Only after he’d finished his initial trawl, making himself another mug of coffee in the squad kitchenette, did Suttle realise what he was missing. Where were the payments to the escort agency for his regular Thai girlies? And how come there was no trace of the money he’d spent on Tash Donovan?
Suttle took the coffee back to his desk. His task this time was to revisit all the personal stuff – bank accounts, credit card billings – and look for cash withdrawals. Within the hour he was satisfied that these couldn’t possibly have paid for Kinsey’s sex life. In terms of ready money, he appeared to live on surprisingly little. A hundred and ten pounds a week was his average spend. How many girlies could you buy for that?
A knock at the door brought Luke Golding into the office. The young D/C had some good news.
‘TF2, Sarge. I cracked it.’
Suttle had almost forgotten about Team Fortress 2. Golding, it turned out, had spent most of the last couple of days on the Internet. It happened to be his weekend off and he’d hooked up with ShattAr on three separate occasions. During the third game he’d saved the guy’s life, not just once but on four separate occasions, and this had been enough to finally coax a reply from his earlier message. He’d wanted a link to ShattAr’s Facebook profile. And he’d finally got it.
‘His real name’s Zameer Akhtar, Sarge. And as far as I can judge, he lives in Leeds.’
‘Zameer what?’
‘Akhtar.’ Golding wrote it down for Suttle’s benefit.
‘You’ve PNC’d him?’
‘Yeah. The guy just picked up a twelve months suspended for possession.’
Suttle raised an eyebrow. He’d been expecting a sleek Pakistani businessman, not a lowlife druggie.
‘Have you talked to the locals?’
‘Yeah, I got through to their intel set-up in Wakefield. They’re busy as fuck just now but the woman promised to come back before close of play. I gave her your name and number, Sarge. Happy days, eh?’
Suttle was looking at the pile of bank statements. Kinsey had business connections in Leeds. He made regular visits on Flybe. The recurrence of the name Akhtar had to be more than coincidence. Were these two people brothers or was there some other family connection?
He glanced up. He wanted to know how Golding was getting on with the Exeter escort agencies.
‘That was the other thing, Sarge. I think I’ve nailed the girl in the photo we ripped from Kinsey’s phone. She works for an outfit called Twosomes. They operate out of a grungy little room over a Chinese takeaway in Heavitree. Real shit hole.’
‘They ID’d the photo?’
‘Of course not. But there was a mug shot on a wallboard. I swear it was the same woman.’ He paused and shot Suttle a grin. ‘Maybe you should take a look.’
By lunchtime Lizzie was nearing the end of her list of thank you phone calls. Tessa had been more than understanding. The girls, she said, were thinking of buying Lizzie a safety belt for use in the boat, while Clive, the Club Captain, was definitely going to nominate her for the Cock-Up of the Year Award. Molly Doyle had successfully kept the details of the incident from the local press and was anticipating great coverage for the tribute ceremony and the row-through. The Kinsey crew, meanwhile, had been so impressed by Lizzie’s capacity to hold her breath underwater that she was in some danger of becoming a regular sub.
‘Sub? Submarine? Get it?’ Andy Poole roared with laughter, wished her well and hung up.
Lizzie’s last call went to Tash Donovan. When she admitted she still wanted to row, Donovan told her she must have balls of steel.
‘You’re coming out again? After something like that?’
‘Of course I am. If anyone’ll have me.’
‘You’re famous, girl. We talk of nothing else. Invites to row? Shall I make a list?’
Touched by the gentle piss-takes, Lizzie sat down and wrote a semi-formal letter to Molly Doyle. She wanted the club to know that she was sorry for letting everyone down and grateful for all the calls and support she’d received since. She would definitely be keeping her foot straps looser from now on and looked forward to the next outing. Hopefully, she added, she might even make it back in one piece. She signed herself Lizzie Borden in keeping with the pact she’d made with Jimmy.
Sitting at the kitchen table, rereading the letter, she glimpsed a wraith-like presence behind the careful prose. It was like writing to someone about a bereavement. Her old gloomy self seemed to have passed away. All you need, she thought, is a half a minute or so underneath a moving boat with a lungful of seawater sloshing around inside you. Near-death experiences cure anything.
She glanced through the door into the living room. Grace was asleep on a pair of cushions in her playpen. Every day the shafts of sunlight edged down the back wall as the sun rose higher in the sky. At last the house was beginning to dry out. Soon, with a helping hand or two, Chantry Cottage might even feel like a proper home.
The knock at the kitchen window made her jump. For a moment she had no idea who it was, then her blood froze. Pendrick was wearing a pair of blue overalls and a black beanie. He seemed to be tapping his watch. There was no way she could ignore him but her instinct was to pretend he wasn’t there, to somehow turn the clock back to this time last week when she’d never heard of the guy. Then she got to her feet, telling herself that this was the man who’d probably saved her life. The very least she owed him was a thank you.
She opened the kitchen door, standing aside as he stepped past her. He looked around the way a buyer might, noting this detail and that, not bothering to hide his curiosity. Lizzie was fighting hard to keep the smile on her face.
