Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (17 page)

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you think that was dodgy at all? Carrying on the way he did?’

‘Not really. I put it to him that it was a strange thing to do, rowing single-handed when most people would have been in bits about what had happened, but he just shook his head. The word he used was tribute.’

‘Tribute?’

‘To his dead wife. To Kate. Finishing was the least he owed her. It’s in the transcript. I remember him saying exactly that.’

Suttle scribbled himself a note.
Finishing was the least I owed her
. It was an arresting phrase.

‘What about passive evidence?’

‘She had a camera which she apparently took with her when she went over the side.’

‘Stills? Video?’

‘Both.’

‘And you’re saying it disappeared?’

‘Yeah.’

Suttle bent to his pad. Made another note. Then his head came up again.

‘Did she keep a diary? Some kind of journal?’

‘Yeah. Plus an audio account.’

‘You seized them?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘Evidentially it took us nowhere. I got the impression she was quite a literal-minded woman. From time to time the wild life would do it for her – the birds, dolphins, a couple of whales – and sunsets and sunrises always got a mention, but most of the stuff was pretty dull. Distance covered. Weather details. How much water they were making every day. Worries about the food stocks. Housekeeping really. One thing was interesting, though.’

‘What?’

‘I remember thinking the deeper they got into this thing, the less she wrote. It was the same with the audio. You could sense it in her voice. There was a weariness there. You could hear it.’

‘She was probably knackered.’

‘Sure. Of course she was. But there was something else. It was as if she couldn’t be bothered any more.’

‘Right.’ Another note. ‘And what about Pendrick? Was he keeping any kind of diary?’

‘He said he wasn’t.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he was so thoughtful, so
deep
. Pendrick was exactly the kind of guy to write stuff down. But no way would you ever get to read it.’

‘Because he was hiding something?’

‘Because he was so private.’

‘What about the state of the relationship? What impression did you get about that?’

‘They’d been married for a while. Five, six years, something like that.’

‘Kids?’

‘No.’

‘But they were tight? Made it work?’

‘I imagine so. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Why do something like that with someone you don’t much like?’

Suttle said he didn’t know. Relationships were complicated enough on dry land. Just imagine what a couple of months alone at sea would do to most marriages.

Hamilton said nothing. Just shot him a look. Suttle asked her about the couple’s life insurance.

‘They’d both taken out policies. They were raising money for some charity and the people in charge insisted on proper cover. That was interesting.’

‘How come?’

‘The insurance thing was a bit of an issue for a couple of the media guys. One of the reporters did a bit of digging and discovered that Pendrick stood to gain half a million dollars from his wife’s death. Of course it wasn’t as simple as that. The insurance company wanted proof of death and it was months before they accepted the claim, but when I put it to Pendrick he just shrugged, said he wasn’t interested, told me the money had never crossed his mind.’

‘Did you check with the insurance people? Later?’

‘Yeah. We had a wash-up at the back end of last year.’

‘Performance review?’

‘Very funny.’ She had the grace to laugh. ‘I put a call through and after the usual dramas they confirmed they’d paid out.’

‘To Pendrick?’

‘To the charity. It turned out that’s what Pendrick and his wife had wanted all along. That was their decision. That’s what they’d stipulated. And I’m guessing that’s why Pendrick was never bothered about the money.’

‘OK.’ Suttle was impressed. ‘So which charity are we talking about?’

‘I knew you’d ask.’ She opened a drawer and produced a file. Lovely hands, Suttle thought. No rings. Hamilton looked up, one finger anchored in the file. ‘It’s called Phra Mae Khongka. She’s a Thai water goddess. I gather it’s something to do with the tsunami.’

‘How come?’

‘You want the truth?’

‘Please.’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

Lizzie got Gill on her mobile shortly after lunch. She was speeding through the New Forest with the top down and Muse full blast on the audio. She’d borrowed the CD from Lizzie and would bring it back next time round.

Lizzie wanted to know whether she’d had anything to do with a football programme that had appeared on the kitchen table.

‘A what?’

‘A football programme. Portsmouth versus Preston. Last weekend.’

Lizzie heard the music level dip. Then Gill was back on the phone.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said. She wanted to know how come it had got there.

‘Good question.’ Lizzie was watching Dexter stalking something in the long grass.

She rang off as the signal began to fade and went back into the kitchen. The programme was still on the table. When she’d found it she’d done nothing but stare at the front cover. Blue shirts in front of a sea of faces. A white blur might have been a football. Now she went through the programme page by page. She found the phone number at the end, a line of carefully transcribed figures beneath an advert for a demolition company. The number was underlined and there was a question mark at the end. She studied the number a moment and wondered what would happen if she phoned it. Then something else claimed her attention.

The last time she’d checked the dodgy window in the living room, it had been loosely secured. There was no way it would ever keep anyone out but this way it at least minimised the draught. Now, though, it was completely unlatched. Someone had been at it. She knew they had. There was no other explanation. Someone had reached in, opened the window and climbed inside.

She peered hard at the windowsill, then at the carpet beneath. Sure enough, among all the ingrained crud, she could see tiny fragments of gravel and dirt. She turned away from the window, feeling a sudden chill despite the warmth of the sun. Grace was in her playpen, taking wet bites at her stuffed rabbit. Lizzie stared at her for a long moment then summoned the courage to venture upstairs. Both bedrooms were empty. She came down again, her pulse back under control, wondering what to do. Should she phone Jimmy? Or should she wait until this evening?

