Read Online The Order of Things by Graham Hurley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Graham Hurley
Tags: Crime & Mystery Fiction
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this?’
‘I’m going to ask the question one more time, OK? Who paid for all this booze?’
The face stared up at him. Then came a shake of the head. Suttle glanced up at Golding and nodded. Golding checked around and then took a step backwards. The first kick was enough. The face grunted. Winced. Then two hands appeared. A gesture of surrender.
‘Big bloke. Beard. Well pissed.’
‘Is this him?’
The face gazed at the photo of Bentner.
‘Yeah.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Saturday night. Last night. Fuck knows. Can’t remember. Nice tent though. Good gear.’ He nodded towards a rectangle of flattened grass.
‘Is he coming back?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did he say he was coming back?’
‘He had a car. That’s all I know.’
‘What sort of state was he in?’
‘Pissed. Like us.’ His eyes returned to the same patch of yellowing grass. ‘Shame. He must have gone.’
At the Major Incident Room Suttle shared the news with DI Houghton. Nandy, back from Plymouth, was on the phone. The conversation over, Houghton briefed him quickly. Alois Bentner had evidently spent Saturday night partying with a bunch of vagrants on a cliff top outside Exmouth. This would tally with cell site analysis of the call he’d taken from Reilly’s mobile. In Houghton’s view they should declare the site a crime scene, full bosh.
Nandy didn’t believe it. Time was short. He was due for a live BBC interview down in Lympstone. Buzzard was suddenly news.
‘You think Bentner was in Exmouth?’ Nandy was already on his feet. ‘Total bollocks. You’re telling me he goes to an offie? You’re telling me he spends the night dossing with these people? You’re telling me he leaves his car out in the open on some street or other? After doing something like that?’
Nandy, to Suttle’s intense pleasure, had nailed it in one go.
‘Totally right, sir. Unless it wasn’t him who killed her.’
Nine
T UESDAY, 10 J UNE 2014, 18.33
The Lympstone murder was the lead story on the BBC’s local magazine programme. Lizzie, still making notes at home on her conversation with Jeff Okenek, lifted her head from the laptop to watch. The reporter was live from the slipway. He gestured towards the nearby terrace of houses. Over there, he said, a woman had died at the hands of an unknown assailant. The killing was so brutal that investigating officers were refusing to release details.
The shot cut to a man in a dark green anorak. Introduced as Senior Investigating Officer Det-Supt Malcolm Nandy, he was slim, early fifties, receding grey hair cut short, his eyes pouched in darkness. He shifted from one foot to another like a boxer pre-fight, and he’d clearly anticipated the reporter’s question. Lizzie recognised him at once. Jimmy’s boss, she thought. She’d met him twice. Nice man if he liked you, but aggression on legs if he didn’t.
‘Progress, Simon?’ Nandy was talking to the reporter. ‘These are early days. We have leads, of course we do, but our priority just now is trying to find a particular person of interest.’
Nandy changed his eye line, addressing the camera direct. Lizzie had no idea whether this was his idea or the reporter’s but it certainly worked.
‘If you see this man,’ he said, ‘please get in touch with us. His name is Alois Bentner. And since the weekend, he seems to have disappeared.’
Lizzie found herself looking at a photo of a forty-something white male. A tangle of greying hair. Full beard. And an expression she could only describe as forbidding. The photograph might have come from a passport booth, she thought, but even so she guessed he rarely smiled.
Back with Nandy, the reporter was wrapping up. A national manhunt was under way for Alois Bentner. His photo was all over Facebook and Twitter. If there was a moment to be thankful for social media then this was surely it. Nandy offered a grim nod and added a final health and safety warning. If you see this man, don’t approach him.
‘I’m going to ask the question one more time, OK? Who paid for all this booze?’
The face stared up at him. Then came a shake of the head. Suttle glanced up at Golding and nodded. Golding checked around and then took a step backwards. The first kick was enough. The face grunted. Winced. Then two hands appeared. A gesture of surrender.
‘Big bloke. Beard. Well pissed.’
‘Is this him?’
The face gazed at the photo of Bentner.
‘Yeah.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Saturday night. Last night. Fuck knows. Can’t remember. Nice tent though. Good gear.’ He nodded towards a rectangle of flattened grass.
‘Is he coming back?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did he say he was coming back?’
‘He had a car. That’s all I know.’
‘What sort of state was he in?’
‘Pissed. Like us.’ His eyes returned to the same patch of yellowing grass. ‘Shame. He must have gone.’
At the Major Incident Room Suttle shared the news with DI Houghton. Nandy, back from Plymouth, was on the phone. The conversation over, Houghton briefed him quickly. Alois Bentner had evidently spent Saturday night partying with a bunch of vagrants on a cliff top outside Exmouth. This would tally with cell site analysis of the call he’d taken from Reilly’s mobile. In Houghton’s view they should declare the site a crime scene, full bosh.
Nandy didn’t believe it. Time was short. He was due for a live BBC interview down in Lympstone. Buzzard was suddenly news.
‘You think Bentner was in Exmouth?’ Nandy was already on his feet. ‘Total bollocks. You’re telling me he goes to an offie? You’re telling me he spends the night dossing with these people? You’re telling me he leaves his car out in the open on some street or other? After doing something like that?’
Nandy, to Suttle’s intense pleasure, had nailed it in one go.
‘Totally right, sir. Unless it wasn’t him who killed her.’
Nine
T UESDAY, 10 J UNE 2014, 18.33
The Lympstone murder was the lead story on the BBC’s local magazine programme. Lizzie, still making notes at home on her conversation with Jeff Okenek, lifted her head from the laptop to watch. The reporter was live from the slipway. He gestured towards the nearby terrace of houses. Over there, he said, a woman had died at the hands of an unknown assailant. The killing was so brutal that investigating officers were refusing to release details.
The shot cut to a man in a dark green anorak. Introduced as Senior Investigating Officer Det-Supt Malcolm Nandy, he was slim, early fifties, receding grey hair cut short, his eyes pouched in darkness. He shifted from one foot to another like a boxer pre-fight, and he’d clearly anticipated the reporter’s question. Lizzie recognised him at once. Jimmy’s boss, she thought. She’d met him twice. Nice man if he liked you, but aggression on legs if he didn’t.
‘Progress, Simon?’ Nandy was talking to the reporter. ‘These are early days. We have leads, of course we do, but our priority just now is trying to find a particular person of interest.’
Nandy changed his eye line, addressing the camera direct. Lizzie had no idea whether this was his idea or the reporter’s but it certainly worked.
‘If you see this man,’ he said, ‘please get in touch with us. His name is Alois Bentner. And since the weekend, he seems to have disappeared.’
Lizzie found herself looking at a photo of a forty-something white male. A tangle of greying hair. Full beard. And an expression she could only describe as forbidding. The photograph might have come from a passport booth, she thought, but even so she guessed he rarely smiled.
Back with Nandy, the reporter was wrapping up. A national manhunt was under way for Alois Bentner. His photo was all over Facebook and Twitter. If there was a moment to be thankful for social media then this was surely it. Nandy offered a grim nod and added a final health and safety warning. If you see this man, don’t approach him.
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