The Order of Things

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Was a woman called Harriet Reilly on that list?’

  ‘No way. I met her too. She used to come down to Exmouth with him. She’d give me little presents. Freebie drugs, mainly analgesics. I’d share them with my wilder brethren. Lifesavers if you’re not taking care of yourself.’

  ‘They were tight? The two of them?’

  ‘Like that.’ He crossed two fingers. ‘Soul mates.’

  ‘So who did he want to kill?’

  ‘The list writes itself. He always said he was spoiled for choice. Big business, shitbag scientists they’ve hoisted on board, piss-poor politicians – take your choice. There’s no way he’d ever get to these people, but he’d never admit it. Delusional, like I say.’

  Suttle let the tea cool in the Oxfam mug. The sun was hot on the back of his neck.

  ‘That Saturday night,’ he said. ‘You talked?’

  ‘Yeah, and drank.’

  ‘He took a call. Near midnight. Were you with him then?’

  ‘I was. He went over into the trees.’

  ‘The call didn’t last long,’ Suttle said. ‘About a minute, tops.’

  ‘That’s right. And he was a different man when he came back.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘Sober for starters. Which I guess was just as well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he left us for a while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Ten minutes? Fifteen? Something like that.’

  ‘Right.’ Suttle didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. No way could Bentner have made it to Lympstone and back in fifteen minutes. ‘What then?’ he asked. ‘After he came back?

  ‘He’d found them.’

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘His car keys.’

  Thirty-Six

  WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE 2014, 17.45

  Lizzie brooded about Gemma Caton’s sudden disappearance while she did her best to sort out Michala Haas. Her front door was secured with two bolts and an ancient Yale lock. She asked Michala about the car Gemma was driving and then went out into the street to check for something small and yellow. Nothing. Back in the house, she secured the front of the property and then locked the door in the kitchen that offered access to the garden at the back.

  Already she felt under siege. Now, with Michala under her protection, she had a double responsibility. This evening, she told herself, she’d get to the bottom of what had really happened to Harriet Reilly. In the meantime it might be wise to hedge her bets.

  Michala was in bed, evidently asleep. Lizzie closed the bedroom door and went downstairs to the kitchen. She kept the text to Jimmy as brief as she could. ‘Gemma Caton might be a flight risk,’ she wrote. ‘Surveillance?’

  Suttle showed the text to Carole Houghton. The two of them were about to drive over to Heavitree for the third interview with Alois Bentner.

  ‘Why is she telling us, Jimmy?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, boss.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true? About Caton?’

  ‘It is. I just checked with her department at the university. She has some kind of crisis in her personal life. Needs to sort it out.’

  ‘And you think that might involve Lizzie?’

  ‘I don’t know, but my guess is Lizzie’s frightened. Surveillance would give her a bit of cover.’

  ‘You mean reassurance.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how do you feel about all this?’

  ‘All what, boss?’

  ‘Lizzie and Michala. You must have a view, surely?’ Golding had shared the morning’s interviews with Houghton. In Michala’s view, she and Lizzie were on the verge of an affair.

  They were driving down the Heavitree Road. A couple of minutes and they’d be at the nick. The fact that Houghton was also lesbian, tucked up in a long-term relationship with a high-flying London lawyer, had never been a secret.

  ‘I don’t really have a view, boss. Maybe Lizzie’s playing games with the woman. Maybe she really fancies her. You want the truth? Nothing she does any more will ever surprise me.’

  ‘But you must care about her? No?’

  ‘Of course. I care about the woman she was. What’s been happening lately is beyond me. She’s lost her bearings, she’s lost her judgement. Success and money and all the rest of it have turned her into someone else.’

  Houghton nodded. She seemed to understand.

  ‘Lost is an important word, Jimmy. Maybe we should bear that in mind.’

  Rosie Tremayne and Det-Supt Nandy were waiting for them at the Custody Centre. Nandy had organised an office for a pre-interview meet. Bentner was still in one of the cells downstairs. According to the turnkey, he’d nearly finished The First Circle.

  Suttle briefed them both on what he’d learned from Geordie John.

  ‘You can trust his account? You statemented him?’ This from Nandy.

  ‘I did, sir. I think he’s kosher.’

  ‘And he’s telling us that Bentner was away for a while? That Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes. He’s already admitted finding the body on the Sunday, but he never mentioned leaving the camp on the Saturday night.’

  ‘How long was he away? Exactly?’

  ‘At least an hour. He had to find his car keys first. After that Geordie John went for a kip. When he woke up, Bentner was back in his tent.’

  ‘Did he ask him where he’d been?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said he’d been to check on the family.’

  ‘Interesting phrase, son. Nothing else?’

  Suttle shook his head. He told Rosie Tremayne about the recent domestic – Bentner and Harriet Reilly, witnessed by her former burglar. Tremayne wanted to know how much importance she should place on this account.

