Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) Page 31

  ‘My client needs to be clear about the precise allegation you’re trying to make,’ he said.

  ‘Our allegation is this, Milo. That you were drunk on that Saturday night. This we know from your own account. That you had and have a passionate relationship with your partner, Tash. This too we know. That something probably happened that Saturday night, some remark, something inappropriate between Tash and Kinsey that later sparked a row between you both. Are you with me?’

  Symons nodded. He looked transfixed. She might have been telling him a story, Suttle thought, about someone else.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘That you went back to the apartment that night, back to Exmouth Quays, either with Tash or without. That you got into the flat with Tash’s key. And that you killed Kinsey.’

  ‘Killed him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? How?’

  ‘Why, I think we’ve dealt with. How has, at this point, to be supposition. In the end he fell from his own balcony. Perhaps you’d like to tell us exactly what happened before that moment?’

  Symons began to shake his head. Disbelief had given way to something else. Fear.

  ‘You really think I killed him? Kinsey? Jake? You think I did that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Why would I have done it?’

  ‘I think we’ve covered that. You were jealous. And you knew he had money.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because you’d seen the slip from the ATM. One hundred and seven thousand pounds, Milo. Think about it.’

  ‘So I killed him? You really believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  From this point on, the interview went nowhere. The two D/Cs came at Symons from every point of the compass. They pointed out how heavily all the circumstantial evidence weighed against him. They thought it entirely reasonable that he would want to remove the threat of Kinsey from his private life. They agreed that one hundred thousand pounds would ease a lot of problems about funding Symons’ precious film. Rosie Tremayne even hinted that the idea might have been Tash Donovan’s in the first place, in which case Symons would earn himself a much lighter sentence by testifying against her.

  The latter suggestion sparked another outburst from Symons. Tash had never said anything of the sort. And even if she had, there was no way he’d grass her up. To think otherwise was totally vile. This whole thing, he kept saying, is sick. He’d never hit anyone in his life, let alone killed anyone. After stopping at the ATM in Exmouth, he and Tash had gone home. Theft? Yeah. Murder? No way.

  Mid-afternoon, Houghton called a meet in a borrowed office at Torbay. Donovan and Symons had been escorted back to their respective cells to ready themselves for the next round of questioning. In the meantime Houghton had to assess where Constantine might go next.

  Suttle had driven over from Exeter with Rosie Tremayne. He was still convinced there was a way to go with Symons.

  ‘We haven’t bottomed him out yet,’ he said. ‘The guy’s more of a firework than I thought. Press the right buttons and we might still be in business.’

  Houghton wanted Tremayne’s opinion. She said she was doing her best but deep down thought Symons was telling the truth.

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘He gave us everything on the ATMs. He coughed the lot. Frankly, I think murder’s a bit out of his league. He wouldn’t have the bottle for starters. Plus he comes over as quite a gentle guy.’

  ‘He was pissed,’ Suttle said. ‘And that can change everything.’

  Houghton turned to Frank Miller. She wanted the TIA’s take on Tash Donovan. How had she reacted to the suggestion that she’d been complicit in Kinsey’s death?

  ‘She laughed. I think she was genuinely amused. This is a woman who plays a thousand roles before breakfast. I think the killer thing quite appealed to her.’

  ‘But she denied it?’

  ‘Big time. She said Symons was too pissed to manage a shag that Saturday night, let alone kill anyone. She also said that vegetarians try and avoid that kind of thing.’

  ‘She’s a veggie?’

  ‘So she says.’

  ‘And that’s some kind of defence?’

  ‘Definitely. She says veggies never kill people.’

  ‘What about Hitler?’

  ‘Good point, boss. Maybe we can bring that up in the next session.’

  Houghton didn’t share the ripple of laughter that went round the room. She and Nandy would be conferencing on the phone any time now. She had to know where this thing was headed next.

  It was Suttle who broke the silence.

  ‘We keep on at them both. That’s the only option we’ve got.’

  ‘We’ve nothing new to throw at them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So without a confession . . .?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘We’re fucked.’

  The next session began at half past four and lasted into the early evening. This time Suttle was monitoring the Donovan interview. Sitting beside Miller, watching the video feed, he knew the TIA had called it exactly right. Donovan was putting on the performance of her life. Not because she was trying to hide something but because she at last had an audience. She said she felt sorry for Kinsey. That last second and a half of his life, she said, would have been seriously crap. Exmouth Quays in the rain was a shit place to die. She hadn’t the first idea why he’d done it, and if she’d ever suspected him of suicidal tendencies she might have put a lot more effort into keeping him happy.

  The latter phrase appeared to offer at least the hint of an opening. Had this relationship of theirs been more substantial than she’d ever admitted? Might he have ended his life because she wouldn’t commit to more than visiting rights? To both questions she answered with a flat no. Kinsey, she said, was an impossible man to get close to. No wonder his wife had done a runner.

  In his heart Suttle knew she was right. At ten past seven he took a call from the TIA at Heavitree. After consultations with his lawyer, Symons had decided to go No Comment.

