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Mullen got up and made his way towards the larder. He found it hard to imagine Becca with plaits even as a girl. They were so old-fashioned and that wasn’t a word he would have applied to her. But it wasn’t as if he had known her for long or knew her well. One thing he did know about her was that she was a woman who ploughed her own furrow in life, so maybe she did once wear plaits, if only to be different.
“So what made you think he was watching you? Or indeed that he was watching anyone?” Mullen had located some gin and two small cans of slim-line tonic. It was lucky she wanted gin because that was the only alcohol in the larder. Mullen wondered if the Thompsons had a stash locked away in one of the other rooms. Two generous measures of alcohol later (plus ice and tonic) and he was ready to resume the conversation.
“You think I’m paranoid? Imagining things?” she said.
He put her drink in front of her and settled down opposite her with his.
“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 connect it to someone, but whoever it was he knew exactly what he was doing. The fact was it could have been nearly anyone. Mullen had presumed it was a man, but now he wondered if he could be sure even of that, since the voice had been synthesised. Mullen sipped at his glass and got up. It wouldn’t hurt to check the garden. At the very least it would demonstrate to Becca that he was taking her seriously. He walked through to the scullery, unbolted the side door and stepped outside. He took another slug of gin and tonic, plus one for luck and then put his glass down on the teak garden table. The garden was at least an acre in size, with plenty of bushes for someone to be hiding behind. If anyone was out there, and they were armed, then he was going to be in trouble. He started by standing very still and looking and listening. There was nothing that caught his eye or ear. He picked up a spade which was leaning against the wall and headed down the lawn towards the bushes and trees. If anyone was hiding, that had to be the most likely place. If he or she had a gun, he would be in trouble, but otherwise a spade made a very good close-quarter weapon. He pushed his way through the bushes and into the more open space under the big trees. There was no-one.
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, scanning the garden again. But it was as if he was on a roundabout and the world was rotating around him. He felt quite giddy. Not to mention tired. As if he had drunk too much.
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.”
“What’s happened? Is Doug all right?”
“Mr Mullen is not here.” The two of them stopped. Fargo was a single pace away from her and she could see the sweat on his face. He looked unhappy with life. “You must leave,” he said.
“Is Becca here?” she said. Fargo’s eyes opened wider, his interest piqued. “Doug had a text from her,” she continued. “She said she was in trouble and needed his help.”
“When was this?” She had certainly got his attention.
She shook her head, as if so doing would clear it. At least, she told herself, Doug is alive. “About an hour ago. Or maybe a bit more.”
He nodded, as if this made sense or fitted in with what he knew.
“So you were with him when he got the message?”
“Yes. We were in South Oxford. We had just been visiting my mother and . . .”
“Did you see the text?” Fargo spoke with surprising gentleness.
“No. He just told me about it as we were walking to his car.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Rose faltered. Far
go was looking at her with a slightly furrowed forehead as if he could sense the dilemma inside her. “I wanted to help him,” she said. “He told me I wouldn’t be any use to him in my sandals, so I went into my flat to change and when I went outside again he had gone.”
