The Order of Things (7 page)

‘He said Alec would need care. Maybe a hospital. Maybe a hospice. Neither of us wanted that.’

‘So what was the alternative?’

‘Alec needed to die at home.’

‘You mean here?’

‘Sure. With me. On our own terms.’

‘Not easy.’

‘No.’

‘You talked about it?’

‘You bet we talked about it. Heroin was one answer. That’s not hard to find, but you never really know what you’re buying out on the street and quality can be an issue. Plus there’s all the drama afterwards. A death like that, you can guarantee an autopsy. They’re gonna find this stuff in his system. And they’re gonna be asking questions.’

‘So there had to be another way? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Sure. And there was.’

‘Harriet Reilly?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Care to tell me how?’

For the first time he hesitated. He wanted to know what Lizzie was going to do with all this stuff. He wanted to know where this story of his might be headed next.

‘It’s background,’ Lizzie said.

‘Background for what?’

‘Background for an investigation I’m running.’

‘Investigation? I don’t want any part of some bullshit investigation. You told me on the phone this conversation would stay private.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So how come we’re suddenly talking investigation?’

Lizzie explained about
Bespoken
.
Jeff wanted to see it. He was angry now. He fetched over a laptop and fired it up. Lizzie sat beside him while he scrolled through the last three months of stories she’d uploaded. A developer trashing the planning rules on a waterside site in Exmouth. A care home deep in East Devon where patients were mercilessly bullied. A Torquay garage specialising in dodgy MOT certificates. Rules bent. People hurt. Customers ripped off.

‘Like this is some kind of Robin Hood thing?’

The phrase brought a smile to Lizzie’s face. She didn’t deny it. Jeff hadn’t finished.

‘So where does Harriet belong? This is a woman who took a big fucking risk. I asked her to kill my favourite human being, and that’s what she did. Not for money. Not for gain. Just because she understood. Does that make her a bad person? No fucking way. Does that make me grateful? And just a little protective? Sure it does. So let me ask you the question again. What do you plan to do with all this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘
You don’t know?
Baby, this conversation is going nowhere. Like nowhere. I invited you along because of Anton. Anton’s a sweet guy. I trust him. I like him. And if he tells me you’re OK then that’s cool with me. Except you’re not what Anton said you were.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said you were a friend.’

‘That’s true.’

‘He also said you’d done some book. Have I got that right?’

Lizzie explained about
Mine
. Last year her daughter had been abducted and killed. In a bid to find some kind of closure, Lizzie had tried to get inside the head of the woman who’d done it.

Jeff had heard of the book. Some of his anger seemed to melt away.

‘You say she died? Your daughter?’

‘She did.’

‘Not the little girl they filmed in the woman’s arms? Jumped off a balcony? Last year? Maybe the year before?’

‘The same.’

‘Shit.’

Jeff got up to make coffee. He said he was sorry. Living alone did strange things to a man.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘You live alone?’

‘I do. And no matter what happens I probably always will. In here –’ Lizzie touched her head ‘– where it matters.’

‘Cool …’ He was looking for the coffee. ‘Cool. Just one thing, though. Does any of this ever get back to her?’

‘To Harriet?’

‘Sure.’

‘I doubt it, Jeff. Someone killed her last night. If you don’tbelieve me …’ she nodded at the TV on the kitchen table ‘… check it out.’

‘
Killed
her?’

‘Killed her.’

‘That’s bad shit.’

‘Exactly.’

Eight

T
UESDAY, 10
J
UNE 2014, 14.56

Suttle was back at the MIR by mid-afternoon. He found DI Carole Houghton alone in the SIO’s office. Nandy had returned to Plymouth, sorting reinforcements for a domestic that had got out of hand. Partner and one kid dead. The other in Derriford Hospital fighting for her young life.

Houghton looked up. ‘Some days I know I’m on the wrong planet,’ she said. ‘Tell me something to cheer me up.’

‘Bentner?’

‘Still missing.’

‘
Nothing?
’

‘Nothing.’

‘That’s not supposed to happen.’

‘I know. Nandy thinks he’s probably topped himself. Should we have our fingers crossed? Hope and pray it’s true?’

