The Order of Things

by Graham Hurley

‘Did he go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No. That Tania came too. Horrible. It spoiled everything.’

  ‘And the will? When Dean found out?’

  Frances gazed at her, then fumbled in her bag for a pen and paper. With some care she wrote what looked like an address.

  She looked up. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to find that out for yourself, my dear. I don’t want to get involved any more, not really.’ She handed over the slip of paper. The address was in Exmouth. ‘That’s where you’ll find Dean. Might I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The address didn’t come from me.’

  Minutes later, having said no to tea, Lizzie sat around the corner in her car staring at her laptop. She’d been on the Dignity in Dying website a couple of times already, briefing herself on the background. The board of the charity was led by Sir Graeme Catto, Emeritus Professor of Medicine at Aberdeen University and President of the College of Medicine. The Vice Chair had been a leading psychiatrist at the Hospital for Sick Children in Great Ormond Street. The Treasurer was an MP. This wasn’t some bunch of tree-huggers. Far from it.

  A keystroke led to a series of personal stories, individuals whose lives had been touched – and often ended – by terminal disease, a chorus of voices begging for a change in the law to permit assisted dying. Whether you were a loved one at the bedside or someone approaching death, nothing seemed more cruel than having to wait for mortality – and pain – to take its time. Lizzie had read some of these stories before, but like the best websites, this one was constantly replenished with new uploads and there was fresh testimony, some of it barely twenty-four hours old.

  Half an hour later Lizzie lifted her head, convinced that the world needed more people like Harriet Reilly, GPs compassionate and brave enough to risk their careers and their liberty to spare people an ugly death. One day, she thought, Harriet Reilly’s contribution to the cause would somehow be recognised. Maybe some kind of citation. Maybe even a medal. The irony, of course, was that the recognition would be posthumous. Because the woman who’d decided to cheat death of its winnings had herself been killed.

  Lizzie checked her watch. Nearly six o’clock. She was thinking about Dean. About Tania. About Harriet Reilly. She produced her mobile and composed a text. ‘I’d like to buy you a drink,’ she wrote. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  She read it through, went to her directory and found Jimmy’s number. She checked the text one last time, then hit Send.

  Gone.

  Fourteen

  WEDNESDAY, 11 JUNE 2014, 18.01

  Nikki Drew lived in one of a row of red-brick terraced houses overlooking Topsham station. Suttle had called earlier to confirm that she was happy to talk. Her partner was away until Thursday and even on the phone Suttle had the feeling she’d welcome the company.

  Suttle parked in the health centre down the road. As he was about to get out of the car his mobile signalled an incoming text. Lizzie. He glanced at it, then read it properly before slipping the phone back in his pocket. Seconds later, the phone rang. It was Golding.

  ‘I checked out the holiday thing, skip. It turns out Reilly went to Tenerife for eight days.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good work.’

  Suttle ended the call and sat back for a moment behind the wheel. An hour ago he’d had a conversation with DI Houghton. Bentner’s Skoda had been found on an industrial estate in Bodmin. Bodmin was in Cornwall, an hour’s drive west of Dartmoor. The car had been declared a crime scene and would shortly be brought back to Exeter. Bentner, according to Houghton, would now be driving a fresh pair of wheels, making the prospect of finding him even bleaker.

  Suttle frowned, trying to tease a little sense from these latest developments. Nowadays, every purchase left a trace, so how come there’d been no movements on Bentner’s various accounts? And why, more to the point, hadn’t he accompanied his pregnant partner to Tenerife?

  Minutes later Suttle was knocking on Nikki Drew’s door.

  She was a good-looking woman, late thirties, early forties, with a strong face and good eyes. She was wearing Lycra shorts and a grey T-shirt and must have been running because the T-shirt was dark with sweat. She apologised for being a tad disorganised, told him to make coffee if he fancied it and disappeared. Moments later Suttle caught the fall of water in a shower and a blast of Stevie Wonder. Nice.

