by JL Merrow
Feeling smug, I set to work. Trouble was, as I said before, everyone hides stuff in the bedroom. I found several items neither Graham nor Melanie’s parents would thank me for mentioning, plus a little suede case where she kept her decent jewellery.
Nothing that’d explain her death, though. I made sure I put everything back exactly as I’d found it. Not so much because I was worried Graham would realise I’d been in here, but because, well, I like to have a bit of respect for people’s stuff. Most of my work is in other people’s homes, so I get to see a lot of things even their best mates never see. Doesn’t mean I have to trample all over it in hob-nailed boots, does it?
“Drawn a blank,” I said, returning to the living room.
Phil stepped back from the bookshelf he’d been rifling through and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How about in here?”
I listened. “Nope. Are we done here, then?”
Phil sighed. Then he nodded. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No,” I said cautiously. Was he about to ask me out?
Apparently he was. “Come for a pub lunch, and I’ll fill you in about Melanie’s boss.”
I didn’t get why he wanted to talk to me about the bloke—but sod it, I was hungry, and having a good-looking bloke sitting across the table from me has never been known to harm my appetite. Plus, I reckoned he owed me, after all that. “All right. Where did you have in mind?” We left the flat, Phil locking the door behind us, and clattered downstairs. Either all of Graham’s neighbours were out, or none of them were curious enough to poke their heads out of their front doors to see what we were up to.
Phil shrugged. “There must be places in the village.”
“Don’t you know?” I frowned. “Are you still living around here?” I’d have thought we’d have bumped into each other somewhere before now, if he was. Up at the Dyke, if nowhere else.
“Just moved back to St. Albans. I was in London before that.”
“Oh? I’d have thought that’d be better for business, in your line of work. How come you moved back out to the sticks?”
His face went stonier than a brick wall. “Personal reasons.” His tone said loud and clear, Ask me at your peril.
I managed not to roll my eyes like a teenager. “All right, keep your hair on. I’m not the one who makes a living poking his nose into other peoples’ business. How about we try the Duck and Grouse? The Four Candles is all right, but the Duck and Grouse is more relaxed. And the food’s cheaper.”
“Fine. Your car or mine?”
“Why don’t we both drive?”
“Got it in for the environment, have you?”
“Fine. Yours, then. I’ll save my petrol as well as the planet.”
It took all of two minutes to drive there and park in the little car park at the back of the pub. It was just down from the village primary school, and I could hear the shrieks of the kiddies in the playground as we got out of the car. Phil’s head turned towards the sound, and I could have sworn he got a wistful look in his eye.
I thought about asking him if he was planning on having kids one day, but something told me it’d just piss him off. “Coming?” I said instead and led the way into the pub.
The Duck and Grouse in Brock’s Hollow is a cosy sort of place. It dates from around Shakespeare’s time, but bits have been added on or taken off in the centuries since then, so it looks more grown than built. Inside, there are ancient timbers and fireplaces, and the sort of red patterned carpet you only ever see in old pubs or your gran’s hallway. And they’ve got a pool table and Sky Sports, a definite improvement on Ye Goode Olde Days. It’s a bloke’s pub, I suppose. Even the girls who go regularly tend to be a bit laddish, although not in the Devil’s Dyke sort of way. More in the getting pissed and showing your knickers sort of way.
And the food’s decent, although if I kept on having pub lunches at this rate, I’d end up as soft as Gary, I thought ruefully as I ordered my fish and chips.
“Garden peas or mushy?” the girl asked in a perky voice.
“Mushy, please, love.” I gave her a smile, which she returned, a pink tinge on her cheeks. I could practically hear Phil rolling his eyes behind me. I noticed she didn’t smile as he ordered his steak-and-kidney pie.
We got our drinks—pint for Phil, Diet Coke for me—and pulled up a couple of stools around a wobbly table in the corner. Bloody awful sight lines for the telly, which meant we had a bit of privacy. “If that’s what you’re like with bar staff, I’d hate to see you with the bored housewives,” Phil murmured, sounding amused.
