Page 98 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
“Oh, he’s becoming a Roman Catholic or some nonsense. But don’t you see? With him resigning and the dean retiring due to ill health—”
“Greg’s going to have a lot more work to do?” I said to wind her up.
“Don’t be obtuse. It means a vacancy—two vacancies—and he’s the man who knows the diocese best. This could be his big chance.”
“Yeah? Well, fingers crossed.” Then I grinned as a thought struck. “Know what else it means?”
“What?”
“You’re short a bishop to marry you come February.”
There was a silence. Then, “Oh, bugger.”
I cracked up. “Language, Sis.”
Next day being Sunday, me and Phil were able to have a good long lie-in without any guilt whatsoever, followed by a cooked breakfast I reckoned would keep us going until dinnertime. When the doorbell rang soon after we’d finished eating, I made sure I had a good look at who it was before I opened the door. I didn’t want any more pics of yours truly appearing in the local press.
It was Dave. And he’d brought company. He squinted at me. “Oi, you still concussed?”
“Depends,” I said cautiously.
“Nah, I’m not taking any chances. Your bloke here?”
Phil answered that one by coming out into the hall. “All right, Dave?”
“Peachy. Cop a hold of that.” He handed over a kiddie car seat containing a snoozing Southgate junior. “Just bung him down somewhere—gently. He ought to sleep for a while yet.”
Phil took Dave’s son and heir with his good arm, as the proud father wiped his size thirteens on the mat. “I could murder a cuppa,” he said pointedly, in my direction.
I gave him a look. “Does your Jen know it’s bring-your-kids-to-work day?” My voice was finally getting back to normal, thank God. Well, ish.
“Work? This is just a social visit, this is. Anyhow, Jen’s knackered, poor cow. Says it’s a bloody sight harder doing night feeds in your forties. We’re letting her sleep. You put that kettle on yet?”
“What did your last slave die of?” I muttered, already on my way to the kitchen.
“Well, it wasn’t from being bashed on the head by a murderer, you daft git.”
“Oi, if your lot did their job properly, he wouldn’t have been running around bashing heads in the first place, would he?”
Dave rubbed his neck. “Yeah, well. Words have been had with a certain DI Sharp, that’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m touched.”
“Not by me you bloody won’t be. Nah, don’t bother with the fancy stuff. Just gimme a mug of PG Tips.”
I put Cherry’s present of a tin of Fine Old English Breakfast (stainless steel infuser included) back in the cupboard and got out the tea bags. There’s a lot to be said for undemanding mates.
Me and Dave got back into the living room with our three mugs of tea to find Phil with the kiddie seat on the coffee table near him, rocking it gently and staring at the sleeping sprog with a silly smile on his face.
He stopped as soon as he saw us looking, and coughed. “Got a name yet, has he?”
Dave beamed. “Lucas. Luke for short. And you can shut it with the Star Wars jokes, all right?”
“Never crossed my mind,” I lied through my teeth. And started wondering where I could get hold of a stuffed Yoda for the nipper. And a Wookie. Maybe an Ewok or two.
Dave parked his arse on an armchair with an oof—from both him and the chair, I reckoned—and took a gulp of tea. “Christ, I needed that. One thing Sharp and his crew did right, mind. They found that necklace you were supposed to be tracking down. Missed a trick there, didn’t you?”
“Why? Where was it?”
