Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2

by JL Merrow

  I threw up my hands. “Well, somebody bloody does! Sod it. I’m going to make some coffee. Proper stuff.” Not the instant Cherry had made for Hannah, which was possibly a subtle hint she hadn’t been all that welcome, but more likely just a sign Cherry couldn’t be arsed with the cafetière.

  God, I’d have felt a right muppet if Phil had turned up, guns blazing. I wondered if there was any way I could somehow delete that last voice mail before he heard it. At least I’d be able to offer him a coffee, I thought as I spooned it out, breathing in the rich, dark fumes and feeling the tension unravel.

  I’d calmed down a bit by the time I got back in the living room. “It’s brewing,” I said shortly.

  Hannah got up. I hoped she was leaving, but no such luck. “Can I use your loo?”

  “Yeah. Down the hall, first on the left.”

  She swept out in a cloud of floaty drab layers, the charms hanging off her overstuffed brown handbag jangling as she walked.

  Neither of us said anything for a minute.

  “Why do women always take their bags to the loo with them?” I asked, mainly to break the awkward silence. “I mean, it’s not like they’re generally going to pass the shops on the way.”

  Cherry glared at me. “Maybe she was worried you’d rifle through it if she left it behind.”

  “Maybe…” I’d just had a nasty thought. What if Hannah had turned right, not left? “Just going to check on that coffee.”

  I made it to the kitchen first just in time to see Hannah, bizarrely clad in the “glamour” washing up gloves Gary bought me last Christmas, tipping something from a plastic mineral water bottle into the cafetière.

  I was betting it wasn’t full of vulcanicity.

  “Oi,” I started and took a step forwards.

  Hannah turned—and with a shriek of “You cunt!” that shocked me rigid coming from her, threw the contents of the bottle at my face.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I threw up an arm just in time to shield my eyes, thank God, and scrunched them tight shut, but the stuff went in my hair and was dripping down over my face. Shit. I didn’t dare open my eyes, but what the hell was she doing now? Creeping up to finish the job with one of the kitchen knives?

  “Cherry! Don’t come in the kitchen!” I yelled—all right, squawked.

  I was hyperconscious of the wetness on my skin and soaking through my sleeve and shirt front. Christ, just how bloody quickly did this stuff work?

  I was just imagining the burning, right?

  Right?

  There was a barrage of loud banging that I realised had to be coming from the front door. Had Cherry called the police already? No, it couldn’t be them. Not this soon.

  “Oh my God!” Cherry’s voice was high-pitched, panicked—and right by my bloody ear. “Tom, are you all right?”

  “Jesus, I told you not to come in here! What’s that—Hannah doing now? Don’t go near her, she’s fucking mental. Throwing stuff. I can’t open my eyes. And you’ve got to get the door. For fuck’s sake, just get out of here.” The knocking was getting louder.

  “But I can’t leave you!” Oh God, she’d completely lost the plot.

  There was a humongous crash followed by the sound of glass breaking. “Tom?”

  Thank God. It was Phil.

  “Kitchen,” I yelled. “But watch out, she’s chucking stuff. Cherry, get out of here, okay?”

  Someone grabbed my shoulder and spun me round. I braced myself for another attack, but instead of stabbing me in the gut, all they did was whisper Jesus Christ and mop me up with a tea towel or something. I was pretty sure even with my eyes still closed it was Phil, not Hannah.

  I was even more certain when I heard him snap out, “Sit down there and don’t bloody move, got it? No—not you, Tom. You just get your clothes off.”

  “Is now really the time?” I squeaked.

  “Yes. Shower. Now. We need to get this stuff off you. Quickly.”

  Right. I knew that. I yanked my shirt over my head and threw it on the floor. I kicked my trainers off and started to unbutton my jeans, but sod it, I wasn’t in the mood to give free strip shows to bloody murderers. The jeans could wait till I got in the bathroom. I started to feel my way to the stairs, still not daring to open my eyes in case some of the stuff got in. I just hoped the cats wouldn’t take it into their heads that now would be a fun time to play trip-the-human.

