by JL Merrow
I knocked off early that day, had beans on toast for supper, and headed straight down to the pub.
There were a few old regulars in the Rats Castle, plus some loud lads from an office somewhere. I ignored them as best I could, and they bogged off just after seven, which left me in peace to get rat-arsed.
How did Phil do this? All the lying, the sneaking around behind people’s backs?
I suppose I’d got pretty good at switching off my dubious talent over the years. Ignoring all the stuff I didn’t want to know about. Even when it’s mates—especially when it’s mates—there’s always stuff they don’t want you to know about, and generally speaking, they’re right. Some things you’re just better off not knowing.
But Phil’s job was to rake up all that dirt, just on the off chance it might have some bearing on the case. How could he do this, day after day?
I think I must have texted him to ask him at some point, because when I looked blearily up at the shadow falling over my sixth or seventh or eighth pint, I saw it was Phil.
“What do you think you’re doing, Tom?” He had a smooth voice. Flowed all over me like whiskey. No ice, just tingling warmth.
“Turning it off. See?” I held up my pint, struggling to work out whether to focus on the glass or Phil, and eventually giving it all up as a bad job. A fair amount of beer sloshed onto the table, ran along the surface, and started dripping onto my jeans. “Buggrit. ’S working, though. Couldn’t find the Thames right now from a standing start in Docklands.” I laughed. All right, maybe I chortled. “Couldn’t find my arse—” I belched “—with my elbow.”
“Yeah, well, I think you’d find most people have a problem with that one. Come on, I think it’s time you went home.”
“Am home,” I protested. “An Englishman’s pub is . . . is his castle,” I said, sweeping my arm to indicate the interior of the Rats. My jeans got even wetter, and I was worried for a moment I might have embarrassed myself, until I realised I was still holding my pint. What was left of it, anyway. “Oops.” I was about to move the beer to the safety of my stomach, but it disappeared. I looked around for it and saw Phil was holding a glass. I frowned. “Did you just nick my pint?”
“Trust me, you don’t need it.” He put it on the table and reached down to grab my arm. “Come on, time for bed.”
I sniggered. “Think I’m easy, do you?”
“No, I just think you’re rat-arsed.”
“Rat-arsed. In the Rats.” I sniggered again. “That’s a . . . that’s a . . . Whassat?”
“It’s about time you got some fresh air. Not to mention fresh jokes.” Phil took a firmer hold of my elbow. “This way.”
It got cold, suddenly, and I realised that somehow we’d left the pub and gone outside. “’S cold,” I muttered, shivering.
Phil heaved a sigh, and then something warm yet light draped itself around my shoulders. It smelled nice. Woodsy. Like Phil. I pulled it closer around me and breathed in deeply. “’S nice.”
“You throw up over my gilet and you’re buying me a new one.”
“Gilet?” I snorted in laughter. “Nobody says gilet. How bloody gay is that?”
“Probably just gay enough to get us a kicking around here, so how about you watch your mouth, all right?”
“You dissing my neighbourhood?” I frowned blearily up at him. “When was the last time you got a kicking, anyway? You’re all . . . big and butch and ’timidating.”
“On the other hand, I’ve got my hands full at the moment, haven’t I?”
“I bet you’ve got a handful and a half,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him. Then I laughed so hard I nearly pissed myself.
Phil didn’t join in. “Come on, let’s get you home and you can tell me what’s brought this on.”
Was he stupid or something? “I think,” I said slowly and clearly, “it might have been the beer.” I belched, just in case he still hadn’t got the point.
“You don’t say? Right—here we are. Where’s your key?”
“’S in my pocket.” I sniggered. “Is that a key in my pocket, or am I just pleased to see you?” Phil rummaged around in my jeans, the randy bugger, and I laughed some more. “Tickles.”
“Turns out it was a key.” Phil held it up. “See?”
He opened the door. “’S dark,” I said. Then it wasn’t. “Ow.” I blinked.
“Let’s get you on the sofa. Here you go. Now, don’t go to sleep yet.”
