by JL Merrow
Phil didn’t answer immediately, so when I stood, I glanced back at him. If I’d thought he was ignoring me, I’d been wrong. He was looking straight at me. “Thanks,” he said, then ducked his head and rubbed his neck with one hand, in a way that really showed off the bulkiness of his arms and shoulders but, at the same time, made him look almost vulnerable. It did weird things in the pit of my stomach. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do that. I know he’s a mate of yours.”
I passed him his mug, feeling awkward. “It’s all right. He was a bit pissed last night anyhow—I doubt he’ll even remember I asked. Wife’s left him, poor bastard,” I added, because I didn’t want him thinking Dave was some kind of alcoholic.
Phil gave a bitter kind of laugh. “Marriage, eh? Sometimes I wonder why anyone ever bothers.”
Samantha East, it turned out when we got to her and Robin’s house, was slim, blonde, beautiful—and on a mission to prove Phil’s cynicism about marriage was well-founded. She opened the door dressed for some kind of fitness class, but she had on a full face of expertly applied makeup and her hair looked like it’d just been blow-dried. She sneered down her no doubt professionally sculpted little nose at Phil and me like we were something the cat had sicked up on the mat.
“Mr. Morrison, is it? You didn’t say there would be more than one of you.”
“This is Tom Paretski,” Phil said in his polite voice, the one he never bothered to use when he was talking to me. “He’s an associate.”
Great. Now we sounded like the Home Counties branch of the Mob. Not that anyone was ever going to take me for the hired muscle.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. East.” I gave her a smile and held out a hand, both of which she pointedly ignored.
“I suppose you’d better come in. Please wipe your feet; the cleaner’s just been.”
We dutifully shuffled about on the doormat, then trooped into what her husband would probably describe as an extremely well-appointed country residence; price upon request. She led us through an expensively tiled hallway and into a large, airy kitchen, also tiled. I could only conclude she didn’t trust us with the soft furnishings.
“Please sit.”
We pulled out high-backed wooden chairs from the rustic kitchen table and sat, like the good little doggies we were. As she sat across from us, I looked around. There was a coffee grinder, an espresso machine, and, sitting on the Aga, a posh stovetop kettle with a little birdie on the spout that probably added fifty quid to the price. She still didn’t bother offering us a drink.
Phil cleared his throat. “Mrs. East, we just need to ask you a few questions—”
She cut him off. “I suppose you want to hear all about my husband’s affair with that little tart from the office?” she said, an ugly curl to her lip.
Phil tensed next to me. It was probably the effort of keeping himself from leaping up and punching the air. Even I felt a sort of frisson at this confirmation of what we’d barely suspected—although it was tainted with disappointment on Graham’s behalf. All right, so I’d never met the girl, but still, I’d expected better from Melanie. “By which you mean Miss Porter?” Phil asked.
“God, I should hope so. Have you seen that scarecrow of a secretary of his? Although he’s probably screwing her too—and God knows, I’m sure she’d be pathetically grateful.”
“You’re certain about this?” Phil asked, leaning forward on the table.
She leaned back, away from him, as if he had raging halitosis and/or the plague. I considered belching loudly just for fun but decided Phil would be more pissed off than she would be. And after all, he was paying for my time here.
Actually, come to think of it, I should probably start earning my keep. “Mrs. East?” I said with my best smile. “Do you mind if I use your loo?”
Mrs. E. looked briefly horrified, so I turned up the smile a bit. “Don’t worry—I promise to flush. And wash my hands afterwards.” She went a bit pink under her blusher.
“Of course. It’s, ah, through the hall, back towards the stairs.”
“Oh, I’ll find it. I’m good at finding things.” I winked, and her expensively pumped-up breasts heaved as she took a deep breath. Result. Bloody hell, though—no wonder Cock Robin had been playing away from home if she was like this with him. I frowned to myself. Or had he? We only had her word for it, and personally, I’d trust that woman’s word about as far as I could throw her house.
Which reminded me—I was supposed to be searching the place. I stood still, listening.
