Lock Nut

by JL Merrow

  “What, and how to get through padlocks without leaving a trace? Besides, who says those doors lead anywhere? They’re probably just lockups.” He smirked. “I think it’s time you earned your keep.”

  Oh, bloody hell. But if nothing else, it was more in the spirit of what the client was paying for. We’d even brought Mr. Parrot’s T-shirts along in case the list of stalls had drawn a blank. Phil handed me the carrier bag. Feeling like a flippin’ tracker dog, I cleared my mind, focussed on JP, and listened . . .

  What do you know? There was a sharp, bright trail leading along the bit of the loop I hadn’t covered. Not even all that far away. There was a hefty whiff of fear about it too.

  Who did Jonny-boy think we were, the Hertfordshire Mafia?

  “This way,” I said grimly, and hobbled back down the loop.

  Phil grabbed my arm. “What’s with the limp? You were fine when we got here.”

  “I’m okay. Put a foot down wrong, that’s all.” The last thing I needed was Phil going off on a guilt trip about having inadvertently caused my long-ago pelvic fracture.

  “Is your hip playing up? You should have told me. Sod it. I should’ve known he might try to run.”

  The implication being, if he’d thought about it, he’d have handled it all his big, butch self, not left it to the less-able half of the partnership. Great. “I’m fine. Do you want to find this guy or not?”

  I stopped at another used-clothing stall, because that was where the trail went to ground. Was it some kind of brotherhood? The trader, a dark-skinned guy with a heavy accent I couldn’t identify, didn’t want to let us through to where I could feel Jonny-boy was hiding out, but Phil loomed at him while I nipped around the side and caught up with JP at the end of the tunnel, where he was doing a none-too-convincing impersonation of just another military greatcoat.

  He had a trapped, defeated look on his face that would have made me feel guilty if my hip hadn’t still been killing me. “For fuck’s sake,” I said as soon as I got within earshot. “All I want to do is give you a letter.”

  JP blinked. “What?”

  “Here.” I reached into my jacket again, didn’t miss his flinch—seriously, did he think it was a hit or something?—and pulled out Lilah’s envelope, a little damp around the edges from the sweat I’d worked up. “It’s from the missus. She misses you. Pun not intended.”

  He took it, eyes wide. I wondered if I should get him to give me a receipt, or at the very least take a selfie, but sod it, if Lilah wanted proof of delivery, she should have asked for it.

  As he stared at the envelope without opening it, I straightened up. “Right. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming. Oh, and here’s your laundry.” I shoved the carrier bag at him. If he didn’t want the T-shirts, he could flog ’em on his stall.

  Then I limped off, cursing, to re-join Phil.

  After all that, eating on the street didn’t seem very appealing anymore. Luckily we found a pub with a decent menu and Sky Sports, so the day wasn’t a total write-off. After a couple of beers, my hip was even talking to me again.

  Me and Phil went on home, where Phil gave Lilah a bell to let her know the package had been delivered, and I put Jonny-boy Parrot out of my mind—well, not totally; I did wonder occasionally why he’d run, and what had been in the envelope, and whether he’d gone back to the missus, although from the way he’d been eying me up, the chances of that last one seemed pretty slim.

  But then, of course, I switched on the telly Monday evening. And found myself a person of interest in a murder investigation.

  I was so flippin’ shell-shocked by the mock-up of my mug on the screen, I barely registered what I was doing when I picked up my phone. Luckily, it was Gary.

  “Tommy, darling, have you been a naughty boy?”

  “Not that naughty, I haven’t.” I gathered my scrambled wits together. “We’re talking about the news on the telly, right? Because in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t off the poor bastard.”

  “I should hope not. Darren’s absolutely distraught on Lilah’s behalf. He says if you did do it, you can kiss your nadgers goodbye. Although personally I have my doubts you’re quite flexible enough. And he’s going to tell her not to pay your finder’s fee. After all, what use is a dead husband to man or beast? Or woman, of course,” Gary added in an offhand voice.

  “You can tell him indoors cheers for the vote of confidence,” I muttered. God, what must Lilah be feeling? Finding her bloke only to lose him permanently the very next day?

