Pressure Head (11 page)

“What list?”

“You must have other people you want to talk to.” How long had he been in this business? “So you’ll be wanting me along for all the
mystic crap
.”

He stared at me, and then he laughed like he couldn’t help himself.

“What?” I wasn’t going to let him disarm me so easily.

Probably.

Phil was still chuckling. “The next one’s going to love you and your bloody witchcraft. He’s the vicar.”

I was about to make some crack about us going to see the vicar like a loved-up couple arranging their wedding, but then I thought Phil might flip out again if I mentioned marriage, and I was kind of liking him in cheerful mode, so I just mumbled something noncommittal.

He leaned back in his seat, obviously taking my mutterings as a sign I wanted to know more. “Remember what Pip Cox said about Melanie filling in for the parish administrator? Got me thinking. Say Robin East
didn’t
call her that night. Who else might she have referred to as
the boss
?”

“Nice. All right—you’ve sold me on it. So when are we dropping in to take tea with the vicar? Can’t go tomorrow—Sunday’s his busy day.”

Phil nodded. “I’ll have to give him a call, make an appointment. I’ll let you know.”

“Okay.” I hesitated. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

He looked at me for a moment, and I’d swear he was tempted—either to take me up on the invitation, or to ask,
for a bit of what?
But then he shook his head.

“Sorry. Things to do. But I’ll try and fix the vicar up for early next week, all right?”

“Long as you give me enough notice so I can do a bit of juggling. And if you need me for anything, you’ve got my number.”

He smiled. “And you’ve got mine. Take care, Tom.”

I met up with Gary at the Dyke again that night. I could tell something had happened the minute I set eyes on him—he was, as they say, all a-twitter. And I don’t mean he was tapping 140-character pearls of wisdom and/or cattiness into his iPhone.

“Tom! Darling—come and give me a kiss.” He proffered his cheek.

I gave him my best impersonation of a blushing virgin. “But Gary—this is all so sudden. I don’t know what to say…”

He tutted. “Well, in that case, just sit that luscious little bottom on the chair, here. I have news, my dear. Wonderful, wonderful news. I’m in love!”

I sat and pulled up a beer mat for my pint next to Gary’s vodka martini (stirred, not shaken). “Okay, this really is sudden. Who’s the lucky bloke? I take it it’s a bloke, and you’ve not started cheating on Julian with another dog?”

“As if I would! He’s a greengrocer. A market trader, I should say, shouldn’t I, Julian?” Gary ruffled his dog’s fur. “He’s got a stall in St Albans market. That’s where we met, just this afternoon.” He fluttered his eyelashes—Gary, that is, not the dog. “He asked if I’d like to feel his plums—well, I could hardly say no, could I?”

“No, I don’t suppose you could,” I said with resignation. “So how were they? Firm and juicy?”

“Oh yes, and delicious.” It was a toss-up as to who was drooling more—Gary or his dog.

I gave Julian’s fur a ruffle around his ears, and his eyes closed in doggy bliss. “So how come you’re here with me, rather than feeling up this bloke’s cucumber?”

“More of a vegetable marrow, actually.” Gary smirked, then pouted. “I’m not seeing him until tomorrow. Well, I didn’t want to come on
too strong
.”

“Who, you?” I said innocently. “Surely not. So, when do I get to meet Mr. Perfect?”

“Next week, if you like. You can come and see him in his element.” Gary took a sip of his martini and gave a happy sigh, his eyes closed. Just for a moment, he was the spitting image of his dog.

“You mean on his stall?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Gary picked up the cocktail stick with the olive on from his drink and waggled it at me. “Now, how about you, sweetie? Had any more blonds for breakfast?” He sucked the olive off the stick suggestively.

“I wish,” I muttered. “I’m thinking of becoming a Trappist monk—I’ve heard they get more action than I do.”

“Oh?” Gary’s eyebrow did its best to chase after his receding hairline. “That’s not what I’ve heard.
I
heard you’ve been spending a great deal of quality time with a rather magnificent specimen of
homo blondus
. Even,” and he leaned forward so far he practically did a nosedive into my pint, “looking at houses together.”

