by JL Merrow
“Who?”
“Disney character. In the Cars film. Male, in case you were wondering.”
“I’m mostly wondering how come you know the names of Disney characters.” Was this the kids thing coming up again?
He gave me a look. I could feel it burning into the side of my face. “Remember shopping for a present for your mate Dave’s kid? You dragged me into the Disney store and we didn’t get out for half an hour.”
Oh. That. Time to change the subject. “Right. Uh, there was something that came up when I was in the pub with Gary. Pun not intended. Our honeymoon. About time we booked that, innit?” I braced myself for another argument—sorry, spirited discussion—on the topic of idyllic Caribbean beaches and why they were no substitute for holiday destinations involving activities that were more, well, active both physically and, god forbid, intellectually.
Phil shrugged, staring straight ahead through the car windscreen. “Plenty of time for that.”
I frowned. “You sure? It’s the second week of July, remember. Isn’t that around when the school holidays start? If we leave it too late, everywhere’ll be booked up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Phil said, and then we got stuck behind some idiot blatantly talking on his mobile and driving like he was on the M25—all variable speed limits. So I didn’t.
It was getting on for four o’clock by the time we finally got to Lilah’s house. We knocked and waited. Too late, I realised the flaw in the plan. “Hang on, if Axel’s up in his room with his headphones on, he’s not gonna hear the door, is he?”
Phil cursed—just as the door opened after all.
The man who stood there giving us an unimpressed once-over had clearly heard the phrase go large at an impressionable age and had decided then and there to adopt it as a personal mantra. I don’t mean he was obese, although he had a definite look of prosperity around the middle. He was easily as tall—and as broad shouldered—as Phil, and had for some unknown reason decided to add a few unnecessary inches with heeled cowboy boots and an honest-to-God bowler hat. He was wearing a waistcoat too, but there any resemblance to your stereotypical English civil servant ended. A splash of colour of the eye-watering variety was added by an exuberant purple paisley cravat.
Some blokes would’ve come across as camp in that little lot. This guy somehow managed to give the whole ensemble a rakish, macho air. I wasn’t surprised when he tipped the hat to us, then folded his arms to stand there, feet hip-width apart, with a smug, self-satisfied smile. As if to say My balls are so big my legs won’t close.
Even if I’d been inclined to trust him as far as I could throw him, which I hadn’t been, that stance would’ve done it for me.
“Gentlemen?” He stroked his neatly trimmed goatee with one powerful hand. “What can I do you for?”
“We’re working for Mrs. Parrot,” Phil said with more than a hint of a challenge as he squared up to fix the bloke in the eye. I don’t think he could help himself. Testosterone breeding testosterone, and all that. “Is she in?”
“Nope. Girl’s got a business to run, ain’t she? What’re you here about, then?”
“Her husband.” Phil’s voice was getting curter and curter. He’d be down to words of one syllable and incoherent grunting soon.
“You’re not police,” the bloke guarding the door said with a lot more certainty than he could legitimately have felt, although to be fair he had his eye on me at the time.
Then I started wondering what it was about me that screamed, Not a copper, and if it was something I should worry about. “Sorry, mate,” I butted in cheerily. “Didn’t get your name.”
“Tarbox. Brian. Lilah’s other husband. The one what lived. And you are?”
“Private investigators, looking into Jonathan Parrot’s death. I’m Phil Morrison.” He said it grudgingly and didn’t mention my name, which meant he was either playing his cards close to his chest or getting annoyingly overprotective. I knew which one my money was on.
Tarbox grunted. “Might have known. No other bugger cares that useless tosser’s dead.”
Frowning, I drew in a breath to call him on it, but Phil beat me to the punch.
“You didn’t approve of the marriage?”
“That wasn’t a bloody marriage. That was Lilah with a bee in her bonnet and a bloke with just enough smarts to know when he was onto an earner.”
“Why do you say that?” Phil’s tone was a lot milder now he was getting something from our man.
Tarbox narrowed his eyes. “Bleedin’ obvious, innit? Talk about your life imitating art. Load of bollocks. Being a woofter might not be a sodding lifestyle choice, but marrying Lilah bloody well was. She’s got her head in the clouds, that one.”
