The Order of Things (5 page)

Lizzie wanted to know whether Suttle was on the Lympstone job.

‘I am.’

‘I understand the victim was a GP.’

‘That’s right.’

‘She worked here?’

‘That would be an assumption on your part.’

‘Sure.’ She shot him a sudden grin. ‘And that would be cop-speak on yours. Have a nice day, Mr Policeman.’

She reached forward and gave his arm a squeeze. Moments later, she’d disappeared into the surgery.

Golding was waiting in the car.

‘What was she after, skip?’

Suttle was reaching for his seat belt, his eyes still on the Audi beside the practice entrance.

‘Very good question,’ he said.

Five

T
UESDAY, 10
J
UNE 2014, 10.27

Lizzie took advantage of the queue waiting patiently at the reception desk and slipped past into the waiting area. She’d caught the Lympstone murder first thing on the BBC local news and put a check call through to a journalist she’d befriended on the Exeter
Express and Echo.
The police at Middlemoor had yet to release the name of the victim, but word from one of the civvy inputters in the MIR suggested it had been a female GP from the Pinhoe practice.

Now, sitting quietly behind her copy of
Devon Life
,
Lizzie was eyeing the list of practice doctors. There were nine in all. Five of them were men; that left four candidates for last night’s murder. Two of them were listed as present in the building, calling their patients one by one. The remaining two were Dr Alison Bell and Dr Harriet Reilly. Lizzie waited for the queue at the reception desk to clear and then approached the woman behind the counter.

She said she was new to the area. She said friends had spoken well of the practice. If possible she’d prefer a woman GP, either Dr Bell or Dr Reilly. Both had come highly recommended. Might there be room for her on either’s list?

‘I’m very healthy,’ she added. ‘Definitely low maintenance.’

The receptionist said it would have to be Dr Bell. She consulted her computer then produced a sheaf of forms from a drawer. ‘If you wouldn’t mind filling in these and letting us have them back. It’s Ms …?’

‘Hodson,’ Lizzie said. ‘I guess Dr Reilly must be run ragged.’

‘Far from it, I’m afraid.’ The receptionist was making a note of her name. ‘We’ll need your NI number.’

Lizzie thanked her, collected the forms and left. In her car she scrolled down the directory in her mobile. Journalists, like policemen, routinely discount the power of coincidence.

The number answered in seconds. A male voice.

‘Anton? Lizzie. Your place or mine?’

Anton Schiller lived in a basement flat in the depths of Heavitree, a red-brick suburb to the east of Exeter city centre. Lizzie had known him now for a couple of months. He’d left his native Vienna with a doctorate in literature and sizeable gambling debts. His father had paid off the gambling debts on condition that he move to the UK, perfect his English, find himself a job and keep away from the casino and the gaming machines.

With the exception of an occasional tussle with the slots, Anton had kept his side of the bargain. He taught conversational German to a variety of age groups and was about to embark on a series of lectures at the university on the novels of Thomas Mann. Lizzie had run into him at a function at the local Picturehouse and liked him a great deal, not least because he loved the idea of
Bespoken,
her investigative website, and was keen to contribute.

Last night’s email had come from him. Now she wanted to know more.

‘We’re talking mercy killings?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I had a friend. A good friend.’ He frowned. ‘This is difficult.’

‘Just tell me, Anton. Don’t fuck around.’

Under pressure, Schiller was good at doing coy. When they’d first met, Lizzie had known at once that he was far too interesting and flirty to be anything but gay. Now, his long body curled on the sofa, he gazed into his herbal tea. He had a number of boyfriends but his regular date was a Tunisian student at the medical school.

‘Was it Ghassan?’

‘No.’

‘Who, then?’

‘An older man. Jeff. You don’t know him.’

‘And?’

‘Jeff had a partner. They lived together for years. His name was Alec. He was an American like Jeff but even older and he’d been here a long time. He had Aids. Full blown. No coming back. He was dying and Jeff was nursing him. Tough stuff.’

‘You were there too?’

‘No. But I know Jeff. I know Jeff well. He’s a sweet guy. The sweetest. No bullshit with Jeff. He tells it the way it is.’ He frowned. ‘Or was.’

