Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) (39 page)

Suttle looked up. Moments like this, a sudden breakthrough that transformed suspicion into incontestable fact, were all too rare in complex investigations.

‘Donovan’s still got the card, boss. We were right.’

Nandy wanted to know how he could be so certain.

‘Because she was in Yeovil on Sunday. It was her mum’s birthday. Symons told me. It’s in the notes.’

Suttle returned to the list. There were four more withdrawals: two of them local, one of them in Plymouth, the other in Bude.

Houghton wanted the list back. She scanned it quickly, then looked up. Excitement showed in her eyes. They glittered behind the rimless glasses. Suttle loved her in these moods.

‘Symons’ father runs an antiques business in Topsham. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘I sent a couple of guys round after lunch. That Transit Symons uses for pick-ups from auctions? He was down in Plymouth on the 15th. Up in Bude the next day. Bingo. Perfect match.’

‘Do these ATMs have cameras?’

‘That’s what Mr Nandy asked. We’re still checking. Most do, some don’t.’

Suttle was doing the sums. Since Kinsey’s death Donovan and Symons appeared to have helped themselves to £1200.

Suttle looked up, grinning. ‘It’s a stone-bonker, boss.’

‘A stone what?’

‘Stone-bonker. Pompey phrase. It means we’ve cracked it.’

Houghton was scribbling herself a note. One of Nandy’s mobiles was ringing again. He spared it a glance then turned it off.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘So we can probably prove theft. What about the rest of it?’

‘You mean Kinsey?’

‘Yes.’

Suttle nodded. Fair question.

‘The way I see it, sir, is this. The guys win their race. They all come back to Exmouth and get hammered. Kinsey retires to bed and they all leave. Donovan and Symons are driving back alone. They stop at an ATM in Exmouth. There may be CCTV as well as an internal camera. We also need to check whether they got a receipt.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then they’d know how much was in the account. A hundred and seven grand? That sounds like motive to me.’ Suttle paused. ‘We should also be talking about Milo Symons. Donovan says he knew all about her and Kinsey occasionally shagging and didn’t much care about it, but I’ve talked to the lad and I don’t think that’s true. I think he cared a lot. I think it upset him. Maybe other people in the crew knew about it too. And that would have upset him more. Either way, you’re now looking at two reasons why he might want Kinsey out of his life. Number one, Tash. Number two, the money. This is a guy with big ambitions. He wants to make a movie. Movies are expensive. A hundred and seven K? Perfect.’

‘So they drive back to the apartment?’

‘Yeah. Tash has a key.’

‘How come?’

‘Kinsey gave it to her. Part of his fantasy, as far as I can gather. The walk-in shag.’

‘And then what?’

‘I’ve no idea. There are two of them. They’re both rowers, both fit. Kinsey’s probably still pissed. He’s not a big guy. Between them, they could bundle him out of the bedroom and chuck him off the balcony. Piece of piss.’

There was a silence. Even Nandy appeared to be impressed. He was about to say something but Suttle hadn’t finished.

‘One other thing. Apparently Kinsey had a laptop. Symons mentioned it in his account. It doesn’t appear on the Scenes of Crime log.’

‘Meaning?’

‘It got nicked. And that has to be down to Donovan and Symons. It’s easy to carry. It’s got value. You could wipe the hard disk and sell it on. We’re dealing with thieves, remember.’

‘As well as killers?’

‘Yeah.’ Suttle nodded. ‘The way I see it, definitely.’

Carole Houghton called a
Constantine
squad meet for six o’clock. She spent ten minutes behind a closed door with Nandy to agree a strategy for the next twenty-four hours before the Det-Supt left once again for Bodmin. He met Suttle on the stairs. By the weekend, he muttered, he was in some danger of closing not just one job but two. He paused for a moment, looking Suttle in the eye. Then he offered a rare smile and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

‘Good work, son.’

