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“I think she fancies you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“She does.”
Mullen stuffed a piece of pizza in his mouth.
“Would you like me to stay over tonight?”
Mullen looked across at her. “No.”
She raised her eyes archly. “Well that’s me told.”
“I’ve only met you twice.”
“And I’ve only put you to bed once.” She drained the last of her wine and filled her glass again. “I just hope I don’t get breathalysed on the way home.”
Mullen shrugged and caved in. “You can use a spare bed if you want. But you’ll have to make it up yourself.”
She smiled and took another sip. “So gracious you are, Mr Mullen.”
Mullen reached over and poured himself half a glass. He doubted it would do him any good as far as his (temporarily muted) headache was concerned, but he didn’t see why she should drink the whole bottle. Besides she almost certainly wasn’t going to like what he was about to ask her. He took a swig and swallowed. “Are you still seeing Paul Atkinson?”
“Would you be jealous if I was?”
Mullen swore and placed his glass on the table with great care. Part of him wanted to hurl it across the room to show her his frustration. Why did she have to turn everything into a joke? “It’s not about me,” he snapped. “Janice is dead. She asked me to help her and now she is dead. So I will ask the question again and hope for a sensible answer. Are you still seeing Paul Atkinson? Because if you are, then you must be a lot more stupid than you look.”
“Janice’s death was an accident, wasn’t it?” Becca had sobered up and gotten serious all in a moment. “It was a hit and run, wasn’t it? An accident pure and simple. The only issue being that the driver didn’t stop.”
“It was not an accident. It was deliberate.”
“How can you possibly know that? I’ve read the reports on the BBC and Oxford Mail websites.”
“Trust me. I’m a private investigator. I dig around and I find things out.”
For the first time in their short acquaintance, Mullen saw alarm in Becca’s eyes. Her skin had turned a sickly white. “How?” she said. “How—?” That was as far as she could get with her question.
“I’ve found a witness,” he said. “It was deliberate. And I’ve also learnt that Janice had had her drink spiked with something which would have made her very unsteady on her feet.”
Becca Baines stared at him for several seconds. She shuddered. “You’re serious!” There was the beginning of panic in her voice.
Mullen pressed on. “If I was the police and I thought Janice’s death was murder, then my suspicions would be directed first at Paul as her husband and then you as his lover.”
She shook her head from side to side. “But I didn’t.”
“Have you got an alibi?”
She looked up. Her face was a battlefield. “An alibi?”
“I can vouch that you had supper with me in the Fox. There will be people who will remember us. I can tell the police that you were with me until about nine thirty, but the problem is that she wasn’t killed until ten p.m. and of course from Boars Hill to the Iffley Road at that time of night doesn’t take long in a car.”
“Hey, you’ve certainly thought it through haven’t you!” She spat the words out. “But there would be a dent on my car if I’d run her down. And I know for a fact that there isn’t.”
“For all the police know, you stole a car and then set fire to it afterwards.”
Her mouth opened, but that was all.
They both fell silent. Mullen drank the rest of his wine. He needed it. Becca began to run her fingers through her hair — as if it was a wig and she was testing how well attached it was to her skull. Eventually she stopped and leaned forward. “Doug, you surely don’t think I killed Janice do you?”
