Текст книги "Dead in the Water"

Автор книги: Peter Tickler

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

“It’s not mine.”

“You could have found it. And you could have used it.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s what the police will think, isn’t it?” Rose said all this in a matter-of-fact way. “That you might have found it and given it to Chris and Janice before you killed them.”

“But I didn’t.” Mullen suddenly felt defensive. He had thought Rose was on his side, but here she was making a case against him. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Of course.” She stretched out her hand and for a second allowed it to rest on his. “But it doesn’t look good, Doug.”

This time Mullen took another, slower pull at his lemonade.

“Do you have alibis that someone else can confirm?”

Mullen shook his head. It was something he had thought about too.

“It was you who found Chris, wasn’t it? That won’t look good either. And you took those photographs for Janice and then she was killed.”

“Hell, I know that.” He didn’t mean to snap, but it was hard not to. “Don’t you think I feel guilty about her? If I hadn’t gone snooping for her, she wouldn’t have come looking for me in the Iffley Road and she would still be alive.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Doug.” Rose sounded like her mother. “We need to make a plan and we need to get on with it before the police come knocking on your door again.”

* * *

“You’re the detective. Don’t you have a prime suspect?” Rose had just made them a second glass of lemonade with plenty of ice. It was ridiculously hot in the flat, even with the balcony doors pulled wide open. “I mean, the prime suspects for Janice must be her husband or her husband’s lover. Paul or Becca. Or both, of course.”

“But why would they kill Chris?” Mullen was talking as much to himself as to Rose.

“How can you be sure Chris was murdered?”

“The rohypnol.”

“Maybe someone just gave it to him. Maybe he thought it was some other drug. He took it, had a drink and then fell into the river. That’s the simple answer isn’t it?”

“Why did you and Janice hire me in the first place?”

Rose shrugged. “Because we liked him.”

“That’s it?”

“We felt we owed him.”

“Owed him what?”

“Not to be forgotten. Not to be ignored just because he was a drifter, a man with no place in society and no fixed abode.”

“What about everyone else at St Mark’s?”

“A few people agreed. Mostly women. However, I suspect that the majority of people in the church thought we should just leave it to the police.”

“And was there anyone who was actively hostile to your plans? Anyone who tried to dissuade you?”

Rose frowned. Not for the first time Mullen realised he found her rather attractive. She wasn’t a conventional beauty, but then he had never been drawn to conventional beauties.

“The vicar of course. Diana didn’t like Chris. She hid it well. She was perfectly nice to him, but . . .” Rose paused, allowing Mullen to interrupt.

“But she was worried about the effect he was having on her congregation? On people like Janice and yourself?”

“I guess so.”

“Anyone else apart from Diana?”

“My mother.” Rose laughed at the thought. “She definitely didn’t like the way Chris flirted with me.”

“Why not?”

“Being nice to him in church was one thing. But any sort of relationship would have been quite another thing in my mother’s book.”

“And did you respond to any of his flirtations?”

There was a slight pause before she answered his question. “No.”

Mullen considered this for a few seconds before moving on. “So when you came and told me you wanted me to stop the investigation, who put you up to it?”

“Diana and my mother essentially. But Janice had got cold feet too. That was what we talked about the last time I spoke to her. She and Rachel Speight waited behind at the end of the youth group. They said they wanted to offer me some ‘good Christian advice.’”

“That was it? Did none of the men offer you ‘good Christian advice?’”

Rose frowned again, as if that was something she had not considered before. “There was Derek Stanley of course. Wherever my mother goes, he follows in her footsteps. But in my experience, men are less keen to hand out free advice.”

“Tell me about Derek.”

“What is there to know? He was here at St Mark’s when my mother and I came ten years ago.”

“Does he have any family?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“He had a sister, didn’t he? Lived in Hungerford. She committed suicide.”

Rose opened her eyes wide. “Gosh. You are well informed.”

“She was in Hungerford the day Michael Ryan ran amok and killed fourteen people. According to Derek, she was lucky not to be killed herself. Exactly one year later she hanged herself.”

She stood up and walked over to the balcony windows, staring out across the river. Mullen studied her profile and was struck by her nose, long and slightly upturned at the end, suggesting an arrogance that was at odds with what he knew of her character. She turned towards him. “How on earth did you get Derek to tell you that?”

