by JL Merrow
The room beyond was flippin’ gorgeous. I mean, you think conservatory, you picture something small and hexagonal tacked on to the back of someone’s semi, but this place was massive. It was light and airy, with a whole row of French windows that opened onto the gardens. I could just imagine it in summer, with the windows wide open and the curtains blowing in the breeze. At the mo, they had it set up with chintzy bamboo chairs and low tables, and there was a low fire burning in the grate at the end nearest the main building that gave it a cosy feel.
“Like it?” Phil asked, his voice low.
“Yeah,” I said, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. “Yeah, I do.”
It was a bloody good thing it wasn’t far to drive back to mine from the hotel. We’d left the place with a bundle of brochures, several pages of notes in Phil’s notebook, and a provisional booking for July. I was in a bit of a daze.
I realised as I parked up I hadn’t even asked Phil if he wanted to come back to mine. It was getting on for teatime now, although after our Sunday roast, I didn’t reckon either of us would be hungry anytime soon. “Uh, sorry. Did you want to be dropped off at your flat?”
He laughed, the bastard. “Trust me, I’d have told you. Wasn’t sure it was safe to leave you on your own right now anyhow.” Then his face turned serious. “This is what you want, right?”
I guessed he wasn’t talking about him coming in for a cuppa. “Yeah. Just . . . taking a while to get used it, you know?”
“If you think we’re going too fast—”
“No. No, it’s good. I’m good.” I took a deep breath, wiped my hand on my jeans, and turned to look at him directly. “It’s what I want. You. Me. Getting hitched. And the place is great. It’s perfect. Good choice.”
He looked grumpy. “It’s not supposed to be my choice. It’s supposed to be our choice.”
“And it is.” I forced a smile. “I really liked it. And you didn’t pressure me into it, all right? Okay, yeah, Sally the sales fiend knew all the right buttons to push, but you didn’t make me do anything I didn’t wanna. Now are we gonna sit in my car all night, or are we gonna go inside and have a cup of tea?”
Phil smirked. “I can think of things I’d rather have. And we’d definitely better go inside for that.”
So we did.
It wasn’t until much, much later, when Phil had disappeared off back to his flat saying he had stuff to do and an early start on Monday morning, that I realised I’d forgotten to tell him about Cherry’s offer of the house.
Ah, well. There’d be plenty of time for that.
I had vaguely thought I’d just ring Cherry and tell her me and Phil had set a date for the wedding and picked a venue and all that guff, but it occurred to me she’d probably want a longer conversation about it than we tended to do over the phone. Plus I’d sort of left the Mike Novak question hanging a bit, and we probably ought to clear that up too. So when I gave her a bell Sunday evening after Phil had gone, I just arranged to meet for lunch on Monday.
Given that’d be two lunches with her in two days, my phone call left her clearly ready to combust with curiosity, which was a nice little added bonus.
Then it occurred to me I probably ought to have a word with the man himself before I started making all these plans involving him.
I looked at my watch. Still pretty early. He’d probably be in, and he wouldn’t have gone to bed yet. I took a deep breath and called his number. As it rang, I had a moment’s panic—it was a landline number, and chances were, the whole family would be home. What if his wife answered? Or his son—his legitimate son? Should I introduce myself? Had he even told them about me?
In the end, it was Mike’s voice I heard. At least, I was betting Novak junior didn’t have that trace of foreign accent I associated with his dad, having been born and bred here. Panic over. “Hello?”
“Uh, hi. It’s Tom.”
“Tom! It’s good to hear from you. How are you? You’re well?”
“Yeah, I’m good. You?”
“Ah, can’t complain. My knees are giving me trouble again, but then, I’m old. What can you expect? How is that young man of yours?”
“Phil?” Like there was anyone else he might mean. “Yeah, he’s good too. Actually, that was what I wanted to talk to you about. We’ve, uh, we’ve set a date for the wedding.” I named it, trying to ignore the weird feeling in my stomach. “And, um, you’re coming, right? I mean, if you want to?”
