Pressure Head (27 page)

I was buggered if it was going to be me, though. Specially if it turned out he had my boyfriend hidden away in here. I smothered a nervous laugh, checked one last time there was no one sneaking up on me with a tyre iron, pushed the door open and stepped through, closing it behind me. My hands were shaking as I flicked on my torch. Moving its pathetically weak beam of light over the interior of the summer house, I listened out with my sixth sense for anything it could tell me.

Mostly, it told me there was a shed-load of water not six feet from my back. I wasn’t having much more luck with senses one to five. The place seemed pretty bare, everything neatly packed away at the end of last summer, with just a few things, like a mop and bucket, showing signs of having been bunged in at the last minute. Where the hell was Phil? It was brass monkey weather, there in the damp chill of the summerhouse, and the sweat trickling down my back made me shiver. Was this all a bloody wild-goose chase? Wait—there. A chest. Big enough to fit even large, boneheaded private eyes. I scrambled over to kneel in front of it, got out my chisel to break it open—then realised it wasn’t even locked. My heart pounding, I flipped up the lid.

Cushions. Sodding seat cushions. Damn it. Although it was better than finding a body.

Think, Paretski.
If Phil wasn’t in here—and I was getting more and more certain he wasn’t—where else might he be? In the house? No. No way was I buying Patricia being involved in any of this. The car parked out in the drive? Plenty of room in the boot of Lionel’s Range Rover to hide a body or two, but would he really have the nerve to keep something so incriminating out in front of the house like that?

Still, I’d have to look. I wouldn’t be able to break in quietly, but I reckoned I shouldn’t need to. Touching the car ought to do the trick. Using all of my senses, I took one last look around the summerhouse, then switched off my torch and headed outside.

Even the faint breeze that had blown as I’d got here had now dropped, and everything was eerily still. A tired moon lounged back in the sky, and a few stars twinkled blearily through the clouds. God, it was quiet out here. Round where I live, it’s never quiet—even in the early hours, there’s always neighbours having domestics, someone driving down a road nearby, or a bunch of lads laughing and joking on their way home from a drunken night out. But out here, the main roads were too far away for the traffic noise to carry, and all the houses had thick walls and double glazing. Not that their owners would likely dream of washing their dirty knickers in public or having the telly loud enough to disturb the neighbours.

Lionel’s Range Rover stood sentry near the front door. I crouched down to cross the treacherous gravel as quietly as I could, muttered a brief prayer to anyone who might be listening that he wouldn’t have a touch-sensitive car alarm, and put my hands on the boot to listen in.

Nothing. Nothing at all. So where the hell did that leave me? Bloody frustrated, that’s where. Then it occurred to me—living out here, in a big posh house, just how likely was it Lionel and Patricia had only one car? Actually, come to think of it, where the hell was
Phil’s
car? I had to assume he’d driven here.

Oh, God… My stomach churned as I realised there could be another reason for missing cars. Lionel could be out in one right now, about to get rid of Phil. Permanently. I crouched down behind the Range Rover and leaned against one thickly treaded tyre to take a couple of steadying breaths. I couldn’t focus on all the what-ifs. I just had to carry on hoping.

There was a driveway running between the house and the swimming pool—more of that gravel. Lionel had to have bought up half a quarry’s worth. There must be a garage down there—there certainly wasn’t one up here, and this wasn’t the sort of house that left your expensive cars to shiver outside in the cold and the weather. I peered cautiously around the side of the car, and when I saw the coast was clear, edged around the house.

Lionel and Patricia weren’t big on closing their curtains after dusk, it seemed; light spilled from the large bay windows and onto the vast, sunken lawn at the back of the house. Flood-plaining, I guessed; the river ran along the bottom of the garden. I could feel it, a reassuring, constantly changing vibe, nothing like the flat, dead noise of the swimming pool.

A figure moved in front of the window, and I froze, but Patricia just reached up and drew the curtains, and I breathed again. It was darker than ever now as I crept through the shadows towards a low, white building that had clearly been built with more than one car in mind. It was on the same raised ground as the path, which made sense, obviously, cars and flooded rivers not tending to be a match made in heaven.

