Dead in the Water

by Peter Tickler

“No.” There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation.

  “You never saw him drinking alcohol?”

  “No.”

  “Not even at Communion?”

  This time there was, Mullen reckoned, a fractional hesitation before Diana Downey replied. “He never took communion.”

  It was Mullen who paused now, but deliberately so. He wanted to be sure he phrased this next bit right. It was a crucial moment. “Was anyone in the church having an affair with Chris?”

  Diana Downey opened her mouth as if to speak. But at that very moment, like some divine intervention, the phone on the desk rang. She turned and grabbed it as if it was a lifebelt.

  A man spoke. That it was a man was clear enough to Mullen. The man tried to plunge straight into a conversation, but she cut across him. “I’m in a meeting. I’ll ring you back when it’s over. In half an hour or so.” She replaced the phone and swung round to face Mullen. “The answer to your question, Mr Mullen, is that I very much doubt it. Of course, my parishioners do not keep me abreast of all their sins and failings, but usually I find out in the end. People like to confess.”

  “And I suppose if anyone had confessed to you, in your capacity as a priest, you wouldn’t feel able to tell me anyway.”

  She inclined her head, but said nothing.

  “My impression was that people liked Chris.” Mullen was not going to let her off that easily. “Why else would people in your church have hired me to find out how he ended up dead in the river? He must have been an intriguing newcomer. Attractive to women I imagine. A bit of a mystery man. Even good Christian women must have been tempted.”

  The Reverend Downey licked her lips. Her eyes stared back at his. “No-one is exempt from temptation, Mr Mullen.”

  No-one? Mullen had a wild thought: had Diana fancied Chris herself? She must be about forty, so not much older than him. Unless of course she was more interested in women? After all there didn’t appear to be a Mr Downey.

  Diana Downey broke into his speculations. “Any other questions?”

  Mullen lowered his head and clasped his hands to his temples. He groaned softly.

  “Are you all right, Mr Mullen?”

  He shook his head and opened his eyes. “Do you by any chance have any pain killers? My head.”

  “Of course. I’ll go and find some.”

  “And maybe I can take you up on the offer of a cup of tea. Two sugars.”

  “Of course.” Diana Downey was on her feet and out of the room. He heard her filling a kettle. Then she was heading upstairs, presumably to find some pills.

  Mullen stood up and walked over to the desk. He picked up the phone, dialled 1-4-7-1 and waited. “Telephone number 01865 . . .” He memorised the six numbers that followed the Oxford STD code. He heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Diana Downey returning. He slipped the receiver back onto its stand and returned to his chair, just as she appeared in the doorway.

  “Paracetamol or aspirin?”

  “Either,” he said weakly, as if he was beyond making even such a simple decision.

  “I’ll just get the sweet tea and some water as well.”

  * * *

  Mullen felt bad. He wasn’t someone who took pleasure in deception. And he wasn’t sure he was very good at it. But it was a case of needs must. The man who had rung Diana had called himself Charles. Mullen was pretty sure about that. “Hi, it’s Charles.” Those had been his words. Then “I just wanted—” before she cut him short and promised to ring back.

  Two days ago he had followed a Charles Speight home from a meeting with Dorkin. Today Diana Downey is rung by a Charles she doesn’t want to speak to in front of Mullen. Was it the same Charles or a different one? A mere coincidence or something more significant?

  “How are you feeling?” It was Diana Downey, returning after another disappearance upstairs. After doling out three paracetamol tablets — “an extra one won’t hurt” — plus water, a cup of tea and two biscuits, she had retreated and spent a surprisingly long time in the loo. Now she was back.

  “Definitely a bit better,” he replied with what he hoped was a weak smile. “I didn’t sleep so well last night. Then I decided the garden needed some attention this morning and I never got round to eating, so it’s all my own stupid fault.”

  “Not your fault that someone slugged you over the head.”

  “You heard about that?”