  “Cherry, can you watch her? And call the police.” Phil took my arm and started to lead—or more like, manhandle—me along.

  I wasn’t bloody having this. “You can’t leave my sister down here with a murderer.”

  “We need to get you sorted now,” Phil snapped.

  “I’ll go up with Tom and make sure he’s all right in the shower,” Cherry said in a subdued voice by my ear. I bet she was feeling guilty now for as good as calling me a drama queen over my suspicions of Hannah.

  Then I realised what she’d said. “Oi, you’re not watching me shower.”

  “I used to bath you when you were a baby, you know.” I swear I could hear the eye-roll in her voice as she dragged me over to the stairs. “Steps here. And change your nappies. I’ve seen it all before.”

  “So you don’t need to see it again, do you?”

  “Jesus,” Phil huffed. “Stop bloody bickering and get it in the sodding shower, will you?”

  He probably had a point.

  Cherry grabbed my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip—I guessed years of lugging legal briefs around must be good for building up muscle—and dragged me upstairs. She shoved me into the shower without even waiting for me to get my jeans off and turned on the taps full blast.

  “Bloody hell!” The water hitting my head and chest was sodding freezing. I groped numbly for the temperature control, only for Cherry to slap my hand away.

  “Hot water will open up your pores,” she yelled over the rushing water. “Make the poison work faster. I read it on the Internet.”

  “Won’t have to worry about that,” I said through chattering teeth. “Hypothermia’ll do the job instead.”

  “Stop being a baby. And get those jeans off.” It was my turn to bat away hands as she fumbled at my jeans buttons.

  “Oi! I can do that myself.”

  “Well, get on with it then.”

  Figuring it was safe now to risk opening my eyes, I blinked into the deluge of ice-cold water and realised Cherry was actually in the shower with me, still fully dressed, her hair in rats’ tails and her sweater hanging soggily by her knees. “Bloody hell, Sis, go and get dry. I’m fine, okay?” I desperately wanted to ask her to go back down to make sure Phil was all right, but if anything had happened to her, I’d never forgive myself.

  But if anything happened to Phil… Nope. Best not to go there.

  Cherry nodded and left me to get on with the task of getting soaking-wet jeans off my shivering self with numb fingers.

  Thank God I was wearing my work jeans, not my impressing-Phil-with-the-shape-of-my-arse jeans. I’d have been there all bloody year trying to get them off.

  Fifteen minutes later, scrubbed to within an inch of my life—by my own fair hands, not my big sister’s, thank God—I sat blinking at my would-be murderess through shampoo-reddened eyes. We were in the living room, Phil having survived unscathed and confiscated Hannah’s handbag of horrors. I had a large glass of (unadulterated) water in my somewhat unsteady hand, courtesy of Cherry—apparently you were supposed to drink loads if you’d been poisoned. Well, she should know.

  There was a manic, twitchy air about Hannah, but fair dues, she was waiting for the police to come and take her away.

  I wished they’d get a bloody move on. Still, while she was here… “So was it me you were after? Or was it Cherry?” I asked. “And, you know, why?”

  Hannah sent me a withering look. “I never cared about you. I just wanted to do something. Achieve something.”

  I stared at her. “What, like an impressive kill count?”

 
; She ignored me and turned on Cherry, who was curled up on the sofa in a fresh baggy sweater and identikit leggings, with a towel wrapped around her hair. Cherry shrank back at the sight of Hannah’s snarling face. Christ, she looked bloody well feral all of a sudden. “It’s all right for you, with your high-flying legal career and your tall, dark and handsome fiancé.”

  Hannah thought Greg was handsome? Really? Still, I suppose it takes all sorts.

  “How do you think I feel? You just waltz into the Literati, just playing at writing, and everyone thinks you’re so bloody marvellous. I was the one David turned to for advice before you turned up. He trusted me. He said Morgan and the others wouldn’t understand him writing genre fiction, but he trusted me. Trusted my opinion.”

  Again: really?

