The Order of Things

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Yes and no. She was very fond of him. I know she was. Harriet was no slouch intellectually. She was a wonderful doctor – she’s been more than kind to us, and she had hinterland, she really did. She knew lots about lots, and I’m not talking medicine. She was curious about things. She never took things on trust. She always had to find out for herself. I always got the sense that most people bored her. Not this one. Not her Mr Bentner.’

  ‘She called him that?’

  ‘She called him Ali most of the time. Mr Bentner when he amused her, or when she was angry.’

  ‘She was angry a lot? He made her angry?’

  ‘Only once that I can remember. Harriet had very low blood pressure. It took a lot to rattle her.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Suttle saw a flicker of alarm in her eyes. Golding was making notes, and she wanted to know whether any of this would get Bentner into trouble.

  ‘I’ve no idea, Mrs Weatherall. Why don’t you just tell us what happened?’

  She gazed at Suttle a moment and then shrugged.

  ‘Harriet had been riding with a friend,’ she said. ‘It was a weekend. The friend had brought a couple of horses over. The two women had just come back and they were preparing the horses before getting them back in the box. Mr Bentner turned up. He was very drunk. God knows what he was doing behind the wheel of a car. Anyway, he frightened the horses, one of them badly. It went off into the field out the back there. It took them for ever to catch the poor thing.’

  ‘And Harriet?’

  ‘Very calm. Very measured. First she took his car keys. Then she told him to fuck off home and find someone else to upset.’

  ‘She said that?’ Suttle blinked.

  ‘Yes. If you want the truth, I got the tiniest feeling this wasn’t just about the horse.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘I think there may have been someone else in his life.’

  ‘You mean another woman?’

  ‘I imagine so. I simply don’t know. To be honest, this is a wild presumption on my part and probably very unfair. But Harriet was extremely choosy about who she spent time with and who she didn’t. I think she really liked her Mr Bentner. In fact I think it was probably stronger than that. Was she jealous that day? Is that what I heard? Hand on heart, I can’t be sure.’

  Golding scribbled himself another note. Suttle wanted to know more about the relationship. How long had they known each other? How had they met?

  ‘Met?’ Molly laughed. ‘As it happens, I can help you there. Most days Harriet would cycle into work. There’s a new path opened, down by the river. It’s a real success. One day, one evening I think, she got a puncture, and Bentner was the good Samaritan who helped her out.’

  ‘He cycled too?’

  ‘Every day, according to Harriet. That’s got to be a fair old hike, all the way to the Met Office and back. She said it was the one thing that kept him alive.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The amount he drank. She liked a drop too, but recently she seemed to have stopped completely.’

  She exchanged looks with her husband then went across and helped him to his feet. Unsupported, he made it to the hall. Then came the sound of a door opening and closing.

  ‘Did Harriet offer to help with your husband at all?’ Suttle’s gaze returned to Molly.

  ‘Yes, of course. Harriet was a GP. That was her job. Gerald had a stroke around Christmas time. It didn’t look at all good for a couple of weeks but, touch wood, he seems to be on the mend now.’

  ‘And Harriet?’

  ‘She offered to help in whatever way she could, especially when things were really grim. I thought that was generous of her. These days GPs are rushed off their feet. He wasn’t even her patient.’

  ‘Of course. Did she have family at all? That you know about?’

  ‘She had a husband some time back, but I don’t think there were any children.’

  ‘Was he a local man?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. I believe he was in the navy. They lived in Portsmouth for a while. She hated it.’

  ‘But he’s not around any more?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, no. I think his name was Tony.’

  ‘Tony Reilly?’

  ‘No. Reilly was her maiden name. She never mentioned her married name.’

  ‘But no kids?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I see.’ Suttle hesitated. From the hall came the sound of a lavatory flushing. ‘Did you know she was pregnant?’

  ‘Harriet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not at all. Are you sure? How much pregnant?’

  ‘Between three and four months.’

