‘Just at home, then?’
‘That’s the assumption.’
‘But a lot?’
‘Yes.’
Suttle explained about a recent barbecue. Bentner had evidently lost it completely. Threatened to punch a younger colleague.
‘Over what?’
‘Methane emissions. In Siberia.’
‘What?’
‘Methane, sir. It’s a greenhouse gas. You find it in cow farts. I gather that was part of the joke.’
‘Shit.’ Nandy’s eyes rolled.
‘Exactly. These people are a breed apart. Seriously bright. And in Bentner’s case seriously damaged.’
‘That’s a big word, Jimmy.’ Houghton, behind the other desk, was tapping out an email.
‘That’s the line manager’s take, boss. Not mine. I got the impression that she thinks Bentner is a breakdown waiting to happen. The way I read it, most climatologists stick to the science and avoid thinking too hard about the consequences. Bentner doesn’t see it that way, never has done. He thinks the two go together. We pump all this shit into the atmosphere, the world heats up, and we all die. I think that’s the way it goes. That’s certainly Bentner’s line.’
‘He changed his address recently, sir.’ Houghton was looking at Nandy. ‘The place used to be called Two Degrees. Since last week, according to the neighbours, he’s been living at Five Degrees.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘We’re all doomed, sir.’ This from Suttle. ‘Five degrees is where Bentner thinks we’re headed. A temperature rise that big would kebab us all.’
‘And is he right?’
‘I asked that.’
‘And?’
‘No one knows. These people are scientists. They’re into evidence.’
‘Sure. Just like we should be. So where is Mr Bentner?’
Houghton shook her head, said she hadn’t a clue. His ID photo from the Met Office had been circulated force-wide and would be going national tomorrow, along with details of his ancient Skoda. The media department were organising a press conference for late morning at which Nandy would be making a personal appeal to find the missing man. In the meantime local uniforms were scouring empty properties and other likely hidey-holes within a three-mile radius in case Bentner had gone to ground.
Suttle wanted to know about Harriet Reilly. Houghton gave him the headlines. Local address, a sweet little cottage on the outskirts of the village. Worked as a GP partner in a big Exeter practice. Allegedly lived alone after the collapse of her marriage years back. DC Luke Golding had already talked to a neighbour up the lane, and tomorrow, after the first Buzzard squad meet, Houghton wanted him and Suttle to pay the GP practice manager a visit.
‘Her name’s Gloria, Jimmy.’
‘And she knows what’s happened?’
‘She does.’
Houghton scribbled a couple of lines and passed them across. The practice address plus a phone number.
Suttle looked up. ‘Anything else I should know, boss?’
‘Yes.’ She gestured at her PC screen. ‘I just had the pathologist on. He’s finishing up at Lympstone, and whether it’s germane or not, he thought we ought to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Our victim was pregnant.’
Oona was asleep when Suttle got home. It was nearly midnight. He checked in the bedroom then helped himself to a can of Stella from the fridge. She’d left him half a saucepan of chilli con carne and the remains of some rice left over from a takeout they’d bought over the weekend. Also, a note.
Suttle sat in the window. ‘My beautiful one,’ she’d written. ‘What’s a girl supposed to do without you? The porn channels are useless and masturbation’s a wank. Wake me up and tell me you love me. Special prize if you mean it. XXXX’
The big loopy letters brought a smile to Suttle’s face. In the view of many in the Job he’d nicked this amazing woman from Luke Golding. Luke and Oona had been living together for the best part of six months when she transferred her affections to Suttle. It was true that Golding couldn’t keep his hands off other women, and it was equally true that her departure hadn’t surprised him in the least. There’d been some awkwardness between the two detectives for a while, but nowadays Golding was the first to admit that Oona deserved a great deal more than his serial excursions into Exeter’s clubland, expeditions that frequently ended in sex with his latest conquest.
