The Order of Things

by Graham Hurley

  ‘You and Gemma. In Lympstone.’ The smile widened. ‘There was another woman there. Why don’t we talk about her?’

  Lizzie spent nearly an hour on the phone to her agent. Step by step, she walked Muriel through the investigation she’d mounted around Harriet Reilly. This was a woman, she said, who’d won the trust and eternal thanks of the terminally ill. In Lizzie’s view her private crusade had taken her close to sainthood, yet somewhere along the way she’d made an enemy ruthless and desperate enough to have killed her. Lizzie offered descriptions of Jeff Okenek. Of Ralph Woodman. Of Frances Bevan. And now of Michala. All of them, she said, had been supplicants. All of them had begged Harriet Reilly to put their loved ones out of their misery. In only one case had she refused. And now she herself was dead.

  Muriel was impressed. She said it sounded an extraordinary story, all the more so because it still lacked a resolution. Who had killed Harriet Reilly? And how – exactly – had that happened? Only by staying close to the investigation would Lizzie be able to do the story justice.

  ‘Is your husband part of the squad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you still on speaking terms?’

  ‘Just. But it’s complicated.’

  ‘Everything’s complicated, my darling. That’s how people like us make a living.’

  Lizzie still needed an answer. ‘You think I should use the website? Or write a book?’

  ‘Both. I’m a fan of the website. You know I am. It’s liberated you. It’s set you free. I can feel it.’

  ‘Sure. But it’s not the same, is it? Not the same as a book?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s a first draft. It’ll send a message. It’ll get people thinking. These people are potential readers. You need to juice them. You need to make them ask for more. And that’s when we move on the book. Do I smell an auction in the offing? I do.’

  Lizzie nodded. She thought she understood.

  Then came another question. Muriel had a gift for scenting other people’s weakness. ‘You say this Danish woman came on to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then stay close to her. She’s our best chance.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of taking you where you deserve to be.’ Lizzie heard a throaty cackle of laughter. ‘Do I hear a yes?’

  The conversation came to an end. Muriel wished her good luck and hung up.

  Lizzie stared at the window for a long moment and then reached for her mobile. When there was no answer, she sent Michala a text: ‘We need to talk. Plse ring me.’

  Luke Golding called a break in his interview with Michala Haas. Challenged about the dinner party hosted by Gemma Caton down at her waterside house, she’d said very little. Michala had met Lizzie Hodson last week. She was a journalist. She was doing a thing about wind power. She was an interesting person, a nice person, and she wanted to meet Gemma. Michala had been happy to pass on the invitation and they’d all had a good time. When Golding asked her about what else might have happened, she’d looked blank.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you making a pass.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You wanted to sleep with her.’

  ‘That’s right. I did.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She said she was ill. She left.’

  ‘Have you seen her since?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you still want to sleep with her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Lizzie? She feels the same way?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope so.’

  These questions brought the interview to a temporary end. When Michala said she had to go, Golding said he’d prefer she stayed. He had to make some calls, have a conversation or two. Then they’d talk some more. When she said that might be difficult, that she had things to do, Golding told her she had no choice. Either she agreed to stay or he’d arrest her. The word arrest brought something new to her eyes, something Golding recognised at once. Fear.

  He left Heavitree and drove back to the MIR and conferred with the CSM in charge of the forensic file. Suttle had just emerged from a meeting with DI Houghton. He took Golding aside and told him about his expedition down to Exmouth. A serial housebreaker had witnessed Alois Bentner at full throttle. The difference between small and large acts of violence could be marginal.

  ‘We believe this guy?’

  ‘I can’t see why he’d be making it up.’

  ‘So Bentner’s back in the frame?’

  ‘Has to be.’

  The thought that he might get his twenty quid back put a smile on Golding’s face. He told Suttle about the interview with Michala Haas.

  ‘She’s trying to bed your missus, skip. And she thinks she might be pushing at an open door.’

