by JL Merrow
“There weren’t. I mean, he wasn’t out, back then. Course, I never meant to be, either. But it wasn’t exactly a bonding experience, put it that way.”
“Let me guess—he joined in the bullying in self-defence?”
“Something like that.” I found I was rubbing my hip, so I reached for my pint quickly to give my hand something less revealing to do.
Unfortunately Gary’s got a keen pair of eyes on him. “Sweetie . . .”
I managed half a smile. “Look, just leave it, all right? Water under the bridge and all that.”
Gary nodded. “Ooh—did I ever tell you about the time I had sex under a bridge? Mortifying, it was—absolutely mortifying . . .”
And he was off, into a story involving an improbably endowed bloke whose wife drifted along in a narrowboat at the worst possible moment.
Good old Gary. If I ever need cheering up, he’s my man.
I spent Sunday doing the shopping, hoovering cat hair off the sofa, and not thinking about Phil. I didn’t think about him at Tesco’s, when I was staring at their buy-one-get-one-free offer on sirloin steak and wondering if I should invite someone round to share it with me. I didn’t think about him when I was watching telly in the evening and reflecting that a cat on your lap was all very well, but nothing beat a strong pair of arms wrapped around you. And I definitely didn’t think about Phil when I was in the shower, or later when I was in bed, my hand creeping down to my groin . . .
Nope.
Didn’t think about Phil Morrison at all.
We went to see Reverend Lewis midafternoon on Monday, which I guessed must be his quiet time—after all, you hear about morning prayers and evening prayers, but you never hear anything about afternoon prayers, do you? Maybe the man upstairs likes a nap after lunch.
Like the vicarage he lived in, the Reverend Lewis was tall, austere, and looked like he’d been constructed sometime during the reign of Queen Victoria. Not that he was old—I put him in his early thirties, tops, with his washed-out blond hair and thin, ferrety features. But he somehow didn’t seem to fit in the modern world—like he’d be horrified if a girl showed her ankles in front of him, or if anybody swore. He offered us each a limp hand to shake and invited us in. The air inside the vicarage was chilly and damp, which was one way it made a change from the vicar himself. His handshake had been unpleasantly warm and damp.
“Do come this way,” he said, ushering us into a front room I guessed had been decorated by the previous reverend’s wife—it was all chintzy floral patterns, now faded in parts, and tasselled ties holding back the curtains. This Rev, Phil had told me on the way over, was unmarried. Looking at him, it was hardly surprising. I don’t expect my blokes to have film-star looks, but I do like them to have at least a nodding acquaintance with a shampoo bottle, and I’m fairly sure most women would agree.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?” At least he had better manners than Samantha East, but then I supposed it sort of went with the job.
“Coffee would be lovely. White, no sugar, ta.” I sat down on the sofa, leaned back, and crossed my ankle over my knee.
Maybe the Rev had had a big lunch and was feeling dozy this afternoon—he just carried on looking at me for a moment, then jumped when Phil spoke. Loudly.
“I’ll have a cup of tea, thanks.”
Rev Lewis blinked and turned a bit pink. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” He scurried off down the hall.
I looked at Phil; he nodded, so I started listening for vibes. “Nothing here,” I murmured after a moment. “But something’s definitely calling me upstairs.”
“Okay—give it ten minutes or so, then make your excuses.”
“You do realise half the bloody village is going to end up thinking I’ve got incontinence issues, don’t you?” I muttered.
Phil laughed. “Bit sad, really—a plumber having problems with his pipes.”
“You’re all sympathy, aren’t you?”
Rev Lewis scuttled back in, carrying three mismatched mugs on a scratched tray with a picture of a fluffy kitten on it. I was a bit disappointed not to see something more overtly religious, but on the other hand, one of the mugs was printed with Coffee Jesus Makes the World Go Round. “Here we are. Now, what did you want to ask me, ah, Phil?”
