by JL Merrow
There was another cascade of giggles, some of them sounding a lot more nervous than before, and a “God, I hope not!” from a girl with a dainty nose stud.
“Just ’cos you’ve got a dirty mind, Simone!” one of the other girls cackled.
The ladies in the chairs were all looking at me and Phil like we were a couple of long, tall, skinny lattes and they hadn’t had a coffee since Christmas. I had to fight the urge to back away slowly. “Nah, not that kind of psychic.”
“Do you do readings?” a lady getting her nails blinged up asked.
“Uh, no.” I’d thought I’d covered that with not that kind of psychic, but apparently not. “All I do is find stuff.”
“Did you find the body?” someone else asked.
“Uh, no.”
“And do you know who tried to frame you?”
“‘Frame me’?” Definitely wanting to back away now.
“That picture of you on the telly,” Leanne put in helpfully. “We all saw it.”
“Although I thought he’d be taller.” Eyebrow lady sounded like I’d personally let her down.
“Do you think it was the wife who did it?”
“Uh . . .”
“We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Phil’s voice rumbled out from behind me. “It’s been good seeing you, Leanne. We’ll talk later.”
Give the girl her due: she only quailed slightly at his tone. But then, that’s sisters for you. I don’t get any respect from mine, either.
I gave them all a cheery wave and a wink, and then legged it with my bloke.
“Pub?” I asked, suddenly desperate for a pint.
He nodded. “Pub.”
It was around five o’clock, on the early side to start drinking—or at any rate, round here it was. If we’d been in the city centre at this time on a Saturday and stuck our heads round the door of a Wetherspoons, we’d no doubt have found the place heaving with lads and lasses who’d been on the piss all day shouting at the telly, but in a place like Pluck’s End, they at least try to pretend they only have a tiny glass of Chateau Posh with a meal until later in the day. There were a few people in small groups in the corners, so quiet it wasn’t easy to tell if they were early starters or stragglers from lunch, but on the whole the Spanish Inquisition was pretty empty. It probably wouldn’t warm up until the dinnertime lot got here in a couple of hours.
True to form, Phil spent a lot more time chatting up the bar staff than was actually necessary to get our drinks.
“Decided to ask about old JP after all?” I asked when he finally returned. “And, oi, what’s this?” He’d handed me a bottle of pale ale.
“Trixie’s recommendation,” he said, putting down his mineral water on a beer mat. “I asked her for something to impress this bloke I’m with.”
“I can think of better ways you can impress me than with a bottle of gnat’s piss.”
He smirked. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. You can tell me you got something useful from her about old Jonny-boy.”
“As it happens, I did.” He paused, and took a swig of his water. Over-dramatic git. “He came in a few times. With a dark-haired young man who was a bit on the swishy side—sound familiar?”
Oliver. “Well, he did say they were mates . . .”
“Trixie reckoned they were more than that. You could have knocked her over with a feather when she saw on the news about Mr. Parrot’s murder and realised he was a married man.”
I snorted. “Touching faith in human nature, there.”
Phil looked bleak for a moment, and I kicked myself. Metaphorically speaking, as there wasn’t a lot of legroom under the table and if I’d swung my size nine into Phil’s shin by accident, I’d have felt even guiltier than I did already.
“It’s not like I think everyone cheats,” I said quickly. “Just, well, it’s not like it’s a shock when people do, is it?” Christ, Paretski, put down the spade and walk away before that hole gets big enough to swallow you whole.
Sod it.
“Not actually on my bucket list, in case you were wondering. Infidelity and all that,” I explained awkwardly.
Phil rolled his eyes, but at least he was smiling. “Shut up, you daft bastard.”
“You say the sweetest things. Cheers.” Crisis averted, I took a cautious sip of my beer. “Hey, this is all right.” I raised my bottle in the direction of the bar, and Trixie beamed back at me.
“Wonder how Cherry and Greg are getting on in the Highlands?” I said, more to change the subject than anything else. “You know, I can see him fitting right in there. Plenty of wild haggis to stuff, and I bet he’d be good at tossing the caber.”
