Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 (37 page)

He nodded and carried on playing the hawk to my wood pigeon as I climbed up on top of the chair and felt carefully over the top of the cupboard. The first thing I noticed was that Mr. M was definitely of the “out of sight, out of mind” persuasion when it came to dusting. I hoped I wasn’t going to run into a wasp’s graveyard up here. Those bastards can still sting you even when they’re dead.

The second thing I noticed was the corner of something that shifted when I touched it—but not before I got the telltale tingles all up my arm confirming this was what I was after. I fumbled for the corner, grabbed it and brought the thing down in a cloud of dust.

It was an envelope, one of those ones a bit bigger than a normal letter, but not big enough to hold an A4 sheet without folding it. I could feel there was stuff inside, and it had neatly typed on it, “Codicil to the Last Will and Testament of Laura Morangie, née Fernside.” But it was what was handwritten underneath that made me stare. It said, “Keep Looking.”

Yep, definitely someone having a laugh here.

I stared at it for a moment longer, then waved it at Wood too fast for him to see it properly. “Just a clue,” I said breezily, then rolled it up and shoved it in my back pocket. “It says to keep looking.”

He raised an eyebrow, causing ripples in the forehead wrinkles. “Impressive. Although, of course, you could have known already that would be the place to look.”

I just shrugged. No skin off my nose if he didn’t believe in my “thing”, as Cherry put it.

“And where will you look next?” he persisted.

“Gotta think about that one. If you don’t mind?”

“Oh, of course.” He folded his hands together and pretended to look out of the window. There was even the faintest sound of whistling.

I was starting to like old Morning.

The vibes now were fainter. Older. Whatever I was supposed to keep looking for—assuming that was what I was picking up, of course—had been hidden here a long time ago. Years. Lots of them. And unlike the codicil, there hadn’t been a lot of fun involved. Regret. Anxiety. And…maybe just a whiff of annoyance?

At least it probably wasn’t a body, then. Not that I’m an expert on the subject, but when you imagine how a murderer must be feeling when they stash away a corpse, the phrase “a bit miffed” doesn’t exactly spring to mind. Maybe it should, I dunno. I suppose it depends on whether you believe we’re all potential murderers, given enough provocation, or whether you’re of the opinion anyone who could kill another person has got something seriously wrong with their head.

You can probably tell which view I subscribe to. I was pretty sure I was on the right track, though. There were other trails, yeah, there always are—but this one was much brighter, even though it was older. All the rest, I was betting, were just the usual sort of hidden stuff: that letter from Auntie Mary you knew you should have answered five years ago and which now makes you feel guilty every time you look at it; the paperwork for a nice wodge of income that completely slipped your mind when you filled in that year’s tax return (not that I’d have any personal experience of this one. Seriously. I pay my dues); the trashy books and magazines you wouldn’t be seen dead reading by anyone you knew. That sort of thing. Petty stuff.

Anyway, this one was leading me upwards. I jogged up the stairs, hearing old Wood’s slower footsteps behind me, and stopped.

It still wanted me to go upwards. I stared up at the hatch in the ceiling leading to the attic. “Got a ladder somewhere?”

For the first time, I missed Mr. M being around, but we eventually tracked one down in the garage, which gave me a chance to check that place out too. Clean as a whistle; no dirty secrets hidden among the dirty rags and oil cans.

“Mr. Morangie looked up there, you know,” Wood chided me as I set up the ladder under the attic hatch and checked it was firm. “He told me there’s nothing there but old clothes, furniture and letters.”

Well, that could be promising. Maybe Auntie Lol had left me an antique clock. Or some vintage Prada. I smothered a grin at the thought of Auntie Lol in Prada. Not really her thing—she was more into long, flouncy skirts and market-stall finds. “A second pair of eyes can’t hurt,” I told him and climbed up the ladder. I’d found a torch in the garage too and flicked it on. The first thing I saw was a lightbulb swinging from the rafters, and a bit of hunting about found me the switch.