“Got plans for me, have you?” I tried to look flirtatious, but it was a bit hard as both of him kept slipping off to one side.
Then he left. “He’s left me, Arthur,” I said sadly. Arthur didn’t reply, so I prodded him and realised I’d been talking to one of the sofa cushions.
“Not yet, I haven’t,” a blurry shape said in Phil’s voice. “Drink this. All of it.”
“Had ’nuff,” I muttered into the pint glass under my nose.
“Not of this, you haven’t. It’s water. Trust me, you’ll thank me for this in the morning.”
I sniggered, spluttering water. “That good, are you?” Then I yawned. “Sleepy.”
“I’m not surprised. You lie down, and I’ll get you a blanket. And a bucket, if I can find one, just in case.”
“Don’t go.” I had to tell him something. It was really important. Couldn’t remember what it was, but I had to tell him. I grabbed his arm. “Phil?”
“Yeah?”
I blinked at him. “I’m not Polish. Not even a little bit.”
“Well, I’m sure England’s vastly relieved we can justly claim you for our own. Now go to sleep.”
“Yes, Mum.” I closed my eyes. Just as I was about to drift off, I thought I felt the touch of his lips on my forehead. “Love you too,” I muttered.
I was lying on my back underneath a bath in Jersey Farm—that’s a big council estate between St. Albans and Sandridge, by the way, not an actual farm—when he rang me next day. “Paretski Plumbing,” I answered chirpily, recognising his number.
“You don’t sound Polish.” Phil’s voice rumbled in my ear, its tone light. Flirtatious, even—or was I just reading too much into it? I hoped not.
“Would you like me to?” I countered, hoping the customer was still busy downstairs and wouldn’t (a) hear me flirting back or (b) come up and notice I was semiaroused. I’d had a restless night—sleeping on the sofa has never done wonders for my hip—with a certain PI playing a prominent role in my dreams. I’d finally woken up late, feeling horny as hell and with no time to do anything about it.
My memory was a bit fuzzy about what had happened the previous night after Phil had got me home, but I’d woken up wrapped snug in a blanket, with a pint glass of water and a bucket (thankfully unused) by my side. I’d felt, in a word, cared for. It was a good feeling, and I’d carried the good mood it gave me all the way to work.
“Maybe some other time. Are you free at all today?”
I was tempted to trill I’m free! like John Inman playing Mr. Humphries, but I resisted. After all, they might not have watched Are You Being Served? reruns in his house. “Depends what for.”
“How about a visit to the honorary treasurer, Mr. Lionel Treadgood, esquire?”
“You take me on all the best dates, don’t you?” There was a silence, which I rushed to fill. “What time?”
“Any time this afternoon, he said.”
“Sounds like we’re dealing with a member of the leisured classes. Nice work if you can get it.”
There was a sharp breath down the phone line that might have been Phil smiling. “He’s got his own construction firm, so I guess he takes time off when he wants to. House up in Fallow’s Wood; makes the East place look like a council flat.”
Which meant my house, by comparison, was a condemned garden shed with both wet and dry rot. “Do I need to put my Sunday frock on, then?”
“Twinset and pearls will do just fine.”
“Shame my tiara’s in the wash.”
There was another short silence. �
�Thought you might be feeling a bit hungover after last night.”
“Nah, someone got me to drink a gallon of water before bed. And I don’t really get hangovers. Well, not that bad, anyway.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“Hope I didn’t say anything too daft last night.”
“What, dafter than usual?” There was a pause.
I was expecting him to ask why I’d drunk so much—I was fairly sure I hadn’t got round to telling him last night—but maybe he didn’t want to get into anything heavy over the phone. I thought about bringing it up myself, but then again, the customer (“Call me Angie, love”) was only two flights of stairs away, and though I seriously doubted she was a regular at St. Anthony’s Church, Brock’s Hollow, loose lips sink ships and all that.
“Thanks for taking me home,” I said, when he didn’t say anything else.