  “Anytime, mate. Anytime.”

  I blinked. That had been Darren’s voice. “Oi, Gary, did you put me on speaker?”

  “Naturally. Darren and I share everything.”

  “Including the low opinion of yours truly? No, wait, don’t answer that. Either of you. Just tell me this—was it really so flippin’ obvious that photofit was me?” I mean, I’d thought it was, but in the circs, surely a bit of paranoia was understandable.

  “Well, I recognised you straightaway,” Gary said thoughtfully. “Even though they underestimated your age by a good half decade.”

  “Half decade—they said late twenties. I’m thirty. That’s, what, three years tops.”

  “If you say so, darling. Still, at least it’s proof you don’t look your age. To some people, anyway.”

  “That’ll be such a comfort to me when I’m doing life for murder. Christ, I’ll be at least forty-five when I come out. Middle-aged.” Would Phil still love me when I was old and wrinkly and covered in prison tats? What were the chances of him staying faithful while I wasted away fifteen years at Her Majesty’s pleasure?

  More to the point, what were my chances of staying faithful, spending all those years locked up with a bunch of horny bastards without two morals to rub together?

  I managed not to gulp audibly.

  “Nah, forty’s the new thirty,” Darren threw in cheerfully. “You’ll still have your best years ahead of you. Look at me.”

  “Bit hard, down the phone line.” I’d always wondered how much older Darren was than Gary. I revised my estimate up a few years.

  Christ, this was doing my head in. I couldn’t even get my priorities straight. It was like my brain kept bouncing into the elephant in the room and careening off at a tangent.

  “Oh, but he can’t go to jail, sweetie pie,” Gary was saying. “I’ve heard the food in there’s dreadful. You’ll have to flee, darling,” he added in a louder tone. “Live the romantic life of a fugitive from justice on the Costa del Crime. It could be quite exciting—you’ll be rubbing shoulders with famous villains like Ronnie Biggs—”

  “Oi, Ronnie Biggs went to Brazil. And he’s dead. If I end up rubbing shoulders with him, I’ll really be in trouble.”

  “I said like Ronnie Biggs,” Gary muttered sulkily.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter ’cos I’m not going on the run. I’m going to give Dave Southgate a ring.” Dave being our friendly neighbourhood detective inspector, and fortunately, a good drinking mate.

  “You wanna get your sister in,” Darren put in helpfully. “Don’t say nothing to the filth until you got yourself lawyered up.”

  “Cherry’s on honeymoon, remember? Up in Scotland, cuddling up with the Loch Ness Monster.”

  “Ooh, is that what Greg calls it?” That was Gary. “He does have remarkably large hands. I always wondered if there was a correlation.”

  “Nah, it’s the feet you gotta look at, pumpkin,” Darren shot back.

  “But then he has very large feet too. Oh, now you’ve got me wondering—”

  Great. Here I was facing jail, or at least the third degree from Dave’s fellow boys in blue, and all they could think about was Greg’s penis size.

  “Gotta go,” I cut them off. “I need to call Dave before anyone else puts an oar in.”

  “Well, if you need any files baked in cakes, do call,” Gary said, and we hung up, on my side not without a hefty dose of relief.

  “Why is it Ga
ry seems to reckon my life is some kind of soap opera put on for his entertainment?” I asked Phil.

  He huffed and put his arms round me. “If it is, I’d fire whoever’s writing the script. But yeah, you’d better call Dave before any helpful anonymous tips get made.”

  I frowned. “I know I said that, but . . . you really think anyone would call and shop me? If they know me, they’d know I wouldn’t kill anyone, right?”

  “If you want everyone to love you, you’re in the wrong business.”

  “I’m in the plumbing business!”

  “Tell that to the murderers you’ve helped put in jail over the last couple of years.”

  A chill ran through me, despite the body heat coming off Phil in waves. It was a bit worrying to think I might have enemies. Yeah, I’d had people try to kill me—but that was during an investigation. I supposed I’d sort of thought that once it was over, it was over. But then it wasn’t, not for them, was it? Or their friends and family, who presumably still loved them despite them being killers.

