‘You want to make babies, right?’ He touched her face.
She gazed at him. First surprise. Then delight. ‘You mean that?’
‘I do.’
‘Now?’ She nodded at the rug on the carpet. ‘Here?’
‘In a bit. When we’ve done the bottle.’
‘Wrong, my angel. Life is precious. Seize the moment.’ She reached up for him, kissed his face. ‘Carpe fucking diem, right?’
Twenty-Five
SATURDAY, 14 JUNE 2014
Suttle and Oona spent the weekend together. Buzzard paused for breath while Nandy and Houghton took stock. Suttle was grateful for the break. He’d given Houghton a full account of the interview with Harriet Reilly’s GP, and when he and Golding returned to the MIR on Monday they’d pursue the lead they’d lifted from the IVF file. In the meantime, in Oona’s favourite phrase, they were home safe.
Saturday morning they woke up late, made love again and then drifted back to sleep until midday. They shared a lazy brunch in a bar on Exeter Quay and afterwards strolled down the towpath as far as a pub beside a pair of lock gates. A real ale called Full Bore looked too good to miss. Suttle sank a couple of pints while Oona fed the swans with the remains of an abandoned baguette. When he asked her why she wasn’t drinking, she simply patted her stomach.
‘Last night was great,’ she said. ‘Babies need a fighting chance.’
Late afternoon she drove him down to Exmouth. Early rain had cleared, and the remaining wisps of cloud over the Haldon Hills promised a glorious sunset. Oona bought veggies and salad from the farm shop in the precinct while Suttle managed to corner the last sea bass on the fishmonger’s slab. He had no idea about cooking fish and knew that Oona was the same but guessed they’d muddle through. Muddling through had been the essence of their relationship from the start. No plans, nothing grown-up. Simply a weather eye for the next passing opportunity and a mutual agreement that life was there for the taking.
The fish turned out to be a triumph. Oona swallowed her reservations about descaling the thing, raided the Internet for recipes, propped her iPhone on the kitchen worktop and produced a meal that Suttle knew he’d never forget. Delicate hints of fennel and chicory. Lightly boiled Cornish new potatoes. A side salad of watercress and beetroot. Plus a velvet sauce Oona dribbled artfully around the side of the plates.
‘Food porn,’ she said. ‘How come a good Catholic girl knows tricks like these?’
How come, indeed. The meal over, Oona succumbed to the TV: a preview documentary about the forthcoming World Cup. Suttle, passionate about football, talked her through the teams he believed were in with a shout. The Spanish. The Germans. The Brazilians of course. And one of the outsiders, an African team, maybe Ghana.
They were both sprawled on the floor, backs against the sofa.
‘What about you lot?’
‘Us lot?’
‘The Brits. The English. Wayne Thingo. Doesn’t he figure?’
‘Fat boy. Too rich. No incentive. Footballers used to be hungry. Winning mattered then.’
‘And now?’
‘Now is about money. Whatever happens you still get paid.’
She nodded. The room was warm. She’d stripped off to the thinnest of T-shirts. She wanted to know what he’d do if he wasn’t a cop.
‘This.’ Suttle was watching a sequence featuring Lionel Messi. So far he’d beaten five defenders. The goal that followed was the merest formality.
‘You’re too old.’ Oona was stroking the scars on his face. ‘And too lovely.’
‘You say.’
‘I say. Come to bed with me. I’ll let you score. Promise.’
They made love again, then lay entwined as they drifted off to sleep. After the turmoil of the last few days Suttle had rarely felt so happy, so secure. Oona always did it for him. She knew where he kept the key, and when it mattered she always found it. No tensions. No drama. No me-me-me. With her wit, her looks and her readiness for anything, his friends often took her for a lightweight, but they were so, so wrong. Oona, in all the important respects, was one of the wisest women he’d ever met.
Sunday morning they took the baby from upstairs for a walk along the seafront. It was a glorious day. They pushed the buggy the length of the promenade, pausing to watch the local rowing club launch one of their big quads. Oona hoisted Kasia out of the buggy and cradled her in her arms while the rowers wrestled the quad into the waves.
