Graham Hurley: Western Approaches

Suttle looked up again, trying to work out whether anyone might have witnessed what had happened. The balcony overlooked the entrance to the dock. According to the CSI, this was where fishing boats and water taxis and the ferry that crossed the river tied up. There was a line of working units on the dockside, rented by fishermen, with a terrace of 1960s-looking flats beyond. To the left, looking out over the basin of the marina, another row of properties had line of sight on Kinsey’s balcony. Suttle made a mental note, fixing the view in his head. He estimated at least thirty front doors. More priority calls for the house-to-house teams.

He took a last look round. Kinsey’s watch had stopped at 03.04. At that time of the morning, of course, it would have been dark. He needed to check the harbourside illumination and whether the throw of light would reach up as far as Apartment 37. He sensed that a lot of these properties would belong to retired couples, wealthy enough to buy a share of a view like this. People that age often had trouble sleeping. Someone might have seen something, a flicker of movement, something unexplained. Worth a try.

He stepped back inside, wiping the rain from his face. They already knew that the front door had been closed on the latch but not bolted inside. Now he wanted to know about the interior lights.

The CSI shook his head. ‘Everything off.’

‘Including the bedroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘So the guy gets up in the dark, comes through here, opens the exterior sliding door, finds himself on the balcony. Yeah? Is that what the scene tells us?’

‘Spot on.’

‘Then what?’

‘Fuck knows.’

Suttle took a look at the other rooms. There were two other bedrooms, both en suite, and one of them appeared to have been used as an office: desk, filing cabinet, whiteboard on the wall. There was nothing on the whiteboard, and apart from a PC and a phone there was nothing on the desk either. This bareness extended to the rest of the apartment, and as Suttle did another walk-through he got an overwhelming sense of emptiness, of a life somehow on hold. When it came to furnishings and decor, this was a guy who’d stripped his surroundings down to the bare essentials. The stuff was functional, well made, served a purpose, but there were no pictures to brighten the bareness of the walls, no framed faces of friends or family, no hats doffed to any kind of private life. Even the fridge yielded nothing but a one-litre carton of milk, half a pound of butter, a Tesco fillet steak and a stalk or two of broccoli.

Beside Kinsey’s desk, the CSI was checking the answering machine. Suttle threw him a look but he shook his head.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

D/I Carole Houghton drew the Constantine team together at 10.07. Ellie had volunteered her office, plus a supply of coffees, and Houghton sat on the desk, letting her anorak drip onto the carpet.

So far she’d managed to rally eight D/Cs. Nandy was looking for a couple more but they lived out of the area and wouldn’t arrive for at least an hour. In the meantime, she said, D/S Suttle had conducted a flash intel search of the apartment and drawn up a priority list of addresses for house-to-house. The duty Inspector at the local nick was preparing three rooms for Constantine and all of them would be operational by lunchtime. Depending on initial inquiries, the investigation might or might not transfer to the Major Incident Room at Middlemoor. At the moment, she stressed, the jury was out on Kinsey’s death. Nothing in the flat suggested anything but a man who had fallen off his own balcony. If the truth proved otherwise, it was up to Constantine to find out.

There were very few questions. Houghton wanted the D/Cs working in pairs. She divided the house-to-house calls between them and sent the most experienced team to the Beach pub. She wanted a full account of Kinsey’s visit last night, plus names and addresses of fellow drinkers for follow-up.

By the time Ellie returned, the detectives had gone. Houghton eyed the tray of coffees she was carrying and offered her apologies. Ellie put the coffees on her desk.

‘That nice young man I was talking to. .?’

‘He’s gone to meet the club secretary.’

‘Ah. .’ Ellie failed to mask her disappointment. ‘The Viking.’

Molly Doyle opened the door on Suttle’s second knock. She was wearing a scarlet dressing gown, loosely belted at the waist, and her hair was wet from the shower. The blush of colour on her face, plus the muddy Nikes on the square of newsprint inside the porch, suggested recent exercise. He’d phoned ahead but she’d failed to pick up.

‘I’ve been out on the seafront.’ She was still looking at Suttle’s warrant card. ‘My Sunday treat.’

After a moment’s hesitation, she invited him in. It was a neat house, warm colours, comfortable, lived-in. A line of family photos on the mantelpiece suggested a sizeable brood of kids and already, from somewhere upstairs, Suttle could hear a stir of movement.

‘So what’s going on? What’s this all about?’

Suttle explained about Kinsey. The news that he was dead froze the smile on her face. She looked visibly shocked.

‘Dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But how can that happen?’

‘I’ve no idea. That’s what we have to find out.’

Suttle wanted to know about yesterday’s race. Kinsey, it seemed, had won himself a cup.

‘He did. He texted me. The Dart Totnes Head. First proper race of the season. His guys did well. Better than well.’ She frowned, knotting her hands in her lap. ‘ Dead? ’ She stared at Suttle, wanting him to change the story, to apologise, to explain that it was all some kind of joke.

Suttle pressed for more details. ‘You’ve got names? This crew of his?’

‘Of course. Our events secretary is having a baby. I did the race entry form myself.’

‘You’ve got contact details?’

‘For the crew, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Absolutely. That’s my job.’ She hesitated. ‘You want me to get them?’

Suttle shook his head. He’d collect the names and addresses before he left but right now he was more interested in Kinsey. What kind of man was he?

‘He was. .’ she frowned, unhappy with the past tense ‘. . different.’

‘How?’

‘Hard to say.’ The frown deepened. She seemed affronted as well as upset. Who was this man to barge into her house, into her precious Sunday morning, and throw everything into chaos?

‘The man’s dead, Mrs Doyle. And at this point in time we don’t know why.’

‘Christ, what else are you telling me?’

‘I’m telling you nothing. And that’s because we know nothing. Except that he probably fell from his own balcony in the middle of the night and ended up dead. There has to be a reason for that. Which is why I’m here.’

‘But you’re suggesting. .?’

‘I’m suggesting nothing. You used the word “different” just now. What does that mean?’

‘It means that he wasn’t — you know — one of the usual crowd. We’re a club. Quite a successful club as it happens. How much do you know about rowing?’

‘Nothing,’ Suttle said again. ‘Tell me.’

‘Well. .’ She gathered her dressing gown more tightly around her. ‘It’s a sport, obviously. It’s pretty physical, and it can be pretty challenging too, in our kind of water. People love that. It becomes a bond, a glue if you like. It sticks us together. When you’re out there you have to rely on each other and that can build something pretty special. Not everyone races. A lot of our guys are social rowers. But I guess it boils down to the same thing. The sea’s the sea. You don’t mess with it.’