that was her name — who was bubbling with excitement. Mullen stood up, unable to contain himself in the armchair. He strode over to the windows and looked down to where Janice Atkinson had died. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it as it must have been for Lorna listening to it all happen: high heels clacking, an engine roaring into life, a dull thud as the car hit Janice’s vulnerable bodywork. Mullen felt giddy and grabbed at the window frame, steadying himself.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Lorna Gordon asked.
And Mullen, much to his own surprise, said he would.
* * *
Mullen delayed his departure from Lorna Gordon’s flat for as long as he reasonably could, stringing out the mug of tea and accepting two chocolate digestives to go with it. While she chatted away, first about the hit-and-run and then about her grandson, Mullen’s thoughts drifted. They centred initially on the prosaic task of getting home: he would have to walk into the city centre to get a bus out to Boars Hill. He wondered how frequent they were. But soon his ruminations moved on to Chris. Mullen realised with a start how little he had achieved in his investigation, though the word investigation seemed rather overblown for what he was doing. What exactly had he found out? Very little, except to establish that someone had been so annoyed by his attempts to track down where Chris had been living that they had slugged him over the head with something blunt and heavy. Mullen felt his bandaged head and resolved to take the thing off when he got home.
“Would you like another one?” Lorna Gordon leant down to pick up his empty mug.
“I really must be going.”
“That’s a shame.”
Mullen stood up, but she hadn’t finished yet.
“Are you going to tell the police?”
Mullen hesitated. He didn’t like lying, especially to a woman as nice as Lorna. It went against all his instincts. And yet there were other moral imperatives by which he lived, such as protecting the weak. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause the police to come round and question her. The whole scenario made him feel uneasy.
“Well?” The old woman wanted an answer.
“Yes, of course I am. Don’t you worry, I will tell them everything.”
Mullen shook her hand and left, promising to come back and tell her all about it when they had caught Janice’s killer. And when he said that, he really did mean it. One lie was enough.
* * *
Outside on the pavement, it was pleasantly warm. A gaggle of students in shorts and t-shirts walked past, heading out of town, talking animatedly. Mullen didn’t take in what it was that had so caught their imagination because his eyes and attention were fixed on two figures who had, like him, just exited a building some 50 metres away, nearer town. The light was beginning to fade, but Mullen’s eyes were keen enough to recognise the profiles — one tall, heavily muscled man in a suit and another shorter one, also in a suit, with untidy hair and an aquiline nose. Fargo and Dorkin. Mullen slipped into the shadows. On another day and in another place, he might have carried on walking right past them with a cheery greeting. But not tonight, not when they had just walked out of the building in which he had lived. What were they doing there? Checking his room? It seemed unlikely. Asking questions about him? It was much more likely that they had been checking him out. When exactly he had moved in and moved out, who he had socialised with, what visitors he had had.
The two detectives started walking towards town, little and large, still talking, to judge from the hand movements, though whether they were discussing work or the World Cup was anyone’s guess. Across the road a couple walked arm in arm in the same direction, hurrying as fast as the woman’s heels allowed. Mullen crossed over and settled in a few metres behind, using them as a protective screen. Not that he needed it. Fargo turned right at the next side street while
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Lorna Gordon asked.
And Mullen, much to his own surprise, said he would.
* * *
Mullen delayed his departure from Lorna Gordon’s flat for as long as he reasonably could, stringing out the mug of tea and accepting two chocolate digestives to go with it. While she chatted away, first about the hit-and-run and then about her grandson, Mullen’s thoughts drifted. They centred initially on the prosaic task of getting home: he would have to walk into the city centre to get a bus out to Boars Hill. He wondered how frequent they were. But soon his ruminations moved on to Chris. Mullen realised with a start how little he had achieved in his investigation, though the word investigation seemed rather overblown for what he was doing. What exactly had he found out? Very little, except to establish that someone had been so annoyed by his attempts to track down where Chris had been living that they had slugged him over the head with something blunt and heavy. Mullen felt his bandaged head and resolved to take the thing off when he got home.
“Would you like another one?” Lorna Gordon leant down to pick up his empty mug.
“I really must be going.”
“That’s a shame.”
Mullen stood up, but she hadn’t finished yet.
“Are you going to tell the police?”
Mullen hesitated. He didn’t like lying, especially to a woman as nice as Lorna. It went against all his instincts. And yet there were other moral imperatives by which he lived, such as protecting the weak. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause the police to come round and question her. The whole scenario made him feel uneasy.
“Well?” The old woman wanted an answer.
“Yes, of course I am. Don’t you worry, I will tell them everything.”
Mullen shook her hand and left, promising to come back and tell her all about it when they had caught Janice’s killer. And when he said that, he really did mean it. One lie was enough.
* * *
Outside on the pavement, it was pleasantly warm. A gaggle of students in shorts and t-shirts walked past, heading out of town, talking animatedly. Mullen didn’t take in what it was that had so caught their imagination because his eyes and attention were fixed on two figures who had, like him, just exited a building some 50 metres away, nearer town. The light was beginning to fade, but Mullen’s eyes were keen enough to recognise the profiles — one tall, heavily muscled man in a suit and another shorter one, also in a suit, with untidy hair and an aquiline nose. Fargo and Dorkin. Mullen slipped into the shadows. On another day and in another place, he might have carried on walking right past them with a cheery greeting. But not tonight, not when they had just walked out of the building in which he had lived. What were they doing there? Checking his room? It seemed unlikely. Asking questions about him? It was much more likely that they had been checking him out. When exactly he had moved in and moved out, who he had socialised with, what visitors he had had.
The two detectives started walking towards town, little and large, still talking, to judge from the hand movements, though whether they were discussing work or the World Cup was anyone’s guess. Across the road a couple walked arm in arm in the same direction, hurrying as fast as the woman’s heels allowed. Mullen crossed over and settled in a few metres behind, using them as a protective screen. Not that he needed it. Fargo turned right at the next side street while
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