The Order of Things (12 page)

‘Leaving just you?’

‘Yes. Not that I minded. Betty had nice neighbours, new people, a young family, and the father was happy to come in for the heavy stuff. Between us we managed. More or less.’

Lizzie nodded. The next question voiced itself: ‘And Harriet Reilly? How did she come into the story?’

‘Harriet?’ Frances frowned, taking her time. ‘That was Betty’s idea. The one thing Dean
had
done for her was get hold of one of those iPad things. I gather he brought it back from Dubai. Betty was on it a lot. I think it was a bit of a lifesaver.’

Lifesaver, under the circumstances, was a strange choice of word. Lizzie wanted to know more.

‘Betty started finding out about … you know … assisted dying. She’d had enough. I knew that. I’m a believer, my dear. I believe that life is a precious gift from our Maker and that we have no right to end it on our own terms, not before it’s taken from us. So Betty’s choice of websites began to disturb me. Not disturb. Upset would be a better term.’

A favourite site, she said, was Dignity in Dying. Betty would show it to her. There was no secret about it.

‘There were lots of personal stories,’ Frances said. ‘People in the same situation as Betty, maybe different cancers, different conditions, but the same pain.’

‘And the same frustration?’

‘Exactly.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘I’m afraid I wasn’t much use. If you want the truth, I told her to grin and bear it. By now we were all finding it a bit of a struggle.’

‘And Dean?’

‘He’d stopped coming. In his defence, I think he found the whole thing difficult. I don’t think he could cope. Whatever the truth, I know it broke his mother’s heart.’

‘That he wasn’t there for her?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what did she do?’

‘One of the stories came from Mr Woodman. The man you mentioned on the phone.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he might be able to help. He’d lost his own wife to motor neurone. He didn’t say how but both of us, Betty and I, sort of guessed that there’d been some kind of … I don’t know …’

‘Assistance?’

‘Yes. A helping hand.’

‘Which turned out to be Harriet Reilly?’

‘Yes. I met her too. A very nice woman, a very nice woman indeed.’

‘Nice how?’

‘Sincere. Serious. You could feel her commitment. Betty felt it too.’

‘Commitment to what?’

‘To helping. It was a terrible situation, my dear. Even now I have nightmares about it, and that’s because I feel so guilty. We should never have done what we did. Speaking to you like this makes it easier, funnily enough. I need to get it off my chest.’

‘But it was what Betty wanted. Wasn’t it?’

‘Of course it was. But it was
wrong
, my dear. And nothing can change that. Only God. And he never will.’

Harriet, she said, had said that burial would be essential because with a cremation it might be difficult.

‘I was all for a Christian burial, of course, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed wrong. If Betty went through with this thing then she was breaking one of God’s laws. She wasn’t really a churchgoer, either, hadn’t been to church for years and years, and getting a plot these days isn’t easy. Harriet said she knew a lovely site they use for natural burials over on the Haldon Hills, and she found the website for Betty on her iPad. Betty loved it. So green. The views. The trees. Wonderful. Harriet asked whether she’d like to meet the man whose idea it had been. He was nice too. So gentle.’

‘They met?’

‘Yes. And she signed up on the spot.’

‘How much did it cost?’

‘Three thousand something. You design your own celebration, choose your own readings. This was last month. The weather was lovely. I know it sounds silly, and as I expect you can imagine I didn’t approve at all, but I believe she was actually looking forward to it.’

‘Dying?’

‘Yes. Having the pain stop.’

Poor Betty, she said, had a couple more weeks to get through. She had to sign up for Harriet’s practice, which meant all kinds of forms to fill in, and she’d also decided to change her will.

‘Why was that?’

‘Because of Dean. That woman of his was the last straw. Betty was upset about him never being around, and she was angry too, almost ashamed of him. She thought the woman was a slut. That’s very strong language coming from Betty, but she knew her like we all knew her. She had a terrible reputation in the village. A truly awful woman.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Tania. Horrible name. Cheap. The thought of some of her money ending up with someone like that was more than she could bear.’

‘We’re talking lots of money?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know how much?’

‘Yes.’ Frances was beady-eyed now. ‘Do you want me to tell you?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Just over half a million pounds. The house was hers, all hers. She’d had it valued recently. It’s got a garage and a lovely garden at the back. It needs a bit of TLC but it’s all there. Around £340,000.’

‘And the rest?’

‘She had savings. And a legacy from her own mother that she’d never touched. Betty was like me. Why spend good money when you don’t have to?’

Lizzie needed to check that Dean really was the only child. He was.

‘And all that money was going to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘He knew that?’

‘Yes. Betty had told him when things between them were less difficult. I expect that woman knew too. He’s bound to have told her.’

‘So what did Betty do?’

‘She phoned her solicitor. He drove down from Exeter. I witnessed the new will.’

‘So where did the money go?’

‘Betty divided it in two. Half went to the Dignity in Dying people. She thought they were providing a wonderful resource.’

‘And the rest?’

‘The Woodland Trust. She thought at first about the man who ran the natural burial site but she wasn’t really sure. The Woodland Trust was on his website. He encouraged donations. If you want the truth, I was rather proud of her.’

Lizzie asked about the day Betty died but knew at once that this was pushing Frances too far. She’d been there, of course she had, and she’d held poor Betty’s hand and said a prayer as she drifted off. Afterwards she’d left for a little weep while the doctor tidied up.

‘What about Dean?’

‘I had to phone him. That was Betty’s last request, practically the last thing she said. Wait until tomorrow and tell him I’ve gone. See whether he remembers who I am.’

‘And?’

‘He was really upset.’

‘Genuinely?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘He came over?’

‘Yes.’

‘With his girlfriend?’

‘No. By himself. Betty had gone by then. The undertakers had called to collect her. All that remained was the burial. Out in the hills.’

‘Was Dean surprised?’

‘Very.’

‘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

W
EDNESDAY, 11
J
UNE 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.’