The Order of Things (23 page)

‘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?’

‘Bonkers. 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.

‘Is Michala back from Copenhagen?’ Lizzie asked.

‘She will be. Mid-afternoon. You’re in luck. She likes you. Otherwise I’d never be here.’

‘She’s your secretary?’

‘My buddy. And my colleague. In our neck of the woods the buzzword is collaboration. If you’re lucky you get to build a critical mass. That makes life easier, believe you me.’

‘Safety in numbers?’

‘Hell, no.
Excitement
in numbers.
Momentum
in numbers. Safety’s for the birds. No one got anywhere by thinking safety.’

‘And Alois Bentner? He’s part of this thing? This critical mass?’

‘Alois? Who said anything about Alois?’ She was slumped on the sofa now, a mountain of a woman, but her eyes were ablaze. Lizzie seemed to have touched a nerve.

‘I got the name from Michala.’ It was an easy lie. ‘She said you two were close. She told me you were next door neighbours.’

‘Were?’

‘I understand he’s gone missing.’

‘Sure. And on his own terms. Like always.’

‘Some people think he’s dead.’

‘
Dead?
Alois? Not true.’

‘You know that?’

‘Of course I know that.’

‘How?’

She wouldn’t answer. Instead she asked Lizzie whether she was familiar with her work.

Lizzie nodded. A couple of hours on the Internet over the weekend had taken her deep into this woman’s academic career.

‘
Native Indian Rituals on the Pacific Coast
,’ she said. ‘And your book was shortlisted for the Ralph Waldo Emerson Award.’

‘That’s right. Proudest day of my life. I never made it to the prize itself but I was in the best of company. Get that far and important doors start to open.’ She brushed crumbs from the shelf of her bosom. ‘You get to read the book at all?’

‘It’s on order. Amazon.’

‘Good girl. Bring it along and I’ll sign it for you.’

‘Along where?’

‘My place. Lympstone.’ For the first time she smiled. The smile transformed her face. She looked suddenly feminine, a far less aggressive woman struggling to get out.

Lizzie asked for an address. Now wasn’t the moment to admit that she knew it already.

Caton plunged a fat hand into her bag. She sorted through a clutch of cards, then handed one over.

‘I thought Michala would have made contact,’ she said. ‘The invitation’s for 7.30. Bring a bottle. Just the three of us. Stay over if you want. I’m cooking.’ She reached for the last of the biscuits. ‘Salmon OK with you?’

Houghton convened a meet in her office. Nandy had arrived from Barnstaple. To his immense satisfaction, his team had just drawn a cough from the two Romanians. They’d encountered the elderly couple while pulling early spuds in the field behind their bungalow. They’d clocked the new Volvo and the paid gardener and concluded there was money to be made. They’d broken in at night, hauled the couple from their beds and demanded everything they had. The old boy’s big mistake was keeping his money in the bank. When he told them he couldn’t remember his PIN number, they battered him to death. His wife was killed for watching.

‘Lovely.’

Houghton’s sarcasm was wasted on Nandy. He beamed at Suttle, at Golding.

‘Full confession.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Forty-seven hours from start to finish. Textbook. A classic.’

The contrast with
Buzzard
was all too obvious. Nandy wanted to know the latest.

Houghton summarised what few leads they had. The SOC team had finished with the property in Exmouth. They’d also boshed Tania’s car, just in case. Both scenes had yielded nothing except ample evidence of two lives in chaos. Russell, she said, was about to embark on another eight-week posting to the Gulf. How he managed to pull contracts like these was beyond her.

‘Look on the bright side, boss.’ This from Golding. ‘He probably frightens the pirates to death.’

‘So where’s Mr Bentner?’ Nandy wasn’t amused.

Houghton said she hadn’t a clue. Short of turning the country upside down and giving it a good shake, she’d run out of options. Media interest in the story was fast disappearing, and Bentner’s details had been distributed nationwide to no obvious effect. Her working assumption was that he’d either reappear at a time of his own choosing or make a silly mistake. The latter was a tempting proposition, but the longer this thing went on the unlikelier it seemed. This guy was a pro. He knew how to hide. He was world class at going to ground.