Touching Distance

by Graham Hurley

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Jimmy Suttle has barely got his feet under the desk at his new job. Having flown in the face of his superiors on his first big case he now finds himself trying to track down a hugely skilled killer before another innocent dies and before the media tear the force apart. Jimmy is facing a case that could end his career. And his life. Full of a sense of place, sensitive to the deep rooted agonies of a policeman alone and facing disaster, and with a chilling understanding of the motivations of the killer this is a bravura piece of crime fiction that will secure Hurley's reputation and win new readers. (web)

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 353

Sample

SUNDAY, 24 JUNE 2012

D/S Jimmy Suttle was watching a buzzard when he took the call. He’d paused beside the Impreza to swallow the remains of his water after the steep climb back up from the stone circle. The rain had gone, washing away to the east on a strengthening wind. The clouds had parted and it was suddenly a glorious morning, the sun still low in the east, the lone hawk circling high over the nearby tor. Among the scatter of curtained camper vans in the car park was a hippy-looking twenty-something doing t’ai chi among the puddles. Her eyes were closed and she was shaping the dawn-chilled spaces around her with a fluency that stirred Suttle’s interest.

He bent to the phone.

‘It’s supposed to be my weekend off, boss,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m up on the moor.’

‘I know. That’s why I phoned. You’ve got a map?’

Suttle ducked into the Impreza. D/I Houghton was already giving him vehicle details. Black VW Golf. BG 2756 DS.

‘Where, exactly?’ He’d found the right page.

‘Half a mile south of Teigncombe. You’re looking for the road to Chagford. Someone phoned it in. Okehampton sent a couple of officers.’

Suttle had found Teigncombe. Ten minutes, he thought. Max.

‘I’m on it.’ He was back watching the woman doing t’ai chi. ‘Anything else to tell me?’

‘Nothing. Call me when you know the strength.’

He found the Golf parked untidily in the middle of a narrow lane where the bareness of the moorland surrendered to stone-walled fields and the odd cow. The Okehampton officers had closed the lane in both directions and one of them accompanied him to the driver’s side of the car.

Both the driver’s window and the passenger window on the other side of the car had shattered and the figure slumped behind the wheel was covered in tiny fragments of glass. As far as Suttle could judge, he’d taken a single bullet high on his temple. Blood had fountained everywhere, and grey smears of brain material, whitened with bone fragments, clung to the door surrounds behind him.

Suttle studied the driver a moment longer. His hands were folded in his lap, a hint of peace among the carnage, though a thin pinkish liquid was still trickling down his cheek from the entry wound.

‘Try looking from the other side.’

Suttle glanced up at the invitation, then rounded the bonnet and bent to the remains of the passenger window. Half of this man’s head had ceased to exist. The bullet had torn through his brain, shattering his skull. The exit wound was hideous, the jagged plates of bone cupping a glistening soup of grey viscera veined with tiny blood vessels. Suttle stepped back, waving the flies away.

The uniform had done a vehicle check. Michael Corrigan. DOB 26.6.1980. Paignton address.

‘How long have you been up here?’

‘Best part of an hour.’

‘Scenes of Crime?’

‘On their way.’

‘Pathologist? Firearms guy?’

‘They’ve got it in hand.’

Suttle’s eyes returned to the body behind the wheel. Violent death, he knew, had a habit of diminishing people but this guy was an exception. He was still big, still fit-looking: white T-shirt, faded denim shorts, battered Nike runners, tiny curls of black hair on his well-shaped legs. The bareness of what was left of his shaved scalp was tanned a deep brown and there were laughter lines around his eyes. The eyes were open, a startling blue, and he carried a tiny star tattoo behind one ear.

The DOB sounded about right. Michael Corrigan, Suttle thought, shot to death within touching distance of his thirty-second birthday.

‘So who phoned it in?’

‘A woman in London.’

‘London?’

‘Yeah. Plus a couple of others. The duty Inspector’s got the list. He’s expecting your call.’

He scribbled a name and a mobile number and passed it across.

Suttle had stepped away from the Golf. The traffic car was tucked into a passing space further up the lane. The other officer was in the front passenger seat. He had something bulky in his lap.

‘What’s that about?’

‘There was a little boy in the car.’

Suttle returned to the Golf. He’d clocked the baby seat in the back but thought nothing of it.

‘Boy, you say?’

‘Yeah. Maybe a year old? Dunno.’ He stepped back and nodded towards the officer in the traffic car. ‘Thank Christ we had a new box of tissues. The kid was howling his eyes out. There was blood and other stuff, too. All over him.’

