Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter - Страница 12
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When they saw him, they both jumped up.
“What do you want?” one demanded.
“Who are you?” the other added.
Mullen stopped some five metres away from them, conscious of their nervousness and hostility. “Did you know Chris? The guy who drowned in the river, down near Sandford.”
“You haven’t answered our questions,” the first man said. He had a pinched face and a pinched body; his eyes flickered uncertainly on Mullen and on the track to his right, as if weighing up the options of fight or flight. Mullen fiddled in his jacket and located two of the three remaining packets of cigarettes.
“I understand he lived here.”
“Do you?” He was giving nothing away. His colleague, shorter and fatter and wearing tartan trousers, was silent, twisting his hands together as if they held a dishcloth that needed wringing out.
“There’s a packet of fags each if you just show me which was his tent.” He held out his hands but then tucked the cigarettes away back in his pocket.
They both turned and walked further up the tributary, past half a dozen other tents and a couple of bundles. They continued for another thirty-odd metres before they came to a flattened area of grass. A circle of stones around grey ashes showed where a fire had once burned. There was a saucepan, cigarette butts, a filthy red scarf and an empty tin of baked beans. A single mauve sock decorated the ground.
“Didn’t he have a tent?” Mullen felt the frustration bubbling up.
“Yeah, sure he did. But someone took it.” The man with the pinched face was looking nervous, his eyes searching again for an escape route.
“Don’t take the piss, matey. Who took it?” Mullen took a step closer. He wasn’t going to be messed about again.
“Some guy.”
“What sort of guy?”
“Dunno. I didn’t ask him for his name and number. It was early. I wouldn’t have seen him except that I needed a pee. He just pulled Chris’s tent down and then went through all his stuff. He put most of it in a plastic bag and walked off.”
“So he took the tent with him?”
He didn’t reply immediately. There was the slightest of pauses. Then: “Yeah.”
The other man, who hadn’t said a single word, giggled. Mullen looked at him and then back to the pinched one.
Mullen’s hand moved like a cobra striking its prey. It grabbed the man by his t-shirt and wrenched him forward until they were eyeball to eyeball. He wasn’t giggling now.
“I’ve already been lied to once today,” Mullen snarled. Close up, the man smelt of baked beans and dirt. And fear.
“He’s got it.” He pointed at the other guy. He licked his lips. His face was greasy with sweat. Mullen held onto his informant, but concentrated his gaze on the other man. He wondered if he was going to try and do a runner.
“Mine had had it,” the man said. “Worn out.” He spoke quickly and jerkily. “I asked the guy if I could have the tent. He said I could. That was kind of him wasn’t it?”
“Show me,” Mullen said, releasing his grip.
The tent was a small one, big enough to sleep in and hide from the rain, but not much else. Easy to carry. There wasn’t much room to store stuff either, which was probably just as well. There was a sleeping bag piled in a heap in the corner, a full bottle of water and two empty ones, a few clothes under the sleeping bag, a saucepan, a multipack bag of crisps, cans of soup and a couple of toilet rolls. Mullen lay down on the groundsheet and looked up. For a moment he was back in the army on a training course. Three days in some wild bit of Scotland. It had been hot then and it never got properly dark at night. Mullen had liked the outdoors side of the army. As a kid he had loved camping in the small back garden. But living in a tent like this was different. OK in the good weather, but tough when the rain came and the temperatures plunged.
What had Chris thought about as he lay in the tent at night waiting for sleep to come? Had he said his prayers like all the goody-two-shoes folk at St Mark’s? Not, of course, that they were all so perfect. Not Paul Atkinson and probably not Janice either.
The problem, Mullen was realising, was that he didn’t know much at all about Chris. Did he go to St Mark’s to get food and friendship or because he believed in all that Christian stuff? What was it the woman in the shop had said? He spoke proper ‘Queen’s English.’ So he came from a middle or upper class family maybe — a family that would miss him? Surely there was someone who would read the paper and recognise his face? Except that a man dead in the river with a high level of alcohol in him was hardly a story to hit the national papers or go viral on the internet. If his family lived locally, yes. But if they were from some other part of the country, probably not. Or maybe he had no family.
Mullen extricated himself from the tent. The two men were standing together, watching him. A pair of dummies; nervous, fearful even. Mullen began to fiddle in his jacket for the two packets of cigarettes. They had just about earned their reward. Or at least they would do if they gave him a detailed description of the man who had taken away Chris’s possessions. It would be a fair exchange. He stretched his right hand out, displaying his peace offerings. “Here,” he said.
But they didn’t move. They seemed to be holding their breath. It was only then that Mullen realised something was wrong. There was someone behind him. He began to turn, but too late. Something hard smashed into the back of his head. And for Mullen the lights went out.
* * *
“There’s something I need to show you.”
Paul Atkinson looked up to see Doreen Rankin standing in the doorway, arms folded; a sure sign that there was trouble afoot. He had only just got into the office and was half-way through a sandwich. “In my office,” she continued as if she was the boss. “At your convenience.” Which of course, as Atkinson knew, she didn’t mean.
He nodded and held up his lunch-box to try and buy himself some time, but the pout that formed on her lips and the shrug of her shoulder as she turned away spoke otherwise. Atkinson swore under his breath and stuffed what was left of his ham and pickle sandwich into his mouth. He still had a brie and cranberry one to consume, but he knew better than to delay. It was best to go and see what the bee in her bonnet was and get it sorted out. Then he could eat the rest of his lunch in peace. Life was always more straightforward when Doreen was happy.
“Shut the door,” she snapped when he walked into her office.
“This arrived in the post,” she said as he sat down. She pushed an envelope across her desk. “I assumed it was the standard marketing bumf, so I opened it as usual.”
Atkinson knew there was a problem. Doreen Rankin was getting her excuses in first. She was rarely in the wrong, but when she was the last thing she did was apologise. Instead she came out guns blazing, just as she was doing now. He looked at the envelope: no company stamp; no sender’s address; hand-written. He lifted it at an angle and allowed the contents to slide onto the table. They lay there, face up. Atkinson licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry. He picked up and studied the top photograph for several seconds, the others more briefly. He could feel Doreen’s eyes boring into his head, but he didn’t look up. He needed to think.
“I could shred them of course,” Doreen said. She was a problem-solver. That was one of her strengths. Give her a problem and her first reaction was to come up with a solution. But this wasn’t her first reaction. She had had plenty of time to think things through. “But whoever sent it will no doubt have the original digital photographs sitting on their computer somewhere ready to be reprinted or emailed round to all and sundry. So the only thing shredding will achieve is to ensure no-one in the office will see these copies by mistake. And possibly pass them on to your wife.”
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