“No problem. It was only up the road.” He cleared his throat. “Right. How about we meet up at the Four Candles in Brock’s Hollow, and you can leave your van in the car park, and we’ll drive up together?”
“Works for me. Okay, I’ve got a quote to do around two-ish—might need to go up in the attic—so how about I meet you in the Four Candles at three?”
“See you then.” He rang off, and I got back to work just in time for when Angie came back up.
“I brought you a cup of tea, Tomasz,” she said with a fair attempt at a Polish pronunciation, at least as far as I could tell. “Or is it Tomek?”
“Just Tom, love,” I told her, trying not to sound too long-suffering.
She crouched down to my level. Given how short her skirt was, it was probably a bit more of a revealing move than she meant it to be. Then again, maybe not. “Two sugars all right?”
“Lovely,” I said and gave her a wink. “Thanks, love. Just put it down there, and I’ll drink it in a mo.”
I could always tip it down the sink.
I was just finishing up my Diet Coke when Phil walked into the Four Candles. I was sitting in a corner, surrounded by photos on the walls of Brock’s Hollow in Days Gone By. Most of the buildings in the pictures were surprisingly recognisable, except every other house in the high street seemed to have been a pub those days. Perhaps that was what old people meant when they talked about making their own entertainment in the pre-TV days.
Phil was looking good, in tailored trousers and a different cashmere sweater, one I hadn’t seen before. Did his wardrobe have its own mortgage? Mind you, you can get cashmere in Tesco’s these days.
I was fairly sure he’d have shopped somewhere a bit more upmarket, though. “Who says you can’t take the council estate out of the boy?” I joked, appreciating the view.
He flushed—and not in a pleased way. “Some of us work hard to get away from our roots, all right?”
“Keep your hair on! You’re going to take someone’s eye out with that chip on your shoulder. I just meant you’re looking good, that’s all.” Okay, so now I’d overcompensated and I was probably going just as red as he was.
“Oh. Well, you too, obviously.”
“Yeah, right.” I hadn’t had time to change, so I was in my dusty work jeans and shirt, and when I’d nipped into the gents a few minutes ago, I’d found cobwebs in my hair—no reflection on Jersey Farm standards; nobody hoovers under the bath, for God’s sake. Or in the attic. “Old Lionel’s going to think you found me sleeping under a hedge.”
“You look fine.” He coughed. “Are you ready to go?”
I nodded and stood. “So is this bloke a suspect, or do you just want to sound him out about the Rev?”
I’d said it quietly, but Phil still darted a gaze around before glaring at me. “We’ll talk about it in the car.”
“Oh, come on, you don’t think— Fine, let’s talk about the weather. Bit nippy for the time of year, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe that cashmere sweater was really good at keeping him warm, and he didn’t like to disagree with me. I chuckled to myself—quietly, so Phil wouldn’t hear. “How are you getting on with the new place?” I asked. “Got all your stuff unpacked yet?”
“I wish. Still living out of boxes, mostly.”
“I could come and give you a hand some time, if you like,” I offered, surprising myself. Usually I get my second thoughts a bit sooner than that.
Still, Phil looked pleased, so I was glad I’d said it. “Thanks. Yeah, that’d be great.” He frowned. “Have I told you where it is?”
“No—I was going to ask you about that, but I thought you were enjoying being a man of mystery. Either that or you were worried I’d turn up and uncover all your secrets.”
“I’ve got my secrets, but my address isn’t one of them. And it’s not like I’ve been living there long enough to get the skeletons moved into their cupboards. I’ve got a flat out on London Road.” He gave me the address.
“Hey, we’re practically next-door neighbours! You must be what, half a mile away from mine?”
“Something like that.”
“You never did tell me how come you moved back out here,” I reminded him as we got into the Golf.
“No. I didn’t.” Phil started the engine.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Man of mystery and all that. Fine—have it your way. So can we talk about Lionel now?”