Forty minutes later, Suttle met D/I Carole Houghton at the Major Crime complex off the A38 at Ashburton. She was sipping a coffee from the machine in the corridor, her mobile wedged against her ear as she summoned the troops from the far corners of Devon. It was still early, barely half eight. Sundays, the big open office was empty except for a single D/C wrestling with an expenses form. Within an hour or so the place would be full of MCIT detectives. MCIT was cop-speak for Major Crime Investigation Team.

‘Well?’ Houghton wanted to know about the multiple phoneins.

‘They must have been numbers lifted from the guy’s mobile, boss. Someone sent a text to the first three names on his directory. The duty Inspector made return calls. One was the shot guy’s ex. The other two were mates.’

‘This is Corrigan?’

‘Yeah. Michael James.’

‘And the mobile?’

Suttle shook his head. He was trying to find the right change for the coffee machine.

‘Gone,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the number from the duty Inspector. We need to talk to Orange quick time just in case. Ping a few cell sites.’

Houghton eyeballed him a moment. Cell site analysis would reveal the whereabouts of the mobile if it was still active.

‘Gut feeling?’

‘A quality hit, boss. This is early morning. It’s the perfect ambush, miles from anywhere, no one else around. It’s quick, it’s effective. A single shot through the side window, bang, then the guy’s away. The way I see it, we’re talking serious planning. This isn’t road rage. This is an execution.’

‘Motive?’

‘Could be anything. Drug debts. Some other falling-out. Whatever. Either way, we’re definitely talking bad guys.’

‘And the phone?’

‘That has to be about the kid in the back.’

‘You mean our bad guy has a conscience? After taking someone out like that?’

Houghton was smiling now. She was a big woman with pale eyes behind rimless glasses and a mass of silver-blonde hair. There was a certain relish in a quality job like this and they both knew it.

Suttle held her gaze for a moment, then returned to his small change.

‘Early days, boss.’ He poked at the coins. ‘Twenty pence. That’s all I need.’

It was several seconds before Lizzie brought the morning into focus. The room was bare, minimal, cold. There was a white towel draped over the wall-hung plasma TV and a hint of sunshine through the gap where the curtains didn’t quite meet. She rolled over, fighting a savage headache. The other half of the big double bed was empty, the thin summer duvet thrown back. She reached out with her hand. The bottom sheet was rumpled and still warm. Shit.

Rob Merrilees, she thought. Nice man. Lovely smile. Far too much to drink. I should have known better than say yes to the taxi. And I should never have set foot in this tomb of a hotel.

She could hear a tuneless voice singing in the tiny bathroom, trying to nail one of the cheesier Queen anthems. Over the fall of water from the shower she thought it might be ‘Somebody to Love’. Either way, the crooner had to be Rob.

The singing came to an end. Seconds later the door opened. Merrilees padded across to the TV and retrieved the towel. His legs, arms and face were heavily tanned, the rest of his body a milky white. He was tall, well-made. He looked fit, supple, not an ounce of spare flesh, and dimly she remembered the feel of his naked body against hers.

He was beaming down at her from the foot of the bed. He’d taken a walk on the seafront earlier. It had been pouring with rain and the beach had been filthy, litter everywhere. There was a hovercraft to the Isle of Wight, he said, which had roared away from a terminal nearby. And a monster white ferry sailing in from France. Busy old place, Southsea.

‘I know. I live here.’

Lizzie was still rubbing her eyes. The headache, if anything, was worse. The smile and the tone of Rob’s voice suggested a physical intimacy she needed to check out. She nodded at the bed.

‘Did we?’

‘Did we what?’

‘Fuck.’

‘No. I asked nicely but you said no. Just as well, maybe.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I was even more wasted than you were.’

‘So how come . . .?’ Lizzie tried to finish the sentence but couldn’t. She wanted to know why he didn’t feel the way she felt. She wanted to know why an evening on the mojitos and fuck knows what else hadn’t wrecked him. Moments later she was in the bathroom, bent over the loo, throwing up. When she got back to the bedroom Rob was tugging on the jeans and tight black T-shirt she remembered from the Old Portsmouth pub that had kicked off last night’s drinking.

‘You mind if I go back to bed?’

Lizzie lay flat and closed her eyes without waiting for an answer. She’d sluiced her mouth out but she could still taste the bile in the back of her throat. How come she’d got so pissed? And why didn’t the Travelodge stretch to complimentary tubes of toothpaste?