As Phil leaned forward, looking all intent and businesslike, I took my coffee and settled back in my seat again. The Rev sat there looking, well, reverend, with his hands clasped in his lap like he was about to start praying or something. His gaze kept sliding in my direction, then zipping back to Phil, as if he’d heard you should make eye contact with people you’re talking to but had never actually seen it done.
“I understand Melanie Porter was acting as parish administrator?” Phil began.
The Rev nodded, and a lank strand of hair flopped down over his watery blue eyes. When he reached up to brush it back into place, I noticed his shirt cuffs were frayed, and felt a vague sense of guilt that I hadn’t put anything into a church collection box since I was a nipper at Sunday school. Which I’d left under a cloud at the tender age of seven after the great Easter Egg Hunt fiasco—well, they’d told us to go and find the bloody things, hadn’t they? It wasn’t my fault none of the other kids had a clue where to look. And you show me a seven-year-old boy who isn’t a greedy little sod.
“She was indeed.” Lewis answered Phil’s question and gave us a thin little smile. “A blessing, since poor Mrs. Reece’s, ah, indisposition.” The way he said it made me wonder if there was something to find out there. “Really quite admirable of her, when she already had a full-time job.”
Phil was nodding. “And what did her duties involve?”
“Oh, paperwork, that sort of thing,” the Rev said vaguely with a nervous titter that made my skin crawl. “The purpose of the post is to enable the incumbent to keep his mind on higher concerns, of course.”
“So . . . paying bills?”
“Oh, yes. She was an authorised signatory to our bank account, as am I myself, but—” again the teeth-grating nervous laugh “—I try not to become involved in matters fiscal.”
“So she could sign cheques? Who are the other signatories?”
“The church wardens, and our treasurer, naturally.” I braced myself for another wheezy snigger, but it didn’t come.
“And they are?” Phil persisted.
“The church wardens? Oh, Jonathan Riley—but he’s off in Africa at the moment, of course—and Mrs. Cox.”
“What, Pip Cox?” I butted in.
Lewis blinked in my direction. “Yes—why, do you know her?”
“Met her the other day.” Why hadn’t she mentioned this when we’d been there? “Nice girl, isn’t she?”
Phil cleared his throat, leaning forward even farther. “What about the treasurer?”
“Oh—ah, yes. Lionel. Lionel Treadgood.” The Rev had a sour expression on his face that suggested he wasn’t over-fond of Treadgood the treasurer. Then again, Treadgood probably wasn’t all that keen on the Rev. I knew I wasn’t. The vicar in the London church I’d been to as a kid had been an old bloke with a shiny bald head and a perpetual smile, and he’d acted like everyone’s granddad. Rev Lewis was more like the weirdo cousin you try to avoid at weddings.
“Would he be willing to talk to us about Melanie?” Phil persisted, seeing as the Rev apparently didn’t want to be forthcoming about Lionel.
“I— Ah, yes. I’m sure he, ah . . .” Lewis stared at his wallpaper, which personally I thought was the cheeriest thing in the room, but it only seemed to depress him even further.
“And he lives in . . .?”
The Rev’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, making me think of those nature programs where you see a snake gulping down some poor furry animal. “Fallow’s Wood.” That was the posh end of Brock’s Hollow; half the houses didn’t have numbers, only names, which made finding them a bloody nightmare when you were called out. On the plus side, though, the coffee was usually top-notch, and it was often the cleaner
who let me in, rather than the lady of the house. That meant I didn’t have to worry about her constantly checking up on me—and biccies were usually in plentiful supply.
Phil nodded. “And would you mind—”
He was cut off by the tinny strains of something churchy yet vaguely familiar. I realised it was Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring—my mum always liked that one—just as the Rev mumbled, “Sorry,” and picked up his mobile phone. “Meredith Lewis. Oh. Yes, I— Well, of course, if you— Actually, I’ve got some people round— No, no, of course not. I’ll be right there.” He looked up, grimacing in what I assumed was dismay, although it looked more like he was constipated. “I’m so sorry—I’ve got to go out. Duty calls . . .” The Rev made a helpless gesture. “You won’t mind me shooing you out, will you? Really, I can’t think of anything else I can tell you in any case. I do hope I’ve been helpful,” he added, standing.
