Dead in the Water

Mullen picked it up, studied the pills inside the bag and then replaced it on the table. “No.”

“For the record, we found them inside the Cedars, Foxcombe Road, Boars Hill.”

“They must be the professor’s.”

“We’ll check that out.”

“What is in the bag?” Althea Potter’s manner betrayed the fact that she was getting increasingly irritated by every sentence that passed Dorkin’s lips.

“Rohypnol.”

“And what is the relevance of finding rohypnol in my client’s place of residence?”

Dorkin shrugged. “It may not be relevant. I just wanted to check it out.”

“Check it out?” Althea Potter spat the words back at Dorkin one at a time as if they were some unexpectedly sour berries. She had had enough. She began to gather up her papers. “I think my client has answered quite enough questions for now. Unless, of course, you are going to charge him with a crime?”

Mullen should have kept his mouth shut. He knew that even as he opened it. But sometimes common sense makes no sense. “Janice Atkinson had rohypnol in her bloodstream when she died,” he announced.

Dorkin, Fargo and Potter all stared at him.

“As did Chris, who was found floating face down in the river.”

They were all still staring. In silence.

“And just for the record,” Mullen concluded, “I know because the pathologist Charles Speight told me.”

* * *

For a few marvellous seconds, Mullen had been more pleased with himself than he could possibly have imagined. Dorkin’s face, contorted in disbelief, was a joy to behold. But after the high comes the low. And by the time Althea Potter had given him several pieces of her mind and then departed in a swirl of anger, Mullen was realising that what he had said hadn’t been very clever at all. He was also realising that for the second time he was stuck in the Cowley police station a long way from his car, which he had left in what was fast becoming his personal parking space in South Oxford. It would take him an hour or so to walk, he reckoned, as he pushed his way out through the exit doors.

“Hi!”

Rose Wilby was standing a few metres away, leaning against the metal railings and holding a cigarette. She dropped it hastily and ground it out with her foot.

“Bad habit. Don’t tell my mother.”

Mullen stood still. He felt awkward, unsure of his own thoughts and feelings. “Mum’s the word,” he replied, because he didn’t trust himself to say anything more real.

“Would you like a lift?”

He nodded.

She advanced towards him. “Good.” Then, to his surprise, she put her arms round him and held him for several seconds. “Sorry,” she said finally, releasing him.

She drove him back to South Oxford in silence. Only when she had pulled up opposite his Peugeot in Lincoln Road did she speak again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He wondered what she meant by ‘it.’ Becca? Being questioned by the police? “Not here,” he said.

“Shall we go to your house?”

“The police are searching it.”

“Ah.” She nodded. She didn’t sound surprised that the police were combing his house. Mullen tried to read her face for signs, but he drew a blank.

“My flat, then,” she said finally. “Follow me. I can give you a visitor’s permit to park in the street.”