The Order of Things (3 page)

She sat on the rug, staring at the note. ‘Pleasure’? ‘Privilege’? ‘End of the road’? ‘Go well’? Where did words like these belong in the relationship she thought they’d had? He must have carried this news in his head throughout the weekend. He must have known that every smile, every touch, every lingering kiss would end with this.

For a moment she toyed with phoning him. He’d be on the train. He’d probably be deep in a book. She wanted to know whether he was sitting there in an agony of guilt wanting to change his mind. She wanted to be told that everything she’d thought they had was real and true and
meant
.

She was crying now but she was angry too. Angry that she’d lulled herself into believing in something that would never happen. Angry because – in ways she couldn’t yet voice – he’d taken advantage of her.
Bastard
, she thought, struggling to her feet.

At her PC she reread the email about the rogue GP. Then she reached for the keyboard.

‘Yes,’ she typed. ‘Let’s do it.’

Three

M
ONDAY, 9
J
UNE 2014, 20.34

Sheila Forshaw was struggling to put her feelings into words.

‘I expected it to be him …’ she said. ‘Alois. That’s what shocked me.’

‘Alois Bentner?’

‘Of course. It was his house. He lived there. If something bad had happened, something awful … it had to be him on the bed … didn’t it?’

Suttle had met her downstairs, in the Custody Suite at Heavitree police station, where she was nursing a mug of stewed tea. Now they were sharing one of the adjoining interview rooms.

Sheila Forshaw was in her late forties, trim figure, office suit, barely any make-up. The image of the woman’s body in the bedroom, she said, would stay with her for a very long time. On field trips abroad she’d seen plenty of bodies, often bloated in the heat. In Africa she’d watched what a lion could do to an antelope it had just run down. But nothing could compare to this. So raw. So savage. So ugly. So
still.

Suttle wanted to know more about Bentner. Was she close to the man?

‘No one’s close to him. He’s a loner, always was. Apparently there was a wife some while back, but I don’t know anyone who ever met her.’

‘Is she still around? The wife?’

‘I don’t know. You could check with HR, but they don’t always keep that kind of information. Maybe she died. Or maybe she just left him and moved on. I know it sounds harsh, but I’m not sure I’d blame her.’

‘So no real friends at work? Is that what you’re saying?’

She nodded. Bentner, she said, had been at the Hadley Centre since it moved down from Bracknell in 2003. He was German by birth but had spent most of his childhood and early adult years in the States. She knew he’d landed a big job at NCAR at a very young age and had subsequently produced the string of papers that had finally brought him to the Hadley Centre.

‘NCAR?’

‘National Centre for Atmospheric Research. It’s the top institute for climate research in the States. Boulder, Colorado. Up among the ski slopes. Lucky Alois.’

‘And the Hadley Centre? How do you rate?’

‘We’re good, as good as NCAR. In fact in some respects we’re probably better. World class, whichever way you cut it.’

‘Is that why Bentner came on board?’

‘Partly, I guess so. The other reason was much simpler. The States had started to piss him off. These are his words, not mine. He thought it was a country full of kids. Press the right button and he’d bang on about them for hours. How greedy they were, how wasteful they were, how they never spared a thought for tomorrow. Huge cars, vast fridges, everyone grossly overweight. Before the drinking got out of hand, some of this stuff could be quite amusing, though we had to be careful about who was listening.’

The Met Office, she said, attracted climatologists from every corner of the planet. Many of them were visiting Americans, aware of the Hadley Centre’s reputation and wanting to find out more. In the early days on the new Exeter site, Bentner would never pass up an opportunity to berate his ex-colleagues. As a nation, he was convinced they’d converted a crisis into a disaster, partly by hogging way more than their fair share of resources and partly by frustrating other countries’ attempts to rein in global warming.

‘He was right, of course,’ she said, ‘but that wasn’t the point. There was always something very biblical about Alois. He wasn’t just a climatologist, he was a prophet. One day, when he was being particularly obnoxious, I told him he belonged in the Old Testament. He loved that. It was one of the few times I heard him laugh.’

‘So what does this guy actually
do
?’

‘He analyses climate impacts. His big speciality has always been trees. Forest ecosystems are often where you look first if you want to figure out what we’re doing to the planet. Every tree tells you a story, and I guess Alois made a friend of the trees pretty early on. He certainly prefers them to people.’

