The Order of Things (32 page)

‘Of course.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And no one else will know?’

‘No one. Just you and me.’ She gave her another hug, fetched a box of tissues, dried her tears. ‘You’re safe, Michala. I promise you. Give me a minute? I have to make a call.’

Lizzie went through to the kitchen. She sensed that this story of hers was coming to the boil. In some ways it was crazy to let Michala so close because she would – in the end – bring Gemma Caton to the door. But what choice did she have? If she really wanted to see this thing through?

Still in the kitchen, she phoned Anton. He was on his way to Waterstones for the meet. She apologised for the glitch but told him something had come up. What was the news about Gemma Caton?

‘She’s cancelled all her lectures, all her supervisions, everything.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I was talking to the secretary. It seems she has unfinished business elsewhere.’

Suttle was in Dawlish by mid-afternoon. He’d downloaded an Ordnance Survey map of the area and located a footpath he thought might lead to Horse Cove. Parking in a bay off the main road, he headed off through a thicket of brambles, hunting for the top of the cliff. He found it minutes later. Steadying himself against the updraught from the cove below, he noticed his leg was no longer giving him any pain.

The drop from the edge of the cliff was dizzying, and there were signs of recent slippage. The wounds on the cliff face were raw, a rich ochre bareness where plants and grasses had yet to reseed. The winter storms, Suttle thought, shading his eyes against the afternoon glare, wondering what it must be like to live in one of the properties further along the cliff. Every time another gale arrived you’d worry about the rest of your garden sliding into oblivion. Could you insure against the near-certainty of disasters like these? And was global warming the reason for all those sleepless nights?

The footpath no longer existed, another of winter’s casualties. Instead, Suttle had to make his way back along the cliff top until he found an access track the railway engineers working below must be using. They were netting this stretch of cliff face against further falls. Below him lay the dull metal threads of the line, the south-west’s only link to the rest of the network. February’s breach in the sea wall had now been repaired, but the locals believed it was only a matter of time before nature came calling again.

Suttle, who loathed heights and mistrusted gravity, made his way carefully down the zigzag path. By now he’d spotted a blue tent on the patch of scrub between the railway line and the beach. It was low tide, the wind pleating the water offshore, tiny waves lapping at the shininess of the pebbles. The cove had turned its back on the land, a tiny crescent of privacy hemmed in by the jut of the cliffs left and right, each headland penetrated by a railway tunnel. If you enjoyed your own company and didn’t mind trains, this would be a perfect spot to call home.

Geordie John thought so. He was asleep in his tent when Suttle finally made it down to the beach. His flysheet was pegged open, and he was lying naked in the hot sunshine, his eyes closed. Suttle gazed down at him. In the absence of a bell or a knocker, he poked a grubby big toe with his foot. The puppies were in the tent too. They barked. Geordie John stirred, opened one eye. Suttle’s face was black against the brightness of the light.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Suttle squatted beside the tent. Nice place. Real find. What happened when the wind got up?

‘You button up. Hunker down. A good book does it. And maybe a candle.’

He was struggling into an ancient pair of Calvin Kleins. The puppies were all over him. He hadn’t expected Suttle so soon. In fact he hadn’t expected Suttle at all.

‘Why not?’

‘Expectation’s second cousin to disappointment, my friend. If you’re wise, you kick the habit. Don’t get me wrong. People can be lovely. You learn that, living the way I do. They give you money, food, clothing, whatever it takes. But that’s where it ends. A decent conversation? Forget it. It’s all arm’s length these days, and you know why? You’re carrying the virus. You make your own decisions. You live like this.’ He gave the nearest puppy a pat. It licked his face.

Suttle wanted to know more about the virus. What was it?

‘It’s the freedom virus. It scares most people to death.’

Suttle wondered whether he was drunk. On balance, he decided not. Solitude made you value conversation. Obvious, really.

‘I’m here for a chat,’ Suttle said. ‘It’s your lucky day.’

‘Yeah? And maybe yours too. Fancy a brew?’

Suttle said no. Time was tight. He didn’t want to bore Geordie John with the real world but he had less than an hour. Absolute max.

