Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter - Страница 10
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Mullen wondered what Mrs Wilby had done in her earlier life. She would have made a formidable barrister he reckoned.
“If I draw a blank, your daughter has kindly told me she and her colleagues will not be asking for the ?300 back.”
Margaret Wilby assembled another forkful of food. “In that case, all I can say is you had better make sure you give them good value for their money. Otherwise I shall make life very difficult for you.”
Mullen felt a sudden shiver of something close to fear, even though (he told himself) it was ridiculous to be scared of an older lady with pretensions of grandeur and a sharp tongue. But there was no doubting the menace behind her words. Who did she know who could make life difficult for Mullen? Someone high up in the police? The Chief Constable?
“Mother!” Rose said. Her face had turned a deep red and her hands were gripped tightly round her fork and knife, as if she might be about to use them as weapons. “I think it’s time we changed the subject.”
* * *
When Mullen left Grandpont Grange shortly after three p.m., his only thought was to get back to Boars Hill. Margaret Wilby had eased up on him after her daughter’s intervention, but despite the food he had already decided that he would rather eat a flaccid ham sandwich sitting on a park bench than go through that experience again. As far as he was concerned the whole episode had only served to emphasise the truth behind the old adage that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. His car was parked in Lincoln Road, beyond the parking restrictions, and he headed straight down the Abingdon Road because that was the quickest (though hardly the most scenic) route. There was another reason too. He stopped at the shop on the corner of Newton Road and bought five packs of ten cigarettes and then continued south, quickening his pace. All he wanted to do was to get ‘home,’ make a cup of tea and cut the professor’s lawn. In peace. Without interruption. On his own.
Chapter 4
O’Hanlon House stands in Luther Street, an easy stone’s throw from the magistrates’ court and a more vigorous hurl from St Aldate’s police station. The main entrance of Christchurch College, centre of academic privilege and touristic pilgrimage, is only a little further up the hill and yet it might as well be in another universe. No tourists ask the way to Luther Street and certainly not to O’Hanlon House, which specialises in providing emergency accommodation for the homeless and help towards permanent resettlement.
Mullen hadn’t ever been there himself, but he knew enough about it to know that it would be a good place to start his search. Of course, he could have gone to the Meeting Place and asked questions there, but he didn’t want to draw attention to what he was doing and in any case his next shift was four days away. As before, he parked in Lincoln Road to avoid parking restrictions and then walked north along the Abingdon Road. There were places nearer town where he might be able to park for an hour or two if they were not already taken, but he really had no idea how long he would need. Given the speed at which cars and lorries were failing to get into the city centre that Monday morning, he very quickly felt vindicated in his decision — not to mention a little bit smug. Walking was almost as quick and certainly less stressful than driving.
It took him some twenty minutes to reach the bottom of St Aldates. Just past the magistrates’ court, he turned left into Speedwell Street, overtaking three motionless buses. Then he turned left again, into Cromwell Street, and saw immediately what he hoped to see. Not O’Hanlon House as such — though of course it stood exactly where it always had, but people. Three men emerged from the front door and ambled slowly towards him. Not that they had noticed him. They seemed instead to be immersed in a deep discussion which involved looking down at an object in the hands of the middle man.
“Hi there, gents!” Mullen called out the greeting from a distance, hoping he sounded cheery and unthreatening. They looked up, surprise and guilt on their faces. “I was hoping you could help me,” he said. They had stopped moving forward, but he continued to advance towards them. “I’m looking for someone.”
Nobody answered. Mullen slowed to a halt a couple of metres away. The three of them were aligned in height order: the man on the left was at least six feet four by Mullen’s reckoning, with a bald head, sunken eyes and a scar along the bottom of the chin parallel to his mouth. He avoided eye contact. The one on the right was the Ronnie Corbett of the three in height, though more of a Ronnie Barker round the waist. Grey hair plastered his head. The man in the middle was similar in height to Mullen, but bulkier and with a leather jacket which suggested he might once have been a Hells Angel.
“Who are you?” the man in the middle asked.
Mullen ignored the question, brandishing instead the photo he had carefully cut out of the newspaper and sealed inside a polythene envelope. He held it out to the middle man.
“We don’t talk to the police.”
Mullen smiled. “Nor do I! Not if I can help it.” He reached inside his jacket pocket, extricated three packets of cigarettes and brandished them.
“His name was Chris,” Mullen said. “A friend of a friend wants to know what happened to him and where he dossed down.”
“He drowned didn’t he?” Ronnie Corbett-Barker was eying the cigarettes with extreme interest. “It was in the papers.”
“Did he ever sleep here?” Mullen gestured towards O’Hanlon House.
“Don’t think so.” The tall guy was joining in now. He didn’t want to miss out.
“Are you going to give us a fag or not?” Hells Angel was trying to take charge now. He was evidently the boss in their little group.
“There’s a packet each, but not if you lie to me.”
“How will you know if we do lie?”
“I’ll know where I can find you.”
“Is that some sort of threat?”
“I guess it is.” Mullen stepped back half a pace and began to put the cigarette packets back in his jacket, all the time keeping his eyes on the ring-leader. He hadn’t yet worked out if he was all hot air and wind. He knew from experience how people could explode into violence.
“Last chance,” he said. “There are plenty of other people I can ask. Where did Chris sleep at night?”
“Down by the river.” It was Ronnie Corbett-Barker again. He held out a hand. “Near where it goes under the railway. There’s a whole encampment there.”
“No he didn’t.” Hells Angel stretched out a hand and grabbed his mate by the shoulder. “This dickhead will say anything. Go down the road to Folly Bridge. Then left along the footpath. You’ll see all the college boathouses on the left and the university one on the right. Keep walking and after a few hundred yards you’ll pass another boathouse. Then it’s over a little footbridge and there on the right you’ll see bushes. He had a tent there.”
Mullen considered what he had heard. Hells Angel sounded convincing, but you never knew. The man held out his hand. “The fags.” It was a demand, not a request.
Mullen pulled the three packets out again and handed two of them over. He held up the third in front of them. “One of you is lying, so I’m keeping this one.”
Half an hour later Mullen had made his way down the west bank of the river past the college boat houses and over the little humpback footbridge. He found the bushes Hells Angel had talked about and the grassed area beyond, but there was no obvious sign of people or tents or the detritus of life. He spent several minutes checking every possible place where a tent or food or a bag of possessions might have been hidden, but drew a blank. He swore. Hells Angel had well and truly suckered him. The little fat guy must have been telling the truth.
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