I gave him a suspicious look. Casual homophobia about the bloke his ex had married, I could put down to jealousy, but digs at the lady herself? “Are you taking the piss?”
“What?” I wasn’t sure who said it—could have been both of them—as Phil and Tarbox turned identical blank expressions at me.
“You know. A dwarf, with her head in the clouds? That some kind of short joke?” It was possible I’d been spending too much time around Darren lately, and it was making me paranoid.
Tarbox stared at me—and then his face cleared and he laughed out loud. “Hah. That’s a good one. I gotta tell her that when she gets home.”
I could see why she’d divorced him. Although to be fair, he had to know her better than I did. Maybe Lilah would actually get a kick out of it. I mean, it takes all sorts. Maybe off-colour jokes about their respective appearances were what had passed for foreplay in the Tarbox-Lovett marriage.
“Can we come in?” Phil asked, striking while the iron had thawed.
“What for? I told you, she’s working. Won’t be back until tonight.” Tarbox didn’t move to close the door, though.
“You’re here to look after the kids?” I asked, keeping it light.
Tarbox shrugged. “Kid. Lorelei’s working and all. Got a good work ethic, that girl. Least she got one bleedin’ thing from her mum.”
Poor Hazel. Not exactly what you’d hope to hear from a fond and doting father.
“Axel’s taken it hard, hasn’t he?” I said sympathetically. “Losing his stepdad and all. I heard they were pretty close.”
Okay, so I was being a git, too, but this bloke rubbed me right up the wrong way. And it got results. Of a sort.
Tarbox laughed again, and if I hadn’t heard him before, I might’ve thought it was genuine. “Bollocks. You’ve been listening to Lilah, ain’t you? Axel put up with him. He’s a good lad. But that bloody Parrot was a total waste of space.”
I had a sudden urge to remind him that seeing as old Jonny-boy was an ex-Parrot and had ceased to be, maybe he should give the bloke a little respect.
“Mr. Tarbox, we’ve got a few questions for you too,” Phil said, stony-faced. “I’m sure you don’t want to carry on this conversation on your ex-wife’s doorstep.”
“Who says I want to carry it on any-bleedin’-where?” He threw up his hands in an overdramatic gesture. “Fine. Last thing I want is Lilah getting her tits in a tizzy ’cos I won’t talk to her pet detectives. Come on in, but make sure you wipe your bloody feet. Christ knows what you lot go walking around in.”
Did he reckon we’d been knee-deep in gory corpses before we came over? Tarbox had a seriously inflated idea of Hertfordshire crime statistics. Either that or he’d found out what I’d been up to in Redbourn.
We duly gave the door mat a good time, then followed his cowboy boots as they swaggered down the hall. To the kitchen again, so clearly him and Lilah had a few things in common. Unlike Lilah, Tarbox didn’t offer us a cuppa, although he did invite us to sit at the table. Me and Phil took chairs next to each other, facing down the enemy.
Tarbox leaned forward in his chair, planted one beefy forearm on the table, and tipped his hat back with his other hand, the better to stare us out from under its brim. I couldn’t help wondering wh
y he was wearing it indoors. Bald spot, maybe? “Go on then. Ask your bloody questions.”
Phil went straight in for the kill. “Where were you the night Jonathan Parrot died?”
The bastard actually laughed at him. “Why don’t you ask the filth? Been through all this with them, ain’t I?”
“I’ll do that,” Phil said mildly. “How about you tell me how you came to be employing a man you obviously didn’t think much of?”
Tarbox shrugged. “Did I need Lilah bending my ear about it all day at work? No, I bloody didn’t.”
“At work?” Phil frowned.
“’S what I said. Lickett & Lovett Productions Limited. Adult entertainment.”
Lovett being, of course, Lilah’s, ahem, maiden name. I bet Tallulah was thrilled about them using it in the name of a porno company. “So you’d be, uh, Mr. Lickett?” I had to ask.
