The Order of Things (21 page)

‘Greedy,’ Lizzie explained.

‘Ah.’ She had a fetching grin. ‘You mean power-hungry?’

‘Exactly. That’s perfect. Is that your phrase?’

‘If only. No. It comes from a friend. She knows so much more than me.’

‘She’s in the same field?’

‘Not really. She’s an anthropologist. But that’s the thing about global warming. It doesn’t matter where you’re coming from, as long as we all end up at the same destination.’

Lizzie smiled.
As long as we all end up at the same destination.
Another phrase borrowed from Michala’s friend.

‘I heard exactly that on a YouTube clip. Terra Sancta. An American woman.’

‘That’s my colleague. Gemma. I know the clip.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure, small world, eh?’

‘Absolutely.’ Lizzie was doing her best to sound excited. And surprised. ‘So this is Gemma Caton, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you really know her?’

‘I know her well. In fact I have a room in her place.’

‘How strange.’

‘Not at all. I met her a couple of years back. Now I’m doing a doctorate here.’ She paused. ‘You’ve met this woman? Listened to one of her lectures, maybe?’

‘Never.’

‘You should. You want me to fix it? Maybe introduce her?’ She nodded down at Lizzie’s notepad. ‘She’s the one who should be doing this interview, not me. She’s big. Really big. And she deserves to be.’

Lizzie had been watching Michala’s hands. They were delicate and expressive, just like the rest of her. She wore a thin gold ring on the index finger of her right hand, another on her left thumb and a man’s watch on her left wrist. The face of the watch was on the inside of her wrist, and when she checked the time Lizzie noticed a small blue tattoo against the whiteness of her forearm.

‘That’s lovely. Do you mind?’ Lizzie reached across and touched the tattoo. It was beautifully done: a horse caught in mid-gallop, neck arched, tail flying, no rider.

Michala’s head came up. There was a different smile on her face now.

‘You like it?’

‘Very much. What is it?

‘It’s a wind horse. It comes from Tibet. It’s a symbol of peace and harmony. You see them on flags as well. The horse carries your prayers to heaven.’

Lizzie nodded. Flags, she thought. Fluttering in the wind outside Gemma Caton’s waterfront home.

‘You’ve been to Tibet?’

‘Never. One day, maybe. But not yet.’

‘So why the horse?’

‘It’s for a friend. Someone I knew.’

‘A memento?’

‘A prayer.’ She held Lizzie’s gaze. ‘The wind horse was Gemma’s idea. You should meet her. I mean it.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘You would?’

‘Yes.’

Lizzie wrote down her email address and handed it across. Michala studied it a moment and then looked up. The smile again and a softness in her eyes.

‘Gemma might invite you to supper,’ she said. ‘Would you like that?’

Harriet Reilly’s GP worked out of a practice in Topsham. Her name was Amelia Bishop. On the phone she’d been extremely guarded about her late patient. Yes, she’d been as horrified as everyone else by what had happened to poor Harriet. And yes, she’d be prepared to meet to discuss her pregnancy, but only in the broadest terms. She reserved the right not to answer questions she deemed intrusive or otherwise inappropriate. If those conditions were understood and fully accepted then yes, they were welcome to call by.

It was late afternoon. Dr Bishop’s last patient had just departed. To Suttle’s surprise, she was a tall blonde with a ready smile and a warm handshake. Stepping into her consulting room, Suttle wondered whether he’d been talking to someone else on the phone. Golding’s reaction was altogether simpler. He loved this woman on sight.

‘We’re really sorry,’ he said at once. ‘You guys must live in a madder world than even we do. You don’t need us, you really don’t.’

Bishop offered them juice from a fridge. Golding went for the remains of a carton of Tropicana, asked whether she had any peanuts. Suttle declined the offer. He was looking at the line of photos over Bishop’s desk. She had at least two young kids. No sign of a father.

‘You wanted to ask me about Harriet,’ she said.

‘We do.’ Golding again. ‘How come you’re her GP?’

‘Rather than someone from her own practice, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve no idea. Some GPs prefer it that way. You’re working with colleagues every day. You don’t always want to share your haemorrhoids with them.’

‘What about you?’

‘Is that relevant?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then ask me another question.’

‘About Harriet …’ Suttle this time. ‘Did you know her for a long time?’