“I guess it was the fact that when Chris first came to St Mark’s, he was dressed in camouflage fatigues. I asked him about Chris when I met him in church and that was the memory it sparked in him. Michael Ryan and Chris both dressed in army gear.”

Rose returned to the table and sat down. “So what are you going to do now? I’d like to help if I can.”

Mullen scratched hard at his head. He wasn’t sure why, but his scalp had become very itchy. Residue from the bandaging he supposed.

“There’s one thing you can do for me,” he said. “You can ring Paul Atkinson and tell him you need to see him urgently.”

“Paul?” Rose was clearly surprised by Mullen’s change of direction. “You don’t think that Paul . . . ?”

She tailed off, unable to voice in full what Mullen’s request might imply.

“I don’t at the moment know of any connections between Paul and Chris, but if anyone were to draw up a list of suspects for the death of Janice, then Paul would be at or near the top.”

“As would Becca, surely?”

Mullen said nothing. He knew Rose was right, but it wasn’t Becca he was interested in right this moment. He could access Becca himself. In Paul’s case, he needed help. “Paul avoided me in church this morning. He doesn’t like me. I understand that. But I need to ask him questions. So I want you to arrange a meeting without mentioning that I will be there too.”

The meeting proved remarkably easy to arrange. Rose rang Paul Atkinson from her mobile. He picked up almost immediately and when she said how she really needed to talk to him about Chris, he agreed without any further questioning. But as they discussed when and where to meet, Mullen was barely listening. For the suspicious invisible gremlin which sometimes lurked on his shoulder had materialised and started to whisper into his ear. Did you notice, the gremlin said, that the lovely Rose has Paul Atkinson’s phone number stored on her phone? What is that all about? The gremlin had plenty more to say. Rose is jealous of Becca Baines and Becca Baines was having an affair with Paul Atkinson – you haven’t forgotten that, Doug? But now Becca Baines has been chumming up to you, Doug, even though it was you who put the kibosh on her fun with Paul. And, the gremlin continued, just in case Doug had missed the point, this is not the first time Rose has rung Paul Atkinson mobile to mobile. Put all that in your pipe and smoke it, Doug, the gremlin concluded triumphantly. Afterwards, you can tell me what you make of it.

And Mullen really didn’t know what to make of it all. What he did know, however, was that he had to do something if he wanted to get to the bottom of the two deaths. Or should that be three deaths? It was the gremlin again. What about Doreen Rankin? I am not saying that her death is necessarily suspicious, but why, Doug, did the police question you about it? Was it merely because of the photographs they found? Or did they suspect foul play? Mullen’s response was that the police didn’t quiz him for an alibi; so the likelihood was that the woman’s death was just an unfortunate accident. Maybe she fell asleep halfway through a cigarette? Or after lighting a candle? Accidents happen. Why would there be anything intrinsically suspicious about a house fire, unless – the thought hit Mullen like a clapper in a church bell – Doreen Rankin’s remains happened to contain traces of rohypnol.

“Is everything OK?” Rose was looking at him with that frown of hers.

“Yes,” he said. “You did a good job with Paul.” He stood up and drained what was left of his lemonade. “Where are we meeting him?”

“At my mother’s.”

* * *

Mullen’s mobile beeped a second time. It was lying on the table in front of him. His immediate impulse was to pick it up. He hardly ever got text messages. Janice had been the exception. She had sent him a text per day at first, checking on how he was getting on with the job. The frequency of the texts had increased, at first gradually and then exponentially. They had changed in content and tone too, becoming more personal and more desperate. He didn’t think he had received any texts from anyone since Janice’s death.

He glanced round the room. Paul seemed to be avoiding looking at him, as he had done for much of the visit. If he had noticed the beeps they didn’t seem to bother him. Margaret had picked up her tea cup and was watching him as she sipped at it. He was pretty sure that Margaret would disapprove if he checked his mobile in the middle of a meeting. She would consider it bad manners and tell him so very clearly. So he sat back on the sofa and resumed questioning Paul Atkinson.

“Was Janice very friendly with Chris?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m just asking.”

“And I’m asking you – do you seriously think Janice had it in her to kill Chris? And do you also think that she was so filled with remorse that she walked in front of a car to end it all? Because if you do, let me tell you that you are even stupider than you look.”

