What had Chris thought about as he lay in the tent at night waiting for sleep to come? Had he said his prayers like all the goody-two-shoes folk at St Mark’s? Not, of course, that they were all so perfect. Not Paul Atkinson and probably not Janice either.
The problem, Mullen was realising, was that he didn’t know much at all about Chris. Did he go to St Mark’s to get food and friendship or because he believed in all that Christian stuff? What was it the woman in the shop had said? He spoke proper ‘Queen’s English.’ So he came from a middle or upper class family maybe — a family that would miss him? Surely there was someone who would read the paper and recognise his face? Except that a man dead in the river with a high level of alcohol in him was hardly a story to hit the national papers or go viral on the internet. If his family lived locally, yes. But if they were from some other part of the country, probably not. Or maybe he had no family.
Mullen extricated himself from the tent. The two men were standing together, watching him. A pair of dummies; nervous, fearful even. Mullen began to fiddle in his jacket for the two packets of cigarettes. They had just about earned their reward. Or at least they would do if they gave him a detailed description of the man who had taken away Chris’s possessions. It would be a fair exchange. He stretched his right hand out, displaying his peace offerings. “Here,” he said.
But they didn’t move. They seemed to be holding their breath. It was only then that Mullen realised something was wrong. There was someone behind him. He began to turn, but too late. Something hard smashed into the back of his head. And for Mullen the lights went out.
* * *
“There’s something I need to show you.”
Paul Atkinson looked up to see Doreen Rankin standing in the doorway, arms folded; a sure sign that there was trouble afoot. He had only just got into the office and was half-way through a sandwich. “In my office,” she continued as if she was the boss. “At your convenience.” Which of course, as Atkinson knew, she didn’t mean.
He nodded and held up his lunch-box to try and buy himself some time, but the pout that formed on her lips and the shrug of her shoulder as she turned away spoke otherwise. Atkinson swore under his breath and stuffed what was left of his ham and pickle sandwich into his mouth. He still had a brie and cranberry one to consume, but he knew better than to delay. It was best to go and see what the bee in her bonnet was and get it sorted out. Then he could eat the rest of his lunch in peace. Life was always more straightforward when Doreen was happy.
“Shut the door,” she snapped when he walked into her office.
“This arrived in the post,” she said as he sat down. She pushed an envelope across her desk. “I assumed it was the standard marketing bumf, so I opened it as usual.”
Atkinson knew there was a problem. Doreen Rankin was getting her excuses in first. She was rarely in the wrong, but when she was the last thing she did was apologise. Instead she came out guns blazing, just as she was doing now. He looked at the envelope: no company stamp; no sender’s address; hand-written. He lifted it at an angle and allowed the contents to slide onto the table. They lay there, face up. Atkinson licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry. He picked up and studied the top photograph for several seconds, the others more briefly. He could feel Doreen’s eyes boring into his head, but he didn’t look up. He needed to think.
“I could shred them of course,” Doreen said. She was a problem-solver. That was one of her strengths. Give her a problem and her first reaction was to come up with a solution. But this wasn’t her first reaction. She had had plenty of time to think things through. “But whoever sent it will no doubt have the original digital photographs sitting on their computer somewhere ready to be reprinted or emailed round to all and sundry. So the only thing shredding will achieve is to ensure no-one in the office will see these copies by mistake. And possibly pass them on to your wife.”
Atkinson looked up at her. She always referred to Janice as his wife and never by her name. Even in the current circumstances, it irritated him. “I can work that out for myself, Doreen.”
“Unless, of course . . .” She paused. Atkinson suspected she was rather enjoying this whole embarrassing situation. Even so, another great thing about her was that she was totally loyal. “Unless, of course, your anonymous correspondent has already posted copies of the photographs to her.”
Atkinson could feel the blood drain from his face. That was something that hadn’t occurred to him. He looked into Doreen’s impassive face for some flicker of encouragement.
