Graham Hurley - Western Approaches

There was a long silence. Gulls again, more distant this time, and a stir of wind in the street outside. Suttle, for once in his life, was lost for words. He wasn’t sure if any of this stuff served any evidential purpose but it was hard not to be touched.

‘You’re going back? To Sudan?’

‘Sure. And to Uganda and to Somalia and to all the other fucked-over places.’

‘So what does it do to you? Long term?’

‘I dunno. I guess that’s a treat to come.’

‘Are you worried?’

‘Sure.’

‘Do you think it damages you?’

‘I hope so.’

‘ Hope so? ’

‘Sure. Because it’s real. Because this is what’s waiting for us all, some place down the road.’ He stirred again in the chair, his hand reaching for a packet of Gitanes on the floor. Suttle shook his head at the offered cigarette, watched Lenahan light up and suck the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘Look at it this way,’ he said finally. ‘You go to some fancy dinner party. It happens a lot around here. You’re heading for the cheese course and everyone’s still talking about house prices or private schools or which four-by-four is best for towing jet skis or the horse fucking box, and then comes a bit of a lull, because there’s always a bit of a lull, and you sense it’s your turn. But what the fuck can you offer by way of conversation? Have any of these people got a clue about Sudan? About cholera, malnutrition, pneumonia, kidney infections, measles, meningitis, gunshot wounds, snakebite, sepsis after female fucking circumcision? Has any one of them ever heard an infant’s heart stop? No fucking chance.’

‘So who do you talk to? Who understands?’

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then it has to be Pendrick. This is a guy who lives in a dark part of the forest. He lives in the shadows. He lives in his head. But he’s good, bloody good, and he’s done a bit too, one way or another. Jesus, has he. .’ He tailed off, took another drag, expelled a thin line of blue smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘If you want the truth, we talk about it a lot. Once you’ve been out there, I tell him, once you’ve seen it, lived it, been part of it, been swamped by it, you’re ruined. There’s a gap between you and the rest of the world. Nothing’s real. And nothing matters. You knock at my door and tell me Kinsey’s dead and you know what? I couldn’t care a fuck.’

‘You think he killed himself?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You think he fell by accident?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What else might have happened then?’

Lenahan’s eyes drifted to the copy of the Guardian , then he was looking at Suttle again. He was smiling.

‘You tell me.’

Suttle was with Houghton by half past twelve. One of the other desks was occupied by a young D/C trying to raise someone in the marina. Suttle pulled a chair towards Houghton. Boiling down Lenahan’s account to the kind of brisk summary the D/I favoured was beyond him so he stuck to the essentials.

‘The guys all left in a taxi around midnight,’ he said. ‘We need to check out the booking and statement the driver, but I’ve talked to the girl Lenahan shares with and she confirms he got back around that time. There’s no way he could have got up and gone out later because the girl’s best mate was kipping on the sofa downstairs and the front door opens straight out into the street.’

‘Not Lenahan, then.’

‘Not if we’re talking murder.’

‘And what’s your view on that?’

‘I haven’t got one. Not yet.’

‘And this guy Lenahan?’

‘He says he’s agnostic.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He thinks the jury’s out. He says Kinsey was too self-interested to end it all, and too sensible to put himself in harm’s way.’

‘Kinsey was pissed,’ Houghton pointed out.

‘Sure. But he’d thrown most of it up. I’m not saying he was sober. Just that he’d probably have stayed in bed.’

Houghton nodded, said nothing. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the adjacent desk. The young D/C’s name was Golding. He’d just spent half an hour in Exeter with Andy Poole.

‘So how was he?’ Suttle adjusted his chair.

‘Same story, Sarge. They won the race. They had a bevvy or two. Kinsey got rat-arsed. The girl sorted a taxi. End of.’

‘But how did he take it?’

‘Take what?’

‘Kinsey dying.’

‘He was gobsmacked. He couldn’t believe it. Neither could his missus.’

‘She’s alibied him?’

‘Yeah. She was still up when he got back, watching some DVD or other. They talked a bit about the race then they went to bed.’

‘She knew Kinsey?’

‘Not especially well but I think they’d all socialised a bit. Poole couldn’t get his head around it. At one point he was wondering whether he ought to have stayed in the apartment last night, kept an eye on the guy, stopped him doing anything silly.’

‘As if.’

‘Exactly. That’s what his missus said. Sanest man I ever met. Direct quote.’

‘Because he was the go-to guy?’

‘Because he was rich. Because he had it all. Because he’d just won his first race. Because he had everything to look forward to.’

‘And Poole?’

‘Agreed. In spades. Apparently he’d helped Kinsey map out a whole load of these regatta things, pretty much every weekend over the whole summer. Money was obviously no problem. They were going everywhere. The big deal was to get into the South Coast Championships. On yesterday’s evidence, Poole thought that might be possible.’

‘Even with The Passenger aboard?’

‘The who?’

Suttle explained about Kinsey’s nickname around the club. The D/C consulted his notes.

‘Yeah. Poole had just found another old mate who’d really strengthen the crew but Kinsey was obviously there for the duration.’

‘So who was going to get dumped?’

The D/C went back to his notes again. ‘A guy called Symons. Apparently he’s really good for a novice, but Poole knows this other bloke will row the arse off him.’ He looked up. ‘Milo Symons? Name ring any bells?’

Lizzie was back at Chantry Cottage in time to give Grace her lunch. The prospect of Gill’s visit had begun to weigh heavily on her and she was wondering whether she might dream up an excuse and put her off. They’d been mates for years, fellow journos on the Pompey News , and they’d ended up forging a friendship that owed more to Gill’s pushiness than anything else. This was a woman who always needed a best friend, a mother confessor, someone she could rely on to share a drink or two and an account of her latest conquest.

Last in a longish line of failed relationships had been with a Major Crimes D/I called Joe Faraday, much respected by Jimmy, who’d brought his life to an end with three packs of painkillers and a bottle of decent red. Gill had regarded Faraday’s suicide as a personal tragedy, hers rather than anyone else’s, although her claim to a special place in her new beau’s life had never stood up to serious scrutiny. Jimmy had discovered that his boss had shagged her just twice before locking his door and taking the phone off the hook.

The real problem, in Lizzie’s view, was simple. Gill Reynolds had never mastered the knack of letting a relationship develop at its own pace. She had a bad habit of crowding her man from the off and never understood why thigh-length boots and a dab or two of Chanel wouldn’t guarantee the love affair of her dreams. In this respect Lizzie suspected that nothing would have changed and wasn’t at all sure whether she could cope with a couple of days of heavy-duty angst. Gill never arrived at any meeting without an agenda. Taking an interest in anyone else’s life was beyond her.