The Order of Things (19 page)

Crap, he told himself. Nonsense. Excuses. Forget it.

He took a long pull from the can, tipped back his head against the chair, closed his eyes. Guilt was a feeling he didn’t much like. Oona, he told himself. Think Oona.

He phoned her within the hour. She listened for maybe ten seconds.

‘You’re pissed, my lovely.’

‘You’re right.’

‘It’s Thursday, for fuck’s sake. You’re ahead of the game. You’ve got a day in hand. That makes you either wicked or lucky. Your call, big man.’

He explained about the dog, about Luke rising to the occasion, about the throbbing pressure in his calf. She said she knew about it already. Her mate in A & E.

‘She said you were very brave. I said you were a great actor. I’d settle for either just now but I’ve got a mate coming round and she’ll slaughter me if I’m gone.’ Tiny pause. ‘Do you want me to give her a ring? Put her off?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. The leg. That’s all.’

‘You lie, my lovely. What else has happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So why won’t you tell me?’

‘Nothing to tell.’

‘So now you’re worrying me. Stay there. We’ll both come down.’

‘No, please don’t.’

‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘I think you mean it.’

Suttle did. He did his best to mumble an apology, to tell her he was knackered. He was off to bed.
Buzzard
was driving him mental. He’d give her a ring in the morning.

‘You mean that?’

‘I do.’

‘Be good, big man. Two things.’

‘What?’

‘Number one, the Fureys. Number two, me. Not necessarily in that order. Deal?’

‘Always.’

‘Thank fuck for that. You know what, my lovely? You’re starting to sound human again.’

She blew him a kiss on the phone and rang off, leaving him staring into nowhere. He reached for the can on the table. It was empty. He scrolled back through his recent texts until he found the message from Lizzie with the link to the YouTube clip. This was the first of the texts she’d sent and he’d yet to take a proper look at the clip. Now he did so. Martha Argerich playing Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G major.

The moment the music started, he knew he needed a bigger screen. He hoisted his laptop onto the table and tapped the link into his browser. Until he’d met Eamon Lenahan, he’d been a stranger to classical music, but the wee Irishman, passionate about opera, had waved away his reservations and swamped the cottage with composer after composer. Verdi. Puccini. Wagner. Blown away was a big phrase, but there had come moments – many moments – when Suttle had wondered how he’d ever let this stuff pass him by. So rich. So passionate. So overwhelming.

Ravel was the same, as was the pianist. The second movement, for reasons that Suttle could only guess at, reduced him to tears. The music soared, swooped, soared again. He thought of Grace, his daughter, the times they’d shared together, the memories embedded in what passed for his soul. Lizzie had been part of that, and here she was again, his warrior queen, her bow raised, her aim unerring, the impact of the music she’d chosen pinning him to the laptop. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, nor did he want to.

The concerto over, Argerich taking her bow, Suttle reached for his mobile. Lizzie answered within seconds.

‘You,’ she said.

‘Me,’ he agreed.

She was down within the hour. He met her at the door. He had a list of things to say – conditions really – but she stepped around him, extending a hand, leading him into the bedroom, pushing him softly backwards, loosening the belt of his jeans, slipping them off, then bending to inspect the bandage.

‘You want me to undo it?’

‘Whatever.’

‘I don’t think it’s bleeding. Do you have another one?’

‘No.’

‘Then maybe we ought to leave it. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s fine.’ Suttle was trying not to grin. The leather jacket, he thought. So soft. So new.

‘You’re telling me it still hurts?’

‘I’m telling you the reverse.’

‘Really?’ She was sitting on the bed. She took his hand, lifted it to her lips, kissed it. ‘You’re a good man, Jimmy Suttle. You know that?’

‘I’m crap. I lost my daughter. And then she died. How clever was that?’

‘We lost her, Jimmy. You and me. And you know something else? We’ve never really talked about it.’

‘That’s true.’

‘You think we should?’

‘No.’

‘You’re right. Life goes on. You turn the page. Thank Christ for clichés. Any port in a storm, eh?’

She smiled down at him, asked how much he’d had to drink. He shook his head, refusing to answer.

‘There’s red wine in the kitchen,’ he said, ‘if you fancy it.’

She left the room. Within a minute she was back. Empty-handed.