“Actually, I think that is highly unlikely,” she said. “After all, the obvious reason for sending these incriminating photographs to you is in order to blackmail you. And in such circumstances, sending photographs to your wife would be counterproductive.”
Atkinson nodded. She was right. She had to be.
“There is another alternative of course,” she said.
Paul Atkinson’s irritation level went up another notch. Why did Doreen insist on peppering her conversation with words like ‘of course’? But he tried not to let his feelings show, because that would only encourage her. Instead he folded his hands together and waited for her to say whatever it was that was so self-evident. He needed her on his side. And if she had a solution to the problem, he would like to hear it.
“Have you given your wife any reason to doubt your fidelity?” She paused momentarily as if she expected him to answer her question. But then she pushed on. “Because it occurs to me that if you have, then she might herself have hired some man to photograph you in the act as it were. In which case her posting them to you at the office where they might get seen by me is her way of applying pressure on you — of yanking on your lead and forcing you to come to heel.”
Atkinson considered this. He didn’t like the metaphor of himself as a dog and Janice his owner, but he had to admit Doreen had covered all the possibilities. So where on earth did that leave him?
“My advice,” Doreen said firmly, in a tone of voice that indicated he had better jolly well take it, “is to allow me to shred the photographs now, and then for you to go home at the usual time and see what happens.”
Atkinson opened his mouth. “But—” He got no further.
“It will be obvious from your wife’s behaviour whether she knows about the photographs. If she has been sent copies in the post, she will be furious with you as soon as you walk through the door. If it is she who sent them to you, she will no doubt be studying you very carefully. On the other hand, if she knows nothing about it, then her behaviour will be quite normal. In which case you will need to prepare yourself for a phone call or some other communication from your blackmailer.”
“Yes.” Paul Atkinson could think of no other reply.
“Well,” she said, “you can go and eat the rest of your lunch in peace. I’ll deal with these photographs and then I’ll bring you a coffee.” He had been dismissed, and not for the first time, by his personal assistant. But for once he didn’t really mind.
* * *
Mullen had no idea where he was. He tried opening his eyes, but shut them instantly as pain jagged through his head.
“Hello there.”
He opened his eyes a chink and glimpsed an angel in blue standing over him. She was, he realised, holding his wrist and checking her watch.
“You’ll live,” she said and laid his arm down. “Are you in pain?”
He nodded, shutting his eyes against the sunlight that was flooding into the room from behind her.
“I’ll give you something for it.”
He took the analgesics she produced, shut his eyes again and fell asleep. When he next opened them, his angel in blue — her name was Kaila according to her badge — offered him some toast. “You’ve missed supper,” she said. “But we don’t want you fading away.” She had a nice smile and an ethnicity he couldn’t place. Not that her ethnicity mattered, but he was curious nevertheless. “You missed a visitor too. I sent him away.” Mullen was grateful. He cou
ldn’t think of any ‘him’ that he would want to be visited by. Maybe it was Dorkin. He seemed to turn up everywhere.
Mullen slept through the night. “Like a baby,” he said to Raheema when she asked the next morning. Raheema had replaced Kaila. Mullen was feeling much better, with just a dull throb at the back of his head. He thought he should try and be a bit chatty. ‘Like a baby’ seemed a good way of doing so.
Raheema looked at him as if he was deranged. “I presume you’ve never had a baby?”
He shook his head.
“They don’t sleep — not more than a few hours.”
“It’s a saying.”
“It’s the stupidest saying I’ve ever heard.”
He fell silent. It was evidently a sore subject. Or was she always like this?
“Is there someone we can contact for you?” The storm had passed. “The doctor will be doing his rounds a bit later and if he is happy, we will discharge you. We would prefer it if someone drove you home. Or we can order a taxi.”
Mullen tried to think. Only two names came to mind. “Rose Wilby.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No,” he said quickly, irritated by the nurse’s prying.
“Would you like me to ring her for you?”
