The Order of Things (33 page)

‘Trevor Clark.’

‘Clark?’ Bentner had come to life again. ‘The man’s a thief. He’s a criminal. I was there in court. All this stuff comes from him?’

‘It does, Mr Bentner. Are you denying it?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then how do you explain the broken glass we found in Harriet’s living room? The wine stains? There’s a pattern here. We call it corroboration.’

‘Call it what you like. I’m a scientist. I deal in certainties. What’s certain is you can’t trust a man like Clark. He has an agenda. It’s obvious. Harriet helped put him in jail. Low life like Clark never forget something like that.’

Suttle leaned back, shot a glance at Rosie Tremayne.

‘Harriet was worried about you seeing someone else,’ she said. ‘We have that from her travel diaries and now Mr Clark’s telling us the same thing. Who might that someone be?’

Bentner shook his head, refused to answer. His solicitor beckoned him closer. A murmured conversation.

Bentner turned back to Rosie. ‘No comment.’

‘Might she have had grounds for being worried?’

‘No comment.’

‘Gemma Caton was a good friend of yours.’

‘Is. Not was.’

‘
Is
a good friend of yours. How far does that friendship go, Mr Bentner?’

Bentner threw his head back and barked with laughter. ‘The woman’s a dyke. I thought I told you that.’

‘You did.’

‘Then why would I have sex with a lesbian? Or she with me?’

‘It doesn’t have to be sex, Mr Bentner. Betrayal is rarely as simple as that. We’re putting it to you that Harriet was jealous about your relationship with Gemma Caton. That she felt excluded by that relationship. That she mistrusted the woman. And that she may even have been frightened by her.’

‘Nothing frightened Harriet. Ever.’

‘I don’t believe that. I think she was frightened of losing you.’

‘I’m flattered. It’s a generous thought but it happens to be wrong. We understood each other, Harriet and I.’

‘Just like you understand Gemma?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you saw no contradiction between the two? Two special people in your life? Two special relationships? Most people can only handle one. So maybe that takes us back to Harriet.’

Pause. A lengthening silence. Nandy, watching in the room next door, couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. He had a smile on his face.

Suttle took up the running again. ‘We put it to you, Mr Bentner, that your private life had got out of control. That you had to choose between two women.’

‘One I was fucking and one I wasn’t? What kind of choice was that?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘You’re saying I killed her? Harriet? To make everything nice and tidy? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘We’re asking, Mr Bentner.’ It was Tremayne again. ‘We’re making a suggestion. Life is always more complex than you might expect. And you’re talking to a couple of experts.’

Bentner was shaking his head. He didn’t have to put up with this bullshit. He really didn’t. The world was coming apart at the seams. Nowhere in the last six months were the symptoms more obvious than down here in the south-west. The coast had been eaten alive. Half of Somerset was underwater. Yet here he was banged up with a couple of lunatic policemen determined to take a scalp or two.

‘You people are off the planet,’ he added. ‘Which I guess makes you lucky.’

Suttle acknowledged the comment with a smile. Not beaten yet. Not quite. ‘Let’s talk about that Saturday night,’ he said. ‘It was only two days after the fight you had with Harriet. You left her at your house and went off camping.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You know a man called Geordie John. A rough sleeper.’

‘Yes.’

‘You sat up with him and a couple of other guys out on the cliffs there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Just before midnight you took a call.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember that call?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who made it?’

‘Harriet.’

‘Why?’

‘I think I told you. She wanted to know about my day. She was tired. She was about to go to bed.’

‘Shortly afterwards you went to your car.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, according to Geordie John. Where did you go?’

A moment’s hesitation. Then that same tight smile.

‘Tesco. On the Salterton Road. They’re open twenty-four hours.’

‘Why?’

‘I needed to buy more drink.’

‘Did you pay by card?’

‘No. Cash. Always cash.’

‘Did you keep the receipt?’

‘Of course not. We drink the stuff. We never take it back.’

‘You’re aware they have CCTV at Tesco?’

‘No. Is that relevant?’

‘It might well be, Mr Bentner. What time are we talking? Roughly?’

‘Maybe one in the morning. I can’t remember.’

‘Fine.’ It was Suttle’s turn to smile. ‘We’ll check it out.’ He paused. ‘What did you do afterwards?’

