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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.”