  Within half an hour both interviews had been terminated. Det-Supt Nandy was waiting with Houghton in her office at Middlemoor. She’d obviously briefed him already. The atmosphere was grim.

  ‘The PACE clock stops at five tomorrow morning,’ he pointed out. ‘The briefs will kick up if we insist on another session tonight, and to be frank I can’t see what we’d achieve. We could try for an extension and start again tomorrow morning but D/I Houghton’s right. We’ve got nothing left to fire at him. We’re out of bullets. There’s nothing left.’ He paused. ‘Jimmy?’

  Suttle knew the question was coming. This was his party, his idea. He’d led them up this cul-de-sac. How did he propose to get them out?

  ‘Are we talking fresh lines of enquiry?’ Suttle asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There aren’t any, sir. Not immediately. Not that I can see.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest we charge them anyway. And leave it to the jury.’

  ‘You mean the CPS.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Charge them with what?’

  ‘Theft, obviously. Plus murder.’

  There was a silence. Bold move. Two of the D/Cs exchanged glances. Rosie Tremayne was looking at her hands.

  ‘But we have no evidence, Jimmy. All we have is supposition, which, if my memory serves me correctly, is where we began.’

  ‘I still think he was killed.’

  ‘By them? By these two?’

  ‘Everything points that way. Motive. Opportunity. You said it yourself, sir. Other people are a mystery. No one really knows. What you see isn’t necessarily what you get.’

  ‘That’s true. Do you think the CPS feel the same way? We need evidence, Jimmy. And we haven’t got it. This is very nice, very tidy. But it doesn’t prove they did it.’

  ‘No, sir. It doesn’t.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I don’t know,
sir. It’s your call not mine.’

  He nodded. Suttle thought he caught a hint of disappointment in his face. Maybe I’ve given up too easily, he thought. Maybe Nandy was expecting more of a fight. Fat chance.

  ‘Carole?’ Nandy had turned to D/I Houghton.

  ‘I suggest we go for an extension, sir. A night in the cells sometimes does the trick.’

  ‘And what are we proposing in the way of fresh evidence? Mr Cattermole will need to know.’

  Cattermole was the duty uniformed Superintendent. Without active ongoing inquiries, he wouldn’t sanction a custody extension.

  Suttle stirred. He was looking at Houghton.

  ‘There’s still one call I need to make,’ he said.

  ‘On who?’

  ‘Pendrick.’

  It was gone nine when Suttle made it down to Exmouth. The light was on in Pendrick’s flat, and Suttle’s finger on the bell brought him to the door. His lower face was still swollen from last night and when he led the way upstairs he seemed to have difficulty walking.

  ‘Is this personal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you want then?’

  ‘I need to talk about Kinsey. We made a couple of arrests last night, Tash and Milo Symons. We’ll be charging them tomorrow.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Theft and murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ The word drew the faintest smile. ‘You think they killed Kinsey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can prove it?’

  ‘We can get a result in court.’

  ‘How does that work?’

  Suttle walked him through the evidence: a hundred grand’s worth of motivation and the key to Kinsey’s door.

  ‘But why? Why would they do it?’

  ‘You know why they’d do it. Symons was jealous as fuck and they both wanted the money. A couple of minutes in the apartment? The two of them? No CCTV? Middle of the night? Job done.’

  Pendrick was brooding. Suttle wanted him to say something. Anything.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Kinsey was an arsehole. He deserved it.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means he’s better dead. It means there’s one less of his breed to fuck things up.’

  ‘So we owe Tash and Milo a thank you? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Are you surprised they did what they did?’

  ‘I’m glad he’s gone.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question. I asked you whether you were surprised or not.’

  Pendrick’s head came up. He held Suttle’s gaze.

  ‘Nothing surprises me any more,’ he said.

  Suttle was in Colaton Raleigh by half ten. He stopped for a beer at the pub up the road, brooding on the day’s developments. He’d rarely felt so knackered. The last couple of weeks seemed to have emptied him of everything. He toyed with the pint for a while, then took a couple of mouthfuls and left it on the counter.

  At the cottage the lights were off downstairs. He found a note from Lizzie on the kitchen table telling him there was food in the oven but he didn’t even bother to look. Upstairs, he checked on Grace then went into their bedroom. Lizzie appeared to be asleep, her face turned towards the wall. Suttle got undressed in the bathroom, hanging his suit on the door ready for tomorrow morning. He sponged his face, brushed his teeth and spent a long minute eyeballing the image in the mirror. When he returned to the bedroom, Lizzie hadn’t moved. He slipped into bed and turned his back on her. Enough, he thought.

  Twelve

  THURSDAY, 21 APRIL 2011

  Lizzie waited until she heard the burble of the departing Impreza before she got up next morning. Suttle must have fed Grace first thing because when she went next door she found tiny gobbets of porridge on her daughter’s nightgown. She took Grace back to bed, knowing she had to get them both out of the house for a bit. The thin curtains had never met properly in the middle and the broad blue stripe told her it was a lovely morning.

