by JL Merrow
“Did he? He’s not making this up, though, is he? Not unless he’s got one bloody vivid imagination.” Dave gave me a long, hard look. Then he sighed. “Look, here’s what we know. What we think we know. Carey took one blow to the side of the head—probably from a fist— and went down, hard. Hit his head on something on the way down, and that’s what finished him.” I winced. There, but for the grace of God… Dave went on, and when I realised where he was going, there was an ice-cold prickle in my chest despite the heat. “I don’t reckon Phil killed him deliberately. Unlucky punch, wasn’t it?”
No. Sudden, furious anger fizzed in my veins. “It wasn’t any bloody punch! It wasn’t Phil, all right? What the fuck is this? You still pissed off with him about—fuck, I don’t even know why you’re pissed off with him!” I was practically shouting in Dave’s face at this point.
“Oi. Sit down. Sit. Down. Tom. I know you don’t want to think about it, but you’ve gotta face facts. The bloke’s got form.”
I sat down. Before I fell down. “The… What?”
Christ. Now Dave’s expression was pitying. “He did tell you why he left the force, right?”
“Well, yeah. He wanted to go it alone. Always did. He only joined your lot for the training.”
Dave looked away, swearing. “Sorry, mate, but that’s not what it says in his file.”
“What do you mean, his file? Since when have you got a file on my bloke?”
“I haven’t. His old force have. I got ’em to give me the edited highlights, after he enlisted my help with the Met the other day. Thought I’d better know exactly who I was vouching for. Turns out, there was an incident. Basically involved one Sergeant Morrison following a suspect home and beating the crap out of him.”
“Phil?” My stomach was one big, swirling pit of nausea. I couldn’t fucking believe it. Phil was chucked out of the force for police brutality? My Phil? “Did they send him down?”
Dave shook his head. “Never went to court. He got suspended, and everyone breathed a bloody great sigh of relief when he decided not to come back.” He gave me a significant look. “Want to know what the bloke he beat up was in for questioning about?”
“No. Yeah. Maybe. Shit, just tell me, all right?”
“Domestic violence. So it’d wouldn’t be too far out of the bounds of possibility to think maybe blokes beating on women is a bit of a red rag to him now, would it? Seeing as he never liked them in the first place, and one of ’em cost him his job.”
“But he’d never… Phil’d never kill anyone.” My mind was spinning. He wouldn’t, would he? “And Carey never hit Marianne, all right? She said that.” It struck me suddenly that pretty much all we knew about Carey, we’d got from Marianne.
But she wouldn’t have lied. Not sweet little Marianne. She was just a kid.
“Tom… Look, I believe you, all right? But the bloke who did this, chances are he didn’t mean it to go so far.” Dave sighed. “Look, I know you like him, though God knows why from what you told me about you and him at school. But Morrison’s bad news. His sort never change.”
I felt hollow. Empty. “No. You’re wrong about him. He’s done good stuff. For fuck’s sake, he’s saved my life.”
“Yeah, funny how every time you’re in danger, he always seems to be involved, though, innit?” Dave held up his hands. “I’m not saying he doesn’t care about you, all right? In his way. I’m just saying, when push comes to shove, you can’t count on him not to shove just that little bit too hard.”
I gave Dave a rundown of my and Phil’s whereabouts for the past few days to the best of my knowledge and recollection. Including the damning fact that I hadn’t seen a whisker of Phil since Sunday lunchtime, or for large chunks of Saturday, either. And then I walked out of there in a daze.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d thought I knew Phil. Could trust him. Yeah, he’d been a bit of a bully at school. But that was half a lifetime ago. I’d thought he was past all that.
And here was Dave telling me Phil had cold-bloodedly assaulted someone. I wanted to think it wasn’t true, but there was this little voice in my head reminding me of all the times I’d called him stubborn and pig-headed. Didn’t seem too far a stretch from him being firmly convinced something had to be done, to actually doing it himself. Christ, no wonder he’d become a PI. Talk about taking the law into your own hands…
But there was no way he’d ever have gone so far as to kill someone. No way.