Weird.
I could feel the water in the plumbing, of course—but apart from that, nothing. Not a peep.
I found the loo and took a quick peek in the cistern, but all I found was one of those tablets that turns the water blue. Treading as silently as I could, I crept to the stairs. Once I got there, it was a lot easier to be quiet, as the carpet had the sort of pile you don’t so much walk on as hack your way through with a machete. I padded upstairs and tried again with the mystic crap, as Phil had put it.
Still nothing.
This was really weird. Everyone hides stuff. Everyone. Frowning, I pushed open the nearest door and found myself in what looked like the spare bedroom. It was nicely decorated; the bed was made up—but there were no signs that anyone actually lived in it. No half-drunk glasses of water on the bedside table; no rolled-up socks peeking out from under the bed. No vibes, either. I tiptoed out again and went next door.
This room was clearly the master bedroom—or rather, the mistress bedroom, although only in the lady-of-the-house sense. It was still unfeasibly tidy, but there were discreetly expensive pots of face cream on the dressing table, and a bonkbuster by the bed. Well, clearly Mrs. E. had to get her kicks between the pages, as I could tell at a glance she wasn’t letting poor old Cock Robin in here to give them to her between the sheets. Still no vibes, though, which was weird. The top drawer of the bedside cabinet was open a couple of inches, so I pulled it out the rest of the way, boggled briefly at the variety of sex toys carelessly scattered inside, and shut it again. Didn’t she hide anything?
I was going to have to hurry up, I reminded myself. I gave up on Mrs. E. as a bad job and went looking for where her husband slept. I found it at the other end of the corridor, a boxy little room with a tiny window looking out over the road; clearly Robin thought getting as far away as possible from his lady wife was far more important than having room to swing a cat in.
If this was how the other half lived, I didn’t rate it.
Robin’s room was the most lived-in one in the house—but even there, I felt nothing. Nothing. And that really was odd, because I’d have sworn blind he had secrets. Maybe he’d found somewhere else to keep them. I took a quick look in his drawers, but all I found were neatly paired socks. Not even any porn. Which, to my mind, was the strongest argument yet he was having an affair.
So the question was, where did he keep all his dirty little secrets? I rubbed my chin. He was an estate agent—how hard could it have been for him to set up some little love nest for him and Melanie, or whoever the lucky lady was. He wouldn’t even have to buy a place—just set up a rental lease with a fictitious client for an absentee landlord.
When I got back downstairs, Phil and Mrs. E. were standing by the kitchen door—obviously I’d cut it a bit fine getting back. “You were a long time,” she challenged me, the previous glow in her cheeks now frozen out of existence.
“Sorry, love,” I said with a grimace, rubbing my tummy. “Bit too much of the old Ruby Murray last night. Probably best if you give it ten minutes before you go in there. Still, squirt a bit of air freshener and it’ll be right as rain. Are we done here, Phil?”
He nodded, his lips pressed together like he was trying not to laugh. “We’re done.”
We left her standing there. She didn’t look half as pretty with that sour expression on her face.
“What did you find?” Phil asked as we drove away.
“Well, she’s not human, and he’s hid
ing stuff, but not here. So in other words, bugger all.”
Phil swore. “Nothing at all?”
I shrugged. “They’re not sleeping together, her and Cock Robin. He dosses in the box room, and she makes her own entertainment with a couple of mechanical friends.” Phil snorted a laugh. “So chances are she wasn’t telling porkies about him having it off with the staff.”
“All of them? Or just Melanie?”
“We don’t know it was her.” Okay, so maybe I’d only met her the once, and that not exactly socially—what with her being dead and all—but I felt a bit defensive of poor Melanie. It wasn’t like she could speak up for herself. “It could have been anyone, not just people at the office. For fuck’s sake, it could have been Graham.”
“In your dreams, Paretski.”
“What?” I’d had as many sexual fantasies as the next man, but sex involving Graham didn’t exactly make my top ten. It didn’t even make the top ten thousand.