She felt the mattress give with the weight of Rob’s body. She opened her eyes to find him perched on the side of the bed. He seemed to respect the distance between them. She was grateful for that.

‘Did I tell you I was married last night?’

‘Yeah. You told me the guy’s a cop. Jimmy?’

Lizzie nodded. Said nothing. It was Jimmy’s birthday next week. She had a lot of ground to make up. She reached for Rob’s hand, gave it a sisterly squeeze.

‘Did I mention a daughter?’

‘Grace. You showed me pictures.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yeah. Lovely little girl. Cheeky. Your mum was babysitting last night. I made you give her a ring before we went clubbing.’

‘Shit. Did you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’ Lizzie was up on one elbow. This was worse than bad. She and Grace had been camping at her mum’s place for nearly a year and her mother’s patience was beginning to wear thin. Lately, Grace had suffered a string of colds, which only made things worse.

Lizzie was staring at Rob. ‘So what did I say?’

‘You said you were staying over with Gill.’ Rob grinned. ‘Gill? Have I got that right?’

‘Yeah.’ Lizzie collapsed again. Gill was a mate, a fellow reporter on the Pompey News. With luck her mum would have lost her number.

Rob was on his feet now. He opened the curtains and checked his watch. Lizzie peered up at him, shielding her eyes against the flooding sunshine. Then he was back beside her. The hovercraft left for the Isle of Wight every half-hour, he said. They could have breakfast in Ryde, take a bus somewhere, walk the cliffs, spend the day together.

Lizzie smiled at the thought, then shook her head. She had to get back. She had to sort Grace out. She had to make a peace with her mum.

‘Shame.’

‘You’re right.’

‘Give you a ring? About Hasler Company?’

‘Of course. I’d like that. If you were serious.’

‘Always.’

He was close now. She could smell the soap on his skin. The thing about guys like this was how wholesome they felt. They knew who they were. They were relaxed and talkative and unthreatening and eternally curious. They glowed with good health and the kind of physical fitness she could only imagine. Hence, she assumed, the man’s astonishing powers of recovery.

‘Tell me something . . .’ She felt for his hand again.

‘Whatever.’

‘That tan you’ve got.’ She touched his face and legs. ‘Afghanistan, right?’

He studied her a moment, the smile dying on his lips. Then he retrieved his hand and checked his watch again.

‘I’ll sort us a cab,’ he said. ‘And drop you off.’

It took Suttle nearly an hour to organise armed back-up for his visit to Corrigan’s home address. D/I Houghton had already declared the property a crime scene and insisted that Suttle took no chances with whoever might be inside. One gangland killing, she said, was quite enough.

Suttle’s request was routed through the Tactical Aid Group and confirmation for the R/V arrived by email. 10.45. Torquay nick.

D/I Houghton had pitched her tent in a nearby office. Suttle looked in before descending to the car park and heading south for Torbay.

‘Did you get hold of a CSM, boss?’

‘Terry Bryant. He’s duty. He’s on his way.’

Suttle nodded. Bryant was a Crime Scene Manager from the old days, an increasingly rare breed in a force shedding experienced officers by the hundreds.

Houghton was trying to make sense of a spreadsheet on her borrowed PC. She also had Nandy on the phone from his car somewhere on the A38. The Det-Supt, having abandoned his plans for a Sunday lunchtime darts session in his favoured local, was already bidding for substantial squad overtime. The enquiry now had an operational code name: Graduate. Still glued to the screen, Houghton wanted to know who Suttle was taking with him.

‘Luke.’

‘Good. Take care, yeah?’

She spared him a look. She wasn’t smiling.

Torquay police station lies off a busy intersection in the middle of the town. Suttle was there by half ten. Parking lay at the back of the building. There was no sign of the Armed Response Vehicle so he and Golding settled down to wait.

D/C Luke Golding, at twenty-five, was still the baby of the squad, but a year with Major Crime had won him the beginnings of a serious reputation. Short and slight, he was nerveless in tight situations and the chaos of his private life was frequently the talk of the office. Last night, to his surprise and delight, he’d scored a young blonde Lithuanian in an Exeter nightclub, only to be hauled out of bed an hour ago by one of Houghton’s speciality wake-up calls.

He’d fetched coffees from one of the station’s machines. Now he stirred in extra sugar from a sachet with the end of Suttle’s pen.

‘I told her I worked for the Border Agency. Turns out there’s nothing these ladies won’t do to stay in the country.’

