The Order of Things (22 page)

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 feet. 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.

‘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

S
ATURDAY, 14
J
UNE 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

M
ONDAY, 16
J
UNE 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 any 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.’