Only last month, for the first time since the break-up, the three of them had risked an evening in the pub together and a curry afterwards. Serafin had promised to show but never turned up, a gesture Oona attributed to more than a lapse of memory. ‘She’s probably shagging someone else,’ she’d told Golding with a smile. ‘Long live the sisterhood.’
Later, close to one o’clock, Suttle went to bed. Oona stirred and reached for him and then went to sleep again. Suttle lay in the darkness, his hand in hers. He loved the simplicity of the relationship. He loved that they still had separate addresses. He loved the space she allowed him and the way she seemed able to muffle the noises in his head.
Losing his daughter had triggered a nightmare that had threatened to engulf him. He had blamed her disappearance entirely on himself, but after months of talking it through with Oona, the pressing weight of guilt had begun to ease. It helped that he’d later had his own brush with death, a savage attack by a prime suspect that had nearly killed him, and whether she believed it or not, Oona had agreed that he should view the incident as payback. In the Almighty’s scheme of things, she told him, he’d now paid his debt in full. More to the point, if anyone in heaven wanted to check up, he had some magnificent scars to prove it. It was moments like these, little spasms of gleeful madness, that made him love this woman. She was whole, she was full of appetite, and she knew exactly what made him tick. After a period of the most intense darkness, she’d taught him how to laugh again.
Four
TUESDAY, 10 JUNE 2014, 08.30
The first Buzzard squad meet took place at the Middlemoor Major Incident Room at 08.30 next morning. Nandy had managed to lay hands on seventeen DCs, most of them seasoned detectives, and was determined to carpet-bomb the investigation over the next forty-eight hours. Photographs from the bedroom were passing from hand to hand, sparking little comment beyond an acknowledgement that the attack on Harriet Reilly had been especially savage.
Despite the overnight search, the whereabouts of Alois Bentner remained a mystery. His house beside the harbour was still a crime scene, protected throughout the night, and the SOC team had already resumed work on the remaining rooms. Harriet Reilly’s cottage had also been sealed off, pending a full search.
The medical evidence indicated that Reilly had been attacked at some point over the weekend. Nandy was pushing the pathologist for a tighter time frame but so far, on the balance of probabilities, he’d go no further than agreeing a window between Saturday evening and Sunday morning. This, said Nandy, tallied with other findings. The last time Reilly’s phone had been used was 23.47 on Saturday, when she’d called Alois Bentner’s mobile. Three incoming calls after that had gone to divert. Flash analysis of a laptop and a PC recovered from her cottage had likewise revealed no activity or outgoing traffic after 15.34 the same day.
‘What about Bentner, sir?’ This from Jimmy Suttle. ‘Do we know where he was when he took the call from Reilly?’
‘To the east of Exmouth. Cell site analysis won’t give us anything closer than that. After taking the call the phone was switched off. Nothing since Saturday night.’
Another hand went up. It was a female DC who’d just arrived from Plymouth. She understood Bentner’s house was at the end of a terrace. Thin walls. Poor sound insulation. She wanted to know about the people next door.
Nandy glanced at Carole Houghton. She was studying her notepad.
‘We understand the property belongs to a woman called Gemma Caton. It’s unclear whether she lives there full time but we’re still trying to find her.’
‘Was she around over the weekend?’
‘We don’t think so. We have contact details and an address in London but she’s not answering either. There’s a retired guy in the next house down the terrace and he confirms a sighting of Reilly on Saturday afternoon. Apparently she was in the garden at the back. That seems to be the last time anyone saw her.’
‘And Bentner?’
‘His car wasn’t there all weekend. That means nothing, of course. Parking down by the water is a nightmare. He could have stashed the car anywhere.’
Inquiries about Bentner’s Skoda, she said, were ongoing. Officers on house-to-house were carrying photos of a similar vehicle.
Nandy wanted to move the meeting on. Buzzard’s prime suspect, he confirmed, was Alois Bentner. He appeared to have had a relationship with the victim, and the baby she was carrying may well have been his. Workplace inquiries indicated that they were dealing with a guy on the verge of some kind of breakdown. He had a serious drink problem and was known to be occasionally violent. By all accounts, Bentner was a solitary, a loner, and at this point in time Harriet Reilly seemed to have been the only person in his life. Quite why he’d attack her with such violence was still a mystery, though the fact that she’d been disembowelled might offer a clue or two.
