Pressure Head (22 page)

I stood up and walked around, trying to ease the ache in my hip. Bloody church pews. “No,” I admitted. “Sod it, I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve told you now, all right? So you can do what you like with that little bit of information.”

Phil turned back to me. “This Darren, you got a full name and address for him?”

“Sorry. I can give you Gary’s address, I suppose. Darren seems to have more or less moved in there. Or you can catch him at the market; he’s got a stall. You can’t miss him—shortest trader, loudest voice.” God, I hoped Gary would forgive me for sending Phil round to ruffle the feathers in their little love nest. I wandered over to the window, having noticed a picture of a good-looking, dark-haired bloke that hadn’t been on the sill last night. “Who’s this?” I asked, picking it up.

“My husband.”

Shock stabbed me in the chest and I spun round so bloody fast I nearly fell over. “Your what? You mean all this time, all this dancing around me you’ve been doing, you’re sodding well
married
? Does he know you bring blokes home when he’s away? Or is it that sort of marriage anyway? Forget it—I don’t give a monkey’s. Just leave me out of it, all right?”

I was halfway to the door, breathing hard, my heart beating furiously, before Phil spoke. “He’s dead.”

This time, I turned slowly, feeling cold inside. “Dead?” I said stupidly. “Really dead, or just as in
he’s dead to me
, dead? Because you’ve been sending out some pretty mixed signals—”

“He died in a car crash. Seems there’s a lot of it about.” There was nothing humorous about his smile. “It was a couple of years ago, now, and we were separated, anyway.”

“But you still wear the ring. Why the bloody hell did you lie about it?”

“I didn’t lie. I told you I wasn’t married, and I’m not. Not anymore.”

“Yeah, but you made me think—”

“Think what? That I was an arsehole? So what? No skin off your pretty little nose, was it?”

There was that phrase again. Did it mean anything, him calling me pretty, or did he say that sort of thing to everyone? “I don’t like people lying to me,” I said. Because whether or not he’d said the words, he’d lied.

“And I don’t like telling the whole bloody world about me and Mark, all right?”

“I’m not the whole bloody world!” I snapped, stung.

Phil rubbed his face with both hands. “No. You’re not—now. But back then, you might just as well have been. For all I knew, you still hated me for what happened when we were seventeen.”

Had I hated him? I wasn’t sure anymore. “You don’t like it, do you? Letting people in. Letting them find stuff out about you.”

Phil looked up but couldn’t seem to meet my eyes. “Knowledge is power.”

“Bollocks. That’s just what people say when they’re paranoid Google’s logging their porn.”

“Is it?” Phil took a step forward, and for a moment, I thought he was about to grab me by the shoulders, but then he let his hands fall. Just as well—I didn’t fancy getting into a knock-down fight with him. I had a feeling it’d be me who’d end up getting knocked down. “You’re telling me, if no one had ever found out about you being queer at school, you’d still be walking with a limp?”

It hit me like a body blow. “I don’t limp,” I said weakly.

His face was twisted in what looked like anger, but his eyes were lost, somehow. “Yeah, right. Ever seen yourself on CCTV?” He looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I realised with a shock it wasn’t me.

My stomach felt hollow. “It’s all right. It doesn’t even ache, much, in the summer. And it wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Look, I don’t blame you for it,” I said. “Everyone does stuff they regret when they’re young.” He was doing his made-of-granite act, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Well, he wasn’t fooling me, at any rate. I stepped up to him and lifted a hand to his face.

Phil twisted away from me. He didn’t actually tell me to bugger off, but then he didn’t need to. I sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you around, all right?”

I went home to the cats hoping for some simple, uncomplicated affection, but they were facing off in the hall, hissing and spitting at one another. It looked like Merlin had got on all six of Arthur’s kitty tits this time. I grabbed Merlin and carried him out of harm’s way, sitting on the sofa and stroking him until he started to purr.

Then I remembered I hadn’t given Phil Gary’s address. I picked up my phone to call him—then thought better of it. He knew where I was, if he wanted to ask me.

