Pressure Head (5 page)

Morrison shook his head in his turn, and Mrs. Porter reached over to put her cold hand on mine. I tried not to shiver reflexively. “Thank you for finding her. I don’t like to think of her, all alone…” She sat back and blinked rapidly a few times, her face turned away from me.

“Tom,” Morrison said, my Christian name sounding strange in his voice. “If there’s anything you can tell us—anything at all that might help…”

I stood up convulsively and walked over to the fireplace. “I wish there was,” I said, looking at a photograph of Graham and Melanie on the mantelpiece. He’d hardly changed since I’d known him—still the same skinny, serious face and unruly dark hair. They both looked well and very happy together. “I really wish there was. I’m so sorry. I just—I just have this knack of finding things, that’s all. Or people,” I added, realising what I’d said.

“Philip told us you were a friend of Graham’s,” Mrs. Porter said. It sounded like she’d got up and followed me over here. “We know Graham could never have done this.”

How could she be so certain?

“He loved her too much. He worshipped her,” she went on, answering my unspoken question.

You always hurt the one you love
, I thought.

I steeled myself and turned round. As I’d suspected, she was standing right by me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter,” I said. “If there was anything I could do to make sure the killer of your daughter is brought to justice, I would. But there’s nothing I can tell you. I’m sorry.”

We drove off in silence. After a while, Morrison spoke. “I believe you don’t know anything.”

“That’s nice of you.” It might have come out sounding a bit sarcastic. I certainly meant it to.

He sighed. “Look, put yourself in my position. The girl you’ve been hired to find turns up dead, and now her fiancé—a friend of yours—faces getting stitched up for murder. Wouldn’t you do anything you could think of to get a witness to open up?”

“They were engaged?” I flashed back to when I’d held her hand. God, yes, there had been a ring. I shivered. “Look, for God’s sake, I don’t want Graham going to jail for something he didn’t do any more than you do, but—”

“I told you, I believe you.” He cut me off impatiently.

“Have you seen him?”

“Earlier today. He’s a mess—no surprise there. It doesn’t help, the police pulling him in for questioning every five minutes.”

“Maybe he should stay with the Porters,” I mused.

Morrison gave a derisive snort. “
She
may believe in him, but the husband’s not so sure. Didn’t you notice he didn’t say word one this evening?”

I’d taken his silence for simple grief—but yeah, thinking about it, there could have been hostility in there too. God, what a mess.

When we got back to my house, it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but I felt like I’d been up for a week. “Can I come in?” Morrison asked.

“Why?”

“To talk.”

“Fine. But that’s all you’re getting,” I quipped without a lot of humour.

The cats had come back in from wherever they spent their days and sent suspicious glares Morrison’s way before greeting me effusively. Probably because I hadn’t had time to put their food out earlier. I rectified this whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, then made a cafetière of coffee while they scarfed down their Fisherman’s Choice. It occurred to me I hadn’t asked Morrison if coffee was what he wanted, but then it further occurred to me that actually, if he was going to be fussy, he could make his own drinks. I was too bloody knackered. I sloshed in some milk and handed him the mug.

“Thanks,” he said.

“So talk,” I told him.

“Can’t we take this somewhere more comfortable?”

Grudgingly, I made my way into the living room and slumped into an armchair. Morrison parked his arse on the sofa without waiting for an invitation, leaning back and resting his ankle on the opposite knee. Making himself at home, and incidentally providing me with a view of his crotch I tried very hard not to stare at. Even if he did improve the looks of my battered old sofa by several hundred percent.

“What did Southgate tell you about me?” he asked, his tone and expression neutral. I bet he practised that sort of thing in front of the mirror.

“All he said was that you’re an ex-copper and you’re queer. Oh, and a pain in the bum. But I knew that already.” I reached down to fondle Arthur, and he jumped up onto my lap and kneaded it into submission before graciously deigning to curl up and purr. Merlin, the little traitor, went over and rubbed his chin all over Morrison’s trousers. “So, this being a poof. How’s that working out for you?”

“Could be better,” he said frankly. “Look, Tom—all right if I call you Tom?”

“You did earlier. Phil,” I added pointedly.

“Right. Look, school wasn’t an easy time for any of us.”

“Yeah, being the leader of a gang of thugs can’t have been easy for a sensitive little flower like you.”

“Like we ever laid a finger on you. All right, maybe there was a bit of pushing and shoving—”

“It’s not all about the physical stuff!” I’d have stood up, but Arthur was restraining me. As it was, he opened one sleepy eye to reproach me for disturbing his rest. I lowered my voice. “Have you got any idea what it was like for me, everyone calling me names, laughing at me—to my face?”

“Water off a duck’s back,” he said, but he wasn’t sounding as certain as a moment ago.

“Oh, so now you’re the mind reader, are you? Let me tell you, you big bloody hypocrite—” I broke off as he stood and crossed the room to loom over me. His expression was unreadable, and I wondered if I’d pushed him too far. My heart was racing, and to my shame, my cock stirred, which, when you’ve got a cat on your lap, feels beyond wrong.

Morrison—Phil—bent down and reached out to cup my face with a hand. “Always did know how to wind me up, didn’t you, Tom?”

What? It was the other way round, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Phil straightened and walked out without so much as a good-night kiss.

Chapter Four

Despite the dowsing, I’m not psychic in any other way, shape or form. So I had absolutely no grounds for trusting my gut feeling it wasn’t the last I’d be hearing from Phil Morrison. When the phone rang on the way to a new customer for a bathroom leak, I answered with “Paretski Plumbing,” because it could have been anyone—Phil hadn’t given me his number, obviously being a
don’t call us, we’ll call you
sort of guy.

“Tom? It’s Phil. Are you busy right now?”

“Just on my way to a job. Over in Harpenden. Why?”

