Dead in the Water

“Good.” Mullen had had his turn. She turned to greet another parishioner who wanted her attention. Mullen took his cue and went outside to catch up with Rose. She was across the other side of the road, talking to Janice and Paul Atkinson. Their heads turned as one towards him and then they broke up, the Atkinsons hurrying off down a path that ran between the houses.

“There you are,” Rose said as Mullen reached her. “I thought maybe you had changed your mind.”

* * *

Margaret Wilby lived in Grandpont Grange, an elegant stone-faced retirement complex built around a pair of quadrangles in imitation of the archetypical Oxford college. She greeted her daughter rather coolly, Mullen thought, barely allowing herself to be pecked on the cheek. As for him, she nodded curtly and ran her eyes up and down his clothing as if assessing whether he was appropriately dressed for Sunday lunch. Mullen suspected he failed on that score.

“My daughter will offer you a drink,” she said, retreating to the kitchen at the end of the large living space they had just entered. Mullen took in the detail. A small dining table (mahogany he guessed) was laid for three. There was a two-seater settee and a pair of matching armchairs grouped around a low oak table. A flat-screen TV stood on a matching oak cabinet in the corner. A tablet device of some sort lay on a side-table (also oak) next to one of the armchairs. The carpet was deep red with a slight fleck.

“There’s wine, if you like. We’re having red with the lamb,” Rose said. “Or my mother has a plentiful supply of dry sherry and gin and tonic.”

“Or apple juice or water if you don’t drink on duty,” her mother said.

Mullen shrugged. “I’m not a policeman. Red wine would be nice.”

Margaret Wilby made a guttural noise that might have meant several things, though Mullen doubted if any of them were complimentary. He wondered how soon after they had eaten he could leave without giving offence. It didn’t seem to be the happiest mother-daughter relationship and he wasn’t sure either of them wanted him there. Which rather begged the question: why had he been asked?

By the time they were sitting down at the table some ten minutes later, Mullen was feeling slightly less jaundiced. He had almost emptied his wine glass and the smell from the food (roast lamb, roast potatoes, vegetables, gravy and mint jelly) was making him realise how hungry he was. He made the faux pas of picking up his knife and fork just as Margaret plunged into a prolonged grace which covered thanks for the food, a request for divine wisdom and regret for the ‘passing of poor Chris,’ but neither woman appeared to hold it against him. For that he felt truly thankful.

“I would like to make something clear, Mr Mullen.” Margaret Wilby spoke as if addressing a meeting of the town council. Mullen was about to lift a forkful of lamb and potato into his mouth. Reluctantly he laid it back on the plate. He paused, waiting for her pronouncement. “I think Rose and her coterie are wasting their money. I cannot see the point of hiring a priva

te detective when the police with all their resources can do a much better job.” Mullen looked across at her, but her attention had transferred to her plate: she speared two pieces of carrot and raised them to her mouth. “Well? Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?”

“Rose says that Chris did not drink alcohol,” Mullen said. “My understanding is that the police pathologist found a high concentration of alcohol in his blood. I see it as my task to investigate this apparent discrepancy.”

“I see.” Margaret Wilby considered Mullen’s answer for several seconds. She took a sip of wine and swilled it round her mouth as if trying to decide if it passed muster. Eventually she swallowed.

Mullen felt he had to say more. “If Chris went on a bender after a period of abstinence, as the police think, then the chances are there will be some evidence somewhere. Someone will have been there at the time, maybe drinking with him. A shop-keeper may remember him buying the booze. Or there might be a stack of empties wherever it was that he slept at night.”

“And what happens if you draw a blank? Do you give Rose all the money back? Like it says on your website?”

Mullen wondered what Mrs Wilby had done in her earlier life. She would have made a formidable barrister he reckoned.

“If I draw a blank, your daughter has kindly told me she and her colleagues will not be asking for the £300 back.”

Margaret Wilby assembled another forkful of food. “In that case, all I can say is you had better make sure you give them good value for their money. Otherwise I shall make life very difficult for you.”

Mullen felt a sudden shiver of something close to fear, even though (he told himself) it was ridiculous to be scared of an older lady with pretensions of grandeur and a sharp tongue. But there was no doubting the menace behind her words. Who did she know who could make life difficult for Mullen? Someone high up in the police? The Chief Constable?

“Mother!” Rose said. Her face had turned a deep red and her hands were gripped tightly round her fork and knife, as if she might be about to use them as weapons. “I think it’s time we changed the subject.”

* * *

When Mullen left Grandpont Grange shortly after three p.m., his only thought was to get back to Boars Hill. Margaret Wilby had eased up on him after her daughter’s intervention, but despite the food he had already decided that he would rather eat a flaccid ham sandwich sitting on a park bench than go through that experience again. As far as he was concerned the whole episode had only served to emphasise the truth behind the old adage that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. His car was parked in Lincoln Road, beyond the parking restrictions, and he headed straight down the Abingdon Road because that was the quickest (though hardly the most scenic) route. There was another reason too. He stopped at the shop on the corner of Newton Road and bought five packs of ten cigarettes and then continued south, quickening his pace. All he wanted to do was to get ‘home,’ make a cup of tea and cut the professor’s lawn. In peace. Without interruption. On his own.

Chapter 4

O’Hanlon House stands in Luther Street, an easy stone’s throw from the magistrates’ court and a more vigorous hurl from St Aldate’s police station. The main entrance of Christchurch College, centre of academic privilege and touristic pilgrimage, is only a little further up the hill and yet it might as well be in another universe. No tourists ask the way to Luther Street and certainly not to O’Hanlon House, which specialises in providing emergency accommodation for the homeless and help towards permanent resettlement.

Mullen hadn’t ever been there himself, but he knew enough about it to know that it would be a good place to start his search. Of course, he could have gone to the Meeting Place and asked questions there, but he didn’t want to draw attention to what he was doing and in any case his next shift was four days away. As before, he parked in Lincoln Road to avoid parking restrictions and then walked north along the Abingdon Road. There were places nearer town where he might be able to park for an hour or two if they were not already taken, but he really had no idea how long he would need. Given the speed at which cars and lorries were failing to get into the city centre that Monday morning, he very quickly felt vindicated in his decision — not to mention a little bit smug. Walking was almost as quick and certainly less stressful than driving.

It took him some twenty minutes to reach the bottom of St Aldates. Just past the magistrates’ court, he turned left into Speedwell Street, overtaking three motionless buses. Then he turned left again, into Cromwell Street, and saw immediately what he hoped to see. Not O’Hanlon House as such — though of course it stood exactly where it always had, but people. Three men emerged from the front door and ambled slowly towards him. Not that they had noticed him. They seemed instead to be immersed in a deep discussion which involved looking down at an object in the hands of the middle man.

“Hi there, gents!” Mullen called out the greeting from a distance, hoping he sounded cheery and unthreatening. They looked up, surprise and guilt on their faces. “I was hoping you could help me,” he said. They had stopped moving forward, but he continued to advance towards them. “I’m looking for someone.”

Nobody answered. Mullen slowed to a halt a couple of metres away. The three of them were aligned in height order: the man on the left was at least six feet four by Mullen’s reckoning, with a bald head, sunken eyes and a scar along the bottom of the chin parallel to his mouth. He avoided eye contact. The one on the right was the Ronnie Corbett of the three in height, though more of a Ronnie Barker round the waist. Grey hair plastered his head. The man in the middle was similar in height to Mullen, but bulkier and with a leather jacket which suggested he might once have been a Hells Angel.

“Who are you?” the man in the middle asked.