Lizzie knelt on the floor beside him. The best stories, she told herself, come from moments like these, guys like these, the yeast in life’s rich brew.

‘So what happened?’

‘Alec was suffering. And he was frightened. No one wants to die. He didn’t want to die. Jeff didn’t want him to die. But he didn’t want to see him the way he was either. Skin and bone? You say that?’

‘We do. Alec had a doctor?’

‘Of course. Jeff said she was wonderful. Nothing too much trouble. She set up nursing support. She made sure there were always plenty of drugs. She spent time with them both. This woman was an angel.’

‘Sure.’ Lizzie was thinking about last night’s email. ‘Who told you about Harold Shipman?’

‘Jeff did. A famous GP? Killed hundreds of patients?’

‘That’s right. So what happened with Alec?’

‘He’d had enough. He wanted it to end. And so it did.’

‘Thanks to the doctor?’

‘Thanks to the angel. Just an injection. Jeff was there. Jeff held him in his arms, watched him go. So peaceful. So perfect.’

‘And her name? This doctor?’

‘Harriet Reilly.’

Lizzie was back home within the hour. Anton had given her other names. Some of these people were from the gay community. Others for whatever reason had hit rock bottom. Several were simply old and tired, and wanted out. But the link between them all, according to Anton, was Harriet Reilly.

No one had a bad word to say about her. There wasn’t the least suggestion that she’d helped people on their way for any other reason than simple compassion. But word of the service she offered had slowly spread. If you wanted a good death for yourself or a close friend, then Harriet Reilly would spare you the one-way trip to Zurich. Get yourself on her list, and your troubles would be over.

Lizzie looked at the names Anton had supplied, all of whom were now dead. Including Alec, there were three. After Harold Shipman had been found guilty, Lizzie knew that there’d been a full inquiry. That, she presumed, must have led to changes in the law around GPs and the certification of death. Ten minutes on the Internet told her the rest of the story. Patients who die and go for burial are released on the death certificate signature of a single GP. For cremations, on the other hand, the process is more complex. Another form is involved, which must be countersigned by a second GP, plus a nurse or carer or even relative who was close to the deceased towards the end of their life.

Lizzie leaned back from the screen and made herself a note. Three people to certify a death, she thought, one of them probably a fellow GP from the same practice. The makings of a conspiracy? She didn’t know. The seed of a decent story? Again she was uncertain. It was common knowledge that many doctors hastened nature on its way when it came to terminal disease, and as long as these gentle killings spoke of nothing but compassion then she saw no point in pursuing Harriet Reilly any further. But the fact that this same GP had herself been killed told her to keep looking, keep pushing the story on.

In Pompey her address book had been full of contacts in every conceivable field. She fetched it out of her desk drawer, a name already in mind, and reached for the phone. She had the woman’s mobile number. She liked to think they’d been good friends. Moments later came a voice she recognised.

‘Coroner’s office. How can I help you?’

‘It’s Lizzie, Dawn. Lizzie Hodson.’

Six

T
UESDAY, 10
J
UNE 2014, 11.56

Suttle and Luke Golding were back in Lympstone by late morning. Harriet Reilly’s cottage lay up a lane that climbed away from the river. Suttle parked behind the Scenes of Crime van and got out. The front door of the cottage, half-open, was guarded by a uniformed PC.

‘How are they doing in there?’

‘Fine.’ The PC turned and yelled a name. There was a muffled response and then Suttle heard the clump of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

The Crime Scene Investigator was an overweight Brummie who’d recently joined the force. Gordon Wallace had already won himself a reputation for painstaking attention to detail, and he had a nose for the story that every scene can tell. Suttle had worked with him on a dodgy suicide on a hill farm near Bodmin earlier in the year, and on the evidence of that single job he had considerable respect for the man.

‘Well?’

Wallace pushed back the hood of his protective suit, peeled off a glove and shook hands. He was sweating in the hot sun and he gestured Suttle into the shade of a nearby tree.

So far they’d boshed the downstairs and had just made a start on the bedrooms. The place was small and, as far as they could judge, the woman seemed to have lived alone. A handful of riding gear – jodhpurs, recently muddied boots – suggested an interest in horses, and Wallace had been through a photograph album he’d found in the living room. What had taken his fancy was the fact that Reilly had bothered to print out photos and stick them in the album. These days, given hard disks and Facebook, he didn’t know anyone who did that.

