The Order of Things (11 page)

‘Thanks to Harriet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Natural burial?’

‘Yes.’

This was becoming Harriet Reilly’s trademark, her way of avoiding the extra checks and paperwork that went with cremations. First Alec. Then Julia. And now – it seemed – Betty.

‘So where did this woman live?’ She’d abandoned the menu.

‘Lympstone.’

Nandy, on a short fuse already, exploded. Suttle had just reported back on Sheila Forshaw.

‘She did
what
?’

Suttle repeated the story’s headline. They’d taken Forshaw back to her Exeter house. Luckily, her phone hadn’t been active since Bentner had been in touch and 1471 had delivered the number of a call box. Suttle had dialled the number there and then to save the hassle of going through BT, and after a minute or two a passer-by had lifted the receiver. The call box was on the northern edges of Ivybridge. Which, in Suttle’s view, probably meant that Bentner was hiding out on Dartmoor. He was describing Bentner’s recent passion for letterboxing when Nandy interrupted.

‘He’ll have moved on after making the call. That time in the morning he’ll have the roads to himself. We need to ANPR him.’ Automatic number plate recognition was a vital tool for operations like
Buzzard.
If Bentner stuck to the major roads, they could track him from camera to camera.

Houghton reached for a phone but Nandy hadn’t finished. He wanted to know why Forshaw hadn’t reported the call.

‘I’ve no idea, sir. My best guess is that she likes him and was trying to protect him.’

‘By giving him a head start? After what he’d done?’

‘That’s a supposition, sir, if I may say so. Remember she has a vested interest in this. It was Forshaw who found the body. That was a horrible scene. She doesn’t believe he could have done it. That’s what she said. That’s what she told us.’

‘Brilliant. Top work, son. You think she’s implicated somehow? An affair, maybe? You think they might have been at it? Should we pull her in? Bosh her house? See how she takes a conspiracy charge? This is beyond belief, son. We’ve just spent twenty-four hours putting that man’s face in every house in the kingdom and we end up with dick all. He phones this woman in the middle of the night and it takes her another eight hours to let us know. What are we looking at here? Just give me something to go on.’

Suttle glanced at Houghton for help. The DI was deep in the latest email. Oddly enough, it came from the Met Office.

‘ND?’ she queried.

Suttle explained about the entries in Harriet Reilly’s travel journal. Nandy had at last begun to calm down. Suttle wanted to know more about the email.

‘It’s come from their HR department. They’re giving us three names.’ Houghton bent towards the screen. ‘Nadine Drexler. Nathalie Dorman. Nikki Drew.’

‘Addresses?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘If you want more, they’re suggesting you talk to Sheila Forshaw again. She’s his line manager, as you know.’

‘Perfect.’ Suttle couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Just as well I didn’t arrest her, boss. She might have gone No Comment by now.’

With Nandy’s blessing, Suttle left the office to make the call. On the phone Sheila Forshaw sounded almost cheerful. The knowledge that Bentner was still free, still out of reach, must have made her day.

Suttle wanted to know whether she’d seen the email from HR.

‘I was copied in. Like your DI.’

‘So what’s the strength?’

‘Strength?’

‘Do you know any of these people?’

‘Only Nikki Drew.’

‘And Bentner?’

‘He knows her too. She’s part of the same team.’

‘So you manage her?’

‘I do.’

‘And?’

There was a brief silence. Then Forshaw was back on the line.

‘What is it you want to know, Mr Suttle? Let’s not waste each other’s time.’

‘I want to know whether she and Bentner might be close.’

‘You mean sexually? Emotionally?’

‘Yes.’

‘That I doubt. Nikki is already in a relationship.’

‘With another guy?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I see.’ Suttle made a note. ‘So where does she live? Ms Drew?’

‘Topsham.’

‘You have the address? Contact details?’

‘Of course.’ Suttle heard a sigh. ‘I’ll put them in an email.’

The conversation came to an end. Golding had drifted across the MIR and perched himself on Suttle’s desk. The force helicopter had been criss-crossing Dartmoor for the last hour. It had an infrared camera aboard, and if Bentner was still out there somewhere, there was just a chance that body heat might give him away. Nandy had also put in a bid to use Royal Navy and coastguard assets if another search area presented itself, but so far there’d been no response to either request.