‘So who drinks Rioja?’

‘Guess.’

‘Good taste.’

‘Have a glass. Help yourself. Drink the lot.’

‘It’s not mine, Jimmy. And neither are you.’

‘Is this some kind of negotiation?’ Suttle propped himself up against the pillows. ‘Only you’re right. I’m pissed.’

The smile widened. She was dancing her fingers up his leg. Then she stopped.

‘This might become a habit,’ she said. ‘Could you handle that?’

‘Could you?’

‘I’m not the one with anything to lose. You’ve got a relationship. You love the woman. And in case you’re wondering, the answer is yes.’

‘Yes to what?’

‘Yes, I’m jealous. And yes, I’d like to fuck you again.’ She stood up and slipped out of her jeans. ‘How does that sound?’

Twenty-Two

F
RIDAY, 13
J
UNE 2014, 07.47

Buzzard
’s first week limped to a close. Nationwide there were no sightings of Alois Bentner, and he made no more bids to contact any of his work colleagues at the Hadley Centre. After two further interviews, during which she refused to answer any questions, Tania Maguire was released on police bail. The SOC search of her flat in Exmouth had revealed nothing to link her to the murder scene in Lympstone, and the neighbour who had rescued her in the small hours of Sunday morning had been only too happy to supply a full statement.

Under these circumstances even Nandy was obliged to admit that Maguire had probably stayed at home all weekend, blitzed. The Chief Constable, meanwhile, was demanding regular updates on
Buzzard
’s
progress, not least because the nation had begun to take the missing climatologist to its heart.

This, as it turned out, was largely his neighbour’s doing. The first time Suttle set eyes on Gemma Caton was Friday morning. Lizzie had gone, disappearing before Suttle had even woken up. As soon as she got home, she’d sent him a YouTube clip from an eco website called Terra Sancta. Half dressed, he found himself watching a bulky forty-something with a wild frizz of greying hair being interviewed on the subject of climate change.

Gemma Caton was forceful, with an American accent and a turn of phrase that helpfully skewered an otherwise complex debate. The extractive industries, she said, had long treated nature as a bottomless vending machine. Put money in one end, and out came all the goodies – oil, gas, coal – that were threatening to cook us alive at the other. Chief villain in this global tragedy was the sheer muscle of the money markets, juiced by the performance of the oil and gas giants.

These guys, she said, were in turn keeping their stock prices buoyant by loading the value of their unexploited reserves onto their balance sheets. In total, these reservoirs of untapped oil and gas amounted to 2795 gigatons. The existing capacity of the planet to deal with carbon emissions without risking meltdown? Just 565 gigatons, one fifth of that sum. Suttle blinked. Even this early in the morning it wasn’t hard to do the sums and draw the inevitable conclusion: that the survival of capitalism relied on the world cooking itself to death.

The clip moved on. Up came a shot of Bentner, one he hadn’t seen before. He was standing in a garden that Suttle recognised as Bentner’s own. In the background was the tight curl of the bay, the ochre-red bluffs and the broadness of the river beyond. Bentner had a half-empty glass in his hand and was toasting the camera.

Gemma Caton’s voice-over introduced him as a fellow activist and a good friend. She knew him well. He cared about stuff. About the planet. About our place in the scheme of things. Bentner began to talk. He had a faint but perceptible American accent. He eyeballed the camera with an intensity that mirrored Caton’s as he mused about the wild distortions in global weather patterns. These he blamed on Big Business and Extreme Energy. This, he growled, was a marriage made in hell. It was another arresting phrase, and Suttle was reaching for a pen when his phone rang.

‘Did you get the clip?’ It was Lizzie.

‘I’m watching it.’

‘Incredible, isn’t it? Have you talked to this woman?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘She hasn’t been around.’

‘Neither has Bentner. How hard are you guys looking?’

‘That’s unnecessary.’

‘Not from where I’m sitting. Listen …’

She gave him an address in Polsloe Bridge where
Buzzard
would find the handyman who kept Bentner’s life in working order. This guy had some interesting things to say about him. And about the woman next door.

‘You mean Caton?’

‘The very same. She’s an anthropologist, by the way. With a big reputation.’

‘You’ve
met
her?’

‘No, but it’s amazing how much you can put together if you find the right people and ask the right questions.’

