Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 (8 page)

“Oh, I don’t think we should start with such serious matters. Let us adjourn to the cathedral. One moment, while I fetch my coat.”

We waited while he shrugged on a large, dark overcoat with an upturned collar that made him look even more sinister, then wound a great long woollen monstrosity around his neck. It was a sort of scarf equivalent of a patchwork quilt—someone had clearly had a lot of bits of wool left over and decided to have a clear-out. And either they were colourblind, or they didn’t like Greg very much.

He caught me looking. “Er, nice scarf,” I said, hoping Greg’s boss wasn’t about to strike me dead for bearing false witness.

Greg beamed. “Isn’t it marvellous? One of my ladies is something of a Doctor Who aficionado. Wait there.”

Phil and I waited, exchanging glances. Greg bounded back thirty seconds later wearing an old-fashioned, wide-brimmed hat and a manic expression.

“What do you think? Could I pass for Tom Baker’s incarnation of the Doctor?”

“Er, bit before my time,” I managed. Although I’d have had to admit, I’d have accepted him as a weirdo alien from another planet, no question.

“Oh, Cherry and I have all the DVDs. You must borrow them.”

Cherry was a secret sci-fi geek? I couldn’t remember any signs of it when she’d been younger. Now I was wondering if she and Greg had met at a convention somewhere, him kitted out in his Doctor Who gear and her dressed up as…what? Princess Leia in her bondage bikini? I gave a mental shudder.

It was only a hop, skip and a jump from the Old Deanery to the cathedral. To give Greg his due, he didn’t actually hop, skip and jump over there, but he did keep the Doctor Who fancy dress on. No one we passed batted an eyelid.

From the outside, St Leonard’s Cathedral was pretty much your average English cathedral—all chunky solid walls and spiky fiddly bits in greyish stone. It looked a fair bit posher than St Albans Abbey, which has lots of red brick bits that don’t really match the rest. Sort of the masonry equivalent of Greg’s scarf, now I came to think about it. We went in through a side door, away from the main visitor entrance where a smartly dressed old lady was sitting, ready to demand a “voluntary contribution” of five quid from anyone who stuck their head in the door. At this time of year, on a weekday, she didn’t have a lot of takers.

Inside, it was surprisingly light and bright, a bit like Phil’s attic flat, only several hundred times the size, obviously. Tall, thin pillars held up a high, arched ceiling, and the main bit had modern folding chairs instead of dark wooden pews.

“You must let me take you on the roof tour,” Greg suggested, his eyebrows doing a good impression of the ceiling arches.

Phil frowned. “That’d involve poky little spiral staircases, wouldn’t it? No, thanks. I’m not a fan of small enclosed spaces at the moment.”

He’d had a bit of a bad experience in one of those, back during the Brock’s Hollow business.

Greg’s face fell, but he perked up again almost immediately. “In that case, let me show you the gargoyles. Come, this way.” He skipped off ahead of us like a kid in a toyshop, his long coat and scarf flouncing after him.

Phil coughed. It sounded a bit like “birds of a feather”.

First stop was a fat naked bloke, carved high up on a stone archway. He had a terrified expression, probably because it looked like he was about to be roughly buggered by a club-wielding devil. “Is that sort of thing really suitable for a church?” I asked, frowning.

Greg laughed. “Oh, you’d be surprised at what you find in our churches and cathedrals. Pagan symbols, petty revenge—the man in this carving is supposed to have been a particularly strict foreman during the cathedral’s construction.”

“Bet he was chuffed when he saw what they’d done. I thought everyone was supposed to be all God-fearing, back in those days?” Whenever those days were. Middle Ages? Greg hadn’t mentioned when the place was built, but we were definitely talking centuries ago.

“You must remember that stonemasons were simply working men. Much as yourself. Salt-of-the-earth types, with an earthy humour.”

I’d never thought of myself as particularly salty. Or earthy, come to that. Maybe I should ask Phil. If anyone would know what I tasted like, he ought to.