‘I doubt it.’ Suttle slipped into the spare chair. ‘Luke’s been talking to the CSM. He’s taken a look at the scene analysis at Bentner’s place. We dropped by there on the way back.’

‘And?’

‘The SOC guys boshing Reilly’s cottage seized a couple of items they released to us.’

Suttle explained about the photo album and Reilly’s journal. Analysis of the latter would have to wait until later, but Golding had been through the shots of the winter holiday in the States that Reilly had shared with Bentner, making detailed notes of what the guy had been wearing. These notes he’d shared with the CSM.

‘We’re missing this stuff, boss.’ Suttle handed over a list. ‘No sign of the gear at Bentner’s place. He may have left it in the States or got rid of it since, but I’d say that’s unlikely.’

Houghton ran quickly through the list. It included a blue anorak, a sleeping bag, lace-up boots and a sizeable rucksack.

‘You’re telling me they went to the States during the winter?’

‘Early March, boss. Oregon. Still bloody cold.’

‘And you’re suggesting he might be using all this gear now?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s June, Jimmy.’

‘Sure. But he may be living rough. Nights can be tricky, even in high summer.’

Houghton gave the proposition some thought. ‘Devon’s a big place,’ she said at last. ‘So where do you suggest we start?’

It was raining by the time Suttle and Golding got down to Exmouth. The CSM had also shown Golding receipts from the Co-op in the town’s Magnolia Centre, where Bentner evidently did his weekly shop, and Suttle was on nodding terms with the handful of street people who sat cross-legged outside the store and begged for spare change. A couple of them, Suttle suspected, were ex-squaddies, adrift on Civvy Street with a big drink problem and absolutely zero prospects. They both had dogs and disappeared late afternoon with their rucksacks and their sleeping bags in the general direction of the seafront. Quite where they kipped was anyone’s guess, but now was a very good time to find out.

Neither of them, as it happened, was around. Enquiries at the shop next door revealed that they hadn’t been seen all day. Maybe Suttle might check further up the precinct. Geordie John had been around earlier.

Suttle had never heard of Geordie John. He turned out to be a scruffy forty-something with a sizeable gut barely contained by a US Army combat jacket that had seen better days. His jeans had gone at the knees and he badly needed a shave, but he had a face made for laughter and definitely wasn’t drunk. He’d spread himself on a tartan blanket outside Boots. Two puppies nestled between his thighs, and his upturned forage cap was brimming with small change.

‘Gentlemen?’ he peered up and gestured them in from the rain.

Suttle squatted beside him in the shelter of the overhang. The army-issue rucksack was full to bursting, and there were tins of dog food in the Iceland bag beside it.

Geordie John was amused by Suttle’s interest.

‘If you get a choice next time, come back as a puppy. The women in this town? Never bloody fails.’

Suttle offered his warrant card. Golding, still on his feet, didn’t move. Geordie John was staring up at him.

‘What’s this about then?’

Suttle wanted to know where he slept at night.

‘Depends who’s asking, my friend.’

‘I am.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

Suttle didn’t answer. Not at first. Then he asked whether other people slept at the same place, wherever it was.

‘Always. You can get rolled otherwise.’

‘The same people every night? People you know?’

‘Yeah. If you’re after names I’ve got a shit memory.’

‘Do strangers ever turn up?’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘People you don’t know.’

‘Yeah. Sometimes.’

‘And what happens then?’

‘Depends. Blonde? Nice tits? Good attitude?’ He threw his head back and laughed. No teeth.

Suttle let him settle again. Then he produced Bentner’s passport photo. ‘How about this guy?’

Geordie John spared it a glance, and Suttle knew at once that Golding had been right: Bentner was out there somewhere, not that far away, living rough.

‘Well?’

Geordie John shook his head, rubbed his eyes, stifled a yawn, then extended a filthy finger for one of the puppies to lick.

‘You’re telling me you’ve seen this guy?’ Suttle still had the photo.

‘I’m telling you nothing. Don’t get me wrong, but a man can’t live on dog food.’

Catching Golding’s eye, Suttle nodded in the direction of a butcher’s shop across the precinct that sold burgers and sausage baps. Golding shrugged and then departed.

Geordie John watched him go. He seemed, if anything, amused.

