Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter - Страница 24

It was Mullen who paused now, but deliberately so. He wanted to be sure he phrased this next bit right. It was a crucial moment. “Was anyone in the church having an affair with Chris?”

Diana Downey opened her mouth as if to speak. But at that very moment, like some divine intervention, the phone on the desk rang. She turned and grabbed it as if it was a lifebelt.

A man spoke. That it was a man was clear enough to Mullen. The man tried to plunge straight into a conversation, but she cut across him. “I’m in a meeting. I’ll ring you back when it’s over. In half an hour or so.” She replaced the phone and swung round to face Mullen. “The answer to your question, Mr Mullen, is that I very much doubt it. Of course, my parishioners do not keep me abreast of all their sins and failings, but usually I find out in the end. People like to confess.”

“And I suppose if anyone had confessed to you, in your capacity as a priest, you wouldn’t feel able to tell me anyway.”

She inclined her head, but said nothing.

“My impression was that people liked Chris.” Mullen was not going to let her off that easily. “Why else would people in your church have hired me to find out how he ended up dead in the river? He must have been an intriguing newcomer. Attractive to women I imagine. A bit of a mystery man. Even good Christian women must have been tempted.”

The Reverend Downey licked her lips. Her eyes stared back at his. “No-one is exempt from temptation, Mr Mullen.”

No-one? Mullen had a wild thought: had Diana fancied Chris herself? She must be about forty, so not much older than him. Unless of course she was more interested in women? After all there didn’t appear to be a Mr Downey.

Diana Downey broke into his speculations. “Any other questions?”

Mullen lowered his head and clasped his hands to his temples. He groaned softly.

“Are you all right, Mr Mullen?”

He shook his head and opened his eyes. “Do you by any chance have any pain killers? My head.”

“Of course. I’ll go and find some.”

“And maybe I can take you up on the offer of a cup of tea. Two sugars.”

“Of course.” Diana Downey was on her feet and out of the room. He heard her filling a kettle. Then she was heading upstairs, presumably to find some pills.

Mullen stood up and walked over to the desk. He picked up the phone, dialled 1-4-7-1 and waited. “Telephone number 01865 . . .” He memorised the six numbers that followed the Oxford STD code. He heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Diana Downey returning. He slipped the receiver back onto its stand and returned to his chair, just as she appeared in the doorway.

“Paracetamol or aspirin?”

“Either,” he said weakly, as if he was beyond making even such a simple decision.

“I’ll just get the sweet tea and some water as well.”

* * *

Mullen felt bad. He wasn’t someone who took pleasure in deception. And he wasn’t sure he was very good at it. But it was a case of needs must. The man who had rung Diana had called himself Charles. Mullen was pretty sure about that. “Hi, it’s Charles.” Those had been his words. Then “I just wanted—” before she cut him short and promised to ring back.

Two days ago he had followed a Charles Speight home from a meeting with Dorkin. Today Diana Downey is rung by a Charles she doesn’t want to speak to in front of Mullen. Was it the same Charles or a different one? A mere coincidence or something more significant?

“How are you feeling?” It was Diana Downey, returning after another disappearance upstairs. After doling out three paracetamol tablets — “an extra one won’t hurt” — plus water, a cup of tea and two biscuits, she had retreated and spent a surprisingly long time in the loo. Now she was back.

“Definitely a bit better,” he replied with what he hoped was a weak smile. “I didn’t sleep so well last night. Then I decided the garden needed some attention this morning and I never got round to eating, so it’s all my own stupid fault.”

“Not your fault that someone slugged you over the head.”

“You heard about that?”

She grinned. “There’s nothing like a church grapevine.”

Mullen sipped at his tea.

“So,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound unwelcoming, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Do you want me to organise a lift for you?”

“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be OK. I’ve got my car.”

“No more questions?”

“One, if you don’t mind.” Or even if she did.

She waited, hands pressed together as if she was preparing to pray.

“Did Janice like Chris?”

Diana Downey hesitated before she gave a measured reply. “By ’like’ I presume you mean was she sexually attracted to him?”

“Yes.”

She pondered the question for several seconds, pushing an unruly lock of hair back with her right hand. Eventually she stood up, as if to signal that this really was the last question. “My understanding, Mr Mullen, was that it was you she was most attracted to.”

Mullen was thrown off balance. He had thought he had control of their interview, but a single riposte had him floundering. Of course, Diana Downey was right that Janice had been attracted to him. But who had told her? Or was it an open secret round the church? Was that the reason why he had received so many curious looks on Sunday?

Mullen stood up and drained the last of his tea despite its foul sweetness.

“Let’s leave me out of it,” he said, attempting to regain control. “I ask only because Mrs Wilby insisted to me that Janice was smitten with Chris.”

Diana Downey snapped back. “You ask because you are trying to rake up dirt amongst my parishioners. I am not a fool, Mr Mullen. Being a minister of the church does not mean I do not understand the ways of the world. Far from it. I understand temptation and sin all too well. If Janice was smitten with him — and I do say if — so too were several other women in the church, I suspect. Chris brought out their mothering side. An attractive, unattached man, down on his luck, who knew how to enlist sympathy. In that sense he was a rather dangerous man as far as I was concerned. Disruptive to my flock. Even Margaret was rather taken with him, I suspect, despite the age discrepancy. I understand she had him round for supper on at least one occasion.” She turned towards the door. “Anyway, that is all I am prepared to say. I really do need to get myself organised.”

Mullen nodded. He was getting his marching orders, but he didn’t mind. It had been one heck of a productive meeting.

* * *

Mullen was itching to make the phone call to the ‘Charles’ who had rung Reverend Downey, but he waited until he was back in the silence and security of his car before pulling out his mobile and punching in the memorised numbers. The phone rang for several seconds before a woman answered. “Good afternoon. CSK. How can I help you?”

‘CSK’ didn’t ring any bells with Mullen, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was how the receptionist reacted to his question.

“Can I speak to Charles Speight, please?”

“Of course.”

There was a noise confirming that he was being put through.

Mullen hesitated. Should he hang up now before anyone could reply? He had, after all, found out what he wanted to know.

By the time he had come to a decision, the phone was already ringing. It was answered immediately. “Speight,” a man said. Business-like, brusque and distracted all at once.

Mullen hung up. He was breathing heavily and sweating hard. He started the engine and opened both front windows. All he needed to do now was find out where CSK were based.

* * *

Mullen pulled into CSK’s car-park at 3.50 p.m. It was situated in an identikit business park on the edge of the village of Wootton, a couple of miles to the west of Boars Hill. He drove slowly around the car-park, looking out on the one hand for a specific blue Audi A4 and on the other for a free space offering him a good but discreet place from which to view it. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the car and pulled into a space barely ten metres away. A good day was getting better.