  She grinned. “There’s nothing like a church grapevine.”

  Mullen sipped at his tea.

  “So,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound unwelcoming, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Do you want me to organise a lift for you?”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be OK. I’ve got my car.”

  “No more questions?”

  “One, if you don’t mind.” Or even if she did.

  She waited, hands pressed together as if she was preparing to pray.

  “Did Janice like Chris?”

  Diana Downey hesitated before she gave a measured reply. “By ’like’ I presume you mean was she sexually attracted to him?”

  “Yes.”

  She pondered the question for several seconds, pushing an unruly lock of hair back with her right hand. Eventually she stood up, as if to signal that this really was the last question. “My understanding, Mr Mullen, was that it was you she was most attracted to.”

  Mullen was thrown off balance. He had thought he had control of their interview, but a single riposte had him floundering. Of course, Diana Downey was right that Janice had been attracted to him. But who had told her? Or was it an open secret round the church? Was that the reason why he had received so many curious looks on Sunday?

  Mullen stood up and drained the last of his tea despite its foul sweetness.

  “Let’s leave me out of it,” he said, attempting to regain control. “I ask only because Mrs Wilby insisted to me that Janice was smitten with Chris.”

  Diana Downey snapped back. “You ask because you are trying to rake up dirt amongst my parishioners. I am not a fool, Mr Mullen. Being a minister of the church does not mean I do not understand the ways of the world. Far from it. I understand temptation and sin all too well. If Janice was smitten with him — and I do say if — so too were several other women in the church, I suspect. Chris brought out their mothering side. An attractive, unattached man, down on his luck, who knew how to enlist sympathy. In that sense he was a rather dangerous man as far as I was concerned. Disruptive to my flock. Even Margaret was rather taken with him, I suspect, despite the age discrepancy. I understand she had him round for supper on at least one occasion.” She turned towards the door. “Anyway, that is all I am prepared to say. I really do need to get myself organised.”

  Mullen nodded. He was getting his marching orders, but he didn’t mind. It had been one heck of a productive meeting.

  * * *

  Mullen was itching to make the phone call to the ‘Charles’ who had rung Reverend Downey, but he waited until he was back in the silence and security of his car before pulling out his mobile and punching in the memorised numbers. The phone rang for several seconds before a woman answered. “Good afternoon. CSK. How can I help you?”

  ‘CSK’ didn’t ring any bells with Mullen, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was how the receptionist reacted to his question.

  “Can I speak to Charles Speight, please?”

  “Of course.”

  There was a noise confirming that he was being put through.

  Mullen hesitated. Should he hang up now before anyone could reply? He had, after all, found out what he wanted to know.

  By the time he had come to a decision, the phone was already ringing. It was answered immediately. “Speight,” a man said. Business-like, brusque and distracted all at once.

  Mullen hung up. He was breathing heavily and sweating hard. He started the engine and opened both front windows. All he needed to do now was find out where CSK were based.

  * * *

  Mullen pulled into C
SK’s car-park at 3.50 p.m. It was situated in an identikit business park on the edge of the village of Wootton, a couple of miles to the west of Boars Hill. He drove slowly around the car-park, looking out on the one hand for a specific blue Audi A4 and on the other for a free space offering him a good but discreet place from which to view it. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the car and pulled into a space barely ten metres away. A good day was getting better.

  He had guessed that the staff wouldn’t leave before four. One or two did exit the building then, but it was only after four thirty that the trickle became more substantial. It trailed off until there was another small crescendo of activity at five. After that it was just an intermittent dribble as the number of cars slowly decreased. But still Mullen remained sitting in his car, both front windows wide open to dissipate the late afternoon heat. It was six twenty-five when Charles Speight finally appeared, laptop in one hand and folders tucked under the other arm. He was wearing what looked like a linen suit over a pin-striped shirt, but no tie. He was not sweating noticeably and that alone caused Mullen a stab of jealousy. He imagined that, unlike his car, CSK’s building had fully functional air-conditioning, not to mention water-coolers on every floor.