  Waiting for Drew to reappear, Suttle found the kitchen and filled the kettle. Either Nikki or whoever else lived here did a lot of cooking. Italian recipe books. Thai. Nepalese. Classic French. By the time she was out of the shower, Suttle was back in the living room with two mugs of coffee.

  ‘No biscuits?’ This woman had a sense of humour. She settled down and unwound the towel from her head. Her hair fell around her shoulders, black threaded lightly with grey. She was wearing a tracksuit now, with CORNELL UNIVERSITY on the back. Her feet were bare, perfect nails painted a deep blue dusted with tiny stars.

  ‘You want to know about Alois?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why ask me?’

  Suttle had been anticipating the question. Under the circumstances he saw no point in hiding the truth.

  ‘Bentner had a partner,’ he said, ‘as you may or may not know. She’s the woman who was killed in Lympstone. They went away together a couple of times over the last year and she kept a kind of diary. She refers from time to time to someone she calls ND. This is a murder inquiry. We action every lead.’

  ‘And you think that’s me?’

  ‘I think it might be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you work in the same office. And because I therefore assume you knew him. Does that sound reasonable?’

  ‘Perfectly. So how can I help you?’

  It was a good question. Suttle asked her what she’d been doing on Saturday night.

  ‘I was here with Connie.’

  ‘Your partner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone else around?’

  ‘You mean corroboration?’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘And you were here all night?’

  ‘Sure. Together. Upstairs. If I’d have popped out to murder someone, Connie would have been the first to know. She’s a light sleeper. And I’m lousy at keeping secrets. Something like that? Shit, I’d have told her the moment I stepped back inside the house.’

  Suttle was warming to this exchange.

  ‘So tell me about Alois Bentner,’ he said. ‘What kind of guy was he?’

  ‘Was? You think he’s dead?’

  ‘I think he’s gone missing. In fact I know he’s gone missing.’

  ‘That’s not the same as dead, though.’ For the first time she smiled.

  ‘Of course not.’ Suttle smiled back. ‘So what kind of guy is he?’

  ‘He’s canny. He’s sharp. He can be mega-difficult. He’s probably a genius. What else do you want to know?’

  ‘Genius? How?’

  She gave the question some thought.

  ‘We’re all scientists where we work,’ she said at last. ‘Scientists speak the language of data. We’re cautious by nature. It comes with the territory. You think you’re looking at a 98-per-cent chance of catastrophic global warming, you want to know about that remaining 2 per cent. Not our Mr Bentner He’s a probabilities man. He calculates the odds, sees what’s coming down the road and goes into battle. That makes him a warrior as well as a scientist, which is a lot less common than you might think. On some days I think we need more Bentners at the Centre. On other days he can be a pain in the arse.’

  Suttle nodded. Sheila Forshaw, the first time he’d interviewed her, had said much the same. Suttle remembered her story about Bentner losing it at the pub barbecue beside the canal. A breakdown waiting to happen, she’d said.

  ‘I understand he coul
d be violent,’ Suttle suggested. ‘Especially recently.’

  ‘Violent?’ Drew shook her head. ‘More frustrated. Alois was an early believer. He’d done the sums. He could figure out the implications. He was proud to be a warmist. He thought the rest of us had the same responsibility.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now’s no different. In fact now’s worse. I had a conversation with him only last week. He’d just got hold of a paper from a guy called Merrilees. It was about increasing shrub abundance in the Arctic. It was published in Nature. If you’re familiar with the data set this stuff makes for scary reading.’

  ‘And Bentner? What did he say?’

