Atkinson stepped back a couple of paces, gesturing Loach to come in. Loach had never been to his house before. Atkinson was surprised that he even knew where they lived. Probably Human Resources had told him. Or else Doreen. It was more likely Doreen in fact, making sure she kept in his good books because Eddie the Beagle was an ambitious bastard. So why on earth was he here now?
“It’s about Doreen.”
“Doreen?” The frayed rope which was holding Atkinson’s temper and sanity in check pulled a few more loose strands. “I thought you said it’s not about work.” His voice was savage. “If you can’t deal with her, it’s your problem.”
Loach’s sunburnt face wasn’t wearing its habitual smile.
“She’s dead, Paul.”
The words didn’t register. Atkinson saw Loach’s mouth move and heard the sounds it made. But none of this made an impression on his brain.
“It was a fire,” Loach continued. “The flat in which she lived with her mother caught fire. They were both pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.”
“Oh God!” Atkinson’s left leg quivered. For a moment he thought he was going to fall down.
Loach moved forward and grabbed him by the arm. “Steady!”
Atkinson began to hyperventilate. Loach guided him to one of the dining chairs and sat him down.
“It’s been on the local news.” Loach spoke slowly, as if to someone with learning difficulties. “I understand they will be releasing the names shortly. But we didn’t want you to find out via a news bulletin or from the Oxford Mail.”
“No.” He shook his head, but once he had started he found he couldn’t stop it shaking. In fact his whole body was shaking. He felt a wave of nausea rising from his stomach and then he was sick across the surface of the table.
Chapter 9
Dorkin was checking out his boat when the phone call came. The boat was, in his eyes, a thing of intricate beauty and breathless speed. It measured 1470 millimetres in length and 284 millimetres in width and it was the closest he was ever going to get to owning — or handling — a mega-yacht. Not that he cared; it was his secret vice. Sailing his immaculate radio-controlled model on a Sunday morning on the artificial lake in Hinksey Park and chatting with the other enthusiasts (all male) kept him sane at the end of a long week. In any case it wasn’t truly a vice, even though he liked to think that his craft must provoke feelings of intense covetousness amongst the rest of his fellow aficionados. Nor indeed was it in any proper sense secret because there were plenty of people who could see him indulging his passion as they wandered past on their way to church or the Sunday market, accompanied by children or grandchildren or dogs. It was secret in so far as he had never talked about it at work, for fear that his colleagues might laugh; that the women might think it rather sweet or the men that ‘old Dork has gone a bit soft.’ Dorkin glanced at the mobile to see who the call was from. Whoever it was he would ignore it.
He swore and pressed answer. “Yes?”
Fargo had never rung him on a Sunday before. They didn’t socialise except for a drink or three after work, but that was different, a sort of continuation of work. Ringing him during his time off meant something serious had happened. Or if it hadn’t, Dorkin’s tongue was primed to tear several strips off Fargo.
“Sorry, sir.” It was a sensible start.
“What?” Dorkin spoke sharply. He could sense his day was about to take a very undesirable turn.
“There’s something you need to know, sir.”
“Is there?”
“There was a fire in Cornwallis Road on Friday night.”
“I know.”
“Two victims. A Doreen Rankin and her mother.”
“And?”
“Doreen Rankin is Paul Atkinson’s PA.”
Dorkin allowed the information to sink in. Then he said: “Is the fire suspicious?”
Fargo cleared his throat. “No-one is committing themselves at the moment.”
“So why ring me on a Sunday morning, Fargo?”
“They found something.” Fargo paused. “Something I believe is relevant to our current investigations.”
Dorkin growled a warning across the radio waves. “Tell me what they found, Fargo — in nice simple words. Then I’ll tell you if it’s relevant or not. OK?”
* * *
Walking into St Mark’s on the second Sunday in a row was a very different experience for Mullen. The first time he had been expected — indeed invited — by Rose Wilby and he had been an item of interest and curiosity to the whole congregation. He had felt surprisingly nervous about walking into church, but he had also felt welcome. This time, however, it was like walking into a foreign and hostile land. The atmosphere in the church was different. There was less chattering as people settled down, or at least the chattering was far more subdued. People were talking with lowered voices and faces, conscious of the presence up near the front of the lone figure of Paul Atkinson, who was sitting ram-rod straight and with empty seats either side of him.
A woman with grey curly hair and elegant mid-green top and skirt thrust a service sheet into Mullen’s hand and welcomed him. He stepped past her, conscious that there were people behind him, and looked around in the hope of encountering a familiar face.
“Mr Mullen!” The voice came from behind him and he turned. “How nice to see you again. I thought you might have been scared off by us all.” Margaret Wilby smiled, but there was no warmth in it, no sense of welcome.
“Perhaps I might sit with you?” Mullen responded, taking her at face value. She was probably the person he least wanted to sit next to. He imagined that she felt the same.
Derek Stanley, standing at her shoulder, stepped forward. “Of course, Doug. Very nice to see you.” He spoke in short, halting sentences. “It’s going to be rather difficult today, I fear. A time to support each other. Poor Paul.” He stumbled to a verbal halt.
