‘Angel Dust?’
‘Young Milo. That’s what she calls him when the drink takes her.’
‘She’s drunk? Christmas night? On the doorstep?’
‘Pissed as a rat. Pendrick gets her in, sits her down, gets her a mince pie or whatever treat he’s giving himself, but she’s not having it. Are we getting the picture here? Pendrick’s under the cosh. And what’s worse, he can’t get rid of her. Took him hours to hose her down. And even then she was still giving him lists of what turned her on.’
‘He was complaining? Pendrick?’
‘Big time. He thought it was gross, and I think I would too. You could arrest a woman like that for something. Rape’s too polite a word.’
‘So she went? In the end.’ Suttle was trying to picture the scene.
‘Yeah. He managed to find a taxi. He stuffed her in the back with a note for Angel Dust. Return to Sender. Happy fucking Christmas.’ Lenahan threw garlic and ginger in the wok and gave it a stir. ‘So there you go. Astral Tash and Angel Dust. What else do you guys want to know?’
They sat down to eat minutes later. Out of deference to Lenahan’s cooking skills, Suttle had changed the subject. The stir fry — prawns with Chinese lettuce — was excellent. His eye, once again, was taken by the scatter of photos on the wall. Some village in sub-Saharan Africa, every shot ablaze with the overwhelming brightness of the sunshine.
Lenahan caught his interest. Winter by the river in Lympstone had been arctic, he said. On Christmas Day, while Pendrick had been fighting Tash off, he’d been trying to get the ice off his crappy old Mondeo in case the call came from the hospital.
‘You miss Africa?’
‘Yeah, I do. Mid-morning you’re talking forty in the shade. By lunchtime it’s fifty. You type with tissue under your wrists to protect the circuits in the laptop from your own sweat. Wherever you go, you end up walking in zigzags just to stay in the shade. It takes for ever to get anywhere.’
‘You speak the language?’
‘No. A couple of words maybe, the odd phrase, but no. And that’s a huge barrier. You know why? Because in my trade the backstory is 90 per cent of the diagnosis. A guy turns up at your door and he looks half dead. He probably is half dead. But if you don’t know what’s been going on in this guy’s head, if you don’t know what he’s been up to, the pair of you are probably stuffed.’
Suttle nodded. He said it was exactly the same in his line of work.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I thought it was all forensics these days? DNA? CCTV? Some other fucking acronym? You’re telling me you have to listen to people?’
‘Exactly. And it’s often what they don’t say that really matters.’
‘Right. Good. Excellent.’ Lenahan took a long swallow of wine. ‘So try me. Any question. Whatever you like.’
‘OK. Let’s go back to Tash.’
‘Anything, my friend. Your call.’
‘Was she shagging Kinsey?’
‘Of course she was.’
‘And did anyone else know? Apart from you?’
‘We all did. She made no secret of it. And neither did Kinsey.’
‘So what did that do for Symons?’
‘Not a lot, the way I read the boy. She’s older than him, of course. Maybe that’s why he hated the word motherfucker.’
‘Who called him that?’
‘Kinsey. When he wanted to wind the poor eejit up.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Never. Kinsey never got his head around conversation, simple stuff like talking to people and not giving them a thousand reasons to punch your lights out. It didn’t stop with Tash, either. He was a walking boast, that man. We all knew he was rich because he kept telling us, and we all knew you could buy girlies for a price if Tash wasn’t enough, but it took Kinsey to treat us to the full à la carte. He was partial to Thai girls. He’d go on about them like it was some kind of meal he’d just had. What they did for him. How he liked them best. Garlic and ginger and a sprinkle or two of soy sauce. Are you getting the picture?’
Suttle nodded. When Lenahan offered seconds he shook his head. He had enough. He was nearly through. Nearly.
‘So when do you go back?’ he said.
‘To the Sudan? The sooner the better. You know something, my friend? I’ve spent the last six months trying to find trouble in paradise but it’s hopeless. There’s no civil war, no bodies by the side of the road, no dodgy situations to talk yourself out of, no so-called drinking water that will probably fry your guts. Everything works, or sort of works, so where’s the challenge? Where’s the fun?’
Trouble in paradise, Suttle thought. Didn’t Kinsey’s death qualify as trouble in paradise?
‘That depends on your definition of paradise. Kinsey had it all, didn’t he? Money? View? Girlies? Astral Tash? Us? Jesus, we even won him a cup. But it wasn’t enough. Because it’s never enough. Kinsey should have taken himself off to Africa. He should have seen the half-open eyes of the starving. That might have done him some good.’ He reached for his glass again and then paused, struck by another thought. ‘You’re asking me for a diagnosis? Is that it? You want a hand here? From your tame little medic? The wild Irish guy from out yonder? You want a steer on what happened?’
‘Go for it.’
‘Kinsey ended up dead because he had too much. The poor wee guy choked to death on all that stuff. Me? I’d chuck the whole lot off the balcony. The bling. The money. The goodies. The extras. The Thai girlies. The Porsche. All that dinner-party shit. Everything. The lot. I’m with yer man.’
‘Yer man?’ Suttle was lost.
‘Pendrick. He’s like me, don’t you see that? The guy’s been around a bit. He’s seen too much.’ He tapped his head. ‘Think too hard about what we’ve become and you end up fucking ruined.’
Lizzie was wondering about giving Jimmy a ring when she caught the sound of footsteps outside. Puzzled to know why she hadn’t heard the Impreza, she got to her feet and went through to the kitchen. It was dark outside. She checked her watch. Nearly half nine. She switched on the light. She sensed a movement beyond the door that led to the patio. Then she heard a noise, a hard metallic noise, a snip. She froze, knowing now that there was somebody out there. She hadn’t heard the Impreza because there was no Impreza. Someone else, God help me.
She edged slowly around the table. The door was unbolted. She’d been expecting Jimmy any time. Then a shape emerged from the darkness, someone big, someone clad in black. Black jacket, black T-shirt, black jeans, black everything. The whiteness of a face pressed itself against the glass panel in the door. A hand lifted wearily in salute. Pendrick.
He let himself in. He’d been drinking heavily. She could smell it. He reached for the support of the table, unsteady on his feet. Then he sank into a chair. He wanted to talk to her. He needed to explain one or two things. She wasn’t to take offence. She wasn’t to be frightened. He’d do her no harm. He’d never do her any harm. He’d treasure her for ever. And that was a promise.
‘Where have you been?’
‘The pub. Up the road.’ He nodded vaguely towards the garden. ‘The Otter? I left the van there.’
She stared at him. His eyes seemed to have lost focus. There was a terrible emptiness in his face. He seemed unaware of where he was, of how he’d got here, of what was supposed to happen next.
‘Get out of my house,’ she said softly. ‘Please.’