The same DC wanted to know more about the fetus. How long had Reilly been pregnant?
‘Between three and four months.’
‘Do we have any DNA from Bentner?’
‘We’ve got hair samples from the bed and we’ve seized a couple of toothbrushes, but we need to find him to be sure.’
The DC had yet to see the photos. One was passed to her. It was a close-up. She glanced at the tiny comma of a life to come. Then she looked up.
‘It hasn’t got a head,’ she said. ‘Why’s that?’
Luke Golding, an hour later, voiced the same question. He and Suttle were en route into Exeter to talk to the practice manager at the family health centre where Reilly had worked as a GP.
‘Has to be seriously weird, doesn’t it, skip? Beheading something that tiny?’
Suttle nodded. First thing this morning, still groggy after consuming the entire bottle of Rioja, Oona had pressed him for details of the latest job. He’d yet to see the photos, but the pathologist had described the state of the fetus, a detail he hadn’t shared with her. Oona was currently working as a scrub nurse in one of the operating theatres at the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital, and she was no stranger to hacked-about bodies, but the last couple of months she’d been dropping heavy hints about the wasted space that was her own womb, and this particular image, he knew, would seriously upset her.
‘Weird,’ he agreed.
‘So what does that make Bentner?’
‘Invisible, for the time being.’
‘Sure, skip, but you’re not suggesting we should be looking for someone else?’
Suttle said nothing. Golding repeated the question. Suttle slowed behind a couple of kids on bikes. His years in Major Crime teams, both here and in Pompey, had taught him the merits of keeping an open mind. Life, he wanted to remind Golding, had a habit of taking you by surprise.
Golding hadn’t finished. He took out his wallet and put a ten-pound note on the dashboard.
‘This says Bentner’s our guy.’
Suttle spared him a glance, then pulled out to overtake.
‘Make it twenty,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to go higher.’
Gloria Bellamy managed the Pinhoe GP practice from a cubbyhole of an office behind the main reception area. She was a big woman, middle-aged, and wore a pair of rimless glasses on a chain around her neck.
‘Here OK for you?’ She gestured around. There was room for one spare chair and the door wouldn’t shut.
Suttle shook his head. They needed privacy. Was there anywhere else they could go? Otherwise he’d have to conduct the interview at a police station.
The word interview appeared to alarm her.
‘I thought this was a chat. About Harriet. Awful, what happened. Terrible.’
‘I’m afraid we need somewhere quiet, Mrs Bellamy.’ Suttle was still standing in the open doorway. Already the waiting area beyond the reception desk was packed, a sea of faces staring into nowhere. ‘What about Dr Reilly’s consulting room?’
‘We’re expecting a locum.’
‘When?’
‘Later this morning.’ She looked at her watch, then frowned and struggled to her feet. ‘Follow me.’
Harriet Reilly’s consulting room was much bigger. Suttle let Mrs Bellamy take the chair behind the desk. For some reason the PC was live. Suttle could see a list of names on the screen, presumably patients. Mrs Bellamy reached for the mouse and closed the program. Harriet Reilly’s desktop background featured a range of wooded slopes rolling away into a soft blue haze. On the far horizon a jagged line of mountains was capped with snow.
Mrs Bellamy was looking at her watch again. Tuesdays were always mad, she said. The practice was under huge pressure but Tuesdays, for some reason, were especially difficult. They had half an hour of her time. Max.
Suttle didn’t comment. He wanted to know about Harriet Reilly. How long had she been with the practice?
‘Eight years, give or take.’
‘Does that make her a partner?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you knew her well?’
‘Yes. To a degree.’
‘What does that mean?’
The question prompted a frown. Already Suttle sensed that this women resented their presence. They were unwelcome here. He could feel it.
