Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (35 page)

Access was via an exterior staircase at the back of the property. The window in the door at the top had been boarded up after some kind of break-in, and there were fresh-looking chisel marks around the Yale lock.

A youngish guy opened the door. He was pale and thin. His patched jeans hung off his bony frame and his trainers had definitely seen better days. As far as Suttle could judge, he was eastern European.

‘Who are you?’ Poor English, heavily accented.

Suttle flashed his warrant card. He’d appreciate a word or two. It needn’t take long.

The guy spent a long time examining the card. Then he asked Suttle to come inside. The room must once have been a kitchen. A jar of instant coffee and an electric kettle stood on the work surface beside a pile of newspapers. Suttle recognised a shot of Cracow on the front page of the top paper. There were scabs of ageing dog shit on the floor and a powerful smell of drains.

Suttle pushed the door shut behind him.

‘I’m investigating a suspicious death,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Exmouth. I need your help. We need to trace this woman.’

He laid the shot from Kinsey’s phone on the work surface. Golding had been right. It exactly matched the photo pinned to the wall board. The guy peered at the proffered shot, then glanced up. He was looking alarmed.

‘You say she’s dead, this woman?’

‘No. I’m saying we need to talk to her. Is that possible?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘Why not?’

‘She doesn’t speak English. She’s not here. She’s gone away.’

‘Where?’

‘Abroad. I don’t know.’

Lies, Suttle thought.

‘You’re responsible for this woman? You take the bookings?’

‘Yes. Me and my partner.’

‘Who’s your partner?’

‘Mr Wattana. He’s away too.’

‘You keep records?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘When people pay?’

‘Ah . . .’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Does that matter?’

‘It might.’

Suttle bent forward, closing the distance between them. He needed to get this man onside. He wanted to offer him a word of advice.

‘You need to make a choice here, my friend. Either you let me see your payment records or the whole thing gets much more complicated. The VAT inspector? The tax people?’ He sniffed, looking round. ‘Health and safety?’

The guy shook his head. He wanted to say no. He wanted Suttle out of his face. Suttle was looking at a filing cabinet wedged into an alcove beside the boiler. Judging by the state of the paintwork, it might have come out of a skip.

‘In there, maybe? You want to give me a hand here?’

With some reluctance, the guy followed Suttle across to the cabinet. It was locked. Suttle stepped back while the guy found the key. The middle drawer was packed with files. The guy looked up.

‘You want the same girl?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. The punter’s name was Kinsey.’

He shook his head. He’d never heard of anyone called Kinsey.

‘Little guy? Middle-aged? Drove a Porsche? Big top-floor apartment down in Exmouth? Place called Regatta Court?’

Mention of Regatta Court sparked a nod of recognition. Maybe Kinsey used a false name, Suttle thought.

The guy was riffling through the files. At last he found what he was looking for. He took it out and held it close against his skinny chest.

‘And after this?’

‘I go.’

‘And not come back?’

Suttle smiled. His turn to lie.

‘Never.’

‘OK.’

The guy handed over the file. Suttle opened it and found himself looking at a sheaf of A4 sheets. Each held a scribbled note or two – date, time, name of the attending escort – and stapled to each was a credit-card slip. These were the old sort, letter-box-shaped, bearing the imprint of the card. Suttle lifted out the first one and gazed at the name of the cardholder. Mrs Sonya Jacobson. Kinsey’s ex-wife.

The guy wanted the file back. When Suttle said he was taking it away, the guy tried to protest. Then he was struck by another thought.

‘Mr Jacobson?’ he asked. ‘He’s dead?’

Lizzie was panicking. The only call she could think of making was to Gill Reynolds. Mercifully, she picked up.

‘You’ve got a moment?’

‘Yeah. If you’re quick.’

‘Later maybe?’

‘Later’s worse.’

Lizzie closed her eyes. She was in big trouble with someone at the rowing club. The details weren’t important but she’d done something stupid, really stupid, and now the man wouldn’t leave her alone.

‘How stupid?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘What kind of answer is that? Just tell me.’

Lizzie did her best. By the time she got to Trezillion, Gill was laughing.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to be barking. That husband of yours can be a dickhead sometimes but he’s not that bad.’ She paused. ‘So what’s this guy like?’

‘He’s OK. At least I thought he was OK. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s all over me. Because he won’t listen. Because he won’t take no for an answer.’

‘And are you surprised? After you came on to him like that?’

‘I suppose not. But it gets worse.’

‘
Worse?
’

‘Yeah. Yesterday he saved my life. Major production. Chopper, paramedics, the lot.’

‘Shit. Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. No, that’s a lie. If you want the truth, I’m terrified.’

Lizzie explained about Pendrick and his wife rowing across the Atlantic, about the morning he woke up and found himself alone. It took a moment for Gill to place the story. Then she had it.

‘Big hippy guy? Hair down round his shoulders? Bit of a looker?’

‘That’s him. He’s cut most of his hair off but the rest is pretty much the same.’

‘Fuck. I’m with you now. No wonder.’

‘No wonder what?’

‘No wonder you went to wherever it was.’

‘Trezillion.’

‘Yeah. Maybe you should have fucked him and got it over with. Most men lose interest after that.’

‘Not this one. Not the way I read him.’

‘What about Jimmy?’

‘Jimmy’s being sweet. Jimmy’s noticed who I am at last.’

‘Sure . . . but does he
know
?’

‘About what?’

‘Yer man.’

