‘You’re telling me he gave you money?’
‘Not me. Tash. She did the negotiations, got him sold on the idea. First off he wanted to see the kind of stuff I’d done already. I’ve got some work from way back but Tash said we could go one better and shoot a couple of scenes from the script and show him those.’
Suttle’s eyes had gone back to the PC. He was beginning to understand.
‘So that’s what you did?’
‘Yeah. Kinsey bought us a decent camera and gave Tash a couple of grand to make it happen and we did the rest.’
‘You’re talking about the stuff I just watched?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So who chose the sequences?’
‘Tash did. She chooses everything.’
‘And Kinsey?’
‘He only saw a rough cut. I gave him a DVD and he watched it on his laptop.’
‘And?’
‘He loved it. Totally knocked out.’
‘He told you personally?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’
‘Last night, in the pub. He’d told Tash already but last night he made a big thing of it. He said the rest of the budget wouldn’t be a problem. Not after watching what we’d done.’
‘How much are we talking?’
‘Forty-five grand. Quite a lot of that is for the hire of the barge.’
‘Right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Right.’
There was a long silence. Would someone about to field a cheque for forty-five thousand pounds toss their benefactor into oblivion? Suttle thought not.
‘How well did you know Kinsey?’ he asked. ‘Be honest.’
‘Not well. Not really. If you want the truth I got into his crew because of Tash.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Kinsey fancied her. He’d do anything for her. And that turned out to be a bit of a blessing.’
‘For you?’
‘For both of us.’
‘Because of the movie?’
‘Of course. And the rowing too. Yesterday was magic. That guy Andy Poole’s taught me loads.’
‘He thinks you’re good.’
‘Does he?’ The grin was unfeigned. ‘Did he say that?’
‘Yeah. Not to me. Not directly. But yeah. So tell me — what did you make of Kinsey?’
Symons thought about the question. Finally he sat down again, leaning forward, his voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. A kid. Definitely.
‘This is just between us two, right?’ Suttle didn’t answer. Symons went on regardless. ‘I think he was lonely.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just got the feeling. He didn’t seem to have any friends, any mates. Mates matter.’
‘No girlfriends? No one special?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Was there a wife once?’
‘Dunno. I suppose there may have been.’
‘Right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘So you’re telling me the guy was pretty much alone?’
‘A loner, sure.’
‘And Tash?’
‘Tash?’
Suttle recognised the flicker of alarm in Symons’ eyes.
‘She got close to him?’
‘He fancied her. I told you.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking.’
‘Listen, man. The woman’s my partner. She’s beautiful. Everyone fancies her. So what are you suggesting?’
‘I’m suggesting nothing.’ Suttle had noted the sudden flash of anger. ‘I’m asking you whether she might know more about Kinsey than you do.’
‘And not tell me, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Symons considered the proposition before rejecting it with a vigorous shake of his head.
‘No way,’ he said. ‘No fucking way.’
Suttle held his gaze. At length he asked how Symons made his living.
‘I do stuff for my dad.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘You’ve seen the van out there? I collect and deliver bits and pieces of furniture. He’s got a couple of antique shops. He bids in the auctions and I pick the stuff up.’
‘And that gives you enough to live on?’
‘Yeah.’
Suttle nodded and scribbled himself a note. The earlier warmth had gone out of this conversation. Symons was visibly upset now. Suttle asked him where Tash would be tomorrow morning.
‘Here,’ Symons shrugged, ‘I guess.’
Suttle took her mobile number and then got to his feet.
‘There’s a guy called Pendrick,’ he said. ‘He rows in Kinsey’s crew. You’ll know him.’
‘Of course.’
‘Any idea where he might be?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t mention anything last night? Plans he might have had for today?’
‘No.’ The smile had returned. ‘But then he wouldn’t.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The guy’s another loner. Just like Jake.’
Suttle was back at Exmouth police station in time for the first of the Constantine squad meets. Nandy had returned from a busy afternoon in Torbay, and the house-to-house teams filled the rest of the office. As a courtesy, Houghton had also asked the duty uniformed Inspector to attend.
She kicked off with a brisk summary of progress to date. House-to-house teams had knocked on every door in Regatta Court. They’d scored a response from maybe two thirds of the apartments but failed to gather anything of evidential use. Only one resident had laid eyes on Kinsey’s partying crew. She’d seen them streaming out of Regatta House around midnight. Hand on heart she couldn’t be sure but she thought four or five people, one of whom was definitely a woman.
Detectives had also covered every property with line of sight on Kinsey’s balcony. Again, nothing.
‘What’s the lighting like?’ This from Nandy. One of the D/Cs fielded the question.
‘Crap, sir. We’re talking lights at knee level on the walkway by the dock. No way would they reach the fifth floor.’
‘So no witnesses?’ Nandy was looking at Houghton.
‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘And definitely no CCTV?’
‘No.’
Houghton went on to describe the kind of ripples Kinsey had been making. No one seemed to like him. His reputation for arrogance had spread beyond Exmouth Quays. There was even a question mark about the crew he’d put together.
‘Who says?’ Nandy again.
‘Me, sir.’ Suttle told him about Lenahan and Symons. In his view Kinsey had bought their loyalty. These were guys who got on among themselves, and after yesterday’s win they might still carry on rowing with someone else in the bow seat, but neither Lenahan nor Symons seemed over-distressed by Kinsey’s passing.
‘So what are you telling me?’
‘Nothing, sir. Except no one seems surprised that the guy’s dead.’
‘You think someone killed him?’
‘I think he may have had it coming.’
‘And we can prove that?’
‘Of course not. Not yet.’
‘But you think we might?’
‘I think it’s possible, sir, yes.’
Suttle was getting uncomfortable. The last thing he wanted was a public pissing match with Nandy.
Houghton stepped in. The post-mortem, she reminded everyone, was scheduled for tomorrow morning. After that, things might be a great deal clearer. In the meantime, D/S Suttle would be pulling together the background intel.
Suttle nodded, glad of the reprieve. There was a pile of Kinsey’s files on his desk, material seized from the apartment, and he’d be spending most of tomorrow trying to build a picture of the man’s life.
Houghton wanted to know what they’d missed. She was still looking at Suttle.
‘Pendrick,’ he said. ‘We still haven’t nailed the guy.’
Houghton nodded. Detectives had returned to his flat throughout the day but failed to raise him. Messages left on his mobile had gone unanswered. She’d tasked two D/Cs to sit on his address throughout the evening. If necessary, they’d be relieved by another shift at midnight. SOC had already retrieved some shots of last night’s celebration from Kinsey’s camera, and a process of elimination had ID’d Pendrick. If the guy hadn’t turned up by first thing tomorrow morning, she’d be circulating the mugshot and other details force-wide.
Houghton had printed a couple of photos. Suttle, reaching for one of them, found himself looking at a big guy in his mid-thirties. A brutal grade one darkened his shaved skull and there was something about the cast of his face that seemed vaguely familiar. He had a deep scar that tracked diagonally down his right cheek and he was wearing jeans and a blue sweat top that had seen better days. Unlike the rest of the crew, he wasn’t punching the air. On the contrary, he seemed preoccupied, almost detached. A loner, he thought, remembering Symons’ parting shot.