Dead in the Water

“No.”

“Hell, Doug, if you think I’m being paranoid, say so. I’m not interested in being humoured.” She picked up her glass and took a swig followed almost immediately by another. “I thought he was here, in the garden. I heard noise, a bang like someone knocking something over and then I . . .” Becca stopped and plonked her glass on the table with a bang. She stood up. “I’m going to the loo. Why don’t you check the garden, see if you can see any signs of the guy?”

Mullen took a swig from his glass as he watched her disappear along the corridor.

Actually he did think she was being a bit paranoid. Or he would have done if he hadn’t received that early morning call from a man threatening his friends. And Becca was definitely a friend. He had thought about the man’s voice a lot, trying to co

He took a different route back, along the boundary to his right leading up to the kitchen garden area. Overhead, a red kite whistled and drifted idly on the up currents, looking for prey. Mullen looked up, admiring its grace, and yawned. He resumed his walk and felt his legs wobble underneath him. He shook his head. Maybe drinking gin and tonic in the middle of a scorching day wasn’t such a good idea. He smiled as he drew closer to the vegetables. The two tomato plants which he had planted outside the greenhouse were trussing up nicely with fruit. He stopped and knelt down, peering at the promised harvest and then pinching out a few side shoots. It was while he was in the middle of this process that he froze. Beyond the two plants, there were deep footprints in the soft soil where he had only recently planted a second crop of lettuces and radishes. They weren’t his and they didn’t look like Becca’s either. The prints were smaller than his own feet — size eight he reckoned — and they were boots. Not women’s boots, to be sure, or wellingtons, but more like working boots. Or army boots. He had seen enough of those in his short military career.

Mullen stood up as casually as he could and looked around, sca

But he hadn’t drunk too much, just a few gulps of gin. Suddenly he knew exactly what it must be. It was rohypnol. Becca had spiked his drink. It was like a punch in the gut. Becca! He hadn’t seen that coming at all. He had trusted her, liked her. And she had betrayed him. But why? His brain came up with no answers. Was she an accomplice to someone? Names drifted into his consciousness — Paul Atkinson, Derek Stanley, Kevin Branston — before popping like soap bubbles in the wind. But then, in an instant, it all became ridiculously obvious. Becca Baines worked at the hospital, didn’t she? She was a nurse. No doubt she was used to administering drugs to help people sleep, so getting hold of rohypnol wouldn’t be difficult for her. How stupid he had been! Mullen’s head was thumping like a big bass drum. He held it between his two hands as he staggered up the path to the kitchen door. Thank God he hadn’t drunk all his gin. If he could just get to his mobile, which he had left on the kitchen table, he could ring for help. But who could he trust? Rose? Dorkin?

He pushed the door open and it slammed against the wall. He cursed himself for being a clumsy idiot! There was no sign of Becca, but if blundering around like an elephant on speed didn’t bring her back into the kitchen, nothing would. Mullen saw with relief that his mobile was still there on the table. He stumbled across the tiled floor and grabbed at it, but his fingers refused to cooperate with his brain. The handset twisted out of their grip, bounced back down onto the table and then over the far side onto the floor.

It was a long table. Mullen began to edge his way round it. He felt as if he was wading through quick-drying concrete. He got round to the end and saw the mobile lying against the skirting board. Its light was still on. It had survived the fall. Mullen moved his left leg forward, but it encountered something solid and unyielding. He looked down, puzzled by the shape beneath him, and then, like a slow motion video, he was falling down, down, down until his head cracked against the floor. Pain echoed round his skull. Everything went black. Was this what death was like — a mixture of pain and oblivion? He wanted to swear and call out, but he couldn’t do either. He lay there for several seconds before he managed to force his eyes open. His mobile was only inches from his head. He strained to reach it, but his body was no longer part of him. Somehow his left hand responded to the urgings of his brain and crept towards the mobile. He felt its familiar shape. His fingers closed round it like a claw and pulled it towards him. But then he heard the sound of footsteps from the front hall, approaching the room, and he knew he was too late.

* * *

In the end, Rose had stopped wallowing in self-pity and come up with a plan. There was only one way to sort this out she had realised and that was to go to the Cedars and confront Mullen — and if he wasn’t there she’d wait until he did turn up. And if Becca Baines turned up too, so much the better. She could have it out with both of them. What would she say to Mullen? What might he say to her? The possibilities didn’t bear thinking about. So instead she concentrated on getting to Boars Hill without giving way to tears or hysterics.

She was concentrating on herself with such intensity that she very nearly overshot the Cedars. She squealed to a halt in front of the entrance and froze. The driveway was blocked by a police car. She killed her engine and sat there unmoving, as possibilities too horrible to contemplate raced through her head. She shivered, despite the heat of the day. Eventually she bullied herself into getting out of the car. She walked down the drive, past the police car and up the very slight incline towards the house. She was conscious of the gravel crunching under the sensible lace-up shoes that Mullen had insisted would be necessary. There was another car parked up by the house, but it certainly wasn’t Mullen’s. There were two people standing there talking, a female uniformed officer and a very big man in a suit that was struggling to contain his bulk. Their faces turned in unison. The big man was Detective Sergeant Fargo. He had interviewed her with Dorkin. A man like Fargo, once encountered, is hard to forget (especially when he is named after your favourite Cohen brothers’ film).

“Miss Wilby,” he said advancing towards her with huge strides. He was holding his right hand up in front of him like a policeman whose secret wish (never fulfilled) had always been to direct the traffic. “You can’t come in here.”