The
Constantine
squad now numbered three D/Cs plus Suttle and Houghton. In the light of the latest developments, Nandy had decided to keep the investigation paper-based and not bother with a transfer to the HOLMES suite. There’d be plenty of time to reorganise the file ahead of formal submission to the Crown Prosecution Service. Assuming, of course, that
Constantine
drew a cough from Donovan and Symons.

Houghton wanted thoughts on this issue. The more they could put on the table in the interview suite, the likelier they were to score a confession. So where should they look next?

Among the D/Cs there was a consensus for an early-doors arrest tomorrow morning. Bosh the mobile home and both vehicles. Nail the debit card and any ATM receipts they might have kept. Have a good look for the laptop. Keep Donovan and Symons apart – separate police stations, separate interviewing teams – and sweat their accounts until one or both of them broke.

Suttle wasn’t so sure. Delay the arrest twenty-four hours, and he’d have a chance to talk to Eamonn Lenahan again.

‘Why would you need to do that?’ This from Houghton.

‘Because he’s the brightest guy in the boat. He listens. He watches. If anyone knew about Donovan and Kinsey it would have to be him.’

‘How about tonight?’

‘That’s possible. I’d have to ring him.’

‘How about Lizzie?’

‘She’ll be cool about it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’

There was a brief silence. A couple of the D/Cs exchanged glances. Then Houghton nodded at the door.

‘You want to bell him now? Then we can frame up the arrest strategy and sort the interviewing teams.’

Suttle made the call from his office. Lenahan, it turned out, had just come back from another shift at A & E. He was eyeballing the beginnings of a stir-fry and had plenty for two.

Suttle smiled. He wanted a chat, not a meal. Lenahan wouldn’t budge.

‘This is non-negotiable, my friend. Either we break bread together or you might find I’m busy. Give me half an hour. And bring something to drink.’

The line went dead. Suttle put his head round Houghton’s door and promised to bell her later. Only when he was in the Impreza, wondering about an off-licence, did he remember to give Lizzie a call.

She was on the point of preparing supper. Suttle told her not to bother. Something had come up.

‘Something that involves a meal?’

‘Yes.’

‘And a lonely policewoman?’

‘Do me a favour.’

He was relieved to hear her laughing. He said he’d be back later, no real idea when but it shouldn’t be late.

‘No problem.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. Another wild night in with my knitting? Bring it on.’

Suttle arrived in Lympstone with time to spare. He parked beside the railway halt and walked down to the Londis in the village centre. He’d already decided to end the day with a modest celebration and bought two bottles of Côtes-du-Rhône, one for Lenahan and one for afterwards once he’d got home.

Lenahan was alone once again in the tiny cottage. His lodger, he said, was doing Christian things at some night shelter in Exeter and wouldn’t be back until God knows when. The kitchen formed part of the living space downstairs and Suttle caught the rich tang of ginger the moment he stepped in. When Lenahan broached the wine and offered him a glass, Suttle shook his head.

‘You’ve got tea?’

‘Has to be green, I’m afraid. Goes with the meal.’

‘Whatever.’

Lenahan returned to his wok.

‘We nearly had another body on Sunday. Did you hear about that? A fancy little tribute to our dead leader and this slip of a girl goes overboard. Another minute or so and we’d all be talking to the Coroner. Jesus, am I glad I listened when they taught us all those resus drills.’

Suttle expressed polite interest. One day, when
Constantine
was history, he’d come back and buy this man a serious drink. For the time being, he wanted to find out more about Donovan.

‘Tash?’ Lenahan was giving his rice a poke. ‘That girl’s a force of nature. Truly. I mean it. Astral Tash. Forty-plus years old and still at it.’

‘At what?’

‘Everything. With pretty much anyone. You know the story with Tash? Pendrick tells it best. It’s Christmas Day. Pendrick’s having a quiet one because he’s that kind of guy and there comes a knock at the door and he looks out of the window like you do and there’s Santa Claus outside, red coat, hat with a bobble on, funny beard. He thinks it’s a piss-take to begin with but Santa’s not going away so in the end he does the seasonal thing and opens the door. It’s not Santa at all. It’s Tash. She’s spent half the day with Angel Dust and she’s bored to death, and when she opens that red coat of hers it’s pretty plain what kind of present she’s got in mind.’