Houghton, intrigued by Bentner’s recent interest in letterboxing, had also tasked a team of officers to start scouring likely sites on the southern fringes of the moor. Maybe
Buzzard
’s fugitive may have left some kind of message. Maybe this was another back passage to the wanted man.

Suttle wanted to know whether any other leads had emerged.

‘The guys boshing Reilly’s cottage called in. They’ve just finished.’

‘And?’

‘They’ve found bits of glass and wine stains around the living room. They’re thinking someone tried to clear it all up but didn’t do a great job. The pattern suggests some kind of fracas.’

Suttle nodded. This latest news fitted the picture of Reilly and Bentner that was beginning to develop: their volatility, their passion for each other, Bentner’s fondness for strong drink. Then he had another thought.
Stupid
, he thought.
I’m so, so stupid
.

‘The scene at Bentner’s place,’ he said. ‘Reilly on the bed.’

‘And?’

‘She had a tan. She’d been somewhere hot.’

‘Like the back garden?’

‘Not a tan like that. No way. We need to check it out. Try the practice. Or maybe those neighbours of hers. Find out whether she took a break over the last couple of weeks. Then cross-check with Sheila Forshaw.’

‘I’m not with you, skip.’

‘See if Bentner went too.’

Golding headed for his own desk, then paused. He wanted to know whether it might be safe to bank on having the evening free. Serafin had scored a couple of tickets to a stand-up gig in Taunton and Golding fancied going along.

‘Stand-up?’ Suttle could use a few laughs himself.

‘Yeah.’ He named a couple of broadcast comedians Suttle had never heard of. Golding’s nod covered the entire room. ‘This inquiry’s nearly through, skip. All we have to do is wait for Bentner to show up. A few beers won’t do us any harm.’

Suttle smiled. His PC signalled an incoming email. It was Sheila Forshaw with Nikki Drew’s contact details. She’d just talked to Nikki, and she was happy to have a conversation with Suttle this evening if that might help.

Suttle responded, accepting the invitation, then sat back. Golding was still waiting for an answer.

‘You go.’ Suttle nodded at the screen. ‘I’ll sort this.’

Thirteen

W
EDNESDAY, 11
J
UNE 2014, 17.01

Frances Bevan lived on an estate on the edges of Lympstone. Its sturdy properties had been built as council houses and later sold to their tenants on very favourable terms. Over the last couple of decades the village had become a trophy postcode and prices had gone through the roof. Frances Bevan was one of the original tenants who’d stayed on. And so, as it turned out, was her friend across the road.

On the phone Lizzie had explained her interest in euthanasia. At Ralph Woodman’s request, she was spreading her net as wide as possible to try and understand why an organisation called Dignity in Dying was becoming so popular. Initially dubious about any kind of conversation, mention of Ralph Woodman had opened Frances Bevan’s door. Such a gentle man. So well intentioned. And such a blessing as far as Betty was concerned.

‘So you’d been neighbours for ever? You and Betty?’

‘That’s right. Neighbours and best friends. To be honest, we’ve both had our little problems but life’s like that, isn’t it?’

Lizzie nodded. Frances Bevan was a small, neat, busy little person with freshly permed hair and a lapful of knitting. Her sitting room, spotlessly clean, was deeply retro – a tribute to 50s decor – and Lizzie could imagine her fending off countless suggestions from friends or well-wishers pointing out the benefits of a thorough makeover. Her husband, it turned out, had died more than a decade ago, and she’d been living alone ever since. A crucifix hung on the wall over the brown-tiled fireplace.

Lizzie wanted to know more about Betty. Had she also been living alone?

‘Good Lord, yes. That’s one of the reasons we saw so much of each other. As I say, Betty was just across the road, there. Number 13.’

‘And her husband died?’

‘He’s dead now, yes. But that was only a couple of years ago. Long before that – years and years ago – he walked out on her, took up with another woman in the village. It turned out they’d been seeing each other for months and months. Everyone knew except Betty. And me, of course.’

‘Lucky she had you, then.’

