The Order of Things (14 page)

‘There’s a guy you ought to check out. This time you get a name. Here’s why.’

She told him about Betty’s death in her house in Lympstone, about her last-minute change of will and about the likely reaction of her only son, who’d just lost his inheritance.

‘His name’s Dean Russell,’ she said. ‘He’s an ex-Marine. He’s working on maritime protection in the Gulf.’

‘And the inheritance? How much are we talking?’

‘Half a million.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly. I get the impression he’s one angry man, but it gets better. He’s living with a woman called Tania. I don’t think she’s a hooker but we’re not talking choirgirl. In fact she was one of the reasons Betty had second thoughts about her will.’

‘Tania’s surname?’ Suttle had produced a pen.

‘I’ve no idea. Tania might not even be her Christian name. Just a name she goes by. Here …’ Lizzie reached across the table and borrowed Suttle’s pad. ‘This is the reg number of the car she drives. Betty’s best friend took it down because she came round with Dean one evening and backed into another car when she was parking.’

‘What sort of car?’

‘It was red. That’s all Betty remembers. Red with that plate.’

Suttle nodded. If she owned the vehicle, DVLA would have her details.

‘You think she’s got previous?’

‘Highly likely. The way I heard it, she’s a bad, bad girl. Drinks like a fish. Reputation for kicking off when she doesn’t get her way. Half a million pounds is a great deal of money. What wouldn’t you do if it suddenly wasn’t yours?’

Suttle nodded. A call to DVLA and a check on the Police National Computer would be his next stop. Then a knock on Tania’s door.

‘Is Dean around at the moment? Or has he gone back to work?’

‘I’ve no idea, but please leave my contact out of this. Promise?’

Suttle nodded again and felt her hand close over his. He’d never seen the ring before. He studied it more closely.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘From a hippy shop in Gandy Street. I bought it myself. Sad or what?’

‘No one on the radar?’

‘Used to be. Until a couple of days ago. I got that wrong as well, didn’t I? Still …’ she sat back and shrugged ‘… it was nice while it lasted. How about you? Still shacked up with the nurse?’

‘Yes. Her name’s Oona. She’s Lenahan in a skirt.’

Lizzie had known Eamon Lenahan, Suttle’s tenant at Chantry Cottage, the wee medical registrar who had brought so much laughter into his life.

‘Eamon was lovely,’ she said. ‘You should have married him.’

‘That’s what he thought.’

‘So maybe that makes Oona perfect. Should I be jealous? Are you going to marry her?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? I wouldn’t be difficult about a divorce. I promise.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘So what
is
the point?’

‘The point is we’re very happy. We live apart. We have our separate spaces. We see each other lots. It works. That’s rare.’

‘Great. Until she wants a baby.’

‘Funny you should say that.’

‘It’s not rocket science, my love. It’s the way we’re programmed. How old is she?’

‘Thirty-four.’

‘I’ll give it six months. Max.’

‘She’s on the pill.’

‘That’s what we all say. Until we’re not.’

‘What is all this?’ Suttle was laughing now. ‘Should I ask for a lawyer? Go No Comment? What do you think?’

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘Are there other sorts?’

‘Never, Jimmy. Not in your world.’ She leaned forward. ‘Listen to me for a moment, yeah? We have another drink. Something to eat. Not too much. Then you walk me home. How does that sound?’

Suttle considered the proposition. To his shame, he didn’t say no.

‘You’re telling me I owe you?’ Her hand was still on his.

‘That’s offensive, Mr Detective. I’m asking you to walk me home.’

The house was ten minutes away. By now it was dusk. Suttle stood in the wilderness of the front garden staring up at the peeling white stucco, at the rotting window frames, at the bubbles of moss on the roof where the water was getting in.

‘It’s a wreck,’ he said. ‘You hate wrecks, leaks, draughts. That’s partly what did for us.’

‘That was Colaton Raleigh. That was different. This place gives me everything. Including peace of mind.’

‘You mean solitude?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you hated that as well. I think you called it loneliness.’

‘Then maybe I’ve changed. Come inside. It gets worse.’