In normal circumstances, Mullen would have taken exception to being called stupid, especially by a waste of space like Paul Atkinson, but these were not normal circumstances.

He rubbed his chin as he worked out his next line of attack and his mobile beeped again, pleading for a response. Mullen pretended not to have heard it.

Margaret Wilby, who had been sipping her tea, put her cup down on her saucer and intervened. “Do feel free to check your messages, Mr Mullen,” she said with a glacial smile. Her mouth was small and when she spoke she did so with the minimum of movement, a characteristic which served to emphasise the disapproval her utterances often conveyed. “It may be something important.”

Mullen leant forward, unlocked his phone and opened the first message.

“Well?” Margaret Wilby clearly expected him to share his trivial messages with all of them.

“It’s Becca,” he announced, surprised. “Becca Baines.”

It was Rose who reacted first. “Oh?” The single word was laced with layers of meaning: disappointment, irritation and above all jealousy.

“Oh, shit,” Mullen said, confirming all of Margaret Wilby’s deepest prejudices about him.

“Bad news?” she said.

“I have to go. Sorry.”

“What a shame!” Paul Atkinson commented with ill-disguised sarcasm.

* * *

Rose Wilby followed Mullen outside, which was the last thing he wanted. He pretended not to have noticed, but as he set off at a fast walk along the road – it was only 500 yards to where he was parked outside her flat – he could hear her sandals clipping on the pavement as she tried to catch up.

“Doug!” Rose’s call was sharp and commanding. For a moment she could have been her mother. But Rose wasn’t her mother and Mullen couldn’t bring himself to treat her so. He slowed down, half turning, and allowed her to close the gap.

“You remind me of a dog,” she said as she came alongside him.

Mullen said nothing. He didn’t want to talk.

“Becca whistles and you go scampering off to find her no matter what the circumstances.”

“Is that what your mother said?”

“It’s what I say, Doug.”

Mullen reverted to silence. It seemed safer.

“I thought we were in this together, Doug.” Rose’s tone had now mutated to plaintive. It was also, as Mullen realised, manipulative. “I don’t understand,” she said.

They came to a crossing point on their route and waited for a supermarket delivery van to pass in front of them. It gave Mullen time to phrase a reply. He already had a plan half-formulated.

“I think Becca is in trouble.” That much was true.

“What sort of trouble?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “That’s what I need to go and find out.”

“And am I welcome or not?” She was still plaintive.

“Yes.” They were in sight of his car and her flat.

“So I can come with you in your car?”

He pointed down at her feet. “You’re not going to be much use to me in those. You’ll need better footwear.”

“OK. I won’t be long. Thanks, Doug.” She pecked him on the cheek and skittered across the road towards the apartments.

“There’s no rush,” he called after her, lying.

Mullen pressed in Becca’s number. It rang twice before someone answered it. Or rather they didn’t answer. All he could hear was heavy breathing. Mullen waited, listening intently. Who the hell was it? Branston? Stanley? Speight even? They were all on Mullen’s mental list.

Then he heard a woman’s voice. “Is that you Doug?”

“Jesus! Are you alright?”

“Sort of.” She didn’t sound alright.

“Where are you?”

“Outside your house.”

Mullen felt the tension retreat further. “So what’s the matter?”

“I need to see you, Doug. I’m scared. Really scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

There was a pause before she replied. “Someone has been following me.”

“Just wait there. Lock your car doors. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

Mullen glanced across towards the entrance to the flats. There was no sign of Rose. That was good. He got into his car and started the engine. The last thing he needed was her getting in the way and complicating things. If Becca was in danger, there was no time to lose. Besides, one woman who needed protecting was quite enough. He slipped into first gear, released the handbrake and moved off without a backward glance.

* * *

When Mullen swung into the drive of the Cedars, he was expecting to see Becca’s red Fiat Punto standing on the gravel. It wasn’t there. He stopped ten metres short of the house and switched off. He felt himself tense. Where the heck was she? He opened the door, got out and stood there for several seconds, listening. Not a sound. Nothing significant anyway. There was a mower being gunned across some distant lawn and children giggling and screaming, but there was nothing close at hand. He continued to wait. He could hear vehicles now, advancing along the road from the Oxford direction. He hesitated a moment or two longer before running forward swiftly and stealthily, slightly crouched as if expecting someone to take a pot-shot at him any moment. The sound of gravel crunching under his feet was muffled by the engine noise from the road. He reached the corner of the house and stopped. Looking down as he reviewed his next move, he noticed tell-tale tyre marks on the lawn and the tension inside him eased a notch. He peered round the corner and saw, as he thought he would, Becca’s red car pulled up under the large oak some fifteen metres away. He looked for the outline of a figure in the front seat, but there was none. Had she gone into the house? He advanced cautiously across the grass, eyes scanning left and right, until he reached the car and peered in through the side window.