Suttle smiled. He liked this woman. He liked her easy intelligence, her candour about Alois Bentner and the way the jargon of her trade, lightly Americanised, sat so sweetly on her lips.

‘But Bentner’s good?’

‘The best. That’s partly an issue of standards. He never puts up with bullshit. He can smell a half-baked theory within seconds. He’s truly rigorous, and in our business that matters. In the end we’re scientists not tree-huggers, though Alois always lays claim to both.’

It was a neat phrase. Suttle wondered how many other times she’d used it.

‘And you’re his boss? Have I got that right?’

‘I run his team. Though Alois is a bit of a stranger to the team idea.’

‘So you indulge him?’

‘I cut him lots of slack. Always have done. There aren’t too many Alois Bentners in the world, and that’s maybe a good thing, but we’d struggle to replace him.’

‘And he knows that?’

‘Of course he does. In fact he was probably the first to tell me.’

‘A bully, then?’

‘Without question. With people like Alois you fight or flee. The ones who flee are off his radar. He likes the ones who fight.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m his boss. That’s supposed to make a difference.’

‘But you stand up to him?’

‘When it truly matters. Because that’s the only option. Otherwise I’d be the punchbag.’

Suttle was thinking about the body on the bed.

‘Does he ever talk to you about his private life?’

‘Never. There’d be no point. In his view it wouldn’t be relevant.’

‘He never mentioned a girlfriend?’

‘Never.’

‘A woman called Harriet? Harriet Reilly?’

A shake of the head this time. And then something close to a frown.

‘This is the woman I saw at his place?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re telling me they were friends?’

‘I’m asking you whether he ever mentioned her.’

‘Then the answer’s no, but that means nothing. They could have been married for years and we still wouldn’t know. This is a man who walls off bits of his life. Maybe it’s a German thing. I’ve no idea.’ She paused. Something else even more troubling had occurred to her. ‘You’re suggesting Alois did that? To the woman on the bed?’

‘It’s a possibility. Of course it is. According to the neighbours, she was a regular visitor. She knew the house. She died in his bedroom. And now we can’t find him.’ He held her gaze. ‘In my trade we call that a clue.’

‘Christ.’ She sat back, shocked. ‘
Alois?
Are you serious?’

The Major Incident Room, Operation
Buzzard
’s home for the coming days and weeks, lay in the Devon and Cornwall operational headquarters at Middlemoor, in Exeter. Suttle logged himself in at 21.57.

Det-Supt Nandy had arrived and was in conference with DI Houghton when Suttle rapped on their office door. Nandy, he thought, looked as knackered as Houghton. In a world of ever-deepening budget cuts, keeping the serious crime machine in working order was a constant battle, and a drug-related kidnapping in Brixham hadn’t helped.

‘Son?’ Nandy, sat behind a desk, wanted an update.

Suttle told him about Bentner’s workplace reputation. Brilliant climatologist. Crap human being.

‘Crap how?’

‘Classic Mr Grumpy. Zero people skills. Hated the rest of the human race and told them so.’

‘Should be here then, with this lot. Sounds very ACPO.’ Nandy barked with laughter. His ongoing feud with the bosses upstairs was common knowledge.

‘Are we thinking he did it, Jimmy?’ This from Houghton.

‘I’ve no idea, boss. He’s obviously in the frame. What’s the scene telling us?’

‘Dodman thinks she was killed in situ. There’s no blood anywhere else.’

‘None at all?’

‘Not that the guys have found so far. She had a key to the house in her bag so access wouldn’t have been a problem.’

‘Prints on the knife?’

‘Two sets. One of them hers.’

‘
Hers?
’

‘Yes. It means nothing, Jimmy. She could have been using the knife downstairs. We think it came from the kitchen.’

‘And the other set?’

‘We’re thinking Bentner. They match with other prints elsewhere. But again it proves nothing.’

‘Except it might rule out a third party?’

‘Sure, son.’ Nandy was studying his mobile. ‘Unless they were wearing gloves.’

Nandy glanced up. He’d been talking to the CSM. Scenes of Crime had recovered a stash of empty bottles – chiefly wine and spirits – plus a handful of receipts from the convenience store down the road. This was a guy who seemed to be putting away industrial quantities of alcohol. He wanted to know about Bentner’s drinking.

