Dead in the Water

“Unless you stop,” the man continued, “one of your friends will pay the price.”

And then the line went dead.

* * *

By the time Mullen had showered, dressed in clean clothes, eaten some muesli and downed a mug of black coffee, he felt almost ready to face the day. His headache of the night before was a distant memory, though anxiety was beating its own drum inside his head.

Should he take the phone call seriously? The answer was surely ‘yes.’ Should he contact the police about it? Of course he should. Otherwise, if something did happen to one of his friends, he would never forgive himself. Would DI Dorkin and DS Fargo take him seriously? The answer to that question was less certain.

Even so, Mullen made the call and after an argument with the person on the end of the line he got transferred to Dorkin. Except that the person who answered certainly wasn’t Dorkin, not unless he had had a sex-change or a nasty cricketing accident.

“Your name, sir?” the woman said in a flat Brummie accent.

“Doug Mullen. I need to speak to DI Dorkin.”

There was a pause before she replied.

“I’m afraid he’s out. I’m Detective Constable Ashe. Perhaps I can help.”

“Is DS Fargo there?”

“He’s out too.”

“I need to speak to one of them.”

“About what?”

“About two murders and an anonymous phone call.”

“I see.”

There was another pause. Mullen wondered if she was getting advice or merely making him wait for the sake of it. Then: “They’ll be in touch shortly.” And she put the phone down before he could argue or complain.

Mullen shrugged and leant back in the large Windsor chair he had adopted as his own. “And pigs will fly,” he said to the empty kitchen.

Mullen was wrong. ‘Shortly’ turned out to be a lot sooner than he could possibly have expected. He had only just gone upstairs and brushed his teeth when a banging at the door summoned him back downstairs.

“Hello, again!” The sour smile and gravelly greeting belonged to Dorkin. Behind him, Fargo loomed silent and surly. He seemed to be larger every time they met. “I’d like a little chat,” Dorkin continued, pushing inside. Fargo followed and Mullen, shutting the door, couldn’t help but notice that there were two uniformed officers standing in the drive, one of whom headed off round the side of the house. Were they out there in case he did a runner? It wasn’t a good sign.

He walked back through to the kitchen where Dorkin was making himself comfortable in Mullen’s favourite chair, while Fargo stood against the wall, arms folded and still very large.

“I’ve just been trying to get hold of you on the phone,” Mullen said.

Dorkin’s eyebrows rose minimally. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ve had an anonymous phone call this morning. Someone warned me they would hurt one of my friends if I didn’t stop my investigation.”

“Did they now?” Dorkin rubbed his chin. “Can I see your mobile? I assume they rang you on your mobile?”

Mullen unlocked it and passed it over. “You’ll see it in the call log. ’Unknown.’”

There was a flicker of a smile on Dorkin’s face. He studied Mullen’s mobile for the best part of a minute, then placed it on the table. “I may need to borrow that for a while. Have you got a spare one?”

“No.”

“You don’t have an unregistered, pay-as-you-go one? I thought all smart private investigators kept a stock of them just in case they needed to do naughty things without being caught. For example, they might want to use one to ring up the mobile phone which is registered in their name. That way they can pretend to be an anonymous caller making untraceable threats.”

Mullen stared back at the inspector. He seemed to be enjoying himself. But what the heck was going on? Why wasn’t Dorkin taking him seriously?