Dead in the Water by Peter Tickler Read Free Book Online Page A

if assessing whether he was appropriately dressed for Sunday lunch. Mullen suspected he failed on that score.
    “My daughter will offer you a drink,” she said, retreating to the kitchen at the end of the large living space they had just entered. Mullen took in the detail. A small dining table (mahogany he guessed) was laid for three. There was a two-seater settee and a pair of matching armchairs grouped around a low oak table. A flat-screen TV stood on a matching oak cabinet in the corner. A tablet device of some sort lay on a side-table (also oak) next to one of the armchairs. The carpet was deep red with a slight fleck.
    “There’s wine, if you like. We’re having red with the lamb,” Rose said. “Or my mother has a plentiful supply of dry sherry and gin and tonic.”
    “Or apple juice or water if you don’t drink on duty,” her mother said.
    Mullen shrugged. “I’m not a policeman. Red wine would be nice.”
    Margaret Wilby made a guttural noise that might have meant several things, though Mullen doubted if any of them were complimentary. He wondered how soon after they had eaten he could leave without giving offence. It didn’t seem to be the happiest mother-daughter relationship and he wasn’t sure either of them wanted him there. Which rather begged the question: why had he been asked?
    By the time they were sitting down at the table some ten minutes later, Mullen was feeling slightly less jaundiced. He had almost emptied his wine glass and the smell from the food (roast lamb, roast potatoes, vegetables, gravy and mint jelly) was making him realise how hungry he was. He made the faux pas of picking up his knife and fork just as Margaret plunged into a prolonged grace which covered thanks for the food, a request for divine wisdom and regret for the ‘passing of poor Chris,’ but neither woman appeared to hold it against him. For that he felt truly thankful.
    “I would like to make something clear, Mr Mullen.” Margaret Wilby spoke as if addressing a meeting of the town council. Mullen was about to lift a forkful of lamb and potato into his mouth. Reluctantly he laid it back on the plate. He paused, waiting for her pronouncement. “I think Rose and her coterie are wasting their money. I cannot see the point of hiring a private detective when the police with all their resources can do a much better job.” Mullen looked across at her, but her attention had transferred to her plate: she speared two pieces of carrot and raised them to her mouth. “Well? Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?”
    “Rose says that Chris did not drink alcohol,” Mullen said. “My understanding is that the police pathologist found a high concentration of alcohol in his blood. I see it as my task to investigate this apparent discrepancy.”
    “I see.” Margaret Wilby considered Mullen’s answer for several seconds. She took a sip of wine and swilled it round her mouth as if trying to decide if it passed muster. Eventually she swallowed.
    Mullen felt he had to say more. “If Chris went on a bender after a period of abstinence, as the police think, then the chances are there will be some evidence somewhere. Someone will have been there at the time, maybe drinking with him. A shop-keeper may remember him buying the booze. Or there might be a stack of empties wherever it was that he slept at night.”
    “And what happens if you draw a blank? Do you give Rose all the money back? Like it says on your website?”
    Mullen wondered what Mrs Wilby had done in her earlier life. She would have made a formidable barrister he reckoned.
    “If I draw a blank, your daughter has kindly told me she and her colleagues will not be asking for the £300 back.”
    Margaret Wilby assembled another forkful of food. “In that case, all I can say is you had better make sure you give them good value for their money. Otherwise I shall make life very difficult for you.”
    Mullen felt a sudden shiver of something close to fear, even though