Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle) by Graham Hurley Read Free Book Online

Exmouth nick was round the corner, a two-minute drive. With time in hand, he fancied a little detour.
    Molly Doyle had given him directions to the seafront compound which served as the base for Exmouth Rowing Club. Suttle found it tucked up a wide alley behind a building that belonged to the RNLI. A wooden fence enclosed a patch of scrubland beneath the looming shadow of a half-completed leisure complex. A raised Portakabin served as a clubhouse and one of the sagging doors was an inch or two open. Suttle picked his way between a litter of abandoned rubber bootees, pausing on the steps to check out the ERC fleet.
    In the compound he counted five big sea boats, all of them red and white, readied on launching trolleys beneath the spreading branches of a huge tree. Someone had attached a plastic owl to the roof of the Portakabin. Suttle was looking at the boats again. If the owl was a bid to keep the gulls off, it had failed completely. There was bird shit everywhere.
    Suttle pushed at the door of the clubhouse and stepped inside. Neon tubes threw a cold hard light over the sparseness of the interior. Lighter boat shells hung from racks on the walls and a pile of ancient yellow life jackets occupied a corner at the back. There was an overpowering smell of sweat and effort, and among the handful of faces on the rowing machines he recognised the Viking’s daughter. Even now he didn’t know her name but he responded to her nod of recognition, wondering whether news of Kinsey’s death had yet to reach this far.
    A coach was squatting beside the nearest rowing machine, monitoring the performance readout on the tiny heads-up screen. The last thing Suttle wanted was a conversation, but the guy got to his feet and asked whether he could help.
    Suttle shook his head. It was way too early to extend the investigation this far and in any case the circumstances were all wrong. He needed four walls, a desk, a couple of chairs and a door to ensure a little privacy. Not this place.
    ‘You’re interested?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘In rowing. Only we do taster sessions for novices. Think of it as three free goes. If you like it, you become a member. If you don’t . . .’ He shrugged. ‘No harm done.’
    Suttle looked around. It seemed like the place was falling apart: the sagging doors, the piles of abandoned kit, the bird shit. Yet at the same time there was no arguing with the buzz. These kids were really going for it.
    ‘So anyone can turn up?’
    ‘No problem.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Sundays are best. As long as the weather’s not too evil, you’ll find us on the beach.’
    The coach turned back to the rowing machine and checked the readout again. Suttle couldn’t resist a look: 4,567 metres. In 19.03. The rower, a young lad of maybe seventeen, was cranking up for a final push. Sweat darkened his T-shirt. His face was contorted with effort, and every time he pushed back against the footstretchers the effort squeezed a grunt from his gasping lungs.
    Suttle caught his eye. ‘This is good for you?’ he murmured.
    The boy had the grace to muster a smile.
    ‘Fuck off,’ he mouthed back.
     
    Exmouth police station occupied the middle of an otherwise picturesque square on rising ground beyond the main shopping centre. An undistinguished 1960s building, it had a slightly alien presence. An apron of parking contained a handful of cars and the clock on the church opposite had stopped at twenty to four. Suttle, already struck by the slightly retro feel of the seafront, regarded this as somehow symbolic. Exmouth, he thought. The town that time forgot.
    Houghton was putting the finishing touches to the smaller of the two offices commandeered for Constantine . Three desks: one for Nandy, one for Houghton, the third for Suttle. A poster featuring a Thai beach occupied one wall. A second poster warned uniformed coppers that FIRST IMPRESSIONS COUNT .
    ‘This used to be the sergeants’ locker room,’ Houghton grunted. ‘You should feel at