  Mullen switched on the recording application he had downloaded onto his mobile earlier that afternoon. He hadn’t had a chance to use it in earnest and for all he knew the pick-up might be poor, but it was worth a try. He got out of his car and walked over to the Audi. He was almost within touching distance when Speight looked up.

  “Who the hell are you?” Speight might not be suffering from the heat as Mullen was, but he had evidently not had a good day.

  Mullen tried a friendly smile. “I’m a friend of Chris’s.”

  “Chris?” Speight was momentarily flummoxed.

  “The guy who was fished out of the Thames the other day near Sandford.”

  Speight pulled open the rear door and tossed laptop and folders onto the seat. “You must think I’m an idiot. You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” He slammed the door and moved to open the driver’s door. Mullen stepped forward and pressed his hand against it.

  “I’ll shout if you don’t get out of the way,” Speight snapped. “The security guards will come running.” Mullen looked around. There wasn’t another soul in the car park and only half a dozen other cars remained. As threats went, it was patently feeble.

  Mullen held up his phone. “I’m turning this off. Watch!”

  Speight watched. There were one or two beads of sweat on his face now.

  Mullen lifted his t-Shirt. “You can check me for wiring if you want.”

  Speight mumbled something indistinct.

  “What did Chris die of?”

  Speight shivered despite the heat, but when he spoke he seemed calm. “He drowned. There was alcohol in his blood. He must had fallen in and been unable in his drunken state to get out.”

  “He didn’t drink.”

  Speight laughed. “So how did the alcohol get inside him? Osmosis?”

  “By force, I presume. Had he been beaten? Were there signs he’d been restrained? There must have been marks on his wrists or bruising round the mouth where a whisky bottle had been forced in. Or something!” Mullen could hear the desperation in his own voice.

  “Of course there weren’t,” Speight snapped. “I would have noticed. How many years do you think I’ve been doing this?” Speight rubbed an arm across his forehead. “Look,” he continued, “the guy must have had a relapse. Gone on a bender and fallen in the river. He wouldn’t be the first and he won’t be the last.”

  Mullen felt the day getting less good. He didn’t want to, but he was finding Speight pretty convincing. He tried a wild change of attack. “Tell me about Janice Atkinson’s death.”

  “What?” There was alarm in Speight’s voice.

  “Supposedly she got killed in a hit and run.”

  “Supposedly? There was nothing supposed about it. She got hit by a car. Her head impacted on the edge of the pavement — it was her left temple if you want to know — and she died soon afterwards. By the time the ambulance got there, she had stopped breathing and the paramedics were unable to bring her back.”

  “What bruising or other damage was there to her body?”

  “Look, matey, I’ve told you more than I should have.” Speight had recovered his confidence. “If you don’t let me go home right now, I’ll report you to the police. There’s an automatic car registration system here, you know. You will be easy to track.”

  “You’ll give Detective Inspector Dorkin a ring will you?”

  The mention of Dorkin had a remarkable effect on Speight. His mouth gaped and he stared at Mullen in alarm.

  “Pals are you?” Mullen said, confident that he was back in charge of the situation. “Only you didn’t seem so pleased to see him the other night in the Cape of Good Hope.”

  Speight licked his lips and looked around helplessly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Mullen smiled. His right hand was still on Speight’s door, preventing him from getting into his car. His left hand, however, had retrieved his mobile from his pocket and powered it on again.

  “Here, if you like I can show you a photo.” It was a bluff, but Mullen doubted that Speight would call it.

  “Or perhaps you’d prefer to see this one,” he said, and he turned the phone so Speight could see it.

  “What the devil?”

  “It’s you and a woman. Don’t you remember you bumped into her at the bus-stop on the way home? Very chatty and smiley. I’ve got two or three others.”

  “Look, what’s your game?”