When I got to the garage, I felt horribly exposed against the bright white paint and slipped around to the side farthest from the house. It turned out to be a good move; I’d been wondering how the hell I’d get through the metal drive-through door at the front, but here at the back was a normal, people-sized door.

I reached for the handle, all my senses alert—and my knees buckled and nearly dropped me to the ground. Phil was here. Thank God. I could feel him, all tied up in tangles of fear and hate and anger. And a sense of something unfinished, which I clung to desperately.

I really didn’t want Phil to be finished.

The door was locked, of course, but it was no match for my trusty screwdriver. Which was not to say it went down quietly. My heart racing, I winced at the loud cracking sound—why the hell couldn’t this door have been rotten too?—and despite my desperation to get inside, I held my breath as long as I could, listening for any outcry from the house.

There was nothing, so I opened the door, flicked on my torch and stepped inside. “Phil,” I whispered urgently, as loudly as I dared. “Phil, it’s me. Tom.” My torch lit on two cars parked side by side. I’d been right: one of them was Phil’s Golf. I scrambled over to it, put my hands on the boot. Result. I barely managed to stop myself pounding on the hatch, desperate for some sign from Phil that he was still there, still alive. I hefted my chisel—then thought to try the lock. It opened, and I threw up the hatch.

He was there. Tied in some kind of tarpaulin. “Phil, it’s me,” I repeated, struggling with the knots in the thick cord that bound him. He wasn’t moving. Christ, he wasn’t moving. “Phil, it’s Tom. I’m getting you out.” I finally got the tarpaulin unwound. Shone my torch on his face. Phil’s eyes were closed. Was that good? Dead people didn’t close their own eyes, did they? I fumbled at his throat, my hand shaking. Where the
fuck
was his pulse? He was still warm, so that was good, wasn’t it—except didn’t they say you’re not dead until you’re warm and dead? “Don’t you fucking dare be dead, you bastard,” I muttered. He’d been gagged with a tea towel. I loosened the knot and yanked it off. There was blood on it—from a head wound?

Phil groaned.

“Oh, thank God,” I breathed. “Phil, can you hear me? It’s Tom.” His eyelids fluttered open, then screwed shut against the light of my torch. He didn’t look all that with it. “Phil, you’ve got to wake up. I’m going to get you out of here but you’ve got to bloody well wake up, all right? I’m going to untie you.” My fingers were numb with cold and clumsy with nerves as I worked at the cord binding his hands behind his back. It was slippery and broad—a tie, I realised. It was like something out of
The Dangerous Book for Boys
—“How to incapacitate an enemy using stuff you find around the house”. The tie was soaking wet—as were the rest of Phil’s clothes—making the knot much harder to undo. God, it was a wonder Phil hadn’t frozen to death out here. That tarpaulin had probably saved his life.

“Nearly there,” I panted. Damn it, I had half a dozen blunt instruments on me—why the hell hadn’t I thought to bring a knife? If I kept talking, maybe Phil would stay with me. “Just got to… There! Done it.” I dropped the tie on the floor and moved to check Phil’s ankles—

—and then light flooded the room, and a low, commanding voice said, “Stop right there.”

I was paralysed for what felt like a hundred years, not even my heart beating. When I could, I turned slowly. Lionel was standing in the doorway.

With a shotgun.

He stared down the barrel of the gun at me, his face red with anger and twisted in disgust, as if he’d just found the place infested with cockroaches and I was the pile of shit they’d been rolling in. “How dare you trespass in my home?”

Too busy trying not to crap myself with fear, I didn’t point out it was actually his garage. “You—you killed them, didn’t you?” I stammered out. “Melanie. And Merry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, not lowering the gun one inch. “Meredith Lewis killed her, and himself.”

“No,” I said, before I had time to work out if it was a good idea or not. “It was a setup. You set him up. The police know it wasn’t suicide.”

Lionel’s face paled, and the end of the gun trembled, just a little. “You’re lying,” he said. “Why would they tell you anything? You’re nothing.”