‘I drove back to the cliff top. Orcombe Point. Everyone seemed to be asleep.’

‘I see.’ Suttle sat back, abandoned his pen and pad. ‘Do you have anything else to add? Anything you’d like to share with us?’

Bentner stared at Suttle, then shook his head. ‘No.’

Suttle held his gaze. ‘Geordie John was awake when you got back, wasn’t he?’

‘He may have been. I can’t remember.’

‘He says he was. Do you remember what you told him? When you got back?’

‘No.’

‘You said you’d been to visit the family. What exactly did that mean?’

Bentner blinked, then settled back in the chair.

‘No comment,’ he muttered.

Minutes later, after Suttle called a halt to the interview, Nandy was punching the air. A result at last. He’d already dispatched Carole Houghton to the duty magistrate for a custody extension. First thing tomorrow detectives would be crawling all over Tesco’s CCTV footage.
Buzzard
, he said, had blown a huge hole in Bentner’s account, and the next twenty-four hours would see him charged.

‘With what, sir?’ Suttle wasn’t convinced.

‘He killed her. He solved his problem. Sober the man’s probably a genius. Pissed he can do anything. There were two women in his life. He settled for the one next door. God knows why but he did. Genius, son.’

‘Whose?’

‘Yours.’

Thirty-Seven

W
EDNESDAY, 18
J
UNE 2014, 21.37

Michala spent the evening huddled on the sofa. She was wearing a dressing gown of Lizzie’s, a size too big for her. It was red silk, a present Lizzie had bought for herself on publication day, and it enveloped Michala’s thin frame. This was like looking after a sick child, Lizzie thought. Lots of tea. Lots of physical contact. Lots of reassurance.

It was gone nine. They were watching television. Australia v. the Netherlands. Wall-to-wall football.

Lizzie took her hand. It was cold. She wouldn’t look Lizzie in the eye. Didn’t want to talk. It had been this way all evening.

‘You have to tell me,’ Lizzie said again.

‘Tell you what?’

‘Why you’re so frightened. What’s been going on.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You mean you won’t.’

‘That’s right.’ Her eyes were still glued to the screen. ‘I won’t.’

‘You think you’re protecting me in some way? You think it’s better – safer – if I don’t know?’

‘Yes.’

‘You think I wouldn’t be able to handle it? Whatever it is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’re wrong.’ Lizzie cupped Michala’s face in her hands. ‘I’m a big girl. A lot’s happened in my life.’

She held Michala’s gaze. She had to level with this woman. They had to become allies in the same war. She told her about losing Grace, about hitting rock bottom, about wondering whether she should follow her daughter to wherever she’d gone. Some nights, she said, ending it all would have been a release. But you soldier on. You battle through. Because the alternative is infinitely worse.

Michala seemed to understand. She nodded. Then her eyes strayed back to the TV. The Dutch were attacking, swarms of attackers punishing the Australian defence.

‘I saw the poster in the kitchen,’ she said at last. ‘I want to read that book.’

‘I’ll give you a copy.’

‘Is it about your daughter?’

‘Sort of.’

‘What else is it about?’

‘It’s about the woman who killed her.’

‘She was crazy, this woman?’

‘She was damaged.’

Michala nodded, pulling the dressing gown a little tighter around herself.

‘I want you to write in it.’ She glanced at Lizzie. ‘Please.’

‘You mean a dedication?’

‘Yes.’

Lizzie studied her a moment, then got up and left the room. She kept hardback copies of
Mine
in a box in one of the spare bedrooms. She found a pen and wrote a brief message.

Back on the sofa she gave Michala the book.

‘So soon. So quickly.’ Michala opened the book, looking for the dedication, and tried to make sense of Lizzie’s scrawl.

‘What does it say?’

‘It says you’re a lovely person. It says you don’t deserve any of this. And it says take care.’

‘You mind if I start it now? You mind if I go back to bed?’

Michala was already on her feet. Lizzie reached up to her, squeezed her hand, settled down again, her eyes returning to the TV.
Let her take her time
, she told herself.
She needs to trust me
.

