The Order of Things (25 page)

‘Salmon broth and aquavit. Herbs too. This year the salmon are late. But show a little respect and they’ll definitely make it back.’

Michala handed the glasses around. To Lizzie’s surprise they were warm. Gemma was on her feet again, her glass held high, gesturing for Lizzie to get up. Then came that same prayer, her body swaying back and forth. Through the open French windows Lizzie could no longer hear the kids out on the river. The race is over, she thought. They’ve gone.

‘Drink.’ It was an order.

Lizzie put the glass to her lips, tipped it slowly, let the warmth trickle down her throat. It wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, she could taste the fish, the spikes of fennel and rosemary. Then came the hit of the aquavit. She blinked, feeling her balance go, reaching for the edge of the table.

The glass empty, she sat down again, aware of the two women watching her. She had more questions about the salmon, about the research this woman must have done out among the old Indian sites, about the lessons these ancient societies could still teach us and most of all about Alois Bentner. Did he too eat a salmon? Intone the prayer? Raise his glass to the watching spirits? She gestured at the fish, aware of Gemma’s eyes locked on hers.

‘Why so many questions, my child?’ Caton asked. ‘And why Alois?’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘Sure. But curiosity always has a purpose, right? That’s all we need here, just a clue. Alois is a neighbour of mine, and a friend, a colleague, a fellow traveller I deeply respect. It happens he’s not here right now, but that’s another conversation.’

Lizzie nodded. The aquavit had made her braver.

‘Fellow soul?’ she asked. ‘Would that be closer?’

‘For sure. You meet people in life, and the spark is there, the
connection.
No obvious reason. No rationale. It just happens because the spirits choose it to be that way. No one interferes with the spirits. Not if they want to make any kind of life for themselves.’

‘And Alois?’

‘We were close from the start. The spirits brought us together, and we were both aware of that. Never argue. Never question. Simply accept.’

‘And rejoice?’

‘Of course.’

‘Still?’

‘Always.’ Lizzie was aware of Michala with the jug at her elbow. Another shot of aquavit.

‘You like my Michala?’ The gleam was back in Gemma’s eyes.

‘I hardly know her.’

‘That’s not the issue. You’re in tune with each other. I can sense it. This is a spirit thing. Relax. Listen to what’s happening inside. Same question, I guess. You like Michala? She speaks to you?’

Lizzie swallowed hard. She realised this conversation came with strings.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

‘But you do, my child, you do. That’s the whole point. That’s where we’ve arrived. That’s where we are. Trust yourself. Listen. Sense.
Become who you really are.
’

‘You’re asking me whether I want Michala? Is that the question?’

‘I’m asking you whether she speaks to you. Look at her. Has she become part of my life? The answer’s yes. Might we find a place for you? Here and now? This evening? I guess we might. Except it needs an act of surrender. From all three of us.’

Lizzie was losing her bearings. This conversation was beginning to frighten her. Back in the car beside the towpath, when they’d first met, she’d detected Michala’s interest. If playing along bought her the rest of the evening in Gemma Caton’s company then she might unlock some more clues that Jimmy had so far missed. But she was fast recognising that there were limits. Did this investigation of hers justify sleeping with Michala? No way. Tread carefully, she told herself. So far and no further.

‘Tell me about prayer flags.’ Lizzie was looking at Caton.

‘Why?’

‘Because they interest me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Michala mentioned them. And you’re right about the spark, about the surrender.’ Lizzie threw Michala a look. ‘Nice tattoo as well. Beautiful. Intriguing.’ She warmed the compliment with a smile, but Michala turned her head away. For reasons Lizzie didn’t understand, the spell had been broken.

Gemma was suddenly busy with the slice. ‘You want more salmon?’

‘I’d like to use the loo.’

‘Upstairs, my child. End of the corridor.’

Lizzie left the room, closing the door behind her. She hesitated a moment, aware of the murmur of conversation behind her, then she headed for the stairs. On the top floor there were three doors off the tiny landing. The first opened on to a bedroom. The river lay beyond the window, and the scatter of oversize clothes told Lizzie the room belonged to Gemma.