Years back, when Suttle had first come down from Pompey, he’d encouraged Lizzie to join this club. He’d done it because life in rural Devon, surrounded by the old and the infirm, had begun to depress her, and rowing had offered – at the very least – the promise of company her own age. Lizzie had fallen in love with the opportunity in more than one way, and their marriage had hit the rocks shortly afterwards. The sight of these boats, blood red, had haunted Suttle for years afterwards, but now they belonged to another life.
‘Ever fancy it?’ Oona too was looking at the boats.
‘Never.’ Suttle nodded towards the distant jut of Orcombe Point. ‘Onwards.’
That afternoon, having returned the baby, Oona announced an attack of spring fever. Suttle’s flat was a pit. It needed a good sorting. Her shout. A little prezzie for her lovely man. Suttle protested. No way was he wasting half a precious Sunday on the Hoover.
‘Then we’ll split it,’ she said. ‘I’ll do the front room. You do the bedroom. Then we’ll fight over the kitchen. An hour. Tops. Arse in gear, Mr Messi.’
Suttle complied with as much grace as he could muster. In truth she was right. He hadn’t given the flat a proper sort-out since way before Christmas. He retired to the bedroom, opened the window, turned on the radio and set to work. After stripping the bed, he tossed the sheets into the hall and found some new ones – still in their packaging – he’d bought only recently. He left them on the bed and got to work on his knees with a dustpan and a stiff brush. Next door, over the whine of the Hoover, he could hear Oona singing. Nice.
The carpet in the bedroom was furred with little balls of fluff. Painstakingly, working slowly towards the head of the bed, he used his fingers to pick up stuff the brush had missed. Then his fingers snagged on something hard, and he found himself looking at a silver earring. It was on the side where Lizzie had slept. It was hers. He recognised the bird shape. He stared at it, his blood icing, knowing that Oona would have found it too. Nurses were meticulous. The earring would have given him away. What would he have said? How would he have explained it?
He got slowly to his feet, ever the cop, struck by another thought. What if Lizzie had left it down there on purpose? Knowing that Oona also slept in this bed? What if this was yet another move on the chessboard that had become her life? An opportunity to wreck a relationship she found deeply threatening?
He went to the open window, unaware of the door opening behind him, paused for a moment, and then tossed the earring into the void.
‘What was that?’ It was Oona.
Suttle stepped back and turned to face her.
‘Fluff.’ He held her gaze. ‘Who needs it?’
Twenty-Six
MONDAY, 16 JUNE 2014, 08.53
By the time Suttle got to the Major Incident Room on Monday morning Luke Golding was already at his desk. Friday night, to Suttle’s surprise, he’d stayed on late. A call to Sheila Forshaw at the Met Office had already confirmed that Bentner had worked at the National Centre for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado. Armed with an in-house contact she’d supplied, he’d phoned NCAR for more details, ending up with a helpful executive in Human Resources.
There was no way she was going into any kind of detail on the phone, but she confirmed that Bentner had been married to a woman called Marianne Hausner who had sadly died after several years from a form of leukaemia. Marianne had been a fellow scientist at NCAR, maybe not the most conversational person you’d ever meet but a fine climatologist. Beyond that she knew very little, and Mr Golding would be well advised to put a
ny further questions in writing.
‘And?’
‘Here, skip …’ Golding passed a draft letter to Suttle. Among the issues Golding was keen to resolve was whether or not Ms Hausner had indeed donated eggs for freezing and storage.
‘Her DNA would nail it, skip. But she’s been dead a while.’
‘Like when?’
‘Fifteen years – 1999.’
Suttle handed the letter back. The information in Harriet Reilly’s file had been unambiguous. The fertilised egg had come from Marianne Hausner. The fact that she turned out to be Bentner’s late wife should come as no surprise.
‘So what does that tell us about Reilly, skip?’
It was a good question. Reilly, according to her own GP, was on the old side for gestational surrogacy. Three attempts had failed. To persevere like that told its own story.
‘She must have loved him,’ Suttle said. ‘It’s there in the travel journals I read, and this confirms it.’