  “On the surface they are innocent enough I admit. A casual meeting with a young woman from the office — or maybe she’s from the dentist’s surgery?” Mullen paused. He could see he had scored a direct hit with that one. “Except that if an anonymous friend were to send those to your wife and suggest that you were having an affair with her, I guess it might sow seeds of doubt in her mind.”

  “That’s blackmail.” Speight’s anxiety was palpable. “And it’s not true.”

  “And you’re not telling me the truth are you? Fragments of it maybe, but not the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So I’m just doing what I have to do in order to find out exactly how it was that Chris and Janice died. If you’re straight with me, I’ll delete the photographs from my phone here and now and you’ll never hear from me again. And nor will your wife. That’s a promise.”

  Speight looked at him. Mullen reckoned that under the suntan he had to be as white as a sheet. “I’ve not lied.” It was the whine of a cowed dog. Mullen knew he had got Speight where he wanted him.

  “I wonder what the Reverend Diana Downey would call it?” Mullen saw the surprise on Speight’s face. “You do know Diana, don’t you Dr Speight? Chris went to her church. So did Janice. I expect you know that too. Rather a lot of coincidences if you ask me.” He paused, but only to see the effect of his words on Speight. Then he plunged on. “I expect your friend Diana would talk about sins of commission and sins of omission. But it’s the sins of omission I’m interested in, Charles. What have you omitted? What is it you’re not saying? Or maybe I should ask what it was that you and Dorkin were talking about in the Cape of Good Hope before you flew out of there like a bat out of hell?”

  “I need to sit down.”

  Mullen considered this. The fact was that Speight didn’t look anxious any more. He looked scared shitless. “Keys?” Mullen held out his hand, took the electronic key from Speight and then allowed him to sink into the driver’s seat. Mullen stood and waited, wedging the door wide open with his body and ready to move fast if Speight did anything unexpectedly stupid.

  “Rohypnol,” he whispered at last.

  “What?”

  “It’s a date-rape drug.”

  “I know that.”

  “Janice had it in her bloodstream.”

  “Are you saying she had been raped?”

 
; “No. Not at all. Obviously when I discovered the drug in her system, I checked. There was no sign of recent sexual activity at all.”

  “Was there alcohol in her system?” Mullen’s mind was starting to go to places where he really didn’t want it to. But he had to ask.

  “Not a lot. Maybe a large glass of wine.”

  “But enough to make her extremely unsteady when combined with rohypnol?” You didn’t have to be a forensic pathologist to know that alcohol and rohypnol were a devastating mix.

  He nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  Speight twitched; his left shoulder moved up and down as if controlled by a puppeteer’s string. He licked his lips. “The . . . er . . . the photos on your phone?” Clearly he didn’t expect Mullen to stick to his word.

  But Mullen had to live with himself. Deception and lying might sometimes be necessary, but that didn’t mean he felt good doing them. Without a word he bent down and deleted them one by one, right in front of Speight.

  “Thank you.”

  Mullen handed him his key and for a few moments their eyes met and held.

  “Actually . . .” There was a long pause as Speight assembled his thoughts. Mullen waited, barely daring to breathe. “Actually, there’s something else I want to tell you—”

  “Have a good evening, Charles!” Speight turned guiltily. A man in sunglasses was standing by a red VW convertible halfway across the car park. Speight waved from his seat and then watched until the car had disappeared from view. Only then did he turn back to Mullen, as if he was afraid the man might somehow overhear what he was about to say.

  “Chris had rohypnol in his system too.”

  The comment came as a shot of electricity arcing across Mullen’s system. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Both brain and tongue had tripped their fuse switches.

  But Speight didn’t need any prompting to say more. Now that he had started, he had to get it finished.

  “You see,” he continued, “there wasn’t actually that much alcohol in Chris’s system. Enough to get him tipsy, but hardly a roaring-drunk amount. At the time I thought it was a little odd that he should fall into the river and drown. But given his lifestyle . . .” Speight ground to a halt.