‘Harriet was always her own person.’ Her eyes had strayed to the PC screen. ‘One of our other partners had a word for it. Unclubbable? Few social skills? Does that make sense?’
‘Not really. She was a doctor. She must have met dozens of people a day. Surely—’
‘No, Mr Suttle …’ An emphatic shake of the head. ‘You’ve got me wrong. With her patients she was wonderful. We know she was. They all speak highly of her. She had the knack. That’s less common in our business than you might think.’
‘Knack?’
‘Of getting through to them. Of becoming their friend. Of looking out for them. You know how much time we have to allot to each patient? Ten minutes. That’s all you’ve got. You’re sitting behind this desk and someone you’ve never seen in your life comes in through that door and they might be vague about what’s wrong with them because what they really want is a chat, someone to talk to. Harriet? She was brilliant at that. Real empathy. Like I say, her patients loved her.’
‘And you?’
‘Me? I’m a manager.’
‘So was she easy to manage?’
‘Not always, no.’
‘Did you get on? Did you like her?’
‘I admired her. As you’ve probably gathered.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’
‘I know, Mr Suttle, but it’s the best I can do. Harriet was a woman of fixed views. She was an excellent doctor. Beyond that, I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
A woman of fixed views. In some respects, thought Suttle, Harriet Reilly was beginning to resemble Bentner: difficult, perhaps a little antisocial, doubtless impatient of people who might stand in her way.
Luke Golding wanted to know whether Mrs Bellamy knew anything about Reilly’s private life.
‘Do you ever go out together? Socially? As a practice?’
‘Of course we do. Not often, but for special occasions, yes.’
‘And did Harriet come?’
‘Never.’
‘Was there a man in her life? To your knowledge?’
‘There had to be. She was pregnant.’
‘But you didn’t know who?’
‘She mentioned a friend a couple of times.’
‘What’s his name? This friend?’
‘She called him Ali.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘Never. Harriet was a woman who kept herself to herself. We
only knew she was pregnant because she warned me she’d be needing maternity leave.’
‘Was she excited by the prospect of a child?’ This from Suttle.
‘We never discussed it. You need two to make a conversation, Mr Suttle.’
‘Had she been married before? Kids?’
‘Not to my knowledge. She never mentioned any family, but who knows … ?’ She shrugged and checked her watch again. The message was plain.
Suttle smiled. He felt like a patient sitting in this airless room with his allotted ration of precious NHS time.
‘I believe you’ve been told about the circumstances of Harriet’s death.’
‘I have, Mr Suttle. Not in great detail but enough. Horrible. Ghastly.’
‘Can you think of anyone she’d upset? Anyone who might want to hurt her?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Can you think of anyone we might need to talk to? Someone close to her? Apart from this Ali?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘A friend, maybe? A relative? Someone she might have mentioned?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a next of kin on your records?’
‘Yes. I checked this morning. It was her father.’
‘And?’
‘He died last year. Prostate cancer. Harriet insisted on being with him at the end. I remember giving her compassionate leave.’ She offered him a chilly smile and then struggled to her feet. ‘Will that suffice, Mr Suttle? Because I have a practice to run.’
Outside in the sunshine Suttle and Golding strolled across the car park. Golding was already on the phone to the MIR, talking to the D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries. DI Houghton wanted them to drive back to Lympstone. Reilly’s closest neighbours had been briefly questioned by uniforms and were happy to submit to a longer interview. Mr and Mrs Weatherall. Retired. Both ex-teachers. Beside the car, Golding ended the conversation and pocketed the phone. Then he glanced across at Suttle.
‘Over there, skip. Brand-new Audi. Classy.’
Suttle followed his pointing finger. ‘What about it?’
‘The lady behind the wheel. Ring any bells?’
Suttle looked harder. It was Lizzie. She was easing the car into a tightish space beside the surgery entrance. He walked across, waited for her to kill the engine, then bent to the lowered window.
The Order of Things Page 3