It did. She pushed the front door open and then led him from room to room. She knew that her months in residence had made precious little impact on the bareness of the place but she didn’t care.

‘It’s huge,’ Suttle said. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’

‘Just under four hundred. That’s cheap for round here.’

‘How many bedrooms?’

‘Five. Four I won’t even show you. Too shameful.’

‘And the other one?’

‘Follow me.’

Suttle watched her disappearing up the strip of threadbare carpet that covered the stairs. So far, on the ground floor, he hadn’t seen anything he recognised: no photos, no scraps of furniture, no rugs, no bits of bric-a-brac, not a single indication that they’d once shared a life and – all too briefly – a daughter. She’d wiped out every trace of her former life and started again. Odd.

She was waiting for him on the top landing. He sensed she had readied herself for a kiss but he was careful to preserve the distance between them.

‘You got a mortgage?’ he asked.

‘What kind of question is that?’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘Then the answer’s no.’

‘You
paid
for all this? Cash?’

‘I did. I tried offering glass beads but they weren’t interested.’

‘Four hundred grand? The lot?’ Suttle shook his head. The last time they’d lived together, especially towards the end of the month, he’d been pushed to put petrol in his car. Without Lizzie’s job, they were facing mounting bills on his salary alone. Now this.

‘I got lucky,’ she said simply. ‘And I’m not just talking money.’

She took him into the bedroom. At last he spotted something he recognised, a 30s dressing table Lizzie had bought at an antique fair on Southsea Common. The big mirror was dotted with yellow stick-on reminders, and half a dozen postcards were tucked beneath the wooden frame, another habit she hadn’t abandoned. On the right-hand side was an obvious gap.

Suttle stepped across. There were more postcards in the waste-paper basket beside the stool, all of them ripped to shreds. Suttle could see Lizzie’s face in the mirror. She seemed amused.

‘You’re thinking crime scene,’ she said. ‘I know you are.’

‘You’re telling me I’m wrong?’

‘Not at all. On the contrary.’

‘Anyone I might know?’

‘I’m afraid not. One cop at a time’s more than enough.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Whatever you want it to mean.’

‘So who was he?’

‘A guy from Pompey. I thought I knew him. It turns out I was wrong.’

‘He rolled you?’

‘Big time.’

‘Your fault?’

‘Undoubtedly. And you know something else that happens in a situation like this?’

‘Tell me.’

‘A girl needs a little TLC. No strings. No recriminations. No commitment. Nothing heavy.’ She nodded down at the unmade bed. ‘So what do you think?’

Suttle left at three in the morning. He could still smell the scent of new leather on his clothes, on his skin. She’d worn the new jacket in bed, just the jacket. Another first. He drove back to Exmouth, knowing he had to shut the door on the episode but aware as well that it might not be easy. What had really surprised him was the way they’d slipped back together again. So effortless. So simple. So little baggage.

Saying goodbye downstairs, still wearing nothing but the softness of the leather jacket, she’d made him promise to keep her in the loop. They both knew exactly what she meant – not simply
Buzzard
but each other as well – and again he hadn’t said no.

Crazy, he told himself. Totally bonkers.

Sixteen

T
HURSDAY, 12
J
UNE 2014, 06.51

Lizzie woke up before seven. Through the blur of the window she sensed a grey morning with drizzle in the air. She rolled over, her hand outstretched, and then remembered Suttle leaving. She lay there a moment, smiling to herself, glad it had happened.
What next?
she wondered.

She knew that
Buzzard
would crank into action with a full squad meet first thing because Suttle had told her, one of the reasons he’d declined to stay the night. Her estranged husband’s windfall intelligence about the change in Betty’s will and its likely impact on her only son would form part of that meeting, and there was no way detectives wouldn’t be descending on Tania’s address once the meeting was over.

Lizzie was in Exmouth by half past eight. She had the address from Frances Bevan, and her Tom-Tom took her to an area called the Colonies, wedged between the town centre and the railway line. Chapel Road turned out to be a long terrace of red-brick houses, the pavement choked with wheelie bins. She drove slowly past number 49. The curtains were still closed top and bottom, and the recycling box was brimming with empty bottles. She got to the top of the street and parked up. From here she could monitor comings and goings in her rear-view mirror. Her years as a journalist, and now a writer, had taught her the value of getting ahead of a story.

