‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Where did you go?’
Lizzie explained about the walk, and then the rowing club.
‘They let you have a go?’
‘They insisted. We’re talking machines not the real thing but – hey – who cares?’
‘It was good?’
‘It was better than good.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Yeah. But good.’
She explained about the three girls in the Portakabin, the warmth of their welcome, her five-minute introduction to the mysteries of rowing and her dash for the line when Tessa cranked up the pace.
‘The longest sixty seconds of my life,’ she said.
Suttle was delighted. Was this Gill’s doing?
‘Yeah. I’d have wimped. She’s been great, really supportive, really strong.’
Suttle was impressed. Maybe he’d got Gill Reynolds wrong. Maybe life had dealt her a wonderful hand these past few months and turned her into a human being. Either way, he wasn’t complaining.
He found her downstairs, laying the table. He poured her a huge vodka and found some lemonade to go with it. The lemonade was flat but she never said a word. Another first.
By the time Lizzie came down, Suttle was dishing out the curry. Gill had brought a couple of bottles of wine too, and proposed a toast to life in the country before they started on the food. Barely hours ago, thought Suttle, his wife would have turned her head away, her glass untouched, but now Lizzie was the first to respond.
‘Salut,’ she said. ‘And thanks.’
The evening slipped by in a warm fug of alcohol and laughter. They never left the kitchen. Suttle sorted the dodgy fuse in the plug that fed the one-bar electric fire, shut all the windows, left the oven door open and found a couple of candles for the rough wooden table. The soft throw of light danced on the walls, the perfect counterpoint to Lizzie’s Muse CD, and Suttle allowed himself to get gently pissed. The girls at the rowing club, it seemed, were insisting that Lizzie return for a proper training session the following evening. Tuesday nights were club nights and boats would be on the beach from six onwards. When Gill suggested that Suttle drive her down there, he shook his head. This was Lizzie’s gig, he insisted. He’d stay behind and play mum.
By half ten, with both bottles empty, Lizzie was knackered. She’d made up a bed for Gill in the spare room upstairs. She’d see them tomorrow. She gave Gill a hug and offered Suttle a lingering kiss. Then she was gone.
Suttle was suggesting a nightcap when he felt Gill’s hand on his arm. She was very close. For a moment he thought she was coming on to him but then she ducked below the table, rummaged in her bag and emerged with a letter.
Suttle peered at it. Manila envelope. A single scribbled name. Suttle.
‘What’s this?’ he mumbled.
Gill told him to open it. She had the impression it was important. Something in her voice told Suttle she wasn’t as pissed as he was. Far from it.
‘This is why you came down? To give me this?’
‘Partly, yes.’
‘So what is it?’
‘I don’t know. Like I say, open it.’
Suttle did what he was told. Moments later he was looking at a single sheet of paper. The message, poorly typed, was brisk: ‘You’ll know where to find Paul Winter,’ it went. ‘We need an address. leave a message on the number at the bottom and there won’t be a problem.’ Suttle reached for the candle, trying to read the handwritten number. Mobile. For sure.
Problem? He looked up.
Gill was shaking the envelope. A photo fell out. Then another. She took a quick look then slid them across to Suttle. He stared at them for a moment, side by side on the table. In one shot Lizzie was emerging from the village store with Grace in the buggy. In the other, presumably the same day, mother and child were walking away towards the road that led to Chantry Cottage. Same clothes. Same weather.
Suttle studied the photos a moment longer, his brain beginning to function at last. Paul Winter was the guy who’d taught Suttle everything he knew as a rookie detective on divisional CID. The guy who’d copped the lead role in a complex undercover operation to snare Mackenzie. The guy who’d resigned in earnest after Operation Tumbril had gone tits up and nearly got Winter killed. After that Winter had joined Pompey’s top criminal. For real.
For years afterwards Mackenzie had laundered his drug millions and gone from strength to strength as a legit businessman. Paul Winter, as Bazza’s key lieutenant, had been at the wheel for most of that ride, but a couple of episodes had opened his eyes and by last year he was ready to grass Mackenzie up. The result was Operation Gehenna, in which both Suttle and Gill Reynolds had played key roles.
This time Mackenzie had ended up the loser, shot dead by the ninjas from the Tactical Firearms Unit. Now Mackenzie’s mates were obviously interested in settling a debt or two. And the guy they needed to find was Paul Winter.
‘So where did this lot come from?’
‘They came to the News in another envelope.’
‘Addressed to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hand delivered?’
‘By post. First class.’
‘Postmark?’
‘Pompey.’
‘With my envelope inside?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right.’ Suttle was looking at the photos again. ‘So why did it come to you in the first place?’
Gill wanted to read the note. Suttle passed it across.
‘Because these people knew where to find me,’ she said. ‘My name’s in the paper most days.’ She looked up. ‘So where’s Winter?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. And if I did I wouldn’t be telling these numpties.’
‘Even if they . . .’ Her eyes strayed to the photos again. Lizzie and Grace. These people knew where they lived. They knew where to find them. Scary.
‘They wouldn’t.’ Suttle shook his head. ‘They won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t. But I’ll make sure it never happens.’
