The Order of Things (13 page)

Suttle nodded. Sheila Forshaw, the first time he’d interviewed her, had said much the same. Suttle remembered her story about Bentner losing it at the pub barbecue beside the canal.
A breakdown waiting to happen
, she’d said.

‘I understand he could be violent,’ Suttle suggested. ‘Especially recently.’

‘Violent?’ Drew shook her head. ‘More frustrated. Alois was an early believer. He’d done the sums. He could figure out the implications. He was proud to be a warmist. He thought the rest of us had the same responsibility.’

‘And now?’

‘Now’s no different. In fact now’s worse. I had a conversation with him only last week. He’d just got hold of a paper from a guy called Merrilees. It was about increasing shrub abundance in the Arctic. It was published in
Nature.
If you’re familiar with the data set this stuff makes for scary reading.’

‘And Bentner? What did he say?’

‘He always wants to take the battle to the enemy. You’re talking Big Oil, Big Gas, Big Coal, Big Everything, plus all the neocons that want to keep cranking up the boiler and stuff the consequences. These are the guys who think people like Alois are trying to turn their world upside down, and of course they’re right. Alois says they’re evil. He talks about disaster capitalism. He thinks they’re the devil’s spawn. If you’ve got the time to listen, a lot of this stuff is fascinating. God knows, he’s probably right, but I’m not sure it does much for his blood pressure.’

‘So what do
you
think?’

‘About global warming? Some days I’m glad it keeps me in a job. Other times it scares me shitless. Thank Christ I haven’t got a child.’

‘I meant Bentner. Here’s a guy on top of the data. He thinks he knows what’s coming down the track. I get the impression that he thinks no one is listening to him. Even where he works, even with people who are tuned in, there’s no real appetite to get out there and beat the drum. Am I right? Am I being fair?’

‘No. That’s way too simplistic. Of course we care. We just happen not to take it to extremes.’

‘And Bentner did? Does?’

She didn’t answer. She was cautious now, recognising the trap that Suttle was baiting. He tried it a different way.

‘He just changed the name on the front of his house. Two Degrees to Five Degrees.
Did you know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘That’s simplistic too. Five degrees is off the map. If we get to five degrees we’re all poached.’

‘But that’s his point, isn’t it?’

‘Of course. But it’s highly unlikely.’

‘You mean extreme.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you think he believes it? Believes it enough to change the name of his house?’

‘It’s a warning, not a prediction. Even Alois can’t be that certain. But that’s the way he works. Maybe it starts with the postman. Alois hopes the guy has a think about the name change. Hopes he has a chat with his buddies. Hopes his buddies pass the word on. Assumes that pretty soon the whole world is sitting up and taking notice. That’s the way Alois would see it.’

‘Chinese whispers?’

‘Not far off. Certainly propaganda.’

‘Rather than science?’

‘Rather than something we could – in all conscience – prove. Some of us had a chat to Alois about five degrees. He couldn’t stand it up. No way.’

‘So what did that make you lot?’

‘In his eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Denialists. Big time.’

‘And was he angry?’

‘No. He just told us we were wrong. He thinks we’re at the point of no return. He thinks we’re all fucked. Not only that but he thinks we
deserve
to be fucked. Some of this stuff doesn’t make for a jolly conversation, believe me. That’s why people started to avoid him.’

‘He drinks a lot. Do you think that helps?’

‘Probably not. But the guy’s in a bad place. Inside his head I’d probably do the same thing.’

‘Did you know his partner was pregnant?’

‘Really?’ For the first time genuine surprise. ‘Ali? Putting out for a
baby
?’

‘That’s right. Sadly it won’t happen, but she was definitely pregnant.’

‘And it was definitely his?’

‘Subject to confirmation –’ Suttle nodded ‘– yes. So how does that sit with five degrees? With disaster capitalism?’

‘I’ve no idea. Maybe he was drunk at the time. Maybe his partner was a Catholic. Nixed the abortion.’

‘By all accounts he was pleased.’

‘I’m astonished.
Alois?
You’re sure?’

‘Yes. As sure as I can be.’

‘That makes no sense.’ She shook her head. ‘None.’

