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

Besides, Mullen mused, as he wandered round the back of the garden to review the tomato plants, he had been struck by something that Margaret Wilby had said. She had referred to ‘the pathology report’ on Chris. Those had been her precise words. It was almost as if she had had access to it or as if she had spoken to someone who did. She had, in their first meeting when she had given him lunch, hinted at being well connected; maybe she was. Did she know Charles Speight? Was he the pathologist who compiled the report on Chris? Was he working on Janice too? Why had Charles Speight been meeting Dorkin in a pub and why had that meeting been so brief? The questions flooded in, each demanding precedence in Mullen’s reluctant brain. And out of those questions there took shape another one: what are you going to do about all of this, Mr Mullen?

The answer to that was in a sense rather modest. Mullen made a telephone call to the Reverend Diana Downey, though only after some considerable deliberation while he drank a fresh mug of tea at the kitchen table. His initial impulse had been not to ring her. Why give her advance warning that he was coming? Or indeed an opportunity to make an excuse not to see him? Better just to turn up at the vicarage or the church. Either she would be in or she wouldn’t. Of course, said the pessimist inside Mullen, Thursday might be her day off. Did vicars have a standard day off? Unlike their congregation, it could hardly be a Sunday. Saturdays were often wedding days. So, he guessed, Thursday was as likely as any other, a one in five chance. Mullen imagined that vicars generally made a point of getting out of the parish on their day off, in order to avoid the unwelcome parishioner knocking on the door (‘Sorry, Rev, but I wonder if I could just . . .’). Or did Diana Downey prefer to draw the curtains, microwave some popcorn and settle down on the sofa to catch up on the last series of Downton Abbey or Breaking Bad or whatever it was that floated her boat?

But in the end, after all the wondering and all the procrastination, Mullen made the call. She picked up on the third ring.

“Mr Mullen, how nice to hear from you.”

Mullen was ridiculously pleased to hear these simple words. They made him feel like he was making Diana Downey’s day. He had half expected her to have forgotten him altogether.

“I wonder if I could call round today?” he said.

“Today?” There was a pause, the sort of pause people who are caught on the hop make when they are trying to come up with a convincing excuse. Mullen cursed silently. It was a mistake to have rung her. Then, out of the silence, she spoke again. “How about half-two this afternoon?”

“Okay.” He wondered if his surprise was obvious from his tone of voice.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Diana Downey hung up.

* * *

Becca Baines had known that the police would come looking for her. Once Mullen had told them about her fling with Paul, it could only be a matter of time. Of course the police tramping into the hospital in their clodhoppers — and didn’t the huge DS Fargo have some big clodhoppers — meant that the news would be round the hospital faster than a bush fire in a bone-dry Australian summer, but that didn’t ultimately matter.

At least Melanie Yarnell had had the sensitivity to give them some privacy from prying eyes by lending them her office, but Becca knew she would want something in return. From her point of view, the detectives’ timing could hardly have been worse. She had been on shift for three hours — very busy and not a chance to grab even a cup of tea and biscuit — and she could feel her irritability level rising with every passing minute. On the other hand, she was getting an unexpected chance to sit down.

“Sorry to bother you,” DI Dorkin began. Becca reckoned it was probably the least original gambit in his detective’s book of easy interview openings. She was tempted to say so out loud, but Dorkin did not appear to be the sort of man who would appreciate such pleasantries.

“I don’t suppose this will take long,” he continued, in similar vein. “As long as you answer our questions satisfactorily.”

It wasn’t a line of conversation that filled Becca with any confidence. She imagined it was precisely the sort of thing the Gestapo must have said before they started torturing their prisoners.

“We understand that you and Paul Atkinson have a sexual relationship.”

“Had,” she said quickly.

“Had?” Dorkin frowned as if surprised or unconvinced. “So when did it start?”

If you are going to lie, keep it to an absolute minimum. Becca couldn’t remember who had first advised her along those lines, but it had become, if not part of her DNA, then second nature.

“Five or six weeks ago, I guess.”

“Guessing isn’t good enough.”

She pursed her lips as she weighed up her response. “We met at the hospital on the fifth of May. I was buying myself a coffee in the canteen. I had just paid for it when I dropped my cup. He kindly bought me another.”

“Just like that?” Dorkin sounded very unconvinced.

“No, not just like that. I was giving you the shortened version so as not to waste valuable police time.” Her irritability and facetiousness were breaking through. She knew it, but she didn’t care. “The coffee went all over the floor and partially over my trousers. The left trouser leg to be precise. I freaked a bit. I think I swore. But he was right behind me in the queue and came to my rescue. He offered to buy me another coffee. I thought it was very kind of him.”

“Did you now.” Dorkin was still unconvinced. Becca could sense it, but she didn’t mind. Maybe it was the two sugars in her tea, but she felt calmer now.

“Well, it wasn’t pure altruism on his part. Obviously he fancied me. He wasn’t the first man to stare at my chest and he won’t be the last.” She looked hard at Dorkin, then at Fargo and then back to Dorkin again, daring them to look at her breasts. To her surprise Fargo flushed in embarrassment. Dorkin merely sucked his teeth and resumed his questioning. “So when exactly did your relationship with Paul Atkinson finish?”

“After his wife found out, of course.”

“Which was when?”

“Didn’t Paul tell you? I presume you have already spoken to him.”

Dorkin said nothing. He leant back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. Becca wasn’t sure what that meant. But clearly they must have interviewed Paul and he would have spilt the beans about them. She guessed they wanted to compare stories and see what discrepancies they could unearth.

“He rang me on Monday. We didn’t actually speak. He left a message on my mobile. All very short and not so sweet.”

Dorkin perked up at this last comment. “So you didn’t like it?”

She laughed. “I didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t got the balls to tell me face to face. I didn’t like the fact that he left a voice message ending it. It was better than a text, I suppose, but only just. But actually — and I dare say you won’t want to believe me — I was relieved. I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. I was only ever going to be his bit on the side. I’m looking for more than that now.”

“So why get involved with him in the first place?” Dorkin could sense the weakness of her argument. “He’s an older married man, a recipe for disaster if you’re looking for true love.”

Becca knew he was right, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “I wasn’t looking,” she said. “It just happened.” She took two more sips of tea, buying herself a few seconds of thinking time. “Where were you on Tuesday evening, between eight and eleven o’clock?”

“That’s easy. I was out. I had a meal with a friend. That was about eight. Then we walked back to his place and I drove home. I guess that was around half past nine or a bit later.”

“Can anyone verify what time you got home?”