Dead in the Water

“What exactly do you want?” Mullen said trying to move things along. The two detectives had totally ignored him during the car journey from Boars Hill to the station, talking only to each other and even then only in one- or two-word sentences.

“Where were you last night?” Dorkin said. “Between eight p.m. and midnight.”

“At home.”

“For the benefit of the recorder, can you confirm that by ‘home’ you mean The Cedars, Foxcombe Road, a house owned by Professor and Mrs Thompson and in which you are currently living, in accordance with some privately agreed house-sitting arrangement.” Dorkin spoke without urgency, a man who had the situation under control.

“That is correct.”

“Are there any witnesses to where you were last night?”

It was then that Mullen knew something was wrong. Sitting in the car as they drove to Cowley, he had assumed that Dorkin merely wanted another go at him, to go over old ground again and maybe tell him to get his nose out of police business. But he wouldn’t be asking questions about the previous night if that was the case. Mullen felt anxiety tighten around his chest.

“A friend and I went to the Fox for supper. She went home about nine thirty. I went to bed shortly afterwards.”

“Does your friend have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell us what it is?”

“No.”

Dorkin twitched. It was a mannerism Mullen had noticed that evening at the Meeting Place. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it felt like a minor victory.

“Why not?” Fargo interrupted. He leant even further forward. Mullen could see that he took the role of bad cop pretty seriously. He smelt of sweat and pungent aftershave.

“Professional confidentiality,” Mullen said, staring back.

“So he was a client?” Fargo said, seeing a gap and charging straight for it. “What were you doing for him?”

“No comment.”

“Or was it a female client? Hiring you to spy on a husband?”

Mullen turned towards Dorkin. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Otherwise I might change my mind and ask for a solicitor.”

Dorkin studied him for several seconds. Then nodded to Fargo. Fargo leant back, opened up a folder he had been cradling on his lap and produced two photographs which he slipped across the table to Mullen. Mullen felt the bile rising up his throat.

A few days ago it had been him pushing an envelope of photographs across the table to Janice Atkinson. Now he was on the receiving end and the person in the photos was Janice. Only Janice wasn’t indulging in extra-marital high jinks with some admirer. Janice was beyond that

. She was dead.

“Jesus!” Mullen said without thinking. “It’s Janice. What the hell happened to her?”

“Hit and run.”

“Do you know . . . ?” Mullen never finished his question. Obviously they didn’t know who had done it or they wouldn’t have hauled him in. Dorkin and Fargo were both watching him as if they didn’t believe him. As if they thought he already knew about Janice’s death. As if they thought he was involved in it. Anger rose in him like a rip tide. His hands gripped the table as if by so doing they could keep his impulses under control. His impulses were urging him to punch the hell out of Dorkin’s smug face, but of course he wasn’t stupid enough to do that, not here and not with Fargo eyeing him from across the table. Mullen looked down at the photographs again, forcing himself to study them, waiting for his emotions to recede. Poor Janice. Poor unhappy Janice.

“It happened on the Iffley Road,” Dorkin said, all matter of fact. “Very near where you used to live, Mullen. Where we thought you lived until we discovered otherwise.” He paused for several seconds. “I expect that was where Janice thought you lived too. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Mullen wasn’t going to tell Dorkin what he thought.

“So, Mullen.” Dorkin began to drum the table with his fingers. Was this him getting down to business? “Did Janice not know you had gone up in the world? Were you keeping it a secret from her? Didn’t you want her following you up to Boars Hill?”

Mullen said nothing. If he started, he might never stop.

“You see, Mullen, the way I see it is this: either she’s a client and you’ve been doing a job for her or you were lovers and you dumped her. Only she didn’t like being dumped, did she?” Dorkin paused for as long as it took for his fingers to reach their crescendo. Then he pushed on. “So Janice came round to have it out with you. The only problem was that you weren’t there. Unless, of course, you were; sitting in your car, with nasty thoughts running amok in your head. Perhaps you had even invited her round. And when you saw her struggling across the road in the pouring rain, you saw your chance and decided to take it.”