Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter - Страница 21

“All right, hold your horses whoever you are!” Mullen shouted the welcome as he struggled to undo the bolts at the top and bottom of the door. Nothing seemed to be working right this morning. The chances were it was either the police again or — most likely, Mullen reckoned — Becca Baines, all primed to give him an ear-bashing because he had passed her name on to Dorkin and the police had hauled her into the station. But what alternative had he had?

Mullen wrenched the door open. He was wrong. The person banging the knocker as if his life depended on it was Derek Stanley. He was smartly dressed as usual — pale blue chinos, yellow and white striped shirt and linen jacket — but he seemed on edge. Behind and below him, one delicate foot on the bottom step, stood Margaret Wilby, dressed in a blend of light blues — blouse and slacks, cardigan and sandals.

“Hope we didn’t wake you up, Mr Mullen?” she said.

“Can I help?”

“Why don’t you go and make yourself decent,” she said, advancing until she was millimetres from him.

Mullen retreated. He could see no option.

She sniffed. “Maybe even have a quick shower,” she said. “We are not in a rush.”

* * *

By the time Mullen had taken a super-quick shower, thrown some clothes on and got downstairs again, his two visitors had made themselves comfortable in the large kitchen with mugs of tea.

“One for you too,” Margaret Wilby said, pointing to a mug on the table in front of an empty chair. Mullen sat down. The two of them were positioned opposite him, neat and stern, appraising him and finding him wanting. Shades of the Apprentice programme on TV. Mullen had watched it occasionally and been fascinated by the ridiculous nastiness of it all. In this case Margaret Wilby was the Lord Sugar figure while Derek Stanley was one of his minions, ready to add his two pennyworth when asked, but otherwise eminently forgettable.

“We were wondering how your investigations were going, Mr Mullen.”

“Into Chris’s death, you mean?”

“Of course.”

Mullen picked up his mug and took a sip. He continued to hold it in both hands, a barrier against the woman’s inquisition. “I only discuss the progress of the investigation with the person who hired me. In this case, your daughter.”

“As you know, Mr Mullen, several people in the church contributed to your fee.”

“Did you, Mrs Wilby? My impression was that you disapproved.”

Margaret Wilby’s lips pressed tight in irritation. Disapproval seemed to be part of her DNA.

“I contributed,” said Derek Stanley, giving a reason for his presence.

Mullen stood up. “Even so, I’m still not discussing the case with you, not without Rose being present. Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to make myself some toast. I’ve not eaten yet.”

Mullen located two slices of wholemeal bread from the larder, put them in the toaster and removed marmalade and soya spread from the fridge. There was silence as he worked away, smearing his pieces of toast and then cutting them diagonally into triangles. Then he returned to the table and started eating as if they were no longer there. But if he hoped they would get the message and go, it didn’t work.

“It’s such a shame about Janice.” Margaret Wilby spoke in the same tone of voice that she very likely used when discussing the weather. “Such a shame it rained today.”

Mullen took another bite and refused to make eye contact.

“Actually,” Stanley interrupted, “maybe in retrospect it’s a good thing.”

This time Mullen did look up. “What on earth do you mean by that?” He felt, he suddenly realised, very defensive about Janice Atkinson. She had come to him in need and he had at some level failed her. He had done what she had paid him to do, yet he had done nothing more. Guilt clung to him, which made it impossible for him to sit there quietly while a jerk like Derek Stanley spouted stuff like that.

“Janice and Chris.” Stanley shrugged and allowed his face to do the talking. Enough said. Work it out for yourself, Mr Private Investigator.

“You’re telling me Janice and Chris had an affair?”

“That is a blunt way of putting it, Mr Mullen.” Margaret Wilby was taking back control. Or maybe she had been in control all along and Stanley was part of it — her tame stooge. “Chris was a very charming man. A bit of a rogue too, but what woman doesn’t like a charming rogue? Poor Janice, with her marriage in tatters, was very susceptible to him. Of course, I don’t know the precise nature of their relationship, but my impression is that she was making rather a fool of herself.”

Mullen considered this as he finished the third quarter of his toast and took another slug of tea. “When you say her marriage was in tatters, are you saying you knew Paul Atkinson was having an affair?”

“Not at all. What I meant was that it was perfectly obvious from the way they behaved in public, from what they said and didn’t say, that their relationship had entered rocky waters. And it was perfectly obvious too that Janice liked Chris. Dangerously so.”

“So what exactly is your point?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

Mullen was getting to like her less every time she opened her mouth. But hidden somewhere amid the unpleasantness was information about Chris that might be relevant — if it was true. “Humour me, Mrs Wilby.”

She sniffed. “Personally, I don’t go along with Rose’s conspiracy theory about Chris. He had a relapse. He got extremely drunk, fell into the river and drowned. My daughter may not wish to believe it, but it happened. The pathology report supports that. His bloodstream was swimming with alcohol. The only issue as far as I can see is whether there was anyone else present at the time. My guess would be that if anyone was involved in it, if anyone did facilitate him in getting into such a state, it was Janice.”

Guess was the operative word as far as Mullen was concerned. Possibly even an intelligent one. But nothing more than that. “Do you have any actual evidence, Mrs Wilby?”

“Do you, Mr Mullen?” She stood up and picked up her bag from the table. She had had her say and — to Mullen’s relief — was going to leave. “I merely present to you what I know and what I consequently deduce. I suggest you give up your investigation with good grace and get back to more profitable work, such as tracking errant husbands. I do not want my daughter wasting any more money on a wild goose chase.”

Mullen stood up too. He was not going to give her the satisfaction of having the last word. “Let’s just get this straight, Mrs Wilby. You think Janice felt guilty about Chris? That she felt she had somehow driven him to drink and so to his accidental death?”

She didn’t reply, though there was a slight nod of her head, as if in agreement.

“So how does Janice’s own death fit in with that?”

She sighed, as if the whole conversation had become just too irritating for words.

“Suicide, Mr Mullen. She was so riddled with guilt that she walked into the path of an oncoming car. Maybe it was a split second decision. She saw the car coming her way in the rain and the dark and she just decided to end it all.”

* * *

As Mullen watched the two of them disappear down the drive in Derek Stanley’s blue Astra, his overriding emotion was one of relief. But there was another feeling too; it had at first been a mere grain of sand in his shoe, but as the minutes passed it had become a sizeable lump of sharp grit impossible to ignore. Earlier, lying in bed, he had been ready to give up. But Margaret Wilby, far from putting him off, had ironically achieved quite the opposite. For a start, he hadn’t liked her hectoring, I-know-better-than-you manner. The more she tried to persuade him to give up, the more he felt determined not to. That was human nature, or his human nature at any rate. It was Rose who had hired him and he would stop only if Rose asked him to. And yet even if she did ask, even if she rang up this very moment and told him that they were quits, he wasn’t sure he would. Because the death of Janice had changed things. Now it felt extremely personal.