Suttle nodded. He’d asked Sheila Forshaw the same question. ‘He’s always had a thirst on him, sir. That’s the impression I’m getting from his line manager. But lately it got out of hand.’

‘How out of hand?’

‘He’d turn up reeking of booze in the mornings. His boss got worried because he was driving, but there was nothing she could say that would make much difference.’

‘Was he drinking at work?’

‘She says not.’

‘Just at home, then?’

‘That’s the assumption.’

‘But a lot?’

‘Yes.’

Suttle explained about a recent barbecue. Bentner had evidently lost it completely. Threatened to punch a younger colleague.

‘Over what?’

‘Methane emissions. In Siberia.’

‘What?’

‘Methane, sir. It’s a greenhouse gas. You find it in cow farts. I gather that was part of the joke.’

‘Shit.’ Nandy’s eyes rolled.

‘Exactly. These people are a breed apart. Seriously bright. And in Bentner’s case seriously damaged.’

‘That’s a big word, Jimmy.’ Houghton, behind the other desk, was tapping out an email.

‘That’s the line manager’s take, boss. Not mine. I got the impression that she thinks Bentner is a breakdown waiting to happen. The way I read it, most climatologists stick to the science and avoid thinking too hard about the consequences. Bentner doesn’t see it that way, never has done. He thinks the two go together. We pump all this shit into the atmosphere, the world heats up, and we all die. I think that’s the way it goes. That’s certainly Bentner’s line.’

‘He changed his address recently, sir.’ Houghton was looking at Nandy. ‘The place used to be called Two Degrees.
Since last week, according to the neighbours, he’s been living at Five Degrees.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘We’re all doomed, sir.’ This from Suttle. ‘Five degrees is where Bentner thinks we’re headed. A temperature rise that big would kebab us all.’

‘And is he right?’

‘I asked that.’

‘And?’

‘No one knows. These people are scientists. They’re into evidence.’

‘Sure. Just like we should be. So where is Mr Bentner?’

Houghton shook her head, said she hadn’t a clue. His ID photo from the Met Office had been circulated force-wide and would be going national tomorrow, along with details of his ancient Skoda. The media department were organising a press conference for late morning at which Nandy would be making a personal appeal to find the missing man. In the meantime local uniforms were scouring empty properties and other likely hidey-holes within a three-mile radius in case Bentner had gone to ground.

Suttle wanted to know about Harriet Reilly. Houghton gave him the headlines. Local address, a sweet little cottage on the outskirts of the village. Worked as a GP partner in a big Exeter practice. Allegedly lived alone after the collapse of her marriage years back. DC Luke Golding had already talked to a neighbour up the lane, and tomorrow, after the first
Buzzard
squad meet, Houghton wanted him and Suttle to pay the GP practice manager a visit.

‘Her name’s Gloria, Jimmy.’

‘And she knows what’s happened?’

‘She does.’

Houghton scribbled a couple of lines and passed them across. The practice address plus a phone number.

Suttle looked up. ‘Anything else I should know, boss?’

‘Yes.’ She gestured at her PC screen. ‘I just had the pathologist on. He’s finishing up at Lympstone, and whether it’s germane or not, he thought we ought to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘Our victim was pregnant.’

Oona was asleep when Suttle got home. It was nearly midnight. He checked in the bedroom then helped himself to a can of Stella from the fridge. She’d left him half a saucepan of chilli con carne and the remains of some rice left over from a takeout they’d bought over the weekend. Also, a note.

Suttle sat in the window. ‘My beautiful one,’ she’d written. ‘What’s a girl supposed to do without you? The porn channels are useless and masturbation’s a wank. Wake me up and tell me you love me. Special prize if you mean it. XXXX’

The big loopy letters brought a smile to Suttle’s face. In the view of many in the Job he’d nicked this amazing woman from Luke Golding. Luke and Oona had been living together for the best part of six months when she transferred her affections to Suttle. It was true that Golding couldn’t keep his hands off other women, and it was equally true that her departure hadn’t surprised him in the least. There’d been some awkwardness between the two detectives for a while, but nowadays Golding was the first to admit that Oona deserved a great deal more than his serial excursions into Exeter’s clubland, expeditions that frequently ended in sex with his latest conquest.