away firms. Fallon affected a gruff Pompey swagger that led people to dismiss him as a mush, but Suttle had never been fooled. Mackenzie, he knew, had rated Fallon as one of the city’s top businessmen.

‘We need to meet, son,’ Fallon said.

‘Why?’

‘There’s no way I’m going into this on the phone. It has to be Monday night. You decide where.’

Suttle gave the proposition some thought. He didn’t want to go back to Pompey again. Not yet.

‘How about halfway?’ he said. ‘I’m in Devon.’

‘Wherever, mush. Your call. Have a think and bell me back, yeah?’

The phone went dead. Suttle checked on Grace then stepped back into the sunshine. Gina Hamilton was slower to pick up.

‘You,’ she said.

‘Me,’ Suttle agreed.

‘Get home OK?’

‘No.’

When he told her about the patrol car she laughed.

‘Your own fault,’ she said. ‘You should have stayed.’

She’d decided to turn the memory of last night into a joke, Suttle thought. Better that than more angst.

‘I need a favour,’ he said.

‘Another one?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So was I.’

‘Your husband . . .’

‘John?’

‘Yeah. You told me he was in Bournemouth. If I asked nicely, would he mind my back on Monday night?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ She was laughing again. ‘I’ll give you his number and you can ask him yourself. Send him my best, eh?’

It was still early when Lizzie got to the rowing club. Tessa was already there with a couple of the other girls and they’d wheeled out the heavy boats prior to attacking the tangle of weeds that threatened to engulf the corners of the compound. A young guy Lizzie had never met was trying to coax some life out of a strimmer while a bunch of juniors lounged on the wooden steps of the Portakabin, enjoying the sunshine.

Over the next hour or so more rowers turned up to lend a hand to sort out the Portakabin, and by late morning the job was done. Tessa took Lizzie to one side. She’d broached an idea to the club captain about tomorrow’s tribute on the water and he’d given it the thumbs up.

With the exception of the newest quad, the Kinsey boat, the club’s entire fleet would be holding station off the dock. Upstream, meanwhile, the new quad would be waiting with Kinsey’s crew aboard. The moment the wreath hit the water they’d scull downstream at racing speed, carving a path through the fleet. Kinsey had been forty-one when he died. Once the quad passed the wreath, they’d put in another forty-one strokes before drifting to a halt and waiting for the rest of the fleet to catch them up. This little piece of maritime theatre, in Tessa’s view, would provide a focus for the cameras, the press, and however many spectators chose to turn up.

‘Great.’ Lizzie was wondering what this had to do with her.

‘It’s a question of the crew. Kinsey’s obviously no longer with us and Tom Pendrick’s decided he doesn’t want to do it.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve no idea. Ask him.’

Tash Donovan, she said, had agreed to stand in for Pendrick, which left one empty seat at bow.

‘So who have you got?’

‘You.’

‘
Me?
’

‘Yeah. Clive and I agreed that we needed the newest recruit in bow. Clive thinks it’s symbolic, a vote of faith in the future. It’s a nice line for the press too.’ Clive Knightly was the club captain.

‘But I’m a novice,’ Lizzie pointed out.

‘That’s exactly the point.’

‘Racing speed? Are you serious?’

‘You’ll pick it up. Clive’s impressed already. We all are.’

‘Did you see me in the double the other night?’

‘We did. We think you had other things on your mind.’

‘Like?’

Tessa shot her a look. ‘You think we’re blind?’

Lizzie felt herself blushing. This was juvenile, she told herself. She began to protest again, telling Tessa the whole thing was out of the question, that she’d never hack something like that in front of other people, the whole club for God’s sake, but Tessa was adamant. The Kinsey crew would be on the water at least an hour before the ceremony. Racing starts were a piece of cake. All Lizzie needed was practice.

‘You should be flattered,’ she added. ‘This is as big as it gets in Exmouth.’

Pendrick turned up minutes later. He was driving a yellow VW van and bumped it onto the pavement on the seafront. Lizzie checked her watch. On the phone they’d agreed midday. It was two minutes past.

Pendrick leaned across and opened the passenger door. He was wearing jeans and a bleached-out T-shirt with a skull on the front.

‘You look like a biker,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Cornwall.’ He was looking down the cut towards the club compound. ‘Mystery tour.’

On the way out of Exmouth the weekend traffic was heavy. Lizzie had sneaked a look at the back of the van. Among the clutter of wetsuits and surfboards was a full-size blow-up airbed and a couple of sleeping bags.

‘You kip in here?’

‘When I have to, yeah.’

‘Cosy?’

‘Always.’

She told him about the addition to tomorrow’s ceremony. When she asked why he wouldn’t be rowing himself he just shook his head.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’ve got better things to do. This tribute thing’s a joke. Everyone hated the guy. All he had was money. Does that justify all this bollocks?’

‘But it’s not about him. Not the way I’ve been told. The club needs the publicity.’

‘Why?’

‘To bring in new members. To bring in money. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Profile? Presence?’

‘Sure. You’re right.’ He glanced across, gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Maybe I’ll help with the safety boat. Just in case you go overboard.’

‘Is that in the script?’

‘Christ knows.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time do you need to be back?’