Phil wrenched the wheel around, taking a corner a bit faster than he needed to. “You just want East to swing both ways because you’re desperate for him to swing in your direction.”
I cocked my head to one side like I was considering it. “Well, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed. I mean, come on, he’s pretty bloody gorgeous.”
“He’s a slimy git who cheats on his wife.”
“Yeah, but who can blame him?”
“A vow’s a vow.” Phil’s jaw was set.
“Oh, for— You didn’t see those rooms. Maybe they made the vows, but you can’t tell me what they’ve got is a marriage. It’s a sham. And she doesn’t give a toss who knows it.”
“I don’t give a monkey’s. They made their vows; they should stick to them.”
“Says the bloke who’s never made that kind of promise in his life.” When did Phil turn into a bloody Victorian moralist?
“You don’t know fuck all about me, Paretski, so get off your fucking high horse and shove it up your—”
“You can turn here,” I interrupted. “And I don’t think what you were about to say is anatomically possible. It’s certainly not legal. Chill, all right?” What the hell was wrong with him all of a sudden? Had the steroids just kicked in or something?
Phil turned into Hatfield Road, crawled along with the Fleetville traffic for a few minutes, then took the left into Regal Road and drew up outside my house. He wasn’t ranting anymore, but I didn’t think he was all that chilled, either. The hand brake made a painful sound when he pulled it up sharply, and I couldn’t help wincing in sympathy. He reached awkwardly into his back pocket.
“Forget the fee,” I said. “I didn’t find anything, did I?”
“I said I’d pay you for your time.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being daft; I’m honouring the agreement we made.” He pulled out a handful of twenties and thrust them in my direction.
For fuck’s sake, were we going to have a row about him paying me, now? I put up a hand. “Keep it, all right? You wouldn’t pay an informant who didn’t bloody inform, would you? And anyway, we’re doing this for Graham. Just . . . buy me a drink sometime, or something.” I hesitated, while Phil slowly put the money back in his pocket. “Who’s next on the list?”
“What list?”
“You must have other people you want to talk to.” How long had he been in this business? “So you’ll be wanting me along for all the mystic crap.”
He stared at me, and then he laughed like he couldn’t help himself.
“What?” I wasn’t going to let him disarm me so easily.
Probably.
Phil was still chuckling. “The next one’s going to love you and your bloody witchcraft. He’s the vicar.”
I was about to make some crack about us going to see the vicar like a loved-up couple arranging their wedding, but then I thought Phil might flip out again if I mentioned marriage, and I was kind of liking him in cheerful mode, so I just mumbled something noncommittal.
He leaned back in his seat, obviously taking my mutterings as a sign I wanted to know more. “Remember what Pip Cox said about Melanie filling in for the parish administrator? Got me thinking. Say Robin East didn’t call her that night. Who else might she have referred to as the boss?”
“Nice. All right, you’ve sold me on it. So when are we dropping in to take tea with the vicar? Can’t go tomorrow—Sunday’s his busy day.”
Phil nodded. “I’ll have to give him a call, make an appointment. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” I hesitated. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”
He looked at me for a moment, and I’d swear he was tempted—either to take me up on the invitation, or to ask, For a bit of what? But then he shook his head.
“Sorry. Things to do. But I’ll try and fix the vicar up for early next week, all right?”
“Long as you give me enough notice so I can do a bit of juggling. And if you need me for anything, you’ve got my number.”
He smiled. “And you’ve got mine. Take care, Tom.”
I met up with Gary at the Dyke again that night. I could tell something had happened the minute I set eyes on him—he was, as they say, all a-twitter. And I don’t mean he was tapping 140-character pearls of wisdom and/or cattiness into his iPhone.
“Tom! Darling—come and give me a kiss.” He proffered his cheek.
I gave him my best impersonation of a blushing virgin. “But Gary—this is all so sudden. I don’t know what to say . . .”
He tutted. “Well, in that case, just sit that luscious little bottom on the chair, here. I have news, my dear. Wonderful, wonderful news. I’m in love!”