The line crackled. “I want you to come and talk to Graham.”

I didn’t have a clue why he’d want me to do that, but I’d have to admit I was curious to see Graham again. Leaving aside the fact that it’d mean seeing Phil again. “Can’t come right away. Would, say, an hour and a half’s time do? Give or take. You’re up at his place, right?”

“No. St Albans. I just got a call from his lawyer. I’ll meet you at yours, all right?”

“Fine. Although if you’re charging the Porters by the hour, I hope you’ll be bringing some work to do while you wait.”

I hung up and drove on to sort out Mrs. M. She was a yummy mummy in skinny jeans, presumably to showcase the figure she’d sweated blood to get back after popping out the kids. “You’re my last hope,” she told me. “I’ve had three plumbers round this week and
none
of them could find where the water was coming from.”

Nice to know where I stood on her preferred plumbers list. I checked out the ceiling, noted the water stains, then headed up to the bathroom, which was about the size of my living room. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s locate a leaking pipe. All part of the weird and wonderful stuff that goes on in my head. I stood on the rustic floorboards next to the bath, making sure I didn’t wipe my clod-hopping feet on the fluffy white bath mat, and let my spidey-senses loose.

Nothing. I knelt down and put my hands on the fittings, because sometimes touch helps—but still nothing. All those connections were sealed up tighter than a puritan’s arse.

There was no leak. But how the hell was I going to persuade Mrs. M. of that? Some blokes I know would have just banged around in there for half an hour doing nothing, then told her it was fixed and charged her a hundred quid. But I’m not like that. Plus, it was bugging me now. What had really been causing the water to come through the ceiling? As I stood there, frowning, a round little face with big blue eyes like mummy’s peeked around the bathroom door.

I smiled. “Hello, poppet. Come to watch me work?”

She nodded, but didn’t smile back.

“Well, come on in, then—I don’t bite.”

She edged her way into the room and scurried to hide behind one of the gleaming white bath towels. Just before she disappeared, I noticed she was carrying something.

Light began to dawn. I crouched down to toddler level. “What have you got there, sweetie? Is it a Barbie?”

Shyly, she held out the toy. It was Barbie all right. Mermaid Barbie.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she? I bet she likes going swimming.”

There was another vigorous nod of her head—and then the door swung open. “
There
you are, Jocasta. You mustn’t bother the man while he’s working.”

“No problem—I love kids,” I said from my crouched-down position. I usually add,
“Couldn’t eat a whole one, though,”
but I didn’t think Mrs. M. would see the funny side.

I straightened. “Your pipes are fine. There’s your leak,” I said, nodding to the kid.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. M. looked horrified.

“Just ask her to show you how Barbie goes swimming.”

Ten minutes and about a gallon of spilt water later, I was walking out of the house while Mrs. M. wrung her hands in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” she kept saying. “Dragging you out all this way for nothing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her, and made sure I gave her a cheeky grin with my business card so at least I might get some work from her in the future.

She smiled back. “You know, your English is awfully good. How long have you lived in this country?”

I didn’t let the grin waver. “Oh, a few years.”

When you’ve got a Polish name and you’re a plumber, it’s no use trying to tell people you grew up here. They’ll only be disappointed.

When I swung the van back into my road, I found Phil sitting in his Golf outside my house, scribbling in a notebook. Damn. I hadn’t expected him to be here already—thought I’d have time for a cup of tea, at least. Mrs. M. hadn’t bothered offering any.

Phil spotted me coming and leaned over to open the car door. “That was quick,” he commented. “Right, get in, and I’ll drive you.”

I shrugged and slid into the Golf’s passenger seat. “False alarm. I didn’t have to do any actual work.”

Phil laughed, and I tried not to do an obvious double-take. I hadn’t known he could do that. He was dressed a lot more casually than the last time I’d seen him. I liked the more relaxed look. The bodywarmer was getting another outing, this time over a thick padded shirt that looked like something I might have worn, only a lot more expensive. “Easy money, then.”

“Nah, I waived the call-out fee. I’m not going to charge seventy-five quid when I didn’t even do anything.”

“Too soft for your own good, you are. You were in Harpenden, right? They’re loaded, people who live there. Seventy-five quid’s small change to that lot. Wouldn’t even cover the weekly wine bill at Waitrose.”

“Listen, you live by your moral code, I’ll live by mine.”

“Nice to know you believe I’ve got one,” Phil said, his tone wry.

I gave him a sidelong look, treating myself to the view of his square-jawed profile. “Well… I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt, at any rate.”

My house is on the east side of St Albans, and Graham’s flat was at the south end of Brock’s Hollow, so it was only about ten minutes or so before we pulled up outside. We cut across the communal front lawn to the main door, and Phil rang the bell. “Graham? It’s Phil.”

There was no answer, but the door buzzed open. We clattered up the stairs, our steps echoing from the concrete walls of the stairwell. It was fairly grim, but at least it smelled clean. Phil rapped on the door of 14c.

It turned out that when he’d said Graham was a mess, it’d been like saying the Ice Age was a wee bit nippy. Graham looked wrecked. No two ways about it. Granted, I hadn’t seen him for over a decade, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t just the passage of time that had done this to him. His face looked like a skull, with sunken eyes peering out from under his greasy fringe. He opened the door warily, as if worried there might be a lynch mob on his doorstep, and let us in without a word. Phil stepped straight up to give him a hug, while I looked on in amazement with maybe an undertone of jealousy. I hadn’t known Phil could do that either.

We trooped into the tiny, cluttered living room, where Graham perched uneasily on the sofa he’d shared with Melanie. Poor sod. The flat smelled stale and unsavoury, like unwashed laundry and over-filled bins. Phil sat next to him, and I shifted a stack of papers so I could make use of an armchair.