Pressure Head (9 page)

“No—well, she talked sometimes about how frustrated he was getting, looking for work. But I always thought…” She broke off and looked up at me. “You just don’t know, though. You might think you do, but you never really know what it’s like. A relationship, I mean. Only the people in it know. People are different, when it’s just the two of them.”

Phil stirred. “Pip, do you think Graham killed Melanie?”

“I don’t want to think so,” she whispered.

It wasn’t exactly the resounding denial we’d been hoping for.

“I knew you’d be a natural at this,” Phil said as the door closed behind us.

“What? I didn’t find anything in there.” Actually, I hadn’t even looked. I’d got a bit distracted, first by Cloney Clooney, and then—in a totally different way, I hasten to add—by Pip.

“That’s not what I mean. You really got that girl to open up to you.”

I shrugged. “All I did was have a chat with her.”

“Exactly,” Phil said. We crossed the road to head up past the church. “You know how to talk to women.” Then he frowned. “I’d have been wondering if you’d suddenly come over all straight, if you hadn’t stood there for the first ten minutes with your mouth hanging open, begging Robin East to fill it with his dick.” His voice was a low growl as we walked around the Duck and Grouse to the car park.

I just laughed, which seemed to piss him off even more. He certainly slammed his car door a bit harder than necessary. I got in the passenger seat and closed my door with a more reasonable amount of force. “Well, come on—the bloke’s gorgeous, isn’t he? I wouldn’t say no.”

“That’s the sort of bloke you go for, is it? Smarmy gits flashing their money and their dicks at anyone stupid enough to be impressed?”

“Jealous, are we?”

“You wish.” Phil yanked the car viciously into gear and zoomed out of the car park, narrowly missing a Tesco’s lorry on the roundabout.

“Steady on—we don’t all have a death wish,” I muttered. “What did your last passenger die of?”

He didn’t answer, and when I glanced over, I saw his knuckles were white on the wheel. Bloody hell, had I hit a nerve? Guilt twisted in my stomach. “So, er, do you like being back around here?” I asked quickly. “Glad you moved?”

The tension eased by about a millibar. “It’s all right.”

“All right? You’ve got the whole of Herts on your doorstep, here. If it’s good enough for Posh and Becks—”

“Thought they moved to LA.”

“Minor detail. They’ve been seen in one of the restaurants in Brock’s Hollow, you know—I won’t say seen
eating
, as this is Victoria Beckham we’re talking about.”

“Good, are they?”

I assumed he meant the village eateries, not the Beckhams. “Not bad. And there’s hundreds of places in St Albans and Harpenden too.” I ought to get commission from the local chamber of commerce.

Phil nodded, was silent a moment—and then we were back on Graham’s estate and pulling up behind my van.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said as he parked.

Phil nodded again; any more of this and I’d be expecting him to start going,
Oh, yes-yes-yes,
like the bloody Churchill dog. “How much do you charge?” he asked abruptly.

“Why? Got some pipes you need cleared out?” I leered, but he didn’t answer, so I sighed and told him my rates.

“I’m going to Robin East’s house tomorrow—got an appointment with his wife. I want you to come along and do your stuff. The mystic crap, that is, not charm the pants off her.”

“What, right in front of her?”

“Use your head. You can make an excuse halfway through—say you need a leak or something—and check the place out while I keep her busy.”

“Right. Because that couldn’t possibly go wrong.”

“Come on—what’s the worst that can happen? She gets pissed off and throws us out, that’s all. No skin off your pretty little nose.”

What? “Did you just call me pretty?
Pretty?
”

“Strike a nerve, did it? Sorry. I meant to say, your rugged, manly little nose.”

“Arse.”

“All right, you’ve got a rugged, manly little arse too. Happy?”

I had to laugh. “You want to watch that. If you keep complimenting my arse, I’m going to think you’re coming on to me.”

