Dead in the Water

“I have to go. Sorry.”

“What a shame!” Paul Atkinson commented with ill-disguised sarcasm.

* * *

&n

bsp; Rose Wilby followed Mullen outside, which was the last thing he wanted. He pretended not to have noticed, but as he set off at a fast walk along the road — it was only 500 yards to where he was parked outside her flat — he could hear her sandals clipping on the pavement as she tried to catch up.

“Doug!” Rose’s call was sharp and commanding. For a moment she could have been her mother. But Rose wasn’t her mother and Mullen couldn’t bring himself to treat her so. He slowed down, half turning, and allowed her to close the gap.

“You remind me of a dog,” she said as she came alongside him.

Mullen said nothing. He didn’t want to talk.

“Becca whistles and you go scampering off to find her no matter what the circumstances.”

“Is that what your mother said?”

“It’s what I say, Doug.”

Mullen reverted to silence. It seemed safer.

“I thought we were in this together, Doug.” Rose’s tone had now mutated to plaintive. It was also, as Mullen realised, manipulative. “I don’t understand,” she said.

They came to a crossing point on their route and waited for a supermarket delivery van to pass in front of them. It gave Mullen time to phrase a reply. He already had a plan half-formulated.

“I think Becca is in trouble.” That much was true.

“What sort of trouble?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “That’s what I need to go and find out.”

“And am I welcome or not?” She was still plaintive.

“Yes.” They were in sight of his car and her flat.

“So I can come with you in your car?”

He pointed down at her feet. “You’re not going to be much use to me in those. You’ll need better footwear.”

“OK. I won’t be long. Thanks, Doug.” She pecked him on the cheek and skittered across the road towards the apartments.

“There’s no rush,” he called after her, lying.

Mullen pressed in Becca’s number. It rang twice before someone answered it. Or rather they didn’t answer. All he could hear was heavy breathing. Mullen waited, listening intently. Who the hell was it? Branston? Stanley? Speight even? They were all on Mullen’s mental list.

Then he heard a woman’s voice. “Is that you Doug?”

“Jesus! Are you alright?”

“Sort of.” She didn’t sound alright.

“Where are you?”

“Outside your house.”

Mullen felt the tension retreat further. “So what’s the matter?”