‘So why didn’t they have their own child?’
‘No idea.’ Suttle shrugged. They’d asked Reilly’s GP exactly the same question but she’d refused to comment. ‘I’ll talk to her ex, the guy in Australia.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now would be a good time.’
He left Golding’s desk and checked in with DI Houghton. She confirmed that it had been her who’d broken the news about the murder to Reilly’s ex-husband. His name was Tony Velder.
‘How did he take it, boss?’
‘Hard to judge. He’s a man of few words. He was surprised, obviously, but if you’re asking me whether it hit him hard I’d have to say no. I’m not sure there was much love there.’
‘How long did the marriage last?’
‘Four years. Almost to the day. That’s the one thing he did tell me.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Is he coming across for the funeral?’
‘I think not.’
‘He said that?’
‘More or less, yes. I said it would be good to meet him. He said he thought that was unlikely. Unless I was planning on a trip down under.’
Suttle nodded. Houghton wanted to know how Golding had got on with the people in Colorado. Suttle gave her the details about Marianne Hausner.
‘The egg had to be hers, then.’
‘That would be the assumption.’
‘So why didn’t Bentner and Reilly have a baby of their own?’
‘That’s exactly what we’re asking.’
Houghton scribbled herself a note. Then her eyes strayed to an incoming email on her PC screen. After a while she looked up. ‘Good luck with Mr Velder,’ she said. ‘Give him my best.’
Lizzie had spent most of the weekend trying to get in touch with Gemma Caton. Michala had given her a mobile number before they’d said goodbye on the towpath, but every time she dialled the phone was on divert. She left a number of messages, inviting Caton to get back to her, but nothing happened. Then she added that Caton’s number had come from Michala and the phone rang within minutes.
It was Monday morning. Wet. Nearly ten.
‘Who is this, please?’ American accent. Gravelly voice. Lizzie scribbled a note: ‘Butch or what?’
Lizzie introduced herself. She was a published author and a freelance journalist. She was lucky enough to be running a well-resourced website of her own and she had a lifetime passion for issues around global warming. Thanks to the presence of the Met Office and the Hadley Centre, Exeter was fast becoming a magnet for people wanting to make a difference in this field. Ms Caton’s reputation spoke for itself. Might she be interested in an interview?
‘How did you find little Michala?’
‘Through a contact.’
‘That wasn’t my question. How did you find her? As in how was she to you?’
‘Very pleasant.’ Lizzie at last understood the thrust of this conversation. ‘In fact extremely helpful.’
‘How?’
‘All sorts of ways. Some of the science in this area is tough. At least to me. She—’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Here. In Exeter.’
‘You want to meet this morning? I can do that. I have a window. Is 11.20 good for you?’
Tony Velder was slow in answering the phone. Suttle eased his chair back from his desk, hoping the man was in. This was a landline number in Melbourne. According to Suttle’s calculations, it would be mid-evening in Oz.
Finally the call connected. A man’s voice, sounding older than Suttle had expected and slightly out of breath. Scottish accent.
Suttle introduced himself. Was he talking to Tony Velder?
‘You are. I thought I’d finished with you people.’
‘Sadly not, Mr Velder. My sympathies over the loss of Harriet. It can’t have been easy.’
‘Nothing’s easy. You’d be a fool to think otherwise. How can I help you?’
Suttle explained about the baby Harriet had been carrying. Evidently this news hadn’t featured in his exchange with DI Houghton.
‘You’re telling me she was pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘How? She hated sex. Wouldn’t entertain it.’
Suttle pulled himself into the desk and reached for his pad. This, he sensed, might be the beginnings of a breakthrough. For a man of few words, Velder was remarkably upfront.
‘You didn’t …? She didn’t …?’ Suttle was waiting for Velder to fill in the gaps.
‘Not once. Never. A gentleman waits. You put it down to their upbringing or their religion, or any of that tosh. First-class mind. Shame about the rest of her.’
The sound of laughter struck Suttle as odd. Then came a pause and a slurp. Suttle could picture the wine bottle at his side. The man’s pissed, he thought. How lucky am I?