She switched off the radio and settled down behind a copy of last Saturday’s
Independent.
At weekends they ran decent-length book reviews, and her agent, a pushy fifty-something called Muriel, believed that
Mine
was in with a shout. Muriel was a savage negotiator and fought tooth and nail for her hand-picked stable of writers. To be taken on by Muriel, as she was fast realising, was to be lashed to the wheel of best-sellerdom. Muriel had been on the phone again only days ago. What did Lizzie have planned for a follow-up now that
Mine
had broken her out? Where next for the surprise success of 2014’s new titles?

In truth Lizzie hadn’t a clue.
Mine
,
although written through the eyes of Claire Dillon, had been the most personal of stories. How many other traumas did she have to share with her ever-swelling readership? What if she’d mercifully run out of the kind of near-death experiences that seemed to badge the best-seller lists? She’d put both points to Muriel on the phone, incurring her agent’s wrath.

The only thing that mattered, it seemed, was the numbers.
Mine
was still selling thousands a month. The paperback was yet to come, and the TV development deal was showing every sign of making it to broadcast. Maybe Lizzie should be looking for other people’s stories. Maybe she could turn her back on real life and step into fiction. Either way her window of opportunity – what Muriel called ‘that fucking chance to make yourself even richer’ – was fast closing. The reading public, she reminded Lizzie, had the memory of a pebble. In a year’s time she’d be history. So get out there and weave the Lizzie Hodson magic again.

It was a tempting thought.
Mine
had brought Lizzie serious money, more than she’d ever imagined possible, but just now she was enjoying her new life too much to face the slog of another 100,000 words. It had always been her dream to have a platform for the kind of journalism and feature writing she loved best, and thanks to the Internet she could now make that happen.
Bespoken
was one of a rash of new investigative websites that had appeared – the idea was too obvious and tempting not to be pursued by others – but she knew from reader feedback and hit stats that her precious baby was in rude health. People were reading her stuff. People were sitting up and taking notice. And each fresh lead opened a new door in her life.

Like now. She sank a little lower in the driving seat. Number 49 was sixty metres away. An Impreza she recognised only too well had just turned in at the top of the street. Jimmy Suttle, she thought. With Golding for back-up.

Suttle was still trying to fend off Luke Golding.

‘I don’t get it, skip. All this stuff just falls into your lap? Reilly knocking her patients off? The Angel of Death? Issues over some will or other? Trust me, skip, it’s a tasty lead but where the fuck did it come from?’

‘A journalist.’

‘And this guy just phoned you up? Out of the blue?’

‘He doesn’t want to be named. Otherwise there’d have been no conversation.’

‘You knew him before? He had your number?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you think he’s on the money? You trust him?’

DI Houghton had asked exactly the same questions less than half an hour ago. Nandy, mercifully, hadn’t been at the squad meet. Suttle had told Houghton that the information seemed too detailed not to be kosher, and when she’d asked what was in it for the source, he’d said he didn’t know. Maybe the guy was an outraged Christian. Maybe he was settling some personal debt or other. Either way it was worth a shot, if only to shift the log jam that had become Operation
Buzzard.

Suttle reversed down the street and wedged the Impreza into the tightest of spaces. Wooden panels on the door of 49 showed signs of recent splintering and there were gouge marks around the lock. So far so good, he thought. These were clearly people who’d resisted the temptations of a quiet life.

He knocked twice. Then again. Then a fourth time. Finally he heard the flush of a lavatory from deep inside the house and footsteps on the stairs. When the door opened he was looking at a woman in her forties. She was wearing a Plymouth Argyle football top and not very much else. Her eyes were puffy and there were signs of recent bruising under one eye. Both ankles were tattooed, one with barbed wire, one with a thin blue chain. Once, Suttle thought, this woman would have been a stunner. Now she was wrecked.

‘What’s this about?’ She was trying to make sense of Suttle’s warrant card.

‘Police. Are you Tania Maguire?’ He’d got the surname from DVLA.