beneath him. ‘So what have you got for me?’
Suttle explained about Kinsey. The news that he’d been found dead sparked no reaction whatsoever. Lenahan just looked at him.
‘You’re not surprised?’ Suttle asked.
‘Nothing surprises me.’
‘You’re not . . .’ Suttle frowned, hunting for the right phrase ‘. . . upset?’
‘Never. You go, you’re gone. That’s pretty fucking final. Dying would have upset yer man, for sure. Kinsey was one for the options, you know what I mean? That’s how he operated. Always. Options. Possibilities. That sweet little opportunity no other fucker ever spotted. Dying’s a terrible option. And you’re talking to an expert.’
Suttle blinked. He’d been right. This definitely wasn’t Torbay. Lenahan hadn’t finished.
‘Under that apartment of his, you say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So you’re going to want to know about yesterday, about last night. Am I getting warm?’
‘You are.’
‘OK, so here’s the way it was. We need to start with the race. The race is everything. And why’s that? Because the race, my friend, is where it begins and ends.’
Yesterday’s outing, he explained, was a head race, nine and a bit miles down the River Dart from Totnes to Dartmouth, pretty as you like, acre after rolling acre of God’s fucking England. The boats start every thirty seconds and the trick is to knock them off, one by one.
‘Knock them off?’
‘Pass them. That’s the trick, that’s what we’re there for, that’s what Kinsey wants us to do. Fastest boat wins. And if you pass every other bugger, you’re home safe.’
Off the start line, he said, they were towards the back of the fleet. Lenahan is in the cox’s seat face to face with Andy Poole. Andy is stroke. He sets the rate. Lenahan’s known Andy for ever, rowed with him for years on the Thames, won oodles of fucking cups. Between them, they’ll boss the race.
‘So we’re half a mile down the course, a long straight bit before the first bend, and already we’ve reeled in the boat ahead. The guys doing the work have no idea what’s going on because they’re all looking backwards, but I haven’t said a thing so far because it’s good to toss the guys the odd sweetie, and so I’m nudging towards the right bank for the overtake and you know what? It’s Kinsey, the man himself, who’s up there in the bow, he’s the one who susses what’s happening and steals a little glance over his shoulder, just a little look now, one of his trademark looks, and here’s the point, here’s what I’m trying to tell you. As we step on these guys, as Andy pumps up the rate and we go surging past, racing past, I get to see the expression on Kinsey’s face. He’s creamed them, he’s fucking buried them, and the sweetness of that knowledge, that big fucking jolt of adrenalin, puts this nasty little smile on his face. He’s top dog. He’s up there with the angels. The heavenly fucking chorus is giving it full throttle and every last cell in his body tells him he can do this for ever. He doesn’t feel a whisper of knackeredness. That man’s got the world by the throat. All the nausea we’ve gone through in training, all the money he’s spent, all that has paid off, big time, in spades, and all he needs now is more of the same. One bunch of muppets crushed. Eleven to go. And you know what? Yer man’s right to think that. Because that’s called winning.’
Lenahan shifted his weight on the sofa and offered an emphatic nod, driving the point home. There was a moment of silence and Suttle wondered whether to applaud or not. Was Kinsey’s prize cox like this all the time? Or was the performance strictly for Suttle’s benefit? Either way, he needed to find out more.
Lenahan was cranking up again. By the time they got to Dartmouth, he said, Milo and Kinsey had hit the wall and even the last couple of overtakes couldn’t mask their pain. But they still crossed the line in 58 minutes 27 seconds, an easy win, and
Suttle explained about Kinsey. The news that he’d been found dead sparked no reaction whatsoever. Lenahan just looked at him.
‘You’re not surprised?’ Suttle asked.
‘Nothing surprises me.’
‘You’re not . . .’ Suttle frowned, hunting for the right phrase ‘. . . upset?’
‘Never. You go, you’re gone. That’s pretty fucking final. Dying would have upset yer man, for sure. Kinsey was one for the options, you know what I mean? That’s how he operated. Always. Options. Possibilities. That sweet little opportunity no other fucker ever spotted. Dying’s a terrible option. And you’re talking to an expert.’
Suttle blinked. He’d been right. This definitely wasn’t Torbay. Lenahan hadn’t finished.
‘Under that apartment of his, you say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So you’re going to want to know about yesterday, about last night. Am I getting warm?’
‘You are.’
‘OK, so here’s the way it was. We need to start with the race. The race is everything. And why’s that? Because the race, my friend, is where it begins and ends.’
Yesterday’s outing, he explained, was a head race, nine and a bit miles down the River Dart from Totnes to Dartmouth, pretty as you like, acre after rolling acre of God’s fucking England. The boats start every thirty seconds and the trick is to knock them off, one by one.
‘Knock them off?’
‘Pass them. That’s the trick, that’s what we’re there for, that’s what Kinsey wants us to do. Fastest boat wins. And if you pass every other bugger, you’re home safe.’
Off the start line, he said, they were towards the back of the fleet. Lenahan is in the cox’s seat face to face with Andy Poole. Andy is stroke. He sets the rate. Lenahan’s known Andy for ever, rowed with him for years on the Thames, won oodles of fucking cups. Between them, they’ll boss the race.
‘So we’re half a mile down the course, a long straight bit before the first bend, and already we’ve reeled in the boat ahead. The guys doing the work have no idea what’s going on because they’re all looking backwards, but I haven’t said a thing so far because it’s good to toss the guys the odd sweetie, and so I’m nudging towards the right bank for the overtake and you know what? It’s Kinsey, the man himself, who’s up there in the bow, he’s the one who susses what’s happening and steals a little glance over his shoulder, just a little look now, one of his trademark looks, and here’s the point, here’s what I’m trying to tell you. As we step on these guys, as Andy pumps up the rate and we go surging past, racing past, I get to see the expression on Kinsey’s face. He’s creamed them, he’s fucking buried them, and the sweetness of that knowledge, that big fucking jolt of adrenalin, puts this nasty little smile on his face. He’s top dog. He’s up there with the angels. The heavenly fucking chorus is giving it full throttle and every last cell in his body tells him he can do this for ever. He doesn’t feel a whisper of knackeredness. That man’s got the world by the throat. All the nausea we’ve gone through in training, all the money he’s spent, all that has paid off, big time, in spades, and all he needs now is more of the same. One bunch of muppets crushed. Eleven to go. And you know what? Yer man’s right to think that. Because that’s called winning.’
Lenahan shifted his weight on the sofa and offered an emphatic nod, driving the point home. There was a moment of silence and Suttle wondered whether to applaud or not. Was Kinsey’s prize cox like this all the time? Or was the performance strictly for Suttle’s benefit? Either way, he needed to find out more.
Lenahan was cranking up again. By the time they got to Dartmouth, he said, Milo and Kinsey had hit the wall and even the last couple of overtakes couldn’t mask their pain. But they still crossed the line in 58 minutes 27 seconds, an easy win, and
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