Dead in the Water

“It’s kind of you to see me at such short notice,” he said, trying to lay his own distracted thoughts aside.

“Not at all. Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

“I’d like to talk about Chris.” Mullen knew as soon as the words came out of his mouth that they wouldn’t win a good manners competition, but he didn’t much care.

“Okay.”

They went into what was clearly her study — desk, laptop computer, multi-function printer, bookshelves, a wooden cross on the wall, a slightly bedraggled orchid on the window sill and at the far end of the long room a low round table with two armchairs either side. She waved him to one of them while she sat in the swivel chair by the desk.

“So what do you want to know?” She was sitting upright, facing him, hands clasped over her lap, looking directly into his face. Her chair gave her a distinct height advantage and her whole demeanour spelt out an underlying message: this is a business meeting — nothing more and nothing less.

Mullen plunged straight in. “Did you ever smell alcohol on Chris’s breath?”

“No.” There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation.

“You never saw him drinking alcohol?”

“No.”

“Not even at Communion?”

This time there was, Mullen reckoned, a fractional hesitation before Diana Downey replied. “He never took communion.”

It was Mullen who paused now, but deliberately so. He wanted to be sure he phrased this next bit right. It was a crucial moment. “Was anyone in the church having an affair with Chris?”

Diana Downey opened her mouth as if to speak. But at that very moment, like some divine intervention, the phone on the desk rang. She turned and grabbed it as if it was a lifebelt.

A man spoke. That it was a man was clear enough to Mullen. The man tried to plunge straight into a conversation, but she cut across him. “I’m in a meeting. I’ll ring you back when it’s over. In half an hour or so.” She replaced the phone and swung round to face Mullen. “The answer to your question, Mr Mullen, is that I very much doubt it. Of course, my parishioners do not keep me abreast of all their sins and failings, but usually I find out in the end. People like to confess.”

“And I suppose if anyone had confessed to you, in your capacity as a priest, you wouldn’t feel able to tell me anyway.”

She inclined her head, but said nothing.

“My impression was that people liked Chris.” Mullen was not going to let her off that easily. “Why else would people in your church have hired me to find out how he ended up dead in the river? He must have been an intriguing newcomer. Attractive to women I imagine. A bit of a mystery man. Even good Christian women must have been tempted.”

The Reverend Downey licked her lips. Her eyes stared back at his. “No-one is exempt from temptation, Mr Mullen.”

No-one? Mullen had a wild thought: had Diana fancied Chris herself? She must be about forty, so not much older than him. Unless of course she was more interested in women? After all there didn’t appear to be a Mr Downey.

Diana Downey broke into his speculations. “Any other questions?”

Mullen lowered his head and clasped his hands to his temples. He groaned softly.

“Are you all right, Mr Mullen?”

He shook his head and opened his eyes. “Do you by any chance have any pain killers? My head.”

“Of course. I’ll go and find some.”

“And maybe I can take you up on the offer of a cup of tea. Two sugars.”

“Of course.” Diana Downey was on her feet and out of the room. He heard her filling a kettle. Then she was heading upstairs, presumably to find some pills.

Mullen stood up and walked over to the desk. He picked up the phone, dialled 1-4-7-1 and waited. “Telephone number 01865 . . .” He memorised the six numbers that followed the Oxford STD code. He heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Diana Downey returning. He slipped the receiver back onto its stand and returned to his chair, just as she appeared in the doorway.

“Paracetamol or aspirin?”

“Either,” he said weakly, as if he was beyond making even such a simple decision.