‘I like to think so. We can always get through these things, that’s what I used to tell her. The Lord is listening, and all we have to do is open our hearts.’

‘Betty was religious? A believer?’

‘Not then. But later, just a bit, yes.’

‘Just a bit’ made Lizzie smile. Exactly which bit would you believe in? Given a shock like that? She didn’t know.

‘You took Betty to church?’

‘I did. I told her it was important to keep going out. She had to hold her head high. She had to be bigger than that grubby little man.’

‘And Dean? He was their only child?’

‘He was. I watched that little boy grow up and I knew he was troubled. Maybe it’s true what they say about children. We never had any of our own so I can’t speak personally, but people say the little ones can sense when a marriage isn’t working. That must have been true with Dean.’

As he got older, she said, he began to go off the rails. Silly little things at first – riding his bike without lights, smashing panes of glass in a neighbour’s greenhouse with his football. But then came the shoplifting and getting drunk when he was much, much too young, and fighting on the bus with boys much older than himself.

‘That’s why Harry pushed him into the Marines. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.’

Harry was Betty’s feckless husband. By now he was living with his girlfriend in a flat above one of the village pubs. Dean would drop by from time to time but never really accepted the new woman in his father’s life. Neither did he get on with his mum.

‘I think he blamed her for the break-up. Betty was always a stickler for discipline, and that must make for tension within a family. In some ways Dean became a bit of an orphan. I know he had problems with women … you know … with relationships …’

Problems with women?
Lizzie bent forward, pushed a little harder.

‘Did he marry? Dean?’

‘Not as far as I know. I think a couple of times he moved in with women he’d met, just to see whether it would work, but it must have been difficult, being away so much. I know it broke Betty’s heart. She wanted him to be normal. She wanted a daughter-in-law, grandchildren, and who can blame her? Her own marriage had turned out to be a bit of a mess, and I suppose she was looking to her son to put all that right.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘Not at all. And he was hopeless with money too. When you come out of the Marines you get a lump sum and a nice pension on top. Betty told me that. She said Dean had lots and lots of money but no idea what to do with it. In the end he tried to set up this company. He met a man who’d invented some security gadget and needed backing. Dean gave him everything he asked for, but it never worked. That’s why he ended up being a guard on all those ships. I don’t think it was what he wanted to do but he had no choice.’

‘This was recently?’

‘A couple of years ago. Betty was ill by that time but Dean never seemed to take much notice. He was away for months on end. Then he’d come back and because he had nowhere of his own he’d end up living across the road. You’d think he’d help out with Betty but he never did.’

‘So who did she have?’

‘Me. Betty was in bed most of the time by then, but she was a big woman and she took a bit of lifting. Dean would help with that when he had a mind to, but sometimes I had to phone and get him out of the pub if it was an emergency. That didn’t go down well, believe you me.’

‘With Betty?’

‘With Dean. He’d met someone. A terrible, terrible woman, a real Gypsy. No one has a good word to say for her. Good-looking, mind, if you like that sort of thing.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘Dark, my dear.’

‘You mean black?’

‘No, swarthy. Spanish-looking. Gypsy blood. Drinks like a fish. No pride. Never minds her manners.’

‘And he’s still with this woman?’

‘As far as I know. She’s got a place down in Exmouth. That’s why he wasn’t around towards the end. When he was back from being away, he lived with her.’

Lizzie was trying to picture the way it must have been in the end, with Betty bed-bound, riddled with a cancer she knew was killing her. Lizzie asked whether hospital had ever been an option.

‘Of course it was, my dear, but it wasn’t what Betty
wanted
. She didn’t want any fuss, any bother, and she had a real fear of hospitals. She was a very private person, Betty. She just wanted to be left alone.’

‘Which was out of the question.’

‘Of course it was.’

‘Which is where you came in.’

‘Happily, yes.’

She described the final weeks. Betty was in pain most of the time. She had arthritis as well as cancer, and some days the pain was bad enough to make her cry.

‘I’d never seen that,’ Frances said. ‘She’d always been such a strong woman. That came as a real shock.’

The doctor, she said, would call when needed, and there were a couple of weeks when Dean got back from abroad and organised a team of carers, but Betty didn’t like any of them and cancelled the contract.