‘I believe you. You’re good at that. You must have lots of practice.’
‘Good at what?’
‘Listening.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ He gestured loosely at the space between them. ‘Only I had a different impression.’
‘I expect that was my fault. I always dive into things. It used to get me into all kinds of trouble.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ He caught the ball as it fell from the table and gave it another squeeze. ‘You wanted me to fuck you on Saturday, didn’t you?’
‘I wanted us to make love. There might be a difference.’
‘And were you disappointed when we didn’t? Was that why you got so upset?’
Lizzie gazed at him. There were some men who needed to put their smell on everything they touched, and Pendrick, she was beginning to realise, might just be one of them. Territorial was too feeble a word. She shuddered to think what might be more appropriate.
She got up to turn off the electric kettle. As she passed Pendrick he reached out for her.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because. .’ she couldn’t find the words ‘. . stuff’s happened.’
‘You’re right. And I meant everything I said.’
‘About what?’
‘About this khazi of a country. About arseholes like Kinsey. About getting hold of a yacht and doing something sane for once. You were up for that. I could see it in your face. You thought we could do it. Maybe you thought we should do it. Am I right?’
Lizzie didn’t answer. She wanted this man out of her house, out of her life. The last thing she needed was a rerun of Saturday afternoon.
She poured hot water into two mugs and added a tea bag apiece.
‘I haven’t got coffee,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck the coffee. Tell me about Saturday. Tell me you meant it.’
She felt the first stirrings of impatience. She was being as civil as she could. She put the mugs on the table and sat down again. Then she reached for both his hands, removing the ball and dropping it on the floor.
‘You saved my life,’ she said quietly. ‘Twice. I don’t know how many times I have to say thank you but I mean it. I really do.’
Pendrick stared at her. He was confused as well as angry.
‘And that’s it?’
‘I’m afraid so. I haven’t a clue what it is between you and Tash, and if you want the truth I’m not interested. All I know is that this — the house, my marriage, even poor little Grace — took me to a very bad place. You helped me with that. You helped in ways you’ll never ever suspect. For that, I thank you. And I thank you. And I thank you again.’ She bent and kissed his hand. ‘Does that make any sense?’
‘None at all. I know you, Lizzie. I know what you want. I know what’s real to you. I know what really matters. I’ve been around a bit, believe me. And I know.’
To this Lizzie had no answer. They were heading up a cul-de-sac that held nothing but darkness. The last twenty-four hours, she thought she’d left all that behind. She wanted him gone.
‘I’m due at a clinic in half an hour,’ she said. ‘Grace is due a check.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re just trying to make it easy for me. I love that about you. Just the way I love everything else.’ He gave her hand a little squeeze and then picked up the mug.
Lizzie stared at him. She was fast running out of options. There was a hint of madness in this man. Go for broke, she told herself. Double or quits.
‘She stayed the night, didn’t she?’
‘Tash?’ A smile ghosted across his face. ‘No way. If you want the truth, she came round to try and get me to row.’
‘On Sunday morning?’
‘Yeah. She thought we all ought to be together.’
‘Because of Kinsey?’
‘Yes. That seemed to be important for her.’
‘You instead of me?’
‘Yes. It was nothing personal. She’d never even met you.’
‘And you?’
‘I told her I couldn’t do it. Why? Because I couldn’t stand the guy. I also told her I was glad he’d gone. She had a problem with that. She thought I was totally out of order.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Are we friends now?’
It was an impossible question to answer. Lizzie just shook her head and turned away.
‘Leave me alone, please. Let go of my hand.’
‘No problem. My pleasure.’ He nodded next door. ‘You want me to sort that stuff out or not?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Fine.’ He drained the mug and got to his feet. ‘Next time, eh?’
The Golden Dragon lay at the end of a terrace of shops in Heavitree, a scruffy red-brick suburb to the east of Exeter. Suttle found a parking spot in a lay-by across the road. When he asked at the counter for the Twosomes agency, the woman simply pointed upstairs.
Access was via an exterior staircase at the back of the property. The window in the door at the top had been boarded up after some kind of break-in, and there were fresh-looking chisel marks around the Yale lock.
A youngish guy opened the door. He was pale and thin. His patched jeans hung off his bony frame and his trainers had definitely seen better days. As far as Suttle could judge, he was eastern European.
‘Who are you?’ Poor English, heavily accented.
Suttle flashed his warrant card. He’d appreciate a word or two. It needn’t take long.
The guy spent a long time examining the card. Then he asked Suttle to come inside. The room must once have been a kitchen. A jar of instant coffee and an electric kettle stood on the work surface beside a pile of newspapers. Suttle recognised a shot of Cracow on the front page of the top paper. There were scabs of ageing dog shit on the floor and a powerful smell of drains.
Suttle pushed the door shut behind him.
‘I’m investigating a suspicious death,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Exmouth. I need your help. We need to trace this woman.’
He laid the shot from Kinsey’s phone on the work surface. Golding had been right. It exactly matched the photo pinned to the wall board. The guy peered at the proffered shot, then glanced up. He was looking alarmed.
‘You say she’s dead, this woman?’
‘No. I’m saying we need to talk to her. Is that possible?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘She doesn’t speak English. She’s not here. She’s gone away.’
‘Where?’
‘Abroad. I don’t know.’
Lies, Suttle thought.
‘You’re responsible for this woman? You take the bookings?’
‘Yes. Me and my partner.’
‘Who’s your partner?’
‘Mr Wattana. He’s away too.’
‘You keep records?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘When people pay?’
‘Ah. .’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Does that matter?’
‘It might.’
Suttle bent forward, closing the distance between them. He needed to get this man onside. He wanted to offer him a word of advice.
‘You need to make a choice here, my friend. Either you let me see your payment records or the whole thing gets much more complicated. The VAT inspector? The tax people?’ He sniffed, looking round. ‘Health and safety?’
The guy shook his head. He wanted to say no. He wanted Suttle out of his face. Suttle was looking at a filing cabinet wedged into an alcove beside the boiler. Judging by the state of the paintwork, it might have come out of a skip.
‘In there, maybe? You want to give me a hand here?’
With some reluctance, the guy followed Suttle across to the cabinet. It was locked. Suttle stepped back while the guy found the key. The middle drawer was packed with files. The guy looked up.
‘You want the same girl?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. The punter’s name was Kinsey.’
He shook his head. He’d never heard of anyone called Kinsey.
‘Little guy? Middle-aged? Drove a Porsche? Big top-floor apartment down in Exmouth? Place called Regatta Court?’
Mention of Regatta Court sparked a nod of recognition. Maybe Kinsey used a false name, Suttle thought.