‘It’ll take more than that, my friend.’

Suttle sorted a couple of twenty-pound notes from his wallet. He folded them carefully into Geordie John’s fist. ‘I need a location,’ he said. ‘I need to know where you people live.’

‘I bet you do. There’s another sixty in that stash of yours. I saw.’

‘You have to be joking.’

‘Never.’ He struggled to his feet ‘That mate of yours … what’s his name?’

‘Luke.’

‘Tell him no onions, yeah?’ He bent to gather up his puppies. ‘These little buggers can’t stand them.’

Twenty minutes later, Suttle and Golding parked at the far end of the seafront where the long curl of beach collided with the looming mass of Orcombe Point. A zigzag path took them to the top of the cliff. From here another path led out towards the monument that marked the beginning of the Jurassic Coast.

‘Where did he say, skip?’ Golding was a stranger to Exmouth.

‘The wooded area off to the right. We’re nearly there.’

The path suddenly opened out. Golding followed Suttle towards the trees that blocked the view from the cliff top. The scrub and brush was thicker than Suttle had expected but some of the vegetation had been flattened, an indication that people had been here recently. Suttle could hear the rasp of surf on the beach below. It was still raining, the trees overhead drip-dripping onto the sodden ground.

‘There, skip.’ Golding was pointing to the left. A tarpaulin had been stretched between two saplings. Nearby was a smaller tent, zipped up against the wind that funnelled over the edge of the cliff. Beneath the tarpaulin two figures were huddled in sleeping bags, only their beanies visible. Suttle counted more than two dozen discarded cans of Special Brew, all crushed. He nodded towards the tent. More cans plus an empty two-litre bottle of White Lightning. No wonder these guys were wrecked.

Golding circled the tent. No way would anyone escape. Suttle knelt by the entrance and slowly unzipped the front flap. The stench of unwashed bodies gusted out. He put his head inside, let his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. Two more bodies, curled under a couple of blankets. He could smell the booze now. He gave the nearest body a shake. A head emerged. It was a woman, grubby face, piercings, few teeth, totally befuddled.

‘Who’s your friend?’ Suttle looked at the other body.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Suttle produced his warrant card, held it to her face.

‘Filth?’

‘Yes.’

She rolled her eyes then licked her lips. She needed something to drink. Badly.

Suttle found what might have been water in a bottle nearby. She sucked greedily at it. Her partner farted, then raised his head.

‘What the fuck … ?’

Suttle didn’t bother answering. No way was this Alois Bentner. He wanted to know where the money came from for the booze.

‘My pension, sweetheart.’ It was the woman again. London accent, thickened by roll-ups.

‘I’m serious.’

‘Then I don’t know. Ask the guys outside. Party time last night. You free at all?’

Suttle withdrew from the tent, grateful for the fresh air. Golding was bent over the nearer of the bodies beneath the tarpaulin. Suttle joined him. The guy had done his best to roll over. He lay on his back, still trapped in his sleeping bag, blinking into the sudden daylight. Scarlet-faced, unshaven, he might have been a cartoon insect emerging from his chrysalis. Definitely not Bentner.

Suttle held the photo inches from his face. A flicker of recognition.

‘You’ve seen this person?’

‘Never.’

‘Stay there.’

Suttle helped Golding roll over the fourth body. Another woman – younger, out for the count. In the bushes nearby more discarded Special Brew tins.

Suttle retrieved one of the tins and returned to the first sleeping bag and knelt beside the face.

‘You did this lot last night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who paid?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Don’t fuck around. Just tell me.’

‘What is this?’

‘I’m going to ask the question one more time, OK? Who paid for all this booze?’

The face stared up at him. Then came a shake of the head. Suttle glanced up at Golding and nodded. Golding checked around and then took a step backwards. The first kick was enough. The face grunted. Winced. Then two hands appeared. A gesture of surrender.

‘Big bloke. Beard. Well pissed.’

‘Is this him?’

The face gazed at the photo of Bentner.

‘Yeah.’

‘How long was he here?’

‘Saturday night. Last night. Fuck knows. Can’t remember. Nice tent though. Good gear.’ He nodded towards a rectangle of flattened grass.

‘Is he coming back?’