  ‘I’m astonished.’

  ‘She never mentioned it?’

  ‘Never.’ She frowned. ‘We’re talking Mr Bentner?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. Not for sure. Not until we get the DNA results.’ Suttle paused. ‘You think it might have been anyone else’s?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Bentner is certainly the only man I ever saw in her life, but these days that doesn’t mean anything. Like I say, she was really, really fond of him. A baby?’ She shook her head. ‘Good God.’

  Seven

  TUESDAY, 10 JUNE 2014, 14.47

  Lizzie spent the afternoon at a caravan site on the outskirts of Dawlish, a seaside town south of the estuary. Jeff Okenek occupied a mobile home tucked into a corner of the top field. A line of washing blew in the wind off the sea, and he’d created a small herb garden, carefully netted from pests, on the sunny side of the nearby hedge.

  The mobile home was spotless. Sepia prints of San Francisco in the 1930s hung on the few available stretches of wall, and a fold-up double bed beneath the window at the end served as a sofa. Jeff had a cat he called Ferlinghetti in memory of a beat poet Lizzie had never heard of and a huge long-haired tabby of uncertain age that he treated with something close to reverence.

  Lizzie had knocked on his door an hour or so after a catch-up on the phone with her friend from the Portsmouth Coroner’s office. Dawn had confirmed Lizzie’s Internet findings about death certification post-Shipman. She’d agreed it should now be impossible for any working GP to dispatch his or her more vulnerable patients without raising suspicions among fellow medics – GPs or otherwise – but half a lifetime straddling the no-man’s-land between medicine and law had taught her that legislation in this field was far from perfect.

  Life and death decisions at the end of somebody’s life, she’d pointed out, were famously difficult. If someone was truly suffering, and you had the means to bring all that to an end, wouldn’t it be kinder to put the poor bastard out of his misery? In the world of pets no one raised a peep if Tootsie had to be put to sleep. So how come human beings had to hang on and on because no one had the guts to do anything about it? This was strong stuff, but Dawn made Lizzie laugh when she added a thought about the eighty-pound payment made to a GP for completing the cremation form. This, she said, was known in the trade as ‘ash cash’.

  Lizzie had wondered about sharing this with Jeff, but fifteen minutes’ conversation convinced her it would be deeply inappropriate. Jeff was a serious man, intense, the gauntness of his face hollowed out by an energy you could almost touch. He spoke with a light American accent. He was barefoot. He wore black jeans and a grey vest that hung baggily on his thin shoulders. He must have been at least fifty, but his eyes glittered with the passion and focus of a much younger man. Once he knew she was a friend of Anton Schiller – a fact he took the trouble to check by making a phone call – he was very happy to tell her about Alec, about the way it had been between them, and about what had happened at the end.

  ‘This was a guy you’d give your life for. Me? I was happy to do that, and he knew it. We first met in LA. He was living down the street. Every day I used to watch this guy going off to work. He used to carry a bag, like a sports bag, and I so wanted to know what was in that bag. Then one day I met him coming home. It was in
the afternoon. We’d never met, never talked, but right there in the street I asked him about the bag. That was a pretty hot move, right? I mean the guy could have said anything.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He said to come up to his place. Then he’d show me.’

  ‘And you went?’

  ‘Of course I fucking did. And you know what was in the bag? Ballet tights and a kind of jerkin thing. Turned out the guy was a dancer. He performed with a company downtown. He had the build for it. He was slim but so, so strong. And he had balance like you wouldn’t believe. This was a guy who never walked, this was a guy who glided. No way you wouldn’t fall in love with a man like that.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘Big time. And it turned out he felt the exact same way. Me? I’m no ballet dancer, but a body like Alec’s isn’t hard to please. My pleasure, I used to tell him. And you know something? I meant it.’

