Suttle, meanwhile, banked nearly £37,000 in euros. That same afternoon he wrote a cheque for exactly the same amount and sent it to Lizzie. He’d talked to her a couple of times on the phone, prior to nonsense conversations with his daughter, and had managed to avoid a row. Soon, he promised Grace, he’d be down to Pompey to take her out for a treat or two. Whatever else happened, he explained sternly, she wasn’t to forget him.
His relationship with Gina Hamilton, meanwhile, appeared to have stalled. Performance reviews had given way to some kind of operational involvement in a long-running corruption case and she was working all hours. For his own part, Suttle was equally under the cosh. A pensioner couple had been found battered to death in their Sidmouth bungalow and to date no one had a clue who’d done it.
Late one night, as knackered as ever, Suttle lifted the phone to Gina Hamilton. Still numb from losing his daughter, he’d begun to hate the silence of Chantry Cottage. Most television these days was for the brain-dead, and conversations with the cat were a poor substitute for real life.
‘I miss you,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Be honest, Jimmy. I know exactly what you’re missing.’ She laughed. ‘Me too, as it happens.’
Three weeks later, for the first time, Lizzie had a girlie night on the town with Gill Reynolds. Gill had forgiven her for walking out on Chantry Cottage and they were friends again. They went to a bar in Gunwharf, a minute’s walk from Paul Winter’s old apartment. Lizzie had banked the cheque from her estranged husband and was quietly checking house prices in Southsea. Jimmy would, in the end, turn his back on the West Country. Of this she was quite certain.
For a Friday night the bar was unusually empty. Gill had just booked a holiday in Sri Lanka, a fortnight she intended to share with her latest conquest. This was a guy she’d been dating for less than a month, but already she knew that she’d stumbled on someone who would change her life.
‘He’s really bright, Lou.’ She sucked the last of her vodka and Red Bull. ‘And the good news is he loves me.’
‘Married?’
‘Yeah. For now.’
‘Kids?’
‘Two.’
‘So how’s he going to explain a couple of weeks in Sri Lanka?’
‘No idea. I’ve already bought the tickets, though, so there has to be a way.’
It was at this point that Lizzie’s mobile began to ring. Not recognising the number, she ignored it. Moments later it rang again. Same number. This time it was a text with an accompanying photo. Gill had gone to the bar for refills. Lizzie stared at the text. For a second or two it made no sense, a message from a distant planet, just random nonsense. Then she forced herself to look again, to piece it together and try and understand. ‘She’s a beauty, I promise you. Any time you fancy it. XXXX’
Lizzie’s finger strayed to the attachment. She opened the photo. It was Pendrick. He looked thinner and somehow younger. He was standing in the cockpit of a sizeable yacht. The yacht was anchored in some kind of lagoon. Pearl-white sand. A fringe of palm trees. Not a soul on the beach. Pendrick was grinning the way she recognised from the photos she’d found in his file box. And he was blowing her a kiss.
Lizzie stared at the image, at the beach, at the nut-brown figure so carefully posed against the view. This was a face that she barely remembered, from a time she wanted to forget. So far, the police had shown no interest in calling her back for another interview and for that she was deeply grateful.
‘Lou?’ Gill was back with the drinks. She’d seen the photo. ‘Who’s that?’
Lizzie didn’t answer, shielding the phone. Gill wasn’t having it.
‘Show me, Lou. Gimme, you old slapper.’
Lizzie shook her head. The image of Pendrick still hung on the tiny screen. She gazed at it a moment longer, telling herself to get a new mobile, then her finger found the delete command and the face was gone.