“These notes you’ve been getting,” Phil butted in. “Do you think those might have been someone’s idea of a joke?”

Greg whirled and stared at him intently. I squirmed a bit on Phil’s behalf. “Do you know, I think you might be right. After all, in these days of
You’ve Been Framed
and
Fool Britannia
…”

Phil didn’t look all that pleased at Greg’s answer. “Have there been any more? Since we last spoke?”

“No. Now, if you come this way, you can see Bishop Anthony playing the bagpipes. Apparently he was something of an old windbag…”

The tour went on in the same way, and even I noticed a pattern. Every time Phil tried to bring up the notes, Greg bounded off to show us some new evidence of people making their own entertainment in the days before telly.

Phil started checking his watch every five seconds or so and eventually lost patience. “Look, this is all fascinating, but I came here to talk about those threatening letters. Why don’t we go back to yours, and we can—”

“Good gracious,” Greg interrupted him. Seriously, does anyone actually say
good gracious
anymore? “Is that the time? You’ve been very naughty, you know, letting me rattle on like this. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you. I’m due at the Women’s Institute, and I really can’t keep the ladies waiting. Perhaps we could meet again another time?”

The tension around Phil’s eyes had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to laugh this time. “I’ll give you a call,” he ground out.

Greg strode off in his seven-league loafers, one hand on his hat to stop the wind snatching it away and that god-awful scarf billowing madly in his wake. Phil and I walked back to the car more slowly. The air outside tasted fresh and clean after the cathedral’s stagnant atmosphere. “Do you think he’s actually that dippy, or is he messing us about?”

Phil grunted. “I think he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, but why’s he doing it? What’s the point of dragging you all the way out here and then not talking about what he’s hired you for?” I grinned. “Think he fancies you? Course, then he wouldn’t have invited me too, would he? Unless he wants a threesome.”

“You and your bloody threesomes. Any more about that and I’ll think you’re trying to tell me something. No, I don’t know what his game is—yet—but let’s see how he feels about playing it when I bill him for my time and expenses. What time are you off tonight?” Phil unlocked the car, and we climbed in.

“Dunno, about five?” Course, it’d be sod’s law to have two jobs overrun in one day. “Definitely by six. Want to come over to mine, get a takeaway or something?”

Phil nodded and put the car in gear. I glanced over at his left hand where it rested on the steering wheel at a regulation ten-to-two. No ring. No mark either, and wasn’t that tan line just a little bit less obvious than it had been last time I’d looked? I smiled.

“What’s so funny?” Phil was looking at me sidelong.

“Nothing. Just looking forward to tonight.”

“Oh, yeah? That desperate for a takeaway, are you?”

I grinned. “Yeah. Or something.”

Chapter Seven

“I’ve got to go over to Cherry’s chambers this afternoon,” I told Phil over breakfast next day. We’d shared a pretty enjoyable night and an even better morning wake-up call.

Phil raised an eyebrow over his coffee mug. We were eating standing up in the kitchen, to show we meant business about finally getting on with the day. “Cherry’s chambers? Sounds like a brand of preteen girls’ underwear.”

I waved my toast at him. “I was thinking more like a covert pudding society. Sort of fruity freemasons.”

“Yeah? Better brush up on your secret handshakes, then. What’s this about? More on your auntie’s will?”

“Yeah. Got a meeting with Mr. Morangie.”

Phil sniggered. “Is his first name Glen?”

I swallowed a marmeladey mouthful. “God, you’re full of it today.”

He grabbed my arse. “No, but you were, as I recall. Could be again later, if you play your cards right.”

“Promises, promises.” I took the opportunity to grab his last bit of toast and shove it in my gob.

The name Ver Chambers had me expecting something all olde-worlde, with oak-panelled walls and little match girls huddling for warmth in the doorway. I was a bit disappointed when Cherry’s chambers turned out to be just your average modern office. It was based in an old town house with the back garden converted into a cramped little car park reached through a narrow alley way. I was glad I’d taken the Fiesta; I didn’t reckon I could have got the van in there without taking out a wing mirror or two on the walls. And parking on the street would have been a bloody nightmare on market day. Just
driving
on the street was a bloody nightmare on market day, what with all the old grannies doddering along at a heady twenty miles an hour on their way to get their veggies.