  Suttle stared at him, then agreed to accompany Golding back to Heavitree. In the younger man’s opinion, the resumed interview might yield a surprise or two. All he needed was a little leverage.

  ‘Like what?’

  Golding was carrying an A4 Manila envelope. The young lady was waiting, he said. Best to put her out of her misery.

  Michala was talking to a WPC when Suttle and Golding got back to Heavitree police station. She’d finished one coffee, asked for another. The WPC said no problem.

  ‘This is a colleague of mine, Michala.’ Golding nodded at Suttle. ‘He’s working on the murder as well.’

  In the car Suttle had wondered about the wisdom of offering Michala the services of a lawyer but agreed that it wasn’t strictly necessary. She’d volunteered for the interview in the first place. In Golding’s phrase, what happened next was strictly a punt.

  Golding took Michala back to her relationship with Gemma Caton.

  ‘Would you describe it as a marriage? You and Gemma?’

  ‘Not at all. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because we need to know whether you find room for other partners.’

  ‘You mean sex? You’re talking about sex?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course what?’

  ‘Of course I have sex with other people.’

  ‘Men? Women?’

  ‘Both. But mainly women.’

  ‘And Lizzie? Lizzie Hodson? The journalist you met? Did you have sex with her?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘That night? After dinner.’

  ‘No. She got sick. I told you.’

  ‘Have you had sex with her at all?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘But soon? You think?’

  ‘I hope so, yes.’

  Golding reached for his pad, made a note. Suttle was studying his hands. He’d been right. His ex-wife had become someone else.

  Golding pushed the envelope across the table and asked her to open it. Michala slid the contents onto the table. They were the Scenes of Crime photos from Bentner’s bedroom, the mutilated body of Harriet Reilly sprawled on the bed.

  ‘Look at them all, Michala. Take your time.’

  She was staring at the top photo. She swallowed hard, turned away, shook her head.

  Golding found a close-up of the slashed belly, the glistening loops of intestine, the ruined womb. And then came an even tighter shot of the remains of the fetus. He laid them carefully side by side. A tadpole without a head.

  ‘Please take a look,’ he said softly.

  Against her will, Michala did his bidding. At the sight of the fetus, she closed her eyes. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you showing me these pictures?’

  ‘Because you’re lying. Because you have lots more to tell us. And because you need to know why we’re asking all these questions.’

  ‘You think I did that?’ She was looking at the baby.

  ‘I think you may know who did.’

  ‘How? How would I know that?’

  Golding didn’t answer the question. Instead he glanced at Suttle.

  ‘Skip?’

  Suttle shook his head. He had lots of qu
estions of his own but only one seemed to matter just now.

  ‘This journalist … Lizzie Hodson …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You say you’re seeing her again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She risked a smile. ‘Soon, I hope.’

  Thirty-Five

  WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE 2014, 14.21

  Golding drove Suttle back to the MIR. DI Houghton had just returned from a snatched lunch in the canteen, where she’d run into the Deputy SIO on the Barnstaple job. A keen young DI, he’d been only too pleased to share one or two highlights from the inquiry that had nailed the two Romanians who’d done the elderly couple. How he’d acted on an early hunch. How most of his investigative gambles had paid off. And how delighted Nandy had been to have the job sorted within a couple of days. None of this made for easy listening, and Houghton, only too aware of the car crash that was Operation Buzzard, was glad to get back to her office.

  She listened to Golding’s account of the interviews with Michala Haas. She agreed the woman might know a great deal more than she was letting on. And she decided it was time to put her account to a sterner test.

  ‘Check out the London alibi,’ she said. ‘Talk to the German guy about the car. Make sure it really was on his driveway all weekend. Talk to the girl’s neighbours, as well. Saturday night’s the key to everything. If we can break the alibi, if we can put them both back in Lympstone, then we’re getting close to a result.’