Becca was lying on the back seat, arms clasped round her legs in a foetal position. His first thought was that she was terrified and alive, his second that she was extremely dead. He wrenched the driver’s door open and for a few milliseconds hope and fear grappled together on the edge of the abyss. Then Becca Baines screamed.

* * *

Rose had never been stood up before and for several seconds she stood in the parking area outside her block of flats unable to comprehend why Mullen wasn’t there. He wasn’t the sort of guy to do that sort of thing, surely? That had been her assessment, but clearly she had misjudged him. She walked over to the road, but there was definitely no sign of Mullen or his car; just an empty space where his scruffy green Peugeot had been parked.

Rose wasn’t a woman who swore, even in private, but the words came out nevertheless. But swearing changed nothing – it didn’t cause Mullen to magically reappear nor did it make her feel any better. She retraced her steps, back to the entrance and then up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. She knew she was on the verge of bursting into tears and she had no desire to do so in public. She had barely slammed the door behind her when her mobile rang. She pulled it out of her bag and studied it. It was her mother. She let it carry on ringing until it kicked into the answering service.

She went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water and tried to think. But thinking wasn’t very profitable because whichever path her thoughts started out on, they always seemed to end up at the same place with the same bitter thought: Mullen prefers Becca to you and doesn’t have the guts to say so.

* * *

Mullen started by giving Becca a cup of tea. She had wept all over him when she got out of the car, clasping him tight, but now as she sat at the kitchen table, she was still and silent, hugging herself and staring vacantly down at the table. Mullen hadn’t seen her like this before. He added a couple of sugars to her mug. He didn’t know if she was technically in shock, but it seemed to be the right thing to do. Anyway, when she took her first sip she showed no sign of objecting to the sweetness.

Mullen sat down opposite her. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

She sipped at her tea and sniffed.

Mullen tried another approach. “You said on the phone that someone was following you.”

She sniffed again and wiped her nose with a tissue extracted from her sleeve. “I wasn’t sure at first. I noticed this car following me the other evening. I’d been out to Horspath to visit a friend and it was behind me when I left her house and it was still behind me when I parked my car. To be honest, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. In fact I probably wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t been one of those drivers who tailgate you.”

“The driver was a man then?”

“I can’t be sure. The headlights were bright. I guess I assumed it was a man because it’s usually men who drive like that.”

“What about the colour and make of the car?”

“I’m not that much of an expert on cars, and it was getting dark.”

“OK,” Mullen said, though he felt disappointed and slightly suspicious at her vagueness.

Becca continued. “Then, the next evening, I noticed this person hanging around across the road. It was a guy, wearing army fatigues.”

“Would you recognise him if you saw him again?”

She shrugged, sipping her tea.

“I doubt it. He was wearing one of those peaked caps with material hanging down the back and sides against the sun, so really I didn’t get much of a view of his face. And it was quite dark of course.”

Mullen shivered. Camouflage clothing. He had a sudden flash of memory: Gina Branston tossing a camouflage jacket off the stool just before she began to sketch him. But why would either of the Branstons be following Becca? Did they even know her? Or was it because he and Becca were friends?

Becca tipped her head back and drained her mug of tea. “Haven’t you got anything stronger?” she said. “Gin ideally. Or Vodka. Preferably without the added sugar.” She raised her eyes. “That was probably the worst cup of tea I have drunk since I was a schoolgirl with plaits.”

Mullen got up and made his way towards the larder. He found it hard to imagine Becca with plaits even as a girl. They were so old-fashioned and that wasn’t a word he would have applied to her. But it wasn’t as if he had known her for long or knew her well. One thing he did know about her was that she was a woman who ploughed her own furrow in life, so maybe she did once wear plaits, if only to be different.