‘An hour is an eternity, my friend. An hour can cement a friendship for life. You take sugar?’

It turned out he had the tea already brewed in a Thermos, one of a number of early-morning chores. Life, he said, was for sharing.

‘Milk? Powdered, I’m afraid.’

Suttle took the tea, tasted it. Yuk. Geordie John watched him, amused.

‘You want to talk about the scientist fella, am I right?’

‘Bentner? Yes.’

‘Because you think he killed that woman? Or am I wrong?’

‘You may be. At this point we don’t know. You’re aware he’s in custody?’

‘I am. Your mates told me. So what’s he saying?’

‘He’s saying he was with you.’

‘On that Saturday night?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s true. He was.’

‘I’ll need a statement to that effect.’

‘I’m sure you will. Biscuit?’ He rummaged at the back of the tent and produced a tin of assorted shortbread. It seemed that Sainsbury’s offered the best pickings in Dawlish. Nice people. Generous. Loved small dogs.

‘Tell me about Bentner.’

‘The guy’s bright. Really bright. Also damaged. Much like the rest of us but probably worse. His drinking puts us to shame. Serious thirst on the man.’

‘Damaged how?’

‘He’s delusional. Some days when I was working the precinct in Exmouth he’d settle down for a chat and be Mr Sanity. Other times he’d rock up, totally wasted, and give me all the people on his death list. I thought he was taking the piss at first but it turned out he was serious.’

‘Was a woman called Harriet Reilly on that list?’

‘No way. I met her too. She used to come down to Exmouth with him. She’d give me little presents. Freebie drugs, mainly analgesics. I’d share them with my wilder brethren. Lifesavers if you’re not taking care of yourself.’

‘They were tight? The two of them?’

‘Like that.’ He crossed two fingers. ‘Soul mates.’

‘So who did he want to kill?’

‘The list writes itself. He always said he was spoiled for choice. Big business, shitbag scientists they’ve hoisted on board, piss-poor politicians – take your choice. There’s no way he’d ever get to these people, but he’d never admit it. Delusional, like I say.’

Suttle let the tea cool in the Oxfam mug. The sun was hot on the back of his neck.

‘That Saturday night,’ he said. ‘You talked?’

‘Yeah, and drank.’

‘He took a call. Near midnight. Were you with him then?’

‘I was. He went over into the trees.’

‘The call didn’t last long,’ Suttle said. ‘About a minute, tops.’

‘That’s right. And he was a different man when he came back.’

‘Different how?’

‘Sober for starters. Which I guess was just as well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he left us for a while.’

‘How long?’

‘Ten minutes? Fifteen? Something like that.’

‘Right.’ Suttle didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. No way could Bentner have made it to Lympstone and back in fifteen minutes. ‘What then?’ he asked. ‘After he came back?

‘He’d found them.’

‘Found what?’

‘His car keys.’

Thirty-Six

W
EDNESDAY, 18
J
UNE 2014, 17.45

Lizzie brooded about Gemma Caton’s sudden disappearance while she did her best to sort out Michala Haas. Her front door was secured with two bolts and an ancient Yale lock. She asked Michala about the car Gemma was driving and then went out into the street to check for something small and yellow. Nothing. Back in the house, she secured the front of the property and then locked the door in the kitchen that offered access to the garden at the back.

Already she felt under siege. Now, with Michala under her protection, she had a double responsibility. This evening, she told herself, she’d get to the bottom of what had really happened to Harriet Reilly. In the meantime it might be wise to hedge her bets.

Michala was in bed, evidently asleep. Lizzie closed the bedroom door and went downstairs to the kitchen. She kept the text to Jimmy as brief as she could. ‘Gemma Caton might be a flight risk,’ she wrote. ‘Surveillance?’

Suttle showed the text to Carole Houghton. The two of them were about to drive over to Heavitree for the third interview with Alois Bentner.

‘Why is she telling us, Jimmy?’

‘I’ve no idea, boss.’

‘Do you think it’s true? About Caton?’

‘It is. I just checked with her department at the university. She has some kind of crisis in her personal life. Needs to sort it out.’

‘And you think that might involve Lizzie?’

