Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter (книги онлайн без регистрации TXT) 📗

“We’d like you to come to the station, if that is not too much trouble,” the man-mountain said, deadpan.

Mullen nodded.

As for Dorkin, his mood suddenly appeared lighter, almost skittish. He smiled. “Or even if it is.”

* * *

Doreen Rankin was used to her boss’s erratic time-keeping. Arriving just in time for meetings was something he had developed into an art. “I’d rather sit at home in my pyjamas, do an hour or two on my laptop and then drive in after the rush hour." He had told her as much on the second day of her employment at GenMedSoft, just after he had appeared in his office at ten twenty-five in the morning. She had been in a mild panic because a man and a woman were sitting in reception, having arrived early for a meeting scheduled for ten thirty. “If you minimise wasted time, you maximise productivity,” he concluded serenely. “And sitting in the traffic is wasted time.”

So when he had still not turned up at ten forty-five that Wednesday morning, she was not unduly worried. Besides, she had had plenty to do, and it was only when the marketing director Eddie Loach rang up for the third time and complained that Paul wasn’t answering his emails or his mobile calls that she decided she would have to intervene. In point of fact, Paul had two mobiles, but his personal one he kept personal. Only Doreen knew the number and even she used it very sparingly. She didn’t like Loach and she certainly didn’t trust him. He was a man who would cause trouble for Paul if he possibly could, and trouble for Paul would mean trouble for her. So she sent a text to Paul’s personal mobile. There was no response. She waited ten minutes, during which time an external client in a bad mood rang to speak to Paul.

As far as she was concerned, that was enough. She dialled his mobile. After five rings, it cut into an answerphone message. Doreen killed the call and pursed her lips in irritation. She got up and shut her door firmly. If she had to leave an assertive message for him, she didn’t want anyone wandering up or down the corridor to overhear. She rang again. She knew exactly what she would say to him. It was one thing for him to be ‘maximising productivity’ at home, but it was quite another not to keep her informed. It was something they had discussed at length before, but clearly he needed reminding. And when he rang her back, she wanted an apology from him too. She pressed the redial button and prepared to wait for the five rings.

“Hello?”

The immediate response caught her by surprise. But she recovered quickly. “Even by your standards, Paul, this is late.”

There was an indistinct noise from his end of the line.

Doreen pressed on. “I can’t protect your back if I can’t get hold of you. Eddie is on the warpath and—”

“Stuff Eddie.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he ploughed on. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Janice is dead.”

“Dead?” Her mouth parroted the word, while her brain was trying — and failing — to comprehend what she had just heard.

“She was killed in the Iffley Road last night. A hit and run.”

“Oh!” Doreen was still failing to come up with anything meaningful to say.

Paul Atkinson pushed on. “So you can tell Eddie the beagle that I won’t be in today and I won’t be answering his pathetic emails either.” With that, he terminated the call.

* * *

“How’s the head? Still hurting?”

Mullen nodded.

“Poor you!” Dorkin gave no impression that he meant it.

He and his tame gorilla — otherwise known as Detective Sergeant Fargo — were sitting opposite him in a characterless box of an interview room with puke-coloured walls. Fargo had already turned on the recording machine and completed the formalities. Now he was leaning forward, elbows on the table, as if ready to indulge in the chummiest of chats.

Dorkin was leaning back as far as he could go in his chair and seemed to be finding the whole thing highly amusing.

“What exactly do you want?” Mullen said trying to move things along. The two detectives had totally ignored him during the car journey from Boars Hill to the station, talking only to each other and even then only in one- or two-word sentences.

“Where were you last night?” Dorkin said. “Between eight p.m. and midnight.”

“At home.”

“For the benefit of the recorder, can you confirm that by ‘home’ you mean The Cedars, Foxcombe Road, a house owned by Professor and Mrs Thompson and in which you are currently living, in accordance with some privately agreed house-sitting arrangement.” Dorkin spoke without urgency, a man who had the situation under control.

“That is correct.”

“Are there any witnesses to where you were last night?”

It was then that Mullen knew something was wrong. Sitting in the car as they drove to Cowley, he had assumed that Dorkin merely wanted another go at him, to go over old ground again and maybe tell him to get his nose out of police business. But he wouldn’t be asking questions about the previous night if that was the case. Mullen felt anxiety tighten around his chest.

“A friend and I went to the Fox for supper. She went home about nine thirty. I went to bed shortly afterwards.”

“Does your friend have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell us what it is?”

“No.”

Dorkin twitched. It was a mannerism Mullen had noticed that evening at the Meeting Place. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it felt like a minor victory.

“Why not?” Fargo interrupted. He leant even further forward. Mullen could see that he took the role of bad cop pretty seriously. He smelt of sweat and pungent aftershave.

“Professional confidentiality,” Mullen said, staring back.

“So he was a client?” Fargo said, seeing a gap and charging straight for it. “What were you doing for him?”

“No comment.”

“Or was it a female client? Hiring you to spy on a husband?”

Mullen turned towards Dorkin. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Otherwise I might change my mind and ask for a solicitor.”

Dorkin studied him for several seconds. Then nodded to Fargo. Fargo leant back, opened up a folder he had been cradling on his lap and produced two photographs which he slipped across the table to Mullen. Mullen felt the bile rising up his throat.

A few days ago it had been him pushing an envelope of photographs across the table to Janice Atkinson. Now he was on the receiving end and the person in the photos was Janice. Only Janice wasn’t indulging in extra-marital high jinks with some admirer. Janice was beyond that. She was dead.

“Jesus!” Mullen said without thinking. “It’s Janice. What the hell happened to her?”

“Hit and run.”

“Do you know . . . ?” Mullen never finished his question. Obviously they didn’t know who had done it or they wouldn’t have hauled him in. Dorkin and Fargo were both watching him as if they didn’t believe him. As if they thought he already knew about Janice’s death. As if they thought he was involved in it. Anger rose in him like a rip tide. His hands gripped the table as if by so doing they could keep his impulses under control. His impulses were urging him to punch the hell out of Dorkin’s smug face, but of course he wasn’t stupid enough to do that, not here and not with Fargo eyeing him from across the table. Mullen looked down at the photographs again, forcing himself to study them, waiting for his emotions to recede. Poor Janice. Poor unhappy Janice.

“It happened on the Iffley Road,” Dorkin said, all matter of fact. “Very near where you used to live, Mullen. Where we thought you lived until we discovered otherwise.” He paused for several seconds. “I expect that was where Janice thought you lived too. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Mullen wasn’t going to tell Dorkin what he thought.

“So, Mullen.” Dorkin began to drum the table with his fingers. Was this him getting down to business? “Did Janice not know you had gone up in the world? Were you keeping it a secret from her? Didn’t you want her following you up to Boars Hill?”