Phil didn’t answer, so I glanced his way. He was staring straight ahead, the smile he’d worn for our banter vanished. Right. I sighed. Obviously, he’d just remembered who he was talking to. “There’s no need to panic; I’m not going to throw a hissy fit if you don’t turn up with a bunch of flowers next time and swear eternal love.” I opened the door, got out of the car. “See you around.”

I didn’t slam the door shut. I knew I was just being stupid, getting pissed off about it. I should have known I’d always be scrawny little
Poofski
to Phil bloody Morrison. My hip ached as I walked the few steps to my van. I rubbed it, cursing under my breath. It wasn’t as if I needed any more reminders just what a twat I was being. Phil Morrison come on to me?

I’d have more chance with Dave Southgate.

I gave Dave a ring when I got home from work. It’d been a frustrating afternoon of parts that hadn’t turned up and fittings that didn’t—fit, that was. I was planning to ask him if he fancied going for a pint, but when he picked up, I could tell from the laughter and the clinking of glasses in the background he’d beaten me to it. “All right, Tom?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” I said, speaking up so he could hear me over the din. “Where are you?”

“Down the Goat with a couple of lads from the station. Want to join us?”

Not a lot, as it happened. Dave’s a good bloke, but coppers en masse are not exactly my favourite drinking buddies. Just imagine a gang of unreconstructed Phil Morrisons, only without the looks, and with the force of law to back up their bigotry. Maybe I’m maligning our gallant boys in blue, but I’d seen the looks they’d thrown me up on Nomansland Common. Psychic and a poof—not a popular combination with that lot. “Tell you what, Dave—you eaten yet?”

“Not as such,” he said, which I took to mean he’d had a packet of crisps and some pork scratchings, but nothing with any actual nutritional value. He sounded a bit cautious. Bloody hell, not another one scared I was going to swoon embarrassingly at his feet.

“Don’t worry, I’m not inviting you out for a candlelit dinner for two. Just wondered if you fancied grabbing a bite somewhere. I can’t be arsed to cook tonight.”

“Yeah, why not? How about the White Hart? This lot’ll be buggering off home to their wives soon enough.” Bit of a sore point for Dave, seeing as Mrs. Southgate had done some buggering off herself six months previously, saying she needed to redefine herself now the kids had left home. I had a vague idea the current definition involved her old personal trainer, who was ten years younger than Dave and about twenty years fitter.

“Sounds good. See you there in half an hour—just got to feed the cats.” Merlin was currently doing his best to make sure I didn’t forget, winding himself in and out of my legs as if he wanted to tie them in Shibari knots. Arthur, true to form, was sitting regally on the sofa, front paws folded, but he was giving me a mean stare.

The White Hart is an old coaching inn on Holywell Hill, just opposite St Albans Abbey. It’s all Ye Olde black beams in a white front, and oak panelled inside. Gives it a cosy feel, although the suit of armour by the door is a bit naff. I don’t go in there a lot, and as I pushed open the door from the car park, I remembered why. Definite bad vibes, although they were old and weak. I tamped down hard on my spidey-senses and wondered if I was feeling things more because I’d been deliberately trying to lately.

Then again, the place has a reputation for being haunted. Maybe my psychic so-called gifts were diversifying.

Dave was already there, perched on one of the stools at the bar like Humpty Dumpty about to come a cropper. He hailed me with a wave. “Tom! What are you having?”

“Pint of bitter—cheers, mate. You ordered your food yet?”

“No, I was waiting for you. I’m having the steak-and-mushroom pie.”

I quite fancied the roast-pumpkin risotto, but I knew Dave would think that was poncey, so I told the bloke behind the bar, “Make that two.” I’d be the same size as Dave if I didn’t watch out.

We paid our money and took our drinks over to a table by the window, next to a shelf of books. The inn still operates as a hotel, so I guessed they were there for the benefit of the guests. I picked up one that had an interesting title,
The Archangel and the White Hart
. I thought maybe it was about religious apparitions at the inn, and might explain the vibes I kept feeling, but it turned out to be an anthology by a local writers’ group. “Bit too literary for me, that,” I muttered, putting it down again quickly. “So come on, Dave, what’s got you in a bad mood? Is it the Melanie Porter case?”

