head, sunken eyes and a scar along the bottom of the chin parallel to his mouth. He avoided eye contact. The one on the right was the Ronnie Corbett of the three in height, though more of a Ronnie Barker round the waist. Grey hair plastered his head. The man in the middle was similar in height to Mullen, but bulkier and with a leather jacket which suggested he might once have been a Hells Angel.
“Who are you?” the man in the middle asked.
Mullen ignored the question, brandishing instead the photo he had carefully cut out of the newspaper and sealed inside a polythene envelope. He held it out to the middle man.
“We don’t talk to the police.”
Mullen smiled. “Nor do I! Not if I can help it.” He reached inside his jacket pocket, extricated three packets of cigarettes and brandished them.
“His name was Chris,” Mullen said. “A friend of a friend wants to know what happened to him and where he dossed down.”
“He drowned didn’t he?” Ronnie Corbett-Barker was eying the cigarettes with extreme interest. “It was in the papers.”
“Did he ever sleep here?” Mullen gestured towards O’Hanlon House.
“Don’t think so.” The tall guy was joining in now. He didn’t want to miss out.
“Are you going to give us a fag or not?” Hells Angel was trying to take charge now. He was evidently the boss in their little group.
“There’s a packet each, but not if you lie to me.”
“How will you know if we do lie?”
“I’ll know where I can find you.”
“Is that some sort of threat?”
“I guess it is.” Mullen stepped back half a pace and began to put the cigarette packets back in his jacket, all the time keeping his eyes on the ring-leader. He hadn’t yet worked out if he was all hot air and wind. He knew from experience how people could explode into violence.
“Last chance,” he said. “There are plenty of other people I can ask. Where did Chris sleep at night?”
“Down by the river.” It was Ronnie Corbett-Barker again. He held out a hand. “Near where it goes under the railway. There’s a whole encampment there.”
“No he didn’t.” Hells Angel stretched out a hand and grabbed his mate by the shoulder. “This dickhead will say anything. Go down the road to Folly Bridge. Then left along the footpath. You’ll see all the college boathouses on the left and the university one on the right. Keep walking and after a few hundred yards you’ll pass another boathouse. Then it’s over a little footbridge and there on the right you’ll see bushes. He had a tent there.”
Mullen considered what he had heard. Hells Angel sounded convincing, but you never knew. The man held out his hand. “The fags.” It was a demand, not a request.
Mullen pulled the three packets out again and handed two of them over. He held up the third in front of them. “One of you is lying, so I’m keeping this one.”
Half an hour later Mullen had made his way down the west bank of the river past the college boat houses and over the little humpback footbridge. He found the bushes Hells Angel had talked about and the grassed area beyond, but there was no obvious sign of people or tents or the detritus of life. He spent several minutes checking every possible place where a tent or food or a bag of possessions might have been hidden, but drew a blank. He swore. Hells Angel had well and truly suckered him. The little fat guy must have been telling the truth.
He pulled off his jacket. The sky was pure blue and his shirt was sticky with sweat. He wiped his brow. It was going to be a long hot day.
* * *
At pretty much the same time as Mullen was cursing his own gullibility, Doreen Rankin was dealing with the post addressed to Mr Paul Atkinson of GenMedSoft, a computer software company which specialised in the provision of software for the dental and medical markets. As his personal assistant and office administrator, she took a proprietorial interest in everything that came in addressed to Mr Atkinson
“Who are you?” the man in the middle asked.
Mullen ignored the question, brandishing instead the photo he had carefully cut out of the newspaper and sealed inside a polythene envelope. He held it out to the middle man.
“We don’t talk to the police.”
Mullen smiled. “Nor do I! Not if I can help it.” He reached inside his jacket pocket, extricated three packets of cigarettes and brandished them.
“His name was Chris,” Mullen said. “A friend of a friend wants to know what happened to him and where he dossed down.”
“He drowned didn’t he?” Ronnie Corbett-Barker was eying the cigarettes with extreme interest. “It was in the papers.”
“Did he ever sleep here?” Mullen gestured towards O’Hanlon House.
“Don’t think so.” The tall guy was joining in now. He didn’t want to miss out.
“Are you going to give us a fag or not?” Hells Angel was trying to take charge now. He was evidently the boss in their little group.
“There’s a packet each, but not if you lie to me.”
“How will you know if we do lie?”
“I’ll know where I can find you.”
“Is that some sort of threat?”
“I guess it is.” Mullen stepped back half a pace and began to put the cigarette packets back in his jacket, all the time keeping his eyes on the ring-leader. He hadn’t yet worked out if he was all hot air and wind. He knew from experience how people could explode into violence.
“Last chance,” he said. “There are plenty of other people I can ask. Where did Chris sleep at night?”
“Down by the river.” It was Ronnie Corbett-Barker again. He held out a hand. “Near where it goes under the railway. There’s a whole encampment there.”
“No he didn’t.” Hells Angel stretched out a hand and grabbed his mate by the shoulder. “This dickhead will say anything. Go down the road to Folly Bridge. Then left along the footpath. You’ll see all the college boathouses on the left and the university one on the right. Keep walking and after a few hundred yards you’ll pass another boathouse. Then it’s over a little footbridge and there on the right you’ll see bushes. He had a tent there.”
Mullen considered what he had heard. Hells Angel sounded convincing, but you never knew. The man held out his hand. “The fags.” It was a demand, not a request.
Mullen pulled the three packets out again and handed two of them over. He held up the third in front of them. “One of you is lying, so I’m keeping this one.”
Half an hour later Mullen had made his way down the west bank of the river past the college boat houses and over the little humpback footbridge. He found the bushes Hells Angel had talked about and the grassed area beyond, but there was no obvious sign of people or tents or the detritus of life. He spent several minutes checking every possible place where a tent or food or a bag of possessions might have been hidden, but drew a blank. He swore. Hells Angel had well and truly suckered him. The little fat guy must have been telling the truth.
He pulled off his jacket. The sky was pure blue and his shirt was sticky with sweat. He wiped his brow. It was going to be a long hot day.
* * *
At pretty much the same time as Mullen was cursing his own gullibility, Doreen Rankin was dealing with the post addressed to Mr Paul Atkinson of GenMedSoft, a computer software company which specialised in the provision of software for the dental and medical markets. As his personal assistant and office administrator, she took a proprietorial interest in everything that came in addressed to Mr Atkinson
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