The latter had taken Suttle to the East Devon District Council website. These people were the planning authority for Exmouth, and a couple of minutes’ research had revealed an application to develop Pier Head, adjacent to Exmouth Quays.
Peggy Brims, once again, had her thumb on the pulse of local life. The architectural drawings showed a towering apartment block that would dwarf everything else in the area. The application was the work of Devon-based property developers. Accompanying the drawings was the usual tosh about gateway locations, iconic structures and local employment opportunities, and Suttle’s suspicions that the sheer size of this proposed monster would have sparked local opposition turned out to be spot on. A call to the Exmouth Journal confirmed a flood of objections. Many of the locals, said the news editor, were outraged.
But did Kinsey really want to help himself to a slice of the action? Or might his interest be limited to the spec purchase of an apartment or two, something way up at the top of the building, an asset he could flog on when prices started to rise again? Suttle had tried to raise some kind of answer from the developers, leaving a message on their switchboard, but so far no one had returned his call.
He finished the Stella and stole upstairs to check on Grace. She was curled in her cot, a corner of the sheet bunched in her tiny hand, oblivious to the world. Back in the living room Suttle tried to map out the coming days. The key to every live enquiry was the Policy Book. Constantine’s had been in the hands of Carole Houghton. She’d now handed it over to Suttle and already he’d drawn on its contents to better understand Constantine’s brief history. Houghton, as he expected, had been characteristically thorough, recording and explaining every investigative decision she’d taken. Suttle’s next task was to add a sheaf of statements, especially from the winning crew, who’d been the last people to see Kinsey alive.
Andy Poole’s statement was already in the file, as was the account Constantine’s D/Cs had taken from Tom Pendrick the night he’d come back from north Cornwall. But both Eamonn Lenahan and Milo Symons would need a revisit for statementing, and Natasha Donovan — Milo’s partner — had yet to be interviewed at all. These calls would now fall to Suttle and he made a mental note to start with Tash Donovan. The word flux kept coming back to him. His years in CID had taught Suttle to discount the likelihood of coincidence. How come both Tash and Peggy Brims had been so interested in ‘flux’?
Suttle was thinking about the single blonde hair and wondering when to make another call on Molly Doyle when his landline rang. It was Luke Golding.
‘How’s it going?’
‘It isn’t, Sarge. I got Scenes of Crime to rip Kinsey’s Steam password from his hard drive and logged on as Jalf.’
‘And?’
‘I got zapped within seconds. Total fucking disaster.’
‘Counterstrike?’
‘Too right. I waited until the game ended and respawned. Survived for a whole minute this time then crashed and burned again. Horrible.’
By now, he said, his performance had begun to attract attention. He wasn’t on headphones for obvious reasons but he’d got a couple of messages. One of the players had asked whether he was pissed. Another, interestingly, thought that Kinsey might have been subbed by his brother. Or more likely his granny. Either way, there was a general consensus that Kinsey had stepped out of his former persona and become someone else. Which was, of course, exactly right.
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. There was a third message. This was definitely kinder.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It wanted to know what the problem was. You want to guess the sender?’
‘ShattAr.’
‘Spot on.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘Nothing. But that’s not the point, Sarge. This one used Kinsey’s real name. He called me Jake. The guy’s in touch. He’s out there. He exists.’
Suttle thought about the implications. At last Kinsey might have found someone he could confide in.
‘So how do we progress this?’ he said at last. ‘What do we do next?’
‘I log on again. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever. Wait for the guy to reappear.’
‘But you’re still pretending to be Kinsey, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So how do you handle him? What do you say?’
‘Number one, I’m still going to be crap at Counterstrike. So the guy’s going to start wondering if I really am Kinsey. So maybe I should go on headphones and have a conversation.’
‘Saying what?’
‘I could tell him Jake’s had a bit of an accident. I could tell him I’m standing in. That way I could maybe get a steer on who this guy is.’
Suttle smiled. A bit of an accident, he thought. He bent to the phone again.
‘And you think that might work?’
‘It might. It’s possible. But there’s another way. Maybe better.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like I log on again as Jalf and wait for him to appear. Then I send him a message asking him to be a Facebook friend.’
‘What if he’s a Facebook friend of Kinsey’s already?’
‘He can’t be. You told me Kinsey wasn’t on Facebook.’
‘You’re right. He wasn’t. Brain-dead, me. So what do we do about that?’
‘I get myself a Facebook page.’
‘As Kinsey?’
‘Of course. Then send this guy a friend request and add a message about Counterstrike so he knows who I am. Fingers crossed, he friends me.’
Suttle nodded in approval. Once ShattAr got in touch, his Facebook profile might give them everything they’d need to have a proper conversation.
‘You really think he’ll do it?’
‘I’ve no idea, Sarge. Worth a try though, eh?’
The line went dead. Outside, after a decent sunset, the light was beginning to die. Suttle got up and went to the window, peering into the gathering darkness. Lately he’d made an effort to tally the jobs that badly needed doing around the property but knew that lists were no substitute for the real thing. He checked his watch, wondering how Lizzie was getting on. Nearly half eight. Late.
Lizzie’s outing with Pendrick was a disaster. Rowing in the double turned out to be a circus act after the comforting embrace of the quad. The slightest wobble, a single mistake with either blade, seemed to threaten a capsize. By the time she and Pendrick got down to the dock, she was ready to give up.
Pendrick was rowing in the bow seat, checking their progress over his shoulder, feeding her instructions as they picked their way through the buoys and moorings. Heavy on green. Go red. Equal pressure. Lizzie tried to process all these commands, turning them into strong tugs on the right-hand oar or the left, but her brain had turned to mush.
In the end Pendrick beached them on the long curve of Dawlish Warren and helped Lizzie get out.
‘Useless,’ she said. ‘Totally fucking hopeless.’
He told her not to be dramatic. Rowing the double after a single outing in the quad was a tough call.
‘So why are we doing it?’
‘Because I thought you could hack it.’
‘Wrong. I can’t.’
‘You can. You just have to relax. Listen to me.’
With infinite patience he pointed out what she was doing wrong. She had to ride the double like a horse. She had to feel the river through her bum. She had to think of the double as a musical instrument, amplifying the suck and nudge of the tide.
‘Listen to your body,’ he said, ‘and you won’t go wrong.’
Lizzie began to laugh. This sounded wildly karmic. She’d tried yoga once and been just as challenged.
A smile ghosted over Pendrick’s face. Maybe he’d got the wrong metaphor, he said. Maybe she should start thinking about the grain of the river, how to feel it, how to make it a friend.