  ‘It might be key, Rosie.’ This from Houghton. ‘We have to shake the man up. I doubt we’re anywhere near a confession, but if it turns out we need a further extension we have to have more shots in our locker. He may let something slip. Good hunting, eh?’

  The interview began at 18.42. Bentner’s solicitor had arrived forty minutes earlier and had spent longer than Suttle had expected with her client. Was this some kind of clue to what might lie ahead? Suttle didn’t know.

  Bentner, as expected, was the soul of composure. If nothing else, Suttle thought, we must be doing wonders for his liver.

  ‘I want to take you back a couple of weeks,’ Suttle began. ‘Harriet has been away on holiday. She’s been to Tenerife. She comes back. How did she feel?’

  ‘Rested.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was glad to have her back. As I explained earlier, I’d have gone with her but it was a last-minute thing on her part, and I couldn’t get the time off.’

  ‘Why so last minute?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was she especially stressed?’

  ‘She was pregnant. And that had never happened before.’

  ‘She was relaxed about having the baby?’

  ‘She thought she’d carry it to term. That isn’t necessarily the same thing.’

  ‘So she wasn’t happy about having it? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘She was cautious, wary.’

  ‘And you? Was she happy about you?’

  ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘I get the impression she may have been under some stress. Might you have added to that?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a question.’

  ‘Then the answer’s no. She knew I cared about her. She trusted me. Why do you ask the question?’

  ‘Because we think you had a major row. Thursday, 5 June. One o’clock in the morning. At her cottage. Does any of that ring a bell with you, Mr Bentner?’

  His gaze went from one face to the other, then settled on Suttle again. We’ve shaken him, Suttle thought.

  ‘We had words,’ Bentner admitted.

  ‘It was worse than that
, much worse. You attacked her. You threw things at her. You were screaming at her. Or have we got that wrong?’

  Bentner said nothing. His solicitor wanted to know where these allegations had come from and why they hadn’t been disclosed before the interview began.

  Suttle explained about the witness in the field behind the cottage. The solicitor wanted to know the witness’s name.

  ‘Trevor Clark.’

  ‘Clark?’ Bentner had come to life again. ‘The man’s a thief. He’s a criminal. I was there in court. All this stuff comes from him?’

  ‘It does, Mr Bentner. Are you denying it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the broken glass we found in Harriet’s living room? The wine stains? There’s a pattern here. We call it corroboration.’

  ‘Call it what you like. I’m a scientist. I deal in certainties. What’s certain is you can’t trust a man like Clark. He has an agenda. It’s obvious. Harriet helped put him in jail. Low life like Clark never forget something like that.’

  Suttle leaned back, shot a glance at Rosie Tremayne.

  ‘Harriet was worried about you seeing someone else,’ she said. ‘We have that from her travel diaries and now Mr Clark’s telling us the same thing. Who might that someone be?’

  Bentner shook his head, refused to answer. His solicitor beckoned him closer. A murmured conversation.

  Bentner turned back to Rosie. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Might she have had grounds for being worried?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Gemma Caton was a good friend of yours.’

  ‘Is. Not was.’

  ‘Is a good friend of yours. How far does that friendship go, Mr Bentner?’

  Bentner threw his head back and barked with laughter. ‘The woman’s a dyke. I thought I told you that.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Then why would I have sex with a lesbian? Or she with me?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be sex, Mr Bentner. Betrayal is rarely as simple as that. We’re putting it to you that Harriet was jealous about your relationship with Gemma Caton. That she felt excluded by that relationship. That she mistrusted the woman. And that she may even have been frightened by her.’

  ‘Nothing frightened Harriet. Ever.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. I think she was frightened of losing you.’

  ‘I’m flattered. It’s a generous thought but it happens to be wrong. We understood each other, Harriet and I.’

  ‘Just like you understand Gemma?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you saw no contradiction between the two? Two special people in your life? Two special relationships? Most people can only handle one. So maybe that takes us back to Harriet.’

  Pause. A lengthening silence. Nandy, watching in the room next door, couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. He had a smile on his face.

  Suttle took up the running again. ‘We put it to you, Mr Bentner, that your private life had got out of control. That you had to choose between two women.’

  ‘One I was fucking and one I wasn’t? What kind of choice was that?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘You’re saying I killed her? Harriet? To make everything nice and tidy? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘We’re asking, Mr Bentner.’ It was Tremayne again. ‘We’re making a suggestion. Life is always more complex than you might expect. And you’re talking to a couple of experts.’

  Bentner was shaking his head. He didn’t have to put up with this bullshit. He really didn’t. The world was coming apart at the seams. Nowhere in the last six months were the symptoms more obvious than down here in the south-west. The coast had been eaten alive. Half of Somerset was underwater. Yet here he was banged up with a couple of lunatic policemen determined to take a scalp or two.

  ‘You people are off the planet,’ he added. ‘Which I guess makes you lucky.’

