Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) Page 21

  ‘I just got back myself,’ she said. ‘Give me a hand?’

  Suttle helped her carry shopping and a couple of tins of paint into the kitchen. She’d been to Sainsbury and B&Q on the way home. Lots of stuff for the freezer and four bottles of Australian Chardonnay. Suttle gave her a bottle of red he’d picked up on the way over. The galley kitchen was spotless. A wine rack beside the fridge badly needed restocking and there was a National Trust calendar on the wall above a bowl of fruit. April featured a drift of purple crocuses at Lacock Abbey.

  ‘What are the green ticks?’ Suttle was still looking at the calendar.

  ‘I go running. The green ticks make me feel virtuous. Anything else you want to know about my social life?’

  Suttle looked harder. Not much seemed to have happened over the last fortnight.

  ‘You find the Job knackers you?’

  ‘Yeah. But for the wrong reasons.’

  She shot him a look but wouldn’t take the conversation further. She nodded at the vegetable basket beneath the work surface and asked him to sort out an onion and some garlic. Tomato paste in the fridge. Olive oil in the cupboard. She also fancied something to drink.

  Suttle was looking at the remaining bottles of wine. The red he’d bought had been on offer, a South African Merlot that Lizzie adored.

  ‘You’ve got a corkscrew?’

  ‘Silly question. Drawer on the left.’

  They sat down to eat half an hour or so later. The lounge diner extended the full depth of the house: magnolia walls, a big plasma TV and a line of stuffed animals carefully arranged on the Ikea sofa. This house, Suttle thought, might have belonged to Kinsey. No clutter. None of the chaos of normal life. No photos of family or friends. Just somewhere to crash after yet another day among the performance reviews.

  Suttle poured more wine and asked how long she’d been in Modbury.

  ‘Just over a year. John and I went our separate ways and this was all I could afford. We used to have a place in Tavistock. It was sweet.’

  ‘John?’

  ‘My husband. He was a D/C on the drugs squad. The best. The very best. And that’s not just my opinion.’

  She’d met him, she said, on the operation that had taken her to Pompey five years ago. He’d been driving the intel and she’d fancied him from the off. He was an older man, a grizzly bear of a guy, rock solid. The drugs operation had won her a commendation from the Chief, plus lots of media exposure, and she and John had got married within months.

  ‘That job was a real result,’ she said. ‘One of those moments when you think you’re immortal.’

  Suttle nodded, telling her he’d been through something similar himself back in Pompey. He explained about the u/c operation to pot Bazza Mackenzie and all the plaudits that had followed. This guy had dicked them around for years and it was sweet to have finally nailed him.

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘Yeah. It got heavy at the end and the ninjas had to take him out. Incredible evening. He ended up in a shop full of snakes he happened to own. He was about to do something evil to the key informant and we had no choice. Bam-bam. You’re right. After that you feel you can do anything.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards I came down here.’

  ‘Good move?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I do, yeah. But it’s not just about me, is it?’

  There was a silence. Then Hamilton asked him whether he wanted to talk about it. Suttle told her about finding the cottage, about moving the family down, about living with a woman who couldn’t wait to take her life in another direction.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because living in the country drives her nuts.’

  ‘You still love her?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Then sort it out.’

  ‘I can’t. I try and I can’t. It just doesn’t work.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’s become someone different, a different person. Because everything’s different. Have you ever had kids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They don’t help. We’ve got a daughter. She’s lovely. I adore her. But she doesn’t help.’

  ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘But it’s true, believe me. If there’s something wrong in a relationship, if something’s not working, a child makes everything worse.’

  Hamilton nodded and reached for the bottle. Her third glass. When she offered Suttle a refill, he shook his head. He wanted to know more about Hamilton’s marriage.

  ‘That didn’t work either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t let go of the Job. I’m good. I know I’m good. I’m ambitious too. It’s not going to end with D/I, not if I have anything to do with it, but these days that kind of pressure eats you up. You have to watch your back all the time. You have to make the right friends in the right places, walk the walk, talk the talk, make sure there’s nothing in your in-tray that’s going to come back and bite you in the arse. At the end of every day you’re wasted. And since you’ve asked, there’s another problem too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m two people. At work I’m Ms Efficient. Ms Gimme. Ms Sort It. But you know something? It’s all pretend. I do pretend brilliantly. Pretend decisive. Pretend organised. Pretend savvy. People look at me and think wow, that woman’s got it cracked. But you want to know the truth?’ She touched her chest. ‘In here it’s all mush. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. It’s horrible. Just horrible. Some days I think I’m going mad.’

  ‘And John? Your husband?’

  ‘He saw right through it. He understood. He tried to make me get a grip, do something about myself, take the Job less seriously, but I never could. He’d got the Job totally sussed. He knew exactly what he was good at and he knew exactly where to draw the line. I don’t do lines. Which is why the marriage turned to rat shit. John gave up in the end and I don’t blame him. You’re right. You become strangers to each other. And after that you’re dead in the water.’

