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Mullen couldn’t make any moves, let alone a wrong one. When Stanley told him to get up, his ankles were still hobbled and his hands tied behind his back. He would have to bide his time. There would come a moment when he could make a move. He had to be ready for that split-second opportunity. He had to believe that his chance would come. And yet Stanley’s professionalism told him differently. There were no real clues as to where he had been held all this time — nor did Mullen have any idea how long he had been there. All he knew was that he was aching worse than he could ever recall aching before.
Stanley had put a noose round his neck and was leading him by the rope through a door. “If you try anything stupid, I’ll burn you alive. Got it? So it’s your choice. What sort of death do you want?”
It was dark outside. Not pitch dark, but dark enough. Half-nine or ten Mullen reckoned. So not much chance of running into any dog walkers. He was on his own.
They stopped after Mullen had shuffled maybe a hundred metres. Stanley began to wrap the rope around the branch of a tree. Mullen struggled to understand at first. How could Stanley hang him from there? And then he noticed through the darkness what was on the other side of the tree. Nothing. Empty space. The tree was on the edge of a cliff. Not a Cornish-style coastal cliff, but there was enough of a drop for what Stanley was planning. Perhaps twenty metres. After that there would be only oblivion.
“Do you know why I did it?” Stanley seemed to want an answer. He stood in front of Mullen, keeping his distance, and demanded a response. “Well?”
Mullen thought he knew, but he shook his head. It was a case of anything to delay the end, to gain a bit of time. If Stanley was busy talking, he might let his guard down and make a mistake. If Mullen could get him close enough, maybe he could head-butt him — knock him down and kick him over the edge, though how easy it would be to kick with two feet bound close together and his hands tied behind his back was something Mullen tried not to think about too deeply.
“Chris was a bastard.” Stanley spoke clearly and precisely. “He turned up at the church and played us all for fools. A down and out. Fallen on hard times. Disowned by his family. Not that he talked about his family because that would have given the game away. Even so I think Margaret recognised him quite early on. And he knew her all right. That was why he had come to Oxford, to apply a bit of pressure on her. In a word, blackmail. You see, Margaret had had an affair with Chris’s father, James, and Rose was the result of that liaison. They kept it secret, but James died six months ago and before he died he told Chris. Perhaps he thought it would be nice if Chris and Rose met up. Or maybe not. Anyway, the fact is that James was a wastrel and by the time his debts had been paid, there wasn’t much left over for Chris.”
Mullen was watching Stanley closely. He was listening because Stanley wanted him to, but at the same time he was waiting for an opportunity. If only he could induce the man to come really close.
Now that he had started, Stanley was clearly not going to stop until he got to the end. “Chris was a charmer, as his father had been. Everyone in the church was conned, except for Margaret of course. He wanted money, you see. Lots of money. Margaret offered him a little to go away, but a little wasn’t enough for him. So he used his charm on Rose. Helping her in church, flirting politely, ever the gentleman fallen on hard times. And Rose, the silly woman, was taken in.
That was when Margaret panicked. The idea of the two of them having sexual relations was just too much. She told me, of course. I was her confidant. She swore me to secrecy and I respected that. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t do something about it. I didn’t tell Margaret. It is better and safer to work on your own. And so I did. After I had killed Chris, Janice got suspicious and started asking questions. That was unfortunate.” He paused as he considered what he had said. “Anyway, I had no option but to silence her. And after Janice you came sniffing around.” He swallowed. There was a howling noise in the dark and he cocked his head. He smiled. “Just a fox,” he said. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Mullen lunged forward. It was now or never. Time was running out fast and Stanley had drifted fractionally closer. But Stanley was quick, much quicker than Mullen could be with his limbs tied. The next thing he knew Stanley had tugged at the rope around his neck and he was falling to the ground. His head cracked against something hard and almost immediately he tasted blood.
“Stupid man!” Stanley screamed out the words. “What do you take me for? An idiot?”
Stanley dragged at the rope again. The pain in Mullen’s neck was excruciating. “Up, damn you. Say your prayers.” Stanley was shouting and Mullen felt saliva spatter across his face. “Your time is up, Doug!”
Stanley yanked on the rope once more. Pain jagged into his neck. Mullen wanted to cry out and say something, but the gag round his mouth was far too tight. Instead he resisted as best he could. Lying on the ground, he began to roll and jerk his body with all his remaining strength. Stanley would have to drag him to the edge. He wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
Then out of the darkness came another noise. Not the call of a fox this time, but a sharp crack. It was followed almost immediately by two more cracks as more bullets found their mark. The pressure on Mullen’s neck slackened and Derek Stanley slump
ed to the ground, his body falling like a sack of corn across Mullen’s legs.
Epilogue
Mullen was halfway between sleep and wakefulness. He seemed to be sleeping a lot lately. And dreaming. He opened his eyes briefly and shut them again. It was so bright. He didn’t mind the darkness. ‘To sleep, perchance to dream.’ Mullen wasn’t exactly the world’s most literary person, but the words of Shakespeare floated up from somewhere in his past. His dreams were much nicer than they used to be. No visions of Ben. Not that he could remember his dreams, except as being pleasant, unthreatening. A nurse in a navy blue uniform was the only feature that had stuck in his mind. Or maybe she was real . . .
When he woke next, he opened his eyes and again shut them almost immediately. He had visitors standing at the end of the bed. He didn’t feel like visitors. He didn’t want to be questioned about what had happened or how he felt. He didn’t want to be asked if he wanted anything. Not even when the visitors were Rose Wilby and Becca Baines. If anyone had interrupted his dreams to ask him who he would like to visit him, the two of them would have been top of the list, but definitely not at the same time. The two of them together was far too complicated.
Perhaps they had noticed his change of state for he could sense them moving closer to him along the bed until they stood either side of him. Which one was Becca and which one was Rose he wasn’t sure, but he had no intention of opening his eyes to find out. He could smell their different scents. Perhaps he ought to have been able recognise which smell belonged to which of his bedside admirers, but he struggled to be the sort of man who noticed such things.
“He looks cute doesn’t he?”
“Like a little boy, all tucked in his bed.”
“Bless!”
Mullen wasn’t sure he could differentiate the voices, let alone the perfume. Which was pretty ridiculous, he told himself. Maybe this was the consequence of his ordeal — shock or concussion or something.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“No. Are you?”
Mullen almost opened his eyes at this point. The conversation had taken a distinctly odd and intrusive turn.
“I was briefly tempted,” the first one said. “But not for long.”
Mullen felt a surge of indignation. “I can hear you,” he wanted to say. “It’s me you’re talking about. Me, lying here on the bed between you, while you gossip about me and tell each other how you’ve tested me and found me wanting!”
“So you’re not interested in him then?”
