Pressure Head

by JL Merrow

  I was paralysed for what felt like a hundred years, not even my heart beating. When I could, I turned slowly. Lionel was standing in the doorway.

  With a shotgun.

  He stared down the barrel of the gun at me, his face red with anger and twisted in disgust, as if he’d just found the place infested with cockroaches and I was the pile of shit they’d been rolling in. “How dare you trespass in my home?”

  Too busy trying not to crap myself with fear, I didn’t point out it was actually his garage. “You—you killed them, didn’t you?” I stammered out. “Melanie. And Merry.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, not lowering the gun one inch. “Meredith Lewis killed her, and himself.”

  “No,” I said, before I had time to work out if it was a good idea or not. “It was a setup. You set him up. The police know it wasn’t suicide.”

  Lionel’s face paled, and the end of the gun trembled, just a little. “You’re lying,” he said. “Why would they tell you anything? You’re nothing.”

  “Got a mate on the force, haven’t I?” Inspiration struck. “He’ll be here in a minute. DI Southgate. I called him, soon as I found Phil. He’d better be all right,” I added darkly. God, I wished I wasn’t bluffing. Why the bloody hell hadn’t I called Dave the minute I’d found Phil?

  “You’re lying,” he said again. “You came here on your own.”

  “Maybe I did, but I won’t be leaving on my own.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

  Apparently I didn’t. Colour seeped back into Lionel’s face. I’d liked it better pale. “You won’t be leaving at all,” he said quietly. “I’m not letting you ruin everything. Not after all I’ve been through.”

  “Why did you do it?” I asked desperately. “Why Melanie? What did she do to you?”

  “I didn’t want to kill her,” Lionel said, sounding put out. “She shouldn’t have threatened me.”

  The barrel of the gun lowered by about an inch.

  Hope searing my throat, I pressed on. “You didn’t mean to kill her?”

  “She— I— It’s all that bloody Reece woman’s fault. If she could only have pulled herself together and trusted me . . . I told her I’d pay the money back—it was a loan. I wouldn’t steal anything,” he finished in a tone of outrage.

  “Course not,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. I still had my chisel in the back pocket of my jeans—maybe I could throw it at him or something? I could feel Phil shifting behind me, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off Lionel.

  “If Meredith Lewis had had an ounce of backbone, he’d have convinced her. But no—he was useless. Completely useless, just like he always was. Maybe now we’ll get a proper vicar,” Lionel muttered.

  “So . . . what did Judith Reece do?” I prompted, hoping it wouldn’t make him even more pissed off.

  “Judith?” Lionel seemed to have forgotten we’d been talking about her. “Oh, she worried herself into a bloody nervous breakdown about the whole thing. Said she couldn’t carry on as parish administrator. Absolutely ridiculous. Then that wretched girl had to come poking her nose into everything.”

  “Must have been a right pain,” I said, edging my hand around to my jeans pocket.

  “Well, of course! A girl half my age, lecturing me on what I could and couldn’t do with the funds entrusted to me—and then she threatened me. Me!” He wasn’t even looking at me now, the shotgun pointing over to the side.

  I closed my fingers around the head of my chisel, started to ease it out of my pocket . . .

  “Get your hands where I can see them!” Lionel snapped. The shotgun swung back up, aiming directly at my heart.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I moved my hand away from the chisel. Despair flooded through me. Maybe there had never been much chance I’d manage to take that gun off him, but it’d just gone down to zero. All I could do now was stall for time, desperately hoping for a rescue—but who the hell was going to rescue me now?

  Then Patricia’s musical voice rang through the garage like the bell at the gates to heaven. “Lionel? Darling, is everything all right in here?” The last word was cut off by a little gasp, and she stood just behind Lionel, one hand pressed to her mouth. “Lionel?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Burglars,” Lionel said wildly. “They’ve broken in. You go back to the house, darling. It isn’t safe for you here.”

  “Call the police!” I begged her.

  Troubled grey eyes looked from Lionel to me. Then Phil groaned and tried to sit up.

  Patricia’s eyes widened. “Is your friend hurt?” she asked me.