  It was unnerving to think about, so I dialled Dave straightaway so I wouldn’t have to.

  He picked up on the second ring, which wasn’t ominous at all. Nor was the heavy sigh he greeted my “All right, Dave?” with.

  I couldn’t kid myself about what he actually said, though, which was, “Please tell me you’re calling to ask me out for a pint and not about that bleedin’ news story.”

  “Uh . . . Not sure you’re meant to lie to an officer of the law.”

  “I knew it. I bloody knew it. Jen knew it. Even the bloody nipper knew it. We looked at that photofit, and she was all ‘No, it can’t be,’ and I was ‘Oh, yes it bleeding can.’ What is it with you, Paretski? Got bored with the plumbing and decided to make your own entertainment?”

  “Oi, all I did was find the bloke for a client. And he was still alive when I left him.”

  “And since when have you been a bloodhound for hire? Thought that was more in the boyfriend’s line. ’Scuse me, fiancé. And don’t tell me, I’m coming over. You’re home, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I suppose the other half’s there too? Or have you murdered him and all?”

  “Phil’s fine. And here, yeah. He lives here now.”

  “There’s a surprise. I’ll see you in ten.” He hung up.

  “Dave’s coming round,” I told Phil.

  Phil huffed. “There’s a surprise.”

  I blinked, because the thought of my lover channelling the very straight DI Southgate was all kinds of disturbing. Then again, Phil had been a copper too, back in the day . . . I shook my head. Not what I wanted to be thinking about at this precise moment in time. “So we’re telling him everything, yeah?”

  Phil nodded. “Yeah. Don’t go trying to shield Lilah out of some misplaced notions of loyalty or chivalry or whatever.”

  “God, they’re going to think she did it, aren’t they?” I realised. “Got muggins here to find the poor sod so she could get rid of him once and for all.” Even paying both of us by the hour, the bill we’d written up was a fair bit cheaper than your average divorce lawyer would charge.

  “So? Maybe she did.”

  “What, her?” My flabber was seriously gasted.

  “The bloke was running scared. With good reason, as it turns out. She’s the most likely suspect.”

  “I know, I know, it’s always the spouse what done it.” It had to make you wonder why marriage is still so bloody popular, not that I was daft enough to say anything like that out loud to my fiancé. “But she’s got to know we’d go straight to the police and tell them she hired us. She’s not stupid.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t think like that. Maybe she reckoned we’d keep our heads down, worried about being charged as accessories.”

  “No. No, that’s . . . No, I don’t believe it.”

  But I wished I knew what had been in that envelope I’d delivered.

  Dave turned up in not much more than the ten minutes he’d quoted, with bleary eyes and a strong whiff of sour milk.

  “How’s the new hope?” I asked.

  “Lucas? He’s doing great. Proper little tiger. Got a pair of lungs on him that could put a drill sergeant to shame. Now, what’s all this about you hounding market traders to their deaths?”

  We filled Dave in over a cuppa, possibly underplaying the parts where we were essentially deceiving the client about services rendered. I’d known that was going to come back to haunt me.

  “So all I did was hand over Lilah’s love letter, and then we left him to it,” I finished. “Haven’t seen hide or hair of either of them since. Gave her a call to tell her ‘job done’, wrote out an invoice, and that was it.”

  He humphed. “Did she pay?”

  “Haven’t even had time to post it yet.”

  “Missed your chance there, then. Unless you’re planning to bung it inside a card that reads With Deepest Sympathy.”

  I winced. Poor Lilah.

  Dave allowed himself a brief chuckle at his own joke—or possibly my face on hearing it—then turned businesslike again. “Right. I’ll have a word with whoever’s heading up the investigation into your Mr. Parrot’s untimely demise.”

  “Oi, he’s not my Mr. Parrot.”

  “Oh? Your Mrs. Parrot’s late other half, then. Happy now?”

  Not really, no, but I wasn’t going to say anything, seeing as he was doing me a favour. Or was he, come to think of it? Furthering the course of justice was pretty much in his job description, after all.