Then again, only this morning I’d have said he’d never beat someone up, and look how wrong I’d turned out to be on that. And maybe it was like Dave said, and he hadn’t meant to kill him? God. My insides were tied up in bloody knots. Looking at it objectively, I realised I knew sod all about it.
The only thing I was certain of was that Phil had lied to me.
Given the mood I was in, it wasn’t the best night for Phil to have let himself into my house to wait for me. He was sitting on the sofa with a beer when I got in, his feet up on the coffee table like he didn’t have a care in the world—or a dark secret either.
I saw red. Christ, I saw fucking crimson. I stomped over to him, fighting the urge to dash the beer bottle from his hand.
“You fucking… What the fuck were you thinking? Were you thinking? At all? What about back then? Shit, I can’t believe it.” I felt sick.
Phil’s face twisted as he put down his beer and stood up. “What’s happened? Who’s been saying stuff?”
“Dave. In the course of asking just where you were when Carey was getting himself killed. So there I was, all No, mate, you’re barking up the wrong tree, my Phil wouldn’t hurt a fly, and then I’ve got Dave giving me pitying looks while he tells me you bloody nearly got done for GBH!” I was so furious I could barely see straight.
“Tom…” Phil put a hand on my arm. I shook it off. I didn’t want him touching me right now.
“I felt like a right dick. And not a private one either. Spouting all that crap you told me about you leaving the force on purpose so you could set up on your own. You lied to me, you bastard.”
Now Phil was frowning too. “Bollocks.”
“Fuck that. You didn’t jump, you were sodding well pushed.”
“Look, just because I never told you something doesn’t mean I lied about it.”
“Christ, what is this? Bloody word games? You said you only joined the police to get their training.”
“Yeah, and?” Phil folded his arms, the git.
“And it’s fucking bollocks. To coin a phrase.”
“That what your precious mate told you? He’s a fucking liar. Or he doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s talking about. Both, I’d guess. Jesus Christ, Tom. I can’t believe you’re taking that sad, fat old tosser’s word over mine.”
“Oi. You don’t bloody well talk about Dave like that. Where the bloody hell would you have been without him last week?” Fucking ungrateful bastard. I struggled to keep my voice—and my fists—down. “Come on, then—you reckon Dave’s talking bollocks, you tell me how it really was.”
We glared at each other. Phil’s face was hard. “All right, then, I’ll tell you how it was. This cunt puts his missus in the hospital and just laughs in our fucking faces because he’s got her too scared to make a statement. I lost it, okay? I lost it, and I wiped that fucking smirk off his face with my fist. Happy now?”
Not much, no.
I couldn’t tear my gaze from him. Christ, just when I thought I knew him… If I was honest, I’d always found it a bit of a turn-on, him being bigger than me. Stronger than me. Now, though… Now, I wasn’t so sure.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I just lost it, okay?” he said, quieter this time.
“Oh.” My voice sounded funny, which wasn’t that surprising given how much my throat hurt. “So that’s all right, then. ’Cos you just lost it. Still, at least I know what to watch out for n
ow if you and me ever have a major bust-up.”
Phil froze. I couldn’t read his expression, but it didn’t look good. Something hit my hip, and I realized I’d stepped back into the doorway. “You think I’d… Jesus fuck, Tom, you really think I’d ever…” He swallowed. Then he closed his eyes briefly. “I… Fuck this. Just fuck it.”
Then he turned and walked out of the house.
Chapter Seventeen
Christ, I needed to talk to someone. I also needed a drink, but that was more easily arranged. I grabbed a glass and the bottle of whiskey and slumped onto the sofa.
I didn’t know who to call.
Gary would be sympathetic, but he wasn’t exactly the most impartial observer where Phil was concerned, and I couldn’t have stuck it if he’d let slip how pleased he was to be proved right. I couldn’t face talking to Dave either, not with him being all I-told-you-so and shaking his head sadly.