I wasn’t trying to avoid Phil by going to the Rats for a bit of Sunday roast. I just didn’t have anything in the fridge I fancied eating.

Honest.

I was surprised to see Dave there, sitting in a corner with his paper and a plate of fish and chips. The Rats was a bit off the beaten track for him. I gave him a friendly wave, and he beckoned me over. “Tom? I was hoping to catch you here. A word, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I could tell by the serious tone he wasn’t just after help with the
Mail on Sunday
scrabblegram. “Course, mate. What’s up?”

“Branching out, are you? Your job got a bit boring, so you’re trying to do mine as well?”

Shit. “Has someone been saying stuff about me?” I pulled up a stool and sat down.

Dave wagged his fork in my direction. “I’ve been getting all kinds of grief about you and your mate Phil Bloody Morrison harassing witnesses in the Melanie Porter case.”

“Harassing… We went to talk to a few people, that’s all.” I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. If it was the Rev who’d complained, he might actually have a point—but would he really risk letting the cat out of the bag like that? “Who’s been giving you grief?”

“Lionel Treadgood. Said you’ve been pestering his wife too.”

“
Pestering?
I asked her for a bloody recipe! Now come on, no way did Mrs. T complain about me—and Phil didn’t even speak to her.”

“That’s not what her husband says.”

“Well, have you tried asking her about it?”

“No, because then he’d be on
my
back about police harassment.” At least Dave was looking less pissed off and more amused now. “Seriously, Tom, swapping recipes? Did you ask her where she got her hair done too?”

“No, but we’re going shopping on Saturday, and then we’re going to do each other’s nails. You know, there are plenty of straight blokes around who don’t think it’s sissy to cook. Try telling Gordon Ramsay only nancy boys hang around the kitchen—he’d panfry your nuts and serve them up as a starter.”

“Yeah, well, that’s different. He’s a chef.”

“Oh, I see—it’s all right, as long as you’re wearing a silly hat and getting paid for it. Not every single bloke likes to live on a constant diet of pub grub and takeaways, you know.” I felt a bit bad for him even as I said it—although on the other hand, maybe Mrs. S wouldn’t have been so quick to skip out on him if he’d been a bit keener to help with the cooking. “I bet I could even teach you a few meals, you know,” I added.

Dave shuddered. “Thanks—but old dogs, new tricks. I can manage beans on toast; that’ll do me.”

He was probably right. Plus, if his mates on the force ever found out I was giving him cookery lessons, the poor sod would never live it down. “So anyway,” I said, hating to get back to the subject but knowing I had to. “Has anyone else complained?” I crossed my fingers.

Obviously Jesus was the forgiving sort, as Dave shook his head. “No, but I don’t like seeing you get mixed up in this kind of thing.”

“You’re the one who called me in to find her,” I reminded him.

“Yeah. Find her. And then leave the rest of it to the professionals.”

“Phil’s a professional,” I said slyly.

“He’s a loose bloody cannon, that’s what he is. Trampling all over my investigation.”

“Bit hard for a cannon to trample. No feet.”

Dave’s eyes swept briefly heavenwards. “Fine. He’s rolling all over my investigation, then. With his cast-iron bloody wheels. Crapping out cannonballs.”

“Sounds painful.”

“Trust me, it will be if I find out he’s bollocksed up my case.”

“So have you got a case, then?” I asked innocently. “Is it against Robin East?”

“Nice try, sunshine. You’re not getting word one out of me—not while you’re in bed with the bloody enemy. I wouldn’t even give you the time of day.”

I was a bit miffed. I’d thought we were mates. “Anyone would think we weren’t on the same side here.”

“And I wonder why that might be?”

“Hey, we all want justice for Melanie, don’t we?”

“The best way of getting that is by letting the police do their job. Not by running around putting people’s backs up.”

“The only one that’s happened to is Lionel Treadgood. And I reckon his back’s permanently up.” I hesitated, then plunged on. “Dave, why have you never got me in when you’re searching a suspect’s house? You know, looking for evidence.”