  “They’re going to want to talk to you—both of you—but they’ll probably spare you the water-boarding and the fingernail pliers.” Dave’s world-weary mug cracked into an evil grin. “I’m making no promises about the rubber hoses, mind.”

  “What, no telephone directories?” I asked.

  “Don’t be daft. It’s all online these days. Think they’re going to rough you up with an iPad? We’re not made of bloody money.”

  Phil butted in, practical as ever. “What can you tell us about Parrot’s death?”

  “Bugger all. Been off for a week, haven’t I? Jen reckoned she needed a break. All I know is what’s on the bleedin’ news, same as you. Found in the canal, suspicious death, suspect: one evil bastard by the name of Thomas Paretski.”

  “My name wasn’t on the news—was it?” Bloody hell, that wasn’t going to do the customer confidence any favours.

  “No, only your ugly mug. Give ’em time.” Dave stood up, stretched, and scratched his gut. He did a thorough job, so it took a while. “Right. We’ll be in touch. And by ‘we,’ I mean my esteemed colleagues in the Hertfordshire Constabulary. Try not to piss them off too much.”

  “Cheers, Dave. I owe you.”

  “Too bloody right, you do. No, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out. Might have a nose round for the murder weapon on my way, you know how it is.”

  “If you think you’re going to find a flippin’ canal in my downstairs loo, good luck to you.”

  “Who says he drowned? Did I say he drowned? The body was found in the canal. Doesn’t mean he was alive when he went in.” Dave stomped off, whistling tunelessly.

  The front door slammed behind him. Phil and me exchanged worried glances.

  At least, I was betting I looked worried. Phil’s face was giving away bugger all, as usual.

  “S’pose it could have been an accident?” I suggested hopefully. “He definitely seemed stressed when we saw him. Maybe he’d had a drink or six to loosen up, went for a walk to clear his head, and missed his step? It happens.”

  “Maybe.” Phil’s tone said In your dreams, sonny boy. “Went a long way for that walk, though, didn’t he?”

  “Shit. Yeah. Uh . . . maybe he went to see Lilah, and then went for those drinks, etc., etc.?” I was clutching at straws, and I knew it. I sighed. “I’m bloody knackered after all that. Bed?”

  “You go. I’ll join you in a bit.” He reached for his laptop.

  Well, that hadn’t
been what I was hoping for. “Oi, you’d better not be watching porn on that. It’s like the honeymoon’s over and we’re not even married yet.”

  Phil raised an eyebrow. “Thought you were knackered.”

  “I’m never that knackered.” I winked.

  He left the laptop where it lay.

  Result.

  I had a downstairs loo refit scheduled for next day—not as big a job as it sounds, as Ms. T. wanted to redo the tiles herself, so I was only going to be plumbing in the loo and the washbasin. And fitting the fancy new smooth-headed taps that’d be a bugger to turn after a few months of limescale build-up from the water around here, which is so hard you risk giving yourself a concussion if you turn the shower on full blast. I’d warned her, but some people simply don’t want to listen. So no skin off my nose, you’d think, but it goes against the grain, fitting something I know isn’t going to last. Feels like I’m doing a botch job, even when I’m not.

  So I wasn’t in the best frame of mind, which might be why, when she cheerfully told me there had been a murderer on the telly last night who was the spitting image of me, I snapped out, “Look, I didn’t kill him, all right? I just delivered a letter.”

  Ms. T.’s eyes went wide, and she left off the chat after that. She paid up promptly, mind—full payment in cash, and the correct money and everything—but I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t likely to get a lot of repeat business from her direction. I cheered myself up with the thought that at least now she was unlikely to ask me to sort out the taps for free when they seized up.

  I was heading back to Fleetville when Dave called. I thought it might be important, so I pulled the van into a side street and parked up, by which time of course he’d hung up, so I had to ring him back.

  He answered with a fond, “Where the bleedin’ hell are you, Paretski?”

  “On my way home. Why?”

  “I’ve got two detectives wasting our budget sitting on their arses outside your house, waiting for you to bother to put in an appearance, that’s why.”