Pressure Head (26 page)

“It’s all right,” Robin said from right behind my left ear. “Persephone is with me now. He won’t hurt her again.”

Pip smiled shyly as I looked from one to the other of them, and she nodded.

“I’ve left Samantha. She can keep the house. I doubt she’ll even notice I’m gone,” Robin added with a touch of bitterness.

“Yeah, you’ve got that place down by the river,” I said without thinking.

They both stared at me.

“Uh, sorry. Phil,” I explained with a shrug. They seemed to get the drift. “So…” I pursed my lips. “That night Melanie died, when you were supposed to be working late—might I be right in thinking you were with Pip? Sorry, Persephone,” I corrected myself.

She blushed. So did he. “You might,” he conceded.

No wonder she’d been sure he hadn’t done it. He’d been way too busy doing
her
at the time, ’scuse my French.

“So you’ve got a brand-new alibi, then?”

His turn to shrug. “If it’s needed.” He didn’t sound all that bothered, but I wasn’t sure why.

Then it hit me. “You think the Rev’s suicide means he did it?”

He moved pointedly around me to put his arm round Pip, who wasn’t smiling anymore. “It does seem fairly obvious,” he said.

Poor Merry. Then again, if he’d really killed Melanie… Was that it? Had he killed himself out of guilt—nothing to do with his secret past? At least, not directly.

I didn’t know what to think. I said my good-byes, and then, working on the basis that thinking’s a lot easier on a full stomach, I nipped into the little Tesco’s down the road for a Mars Bar. I got a bit distracted by the two-for-one offers and was just debating whether to get a pack of chocolate éclairs as well to see me through till teatime, when a hand touched my arm.

“Hello—it’s Tom, isn’t it?” It was the friendly old lady from the church. From the way she was smiling serenely, I guessed the news about the Rev hadn’t reached her yet.

“Edie!” I said with a smile that probably wasn’t nearly as serene as hers. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain, dear, not at my age. One’s glad to be still walking around after so many years! Have you met Judith?”

The woman next to Edie looked vaguely familiar. She had a worn-down, nervous face, and somehow managed to look ten years older than Edie while still being clearly thirty years younger.

I frowned at her, realised what I was doing, and tried to look a bit more pleasant. “I think I saw you at church, yesterday? Sitting next to Pip Cox?”

A spark of recognition flickered and died in her eyes. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Judith is our Parish Administrator, although she’s taking a little break at the moment,” Edie said.

The little wheels whirred and clicked, and I remembered. She must be Mrs. Reece, the one who’d been ill, and who Melanie had filled in for. I wondered what the illness had been. “Lovely to meet you,” I said, offering her a hand.

She hesitated but grasped it briefly, her ice-cold fingers bony and dry.

“Must be a lot of work, that,” I said, more to put her at her ease than anything else.

Judith jerked her head. It could have been a nod, but it also said loud and clear she didn’t want to talk about it.

“Now, I shouldn’t gossip,” Edie put in, her head on one side. I felt like a bug under a microscope, the way she was watching me. “But I expect you’ll hear soon enough about our poor vicar. Suicide, they’re saying.”

“I, um, yes. I heard.” I must have sounded a bit off, because Edie patted my arm.

“Oh, dear. It is rather shocking, isn’t it? Yes, poor man. He must have been deeply troubled about something.” She leaned closer. “One can’t help but think it must be connected to poor little Melanie’s death. Remorse can be a terrible thing.”

My chest felt tight. Was I the only one who still thought there was any doubt he’d done it? “That’s…that’s what the police told you, is it?”

“Oh, the police… They never tell you anything, do they? No, I heard it from Alison Mitchell. She goes to clean at the vicarage. She was the one who found him, poor thing. Hanging, he was. Such a terrible thing to find. Of course, we’ve had the police all over the village today.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “That’s why I’m keeping an eye on poor Judith today. I’m afraid she’s—well, obviously she knew him rather well, you see.”

I darted a glance over to Mrs. Reece, who was staring blankly out of the shop’s glass front. Like you might do if, say, you heard someone talking about you and want to pretend you hadn’t heard.