“Poor Janice too,” Mullen said quickly. It was Janice he felt sorry for. Not the man who had cheated on her. Not the man who might have killed her.
“In a sense, yes.” Stanley pulled at his moustache. “But we believe she is now in a better place — and at peace with herself.”
Mullen followed them to their pew and sat down. Stanley sat in the middle, probably a deliberate move, Mullen reckoned, to keep him separate from Margaret. Stanley, he had decided, was the peace-maker, albeit a slightly odd one with a singular taste in clothes: today it was an orange polo shirt, rust coloured shorts and leather sandals of the style once favoured by Roman legionaries.
Reverend Diana Downey was as subdued as the rest of them. Her sermon seemed flat and uninspired compared to the previous week — not that Mullen had a whole lot of experience in judging sermons. She spoke of the shock of Janice’s death, but said nothing that Mullen didn’t already know. There was no date fixed for the funeral yet, she announced. “But do keep Paul and Janice’s mother in your prayers.”
As the Reverend Downey made her way down the centre of the nave and so signalled the end of the service, Stanley touched Mullen on the arm.
He flinched, caught off guard.
Stanley didn’t appear to notice. “Stay for coffee. It’s proper coffee, not instant.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“If you need me to introduce you to people, I will. I guess we must seem rather overwhelming when you’re new.”
Stanley was right. Mullen did find it challenging. There was part of him that wanted to walk straight out of the church and then keep walking until he was far enough away to open his mouth and scream.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be OK,” he lied.
He glanced around. He wanted to ask Margaret Wilby where her daughter was. Their last meeting hadn’t finished well and he regretted that. But Margaret Wilby had exited from the pew via the side aisle and was walking up to a man and woman who were settling down onto two chairs in a corner. A shaft of coloured sunshine angled down through the window above, directly onto a
third, empty chair. It was on this that Margaret Wilby sat down.
“She has gone for prayer ministry,” Stanley said, whispering into Mullen’s ear. “Under the watchful eye of St Mark. Anyway let’s get some coffee. Come on.”
Mullen followed him, down the nave and then left towards the huddle of people queuing for a drink. Never mind St Mark, it felt like Derek Stanley was keeping a watchful eye on him.
“So, would you say you have any sort of Christian faith?” Stanley said as they stood waiting their turn.
“No.” In other circumstances — such as with a few glasses of beer inside him — he might have replied in greater detail and told Stanley how he had had some sort of belief in God until his best friend Ben had blown his own brains out one evening in the barracks. But Mullen was currently very sober. More significantly he had just spotted across the other side of the church someone he had never expected to see. It was Charles Speight. There was no doubt about it. He and a woman (his wife, Mullen assumed) were talking to Paul Atkinson.
“None at all?” Stanley said. “So why are you here today?”
“I’m searching for the truth.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Mullen wished that Stanley would leave him be. He doubted that they were seeking the same truth and in any case he was far more interested in Speight. He gestured in his direction.
“That’s Dr Speight with Paul Atkinson isn’t it?” He thought he might as well pick Stanley’s brains. It would be more useful than being quizzed about his own lack of faith.
“Yes. And his wife Rachel.”
“I don’t recall seeing them last Sunday.”
“Not exactly regular attendees.” Stanley’s voice hissed with disapproval. “It’s amazing how a couple of deaths in the congregation can suck the back-sliders back into the fold.”
Mullen opened his mouth to ask more, but he felt a hand on his upper arm.
“Hello, Doug. Just the man I was hoping to see.” Rose Wilby was wearing a green short-sleeved top and trousers of a darker green, and her curly hair was more out of control than usual. “Excuse us, Derek.” She led Mullen away until they were in the south aisle, enjoying some sort of privacy. Mullen had a moment of déjà vu — a week before he had been hiding behind this very column with Janice.
Mullen assumed Rose had something important to say to him, but for several seconds she stood in front of him in silence. She was breathing fast and chewing on her bottom lip.
Mullen wasn’t sure if he owed her an apology or vice versa. Their last meeting really hadn’t ended well. He knew that. But he didn’t think it had been his fault. Quite the opposite. Rose had obviously been put out by the fact that Becca had been there. A case of good old-fashioned green-eyed jealousy.
“Chris and I were not lovers,” she said suddenly. She continued to chew furiously at her lip. “I want to make that absolutely clear to you.”
“OK.”
“We were friends. Very good friends considering the few weeks we had known each other. But it was nothing more than that.”
“It wouldn’t matter to me if it was. That would be between the two of you. The only reason I asked was because I was trying to find out more about Chris’s death.”
“Which I told you to stop doing.” Her voice was sharp. “I hired you with Janice’s encouragement and now I have released you from your obligations.” She moved closer to him, but not for intimacy. “Don’t you see? The more you hang around church and the more you ask questions, the more people will look at me and wonder what went on between Chris and me. I’m the youth worker here, don’t you understand? My contract is due for renewal this autumn. So it would be best for me if you were to disappear from the scene. Then everyone here would soon forget about Chris and stop speculating about our relationship and I would be able to get on with my life.”
“I see.” Mullen didn’t like it, but he really did start to see. “So you want me to stay away from St Mark’s.”