  ‘The seaside, eh?’ She gave Grace a hug.

  They took a bus from the stop outside the village store. By half past nine they were in Exmouth. It was a five-minute walk to the seafront. The tide was out and the offshore sandbank was busy with gulls and oystercatchers. Heading east, Lizzie could feel a real warmth in the sun. Imperceptibly, her spirits began to rise.

  Curiosity took her to the rowing club. To her surprise the gates were open, the door to the Portakabin unlocked. She parked the buggy at the foot of the steps and lifted Grace out. She wanted to sit her on one of the rowing machines, slide her up and down, pretend they were at the funfair. She mounted the steps and pushed at the half-open door.

  After the blaze of spring sunshine, she stepped into the chill of the semi-darkness inside. She could hear someone on one of the rowing machines at the very back of the clubhouse, a steady rhythm, pull after pull, but it was seconds before she could make out a shape in the gloom. A face turned briefly towards her. The rate quickened, then fell back again.

  Pendrick.

  She knew she should leave. Then she changed her mind. Picking her way over the machines, she carried Grace towards him. He was still rowing, still pushing himself up and down the slide. She stopped beside the readout. Nearly twenty kilometres.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since seven. More than three hours.’

  ‘Christ.’

  He was still moving, his rhythm undisturbed. He didn’t look up at her. Finally, she turned to go.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I have to tell you something.’

  ‘Please, no.’

  ‘It’s not that. I promise.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s about this Kinsey thing. They’ve arrested Tash and Milo.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Theft . . .’ the sweat glistened on his swollen face ‘. . . and murder.’

  ‘They killed Kinsey?’ Lizzie was staring at him.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I did.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yeah. I killed the man. It was me who did it.’

  She took a tiny step backwards. Mad, she thought. Insane.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘You’re making this up. It’s a story. You’re trying to impress me. You’re trying to get us back to wherever you want us to be. I don’t want to know. There’s no point. It’s over.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Then enough’s enough. You needn’t say any more.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I have to tell someone. You walked in. You’re here. All you have to do is listen.’ At last he looked up at her. ‘Will you do that?’

  Kinsey, he said, had been getting under his skin for more than a year. The boasts. The money. The big fuck-off apartment. The way he went out and bought himself a crew. Everything. Then came the discovery that he was going to build at Trezillion. And not just Trezillion but other sites up and down the coast. These sites were almost holy. The man was into serious desecration. The man wanted to leave his scent, his smell, everywhere. Why? To make more money. He’d had a conversation about it, warned the man.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him to drop it. I told him to go and build somewhere else.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He just laughed. He told me I didn’t know what I was talking about. He said the world had moved on. He told me that Cornwall needed people like him. He said it was time I got real.’

  After that, he said, they barely talked at all. Whenever they were together, Kinsey made sure there were other people around – other guys, people like Andy Poole, people he could rely on. Pendrick looked up at her. He knew Kinsey was frightened of him because he could see it in his face.

  ‘And did that make you feel good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did he do what you wanted?’

  ‘Of course not. You know that. You’ve seen those vile brochures he had done.’

  Lizzie nodded. Pendri
ck was still rowing, still pulling hard on the machine: 20,762 metres.

  ‘Is that enough to kill someone? A brochure?’

  ‘Of course not. It was the girls as well. The Thai girls. He got them from an agency in Exeter. He’d boast about that too, in the boat. He’d tell us what they did for him, what he liked most. He had a special girl. He called her Blossom. Apparently she didn’t speak a word of English and he liked that because he didn’t have to talk to her. What that guy did was unforgivable.’

  ‘To the girls?’

  ‘To everyone. He screwed everyone. He couldn’t stop himself. Guys like that don’t deserve a life.’

  On the Saturday night, he said, they’d all gone back to Kinsey’s apartment. At first Pendrick hadn’t wanted to be any part of the celebration but Lenahan had talked him into it. Bring a bit of class to the gathering. Give the wee man a shock. And so they’d all walked across to Exmouth Quays and piled into the lift and carried on drinking.

  ‘It was me who first realised how pissed Kinsey was. He’d been drinking like a schoolgirl all night, knocking back the champagne – Christ knows how much he must have drunk. Then Tash arrived with the takeaway and he was shovelling that in too. There was no way he wasn’t going to be ill. You could see it coming.’

  When he started throwing up over the balcony no one else noticed. Pendrick went out there and got him to bed.

  ‘Why? Why did you do that?’

  ‘Because I’d made a decision.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About him, about Kinsey. I’d had enough. I was going to do it.’

  ‘Kill him?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know how but that’s what I was going to do.’

  ‘Why?’

  Pendrick’s rhythm began to slow and for a moment Lizzie thought he was going to stop, but then he picked up again, ducking his head to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

  ‘He had this laptop. He said it was in his bedroom. And before he started throwing up he’d promised us all a bit of a show. He called it his PowerPoint. I think he meant it as a joke.’

  ‘You took a look at the laptop?’