Suttle binned the idea of a sandwich and drove down to Exmouth Quays. Number 31 was on the third floor, served by the same lift as Kinsey’s flat. Peggy Brims came to the door the moment Suttle knocked. She was a big woman, nudging sixty, beautifully dressed. She walked with the aid of a stick and was followed everywhere by a small brown dog. The dog’s name was Pétain.
‘As in Maréchal, young man. How much do you know about French history?’
‘Very little.’
‘Petain? The hero of Verdun? The saviour of la belle France? Went to seed later but a great, great man. Do you drink vermouth by any chance?’
She led him through to the sitting room at the front of the apartment. This was a miniature version of Kinsey’s view, smaller but no less impressive. Suttle was watching a yellow kayak crabbing across the tide when he felt a glass in his hand. Dry Martini with a single green olive.
‘Salut. What shall I call you?’
Suttle had already shown her his warrant card. She wasn’t interested in surnames.
‘I shall call you André,’ she announced. ‘We must raise a glass to those imps in the City. Did I mention the Libor rate? I’m deeply, deeply concerned.’
Suttle hadn’t the faintest what she was talking about. The Martini must have been 90 per cent gin. He wanted to know about Kinsey.
Peggy had settled on a long crescent of sofa. Suttle had last seen furniture like this in a National Trust property he’d visited with Lizzie before the baby arrived. There were pictures on the wall, the frames equally ornate, that oozed money and taste. Dark landscapes in oil. Maritime etchings with a naval flavour that took him back to Pompey. He was beginning to wonder whether she entertained coach parties at the weekend when she reached across and tapped him lightly on the arm. She couldn’t get this horrible man out of her mind.
‘Kinsey?’
‘Of course. He was thoroughly unpleasant, I’m afraid. No class. Absolutely no breeding. Which, of course, is why he did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘Had those little girls round.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘The girls. The oriental girls. The girls in the lift. They belonged on my mantlepiece, some of them. Truly exquisite. A couple, one in particular, I even talked to.’
‘Where?’
‘In the lift. A pretty, pretty little thing. I was worried about cholera then. They used to call it the flux. I expect you know that.’
The word flux brought Suttle’s head up. Milo Symons had used exactly the same term when he was talking about his film. Flux, he’d said. Tasha’s idea.
‘You discussed cholera with the girl in the lift?’
‘I did. I think she was alarmed. I hope she was alarmed. She didn’t say much. One has a duty in this life. Bad news should be shared. Don’t you agree, André?’
She emptied her glass and held it out. Suttle refilled it from the cocktail shaker on the sideboard. A line of nicely mounted black and white photos featured a couple in their early twenties. Peggy was watching him in the huge mirror that dominated the wall opposite.
‘My ma and pa, André. Pa served in the Diplomatic Corps before the war. A handsome man, my father. Knew nothing of the flux.’
Suttle wanted to be sure about Kinsey. ‘These girls were definitely going up to his flat?’
‘Of course.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I accompanied them. Just to make sure they came to no harm.’
‘No harm how?’
‘En route, André.’ Her face darkened. ‘Highwaymen.’
‘In the lift?’
‘Everywhere. Partout. Of course they never tell you in the brochure, and there’s another thing.’
‘What?’
‘That man Kinsey. He had twelve fingers, you know. Ten for himself, and two for special pies.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand? The fingers?’
‘The pies.’
‘Ah, my poor André, mon pauvre. Viens. Come. .’ She struggled off the sofa, gathered up the dog in her spare arm and led Suttle through to a bedroom. The window was framed with heavily ruched curtains and offered a view of the dockside and the waterfront beyond. Immediately below was the stretch of promenade where Kinsey had met his death.
‘There. .’ A quivering finger indicated something in the distance.
‘Where?’
‘There. Beyond those hideous flats. That’s where they’re going to build the next one. They call it Pier Head. And you know who wanted to put his snout in that ghastly trough?’
‘Kinsey?’
‘Of course. My André. . so quick off the mark.’ She patted his arm, delighted at this meeting of minds, then led him back to the sitting room.
‘I need to be sure about these girls,’ Suttle said. ‘Would you recognise them again?’
‘Of course.’
‘If I brought photographs?’
‘A great pleasure, André. You’ll take care on the way out? After dark is worse, of course, but daylight can be equally unnerving. You understand my drift?’
Suttle was still on his feet. The interview was evidently over.
‘Of course,’ he said ‘because of the highwaymen.’
‘Wrong, my dear André,’ she was beaming now. ‘Because of the flux.’
Mark was still at Totnes when Suttle phoned him. Suttle wanted to know about Kinsey’s seized iPhone.
‘Did you go through all the pictures?’
‘No. There were hundreds,’ said the CSI.
‘Where’s the phone now?’
‘Back in the office. I’ve bagged it for analysis. Mr Nandy’s definitely got the inside track with the techies. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.’
‘I need it faster than that.’
‘Do it yourself, then. Ask for Lola. She’s got the magic key.’
Suttle drove across to Scenes of Crime at Heavitree Road to take a look at the iPhone. Lola wasn’t prepared to release it. If Suttle was going to go through Kinsey’s pictures there had to be someone else on hand to testify he hadn’t inserted any new material. Otherwise there might be evidential problems down the line in court.
Suttle shrugged. More and more these days detectives had to put up with this kind of procedural nonsense but he understood the logic and knew he had no choice.
‘Splash of milk, please,’ he said. ‘No sugar.’
He settled down to await her return before boredom drove him to scroll through Kinsey’s address book. He had a printout of this already but needed to remind himself about Molly Doyle, the rowing club secretary. A single blonde hair had the makings of a serious interview. He scribbled down her number as his coffee arrived. Lola, it turned out, was a busy girl. Time to browse Kinsey’s gallery.
The first sequence of shots were trophy views from Kinsey’s penthouse. April had sparked a series of sensational sunsets and Kinsey had taken full advantage. Next came photos snapped from an accompanying launch on what Suttle assumed was a training row. He recognised the elfin figure of Lenahan in the cox’s seat and the towering bulk of Pendrick rowing behind the stroke. Milo Symons was in the number two seat with Kinsey himself in bow. These were very telling. Only Kinsey ever stole a glance towards the camera. And only Kinsey’s blades were ever out of sync with the rest of the crew. Stick insect, Suttle thought. Another of Tasha Donovan’s little phrases.
‘What exactly are we looking for?’ Lola was on the meter. She had another ten minutes, absolute max.
‘We’ll know it when we see it.’ Suttle was looking at a matchless crescent of sand softened on the landward side by a line of dunes. An offshore wind had sculpted the incoming tide into surf to die for, and the blueness of the water was dotted with tiny black figures waiting for the perfect wave.