  ‘He always wants to take the battle to the enemy. You’re talking Big Oil, Big Gas, Big Coal, Big Everything, plus all the neocons that want to keep cranking up the boiler and stuff the consequences. These are the guys who think people like Alois are trying to turn their world upside down, and of course they’re right. Alois says they’re evil. He talks about disaster capitalism. He thinks they’re the devil’s spawn. If you’ve got the time to listen, a lot of this stuff is fascinating. God knows, he’s probably right, but I’m not sure it does much for his blood pressure.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘About global warming? Some days I’m glad it keeps me in a job. Other times it scares me shitless. Thank Christ I haven’t got a child.’

  ‘I meant Bentner. Here’s a guy on top of the data. He thinks he knows what’s coming down the track. I get the impression that he thinks no one is listening to him. Even where he works, even with people who are tuned in, there’s no real appetite to get out there and beat the drum. Am I right? Am I being fair?’

  ‘No. That’s way too simplistic. Of course we care. We just happen not to take it to extremes.’

  ‘And Bentner did? Does?’

  She didn’t answer. She was cautious now, recognising the trap that Suttle was baiting. He tried it a different way.

  ‘He just changed the name on the front of his house. Two Degrees to Five Degrees. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s simplistic too. Five degrees is off the map. If we get to five degrees we’re all poached.’

  ‘But that’s his point, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s highly unlikely.’

  ‘You mean extreme.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you think he believes it? Believes it enough to change the name of his house?’

  ‘It’s a warning, not a prediction. Even Alois can’t be that certain. But that’s the way he works. Maybe it starts with the postman. Alois hopes the guy has a think about the name change. Hopes he has a chat with his buddies. Hopes his buddies pass the word on. Assumes that pretty soon the whole world is sitting up and taking notice. That’s the way Alois would see it.’

  ‘Chinese whispers?’

  ‘Not far off. Certainly propaganda.’

  ‘Rather than science?’

  ‘Rather than something we could – in all conscience – prove. Some of us had a chat to Alois about five degrees. He couldn’t stand it up. No way.’

  ‘So what did that make you lot?’

  ‘In his eyes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Denialists. Big time.’

  ‘And was he angry?’

  ‘No. He just told us we were wrong. He thinks we’re at the point of no return. He thinks we’re all fucked. Not only that but he thinks we deserve to be fucked. Some of this stuff doesn’t make for a jolly conversation, believe me. That’s why people started to avoid him.’

  ‘He drinks a lot. Do you think that helps?’

  ‘Probably not. But the guy’s in a bad place. Inside his head I’d probably do the same thing.’

  ‘Did you know his partner was pregnant?’

  ‘Really?’ For the first time genuine surprise. ‘Ali? Putting out for a baby?’

  ‘That’s right. Sadly it won’t happen, but she was definitely pregnant.’

  ‘And it was definitely his?’

  ‘Subject to confirmation –’ Suttle nodded ‘– yes. So how does that sit with five degrees? With disaster capitalism?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe he was drunk at the time. Maybe his partner was a Catholic. Nixed the abortion.’

  ‘By all accounts he was pleased.’

  ‘I’m astonished. Alois? You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. As sure as I can be.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’ She shook her head. ‘None.’

  She reached for her mug again. Then she folded her legs beneath her, thinking hard.

  ‘There’s a word Ali loves to use,’ she said at last. ‘Overburden. It comes from the oil industry. It means all the useless stuff on top like trees and grasses and meadows these oil people have to shift before they go after the black stuff locked up below. Trees are Alois’ business. As a climatologist, that’s where he made his name. What they’ve done to Alberta seriously upsets him. He’s been out there for a look. The Athabasca tar sands. He says it’s beyond belief. Press him just a little bit, not much, and you get to the heart of it. The way Alois sees it, the overburden, the real overburden, isn’t nature at all. It’s us. He thinks we’re the parasites. He thinks we’re the takers. Once he told me that when it came to the planet we were death on legs. So why would he ever bring a child into a world like that?’

  Suttle shrugged. Said he didn’t know. Death on legs. A distillation of everything this man believed about the human condition. A phrase to remember.