“Maybe.” Phil grinned. “But on the other hand, do you honestly want to see him in a kilt?”
I shuddered. “Cheers, mate. That image is going to haunt me in my dreams tonight. Not that I make a habit of dreaming about my sister’s husband, mind.” Although there had been one or two times, after he’d spent a night in my bed—entirely platonically, I hasten to add, but I still shuddered again in memory.
“Do I want to know what’s going through your head right now?”
“No. You really, really don’t.” I took a hefty swig of beer and turned the conversation to the football.
Phil smirked but played along anyway. I knew there was a reason I was marrying him.
“Want another?” I asked when I’d finished my beer. “If we head off home now, we’ll get caught up in traffic.” Plus I was finally feeling nicely mellow, and in no rush to leave the cosy atmosphere of the Spanish Inquisition.
And I bet that’s a sentence they didn’t hear a lot back in the day.
“You’re driving, remember?”
Bugger. I’d forgotten that. Sitting here swigging a soft drink didn’t hold the same appeal. “Home, then, and hope we get lucky on the roads?”
“Thought we’d have another word with Mr. Proudfoot before we leave. See what he’s got to say in the light of Tarbox’s insinuations.”
“Is he here, then?” I looked around warily.
“No, but I’ve got his home address.”
“He’s going to think I’m stalking him.”
Phil smirked. “Then he’ll be on the defensive. Ups the chance he’ll give himself away.”
We had a brief discussion about whether to go straight to Oliver’s, seeing as it was after six now and he’d presumably clocked off for the day, or stay at the pub and grab a meal first. I was all for heading straight over, the late lunch meaning I wasn’t on the brink of starvation, but Phil talked me out of it on the grounds that (a) chances were the shop staff stayed later than the place’s hours of business to close up, or popped into the shops for something to cook on the way home, and (b) he reckoned I’d be more on my game with a full stomach. He was probably right about that, although obviously I didn’t do anything daft like actually admit it.
So we grabbed a couple of menus and ordered fish and chips with fresh minted peas, mushy peas being presumably far too common for a place like Pluck’s End. Although when I mentioned that theory to Phil, he claimed to have been surprised they weren’t serving them “ironically.”
I wondered about that. “How do you even serve peas ironically? For dessert? Raw and still in their pods?”
“Don’t be daft,” Trixie the barmaid told me with a smile. She seemed to have taken quite a shine to me and Phil, her new regulars, despite the fact that Phil had been on the mineral water since we’d got here and I’d reluctantly switched to Diet Coke now. “Mushy peas don’t come in pods. They come in cans. And we’re not allowed to serve anything ironically. It’s against hygiene regulations.”
I was taking quite a shine to her and all.
The fish was good, fresh tasting and in light, crispy batter. The chips were less so, being of the chunky variety and served in a stack like that game with the wooden blocks where you’re supposed to pull one out and try not to make the whole lot collapse. I didn’t feel guilty about leaving
most of them. The minted peas came in their own little ramekin, which was just as well, given the meal was served up on a flat wooden board instead of a plate and they’d have rolled off the edge like little green lemmings.
“It’s meals like this that give gastro pubs a bad name,” I said, keeping my voice low so Trixie wouldn’t hear. “I ask you—what’s wrong with a flippin’ plate? Or normal-size chips that actually stay crispy?”
“This is more authentic,” Phil said. “It said so on the menu.”
“I reckon they need a dictionary. They meant to write ‘pretentious.’”
He grinned. “Shut up and eat your Jenga.”
Trust him to know what it was called.
The sky was fully dark when we left the pub, which always makes me do a double take. I mean, I know the sun doesn’t rise and set for my benefit alone and is quite happy to get on with it even when I’m not outside to oversee the process, but somehow I still expected it to be half-light, like it had been when we’d gone inside . . . I glanced at my watch. Huh. Over two hours ago. It’s a hard grind, this detecting lark.
