by JL Merrow
Bloody hell. Had it been him after all? There was a gaggle of old dears and young mums gawking at him from outside the WI shop, and they obviously had him tried and convicted already—arms folded, noses in the air, they might as well have been shouting I always knew he was a wrong ’un for everyone to hear. Standing in the doorway of the estate agents was a pale, hunched-over Pip Cox.
I didn’t think twice—just turned the van into Four Candles Lane and left it in the car park behind the pub. The kitchen sink could wait. They could always bung a bucket under it. By the time I got to Village Properties, the lynch mob had taken their disapproval elsewhere, and Pip had disappeared inside. The sign on the door had been turned round to Closed, but I went in anyway.
Red-eyed, Pip looked up from her desk. The pale-green cardie she was wearing cruelly highlighted how blotchy her face was. “W-we’re closed,” she stammered, sounding an inch away from tears.
“I know, love. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I saw what happened.” I leaned against the doorframe, my hands in my pockets, so she wouldn’t feel I was barging in on her. Looking round the office, I saw a kettle in the corner. “Want me to make you a cup of tea?”
She stared at me silently for a moment, then bit her lip and nodded.
I smiled encouragingly and closed the door. “Bit of a shock, I expect, having your boss carted off by the police. Have they arrested him, or is he just helping with enquiries?” I checked the kettle, decided the water in there would just about do, and switched it on.
“They didn’t—they didn’t say he was under arrest. Just that they wanted him to come down to the st-station.” Pip swallowed.
“Might just be a routine thing, then,” I suggested, trying to cheer her up.
“They said—” She broke off for a minute, then rallied. “He told them he was working late, the night Melanie . . . But they said someone had told them it wasn’t true.”
“Oh?” I turned round, mugs in hand. “Milk and sugar?”
She shook her head, so I carried her black tea and my white one over to her desk. “Wouldn’t have been the missus, by any chance, would it? Because I’ve met her, and she’s a right— Sorry.” I made a zipping motion by my lips. “Forgot she might be a friend of yours.”
Pip’s mouth twitched into what was trying to be a smile. “No. We’re not friends. But I don’t think . . . They said they’d been told there were no lights on. The inspector—”
“Dave Southgate. Yeah, I know him.”
“He asked Robin if he’d been working in the dark. I know who told them about it,” she surged on, suddenly fierce.
“Yeah?” I parked my bum on the corner of her desk, and tried to look casual as I took a sip of my tea. Hmm. Maybe I could have done with using fresh water, after all.
“It was that hateful old woman next door,” Pip said, looking surprised at her own venom.
“What, the Women’s Institute lady? Her with the homemade chutney and the crocheted dollies?”
She nodded. “But it’s not true. I know he didn’t kill Melanie. I know it.”
I sighed. “I know you don’t want to believe it, love. I don’t want to believe it. But if he’s innocent, why would he lie to the police in the first place?”
Pip burst into tears. She put down her tea with wobbly hands and sobbed like her world had just ended.
There was nothing else for it. I shuffled round to her side of the desk and put my arms around her, patting her back, stroking her hair, and muttering soothing phrases. To tell the truth, I felt a bit of a bastard for what I’d just said. If being willing to lie to the police was a sign of guilt, we all ought to be banged up. Everyone makes bad decisions when they’re scared.
I held her for a long time, until the sobs died down into sniffles and my shirt front was unpleasantly soggy. “Hey,” I said, once I reckoned she’d hear me. “Why don’t you go on home? No point you trying to hold the fort here. All you’re going to get is nosy bloody parkers.”
Pip lifted her head. Her face was blotchier than ever, but she seemed a bit calmer. Not as much as I’d have liked, mind. “I can’t go home.”
“If you need a lift, I’ve got the van round the back of the Four Candles.”
“No—I mean, thanks. It’s not that.”
A nasty little suspicion clouded my mind. “Him indoors, is it?”
She didn’t answer, just stared at her desk.
