personally or to his company generally. She liked to know what was going on, not just because she was nosy, but because her boss regularly failed to keep her informed of important pieces of information which later boomeranged back to hit her with an almighty thwack.
More and more, the interesting and important letters and documents were coming in via email. This was a source of great frustration to Doreen, who now only got to grips with things when Paul Atkinson went on holiday and reluctantly gave her access to his emails. The paper post this morning seemed no different from usual: letters from the Vale of White Horse District Council and from the company who managed the business park, various circulars which went straight into the recycling bin and three A4 envelopes all containing sales brochures. Or so she thought. The first two were indeed that; one she kept just in case and the other she tossed on top of the circulars. Doreen Rankin had a laser-beam eye for detail and she noticed even before she ripped open the third envelope that it was addressed by hand. That in itself was unusual, but not unprecedented. A charity appeal, an over-qualified student looking for paid work or an internship, a local business offering a special catering deal — these were the potential correspondents that flicked through her mind ever so briefly before she ripped the white envelope open. There was no ‘Private and Confidential’ on it, so it was by her own rules fair enough that she should take charge of it and vet the contents. Paul would almost certainly tell her off for not doing her job if she didn’t. He had told her right at the beginning that he didn’t want to wade through piles of tedious post when he had more important things to do.
Doreen Rankin, who had been standing up as she prepared to give this final piece of correspondence a thumbs up or down, made a mewing sound and sat down very heavily in her chair. She felt giddy with shock and prurient excitement. Then she stood up, went over and shut the door to her small office, closed the blind on her internal window and returned to the desk. There were three photographs and they all told the same story: Paul Atkinson was having an affair. Not that this came as a surprise to Doreen. She had seen his eyes wander when any young women were within his vicinity and his hands too with a female student who’d come in as a temp. She had been skinny as hell, but the woman in the three photographs was anything but. She needed to go on a crash diet. God only knew what Paul saw in her, but Doreen Rankin had long since given up trying to understand men. She slipped the photographs back into the envelope and slid it into her top drawer, which she locked. She needed time to think. What should she do? Give it to Paul and apologise for having opened it, but commit herself to secrecy? Keep it as insurance against the future? Shred it and pretend she had never received it? Paul had a meeting that morning and wasn’t due in the office until after lunch. At least she had some time to think.
* * *
Mullen could have returned the way he had come, up river, but he wanted to buy a bottle of water (why on earth hadn’t he brought one with him?). However, there was another good reason for walking over Donnington Bridge, along Weirs Lane and then up the Abingdon Road again (right past where his car was parked). As he saw it, the only way he could find evidence that Chris’s death was an accident was to prove to Rose and her church friends that Chris had gone back on the booze. Of course they all wanted to believe he was a reformed character who had forsworn alcohol forever. Mullen understood that. He could sympathise with them for wanting it to be so. But life had hardened him. He held to the view that Chris had most likely relapsed and gone on a bender and had fallen in the river as a result. A pile of empties wherever it was that Chris slept would as good as prove it. Or a friend of Chris prepared
More and more, the interesting and important letters and documents were coming in via email. This was a source of great frustration to Doreen, who now only got to grips with things when Paul Atkinson went on holiday and reluctantly gave her access to his emails. The paper post this morning seemed no different from usual: letters from the Vale of White Horse District Council and from the company who managed the business park, various circulars which went straight into the recycling bin and three A4 envelopes all containing sales brochures. Or so she thought. The first two were indeed that; one she kept just in case and the other she tossed on top of the circulars. Doreen Rankin had a laser-beam eye for detail and she noticed even before she ripped open the third envelope that it was addressed by hand. That in itself was unusual, but not unprecedented. A charity appeal, an over-qualified student looking for paid work or an internship, a local business offering a special catering deal — these were the potential correspondents that flicked through her mind ever so briefly before she ripped the white envelope open. There was no ‘Private and Confidential’ on it, so it was by her own rules fair enough that she should take charge of it and vet the contents. Paul would almost certainly tell her off for not doing her job if she didn’t. He had told her right at the beginning that he didn’t want to wade through piles of tedious post when he had more important things to do.
Doreen Rankin, who had been standing up as she prepared to give this final piece of correspondence a thumbs up or down, made a mewing sound and sat down very heavily in her chair. She felt giddy with shock and prurient excitement. Then she stood up, went over and shut the door to her small office, closed the blind on her internal window and returned to the desk. There were three photographs and they all told the same story: Paul Atkinson was having an affair. Not that this came as a surprise to Doreen. She had seen his eyes wander when any young women were within his vicinity and his hands too with a female student who’d come in as a temp. She had been skinny as hell, but the woman in the three photographs was anything but. She needed to go on a crash diet. God only knew what Paul saw in her, but Doreen Rankin had long since given up trying to understand men. She slipped the photographs back into the envelope and slid it into her top drawer, which she locked. She needed time to think. What should she do? Give it to Paul and apologise for having opened it, but commit herself to secrecy? Keep it as insurance against the future? Shred it and pretend she had never received it? Paul had a meeting that morning and wasn’t due in the office until after lunch. At least she had some time to think.
* * *
Mullen could have returned the way he had come, up river, but he wanted to buy a bottle of water (why on earth hadn’t he brought one with him?). However, there was another good reason for walking over Donnington Bridge, along Weirs Lane and then up the Abingdon Road again (right past where his car was parked). As he saw it, the only way he could find evidence that Chris’s death was an accident was to prove to Rose and her church friends that Chris had gone back on the booze. Of course they all wanted to believe he was a reformed character who had forsworn alcohol forever. Mullen understood that. He could sympathise with them for wanting it to be so. But life had hardened him. He held to the view that Chris had most likely relapsed and gone on a bender and had fallen in the river as a result. A pile of empties wherever it was that Chris slept would as good as prove it. Or a friend of Chris prepared
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