Cherry? She’d be upset, and probably worried about both of us. It’d taken her a while to warm to Phil, but I reckoned she was fond of him in her way. But she had enough on her plate, what with the job and the wedding preparations and all. She didn’t need to deal with my break-up on top. If that was what it was.
Was it?
I wasn’t even sure what I wanted it to be, let alone what it actually was. It’d rocked me, no question, hearing him admit to beating this bloke up. I’d thought he’d changed. The crap he’d got up to at school—the insults, the pushing and shoving in the corridors, in PE lessons—I’d thought that was just him coming to terms with, well, fancying me. And the whole being-gay thing. But this… This had been years after school. When he was a copper, for God’s sake. Sworn to uphold the law and all that.
My face burned as I remembered how I’d defended him to Dave. I’d been so bloody sure Phil was innocent. I felt stupid, now. Stupid and naive. Embarrassed, too—Dave was a mate, for fuck’s sake.
But Christ, the way Phil had looked at me… Like I’d hurt him. Shit, I shouldn’t have said what I had. Just ’cos he lost it with some wife-beating wanker didn’t mean he’d lose it with me, did it? From what Phil said, the bastard had deserved it, and then some.
From what Phil said.
I wasn’t sure what it meant about Carey. I didn’t want to think about that. I mean, if Carey really had done all the stuff Marianne said he had, would it really be so bad if Phil had just…? No. I didn’t want to think about it.
I ended up calling Mum and letting her drone on about her garden and how the roses all had greenfly and she didn’t reckon these European ladybirds were doing their job properly, these red-on-black ones, and they weren’t as nice to look at either, which was just adding insult to injury, and wasn’t it terrible about all the bees? All I had to do was say “yeah” and “mm” every time she paused for breath, and just let her words wash over me. I was actually starting to feel a bit better when her tone changed and I realized she’d asked me a question. “Sorry, Mum, didn’t catch that.”
“I said, how’s Philip?”
Cheers, Mum. Great timing on finally starting to care if he lived or died. I swallowed. “He’s good,” I lied.
“Oh, good,” she said, sounding distracted. Or maybe just disappointed. “He seemed a bit out of sorts on Sunday, but I suppose you know him better than I do. There isn’t anything wrong, is there?”
“No, course not,” I lied through my teeth.
“Well, you don’t usually ring up just for a chat, do you?” She sounded like she was teasing, but it still caused an uncomfortable twinge in the guilt muscles.
“Yeah, but that’s ’cos when I do, I get the third degree,” I said, trying to keep it light. “Um. I’d better go—stuff to do, you know. You look after yourself, yeah? Give my love to—to Dad.” Shit, would she have noticed the hesitation?
“He’s only in the next room, you know. Did you want to speak to him?”
“Nah, that’s okay. He’s, well, he’s keeping all right, isn’t he?” Daft question. He’d been fine at Sunday lunch. Then again, things changed, didn’t they?
“Oh, much as ever.” She paused. “I think he’d be pleased to see you, if you could find the time to pop round.”
There was a little wobble in her voice as she said it. She knew. God, she knew.
Well, obviously she knew, but she also knew I knew.
Did she?
Oh God, I couldn’t deal with this now. “Sorry, Mum, gotta run. I’ll speak to you soon, yeah?”
I hung up, my heart thumping, and poured myself another whisky. It could’ve done with some ice in it—the evening, instead of cooling off, had turned sticky and muggy, promising a night of tossing and turning and chucking off the duvet—but the fridge seemed like half a mile away. I could make do.
I switched on the telly, but nothing held my interest long enough to even begin distracting me. Even Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares seemed stupid and pointless right now. Merlin stalked into the room and I patted the sofa cushion beside me. Having him on my lap would probably involve death by heat exhaustion, but the company would be nice.
Of course, this being my luck, Merlin looked at me, then spooked at nothing and scarpered up the stairs. Probably to join Arthur as a furry hot water bottle on my bed. If I was really lucky, one of them would have picked up fleas from somewhere and would be introducing them to the bedbugs right about now.