‘Thirteen years. Just under.’

‘And did you know her as a friend?’

‘No. She wasn’t that kind of woman. And, to be frank, that can be a relief. Work and pleasure?’ She gestured towards the line of family photos. ‘Best kept separate.’

Suttle asked about Harriet’s previous status.

‘I’m not with you.’

‘We understand she was married.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And no kids.’

‘That’s also true. Have you talked to her ex?’

‘Not yet. He’s in Australia. Was she married when you first met her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And was getting pregnant ever an issue?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Did she want to get pregnant?
Try
to get pregnant?’

‘Ah …’ her gaze moved from face to face ‘… that’s a question you should be asking her ex. His name is Tony. I expect you know that.’

‘But you won’t tell us?’

‘No.’

Suttle nodded. This was going to be difficult. A production order would release certain data, but Houghton had been right to put her faith in a face-to-face meet.

Golding sensed it, too. ‘We don’t need to dwell on this,’ he said softly, ‘but the scene was horrible. She was butchered. We need to find who did that, and motive is one of the ways we can move the inquiry along. It turns out she was pregnant. It also turns out that whoever did it removed the baby’s head.’

‘You mean the fetus’ head?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

Golding nodded, said nothing. Bishop gazed at him for a moment, visibly shocked, then opened a drawer and took out a yellow file.

‘There are two ways of doing this,’ she said. ‘I can give you the name of the surrogacy clinic Harriet attended or I can tell you myself. If I give you the name of the clinic, that may take a while. These people have commercial interests to protect. It also happens to be in America. That can be doubly tiresome.’

‘But she was your patient,’ Golding pointed out. ‘Your responsibility.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So is there anything you’re prepared to tell us?’

Bishop looked from one face to the other. Finally she frowned.

‘Harriet had been depressed for a while,’ she said. ‘Her father died, and it hit her badly. That can be something no amount of medication can take away. In situations like that you sometimes look for a change of direction.’

‘That’s why she got pregnant?’

‘That’s why she tried. We’re talking
in vitro
fertilisation. That means conception outside the body. The science is moving on all the time but IVF isn’t easy. Especially for someone of Harriet’s age.’

‘She had several attempts?’

Bishop consulted a bundle of notes in the file. ‘She had a couple of miscarriages in this country, then a third try in the States. Bingo.’

‘How did she feel?’

‘Over the moon. Totally. It was the first time I ever saw her smile.’

Suttle nodded. He’d never met Harriet Reilly when she was alive but slowly she was beginning to swim into focus: stubborn, determined, hard to reach yet oddly vulnerable.

‘There’s something we need here,’ he said. ‘We’re assuming the sperm came from her partner, Alois Bentner. Where did the eggs come from?’

‘You’re telling me you don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’

‘So how do we find out? Short of going round the houses with the IVF people?’

‘I suggest you ask Mr Bentner.’

‘He’s still missing.’

‘So I understand.’

She looked down at the file again and sorted through the notes inside until she found what she was after. Then she got to her feet, leaving the file open on the desk.

‘There’s something I have to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll be gone a couple of minutes.’

She left the office. Golding was already reading the file. The document on the top had come from an IVF clinic in Portland, Oregon. Suttle remembered the entry in Harriet’s travel diary, She and Bentner had been in Portland in early March. By the time she died the baby had been between three and four months old. The dates worked perfectly.

‘The eggs came from a woman called Marianne Hausner, skip.’ Golding was deep in the file. ‘An address in Colorado.’

He passed the document across. Suttle made a note of the details. By the time Bishop returned, the key document was back in the file.

She stood over them and then asked Suttle to look up. Suttle did her bidding. He felt her fingers pass lightly over the scars on his face. For the first time he spotted the tube of cream in her other hand.

‘Mind if I ask you a personal question?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Are you under any particular stress at the moment?’

Suttle shook his head. Then he caught Golding’s eye. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Just a bit.’

‘Are you drinking a lot?’

‘No more than usual.’

‘What’s usual? A lot?’

She took Suttle’s shrug as a yes. She gave him the tube of ointment. She told him the scars were way too inflamed.

‘Go easy on the booze,’ she said. ‘And whatever else isn’t agreeing with you.’