‘Thanks. So why didn’t you mention any of this last night?’

‘You weren’t in the mood.’ She laughed. ‘And neither was I.’

Buzzard
’s
end-of-week squad meet started at just gone nine. Suttle had shown the YouTube clip to DI Houghton and arrangements were in hand to interview Gemma Caton later in the morning. It turned out she’d spent the last seven days in London, catching up with a number of friends and colleagues, and had been too busy to attend to texts and emails. She was perfectly happy to present herself at Heavitree police station once she’d got down to Exeter but warned
Buzzard
that her schedule was impossibly tight. She’d help out all she could, but time was precious. Because time was running out.

Houghton had already put Suttle and Golding on standby for the interview. Now she had another piece of breaking news to impart.

‘This came into our possession this morning,’ she said. She was holding up a neatly folded square of paper. Inside was a message dated 10 June.

‘This was handed in yesterday evening,’ she said. ‘It comes from a letter box we never searched on Dartmoor.’ She adjusted her glasses and read the message: ‘“
Step one for getting out of the hole? Stop digging
.” It appears that this comes from Bentner.’

‘How do we know, boss?’ The question came from Luke Golding.

‘Because he left a fingerprint. We think he used dirt from the ground. He’d know we’ve boshed his house so we’d have a match.’

‘And?’

‘Definitely Bentner.’

Suttle was putting together the timeline. Tuesday was the night Bentner had phoned Sheila Forshaw. The letter box, according to Houghton, was three miles north of Ivybridge, where the call had come from. After which he’d driven west, sensibly dumped the Skoda and disappeared.

The D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries wanted to know about Bentner’s transport options.

Houghton fielded the query. ‘We’re thinking he’s using another vehicle. A rental car’s unlikely. We’re sitting on his credit cards. No movement there, either. So it has to be a colleague, a friend, a mate, whatever.’

‘But this guy doesn’t do mates.’

‘Exactly.’ A wan smile from Houghton. ‘The mystery deepens.’

The interview with Gemma Caton at Heavitree police station started at 14.21. By the time she arrived, bustling into the Custody Centre, Suttle and Golding had been waiting for nearly an hour. She was even bigger in the flesh than she’d seemed on the YouTube clip. She wore a pair of glasses with thick red frames and cloaked her bulk in a tent-like olive-green dress that stopped just short of her boots. These had nothing to do with fashion or style. They were Gore-tex, heavily used, caked with mud. Had Bentner been a woman, Suttle thought, he’d have looked just like this.

Half-expecting an apology for being so late, Suttle found himself listening to a breathless account of what the rest of this woman’s day would be holding. A faculty meet up at the university at four o’clock. A seminar on Balinese
hyang
spirits at five. A peer review session with a couple of fellow academics at six. Followed by a function up at the Hadley Centre at seven.

‘So go for it, guys.’ She beamed at them both. ‘Time and this little lady were never best friends.’

Suttle and Golding exchanged glances. The Hadley Centre seemed a sensible place to start.

‘We need to talk about Alois Bentner,’ he said. ‘Did you meet him at the centre?’

‘Nope. Next-door neighbours. Happenstance. Serendipity. Sometimes life is on your side. You ever get that feeling?’

They’d been friends, she said, from the moment she’d moved in a couple of years ago. Used to the inane small talk she took to be the English default conversational setting – all shit television and Z-list celebs – she’d found herself living beside a world-class recluse.

‘The man was a honey, a real specimen, a true original. I loved him from the start. A bear of a guy. Grumpy as hell but sunshine underneath if you knew where to look.’

By her own admission, she’d known where to look. They quickly became friends. They shared the same despair, the same busy pessimism, the same conviction that mankind was stumbling blindly towards oblivion. Not because people were unaware of the dangers or even the science, but because they simply didn’t know what to do about it, which buttons to press, how to raise their empty little heads above the parapet.

Suttle wanted to know whether they socialised.

‘You mean get wasted?’ She shook her head. ‘Alois needs booze. That’s his only failing. I used to kid him that his personal emissions would double the UK output. Me? I don’t need the stuff. I’d love to tell you I run on empty but it ain’t true. As long as it’s sweet, as long as it’s toothsome, it keeps me going. Alois? Couldn’t abide the stuff. Me? I live on it.’