‘It’s for a friend. Someone I knew.’
‘A memento?’
‘A prayer.’ She held Lizzie’s gaze. ‘The wind horse was Gemma’s idea. You should meet her. I mean it.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘You would?’
‘Yes.’
Lizzie wrote down her email address and handed it across. Michala studied it a moment and then looked up. The smile again and a softness in her eyes.
‘Gemma might invite you to supper,’ she said. ‘Would you like that?’
Harriet Reilly’s GP worked out of a practice in Topsham. Her name was Amelia Bishop. On the phone she’d been extremely guarded about her late patient. Yes, she’d been as horrified as everyone else by what had happened to poor Harriet. And yes, she’d be prepared to meet to discuss her pregnancy, but only in the broadest terms. She reserved the right not to answer questions she deemed intrusive or otherwise inappropriate. If those conditions were understood and fully accepted then yes, they were welcome to call by.
It was late afternoon. Dr Bishop’s last patient had just departed. To Suttle’s surprise, she was a tall blonde with a ready smile and a warm handshake. Stepping into her consulting room, Suttle wondered whether he’d been talking to someone else on the phone. Golding’s reaction was altogether simpler. He loved this woman on sight.
‘We’re really sorry,’ he said at once. ‘You guys must live in a madder world than even we do. You don’t need us, you really don’t.’
Bishop offered them juice from a fridge. Golding went for the remains of a carton of Tropicana, asked whether she had any peanuts. Suttle declined the offer. He was looking at the line of photos over Bishop’s desk. She had at least two young kids. No sign of a father.
‘You wanted to ask me about Harriet,’ she said.
‘We do.’ Golding again. ‘How come you’re her GP?’
‘Rather than someone from her own practice, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve no idea. Some GPs prefer it that way. You’re working with colleagues every day. You don’t always want to share your haemorrhoids with them.’
‘What about you?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then ask me another question.’
‘About Harriet …’ Suttle this time. ‘Did you know her for a long time?’
‘Thirteen years. Just under.’
‘And did you know her as a friend?’
‘No. She wasn’t that kind of woman. And, to be frank, that can be a relief. Work and pleasure?’ She gestured towards the line of family photos. ‘Best kept separate.’
Suttle asked about Harriet’s previous status.
‘I’m not with you.’
‘We understand she was married.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And no kids.’
‘That’s also true. Have you talked to her ex?’
‘Not yet. He’s in Australia. Was she married when you first met her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was getting pregnant ever an issue?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Did she want to get pregnant? Try to get pregnant?’
‘Ah …’ her gaze moved from face to face ‘… that’s a question you should be asking her ex. His name is Tony. I expect you know that.’
‘But you won’t tell us?’
‘No.’
Suttle nodded. This was going to be difficult. A production order would release certain data, but Houghton had been right to put her faith in a face-to-face meet.
Golding sensed it, too. ‘We don’t need to dwell on this,’ he said softly, ‘but the scene was horrible. She was butchered. We need to find who did that, and motive is one of the ways we can move the inquiry along. It turns out she was pregnant. It also turns out that whoever did it removed the baby’s head.’
‘You mean the fetus’ head?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
Golding nodded, said nothing. Bishop gazed at him for a moment, visibly shocked, then opened a drawer and took out a yellow file.
‘There are two ways of doing this,’ she said. ‘I can give you the name of the surrogacy clinic Harriet attended or I can tell you myself. If I give you the name of the clinic, that may take a while. These people have commercial interests to protect. It also happens to be in America. That can be doubly tiresome.’
‘But she was your patient,’ Golding pointed out. ‘Your responsibility.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So is there anything you’re prepared to tell us?’
Bishop looked from one face to the other. Finally she frowned.
‘Harriet had been depressed for a while,’ she said. ‘Her father died, and it hit her badly. That can be something no amount of medication can take away. In situations like that you sometimes look for a change of direction.’
‘That’s why she got pregnant?’
‘That’s why she tried. We’re talking in vitro fertilisation. That means conception outside the body. The science is moving on all the time but IVF isn’t easy. Especially for someone of Harriet’s age.’
‘She had several attempts?’
Bishop consulted a bundle of notes in the file. ‘She had a couple of miscarriages in this country, then a third try in the States. Bingo.’
‘How did she feel?’
‘Over the moon. Totally. It was the first time I ever saw her smile.’
Suttle nodded. He’d never met Harriet Reilly when she was alive but slowly she was beginning to swim into focus: stubborn, determined, hard to reach yet oddly vulnerable.
‘There’s something we need here,’ he said. ‘We’re assuming the sperm came from her partner, Alois Bentner. Where did the eggs come from?’
‘You’re telling me you don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’
‘So how do we find out? Short of going round the houses with the IVF people?’
‘I suggest you ask Mr Bentner.’
‘He’s still missing.’
‘So I understand.’
She looked down at the file again and sorted through the notes inside until she found what she was after. Then she got to her feet, leaving the file open on the desk.
‘There’s something I have to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll be gone a couple of minutes.’