“How come he’s not at work?”
“He— Well, it’s been hard for him. Finding work. Since he got laid off, he’s . . . It’s been hard.”
I nodded sympathetically. “And now you’ve got him moping round the house all day, making the place look untidy. Tell you what—why don’t I take you out for a proper cuppa? Something stronger if you like—they serve all sorts down the Four Candles.”
Pip gave a couple of rogue paperclips a thorough once-over while she mumbled something embarrassed and incomprehensible. I reckoned I had a fair idea what she was worried about.
“Hey, I’m not trying to chat you up or anything. You’re a married lady, and I’m, well, let’s just say I might have my eye on someone. And nothing personal, but he’s a lot more my type than you are.” She glanced up at that, and I gave her a smile. “So just a friendly drink, all right?”
She bit her lip, but she was looking a lot happier. “All right.”
I took the mugs out back for a rinse while Pip got her coat, closed the blinds, and shut up shop.
“So what’s Pip short for?” I asked as we headed down the road. “Philippa?”
She looked at her feet. “Persephone.”
“That’s a nice name. Suits you. You should use it more. Or if you don’t fancy using the whole thing, there’s lots of ways you could shorten it—Seffy, maybe? Or how about Persie? Or Phoney?”
She almost giggled at that.
“That’s better,” I said, pleased to see her looking a bit more cheerful. I linked an arm in hers. “Right, let’s get—”
I didn’t finish my sentence, because right then an angry-looking man with a dark beard came round the corner in front of us, stared for a second, then launched a fist at my face.
Just because I’m small and I’ve got a duff hip doesn’t mean I just stand there and take it when someone lays into me. I was a bit hampered by Pip being so close on one side, but I still managed to dodge the punch and land one of my own, right in his flabby gut. He doubled over, and I was going in for the knockout when Pip grabbed hold of my arm and tried to pull me back.
“Stop! It’s my husband!”
This was Mr. Pip? “What the bloody hell did he want to hit me for, then?” I demanded.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she gabbled—whether to me or to him, I wasn’t sure. I was keeping my eye on the bastard as he staggered and wheezed, his eyes sending death threats in my direction. “He must have thought— I’m so sorry.” Obviously deciding it was safe to let go of me, she went over to Mr. Pip and tried to put an arm around him. He shrugged her off viciously. “Nigel, he was just—just looking after me. Robin’s been arrested, and I was upset, so he was going to take me for a drink, but there’s nothing going on, I promise.”
I didn’t much like the pleading tone in her voice. Far as I was concerned, he was the one who ought to be apologising, not her. “Maybe Nigel should go and cool off somewhere,” I suggested—I’d have been very happy to throw him in the river, personally. “And I’ll take you for that drink?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’d better—we’ll go home, Nigel, all right?”
Nigel wiped his mouth with his sleeve, glaring at me all the while. “You stay away from my wife,” he snarled. I got a waft of beery breath as he spoke.
Apart from wrinkling my nose a bit, I ignored him. “Pip, are you sure you’re going to be all right with him?”
She nodded. “It’s fine. Nigel just— It’s fine.”
It wasn’t my definition of fine, but at the end of the day, what could I do? “If you need anything�
�if you ever need anything—give me a call,” I told her. “I’m in the book—Tom Paretski. Or look in the Yellow Pages under plumbers. Promise?” I added, because I didn’t want her to think I was just being polite.
“I’ll be fine,” was all she said, as her husband grabbed her hand and pulled her away.
I felt like kicking something, hard, but I’d only end up knackering my hip. So I headed back to my van and sat there for a moment, thinking about what she’d said about relationships, and nobody knowing what they were really like except the people in them. Had that been a cry for help? Or her way of saying despite appearances, she was happy with Mr. Pip? God, there was no accounting for the bastards some people ended up with.
Which reminded me, I’d better call Phil and let him know what had happened.
