Pressure Head (17 page)

“Ah! Maybe that’s it.” More likely he’d seen the van around, but I didn’t want to ruin Phil’s little we’re-all-professionals charade by mentioning the day job. “Well, do come in—don’t let me keep you standing on the doorstep.”

We trooped inside, my work boots clattering loudly on the tiled floor of the hall. Even Phil’s smart shoes made a little squeak as he trod, but Lionel’s expensive leather-soled brogues made no sound at all. I felt like I’d blundered in while looking for the tradesman’s entrance, and wondered if I should tug a forelock or something. “This way, please,” Lionel said firmly, interrupting my gawping at the grandfather clock and the antique hunting prints on the walls.

He ushered us into a sunny room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a five-star hotel. It was nice, actually—I mean, of course it was nice, but it didn’t just look posh; it looked comfortable too, with the old wing-back chairs and antique tables carefully placed so you’d always have somewhere to put a cup of tea.

“Tea?” Lionel asked, making me jump. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Phil said politely.

“Tea it is, then,” Lionel said genially. “Do take a seat—I shan’t be a moment.” He swept out of the room.

I glared at Phil. “I was going to ask for a coffee.”

“Tough. It’s the witness we need to keep sweet, not you. And don’t forget to do your stuff,” he added in a lower voice.

“Fine,” I huffed. While he sat down in one of those comfy-looking chairs, I wandered around the room, listening for vibes. It was odd—there was definitely nothing in the room, but I was picking up a faint trail from somewhere. Every time I grabbed for it, though, it trickled away.

“Found something?” Phil murmured.

“Not sure. I—” I broke off as Lionel came back into the room, bearing what looked like a solid silver tea tray with a matching teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug, plus some dinky little tea cups with saucers. There was even a plate with homemade shortbread fingers on it. My opinion of Lionel went up a notch.

We all sat down, and Lionel poured the tea like we were at a Women’s Institute meeting, about to discuss the jam-making rota. I took a piece of shortbread and tried not to groan obscenely in pleasure at the way it melted in my mouth, an explosion of butter and sugar. The tea, afterwards, was a disappointment—nothing wrong with it, but it wasn’t anything special, either, and those bone-china cups were way too fiddly.

“I have to say,” Lionel began, “I’m a little surprised you’re investigating poor Melanie’s death. Isn’t this sort of thing best left to the police?”

He seemed to have a lot of faith in Dave and his boys. I wondered how they were getting on. Seemed to me if they’d come up with anything, we’d have heard about it.

“I’m sure they’re doing an excellent job,” Phil said smoothly. “But it never hurts to have an extra pair of eyes looking out for things. A fresh perspective.”

“I shouldn’t have thought any fresh perspective were necessary. There’s no doubt in my mind who’s responsible for this dreadful business. I told Melanie she was making a mistake, tying herself to that drug-addled layabout, but poor girl, I’m afraid she refused to listen to the voice of experience.”

I bristled, but Phil carried on with an even tone. “My information is that Graham had been off drugs for over a year at the time of Melanie’s death.”

“There’s no such thing as an ex-addict,” Lionel said, shaking his head. “It’s an old saying, but a true one.”

“What, like
give a dog a bad name and hang him
?” I asked, deciding that tasty shortbread fingers notwithstanding, I wasn’t a huge fan of Lionel Treadgood.

Phil gave me a look like he wished we were sitting around a table so he could kick me in the shins. Hard. “I imagine you worked quite closely with Melanie on church matters,” he said, losing the glare as he turned pointedly to Lionel.

“Oh—well, to some extent, yes. Of course, a lot of it gets accomplished without face-to-face contact, of course. I’d drop off things for her attention at the vestry, and she’d do the same for me.”

“But you had regular meetings?”

“If you mean the PCC meetings, then yes. But there would be between ten and twenty of us at those, depending on other commitments.”

“And the vicar, I assume, would attend?”

“Meredith? Oh, yes.” Lionel’s mouth twisted a little as he said the Rev’s name. I got the feeling he didn’t have all that high an opinion of poor old Merry.

