Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (9 page)

Suttle shook his head and scribbled himself a couple of notes. There was something slightly childlike about this man. In ways he couldn’t quite define he reminded Suttle slightly of J-J, Joe Faraday’s deaf-mute son. The same hints of vulnerability. The same feeling that bits of the wiring didn’t quite connect.

‘So how did you come across Kinsey?’

‘I didn’t. It was Tash who met him first. Someone told her about the club after she’d seen the boats when she was out jogging and she went down to find out more. Kinsey was on the beach. He was still a bit of a novice himself in those days – he hadn’t bought the new boat – and they sort of shared notes. He bigged himself up from the off, did Kinsey, told Tash all about his penthouse apartment in the marina, how he’d watched the club boats from his window going up the estuary, and how he’d fancied getting involved. They went out together that morning, same boat, half experienced guys, half novices, and it was funny because Tash came back and told me how crap he was, completely out of time, always ahead of the stroke. Stick insect she called him.’

‘You were a rower then?’

‘No. It was Tash who got me into it. That was a bit later. She said it was brilliant and she was right. She’s like that, Tash. She’s the one who sorts me out. Always has done. Ever since the off.’

They’d first met, he said, when he was in his early twenties. All his life he’d lived beside the river up in Topsham, but after leaving school with pretty much nothing to his name he’d bailed out of Devon and signed up for a film course in west London. Too much dope was doing his head in, and after a near-terminal bust-up with his dad he knew he had to get his shit together. The film course included a chance to work with professional actors and one of them had been Tash.

‘We’d spent the afternoon shooting a whole load of stuff in some studios in Hammersmith. Afterwards we went to the pub, a place in Chiswick down by the Thames, and I was telling her about my own river, and what it meant to me, what it’s always meant to me, and how hard that feeling was to express, and she said film, you need to make a film about it, you need to dream up a story, or make something associative, an image-based thing, something that does justice to this feeling of yours. And you know what? That was the most wonderful thing I’d ever heard. It was like a door opening in my head, or maybe somewhere way down in here . . .’ He touched his chest, leaning forward in the rocker, trying to draw Suttle into this story of his. ‘Tease it out, she said. Take it in your hands. Nurture it, understand it, shape it,
treasure
it. Why? Because something’s calling you. Maybe it’s the spirit of the river. Maybe it’s something else. But either way you’re lucky. Because that kind of thing doesn’t happen very often. So be aware. Stay in tune.
Listen
to the river. And
do
it.’ His eyes found the PC on the desk. ‘She was right, too. And it’s worked.’

Suttle smiled. He could imagine a conversation like this. It sounded more like therapy than idle pub chat. Symons was a good-looking guy, no question, and Suttle could picture this new woman in his life, probably older, undoubtedly wiser.

‘And this film has a story?’

‘Sure. It’s about the river. Actually it’s more than that. It’s a story about the river and a story about a love affair, about two people who live
on
the river, who are
part
of the river, who maybe
are
the river, its mirror image, its other self, the river made flesh. They live on an old barge. The barge sits on a mooring up off Dawlish Warren. That’s where the tide flows strongest, where the river talks loudest. These two people, the man, the woman, they have no names. They just
are
. They’re part of the river, part of each other. The word Tash uses is flux.’

‘Flux?’ Suttle was lost.

‘Yeah. Wonderful word. Perfect.
Flux
.’ Symons grinned. ‘Partly this is about geography. Here, let me show you. This is Tash again. Her idea. Her trope.’

Symons unfolded his long frame from the chair and rummaged around behind the desk. Seconds later Suttle found himself looking at a framed map of the Exe estuary. Symons knelt beside him, visibly excited at this sudden interest in his life.

‘OK, so what I’m wanting is a narrative, a story that does justice to the river, that captures its essence, its soul. The framing device is the affair. But the affair, this relationship, has to be shaped by the river itself. And here’s what Tash came up with.’ One bony finger settled on the river upstream of Exmouth. Then the finger tracked slowly south until it paused at the mouth of the estuary.

‘Look at that. Look at the river just there. What does it remind you of?’

There was a hint of impatience in his voice. This, he seemed to be saying, is obvious. Suttle was trying to make sense of the shape of the river. The way the harbour nosed into the tidal stream. The long curl of a feature on the bank opposite. The narrowness of the gap between them.

Suttle asked about the bank opposite. What was he looking at?

‘It’s called Dawlish Warren. It’s a protected bird site. Magic place.’

Suttle nodded. He was still no closer to an answer.

‘You can’t see it?’ Symons couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.

‘No.’

‘Truly?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a fanny. A woman’s vagina. That was her insight, Tash’s, a stroke of total brilliance. Just here, where the river gets tight, is where the barge is moored. That’s where the action takes place. Within touching distance of the Warren. Just here. Just across the water where the sweet spot is. And here’s another thing.
Touching distance
. Tash again. The perfect title. Why? Because we’re talking every kind of distance. Geographical distance. Historical distance. The distance between two people. And the way that passion, or the tide, or the history, can
bridge
that distance, even
abolish
it.’

Way back in the eighteenth century, he said, a group of Dutch seamen got themselves shipwrecked on the Warren. There was a big south-easterly blow and their ship ended up on the beach. The locals came over from Exmouth and slaughtered every last man.

‘That’ll be in the movie too. My idea this time, not Tash’s.’

His finger had found the sweet spot again. Suttle was looking hard at the map. This time he got it.

‘That’s Regatta Court. That’s where Kinsey lived.’