  They moved in together. They became a couple. They left LA and went upstate to San Francisco. They lived in Haight-Ashbury, hung out with the art crowd and got on with their lives. Jeff worked in IT. Alec taught dance in a local performance centre. Weekends they’d use a particular bathhouse until Alec woke up one morning with swollen glands, a raging fever and a mysterious rash. HIV had ravaged a generation of gay men by now. Antiretrovirals could slow down the progress of the disease, but Alec was careless with his meds, and very slowly his body’s immune system began to collapse. He was dying and they both knew it.

  ‘We were over here by now. I’d been in England before. I loved it. Man, we were so, so frank with each other. I said there was no better place to die, and Alec believed me. We had a little money. Enough to meet the rental on this place and maybe travel a little. I bought a car from a guy up in Exeter, a big old Jaguar, seven hundred bucks, drank gas. I polished it up real nice, looked after it. A ride fit for a king, I told him. Alec loved that car. He loved the leather seats, loved the way you never heard the engine, loved the way people looked at us from the sidewalk. I drove my adorable man everywhere in that car. There isn’t a beach, a cove, a bay we didn’t visit. But most he loved Cornwall, the north coast, the light especially. When the sun shone, he’d say it was a trailer for heaven. When the wind blew and the gales came, it was a trailer for hell. Either way, he couldn’t care less. We’d had a fine life. We’d had each other. Towards the end he was so, so thin. Nights he would sweat so much. I’d try and hold him but he’d push me away. Then the sores came, places you didn’t need them, and his glands blew up, and then it even got tough to breathe. That man’s whole life had been his body, and it was like – hey – you’ve betrayed me. I can’t tell you how pissed he felt. And he hurt too. He hurt bad. And that was hard for both of us.’

  He swung off the sofa and fetched a photo from a drawer. The face in the photo could have belonged to a man in his eighties: the dullness in his eyes, the sagging flesh, the thinning hair, the purple blotches around his mouth.

  ‘This is Alec?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Sad.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Lizzie took another look. Jeff was right. This thing of beauty, key to a precious relationship, had become a husk of a man. She wanted to know whether Jeff had been registered with a doctor.

  ‘Sure. A guy right here in Dawlish.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said Alec would need care. Maybe a hospital. Maybe a hospice. Neither of us wanted that.’

  ‘So what was the alternative?’

  ‘Alec needed to die at home.’

  ‘You mean here?’

  ‘Sure. With me. On our own terms.’

  ‘Not easy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You talked about it?’

  ‘You bet we talked about it. Heroin was one answer. That’s not hard to find, but you never really know what you’re buying out on the street and quality can be an issue. Plus there’s all the drama afterwards. A death like that, you can guarantee an autopsy. They’re gonna find this stuff in his system. And they’re gonna be asking questions.’

  ‘So there had to be another way? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Sure. And there was.’

  ‘Harriet Reilly?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Care to tell me how?’

  For the first time he hesitated. He wanted to know what Lizzie was going to do with all this stuff. He wanted to know where this story of his might be headed next.

  ‘It’s background,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Background for what?’

  ‘Background for an investigation I’m running.’

  ‘Investigation? I don’t want any part of some bullshit investigation. You told me on the phone this conversation would stay private.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So how come we’re suddenly talking investigation?’

  Lizzie explained about Bespoken. Jeff wanted to see it. He was angry now. He fetched over a laptop and fired it up. Lizzie sat beside him while he scrolled through the last three months of stories she’d uploaded. A developer trashing the planning rules on a waterside site in Exmouth. A care home deep in East Devon where patients were mercilessly bullied. A Torquay garage specialising in dodgy MOT certificates. Rules bent. People hurt. Customers ripped off.

  ‘Like this is some kind of Robin Hood thing?’

  The phrase brought a smile to Lizzie’s face. She didn’t deny it. Jeff hadn’t finished.