The address Phil gave me was only a short drive away, aided by the GPS on his phone as this wasn’t a part of Pluck’s End I was familiar with. The town might be upmarket, but it still had its good areas and bad areas, and Oliver’s postcode was definitely nothing to shout about. I supposed there was a limit to how much anyone got paid for working in retail, no matter how good they might be at charming the customers. The houses in his Victorian terrace backed straight onto the railway tracks, with a postage-stamp-sized front garden most of the residents seemed to use for cultivating weeds and discarded takeaway boxes. As we got out of the Fiesta outside Oliver’s front door, a train thundered past unseen, and I swear the cheap windows rattled in their frames.
It was probably just as well we’d left Phil’s Golf at home.
“He’d have been better off getting a flat in St. Albans or Berko and driving in,” I said, keeping my voice low although it was far too nippy out for Oliver to have any windows open. “Even a room in a place like this must cost a fortune round here.”
Phil shrugged. “Maybe he wants to save the planet.”
“Or he lost his licence?”
“No. No previous—not so much as a speeding fine. Few parking tickets, mind.”
We knocked on the door and waited.
Another train went past.
“Maybe he nipped into the shops on his way home?” I suggested. “After staying late, like you said he might. I mean, it doesn’t take two hours to get round Tesco’s, so he must have done both.”
Phil gave me a look. “It’d be less passive-aggressive if you just came out and said, ‘I told you we should’ve come straight here.’”
“Me? Passive-aggressive? I don’t even know how to spell the word. Or does it count as two words? I’m never sure, when you bung a hyphen in it. Nah, I’m sure you were right. It’s not like anyone ever goes out on a Saturday night, is it?”
Phil banged on the door again, harder this time. I chose to take that as a sign he wanted to get Oliver’s attention, not that he was working out any frustration caused by our recent conversation.
Still nothing.
“I told you—” I began, then broke off as a light went on inside. “Hang on, someone’s coming.”
Phil barely had time for a smirk before finally, the door was opened.
By a duvet with a face. I blinked at it. It was olive toned, with a bit of a sallow cast, and it needed a shave—the face, not the duvet, although on closer inspection the cheap polycotton cover had gone bobbly. It didn’t look any too happy.
“You’re not Oliver,” I told it.
“That’s what you woke me up to tell me? Cheers, mate. Really fucking appreciate it.”
“Bit early for bed, innit?” Okay, it was a weak comeback, but I was still reeling from all that sarcasm slapping me in the face.
“I work nights. Duh.”
“Oh. Sorry. So is Oliver around?”
Not-Oliver made a show of peering in all directions. “Well, I can’t see him.”
“He’s not in the house, then?” Phil was clearly getting fed up with all this.
Not-Oliver half turned to yell over his shoulder, “Oliver?” He must have noticed my beloved’s general lack of gruntlement, and decided to save the attitude for a less intimidating target, i.e. me.
We all waited.
Not-Oliver turned back. “No. He’s not.”
“What time does he normally get home?” I tried.
“I don’t know. Because I’m usually fucking asleep.”
“Are you his bloke?” I had to ask, because seriously, how would their sex life even work?
He gave me a withering stare. “Get bent.”
I guessed from that, Not-Oliver was either straight or into big beefy leather daddies rather than skinny camp shop assistants. Or, you know, wanted us to think he was.
“Do you mind if we come in and wait for him?” Phil asked.
Not-Oliver closed his eyes for a long moment, then gathered the duvet even more snugly around his frame. “Whatever. Make yourselves at home. Feel free to make as much noise as you want,” he added pissily as he stomped off down the hall, his bare feet slapping on the lino.
Phil and me exchanged an eloquent glance, mostly on the subject of gift horses, mouths, don’t look, and followed him in.
I felt a bit guilty when the bloke flung himself on the sofa and switched on the telly, obviously having given up on sleep for the foreseeable. I wondered if I should offer to make him a coffee, but it seemed rude in his own house. Although come to that, for all I knew he might have been some bloke off the street Oliver let kip on his sofa.
