The Order of Things (20 page)

‘Stuff?’

‘Coke.’ She grinned. ‘And pasta.’

The unlikely news that a climate warrior and fervent anti-capitalist relied on industrial quantities of Coca-Cola to get through her day put a smile on Suttle’s face. He wanted to know more about her relationship with Bentner.

‘I just told you guys. Brother love. Comrades-in-arms love. Marching-to-the-barricades love. If there’s a prize for best neighbour ever, no contest. I live in the shadow of eco history. My man next door may save the planet. You wanna write that down?’

My
man, Suttle thought. Interesting. ‘So where is he?’ he asked.

‘Doing his thing. Biding his time.’

‘Hiding from us?’

‘I doubt it. Alois doesn’t do hiding. This is a guy who goes to ground from time to time. He needs time to think, to sort stuff out, to come up with new questions, new answers. When he’s ready, I’m sure he’ll be in touch. But he ain’t hiding.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

‘When?’

‘Since he disappeared.’

‘Which would be … ?’

‘Last weekend.’

‘No way.’ An abrupt shake of the head. ‘You have to get this thing right, and I guess I’m the one to help you here. Alois and I don’t live in each other’s pockets. We have a meeting of minds. We share time together when we’re both around and we’re both in the mood. I guess it’s respect. Respect and stimulation and maybe just a scintilla of relief.’

‘Relief?’

‘That we’re not alone. Climate change is no big secret, don’t get this girl wrong, but you’d be amazed how many people have just switched off. Is the science complex? Of course it is. Is there any real doubt about what we’re about to be facing? None at all. So are folks out in the street making life tough for the guys with the money and the influence to make things happen? You bet your sweet fanny they’re not. Now why is that? Serious question. Either of you care to give me a clue?’

In the space of less than a minute this interview had turned into a seminar. Golding was looking deeply uncomfortable. Suttle felt the first stirrings of anger. This is a tactic, he told himself. This woman knows a great deal more than she’s letting on.

‘Tell me about Harriet Reilly,’ he said softly. ‘How well did you know her?’

‘Barely at all.’

‘But you knew that she and Bentner were close?’

‘I guess so.’

‘What does that mean? You did or you didn’t?’

‘I knew she came round from time to time. Does that make them close? You tell me.’

‘Did you know they went on holiday together? Brazil? The US?’

‘Sort of. Alois showed me some photos one time. Rio. Manaus. She was in those pictures. I guess you might call that a clue.’

‘But he never talked about her?’

‘Never. Alois lives in separate silos. I guess I belong in the one with FELLOW SPIRIT on the door. We think alike. We ask the same hard questions. We ain’t prepared to compromise. What’s left of the future is staring us in the face, and if we’re brave enough to keep our eyes open we’ve got all the evidence we need. Global warming is telescoping the time frame. We tell ourselves we have a century to get on top of this thing but that’s way off the reservation. In short, Mr Suttle, we’re probably fucked.’

She’d done it again. Neat.

Suttle held her gaze. ‘So you never socialised? You and Harriet and Alois? Shared a meal, maybe? Fellow spirits around the table?’

‘Never. Why would we? What would we talk about? Like I say, Alois rations himself out. Maybe he had a real thing going with Harriet, I’ve no idea, and I guess it’s too late to ask the woman herself, but whichever way you cut it I get the juicy bits.’

‘Juicy bits?’

‘The essence of the man. Who he really is. This is something you can’t really put into words. It’s a fingertip thing, a soul thing. Bonded? Is that too big a word? I guess not.’

‘And Harriet? Which bit of him did she have?’

‘I’ve no idea. You could maybe ask her but I guess it’s too late. Shame.’

She pushed herself gently back from the table, her eyes glittering, and then checked her watch. Suttle had touched a nerve, he knew he had.

‘Where were you on Saturday night, Ms Caton?’ This from Golding.

‘Saturday night?’ She frowned, leafing back through her mental diary. ‘I guess that would be London.’

‘Whereabouts in London?’

‘You want an address?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘So you can check me out?’

‘We call it elimination. Basically it’s the same thing.’

‘Elimination from what? Killing that woman?’