“You know what, I just remembered somewhere I need to be. Lovely meeting you, ladies.” I left the cakes on the shelf and walked out of the shop, feeling sick. There was a railing just outside, so I leant on it, breathing in fresh, cold air mingled with exhaust fumes from the cars that ambled past, slowing for the speed bumps.

Was Merry the murderer? Had I been wrong about him, and about Melanie too? God, he’d been in my house.

I vaguely registered the automatic door opening behind me, and then Edie was at my side. “Are you feeling quite all right?” she asked. “Don’t worry—I left Judith by the magazines. You can speak freely.”

I wondered what on earth she was expecting me to say. I was still wondering when she spoke again. “You know, Judith had your young man round this morning.”

“Phil?” I asked, startled. Although on second thoughts, it wasn’t that surprising he’d wanted to talk to Mrs. Reece. I wondered why she was calling him my young man after the way he’d behaved last time she’d seen us together. In the end, I put it down to some kind of old-lady intuition.

“Yes. I’m happy to say he’s
much
more polite when you get to know him. I’d gone round to break the news to her about poor Meredith. Judith doesn’t get out a lot, not with her husband the way he is—I’m sure you understand.”

I was sure I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. Why hadn’t Phil asked me to go with him?

“But he would go on asking her about Lionel, and well…” She shook her head. “Poor Judith isn’t the strongest personality around, and Lionel can be terribly forceful when he puts his mind to it. He does so like to be in control of everything. That’s why she had to take a little step back from it all. Just a little break, to recharge her batteries.”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can imagine she didn’t find it easy working with old Lionel. Bit of a commanding figure, he is.”

Edie nodded happily. “Judith and I always call him
The Boss
.”

A cold thrill ran through me. “Is that what Melanie used to call him too?”

“You know, now you ask, I think I did hear her call him that once. I imagine Judith must have mentioned it during the handover of responsibilities. You won’t tell on us, will you?” Edie asked, wide-eyed, like a kid caught with her hand in the pick-and-mix.

“I—no, course not,” I managed. “Look, thanks for coming out and looking out for me, but I’m fine. You go back to Judith. I’ll be fine.” I started to walk off, but then a thought struck me, and I turned. “Edie, did you tell Phil about Lionel’s nickname?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He seemed quite excited about it.”

Phil still wasn’t answering his phone, and now it was going straight to voice mail. I didn’t like it. In the end I gritted my teeth and dialled Dave’s number.

“Southgate,” he answered curtly, putting me off a bit.

“It’s me, Dave,” I said awkwardly.

“I know it’s you, Tom. But to coin a phrase, I’m kind of in the middle of something here. Is it about the case?”

“I—yeah. Kind of.” I abandoned all ideas of asking Dave if he’d seen my boyfriend. “Is it official, now, that Merry killed Melanie? I mean, did he leave that signed confession you were after, or was there some evidence?” If they had proof Merry had done it, then Lionel’s nickname couldn’t mean anything. Plus, I was betting no one had bothered telling Graham, if so. At least I could go round and give him a scrap of comfort. It was even possible I might find Phil there.

Dave didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Dave?”

“Look, Tom, you did
not
hear this from me, understand? And I’m only telling you now because you’re a mate, and you were so bloody cut up about it all.”

“Telling me what, Dave?”

Dave’s voice went so low I could barely hear it. “The Reverend didn’t kill himself. It was a setup.”

“What? Merry was murdered?”

“You’d better not be in a public place spouting off like that, I’m warning you.”

“I’m not—I’m in the van. Windows closed and all. But bloody hell!” That meant…that meant he
hadn’t
killed Melanie, most likely. And his death definitely hadn’t been my fault. Relief flooded through me, bringing guilt bobbing along in its wake. This really wasn’t all about me.

“Exactly. Now, I’m not going to tell you not to mention it to the boyfriend—I’m not that bloody naïve—but you tell him from me, it stops with him, right? I don’t want to find out he’s tweeted it to all his bloody Facebook friends.”

