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‘Okay,’ she said uncertainly, feeling her way. ‘Let us assume, just for the sake of argument, that Blunt was bullying Jake. Now, that’s hardly a motive for murder.’
‘Why the hell not!’ Whiting spoke sharply, his voice leaping an octave. ‘He’s a right bastard that man. I wouldn’t put anything past him.’
Some four hours later, Martin Mace was pushing his way through the crowd of football fans in the garden of the Priory pub. Oxford were playing Bristol Rovers. Not quite a local derby, but it was a rivalry with history. Two men (Little and Large to their mates) sat at a small round table by the low wall that delineated the edge of the pub’s official limits. There were six pint glasses on the table, two of them already empty, and two only half full. Mace was late.
‘Hurry up, your miserable bastard. It’s nearly your round already. Honestly, you move bloody slower than Julian Alsop, and let me tell you that ain’t a bloody compliment.’ Al Smith was 6 feet 4 and rising, with a body frame to match. Even sitting down, his physical bulk was obvious, and his voice cut a swathe through the babble of noise.
On another day, Mace would have given as good as he got, but on this occasion he slumped heavily down onto the empty stool, nodded at the smaller man, and picked up one of the glasses of Guinness.
Sam Sexton, a short, skinny man with a dark swirl of hair and at least three days of stubble, slipped unconsciously into his role of peacemaker. ‘Leave him be, Al. He’s had to drive to Grimsby and back today. It’s enough to piss anyone off!’
‘Fucking Grimsby,’ Smith snorted. ‘I hate bloody Grimsby. The only good thing about that hole is the fish and chips.’
‘You all right, Martin?’ Sexton asked. Mace had drained his pint, and was pulling the second one towards him. He ignored the question, and began to drink again, only stopping when the glass was two-thirds empty. He carefully placed the glass down on the table, then leant forward. For the first time since sitting down, he looked at his two friends. Each of them leant forward.
‘Jake’s dead!’
For several seconds, the three of them remained silent, while all around the chatter ebbed and flowed. ‘They reckon he was murdered!’ Mace continued.
‘Fuck!’
‘Murdered?’
‘Some bastard whacked him over the back of the head, then dumped him into the river. They fished him out at Iffley Lock.’
‘The poor bugger!’ Sexton said.
‘How did you find out?’ Smith said, his voice no longer booming.
Mace had anticipated this question. He hadn’t told either of his friends about the anger management group – he could imagine what Al’s response would have been – and he didn’t want to tell them now, but he did want to talk about Jake.
‘I was down near the Evergreen Day Centre,’ he improvised, ‘where Jake works, and there were a couple of police cars outside. So I knew something must be up, and this guy started to tell me that one of the workers had been found dead in the river—’
‘I’m not fucking surprised,’ Smith said, his voice louder again and harsh. ‘He was bloody asking for it if you ask me. Bloody pansy.’
‘No one deserves to be murdered,’ Sexton said quickly.
‘Don’t call him a bloody pansy,’ Mace snarled. ‘He was OK. I liked him.’
‘Liked him, did you?’ Smith leered across the table. ‘Liked him a lot, did you?’
‘Leave it out, you guys,’ Sexton said plaintively. ‘Martin,’ he said, trying to steer the conversation to safer water, ‘when did this all happen?’
Mace raised his glass and drained the rest of its contents. Then he put it down, belched and leant even further forward. ‘Suppose, just suppose the person who killed Jake knows?’
‘Knows what?’ Smith replied, his voice now much quieter.
‘About last May.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ Smith said aggressively, but his voice was even quieter. ‘How could anyone?’
‘Suppose Sarah didn’t jump?’ Mace continued, ignoring him. ‘Suppose she was pushed.’ He paused, picked up his glass, realized it was empty and put it down again. ‘Suppose she was murdered too.’
‘You’re just guessing, Martin!’ Sexton said.
‘Suppose,’ persisted Mace, ‘suppose that just this once, I am right. What then?’
‘You’ve as much chance of being right as Paul Wanless has of lasting 90 minutes,’ Smith laughed. ‘Now, are you going to get your round in before the game fucking starts?’