Golding let the question hang in the air. Suttle didn’t say a word. Eventually Caton plunged a meaty hand into her bag and extracted an address book bulging with receipts. One of them was for what she called ‘accommodation’ in Whitechapel.

‘We’re talking serviced rooms,’ she said briskly. ‘Over a halal restaurant.’

‘And you stayed there?’ Still Golding.

‘Six nights. Starting on Friday, 6 June.’ She was squinting at the receipt. ‘Forty-eight pounds a night. Three bus stops and you’re in the City of London. Fortress Greed. In my little place you get the sheets changed daily, wall-mounted TV, kettle, fridge, the lot. They even have Wi-Fi. Where I come from, we call that good value.’

‘You were there alone?’

‘Of course.’

‘But we understand this was a catch-up time. Friends? Colleagues?’

‘Sure. All of that. But I don’t sleep with these people. No way.’

Suttle wanted to know who she might have been with on the Saturday night. Caton gave the question some thought.

‘Saturday? That would be Michala. A colleague. Beautiful person.’

She said they’d met at Michala’s new flat. She had a place on Streatham Hill.

‘You went out for a meal?’

‘We stayed in. Michala cooks like an angel.’

‘And then you went back to Whitechapel?’

‘As a matter of fact, no.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I stayed over with Michala. I’m not a drinker. You know that. But – hey – once in a while a girl earns herself a hangover.’

‘Wine? Spirits?’

‘Wine. Red. Tasty. Then aquavit. Water of life.’ Big smile. ‘If you want the full picture, I bought chocolates, lots of chocolates. You want me to walk you through the evening? Belgian truffles? Profiteroles?’

Suttle let her finish. Then he asked for Michala’s contact details.

Caton looked astonished. Then hurt. ‘You’re gonna talk to her too? You think we
both
did it?’

Suttle said nothing. At length her hand dived back inside her bag. She scribbled a mobile number from memory, big loopy script, then tossed it across the table.

‘You guys done?’ she said. ‘Only this girl has to move on.’

Suttle thanked her for her time, noted her contact details and promised to keep in touch.

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Because one day we’ll find Mr Bentner. And maybe you’d like to know.’

‘Sure …’ She picked up her bag. ‘You gentlemen take care.’

Suttle escorted her back to the custody desk. When he offered to get her a taxi, she said that wouldn’t be necessary. She had a car outside. LPG. A million miles on a single tank.

‘Pray for the planet, Mr Suttle.’ She wasn’t smiling. ‘It’s the only one we’ve got.’

Back in the interview room Golding was studying his notes. At length he looked up.

‘Remember that journal of Harriet Reilly’s, skip?’

‘Yeah.’

‘ND?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You know what it stands for?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Next door.’

Twenty-Three

F
RIDAY, 13
J
UNE 2014, 11.53

Anton phoned just before midday. Lizzie took the call at her desk, rereading yet another terse email from Muriel that demanded a response. Her agent was under siege from publishers needing more from Lizzie Hodson. A follow-up to
Mine.
More teasing insights into what it was like to be young and good-looking, with a rare talent for turning heartbreak into best-sellerdom. That was all well and good, but so far Lizzie hadn’t got beyond a rather limp apology for taking time out and enjoying herself. Thank Christ for Anton.

‘What have you got?’ she asked.

He told her to get a pen and something to write on.

‘You asked me about this woman’s private life,’ he said. ‘She’s very close to a mature student called Michala. Different department. Environmental Science.’

‘Are we talking partners? Is this some kind of gay thing?’

‘I don’t know. It may be. But they’re both on the same page when it comes to global warming.’

Lizzie smiled. Anton’s command of English was growing by the hour. He must be bedding a management consultant, she thought.

‘She lives locally? This Michala?’

‘London. I’ve no idea where. She’s from Denmark originally.’

‘And down here? When she’s at uni?’

‘Lympstone. She’s got a room at Caton’s place.’ He gave Lizzie a mobile number.

‘You’ve met her?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s she like?’

‘Small. Bright. Perfectly formed. Ambitious.’

‘Did you mention me?’

‘Of course. That was the whole point. I said you were doing a big piece on global warming.’

‘Did you mention Gemma Caton?’

‘No. But I told her you were a huge fan of wind power. The Danes love wind power.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure. She’d love to meet you.’