‘She believed you?’

‘She came across. She must have done.’

‘Nice?’

‘Lovely. One day I might even be able to pronounce her name. Salomeyer? Salomeeya? Christ knows. She says it means powerful. She wasn’t joking.’

The Armed Response Vehicle appeared, a white BMW estate, two guys inside. One of them gave Suttle the nod. Suttle recognised the face from an operation earlier in the year. Maddened hill farmer on a smallholding up beyond Bodmin. An ancient shotgun, two boxes of shells and the cooling corpse of a bailiff in the bottom field.

Suttle gave Golding his coffee cup and reached for the ignition keys.

Ten forty-four, he thought. Deeply impressive.

Belle Vue Road was half a mile inland from the long curve of Torbay, a ten-minute drive away. Number 76, like the neighbouring houses, was a pebble-dashed semi that had seen better days. Suttle didn’t know Paignton well but sensed at once that he could never live here. Too many people. Too many cars. And a hint of real poverty in the faces of some of the single men who seemed to haunt the area.

The Armed Response car double-parked outside the address. Suttle and Golding had a brief huddle with the guys inside. They were both carrying Heckler & Koch MP5 semi-automatics and wore body armour. They’d secure the premises first, then give Suttle the OK.

Suttle watched them split. One sought a rear entrance while the other waited on the pavement. A poster in the curtained front bay window featured a guy kitesurfing. A fat tabby sprawled among the weeds in the tiny crescent of front garden. Suttle was thinking about the slumped figure in the VW Golf. Whatever else he’d done with his life, this individual had a limited interest in gardening.

The officer on the pavement muttered something into his radio and approached the front door. The second knock drew a response. The tanned figure shading his eyes in the blaze of sunshine was wearing a pair of denim cut-offs and not much else. He looked middle-aged, maybe older. He was tall and thin with a slight stoop. Barefoot, he studied the proffered ID before stepping aside to let the officer in.

Minutes later, Suttle and Golding joined them. The figure on the doorstep was folded onto a low sofa in the front room, fingering a loop of glass beads around his neck. Behind the still-closed curtains, the room was in half-darkness. Suttle could make out a couple of armchairs, a battered Ikea table, a bookcase stuffed with magazines, and a scatter of kid’s clothes across the floor. An open laptop lay on the table and the bitter sweetness of last night’s weed still hung in the air. In the corner, propped against the wall, were a couple of acoustic guitars. The room felt cave-like, fuggy. It had a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. Suttle rather liked it.

The guy’s name was Ian Goodyer. When Suttle asked for ID he got to his feet and produced a driving licence from the wallet in his pocket. Suttle gave the licence to Golding and nodded at the door. Goodyer wanted to know why two men with guns had come visiting on a Sunday morning.

‘You live here?’ Suttle asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Then you’ll know a guy called Michael Corrigan.’

‘Of course.’ He frowned. ‘This is about him? About Mick?’

‘Yes.’

Suttle explained what had happened out on the moor. The look of shock on Goodyer’s face appeared to be unfeigned.

‘Someone killed him?’ He couldn’t believe it.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But why? Why would they?’

‘Very good question.’

Suttle wanted to know about the relationship between the two men, about how well Goodyer knew him, about the kind of stuff they got up to.

‘I work for him,’ Goodyer said. ‘Mick’s got a kitesurfing school down on the bay.’ He broke off. ‘What about the kid? Leo?’

‘He’s fine. Still in one piece.’

‘So where is he?’

‘I don’t know. But he’ll be safe, well looked after.’

‘And he was there? When this thing happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit.’

He turned away, shaking his head. First things first, Suttle thought.

‘Mick was Leo’s dad, am I right?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘And his mum?’

‘A woman called Bella.’

‘She lives here too?’

‘Not really. Not now.’

‘They live apart?’

‘Yeah, they do . . . Yeah . . .’ He nodded. ‘Shit happens, you know?’

‘What kind of shit?’

Goodyer had recovered his composure. He was shaking his head.

‘I’m not sure I should be telling you this stuff . . .’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not sure that’s right.’

‘This is a mate of yours?’

‘Mick? Definitely.’

‘And someone’s shot him to death? And you’re not sure how much you should be saying?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘It’s just . . . I dunno . . . To be honest this is all a bit of a bummer.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Nothing.’

There was movement by the door. Golding had stepped back into the room. He gestured Suttle into the hall and closed the door. Terry Bryant and a Scenes of Crime Officer had just arrived. They were outside in the street, unloading equipment from the SOC van. They wanted to know whether Suttle wanted a flash intel walk-through first, before they began work.

