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Dorkin lit his cigarette and took a drag, his eyes taking in every feature of the angry round face in front of him. He exhaled the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “So you said a little while ago.”
“Derek Stanley’s car is parked down the road at the Fox.”
Dorkin nodded. He deserved this. It served him right for standing out here on the roadside while his colleagues did all the work inside the house.
“You know who Derek Stanley is?” she pressed.
Dorkin nodded. “From your church.”
“He’s my mother’s special friend. That’s what she calls him anyway.”
Dorkin dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his left foot. “It’s not a criminal offence to park in a pub car-park.” He regretted the remark as soon as he had made it. It was hardly going to calm the woman down.
“I’ve just spoken to my mother. According to her, Derek Stanley has gone to the south coast for the weekend to sail with his friend, Archie. So the question is, what on earth is his car doing parked here in Boars Hill?”
“Are you sure it is his car?”
“Yes.”
“There’s probably a simple explanation.”
It was a bland, patronising statement and it proved to be the last straw. Rose’s red face turned deep crimson. “Do I look like a fool, Inspector? Do you think all women are fools? Do you think your rank confers on you a superior intellect above all others?”
Dorkin flinched.
“Derek Stanley has lied to my mother. He has parked his car here in Boars Hill, not more than a mile away from Mullen’s house, where a woman has been seriously drugged and from which Mullen has disappeared. Maybe you should consider the possibility that these various facts are interconnected.”
Dorkin ran his hand over his thinning hair as he prepared his reply. He knew Rose wouldn’t like it. “The most obvious connection is—” But Dorkin never completed his sentence.
“Sir!” A panting Fargo had come jogging down the drive. He was in his white overalls, but his face, like Rose’s, was puce. “We’ve found something.”
“What?”
“Two sets of footprints in the garden where the vegetables are. Fresh ones. Almost certainly this morning we reckon.” Fargo paused, panting.
“What size?” Dorkin snapped.
“One is size ten and the other size eight.”
“Does either match Becca Baines?”
“I’ve just rung the hospital. She’s a six.”
“What is Mullen’s foot size?” Dorkin demanded of Fargo. The sergeant wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and shrugged. Dorkin turned his gaze to Rose. “Would you happen to know?”
“Ten sounds about right, I’d say. But if you check his bedroom upstairs . . .”
Dorkin swung back to face Fargo, infuriated by the woman’s common sense. “Haven’t you checked that already, Sergeant? Mullen lives in the house. He must have shoes there unless he has taken them all with him.”
Fargo shook his head.
“Then do so.”
Dorkin watched Fargo lumber back up the slope towards the house. He could feel Rose Wilby’s presence next to him, ready to smile patronisingly and tell him how stupid the police were. If that was what was in her head, he wouldn’t blame her. He turned towards her, but there was merely a deep frown that creased her forehead. “My mother bought Derek a pair of shoes for his last birthday. She asked me for my advice.” She paused, as if she was making sure of her facts. “I’m almost certain they were size eights.”
* * *
Mullen’s first conscious thought was that at least he was not dead. His second one, however, was that maybe it wouldn’t be long before he was. The fact was he couldn’t see a thing. His eyes were open — or at least he thought they were — but everything was black. He listened, searching for clues to where he might be. There was nothing beyond his own breathing.