“Oh, for— I only smiled at her.” I folded up a beer mat and slipped it under a table leg. Perfect.
Phil paused for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure whether to speak his mind or not. “I think you underestimate the power of that smile.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should try it some time. Smiling, I mean,” I added, in case he thought I was suggesting he tried my smile, not that I was actually sure what that would have meant in any case. Mostly because ninety percent of my brain was a bit preoccupied with the thought that Phil liked my smile. I coughed. “So come on, what was it you were going to tell me about?”
Phil reached into his jacket and drew out a small sheaf of papers. One of them was a photo, which he slid across the table to me. “That’s him. Robin East. Manager of Village Properties.”
The photo showed a man in his forties or so, his face turned away from the camera to give an excellent view of a classically handsome profile. “Nice,” I said without thinking. I wasn’t sure, but I think Phil might have tutted. “So this is the bloke Melanie went to meet that night?”
“Yeah. Except according to him, she didn’t. He claims he didn’t even call her.”
“Can’t the police check phone records and find out who called?”
Phil nodded. “They can. I can’t.” He looked down at his pint for a minute. “How good a mate of yours is Dave Southgate?”
Great. Bloody brilliant. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not going to do your sodding job for you. Dave’s a mate. I’d like him to stay one. And hang on, didn’t you used to be on the force anyhow? You must have friends there yourself.” His jaw tightened, and I wondered if it was a sore point.
“I can get the information. But it’ll take time—and it’ll mean calling in favours. Would it kill you just to ask the bloke? For Graham, if not for me?”
I heaved a sigh and looked pointedly over at the bar. The sooner they served our food and I could eat it and get out, the better. “Fine. I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises.”
Phil nodded slowly. “Seeing anyone at the moment?”
I nearly spilled my Coke all down myself. “Jesus! Where the hell did that come from?”
He laughed, the bastard. “Just passing the time of day.”
“I’ll give you passing the time of day, you smug—” I didn’t finish the insult, because our food arrived. “Cheers, love,” I said instead. “That looks smashing. Got any ketchup?”
The waitress smiled and fetched a bottle of Heinz from the side. “Here you go. Enjoy your meal.”
“I will, don’t you worry.” I watched her walk back to the bar with a spring in her step.
“Are you sure you’re even gay?” Phil muttered, poking at his pie like he thought there might be a body hidden in it.
“There are other reasons to be nice to people than just because you want to get your leg over.” I gave the ketchup bottle a hefty whack on the bum, and tried not to think about other sorts of red stuff.
Phil made a derisive sort of noise. “So, are you, anyway?”
I frowned. “What? Nice? Or hoping to get my leg over?”
“No, you— Are you seeing anyone?”
“Why do you care?” Did he care? Did I want him to? “No, as it happens.”
He paused, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. “Not the relationship type?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Shag a different
bloke every night. And you know those porn clichés about the plumber turning up to give your pipes a good seeing to? They’re all true, every one.” I managed not to roll my eyes at him and jammed a forkful of fish in my gob.
“Still a touchy little sod, aren’t you?” He sounded amused.
“Less of the little, if you don’t mind.” I raised an eyebrow deliberately. I wasn’t sure Phil spoke innuendo.
His smile spread, so maybe he did understand me. “Why? It’s true. You should put it on your business cards—Tom Paretski, the pocket-sized plumber. No job too small.”
“And again with the height jokes. What do you have on yours? Phil Morrison, the muscle-bound moron?”
“Now, come on—that’s a poor effort. How about Private Dick—the biggest in the business?”
I grinned. “So is it, then?”
His turn to say, “What?”
“The biggest. Come to that, is it private, or can anyone apply?” I took another forkful of plaice.
Phil stared at me a bit too intently for comfort, his eyes dark and unreadable. For all the fish was melt-in-the-mouth tender, suddenly my throat was too dry to swallow it. I reached blindly for my drink, unable to break eye contact.