  Suttle wanted to know about Bentner. Time was running out. They still hadn’t confronted him with the evidence from the burglar, Trevor Clark. It might be nice to back it up with something else.

  Houghton agreed. The row at Harriet Reilly’s cottage suggested the relationship between Bentner and Reilly was in deep trouble. If a third party was involved, logic suggested it had to be Gemma Caton. Think about it from Reilly’s point of view. She was already carrying Bentner’s child. She probably felt vulnerable on that score alone. The fact that his neighbour was playing way too large a part in his private life – the huddles over global warming, their sunset tête-à-têtes in Bentner’s waterside garden – would simply make things worse. No wonder she’d taken herself off for a holiday.

  Golding departed to drive to London. He’d check out the parking alibi and talk to Michala Haas’s neighbours and report back.

  Houghton asked Suttle to stay. ‘We just had another conversation with your mate,’ she said.

  ‘Mate?’

  ‘Geordie John. That was his word, not mine. I think he took a shine to you, Jimmy. He thinks you’re OK.’

  ‘So what’s he saying?’

  ‘Nothing. Yet. He’ll only talk to you.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Dawlish. There’s a tiny beach. Horse Cove. He’s been living rough there for a while. Go and talk to him, Jimmy. Nandy wants to monitor the final session with Bentner. You’ll be partnered with Rosie. We’re thinking six o’clock.’

  Lizzie was about to go out when she heard the tap-tap at the front door. She had a date with Anton at the Costa in Waterstones. He was promising more news about Gemma Caton.

  It was Michala. Lizzie knew at once that she’d been crying. She shepherded her inside and shut the door. When she gave her a hug, Michala began to sob uncontrollably. Lizzie led her through to the living room, sat her down on the sofa, suggested tea or something stronger.

  ‘Hold me. Please. Tell me I’m not evil.’

  Lizzie took her in her arms, letting the storm blow out. At length she asked what on earth had happened.

  Michala wouldn’t tell her. Not yet. Something terrible, she said. Something she couldn’t even describe.

  ‘This is about Gemma?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Harriet Reilly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what is it? What do you want to tell me?’

  Michala gazed up through a shine of tears. ‘Nothing. I can’t. I won’t.’ She looked around. ‘Can I stay here? With you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And no one else will know?’

  ‘No one. Just you and me.’ She gave her another hug, fetched a box of tissues, dried her tears. ‘You’re safe, Michala. I promise you. Give me a minute? I have to make a call.’

  Lizzie went through to the kitchen. She sensed that this story of hers was coming to the boil. In some ways it was crazy to let Michala so close because she would – in the end – bring Gemma Caton to the door. But what choice did she have? If she really wanted to see this thing through?

  Still in the kitchen, she phoned Anton. He was on his way to Waterstones for the meet. She apologised for the glitch but told him something had come up. What was the news about Gemma Caton?

  ‘She’s cancelled all her lectures, all her supervisions, everything.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was talking to the secretary. It seems she has unfinished business elsewhere.’

  Suttle was in Dawlish by mid-afternoon. He’d downloaded an Ordnance Survey map of the area and located a footpath he thought might lead to Horse Cove. Parking in a bay off the main road, he headed off through a thicket of brambles, hunting for the top of the cliff. He found it minutes later. Steadying himself against the updraught from the cove below, he noticed his leg was no longer giving him any pain.

  The drop from the edge of the cliff was dizzying, and there were signs of recent slippage. The wounds on the cliff face were raw, a rich ochre bareness where plants and grasses had yet to reseed. The winter storms, Suttle thought, shading his eyes against the afternoon glare, wondering what it must be like to live in one of the properties further along the cliff. Every time another gale arrived you’d worry about the rest of your garden sliding into oblivion. Could you insure against the near-certainty of disasters like these? And was global warming the reason for all those sleepless nights?