Suttle took Grace on a tour of the village, mainly because she was beginning to drive him nuts. She was fretful and upset and whatever he did, however he tried to comfort her, nothing seemed to work. She’d stagger round the sitting room, banging into the furniture, yelling for her mummy, totally inconsolable, and in the end he strapped her in the buggy and set off down the road. Within a minute or so, probably exhausted, she’d fallen asleep.

A tour of Colaton Raleigh was a novelty for Suttle. He crossed the main road down by the store and kept walking. A line of cheerless bungalows led to the church. Beyond the church the road petered out. He lifted the buggy and carried it across a cattle grid. A path led towards the river. The meadows, dotted with cows, were boggy underfoot after the rain and the river itself was the colour of peat. He’d remembered to bring the remains of a stale loaf and he stood on the riverbank, wondering whether or not to wake Grace up. There were ducklings on the river, in line astern behind their mum, and he knew Grace would adore them, but in the end he opted for the rare moment of peace. On the way home, after a brief expedition to the village play-park, she was howling again.

The cottage, after the brightness of the sunshine, felt damp and airless. Suttle opened the windows and put the TV back on. He’d no idea whether Grace had any interest in rugby league but he thought it was worth a try. To his relief, it seemed to do the trick. She sat on his lap, peering at the screen, following the players with her tiny finger. After a while he settled her on the floor in front of the TV and went into the kitchen to sort her out something for lunch. He found a jar of mashed apricots in the fridge and cut up another banana to go with it. Grace gobbled up the fruit with evident relish, losing interest in the rugby.

‘You want to come outside? In the sunshine? Help Daddy sort the garden?’

She seemed to nod. Suttle carried the playpen outside and filled it with a small army of cuddly toys. The sight of Grace nursing a stuffed giraffe stirred memories of last night, and he found himself wondering whether Gina Hamilton had ended up preferring the company of stuffed animals to the complications of a proper relationship. Maybe that’s what lies in wait for us all, he thought. At least the animals never betray you.

Trezillion turned out to be a perfect cove nestling between two headlands west of Padstow. The tide was out and the blueness of the water stretched unbroken to the far horizon. Gulls were prowling among the hummocks of seaweed on the beach and a lone cormorant was patrolling the creamy froth at the water’s edge. It was a magical place, Lizzie thought. No wonder Pendrick had always treasured it.

Out of the wind, among the stands of marram grass on the dunes, it was warm enough to sit in the sunshine. They’d detoured through the outskirts of Camelford and Pendrick had shown her the council house where he’d grown up. Kate, he said, had come off the same estate. They’d gone to school together, learned how to get drunk together, and later – both mad about the rave culture – they’d hitchhiked up-country for festival after festival.

By now they’d both become hard-core surfers, and when the winds were right and a big Atlantic depression brought the heavy ocean swells rolling in, there was no better place to be than Trezillion. It wasn’t to everyone’s taste. A heavy break on the far side of the cove was tricky to get right and the shape of the bottom at certain states of the tide didn’t leave much room for beginners, but the sheer intimacy of the place made it one of Cornwall’s best-kept secrets.

‘Which I guess is what turned the little bastard on.’

A brown envelope lay between them on the blanket he’d brought from the van. Lizzie had been intrigued by its contents since she’d spotted it on the dashboard. Pendrick extracted a glossy-looking brochure and handed it across. They’d bought tins of Guinness and a cooked chicken from a Spar store on the Camelford estate. Lizzie licked the grease from her fingers and picked the brochure up.

‘Right here.’ Pendrick gestured at the photo on the front of the brochure. ‘That’s where he wanted to build. That’s the view you’d get. Exactly here.’

Lizzie checked the photo against the real thing. He was right. For £899K you could buy this view for the rest of your life.

‘And it’s going to happen?’

‘No one knows. Kinsey was the driving force, but he’s got a partner up north somewhere, and these days it’s all about property development. If the sums stack up, if there’s a profit to be had, my guess is he’ll make it happen.’

‘But it’s protected, surely. National Trust? RSPB? All that?’

‘Big deal. Money talks round here. Cornwall’s on the bones of its arse. It’s fine if you’re minted like Kinsey was. He’s pitching to people like himself, people with London property, zillions in the bank, not a clue what to do with it. Kinsey made it easy for them. You get the view. You get peace of mind, 24/7 security, high-end catering, like-minded neighbours, the whole deal. He sells this dog wank to the local planners, promises them a couple of memorial benches or a playground or whatever they want, and the rest is conversation. Thank you, Mr Kinsey. We’re grateful, Mr Kinsey. Just sign here, Mr Kinsey, and bung us a few quid to keep the punters happy.’

‘Punters?’

‘Us.’

Lizzie looked away, surprised by the venom in Pendrick’s voice. He really feels it, she told herself. And why not? He grew up here. He fell in love here. He’s carried this view to the other side of the planet and he still treasures it. Except it appears to be doomed, tucked into a developer’s swag bag and sold to a bunch of rich cardigans for silly money.

She took another pull at the Guinness, leaning against Pendrick, letting her head fall against his shoulder. She felt him stiffen, then relax again.

‘So what do you do about it?’ she asked.

‘You fight it whatever way you can. Not just me, dozens of other guys, hundreds of them. But you know what? We don’t have a prayer, none of us, because the whole fucking thing is a game and whoever dreams up the rules gets to win. This country’s fucked, Lizzie. You heard it here first.’