“Um. Have you seen Phil today?”

“Run out on you already, has he? He was around Brock’s Hollow this morning, sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, but since then I haven’t had the very dubious pleasure of his company. You want to get him tagged.”

“Yeah, right. Listen, Dave—did you know Lionel Treadgood’s nickname was The Boss? Edie Penrose told me that this afternoon.”

“You’re joking. Seriously? Bloody hell.” Dave swore, this time with even more feeling. “I wonder what they’re teaching them in Hendon these days, I really do. Couldn’t find their own arses with a map and a sat-nav, some of ’em. Right. Cheers, Tom. Anything else?”

“Are you going to arrest Lionel now?”

“All in good time, all in good time. If I arrest him on hearsay, his lawyer’ll have me for breakfast. We’ll wait and see what forensics come up with. And no going round there to ask him if he did it, all right? I mean that, Tom. That’s an order. You stay well away from Treadgood. Same goes for the boyfriend too. I’ll see you around.” Dave hung up.

I did the only thing I could think of—drove the van round to Phil’s place. I had to park it illegally, which meant I had roughly thirty seconds before I’d be getting a ticket. I swear the population of St Albans halves when the traffic wardens go home for their tea.

Phil’s car wasn’t outside his flat, and when I rang his doorbell, following it up with the ones for all the other flats, no one answered. I swore, then ran back to the van. I hadn’t got a ticket, but I’d have traded that for knowing Phil was safe any day. I couldn’t help thinking he must have gone to confront Lionel. And he wouldn’t know how dangerous the bloke was—wouldn’t know about the second murder. He still thought Merry had killed himself.

Why the hell hadn’t he called me to go with him?

Was it because he didn’t think he needed me anymore? Dave’s warning was eating away at me like caustic soda. I didn’t want to believe Phil had just been using me—but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility, either.

I didn’t know what to do.

Chapter Twenty

Dark had fallen by the time I parked my Fiesta halfway down Pothole Parade, and went the rest of the way to Lionel’s house on foot. One advantage of the rich liking their privacy was that the road was lined with high hedges, broken only by the entrances to long, twisting driveways, so I was reasonably certain no one saw me acting furtive. There wasn’t even any street lighting, this being a private road. I felt my way along and tried not to curse too loudly when I stumbled.

The Treadgoods’, with its wide, open-plan gravel driveway, had to be the bloody exception, of course. Even the crunching of the stones under my feet seemed louder than a pneumatic drill in the still, quiet evening. The security light came on just as I approached. I’d just have to hope Lionel and Patricia were having their tea, or maybe watching
EastEnders
to marvel at how the other half lived—at any rate, too busy to look out of the window and see me messing up their freshly raked gravel.

The water in the swimming pool was still messing with my spidey-senses—but there was nothing wrong with my eyes. And I reckoned the little summerhouse next to it would be pretty much perfect for stashing someone you’d, say, caught snooping around (on his own, the daft prick) and bashed over the head. If it came to a fight, Phil would beat Lionel easily, I was sure—but all Lionel would need to do would be to get behind him and catch him unawares—like he must have done to poor Melanie. He could have tied Phil up, gagged him so as not to annoy the neighbours, and left him there, ready to finish off later.

Or he could have finished him off already and stashed his body in there, of course. But I didn’t want to think about that possibility. I wondered if I’d know—if it wasn’t for the water in the swimming pool, would I know from the vibes whether the body I was searching for was living or dead? I hoped not. At a time like this, you want to keep hoping for the best as long as you can.

I’d expected the summerhouse to be locked, and it was. Good job I’d brought along a few tools. Dave could do me later for breaking and entering; right now I was all about getting in as fast as possible. I forced a flat-headed screwdriver into the lock. The surrounding wood started to give, and I tensed up, worried it would splinter with a crack and give me away, but in fact it more or less crumbled, damply and relatively quietly. The sickly sweet smell of decaying wood tickled my nose, overpowering the chlorine from the pool for a moment. Someone ought to tell Lionel to do something about the rot pronto, or he’d have the whole place tumbling down around his ears.