“Please.” Mullen leant back into his pillows. He really would have preferred to stay in hospital for another day or so. He could sleep lots and have nurses waiting on his every need. Maybe Kaila would be back on shift again later. That would be nice. Or maybe Raheema would be replaced by Raheema Mark 2. That would be less nice. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, time had passed and the figure in front of him was male. The doctor was ridiculously young and wore a stethoscope slung round his neck as if to prove his status in case anyone should mistake him for a schoolboy on work experience.
“That’s a nasty blow you got there, Mr Mullen.”
“Yeah.”
“Luckily you’ve got a very tough skull.”
Mullen said nothing. Was that the culmination of years of expensive training? God help the patients if it was. Or perhaps the man really was a schoolboy on work experience, and masquerading as a doctor.
“As far as we are concerned, you can go home.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
The doctor-schoolboy sniffed. “Maybe after you’ve taken a shower.”
It wasn’t the subtlest of hints, but Mullen wasn’t bothered.
He lay there a bit longer, reluctant to do anything. Someone in a green uniform appeared with a trolley. His name was Rick. It said so on his badge. He chatted so volubly that Mullen decided maybe he would like to get home after all.
“Will you be wanting lunch?” Rick asked, ever helpful.
“Not if my lift turns up first.”
Rick moved on. Mullen, who had opted for a cup of tea, drank it slowly. Then he went in search of the shower room.
* * *
Becca Baines had only been in the hospital car park ten minutes when Mullen appeared out of the main entrance escorted by a man and a woman. She didn’t know either of them. The guy was wearing bright orange-brown chinos and a summer jacket, and the woman was neat and precise in both clothing and movements. Even the dark curls of her hair seemed well controlled. Baines walked slowly towards her own car, a red Fiat Punto, trying to keep an eye on the trio as they made their way across to a blue Vauxhall Astra. Suppose Mullen looked over, saw her and recognised her? But surely he wouldn’t. She was wearing sunglasses, a long black wig and a retro dress from the back of the wardrobe which she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in. Wasn’t that enough of a disguise? She had bought the wig for a fancy dress party, as a bit of a laugh, but it hadn’t been that cheap and she had rather liked the effect it had had on a guy called Steve — rock hard biceps and an eagle tattoo on his neck. But Becca needn’t have worried about being recognised. Mullen was fully pre-occupied by the task of getting to the car. His two escorts were walking so closely he might have been handcuffed to them. The man got into the driver’s seat while the woman held open the rear door for Mullen as if he was incapable of doing anything for himself. Mind you, he did have an impressive bandage round his head. The woman bent over him, fussing. Finally, she shut his door and walked round to the other side of the car. She opened the rear door. She was going to sit next to him. Baines puckered her lips, much as Frankie Howard used to do. “Ooh!” Becca could read the body language even at this distance: the woman fancied Mullen.
Becca wanted to laugh out loud, but the Astra was already moving off. She hurriedly squeezed herself into the Punto — no easy task given how close the neighbouring SUV had parked — rammed the key into the ignition and started the engine. By the time she had reached the exit barrier, the Astra was out of sight. There was only one road out, but when she got to the end of it and encountered the junction, she felt the first stirrings of panic. Left or right? A glance each way gave no clues. Logic told her that the chances were they would have turned right. A driver behind her hooted. She shouted abuse into the mirror and followed her instincts, turning right down the hill. There was a blue Mini some distance in front. And a car in front of it. They were slowing down, as red lights gave Baines the chance to close the gap, but seconds later the lights changed and they were on the move again, over a mini roundabout and then right, blue Astra followed by the Mini. She pressed on after them, out to the ring road and then over it before looping back and off towards the Headington roundabout, tucking herself in behind the Mini. She grinned and gave a whoop of joy. This tailing lark wasn’t so difficult after all.
