Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter (книги онлайн без регистрации TXT) 📗
“If he didn’t have any money, why do you say he was tight?”
Fitz pushed another fork-load of food into his mouth and chewed it more slowly, maybe spinning out his pleasure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked across at Mullen again, this time without a trace of a grin.
“I was in Costa, the one in Queen Street. Some old lady took pity on me and bought me a coffee and a sandwich. Nice old girl. She even stopped and chatted for a while and watched my things while I went to the loo. But she said she had to catch her bus, so I sat tight for a bit longer, dragging it out for as long as I could. It was raining outside. Then I saw Chris. He was coming down the circular stairs and he paused halfway down. He had a wodge of notes in his hand. He was counting them — there were twenty at least, I’d say.”
“What value were the notes?” Mullen had begun to wonder if Fitz was just giving him a run for his money, making up a good story to ensure he got the promised reward. Asking about the detail seemed a better way of finding out the truth than challenging him directly.
“Twenties,” Fitz said instantly. “I reckoned he must have had the best part of five hundred quid with him.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No.”
“Why ever not? You could have asked for your tenner back couldn’t you?”
Fitz returned to his food, shovelling in a couple more mouthfuls. Then he drained his mug and leant back in his chair. “You promised me twenty quid.”
Mullen opened his wallet and removed three ten-pound notes, but he didn’t hand them over. “Why didn’t you speak to Chris in Costa? Or follow him outside?”
“I was going to.” Fitz belched and then licked the fingers of his left hand. “I stood up and got my clobber. But there was a guy coming down the stairs a few steps behind him. I knew him — sort of. When he got to the bottom, he spotted me. He came over and said ’hello,’ so I had to ask him how he was and all that stuff and by the time we’d finished Chris was out of sight.”
“Who was he, this guy?”
Fitz said nothing. He had returned to his breakfast, shovelling it in as if he was in ‘Cinderella’ and the clock had started to strike twelve.
“Who was he?” Mullen repeated quietly, leaning forward.
Fitz picked up a final piece of toast in his fingers and wiped it around his plate, determined not to waste even a smear.
“Kevin,” he said eventually. “Runs the drop-in down in Cowley. I used to go there, but I prefer to stay in town now. Gatehouse, Archway. They’re better. More convenient.”
“Describe him,” Mullen said. Not that he needed a description of his boss at the Meeting Place, but it was a way of checking if Fitz was for real or not.
“Round face. Dark hair.” Fitz chuckled. “I think he was a bit offended I’d stopped coming to his place.”
“Did he speak to Chris as he came downstairs?”
Fitz shrugged and began to pull his anorak on. “Don’t think so.” He stood up. “I reckon I’ve earned my money, and more.” He held out his hand.
Mullen nodded towards the counter. “See the guy there. I’m giving thirty quid to him. He’ll keep it on a tab for you. It’ll buy you a few good meals.”
Mullen didn’t get up, but he tensed himself nevertheless because it was impossible to know how Fitz would react. It would have been much easier to give Fitz the cash and let him spend it on booze or drugs, but that went against Mullen’s code. “I thought that would be a good way of keeping the money safe for you,” he said, trying to head off any trouble. “No-one can nick it from you when you’re asleep.”
Fitz didn’t reply. He turned away, pushing past a student who had just entered the cafe. He was angry, but Mullen was pretty sure he’d come back when he was hungry.
* * *
Mullen didn’t know Branston’s address, but he knew he cycled to work on a not very flash bike, so the chances were he lived locally. A search for the name Branston on his smart phone (Mullen was gradually getting smarter in its use) came up with just two results and only one of these could possibly be Kevin: KL Branston, living in Crescent Road, Oxford. It didn’t ring a bell with Mullen, whose knowledge of the city was curate’s-eggish. But BT provided a convenient ‘Map’ link and within moments Mullen could see it was a long straggling road in Temple Cowley. He studied the surrounding streets for several seconds, imprinting the area in his brain, before stuffing his phone in his pocket and striding off down St Aldates in search of his car. He had briefly considered ringing Branston to see if he was in — he had his mobile number in case of work issues — but he had dismissed the idea almost instantly. He wanted to apply pressure and he reckoned that appearing unannounced on his doorstep would be a good way of doing that, especially if his wife was at home.
The house was stuck in the middle of a long terrace — red Victorian brick, white sash windows with peeling paint, dark blue door with cobwebs above it, a single bike (Kevin’s) chained to a metal bar bolted to the wall. A woman opened the door almost immediately — maroon tracksuit, unbrushed brown hair and grey eyes set inside dark rings of exhaustion, medication or both.
“Mrs Branston?”
She nodded.
“I work with Kevin. Is he in?”
She frowned as if the question was too hard. She leant forward and looked up the road. “Gone to the shops.” Mullen followed her gaze, but could see only a couple of people and they were women with buggies. “He’ll be back,” she said and withdrew inside, leaving the door open behind her. Mullen took this as an invitation and followed her along a short corridor that led into a long kitchen diner. The near end was the kitchen and every surface was covered with stuff — mostly food (packets, boxes, tins, jars, bottles), but also with books, newspapers, a large grey fairy holding flowers which had been painted a variety of yellow and orange hues, a brass hand-bell and an assortment of kitchen implements and machines.
Mrs Branston went over to the surface to the left of the cooker, pushed some things aside and switched on a kettle.
“I’m Doug,” he said.
She turned and looked at him. She had a half-smile on her face, but she emanated sadness. “Gina.” She ran her eyes up and down him slowly, as if she was uncertain as to who or what he was. She pursed her lips. “I could paint you,” she said and turned back to the kettle.
Mullen moved a couple of steps deeper in. The far end of the room, he now realised, was populated with her painting equipment, though in a more ordered manner: an easel with a blank canvas on it; boxes of what he took to be oil paints laid out on a long flat trestle table which stood along the left-hand wall; brushes and pallet knives; a plate of fruit and a couple of small blue and white vases which he imagined may have been the subject of a still-life; jam jars and bottles of linseed and white spirit. All the paraphernalia was there, but no sign of any painting in progress.
“I could paint you naked,” she continued, talking to the wall, “but Kevin is a bit of a prude.”
Mullen wasn’t sure how to react. He looked around. There was only one painting on the walls; it hung over the trestle table. He went and stood in front of it: a head and shoulders portrait of a younger, thinner Kevin, half-turned towards the artist, yet avoiding her gaze, looking beyond her. It was the sort of pose that photographers favour, endowing their subject with a distant, thoughtful look. But in this case, with the sharp differentiation of dark and light around Kevin’s features, Mullen thought he could see something else, a shiftiness, an inability to look his wife squarely in the eye. Or was that his own interpretation, based on his own suspicions with regard to Branston and Diana Downey?
“Sit down.”
Mullen turned to see that Gina had crossed the room and was holding out a mug of tea. She picked up a camouflage jacket lying on a tall stool and tossed it aside. “There,” she said, pointing. “I want you to look directly at the wall. Below the portrait, not at it.”