  “And suddenly it’s all Cherry this, and Cherry that. Even Raz…” She was crying now, I noticed with horror.

  Cherry protested faintly at that. “But I was new, it’s hardly surprising they—”

  “Shut up.” Me and Cherry both jumped a mile at Hannah’s shrill voice. Phil took a step forward, his face dark, but he halted when she stayed in her chair.

  “Have you any idea what it’s like for me? No one notices me. No one’s ever noticed me, and it’s only got worse as I’ve got older. David was the only one, and you took him from me.”

  “Hang on a minute,” I said, not liking where this was going. “Are you accusing Cherry of—”

  “God, you’re so stupid.”

  I frowned, a bit hurt. Then I caught myself. Caring what a psycho murderess thought of me? Really?

  Hannah was still speaking. “Her, kill someone? She wouldn’t have the nerve.”

  “It was the book, wasn’t it?” Cherry said suddenly. “You stole his book. And… And you killed him, didn’t you? So you could publish it under your name. Well. Hayden Mead’s name. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Jesus. All this over a book?

  “That was your fault. He was dying anyway. I could have waited. But then he said he was going to show it to you, so I had to do something.”

  Cherry nodded. “But you were too late. So then you had to kill me.” There was a slight stutter over the k, and she hugged herself, her knees drawn up in her chair. “Why did you wait so long?”

  “Because you left, of course. After everything I went through, you just got bored and left. As if the whole thing meant nothing to you.”

  Right. She hadn’t known about Cherry’s little tiff with Morgan. Made me wonder if he’d suspected something fishy was going on and wanted to get Cherry out of harm’s way. Although it was probably more likely he was just a puffed-up, self-righteous git.

  Phil cleared his throat. “Then you got the invite to the party. Must have seemed like fate.”

  “Yes!” She turned to him eagerly. “I’d been so worried…but then the invitation came, and I knew what I had to do. It was so easy—I told you, nobody notices me. I did get a bit worried when I saw you”—she turned to me—“with Cherry’s drink, but it all went as I’d planned in the end. But then she didn’t drink enough.”

  Bad Cherry, I thought. Not cooperating in your own murder.

  Phil was glowering at Hannah. “And what about Tom? Just a bit of collateral damage?”

  She shrank a little under his glare. “I’d have felt bad about him, of course. But anyway, he’s fine, isn’t he? Everybody’s fine. Except me.” She started sobbing as the sound of sirens rang through the air.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The police didn’t bother knocking when they got here. Then again, Phil had pretty much done a number on the front door, so I suppose they decided we might think they were taking the piss. Dave Southgate lumbered into my living room with a couple of uniforms. “Bloody hell, Paretski, get ram-raided, did you?”

  I grinned. “Something like that.”

  As Dave was taking her away in handcuffs, Hannah raised her head. “I still win, you know. I’ll be famous now. Everyone’s going to buy my book.”

  “David’s book. Not yours.” Cherry fairly spat it out. “I should have known what was going on as soon as I saw the notice about the book launch.”

  I thought she was stretching it a bit there. Hayden Mead doesn’t sound that much like Hannah Mudge.

  “You, with a book deal?” Cherry went on. “You haven’t got the imagination.” Her lip curled up. It really wasn’t an attractive look, so it was probably just as well Greg wasn’t here right now. “You couldn’t even come up with more than one way to kill someone.”

  Ouch. “Well done, Sis,” I said, patting her shoulder as Hannah disappeared. “Harsh but fair.”

  She collapsed onto the sofa. “God, I need a drink.”

  I joined her, running a hand through my still-damp hair. “You’re not the only one.”

  Phil’s meaty mitt dropped onto my shoulder. “The only thing you’re drinking is water until we know you’re all right.”

  “Killjoy.”

  Cherry raised her head, her eyes tired. “Can we not use the K word right now, please?”

  “You know, there’s one thing I don’t get,” Phil said, looking thoughtful. “How the hell did she even find out you were here?”

  “My fault, remember?” I grimaced. “Telling them all at Raz’s do that I was going back to see Cherry. She must have worked it out from that.”