‘These are recent shots?’

‘Yeah. She put the date and place under each one. Very anal.’

‘So what do they tell us?’

‘She’s travelled a bit, especially recently.’

‘Like where?’

‘The States, earlier this year. March they were in Oregon. Nothing but bloody trees.’

‘They?’

‘Reilly and Bentner.’

‘You’re sure it’s him?’

‘Positive. She calls him Ali in the captions. Same face we saw on the ID. Lots of selfies, just the pair of them, mainly in the same diner.’

‘Close? Affectionate?’

‘Very. And often Bentner looks pissed. He obviously liked a drink.’

‘We can’t do him for that.’

The thought made Wallace laugh. He said he’d found a stack of wine at the back of the cupboard that served as Reilly’s cellar. Spirits too. Mainly gin.

Golding reminded Suttle about the image on Reilly’s desktop at the practice.

‘What about it?’

‘There were lots of trees. That could be Oregon too. Plus there were mountains in the background, with snow on the peaks. The Rockies go through the state.’

‘Right.’ Suttle was still looking at Wallace. ‘So where else did they go?’

‘Brazil last year. The Amazon basin. They seemed to have started in Manaus and headed upriver. If you’re thinking some kind of recce for the World Cup, you’d be wrong. This is serious travel. Dugout canoes. Blokes with bamboo through their noses. Women with dangly tits. Not a pool or a beach to be seen.’

‘And Bentner?’

‘In pretty much every shot. Remember what you were telling us this morning? At the brief? About the guy being a solitary? A loner? She obviously saw another side of him. Good-looking woman too. Lucky old Ali, eh?’

‘Letters?’

‘No. But she kept a diary on these trips. I haven’t had a chance to read the thing properly but it’s bagged and ready. You want to take it now? Only you’ll need to sign the log.’

Suttle nodded, and Wallace stepped back into the house, reappearing with the diary. Through the plastic bag, it looked like an A4 ring binder, travel-stained.

‘Anything else?’

‘Not yet.’ Wallace was putting his gloves back on. ‘But you’ll be the first to know.’

The Weatheralls, Reilly’s closest neighbours, lived two hundred metres up the lane, a modern bungalow with carefully tended flower beds and a square of newly mown lawn. A woman in her early sixties was bent over a rose bush beside the garden gate, carefully pruning the lower stems.

‘Darcey Bussell,’ Golding said softly.

‘How did you know that?’ Suttle was staring at him. Golding’s breadth of knowledge never failed to amaze him.

‘My mum’s got some. If you can keep the blackfly off they go on for ever.’

‘Greenfly’s worse.’ The woman was smiling. ‘My name’s Molly.’

She shook hands and said she was appalled by what had happened to Harriet. She used ‘unthinkable’ twice, and when Suttle told her that so far the inquiry had drawn a blank she looked briefly despairing.

‘This should never have happened,’ she said, ‘especially in this neck of the woods.’

She took them into the bungalow. A man of similar age was watching a DIY programme on the TV. The way he struggled to his feet spoke of a lower back problem, and the sag of his face on one side told Suttle he’d probably had a stroke. A thin trickle of saliva leaked from a corner of his mouth, and he kept dabbing at it with a tissue from the pocket of his cardigan. There were more tissues in the basket beside the armchair.

‘My husband, Gerald.’

Gerald extended a hand. He seemed confused by Suttle’s sudden appearance in his life.

‘The policemen, darling. About poor Harriet.’

‘Ah … yes, of course.’ He sank back into the armchair. A spaniel had appeared from the garden. It jumped into his lap and tried to lick his face as he fondled it. ‘Poor Harriet,’ he said. ‘Poor bloody woman.’

Molly disappeared to make a pot of tea. Suttle asked whether he might put the sound down on the TV. Weatherall gestured towards the set. Help yourself.

Golding turned the set off. Suttle asked how long the couple had been living in the bungalow.

‘A couple of years …’ he frowned ‘… I think.’

‘First time in Lympstone?’

‘Yes. Definitely. We were in Plymouth before, working. Teachers. All that bloody pressure. One step from the grave. Occupational hazard,
quoi
?’