‘Exactly. He thought it was really funny. We needed a development budget and Tash thought he might like the idea. He knew nothing about flux but he understood the rest of it.’

‘You’re telling me he gave you money?’

‘Not me. Tash. She did the negotiations, got him sold on the idea. First off he wanted to see the kind of stuff I’d done already. I’ve got some work from way back but Tash said we could go one better and shoot a couple of scenes from the script and show him those.’

Suttle’s eyes had gone back to the PC. He was beginning to understand.

‘So that’s what you did?’

‘Yeah. Kinsey bought us a decent camera and gave Tash a couple of grand to make it happen and we did the rest.’

‘You’re talking about the stuff I just watched?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So who chose the sequences?’

‘Tash did. She chooses everything.’

‘And Kinsey?’

‘He only saw a rough cut. I gave him a DVD and he watched it on his laptop.’

‘And?’

‘He loved it. Totally knocked out.’

‘He told you personally?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When?’

‘Last night, in the pub. He’d told Tash already but last night he made a big thing of it. He said the rest of the budget wouldn’t be a problem. Not after watching what we’d done.’

‘How much are we talking?’

‘Forty-five grand. Quite a lot of that is for the hire of the barge.’

‘Right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Right.’

There was a long silence. Would someone about to field a cheque for forty-five thousand pounds toss their benefactor into oblivion? Suttle thought not.

‘How well did you know Kinsey?’ he asked. ‘Be honest.’

‘Not well. Not really. If you want the truth I got into his crew because of Tash.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘Kinsey fancied her. He’d do anything for her. And that turned out to be a bit of a blessing.’

‘For you?’

‘For both of us.’

‘Because of the movie?’

‘Of course. And the rowing too. Yesterday was magic. That guy Andy Poole’s taught me loads.’

‘He thinks you’re good.’

‘Does he?’ The grin was unfeigned. ‘Did he
say
that?’

‘Yeah. Not to me. Not directly. But yeah. So tell me – what did you make of Kinsey?’

Symons thought about the question. Finally he sat down again, leaning forward, his voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. A kid. Definitely.

‘This is just between us two, right?’ Suttle didn’t answer. Symons went on regardless. ‘I think he was lonely.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just got the feeling. He didn’t seem to have any friends, any mates. Mates matter.’

‘No girlfriends? No one special?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Was there a wife once?’

‘Dunno. I suppose there may have been.’

‘Right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘So you’re telling me the guy was pretty much alone?’

‘A loner, sure.’

‘And Tash?’

‘Tash?’

Suttle recognised the flicker of alarm in Symons’ eyes.

‘She got close to him?’

‘He fancied her. I told you.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking.’

‘Listen, man. The woman’s my partner. She’s beautiful. Everyone fancies her. So what are you suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting nothing.’ Suttle had noted the sudden flash of anger. ‘I’m asking you whether she might know more about Kinsey than you do.’

‘And not tell me, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

Symons considered the proposition before rejecting it with a vigorous shake of his head.

‘No way,’ he said. ‘No fucking way.’

Suttle held his gaze. At length he asked how Symons made his living.

‘I do stuff for my dad.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘You’ve seen the van out there? I collect and deliver bits and pieces of furniture. He’s got a couple of antique shops. He bids in the auctions and I pick the stuff up.’

‘And that gives you enough to live on?’

‘Yeah.’

Suttle nodded and scribbled himself a note. The earlier warmth had gone out of this conversation. Symons was visibly upset now. Suttle asked him where Tash would be tomorrow morning.

‘Here,’ Symons shrugged, ‘I guess.’

Suttle took her mobile number and then got to his feet.

‘There’s a guy called Pendrick,’ he said. ‘He rows in Kinsey’s crew. You’ll know him.’

‘Of course.’

‘Any idea where he might be?’

‘No.’

‘He didn’t mention anything last night? Plans he might have had for today?’

‘No.’ The smile had returned. ‘But then he wouldn’t.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The guy’s another loner. Just like Jake.’

Suttle was back at Exmouth police station in time for the first of the
Constantine
squad meets. Nandy had returned from a busy afternoon in Torbay, and the house-to-house teams filled the rest of the office. As a courtesy, Houghton had also asked the duty uniformed Inspector to attend.

She kicked off with a brisk summary of progress to date. House-to-house teams had knocked on every door in Regatta Court. They’d scored a response from maybe two thirds of the apartments but failed to gather anything of evidential use. Only one resident had laid eyes on Kinsey’s partying crew. She’d seen them streaming out of Regatta House around midnight. Hand on heart she couldn’t be sure but she thought four or five people, one of whom was definitely a woman.

Detectives had also covered every property with line of sight on Kinsey’s balcony. Again, nothing.

‘What’s the lighting like?’ This from Nandy. One of the D/Cs fielded the question.

‘Crap, sir. We’re talking lights at knee level on the walkway by the dock. No way would they reach the fifth floor.’

‘So no witnesses?’ Nandy was looking at Houghton.

‘None, I’m afraid.’

‘And definitely no CCTV?’

‘No.’

Houghton went on to describe the kind of ripples Kinsey had been making. No one seemed to like him. His reputation for arrogance had spread beyond Exmouth Quays. There was even a question mark about the crew he’d put together.

‘Who says?’ Nandy again.

‘Me, sir.’ Suttle told him about Lenahan and Symons. In his view Kinsey had bought their loyalty. These were guys who got on among themselves, and after yesterday’s win they might still carry on rowing with someone else in the bow seat, but neither Lenahan nor Symons seemed over-distressed by Kinsey’s passing.