Western Approaches

by Graham Hurley

  Suttle grinned to himself, suddenly recognising what Lizzie needed in her life, what would chase the demons away, what would put the sunshine back. She should be down here. She should have her three free rows and get stuck in. She’d never been frightened by exercise. Back in Pompey she’d been running two or three times a week. She loved the water too, and they’d often fantasised about getting a little dinghy and sailing across to the Isle of Wight.

  Suttle fumbled for his mobile, hoping Lizzie would pick up. Good news was for sharing. The sculler had stopped now and was drifting down with the tide, his body sagging, his head on his chest. Then came Lizzie’s voice on the phone. She sounded exhausted. And there was something else there. Anger.

  ‘Thank Christ it’s you,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  He found her curled in a ball in the darkness of the living room. He’d never seen her sucking her thumb before. Even Grace, safe in her playpen, was looking anxious.

  Suttle squatted beside her. She’d been crying. He knew it. Another first.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She clung to him. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘Shit.’ He held her close. ‘Tell me. Just tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. I’m just . . . Fuck . . .’ Her hand felt blindly for the tissues balled beside her. ‘This is horrible . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m really sorry.’

  ‘But what is it? Tell me. What’s happened?’

  She began to cry again, gulping for air, real pain, real misery. Suttle tried to get to his feet but she wouldn’t let go. Grace couldn’t take her eyes off her.

  At last she released her grip. Her face was shiny with tears.

  ‘I’m useless,’ she whispered. ‘Totally pathetic. Ignore me. Forget it. I’m sorry to get you back like this.’

  ‘I was coming home anyway,’ Suttle pointed out.

  ‘I know but . . .’ She sniffed. ‘This is the last bloody thing you need.’

  Suttle struggled to his feet and she stared up at him then turned her head away. Grace was agitated now, shaking the wooden bars of her pen in bewilderment. Suttle lifted her up and gave her a cuddle. She struggled in his arms. She wanted to be with her mum.

  Lizzie reached out, taking the baby.

  ‘It’s on the table,’ she said.

  Suttle found her mobile. It was still switched on. He read the message.

  ‘Who’s this from?’

  ‘Gill.’

  ‘Gill Reynolds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she wants to come down?’

  ‘She is coming down.’

  ‘You said yes?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Suttle absorbed the news. He’d never had any patience with Reynolds. Once you got past the obvious there was nothing there but self-obsession. As long as she’d just been a mate of Lizzie’s, Suttle had bitten his tongue, but after what happened to Joe Faraday he’d consciously blanked the woman from his life.

  ‘I’ll cancel her,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘I’ve tried.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon. I gave myself a talking-to. I knew you wouldn’t want her down. It took me for ever to make the call but in the end I did it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It made no difference. You know what she’s like. She never listens.’ She took a deep breath and held Grace tight. ‘Tomorrow morning. Around twelve.’

  ‘I’ll phone her again.’

  ‘It’s pointless. You could go one better though.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By being here.’

  Suttle thought about it, tallying the work he had to get through by lunchtime. Day two of Constantine. No chance.

  ‘I can’t, my love.’

  ‘You could. If it was that important.’

  ‘Of course it’s important. You’re important. You’re both important. All this is important. But I can’t just—’ He broke off. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll phone her.’

  Lizzie began to protest again, telling him she’d cope somehow, but Suttle wasn’t listening. The weakness of the signal drove him onto the patio. It was a beautiful evening, the sun sinking in the west, the wind beginning to die. They’d discovered a troop of ducklings on the stream at the bottom of the garden only yesterday. Suttle could hear them pestering their mother.

  ‘Gill?’ Suttle could feel the patio slabs moving under his weight. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Of course it is. Jimmy?’ She sounded surprised.

  ‘Yeah, me. Listen. Something’s come up. Lizzie’s not too good. Some kind of bug. She’d never tell you in a million years but I honestly think—’

  Gill broke in. She had a habit of ignoring the end of other peoples’ sentences.

  ‘She sounded fine this afternoon. It won’t be a problem. You know me. Iron constitution.’

  ‘It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s Lizzie. She needs—’

  ‘I know what she needs. I know that girl like a sister. I probably know her better than you do. I expect she needs a bit of TLC. I’m good with that. Just ask her.’

  Suttle wasn’t having it. It was flu. Definitely. Lizzie needed peace and quiet. She needed to be left alone. Please, Gill. Just this once.

  There was a brief silence on the line. The mother duck had mounted the bank, an unsteady line of fluffy nothings behind her. Under any other circumstances this would have been a precious moment. He’d run for the camera. Grace. Lizzie. The ducklings. One for the family scrapbook. Then Gill was back. There was something new in her voice, a definite edge.

  ‘I’ll be there for lunch, Jimmy. You won’t regret it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard what I said. You’ll be around too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’ll stay for dinner. Don’t worry. No pressure. I’ll sort an Indian or something. Do they have takeaways in the country?’ She laughed, then hung up.