A little later, the game over, Lizzie abandoned the post-match analysis and went upstairs. The bedroom door was half open and the light still on but Michala appeared to be asleep. The book, unopened, lay on the duvet beside her.

Suttle spent the evening in his Exmouth flat with Oona. She’d driven straight from work, pausing in town to pick up a takeout. She’d copped Australia in the prize draw at work and no way was she going to miss the game. Suttle had already invested in another bottle of Rioja and was on his second tinnie by the time she arrived.

The game was a classic, the best of the tournament so far. The Dutch were on a roll after demolishing the Spanish, yet – to Oona’s delight – the Socceroos matched them goal for goal. At the final whistle, with the Dutch 3–2 ahead, the crowd rose to salute both teams, little consolation for Oona, who was close to tears.

‘But they were so
good
,’ she wailed. ‘How come they lost?’

Suttle was still reliving Arjen Robben’s opening goal. The lightning breakaway down the wing. The way he left his marker for dead on the halfway line. The sheer power of the man as he raced towards goal. And the teasing angle of the final shot. Far corner. Goalie? No chance. No wonder Robben got Man of the Match.

Oona wanted to know whether Suttle also had a prize draw at work.

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘Algeria. If they get through the group stages they’ll be playing Germany next.’

‘Shit.’ Oona pulled a face.

‘Exactly.’

‘And Golden Bollocks?’

‘Guess.’

‘Germany.’ Oona shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you. That man was born lucky.’

‘You think so?’ Suttle rolled over on the carpet and reached for her. Three Stellas and the sheer quality of the game had left him nicely mellow.

‘Tell me you love me, big man.’ Oona was straddling him.

‘I love you, big man.’

‘Right answer, Man of the Match. What can a girl do for you?’

‘Somewhere in the kitchen. Maybe top of the fridge. I can’t remember.’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘A DVD. The Spain–Netherlands game. A mate recorded it for me. I still haven’t see it.’

‘More Arjen Robben? He of the haircut and the nice legs?’

She disappeared into the kitchen. Suttle yelled for another tinnie. No answer. He turned back to the TV. The pundits were previewing tomorrow’s England game against Uruguay. Luis Suarez, he thought. His heart sank.

Oona was back. No DVD. No tinnie. Just a single question.

‘How come you’ve been seeing your ex-wife?’

Suttle stared up at her. Caught offside. Big time.

‘Seeing?’

‘You’re telling me she hasn’t been here?’

She was holding a small leather-bound address book. She threw it at Suttle.

He picked it up. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘Up on the shelf where you keep those recipe books. You’re telling me you didn’t know it was there?’

Suttle had opened the book. On the first page all the clues Oona would ever want. Lizzie Hodson. Contact details. Address. The lot. Not just the earrings, he thought.

‘She called round,’ he said.

‘When?’

‘The other day.’

‘Day? Like when you were at work? You think I’m stupid? It was that evening, wasn’t it? The day you got bitten, that fucking dog. I should have come down. I bloody knew it. Eejit, me. Totally brain-dead. You needed someone.’ She paused. ‘Well, big man?’

‘You’re right.’

‘And she stayed?’

‘Yes.’

‘You knew she was coming? When we were talking on the phone? That was all arranged? That’s why you put me off?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s she got? Apart from a trillion pounds in the bank? I thought this thing was supposed to be over. That’s the way you sold yourself, my lovely. Divorce in the offing. All over bar the paperwork. Good, was she? Good as ever?’

Suttle didn’t answer, mostly because he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he should ask for a lawyer. Maybe he should go No Comment. Or maybe he should find the DVD, settle Oona down and let the storm blow out. Having Lizzie here had been a huge mistake. In the end, come what may, life always finds you out.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, my lovely. We had a good thing going. A great thing going. I was right about Golden Bollocks. Wrong about you. I thought you were better than this. I truly did. And you know what that makes me? One sad fuck. Believe the worst and you won’t be disappointed. Give me that, will you?’

She nodded at the address book. Suttle handed it over.

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘What am I going to do now?’ She was staring down at him. ‘Like I’d tell you? Like I’d trust you? Like you’d be the slightest bit interested?’ Her eyes were moist. ‘If I had a pound for every time you said you loved me, I’d be a rich woman. But you know the truth? What I am just now? Totally skint.’