  “Yes—he needs a doctor. Please, Patricia.” I turned to Phil and helped him swing his legs out of the car boot.

  “No!” Lionel shouted it, making us all jump. “Stay where you are! Common criminals—breaking into our property. They deserve all they get.”

  “Maybe we should let the police deal with it, Lionel,” Patricia said.

  “No . . . no police. I can’t— Darling, you don’t understand. It’s a . . . a business matter. You just go back in the house and let me sort all this out. It’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not going to be fine!” I was desperate to reach her with my words, my gaze. “Patricia, I’m sorry, love, but he’s killed two people.”

  There was a bang that echoed through the garage. At the same time, someone grabbed me violently from behind and pulled me back, catching my head on the open hatch of the Golf. There was a stinging pain in my arm to match the one next to my ear, and I looked down to see my sleeve turning crimson.

  “You bloody twat,” Phil rasped in my ear. He was still holding me tightly by the waist, both of us half in the boot of his car. If he never let go, that’d be just fine with me.

  Lionel stood there, his gun smoking. Patricia had both hands clutched to her mouth.

  “You didn’t have to tell her,” he said brokenly. “Why did you have to tell her?”

  I didn’t answer. His aim might be better next time. I felt Phil groping my arse and wondered wildly what the hell he was thinking of, getting frisky at a time like this—then I realised he must be looking for my phone. “Jacket,” I whispered. “Inside.”

  The icy hand moved, extracted my phone, retreated.

  “Darling, it’s all right, but I think you’d better give me the gun now,” Patricia said, almost carrying off a soothing tone. Only the wobble in her voice as she said the word gun gave her away.

  Lionel turned towards her. Suddenly worried, I started in their direction, but Phil pulled me back. “Leave it,” he growled. “Stop being a bloody hero. He won’t hurt her.”

  He didn’t. Looking like he was sleepwalking, Lionel reached out and handed the gun over to his wife. She smiled, unloaded it with surprising efficiency, then put it down on the workbench. She kept hold of the ammo. “Thank you, darling. Why don’t we go and have a cup of tea?”

  Lionel let her lead him away, her arm linked in his. Suddenly weak, I slumped back against Phil’s chest. I could feel the damp chill of his clothes soaking into mine but somehow, I couldn’t give a toss.

  “Oi. Trying to dial, here,” he muttered.

  “Phone too complicated for you, is it?” I joked weakly. My arm was hurting like a bastard. And I’d liked this jacket. Not to mention the shirt underneath. “Or is it the number? Three nines. It’s not rocket science.”

  “Tosser. I’m calling your mate Dave. You up to speaking to him?”

  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to talk to you. Hand it over.”

  The phone rang several times before Dave picked up. He didn’t sound very happy. “Tom, this bloody well better be good—”

  “I’ve been shot,” I told him.

  “Fucking—what?” Sounded like I had his attention.

  “Lionel Treadgood. I’m over at his place. He’s your murderer.”

  “He’s confessed?”

  “Yeah. It was a bit rambling, but yeah. Sounds like he’d been dipping into church funds and Melanie found out.
” I paused for breath. “I’m okay, by the way. Got a shotgun pellet in the arm, but I think I’ll live. Thanks for asking,” I added pointedly.

  “Tom, I’ve had calls from people who aren’t all right. Generally speaking, they do a lot more screaming for an ambulance. Right, I’m on my way. What’s the situation?”

  “Er . . . Me and Phil are in the garage, and Lionel and Patricia are having a cup of tea.”

  “Might have known bloody Morrison would be involved. Is Treadgood still armed?” Dave’s voice got a bit of an edge to it. “Is she in danger from him? Is anyone else?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. On both counts. Or all three. Whatever. We’ve got the gun here.”

  “Good. Anything else I ought to hear about before I roll up there?”

  “How about, I told you to go and arrest Lionel?”

  “Don’t push it, sunshine. I told you to stay away from the bloke, remember?” He hung up.

  “He’s on his way?” Phil asked.

  “Yeah.” I hesitated. “Um, you probably ought to let go of me before he arrives.”