“Hah. You’re funny, ain’t you? No. Just a name.” Tarbox shrugged. “We could’ve gone for Tarbox & Lovett, but it would’ve sounded like we were doing all that specialist stuff, know what I mean?”
No, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to.
Phil cleared his throat and wrested the conversation back under his control. “So you’re in partnership with Mrs. Parrot as well as with her sister?”
Funny how it didn’t surprise me one bit to find Mr. Tarbox was the sort who liked to have his fingers in all kinds of pies, innuendo not intended.
“Christ’s sake, less of the Mrs. Parrot. Call her Lilah. God knows everyone else does. And yeah, we run the film business together. That’s how we met, innit? Her and me, back in the day. Other side of the cameras then, of course. Mind, I still play the odd role if the script calls for it. Like to keep my hand in, know what I mean?” He winked, and yeah, this time I knew exactly what he meant, and I didn’t think it was his hand he wanted to keep in. Or at least, not only his hand.
“So you and her, you had all the chemistry on set and off?”
“Strictly business at first. You’ve got to be professional about these things. Nah, back in them days, it was me and Tallulah.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. She’s a good girl, she is. Always had a crap-load more class than her sister.”
I was liking this bloke less and less. “So what changed?”
He smiled fondly. “Lilah’s got her ways, the daft tart. Sometimes class don’t pop your cork, does it?”
Did I say he’d smiled? It had degraded into a leer now.
Phil coughed. “So did you have much contact with Mr. Parrot?”
“No more than I could help. And no, I can’t tell you who’d hate the little shit enough to kill him, but I’d take a gander at the boyfriend if I were you.” He made a weird snorting noise, half amused and half in contempt. “Either of ’em.”
I frowned. So did Phil, but it was him who asked. “Meaning?”
“If you reckon he wasn’t getting it from some bloke on the side all the time he was with Lilah, you’re dafter than she is.”
I swear I could hear a bristling sound as Phil’s hackles stood up. “Got someone in mind?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But you might want to have a word with that nance in the Smithy.”
Bloody hell. So Phil had been right about Jonny-boy and Oliver. Allegedly. I made a point of not glancing over to see the smug expression he was no doubt wearing right now.
Tarbox stood up. “We done, then? ’Cos I wouldn’t mind seeing something of my son while I’m here.”
Phil stood too, and I scrambled to join them so as not to get terminally loomed over. “We were actually hoping to have another word with Axel.”
“Were you now?” Tarbox folded his arms. “See, what you don’t seem to realise is, my boy’s just a kid. He don’t need all this hassle for some little poof no one misses. And you, like it or not, are not the police. So I’m thinking no.”
No? Somehow I hadn’t expected an outright refusal. I mean, we’d asked nicely and everything.
Phil rallied first. “As my partner said earlier, Axel seemed quite upset about Mr. Parrot’s death. I’m sure he’d like to feel he’s—”
“He’ll get over it,” Tarbox cut Phil off with a touch of menace.
“Don’t you think Lilah would want us to—” I didn’t get much further.
“Yeah, see, what I want right now is for you two to kindly fuck off. If you wouldn’t mind. Or I could call the filth and see what they think about you two sticking your noses where they ain’t wanted. Your choice.”
We fucked off. Well, what can you do? Dave wouldn’t thank us for wasting police time getting arrested for trespassing or harassment or whatever you charge people with who’ve overstayed their welcome.
“What do you reckon about that?” I asked Phil as I pulled the Fiesta out onto the road. “All a bit incestuous, innit? Tarbox swapping sisters, then trying to keep in with both of ’em. Actually keeping in with both of ’em, which can’t have been easy. I mean, seriously, say you dumped me for Cherry, you needn’t think we’d be mates anymore.”
Phil huffed. “Who says he’s still friends with them? Some people can separate business from their personal lives.”
“S’pose it’s a handy skill to have in the porn industry.” I hesitated, but credit where it’s due and all that. “Sounds like you hit the thingy on the whatsit about old JP and Oliver—sorry, ‘that nance in the Smithy’—doesn’t it? Weird, though. Oliver just talked like they were mates.”