“So what made you think he was watching you? Or indeed that he was watching anyone?” Mullen had located some gin and two small cans of slim-line tonic. It was lucky she wanted gin because that was the only alcohol in the larder. Mullen wondered if the Thompsons had a stash locked away in one of the other rooms. Two generous measures of alcohol later (plus ice and tonic) and he was ready to resume the conversation.

“You think I’m paranoid? Imagining things?” she said.

He put her drink in front of her and settled down opposite her with his.

“No.”

“Hell, Doug, if you think I’m being paranoid, say so. I’m not interested in being humoured.” She picked up her glass and took a swig followed almost immediately by another. “I thought he was here, in the garden. I heard noise, a bang like someone knocking something over and then I . . .” Becca stopped and plonked her glass on the table with a bang. She stood up. “I’m going to the loo. Why don’t you check the garden, see if you can see any signs of the guy?”

Mullen took a swig from his glass as he watched her disappear along the corridor.

Actually he did think she was being a bit paranoid. Or he would have done if he hadn’t received that early morning call from a man threatening his friends. And Becca was definitely a friend. He had thought about the man’s voice a lot, trying to connect it to someone, but whoever it was he knew exactly what he was doing. The fact was it could have been nearly anyone. Mullen had presumed it was a man, but now he wondered if he could be sure even of that, since the voice had been synthesised. Mullen sipped at his glass and got up. It wouldn’t hurt to check the garden. At the very least it would demonstrate to Becca that he was taking her seriously. He walked through to the scullery, unbolted the side door and stepped outside. He took another slug of gin and tonic, plus one for luck and then put his glass down on the teak garden table. The garden was at least an acre in size, with plenty of bushes for someone to be hiding behind. If anyone was out there, and they were armed, then he was going to be in trouble. He started by standing very still and looking and listening. There was nothing that caught his eye or ear. He picked up a spade which was leaning against the wall and headed down the lawn towards the bushes and trees. If anyone was hiding, that had to be the most likely place. If he or she had a gun, he would be in trouble, but otherwise a spade made a very good close-quarter weapon. He pushed his way through the bushes and into the more open space under the big trees. There was no-one.

He took a different route back, along the boundary to his right leading up to the kitchen garden area. Overhead, a red kite whistled and drifted idly on the up currents, looking for prey. Mullen looked up, admiring its grace, and yawned. He resumed his walk and felt his legs wobble underneath him. He shook his head. Maybe drinking gin and tonic in the middle of a scorching day wasn’t such a good idea. He smiled as he drew closer to the vegetables. The two tomato plants which he had planted outside the greenhouse were trussing up nicely with fruit. He stopped and knelt down, peering at the promised harvest and then pinching out a few side shoots. It was while he was in the middle of this process that he froze. Beyond the two plants, there were deep footprints in the soft soil where he had only recently planted a second crop of lettuces and radishes. They weren’t his and they didn’t look like Becca’s either. The prints were smaller than his own feet – size eight he reckoned – and they were boots. Not women’s boots, to be sure, or wellingtons, but more like working boots. Or army boots. He had seen enough of those in his short military career.

Mullen stood up as casually as he could and looked around, scanning the garden again. But it was as if he was on a roundabout and the world was rotating around him. He felt quite giddy. Not to mention tired. As if he had drunk too much.

But he hadn’t drunk too much, just a few gulps of gin. Suddenly he knew exactly what it must be. It was rohypnol. Becca had spiked his drink. It was like a punch in the gut. Becca! He hadn’t seen that coming at all. He had trusted her, liked her. And she had betrayed him. But why? His brain came up with no answers. Was she an accomplice to someone? Names drifted into his consciousness – Paul Atkinson, Derek Stanley, Kevin Branston – before popping like soap bubbles in the wind. But then, in an instant, it all became ridiculously obvious. Becca Baines worked at the hospital, didn’t she? She was a nurse. No doubt she was used to administering drugs to help people sleep, so getting hold of rohypnol wouldn’t be difficult for her. How stupid he had been! Mullen’s head was thumping like a big bass drum. He held it between his two hands as he staggered up the path to the kitchen door. Thank God he hadn’t drunk all his gin. If he could just get to his mobile, which he had left on the kitchen table, he could ring for help. But who could he trust? Rose? Dorkin?

