What a fool she was to have fallen for a man like Mullen! She began walking slowly down the slight slope of the car-park, reluctant to reach her car because then she would have to get into it and drive back to her flat and then face up to her mother’s ‘I told you so’ and the pity of all the others. Her car was three-quarters of the way down the long row of cars on the right, but when she reached it she continued walking, her pace increasing. Her eyes were fixed on a blue Vauxhall Astra parked at the farthest point on the left, tucked up under the hedge. Most particularly they were focused on a dent on the nearside rear wheel arch. When she reached it she bent down and touched it, reassuring herself that she hadn’t imagined it. She straightened up and peered inside. It was neat and tidy as it always was. Her mother often commented on how particular he was. But what on earth was his car doing here? She delved inside her bag, extricated a biro and an old supermarket receipt and scribbled the registration number on the back.
Then she ran back to her car, got in and rang her mother.
“Yes, dear?” It was the tone of voice, patronising and rather bored, that she often used when speaking to her daughter.
“Where’s Derek?”
“Derek?”
Rose was breathing heavily. “Yes, Derek. Your lover, Derek.” She had never referred to him like that before. Derek was a ‘friend.’
“He’s gone to the coast. I told you that, didn’t I? He’s gone sailing for the weekend with some school pal. Archie something.”
“Where does Archie live?”
“Well, on the coast of course. He loves his sailing.”
“In that case, can you tell me why Derek’s car is parked here in Boars Hill at the Fox pub?”
There was a pause. Then a question: “Are you sure it’s his, dear? Lots of people have Vauxhalls.”
“Of course it’s his. I’d recognise the dent on the wheel arch anywhere. I was there when he did it. And besides, I’m sure it’s his registration number.” She read it out.
Her mother made no reply for several seconds.
“Cat got your tongue?” Rose was aware that she was becoming more unlike herself with every word she uttered, but she had no desire to stop. “Well?”
“There must be a reason. Perhaps he got a lift with someone.”
“Ring him and ask him.”
“I can’t.” Her mother, usually so self-assured and bossy, sounded feeble, crushed even.
“Then I will,” her daughter continued, undaunted.
“That won’t do any good. His phone is turned off.”
“What?”
There was the noise of sobbing from the other end of the phone. Rose could barely believe it. Her mother never cried. “He sent a text. He said he had forgotten his charger and his battery was low, so he was going to leave his mobile turned off in case he needed it for an emergency over the weekend.”
“Where is he, mother? Why is his car parked here in Boars Hill?”
But the only reply she got was more tears.
* * *
Dorkin was standing by the gateway looking across the fields towards Oxford. The haze had almost cleared and he saw clearly why it was known as the city of dreaming spires. But the view failed to lift his spirits. The fact was that there were few dreams in his line of work — and those he had once entertained lay shattered in his past. He had just finished his third cigarette. He always carried a packet, and often it sat untouched in his pocket for days on end. But when the black dog came barking, it was the only safe solace he could find.
He was about to succumb to a fourth. His fingers were feeling for the filter tip as his eyes continued their hopeless stare across the valley. Then he became aware of a car coming fast from the left, too fast for this stretch of road. He tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He wasn’t a traffic cop for crying out loud! He put the cigarette between his lips and felt in his right-hand jacket pocket for his lighter. There was a squeal of brakes and Dorkin turned his head, alert to the possibility that he might be in danger. A silver Rav 4 rocked to a halt less than a metre away. He recognised it, just as he recognised the woman getting out of the driving seat. He said nothing. She looked as though she would have enough to say for both of them.
“You’ve got it all wrong!” Rose Wilby had come up so close to him that he edged back half a pace. “Doug Mullen is not a killer.”
Dorkin lit his cigarette and took a drag, his eyes taking in every feature of the angry round face in front of him. He exhaled the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “So you said a little while ago.”
“Derek Stanley’s car is parked down the road at the Fox.”
Dorkin nodded. He deserved this. It served him right for standing out here on the roadside while his colleagues did all the work inside the house.
“You know who Derek Stanley is?” she pressed.
Dorkin nodded. “From your church.”
“He’s my mother’s special friend. That’s what she calls him anyway.”
Dorkin dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his left foot. “It’s not a criminal offence to park in a pub car-park.” He regretted the remark as soon as he had made it. It was hardly going to calm the woman down.
“I’ve just spoken to my mother. According to her, Derek Stanley has gone to the south coast for the weekend to sail with his friend, Archie. So the question is, what on earth is his car doing parked here in Boars Hill?”
“Are you sure it is his car?”
“Yes.”
“There’s probably a simple explanation.”
It was a bland, patronising statement and it proved to be the last straw. Rose’s red face turned deep crimson. “Do I look like a fool, Inspector? Do you think all women are fools? Do you think your rank confers on you a superior intellect above all others?”
Dorkin flinched.
“Derek Stanley has lied to my mother. He has parked his car here in Boars Hill, not more than a mile away from Mullen’s house, where a woman has been seriously drugged and from which Mullen has disappeared. Maybe you should consider the possibility that these various facts are interconnected.”
Dorkin ran his hand over his thinning hair as he prepared his reply. He knew Rose wouldn’t like it. “The most obvious connection is—” But Dorkin never completed his sentence.
“Sir!” A panting Fargo had come jogging down the drive. He was in his white overalls, but his face, like Rose’s, was puce. “We’ve found something.”
“What?”
“Two sets of footprints in the garden where the vegetables are. Fresh ones. Almost certainly this morning we reckon.” Fargo paused, panting.
“What size?” Dorkin snapped.
“One is size ten and the other size eight.”
“Does either match Becca Baines?”
“I’ve just rung the hospital. She’s a six.”
“What is Mullen’s foot size?” Dorkin demanded of Fargo. The sergeant wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and shrugged. Dorkin turned his gaze to Rose. “Would you happen to know?”
“Ten sounds about right, I’d say. But if you check his bedroom upstairs . . .”
Dorkin swung back to face Fargo, infuriated by the woman’s common sense. “Haven’t you checked that already, Sergeant? Mullen lives in the house. He must have shoes there unless he has taken them all with him.”
Fargo shook his head.
“Then do so.”
Dorkin watched Fargo lumber back up the slope towards the house. He could feel Rose Wilby’s presence next to him, ready to smile patronisingly and tell him how stupid the police were. If that was what was in her head, he wouldn’t blame her. He turned towards her, but there was merely a deep frown that creased her forehead. “My mother bought Derek a pair of shoes for his last birthday. She asked me for my advice.” She paused, as if she was making sure of her facts. “I’m almost certain they were size eights.”
* * *
Mullen’s first conscious thought was that at least he was not dead. His second one, however, was that maybe it wouldn’t be long before he was. The fact was he couldn’t see a thing. His eyes were open — or at least he thought they were — but everything was black. He listened, searching for clues to where he might be. There was nothing beyond his own breathing.