Next along was a much smaller room. Lizzie pushed open the door. The curtains were half-closed, and the setting sun threw a rich yellow stripe across the unmade bed. Beside the bed, propped on a table, was a photograph, its aluminium frame gleaming in the golden light. Lizzie stepped in for a closer look. A woman in her thirties was posing on a beach. She was wearing a wetsuit and some kind of harness. A couple of surfing kites lay on the beach behind her, but what drew Lizzie’s eye back to her face was the woman’s lips. She was blowing the camera a kiss. And she was grinning.

Lizzie had her mobile. She took two shots of the photo before slipping the phone into the pocket of her jeans and turning back towards the door. She hadn’t heard Caton come upstairs. She stood in the corridor, a strange smile on her face, and beckoned Lizzie closer. When Lizzie didn’t move, she stepped into the room. She was very close now, her sheer bulk masking the open door. She nodded towards the unmade bed.

‘You wanna piece of my little girl? No problem. We can fix that. All of us. That OK with you?’

Lizzie didn’t move. She knew she was trapped. She could smell the aquavit on Caton’s breath, and she felt a sense of overpowering menace. Caton repeated the invitation, her huge hands reaching to cup Lizzie’s face. Lizzie shuddered under her touch. Caton frowned, took a tiny step back and jerked her head towards the corridor.

‘You found the closet OK?’

‘No problem.’

‘So what did you think of my soapstone carvings?’

‘Great.’ Lizzie tried to ease around her. ‘Really interesting.’

‘You mean that?’ Caton’s eyes were huge behind her glasses. The aquavit again. Stronger than ever.

‘I do.’ Lizzie finally managed to squeeze past. ‘Would it be rude to tell you I’ve just been sick?’

Suttle was eating alone in the flat on the Beacon when he took the call. Lizzie sounded like a stranger. She’d never scared easily, but he could sense the fear in her voice. Something had happened. She needed his help. Like now.

‘Where are you?’

‘Lympstone.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve just been to see Gemma Caton.’

‘
Caton?
’

‘Yes. Just come, my love. I’m in the Swan. Just be here for me.’

The phone went dead. Suttle abandoned his pasta and clattered down the stairs. Lympstone was ten minutes away. He did it in five.

The Swan lay at the heart of the village, a pub popular with locals and visitors alike. Tonight it was packed. Suttle spotted Lizzie as soon as he walked in. The moment she saw him she got to her feet.

‘Give me a hug,’ she said. ‘Get me out of this place.’

‘The pub?’

‘Lympstone.’

He took her back to his car. Only when they were inside with the doors locked did she tell him what had happened. Caton was a bull dyke and God knows what else. She gave houseroom to a waif of a girl she seemed to view as some kind of possession. Half an hour ago Lizzie had been in danger of joining this weird ménage.

‘She came on to you?’

‘Big time. She’s full of shit. Loads of stuff about the spirits and the fucking salmon, but what it boils down to is control. She knows what she wants and she gets it. Poor bloody woman.’

‘Caton?’ Suttle was confused.

‘Michala. Her bitch.’ Lizzie was crying now, her head buried in Suttle’s chest.

Suttle said nothing, holding her tight. Part of him wanted to find out a great deal more. The rest of him knew this wasn’t the time or the place.

‘You came by car?’ he said at last.

‘I did, but I’m pissed, my love, so just take me home, yeah?’

They drove back to Exeter. In the gathering darkness Lizzie dropped her keys in the tangle of weeds beside the doorstep. Suttle retrieved them.

‘You want me to come in?’

‘I do.’

Suttle made her coffee, ran a bath, found a bottle of Radox, then perched himself beside the basin as she sank beneath the bubbles. He waited until she surfaced again and handed her a flannel.

‘I need to know what you were doing there,’ he said. ‘At Caton’s place.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s a person of interest to us. And I’m guessing that’s why you went.’

She eyed him for a moment. Then nodded. ‘You guess right. Does that make me an honorary cop? Or just a nuisance?’

‘Neither. What did she have to say about Bentner?’

‘They’re soul mates. He’s someone else she needs to own. Sole rights? Soul rites? Fuck knows. I’m being kind, Jimmy. Weird doesn’t do her justice.’

‘Are they in touch?’

‘That’s the impression she wanted to give me.’

Suttle held her gaze.

‘And you?’ he said finally. ‘Where are you in all this? Why the cop thing?’