“Got a mate on the force, haven’t I?” Inspiration struck. “He’ll be here in a minute. DI Southgate. I called him, soon as I found Phil. He’d better be all right,” I added darkly. God, I wished I wasn’t bluffing. Why the bloody hell hadn’t I called Dave the minute I’d found Phil?

“You’re lying,” he said again. “You came here on your own.”

“Maybe I did, but I won’t be leaving on my own.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

Apparently I didn’t. Colour seeped back into Lionel’s face. I’d liked it better pale. “You won’t be leaving at all,” he said quietly. “I’m not letting you ruin everything. Not after all I’ve been through.

“Why did you do it?” I asked desperately. “Why Melanie? What did she do to you?”

“I didn’t
want
to kill her,” Lionel said, sounding put out. “She shouldn’t have threatened me.”

The barrel of the gun lowered by about an inch.

Hope searing my throat, I pressed on. “You didn’t mean to kill her?”

“She—I—it’s all that bloody Reece woman’s fault. If she could only have pulled herself together and trusted me… I
told
her I’d pay the money back—it was a loan. I wouldn’t steal anything,” he finished in a tone of outrage.

“Course not,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. I still had my chisel in the back pocket of my jeans—maybe I could throw it at him or something? I could feel Phil shifting behind me, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off Lionel.

“If Meredith Lewis had had an ounce of backbone, he’d have convinced her. But no—he was useless. Completely useless, just like he always was. Maybe now we’ll get a proper vicar,” Lionel muttered.

“So…what did Judith Reece do?” I prompted, hoping it wouldn’t make him even more pissed off.

“Judith?” Lionel seemed to have forgotten we’d been talking about her. “Oh, she worried herself into a bloody nervous breakdown about the whole thing. Said she couldn’t carry on as parish administrator. Absolutely ridiculous. Then that wretched girl had to come poking her nose into everything.”

“Must have been a right pain,” I said, edging my hand around to my jeans pocket.

“Well, of course! A girl half my age, lecturing me on what I could and couldn’t do with the funds entrusted to me—and then she threatened me. Me!” He wasn’t even looking at me now, the shotgun pointing over to the side.

I closed my fingers around the head of my chisel, started to ease it out of my pocket…

“Get your hands where I can see them!” Lionel snapped. The shotgun swung back up, aiming directly at my heart.

Slowly, reluctantly, I moved my hand away from the chisel. Despair flooded through me. Maybe there had never been much chance I’d manage to take that gun off him, but it’d just gone down to zero. All I could do now was stall for time, desperately hoping for a rescue—but who the hell was going to rescue me now?

Then Patricia’s musical voice rang through the garage like the bell at the gates to heaven. “Lionel? Darling, is everything all right in here?” The last word was cut off by a little gasp, and she stood just behind Lionel, one hand pressed to her mouth. “Lionel?” she asked uncertainly.

“Burglars,” Lionel said wildly. “They’ve broken in. You go back to the house, darling. It isn’t safe for you here.”

“Call the police!” I begged her.

Troubled grey eyes looked from Lionel to me. Then Phil groaned and tried to sit up.

Patricia’s eyes widened. “Is your friend hurt?” she asked me.

“Yes—he needs a doctor. Please, Patricia.” I turned to Phil and helped him swing his legs out of the car boot.

“No!” Lionel shouted it, making us all jump. “Stay where you are! Common criminals—breaking into our property. They deserve all they get.”

“Maybe we should let the police deal with it, Lionel,” Patricia said.

“No…no police. I can’t—darling, you don’t understand. It’s a…a business matter. You just go back in the house and let me sort all this out. It’ll be fine.”

“It’s not going to be fine!” I was desperate to reach her with my words, my gaze. “Patricia, I’m sorry, love, but he’s killed two people.”

There was a bang that echoed through the garage. At the same time, someone grabbed me violently from behind and pulled me back, catching my head on the open hatch of the Golf. There was a stinging pain in my arm to match the one next to my ear, and I looked down to see my sleeve turning crimson.

“You bloody twat,” Phil rasped in my ear. He was still holding me tightly by the waist, both of us half in the boot of his car. If he never let go, that’d be just fine with me.