Suttle didn’t know what to say. She escorted them both to the door, where Golding thanked her for her time. She nodded, said it was OK. Then she looked at Suttle.

‘So why on earth would someone do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Cut the fetus’ head off?’

Twenty-Four

F
RIDAY, 13
J
UNE 2014, 18.34

Lizzie had no problem getting a ticket for the Fureys concert. Prowling around Suttle’s flat in the small hours of the morning, she’d browsed a handful of texts on his mobile. One of them had come from Oona. ‘Half seven, my lovely,’
she’d written. ‘Usual place? The Fureys await.’
Now she was looking at the band’s website. Tonight they were at the Exeter Corn Exchange. Eight o’clock.

She hit Google, looking for a clue to the kind of music these people played, and found herself on YouTube listening to a soupy version of ‘When You Were Sweet Sixteen’
scored for ukulele, strings and what sounded like a stage Irishman determined to squeeze every last ounce of Celtic tearfulness from the lyrics. This was a trillion miles from Jimmy’s usual faves. What was this woman doing to her man? What had happened to Neil Young and the Pretenders?

She scrolled on down the website. Online, tickets were twenty pounds. She looked at the seating plan and chose a perch beside the right-hand aisle towards the front. Arrive early, she thought, and lurk in the bar. That way she might lay eyes on this woman who’d slipped so guilefully into Jimmy’s bed, into Jimmy’s life. Tall? Petite? Thin? Full figure? She’d no idea. Her cursor hovered over Seat 23.

Done.

Suttle had already found a table in the pub by the time Oona turned up. The Fat Pig
lay in a sidestreet within a couple of minutes of the venue. Oona had texted earlier, warning that she might be late: ‘
Carnage in A &
E. Are we at war?
’

Suttle fetched her a large glass of Côtes-du-Rhône. She toyed with it a moment then put it down. She looked exhausted.

‘Another shift like that and I’m a walk-in myself,’ she said. ‘How’s my wounded soldier?’

‘Fine.’

‘You lie. You were limping just now. I’m an expert, remember. Trained to spot the clues.
Slainte
.’ She reached for her glass. ‘May the angels protect you.’

Suttle drained the remains of his lager.

‘You mind if I have another?’

Without waiting for an answer, he made his way to the bar. By the time he got back to the table, Oona’s glass was nearly empty.

‘You never kissed me.’ She patted the bench beside her. ‘A girl likes to be kissed.’

Suttle eased himself in beside her and gave her a peck on the cheek. She studied him a moment, surprised.

‘I’m your aunt now?’

‘Of course not.’

He kissed her again, this time on the lips.

‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘But only just. The name’s Oona, by the way. And I’m pleased to meet you.’

She extended a playful hand, let it drop to his thigh, gave it a stroke.

‘It’s the other one.’

‘I know that, you eejit. This is a little something to keep you going. If the Fureys get too much I’ll take you home and make it all better again. That’s nursey talking, by the way. Tell me you missed me.’

‘I missed you.’

‘Really?’

She meant it. Suttle knew she meant it. She’d sensed a change in him. Something had happened, and she hadn’t a clue what it was. Not a good start.

He asked her about the Fureys. How come she’d never mentioned them before? When did this passion of hers begin?

‘Don’t change the subject, my lovely. I’m your friend. Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘I got bitten.’

‘Sure. I know. And Golden Bollocks nailed the little bastard.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He told me.’

‘You’ve talked to him?’

‘I have. Twice. He’s very proud of himself. A whole lifetime hiding from them and at last he’s home safe. Baseball bat? Am I getting warm here? Isn’t Mr Bollocks just the Man of the Hour?’

Mr Bollocks was Luke Golding. Suttle wondered what else he’d told her.

‘I’m grateful,’ he muttered. ‘I bloody owe him.’

‘That’s what he says.’

‘It’s true.’ He reached for his pint. ‘And the answer’s yes.’

‘Yes to what?’

‘I’ve missed you.’

Lizzie had found herself a seat in the corner of the upstairs bar at the Corn Exchange. By ten to eight the place was packed, a scrum of middle-aged couples besieging the bar. By now she’d discovered that the Fureys never opened on time. Maybe they’re waiting for that third pint to work, she thought. Maybe this whole gig floated on an ocean of Guinness and beery goodwill.