“Of course.” Something about the slight pause before he said it, and the warmth when he finally did, told me he hadn’t been counting on an invite. I felt a right git for almost living down to his expectations. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And my boy, Daniel, is looking forward to meeting his brother.”
I’d invited him too? Oo-kay. “Uh, yeah. Me too.” I was. Honest.
“My Anna too. She can’t wait to meet you.” Well, that cleared up the question of whether he’d mentioned my existence. Hopefully it also meant they hadn’t been a thing back when Mike and my mum had been doing the dirty. Oh God. If Mike’s wife was coming to the wedding too, that meant she and Mum would meet. If they had been a thing back then, would she still bear a grudge after thirty years?
I had a brief, surreal, and frankly horrifying vision of Mrs. Novak grabbing Dad for a quick snog to get her own back and only just managed to stifle a nervous laugh.
We chatted a few minutes longer, mostly about all the extended family back in Poland who’d be sorry to miss the wedding (given what I’d read online about attitudes to gay people in Poland, I had a strong suspicion he was either deluding himself or just being polite), then said goodbye. Mike signed off with a promise to bring the vodka. Or possibly the wodka.
I had a feeling I was going to need it.
Monday lunch with Cherry went pretty much as expected. She was over the moon we’d set a date and suitably impressed with the venue. Turned out she’d been to a wedding there a couple of years ago—well, the reception had been there, anyhow. The actual wedding had been “a proper one, in church, of course.”
Then she’d remembered who she was talking to, blushed, and apologised.
I had to laugh. “Never mind. Maybe we’ll get Greg to give us a blessing, yeah?”
Sis looked doubtful for a mo, which I took to mean she wasn’t sure how keen old Tobes would be about that sort of thing going on in his cathedral. Then her frown eased, probably because she’d worked out just how low the chances were of me ever actually bothering to try to arrange it.
“I’m quite surprised you went for Cottonmill Hall,” she said, fiddling with her uneaten breadstick. Sis always wanted to meet for Italian when we had lunch, but she never ate anything there with carbs in it like pasta or pizza, which I’d always thought was the best bit of Italian food. Maybe it was some sort of modern-day Christian equivalent of the hair shirt.
Or maybe she just liked feeling morally superior to the rest of us all chomping down on our stodge.
“Why’s that, then? Too classy for an oik like me?”
She flushed, meaning yes. “I just didn’t think it was the sort of place you’d feel comfortable.”
“Oi, I can do classy. What were you expecting—back room of a pub?”
“Pretty much, yes.” She smiled. “Phil’s been a good influence on you.”
Huh. Did that mean I’d changed since me and Phil had got together? If I had, was that a good thing?
I was still worrying about it when I swung by Phil’s office after my last job of the day.
You don’t like to think someone’s changed you, do you? Either it means you’re not the bloke they fell in love with, or it means they took you on as a fixer-upper.
Course, if I asked Phil about it, he’d just think I was being daft. Still, maybe I could sort of edge around the subject . . .?
Sod’s law, the decision was taken out of my hands, at least for now, seeing as I’d barely got in the door before it opened again behind me. “Alban Investigations?”
> I turned to see a woman in her thirties wearing a frumpy business suit and frazzled hair. “Yeah, you’re in the right place,” I told her with a smile.
Hey, it’s in my vested interest to keep my bloke’s business ticking over nicely. Someone’s got to pay for the champagne and caviar.
Or beer and bacon butties, as might be.
“Are you Phil Morrison?” she demanded.
I gestured to the man himself, who’d stood up behind his desk. “Mrs. Quinn? What can I do for you?”
“You can stop bloody spying on me, that’s what.” Her fists were clenched by her sides. They were also shaking just a little. I didn’t reckon we were in any danger of her throwing a punch.
“Mrs. Quinn, I was asked to investigate your claim of identity theft. I’m happy to say the issue has now been resolved in your favour.”