  “No hurry. We’ll hear the sirens.” Phil’s arms tightened around me, chilly but comforting. His breath warmed the back of my neck.

  I shifted, and he took the hint and loosened his grip so I could turn round and face him. “Bloody hell, you look like shit,” I blurted out. His skin was pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead. His hair was a mess, plastered to his head like straw left out in the rain.

  “Thanks,” he said drily.

  “No, I mean it. You should sit down.” The hatchback of Phil’s Golf was still open, so we both perched on the edge of the boot, careful not to further damage our aching heads. “Are you feeling sick or anything? Faint? Can you feel your hands and feet?” That was about the limit of my improvised diagnostics.

  “I’m fine.” He laughed softly. “I’m not the one who got shot, here.”

  We looked at my arm. The tide of crimson seemed to have stopped, or at least slowed a lot. “Yeah . . . Thanks for that,” I said, feeling awkward.

  “What, thanks for getting you shot?”

  “No, you muppet. You know what for.” I don’t know why it was so difficult to say it. Or to look him in the eye, right now.

  Phil’s hand came up and tilted my chin until I didn’t have any choice but to meet his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and shook his head slowly.

  “What?”

  “You’ll be the death of me one day, you know that?”

  Actually, on current evidence, he was more likely to be the death of me. I didn’t point that out, though. “Well, I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” I said weakly. “It’ll be dead boring, relatively speaking.”

  “Tom, I—” He broke off. “Did you hear something?”

  “Like what?” I demanded, spooked—and then I heard it too.

  Sirens.

  We decided to stay put, rather than go outside and risk getting caught up in any amateur dramatics Lionel might have decided to put on. Plus, I had a feeling my legs might be embarrassingly wobbly. When Dave turned up at the garage, looking weary but triumphant, he gave my arm a dirty look. “Didn’t I tell you hanging around with Phil Morrison would be bad for your health?”

  “Hey, if it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be dead,” I protested. “He pulled me out of the way of the blast—I hadn’t even realised Lionel was about to shoot.”

  “Like you’d even have been here if it hadn’t been for Morrison.”

  Okay, maybe he had a point. “You’ve got him, right?” I asked. “He’s not still running around somewhere, pointing guns at people—”

  “Pushing them into swimming pools,” Phil put in.

  “That’s what happened to you?” I asked, twisting round to look at him. Now he mentioned it, I could smell the chlorine on him.

  Phil nodded. “Caught me by surprise—pushed me in, then whacked me over the head when I was trying to climb out. Suppose I should be grateful he didn’t leave me in there to drown.”

  “Too risky,” Dave commented. “They’d have got chlorinated water out of your lungs. He was probably still hoping to pin it all on Graham Carter, and last time I looked, flats on the Dyke Hill estate didn’t come with their own swimming pools.”

  “Didn’t think about the clothes, though, did he?” Phil said, sounding amused.

  Dave shared a smile with him. “Amateurs, eh? But just as well your skull’s a bit thicker than Melanie Porter’s. Right, we’ve got an ambulance waiting for you, Tom—and you’d better get checked out too, Morrison. If you drop dead from hypothermia, it’ll make a right mare’s nest of my paperwork.” He turned to grin at me. “Come on, Tom. You can’t tell me you’re not gagging to get him out of those wet clothes.”

  Bloody hell—Dave, joking about my poofy sex life? As I stared at his retreating back, Phil leaned closer to whisper in my ear. “Close your mouth. Much as I’d like to take advantage, I doubt I’ll be up for any of that tonight.”

  He wasn’t joking, I realised, as we staggered out to the waiting ambulance together. Phil leaned on me heavily, and his steps were stiff and jerky. The paramedics took one look at him and broke out the shock blankets. Then they whisked us off to hospital, and that was the last I saw of Phil for a while.

  By the time I’d been through the system—shot tweezered out of me; stitches; police statement—it was beyond late and well into early. Dave came over personally to tell me they were letting me go, which I appreciated. “Want a lift home?” he offered.

  I hesitated. “I might wait for Phil . . .” I stifled a yawn.

