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

(he told himself) it was ridiculous to be scared of an older lady with pretensions of grandeur and a sharp tongue. But there was no doubting the menace behind her words. Who did she know who could make life difficult for Mullen? Someone high up in the police? The Chief Constable?
    “Mother!” Rose said. Her face had turned a deep red and her hands were gripped tightly round her fork and knife, as if she might be about to use them as weapons. “I think it’s time we changed the subject.”
    * * *
    When Mullen left Grandpont Grange shortly after three p.m., his only thought was to get back to Boars Hill. Margaret Wilby had eased up on him after her daughter’s intervention, but despite the food he had already decided that he would rather eat a flaccid ham sandwich sitting on a park bench than go through that experience again. As far as he was concerned the whole episode had only served to emphasise the truth behind the old adage that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. His car was parked in Lincoln Road, beyond the parking restrictions, and he headed straight down the Abingdon Road because that was the quickest (though hardly the most scenic) route. There was another reason too. He stopped at the shop on the corner of Newton Road and bought five packs of ten cigarettes and then continued south, quickening his pace. All he wanted to do was to get ‘home,’ make a cup of tea and cut the professor’s lawn. In peace. Without interruption. On his own.

Chapter 4
    O’Hanlon House stands in Luther Street, an easy stone’s throw from the magistrates’ court and a more vigorous hurl from St Aldate’s police station. The main entrance of Christchurch College, centre of academic privilege and touristic pilgrimage, is only a little further up the hill and yet it might as well be in another universe. No tourists ask the way to Luther Street and certainly not to O’Hanlon House, which specialises in providing emergency accommodation for the homeless and help towards permanent resettlement.
    Mullen hadn’t ever been there himself, but he knew enough about it to know that it would be a good place to start his search. Of course, he could have gone to the Meeting Place and asked questions there, but he didn’t want to draw attention to what he was doing and in any case his next shift was four days away. As before, he parked in Lincoln Road to avoid parking restrictions and then walked north along the Abingdon Road. There were places nearer town where he might be able to park for an hour or two if they were not already taken, but he really had no idea how long he would need. Given the speed at which cars and lorries were failing to get into the city centre that Monday morning, he very quickly felt vindicated in his decision — not to mention a little bit smug. Walking was almost as quick and certainly less stressful than driving.
    It took him some twenty minutes to reach the bottom of St Aldates. Just past the magistrates’ court, he turned left into Speedwell Street, overtaking three motionless buses. Then he turned left again, into Cromwell Street, and saw immediately what he hoped to see. Not O’Hanlon House as such — though of course it stood exactly where it always had, but people. Three men emerged from the front door and ambled slowly towards him. Not that they had noticed him. They seemed instead to be immersed in a deep discussion which involved looking down at an object in the hands of the middle man.
    “Hi there, gents!” Mullen called out the greeting from a distance, hoping he sounded cheery and unthreatening. They looked up, surprise and guilt on their faces. “I was hoping you could help me,” he said. They had stopped moving forward, but he continued to advance towards them. “I’m looking for someone.”
    Nobody answered. Mullen slowed to a halt a couple of metres away. The three of them were aligned in height order: the man on the left was at least six feet four by Mullen’s reckoning, with a bald