The attic was…sad. I mean, not in and of itself, obviously, but when you knew about the bitter old bloke who owned it who couldn’t even stand to have anyone mention his only kid to him: yeah, sad. There was a sturdy-looking wooden cot, in pieces, neatly stacked, and storage bags and boxes labelled “blankets”, “newborn baby clothes” and “6-12m”. Saddest of all: “baby toys”. Maybe they’d thought they’d have another, Mr. M and the first missus, and kept everything in readiness.

I wondered what had happened first: her popping her clogs, or them giving up hope. Maybe Mr. M had thought Auntie Lol was his second chance. It hadn’t happened; was that why the marriage didn’t work out? Funny things, marriages. You find that one person you want to spend the rest of your life with, just the two of you, then next thing you know, you’re not going to be happy until someone else comes along to—

“Have you found anything yet?” Old Morning’s reedy voice quavered up through the attic door, reminding me I had a job to do and wasn’t just here to get all philosophical.

“Not yet,” I yelled back and got my arse in gear.

I found it under some bags of clothes. Women’s clothes. I couldn’t tell, from just a brief glance, if they’d belonged to Auntie Lol or to the first Mrs. M, and it seemed a bit disrespectful to get them out and have a good look. Not that it mattered anyway. I’d got what Auntie Lol had wanted me to find.

It was an old biscuit tin, one of those family assortment ones I remembered from when I was a kid that never had enough of the chocolate fingers in. Probably because Richard and Cherry always got there first. The lid was spotted with rust. It’d been sealed up with Sellotape that was now all brittle with age and peeled away practically with a look.

The contents had stayed dry.

It wasn’t like in the movies, where you find a bundle of love letters all tied up with ribbon, scented with lavender. These were just shoved inside a brown paper bag, and they smelled a bit musty.

They really were love letters, though. Well, there were a couple of them in there. One or two postcards that had been written and never posted. Maybe they’d been brought back and delivered by hand? All were from some bloke called Mike and addressed to “Sweetheart”. And there were photographs. Not many, but they all showed the same two people. A dark-haired bloke, not over-tall, who looked a bit familiar. And my mum, looking younger than I’d ever known her—but still older than the pictures I’d seen of her when Cherry and Richard were little.

I sat back on my heels, my head hurting and my chest tight. I didn’t get it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to either. Why would Auntie Lol have done this? Why set this all up, make a game of it, almost—just so’s I could find out Mum had cheated on Dad? Why would
anyone
do that? Let alone someone I always thought had, well, loved me?

Then I worked it out.

Christ.

I felt it physically, like a punch in the gut. Or maybe to the heart. Whatever it was, it left me sickened, and my hands shook as I put the letters back in the bag and then levered myself to my feet.

Don’t know what I said to old Wood. Probably just something like, “Found it,” and waved the paper bag at him. I don’t think I even remembered to close up the attic, take down the ladder or shut the front door on the way out, for that matter. I should probably give him a ring and apologise for that, I thought, as I climbed into the driver’s seat of my van and sat down. Cherry probably had his number. Or should I ring Mr. M? He was the one who’d have to clear stuff up after me. Probably. Christ, did I leave the attic light on? That was bad. Old people got uptight about stuff like that. I should definitely apologise. Maybe both of them, just to make sure.

My heart was still racing, but at least the cold air outside had helped with the queasiness. Wasn’t sure I was really up for driving yet, though.

“You got it, then?” Phil asked. I could feel him staring at me.

I waved the codi-thingy at him, then leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. “I’m a bastard,” I said bleakly.

“Why? What’ve you done?” Phil sounded startled.

I opened my eyes. Yeah, he had an expression to match. “Not that kind of bastard. I mean, my dad’s not my dad. Probably.”

“What, your mum was playing away from home?
Your
mum?”

“Yeah.” I laughed. It wasn’t a good sound. “She was what, early forties? It’s like Dave says, I guess. Dangerous age for a woman.”