  Suttle was still staring at the phone. You won’t regret it?

  For a moment he thought about phoning back, upping the ante, going for broke, but then he heard a movement behind him and he turned to find Lizzie standing in the open doorway. She’d heard every word he’d said.

  ‘See?’ she said.

  ‘Fucking woman.’ Suttle risked a smile. ‘We’re doomed.’

  They didn’t talk until later. Suttle had bathed and changed Grace, leaving Lizzie to do her best with a packet of pasta and what was left in the vegetable basket. After he’d put his daughter down and blown on the mobile over her bed, he drove down to the village store and bought a bottle of Chianti. The wine turned out to be on special so he grabbed another before returning to Chantry Cottage.

  Lizzie had made a definite effort with the pasta. She’d even found a candle to soften the overhead light in the gloom of the living room. Suttle uncorked the Chianti and poured two glasses, raising his own in a toast.

  ‘To us.’

  They touched glasses but then Lizzie put hers down.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  She smiled. For some reason she seemed to find the question genuinely funny.

  ‘You want a list?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Since you ask.’

  ‘No, you don’t. And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I’m supposed to be better than this.’

  ‘You’re lovely. I love you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really. I know I’m not, you know . . .’

  ‘Here much?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s this. All of it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everything.’ She made a vague, circular motion with her hand. ‘You, me, Grace, this horrible cottage, the country, the rain, the silence – it’s driving me nuts, Jimmy. I just don’t know who I am any more. Have you ever had that feeling? Not knowing what’s happening to you? Not knowing if it’s ever going to stop
? I’m out of tune, my love. I’m not me any more. Do you know what I’m talking about? Has something like this ever happened to you?’

  Suttle had to shake his head. Life had dealt him a number of evil hands. Twice he’d been hospitalised after making the wrong call in dodgy circumstances, once in the Job and once in his private life. That had hurt, sure, but he’d never suffered anything remotely like this.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

  ‘Sorry doesn’t cut it. Not any longer. I’ve got to do something, Jimmy. I’ve got to take some decisions.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘Ah.’ Suttle’s head went back. He reached for his glass. For the first time he realised they were facing something really serious. Not once had he ever thought she might leave him.

  ‘Is it me?’ he said at last. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘Yes, in a way it is. Because this, all this, is you. You love it. I can see you love it. You love the country, the space, the fresh air. Even the fucking rain seems to turn you on. Me? I loathe it.’

  ‘Then we’ll move.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Somewhere the roof doesn’t leak. Somewhere with windows that fit. Somewhere mouse-proof.’

  ‘In the country?’

  Suttle didn’t answer. Just looked at her. The silence stretched and stretched. She’d said her piece. The situation couldn’t have been clearer.

  ‘You want to live in a town,’ he said. ‘Or a city.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Plymouth? Exeter?’

  ‘I don’t care. Pompey, if I have to.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat.’

  ‘You’re right. That’s where I am. Mrs Desperate. Dreaming of Copnor Bridge.’ She smiled and reached for his hand across the table, throwing Suttle into confusion. He was lost now. Was she really packing her bags? Were they really headed for some shitty ground-floor flat in a gutty part of Guz?

  He voiced the thought aloud. Cards on the table.

  ‘Guz?’ she said blankly.

  ‘Plymouth. It’s what the locals call the place. Tells you everything you need to know.’

  ‘I see.’ She was toying with her glass. ‘How come the ground-floor flat?’

  ‘Because it’s all we could afford. I’ve been round this course before. Prices are astronomic down here.’

  ‘Dearer than Pompey?’

  ‘Big time.’

  She nodded, then took a tiny sip of wine. Maybe she’s not aware of all the implications, thought Suttle. Maybe this isn’t quite as dire as I thought.

  Wrong.

  ‘I talked to Gill for quite a while this afternoon,’ she said softly. ‘We had a proper conversation for once.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s just moved into a new flat. Three bedrooms? In Southsea? Can you believe that? It turns out they gave her a rise. She’s mad about the place. It’s even got a bit of garden. She says it’s lovely.’

  Suttle’s heart sank. The implications couldn’t be clearer.

  ‘You’re telling me you’d move in with her?’

  ‘Either that or my mum’s, yes.’

  ‘Both of you?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Suttle stared at her, not quite believing his ears. Lizzie and Grace? Camping out with Gill fucking Reynolds?

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, reaching for his glass.

  Lizzie waited for him to swallow a mouthful or two. Then she leaned forward across the table. She wanted him to be reasonable. She wanted him to understand.

  ‘Think about it. My job’s still open if I want it. I could go back to work, earn us a bit of money, give us some options.’

  ‘And Grace?’

  ‘My mum would look after her.’

  ‘You’ve asked her?’

  ‘No. But she would, I know she would.’

  ‘So how long would this . . .’ Suttle shrugged ‘. . . go on for?’

  ‘For as long as it takes. Until we had a decent stash.’

