Dead in the Water - Tickler Peter - Страница 37
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Mullen watched her go, marching purposefully down the aisle, but if she had hoped to escape from the church she was to be disappointed; a huddle of girls intercepted her. Mullen sighed. As an exercise in burying the hatchet, it had been a disaster. He cut through the pews to the nave. He still hadn’t had a coffee. He glanced around, looking to see where the Speights had got to, but he couldn’t see either of them. Paul Atkinson had moved to the exit where he had ousted the red-haired woman and was talking to Downey. He had taken her right hand with both of his and seemed to be clinging on to it for dear life.
Mullen got his coffee and looked around. It would have been interesting to encounter Speight again. He rather doubted the man would admit to knowing him, but even so it would have been amusing to see how he reacted. However Speight was not in sight. He scanned further, looking for someone he could talk to. Margaret Wilby was advancing determinedly down the nave. She was heading, he suddenly realised, directly towards him.
She gave him a curt nod of greeting. “I couldn’t help noticing that you were talking to my daughter.”
Mullen nodded. Couldn’t help noticing?
“Is everything all right?” she continued, oblivious to his irritation.
“I think Rose and I have a tendency to rub each other up the wrong way.”
“Ah!” She pursed her lips as she assessed her next question. “I understood your services had been dispensed with.” It was more of a statement, though the underlying question was presumably along the lines of: “So what on earth are you doing in St Mark’s today?”
“I rather enjoyed the service last week. I thought I would try it again.”
Margaret Wilby made a noise that indicated she didn’t believe him for a second. She inclined her head. “Goodbye, Mr Mullen.”
Mullen sipped at his coffee. He tried not to care but he was beginning to feel distinctly unwelcome. So when a teenage girl came up and asked him with immaculate politeness if he would be willing to sponsor her on a fun run, he agreed without asking what the cause was and pulled a ten-pound note out of his pocket.
“I’m not doing the run until two weeks’ time,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied and wrote his details down on her sheet. “I trust you.”
“You’re the private detective, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you found out what happened to Chris?”
Mullen completed his signature and straightened up. It was hard to know how to respond to such directness. He might not believe in God, but he did believe in being honest. “He drowned in the river down towards Sandford.”
“I know that.” There was disappointment in her voice. She was clearly expecting a lot more detail. “People say he got drunk and fell in.”
Mullen nodded, but didn’t comment.
“I think that’s rubbish. He didn’t drink. He told us.”
Mullen felt a flickering of interest.
“Who is ‘us’?”
“Our youth group. We meet on Sunday evenings. Diana brought him along the other week to talk to us. She thought it would be good for us to hear his story from his own lips. There are so many down-and-outs on the streets in Oxford and we all tend to ignore them.”
Alice — that was the name on her sponsor sheet — spoke with frightening clarity and certainty. “I mean, what should I do if I see them begging in the Cornmarket? Should I give them money? Should I go and buy them a sandwich? Should I just walk on by like most people do? I could pray for them of course, but is that enough?”
Mullen was impressed. He wished he had all the answers. He wished that at her age he had had all the questions too. “Personally, I wouldn’t give them money. Maybe buy them a sandwich?”
“I prefer to support the charities which help them,” she said decisively. “Diana agrees. Chris agreed too.”
Mullen studied Alice. How old was she? Fourteen maybe, going on twenty-four. He changed tack. “So how did Chris come to be sleeping rough in Oxford? Did he tell you his story?”
“He did and he didn’t. He said there were a lot of things in his past that he wasn’t proud of and preferred not to talk about. What he did say was that he didn’t have a very happy childhood and that he was sent away to boarding school and hated it.”
“He didn’t say what school?”
“No.”
“Did he talk about his family?”
“Not really. His parents were killed in a car crash, but that was all he said about them.”
“Did he say where he came from? Or if he used to do a job?”
Alice frowned. For the first time, she seemed uncertain. “He was rather evasive about the details.”
“Or when and why he came to Oxford?”
“He said he came here because he thought Oxford in the summer would be a rather fine place to be.” Alice smiled, remembering. “Those were his exact words. Then he winked.”
“Winked? At you?”
“At our youth worker, Rose!” She rolled her eyes. “I think he fancied Rose. And she liked him.”
“Lots of people seem to have liked him.” Mullen left the statement hanging in the air, hoping Alice might say something else, preferably something indiscreet which would clarify the confusion he felt when he tried to imagine Chris as a person. Chris the elusive, as hard to pin down as a dragonfly.
Alice shrugged. “Thanks for the sponsorship!” And she turned away.
The church was emptying. Mullen watched Alice approach an old lady dressed in purple, but his brain barely registered this because it was too busy sifting the details of their conversation. Chris was rather evasive about detail. That was what the girl had said. If that was the case — and everything he had learnt so far pointed to that being so — the question was: why? What had Chris got to hide?
Mullen downed the last of his coffee and returned the cup to the hatch. He moved towards the exit. The Reverend Downey was talking to yet another member of her congregation. Mullen was relieved. He had had enough. He just wanted to slip unobtrusively out of church and escape back home.
“Doug!” It seemed that the Reverend didn’t let members of her congregation sidle past her without a firm handshake and exchange of greetings. “How nice to see you here again! We must be doing something right!” She laughed and took his hand, leaning closer as she did so. “I gather you’ve been talking to Kevin,” she said in a low whisper. “I trust you haven’t been jumping to any wild conclusions?” Her fingers tightened their grip. “You should read the epistle of James. It cautions us all about the dangers of idle gossip.” Her fingernails dug into the back of his hand. Then she released her hold and smiled. “See you next Sunday, I hope.”
* * *
Mullen exited the church with a sigh, but there was little relief outside. The relative cool of the church was exchanged for the heat of another scorching day. There was no protection from the blazing light of the sun either and as he lifted his right hand against it he glimpsed two figures standing dark and still a couple of metres in front of him.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr Mullen.”
He recognised the sarcastic voice of Dorkin immediately, just as he recognised the bulky outline of DS Fargo. He felt a jolt of anxiety. He didn’t need Sherlock Holmesian powers to deduce that something was very wrong.
“A little bird told us you’d be at church,” Dorkin continued. “Didn’t really believe it, but what do you know?” Dorkin was enjoying the moment.
A thought flashed across Mullen’s brain: who was the little bird? But then it was gone and Dorkin was saying something else. “I’d like a little chat with you, Mullen, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s Sunday,” Mullen said, stating the obvious.
“Normally it’s my day off too,” came the reply. Dorkin had dropped the sarcasm. “But I have here a search warrant,” he said. “For The Cedars, Foxcombe Road, Boars Hill.” He thrust a piece of paper at Mullen. “Would you like to read it?”
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