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Mullen let her blether on while he downed his pint as quickly as he decently could. Then he made his excuses.
“I really have got to go,” he said. “Work calls.”
“Yeah, right.”
Mullen felt he had to explain. “I help out at a drop-in on Friday evenings.”
“Not snooping on people then?”
He ignored the jibe. “The Meeting Place, down in Cowley. We provide food, friendship and—”
Janice cut in. “All right, off you go then. Mustn’t stop you doing your good works.”
He stood up and for a moment or three he hovered, just like the waitress at the café.
“Bugger off, then!” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
He nodded, turned and headed towards the exit; a naughty schoolboy sent out of the classroom. As he pulled the door open, he half turned. She was watching him. But her face remained impassive as a mask.
Chapter 2
When Mullen arrived at the Meeting Place at 5.30 p.m. on the dot, he immediately sensed that something was different. There were more than the usual number of clients for this time of day and the conversations were muted and secretive. The World Cup had kicked off only the night before and yet no-one seemed to be talking about it. Mullen wasn’t much interested in any case. The patriot inside him wanted England to surprise everyone and win the thing — preferably beating Germany in the process — but the realist told him that this was only marginally more likely than the moon turning out to be made of cheese. He made his way through the throng and greeted his fellow volunteers. Kay and Alex were already hard at work making sandwiches, and the manager Kevin Branston, broad of beam and heavily bearded, homed in on him, clapping him unnecessarily hard on the upper arm.
“Good to see you, Doug. Can you mingle tonight?”
Doug had been asked to mingle every session since Branston had discovered he had a military background. “We need someone who can handle himself in a difficult situation,” he had explained on that occasion, ignoring the fact that Mullen had just told him his expertise had been in communications, not hand-to-
hand combat. Mullen’s army career had lasted barely two years, but Branston was now convinced that his usefulness lay primarily in dealing with any nastiness that might suddenly erupt. This became more understandable to Mullen when he looked around at the rest of the volunteers: all of them, with the exception of the stick-thin student Mel, were well past pensionable age.
“See the Brazil game last night?” Mullen asked, keen to make use of the time he had wasted in front of the TV.
Branston ignored the question. “Folks are a bit on edge,” he said. “Chris was fished out of the river a couple of days ago.”
“Chris?” For the briefest moment, Mullen wondered what on earth Branston was talking about. And then all the bells in his head started ringing in unison.
“Shoulder-length blonde hair tied in a ponytail, camouflage clothes, bare feet and sandals?”
“Of course.”
“Two mornings ago. Some jogger fished him out of the water.”
Mullen looked hard at Branston. Did he know it was he who had pulled Chris out of the river? Was Branston giving him a prod to see how he would react? He wouldn’t have put it past him. But Branston’s mind had apparently moved on to other things. His eyes were traversing the room, looking for someone or checking for trouble. “Anyway, keep on your toes, Mullen.” He patted him on the shoulder and then he was off. Mullen watched him wend his way through the scrum of people queuing for their food. He didn’t warm to Branston. Apart from his patronising manner, there was something shifty about him — a man you couldn’t quite pin down or trust. Or was that Mullen’s own paranoia kicking in? He shook himself. It was time to concentrate on the clients.
Suddenly another hand — or rather a finger — jabbed Mullen in the shoulder blade. He spun around, hands raised, ready to attack or defend. Old habits die hard.
“Steady up, matey.” It was DI Dorkin. “Assaulting an officer can get you in a lot of trouble.”
Mullen dropped his hands. “And so can creeping up on people without warning.”
“You’re a regular here are you?”
“I volunteer every Friday.”
“Bit of a coincidence.” Dorkin scratched at his neck, and then pulled at the collar of his tieless white shirt. He was, Mullen reckoned, the sort of man who would never look comfortable in a suit even though he wouldn’t dream of coming to work without one.
“Is that it?” Mullen asked.
“No,” came the reply. “I think we need a little chat.”
