The Order of Things

by Graham Hurley

  Lizzie thought yet again about Grace. Her daughter had died in the ugliest of circumstances. For months afterwards, still in shock, Lizzie had barely been able to function. Anything that triggered a memory – a girl in the street of Grace’s age, even the sound of kids’ laughter from a playground – she had found impossible to cope with. Moments like these had made her feel physically ill. She trembled. She panicked. She ran away. It was during this time that she’d systematically wiped her life clean of any reminder, any memory, of her daughter. She deleted hundreds of photos from her computer. She hauled bags of dresses and toys to the charity shop round the corner. Not for her the web campaign to raise awareness about the mentally ill, the stony comforts of coloured ribbons and tearful anniversaries, the post-midnight phone conversations with long-suffering friends, the same old questions rehashed a thousand times: why Grace? Why this? Why me?

  No, for Lizzie, strong brave Lizzie, the past had become a locked room, neither shrine nor sepulchre, simply a cold dark space she never wanted to inhabit again. From now on, she told herself, she would live exclusively in the present tense, following each new moment to wherever it might lead, obeying no rules but her own. Then had come the invitation to write a book about what had happened.

  Months of research had taken her inside the head of the woman who’d killed her daughter. Understanding wasn’t forgiveness but it came very close. Then followed more months of writing, of trying to catch Claire’s tone of voice, of trying to live in Claire’s fevered imagination, of trying to picture the world through the eyes of a woman hopelessly adrift in a nightmare of her own creation. And at the end of it all – the completed first draft of the book dispatched to her editor – she’d found a kind of release.

  She thought again about Ralph Woodman and then got out of bed and padded downstairs to the living room. Her laptop was still on from last night. She googled ‘Ravel’, then ‘piano concerto’, and thanks to YouTube she was looking at a choice of performances. She remembered Martha Argerich. Twelve hours ago the name had meant nothing; now she couldn’t wait to see what this woman looked like. She was bulky. She seemed to be wearing a homespun grey dress. She had a long fall of greying hair, big hands. She hung over the keyboard, awaiting the rise of the conductor’s baton, then the music began.

  Lizzie was mesmerised. Three movements came and went. After the book she’d so recently written she was good at getting into other people’s heads, and it wasn’t hard to kid herself that she was Julia Woodman just minutes away from looking Harriet Reilly in the eye and maybe nodding to signal that the moment had arrived for her own death. After years of pain, frustration and possibly disgust at the betrayals her body had inflicted upon her, this would have been a release. So briefly in charge again, this music – maybe this very performance – would have borne her away. From either point of view – Julia’s, Ralph’s – Lizzie could think of nothing sweeter, of nothing more fitting.

  The concerto came to an end. Lizzie pasted the link into a new email and then added a note: ‘This is amazing. We need to talk.’ She gazed at the screen a moment longer, then hit send. Whether her estranged husband would even open the link was anyone’s guess. But she hoped, at the very least, that he’d read the message.

  Four hours later, Suttle and Golding were sitting in the reception area at the Met Office in Exeter. The building felt huge, a soaring atrium galleried on three sides. Golding thought it looked like an airport and Suttle agreed. Terminal Four, he thought. Book in for the ride to a nightmare future.

  A live multi-screen satellite map beside the reception desk displayed a vast curl of cloud about to sweep in from the Atlantic. Towards the centre of this depression, where the isobars tightened, was a furious swirl of winds which would hit south-west England towards the end of the day. Suttle had lived with weather like this for more than a year now. The winter storms had been the worst in living memory. For night after night, in the dead weeks after Christmas, he’d stood at the window of his flat watching wave after wave exploding against the sea wall.

  A couple of times, with Oona, he’d gone down to the seafront for a closer look, bent against the roaring wind, hanging on to each other, their faces turned against the sting of the driving spray. They’d gone no closer than twenty metres to the sea wall, but even so the bigger waves threatened to engulf them, rolling in from the darkness, bursting like shellfire. One in particular had nearly washed them away. Belly deep in brown water, Suttle remembered the suck of the backwash tugging them towards the sea, Oona screaming beside him. Fear, that night, had been laden with the taste of salt.

  ‘Mr Suttle? Mr Golding?’

  It was Sheila Forshaw. Suttle had phoned her earlier from the MIR, asking for another meet. My pleasure, she’d said.

  Suttle and Golding followed her upstairs. The Hadley Centre for Climate Prediction and Research occupied a big open-plan office on the second floor. There were small meeting rooms along one wall. Forshaw had booked the one with the open door, six chairs around a circular table.

  ‘Skip?’ Golding drew Suttle’s attention to a quote on the wall. It came from Paul Cezanne. ‘We live in a rainbow of chaos.’ Too right, Suttle thought, accepting Forshaw’s offer of coffee.

  Suttle was still looking out at the nests of desks, T-shirted figures bent over PC keyboards, pretty women on the phone. For an organisation tasked with exploring the likelihood of catastrophe, it felt very relaxed. A Scenes of Crime team had already been here, arriving yesterday morning, seizing Bentner’s PC and searching his desk and locker. Even their visit, according to the CSI at this morning’s Buzzard meet, had barely made a ripple.