  In the end, she said, John applied for a job in another force. She knew that it had been for her sake more than his and the gesture had touched her deeply.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Dorset. He works out of Bournemouth. They’re lucky to have him.’

  ‘You’re divorced?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you still talk?’

  ‘Yes. Occasionally.’

  ‘And that’s OK?’

  ‘It’s weird. It’s like we were never married in the first place. You know my theory? We’ve all got a default setting and no matter what you do it’ll always reset.’

  ‘So what’s yours?’

  ‘Don’t go there.’

  She went into the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine. Suttle was looking at the stuffed animals on the sofa. The biggest, the elephant, was pink.

  Hamilton had appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘You choose. I’m driving.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She lingered a moment, then disappeared again. Suttle heard the pop of the cork. When she came back, Suttle asked her about the running.

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That was another drama. There’s a bunch of local joggers here and I joined up. They go out a couple of nights a week, decent distances, nice enough people I thought at first, but then some of the guys turned out to be pretty gross. We’d go to the pub afterwards and they’d find out you were living alone and after that they just wanted to get into your knickers. It wasn’t anything personal. They were all happily married, or that’s what they’d tell you, but then they’d come on to me like it was some kind of favour. It was so blatant. They assumed I couldn’t wait to get fucked. Like I say. Totally gross.’

  In the end, she said, she’d abandoned the group outings and started running by herself. She had a handful of favourite
circuits and lately she’d been wondering about getting a dog for company when winter came and the nights drew in. Either way she felt the exercise was keeping her half sane but there were moments when she doubted even that.

  ‘It’s really hard to explain. Some nights when I go out I take me with me. Then other nights I’m running with a total stranger. Does that make sense? Is that normal?’

  Suttle laughed. Mercifully, he always excused himself serious exercise. He asked to use the loo. She directed him upstairs. Afterwards, drying his hands, Suttle could hear the clatter of plates in the kitchen. Her bedroom lay across the tiny landing at the top of the stairs. The door was open and he could see a pair of running shoes abandoned on the carpet. He stepped inside. The bed was turned down. A Tiffany-style lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light across the whiteness of the sheet. There were more stuffed animals on the duvet, partly covered by a powder-blue towelling gown. Over the bed, hanging on the wall, a framed poster of Amy Winehouse.

  Back downstairs, Suttle found himself looking at a plate of blueberries. His hunger had gone but he accepted a spoonful of cream.

  ‘You’re big on Amy Winehouse?’

  Hamilton was pouring herself another glass of wine. Nearly a bottle so far, thought Suttle.

  ‘You’ve been in my bedroom.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you. About this . . .’ He gestured around.

  She nodded, sipped the wine.

  ‘Are we talking intel here? Or something else?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You think your luck’s in? You fancy a quickie before you go?’

  Suttle didn’t answer. She was drunk now, something that probably happened night after night, and he sensed her neediness. He very definitely didn’t want to hurt her but he understood all too clearly where this might lead.

  He reached out and took her hand.

  ‘I’m glad I came,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I needed to talk.’

  ‘Great. Happy to oblige.’ She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded down at the number scrawled on the back of his hand. ‘That’s a Portsmouth code. You want to tell me more?’

  Suttle shook his head. He had to go. The meal had been great. Maybe they could meet again, his shout next time.

  She looked at him, saying nothing, then her eyes went to the bottle and she lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

  She accompanied him to the front door. He was reaching for the latch when he felt her hand on his arm

  ‘There’s something I meant to tell you,’ she said, ‘about Pendrick.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It turns out he kept half of the insurance settlement. That’s three hundred grand.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I checked on the charity’s website.’ She offered him a weary smile. ‘That’s what detectives do, isn’t it? You get that for free, by the way.’

  Suttle nodded, then opened the door. ‘I’ll be in touch, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  They both stepped out into the night air. Suttle held her for a moment. She was shivering in the cold. He kissed her briefly, thanked her again for the pasta and headed for the garden gate. The car door unlocked, he turned to wave goodbye but she’d gone.

  Suttle was pushing 90 mph on the outside lane of the A38 when, too late, he saw the police car tucked into a lay-by. The road was empty. He throttled back and hoped to God they hadn’t tracked him with the radar gun. The patrol car had already pulled out and was accelerating hard. Then came the flashing blue light and Suttle knew they were going to give him a tug.

  He was in the slow lane now, still decelerating, trying to play the good citizen. On his side of the carriageway he was the only vehicle for at least half a mile. He had to be the target. Had to be.

  The patrol car was beside him now, the pale face in the passenger seat checking him out. He signalled Suttle to pull over. The next lay-by was a couple of hundred metres ahead. At a steady 40 mph, Suttle was trying to work out exactly how many glasses of wine he’d had. Two? Three? Getting pulled for speeding was one thing. Failing the breathalyser would land him with a driving ban, a disciplinary charge and possible suspension. Without a licence, the Job and life in general would become a nightmare. Not good.