“They can apply,” he said at last. “Doesn’t mean they’ll get the job.” Then he bent his head to his pie and started chowing down like a champion.
Obviously we’d finished with the flirting part of the meal. I followed his example and chomped in silence. Well, it’d be a shame to let it get cold—the fish really was good.
“Why did you leave the force?” I asked after a while, when I’d begun to feel full but didn’t quite want to stop eating yet. “Did the institutionalised homophobia get too much for you?” Although I couldn’t imagine Phil taking any crap about his sexuality from anyone.
“Not exactly.” He paused, decided it was safe to let me into the secret. “I’d always planned to go private. Just joined the force for the training.”
“Sneaky.”
“Sensible.”
“That’s my taxes paid for your training, though.”
“You got six years out of me. I reckon it’s a fair trade.” He speared a carrot. “And how much tax do you ever pay, anyway? I’d have thought half your work was cash in hand.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t pay tax on it.”
“I thought fiddling the tax man was one of the perks of the trade.”
“Spoken like a true upholder of law and order. Although I suppose now you’ve gone private, you can afford to be a bit more flexible about that, can’t you?”
“I’ve got my ethical standards, same as everyone. Are you done there?”
“Why, in a hurry, are you?” I looked at my plate. It still had some chips on it, but at least I’d eaten all my greens, Mum. “Yeah, I’m done.” I supposed this was good-bye. Maybe I’d see him at Graham’s sometime—I was definitely going to have to keep in touch with the poor sod. Someone needed to make sure he was eating right, that sort of thing. If they hadn’t already locked him up and thrown away the key, that was.
“Good,” Phil said, pushing back his chair and standing. “Come on, then—the estate agent’s just down the road.”
I did a double take. “Hang on a minute—when did I become your unpaid assistant?” I had to hurry after him, the long-legged git. “What do you want me along for, anyhow?”
About to push the door open, Phil turned to me. “Your van’s up at Graham’s. You’re not seriously expecting me to take you up there and then come back down here, when the place is only yards down the road?”
Had he set this up? I sent him a suspicious look, but seeing as it only reached the back of his head as he set off down the hill without waiting for an answer, I might as well have saved myself the bother. Still, I wasn’t exactly averse to spending a little more time in his company. If he could only keep his mouth shut, he’d be perfect. I smiled as I got a vivid image of Phil Morrison in my bed. Gagged.
“Something funny?” Bugger. He’d turned at just the wrong moment.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know. This it, then?” We’d stopped outside the offices of Village Properties, which was next door to the Women’s Institute shop. I could see hand-knitted dollies peeping coyly out from behind patchwork cushions and strange, vegetable-shaped ornaments in their window.
Phil, of course, didn’t spare a glance for the ladies’ handiwork, and pushed open the estate agent’s door. I followed him in—and nearly tripped over the doormat when I saw the bloke at the desk. Bloody hell, that photo had done him no justice at all. He wasn’t just nice; he was gorgeous.
For a moment, I thought George Clooney must have decided to turn his back on the acting profession in favour of flogging houses to the middle classes. And, while he was at it, turned the clock back fifteen or twenty years.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted us in ringing, mellow tones.
“Hi,” I said, giving a daft little wave like I was a geeky teenager with a crush. I think I even blushed. Phil stared at me for a moment, which helped to bring me back to earth.
“What can I help you with?” Cloney Clooney asked, rising from his seat and extending a hand. “I’m Robin East, delighted to meet you.” He glanced shrewdly between me and Phil. “First house together, is it?”
If Phil had looked any stonier, Cock Robin would probably have taken his details and sold him to a family of four as a desirable property in need of some modernisation. “Mr. East, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions,” he ground out while I stifled a laugh.
Gorgeous brown eyes narrowed, looking no less sexy for all that. George Clooney playing some kind of legal eagle; he could cross-examine me anytime he wanted. “Press?”
