Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter - Страница 13

Atkinson looked up at her. She always referred to Janice as his wife and never by her name. Even in the current circumstances, it irritated him. “I can work that out for myself, Doreen.”

“Unless, of course . . .” She paused. Atkinson suspected she was rather enjoying this whole embarrassing situation. Even so, another great thing about her was that she was totally loyal. “Unless, of course, your anonymous correspondent has already posted copies of the photographs to her.”

Atkinson could feel the blood drain from his face. That was something that hadn’t occurred to him. He looked into Doreen’s impassive face for some flicker of encouragement.

“Actually, I think that is highly unlikely,” she said. “After all, the obvious reason for sending these incriminating photographs to you is in order to blackmail you. And in such circumstances, sending photographs to your wife would be counterproductive.”

Atkinson nodded. She was right. She had to be.

“There is another alternative of course,” she said.

Paul Atkinson’s irritation level went up another notch. Why did Doreen insist on peppering her conversation with words like ‘of course’? But he tried not to let his feelings show, because that would only encourage her. Instead he folded his hands together and waited for her to say whatever it was that was so self-evident. He needed her on his side. And if she had a solution to the problem, he would like to hear it.

“Have you given your wife any reason to doubt your fidelity?” She paused momentarily as if she expected him to answer her question. But then she pushed on. “Because it occurs to me that if you have, then she might herself have hired some man to photograph you in the act as it were. In which case her posting them to you at the office where they might get seen by me is her way of applying pressure on you — of yanking on your lead and forcing you to come to heel.”

Atkinson considered this. He didn’t like the metaphor of himself as a dog and Janice his owner, but he had to admit Doreen had covered all the possibilities. So where on earth did that leave him?

“My advice,” Doreen said firmly, in a tone of voice that indicated he had better jolly well take it, “is to allow me to shred the photographs now, and then for you to go home at the usual time and see what happens.”

Atkinson opened his mouth. “But—” He got no further.

“It will be obvious from your wife’s behaviour whether she knows about the photographs. If she has been sent copies in the post, she will be furious with you as soon as you walk through the door. If it is she who sent them to you, she will no doubt be studying you very carefully. On the other hand, if she knows nothing about it, then her behaviour will be quite normal. In which case you will need to prepare yourself for a phone call or some other communication from your blackmailer.”

“Yes.” Paul Atkinson could think of no other reply.

“Well,” she said, “you can go and eat the rest of your lunch in peace. I’ll deal with these photographs and then I’ll bring you a coffee.” He had been dismissed, and not for the first time, by his personal assistant. But for once he didn’t really mind.

* * *

Mullen had no idea where he was. He tried opening his eyes, but shut them instantly as pain jagged through his head.

“Hello there.”

He opened his eyes a chink and glimpsed an angel in blue standing over him. She was, he realised, holding his wrist and checking her watch.

“You’ll live,” she said and laid his arm down. “Are you in pain?”

He nodded, shutting his eyes against the sunlight that was flooding into the room from behind her.

“I’ll give you something for it.”

He took the analgesics she produced, shut his eyes again and fell asleep. When he next opened them, his angel in blue — her name was Kaila according to her badge — offered him some toast. “You’ve missed supper,” she said. “But we don’t want you fading away.” She had a nice smile and an ethnicity he couldn’t place. Not that her ethnicity mattered, but he was curious nevertheless. “You missed a visitor too. I sent him away.” Mullen was grateful. He couldn’t think of any ‘him’ that he would want to be visited by. Maybe it was Dorkin. He seemed to turn up everywhere.

Mullen slept through the night. “Like a baby,” he said to Raheema when she asked the next morning. Raheema had replaced Kaila. Mullen was feeling much better, with just a dull throb at the back of his head. He thought he should try and be a bit chatty. ‘Like a baby’ seemed a good way of doing so.

Raheema looked at him as if he was deranged. “I presume you’ve never had a baby?”

He shook his head.

“They don’t sleep — not more than a few hours.”

“It’s a saying.”

“It’s the stupidest saying I’ve ever heard.”

He fell silent. It was evidently a sore subject. Or was she always like this?

“Is there someone we can contact for you?” The storm had passed. “The doctor will be doing his rounds a bit later and if he is happy, we will discharge you. We would prefer it if someone drove you home. Or we can order a taxi.”

Mullen tried to think. Only two names came to mind. “Rose Wilby.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No,” he said quickly, irritated by the nurse’s prying.

“Would you like me to ring her for you?”

“Please.” Mullen leant back into his pillows. He really would have preferred to stay in hospital for another day or so. He could sleep lots and have nurses waiting on his every need. Maybe Kaila would be back on shift again later. That would be nice. Or maybe Raheema would be replaced by Raheema Mark 2. That would be less nice. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, time had passed and the figure in front of him was male. The doctor was ridiculously young and wore a stethoscope slung round his neck as if to prove his status in case anyone should mistake him for a schoolboy on work experience.

“That’s a nasty blow you got there, Mr Mullen.”

“Yeah.”

“Luckily you’ve got a very tough skull.”

Mullen said nothing. Was that the culmination of years of expensive training? God help the patients if it was. Or perhaps the man really was a schoolboy on work experience, and masquerading as a doctor.

“As far as we are concerned, you can go home.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The doctor-schoolboy sniffed. “Maybe after you’ve taken a shower.”

It wasn’t the subtlest of hints, but Mullen wasn’t bothered.

He lay there a bit longer, reluctant to do anything. Someone in a green uniform appeared with a trolley. His name was Rick. It said so on his badge. He chatted so volubly that Mullen decided maybe he would like to get home after all.

“Will you be wanting lunch?” Rick asked, ever helpful.

“Not if my lift turns up first.”

Rick moved on. Mullen, who had opted for a cup of tea, drank it slowly. Then he went in search of the shower room.

* * *

Becca Baines had only been in the hospital car park ten minutes when Mullen appeared out of the main entrance escorted by a man and a woman. She didn’t know either of them. The guy was wearing bright orange-brown chinos and a summer jacket, and the woman was neat and precise in both clothing and movements. Even the dark curls of her hair seemed well controlled. Baines walked slowly towards her own car, a red Fiat Punto, trying to keep an eye on the trio as they made their way across to a blue Vauxhall Astra. Suppose Mullen looked over, saw her and recognised her? But surely he wouldn’t. She was wearing sunglasses, a long black wig and a retro dress from the back of the wardrobe which she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in. Wasn’t that enough of a disguise? She had bought the wig for a fancy dress party, as a bit of a laugh, but it hadn’t been that cheap and she had rather liked the effect it had had on a guy called Steve — rock hard biceps and an eagle tattoo on his neck. But Becca needn’t have worried about being recognised. Mullen was fully pre-occupied by the task of getting to the car. His two escorts were walking so closely he might have been handcuffed to them. The man got into the driver’s seat while the woman held open the rear door for Mullen as if he was incapable of doing anything for himself. Mind you, he did have an impressive bandage round his head. The woman bent over him, fussing. Finally, she shut his door and walked round to the other side of the car. She opened the rear door. She was going to sit next to him. Baines puckered her lips, much as Frankie Howard used to do. “Ooh!” Becca could read the body language even at this distance: the woman fancied Mullen.