That caught her on the hop. “Oh,” she said, in a small voice. “You mean . . .”
“You should be getting a letter in the post in the next day or so confirming debt collection proceedings have been cancelled.”
“Oh.” The wind was so far out of her sails, I grabbed the client chair and shoved it in her direction before she totally deflated and collapsed in a heap on the carpet.
“Cup of tea, love?” I suggested once she was safely sitting down.
“No . . . No, I’m fine. Thank you. So I’m off the hook? Completely?”
Phil nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “You might want to have a word with your ex-husband, however.”
“Colin?”
“Or Christian, as he’s been going by lately. Well, whenever he takes out a credit card, that is.”
“I don’t believe it.” The tone she said it in called her a liar, and she stared at her hands, busy playing cat’s cradle without any string in her lap.
“Divorce can be bitter,” Phil said diplomatically.
Mrs. Q. looked up at that. “Bitter? I’ll tell you what’s bitter. First, having a name that makes everyone think you’re a man, especially after that bloody book that’s had everyone making bondage jokes the minute I introduce myself, and second, having someone bloody well steal it. Have you got any idea what that’s like? I could kill that bastard.”
I coughed. “Not a great sort of statement to be throwing around, just saying. You never know what’s gonna happen.”
“I wish it bloody well would.” She looked up at me, her eyes teary with anger. “I don’t expect you to understand. A name’s more than a name. It’s a symbol. It means me. He took my name, and he made it mean something . . . something less. Made it mean someone who doesn’t pay their debts, who orders things they never intended to pay for. He ruined it.”
I crouched down by her chair. “Look, love, you’re more than just a name. Anyone who knows you would know you’re not like that.” Not that I’d know, to be honest, but after all she’d been through, she deserved the benefit of the doubt. “You could change your name tomorrow and you’d still be the same person. In fact, why don’t you do that? Go back to your maiden name and forget about that bastard.”
She gave me a trembly smile. “Should have done that a long time ago. Not so easy, though, is it? Even after everything the bastards do to you, you just keep hoping it’ll all go back the way it was. You’re right, though. Sod him.”
She did stay for a cuppa after that, then we bid a fond fare-thee-well to the newly christened—or rechristened—Ms. T.
When I turned round after closing the door behind her, Phil was smirking at me. “So, names don’t matter, then, Mr. Patschke stroke Paretski stroke Nowak-with-a-w stroke—”
“I’ll stroke something in a minute, and not in a good way.” I glared at him.
The smirk didn’t fade.
Oh, fuck a bloody duck. I gave in and slumped down on the client chair, my head thrown back. “Fine,” I told the ceiling. “Maybe, just maybe I was making a mountain out of a bloody molehill over this whole Mike Novak business.”
Phil got up, walked around the desk, and swivelled the chair to face him. He crouched down and ran his hands up and down my thighs. “No you weren’t. Not really. But there’s worse things in the world than not being totally sure which country your great-grandad came from.”
Yeah. I guessed there really were. Like having the bloke you loved turn out to be a bastard. “Did you keep hoping about Mark?” I blurted out, and wished I hadn’t.
Phil’s face turned bleak. “Really want to ask that?”
No. No, I guessed I didn’t.
We headed off back to mine after that. The weather had turned a bit wet and windy—proper autumn squall—so I did bangers and mash for tea to warm us up a bit.
Any suggestions I might’ve wanted comfort food for reasons other than the weather are gonna get roundly ignored, all right?
Afterwards, we curled up on the sofa with some proper coffee and a couple of choccy biccies. Also a couple of sulky cats, annoyed ’cos neither of us had a hand free to pay them the attention that was theirs by God-given right.
There was nothing interesting on the telly, so after a while, I got to thinking. “You never said what you wanted to do about names when we get married, did you?” I said, making sure I was looking Phil right in the eye.
Yep. There it was. The expression froze. “We should talk about it,” he said at last.