On the other hand, it could just be that utterly crap name he hated. Seriously, what had the Rev’s parents been thinking? Had they secretly wanted a hobbit?

Phil leaned forward. “How well did Meredith and Melanie get on?”

“Oh, Melanie got on well with everyone, poor girl. She was such a lovely young lady—always willing to help out. And never had a bad word for anyone.” He sighed. “She’s a sad loss to the parish. But then I always did question the wisdom of her…personal choices.”

“You mean Graham?” I asked sharply.

Lionel spread his hands in a smugly eloquent gesture. I had half a mind to give him an eloquent gesture of my own. “Even his best friends could hardly claim he was any great catch. And now—well, it seems he’s shown his true colours.”

“Graham Carter hasn’t actually been charged with murdering Melanie,” Phil put in mildly.

“No, but really, who on earth could it have been, if not him? Nine times out of ten—more, I’ve no doubt—it
is
the lover.” Lionel shook his head. “I feel sorry for him, actually—he was bound to suffer from an inferiority complex, with a fiancée like Melanie.”

The fact that I’d been wondering myself what on earth she’d seen in him didn’t make me hate Lionel any less. I drew in a breath.

“Want another?” Phil asked pointedly, thrusting the plate of shortbread in my face.

I blinked, startled. It brought me back to myself. I had a job to do here. “Oh—no, thanks. Actually, Lionel, do you mind if I use your loo? ’Fraid that tea’s gone right through me.”

“Of course. In the hall, next to the front door.”

“Thanks.”

I didn’t, of course, follow his directions. I tiptoed upstairs as quietly as I could, wishing I’d thought to change into trainers. At least the stairs were carpeted, with a thick crimson runner. I couldn’t work out why it made me feel vaguely uneasy until I realised it was exactly the colour of blood, as if a river of the stuff was pouring down the stairs like in some cheap horror-schlock film. I shuddered, then told myself not to be so daft. Blood’s actually quite a nice colour, as they go, and it went well with the William Morris Thistle wallpaper.

There was an oak sideboard on the landing between the two flights of stairs, with a massive dried flower arrangement on it, presumably in case you got bored halfway up and wanted something to look at. The window behind it was made of that antique glass that looks like old bottles, and you couldn’t see through it. The whole place smelled of wild roses. Once at the top of the stairs, I listened carefully. Again, all I got was a faint trail that slipped away from me teasingly every time I tried to get a fix on it.

All the doors on this floor were either shut or just barely ajar. Hoping like hell there’d be no one in there, I opened the door to the nearest bedroom and peered inside. It was a good-sized room but very clearly not used for sleeping in—there was a sewing machine set up on a table by the window, a dressmaker’s dummy, and bits of fabric everywhere. It looked like the current project was curtains, in a pale floral fabric that looked like it cost more per yard than all the ready-made curtains in my house put together.

There was nothing in there. I closed the door.

Then a soft, musical voice asked, “Can I help you?”

Chapter Thirteen

I nearly jumped right out of my skin. I whirled to see a woman several inches shorter than me with silver-blonde hair. It was hard to tell how old she was, with her big, blue eyes and waiflike figure. She looked beautiful but fragile, as if she’d been made out of the same bone china as Lionel’s little teacups.

I gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, love—I was looking for the loo. Think I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.” I smiled at her, trying to hide the pounding of my heart.

She smiled back. “The bathroom’s just down the hall, the second on your right. You’ve come to see Lionel, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “Are you, er, Mrs. T?”

“Patricia, please.” She held out one tiny hand, and I took it carefully, paranoid I’d crush it with my plumber’s grip. “Delighted to meet you.”

“Yeah, same here. Oh—I’m Tom, sorry. Tom Paretski. Did you make those shortbread fingers? Because they were lovely. Best I’ve ever tasted.” I managed to stop babbling, eventually.