Bloody brilliant. That was two failures in two visits. Phil was going to start thinking of me as his bad-luck charm. We stood in unison. “Thank you,” Phil said, like the words were being pulled out of him with pliers. “You’ve been very helpful. I take it we can drop back in to continue this another time?”
“Oh, well—you know how it is. Busy, busy. The job of parish priest isn’t a nine-to-five one, I’m afraid.” He flapped his hands a bit; I hadn’t realised he’d meant the shooing out literally.
“Thanks, Rev,” I said, steeling myself to offer a handshake.
He took my hand, moistly. “Oh—please, call me Merry.” It was followed by another nervous little laugh. God, he was weird. Even by the standards of a profession that spends most of their working lives in a frock, talking to someone who might not exist and even if he does, they’ll never get to meet until they’re dead.
“Er, right. We’ll see you around, then.” I managed not to wipe my palm on my jeans until after the front door had closed behind us.
“What do you reckon, then?” I asked as we got back in Phil’s car. “He tried it on with Melanie, she wasn’t having it, and he killed her?” I could just imagine the Rev as that sort of creepy stalker type.
Phil turned halfway through putting on his seat belt and stared at me. “Are you serious?”
“Why not?” I asked, nettled by his tone.
He clicked the belt on, put the car in gear, and started off down the gravel drive. “The Rev’s as bent as a bishop’s crosier. Didn’t you notice the way he kept staring at your crotch?”
Merry fancied me? “Bloody hell. Stop the car, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Try and hold it in until we’re out of his bloody driveway, will you?” Phil tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited to pull out into the road. “Who do you reckon that phone call was from? Whoever it was, sounded like he had the vicar’s nuts in a vise.”
“Maybe it was head office,” I suggested with heavy sarcasm. “Even God has to move with the times, keep up with technology.”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s got his own website these days. Course, only the faithful can log on . . .” We swung out into the high street and headed up the hill towards St. Albans. “I think I might start making a few enquiries about the Rev.”
“Yeah, well, it’s always the closet cases you have to watch, isn’t it?” I said idly—then turned to Phil so fast I got a crick in my neck. “That wasn’t a dig, all right?”
The tension in his jaw eased, but not all the way. His dentist was going to give him hell next time he went for a checkup.
I managed not to shudder as we passed Nomansland Common and went on through farmland. “Where to now?” I asked. “Seeing as the Rev was a dead loss.”
Phil gave me a look I couldn’t work out. “I’ll drop you off at yours, all right?”
“What, no more interviews lined up?”
“Not right now. I’ve got a few things I need to check out.”
“Like?”
He gave an exasperated-sounding huff. “Like Robin East’s secret love nest.”
“You what? You mean I was right about that?”
“Don’t let it go to your head. Yeah, he’s got one of those new flats near the river in Harpenden. Pretty pricey, they are—most of them are owned by commuters with flash jobs in London. Don’t let anyone tell you money can’t buy you love.”
“How’d you find out about it?”
“The old-fashioned way. Followed him, then checked through his bins.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Nice.”
“Says the man who unblocks other people’s bogs for a living.”
“Like I told Mrs. E., I always wash my hands after.” I paused. “Do you think she was right, about him and Melanie having it off?”
Phil shrugged. We were just coming through Sandridge, a pretty little village carved in two by the main road. Not that it’s all that main, as roads go, but the place wasn’t half as villagey as it must have been in the days of real horse power. Course, it probably wasn’t half as whiffy, either. “I haven’t seen any other women turn up there, but it’s early days yet. But I want to get back there before he shuts up shop tonight. See if he makes a stop there on the way home—and if he’s alone.”
“Why don’t you go over there when he’s at work and search the place?” I wondered. “I’d help.”
“I’d rather not get done for breaking and entering, thanks. Anyway, I’m not sure I buy Robin East as the murderer. The wife, now, I’d believe it of her.”