‘That might be difficult.’
‘You’re right.’
Gill was watching him carefully.
‘You really think Winter’s more important than Lizzie and Grace?’ she said at last.
‘Of course he’s not. But that’s not the point.’
Winter, he explained, had done a deal with Hantspol in return for a significant cash settlement. With this, Suttle suspected he’d bought himself a new identity and moved abroad.
‘Like where?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. If you were Winter, you wouldn’t tell a soul.’
‘You think he’s alone?’
‘Pass.’
Gill frowned, not quite believing him, then leaned forward. Suttle could smell cardamom on her breath.
‘Mackenzie knew Winter had got it on with Misty Gallagher.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. He told me himself when we were shagging. He said I was as good as her. I think he meant it as a compliment.’
‘I’m sure he did.’
‘So it stands to reason they might be still together, Winter and Misty.’
Suttle, far later than he should, realised she was fishing for details. Once a journalist always a fucking journalist. He told her again that he knew nothing. He liked Winter. He’d always liked Winter. He owed the man a lot. Winter’s move to the Dark Side had disgusted him and he’d told Winter so, but their friendship had survived pretty much intact.
‘And you’re telling me you’re not in touch?’
‘I’m telling you the best favour I can do the guy is to stay well clear. What I don’t know I can’t pass on.’
Gill didn’t want to believe him. He could see it in her face. Too bad.
‘Have these guys been in contact with you?’ Suttle was back with the photos. ‘A name would be handy.’
‘No. All I ever got was th
e envelope.’
‘No phone calls? No pressure?’
‘Nothing.’
Suttle didn’t believe her. Mackenzie had always been able to call on muscle from the 6.57, a bunch of tooled-up football hooligans at the core of Pompey’s away support. These guys were middle-aged now but no less handy. In any situation, no matter what kicked off, they always favoured direct action.
‘They’ve been down here,’ he said.
‘Obviously.’
‘So who told them where to find me? Who knew where we lived?’
There was a edge of accusation in his voice. Gill caught it at once.
‘You think that was me? You think I’d sell my best mate down the river?’
‘I’m asking, that’s all.’
‘Then the answer’s no. Fuck knows how they found you. Maybe they looked in the phone book. Maybe they did a Google search. Maybe they’ve got sources in the Filth. There’s nowhere to hide these days.’
‘Really? You believe that?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘So how come they can’t find Winter?’
It was the obvious question and she sat back, annoyed at falling into Suttle’s little trap. Filth, thought Suttle, was an interesting word. This was fighting talk. This was what the 6.57 called the men in blue. Gill had definitely been mixing in bad company.
Suttle pushed his chair back and confected a yawn. He wanted to know whether Lizzie knew anything about the photographs.
‘Of course not. They’d scare her to death.’
She stared at him. She was upset now. She’d started by bossing this conversation and somehow she seemed to have lost control.
‘There’s something you ought to know,’ she said. ‘Lizzie wants to move back to Pompey. And guess who told her she shouldn’t?’
‘You.’
‘Yeah, me.’
‘Because of these?’ Suttle was looking at the photos again.
‘Yeah, partly.’
‘You knew they were in the envelope? You’d taken a look?’
‘Fuck off. Mail turns up out of the blue. I find an envelope with your name on. You don’t have to be super-bright to know it’s not going to be good news.’
‘So you’re telling me you guessed the rest?’
‘Pretty much. Don’t look surprised. It’s what I do for a living.’
Suttle offered her a nod. Touché. He was about to offer an apology but Gill hadn’t finished.
‘If you want the truth, I came down because of you guys, because of Grace, the family thing, the whole shtick. Fuck knows how but you’ve got a great thing going. That was the way I read it in Pompey. That woman loves you, believe it or not. I’m not sure living in the country was a brilliant decision but that’s something you have to sort out. Me? I’m just the messenger.’
She checked her watch and bent down for her bag again. Time for bed.
Jimmy reached across as she began to get to her feet. He put his hand on her arm, gave it a little squeeze. She hesitated, looking down at him, a new expression on her face, surprise salted with something else.
‘I just want to say thank you,’ he muttered.
‘For the note? For the photos?’
‘For what you did this afternoon.’
For a moment Gill was lost. Then she remembered.
‘The rowing, you mean?’ She bent and kissed him on the lips. ‘You need to be careful, Jimmy Suttle. You might lose that woman one day.’
Three
TUESDAY, 12 APRIL 2011
Suttle was at his desk at Exmouth nick by eight next day. Already the bulk of Constantine’s D/Cs had been redeployed on other inquiries and a text from Houghton instructed Suttle to vacate their temporary office and return to MCIT’s permanent base in Exeter. The message was plain. In the absence of hard evidence, Constantine was effectively over.
An admin assistant from up the corridor supplied Suttle with a couple of cardboard boxes. He filled them with the seized files from Kinsey’s apartment and headed out to the car park. That morning, for once, he hadn’t been woken by Grace. Both Lizzie and Gill had still been asleep when he’d left. With last night’s photos tucked safely in his jacket pocket, Constantine’s demise gave him a little time to frame up some kind of plan.