She left the office. Golding was already reading the file. The document on the top had come from an IVF clinic in Portland, Oregon. Suttle remembered the entry in Harriet’s travel diary, She and Bentner had been in Portland in early March. By the time she died the baby had been between three and four months old. The dates worked perfectly.
‘The eggs came from a woman called Marianne Hausner, skip.’ Golding was deep in the file. ‘An address in Colorado.’
He passed the document across. Suttle made a note of the details. By the time Bishop returned, the key document was back in the file.
She stood over them and then asked Suttle to look up. Suttle did her bidding. He felt her fingers pass lightly over the scars on his face. For the first time he spotted the tube of cream in her other hand.
‘Mind if I ask you a personal question?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Are you under any particular stress at the moment?’
Suttle shook his head. Then he caught Golding’s eye. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Just a bit.’
‘Are you drinking a lot?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘What’s usual? A lot?’
She took Suttle’s shrug as a yes. She gave him the tube of ointment. She told him the scars were way too inflamed.
‘Go easy on the booze,’ she said. ‘And whatever else isn’t agreeing with you.’
Suttle didn’t know what to say. She escorted them both to the door, where Golding thanked her for her time. She nodded, said it was OK. Then she looked at Suttle.
‘So why
on earth would someone do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Cut the fetus’ head off?’
Twenty-Four
FRIDAY, 13 JUNE 2014, 18.34
Lizzie had no problem getting a ticket for the Fureys concert. Prowling around Suttle’s flat in the small hours of the morning, she’d browsed a handful of texts on his mobile. One of them had come from Oona. ‘Half seven, my lovely,’ she’d written. ‘Usual place? The Fureys await.’ Now she was looking at the band’s website. Tonight they were at the Exeter Corn Exchange. Eight o’clock.
She hit Google, looking for a clue to the kind of music these people played, and found herself on YouTube listening to a soupy version of ‘When You Were Sweet Sixteen’ scored for ukulele, strings and what sounded like a stage Irishman determined to squeeze every last ounce of Celtic tearfulness from the lyrics. This was a trillion miles from Jimmy’s usual faves. What was this woman doing to her man? What had happened to Neil Young and the Pretenders?
She scrolled on down the website. Online, tickets were twenty pounds. She looked at the seating plan and chose a perch beside the right-hand aisle towards the front. Arrive early, she thought, and lurk in the bar. That way she might lay eyes on this woman who’d slipped so guilefully into Jimmy’s bed, into Jimmy’s life. Tall? Petite? Thin? Full figure? She’d no idea. Her cursor hovered over Seat 23.
Done.
Suttle had already found a table in the pub by the time Oona turned up. The Fat Pig lay in a sidestreet within a couple of minutes of the venue. Oona had texted earlier, warning that she might be late: ‘Carnage in A & E. Are we at war?’
Suttle fetched her a large glass of Côtes-du-Rhône. She toyed with it a moment then put it down. She looked exhausted.
‘Another shift like that and I’m a walk-in myself,’ she said. ‘How’s my wounded soldier?’
‘Fine.’
‘You lie. You were limping just now. I’m an expert, remember. Trained to spot the clues. Slainte.’ She reached for her glass. ‘May the angels protect you.’
Suttle drained the remains of his lager.
‘You mind if I have another?’
Without waiting for an answer, he made his way to the bar. By the time he got back to the table, Oona’s glass was nearly empty.
‘You never kissed me.’ She patted the bench beside her. ‘A girl likes to be kissed.’
Suttle eased himself in beside her and gave her a peck on the cheek. She studied him a moment, surprised.
‘I’m your aunt now?’
‘Of course not.’
He kissed her again, this time on the lips.
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘But only just. The name’s Oona, by the way. And I’m pleased to meet you.’
She extended a playful hand, let it drop to his thigh, gave it a stroke.
‘It’s the other one.’
‘I know that, you eejit. This is a little something to keep you going. If the Fureys get too much I’ll take you home and make it all better again. That’s nursey talking, by the way. Tell me you missed me.’
‘I missed you.’
‘Really?’
She meant it. Suttle knew she meant it. She’d sensed a change in him. Something had happened, and she hadn’t a clue what it was. Not a good start.
He asked her about the Fureys. How come she’d never mentioned them before? When did this passion of hers begin?
‘Don’t change the subject, my lovely. I’m your friend. Tell me what’s wrong.’
‘I got bitten.’
‘Sure. I know. And Golden Bollocks nailed the little bastard.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me.’
‘You’ve talked to him?’
‘I have. Twice. He’s very proud of himself. A whole lifetime hiding from them and at last he’s home safe. Baseball bat? Am I getting warm here? Isn’t Mr Bollocks just the Man of the Hour?’
Mr Bollocks was Luke Golding. Suttle wondered what else he’d told her.
‘I’m grateful,’ he muttered. ‘I bloody owe him.’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘It’s true.’ He reached for his pint. ‘And the answer’s yes.’
‘Yes to what?’
‘I’ve missed you.’
Lizzie had found herself a seat in the corner of the upstairs bar at the Corn Exchange. By ten to eight the place was packed, a scrum of middle-aged couples besieging the bar. By now she’d discovered that the Fureys never opened on time. Maybe they’re waiting for that third pint to work, she thought. Maybe this whole gig floated on an ocean of Guinness and beery goodwill.