  The patrol car followed him into the lay-by. Both officers got out and approached the Impreza. The guy in the passenger seat squatted beside Suttle’s door. The wind had got up and rain pebbled on his hi-vis jacket.

  ‘Do you have your licence, sir? May I see it?’

  Suttle produced his licence. The patrol officer scanned it quickly and handed it back. He was in his mid-forties. He looked unforgiving.

  ‘Where have you come from, sir?’

  ‘Modbury.’

  ‘And you’re going to . . .?’

  ‘Home. Colaton Raleigh.’

  ‘Are you aware that you were exceeding the speed limit just now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The patrol officer nodded. He’d caught the sour taint of alcohol on Suttle’s breath. Then his eyes strayed to the dashboard where Suttle had left a pass for the MCIT car park at Middlemoor.

  ‘In the Job, are you, sir?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘CID?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you been drinking by any chance, sir?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, well . . .’ The beginnings of a smile ghosted across the big face. Uniforms liked nothing better than nailing pissed detectives.

  ‘Out of the car if you please, sir.’

  Suttle did what he was told. The officer read him the caution and warned him that he faced arrest if he failed a breathalyser test. The rain was heavier now and Suttle was soaking in seconds but he didn’t much care. One way or another, the next minute or so might decide the fate of his entire career.

  The officer had returned to the patrol car to fetch the breathalyser. Suttle waited in the rain, wondering whether he should – after all – have stayed at Gina Hamilton’s place. Then he put the thought out of his mind. What will be will be. Fuck it.

  The officer returned with the breathalyser. Suttle blew into the tube. The PC watched the figures on the readout climb and climb. His mate had joined him by now. Their backs were turned and Suttle caught a mumbled exchange before the officer was back in his face. The reading was just short of the figure that would haul him back to the nick for a blood test and a great deal of paperwork.

  ‘Who’s a lucky boy then?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. ‘Would you step this way, sir?’

  Suttle sat in the patrol car while the PC wrote up his details for the speeding offence. Ninety-two mph would probably earn him a three-point deduction and a biggish fine. The deduction was no problem, and though the fine was a pain in the arse it was nothing compared to what might have happened.

  Swamped with relief, Suttle closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the restraint. When the officer asked him whether he had anything to say with regard to his excess speed, he said he wanted to get home. The officer turned and shot him a look.

  ‘Little woman waiting up is she, sir?’

  Suttle held his gaze and then shut his eyes again.

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said.

  He was wrong. Lizzie was downstairs nursing a glass of red wine. Dexter was curled on her lap, ignoring the remains of a fish pie beside the chair.

  She looked up as Suttle came in from the kitchen. His hair was plastered against the whiteness of his skull and the rain had darkened his suit.

  Lizzie studied him a moment. The cat didn’t stir.

  ‘Should I ask where you’ve been?’ she said.

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  Suttle told her about his drive out to Modbury. A D/I calle
d Gina Hamilton lived there.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Bit of both.’

  ‘Nice evening?’

  ‘Not bad. I got stopped on the way back.’

  He told her about the traffic car and the breathalyser.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I passed.’

  ‘Not too pissed then? To come home?’

  Suttle knew exactly what lay behind the remarks and ignored them. Lizzie, in the parlance, was after the full account. What was this woman like? How come they’d met at her house? Why hadn’t he phoned her earlier? What was so important it couldn’t be done in office hours?

  Suttle fetched a towel from upstairs. He’d never lied to Lizzie, and now wasn’t the time to start. He dried his hair as best he could and hung his jacket over the back of the kitchen door.

  ‘What do you fancy tomorrow?’ he said. ‘I thought we might go into Exeter. There’s a festival thing on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Lizzie explained about a call she’d taken from one of the girls at the rowing club. After the wreath tribute on Sunday the crews were returning to the compound for a naming ceremony. The newest boat was to be called the Jake Kinsey after the guy who’d so generously signed the cheque. With luck, the media might use it as a photo opportunity.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Suttle pointed out.

  ‘I know. We have to sort the compound out. Make it look half decent. A bunch of us are meeting at ten. I couldn’t say no.’

  ‘And that takes all day?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Judging by the state of the place, it might well do.’

  Suttle studied her for a moment, loosening his tie.

  ‘And Sunday?’

  ‘We’ve got the tribute thing. I have to go, Jimmy. There’s no way I can’t.’

  ‘OK.’ Suttle shrugged. ‘Whatever . . .’

  He turned away, trying to mask his anger, but she knew him too well to be fooled.

  ‘It was your idea, Jimmy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The rowing club.’

  ‘You’re right. So it’s me and Grace then. All weekend.’