‘I don’t know, but my guess is Lizzie’s frightened. Surveillance would give her a bit of cover.’

‘You mean reassurance.’

‘Yes.’

‘So how do you feel about all this?’

‘All what, boss?’

‘Lizzie and Michala. You must have a view, surely?’ Golding had shared the morning’s interviews with Houghton. In Michala’s view, she and Lizzie were on the verge of an affair.

They were driving down the Heavitree Road. A couple of minutes and they’d be at the nick. The fact that Houghton was also lesbian, tucked up in a long-term relationship with a high-flying London lawyer, had never been a secret.

‘I don’t really have a view, boss. Maybe Lizzie’s playing games with the woman. Maybe she really fancies her. You want the truth? Nothing she does any more will ever surprise me.’

‘But you must care about her? No?’

‘Of course. I care about the woman she was. What’s been happening lately is beyond me. She’s lost her bearings, she’s lost her judgement. Success and money and all the rest of it have turned her into someone else.’

Houghton nodded. She seemed to understand.

‘Lost is an important word, Jimmy. Maybe we should bear that in mind.’

Rosie Tremayne and Det-Supt Nandy were waiting for them at the Custody Centre. Nandy had organised an office for a pre-interview meet. Bentner was still in one of the cells downstairs. According to the turnkey, he’d nearly finished
The First Circle.

Suttle briefed them both on what he’d learned from Geordie John.

‘You can trust his account? You statemented him?’ This from Nandy.

‘I did, sir. I think he’s kosher.’

‘And he’s telling us that Bentner was away for a while? That Saturday night?’

‘Yes. He’s already admitted finding the body on the Sunday, but he never mentioned leaving the camp on the Saturday night.’

‘How long was he away? Exactly?’

‘At least an hour. He had to find his car keys first. After that Geordie John went for a kip. When he woke up, Bentner was back in his tent.’

‘Did he ask him where he’d been?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he’d been to check on the family.’

‘Interesting phrase, son. Nothing else?’

Suttle shook his head. He told Rosie Tremayne about the recent domestic – Bentner and Harriet Reilly, witnessed by her former burglar. Tremayne wanted to know how much importance she should place on this account.

‘It might be key, Rosie.’ This from Houghton. ‘We have to shake the man up. I doubt we’re anywhere near a confession, but if it turns out we need a further extension we have to have more shots in our locker. He may let something slip. Good hunting, eh?’

The interview began at 18.42. Bentner’s solicitor had arrived forty minutes earlier and had spent longer than Suttle had expected with her client. Was this some kind of clue to what might lie ahead? Suttle didn’t know.

Bentner, as expected, was the soul of composure. If nothing else, Suttle thought, we must be doing wonders for his liver.

‘I want to take you back a couple of weeks,’ Suttle began. ‘Harriet has been away on holiday. She’s been to Tenerife. She comes back. How did she feel?’

‘Rested.’

‘And you?’

‘I was glad to have her back. As I explained earlier, I’d have gone with her but it was a last-minute thing on her part, and I couldn’t get the time off.’

‘Why so last minute?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was she especially stressed?’

‘She was pregnant. And that had never happened before.’

‘She was relaxed about having the baby?’

‘She thought she’d carry it to term. That isn’t necessarily the same thing.’

‘So she wasn’t happy about having it? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘She was cautious, wary.’

‘And you? Was she happy about you?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘I get the impression she may have been under some stress. Might you have added to that?’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a question.’

‘Then the answer’s no. She knew I cared about her. She trusted me. Why do you ask the question?’

‘Because we think you had a major row. Thursday, 5 June. One o’clock in the morning. At her cottage. Does any of that ring a bell with you, Mr Bentner?’

His gaze went from one face to the other, then settled on Suttle again.
We’ve shaken him
, Suttle thought.

‘We had words,’ Bentner admitted.

‘It was worse than that, much worse. You attacked her. You threw things at her. You were screaming at her. Or have we got that wrong?’

Bentner said nothing. His solicitor wanted to know where these allegations had come from and why they hadn’t been disclosed before the interview began.

Suttle explained about the witness in the field behind the cottage. The solicitor wanted to know the witness’s name.