‘Grace?’ Pendrick was peering into the living room.
‘Yeah. Don’t wake her up, whatever you do.’
‘She’s lovely.’
Lizzie didn’t know what he meant, didn’t know what he was doing here. Trespass wasn’t a word she would ever use lightly but this felt very close.
‘How did you know where we live?’
‘You told me Colaton Raleigh. I asked down in the village. Lovely young mum? Sweet little girl? Can’t be that much competition round here.’
Lizzie was filling the kettle. Half an hour, she told herself. Tops.
‘Tea?’
‘Coffee if you’ve got it.’
He’d disappeared behind the living-room door. Lizzie found him crouching in a corner, examining one of the sockets that was fast parting company with the skirting board. She’d mentioned the state of the place when they’d been up in north Cornwall. Bad move.
Pendrick had moved on to the radiator under the windowsill. The bowl to catch the drips from the leak was half full. He gave it a poke and grunted something Lizzie didn’t catch.
‘Sugar?’ she said brightly. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Two.’ He didn’t look round. ‘The socket’ll take no time at all. The radiator’s trickier. I’ll have to drain the system.’
‘Who said you need to?’
‘You’ll have a flood otherwise.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know.’ He was on his feet again, looking down at her. ‘We need to talk about Saturday night. Am I right?’
‘No. I need to thank you for what you did on Sunday morning. I should have phoned. I should have thanked you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Without you, I might have drowned.’
‘Who says?’
‘The people at the hospital. The medics.’
This news put a smile on Pendrick’s face. He took a seat at the kitchen table, reached for one of Grace’s toys, a squashy rubber ball, and began to play with it. He looked strangely relaxed. This might have been his own home.
‘Right time, right place.’ He shrugged. ‘If only . . . eh?’
‘If only what?’ Lizzie was mystified again.
‘If only I’d been able to do the same for Kate.’
‘But I thought you said she wanted to go overboard. That it was her decision.’
&n
bsp; ‘Yeah. But it didn’t make it any easier, did it?’
‘For her?’
‘For me.’ He was crushing the ball now. It had disappeared beneath the whiteness of his huge knuckles. ‘You know Tash, right?’
‘Yes. I met her yesterday.’
‘That was her at my place on Saturday night, in case you were wondering.’
‘Fine.’ It was Lizzie’s turn to shrug. ‘And why not?’
‘You don’t care? You don’t want to know more?’
‘No.’
‘OK. So why did you come round?’
‘Because I was upset about something. Because I wanted to talk.’
‘Fine. Go ahead.’
‘There’s no point. It’s resolved. It’s finished. It’s over.’
Pendrick released the ball and watched it roll slowly towards the edge of the table. He seemed to have lost interest in the socket and the radiator.
‘Tash and me are friends. Just friends. She comes round sometimes when Milo’s driving her crazy. We talk. That’s pretty much it.’
‘I believe you. You’re good at that. You must have lots of practice.’
‘Good at what?’
‘Listening.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ He gestured loosely at the space between them. ‘Only I had a different impression.’
‘I expect that was my fault. I always dive into things. It used to get me into all kinds of trouble.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ He caught the ball as it fell from the table and gave it another squeeze. ‘You wanted me to fuck you on Saturday, didn’t you?’
‘I wanted us to make love. There might be a difference.’
‘And were you disappointed when we didn’t? Was that why you got so upset?’
Lizzie gazed at him. There were some men who needed to put their smell on everything they touched, and Pendrick, she was beginning to realise, might just be one of them. Territorial was too feeble a word. She shuddered to think what might be more appropriate.
She got up to turn off the electric kettle. As she passed Pendrick he reached out for her.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . .’ she couldn’t find the words ‘. . . stuff’s happened.’
‘You’re right. And I meant everything I said.’
‘About what?’
‘About this khazi of a country. About arseholes like Kinsey. About getting hold of a yacht and doing something sane for once. You were up for that. I could see it in your face. You thought we could do it. Maybe you thought we should do it. Am I right?’
Lizzie didn’t answer. She wanted this man out of her house, out of her life. The last thing she needed was a rerun of Saturday afternoon.
She poured hot water into two mugs and added a tea bag apiece.
‘I haven’t got coffee,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck the coffee. Tell me about Saturday. Tell me you meant it.’
She felt the first stirrings of impatience. She was being as civil as she could. She put the mugs on the table and sat down again. Then she reached for both his hands, removing the ball and dropping it on the floor.
‘You saved my life,’ she said quietly. ‘Twice. I don’t know how many times I have to say thank you but I mean it. I really do.’
Pendrick stared at her. He was confused as well as angry.
‘And that’s it?’
‘I’m afraid so. I haven’t a clue what it is between you and Tash, and if you want the truth I’m not interested. All I know is that this – the house, my marriage, even poor little Grace – took me to a very bad place. You helped me with that. You helped in ways you’ll never ever suspect. For that, I thank you. And I thank you. And I thank you again.’ She bent and kissed his hand. ‘Does that make any sense?’
‘None at all. I know you, Lizzie. I know what you want. I know what’s real to you. I know what really matters. I’ve been around a bit, believe me. And I know.’
