Read Online The Order of Things by Graham Hurley - Free Book Online Page A

amused.
    ‘It’ll take more than that, my friend.’
    Suttle sorted a couple of twenty-pound notes from his wallet. He folded them carefully into Geordie John’s fist. ‘I need a location,’ he said. ‘I need to know where you people live.’
    ‘I bet you do. There’s another sixty in that stash of yours. I saw.’
    ‘You have to be joking.’
    ‘Never.’ He struggled to his feet ‘That mate of yours … what’s his name?’
    ‘Luke.’
    ‘Tell him no onions, yeah?’ He bent to gather up his puppies. ‘These little buggers can’t stand them.’
    Twenty minutes later, Suttle and Golding parked at the far end of the seafront where the long curl of beach collided with the looming mass of Orcombe Point. A zigzag path took them to the top of the cliff. From here another path led out towards the monument that marked the beginning of the Jurassic Coast.
    ‘Where did he say, skip?’ Golding was a stranger to Exmouth.
    ‘The wooded area off to the right. We’re nearly there.’
    The path suddenly opened out. Golding followed Suttle towards the trees that blocked the view from the cliff top. The scrub and brush was thicker than Suttle had expected but some of the vegetation had been flattened, an indication that people had been here recently. Suttle could hear the rasp of surf on the beach below. It was still raining, the trees overhead drip-dripping onto the sodden ground.
    ‘There, skip.’ Golding was pointing to the left. A tarpaulin had been stretched between two saplings. Nearby was a smaller tent, zipped up against the wind that funnelled over the edge of the cliff. Beneath the tarpaulin two figures were huddled in sleeping bags, only their beanies visible. Suttle counted more than two dozen discarded cans of Special Brew, all crushed. He nodded towards the tent. More cans plus an empty two-litre bottle of White Lightning. No wonder these guys were wrecked.
    Golding circled the tent. No way would anyone escape. Suttle knelt by the entrance and slowly unzipped the front flap. The stench of unwashed bodies gusted out. He put his head inside, let his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. Two more bodies, curled under a couple of blankets. He could smell the booze now. He gave the nearest body a shake. A head emerged. It was a woman, grubby face, piercings, few teeth, totally befuddled.
    ‘Who’s your friend?’ Suttle looked at the other body.
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’
    Suttle produced his warrant card, held it to her face.
    ‘Filth?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She rolled her eyes then licked her lips. She needed something to drink. Badly.
    Suttle found what might have been water in a bottle nearby. She sucked greedily at it. Her partner farted, then raised his head.
    ‘What the fuck … ?’
    Suttle didn’t bother answering. No way was this Alois Bentner. He wanted to know where the money came from for the booze.
    ‘My pension, sweetheart.’ It was the woman again. London accent, thickened by roll-ups.
    ‘I’m serious.’
    ‘Then I don’t know. Ask the guys outside. Party time last night. You free at all?’
    Suttle withdrew from the tent, grateful for the fresh air. Golding was bent over the nearer of the bodies beneath the tarpaulin. Suttle joined him. The guy had done his best to roll over. He lay on his back, still trapped in his sleeping bag, blinking into the sudden daylight. Scarlet-faced, unshaven, he might have been a cartoon insect emerging from his chrysalis. Definitely not Bentner.
    Suttle held the photo inches from his face. A flicker of recognition.
    ‘You’ve seen this person?’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘Stay there.’
    Suttle helped Golding roll over the fourth body. Another woman – younger, out for the count. In the bushes nearby more discarded Special Brew tins.
    Suttle retrieved one of the tins and returned to the first sleeping bag and knelt beside the face.
    ‘You did this lot last night?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Who paid?’
    ‘Dunno.’
    ‘Don’t fuck around. Just tell me.’
    ‘What is