  The footpath no longer existed, another of winter’s casualties. Instead, Suttle had to make his way back along the cliff top until he found an access track the railway engineers working below must be using. They were netting this stretch of cliff face against further falls. Below him lay the dull metal threads of the line, the south-west’s only link to the rest of the network. February’s breach in the sea wall had now been repaired, but the locals believed it was only a matter of time before nature came calling again.

  Suttle, who loathed heights and mistrusted gravity, made his way carefully down the zigzag path. By now he’d spotted a blue tent on the patch of scrub between the railway line and the beach. It was low tide, the wind pleating the water offshore, tiny waves lapping at the shininess of the pebbles. The cove had turned its back on the land, a tiny crescent of privacy hemmed in by the jut of the cliffs left and right, each headland penetrated by a railway tunnel. If you enjoyed your own company and didn’t mind trains, this would be a perfect spot to call home.

  Geordie John thought so. He was asleep in his tent when Suttle finally made it down to the beach. His flysheet was pegged open, and he was lying naked in the hot sunshine, his eyes closed. Suttle gazed down at him. In the absence of a bell or a knocker, he poked a grubby big toe with his foot. The puppies were in the tent too. They barked. Geordie John stirred, opened one eye. Suttle’s face was black against the brightness of the light.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Suttle squatted beside the tent. Nice place. Real find. What happened when the wind got up?

  ‘You button up. Hunker down. A good book does it. And maybe a candle.’

  He was struggling into an ancient pair of Calvin Kleins. The puppies were all over him. He hadn’t expected Suttle so soon. In fact he hadn’t expected Suttle at all.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Expectation’s second cousin to disappointment, my friend. If you’re wise, you kick the habit. Don’t get me wrong. People can be lovely. You learn that, living the way I do. They give you m
oney, food, clothing, whatever it takes. But that’s where it ends. A decent conversation? Forget it. It’s all arm’s length these days, and you know why? You’re carrying the virus. You make your own decisions. You live like this.’ He gave the nearest puppy a pat. It licked his face.

  Suttle wanted to know more about the virus. What was it?

  ‘It’s the freedom virus. It scares most people to death.’

  Suttle wondered whether he was drunk. On balance, he decided not. Solitude made you value conversation. Obvious, really.

  ‘I’m here for a chat,’ Suttle said. ‘It’s your lucky day.’

  ‘Yeah? And maybe yours too. Fancy a brew?’

  Suttle said no. Time was tight. He didn’t want to bore Geordie John with the real world but he had less than an hour. Absolute max.

  ‘An hour is an eternity, my friend. An hour can cement a friendship for life. You take sugar?’

  It turned out he had the tea already brewed in a Thermos, one of a number of early-morning chores. Life, he said, was for sharing.

  ‘Milk? Powdered, I’m afraid.’

  Suttle took the tea, tasted it. Yuk. Geordie John watched him, amused.

  ‘You want to talk about the scientist fella, am I right?’

  ‘Bentner? Yes.’

  ‘Because you think he killed that woman? Or am I wrong?’

  ‘You may be. At this point we don’t know. You’re aware he’s in custody?’

  ‘I am. Your mates told me. So what’s he saying?’

  ‘He’s saying he was with you.’

  ‘On that Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s true. He was.’

  ‘I’ll need a statement to that effect.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Biscuit?’ He rummaged at the back of the tent and produced a tin of assorted shortbread. It seemed that Sainsbury’s offered the best pickings in Dawlish. Nice people. Generous. Loved small dogs.

  ‘Tell me about Bentner.’

  ‘The guy’s bright. Really bright. Also damaged. Much like the rest of us but probably worse. His drinking puts us to shame. Serious thirst on the man.’

  ‘Damaged how?’

  ‘He’s delusional. Some days when I was working the precinct in Exmouth he’d settle down for a chat and be Mr Sanity. Other times he’d rock up, totally wasted, and give me all the people on his death list. I thought he was taking the piss at first but it turned out he was serious.’