Back downstairs, Suttle found himself looking at a plate of blueberries. His hunger had gone but he accepted a spoonful of cream.
‘You’re big on Amy Winehouse?’
Hamilton was pouring herself another glass of wine. Nearly a bottle so far, thought Suttle.
‘You’ve been in my bedroom.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m curious.’
‘About what?’
‘About you. About this. .’ He gestured around.
She nodded, sipped the wine.
‘Are we talking intel here? Or something else?’
‘You tell me.’
‘You think your luck’s in? You fancy a quickie before you go?’
Suttle didn’t answer. She was drunk now, something that probably happened night after night, and he sensed her neediness. He very definitely didn’t want to hurt her but he understood all too clearly where this might lead.
He reached out and took her hand.
‘I’m glad I came,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I needed to talk.’
‘Great. Happy to oblige.’ She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded down at the number scrawled on the back of his hand. ‘That’s a Portsmouth code. You want to tell me more?’
Suttle shook his head. He had to go. The meal had been great. Maybe they could meet again, his shout next time.
She looked at him, saying nothing, then her eyes went to the bottle and she lifted an enquiring eyebrow.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
She accompanied him to the front door. He was reaching for the latch when he felt her hand on his arm
‘There’s something I meant to tell you,’ she said, ‘about Pendrick.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It turns out he kept half of the insurance settlement. That’s three hundred grand.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I checked on the charity’s website.’ She offered him a weary smile. ‘That’s what detectives do, isn’t it? You get that for free, by the way.’
Suttle nodded, then opened the door. ‘I’ll be in touch, yeah?’
‘Yeah?’
They both stepped out into the night air. Suttle held her for a moment. She was shivering in the cold. He kissed her briefly, thanked her again for the pasta and headed for the garden gate. The car door unlocked, he turned to wave goodbye but she’d gone.
Suttle was pushing 90 mph on the outside lane of the A38 when, too late, he saw the police car tucked into a lay-by. The road was empty. He throttled back and hoped to God they hadn’t tracked him with the radar gun. The patrol car had already pulled out and was accelerating hard. Then came the flashing blue light and Suttle knew they were going to give him a tug.
He was in the slow lane now, still decelerating, trying to play the good citizen. On his side of the carriageway he was the only vehicle for at least half a mile. He had to be the target. Had to be.
The patrol car was beside him now, the pale face in the passenger seat checking him out. He signalled Suttle to pull over. The next lay-by was a couple of hundred metres ahead. At a steady 40 mph, Suttle was trying to work out exactly how many glasses of wine he’d had. Two? Three? Getting pulled for speeding was one thing. Failing the breathalyser would land him with a driving ban, a disciplinary charge and possible suspension. Without a licence, the Job and life in general would become a nightmare. Not good.
The patrol car followed him into the lay-by. Both officers got out and approached the Impreza. The guy in the passenger seat squatted beside Suttle’s door. The wind had got up and rain pebbled on his hi-vis jacket.
‘Do you have your licence, sir? May I see it?’
Suttle produced his licence. The patrol officer scanned it quickly and handed it back. He was in his mid-forties. He looked unforgiving.
‘Where have you come from, sir?’
‘Modbury.’
‘And you’re going to. .?’
‘Home. Colaton Raleigh.’
‘Are you aware that you were exceeding the speed limit just now?’
‘Yeah.’
The patrol officer nodded. He’d caught the sour taint of alcohol on Suttle’s breath. Then his eyes strayed to the dashboard where Suttle had left a pass for the MCIT car park at Middlemoor.
‘In the Job, are you, sir?’
‘Yeah.’
‘CID?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you been drinking by any chance, sir?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, well. .’ The beginnings of a smile ghosted across the big face. Uniforms liked nothing better than nailing pissed detectives.
‘Out of the car if you please, sir.’
Suttle did what he was told. The officer read him the caution and warned him that he faced arrest if he failed a breathalyser test. The rain was heavier now and Suttle was soaking in seconds but he didn’t much care. One way or another, the next minute or so might decide the fate of his entire career.
The officer had returned to the patrol car to fetch the breathalyser. Suttle waited in the rain, wondering whether he should — after all — have stayed at Gina Hamilton’s place. Then he put the thought out of his mind. What will be will be. Fuck it.
The officer returned with the breathalyser. Suttle blew into the tube. The PC watched the figures on the readout climb and climb. His mate had joined him by now. Their backs were turned and Suttle caught a mumbled exchange before the officer was back in his face. The reading was just short of the figure that would haul him back to the nick for a blood test and a great deal of paperwork.
‘Who’s a lucky boy then?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. ‘Would you step this way, sir?’
Suttle sat in the patrol car while the PC wrote up his details for the speeding offence. Ninety-two mph would probably earn him a three-point deduction and a biggish fine. The deduction was no problem, and though the fine was a pain in the arse it was nothing compared to what might have happened.
Swamped with relief, Suttle closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the restraint. When the officer asked him whether he had anything to say with regard to his excess speed, he said he wanted to get home. The officer turned and shot him a look.
‘Little woman waiting up is she, sir?’
Suttle held his gaze and then shut his eyes again.
‘I doubt it,’ he said.
He was wrong. Lizzie was downstairs nursing a glass of red wine. Dexter was curled on her lap, ignoring the remains of a fish pie beside the chair.
She looked up as Suttle came in from the kitchen. His hair was plastered against the whiteness of his skull and the rain had darkened his suit.
Lizzie studied him a moment. The cat didn’t stir.
‘Should I ask where you’ve been?’ she said.
‘Sure. Why not?’
Suttle told her about his drive out to Modbury. A D/I called Gina Hamilton lived there.
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Bit of both.’
‘Nice evening?’
‘Not bad. I got stopped on the way back.’
He told her about the traffic car and the breathalyser.
‘And?’
‘I passed.’
‘Not too pissed then? To come home?’
Suttle knew exactly what lay behind the remarks and ignored them. Lizzie, in the parlance, was after the full account. What was this woman like? How come they’d met at her house? Why hadn’t he phoned her earlier? What was so important it couldn’t be done in office hours?
Suttle fetched a towel from upstairs. He’d never lied to Lizzie, and now wasn’t the time to start. He dried his hair as best he could and hung his jacket over the back of the kitchen door.
‘What do you fancy tomorrow?’ he said. ‘I thought we might go into Exeter. There’s a festival thing on.’