Suttle nodded, said yes. There was a framed photo of Corrigan and his infant son in the hall. Corrigan was wearing some kind of sports shirt and cradling the child in his arms.

‘Plymouth Albion, if you’re wondering.’ The shirt had caught Golding’s eye too. ‘He must have been into rugby.’

Suttle’s eyes returned to the photo. Grace, his daughter, had been this age only a couple of years ago. Another fucked-up relationship.

‘Something else, boss.’ Golding hadn’t finished. ‘I raised a PNC enquiry on Goodyer.’

‘And?’

‘Multiple convictions for possession and supply. They go way back but he was definitely a player. He did three years for the last offence.’

‘We’re talking Class A?’

‘Cocaine.’

Suttle held Golding’s gaze for a moment or two, then stepped back into the room. Goodyer was standing in the window, watching the Scenes of Crime guys on the pavement. When he turned round, his face betrayed nothing beyond a mild curiosity.

Suttle asked him to get dressed while he and Golding took a quick look round. After that he wanted Goodyer to accompany them to Torquay police station.

‘What for?’

‘That’s something we can discuss at the station.’ Suttle nodded at the window. ‘Unless you’d like to spare those guys the trouble.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Only you can say, Mr Goodyer. People don’t get shot without good reason.’

‘So why the nick?’

‘Because we think you can help us.’

‘And what if I say no?’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a lesson booked for eleven down on the beach. These are people who’ve paid up front. I have to be there.’

‘Cancel them. Give them a ring. Postpone them. This needn’t take long.’

‘No way.’ He shook his head, angry now. ‘Getting a job in this town isn’t something that happens every day of the fucking week. You guys don’t know the half of it.’

‘You’re telling me you won’t come with us?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘And there’s no way you can make me.’

‘Wrong, my friend.’

‘How come?’

‘Easy.’ Suttle was checking his watch. ‘I’ll arrest you.’

After a quiet ruck with her mum, Lizzie decided to spend the rest of the morning on the beach with Grace. Her mother, a school-teacher who’d taken early retirement in search of a quieter life, had laid hands on Gill’s number. Worried about Grace’s cold, she’d phoned first thing to check when her daughter might be back. Gill, of course, hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. Hence the confrontation.

Lizzie phoned Gill from the beach. The pebbles were still wet after the rain but it was warm in the sun and she’d made base camp with an old blanket and an assortment of toys. Grace seemed happy enough planting a nest of plastic flags on the little piles of stones Lizzie had built.

On the phone Gill wanted to join them. Her new flat was minutes away. She arrived with a picnic she’d thrown together from the remains of last night’s soirée. The guy’s name was Edouard and unhappily he’d turned out to be a veggie.

Lizzie, realising how hungry she was, helped herself to a beef sandwich.

Gill’s account of what she’d got up to with Edouard left little to the imagination. The guy was French. He was a marine archaeologist working with the Mary Rose lot in the Historic Dockyard and was evidently mega-gifted in all kinds of ways. Gill had always fancied herself as a cook but Edouard had had no time for foreplay. At first she’d put him down as an academic: pale, sensitive, hard to reach. Now, thank God, she knew a whole lot better.

‘Total animal,’ she concluded. ‘How about you, you old slapper?’

Lizzie had been dreading the question. In truth, she had no appetite for keeping up with Gill’s voracious sex life and resented the unspoken assumption that weekends were the shortest cut to getting laid. She was, after all, still married. She had a daughter. Jimmy came down at weekends, at least once a month if the Job let him, and lately they’d tried to repair a little of the damage that had led to the separation. Jimmy stayed over at her mum’s place. On his last visit he’d taken her out for the evening and they’d even got pissed enough to risk sleeping together again, much to her mum’s delight. So how come she’d ended up at the Southsea Travelodge?

‘It was the Marine guy, wasn’t it?’ Gill was trying to interest Grace in a pot of lightly curried chickpeas.

‘Yeah.’

‘The one I met at the office?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tall? Tanned? Great eyes?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So where’s the shame in that?’

Lizzie turned away. For all her showboating Gill could be extremely perceptive when she tried.

‘We didn’t get it on,’ Lizzie said. ‘If you were wondering.’

‘Why not?’

