‘TF2, Sarge. I cracked it.’
Suttle had almost forgotten about Team Fortress 2. Golding, it turned out, had spent most of the last couple of days on the Internet. It happened to be his weekend off and he’d hooked up with ShattAr on three separate occasions. During the third game he’d saved the guy’s life, not just once but on four separate occasions, and this had been enough to finally coax a reply from his earlier message. He’d wanted a link to ShattAr’s Facebook profile. And he’d finally got it.
‘His real name’s Zameer Akhtar, Sarge. And as far as I can judge, he lives in Leeds.’
‘Zameer what?’
‘Akhtar.’ Golding wrote it down for Suttle’s benefit.
‘You’ve PNC’d him?’
‘Yeah. The guy just picked up a twelve months suspended for possession.’
Suttle raised an eyebrow. He’d been expecting a sleek Pakistani businessman, not a lowlife druggie.
‘Have you talked to the locals?’
‘Yeah, I got through to their intel set-up in Wakefield. They’re busy as fuck just now but the woman promised to come back before close of play. I gave her your name and number, Sarge. Happy days, eh?’
Suttle was looking at the pile of bank statements. Kinsey had business connections in Leeds. He made regular visits on Flybe. The recurrence of the name Akhtar had to be more than coincidence. Were these two people brothers or was there some other family connection?
He glanced up. He wanted to know how Golding was getting on with the Exeter escort agencies.
‘That was the other thing, Sarge. I think I’ve nailed the girl in the photo we ripped from Kinsey’s phone. She works for an outfit called Twosomes. They operate out of a grungy little room over a Chinese takeaway in Heavitree. Real shit hole.’
‘They ID’d the photo?’
‘Of course not. But there was a mug shot on a wallboard. I swear it was the same woman.’ He paused and shot Suttle a grin. ‘Maybe you should take a look.’
By lunchtime Lizzie was nearing the end of her list of thank you phone calls. Tessa had been more than understanding. The girls, she said, were thinking of buying Lizzie a safety belt for use in the boat, while Clive, the Club Captain, was definitely going to nominate her for the Cock-Up of the Year Award. Molly Doyle had successfully kept the details of the incident from the local press and was anticipating great coverage for the tribute ceremony and the row-through. The Kinsey crew, meanwhile, had been so impressed by Lizzie’s capacity to hold her breath underwater that she was in some danger of becoming a regular sub.
‘Sub? Submarine? Get it?’ Andy Poole roared with laughter, wished her well and hung up.
Lizzie’s last call went to Tash Donovan. When she admitted she still wanted to row, Donovan told her she must have balls of steel.
‘You’re coming out again? After something like that?’
‘Of course I am. If anyone’ll have me.’
‘You’re famous, girl. We talk of nothing else. Invites to row? Shall I make a list?’
Touched by the gentle piss-takes, Lizzie sat down and wrote a semi-formal letter to Molly Doyle. She wanted the club to know that she was sorry for letting everyone down and grateful for all the calls and support she’d received since. She would definitely be keeping her foot straps looser from now on and looked forward to the next outing. Hopefully, she added, she might even make it back in one piece. She signed herself Lizzie Borden in keeping with the pact she’d made with Jimmy.
Sitting at the kitchen table, rereading the letter, she glimpsed a wraith-like presence behind the careful prose. It was like writing to someone about a bereavement. Her old gloomy self seemed to have passed away. All you need, she thought, is a half a minute or so underneath a moving boat with a lungful of seawater sloshing around inside you. Near-death experiences cure anything.
She glanced through the door into the living room. Grace was asleep on a pair of cushions in her playpen. Every day the shafts of sunlight edged down the back wall as the sun rose higher in the sky. At last the house was beginning to dry out. Soon, with a helping hand or two, Chantry Cottage might even feel like a proper home.
The knock at the kitchen window made her jump. For a moment she had no idea who it was, then her blood froze. Pendrick was wearing a pair of blue overalls and a black beanie. He seemed to be tapping his watch. There was no way she could ignore him but her instinct was to pretend he wasn’t there, to somehow turn the clock back to this time last week when she’d never heard of the guy. Then she got to her feet, telling herself that this was the man who’d probably saved her life. The very least she owed him was a thank you.
She opened the kitchen door, standing aside as he stepped past her. He looked around the way a buyer might, noting this detail and that, not bothering to hide his curiosity. Lizzie was fighting hard to keep the smile on her face.
‘Grace?’ Pendrick was peering into the living room.
‘Yeah. Don’t wake her up, whatever you do.’
‘She’s lovely.’
Lizzie didn’t know what he meant, didn’t know what he was doing here. Trespass wasn’t a word she would ever use lightly but this felt very close.
‘How did you know where we live?’
‘You told me Colaton Raleigh. I asked down in the village. Lovely young mum? Sweet little girl? Can’t be that much competition round here.’
Lizzie was filling the kettle. Half an hour, she told herself. Tops.
‘Tea?’
‘Coffee if you’ve got it.’
He’d disappeared behind the living-room door. Lizzie found him crouching in a corner, examining one of the sockets that was fast parting company with the skirting board. She’d mentioned the state of the place when they’d been up in north Cornwall. Bad move.
Pendrick had moved on to the radiator under the windowsill. The bowl to catch the drips from the leak was half full. He gave it a poke and grunted something Lizzie didn’t catch.
‘Sugar?’ she said brightly. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Two.’ He didn’t look round. ‘The socket’ll take no time at all. The radiator’s trickier. I’ll have to drain the system.’
‘Who said you need to?’
‘You’ll have a flood otherwise.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know.’ He was on his feet again, looking down at her. ‘We need to talk about Saturday night. Am I right?’
‘No. I need to thank you for what you did on Sunday morning. I should have phoned. I should have thanked you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Without you, I might have drowned.’
‘Who says?’
‘The people at the hospital. The medics.’
This news put a smile on Pendrick’s face. He took a seat at the kitchen table, reached for one of Grace’s toys, a squashy rubber ball, and began to play with it. He looked strangely relaxed. This might have been his own home.
‘Right time, right place.’ He shrugged. ‘If only. . eh?’
‘If only what?’ Lizzie was mystified again.
‘If only I’d been able to do the same for Kate.’
‘But I thought you said she wanted to go overboard. That it was her decision.’
‘Yeah. But it didn’t make it any easier, did it?’
‘For her?’
‘For me.’ He was crushing the ball now. It had disappeared beneath the whiteness of his huge knuckles. ‘You know Tash, right?’
‘Yes. I met her yesterday.’
‘That was her at my place on Saturday night, in case you were wondering.’
‘Fine.’ It was Lizzie’s turn to shrug. ‘And why not?’
‘You don’t care? You don’t want to know more?’
‘No.’
‘OK. So why did you come round?’
‘Because I was upset about something. Because I wanted to talk.’
‘Fine. Go ahead.’
‘There’s no point. It’s resolved. It’s finished. It’s over.’
Pendrick released the ball and watched it roll slowly towards the edge of the table. He seemed to have lost interest in the socket and the radiator.
‘Tash and me are friends. Just friends. She comes round sometimes when Milo’s driving her crazy. We talk. That’s pretty much it.’