  ‘That could be years.’

  ‘Yeah. It could.’

  ‘Living apart? Me down here? You back in Pompey?’

  ‘Yeah. Unless you did what I’d do.’

  ‘Go back to my old job?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I doubt they’d have me.’

  ‘Of course they’d have you. You’re the guy who put Mackenzie away. Local hero, you.’

  ‘No.’ Suttle shook his head. ‘Going back never works, never.’

  ‘How do you know? When you’ve never tried it?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t. No way. You go on in life. You look forward.’

  ‘So what does that make me?’

  ‘Good question.’

  Silence again. Upstairs, Suttle could hear Grace beginning to grumble. If you caught her early enough you could head off the tears and get her back to sleep. He was half out of his chair but Lizzie beat him to it.

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  Suttle listened to her footsteps on the stairs. All the earlier drama seemed to have gone. This was a different Lizzie. She must have been planning something like this for weeks, maybe months. He should have seen it coming. He should have headed it off.

  He poured himself another glass of wine. By the time Lizzie was back at the table, his glass was empty again.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  Suttle began to talk. He told her about Constantine, about the lone dog walker from Exmouth Quays finding Kinsey’s body sprawled on the promenade, about his involvement with the rowing club, and about the investigative pathways Suttle had to start exploring first thing tomorrow. Despite herself, Lizzie found herself engaged. At heart she was still a journalist. Stories like this had always fascinated her.

  ‘So what do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘I think somebody killed him. I haven’t a clue who and I might well be wrong, but that’s not the point. Hunch isn’t a word my bosses have much time for. They prefer evidence.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There isn’t any. Not yet.’

  Lizzie reached for his hand again. In the early days he’d often let her into the world of the Job, sharing odd titbits from ongoing investigations, and she’d always loved him for it. It was an act of trust. It made her feel special. It made her feel loved. Lately all that had stopped. These days Jimmy very rarely talked about his work. Now this.

  ‘So how do you –’ she reached for her glass ‘– progress something like this?’

  ‘By grafting. By looking. By building the intel picture. By establishing a timeline. By wondering about motive and opportunity. By getting inside this guy’s head.’

  ‘The killer’s?’

  ‘Kinsey’s.’

  ‘And then the killer?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ he nodded ‘. . . if it pans out that way.’

  ‘But it will, won’t it? You’re good at this. Paul thought you were the best.’

  Lizzie was the only person Suttle knew who always called Winter by his Christian name. Winter had a famously soft spot for Lizzie. He’d once told Suttle she was the only journalist in the city with real bollocks. At the time Suttle hadn’t known quite what to make of the comment but in time he recognised it as a shrewd judgement. Winter was right. This lovely wife of his rarely lost her nerve.

  Now she wanted to know more about Kinsey. Suttle shook his head. He’d said enough.

  ‘Then why bring all this up?’

  ‘Because of the rowing. I’ve spent most of the day talking to people who are crazy about it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think you should have a go.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? You need to get out, my love. You need to put this place behind you once in a while. I’m sure running helps but maybe it’s not enough.’

  ‘Running round here is crap. Grace obviously comes too. I do my best with the buggy but on these roads you t
ake your life in your hands.’

  ‘Lives. Plural.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘OK.’ Suttle nodded. ‘So maybe I’m right. So maybe rowing’s the answer.’

  Lizzie wasn’t at all sure. Suttle could see it in her face. She’d started this conversation with her bags practically packed. Now this husband of hers was talking about some rowing club.

  ‘How would it work?’

  Suttle explained about the trial offer, three free rows. Suttle would drive her down to Exmouth next Sunday, and if her maiden voyage worked out OK then she could return for the club sessions on Tuesday and Thursday night.

  ‘But what about Grace?’

  ‘I’d look after her.’

  ‘You’d get back in time?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  She nodded, doing her best to fight her excitement. She’d always relished a challenge.

  ‘Does anyone know about this?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About your missus maybe joining up? Only the way I read it most of your suspects belong to the club.’

  Suttle had the grace to laugh. In truth, he hadn’t thought this thing through at all. Not properly.

  ‘So what would you prefer?’ he said. ‘How would you want to play it?’

  ‘I’d need to be me,’ she said. ‘Lizzie Borden.’

  ‘Not some copper’s wife?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Fine.’ He shrugged. ‘In that case you’d drive yourself down on Sunday. Use the TomTom. There’s no drama finding the place.’

  ‘And you’d really stay behind? With Grace?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do the washing? Sort the cat out? Peel the spuds? Mend the fucking door? Not go mad?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And you’re telling me it’s not a hard thing to do? Rowing?’

  ‘I’m telling you you might like it. I’m telling you you might love it. And I’m telling you it’s the least we can do.’

  ‘To keep this thing afloat?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Lizzie pondered the proposition, then emptied her glass and reached for the bottle. Her turn to propose a toast.

  ‘Here’s to Guz,’ she said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Two