  “You’ll have to wait a long time. They’re keeping him in overnight. Just for observation. Come on, you look dead on your feet. You’d be no use to him anyhow.” He laughed.

  “Are you always this cheerful when you catch a murderer?”

  “Much as I’d like to think so, no, probably not.” Dave paused for a moment, then burst out with, “Jen’s back. Turned up this evening—last night, now. Said she realised she still loves me and asked if I’d take her back.”

  “Yeah? That’s great! I mean, you do want her back, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, in spite of everything—I do.” There was a big grin on his face. “Now, let’s get you home so you can get some sleep, because I’m bloody well not planning to.” He winked, presumably in case I hadn’t quite grasped what he was intending to do instead.

  “Cheers, Dave,” I muttered. “Give me nightmares, why don’t you?”

  Once we got in Dave’s BMW and set off, I couldn’t stop yawning. It would’ve been easy enough just to drop off in the passenger seat, lulled by the purr of a finely tuned engine, but something was still bugging me. “How . . . ’scuse me . . . How did Lionel know Merry needed murdering? I mean, I get there was some kind of blackmail situation going on there, and that must have been one of the things Merry was going to sort out—but how did Lionel know?”

  Dave’s smile disappeared. “The stupid sod told him. Rang him up at 6 a.m. and asked him to come to the vicarage to discuss it. Lionel said he just flipped out, though not in so many words. Strangled the Reverend with the curtain tie, then strung him up so it’d look like suicide. Except he hadn’t realised the bruising would be in the wrong place. See, when you strangle someone—”

  “Leave out the details, all right?” I said, making a face. “That really is going to give me nightmares.” I didn’t want to think about poor old Merry with his face all red, his neck bruised— Nope, didn’t want to think about it. “Was it quick?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “There’s worse ways to go, believe me.” Dave’s face was grim as he said it, and I decided I was bloody glad I didn’t have his job.

  “And it was all about him ‘borrowing’ church funds?”

  Dave nodded. “Seems his construction company hasn’t been doing too well lately. Treadgood started out just steering all the church work their way—breach of trust in itself—but it wasn’t enough. Turns out
that posh house of his is mortgaged up to the hilt, and the only way he could see to save it all was by taking a hammer to the church piggy bank.”

  “Was it worth it? I mean, how much money do churches have?” I was thinking of Merry’s frayed cuffs.

  “This one, apparently, had three-quarters of a million quid. Emphasis on had.”

  “Bloody hell! What did they do—win the lottery?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Get a lot of old people in churches, don’t you? Round here, rich old people. You only need one or two of ’em to leave their money to the church when they pop their pious little clogs, and you’re laughing.”

  “Lionel must have been,” I muttered.

  “Gift from the bloody gods, wasn’t it? Of course, the way he tells it, he wasn’t even doing anything wrong. Says he’s authorised to make investments on the church’s behalf. Trouble was, while he could bully the Reverend and the old parish administrator, Judith Reece, into going along with it, signing off on stuff, Melanie Porter was a whole different kettle of fish. She told him she’d report him if he didn’t pay back the money—which of course, he couldn’t do, ’cause he’d already spent it on keeping the business afloat and the wife in foreign holidays.”

  “Do you think she knew about it?” I didn’t like to think of Patricia going along with stealing from the church.

  “No—at least, that’s what old Lionel says, and I reckon he’s telling the truth. If you ask me, that’s the worst part of all this sodding mess, for him—having her find out what a god-awful pig’s arse he’d made of it all. Bit of an old-fashioned marriage, that—don’t you worry your pretty little head about money, that sort of thing.”

  I nodded. “That’s what he said in the garage—why did you have to tell her?” God, I wondered how she was coping, now she knew the worst. Maybe I’d email her, tomorrow. Seeing as I was indirectly responsible for her husband ending up behind bars, I thought turning up in person might not be the best idea, at least until I’d tested the waters.

  “Has he told you how he was planning to frame Graham for Phil’s, you know, death?” I couldn’t say the word without wincing. “I’ve been trying to think what motive Graham was supposed to have, but I’m coming up blank.”