Phil laid a hand on my thigh and gave it a quick squeeze. “You got evidence for this?”

I handed over the paper bag. Phil took his time. I wondered if I should feel bad, letting him read my mum’s old love letters, but sod it, she was the one who’d started all this.

“Dates are right,” he said at last, his tone neutral. “And the bloke in the pictures looks like you. Doesn’t prove anything.”

“No.” I scrubbed my hands over my face. “Think I should ask my dad for some DNA?”

“Probably not. But you could ask your mum for an explanation.”

“I can’t just ask my mum about her sex life!” I cringed at the thought. “God, it’s bad enough I read her bloody letters. I let
you
read her letters.”

“It’s ancient history now. Not like she got them last week.” Phil hesitated. “He seems like an all right bloke, this Mike. You know, from his letters and the photos.”

“You mean, apart from the bit where he was messing around with a married woman?”

“Well, there’s that.” Phil’s hand was rubbing my thigh, moving rhythmically up and down, up and down. Any other time, I’d have been wanting to take things somewhere more private, but right now it was just a warm, solid comfort. “What I don’t get is, how come your Auntie Lol had these letters? Why not your mum? There any clue in the codicil?”

“I haven’t even looked at that.” Funny, after I’d been getting butterflies over it earlier. Didn’t seem half so important now.

“You what? Come on, hand it over, then.”

“Bugger off. We can read it together, all right?” I pulled out the envelope and hesitated, my brain finally juddering back into action. “Do you think we need to do this in front of a solicitor or something? I mean, is it legal if we just open it?”

“Don’t see why not. But if you’re worried, we can take it round to your sister’s. She’s the executor, so she’s going to have to see it anyway.”

“Ah, sod that. I’m opening it.” I stuck a finger under the flap and tore it open.

There were two smaller envelopes inside. One of them had written on it, “Read this first.” I had half a mind to stick a metaphorical two fingers up and open the other, but I decided to be a good boy.

It was a letter from Auntie Lol, of course.

Dear Tom

So funny to write this now and not know when you’ll get it. I’d like to think it’ll be a long time from now, but I have to be realistic. By now you should have found your mother’s letters. As you’ve probably guessed, she gave them to me for safe keeping, as she couldn’t bear to destroy them. Perhaps I should have taken them with me, when Raz and I left, but there was only so much we could carry. But I’m so sorry you had to find out about your father this way.

I looked up. “Shit. So it is true.”

Phil gave my thigh another squeeze. “Keep reading.”

I’ve kept trying, through the years since you grew up, to persuade your mother to tell you herself. And you mustn’t blame her for
not
telling you—she’s just as convinced it’s the right thing to do as I am that it
isn’t
. She made me promise, all those years ago, not to tell you, so I never did. But I think we should face uncomfortable truths. I have to face the fact that this cancer is almost certainly going to kill me. And I think that makes me stronger. Far better to face my death and meet it on my terms. I like to think the Tom I knew would feel the same.

I’m so sorry I haven’t seen you these last years. I’m afraid your mother’s secret came between us, in the end. But from your cards and the photos you’ve sent me, I think you’ve grown up, as my Heather used to say, a fine, bonny young man. I hope you find someone to love you as you deserve. Don’t be afraid to use your talents.

If I can ask one last thing of you (and I know you may be feeling I’ve got a bit of a cheek!) could you, perhaps, keep in touch with Raz? He’s had a difficult journey, and if you could
make sure he’s all right, that would ease my mind. You’ve probably guessed he’s who I’ve asked to hide this for me.

I think you two could be friends, you know.

With love

Auntie Lol.

That was it.

Phil pursed his lips. “Why don’t you open the other envelope?”

“You’re bloody desperate to find out what this legacy is, aren’t you?” It didn’t seem all that important to me anymore. It was just…stuff.

“Might as well.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Let’s find out what this codicil’s got to say for itself.” I ripped open the second envelope.