“Because there’s no point finding stuff if we can’t use it to get a conviction. There are rules about conducting searches, and they’re there for a reason.” Dave put down his fork. “Look, Tom, I’m getting enough bloody grief with this one going cold on me. Don’t make it worse, all right?”

It sounded like he wasn’t going to be arresting either Graham or Robin for it in a hurry, which was good, wasn’t it? Wasn’t Graham’s safety all I was after? It didn’t feel right, though—leaving Melanie unavenged. Maybe Phil was right, and I was getting too close to it all. I nicked one of Dave’s chips while I thought about it.

“Oi! That’s my dinner.”

“Thought you’d finished,” I said with a grin. “So how come you’re not having the roast, then? Do you know something I don’t?”

“Gravy.” Dave sighed. “No one makes gravy like my Jenny used to.”

Jenny was the ex-Mrs. S. It looked like Dave still missed her, poor sod. “Guess I’ll join you in the fish and chips, then,” I said to show solidarity. “Another pint?” He nodded, and I went off to the bar to place my order.

I half expected the pub lunch with Dave to turn into a whole afternoon, but after he’d finished his second pint, he stood up and belched. “Right, I’m off. Got better things to do than sit about drinking all afternoon like a bloody layabout.”

“Oh, yeah?” I teased. “Hot date, is it?”

To my delight, he blushed. “Maybe.”

“You can’t leave it at that!” I protested. “Who is she, then, and how long have you known her?”

“First: none of your beeswax, and second”—Dave went even redder—“I don’t know her yet. Met her on one of these online dating sites, and if you breathe a word about this to anyone, I’ll bleedin’ kill you.”

“Better watch out,” I warned. “She’ll probably turn out to be at least ten years older and three stone heavier than her profile picture.”

“Yeah, but everyone does that, don’t they?” He gave an embarrassed smile. “It’s practically compulsory. I put in my profile I was late thirties, with an athletic build.”

God help the both of them, I thought, but I just raised my glass and wished him luck.

Chapter Seventeen

At half past ten on Sunday evening, I was just puttering around, getting ready for bed—had an early drain next day—when the doorbell rang. Generally, when that happens, you don’t expect good news—but when my heart sped up a little as I went to answer it, it wasn’t only for the bad reasons. There was a little voice in my head saying maybe, just maybe it was Phil.

It wasn’t. It was Merry, in mufti—at least, he’d left off the dog collar—looking about as relaxed as, well, a closeted gay vicar visiting a bloke who knew all his dirty secrets.

Or, say, a murderer about to commit crime number two. I suddenly wished I’d thought to put the chain on. “Er, hi, Merry. Bit late, isn’t it?” I managed to get out without too much stuttering.

Merry glanced around furtively, which didn’t do a lot for my nerves. “Please, can I come in? Just—just for half an hour.”

I couldn’t think what to do—but he looked like he was at the end of his tether. His skin was paler than ever, with an unhealthy sheen, and his hands were shaking. “All right. But just for half an hour.” I opened the door fully, Phil’s inevitable verdict of
You twat
ringing in my ears, and motioned him in. “You can go through to the living room,” I said, gesturing at him to go in front, partly because I was brought up right and partly because that meant I’d be able to keep him in sight.

“Um, I’d offer you a coffee, but…”
But I’d like you to go as soon as possible
. All right; maybe the upbringing didn’t take all that well.

The Rev, halfway through parking his bum on my sofa, made a jerky motion with his hand that presumably meant
No, ta, it keeps me awake this time of night.
At least, I hoped it meant that, and not
Actually,
I’d rather not leave DNA traces on your cups
. “I need to speak with you,” he said once he was fully seated. “About this morning.”

I perched on the arm of the chair opposite him. The illusion of superior height would have been more comforting if it hadn’t been just that—an illusion. “What, in particular?” I asked cautiously.

Merry looked like he was about to cry. “What do you want?”