She glanced at her watch and decided not to bother him. Mercifully, the bolts on both the front and back doors still worked. With a bit of ingenuity, she might be able to re-fasten the window. Whoever had left the calling card was probably miles away by now. Her eyes strayed to the programme again and despite everything she found herself wondering what on earth lay behind its sudden appearance in this tomb of a house. Pompey, she thought. Never lets you down.

Suttle had decided to nail the photos as soon as he got back to Middlemoor. Apart from the Admin Manager and a lone D/C, the MCIT offices were empty. Suttle closed his door and extracted the mystery number from his wallet. Using his own mobile, he keyed in the digits.

The number rang and rang. Finally, a voice. Gruff Pompey accent. No surprise there.

‘My name’s Suttle. You want to talk to me.’

‘That’s right. We do.’

‘When? Where?’

‘How about this afternoon?’

‘You have to be joking. I’m in fucking Exeter.’

‘So are we, mush.’ The voice was laughing. ‘Bet your life we are.’

Suttle was thinking fast. They’ve been back to the village, he told himself. He’d talked to Lizzie a couple of hours ago. She’d seemed perfectly OK.

‘Listen.’ He bent to the phone again. ‘If anyone lays a finger on my family, they’ll regret it. Are we cool with that? Are you listening?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘So leave it out, yeah?’

The guy was still there. Suttle could hear him. Heavy breather. Probably fat. Probably enormous. Finally he came back on the phone.

‘Pub called the Angel. Opposite Central Station. You know it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Three o’clock. If you’re not there by quarter past, all bets are off.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You don’t want to know, mush.’

The line went dead. Suttle slipped the phone back in his pocket and checked his watch. 14.27. Getting into the city centre and finding somewhere to park would take at least twenty minutes, probably longer. And no way was he going into this without back-up.

In the next office D/C Luke Golding was on the phone. He’d been with Major Crimes less than a month. Suttle barely knew the lad.

He stood over him, tapping his watch. Get off the phone. Like now.

‘Sarge?’ Golding looked startled.

‘There’s a meet we have to get to.’ Suttle was already heading for the door. ‘That’s me and you, son.’

In the car Suttle left the details vague. When Golding asked which bit of
Constantine
this linked to, Suttle said it was impossible to say. Call it a fishing expedition. Call it any fucking thing. Just do what I say, right?

Golding nodded. He was small and slight but Suttle had listened to a couple of the other guys on the squad and knew the boy could handle himself. In uniform, still a probationer, he’d evidently faced down a bunch of pissed marine recruits in an Exmouth pub. That very definitely took bottle. Good sign.

The traffic, mercifully, was light. Suttle was in the city centre by five to three. There was even a parking space outside the Central Station. He killed the engine and sat in silence for a moment. The Angel was directly across the road. He’d never been in the pub in his life but a big plate-glass window offered a view inside. It was dark, impossible to see further than the tables beside the window.

‘So what now, Sarge?’ Golding had to be back for a meet by four fifteen.

‘You watch my back, OK? I’ll be sitting at one of those tables you can see across the road there in the pub. There’ll be someone with me. If anything kicks off I want you to call for the cavalry. You happy with that?’

‘No sweat.’ He could see the lad warming to the task. Maybe he enjoyed physical violence. Maybe he was a stranger to the strokes the 6.57 could pull.

Suttle got out of the Impreza and crossed the road. The pub was near-empty, a couple of derelicts at the bar, a younger man with a copy of the
Independent
curled on the sofa beside the brick fireplace. None of them looked remotely Pompey. Suttle asked for a small shandy and took it to the table beside the window. He could see Golding across the road. He was studying his mobile.

Moments later the door opened. Two guys, one fat, one black. Suttle recognised neither of them. The fat guy muttered something Suttle didn’t catch to his mate and dispatched him to the bar before wedging himself into the chair across the table from Suttle. His tiny shaved skull seemed to wobble on the folds of fat at the back of his neck. Baggy jeans and a black leather jacket over a black woollen polo neck.

‘So who’s the kid in the Impreza?’

‘A mate of mine.’

‘He knows about this?’

‘He knows I’m meeting someone heavy.’

‘Too fucking right. Does he know why?’

‘No.’

‘Straight up?’

‘Yeah. There’d be no point telling him. Pompey’s a mystery to these people.’

‘You’re right, mush. Wrong fucking league, eh? Wrong fucking end of the country. What’s it like then? Life in the sticks?’

Suttle didn’t answer. He hadn’t any interest in conversation. He was simply here to deliver a message.

The black guy was back with the drinks. Two pints of Stella and a packet of cheese and onion. Suttle was looking at the fat guy.

‘You’ve got a name?’ he asked.

‘Of course I’ve got a fucking name.’

‘What is it?’

‘None of your business. If it helps you can call me Jonno.’

‘OK, Jonno, so why don’t you say your piece? What exactly do you want from me?’

‘You know what we want.’

‘All I know is you’ve been sniffing around my missus. Nice pix, by the way.’

Jonno had caught sight of the crisps. He was staring at the black guy.

‘I said salt and vinegar, didn’t I? Can’t you fucking read?’

‘They’ve run out.’

‘
Run out?
’ His eyes revolved. ‘Fucking carrot crunchers.’ He opened the packet and emptied the crisps across the table. ‘Help yourself, mush. Lunch on us, eh?’ He gave the crisps a poke. The back of his right hand carried an eagle tat. On his left, a name framed in an elaborate scroll. Even upside down Suttle had no difficulty deciphering it.