“I certainly do.”
“I’ll try to.”
“Thank you.” She had stopped chewing at her lip. She looked up at him from under her hair. There was half a smile on her lips. “Sorry if I interrupted your conversation with Derek.”
“I think you rescued me, actually.”
“Derek can be a bit intense. Devoted to Mummy, of course. I fear she rather exploits that and gets him running errands for her all over the place.” Mullen didn’t want to talk about Stanley so he changed the subject. “I’ve started The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, you know.”
“Oh!” She was clearly surprised.
Mullen hated to be patronised. Did Rose think he was incapable of reading? Did she think he was stupid?
“Lucy has just gone to Mr Tumnus’s house for the second time and has found it ransacked,” he said, to prove his point.
“It’s a horrid moment.” She frowned. Her thoughts were elsewhere. “How is Becca?”
“She was fine when I last saw her. Which was the same day I last saw you.” And gossiped about the Reverend Downey he could have added. He looked towards the church door and saw her standing talking to someone he didn’t recognise, a woman with red hair who was laughing.
“Sorry. It’s none of my business whether you are seeing each other.”
“And this may be none of my business, but I am going to ask you anyway. Is the Reverend Downey a lesbian?”
Rose flushed an angry red. “You’re dead right. It is none of your business.” She turned and moved away a couple of steps, before glancing back at him. She was chewing her lip again. “You can keep the book when you’ve finished it.”
Mullen watched her go, marching purposefully down the aisle, but if she had hoped to escape from the church she was to be disappointed; a huddle of girls intercepted her. Mullen sighed. As an exercise in burying the hatchet, it had been a disaster. He cut through the pews to the nave. He still hadn’t had a coffee. He glanced around, looking to see where the Speights had got to, but he couldn’t see either of them. Paul Atkinson had moved to the exit where he had ousted the red-haired woman and was talking to Downey. He had taken her right hand with both of his and seemed to be clinging on to it for dear life.
Mullen got his coffee and looked around. It would have been interesting to encounter Speight again. He rather doubted the man would admit to knowing him, but even so it would have been amusing to see how he reacted. However Speight was not in sight. He scanned further, looking for someone he could talk to. Margaret Wilby was advancing determinedly down the nave. She was heading, he suddenly realised, directly towards him.
She gave him a curt nod of greeting. “I couldn’t help noticing that you were talking to my daughter.”
Mullen nodded. Couldn’t help noticing?
“Is everything all right?” she continued, oblivious to his irritation.
“I think Rose and I have a tendency to rub each other up the wrong way.”
“Ah!” She pursed her lips as she assessed her next question. “I understood your services had been dispensed with.” It was more of a statement, though the underlying question was presumably along the lines of: “So what on earth are you doing in St Mark’s today?”
“I rather enjoyed the service last week. I thought I would try it again.”
Margaret Wilby made a noise that indicated she didn’t believe him for a second. She inclined her head. “Goodbye, Mr Mullen.”
Mullen sipped at his coffee. He tried not to care but he was beginning to feel distinctly unwelcome. So when a teenage girl came up and asked him with immaculate politeness if he would be willing to sponsor her on a fun run, he agreed without asking what the cause was and pulled a ten-pound note out of his pocket.
“I’m not doing the run until two weeks’ time,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied and wrote his details down on her sheet. “I trust you.”
“You’re the private detective, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Ha
ve you found out what happened to Chris?”
Mullen completed his signature and straightened up. It was hard to know how to respond to such directness. He might not believe in God, but he did believe in being honest. “He drowned in the river down towards Sandford.”
“I know that.” There was disappointment in her voice. She was clearly expecting a lot more detail. “People say he got drunk and fell in.”
Mullen nodded, but didn’t comment.
“I think that’s rubbish. He didn’t drink. He told us.”
Mullen felt a flickering of interest.
“Who is ‘us’?”
“Our youth group. We meet on Sunday evenings. Diana brought him along the other week to talk to us. She thought it would be good for us to hear his story from his own lips. There are so many down-and-outs on the streets in Oxford and we all tend to ignore them.”
Alice — that was the name on her sponsor sheet — spoke with frightening clarity and certainty. “I mean, what should I do if I see them begging in the Cornmarket? Should I give them money? Should I go and buy them a sandwich? Should I just walk on by like most people do? I could pray for them of course, but is that enough?”
Mullen was impressed. He wished he had all the answers. He wished that at her age he had had all the questions too. “Personally, I wouldn’t give them money. Maybe buy them a sandwich?”
“I prefer to support the charities which help them,” she said decisively. “Diana agrees. Chris agreed too.”
Mullen studied Alice. How old was she? Fourteen maybe, going on twenty-four. He changed tack. “So how did Chris come to be sleeping rough in Oxford? Did he tell you his story?”
“He did and he didn’t. He said there were a lot of things in his past that he wasn’t proud of and preferred not to talk about. What he did say was that he didn’t have a very happy childhood and that he was sent away to boarding school and hated it.”
“He didn’t say what school?”
“No.”
“Did he talk about his family?”
“Not really. His parents were killed in a car crash, but that was all he said about them.”
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