‘Angel Dust?’

‘Young Milo. That’s what she calls him when the drink takes her.’

‘She’s drunk? Christmas night? On the doorstep?’

‘Pissed as a rat. Pendrick gets her in, sits her down, gets her a mince pie or whatever treat he’s giving himself, but she’s not having it. Are we getting the picture here? Pendrick’s under the cosh. And what’s worse, he can’t get rid of her. Took him hours to hose her down. And even then she was still giving him lists of what turned her on.’

‘He was complaining? Pendrick?’

‘Big time. He thought it was gross, and I think I would too. You could arrest a woman like that for something. Rape’s too polite a word.’

‘So she went? In the end.’ Suttle was trying to picture the scene.

‘Yeah. He managed to find a taxi. He stuffed her in the back with a note for Angel Dust. Return to Sender. Happy fucking Christmas.’ Lenahan threw garlic and ginger in the wok and gave it a stir. ‘So there you go. Astral Tash and Angel Dust. What else do you guys want to know?’

They sat down to eat minutes later. Out of deference to Lenahan’s cooking skills, Suttle had changed the subject. The stir fry – prawns with Chinese lettuce – was excellent. His eye, once again, was taken by the scatter of photos on the wall. Some village in sub-Saharan Africa, every shot ablaze with the overwhelming brightness of the sunshine.

Lenahan caught his interest. Winter by the river in Lympstone had been arctic, he said. On Christmas Day, while Pendrick had been fighting Tash off, he’d been trying to get the ice off his crappy old Mondeo in case the call came from the hospital.

‘You miss Africa?’

‘Yeah, I do. Mid-morning you’re talking forty in the shade. By lunchtime it’s fifty. You type with tissue under your wrists to protect the circuits in the laptop from your own sweat. Wherever you go, you end up walking in zigzags just to stay in the shade. It takes for ever to get anywhere.’

‘You speak the language?’

‘No. A couple of words maybe, the odd phrase, but no. And that’s a huge barrier. You know why? Because in my trade the backstory is 90 per cent of the diagnosis. A guy turns up at your door and he looks half dead. He probably
is
half dead. But if you don’t know what’s been going on in this guy’s head, if you don’t know what he’s been up to, the pair of you are probably stuffed.’

Suttle nodded. He said it was exactly the same in his line of work.

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I thought it was all forensics these days? DNA? CCTV? Some other fucking acronym? You’re telling me you have to
listen
to people?’

‘Exactly. And it’s often what they don’t say that really matters.’

‘Right. Good. Excellent.’ Lenahan took a long swallow of wine. ‘So try me. Any question. Whatever you like.’

‘OK. Let’s go back to Tash.’

‘Anything, my friend. Your call.’

‘Was she shagging Kinsey?’

‘Of course she was.’

‘And did anyone else know? Apart from you?’

‘We all did. She made no secret of it. And neither did Kinsey.’

‘So what did that do for Symons?’

‘Not a lot, the way I read the boy. She’s older than him, of course. Maybe that’s why he hated the word motherfucker.’

‘Who called him that?’

‘Kinsey. When he wanted to wind the poor eejit up.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Never. Kinsey never got his head around conversation, simple stuff like talking to people and not giving them a thousand reasons to punch your lights out. It didn’t stop with Tash, either. He was a walking boast, that man. We all knew he was rich because he kept telling us, and we all knew you could buy girlies for a price if Tash wasn’t enough, but it took Kinsey to treat us to the full à la carte. He was partial to Thai girls. He’d go on about them like it was some kind of meal he’d just had. What they did for him. How he liked them best. Garlic and ginger and a sprinkle or two of soy sauce. Are you getting the picture?’