She reached for her mug again. Then she folded her legs beneath her, thinking hard.

‘There’s a word Ali loves to use,’ she said at last. ‘Overburden. It comes from the oil industry. It means all the useless stuff on top like trees and grasses and meadows these oil people have to shift before they go after the black stuff locked up below. Trees are Alois’ business. As a climatologist, that’s where he made his name. What they’ve done to Alberta seriously upsets him. He’s been out there for a look. The Athabasca tar sands. He says it’s beyond belief. Press him just a little bit, not much, and you get to the heart of it. The way Alois sees it, the overburden, the real overburden, isn’t nature at all. It’s us. He thinks we’re the parasites. He thinks we’re the takers. Once he told me that when it came to the planet we were death on legs. So why would he ever bring a child into a world like that?’

Suttle shrugged. Said he didn’t know.
Death on legs.
A distillation of everything this man believed about the human condition. A phrase to remember.

‘So how far did Bentner take all this?’

‘All what?’

‘His campaigning? Five degrees? All that?’

‘I’ve no idea. If you’re asking me whether he was the kind of guy to go on marches, I’d say not. He wasn’t much of a joiner so that probably rules out Greenpeace and Save the Planet and all the rest of them. He certainly wrote articles, and he had the academic clout to get them published. He has profile, if that’s what you’re asking. He likes to get in the face of these people. He likes to upset them. Maybe that’s his role in life. Maybe that’s what he’s best at. Give these guys a big shake. Make them fall out of their tree.’

‘Enemies?’

‘You mean serious enemies? Big business? Big Oil? People who might want to hurt him? Steal into his house? Kill his partner?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose it’s possible. If these people ever bother to listen.’

‘You think they might?’

‘I doubt it. Money always has the loudest voice and the deafest ears. Always.’

‘That sounds like something Bentner might say.’

‘You’re right. It was his phrase. But I suspect it happens to be true.’

‘Suspect?’

‘I know it happens to be true. We’re lucky at the Centre. We’re well funded, well led, and there are lots of people in the world who are starting to wake up and take notice. Especially after winters like the last one. But Alois is right. Nothing’s going to happen until we sort out the guys with the real money. And maybe there isn’t enough science in the world to do that.’

‘Shame.’

‘Yeah. And probably terminal.’ She paused. ‘Do you mind me asking you a personal question?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What happened to your face?’

‘I got attacked.’

‘What happened?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Was it recently?’

‘Last year. They tell me the scarring will soften in the end.’

‘So how do you cope?’

‘I avoid mirrors.’

‘I don’t believe you. No one avoids mirrors.’

‘That’s true. Maybe I just shut my eyes.’

‘That’s worse. That puts you alongside the denialists.’

‘Thanks.’ Suttle swallowed the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘Is it that bad?’

‘Not at all.’ She made no effort to move. ‘Quite the reverse.’

Suttle retrieved his car. Sitting behind the wheel, the keys still in his hand, he fought the temptation to check his face in the rear-view mirror. Very few people had ever been as direct as Nikki Drew, but in a way he took it as a compliment. In his trade the best interviews happened on a level of semi-intimacy. The closer you got to someone, the more truthful they tended to be. She’d been relaxed enough to ask him the bluntest of questions, which shed an interesting light on her view of Alois Bentner. No way would this man have butchered his partner like that, she’d told him. None.

Suttle glanced at his watch. Gone seven. He fetched out his mobile, read the text from Lizzie again, then tapped out an answer: ‘Where and when? Your call.’

Fifteen

W
EDNESDAY, 11
J
UNE 2014, 19.43

Suttle had already arrived by the time Lizzie made it to the pub. She’d never been here before but a couple who were near-neighbours raved about the ambience and it was easily walkable. She’d been tempted to wear a scarlet halter top she knew Jimmy had always loved, but after trying it on she’d decided to stick to designer jeans and the new soft leather jacket she’d bought as a present to herself only last week. She knew how important the next hour or so might turn out to be, and she knew as well that she should feel at ease about her new life. Lizzie Hodson. Best-selling author. Mother of none. And now – to her surprise and delight – apprentice sleuth.