He picked up on the first ring. “Tom? Good to hear from you. Between jobs?” He sounded cheerful and chatty. It was unnerving.
“Uh, yeah, but I didn’t ring up for a chat. Listen, have you heard about Robin East?”
“Heard what?” His tone went from relaxed and playful to sharply focused.
“He’s been, well, not arrested, exactly, but Dave and the boys went and picked him up from the estate agent’s. Very publicly. And apparently some old dear’s trashed his alibi for the night of the murder.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, but he didn’t say anything.
“Phil?” I asked.
“Thinking.” He was silent a bit longer, but just as I was about to say bye and leave him to think in peace, he spoke again. “Just because he wasn’t where he said he was, doesn’t mean he’s the killer. Secret love nest, remember?”
“Yeah. Do you think the police know about that?”
He laughed. “They may do after today. Be interesting to see where he heads when they let him go—if they let him go. How’d the secretary take it?”
“Pip? Badly. I met her husband, by the way. Nice bloke—I’d known him for all of half a second when he took a swing at me.”
“Are you all right?” Phil’s voice was even sharper now, and his obvious concern for me sent warmth flooding through my chest. I’d been expecting something more like a joke about how I had that effect on a lot of people.
“I’m fine—he never touched me. I winded him, though. Course, I didn’t know who he was, did I? She went home with him afterwards.” I let my tone tell him what I thought about that.
“Did he have a reason for attacking you? Or do you just have that effect on some people?”
Ah, there it was. “Very funny. He told me to stay away from his wife, so he must have thought I was after her.”
“Interesting.”
“Which bit?”
“The bit where he just assumed there was something funny going on as soon as he saw you together.”
“Ah. Well, I sort of had my arm in hers at the time, so I s’pose it did look a bit suspect.”
There was a stifled sound on the other end of the line. “Christ, do you ever stop?”
“I never even started! I was just looking after her, that’s all. She was in a right state.”
“Fine. I’ll believe you; thousands wouldn’t. Right—I’ve got stuff to do. Thanks for calling; I appreciate it.” He hung up before I even had a chance to suggest we meet up for a pint or something.
Feeling a bit let down, I put the van in gear and headed over to Harpenden.
Where I found a pissed-off Post-it on the front door, with Waited over an hour for you. Don’t bother to call again, scrawled on it in angry Biro.
Swearing under my breath, I dug in my pocket until I found a stubby pencil. I wrote Sorry at the bottom of the note, then I turned back around and headed home.
It had been bugging me, not being able to check out those vibes at the vicarage. The one time I’d known there was something to find—and I hadn’t been able to get to it. I needed to get back there and see what it was. The trouble was, how?
I wasn’t proud of what I came up with, but I just couldn’t think of any other way. I thought about telling the Rev I was offering a free plumbing checkup to houses in the area, but trouble was, people who wear shirts with frayed cuffs are generally of the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it persuasion. He’d just have told me thanks, but no thanks, and I’d have burned my boats for any other kind of approach. So I went the God-bothering route. I had a look at the church website—got to be a first time for everything, hasn’t there?—and gave the Rev a ring, saying I’d like to have a talk with him about the Alpha course they were running for new Christians.
He seemed glad to hear from a possible new recruit and asked me over the following afternoon. Like I’d thought, mornings and evenings were his busy time. So I stood on his doorstep at half past two, wiped my palms on my jeans, and rang the doorbell.
The Rev’s ferrety face lit up like a baptismal candle when he saw me. “Tom, so good to see you again,” he said, ushering me in, his hands all a-flutter.
“Good to see you too, Merry,” I told him with the sort of smile I usually save for the housewives.
He went bright pink. “Let me put the kettle on.”
“Cheers. Actually, mind if I use your loo? I’ve just come from a job.” Was lying to a vicar in his vicarage as bad as lying in church, or only as bad as any other lie? I’d have crossed my fingers, but I didn’t want Jesus thinking I was taking the mick.
