‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
Lizzie explained about a call she’d taken from one of the girls at the rowing club. After the wreath tribute on Sunday the crews were returning to the compound for a naming ceremony. The newest boat was to be called the Jake Kinsey after the guy who’d so generously signed the cheque. With luck, the media might use it as a photo opportunity.
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Suttle pointed out.
‘I know. We have to sort the compound out. Make it look half decent. A bunch of us are meeting at ten. I couldn’t say no.’
‘And that takes all day?’
‘I’ve no idea. Judging by the state of the place, it might well do.’
Suttle studied her for a moment, loosening his tie.
‘And Sunday?’
‘We’ve got the tribute thing. I have to go, Jimmy. There’s no way I can’t.’
‘OK.’ Suttle shrugged. ‘Whatever. .’
He turned away, trying to mask his anger, but she knew him too well to be fooled.
‘It was your idea, Jimmy.’
‘What?’
‘The rowing club.’
‘You’re right. So it’s me and Grace then. All weekend.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ She still hadn’t moved. ‘Welcome to my little world.’
Seven
SATURDAY, 16 APRIL 2011
Lizzie was out of the cottage by nine o’clock. Suttle was still in bed with Grace, celebrating last night’s escape with a lie-in. In truth, he’d no idea where Lizzie was really going but supposed the compound clean-up was at least semi-plausible. Whatever happened, he was certain that Pendrick would be around. Time and again he tried to fight off the image of his wife and one of Kinsey’s star rowers on the beach. He’d seen the grin on Lizzie’s face. He knew exactly what it meant.
She’d been that way with him once, playful and reckless, happy to surrender to something new and faintly exotic in her life. Suttle was a cop. She’d never fucked a cop before. More to the point, she really fancied him. That’s what had taken them to bed the first time and all the times after that, and when he’d recognised there was something really substantial there, something important, the knowledge had been all the sweeter because the laughter and the often brilliant sex had never stopped. Even pregnancy and motherhood hadn’t diminished her appetite for that raw enjoyment of each other, and it was only after the move west that married life had begun to seize up. They’d almost stopped talking. They’d definitely stopped laughing. And even the prospect of sex had become strangely awkward, something best avoided in case it sparked a row.
Suttle waited until the burble of the Impreza had disappeared down the lane. The temptation was to have a prowl around the bedroom in case Lizzie had left her mobile. Maybe she’d added Pendrick to her contacts file. Maybe they’d been texting each other. Maybe the other contents of her bag might yield a clue or two. He eyed the scatter of clothes she’d left beneath the window, wondering whether he really wanted to treat his own bedroom as some kind of crime scene, then decided against it. Grace, he knew, would be hungry. Thank God for someone else in his life.
Downstairs, he strapped Grace into her high chair in front of the TV while he went into the kitchen. Lizzie had forgotten to get the puréed banana out of the fridge so he put a saucepan of water on the stove to warm it up. Next door he could hear Grace kicking her legs in time to Horrid Henry. Even with the crap reception, the TV seemed to have become a permanent guest in the house, masking the never-ending drips that penetrated the silence.
Suttle went out onto the patio and put a call through to the Pompey number Marie had given him. The rain had cleared overnight and there was a clarity and brightness to the sunshine that lifted his spirits.
The number answered at once. Pompey accent again but a different voice.
‘I know you,’ Suttle said.
‘You do, son. You do.’
‘Dave Fallon.’
‘The same.’
Dave Fallon was an ex-6.57 who now ran one of Pompey’s biggest cab companies. He’d always been a special favourite of Mackenzie’s, a trusted lieutenant in the legendary Millwall rucks in the late 80s and a tactician of genius when it came to laying siege to some of the tastier away firms. Fallon affected a gruff Pompey swagger that led people to dismiss him as a mush, but Suttle had never been fooled. Mackenzie, he knew, had rated Fallon as one of the city’s top businessmen.
‘We need to meet, son,’ Fallon said.
‘Why?’
‘There’s no way I’m going into this on the phone. It has to be Monday night. You decide where.’
Suttle gave the proposition some thought. He didn’t want to go back to Pompey again. Not yet.
‘How about halfway?’ he said. ‘I’m in Devon.’
‘Wherever, mush. Your call. Have a think and bell me back, yeah?’
The phone went dead. Suttle checked on Grace then stepped back into the sunshine. Gina Hamilton was slower to pick up.
‘You,’ she said.
‘Me,’ Suttle agreed.
‘Get home OK?’
‘No.’
When he told her about the patrol car she laughed.
‘Your own fault,’ she said. ‘You should have stayed.’
She’d decided to turn the memory of last night into a joke, Suttle thought. Better that than more angst.
‘I need a favour,’ he said.
‘Another one?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So was I.’
‘Your husband. .’
‘John?’
‘Yeah. You told me he was in Bournemouth. If I asked nicely, would he mind my back on Monday night?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ She was laughing again. ‘I’ll give you his number and you can ask him yourself. Send him my best, eh?’
It was still early when Lizzie got to the rowing club. Tessa was already there with a couple of the other girls and they’d wheeled out the heavy boats prior to attacking the tangle of weeds that threatened to engulf the corners of the compound. A young guy Lizzie had never met was trying to coax some life out of a strimmer while a bunch of juniors lounged on the wooden steps of the Portakabin, enjoying the sunshine.
Over the next hour or so more rowers turned up to lend a hand to sort out the Portakabin, and by late morning the job was done. Tessa took Lizzie to one side. She’d broached an idea to the club captain about tomorrow’s tribute on the water and he’d given it the thumbs up.
With the exception of the newest quad, the Kinsey boat, the club’s entire fleet would be holding station off the dock. Upstream, meanwhile, the new quad would be waiting with Kinsey’s crew aboard. The moment the wreath hit the water they’d scull downstream at racing speed, carving a path through the fleet. Kinsey had been forty-one when he died. Once the quad passed the wreath, they’d put in another forty-one strokes before drifting to a halt and waiting for the rest of the fleet to catch them up. This little piece of maritime theatre, in Tessa’s view, would provide a focus for the cameras, the press, and however many spectators chose to turn up.
‘Great.’ Lizzie was wondering what this had to do with her.
‘It’s a question of the crew. Kinsey’s obviously no longer with us and Tom Pendrick’s decided he doesn’t want to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve no idea. Ask him.’
Tash Donovan, she said, had agreed to stand in for Pendrick, which left one empty seat at bow.
‘So who have you got?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah. Clive and I agreed that we needed the newest recruit in bow. Clive thinks it’s symbolic, a vote of faith in the future. It’s a nice line for the press too.’ Clive Knightly was the club captain.
‘But I’m a novice,’ Lizzie pointed out.
‘That’s exactly the point.’
‘Racing speed? Are you serious?’
‘You’ll pick it up. Clive’s impressed already. We all are.’
‘Did you see me in the double the other night?’