He was sitting at a table in the corner, nursing the last of a pint. She thought he looked even more exhausted than usual. He got to his feet, asking what she’d like to drink, but she waved him back down.

‘Stella? Or is that a silly question?’

Without waiting for an answer, she went to the bar, returning with a fresh pint of lager and a spritzer. Tonight was open-mike night. At the moment they were between acts but she knew it wasn’t going to last.

‘You’re going to hate this,’ she said at once, ‘but I can’t think of any other way of putting it.’

She told him about her investigative website and the modest network of co-journos she’d put together to nail down stories and see where they might lead. It turned out that Suttle had googled
Bespoken
a couple of times, prompted by ex-CID colleagues in Pompey who remembered Lizzie’s maiden name and were intrigued by what she was up to after the success of
Mine.
He’d been impressed: nice home page, punchy writing, a reminder of the young investigative reporter who’d caught his attention all those years ago.

‘So where’s all this going?’ he said. The question sounded aggressive and clumsy, but he didn’t apologise.

‘To assisted dying.’

‘Assisted what?’ The next act was up on the rostrum that served as a stage, testing the mike.

‘Dying.’

‘
Dying?
Can’t leave it alone, can you?’

For a moment he thought she was going to leave. He leaned forward over the table and apologised. She looked at his hand on her arm, said nothing.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered again. ‘That was unnecessary.’

‘You’re right. There might be something in this for you. In fact for both of us.’

‘I’m not with you.’

She told him about Alec, about Ralph Woodman’s wife, about Betty, but left out their names. All three, she said, had been helped on their way by a local GP.

‘That’s illegal. Technically, we’d call it manslaughter.’

‘I know. But it goes on all the time. This woman happens to be killing more than most. No one has a bad word to say about her. In my book she’s providing a service.’

‘Sure. So why expose it?’

‘I’m not going to.’

‘Then what’s this all about?’

‘Her name’s Harriet Reilly. Or it was.’

Thin laughter had greeted the latest stand-up’s opening joke. Suttle was staring at her. He asked her to repeat the name.

‘Harriet Reilly.’

‘You know who she is?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re talking about the same woman?’

‘We are.’

He sat back, reached for his pint, then had second thoughts. The laughter was getting louder. The novice was on a roll.

‘You hungry?’

‘Is that an invitation?

‘Yes.’

They went to an Indian restaurant a couple of hundred yards away. The place was nearly empty and there was a wall-mounted TV playing a Bollywood movie behind the tiny bar. Suttle chose a table in the far corner. Perfect.

On the walk from the pub they’d barely exchanged a word. Now Suttle wanted to know more.

Lizzie shook her head. ‘You first,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘You mean the Reilly job?’

‘Yes.’

‘Slowly.’

‘Have you found the man yet? The partner? Bentner?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

It was a good question. Suttle had ordered drinks at the bar and he watched the waiter approaching with a pint of Kingfisher. Turn the clock back, and this could have been any number of Indian restaurants in Pompey or Southsea, the pair of them catching up while Lizzie’s mum minded Grace. Strange.

‘He’s gone to ground,’ he said. ‘That’s the assumption.’

‘You think he did it?’

‘That’s very blunt.’

‘Would you like it some other way? Half the nation seems to have decided yes.’

‘That’s unfortunate. No one can possibly know.’

‘So he didn’t do it? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘I’m telling you we don’t know.’

‘But what do you
think,
Jimmy? You used to be good at this.’

‘I am good at it. In fact I’m probably better than I was. Wiser, certainly.’

‘And?’

‘No way did he do it.’

‘Thank you.’

There was something in her smile that stirred Suttle. It wasn’t the small victory she’d just scored. It wasn’t the admission she’d wrung out of him. It was something else. She could have been a stranger, he decided. She could have been someone who’d walked in off the street and sat herself down and taken control. She’d had some kind of makeover and it had worked. This woman wasn’t the morose depressive he’d lived with out in Colaton Raleigh. Nor was she the howling mum who’d just lost her daughter. This was someone new and faintly exciting.

‘So what else are you going to tell me?’ For the first time he was smiling.