Page 37 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
I looked back, a bit guiltily. “Uh, we haven’t really talked about that yet, Sis.”
“Oh.” Cherry looked at us both, obviously confused. “I thought— Oh, well, never mind. I’ll just leave you to, um . . . Good night.”
She scarpered. Phil turned back to me, face still flushed and his hair all mussed up. He looked fucking gorgeous, and just a tiny bit uncertain. “Maybe we should—”
“I know just what we oughtta do,” I told him, and shoved my hand back down the front of his kecks.
There was the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps, running upstairs.
Never let it be said my sis doesn’t know what’s good for her.
I got to the White Hart just after one the next day, to find Phil and our mutual dinner date were already in there propping up the bar with a couple of drinks. Phil was on the sparkling mineral water, so the whiff of gin as I approached them had to have come from Lance’s glass.
Lance Frith was . . . Well. I could see what Cherry had meant when she’d questioned why Amelia would want to sleep with the bloke. He wasn’t bad looking, mind. But he was just a bit . . . alien. He was a skinny bloke, and he’d dressed all in black, which could have been ’cos he was in mourning, but I was betting it was just his normal clothes. He was that sort of bloke. The look was completed with a bushy dark beard—very trendy—and big eighties-style goggly sunglasses—very not, especially indoors. His high forehead was creepily pale against all the darkness, and his full red lips the only spot of colour.
Round his neck, he was wearing a crystal divining pendulum. Was he taking the piss?
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I said, joining them. “Traffic.” Actually it’d been the customer, who’d been a total git about the bill, but there was no need to go into all that.
“Not to worry,” Phil said. “Lance, this is Tom.”
Huh. So we were all on first-name terms already, were we?
Lance gave me a dreamy smile. “Tom. Poor Amelia told me all about you. I feel we have a connection already.”
“Uh, it’s great to meet you,” I lied, taking his outstretched hand. It was limp, and I couldn’t wait to drop it again. “Good of you to come so far out of your way.”
“Please. It’s hardly the other side of the country. I’m used to travelling for my work in any case.”
“Shall we?” Phil gestured to the restaurant bit of the place.
We wandered over and hovered at the door until a waitress appeared with a handful of menus. It was the one who’d been on the bar the other night, so I gave her a friendly smile, and she dimpled back at me before leading us over to a table at the far end of the room.
Funny how you never think of German people having dimples. Swiss, yeah, or Austrian, but not German. What’s that all about?
I took a seat near the wall, and Lance squeezed in next to me. Phil sat opposite.
“You’re an events organiser, right? Think you might put something on in this place?” I waved my hand at the dark wood-panelled walls surrounding us. The last time I’d been in the restaurant here had been for Gary and Darren’s wedding reception, now I came to think of it. That’d been an event and a half.
Lance’s smile twisted. “I did have it in mind for a ghost-themed evening. I’m not sure I have the heart now. Tell me, are you sensitive to such things?”
“Uh . . . You mean, um, spirits? No. Sorry.” Even as I said it, I realised I wasn’t quite certain myself. See, me and Dave had sort of made the White Hart our regular meeting place, and I’d pretty much got used to how it felt here, but, well, there was definitely something I was picking up on. If I stopped ignoring it.
Hairs prickled on the back of my neck and my face must have grassed me up, as Lance leaned closer, his gaze intent through the smoky tan of his sunglasses. I had to fight the impulse to draw back, away from him. “But you do sense something here, yes? Tell me. How does it feel?”
“Dunno, really. Just . . . vibes.” To say I wasn’t comfortable with this was the understatement of the millennium. Weren’t we supposed to be interrogating him, not the other way around?
Lance nodded, like he’d heard what I’d thought, which in no way made me feel any better. “You find hidden things, yes? And this is an old building. Fifteenth century, I believe. Are you aware of the wealth of superstition attaching to erections of this era?”
“Uh . . .” Not so much, no. And I was really wishing he’d get out of my face while using the word erection.
“All sorts of things have been found hidden inside the walls of medieval structures. Shoes, they’re very common. Dead cats too.”
Actually, that one sort of rang a bell. Not that I’d ever found any mummified cats in the course of my working day, thank God. Had to shift a couple of live ones off cisterns and out of airing cupboards before I could get to work, mind.
“Used garments,” Lance continued. “And witch bottles.”
I frowned, confused. “Which bottles?”