“No. Private investigator.” Phil handed him a card. “I’m looking into Melanie Porter’s death.”
Robin slumped back in his chair, looking genuinely troubled. “God, what a nightmare. Such a sweet girl—I can’t believe anyone could do such a thing.” Now he was back in the ER role, and a patient had just died despite all his efforts . . . I had to stop doing this, I told myself firmly. The bloke might be sex on legs, but he was probably straight and definitely a suspect.
“You saw her the night she died, didn’t you?” The expressionless way Phil asked it sent shivers down my spine.
Robin’s eyes widened. “No! No, as I told the police, that wasn’t me. The phone call, that is. I was working late, yes, but I didn’t call Melanie.”
“So you were here alone?”
Was it my imagination, or did Robin’s cheeks start doing a faint impression of his namesake’s breast? “Yes, I’m afraid so. Quite alone.”
“Make any phone calls at all?”
“Ah, no. Catching up on paperwork, I’m afraid.” Robin fiddled distractingly with a pen on his desk. It was a Montblanc, which didn’t surprise me; I’d seen the prices in the window on the way in.
Phil nodded; I wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with. Maybe he just liked to nod at people he was interviewing, so they’d think he was on their side. “Did Melanie mention she was going out that night?”
“Not to me.” He put the pen down very deliberately—sensible; you don’t want to risk breaking a posh pen like that—but then his fingers started drumming on his stack of papers. I read the top one: Exceptional living space and stunning views make this superb barn conversion . . . I stopped reading before I could get to the price and have a heart attack.
“So who might she have talked to?”
Robin didn’t look like he wanted to tell us, which seemed weird as he’d presumably gone through exactly the same thing with the police already. “Well . . . there’s my secretary, of course.”
“Then maybe we should talk to her?”
His lips thinned. “Of course. Pip?”
I started as a colourless shape I’d been vaguely aware of at the corner of my field of view unfolded itself from a desk in the corner and walked towards us.
“This is Pip Cox, my s
ecretary. Pip, this is Mr. Morrison, a private investigator, and . . .” He looked at me expectantly.
“Tom Paretski. Plumber.” I thought, What the hell, and handed her a card. “Call me any time. No job too small,” I added, mainly for Phil’s benefit. I smiled, but she didn’t return it—just ducked her head, hiding beneath a fringe of hair. Pip Cox? Anyone less like an apple it was hard to imagine. She was tall to the point of awkwardness—she had a good eight inches on me, and she wasn’t wearing heels—and bone-thin, with worried brown eyes and shoulder-length, unflatteringly cut mouse-brown hair. She wore a flared skirt, blouse, and cardigan that looked like they belonged to her gran and did nothing for her face or her figure.
“Miss Cox?” Phil said politely. “Is there anything you can tell us about that day?”
Her thin fingers played with a spot on the edge of her cardie she’d half worried into a hole already. “Not really,” she said in a voice I had to strain to hear, her eyes fixed on the carpet. “Melanie just said she’d be having a night in. With Graham.”
“She specifically mentioned that to you?”
Pip nodded.
“Did she sound like she was looking forward to it?”
Another nod.
“Graham mentioned she’d been working late a lot recently,” Phil said, obviously trying to coax her out of her shell a bit.
“Well, of course,” Robin butted in. “We’ve been extremely busy. There’s a mini-boom going on at the moment, and with the new school being built—well, it’s a sellers’ market.” Not to mention, an estate agent’s one, I thought. He must have been doing very nicely indeed on the commission.
Phil glared at him briefly. When he turned back to Pip, he softened his expression with what looked like a painful effort. “Have you had to work late as well, then?”
She seemed a bit flustered by his sympathetic tone. “I— Well, no, not really—I mean, I don’t— My husband doesn’t like it if I—” She was married? I glanced at her hands, and sure enough, there was a ring. I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. I imagined some IT nerd with a beard and glasses, and wondered if they ever had sex or if they just played Minecraft and Skyrim together.