“No,” I said, thinking about it. “I don’t think she cares enough about Robin, or the marriage, to take a risk like that. She might kill him, if she was sure she wouldn’t get caught, but I can’t see her bothering to kill the other woman.”
“No? Sometimes it’s easier to blame the third party when a marriage goes wrong.”
“Haven’t you been listening? I told you, she doesn’t care.”
“Oh, sorry—forgot I was dealing with the Great Paretski, who knows everything about everybody and solves crimes with the awesome power of his mind.”
We’d made it into Fleetville. Stung by his sarcasm, I jerked my head towards the halal food shop just down the road. “You can let me out here. I need to get some veg.”
“Fine.” Phil yanked the wheel round and braked sharply to pull in at the side of the road. “See you, then.”
“Right. Bye.” I got out of the car, and he pulled away again almost before I’d shut—not slammed—the door.
Why did it always go tits-up between me and Phil?
Tuesday turned out to be one of those days when everything goes right, for a change. For one thing, it didn’t involve Phil Morrison. So, feeling I was probably due to balance the karmic scales a bit, I got in the Fiesta and headed off to Brock’s Hollow after work to be a good little Samaritan.
To be honest, I didn’t much fancy going to see Graham. It’d been bad enough last time, sitting on his sofa, talking about Melanie . . .
And how bloody hard must it be for Graham, living there on his own now? Time to stop being such a bloody selfish git and go and do my good deed for the day.
I’d have rung him up, but I didn’t have his number and chances were he wasn’t answering his phone anyhow. So I just rolled up there. It was pitch-black, and once again a stiff breeze was blowing through the estate like a hail of icy needles on my skin. I wrapped my arms around myself as I waited for him to answer the door buzzer. He was taking his time, but I could see light at his curtained windows, so I pressed it again.
“Who is it?” Graham’s voice sounded tired and suspicious—or maybe I was just reading too much into those electronically distorted tones.
“It’s me. Tom Paretski. I thought you might—” I broke off as the door buzzed open.
The stairwell seemed even bleaker in the pale light coming from a single, cobwebbed fitting. I jogged up quickly, ignoring the pain in my hip. When I got to Graham’s door, he was standing behind it, peering through a narrow gap with the chain on.
“Hi, can I come in?”
“Phil said you’d been here. You and him. When I was out,” Graham said, his voice flat.
God, yes—the drugs. I’d forgotten he’d have to know someone had been here. Presumably Phil had decided letting Graham think the police had found the drugs and were keeping them for later would just be too cruel. “Er, yeah. Did a bit of spring-cleaning in your bedroom.” I paused, but he didn’t say anything. “You know, you really ought to be careful about that kind of thing.”
Graham slumped on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t using. It was just so I had it, if I needed it. That was all. It’s just been so hard—I wasn’t sure I could carry on . . .”
“Course you can,” I said heartily. “Listen, have you eaten yet?” He looked at me blankly, then shook his head. “Why don’t you come round to mine, then, and I’ll cook us something? We can, you know, catch up a bit.”
He looked down at himself. “I’m not really . . .”
He wasn’t wrong. He obviously hadn’t shaved for days, and his clothes looked like he’d been sleeping in them for at least that long. To be brutally frank, he was starting to whiff.
“Tell you what, I’ll see what’s on the telly while you grab a shower, and then I’ll drive you over to mine. Does that sound all right?” Graham nodded, and I settled down on the sofa and hoped he wouldn’t be too long. My stomach was rumbling already.
Maybe Graham’s was too, as it was only around twenty minutes later when he came back into the living room to tell me he was ready. He looked a lot better—the circles under his eyes were still as dark, and his face was just as haggard, but without the wild, unstable air that probably hadn’t been doing him any favours with the police. “Good,” I said and turned off the news quickly before he saw anything upsetting. “Let’s get going.”
We passed a couple of Graham’s neighbours on the way back to my van, two young women with scraped-back hair and plenty of makeup. Nobody said hello. They just stared at us, while Graham kept his head down. “Have things been all right round here?” I asked, suddenly worried.