I sat and pulled up a beer mat for my pint next to Gary’s vodka martini (stirred, not shaken). “Okay, this really is sudden. Who’s the lucky bloke? I take it it’s a bloke, and you’ve not started cheating on Julian with another dog?”
“As if I would! He’s a greengrocer. A market trader, I should say, shouldn’t I, Julian?” Gary ruffled his dog’s fur. “He’s got a stall in St. Albans market. That’s where we met, just this afternoon.” He fluttered his eyelashes—Gary, that is, not the dog. “He asked if I’d like to feel his plums—well, I could hardly say no, could I?”
“No, I don’t suppose you could,” I said with resignation. “So how were they? Firm and juicy?”
“Oh yes, and delicious.” It was a toss-up as to who was drooling more—Gary or his dog.
I gave Julian’s fur a ruffle around his ears, and his eyes closed in doggy bliss. “So how come you’re here with me, rather than feeling up this bloke’s cucumber?”
“More of a vegetable marrow, actually.” Gary smirked, then pouted. “I’m not seeing him until tomorrow. Well, I didn’t want to come on too strong.”
“Who, you?” I said innocently. “Surely not. So, when do I get to meet Mr. Perfect?”
“Next week, if you like. You can come and see him in his element.” Gary took a sip of his martini and gave a happy sigh, his eyes closed. Just for a moment, he was the spitting image of his dog.
“You mean on his stall?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” Gary picked up the cocktail stick with the olive on from his drink and waggled it at me. “Now, how about you, sweetie? Had any more blonds for breakfast?” He sucked the olive off the stick suggestively.
“I wish,” I muttered. “I’m thinking of becoming a Trappist monk—I’ve heard they get more action than I do.”
“Oh?” Gary’s eyebrow did its best to chase after his receding hairline. “That’s not what I’ve heard. I heard you’ve been spending a great deal of quality time with a rather magnificent specimen of homo blondus. Even,” and he leaned forward so far he practically did a nosedive into my pint, “looking at houses together.”
I had to laugh. God, Phil would throw a wobbly if he knew we’d been spotted together and Conclusions Had Been Drawn. “Sorry, Gary, but you’d be a bit previous buying a hat for the wedding. That was the bloke who’s looking into M
elanie Porter’s death, and we went into the estate agent’s to talk to her boss.”
“‘We’? Branched out into the nosy parker business, have you? So how much would you charge me for a really thorough investigation? Leaving no stone unturned, and poking into all my little nooks and crannies?”
I put on a phoney Sam Spade accent. “For a good-looking dame like you, five hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. Cheap at half the price,” I added in my normal voice. “Nah, this is just a one-off. Phil reckoned he could use my ‘unusual talents.’” I did the air-quotes thing.
“So go on, tell me about this Phil.”
I shrugged. “Nothing to tell, really. He got hired by Melanie’s parents, and I’m helping him out.”
“On a strictly professional basis? Or is helping him out the new euphemism?”
I wish. “Told you, Gary, there’s nothing to tell.”
“Straight, is he? Never mind, darling—just flash him one of your cheeky smiles, and you’ll soon have him joining the sisterhood and eating out of your underpants.”
“Sounds a bit gross, that. And what sisterhood would that be?”
“Sisters of Sodom, of course, what else?” Gary beamed. “I’ve got that on a T-shirt somewhere.”
“Yeah, well, he’s already a member, as it happens.” Although I couldn’t see Phil wearing the T-shirt anytime soon. “But it’s strictly business, me and him.”
“For God’s sake, Tom, why? From what I’ve heard, he’s edible.”
“We were at school together,” I admitted with a sigh.
“Oh—say no more.” Gary rested a commiserating hand on my knee and stared into his cocktail for a moment. “If I ever see anyone I was at school with, I run and hide. Force of habit, really. Let’s just say it was obvious from a very early age the only female heart I’d ever break would be my mother’s.” He looked up, brightening. “Still, if there were two of you—”