“People have been known to shag their mates.” Phil paused, looking thoughtful. “If he didn’t tell you yesterday, he’s probably not planning on admitting it at all.”
“Well, it’s fair enough, innit? He’d be daft to let on he’s got a motive for murder. I mean, Jonny-boy ran out on him as well as Lilah, didn’t he? If they really were having a fling. We need to talk to Hazel again,” I said decisively. “Get her away from that shop, somewhere she feels more comfortable talking. And I don’t mean her mum’s house.”
There was a silence.
I glanced over at Phil. “What?”
“For someone who keeps saying he’s only a plumber, you’re getting pretty sharp at this game.”
“Like I’ve had a choice?” I grinned. “You ought to be flattered. Me taking such an interest in your career and all. It’s not like you ever return the favour.”
“Go on, then. Tell me the best thing you’ve found blocking up someone’s bog.”
“Oi, it’s not all about the grotty stuff, plumbing isn’t. I was fitting gold-plated taps up in West Common only the other week. Mingling with the nobs and all that.” The name Common being anything but a clue as to the sort of people who lived round that way. “Okay, I only actually met the cleaner, but the biscuits she gave me with my cuppa were dead posh. Proper Belgian chocolate.” I glanced at my watch. “I dunno what time this place your sister works at closes, but it can’t be too far off. Time to pay a flying visit?”
Phil nodded, not looking too cheerful. “Seeing as apparently we have to.”
I could see where he was coming from—seriously, it was a daft thing for her to have got worked up about—but, well, while I couldn’t say I really liked Leanne, in the sense of choosing to spend any more time with her than was inevitable, I definitely felt sorry for her. It couldn’t have been easy, growing up overweight and shy with three strapping brothers who easily qualified for most people’s definition of fit. Not to mention a mum who, it didn’t take a lot of reading between the lines to see, had way more time for her sons than for her daughter.
Leanne’s salon was on Pluck’s End High Street, sandwiched between an estate agent selling local properties for silly money and a florist with a window full of equally overpriced pink and white Mother’s Day stuff. You get mixed feelings about seeing a display like that a good month before the date in question. On the one hand, it’s a cynical bid to cash in on the guilty feelings most of us have towards our mums—we never call, we never write, etc., etc. On the other han
d, you could argue it’s a public service giving us all a handy reminder well in advance. Saves a lot of potential wear and tear on family ties.
I made a mental note of the date, which was on the window in big pink letters, although it was anyone’s guess whether I’d still remember by March.
The salon door jangled as I pushed it open and walked in. It was quite a big place, and there were three other girls all dressed identically to Leanne in those Chinese-style tunics beauticians always seem to wear, and with their hair scraped back and subdued into a bun on top of their heads. They all looked up when we walked in, perfectly arched eyebrows rising in unison.
It was like walking into some creepy movie where the women had been replaced by robot dolls. I had to work to dredge up a smile, not to mention dart a glance round to make sure I was talking to the right girl. “All right, Leanne?”
She smiled so widely I was worried something would crack. “Tom! And Phil. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Now the clients, a mixed bag of ladies at least twenty years older than the salon staff, turned to stare at us.
“Remember I was telling you about my brother, Mrs. Edgeworth?” Leanne twittered to the lady in her chair she’d been attacking with something resembling a length of dental floss. “This is him, and his partner, Tom. He’s the psychic one,” she added in the sort of hushed, gleeful voice I could imagine her using to talk about the latest celebrity scandal.
Mrs. Edgeworth’s eyes gleamed under mismatched brows: one neat but reddened, and the other doing a modest caterpillar impersonation. “You don’t think one of us is the murderer, do you?” She seemed to quite fancy the idea.
It was bleeding obvious why Leanne had wanted us to drop in: to bolster her cred with her colleagues and clients.
Marvellous. I could feel Phil starting to bristle behind me, and cranked up my smile in desperation. “Well, I hope you’ve got an alibi for the night of the murder.”
There were giggles.
“Can you, like, actually read minds?” one of Leanne’s colleagues asked. “Do you know what we’re all thinking?”