Dead in the Water by Peter Tickler Page B

to exchange the truth for a couple of packs of cigarettes. Or indeed a shopkeeper who could verify that Chris had bought booze from their shop. Or even a pub. However, pubs were a bit of an endangered species these days. The Wagon and Horses had been turned into a Tesco after considerable local resistance, but Mullen knew that there were two or three others still plying their traditional trade along the road into the city centre, so he would visit them.
    If he could find just one piece of evidence of Chris’s drinking, that would be quits as far as he was concerned. £300 wasn’t a lot for the job, but it would be fair enough in the circumstances. Rose and her friends couldn’t complain just because the truth was different from what they wanted it to be.
    Mullen made his way steadily up the Abingdon Road, armed with his short spiel and the photograph of Chris. It was an unproductive search: none of the pubs remembered serving him, none of the shops admitted to selling him alcohol, though in two cases they certainly recognised him from the photograph. “He smelt a bit, like they all do,” was the first comment. “Came in here from time to time for food or fags, but I can’t say I ever had any problems with him.”
    Mullen nearly challenged the man, but decided there wasn’t any point. If that was how the homeless were remembered and judged — whether they were any trouble or not — he couldn’t really blame people. But he felt irritated and protective nevertheless. In his experience the homeless could be kind, supportive and loyal, just like anyone else. And if they smelt a bit, was that any surprise?
    The woman behind the till in the next shop recognised the photo immediately. “Yes, a very polite man,” she said. “Always asked me how I was. Not like most people who are in far too much of a hurry.”
    “So he was a bit of a regular, was he?”
    “Maybe two or three times a week.”
    “And did he ever buy alcohol?”
    Furrows creased her flawless brown skin as she considered the question. “No, not from me. Mind you, I am not on the till all the time.”
    Mullen found himself warming to her: she didn’t want to mislead or pretend certainty if there was any suggestion of doubt — a perfect witness. “Did he ever come into the shop smelling of alcohol?”
    She pursed her mouth, but her reply was unequivocal: “No, definitely not.”
    Mullen picked up a bar of chocolate from the shelves immediately to his right. “I’ll have this,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a chocolate day; the temperature was mid-seventies at least. But he felt he needed to thank her by buying something.
    “He had a very nice voice too,” she said, handing Mullen his change. “Proper Queen’s English.”
    The encampment which the rotund Ronnie Corbett-Barker had talked about, before being bullied into silence by the Hells Angel, proved to be easy to find. Once Mullen had reached Folly Bridge, he turned left down the footpath and followed the Thames up-river, winding past modern flats and Victorian terraces, college accommodation and sheltered housing and then suddenly there were grass and trees and bushes on his left. Mullen followed the meandering course of the river, passing under a black iron bridge and soon after that beneath the railway. It was then that he saw the settlement, a ragged line of tents stretching away from the main river alongside a meagre tributary.
    Mullen paused. He was feeling queasy. He had already devoured the unnecessarily large chocolate bar, conscious that in this heat, it would cause a mess if he didn’t. But now he was regretting it. He would have been much better off buying a nice wholemeal sandwich from the delicatessen he had passed. He took a swig of water and advanced. As he got closer, he realised the site was much tidier than he had expected. He imagined most of them either kept their belongings inside their tents or carried them with them. It was also pretty much deserted, excepted for a