She’d begun to wonder whether Suttle and Oona had decided to bin the evening when she spotted him pushing past a knot of drinkers by the door. Beside him, enfolded by one arm, was a woman her own age – taller, milky complexion, lovely figure, auburn curls, face full of mischief. She was wearing jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt with a whorl of blues on the front. Bare feet in sandals. Black nail varnish. They headed for the bar then got caught in the crush. Her head nuzzled Suttle’s shoulder. Then she reached up and kissed him.
Lizzie turned away. To her surprise she couldn’t handle this. She felt insanely jealous, a sensation close to physical pain, and she felt angry too. This man was her husband, the father of the child they’d cherished and lost. They’d been through a great deal together. They’d made huge mistakes, both of them, and they could have been kinder and more patient with each other. But none of that gave this woman the right to make her estranged husband so obviously happy.
They were waiting at the bar now. Suttle had checked his watch. Oona had shrugged and grinned. A ten-pound note bought the drinks. They turned and made their way towards the door that led to the auditorium. Suttle was juggling the drinks, trying to avoid spills. Oona had her finger hooked into the waistband of his jeans. Then he paused to avoid a couple of women coming out of the hall and half-turned to protect the brimming glasses. This was the moment Suttle saw her. For a second he froze. Then, after a tiny nod of recognition, he was on his way again. Lizzie settled back, satisfied. She told herself she knew this man. She’d read the expression on his face, the fleeting grin. She was back in his life.
After the concert Oona took Suttle home. She was still living on a soulless new estate ribboned by arterial roads on the southern edge of the city. It was a reasonable rent, handy for work, and everything in the house worked, but she knew Suttle didn’t like the place.
They’d bought a couple of bottles of Rioja from a Londis in the city centre, and Suttle had also splashed out on a copy of the Fureys’ latest CD. They’d watched the gig from seats towards the back, immediately behind a bunch of fans seriously in love with the music. There were five of them, middle-aged, and they swayed with the lilt of the music, their arms in the air one moment, interlinked the next. They were word-perfect on the lyrics and, towards the end, when the band launched into ‘Red Rose Café’, they were out in the aisle, doing an impromptu jig that brought others to their feet.
Oona had joined them, tugging Suttle behind her, and Suttle took advantage of the next five minutes to scan the audience, looking for Lizzie. He finally found her, way off on the other side of the hall. She was sitting watching him, and when she knew he’d spotted her raised her hand, the briefest salute. Afterwards, with the crowd streaming away into the night, he’d looked for her again but she’d disappeared.
Now Oona was uncorking the first bottle. She’d made a salad earlier and a sauce for the pasta. Soon they’d eat. But first a little more of the Fureys. Suttle took the hint and slipped the CD into the audio stack.
‘You want to dance with me? Look silly? Fool around? Fall over?’ She was in the middle of the carpet, her hands outstretched.
Suttle shook his head. He was eyeing the bottle. The walking wounded deserved another drink.
‘Were they that bad?’
‘They were great.’
‘Is it me, then?’
She was still on her fe
et. Suttle had opted for the tiny sofa. He looked away, not knowing what to say.
‘It hurts,’ he said.
‘How about the leg?’
He stared up at her. Luke Golding, he thought. They’ve had the conversation. He’s told her. Bastard.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.
‘Something’s happened. I know it has. You can’t fool a girl from Killarney. Ever.’
‘Nothing’s happened. Except I’ve had a couple of shit days.’
‘Like the rest of us don’t? Like life’s a peach? Talk to me, Jimmy Suttle. Can’t you even do that?’
She was on her knees now, beside the sofa. Suttle could see the bewilderment in her eyes. Why am I doing this? he asked himself. How can this be happening?
He took her hand, told her he loved her.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘This is worse than I thought.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This isn’t you at all, my lovely. Wrong script. Crap lines. What do you really want to say to me? Be honest.’
‘I just told you.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘I love you.’
‘I think you do. I’ve no quarrel with that. And I think you probably mean it. I love you too. But where are we? Where is this heading? What happens next?’
For the first time Suttle began to relax. Maybe he was wrong about Golding. He and Oona had been this way before. Often drink did it. She wanted more of him, all of him, a lifetime together. She wanted them to share a house, any house, maybe even this little hutch. She wanted a baby. She wanted to roll all over him. She wanted to engulf him in laughter and good sex and fine cooking, and one day she wanted to take him home to Ireland and buy an acre or two out on the west coast and let the cycle of the seasons shape the rest of their lives.
He knew all this because she’d told him – no secrets, no hidden surprises – and every time it happened he’d loved her a little more. She was wild, and guileful, and reckless as fuck. She’d been a physical turn-on from the moment they’d met, back when she was still with Golden Bollocks, and he’d known at once that she felt exactly the same way. So here they were, on a mild summer’s evening, with wine on the table and the Fureys roaring away, and if he got drunk enough he knew exactly where this evening would lead.
The Order of Things Page 17