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

“I guess it was the fact that when Chris first came to St Mark’s, he was dressed in camouflage fatigues. I asked him about Chris when I met him in church and that was the memory it sparked in him. Michael Ryan and Chris both dressed in army gear.”

Rose returned to the table and sat down. “So what are you going to do now? I’d like to help if I can.”

Mullen scratched hard at his head. He wasn’t sure why, but his scalp had become very itchy. Residue from the bandaging he supposed.

“There’s one thing you can do for me,” he said. “You can ring Paul Atkinson and tell him you need to see him urgently.”

“Paul?” Rose was clearly surprised by Mullen’s change of direction. “You don’t think that Paul . . . ?”

She tailed off, unable to voice in full what Mullen’s request might imply.

“I don’t at the moment know of any connections between Paul and Chris, but if anyone were to draw up a list of suspects for the death of Janice, then Paul would be at or near the top.”

“As would Becca, surely?”

Mullen said nothing. He knew Rose was right, but it wasn’t Becca he was interested in right this moment. He could access Becca himself. In Paul’s case, he needed help. “Paul avoided me in church this morning. He doesn’t like me. I understand that. But I need to ask him questions. So I want you to arrange a meeting without mentioning that I will be there too.”

The meeting proved remarkably easy to arrange. Rose rang Paul Atkinson from her mobile. He picked up almost immediately and when she said how she really needed to talk to him about Chris, he agreed without any further questioning. But as they discussed when and where to meet, Mullen was barely listening. For the suspicious invisible gremlin which sometimes lurked on his shoulder had materialised and started to whisper into his ear. Did you notice, the gremlin said, that the lovely Rose has Paul Atkinson’s phone number stored on her phone? What is that all about? The gremlin had plenty more to say. Rose is jealous of Becca Baines and Becca Baines was having an affair with Paul Atkinson — you haven’t forgotten that, Doug? But now Becca Baines has been chumming up to you, Doug, even though it was you who put the kibosh on her fun with Paul. And, the gremlin continued, just in case Doug had missed the point, this is not the first time Rose has rung Paul Atkinson mobile to mobile. Put all that in your pipe and smoke it, Doug, the gremlin concluded triumphantly. Afterwards, you can tell me what you make of it.

And Mullen really didn’t know what to make of it all. What he did know, however, was that he had to do something if he wanted to get to the bottom of the two deaths. Or should that be three deaths? It was the gremlin again. What about Doreen Rankin? I am not saying that her death is necessarily suspicious, but why, Doug, did the police question you about it? Was it merely because of the photographs they found? Or did they suspect foul play? Mullen’s response was that the police didn’t quiz him for an alibi; so the likelihood was that the woman’s death was just an unfortunate accident. Maybe she fell asleep halfway through a cigarette? Or after lighting a candle? Accidents happen. Why would there be anything intrinsically suspicious about a house fire, unless — the thought hit Mullen like a clapper in a church bell — Doreen Rankin’s remains happened to contain traces of rohypnol.

“Is everything OK?” Rose was looking at him with that frown of hers.

“Yes,” he said. “You did a good job with Paul.” He stood up and drained what was left of his lemonade. “Where are we meeting him?”

“At my mother’s.”

* * *

Mullen’s mobile beeped a second time. It was lying on the table in front of him. His immediate impulse was to pick it up. He hardly ever got text messages. Janice had been the exception. She had sent him a text per day at first, checking on how he was getting on with the job. The frequency of the texts had increased, at first gradually and then exponentially. They had changed in content and tone too, becoming more personal and more desperate. He didn’t think he had received any texts from anyone since Janice’s death.

He glanced round the room. Paul seemed to be avoiding looking at him, as he had done for much of the visit. If he had noticed the beeps they didn’t seem to bother him. Margaret had picked up her tea cup and was watching him as she sipped at it. He was pretty sure that Margaret would disapprove if he checked his mobile in the middle of a meeting. She would consider it bad manners and tell him so very clearly. So he sat back on the sofa and resumed questioning Paul Atkinson.

“Was Janice very friendly with Chris?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m just asking.”

“And I’m asking you — do you seriously think Janice had it in her to kill Chris? And do you also think that she was so filled with remorse that she walked in front of a car to end it all? Because if you do, let me tell you that you are even stupider than you look.”

In normal circumstances, Mullen would have taken exception to being called stupid, especially by a waste of space like Paul Atkinson, but these were not normal circumstances.

He rubbed his chin as he worked out his next line of attack and his mobile beeped again, pleading for a response. Mullen pretended not to have heard it.

Margaret Wilby, who had been sipping her tea, put her cup down on her saucer and intervened. “Do feel free to check your messages, Mr Mullen,” she said with a glacial smile. Her mouth was small and when she spoke she did so with the minimum of movement, a characteristic which served to emphasise the disapproval her utterances often conveyed. “It may be something important.”

Mullen leant forward, unlocked his phone and opened the first message.

“Well?” Margaret Wilby clearly expected him to share his trivial messages with all of them.

“It’s Becca,” he announced, surprised. “Becca Baines.”

It was Rose who reacted first. “Oh?” The single word was laced with layers of meaning: disappointment, irritation and above all jealousy.

“Oh, shit,” Mullen said, confirming all of Margaret Wilby’s deepest prejudices about him.

“Bad news?” she said.

“I have to go. Sorry.”

“What a shame!” Paul Atkinson commented with ill-disguised sarcasm.

* * *

Rose Wilby followed Mullen outside, which was the last thing he wanted. He pretended not to have noticed, but as he set off at a fast walk along the road — it was only 500 yards to where he was parked outside her flat — he could hear her sandals clipping on the pavement as she tried to catch up.

“Doug!” Rose’s call was sharp and commanding. For a moment she could have been her mother. But Rose wasn’t her mother and Mullen couldn’t bring himself to treat her so. He slowed down, half turning, and allowed her to close the gap.

“You remind me of a dog,” she said as she came alongside him.

Mullen said nothing. He didn’t want to talk.

“Becca whistles and you go scampering off to find her no matter what the circumstances.”

“Is that what your mother said?”

“It’s what I say, Doug.”

Mullen reverted to silence. It seemed safer.

“I thought we were in this together, Doug.” Rose’s tone had now mutated to plaintive. It was also, as Mullen realised, manipulative. “I don’t understand,” she said.

They came to a crossing point on their route and waited for a supermarket delivery van to pass in front of them. It gave Mullen time to phrase a reply. He already had a plan half-formulated.

“I think Becca is in trouble.” That much was true.

“What sort of trouble?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “That’s what I need to go and find out.”

“And am I welcome or not?” She was still plaintive.

“Yes.” They were in sight of his car and her flat.

“So I can come with you in your car?”

He pointed down at her feet. “You’re not going to be much use to me in those. You’ll need better footwear.”