  ‘So where does Harriet belong? This is a woman who took a big fucking risk. I asked her to kill my favourite human being, and that’s what she did. Not for money. Not for gain. Just because she understood. Does that make her a bad person? No fucking way. Does that make me grateful? And just a little protective? Sure it does. So let me ask you the question again. What do you plan to do with all this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Baby, this conversation is going nowhere. Like nowhere. I invited you along because of Anton. Anton’s a sweet guy. I trust him. I like him. And if he tells me you’re OK then that’s cool with me. Except you’re not what Anton said you were.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said you were a friend.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘He also said you’d done some book. Have I got that right?’

  Lizzie explained about Mine. Last year her daughter had been abducted and killed. In a bid to find some kind of closure, Lizzie had tried to get inside the head of the woman who’d done it.

  Jeff had heard of the book. Some of his anger seemed to melt away.

  ‘You say she died? Your daughter?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Not the little girl they filmed in the woman’s arms? Jumped off a balcony? Last year? Maybe the year before?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Jeff got up to make coffee. He said he was sorry. Living alone did strange things to a man.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘You live alone?’

  ‘I do. And no matter what happens I probably always will. In here –’ Lizzie touched her head ‘– where it matters.’

  ‘Cool …’ He was looking for the coffee. ‘Cool. Just one thing, though. Does any of this ever get back to her?’

  ‘To Harriet?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I doubt it, Jeff. Someone killed her last night. If you don’tbelieve me …’ she nodded at the TV on the kitchen table ‘… check it out.’

  ‘Killed her?’

  ‘Killed her.’

  ‘That’s bad shit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Eight

  TUESDAY, 10 JUNE 2014, 14.56

  Suttle was back at the MIR by mid-afternoon. He found DI Carole Houghton alone in the SIO’s office. Nandy had returned to Plymouth, sorting reinforcements for a domestic that had got out of hand. Partner and one kid dead. The other in Derriford Hospital fighting for her young life.

  Houghton looked up. ‘Some days
I know I’m on the wrong planet,’ she said. ‘Tell me something to cheer me up.’

  ‘Bentner?’

  ‘Still missing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s not supposed to happen.’

  ‘I know. Nandy thinks he’s probably topped himself. Should we have our fingers crossed? Hope and pray it’s true?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Suttle slipped into the spare chair. ‘Luke’s been talking to the CSM. He’s taken a look at the scene analysis at Bentner’s place. We dropped by there on the way back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The SOC guys boshing Reilly’s cottage seized a couple of items they released to us.’

  Suttle explained about the photo album and Reilly’s journal. Analysis of the latter would have to wait until later, but Golding had been through the shots of the winter holiday in the States that Reilly had shared with Bentner, making detailed notes of what the guy had been wearing. These notes he’d shared with the CSM.

  ‘We’re missing this stuff, boss.’ Suttle handed over a list. ‘No sign of the gear at Bentner’s place. He may have left it in the States or got rid of it since, but I’d say that’s unlikely.’

  Houghton ran quickly through the list. It included a blue anorak, a sleeping bag, lace-up boots and a sizeable rucksack.

  ‘You’re telling me they went to the States during the winter?’

  ‘Early March, boss. Oregon. Still bloody cold.’

  ‘And you’re suggesting he might be using all this gear now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it’s June, Jimmy.’

  ‘Sure. But he may be living rough. Nights can be tricky, even in high summer.’

  Houghton gave the proposition some thought. ‘Devon’s a big place,’ she said at last. ‘So where do you suggest we start?’

  It was raining by the time Suttle and Golding got down to Exmouth. The CSM had also shown Golding receipts from the Co-op in the town’s Magnolia Centre, where Bentner evidently did his weekly shop, and Suttle was on nodding terms with the handful of street people who sat cross-legged outside the store and begged for spare change. A couple of them, Suttle suspected, were ex-squaddies, adrift on Civvy Street with a big drink problem and absolutely zero prospects. They both had dogs and disappeared late afternoon with their rucksacks and their sleeping bags in the general direction of the seafront. Quite where they kipped was anyone’s guess, but now was a very good time to find out.