  Forshaw was back with the coffees. She wanted to know how the investigation was going.

  ‘Slowly, I’m afraid. You start in the middle and work out.’

  ‘So where are you?’

  ‘Still in the middle.’

  ‘And Alois?’

  ‘Still AWOL.’

  ‘Strange.’ She was frowning.

  ‘That’s what we think.’

  ‘So did he do it? Only we’d all find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Why?’ The question came from Golding. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Forshaw was looking uncomfortable. Suttle had the impression that already the conversation had run away with her.

  ‘He’s simply not the type. I know that sounds wishy-washy but that’s the best I can do. You work in a team long enough and you start to get a feeling for who people really are. We all know that Alois can be difficult, even aggressive sometimes, but that … you know … up there in the bedroom …’ She shook her head. ‘No way. Deep down the man’s a puppy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. You have to dig a bit, and he loves to play the curmudgeon, but he’s not like that at all.’

  Suttle and Golding swapped glances, then Suttle shrugged. Everything he’d read in Reilly’s diary last night confirmed what this woman was saying, but now wasn’t the time to agree.

  ‘People can be a mystery, I’m afraid.’ It was the best Suttle could offer. ‘For the time being we just have to keep an open mind.’

  ‘That’s not the way it sounded last night. On Spotlight. I don’t know exactly who that man was – the detective – but he might as well have announced that Alois is the man you’re after.’

  ‘You’re right. He is the man we’re after. It was his house. She was his partner. At the very least, he might have a view.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know it’s not.’

  Suttle held her gaze. Then he asked how much of an outdoors person Bentner was.

  ‘Very,’ she said at once. ‘He’s always off at weekends.’

  ‘He takes a tent? Camps overnight?’

  ‘Yes. Famous for it. Alois is the go-to man in that respect. Anything to do with camping gear, he’s got the answer.’

  ‘Does he have favourite places? To your knowledge?’

  ‘I’m sure he does, though I don’t know pre
cisely where. You’re spoiled for choice round here. The coast? Upcountry? Out on the moor?’ She reeled off a list of places Bentner had mentioned over the years. Golding wrote them down. Then she stopped, struck by another thought.

  ‘Letterboxing,’ she said. ‘You know anything about that?’

  Golding again. He said it had to do with leaving trails of clues across Dartmoor. One clue led to another. You hid the clues in a box with a rubber stamp inside. Whoever found the box would leave their own mark in the visitors’ book before moving on to hunt for the next one.

  ‘Bit like us, skip.’ He was looking at Suttle. ‘Except it rains all the time.’

  Suttle wanted to know why Forshaw had raised letterboxing.

  ‘Because of Alois,’ she said at once. ‘He got quite keen over the spring, and I had the impression he might have taken his partner along.’

  ‘You think he might be out there on Dartmoor?’

  ‘It’s possible. He certainly knows it well. I imagine there must be umpteen places to –’ she shrugged ‘– hide.’

  ‘But why would he want to do that? When it’s so obvious we’d like to talk to him?’

  ‘He may not know. Alois never has much time for the media, Facebook, all that stuff. He lives in a bubble. He rations himself. He does what he wants to do. He’s not interested in tuning in, unlike the rest of us.’

  There was a long silence. Golding was thinking what Suttle was thinking. The foreplay was over. They’d established a rapport with this woman. Now for the question that really mattered.

  ‘He’s been in touch with you, hasn’t he?’

  The silence stretched and stretched. She held their gaze. At length she nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Around one in the morning. I thought it must have been some kind of emergency. Maybe for him it was.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He wanted to tell me that he didn’t do it. Didn’t kill her. Just that.’

  ‘And did you believe him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Yes. He asked me to pass on a message.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘You lot. He wanted me to tell you you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Because he didn’t do it?’

  ‘Because you’ll never find him. Unless he decides otherwise.’

  Suttle checked his watch.

  Golding wanted to know whether Bentner had made the call on his mobile.

  ‘No. He told me he was ringing from a box.’

  ‘Did you 1471? Check out the number?’

  ‘No. I thought I’d leave that to you.’

  ‘So why didn’t you phone us at once? Share the information? Tell us about the call?’

  ‘I thought I’d leave it until this morning. Then you saved me the trouble.’

  ‘But you never mentioned it on the phone.’

  ‘You’re right. But I’m mentioning it now, aren’t I?’

  Suttle wondered about arresting her, then decided against it. They’d take her home, check out Bentner’s call, at least get a fix on where he was in the small hours of the morning. He’d read her the riot act, tell her she was lucky to avoid a Perverting the Course of Justice charge and pressurise her into acting as a go-between. If Bentner had pulled this trick once, he’d do it again. And this time Sheila Forshaw would be on the phone to Suttle within minutes.

  ‘There’s something else I need to check out,’ he said.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘You owe me this time, right?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I have a couple of initials for you. We think it may be a name. And we think this person may work here.’

  He produced a slip of paper and passed it across the table. Forshaw glanced at it. ‘ND?’