The Mini eventually parted company at the Heyford Hill roundabout, heading into Sainsbury’s, but the Astra remained on the ring road. Baines kept her distance, happily allowing a white van to slip across in front of her. There was no way Mullen and his two buddies were going to notice they were being followed. She kept them within sight all the way round the ring road, over the A34 and up towards Boars Hill, turning right at the top into Foxcombe Road. She had driven along it often enough. There was a pub further along, unimaginatively called the Fox. Even so, it was a nice place. She had eaten and drunk there several times with a friend and would-be lover. He was water under the bridge now. And good riddance too.
But the Astra wasn’t going to the pub. Its tail lights showed red as it braked sharply. Its left-hand indicator flashed orange and immediately the car swung left off the road, bouncing and slightly out of control. Baines braked too, but not so sharply, easing off the accelerator and peering after them. She saw the rear of the car, red lights flickering on and off, and then she was past the entrance. Through the rather feeble cover of the beech hedge that fringed the pavement, there were flashes of black beams and white stucco, a large pseudo-Tudor pile. Hell, she thought. Does Mullen really live there?
* * *
Mullen had had enough for one day, even though it was only mid-afternoon. Quite why Derek Stanley and Rose had had to stay so long to ‘make sure you’re all right,’ he really didn’t know. Or rather in Rose’s case it was pretty blooming obvious. Stanley had clearly disapproved of the way she had fussed around him, insisting on making him some food. She had looked in his cupboards and reported herself more than satisfied by what she found. “I’ll soon whip up something nourishing and nice.” In fact most of the things she had used were jars and tins that the professor had left in his cupboards plus some salad stuff that Mullen had picked up from Abingdon a few days earlier. But it was, he had to admit, very edible. By the time she had delivered three plates onto the long kitchen table, Mullen, who had left hospital just as lunch was about to be served, had realised he was starving. So he had eaten eagerly and gratefully, while accepting that the questions and small talk which raged around him were part of the price he had to pay for their help. All he could do was wonder rather desperately how much longer it would be before they went.
In the end he had resorted to subterfuge. “I think I need to go upstairs and lie down,” he said, hoping this would speed their depart
ure. Rose had opened her mouth to say something, but it was Stanley who answered and, metaphorically speaking, dragged her out of the house to his car. Mullen didn’t warm to Stanley, but in this case he was grateful.
* * *
Now that he had the house to himself again, Mullen should have felt relaxed. He tried walking around, taking in the panelled corridors and surprisingly cool bedrooms, full of sunlight and shadow and heavy furniture and classical busts. But all the silence did was accentuate how edgy he was feeling. In addition, his head was beginning to throb again. The hospital had given him some analgesics, so he took a couple with a glass of water, then a third for good luck. Even with the rising temperature outside, the house seemed insulated from the summer. Mullen shivered. He would go for a walk. The air would surely do him good and he would enjoy tramping through the woods. He had never lived anywhere near a wood before, but here on Boars Hill they were everywhere. He took a baseball cap off the coat stand in the hall and let himself out of the front door. He was blinded for several seconds and lowered his head, focusing on the gravel beneath his feet, as he walked towards the road, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
When he did lift his head, he saw a woman standing in the gateway, some ten metres away. There was a red car beyond her, blocking the exit. He didn’t recognise her at first, not until she lifted her hands to her head and, with a theatrical flourish, removed her wig. Becca Baines, with her cascade of bright red hair, the woman he had seen most clearly through a camera lens, glared at him in silence.
He stopped, uncertain what to do. If he had ever attended a university course for private investigators — there was bound to be some such institution somewhere in America — then perhaps he would have been taught how to react when confronted by a furious woman who knows you’ve been spying on her with your photo lens. As it was, he had only his own experience and gut instinct to guide him. Imagine she’s a difficult customer at the Meeting Place, he told himself. Except that people there might, on a bad day, be hostile to people in general, whereas this woman had a very personal reason to want to assault him with whatever piece of weaponry she had to hand. Not that she appeared to be armed. No knife, no gun, no jack handle from the boot of her car. Only a long black wig Cher would have been proud of.
Dead in the Water Page 6