Graham Hurley: Western Approaches

‘And Kinsey?’

‘He was never a social rower.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Kinsey was a competitor. In everything. Winning mattered.’

‘And that’s unusual?’

‘To his degree, yes. This is me speaking, my opinion, but — hey — you did ask. .’

She offered him a bleak smile. She believed him now. Kinsey was dead and gone. No more cups. No more glory.

Suttle let the silence stretch and stretch. Footsteps hurrying overhead and then the splash of water in a shower.

‘Did you like him?’

‘ Like him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because these things can be important. I’m getting a picture here. People like Kinsey can be uncomfortable to have around.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So was he liked? Was he popular?’

She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. It had been obvious from the start, she said, that Kinsey was rich. Not just that, but he was arrogant too. Wealth, like winning, mattered.

‘He came to us from nowhere. Just walked into the clubhouse on a Sunday and signed himself up.’

‘Had he rowed before?’

‘Never. He said he’d watched us out of his window when we rowed up the river. That was important.’

‘Seeing you row?’

‘Telling us where he lived. That huge penthouse flat. It wasn’t just pride. It was something else.’

‘Like what?’

‘He needed us to know the kind of guy he was. Rich. Successful. All that nonsense. Ours is a funny little club. We get all sorts. But money never comes into it. In a boat on the sea you are who you are. Kinsey never seemed to quite get that.’

Coaches at the club, she said, had taught Kinsey the basic drills. After a couple of outings, like every other novice, he’d sculled with an experienced crew, one oar in either hand, and hadn’t let himself down.

‘Was he good?’

‘Not really. Some people are naturals. You can see it. Their body posture is right. They pick up the rhythm, the stroke rate, really quickly. They know know how to turn all that energy into real power. It’s a bit like dancing. Either you have it or you don’t.’

‘And Kinsey didn’t?’

‘No. Don’t get me wrong. He was OK, he was competent. But he got into bad habits from the start and never really listened to people who wanted to put him right.’ The smile again, hesitant, almost apologetic. ‘Am I making sense?’

Suttle nodded. He could hear a radio now from upstairs. Heart FM. The last thing he wanted was one or other of the kids to stumble in through the door and bring this interview, this conversation, to an end.

‘Tell me about the racing,’ he said. ‘How many other cups did he win?’

‘None. Yesterday was their first outing. That was why he was so chuffed.’

About a year ago, she said, Kinsey had bought the club a brand new quad.

‘Quad?’

‘Four rowers and a cox. This was a sea boat. They don’t come cheap.’

‘How much?’

‘Eighteen thousand, including the bits and pieces that go with it.’

The extras, she said, included oars, safety equipment plus a couple of trailers for the road and for the beach. The club had never had a windfall like that but Kinsey soured the gift with a major precondition. He and his crew always had first claim on the boat, regardless of who else might be in the queue.

‘And that was unusual?’

‘Absolutely. And it didn’t stop there.’

Kinsey’s crew, she said, was hand-picked. These weren’t a bunch of mates he happened to get on with, like-minded souls with a taste for exercise and a laugh or two, but serious athletes he cherry-picked from the club’s membership.

‘It was like he was playing God. It put a lot of backs up. Here was a guy from nowhere, a virtual stranger, buying himself into the top boat. And no one could lift a finger because he was happy to pay for it.’

One of the crew, she said, wasn’t even a club member. His name was Andy Poole. Kinsey had come across him on some business deal or other. It turned out Andy had been in the Cambridge blue boat two years running and had nearly made the national squad before a move west brought him to Exeter.

‘Don’t get me wrong. Andy’s a nice guy. He’s a bloody good rower too. We’ve been lucky to have him. Even on Kinsey’s terms.’

Kinsey, she said, had enrolled Andy Poole in the club, paid his annual membership and designed a training programme around the guy’s work schedule. The other guys in the crew had undoubtedly learned a huge amount from Andy’s tuition, one reason why the crew had swept to line honours in yesterday’s race, but the whole point was that access to this kind of coaching was strictly limited. Only Kinsey and his crew ever laid eyes on Andy Poole. To the rest of the club, he was Mr Invisible, the big man with the Mercedes who popped down from Exeter to do Kinsey’s bidding. There were even rumours that Kinsey had paid him start money to make sure he turned up for yesterday’s race. Not that Andy Poole was short of a bob or two.

‘And that upset people?’

‘Big time, if you let it get to you.’

‘You’re telling me he had enemies?’

‘I’m telling you he was unpopular. And, to be frank, a bit of a joke.’

‘Because he was so naff?’

‘Because he was so crap in a boat. Some people called him The Passenger.’

‘And he knew that?’

‘I’ve no idea. But even if he did it wouldn’t have made any difference. To be honest, he was the most thick-skinned person I’ve ever met. This is the kind of guy who takes what he wants and turns his back on the rest. He thought money could buy him anything.’ The smile again, even bleaker. ‘And — hey — it’s turned out he was wrong.’

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. The door burst open to reveal a girl in her mid-teens. She was wearing a blue tracksuit and pink runners. Ignoring Suttle, she tapped her watch.

‘Shit, Mum, I’d no idea. I’m supposed to be down there for ten. Tansy’ll go mental.’

‘They won’t be launching today. It’s a south-easterly, 4.3.’

‘I’m talking Ergo, mum. You know what she’s after for the 5K? After a night like last night? Twenty dead. I’m gonna be toast. See you.’

As suddenly as she’d appeared, she’d gone. Suttle heard the front door open and then slam shut again. Ergo? 4.3? Twenty dead? This had to be rowing talk. Had to.

Molly Doyle was on her feet. Like her daughter, she was tall and blonde. Hence, Suttle assumed, her nickname. Under the circumstances, the Viking thought coffee was a good idea. In the meantime, Suttle could help himself to the details on Kinsey’s crew from the files she’d got upstairs.

‘They went back to his place,’ she said. ‘After the pub last night.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He texted me an invite. Silly man.’

It had finally stopped raining by the time Lizzie got to the village church. It lay on the road that led down to the river, a sturdy plain-looking structure with a bulky tower that seemed out of proportion with the rest of the building. She opened the gate and pushed the buggy up the path towards the half-open door. Lizzie had never been a practising Christian and had avoided worship for most of her adult life, but this morning, for whatever reason, she felt the need to quieten herself, to find somewhere she might find a bit of privacy and a little peace.

Until she stepped into the gloom of the nave, it didn’t occur to her that the church might be in use. Shit , she reminded herself. Sunday.

Heads turned, all of them old. There weren’t many people, twenty tops. The nearest face looked familiar. She lived down the road, Mrs Peacock. They’d talked a couple of times in the village shop. She’d become the village’s self-appointed chronicler and archivist, contributing badly punctuated articles to the parish magazine on various episodes in Colaton Raleigh’s long history. It was May Peacock who’d confirmed the estate agent’s belief that Chantry Cottage had once been a Nonconformist chapel, and — in the depths of winter — it was Mrs Peacock who’d battled through the snow and posted some additional information through Lizzie’s letter box. There was some kind of tomb, she’d written, at the bottom of the cottage’s garden. It had been constructed hundreds of years ago and was rumoured to contain the bodies of two children.