‘Forget it, Lou. It won’t happen.’
‘Why?’
‘It just won’t.’
‘You don’t want us?’
‘Of course I want you. That’s not the issue.’
‘So what is? I don’t understand.’
Gill studied her, then shook her head. No clues. No conferring.
‘We’ll go to my mum’s then.’ Lizzie was getting angry again. ‘She’ll definitely have us.’
‘Not a great idea.’
‘But why? Is it the job?’
‘The job’s fine. I’m sure the job’s yours for the asking. It’s just. .’ She shrugged, picked at her chilli, then looked up again. ‘Never go backwards, Lou. It never works.’
‘That’s what Jimmy said.’
‘Then believe him. He’s right. One way or another you have to make this work.’ She paused. ‘Is the seaside near here? Only I really fancy a walk on the beach.’
By mid-afternoon, Jimmy Suttle suspected it was all over. He’d tasked a handful of D/Cs to start exploring the new lines of enquiry — Henri Laffont and Kinsey’s vengeful ex-wife — but Nandy was due any time and Suttle knew that Houghton would have told him about the post-mortem. These days, through no fault of his own, Nandy had become a juggler, forever trying to keep all the force’s investigative balls in the air. As calls increased on precious Major Crime resources, there were balls he knew he’d have to put to one side, and while he’d never abandon an enquiry that showed genuine promise, he was bound by the iron demands of the Criminal Prosecution Service. No one had ever invented a form for a hunch, and if there was no evidence to suggest that Kinsey had died at someone else’s hands, then Detective Superintendent Nandy would be moving swiftly on.
He arrived at the makeshift office within the hour. Suttle briefed him on the problems Kinsey had been facing in his business and personal life and tallied the actions he’d commissioned to find out more. Nandy nodded, unimpressed. No one, he said, got that rich without making enemies. That was one of the joys of capitalism, something you could rely on, but from where he was sitting there wasn’t a particle of evidence that a pissed-off Swiss engineer or a homicidal ex-wife had chucked Kinsey into oblivion. The thing just didn’t fly. While he was happy to have Suttle’s D/Cs complete their preliminary enquiries in both instances, he was minded to redeploy the rest of the squad.
‘Including me, sir?’
‘No.’ Nandy closed the door. ‘Carole tells me you’ve been under some pressure lately.’
‘Does she?’ Suttle was astonished.
‘Yeah. Not much gets by her, believe me. You should be grateful, son.’ He paused. ‘Everything OK at home?’
‘Yeah. .’ Suttle ducked his head. ‘More or less.’
‘Good to hear it. From tomorrow onwards I want you to take over the Constantine file and prepare it for the Coroner. We’re looking at a couple of weeks, max. That’s the good news. The bad news is you’re on your own. Happy with that?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘If you really need help D/I Houghton might release D/C Golding on a temporary basis but that’s absolutely last resort. We understand each other?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Any questions? Anything you’re not clear about?’
Suttle gave the question some thought, then nodded.
‘Yes, sir. What happens if. .?’
‘If what?’
‘If I end up believing there’s grounds for further investigation?’
‘Then you lift the phone — ’ he offered Suttle the ghost of a smile ‘- and we crank it all up again.’
It was gone six by the time Lizzie and Gill returned to the rowing club compound. They’d spent the afternoon on the beach at Exmouth, walking the couple of miles past the ochre jut of Orcombe Point and onwards to the distant wall of rock that marked the end of Sandy Bay. It was low tide and the sand was firm underfoot. Oystercatchers were feasting on the weed-strewn rocks at the water’s edge and in the distance they could hear the pock-pock of live firing from the Royal Marines’ range at Straight Point.
Gill’s delight at what they’d stumbled on was unfeigned, and even Lizzie had to admit that this stretch of God’s coastline was pretty special. Gill had insisted on carrying Grace, who was already getting too big for the chest sling, but she and Gill seemed to be friends at last, and Gill paused every now and again to show her something that had caught her eye. The beach was big and bare and flawless, gleaming as the sun began to sink, and when a couple of horses appeared, clattering awkwardly down the concrete slip from the caravan camp above, the picture was complete. They thundered past, splashing through the shallows, heading back towards Exmouth, and the noise and the movement drew shrieks of pleasure from Grace. Lizzie had remembered to pack a couple of spare bottles and some mashed-up swede in case she got hungry, but as they approached the rowing club she seemed content.
Gill’s Megane was parked beyond the compound. Lizzie had told her all about Jimmy’s suggestion that she join and Gill was adamant that she should, at the very least, give the thing a try. She was curious about this new departure in Lizzie’s life and demanded a look at what lay in store. When they got to the compound, the doors to the clubhouse were open. Lizzie hung back, a little uncertain, but Gill wasn’t having it.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘We need to do this.’
Lizzie knew she was right. She negotiated the steps up to the clubhouse and pushed in through the door. The near-darkness took her by surprise. She could make out shapes on the rowing machines, three of them. Slowly, one by one, they came to a halt. They were all women.
Lizzie explained she’d come for a look, apologised for the interruption.
‘Not at all. Are you interested?’ The nearest woman had got off her machine and extended a hand. She said her name was Tessa. When Lizzie confirmed that she fancied having a go, Tessa grinned.
‘No problem.’
‘Now?’
‘If you like. You don’t need the anorak. Runners and jeans are fine. Nothing strenuous. Just the basics.’
Lizzie gave her jacket to Gill. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She perched on the seat which slid up and down towards a tiny electronic screen. A handle was attached to a flywheel by a chain. The trick, said Tessa, was to use the muscles that really mattered to get the flywheel spinning.
She strapped Lizzie’s feet into the footstretchers beneath the screen, asked her to take a pull or two and stepped back to watch. With a glance towards Gill, Lizzie did her bidding. She’d never been on a rowing machine in her life.
‘You’re bending your arms way too early.’ This from Tessa. ‘The real power comes from your legs. Push away and use your arms as levers. Only bend them at the end of the stroke. You’ll be amazed at how much difference that makes.’
‘Difference how?’
‘Watch the readout. The figures never lie.’
The other two girls laughed. Too right, they seemed to be saying. Lizzie gave it another go, keeping her arms straight this time. Tessa was right. The numbers zipped forward.
‘Much better. But you’re holding the handle way too tight. It needs to be loose. Right. That’s it. Now concentrate on getting the rhythm. It’s a cycle. Your body leans forward, your hands go over your knees, you push back with the legs to take the stroke, you tuck the handle under your ribcage, then it’s hands away quickly and you repeat the cycle all over again. Excellent. You’re a natural. I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Lizzie.’
‘I’m serious, Lizzie. This could be for you. Am I right, girls?’
There was a murmur of approval. Lizzie was still on the machine, still rowing, trying to get one of the numbers down. According to Tessa this calculated how long she’d take to cover 500 metres. Two minutes seventeen seconds, for a novice, appeared to be OK.
‘More than OK. Now give it some welly. We’re talking flat out. You’ve got a minute. After that we stop.’
Lizzie took it as a challenge. She increased her rate, driving hard against the footplate, trying to keep her back straight as she took the stroke, throwing her hands forward, keeping the movement going, chasing the numbers on the readout. By now she was fighting for breath, the lactic acid beginning to scald the muscles in her calves and thighs, the numbers dancing in front of her eyes. She could feel the sweat beneath her T-shirt, on her face. Two minutes ten. Two minutes seven. Two minutes six.