From the way he was chugging down his beer, I guessed it was his third or fourth already. “God, I hope your day’s been better than mine. We had the boyfriend in for questioning again today. Useless little tosser.”

“Oh, yeah?” I tried not to sound too interested, or too pissed off on Graham’s behalf. “Still not admitting to it, then?”

Dave took another swig of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thing is, I’m starting to think he didn’t do it. Talk about not doing yourself any favours, though. If it did go to trial, a jury would convict him soon as look at him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there he is—supposedly the bereaved lover, innocent of all wrong-doing, et cetera, et cetera. Will he let us search his bleeding flat without a warrant? Will he, my arse. So we have to make it all official, and we take him in to the station so he can’t clear the place out while they dot all the bloody
i
’s and cross all the sodding
t
’s, and what do we find at the end of it? Not so much as a dodgy cigarette.”

My beer curdled in my stomach. Bloody hell. Phil and I had done Graham more of a favour than we’d known. Thank God we’d got well away from the place before Dave and the boys in blue turned up, warrant in hand.

Dave belched. “Saw your van parked up on the estate—you working up there today?”

“Yeah—just a couple of taps,” I lied, feeling like a total wanker.

“Don’t suppose you get the big money jobs around there,” Dave commiserated.

If he ever found out about me and Phil removing evidence, I’d be in deep shit, and I’d deserve it too. “So, er, what happened about this phone call you told me about?” I asked quickly—then uncertainty twisted in my guts. He had told me that, hadn’t he? Christ on a crutch, I was crap at this. It was hard enough remembering not to let on I was a friend of Graham’s. “Does that back up the boyfriend’s story?”

“Yeah.” Dave put down his pint. We were silent a moment as the food arrived and we got busy with knives, forks and a shed-load of salt and vinegar for the chips. “Now,” Dave continued around his first mouthful of pie. “I did
not
tell you this, mind—but there was a phone call, all right. From the phone box in the village—you know, the one behind the church. And who the hell uses phone boxes these days? I’ll tell you who.” He wagged a chip at me. “People up to no good, that’s who. Means we’re dealing with premeditation, here, not just some poor bastard losing his rag.”

“So it couldn’t have been Graham,” I said, relieved—and nearly choked on my next chip as I realised mid-swallow I’d called him by name.

Luckily, Dave didn’t seem to have noticed. “Maybe. Maybe. Or maybe he set that up—got a mate to call.”

“That’d mean someone else running around who knows he killed her—if he did, I mean. Why would he want to take that risk? You’ve got to admit, it’s a bit of a favour to ask
—’scuse, mate, mind helping me out with a murder?
”

Dave laughed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? You’d be bloody amazed at what some of these addicts are willing to get up to, though.” He finished his pint. “Same again?”

“Nah, my shout.” I was only halfway through my drink, and I was a bit pissed off I’d have to let my food go cold while I went up to the bar, but manners is manners. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait to be served—there was hardly anyone else in tonight. I hoped the place did a bit better out of the hotel than they did out of the bar.

Dave gave my lime and soda a dirty look when I put it on the table next to his pint. “What the hell’s this? Are you on a diet or something?”

“Got to drive home, haven’t I? I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the law.”

He laughed again. “Yeah, some of those coppers are right bastards. Cheers. Hey, hang on—isn’t it time for the match? Oi, Jon,” he called to the barman. “You want to switch that telly on so we can watch Spurs getting their arses kicked?”

We didn’t talk about the case anymore, which was probably just as well. Dave’s drinking slowed down a bit too, which I was equally relieved about. The poor sod was already a heart attack waiting to happen; he didn’t need liver failure on top.

We stayed for the match, had a few more drinks, and then I offered Dave a lift home. I dropped him off just as he was getting to the emotional stage. “Y’re a good mate, Tom,” he slurred, fumbling in his pocket for his door key. “Even—’scuse me—for a poofter. Don’t care what anyone says; you’re all right by me.”