DI Carole Houghton, for once, was close to losing her temper.
Buzzard
,
after a hectic start, was fast running out of manpower. On Nandy’s orders, half a dozen detectives had been extracted to blitz a particularly nasty double murder in a village outside Barnstaple. For now the finger of suspicion was pointing at a couple of Romanian fruit-pickers with addresses in Bristol, and the top corridor was keen to limit the damage to community relations. UKIP were beginning to matter in the sleepy politics of the south-west, and a swift result would limit the inevitable headlines.

Houghton looked up from her PC screen. Her face was pale with exhaustion and her waste bin full of discarded coffee cups.

‘Well?’

Suttle had just returned from the Custody Centre at Heavitree. He offered a brief account of the interview with Gemma Caton.

‘So where does this take us, Jimmy?’

‘I think she’s probably in touch with Bentner. She denies it, but then she would. She’s a very strange woman.’

‘Strange how?’

‘Dominating, for sure. Clever? Yes. But not as clever as she thinks she is. The weekend puts her in London. She’s got the makings of an alibi. We need to check it out.’

Houghton nodded. Her phone rang. She checked caller ID, then put the mobile to her ear. Even from the other side of the desk Suttle could hear Nandy. He was bossing the double murder from Barnstaple nick. He was close to a result. He needed three more
Buzzard
DCs on the road and up to Barnstaple within the hour.

Houghton rolled her eyes. She had no option but to say yes. Nandy’s assurances about having the guys back in harness within a couple of days were wildly optimistic.
Buzzard
was running on empty.

She put the phone down and left the office without a word. Through the open door Suttle could see her conferring with the D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries. When the guy stared up at her, his hands spread wide in a gesture of resignation, she simply shrugged. Then he called her back and offered her a slip of paper. She scanned it quickly. Seconds later, she was back with Suttle.

‘This is mad,’ she muttered. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’

She keyed a phone number from memory and waited for the call to connect. Then she bent to the phone and reached for her notepad.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘I’m grateful.’

The call over, she stared down at the pad. Suttle was beginning to feel sorry for her.

‘Boss? You OK?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘That was the CSM. He’s just got the results of the DNA test on the fetus.’

‘You mean Harriet Reilly’s baby?’

‘Yes.’

‘And there’s a problem?’

‘Yes.’ Her head came up at last. ‘It wasn’t hers.’

‘But it had to be hers.’

‘No. Not if she was carrying it for someone else.’

‘Like who?’

‘Good question.’

Suttle asked about Bentner. Without a sample of his DNA there was no way of establishing paternity. Houghton nodded. She pushed her pad across the desk. ‘That’s the name of Reilly’s own GP. This is going to be tricky but we need to bottom this thing out. Take Luke. Tell him to be charming. See what you can do.’

Lizzie found Michala on a pontoon beside the Exeter Ship Canal. She’d phoned earlier, asking for an interview, and Michala had said it would have to be this afternoon, preferably around three, after she came back from coxing a university eight on a training row down the canal. After that was hopeless because she’d be on the road to Bristol for an early-evening flight to Copenhagen.

Now, parked up in her Audi beside the university boathouse, Lizzie was watching the all-girl crew lifting the sleek racing shell from the water. They stepped from the pontoon onto the riverbank, a complex little dance conducted by the waif-like figure Lizzie assumed to be Michala. She was a child compared to the rest of the rowers: thin, pale, long blonde hair tucked under a baseball cap.

As the crew walked the long white shell into the boathouse, Lizzie stepped from her car.

‘Michala?’

‘That’s me.’

Lizzie fell into step beside her, introduced herself.

‘You’re the journalist, right? Friend of Anton’s?’ Michala’s English was perfect.

‘Right. You must be freezing. You want to talk in my car? Or go somewhere else?’

A moment’s hesitation. A glance at her watch. Then a nod.

‘Your car would be fine. But not too long, yeah?’

They talked for half an hour, Lizzie carefully seeding the conversation with what little she knew about state-of-the-art turbine windmills, offshore energy farms and the likelihood that a barrage across the Severn Estuary might offer the answer to a gluttonous nation’s prayer.

‘Gluttonous?’ For once Michala’s English let her down.