“Don’t worry. It’s none of my business anyway.”

Mullen didn’t reply. Instead he went inside the greenhouse and watered round the grow bags. His headache had abated a bit, but that was all. He really did just want some peace and quiet on his own. Apart from anything else, he needed to think.

“Actually,” she said as he left the protection of the greenhouse, “I’ve no intention of spoiling your evening with Becca. I just want to say what I’ve got to say and then I’ll be gone.”

She moved away to the shelter of the wall, into the shade and — more pertinently Mullen thought — out of sight of Becca who was singing ostentatiously in the kitchen. “We can’t pay you any more money. So as far I am concerned, the job is complete.”

Mullen looked at her, trying to read her. “I’m not expecting any more money, not at the moment.”

“People have gone cool. They think it was a waste of their money when the police are free and much better resourced that you can be on your own. They blame Janice for persuading them to take you on. They say she was soft on you, which was the reason she was so keen to hire you.”

“I got the impression you were pretty keen to hire me too.”

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t say anything, but Mullen had already worked out that lying wasn’t something she would readily resort to.

He pressed on. “I’m making progress you know.”

She shrugged. “Even so.” She turned and started walking away. Mullen followed her to her car.

He let her get in. “I thought you wanted to know the truth?”

“What is truth? It’s not going to make a difference, is it? Whether you find out exactly what happened or not, he’ll remain dead.”

“Did you love him, Rose?” It was the obvious question and he already knew the answer to it because why else would she have tears in her eyes?

But she wouldn’t admit it with words. She leant over and opened a large leather bag that was lying on the passenger seat. She pulled a book out and handed it over to him. “I promised to lend this to you,” she said. “I would like it back, but only when you’ve read it. Come round and we can talk about it and I’ll even cook you a frozen pizza.”

Mullen took the book — The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — and felt a pang of something, a mixture of regret for himself and pity for her. He knew that he ought to ask her to stay. But instead he stepped back, closed the car door and watched her depart. Then he went inside to look for Becca Baines.

* * *

“You certainly know how to give a girl a good time.”

Becca Baines and Mullen were sharing the pizza he had bought, accompanied by some rather tired-looking salad and a tin of mixed beans. He was drinking tea, while she had taken him at his word and opened some white wine.

“Rose didn’t seem very happy.” Becca was clearly determined to chat.

Mullen would have preferred to eat in silence, but he guessed he would have to say something. “Maybe not.”

“I think she fancies you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“She does.”

Mullen stuffed a piece of pizza in his mouth.

“Would you like me to stay over tonight?”

Mullen looked across at her. “No.”

She raised her eyes archly. “Well that’s me told.”

“I’ve only met you twice.”

“And I’ve only put you to bed once.” She drained the last of her wine and filled her glass again. “I just hope I don’t get breathalysed on the way home.”

Mullen shrugged and caved in. “You can use a spare bed if you want. But you’ll have to make it up yourself.”

She smiled and took another sip. “So gracious you are, Mr Mullen.”

Mullen reached over and poured himself half a glass. He doubted it would do him any good as far as his (temporarily muted) headache was concerned, but he didn’t see why she should drink the whole bottle. Besides she almost certainly wasn’t going to like what he was about to ask her. He took a swig and swallowed. “Are you still seeing Paul Atkinson?”

“Would you be jealous if I was?”

Mullen swore and placed his glass on the table with great care. Part of him wanted to hurl it across the room to show her his frustration. Why did she have to turn everything into a joke? “It’s not about me,” he snapped. “Janice is dead. She asked me to help her and now she is dead. So I will ask the question again and hope for a sensible answer. Are you still seeing Paul Atkinson? Because if you are, then you must be a lot more stupid than you look.”

“Janice’s death was an accident, wasn’t it?” Becca had sobered up and gotten serious all in a moment. “It was a hit and run, wasn’t it? An accident pure and simple. The only issue being that the driver didn’t stop.”

“It was not an accident. It was deliberate.”

“How can you possibly know that? I’ve read the reports on the BBC and Oxford Mail websites.”

“Trust me. I’m a private investigator. I dig around and I find things out.”

For the first time in their short acquaintance, Mullen saw alarm in Becca’s eyes. Her skin had turned a sickly white. “How?” she said. “How—?” That was as far as she could get with her question.

“I’ve found a witness,” he said. “It was deliberate. And I’ve also learnt that Janice had had her drink spiked with something which would have made her very unsteady on her feet.”

Becca Baines stared at him for several seconds. She shuddered. “You’re serious!” There was the beginning of panic in her voice.

Mullen pressed on. “If I was the police and I thought Janice’s death was murder, then my suspicions would be directed first at Paul as her husband and then you as his lover.”

She shook her head from side to side. “But I didn’t.”

“Have you got an alibi?”

She looked up. Her face was a battlefield. “An alibi?”

“I can vouch that you had supper with me in the Fox. There will be people who will remember us. I can tell the police that you were with me until about nine thirty, but the problem is that she wasn’t killed until ten p.m. and of course from Boars Hill to the Iffley Road at that time of night doesn’t take long in a car.”

“Hey, you’ve certainly thought it through haven’t you!” She spat the words out. “But there would be a dent on my car if I’d run her down. And I know for a fact that there isn’t.”

“For all the police know, you stole a car and then set fire to it afterwards.”

Her mouth opened, but that was all.

They both fell silent. Mullen drank the rest of his wine. He needed it. Becca began to run her fingers through her hair — as if it was a wig and she was testing how well attached it was to her skull. Eventually she stopped and leaned forward. “Doug, you surely don’t think I killed Janice do you?”

Mullen didn’t answer at first. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eight o’clock. It felt like midnight and his headache had returned.

“Tell me you don’t!”

“I really don’t know what to think, Becca.”

She stood up suddenly, knocking over her glass as she did so. “I’ll be off then. The last thing you want is a murderer in your precious house.” She stamped across the kitchen towards the hall.

“You’ve drunk too much to be driving,” he called after her.

“You sound like my mother, Mullen.” She hurled the taunt over her shoulder, but didn’t look back. Mullen didn’t follow her. Instead he emptied what was left of the wine into his glass and listened: to her car door slamming shut, to the engine bursting into life and to the wheels shooting gravel out behind them. Then silence descended and with it came a strange mixture of relief and sadness.

* * *

It was only when she had put her mother to bed just before ten o’clock that Doreen Rankin allowed herself the stiff gin and tonic she had been thinking about all evening. Normally she settled down in front of the BBC news with a mug of tea, but these were not normal circumstances and for once the stories of doom, gloom and violence failed to engage her. She killed the TV with a savage curse, pushed herself up from the sofa and hobbled over to the bookshelf.