  ‘So how far did Bentner take all this?’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘His campaigning? Five degrees? All that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. If you’re asking me whether he was the kind of guy to go on marches, I’d say not. He wasn’t much of a joiner so that probably rules out Greenpeace and Save the Planet and all the rest of them. He certainly wrote articles, and he had the academic clout to get them published. He has profile, if that’s what you’re asking. He likes to get in the face of these people. He likes to upset them. Maybe that’s his role in life. Maybe that’s what he’s best at. Give these guys a big shake. Make them fall out of their tree.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘You mean serious enemies? Big business? Big Oil? People who might want to hurt him? Steal into his house? Kill his partner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible. If these people ever bother to listen.’

  ‘You think they might?’

  ‘I doubt it. Money always has the loudest voice and the deafest ears. Always.’

  ‘That sounds like something Bentner might say.’

  ‘You’re right. It was his phrase. But I suspect it happens to be true.’

  ‘Suspect?’

  ‘I know it happens to be true. We’re lucky at the Centre. We’re well funded, well led, and there are lots of people in the world who are starting to wake up and take notice. Especially after winters like the last one. But Alois is right. Nothing’s going to happen until we sort out the guys with the real money. And maybe there isn’t enough science in the world to do that.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Yeah. And probably terminal.’ She paused. ‘Do you mind me asking you a personal question?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘I got attacked.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Was it recently?’

  ‘Last year. They tell me the scarring will soften in the end.’

  ‘So how do you cope?’

  ‘I avoid mirrors.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. No one avoids mirrors.’

  ‘That’s true. Maybe I just shut my eyes.’

  ‘That’s worse. That puts you alongside the denialists.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Suttle swallowed the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She made no effo
rt to move. ‘Quite the reverse.’

  Suttle retrieved his car. Sitting behind the wheel, the keys still in his hand, he fought the temptation to check his face in the rear-view mirror. Very few people had ever been as direct as Nikki Drew, but in a way he took it as a compliment. In his trade the best interviews happened on a level of semi-intimacy. The closer you got to someone, the more truthful they tended to be. She’d been relaxed enough to ask him the bluntest of questions, which shed an interesting light on her view of Alois Bentner. No way would this man have butchered his partner like that, she’d told him. None.

  Suttle glanced at his watch. Gone seven. He fetched out his mobile, read the text from Lizzie again, then tapped out an answer: ‘Where and when? Your call.’

  Fifteen

  WEDNESDAY, 11 JUNE 2014, 19.43

  Suttle had already arrived by the time Lizzie made it to the pub. She’d never been here before but a couple who were near-neighbours raved about the ambience and it was easily walkable. She’d been tempted to wear a scarlet halter top she knew Jimmy had always loved, but after trying it on she’d decided to stick to designer jeans and the new soft leather jacket she’d bought as a present to herself only last week. She knew how important the next hour or so might turn out to be, and she knew as well that she should feel at ease about her new life. Lizzie Hodson. Best-selling author. Mother of none. And now – to her surprise and delight – apprentice sleuth.

  He was sitting at a table in the corner, nursing the last of a pint. She thought he looked even more exhausted than usual. He got to his feet, asking what she’d like to drink, but she waved him back down.

  ‘Stella? Or is that a silly question?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she went to the bar, returning with a fresh pint of lager and a spritzer. Tonight was open-mike night. At the moment they were between acts but she knew it wasn’t going to last.

  ‘You’re going to hate this,’ she said at once, ‘but I can’t think of any other way of putting it.’

  She told him about her investigative website and the modest network of co-journos she’d put together to nail down stories and see where they might lead. It turned out that Suttle had googled Bespoken a couple of times, prompted by ex-CID colleagues in Pompey who remembered Lizzie’s maiden name and were intrigued by what she was up to after the success of Mine. He’d been impressed: nice home page, punchy writing, a reminder of the young investigative reporter who’d caught his attention all those years ago.