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

Mullen wasn’t sure if she was referring to Derek Stanley in particular or the whole experience of coming to church.

“Your Chris seems to be a bit of a blank canvas,” he said. “Mr Stanley claims to have spoken to him several times, yet he can’t really tell me anything substantial, not even where he lived.”

Rose frowned as she considered this. The corners of her mouth puckered. Mullen found this absurdly distracting. She was wearing a summer jersey dress, white with yellow and blue flowers, a navy blue linen jacket and a silver chain with a cross round her neck, altogether smarter than when they had met the previous day. He wondered if she had plans for lunch. He wondered too how much — or how little — she knew about Chris. “Do you know where he lived?”

She shook her head. “I assumed he was homeless. In this good weather, a lot of down and outs choose to sleep rough. Or there’s O’Hanlon House in Luther Street.”

Mullen felt a flash of anger from somewhere deep within him. This wasn’t just because of her dismissal of Chris and others like him as ‘down and outs,’ though he did hate the expression. It was a neat way of consigning people, real flesh and blood people, to a place where they could be forgotten. You could humour them, feed them with a sandwich and a cup of tea, and then ignore the rest of their lives. He had known someone like Chris once, a man named Bill. He had bumped into him near Kings Cross when, aged fifteen, he had decided to leave the misery of home for the bright lights of London. Bill had looked after him and after a while persuaded him to get on a train back home. Bill had been a ‘down and out’ and Bill had saved his life.

“So you didn’t ask Chris where he lived either?” He heard the sharpness in his own voice and, as he saw her face crumple, he immediately regretted it. She looked down, as if studying the stained church carpet, then raised her eyes until they met his. “I thought,” she said, “it was kinder not to ask.”

There were still seventy or eighty adults and children filling the church with chatter and laughter and (in one case) tears, but the silence that now fell between Mullen and Rose was as thick and unremitting as the Berlin wall in the Cold War days.

“Perhaps it was,” Mullen said, trying to undo the damage he had done. In vain.

“My mother has invited you for lunch.” A sudden switch of direction.

“Your mother?” he said, trying to ignore the hostility in her voice.

“Surprising though it may seem to you, I have a mother.” The temperature between them had plunged way below zero. “Would you like to come or not?”

“I would,” he said.

“Come on then.” And she turned on her heel, heading for the exit. Mullen followed, conscious that he couldn’t have handled things worse if he had tried.

But he didn’t make it outside. The Reverend Diana Downey, doing a meet and greet routine by the double doors, stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Mr Mullen, I presume.”

“Doug.”

“Very nice to have you along today, Doug. I do hope we haven’t put you off coming again?” Diana Downey’s face crinkled round the edges. Mullen wasn’t an expert on perfumes, but she had undoubtedly applied plenty that morning. Her ear-rings were respectively a sun and moon. More New Age than Christian, Mullen thought — though what did he know about either?

“It was a nice service.” It was a feeble response; but it wasn’t as if he had attended many in his time.

“It was such a shame about Chris,” she continued.

Mullen nodded. So she knew why he was here. “Maybe I could talk to you about him?”

“Of course. I don’t know how much help I can be, but give me a ring. My number is on the bottom of the service sheet.”

“I will.”

“Good.” Mullen had had his turn. She turned to greet another parishioner who wanted her attention. Mullen took his cue and went outside to catch up with Rose. She was across the other side of the road, talking to Janice and Paul Atkinson. Their heads turned as one towards him and then they broke up, the Atkinsons hurrying off down a path that ran between the houses.

“There you are,” Rose said as Mullen reached her. “I thought maybe you had changed your mind.”

* * *

Margaret Wilby lived in Grandpont Grange, an elegant stone-faced retirement complex built around a pair of quadrangles in imitation of the archetypical Oxford college. She greeted her daughter rather coolly, Mullen thought, barely allowing herself to be pecked on the cheek. As for him, she nodded curtly and ran her eyes up and down his clothing as if assessing whether he was appropriately dressed for Sunday lunch. Mullen suspected he failed on that score.

“My daughter will offer you a drink,” she said, retreating to the kitchen at the end of the large living space they had just entered. Mullen took in the detail. A small dining table (mahogany he guessed) was laid for three. There was a two-seater settee and a pair of matching armchairs grouped around a low oak table. A flat-screen TV stood on a matching oak cabinet in the corner. A tablet device of some sort lay on a side-table (also oak) next to one of the armchairs. The carpet was deep red with a slight fleck.

“There’s wine, if you like. We’re having red with the lamb,” Rose said. “Or my mother has a plentiful supply of dry sherry and gin and tonic.”

“Or apple juice or water if you don’t drink on duty,” her mother said.

Mullen shrugged. “I’m not a policeman. Red wine would be nice.”

Margaret Wilby made a guttural noise that might have meant several things, though Mullen doubted if any of them were complimentary. He wondered how soon after they had eaten he could leave without giving offence. It didn’t seem to be the happiest mother-daughter relationship and he wasn’t sure either of them wanted him there. Which rather begged the question: why had he been asked?

By the time they were sitting down at the table some ten minutes later, Mullen was feeling slightly less jaundiced. He had almost emptied his wine glass and the smell from the food (roast lamb, roast potatoes, vegetables, gravy and mint jelly) was making him realise how hungry he was. He made the faux pas of picking up his knife and fork just as Margaret plunged into a prolonged grace which covered thanks for the food, a request for divine wisdom and regret for the ‘passing of poor Chris,’ but neither woman appeared to hold it against him. For that he felt truly thankful.

“I would like to make something clear, Mr Mullen.” Margaret Wilby spoke as if addressing a meeting of the town council. Mullen was about to lift a forkful of lamb and potato into his mouth. Reluctantly he laid it back on the plate. He paused, waiting for her pronouncement. “I think Rose and her coterie are wasting their money. I cannot see the point of hiring a private detective when the police with all their resources can do a much better job.” Mullen looked across at her, but her attention had transferred to her plate: she speared two pieces of carrot and raised them to her mouth. “Well? Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?”

“Rose says that Chris did not drink alcohol,” Mullen said. “My understanding is that the police pathologist found a high concentration of alcohol in his blood. I see it as my task to investigate this apparent discrepancy.”

“I see.” Margaret Wilby considered Mullen’s answer for several seconds. She took a sip of wine and swilled it round her mouth as if trying to decide if it passed muster. Eventually she swallowed.

Mullen felt he had to say more. “If Chris went on a bender after a period of abstinence, as the police think, then the chances are there will be some evidence somewhere. Someone will have been there at the time, maybe drinking with him. A shop-keeper may remember him buying the booze. Or there might be a stack of empties wherever it was that he slept at night.”

“And what happens if you draw a blank? Do you give Rose all the money back? Like it says on your website?”