Dead in the Water

Loach held up both hands in front of his shoulders in mock surrender. “I’m really sorry!” he said. Quite what he was sorry about he didn’t make clear. Was it about Janice? Was it about calling at his house in the evening? Or was it because he was such a plonker?

“I’m really tired,” Atkinson said.

“It’s not about work.” Loach lowered his hands. “And it’s not about Janice, though obviously we are all in shock in the office.”

Atkinson stepped back a couple of paces, gesturing Loach to come in. Loach had never been to his house before. Atkinson was surprised that he even knew where they lived. Probably Human Resources had told him. Or else Doreen. It was more likely Doreen in fact, making sure she kept in his good books because Eddie the Beagle was an ambitious bastard. So why on earth was he here now?

“It’s about Doreen.”

“Doreen?” The frayed rope which was holding Atkinson’s temper and sanity in check pulled a few more loose strands. “I thought you said it’s not about work.” His voice was savage. “If you can’t deal with her, it’s your problem.”

Loach’s sunburnt face wasn’t wearing its habitual smile.

“She’s dead, Paul.”

The words didn’t register. Atkinson saw Loach’s mouth move and heard the sounds it made. But none of this made an impression on his brain.

“It was a fire,” Loach continued. “The flat in which she lived with her mother caught fire. They were both pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.”

“Oh God!” Atkinson’s left leg quivered. For a moment he thought he was going to fall down.

Loach moved forward and grabbed him by the arm. “Steady!”

Atkinson began to hyperventilate. Loach guided him to one of the dining chairs and sat him down.

“It’s been on the local news.” Loach spoke slowly, as if to someone with learning difficulties. “I understand they will be releasing the names shortly. But we didn’t want you to find out via a news bulletin or from the Oxford Mail.”

“No.” He shook his head, but once he had started he found he couldn’t stop it shaking. In fact his whole body was shaking. He felt a wave of nausea rising from his stomach and then he was sick across the surface of the table.

Chapter 9

Dorkin was checking out his boat when the phone call came. The boat was, in his eyes, a thing of intricate beauty and breathless speed. It measured 1470 millimetres in length and 284 millimetres in width and it was the closest he was ever going to get to owning — or handling — a mega-yacht. Not that he cared; it was his secret vice. Sailing his immaculate radio-controlled model on a Sunday morning on the artificial lake in Hinksey Park and chatting with the other enthusiasts (all male) kept him sane at the end of a long week. In any case it wasn’t truly a vice, even though he liked to think that his craft must provoke feelings of intense covetousness amongst the rest of his fellow aficionados. Nor indeed was it in any proper sense secret because there were plenty of people who could see him indulging his passion as they wandered past on their way to church or the Sunday market, accompanied by children or grandchildren or dogs. It was secret in so far as he had never talked about it at work, for fear that his colleagues might laugh; that the women might think it rather sweet or the men that ‘old Dork has gone a bit soft.’ Dorkin glanced at the mobile to see who the call was from. Whoever it was he would ignore it.

He swore and pressed answer. “Yes?”

Fargo had never rung him on a Sunday before. They didn’t socialise except for a drink or three after work, but that was different, a sort of continuation of work. Ringing him during his time off meant something serious had happened. Or if it hadn’t, Dorkin’s tongue was primed to tear several strips off Fargo.

“Sorry, sir.” It was a sensible start.

“What?” Dorkin spoke sharply. He could sense his day was about to take a very undesirable turn.

“There’s something you need to know, sir.”

“Is there?”

“There was a fire in Cornwallis Road on Friday night.”

“I know.”

“Two victims. A Doreen Rankin and her mother.”

“And?”

“Doreen Rankin is Paul Atkinson’s PA.”

Dorkin allowed the information to sink in. Then he said: “Is the fire suspicious?”

Fargo cleared his throat. “No-one is committing themselves at the moment.”