Pressure Head (12 page)

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 and 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 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 check-up.

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 keep my licence, 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 end up going tits-up between me and Phil?

Chapter Nine

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 more bleak 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?”

He didn’t answer, just pushed the door shut. I heard the rattle of the chain, and a moment later, the door opened again, this time fully. I stepped through and closed it behind me.

“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 there. 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 he looked 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.

Graham shrugged, his hands deep in his pockets. “You know. Dog shit through the letterbox a couple of times.”

“Bloody hell—have you told the police?”

“What for? They think I killed her too.” His shoulders hunched up even further, and he watched his feet like he was worried they might turn against him as well.

We were halfway to St Albans before he spoke again. “I never believed it, you know.”

“Believed what?” I asked, pulling out to pass a cyclist.

“About you being a homosexual.”

I turned to stare at him before remembering I really ought to keep my eyes on the road. “Graham, I am a, er, homosexual. I thought you knew that.” Although now I came to think about it, I wasn’t sure just how he’d have known—unless Phil had told him. Bloody ironic he’d suddenly started worrying about my reputation now, when I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I wondered what Phil was up to right now. Working? Just because he’d spent a lot of time on the murder lately didn’t mean he might not have other cases on the go.

I realised Graham hadn’t said anything more. “Does that bother you?” I asked. “Me being gay?”

“No, it’s fine.” He stared straight ahead at the lights of St Albans, his face as unreadable as Phil at his stoniest. “Are you in a relationship?”

“Nah—footloose and fancy free, I am.” I gave him my stock answer for that kind of question, then cringed as I realised how it must sound to a bloke who’d just lost his fiancée. I felt like a total tosser. “Shit—sorry.” I took a deep breath. “Do you, um, want to talk about Melanie? Or would you rather not?”
Please, God, let him go for the second option.

Graham made a funny little snorting sound. “Sometimes I think I dreamed it all. Her and me, I mean. And sometimes I think I only dreamed she died—but she’s gone. Really gone.”