‘You never had sex? As husband and wife?’
‘Never. I’m starting to repeat myself, laddie. Maybe you should take notes. S-E-X. Very definitely off the menu.’
‘That must have been difficult.’
‘So-so. I was in the navy. You spend a lot of time banged up aboard. There are ways and means, Mr Simple.’
‘Suttle.’
‘Mr Suttle. You know what I used to say to my chums after a week or two back home? Life with my darling wife was just like the navy without the travel and the views. Better food too, once you got afloat again.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Thin pickings back on the ranch. We were living in Portsmouth, if that means anything to you. Not a pretty place, to be frank, and not a lot of compensations once you’ve closed the front door. Gruel and hard tack, Mr Suttle. With Harriet I learned to keep my hands to myself.’
‘She didn’t want a baby?’
‘She didn’t want my baby. In fact she didn’t want my anything. A chap can take that personally. And you know what? I did.’
After three and a half years at sea, he said, he came home for good. This time there was no escape. What was left of the marriage lasted three and a half months.
‘You were counting?’
‘Every bloody day. My fault, I’m sure. One hint that I had a todger, and that was it. Early night. Lights out. Sleep well.’
‘Was she a doctor at this point? A practising GP?’
‘Very much so. That made it worse. She must have seen more of her male patients than she ever saw of me.’
‘And now?’
‘Now? I’m a lonely old bastard living on a decent pension and drinking far too much. Every man has a best friend, and mine comes out of the Barossa Valley. Treat yourself to a bottle of the 2004 Kaesler Shiraz. It’s worth staying alive for.’
‘That’s good to know, Mr Velder.’
‘You’re right, Mr Suttle. And it’s Commander Velder if you’re ever down this way. Goodnight.’ He laughed again. ‘And God bless, eh?’
The line went dead. Suttle stared at the phone, shaking his head, aware of Golding at his elbow.
‘Well, skip?’
‘Bo
nkers. Out of his tree. No wonder she wouldn’t let him fuck her.’
Gemma Caton arrived a minute early. Lizzie was standing in the window of her living room, watching her struggle out of her car. She was a big woman, verging on huge, and she seemed to do everything by instalments.
Lizzie had the coffee on. She went through to the hall. Caton was making her way along the line of broken paving stones through the ankle-high grass that served as a path to the front door.
She didn’t bother with a formal greeting.
‘Hellava place you’ve got here.’ She gestured up at the building. ‘Lots of potential.’
Lizzie extended a hand. Apologised for the mess. Work in progress, she said. Fire risk, according to a surveyor friend. Caton ignored her. She wanted to get out of the rain. She loved England but couldn’t abide the weather. She clumped into the hall and shook herself like a dog. Lizzie wondered whether to switch on the central heating but decided against it. This woman would probably steam, like some giant Labrador.
‘You mind?’ Caton gestured at her boots. Lizzie, thinking she was about to take them off, nodded. Caton shed her anorak instead, handing it across.
‘Which room?’
‘The one with the open door. Would you like coffee?’
No reply. Lizzie watched her ignore the open door, disappearing instead into the chaos of the kitchen. This too met with her full approval. ‘You live like a tramp. We like that.’
‘We?’
‘Me. I like that. God made tidiness for the also-rans. Sure sign of a second-rate mind. You ever find that?’
She was gazing around. She spotted a door in the far wall, bolted top and bottom.
‘What’s that?’
Lizzie explained it went through to next door. The adjoining house was empty at the moment, after the death of the old lady who’d had the place for years.
‘You been through? Had a look-see?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘It’s a mess. Just like this place.’
‘Wonderful. Better and better.’ She had a final look in a couple of cupboards and then strode through to the living room.
Minutes later Lizzie followed her with a tray of coffee and a plate heaped with biscuits. Caton had spread herself on the sofa. She managed the coffee cup with surprising delicacy. Thick fingers, heavy rings but a deftness of touch. Muddy footprints tracked across the scatter of rugs from the kitchen door.
The Order of Things Page 18