Whoever he was, he was in his early twenties or thereabouts, with unstyled afro hair and prominent cheekbones. His skin was on the pale side for his African features, so I was guessing he was mixed race. Or maybe it was just that he didn’t get to see much daylight with his hours. He wasn’t bad looking in a lanky, scruffy, bed-head sort of way, in stripy PJ bottoms that hung low on skinny hips and a T-shirt from some sci-fi show I only vaguely recognised. I wondered if him and Hazel were mates, and if not, whether I should introduce them.
Course, he hadn’t told us what the night job actually was. If it was shelf-stacking at the local Tesco, Lilah might not thank me for introducing him to her darling Lola.
Besides the sofa, there were only a couple of hard wooden chairs in the room, but it was them or sit on our reluctant host’s feet. Well, at least it’d warm them up—his toes must’ve been frozen, walking barefoot on that lino. We could, of course, stay standing, but again it seemed rude to loom menacingly over the bloke.
We sat on the chairs. And waited. Several trains went past, reminding me it was rush hour and the traffic was going to be a mare going home. Thank God we’d eaten at the pub.
Which, come to think of it, was probably what Oliver was doing right now. I could picture him sitting in some warm, cosily lit restaurant, glass of wine in hand. Maybe with a hot date, maybe with his mates, casting a leisurely eye over the menu before deciding to go for something with lean meat and steamed vegetables. Or would he go for fish? Yeah, I could see that. As long as it didn’t come in batter. A nice light hollandaise sauce, maybe. Served on the side, because calories.
Christ, I was bored.
Phil stuck it out another five minutes, then caved. “Maybe we could give him a call and see where he’s got to?”
Not-Oliver slapped his forehead. “Now why didn’t I think of that? Oh, right, I didn’t barge in here for the sole purpose of seeing him, did I?”
“Uh, yeah, see, we haven’t got his number,” I said apologetically. “Think you could do the honours?”
I got a foul glare instead of an answer, but he did heave himself and his duvet off the sofa and stomp off upstairs, stomping back down shortly afterwards without the duvet and with his phone in one hand.
He did a few swipes and stabs at it, then he
ld it up with a weary flourish so we could hear it ringing. Except . . . was that an echo?
“Is that it ringing upstairs?” I asked.
Not-Oliver was frowning. “He never leaves his phone when he goes out. It’s like they’re surgically attached.”
“I’ll go and see,” Phil offered, jumping up from his seat and legging it out of the room before Not-Oliver had time to unfurrow his brow.
Phil was back, minutes later, with a ringing phone. “Does he charge it every night?”
“I don’t know, do I? Probably.”
It was an iPhone so yeah, he probably did. Which meant . . . “Was it charging?” I asked.
Phil shook his head. “No. Just slung on the chest of drawers. So my guess is he’s been home this evening already, and gone out again. Without his phone.” His tone was even, but somehow sounded ominous nonetheless.
“Why would he do that?” I asked. “You think he’s trying to stop the police tracking him or something? Isn’t it a bit late for that?” The murder was already done and dusted, after all.
Not-Oliver had ended the call and was staring at us.
“Mind if we take a look around?” Phil asked briskly in what I liked to think of as his copper voice.
“Uh, why? Who are you anyhow?”
“We’re investigating Jonathan Parrot’s death.” Phil tossed Oliver’s phone down on the sofa.
Not-Oliver shivered, but fair dues, him and Oliver could stand to turn the heating up a few degrees and he didn’t have his duvet on him anymore. “I guess it’s okay.”
It didn’t take long to search the house. Not only was it on the small side, Oliver and his mate didn’t have a huge amount of stuff, or at least, not the sort of stuff you could hide a person in. The usual stack of games consoles, controllers, and associated discs, plus an intriguingly respectable collection of music on your actual vinyl. I looked around and yes, there in the corner of the living room was an antique record player, if by antique you meant from the 1980s. I wondered who it belonged to.
Several rooms had marks on the carpet where larger items of furniture, now departed, had stood for years, and Not-Oliver’s bedroom, which was the biggest one at the front of the house, was a weird mix of middle-aged fittings covered in adolescent male trappings. Maybe the bloke was younger than I’d thought.