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

The doorbell rang again, this time more insistently. Whoever it was, they were determined. It was almost certainly someone from the church. He must have had nine or ten people call in over the past two days, each bearing a card of sympathy and each hoping he would let them in for a cup of tea and a chance to ‘chat.’ He had done just that with some of them — Derek Stanley and Margaret Wilby, Rose, Diana Downey — and they had talked in solemn tones about what a lovely person Janice had been and how unbelievable it was that she could have been taken from them like that. Of course there were things they didn’t say, but he could sense they were thinking them. How he hadn’t been a very good husband. That if he had been a better one, then somehow poor Janice wouldn’t have been run down in the middle of the Iffley Road. And what on earth had she been doing in the Iffley Road at that time of night anyway? Only Margaret Wilby had been honest enough to ask him that particular question and in her usual forthright manner. He hadn’t answered her, of course.

Diana Downey had at least offered him practical support, offering to deal with the undertaker and discussing the funeral arrangements. With her help he had already decided on a private cremation followed an hour later by a service back at St Mark’s. She had prayed with him too, which he had found comforting and surreal. The whole situation was surreal, of course, and he still hadn’t got his head round it. Not to mention the number of phone calls he had had to make to relatives and friends. So the last thing he wanted was to have to be polite to another well-wisher. But that didn’t stop the bell ringing yet again, long and loud. He swore and made his way along the hall, bracing himself for whoever it might be. At the door stood probably the last person he expected (or wanted) to see. It was Eddie Loach.

Loach held up both hands in front of his shoulders in mock surrender. “I’m really sorry!” he said. Quite what he was sorry about he didn’t make clear. Was it about Janice? Was it about calling at his house in the evening? Or was it because he was such a plonker?

“I’m really tired,” Atkinson said.

“It’s not about work.” Loach lowered his hands. “And it’s not about Janice, though obviously we are all in shock in the office.”

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.