Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter - Страница 7

“It was me who found him,” Mullen said. He had passed.

“I know.”

“Who told you?”

She nearly said. It wouldn’t matter if he knew. But she didn’t want to spoon feed the man. Make him work for it.

She unzipped her handbag, removed a small white envelope and placed it on the table. “?300 to show my goodwill. Or rather our goodwill. It’s a group effort.”

Mullen didn’t even pick up the envelope. That was a plus mark as far as she was concerned. Instead he said, “You haven’t exactly given me a lot to go on.”

“I only knew Chris after he started coming to our church a couple of months ago. Sunday mornings and Thursday lunchtimes. I liked him. Lots of us did. Good with the old. Good with the young. He rubbed some people in St Mark’s up the wrong way, but I liked him.”

She shivered. It was colder in the house than it was outside. She wished she’d brought a cardigan or jacket.

Mullen rose from his chair. He ran his fingers through what little hair hadn’t been removed by the barber. “So you think his death is suspicious?”

She nodded, though in her head she was saying ‘stupid question.’ Of course she did. Why would she be here otherwise? “Chris didn’t drink,” she said. “He told me he’d been on the wagon for three years. I believed him.” She fixed Mullen with her eyes.

“Why don’t you tell the police all this?”

“I have. But they’ve already come to the conclusion that he relapsed, got drunk and fell in. Pure and simple. A detective came round to the church this morning. Detective Inspector Dorkin according to his ID. Said they weren’t likely to spend too much time on an open-and-shut case like this.”

Mullen, who had moved across to the sink, twisted his head round and nodded. She got the sense that he was getting interested finally, but not (curiously) so much in the envelope of cash on the table or indeed in her — though he had run an appraising pair of eyes up and down her in the Iffley Road — but in Chris. She wondered why.

“Chris is a nobody as far as they are concerned,” she continued. “Why waste valuable police resources on a nobody?”

Mullen nodded again, like one of those ridiculous dogs that drivers sometimes put in the back window of their cars. She looked at her watch. “So are you taking the case, or what?” It was time for Mullen to make a decision.

He opened his mouth, but said nothing. She could see the uncertainty in his face. Was he thinking of a polite way to say ‘No’?

“I appreciate it’s a long shot,” she said, “so my colleagues and I will not expect you to hand back the ?300 if you fail in your assignment.”

“That’s kind.”

“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I suggest you come to church tomorrow and meet people who knew Chris. I’ve written the details on the back of the envelope.”

With that, Rose Wilby hoisted her bag over her shoulder and made her exit.

Chapter 3

Mullen didn’t hate churches. That was too strong a word. He merely disliked them. Cornered at a party and asked for his reasons he would very likely have trotted out the words ‘irrelevance’ and ‘hypocrisy.’ If pressed further and the drink had been talking, he might well have embarked on a diatribe about the dangers of all types of extreme religious belief. When you’ve seen people blown up by a suicide bomber, all in the name of someone’s God, it’s impossible not to have strong feelings.

He was sitting in a pew in St Mark’s next to Rose Wilby. It was, by his reckoning, thirty seconds after the official start time of the ten-thirty service, but the vicar — low key in blue clerical blouse and collar, plus darker blue skirt with matching sandals — was showing no sign of getting things started. Glancing behind him Mullen saw punters still drifting in. He turned back. Rose was whispering to her other neighbour, a middle-aged man with a goatee and glasses. Two old ladies sitting at the front had turned round and were looking at Mullen as if he was the major attraction in a zoo. He stared back and they turned quickly away. Mullen tried not to mind. Everyone seemed to be wanting to get a look at him. Was that because he was new or because word had got round about who he was? He turned his own gaze back to the vicar and, as if reading his mind, she stood up. Mullen checked his watch. It was what his RSM at the training barracks would have called relaxed time-keeping. Whatever else St Mark’s was, it hardly emanated vibes of wild fundamentalism.

Mullen wasn’t sure what to make of the service. Several hymns or songs that he didn’t recognise, a sermon that involved overhead images and three main points, some intercessions from a man in a wheelchair (including a reference to the death of Chris — no surname provided), all polished off with a blessing from the vicar and an invitation to stay for coffee and tea. So far, so pleasant and harmless.

Rose leant close to him as the congregation sat down and the vicar made her way towards the back of the church. “I’ll introduce you to one or two people, but feel free to mingle and ask about Chris.” Mullen didn’t know a thing about perfumes, but he liked Rose’s smell. He wondered momentarily about the etiquette of saying so in church, but by the time he had come to a decision she had risen to her feet and was waving at a woman dressed in bright purple.

Mullen decided he might as well go and get himself a coffee and mingle. He joined the queue at the back of the church. He felt the tap of a hand on his upper arm and turned.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the woman said. Which was a lie, of course, because they had done so on two separate occasions. “My name is Janice and I think you must be Rose’s private investigator. Mr Mullen, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

She held two coffees and offered him one of them.

“So nice to meet you.”

Her left hand pressed against his elbow as she eased him away from the crowd and into the south aisle. He moved compliantly enough, though he was trying to recall the Christian teachings on praising and praying to God one minute and lying through your teeth the next.

“And so glad you have taken on Chris’s case.”

Janice had been talking loudly, establishing her innocence with a will. Now she turned the volume down to little more than a whisper. “A few of us in St Mark’s have clubbed together, so I hope you’re going to give us good value for money.”

Mullen glanced around. A hexagonal column separated them from the rest of the congregation, allowing them a surprising degree of privacy considering the number of people milling around.

“And why exactly would a few of you good people of St Mark’s be so interested in Chris?” If Janice was going to speak her mind, then so would he. “And why indeed are you willing to spend money on me when the police will be running a case file on his death? The coroner will expect a detailed report from them.”

“A report that says an unknown down-and-out got drunk, fell into the river and drowned. No sign of foul play. Death by misadventure. Next case please.”

“I’m not convinced.” And he wasn’t. Not convinced that there was anything suspicious to uncover, not convinced as to the motivation of the do-gooders of St Mark’s, not convinced about anything except the ?300 that he still had safely tucked away inside his wallet.

“Darling!” It was a man’s voice. Mullen turned. He recognised both the voice and the face. Not that he had ever spoken to the guy or even met him, except via the lens of a camera. It was Paul Atkinson.

“This is Mr Mullen, Rose’s private detective.”

She made him sound like a favoured pet.

“Pleased to meet you.” Paul Atkinson thrust out a hand. “Found any clues yet, then? Plenty of dodgy characters here if you ask me.” He laughed.

Mullen wasn’t asking. Merely observing and wondering. Wondering, for instance, if Paul Atkinson was putting on an act just as much as his wife had been a few moments earlier? What did he know? Had she confronted him with the photos? Or had she stored them away as insurance for the future? If the former, did Paul Atkinson know that it was he, Mullen, who had taken them?