I picked up the paper. Threw it down again—nothing likely to cheer me up in those pages. Maybe I should start reading books or something. I wondered if they did self-help manuals for people whose significant others turned out to be murderers.
Oh God.
I’d have switched on my laptop, but there’d have been emails, and I couldn’t face the thought of actually having to deal with stuff right now. Plus I might have been tempted to look up how long it took bodies to start to go off, and I had a strong suspicion my stomach wasn’t up to what I might find. I got myself another drink instead.
Then I thought, sod it, and called Cherry. So she had a lot on her plate; didn’t we all? And for some of us, that plate was piled high with shit. In fact, the plate was more like a sodding toilet. And the seat was cracked.
She could suck it up and deal.
Cherry answered on the second or third ring. “Tom?”
“Hey, Sis.” I paused.
“Tom?” she said again. “Are you all right?”
“Not exactly. Think I might have broke up with Phil.”
There was a long pause on her end. “Oh, Tom. What happened?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just, Dave reckons he might be a murderer, only he didn’t mean it, and he beat up this other bloke when he was a copper. And when I told him, he got pissed off. And, well, pissed off.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“No. Prob’ly not. Shit, I think I’m just tired. Sorry. I’ll speak to you later, all right?” Christ, it was muggy this evening. I trudged over to the window, but it was already open and not a breath of air was coming through.
“Tom! Don’t put the phone down. Where are you?”
“Home. Alone.” If any comedy burglars dropped by, they’d be welcome to whatever they could find. I couldn’t be arsed to stop them.
“I’ll come over.”
“Nah, you don’t wanna do that. It’s getting late.” Well, maybe not that late, but it’d take her a good twenty minutes to get to mine from Pluck’s End, and she’d have to drive back too.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll see you soon.” She hung up.
Great. Now I’d have to tidy up.
Nah, sod it. It was only my sister. I slumped back on the sofa and switched the telly back on.
It was actually more than half an hour before Cherry got to my house, and I soon found out why. She’d brought Gary with her, the traitor. Her, not him, although to tell the truth, I was a bit hacked off with both of t
hem, conspiring behind my back. When your best mate and your big sister get all chummy and gang up on you, it’s just wrong.
Cherry was wearing a girly sundress and clumpy sandals that made her look younger than the big four-oh she’d reached earlier this year, and her nose was so shiny from the heat you could see your face in it.
Gary, looking cuddly in cargo shorts and his Pavlov’s Bitch T-shirt, was all sorrowful eyes and pouting lips. “Tommy, darling, give your Uncle Gary a big hug.” Seeing as he currently had both my arms pinned firmly to my sides in his python-like embrace, I wondered how he thought I was going to manage that. “Now, sit down and tell us all about it.”
I wobbled a bit when he released me, trying to get the air back in my lungs. Gary had parked his bum on the sofa and was patting his knee expectantly. “There is no way on earth I’m sitting on your lap,” I told him firmly and dropped into one of the chairs at what was hopefully a safe distance. “Christ. You want a beer?”
“I’m making tea,” Cherry yelled from the kitchen. “And I brought some cakes round.”
Got it. No more alcohol for Tom tonight. Bloody marvellous.
“Ooh, are they those ones with the cherries on top?” Gary piped up. “I do love nibbling on a cherry.”
Bloody hell. If that was Gary flirting with my sister, I was out of here.
“No, you ate all those,” Cherry said, apparently oblivious to innuendo as she brought in an open biscuit tin full of cupcakes with butter icing and little ball bearings on top.
Since when did Gary and Cherry meet up for cupcakes? In fact, come to that… “Oi, since when do you bake cakes, Sis?”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t bake them. Mrs. Ormerod baked these. Careful when you eat them. I lost a filling to one of those little silver balls the last batch she baked. And Mr. Ormerod didn’t have a tooth left in his head when he passed away in February, bless him.”