“Yeah, see, I was thinking.” I took a deep breath. I was pretty sure I’d got this right. “We’re both in business, and it doesn’t pay to confuse people. And the way I see it, neither of us deserves to lose out financially just ’cos some people are tossers. So maybe we should stick with what we’ve got, yeah? Forget about the double-barrelling.”
Phil’s face softened. “Yeah. I reckon that’s a good idea. If you’re sure?”
I smiled. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
After all, what’s in a name? Really?
Phil put down his mug and slung his arm around me. Arthur was visibly Not Amused by this wanton display of skewed priorities, but he could suck it up and deal.
Then, of course, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said, seeing as (a) it was my house, strictly speaking, and (b) Phil was currently weighed down by around fifteen pounds of cat.
I opened the door, half-eaten choccy biccie in hand and still munching on my mouthful. And nearly choked.
It was Vi Majors, queen of the bloody annoying timing. She didn’t look happy.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” She took down her umbrella, shook it briskly so that fat, cold drops of water landed all over me—and my flippin’ biccie—and stomped past me into the hall without so much as a by-your-leave.
“Make yourself at home, love,” I said sarcastically.
“Is that partner of yours here? Good.” Clearly Phil was still in the living room where I’d left him. “I’m paying you to find a necklace, not a bloody murderer.”
I made it into the living room. Vi had her fists clenched, squaring up to my Phil, who just stood there looking irritatingly calm—well, I bet it got Vi’s back up—with his arms folded.
“What makes you think I’m not doing just that?” he asked.
“I spoke to Uncle Arlo today. He told me everything. He said you practically accused him of causing his sister’s death.”
“Oi,” I said, narked. “That’s not how I remember it.”
Phil glared at me. Typical. There’s no pleasing some people. Then he turned to Vi. “Miss Majors, I never suggested your uncle had murdered his sister. Just that the replica necklace was involved in her death. As you already know.”
She actually threw up her hands and made a sort of truncated boiling-kettle noise. “Why would a fake necklace have anything to do with murder?”
Phil didn’t answer her question, just carried on asking his own. “Were you aware that your uncle had made the replica necklace for your stepmother?”
Vi reddened. “Of course I was.”
Was she lying? I couldn’t tell.
&nbs
p; See, that, now, that’d be a useful psychic gift to have.
Phil didn’t give any sign he didn’t believe her. “And you didn’t think that information might be relevant to the investigation?”
Vi gave him the blankest look I’d ever seen. “Why on earth should I have? What the hell has the fake got to do with anything? I want you to find the real necklace.”
I was watching Phil, not her, so I spotted it when the muscle twitched in his jaw.
There was no sign of it when he spoke, though. “Finding out the circumstances under which the replica was commissioned could give a valuable insight into what might have happened to the real necklace.”
“Oh, that’s bollocks.”
“Miss Majors, you hired me to carry out this investigation. If you’re not happy—”
“No, I’m not happy. Not in the slightest. In fact, I don’t think I want to pay you anymore. You can just leave it. Send me a bill for your time so far. Or don’t, actually, seeing as you weren’t spending it on what I’d hired you to do.” She wheeled round to give me a glare for no reason I could see. “You’re just a couple of frauds. Both of you.”
I was narked. “Oi, consultant to the coppers, here.”
I mean, maybe I don’t go around shouting about my psychic abilities, but I’m not gonna stand for people calling me a faker.
“Tom,” Phil said warningly.
I shot him a glance, meaning What?
There was a nasty suspicion of an eye roll in the look he sent back my way. I didn’t have much time to get annoyed about it, though, ’cos then Vi was stomping past me, catching me a hefty blow on the shoulder as she passed on her way out.
With her shoulder, I mean. She didn’t punch me or anything. Luckily for both of us, I imagined.
I took an involuntary step backwards, a bit on the clumsy side, and winced as my hip complained.
“You all right?” Phil asked, at my side in an instant.
I frowned. “Course I am. I just trod awkward, that’s all.”
He huffed. The front door slammed loud enough to make me worry for the glass, so I guessed we were on our own again.