Page 48 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
“Nah, that’s forty-two. Everyone knows that.” At least, they did if, like me and Phil, they’d recently watched Gary’s DVDs of the eighties TV series of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. (According to Gary, it was an absolute classic and not to be missed, so when I gave the DVDs back, I didn’t mention we’d stopped paying much attention fairly early on after a discussion about what you could do with two heads and three arms veered into X-rated territory with impressive speed.)
“Jesus, I was a fucking stupid prick when I was a teenager. C’mere.” Finally Phil rolled over and hugged me back, one hand on my arse and the other stroking my hair.
“You want me any more here, we’re gonna need another condom, just saying.” I managed to get about a millionth of an inch closer, even so.
Gary listened while I went through my little spiel. About Mike Novak, I mean, not about what me and Phil got up to in bed or, for that matter, on the sofa in front of the telly. Not that Gary wouldn’t be interested, mind. But I like to keep some things private.
Then he put his martini down thoughtfully. “Tommy, darling, you know I love you, but don’t you think you’re getting just a teensy bit obsessed with the whole who-am-I thing? Isn’t it enough that you’ve met your real father? Do we have to go the whole ancestral-DNA route?” Gary pursed his lips. “Although that kind of thing can be fascinating. Did you know you share fifty percent of your DNA with a cabbage?”
“Speak for yourself.” Then I frowned. “Savoy or red?”
“I’ve always thought of you as more of a brussels sprout, actually. But does it really matter if you get your work ethic and your little psychic thingy from your Slavic forebears, or if they’re all your own work?”
I took a long swig of my Diet Coke, wishing it wasn’t the middle of the day and I could’ve had a pint instead. “Ah, I dunno. Maybe Phil’s right.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” Gary reached over and patted my knee. Maybe he was missing Julian. “Never mind. We are what we are. So when do I get to meet the donor of your sperm?”
“Never, if you put it like that. I’ll let you know, all right? And I’d better be off. The work ethic’s starting to give me gyp.”
“You should get that seen to. I had mine removed years ago, and I’ve never looked back.”
Me and Phil went round to see Uncle Arlo at six o’clock that evening, just as the skies were beginning to darken. Winter always seems so much closer when it starts to get dark before you’ve had your tea. I get mixed feelings at this time of year. Yeah, we’re losing the long days of summer, and my hip definitely isn’t a fan of colder weather, but there’s something, I dunno, magical, if that doesn’t sound too daft, about the nights drawing in. Maybe it’s the kid in me looking forward to Christmas.
Or maybe it’s just the thought of more time in bed with a certain six-foot private investigator. Yeah, that’s probably it.
Fenchurch’s Fine Fancies—and what kind of a name was that? It sounded like they ought to be selling overpriced, overdecorated cupcakes—was set up in, of all places, an old barn. It was down a winding, single-track country lane, the sort where you wonder if you should toot your horn when coming up to a corner, but always feel too self-conscious or, you know, too British to actually do it. In fact, the place was more like a series of connected barns, all tarted up, modernised, and set around three sides of a central courtyard with posh shrubs and big stone Buddha heads. The large plate glass windows, which I was guessing weren’t original, were brightly lit and full of stuff for sale.
A pretty little necklace that looked like a daisy chain caught my eye—I reckoned Cherry might like it, and it’s never too early to shop for Christmas, at least not for people whose allergies mean you can’t fob ’em off with a gift basket of bath stuff.
Okay, so there’s other reasons that would be a spectacularly bad gift for my sis. Still, no reason to rake over the past.
Then I saw the price tag and nearly fell into the shrubbery in shock. It wasn’t the only piece with an unfeasibly large number of zeros to its name either. Even the silver stuff wasn’t cheap, and claimed to be actually made of white gold, which I’ve never seen the point of. That and platinum. I mean, if you’re going to pay top whack for a bit of bling, you want everyone to know it, don’t you?
There was a Sorry We’re Closed sign hanging in the door, which turned out to be locked when Phil tried it. He rapped sharply on the glass, and we waited.
I stretched, long and slow. “If no one answers, I vote we chuck a brick through the window and make off with the goods. Compensation for a wasted journey.”
Phil huffed a laugh. “And this is the bloke who won’t even take cash for a job under the table.”
“That’s different. That’s professional ethics, that is.”
“What, and burglary’s all right because you’re only an amateur? What are you, a modern-day Raffles?”
“Who?”
“Never mind. And just be grateful your mum never had a VHS player and a thing for Anthony Valentine. Looks like someone’s coming,” Phil added, but I’d already noticed the dark shape getting larger behind the Closed sign.
A second or two later, the door finally opened.
Uncle Arlo was not what I’d have expected from Amelia’s brother. For a start, where she’d been whippet thin and brisk in her manner, he was well-padded and gave off a sleepy air, like a spaced-out teddy bear. He had heavy-lidded brown eyes and—most unlike Amelia of all—a mop of naturally silver-grey hair. To be honest, if I’d met them together, I’d probably have assumed he was her dad.
Then again, when you looked at the bloke she’d married . . .
He gave us a slow, considering once-over. “Ah. The investigator and the psychic sidekick. Come in.”
Charming. Who was he calling a sidekick? Phil sent me a look, so I didn’t actually say it.
“Thanks for seeing us, particularly at such a sad time. I’m Phil Morrison, and this is Tom Paretski,” Phil said, putting out his hand. Uncle Arlo gave it a searching look for a mo, then shook it.