“Oh—of course, go ahead. I’ll make the drinks—coffee again? White, no sugar?”
“You remembered. Cheers, Rev, that’ll be lovely.”
He disappeared down the hall to the kitchen. I bypassed the downstairs loo and legged it upstairs, trying to keep my steps as light as possible. I was on the right track—I could feel it. Smell it, almost. A thick, greasy, shameful trail of repressed desire and guilt.
Luckily, the Rev wasn’t one for keeping bedroom doors shut, so I could see at a glance which was his room. The others were either bare, or half-full of boxes, presumably of church stuff. It seemed a shame, all this space going to waste, but I supposed the Rev wouldn’t stay here forever, and the next bloke might have a family to fill the place up a bit.
Of course, Phil might have been wrong about old Merry, and he might one day have a family of his own. I wouldn’t be holding my breath, though.
The trail led straight under Merry’s bed. I brushed aside a couple of crumpled-up tissues and socks in a sad state of repair—clearly holeyness really was next to Godliness. There was a shoebox that had once held a cheap pair of unbranded trainers, half price in the sale. Bingo. I opened it up and stared at the contents.
Out magazine from July 2010. Some dry-looking book about ancient Greeks. A copy of Maurice, looking fairly well-thumbed, and one of The Lord Won’t Mind. A few faded snapshots, the most risqué of which featured a pigeon-chested bloke with his shirt off. Some old letters—way too old to have anything to do with Melanie.
This was it? This was the Rev’s secret shame? Poor sod—all that guilt over this? Anyway, it was time I went back downstairs. I put the lid carefully back on the box and was about to slide it back under the bed when a floorboard creaked behind me. I spun round guiltily, the box still in my hands.
Merry was standing in the doorway, and he wasn’t living up to his name. “You didn’t come here to talk about the Christian faith, did you?” he said quietly and with a sort of sad dignity. “May I ask why you wish to expose me in this manner?” His voice shook, and I realised his hands were shaking too.
I felt like the lowest form of pond scum, crouching down there rooting through his private life. I stood up, my stomach queasy. “I’m not going to expose anything. I’m sorry.” I took a couple of deep breaths as he just stood there, staring at me. “I was just curious, that’s all. I thought—last time I was here, with Phil, I thought maybe you were interested in me. But I wasn’t sure, you know? I just wanted to . . . check out the theory.” My heart was pounding in my ears, and Jesus and all his angels were probably busy right now
preparing a special hell just for me.
“Why?” the Rev asked and gave that nervous laugh of his. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so slimily funny anymore. “Because you were . . . interested in me too?”
I drew a breath, but I didn’t get to answer.
“No,” he said, turning away from me. “No, that’s not it, is it? How silly of me, to suppose someone like you . . .” His thin lips wobbled, then turned white as he got them under control, pressing them even thinner.
Shit. “I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I just— I’m a mate of Graham’s, all right? I don’t want to see him go down for something he didn’t do. And I could tell you were hiding something, so I wanted to see what it was. That’s all. God’s truth.” I was silent for a moment, but he didn’t say anything, and the words came bursting out of me, unstoppably. “But for fuck’s sake, why don’t you just come out and be honest about it? Even I know you’re not the only gay priest in the Church of England. It’s supposed to be all right, isn’t it? As long as you don’t, you know, do anything about it. I mean, reading a couple of books, that’s nothing, is it?”
The Rev gave a deep, deep breath and let it out again audibly. “I hope you won’t take it amiss if I ask you to leave.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Course not. And, look, mum’s the word, all right?” I clapped him on the shoulder as I walked out of the room and felt even shittier when he flinched away from my touch.
I thought about checking Pip was okay, so after I’d left the vicarage, I drove down the village high street and parked in a lay-by. But although we were heading for dusk, the estate agent’s window was unlit, and there was a sign on the door that said Closed due to unforeseen circumstances.
It was probably just as well. I’d most likely have buggered that up as well.