I had to laugh. God, Phil would throw a wobbly if he knew we’d been spotted together and Conclusions Had Been Drawn. “Sorry, Gary, but you’d be a bit previous buying a hat for the wedding. That was the bloke who’s looking into Melanie Porter’s death, and we went into the estate agent’s to talk to her boss.”

“We? Branched out into the Nosey Parker business, have you? So how much would you charge me for a really thorough investigation? Leaving no stone unturned, and poking into all my little nooks and crannies?”

I put on a phoney Sam Spade accent. “For a good-looking dame like you, five hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. Cheap at half the price,” I added in my normal voice. “Nah, this is just a one-off. Phil reckoned he could use my unusual talents.” I did the air-quotes thing.

“So go on, tell me about this
Phil
.”

I shrugged. “Nothing to tell, really. He got hired by Melanie’s parents, and I’m helping him out.”

“On a strictly professional basis? Or is
helping him out
the new euphemism?”

I wish. “Told you, Gary, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Straight, is he? Never mind, darling—just flash him one of your cheeky smiles, and you’ll soon have him joining the sisterhood and eating out of your underpants.”

“Sounds a bit gross, that. And what sisterhood would that be?”

“Sisters of Sodom, of course, what else?” Gary beamed. “I’ve got that on a T-shirt somewhere.”

“Yeah, well, he’s already a member, as it happens.” Although I couldn’t see Phil wearing the T-shirt any time soon. “But it’s strictly business, me and him.”

“For God’s sake, Tom, why? From what I’ve heard, he’s
edible
.”

“We were at school together,” I reminded him with a sigh.

“Oh—say no more.” Gary rested a commiserating hand on my knee and stared into his cocktail for a moment. “If I ever see anyone I was at school with, I run and hide. Force of habit, really. Let’s just say it was obvious from a
very
early age the only female heart I’d ever break would be my mother’s.” He looked up, brightening. “Still, if there were two of you—”

“There weren’t. I mean, he wasn’t out, back then. Course, I never meant to be, either. But it wasn’t exactly a bonding experience, put it that way.”

“Let me guess—he joined in the bullying in self-defence?”

“Something like that.” I found I was rubbing my hip, so I reached for my pint quickly to give my hand something less revealing to do.

Unfortunately Gary’s got a keen pair of eyes on him. “Sweetie…”

I managed half a smile. “Look, just leave it, all right? Water under the bridge and all that.”

Gary nodded. “Ooh—did I ever tell you about the time I had sex under a bridge? Mortifying, it was—absolutely
mortifying
…”

And he was off, into a story involving an improbably endowed bloke whose wife drifted along in a narrowboat at the worst possible moment.

Good old Gary. If I ever need cheering up, he’s my man.

I spent Sunday doing the shopping, hoovering cat hair off the sofa, and not thinking about Phil. I didn’t think about him at Tesco’s, when I was staring at their Buy One Get One Free offer on sirloin steak and wondering if I should invite someone round to share it with me. I didn’t think about him when I was watching telly in the evening and reflecting that a cat on your lap was all very well, but nothing beat a strong pair of arms wrapped around you. And I definitely didn’t think about Phil when I was in the shower, or later when I was in bed, my hand creeping down to my groin…

Nope.

Didn’t think about Phil Morrison at all.

Chapter Eight

We went to see Reverend Lewis mid-afternoon on Monday, which I guessed must be his quiet time—after all, you hear about morning prayers and evening prayers, but you never hear anything about afternoon prayers, do you? Maybe the man upstairs likes a nap after lunch.

Like the vicarage he lived in, the Reverend Lewis was tall, austere, and looked like he’d been constructed sometime during the reign of Queen Victoria. Not that he was old—I put him in his early thirties, tops, with his washed-out blond hair and thin, ferrety features. But he somehow didn’t seem to fit in the modern world—like he’d be horrified if a girl showed her ankles in front of him, or if anybody swore. He offered us each a limp hand to shake and invited us in. The air inside the vicarage was chilly and damp, which was one way it made a change from the vicar himself. His handshake had been unpleasantly warm and damp.