A tiny flush of pink appeared in her cheeks, and her smile deepened. “I only followed my mother’s recipe. But I’m so glad you enjoyed them.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Still, I mustn’t keep you.” Her cool, soft fingers slipped away from mine, and I carried on mechanically towards the bathroom she’d pointed out. Bloody hell, she was unreal. Unearthly. She was the sort of woman you could imagine slaying dragons for, or launching a thousand ships… I shook my head. What kind of effect did she have on a straight bloke, for fuck’s sake?

The bathroom was big and plush, and completely bare of dirty secrets, unless you counted that Lionel didn’t bother to clear his pubes out of the drain after a shower. Mrs. T—Patricia—was still audibly pottering around upstairs, so although I stood on the landing for a moment, listening, I didn’t try and look in any more rooms.

God, Phil was going to love me.

When I got back downstairs, I got the feeling the interview was over. Lionel and Phil were standing by their chairs, and all the shortbread was gone. Bastards.

Lionel shot me a sharp look. “I hope you didn’t get lost?” The implication
and steal a few priceless knickknacks on your way
hung in the air between us.

I gave him a carefree smile. “Ran into your missus, actually. Lovely lady.”

Lionel’s expression softened, though he still looked a bit wary. “She is indeed. Her father was a High Court judge, you know.”

I wasn’t sure what that had to do with the price of fish—did he wish he’d married the judge?—but I nodded and tried to look suitably impressed.

“Well, as I was saying to your colleague, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. An appointment with my solicitor, you know how it is. Sorry to cut things short—but, well, I’m sure the police can only be days away from arresting that young man in any case.”

Phil didn’t look happy. “Before we go, could I just ask you—”

Lionel cut him off. “Sorry—I really do have to go.” He steered us firmly out into the hall, managing without any of the little shooing motions the Rev had used. There was no doubt about it, the bloke had presence.

“Are your guests leaving so soon, Lionel?” Again, the melodic voice seemed to come from nowhere, without warning.

We all turned to look up at Patricia, who was standing halfway down the stairs as if she’d been posed there by MGM. I glanced at Lionel. As he gazed up at his wife, he gave a gentle, seemingly unconscious smile that made him look about ten years younger. “Oh, you know, darling. That wretched appointment with Cameron.”

“Oh? I thought that wasn’t until four thirty.”

“Change of plan, my dear. He has another client who’s being difficult, so…” He shrugged.

“Of course.” She wafted down to stand on the bottom step. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Mr. Paretski.”

“Tom,” I said, stepping up quickly and taking both her hands, because weirdly, it seemed the only proper thing to do.

She smiled. “Tom, then. And your friend…?” She glanced over at Phil.

“Morrison,” Lionel said. “He’s a private investigator.”

Patricia’s eyes widened. “That must be very exciting.”

“Mostly routine,” Phil said, like he couldn’t give a toss what she thought. I wondered what the hell his problem was.

“Mrs.—Patricia,” I blurted out. “Don’t suppose I could trouble you for that shortbread recipe?”

“Of course you may. Would you like me to get it now?” She looked delighted.

Lionel, on the other hand, wasn’t a happy bunny. His bushy eyebrows lowered like storm clouds over eyes that were getting ready to shoot out lightning bolts. “Darling, I really—”

“Nah, that’s okay.” I didn’t want to cause any domestics. I dug in my pocket for a card. “All my contact info’s on that. Don’t want to make your hubby late for his appointment.”

I pressed the card into her cool little hand, and we left.

“Bloody hell,” Phil muttered out of the side of his mouth as we crunched back to the car. “Did you see Treadgood’s face when you were chatting up his wife? Enjoy living dangerously, do you?”

“I wasn’t chatting her up! But I’ll tell you what, if I was straight…” I sighed. “She’d still be way out of my league.”

“She’s just a woman,” Phil said, sounding amused.

“No, she’s a lady. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, and it’s made of paper and lives in a bank. Come on, Romeo, time to bugger off before the lord of the manor sets the dogs on us.”

“You know, class is nothing to do with money,” I told him as we strapped ourselves into the Golf.