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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