‘You don’t think I’m being helpful?’

‘I think you’re putting lots on the line. I think you’re taking risks you shouldn’t. I also know you’re giving me a great deal of grief.’

‘Professionally?’

‘Sure. And in other ways.’

‘Meaning Oona?’

‘Of course. Straight question. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Why did you come to the concert the other night? Since when did you ever like Irish folk music?’

Lizzie gave the question some thought. Then she splashed her face and shrugged. ‘I needed to see her,’ she said softly. ‘I couldn’t help myself, and that’s the truth.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I thought she was beautiful. I can see exactly what she’s done to you.’

‘And?’

‘It made me jealous.’

‘Why?’ Jimmy was sitting on the edge of the bath now. ‘Should I be flattered? Frightened? Or what?’

‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth again.’

‘But is that why you’re getting involved with all this shit? Harriet Reilly? Gemma Caton? Are you trying to prove something? That you’re maybe better at digging out all this stuff than we are?’

Another silence. Then Lizzie nodded. ‘Yeah. That comes close.’

‘But why? Just tell me that. Just give me a clue.’

Lizzie looked at him for a long moment. Then she stood up, the water sluicing down her body, and put her arms round him.

‘Maybe I still need you.’ She tried to smile. ‘Is that a bad thing to say?’

Suttle didn’t reply. With a tenderness that took him by surprise, he shepherded her into bed and – at her request – made a brief tour of the house, making sure all the windows were secured. Returning to the bedroom, he bent to her face on the pillow and gave her a kiss. She had his mobile number. Should anything happen, all she had to do was bell him.

‘I’m not ill,’ she said. ‘And I’m not a child.’

‘I know. But you’ve had a shock.’

‘That’s what my mother would have said.’

Suttle smiled. He still had the wet imprint of her body on his shirt. Lizzie was looking at the window. ‘She knows where I live,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘Gemma Caton. She was here yesterday. You think she’ll come looking for me?’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘I don’t know. But I think she’s crazy enough to do anything.’

Suttle gazed down at her. The hot bath had brought colour to her face. She’d always been someone who rationed the truth, he thought. Someone who carefully parcelled out bits of the story, leaving the best until last. Maybe it was a journalist thing. Cops did it too.

‘What haven’t you told me?’

She smiled up at him, amusement in her eyes, and he caught a brief glimpse of the stranger who’d so recently taken him to bed. Then she looked towards the door.

‘On your way, Mr Policeman,’ she said. ‘I’ll try not to bother you again.’

Twenty-Eight

T
UESDAY, 17
J
UNE 2014, 08.39

DI Houghton was already at her desk when Suttle got to the Major Incident Room next morning. To his surprise, he’d slept well. Time to come clean, he’d told himself, drifting off to sleep.

‘Your wife is the source, is that what you’re telling me?’ Houghton had the Dean Russell file open on her desk.

‘Yes, boss. She told me about Russell, about Frances Bevan, and now it turns out she’s in the shit with Gemma Caton.’ He described what had happened last night.

‘You’re telling me Caton’s been in touch with Bentner?’ Houghton asked.

‘Yes. Lizzie can’t prove it, but that’s the impression she got.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not really. Except the woman wanted to get into her knickers.’

‘So why did she go in the first place? And why is she bothering with all this?’ Her hand settled briefly on the Dean Russell file.

‘She’s a journalist, boss. She asks questions for a living. It becomes a habit.’

‘But why didn’t you tell us earlier?’

Suttle had anticipated the question. He said he didn’t know. He admitted it had been a mistake and offered an apology, but said that all this stuff was far too close to home, part of a different agenda.

‘Whose?’

‘Hers. Lizzie’s.’

‘What does she want?’

‘Me, boss. I think.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No, but these things form a pattern. Maybe things aren’t working out in her life. Maybe she wants to turn the clock back, have another go.’

Houghton was eyeing him carefully. Suttle had rarely met such a shrewd detective. She could tease the truth from the merest scatter of clues. He felt deeply uncomfortable.

‘You’re still with Oona?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Happy?’

‘Very.’

‘Then I suggest you sort the situation out. I liked her when we met. Sane woman. Don’t fuck her around. Does that sound reasonable?’