He nodded. “He’s church treasurer, right? So he’ll know a lot about the way the church conducts its business. We can ask him about that night—see if he thinks it’s feasible Melanie might have meant the vicar when she talked about her boss. If it’s likely the Reverend would have called her out in the evening.” Phil pulled out of the narrow entrance to Four Candles Lane and onto the village high street. He gave a pinched-looking smile. “See if he knows the vicar’s dirty little secret, and if he’s got any of his own.”
“Still think being gay’s a dirty little secret, do you?”
“It is if you’re a vicar. He should grow a pair and come out. Half the persecution of homosexuals done in the name of the church could be avoided if people like him weren’t too shit scared to stand up and be counted.”
I stared at him, speechless for a moment. I’d been about to tell him about my trip to see the Rev, but right now I was damned if I was going to betray that sad collection of books and keepsakes. When I finally found my voice, it wasn’t pretty. “You fucking hypocrite! What about when we were in school together? You never stood up to be counted then.”
Phil flinched back for about a hundredth of a second, then turned on me angrily. “That was then. Do you still define yourself by what you believed when you were seventeen?”
I thought about it. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Well, spare a thought for us poor mortals who have to learn by experience, all right? Not everyone gets it right first time.”
I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh. “You think I get everything right first time? ’Scuse me, but have we even met?”
He threw me a look, but it was gone before I could work out what it meant. “You really haven’t changed, you know,” he said, and I didn’t think he meant it as a compliment.
We took the left turn off the main road, towards Fallow’s Wood. It was all scrubby forest either side of us for a short way—if you come here in the spring, the bluebells are lovely—then we got to the first of the houses.
Fallow’s Wood isn’t much of a village, more a collection of posh houses, some with gardens measured in acres, scattered around a golf course. Opinions differ as to whether it’s part of Brock’s Hollow or a separate address in its own right. Me, I’m on the fence, which around there is around eight feet tall and made of freshly painted wrought iron with pointy gold bits on top. The place has got its own pubs, which is a point in its favour, but no corner shop. It’d piss me right off if I had to get in the car every time I needed a pint of milk, but I suppose the Fallow’s Wood residents have got to justify their three or four motors per family somehow.
Lionel Treadgood’s house was set at the end of a private road, whic
h was unsurfaced and had more potholes than I’ve had hot dinners.
“You’d think with all the money floating around here, they’d do something about this,” I said as we rattled along in Phil’s car at ten miles an hour. “I suppose maybe they just see it as sort of low-tech traffic calming.”
“Or maybe they’re just tight-fisted bastards,” Phil muttered, his face set. Probably worrying about what the road was doing to his tyres and suspension. We’d have been better off bringing my van—it might not be smart, but it’s robust. When we got to Lionel’s wide driveway, Phil parked the Golf with a crunch of gravel and a vicious jerk on the hand brake, and we got out. The house in front of us was large, but it looked more like it’d been built for practicality and added to when necessary—at least, “necessary” by rich people’s standards—than architecturally designed to tone in with the surrounding countryside, or whatever the usual estate-agent guff was.
“Going to do your stuff?” Phil asked softly.
“What, out here? With that?” I nodded towards the swimming pool on the right of the house. Shielded by a high hedge, it hadn’t been visible from the road. “And I reckon they’ve got the river down the bottom of their garden. It’d be needle-in-a-haystack time. Must cost an arm and a leg to keep a pool that size heated this time of year.” I pursed my lips, looking at the steam rising gently from the water. There was a sort of summerhouse thing to change in, and a decking area where you could sit out with drinks when it was warm.
“The property market slump isn’t biting round here, that’s for sure,” Phil murmured, pursing his lips. “Wouldn’t mind one of those myself.”
I shivered. “You can keep it.”
Phil turned to stare at me, an incredulous look on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of water? A plumber with hydro-bloody-phobia?”
“No,” I said, a bit indignant. “I’m not scared. I just don’t like swimming pools. Too much dead water. The vibe’s all wrong.”
“And it’s got your satnav on the blink?”
“I’ll be fine in the house. It’s just interference, that’s all.” We crunched up to the front door, and Phil rapped on it with the old-fashioned door knocker.