Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle)

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Are we doing this or what?’

  Mark, the CSI, was Exmouth born and bred. He’d probably lived with this view most of his life but Suttle found it difficult to tear himself away. If I had that kind of money, he thought, I might just live here myself.

  The CSI had disappeared again. Suttle could hear him padding around in one of the other rooms. He reappeared a minute or so later, shaking his head.

  ‘Fuck all. Someone’s had a party but we can’t nick them for that.’

  Suttle nodded. The hugeness of the lounge was under-furnished. A shallow crescent of sofa had been placed to suck in the best of the view and there was a free-standing plasma – not large – for after-dark entertainment. To the left, Kinsey had positioned a desk and executive chair beside another of the windows. Within reach of the chair was a big brass telescope on a wooden tripod with a scatter of charts on the floor beneath. One of the charts covered the south Devon coast, and Suttle paused a moment, gazing down at it, wondering precisely where this belonged in the story of Kinsey’s final days. Beside the chart was a set of tide tables for Dartmouth, open at the month of April. Saturday the 9th had been ringed in pencil. High tide at 09.03. Was this where Kinsey had been yesterday? Some kind of race? Might this have accounted for the champagne in the pub?

  Suttle looked round. A room this big and this bare could swallow a multitude of sins, but the evidence for a serious post-pub party was remarkably modest. An area at the back of the room housed a kitchen so spotless it might never have left the showroom. Suttle noted a couple more bottles of champagne, both empty. There were six glasses neatly lined up on the work surface beside the double sink, all washed, and a collection of crushed tinnies – mainly Guinness – in the swingbin. The bin also yielded the remains of a sizeable takeaway.

  Mark limped across and took a sniff. ‘Chicken jalfrezi.’

  Suttle accompanied the CSI to the master bedroom. It was a decent size, nothing huge, with a view of the river beyond the rain-pebbled glass. The en suite bathroom had the usual goodies – recessed lighting, slate-tiled floors, big jacuzzi – but there was nothing to suggest violence.

  In the bedroom the CSI had found a silver cup on the floor beneath the window. Suttle stooped to inspect it, remembering the chart beside the telescope. They were celebrating in the pub last night, he told himself. This has to be why.

  The CSI was looking at the bed. The duvet had been thrown back, along with the top sheet, and the bed appeared to have been slept in. Given that this was the master bedroom, it was reasonable to suppose that the bed’s occupant had been Kinsey.

  So what had got him up and taken him to his death? Suttle returned to the lounge. There were twin balconies on the right and the left of the view, flanking the front of the apartment. Access to both lay through big sliding glass doors. Kinsey’s body had been found by a local walking his dog. It was lying on the harbour side of the apartment block, directly under the left-hand balcony.

  The CSI was inspecting the latch on the big sliding door.

  ‘Here . . .’ He beckoned Suttle closer.

  The latch was unsecured. Under his gloved hand the door moved sweetly open. Suttle stepped out. The rain was lighter now, no more than a thin drizzle, and he went across to the rail, peering over. The blue shape of Kinsey’s shrouded body lay directly below, and Suttle stared at it for a long moment, trying to imagine how a fall like that could have happened. Kinsey was on the small side. Mounting the rail and throwing yourself off would have required a definite decision, not something that could have happened by accident.

  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 i
nside 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.’

  ‘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.