  Twelve

  WEDNESDAY, 11 JUNE 2014, 12.56

  Lizzie took Anton to lunch. She knew an Arab café near Exeter Central station was a favourite of his, and he’d already commandeered a table by the window by the time Lizzie arrived. Two toddlers were playing on the floor beside the door. Lizzie picked her way between them, spared their mothers a nod and settled herself in the chair across from Anton.

  ‘I wanted to say a proper thank you for last night.’ She nodded at the menu. ‘And for Jeff too.’

  ‘Kein Problem. You want more of these people?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘So … OK.’ He bent forward across the table, lowered his voice. ‘So far, no complaints. Am I right?’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘From the ones left behind. But this time maybe something a bit different.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the third person on that list I gave you. Like someone not at all pleased with Dr Reilly.’

  He explained that Ralph had taken a call from a man called Dean. His mother – Betty – had breast cancer, and Anton understood that a friend of hers had been in touch with Ralph after reading a piece he’d written for the Dignity in Dying website.

  ‘This was about Julia? About how she went?’ This was news to Lizzie.

  ‘Of course not. This was much earlier. The article was about how his wife was suffering so much. About why the law should be changed.’

  Dean, he explained, had been a Royal Marine. Now he was working in maritime security in the Gulf, a job that kept him away a lot. He knew his mother wasn’t well, and he knew the cancer had spread to her liver, but she didn’t much like the carers he’d sorted out for her and preferred to be looked after by a friend her own age.

  ‘This was a woman called Frances,’ Anton said. ‘She was the one who read Ralph’s piece on the website and got in touch with him. This was much more recently. Ralph drove across to meet them both. He said it was obvious that Betty was in pain. He said she was really distressed. Because of her liver failing, she’d gone yellow. She hated taking drugs and refused to go into hospital but she didn’t want to live alone any more. She felt there was nothing left for her.’

  ‘Ralph mentioned Harriet Reilly?’

  ‘He did. He talked to her first, of course. Then she came to meet Betty.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Harriet was happy to do what she could.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Six weeks ago. Betty died at the beginning of this month.’

  ‘Thanks to Harriet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Natural burial?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This was becoming Harriet Reilly’s trademark, her way of avoiding the extra checks and paperwork that went with cremations. First Alec. Then Julia. And now – it seemed – Betty.

  ‘So where did this woman live?’ She’d abandoned the menu.

  ‘Lympstone.’

  Nandy, on a short fuse already, exploded. Suttle had just reported back on Sheila Forshaw.

  ‘She did what?’

  Suttle repeated the story’s headline. They’d taken Forshaw back to her Exeter house. Luckily, her phone hadn’t been active since Bentner had been in touch and 1471 had delivered the number of a call box. Suttle had dialled the number there and then to save the hassle of going through BT, and after a minute or two a passer-by had lifted the receiver. The call box was on the northern edges of Ivybridge. Which, in Suttle’s view, probably meant that Bentner was hiding out on Dartmoor. He was describing Bentner’s recent passion for letterboxing when Nandy interrupted.

  ‘He’ll have moved on after making the call. That time in the morning he’ll have the roads to himself. We need to ANPR him.’ Automatic number plate recognition was a vital tool for operations like Buzzard. If Bentner stuck to the major roads, they could track him from camera to camera.

  Houghton reached for a phone but Nandy hadn’t finished. He wanted to know why Forshaw hadn’t reported the call.

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir. My best guess is that she likes him and was trying to protect him.’
>
  ‘By giving him a head start? After what he’d done?’

  ‘That’s a supposition, sir, if I may say so. Remember she has a vested interest in this. It was Forshaw who found the body. That was a horrible scene. She doesn’t believe he could have done it. That’s what she said. That’s what she told us.’

  ‘Brilliant. Top work, son. You think she’s implicated somehow? An affair, maybe? You think they might have been at it? Should we pull her in? Bosh her house? See how she takes a conspiracy charge? This is beyond belief, son. We’ve just spent twenty-four hours putting that man’s face in every house in the kingdom and we end up with dick all. He phones this woman in the middle of the night and it takes her another eight hours to let us know. What are we looking at here? Just give me something to go on.’

  Suttle glanced at Houghton for help. The DI was deep in the latest email. Oddly enough, it came from the Met Office.

  ‘ND?’ she queried.

  Suttle explained about the entries in Harriet Reilly’s travel journal. Nandy had at last begun to calm down. Suttle wanted to know more about the email.

  ‘It’s come from their HR department. They’re giving us three names.’ Houghton bent towards the screen. ‘Nadine Drexler. Nathalie Dorman. Nikki Drew.’

  ‘Addresses?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘If you want more, they’re suggesting you talk to Sheila Forshaw again. She’s his line manager, as you know.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Suttle couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Just as well I didn’t arrest her, boss. She might have gone No Comment by now.’

  With Nandy’s blessing, Suttle left the office to make the call. On the phone Sheila Forshaw sounded almost cheerful. The knowledge that Bentner was still free, still out of reach, must have made her day.

  Suttle wanted to know whether she’d seen the email from HR.

  ‘I was copied in. Like your DI.’

  ‘So what’s the strength?’

  ‘Strength?’

  ‘Do you know any of these people?’