Dead in the Water

Mullen was ridiculously pleased to hear these simple words. They made him feel like he was making Diana Downey’s day. He had half expected her to have forgotten him altogether.

“I wonder if I could call round today?” he said.

“Today?” There was a pause, the sort of pause people who are caught on the hop make when they are trying to come up with a convincing excuse. Mullen cursed silently. It was a mistake to have rung her. Then, out of the silence, she spoke again. “How about half-two this afternoon?”

“Okay.” He wondered if his surprise was obvious from his tone of voice.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Diana Downey hung up.

* * *

Becca Baines had known that the police would come looking for her. Once Mullen had told them about her fling with Paul, it could only be a matter of time. Of course the police tramping into the hospital in their clodhoppers — and didn’t the huge DS Fargo have some big clodhoppers — meant that the news would be round the hospital faster than a bush fire in a bone-dry Australian summer, but that didn’t ultimately matter.

At least Melanie Yarnell had had the sensitivity to give them some privacy from prying eyes by lending them her office, but Becca knew she would want something in return. From her point of view, the detectives’ timing could hardly have been worse. She had been on shift for three hours — very busy and not a chance to grab even a cup of tea and biscuit — and she could feel her irritability level rising with every passing minute. On the other hand, she was getting an unexpected chance to sit down.

“Sorry to bother you,” DI Dorkin began. Becca reckoned it was probably the least original gambit in his detective’s book of easy interview openings. She was tempted to say so out loud, but Dorkin did not appear to be the sort of man who would appreciate such pleasantries.

“I don’t suppose this will take long,” he continued, in similar vein. “As long as you answer our questions satisfactorily.”

It wasn’t a line of conversation that filled Becca with any confidence. She imagined it was precisely the sort of thing the Gestapo must have said before they started torturing their prisoners.

“We understand that you and Paul Atkinson have a sexual relationship.”

“Had,” she said quickly.

“Had?” Dorkin frowned as if surprised or unconvinced. “So when did it start?”

If you are going to lie, keep it to an absolute minimum. Becca couldn’t remember who had first advised her along those lines, but it had become, if not part of her DNA, then second nature.

“Five or six weeks ago, I guess.”

“Guessing isn’t good enough.”

She pursed her lips as she weighed up her response. “We met at the hospital on the fifth of May. I was buying myself a coffee in the canteen. I had just paid for it when I dropped my cup. He kindly bought me another.”

“Just like that?” Dorkin sounded very unconvinced.

“No, not just like that. I was giving you the shortened version so as not to waste valuable police time.” Her irritability and facetiousness were breaking through. She knew it, but she didn’t care. “The coffee went all over the floor and partially over my trousers. The left trouser leg to be precise. I freaked a bit. I think I swore. But he was righ

t behind me in the queue and came to my rescue. He offered to buy me another coffee. I thought it was very kind of him.”

“Did you now.” Dorkin was still unconvinced. Becca could sense it, but she didn’t mind. Maybe it was the two sugars in her tea, but she felt calmer now.

“Well, it wasn’t pure altruism on his part. Obviously he fancied me. He wasn’t the first man to stare at my chest and he won’t be the last.” She looked hard at Dorkin, then at Fargo and then back to Dorkin again, daring them to look at her breasts. To her surprise Fargo flushed in embarrassment. Dorkin merely sucked his teeth and resumed his questioning. “So when exactly did your relationship with Paul Atkinson finish?”

“After his wife found out, of course.”

“Which was when?”

“Didn’t Paul tell you? I presume you have already spoken to him.”

Dorkin said nothing. He leant back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. Becca wasn’t sure what that meant. But clearly they must have interviewed Paul and he would have spilt the beans about them. She guessed they wanted to compare stories and see what discrepancies they could unearth.

“He rang me on Monday. We didn’t actually speak. He left a message on my mobile. All very short and not so sweet.”