  Suttle acknowledged the comment with a smile. Not beaten yet. Not quite. ‘Let’s talk about that Saturday night,’ he said. ‘It was only two days after the fight you had with Harriet. You left her at your house and went off camping.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You know a man called Geordie John. A rough sleeper.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sat up with him and a couple of other guys out on the cliffs there.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just before midnight you took a call.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember that call?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who made it?’

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think I told you. She wanted to know about my day. She was tired. She was about to go to bed.’

  ‘Shortly afterwards you went to your car.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, according to Geordie John. Where did you go?’

  A moment’s hesitation. Then that same tight smile.

  ‘Tesco. On the Salterton Road. They’re open twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I needed to buy more drink.’

  ‘Did you pay by card?’

  ‘No. Cash. Always cash.’

  ‘Did you keep the receipt?’

  ‘Of course not. We drink the stuff. We never take it back.’

  ‘You’re aware they have CCTV at Tesco?’

  ‘No. Is that relevant?’

  ‘It might well be, Mr Bentner. What time are we talking? Roughly?’

  ‘Maybe one in the morning. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Fine.’ It was Suttle’s turn to smile. ‘We’ll check it out.’ He paused. ‘What did you do afterwards?’

  ‘I drove back to the cliff top. Orcombe Point. Everyone seemed to be asleep.’

  ‘I see.’ Suttle sat back, abandoned his pen and pad. ‘Do you have anything else to add? Anything you’d like to share with us?’

  Bentner stared at Suttle, then shook his head. ‘No.’

  Suttle held his gaze. ‘Geordie John was awake when you got back, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He may have been. I can’t remember.’

  ‘He says he was. Do you remember what you told him? When you got back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You said you’d been to visit the family. What exactly did that mean?’

  Bentner blinked, then settled back in the chair.

  ‘No comment,’ he muttered.

  Minutes later, after Suttle called a halt to the interview, Nandy was punching the air. A result at last. He’d already dispatched Carole Houghton to the duty magistrate for a custody extension. First thing tomorrow detectives would be crawling all over Tesco’s CCTV footage. Buzzard, he said, had blown a huge hole in Bentner’s account, and the next twenty-four hours would see him charged.

  ‘With what, sir?’ Suttle wasn’t convinced.

  ‘He killed her. He solved his problem. Sober the man’s probably a genius. Pissed he can do anything. There were two women in his life. He settled for the one next door. God knows why but he did. Genius, son.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Yours.’

  Thirty-Seven

  WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE 2014, 21.37

  Michala spent the evening huddled on the sofa. She was wearing a dressing gown of Lizzie’s, a size too big for her. It was red silk, a present Lizzie had bought for herself on publication day, and it enveloped Michala’s thin frame. This was like looking after a sick child, Lizzie thought. Lots of tea. Lots of physical contact. Lots of reassurance.

  It was gone nine. They were watching television. Australia v. the Netherlands. Wall-to-wall football.

  Lizzie took her hand. It was cold. She wouldn’t look Lizzie in the eye. Didn’t want to talk. It had been this way all evening.

  ‘You have to tell me,’ Lizzie said again.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Why you’re so frightened. What’s been going on.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yo
u mean you won’t.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Her eyes were still glued to the screen. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You think you’re protecting me in some way? You think it’s better – safer – if I don’t know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You think I wouldn’t be able to handle it? Whatever it is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’re wrong.’ Lizzie cupped Michala’s face in her hands. ‘I’m a big girl. A lot’s happened in my life.’

  She held Michala’s gaze. She had to level with this woman. They had to become allies in the same war. She told her about losing Grace, about hitting rock bottom, about wondering whether she should follow her daughter to wherever she’d gone. Some nights, she said, ending it all would have been a release. But you soldier on. You battle through. Because the alternative is infinitely worse.

  Michala seemed to understand. She nodded. Then her eyes strayed back to the TV. The Dutch were attacking, swarms of attackers punishing the Australian defence.

  ‘I saw the poster in the kitchen,’ she said at last. ‘I want to read that book.’

  ‘I’ll give you a copy.’

  ‘Is it about your daughter?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What else is it about?’

  ‘It’s about the woman who killed her.’

  ‘She was crazy, this woman?’

  ‘She was damaged.’

  Michala nodded, pulling the dressing gown a little tighter around herself.

  ‘I want you to write in it.’ She glanced at Lizzie. ‘Please.’

  ‘You mean a dedication?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lizzie studied her a moment, then got up and left the room. She kept hardback copies of Mine in a box in one of the spare bedrooms. She found a pen and wrote a brief message.

  Back on the sofa she gave Michala the book.

  ‘So soon. So quickly.’ Michala opened the book, looking for the dedication, and tried to make sense of Lizzie’s scrawl.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says you’re a lovely person. It says you don’t deserve any of this. And it says take care.’

  ‘You mind if I start it now? You mind if I go back to bed?’