Houghton’s Major Crime Investigation Team worked out of a converted police house on the sprawling force HQ site at Middlemoor, on the edges of Exeter. Suttle’s desk occupied a corner of a ground-floor office with views of the car park. The other three desks in the room belonged to squad D/Cs, all of whom had been with the MCIT far longer than Suttle. As well as the usual maps and whiteboards on the wall, tracking progress on current investigations, he’d arrived to find a World War Two poster (KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON), a photocopy of the Obama electoral chant (‘Yes, we can’) and a medal for the Exeter half-marathon draped over a framed copy of a Robert Frost poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’.
Suttle was looking at it now. The office was empty.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Really? He dumped the file boxes on the floor and sank into his chair. Twice in the last twenty-four hours he’d had to face the consequences of his move west. First, his wife threatens to leave him. Next, her best friend arrives with evidence that he and his family are under surveillance. On both counts, Pompey’s shadow was far longer than he’d ever imagined.
He got out the note and the photos. His only real lead was the mobile number. He was tempted to add it to the list going to the phone companies but knew that the intel techies would be the first to review the data that came back and he didn’t fancy trying to explain how a Pompey address might fit into the vanishing phantom that was Constantine. In any case, it was odds on that the phone was pay as you go, registered to a hookey name and address. These people weren’t stupid.
His phone began to ring. It was Luke Golding, the young D/C tasked with chasing up Henri Laffont and Kinsey’s ex-wife. More bad news.
‘I’ve nailed Kinsey’s missus, Sarge. I talked to that guy in Bristol again, Bill. He gave me a couple of numbers in Seattle.’
Sonya, it turned out, had spent the weekend with a bunch of religious fundamentalists on a retreat in the Cascade Mountains. If Suttle fancied taking this thing any further, Golding had a list of witnesses who’d willingly attest to her presence. It seemed she’d discovered Christ big time. The Cascade Mountains, he added as an afterthought, were on the west coast of America so it seemed unlikely she’d find the time or opportunity to dispatch her ex-husband to his death.
‘And Laffont?’
‘We’re still working on that but my money’s on Shanghai. I managed to make contact with the woman who organises his diary, Chinese lady, very helpful. I don’t think he ever made it to London.’
‘Great.’
‘Sorry, Sarge. You want me to stick at it? Only time might be a problem now.’
‘Of course.’
The phone went dead, leaving Suttle gazing at the whiteboard. To date, Constantine didn’t even merit a mention because inquiries had been coordinated out of Exmouth. He got to his feet and found a marker pen. The fact that both Sonya and Laffont were probably out of the frame was, he tried to tell himself, a definite plus. It meant that he could concentrate on the ripples that Kinsey had been making locally. The guys in the boat. Maybe other rowers at the club. Possibly someone from Exmouth Quays, or the wider community, who’d nurtured some kind of grudge. This was a guy who was serially offensive. He thrived on pissing people off. That, at the very least, Suttle knew he could prove.
He blocked off a square of the whiteboard and scrawled Constantine across the top. Then he returned to his desk and fired up his PC. It took him seconds to find D/I Gina Hamilton’s details. She was working out of the Plymouth HQ at Crownhill. She answered on the second ring.
Suttle introduced himself, mentioned their previous meeting back in Pompey. For a moment
there was silence. Suttle could hear her talking to someone else. Then she was on the line again.
‘You had a beard,’ she said. ‘And an office on the third floor.’
‘That was my boss. D/I Faraday. I was the one who took you for a drink.’
‘The younger guy? Reddish hair?’ She was laughing.
‘That’s me.’
‘Gotcha. What can I do for you, young man?’
Suttle explained about Tom Pendrick. He understood Hamilton had interviewed him down in Penzance after the Atlantic crossing.
‘That’s right. I did.’
‘You mind if I come and see you? Talk about him?’
‘Of course not.’ She paused. ‘What’s he done?’
‘I don’t know.’ Suttle was looking at the whiteboard. ‘Yet.’
It took more than an hour to drive to Plymouth. An accident near Ivybridge had brought traffic to a standstill and Suttle spent the time reviewing his options on the surveillance photos. The thought of a bunch of Pompey heavies sniffing around Lizzie first angered then alarmed him. Last night, with Gill, he’d tried to be cool about it, telling her he’d get the thing sorted, but in the cold light of day he knew that wouldn’t be simple. The temptation was to call in a favour or two from CID mates still working in the city. He could think of a couple, in particular, who’d relish the chance to have a quiet conversation and stir these guys up. But that, he knew, wouldn’t hack it.
Neither was he prepared to make it official by lodging the evidence with Det-Supt Gail Parsons. His ex-boss on the Pompey-based Major Crime Team would doubtless view the photos as yet another opportunity to advance her ACPO prospects. She’d take the issue to the top. She’d knock on the Chief’s door and tell him it was a direct threat to the force’s standing in the city. The moment these people were allowed to get away with a threat this crude was the moment Hantspol should call it a day and look for something else to do. A threat against one of us, she’d say, was a threat against us all.
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