‘Yes, I think he does. Not the detail. Not Trezillion. He’s a detective, Gill. He does this stuff for a living.’

‘And if he found out about Trezillion? What then?’

Lizzie didn’t answer for a moment. This was the question she’d been dreading. This was the reason she’d made the call in the first place. She needed clarity. She needed to understand exactly where she’d got to in this hideous story.

‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘It’s been rough these last few days, really horrible. Jimmy was brilliant yesterday, really cool with everything. He sorted me out after the accident. We even got it on last night. I don’t want to lose that, Gill. I really don’t.’

‘And this other guy? Pendrick?’

‘That’s what terrifies me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m beginning to wonder about him. And because he won’t let go.’

Suttle phoned Carole Houghton from the car. He was still parked across the road from the Golden Dragon.

‘Boss? We need to bottom out a credit card. Or it could be a debit card. Have you got a pen?’

Houghton, it turned out, was preparing performance reviews. In other circumstances Suttle might have been amused. He gave her the details on the slip.

‘And the name?’

‘Sonya Jacobson.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Kinsey’s ex-wife.’

‘Should I be excited?’

‘Definitely.’

Suttle’s second call went to Eamonn Lenahan In these situations, especially with someone like Lenahan, Christian names often worked best.

‘Eamonn? Jimmy Suttle.’

Lenahan remembered the name at once. He was doing a shift as a locum registrar in A & E at the Royal Devon and Exeter. Trade had been brisk all morning but he’d just seized a chance to put his feet up in the staffroom. Tea and biscuits. God’s answer to terminal stress.

Suttle laughed. Just the mischief in the man’s voice took him back to the hour or so they’d spent in his rented cottage in Lympstone. Interesting guy. Definitely a one-off.

‘Something on that mind of yours?’ he said. ‘Because now would be a good time to talk. Ask for me at A & E. Doors will open, my friend. I’ll save you a biscuit.’

Suttle turned the invitation down. The staff might recognise him from yesterday’s drama and the last thing he wanted just now was the likes of Lenahan making the connection between him and Lizzie.

‘I’m stuffed, mate,’ he said. ‘But tell me one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The takeaway you all had on the Saturday night, up in Kinsey’s place. Where did it come from?’

‘Fuck knows. Ask Tash.’

‘I’ve tried.’ Suttle was lying. ‘She won’t pick up.’

‘Bell Pendrick then. I think he uses the same place.’

Suttle scribbled down a number, then checked his watch. Aside from Andy Poole, Pendrick was the one person he’d yet to see.

‘What time does he finish work?’

‘He doesn’t. He’s off today. Number 94, Woodville Road. Fella in the flat down below cracks bones for a living. Charming guy. Give him my best if he opens the door. Canes the arse off us mere practitioners.’

Suttle was in Exmouth by half two. He’d called at Woodville Road days ago, but this time a yellow VW van was parked outside number 94. Suttle resisted the temptation to raise the chiropractor in the ground-floor flat and pressed Pendrick’s bell. Moments later came heavy footsteps down the stairs and Suttle found himself looking at the figure he’d last seen on Milo Symons’ PC screen. The same bulk. The same shaven head. The same scar. The same hint of amusement in the deep-set eyes.

He stooped to inspect Suttle’s warrant card. He was wearing shorts and a thin singlet. The singlet was dark with sweat. He didn’t appear to be surprised to find a detective at his door.

‘You want to come in?’

‘Please.’

Pendrick led the way upstairs. The living room was under-furnished but restful. Suttle liked the Moroccan throws on the sofa and the bookcases brimming with paperbacks. A set of weights lay on a folded towel on the polished floorboards. Miles Davis played softly on the sound system. It didn’t need much imagination on Suttle’s part to put a woman in here, someone maybe a bit stressed, a bit vulnerable. Someone in need of TLC and a listening ear.

Pendrick had departed to the bathroom. Suttle heard splashing. Minutes later Pendrick was back in a dressing gown, towelling his face dry, trailing the scent of shower gel. He wanted to know what Suttle was after.

‘I read the account you gave to our guys back last week. You mind if we go over one or two points?’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘Let’s talk about Kinsey.’

‘Must we?’ The expression on his face might have been a smile, but Suttle wasn’t sure. There was anger in this man. He could feel it.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘No reason. I didn’t much like the guy but you probably know that already.’

‘Something happened between you? Something personal?’

‘Kinsey didn’t do personal. The guy was a robot. If you want the truth, I felt sorry for him.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘Not at all. That was never on offer.’

‘So how did you hook up in the first place?’

‘He bought the boat. Then he bunged Andy Poole to fill it with decent rowers. Andy took advice from people round the club. I was one of the chosen ones.’

‘Chosen’ was laced with contempt. Suttle began to wonder whether anything put a real smile on this man’s face.

‘And the rest of the crew?’

‘They were good rowers. Andy was the best. He had pedigree. But the rest of us weren’t bad either.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant. I’m asking whether they all felt the way you felt.’

‘About Kinsey?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I dunno. We never talked about him really. He sat up in bow and tried to boss us around, but no one took much notice. He should have learned to row properly. That might have helped.’

‘What about Milo Symons?’

‘What about him?’

‘Did he get on with Kinsey?’

‘That guy would get on with anyone. He’s a nice man, Milo, but he’s a child, a puppy dog. Kinsey would give him a pat from time to time, toss him a bone, and the guy would roll over. Quite sweet if you like that kind of thing.’