To this Lizzie had no answer. They were heading up a cul-de-sac that held nothing but darkness. The last twenty-four hours, she thought she’d left all that behind. She wanted him gone.
‘I’m due at a clinic in half an hour,’ she said. ‘Grace is due a check.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re just trying to make it easy for me. I love that about you. Just the way I love everything else.’ He gave her hand a little squeeze and then picked up the mug.
Lizzie stared at him. She was fast running out of options. There was a hint of madness in this man. Go for broke, she told herself. Double or quits.
‘She stayed the night, didn’t she?’
‘Tash?’ A smile ghosted across his face. ‘No way. If you want the truth, she came round to try and get me to row.’
‘On Sunday morning?’
‘Yeah. She thought we all ought to be together.’
‘Because of Kinsey?’
‘Yes. That seemed to be important for her.’
‘You instead of me?’
‘Yes. It was nothing personal. She’d never even met you.’
‘And you?’
‘I told her I couldn’t do it. Why? Because I couldn’t stand the guy. I also told her I was glad he’d gone. She had a problem with that. She thought I was totally out of order.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Are we friends now?’
It was an impossible question to answer. Lizzie just shook her head and turned away.
‘Leave me alone, please. Let go of my hand.’
‘No problem. My pleasure.’ He nodded next door. ‘You want me to sort that stuff out or not?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Fine.’ He drained the mug and got to his feet. ‘Next time, eh?’
The Golden Dragon lay at the end of a terrace of shops in Heavitree, a scruffy red-brick suburb to the east of Exeter. Suttle found a parking spot in a lay-by across the road. When he asked at the counter for the Twosomes agency, the woman simply pointed upstairs.
Access was via an exterior staircase at the back of the property. The window in the door at the top had been boarded up after some kind of break-in, and there were fresh-looking chisel marks around the Yale lock.
A youngish guy opened the door. He was pale and thin. His patched jeans hung off his bony frame and his trainers had definitely seen better days. As far as Suttle could judge, he was eastern European.
‘Who are you?’ Poor English, heavily accented.
Suttle flashed his warrant card. He’d appreciate a word or two. It needn’t take long.
The guy spent a long time examining the card. Then he asked Suttle to come inside. The room must once have been a kitchen. A jar of instant coffee and an electric kettle stood on the work surface beside a pile of newspapers. Suttle recognised a shot of Cracow on the front page of the top paper. There were scabs of ageing dog shit on the floor and a powerful smell of drains.
Suttle pushed the door shut behind him.
‘I’m investigating a suspicious death,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Exmouth. I need your help. We need to trace this woman.’
He laid the shot from Kinsey’s phone on the work surface. Golding had been right. It exactly matched the photo pinned to the wall board. The guy peered at the proffered shot, then glanced up. He was looking alarmed.
‘You say she’s dead, this woman?’
‘No. I’m saying we need to talk to her. Is that possible?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘She doesn’t speak English. She’s not here. She’s gone away.’
‘Where?’
‘Abroad. I don’t know.’
Lies, Suttle thought.
‘You’re responsible for this woman? You take the bookings?’
‘Yes. Me and my partner.’
‘Who’s your partner?’
‘Mr Wattana. He’s away too.’
‘You keep records?’
‘I
don’t understand.’
‘When people pay?’
‘Ah . . .’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Does that matter?’
‘It might.’
Suttle bent forward, closing the distance between them. He needed to get this man onside. He wanted to offer him a word of advice.
‘You need to make a choice here, my friend. Either you let me see your payment records or the whole thing gets much more complicated. The VAT inspector? The tax people?’ He sniffed, looking round. ‘Health and safety?’
The guy shook his head. He wanted to say no. He wanted Suttle out of his face. Suttle was looking at a filing cabinet wedged into an alcove beside the boiler. Judging by the state of the paintwork, it might have come out of a skip.
‘In there, maybe? You want to give me a hand here?’
With some reluctance, the guy followed Suttle across to the cabinet. It was locked. Suttle stepped back while the guy found the key. The middle drawer was packed with files. The guy looked up.
‘You want the same girl?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. The punter’s name was Kinsey.’
He shook his head. He’d never heard of anyone called Kinsey.
‘Little guy? Middle-aged? Drove a Porsche? Big top-floor apartment down in Exmouth? Place called Regatta Court?’
Mention of Regatta Court sparked a nod of recognition. Maybe Kinsey used a false name, Suttle thought.
The guy was riffling through the files. At last he found what he was looking for. He took it out and held it close against his skinny chest.
‘And after this?’
‘I go.’
‘And not come back?’
Suttle smiled. His turn to lie.
‘Never.’
‘OK.’
The guy handed over the file. Suttle opened it and found himself looking at a sheaf of A4 sheets. Each held a scribbled note or two – date, time, name of the attending escort – and stapled to each was a credit-card slip. These were the old sort, letter-box-shaped, bearing the imprint of the card. Suttle lifted out the first one and gazed at the name of the cardholder. Mrs Sonya Jacobson. Kinsey’s ex-wife.
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