Lizzie didn’t answer. Rob Merrilees, oddly enough, had come her way because of Gill. The Pompey News had fielded a request for an experienced reporter to be guest interviewer on a two-day course the navy was running on Whale Island. The intention was to sharpen young officers up about the kind of media pressure they’d meet in theatre in Afghanistan, and Gill had volunteered Lizzie. Rob had been the Royal Marine rep on the course, a young Captain fast-tracked for greatness, and they’d taken a liking to each other at first glance. She’d tried to snare him with every media trick in the book but he’d scored brilliantly, ticking every box on the assessment form she’d had to fill in afterwards. Grasp of his material? First class. Coolness and charm under pressure? Second to none. Personal skills? Irresistible.

That first evening they’d had a drink in the mess and swapped phone numbers. The following day, over a buffet lunch, he’d started talking in earnest about the two tours he’d done in Afghanistan. By the time they’d said goodbye, Lizzie had known she was looking at a great story as well as the possibility of a deepening friendship. Then came last night.

‘He tells it the way it is, Gill. Absolutely no bullshit.’

‘Tells what?’

‘Afghan. What a fuck-up it all is. How we haven’t got a prayer. There’s a place called Hasler Company. It’s down in Plymouth somewhere. That’s where they send all the amputees, all the guys you never hear about. That’s our dirty little secret. You know how many of these guys end up there? Zillions. You know the odds on coming back from Afghan dead or maimed? One in six. One in six, Gill.’

‘This sounds like a post-shag rationale. You don’t need it, Lou. Just enjoy.’

Lou was Gill’s nickname for Lizzie. Lizzie felt the anger rising inside her.

‘Fuck off. I told you it didn’t happen.’

‘Says you.’

‘It’s true. Listen, he says he can get me in there.’

‘In where?’

‘Hasler Company.’

‘Really?’

At last the penny dropped. Ignore the scarlet nails and the tightness of the leather hot pants, Lizzie thought, and you might be looking at a decent journalist.

‘This is some kind of secret, this place?’

‘No. But it’s bloody hard to get access. These guys are well protected. The place is state-of-the-art. The MoD only wants the right kind of publicity.’

‘And this guy of yours can deliver?’

‘That’s what he tells me.’

‘Was this to get you into bed?’

‘No way. I’d have gone in any case.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was pissed out of my head. And because I fancied him.’

‘Excellent.’ Gill had given up with the chickpeas. ‘So when are you seeing him again?’

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘Yes. This is your feature editor speaking, as well as your social secretary. Where does he live?’

‘Some village near Plymouth.’

‘Married?’

‘I never asked.’

‘But you think he might be?’

Lizzie frowned. It was a good question. A mile away she could hear the roar of the hovercraft and seconds later it appeared from behind the low crouch of Southsea Castle, a noisy insect trailing a plume of spray. We could have been on the Isle of Wight by now, she thought. We could be walking some cliff, thinking about a light lunch and whatever might follow.

Gill put the question again. Was this guy legit? Or was last night just a pit stop until he got home to wifey?

‘I dunno.’ Lizzie was reaching for a tissue to wipe Grace’s nose. ‘And if I’m honest, I’m not sure I care.’

SUNDAY, 24 JUNE 2012

The interview with Goodyer started badly. His criminal record predated the national DNA database and when Suttle asked for a hand swab at the Custody Centre to check for firearms residue, insisting it was for the purposes of elimination, Goodyer wasn’t keen. Of course he was happy to help out in any way he could, but just for the record he resented being treated as a potential suspect.

Suttle had borrowed an office at the back of Torquay police station for the interview. Once they’d settled down, he reminded Goodyer that he wasn’t under caution, neither was the session being recorded. All he and Golding wanted was to find out a little more about Michael Corrigan.

‘We need to put together his last twenty-four hours. Who he might have met. What he was up to. Is that OK with you?’

Goodyer said nothing. Just picked at a scab on the back of his hand.

‘Well?’

Goodyer rubbed his eyes, checked his watch, then finally looked up. He and Mick, he said, had spent yesterday on the beach at the kitesurfing school. They had a series of booked sessions, mainly novices looking to master the basics. They’d packed up in the late afternoon and got back home by around half five.

Suttle scribbled himself a note. Was there anyone among this clientele who might have had a grudge against Corrigan?

‘No.’

‘Any competitors? Rival set-ups?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone in his private life you know about? Someone he’d fallen out with? Over money, maybe? Or something else?’

‘No.’

The pattern of answers told its own story. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Goodyer wasn’t here to make life easier for a bunch of nosey cops.

Suttle changed. . .