He pushed the door open and it slammed against the wall. He cursed himself for being a clumsy idiot! There was no sign of Becca, but if blundering around like an elephant on speed didn’t bring her back into the kitchen, nothing would. Mullen saw with relief that his mobile was still there on the table. He stumbled across the tiled floor and grabbed at it, but his fingers refused to cooperate with his brain. The handset twisted out of their grip, bounced back down onto the table and then over the far side onto the floor.

It was a long table. Mullen began to edge his way round it. He felt as if he was wading through quick-drying concrete. He got round to the end and saw the mobile lying against the skirting board. Its light was still on. It had survived the fall. Mullen moved his left leg forward, but it encountered something solid and unyielding. He looked down, puzzled by the shape beneath him, and then, like a slow motion video, he was falling down, down, down until his head cracked against the floor. Pain echoed round his skull. Everything went black. Was this what death was like – a mixture of pain and oblivion? He wanted to swear and call out, but he couldn’t do either. He lay there for several seconds before he managed to force his eyes open. His mobile was only inches from his head. He strained to reach it, but his body was no longer part of him. Somehow his left hand responded to the urgings of his brain and crept towards the mobile. He felt its familiar shape. His fingers closed round it like a claw and pulled it towards him. But then he heard the sound of footsteps from the front hall, approaching the room, and he knew he was too late.

* * *

In the end, Rose had stopped wallowing in self-pity and come up with a plan. There was only one way to sort this out she had realised and that was to go to the Cedars and confront Mullen – and if he wasn’t there she’d wait until he did turn up. And if Becca Baines turned up too, so much the better. She could have it out with both of them. What would she say to Mullen? What might he say to her? The possibilities didn’t bear thinking about. So instead she concentrated on getting to Boars Hill without giving way to tears or hysterics.

She was concentrating on herself with such intensity that she very nearly overshot the Cedars. She squealed to a halt in front of the entrance and froze. The driveway was blocked by a police car. She killed her engine and sat there unmoving, as possibilities too horrible to contemplate raced through her head. She shivered, despite the heat of the day. Eventually she bullied herself into getting out of the car. She walked down the drive, past the police car and up the very slight incline towards the house. She was conscious of the gravel crunching under the sensible lace-up shoes that Mullen had insisted would be necessary. There was another car parked up by the house, but it certainly wasn’t Mullen’s. There were two people standing there talking, a female uniformed officer and a very big man in a suit that was struggling to contain his bulk. Their faces turned in unison. The big man was Detective Sergeant Fargo. He had interviewed her with Dorkin. A man like Fargo, once encountered, is hard to forget (especially when he is named after your favourite Cohen brothers’ film).

“Miss Wilby,” he said advancing towards her with huge strides. He was holding his right hand up in front of him like a policeman whose secret wish (never fulfilled) had always been to direct the traffic. “You can’t come in here.”

“What’s happened? Is Doug all right?”

“Mr Mullen is not here.” The two of them stopped. Fargo was a single pace away from her and she could see the sweat on his face. He looked unhappy with life. “You must leave,” he said.

“Is Becca here?” she said. Fargo’s eyes opened wider, his interest piqued. “Doug had a text from her,” she continued. “She said she was in trouble and needed his help.”

“When was this?” She had certainly got his attention.

She shook her head, as if so doing would clear it. At least, she told herself, Doug is alive. “About an hour ago. Or maybe a bit more.”

He nodded, as if this made sense or fitted in with what he knew.

“So you were with him when he got the message?”

“Yes. We were in South Oxford. We had just been visiting my mother and . . .”

“Did you see the text?” Fargo spoke with surprising gentleness.

“No. He just told me about it as we were walking to his car.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Rose faltered. Fargo was looking at her with a slightly furrowed forehead as if he could sense the dilemma inside her. “I wanted to help him,” she said. “He told me I wouldn’t be any use to him in my sandals, so I went into my flat to change and when I went outside again he had gone.”

Fargo nodded. “I see. That’s very helpful.”

Rose didn’t like the idea that she had been helpful, not if, as she suspected, being ‘helpful’ meant she had confirmed the police’s suspicions of Mullen. “So why are you here?” she said with sudden aggression, “if neither Doug nor Becca is here?”

There was a guttural noise from behind Fargo. Rose peered round his bulk. It was Dorkin. He was standing on the top step of the doorway. She had no idea how long he had been there or how much of the conversation he had heard. All she knew was that she preferred Fargo.