  Phil squeezed my shoulder. “Bit of a leap of faith to set up the whole plumbing emergency based on a guess like that.”

  “Or maybe…” Cherry trailed off, avoiding Phil’s gaze.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Well, it’s possible she asked Angela at number 22. My next-door neighbour. I mean, I had to tell her where I was going when I went round to ask her to look after the plants again.”

  Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. “And it didn’t occur to you to tell her not to let on to anyone?”

  “Well, of course not. She’d have thought there was something funny going on.”

  “Something funny…? Believe me, Sis, nobody’s laughing.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like in Pluck’s End. Any excuse to gossip. The old lady who runs the Post Office keeps tabs on everyone, and it’s got so I can’t even have Gregory round in the evening without people watching to see if he stays the night. And everyone keeps demanding to know how we met, as if that’s any of their business.”

  I blinked at her. “Now you come to mention it, how did you meet? You never said.”

  Cherry went bright red. “Why does everyone insist on knowing that?”

  “Probably because you’re making such a big secret of it?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Cherry looked down at her lap. It was catless, so no distraction there. She muttered something.

  “What was that?”

  “Clergy Dating, if you really must know.”

  “What?”

  “Clergy Dating. It’s a website. For people who like, well, clergymen. And women, obviously.”

  “Seriously, that even exists? And oi, how does Greg feel about all this?” I grinned. “You’re just objectifying him, aren’t you? Anything in a cassock.”

  “Shut up. I wish I’d never told you. And if you breathe a word about it to anyone else—especially Richard and Agatha—I’ll…” She trailed off, apparently unable to think of anything bad enough.

  It was probably reaction making me laugh at her. Probably. “Do you get all hot and bothered when he quotes the Bible? Hey, if you ask nicely, does he come to bed in nothing but his dog coll—oi!”

  For the first time I could remember, ever, she’d thrown a cushion at me.

  Phil—not to mention Cherry and Dave—had insisted on me getting checked out by a doctor, even though I kept telling everyone I felt fine. Phil wasn’t happy until he got official confirmation and a promise from me that if I started feeling a bit iffy, I’d get him to drive me straight back to hospital. Then we had to go and make our statements down the police station. It was weird—even after everyth
ing Hannah had done, I still felt bad about the thought of her going to prison on my evidence.

  Then I asked myself how I’d have felt going to my sister’s funeral—or my own, for that matter—and felt a lot less guilty about it all. Besides, she’d been caught bang to rights with a bottle of poison. The lab results hadn’t come back yet to confirm it, but Dave told me Hannah had confessed that what she’d chucked over me was a concentrated solution of nicotine. Just like she’d used in Cherry’s gift basket. I guessed Sis had been right about her not having much imagination.

  I got a chippy I know who owed me a favour to come over and sort out the front door while we were out, and while it wasn’t exactly good as new when we got back, at least we could close it, lock it and feel fairly secure. Barring any more acts of Phil.

  “So what took you so bloody long getting to my place?” I asked when we were sitting on my sofa, just the two of us, pretending to watch some reality rubbish on the telly. Cherry had gone back to Pluck’s End with her light o’ love, who’d been predictably horrified at the day’s proceedings. And ever so slightly smug at having been fully exonerated.

  Phil yawned. “Went to interview Peter Grissom, didn’t I? Your dark rat.”

  Oh yeah. Now I remembered him mentioning it. “He’s not my anything. Did he tell you anything interesting?”

  “Oh, he told me plenty. Not a lot of it was interesting, though. Although he did mention David Evans owned a lot of books on toxicology. Wonder who might have borrowed a few?” He chuckled. “Grissom had a theory the old bloke was writing a crime novel on the QT.”

  “Imagine that. Did you tell him he was right?”

  “I’m in the business of getting information, not giving it away.” He pulled me in closer to his side, which was fine by me. “Speaking of which…”

  I braced myself to meet the sexual innuendo and return it with interest, but all Phil did was reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a key. “Thought I should give you this. And I’ll have that key Cherry left behind, if it’s still on offer.”