A chirpy receptionist buzzed me into the building, greeting me with a bleached white smile and “You’re Cherry’s other brother, aren’t you?”

“Er, yeah, I guess.”

“You don’t look much like Richard.” I got the impression she thought that was a good thing. At least, judging from the way she was looking at me as if she was a spray-tanned shark that’d just spotted dinner.

“See him a lot, do you?”

“Oh, now and then.” She lowered her feathery eyelashes for a moment. Either she was flirting with me, or the weight of all that mascara had just got too much. “So you’re the black sheep of the family?”

“Me? Purer than the driven snow.” I winked at her, wondering just what Cherry had been saying about me. “Shall I go on through, or is she busy with someone?”

“No, she’s free right now.” She tucked a few strands of blonde hair behind her ear with her left hand, not so incidentally drawing attention to her bare ring finger. Looked like Cherry hadn’t told her much about me. “Down the corridor, third door on the left. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

“Cheers, love.”

I wasn’t sure whether to knock on the door or not when I got there. I mean, lawyers, you knock, right? But sisters, not so much. In the end, I gave a short, sharp rap and opened the door straight away, not waiting for an answer.

Cherry looked up from her desk (large, mahogany, with an honest-to-God blotter on it) and gave me a tight little smile. “Thanks for being punctual.”

“No sign of Mr. M yet?”

“No. I asked him to come at quarter past. I wanted a word with you before he gets here.”

“Oh?” There were two chairs this side of Cherry’s desk, so I picked one and sat in it. “What about?”

She turned her head to stare out the window for a moment. I followed her gaze, but all I could see was a patch of wall from next door. “I want to know what’s going on with Gregory. He’s been in contact with Phil Morrison.”

Shit. “How do you know?”

“I’m not an
idiot
. And I do occasionally answer the phone at Gregory’s house. Your Phil rang him only the other night.”

“So? It’s a free country, innit?”

Cherry spun to face me. “Well, it’s quite obvious he must be consulting him professionally about something. They haven’t got the first thing in common.”

“Dunno about that,” I hedged. “Maybe they’ve been swapping bible quotes again. Maybe Phil’s getting religion.”

“You’re being—”

“Wilfully obtuse, I know. Look, Sis, what am I supposed to do here? What if I came in here and asked to know all about one of your clients? You’d just hand me the file and let me in on all the juicy gossip, would you?”

“That’s—”

“Different?
Course
it is.”

“Oh, for—”

This time, it was the phone that cut her off with one short ring. Cherry picked up, listened and said, “Thank you.” Then she put it down and turned to me. “He’s here. We’ll have to talk about this later.” She glared ominously at me, then stood and walked out, her plain black skirt rustling as she went.

I twiddled my thumbs for a minute or so. (All right, I checked Twitter on my phone. No updates from Phil, but Darren had posted a suggestive picture of two turnips and a marrow.) Then the door opened, and in walked Cherry with Mr. Morangie.

Mr. M was tall and thin, dressed in muted shades of drab and with wispy white hair clinging to his skull like a halfhearted fungus. He had to be the most colourless person I’d ever met, though I don’t mean he was an albino or anything. It was more than skin deep with this bloke. He looked at least sixty, maybe sixty-five, and I couldn’t believe Auntie Lol had ever married him, even if it had only lasted six months or so. Maybe he’d faded since then, although from the look of him, it wasn’t due to being out in the sun too much. He had the sort of dead-fish complexion you tend to see on a certain type of geeky adolescent boy, although on him, the twitching fingers probably weren’t from overindulgence in online gaming. Still, you never knew.

“Do come and sit down.” Cherry ushered him across the threshold. “It’s really good of you to come. I’m sure you’re finding this all a bit of a nuisance.”