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Rose Wilby only decided at the last second to pull into the car-park of the Fox pub. It wasn’t the call of nature which impelled her to do so, even though she did want to go to the toilet. It was more a case of needing to think and a car-park seemed as good a place as any to do so. She switched off the engine, but made no move to get out of the car. Mullen was a murderer? She couldn’t grasp the idea. How could he be? He was too nice. He wasn’t the type. Except, of course, she had never as far as she was aware met a murderer, so how on earth could she know that he wasn’t the type?
Eventually she got out of the car, walked the length of the parking area and entered the pub. She had been here once before. She went to the ladies, did what she needed to, looked with dismay into the mirror and exited. She stopped in the porch, taking advantage of the shade, and rang Mullen’s mobile. It went straight to an answering service. He had turned it off. No surprise there. She was pretty sure that the police could trace you through your mobile nowadays, so it made perfect sense.
What a fool she was to have fallen for a man like Mullen! She began walking slowly down the slight slope of the car-park, reluctant to reach her car because then she would have to get into it and drive back to her flat and then face up to her mother’s ‘I told you so’ and the pity of all the others. Her car was three-quarters of the way down the long row of cars on the right, but when she reached it she continued walking, her pace increasing. Her eyes were fixed on a blue Vauxhall Astra parked at the farthest point on the left, tucked up under the hedge. Most particularly they were focused on a dent on the nearside rear wheel arch. When she reached it she bent down and touched it, reassuring herself that she hadn’t imagined it. She straightened up and peered inside. It was neat and tidy as it always was. Her mother often commented on how particular he was. But what on earth was his car doing here? She delved inside her bag, extricated a biro and an old supermarket receipt and scribbled the registration number on the back.
Then she ran back to her car, got in and rang her mother.
“Yes, dear?” It was the tone of voice, patronising and rather bored, that she often used when speaking to her daughter.
“Where’s Derek?”
“Derek?”
Rose was breathing heavily. “Yes, Derek. Your lover, Derek.” She had never referred to him like that before. Derek was a ‘friend.’
“He’s gone to the coast. I told you that, didn’t I? He’s gone sailing for the weekend with some school pal. Archie something.”
“Where does Archie live?”
“Well, on the coast of course. He loves his sailing.”
“In that case, can you tell me why Derek’s car is parked here in Boars Hill at the Fox pub?”
There was a pause. Then a question: “Are you sure it’s his, dear? Lots of people have Vauxhalls.”
“Of course it’s his. I’d recognise the dent on the wheel arch anywhere. I was there when he did it. And besides, I’m sure it’s his registration number.” She read it out.
Her mother made no reply for several seconds.
“Cat got your tongue?” Rose was aware that she was becoming more unlike herself with every word she uttered, but she had no desire to stop. “Well?”
“There must be a reason. Perhaps he got a lift with someone.”
“Ring him and ask him.”
“I can’t.” Her mother, usually so self-assured and bossy, sounded feeble, crushed even.
“Then I will,” her daughter continued, undaunted.
“That won’t do any good. His phone is turned off.”
“What?”
There was
the noise of sobbing from the other end of the phone. Rose could barely believe it. Her mother never cried. “He sent a text. He said he had forgotten his charger and his battery was low, so he was going to leave his mobile turned off in case he needed it for an emergency over the weekend.”
“Where is he, mother? Why is his car parked here in Boars Hill?”
But the only reply she got was more tears.
* * *
Dorkin was standing by the gateway looking across the fields towards Oxford. The haze had almost cleared and he saw clearly why it was known as the city of dreaming spires. But the view failed to lift his spirits. The fact was that there were few dreams in his line of work — and those he had once entertained lay shattered in his past. He had just finished his third cigarette. He always carried a packet, and often it sat untouched in his pocket for days on end. But when the black dog came barking, it was the only safe solace he could find.
He was about to succumb to a fourth. His fingers were feeling for the filter tip as his eyes continued their hopeless stare across the valley. Then he became aware of a car coming fast from the left, too fast for this stretch of road. He tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He wasn’t a traffic cop for crying out loud! He put the cigarette between his lips and felt in his right-hand jacket pocket for his lighter. There was a squeal of brakes and Dorkin turned his head, alert to the possibility that he might be in danger. A silver Rav 4 rocked to a halt less than a metre away. He recognised it, just as he recognised the woman getting out of the driving seat. He said nothing. She looked as though she would have enough to say for both of them.
“You’ve got it all wrong!” Rose Wilby had come up so close to him that he edged back half a pace. “Doug Mullen is not a killer.”