“Do come this way,” he said, ushering us into a front room I guessed had been decorated by the previous reverend’s wife—it was all chintzy floral patterns, now faded in parts, and tasselled ties holding back the curtains. This Rev, Phil had told me on the way over, was unmarried. Looking at him, it was hardly surprising. I don’t expect my blokes to have film-star looks, but I do like them to have at least a nodding acquaintance with a shampoo bottle, and I’m fairly sure most women would agree.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?” At least he had better manners than Samantha East, but then I supposed it sort of went with the job.

“Coffee would be lovely. White, no sugar, ta.” I sat down on the sofa, leaned back and crossed my ankle over my knee.

Maybe the Rev had had a big lunch and was feeling a bit dozy this afternoon—he just carried on looking at me for a moment, then jumped when Phil spoke. Loudly.

“I’ll have a cup of tea, thanks.”

Rev Lewis blinked and turned a bit pink. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” He scurried off down the hall.

I looked at Phil; he nodded, so I started listening for vibes. “Nothing here,” I murmured after a moment. “But something’s definitely calling me upstairs.”

“Okay—give it ten minutes or so, then make your excuses.”

“You do realise half the bloody village is going to end up thinking I’ve got incontinence issues, don’t you?” I muttered.

Phil laughed. “Bit sad, really—a plumber having problems with his pipes.”

“You’re all sympathy, aren’t you?”

Rev Lewis scuttled back in, carrying three mismatched mugs on a scratched tray with a picture of a fluffy kitten on it. I was a bit disappointed not to see something more overtly religious, but on the other hand, one of the mugs was printed with
Coffee
Jesus Makes the World Go Round
. “Here we are. Now, what did you want to ask me, ah, Phil?”

As Phil leaned forward, looking all intent and business-like, I took my coffee and settled back in my seat again. The Rev sat there looking, well, reverend, with his hands clasped in his lap like he was about to start praying or something. His gaze kept sliding in my direction, then zipping back to Phil, as if he’d heard you should make eye contact with people you’re talking to but had never actually seen it done.

“I understand Melanie Porter was acting as Parish Administrator?” Phil began.

The Rev nodded, and a lank strand of hair flopped down over his watery blue eyes. When he reached up to brush it back into place, I noticed his shirt cuffs were frayed, and felt a vague sense of guilt that I hadn’t put anything into a church collection box since I was a nipper at Sunday School. Which I’d left under a cloud at the tender age of seven after the great Easter Egg Hunt fiasco—well, they’d
told
us to go and find the bloody things, hadn’t they? It wasn’t my fault none of the other kids had a clue where to look. And you show me a seven-year-old boy who
isn’t
a greedy little sod.

“She was indeed.” Lewis answered Phil’s question and gave us a thin little smile. “A blessing, since poor Mrs. Reece’s, ah, indisposition.” The way he said it made me wonder if there was something to find out there. “Really quite admirable of her, when she already had a full-time job.”

Phil was nodding. “And what did her duties involve?”

“Oh, paperwork, that sort of thing,” the Rev said vaguely with a nervous titter that made my skin crawl. “The purpose of the post is to enable the incumbent to keep his mind on higher concerns, of course.”

“So… paying bills?”

“Oh, yes. She was an authorised signatory to our bank account, as am I myself, but”—again the teeth-grating nervous laugh—“I try not to become involved in matters fiscal.”

“So she could sign cheques? Who are the other signatories?”

“The church wardens, and our treasurer, naturally.” I braced myself for another wheezy snigger, but it didn’t come.

“And they are?” Phil persisted.

“The church wardens? Oh, Jonathan Riley—but he’s off in Africa at the moment, of course—and Mrs. Cox.”

“What, Pip Cox?” I butted in.