Page 22 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Sometimes you just want a bit of same old, same old. Comfort food.
I called Dave as soon as we got back to mine.
Well, all right, as soon as we’d got back to mine and called the takeaway. It’s a matter of priorities, innit?
It was a while before he picked up, which I took to mean he wasn’t working today. “Dave? It’s Tom. Fancy a pint tomorrow night?”
“Do I ever. Usual place?” That was the White Hart down Holywell Hill, your actual ancient Tudor coaching inn with oak-panelled walls, low beams in the ceiling that didn’t tend to bother yours truly overmuch, and a skeleton in every closet, courtesy of the management.
“Fine by me.” I paused. “Listen, I oughtta warn you, I sort of gave your name out as a character reference today.”
Dave sighed. “Bleedin’ hell, don’t tell me. You’ve gone and dug up another body, haven’t you? Jesus, I can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”
“Oi, there haven’t been that many. And some of ’em you put me onto in the first place. But, uh, yeah. Over in St. Leonards. Wasn’t my fault.”
“I should bloody well hope not. Come on, spill. You were just walking down the road when this body fell out the back of a lorry, honest, guv?”
“Walking into a reptile tent, and no lorry, but yeah.” I filled him in on the Harvest Fayre events but decided against giving him the background on the mother/daughter relationship. Didn’t want to bias him or anything, and it wasn’t like I’d mentioned it to the St. Leonards mob either.
Look, I felt a bit uncomfortable about it, yeah, but it wasn’t like they’d asked me or anything, was it? They’d just wanted to know how I knew the victim, and I’d told them the truth: she’d got me in to do a job, through my sister, and it’d involved a bit of a hunt around the place. Wasn’t my fault if they assumed it was a plumbing job, was it?
I mean, it wasn’t like it was actually relevant. I hadn’t even found anything, had I?
If I had made a point of telling the police about dear departed Amelia calling me in to search Vi’s bedroom, it’d look like I was pretty much accusing Vi of killing her stepmum. Which, yeah, I didn’t wanna do ’cos (a) I felt bad enough about sneaking into her bedroom and (b) if I ended up sending ’em on a wild-goose chase after Vi, the real murderer could get off scot-free.
Course, now it occurred to me they hadn’t said anything to me about Vi grassing me up. So, say, me making sure I’d explained why I’d been in her room might have been seen as me having something to hide.
Sod it.
Dave listened, grunting at appropriate moments and asking the odd question, not all of which I could answer. “Right,” he said in the end. “Scratch tomorrow evening. Make it Monday night, give me a bit more time to find out what’s what with your latest murder.”
“Oi, you’re making me sound like a serial killer. And, hang on a mo, since when’s policing been a nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday gig?”
“The missus is dragging me out tomorrow. To Mothercare. Got to buy a pram, ’cept it’s not called a pram these days, oh no. It’s a bleedin’ travel system and takes a degree in engineering to put together every time you want to nip down the shops. God knows where she’s going to keep the bloody thing, what with all the changing tables, baby bouncers, and Moses bloody baskets she’s filled the place up with. We never had half this stuff with the first lot. I tell you, soon as she drops that sprog, I’ll be getting my marching orders ’cos the house ain’t big enough for both of us.”
“Ah, you love it really.” I wasn’t just saying it. There was a definite hint of fond fatherly pride buried in that little rant. “Anyhow, Jen’s not gonna kick you out. Who’d change all the dirty nappies and get up in the night when it screams the place down? While we’re on, me and Phil want to get you something for the little nipper—got any ideas?”
We’d already got the gag gift, mind. Gary found it online for us: a onesie with the slogan Proof My Daddy’s Not Gay. Seeing as the same site also sold an identical onesie printed with I Love My Gay Daddy, I wasn’t so sure about the logic, but I reckoned Dave would appreciate it.
Or, you know, not.
“Jesus, I dunno. Jen’s already bought up more stuff than one kid could use in a lifetime. You save your money, mate. Use it to buy me a pint or six when the credit card bills come in.”
We hung up, by which time Phil had got back with the Indian takeaway and opened up a couple of bottles of beer. I wasn’t sure which of ’em I was gladder to see.
Not including Phil, obviously.
We sat down in front of the telly, food on the coffee table where the cats gave it a good sniff before stalking off, unimpressed. “Stop judging my taste in food,” I told Merlin. “I saw you eat a moth last week. And it was still flapping at the time. You haven’t got a paw to stand on.”
Merlin gave me a disdainful flick of the tail, then settled down to wash his rear end, which is just what you want to look at while you’re eating.
“I swear he does that on purpose,” I muttered, sitting back with my plateful of bright-red chicken tikka masala and sag aloo, ’cos you’ve got to have a bit of green stuff in there so you can kid yourself it’s not that unhealthy, honest.
Phil huffed. “What, you think it’s possible to lick your own arse by accident?”
“Maybe. If you’re a cat. He could be washing, I dunno, his leg, and forget to stop?”
“More likely he’s looking for his bollocks, poor sod. Now shut up and eat your curry. Makes me nervous, seeing you with a plate of food in front of you and not shovelling it in like there’s no tomorrow.”
