mattered.
‘He’s been in touch with you, hasn’t he?’
The silence stretched and stretched. She held their gaze. At length she nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘What time?’
‘Around one in the morning. I thought it must have been some kind of emergency. Maybe for him it was.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wanted to tell me that he didn’t do it. Didn’t kill her. Just that.’
‘And did you believe him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Yes. He asked me to pass on a message.’
‘Who to?’
‘You lot. He wanted me to tell you you’re wasting your time.’
‘Because he didn’t do it?’
‘Because you’ll never find him. Unless he decides otherwise.’
Suttle checked his watch.
Golding wanted to know whether Bentner had made the call on his mobile.
‘No. He told me he was ringing from a box.’
‘Did you 1471? Check out the number?’
‘No. I thought I’d leave that to you.’
‘So why didn’t you phone us at once? Share the information? Tell us about the call?’
‘I thought I’d leave it until this morning. Then you saved me the trouble.’
‘But you never mentioned it on the phone.’
‘You’re right. But I’m mentioning it now, aren’t I?’
Suttle wondered about arresting her, then decided against it. They’d take her home, check out Bentner’s call, at least get a fix on where he was in the small hours of the morning. He’d read her the riot act, tell her she was lucky to avoid a Perverting the Course of Justice charge and pressurise her into acting as a go-between. If Bentner had pulled this trick once, he’d do it again. And this time Sheila Forshaw would be on the phone to Suttle within minutes.
‘There’s something else I need to check out,’ he said.
‘Please do.’
‘You owe me this time, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I have a couple of initials for you. We think it may be a name. And we think this person may work here.’
He produced a slip of paper and passed it across the table. Forshaw glanced at it. ‘ND?’
Twelve
W EDNESDAY, 11 J UNE 2014, 12.56
Lizzie took Anton to lunch. She knew an Arab café near Exeter Central station was a favourite of his, and he’d already commandeered a table by the window by the time Lizzie arrived. Two toddlers were playing on the floor beside the door. Lizzie picked her way between them, spared their mothers a nod and settled herself in the chair across from Anton.
‘I wanted to say a proper thank you for last night.’ She nodded at the menu. ‘And for Jeff too.’
‘ Kein Problem. You want more of these people?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘So … OK.’ He bent forward across the table, lowered his voice. ‘So far, no complaints. Am I right?’
‘From me?’
‘From the ones left behind. But this time maybe something a bit different.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the third person on that list I gave you. Like someone not at all pleased with Dr Reilly.’
He explained that Ralph had taken a call from a man called Dean. His mother – Betty – had breast cancer, and Anton understood that a friend of hers had been in touch with Ralph after reading a piece he’d written for the Dignity in Dying website.
‘This was about Julia? About how she went?’ This was news to Lizzie.
‘Of course not. This was much earlier. The article was about how his wife was suffering so much. About why the law should be changed.’
Dean, he explained, had been a Royal Marine. Now he was working in maritime security in the Gulf, a job that kept him away a lot. He knew his mother wasn’t well, and he knew the cancer had spread to her liver, but she didn’t much like the carers he’d sorted out for her and preferred to be looked after by a friend her own age.
‘This was a woman called Frances,’ Anton said. ‘She was the one who read Ralph’s piece on the website and got in touch with him. This was much more recently. Ralph drove across to meet them both. He said it was
‘He’s been in touch with you, hasn’t he?’
The silence stretched and stretched. She held their gaze. At length she nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘What time?’
‘Around one in the morning. I thought it must have been some kind of emergency. Maybe for him it was.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wanted to tell me that he didn’t do it. Didn’t kill her. Just that.’
‘And did you believe him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Yes. He asked me to pass on a message.’
‘Who to?’
‘You lot. He wanted me to tell you you’re wasting your time.’
‘Because he didn’t do it?’
‘Because you’ll never find him. Unless he decides otherwise.’
Suttle checked his watch.
Golding wanted to know whether Bentner had made the call on his mobile.
‘No. He told me he was ringing from a box.’
‘Did you 1471? Check out the number?’
‘No. I thought I’d leave that to you.’
‘So why didn’t you phone us at once? Share the information? Tell us about the call?’
‘I thought I’d leave it until this morning. Then you saved me the trouble.’
‘But you never mentioned it on the phone.’
‘You’re right. But I’m mentioning it now, aren’t I?’
Suttle wondered about arresting her, then decided against it. They’d take her home, check out Bentner’s call, at least get a fix on where he was in the small hours of the morning. He’d read her the riot act, tell her she was lucky to avoid a Perverting the Course of Justice charge and pressurise her into acting as a go-between. If Bentner had pulled this trick once, he’d do it again. And this time Sheila Forshaw would be on the phone to Suttle within minutes.
‘There’s something else I need to check out,’ he said.
‘Please do.’
‘You owe me this time, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I have a couple of initials for you. We think it may be a name. And we think this person may work here.’
He produced a slip of paper and passed it across the table. Forshaw glanced at it. ‘ND?’
Twelve
W EDNESDAY, 11 J UNE 2014, 12.56
Lizzie took Anton to lunch. She knew an Arab café near Exeter Central station was a favourite of his, and he’d already commandeered a table by the window by the time Lizzie arrived. Two toddlers were playing on the floor beside the door. Lizzie picked her way between them, spared their mothers a nod and settled herself in the chair across from Anton.
‘I wanted to say a proper thank you for last night.’ She nodded at the menu. ‘And for Jeff too.’
‘ Kein Problem. You want more of these people?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘So … OK.’ He bent forward across the table, lowered his voice. ‘So far, no complaints. Am I right?’
‘From me?’
‘From the ones left behind. But this time maybe something a bit different.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the third person on that list I gave you. Like someone not at all pleased with Dr Reilly.’
He explained that Ralph had taken a call from a man called Dean. His mother – Betty – had breast cancer, and Anton understood that a friend of hers had been in touch with Ralph after reading a piece he’d written for the Dignity in Dying website.
‘This was about Julia? About how she went?’ This was news to Lizzie.
‘Of course not. This was much earlier. The article was about how his wife was suffering so much. About why the law should be changed.’
Dean, he explained, had been a Royal Marine. Now he was working in maritime security in the Gulf, a job that kept him away a lot. He knew his mother wasn’t well, and he knew the cancer had spread to her liver, but she didn’t much like the carers he’d sorted out for her and preferred to be looked after by a friend her own age.
‘This was a woman called Frances,’ Anton said. ‘She was the one who read Ralph’s piece on the website and got in touch with him. This was much more recently. Ralph drove across to meet them both. He said it was
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