Page 51 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
“I’m looking into the possibility that the two crimes are linked.” Phil kept his poker face.
“That’s absurd. And surely, in any case, a murder investigation is a matter for the police?” His expression hardened. “I resent your implication that my actions in helping Amelia had anything to do with her death.”
“Have you told the police what you’ve told us?”
“Of course,” he snapped. The sleepy teddy bear had woken up fully now. And probably wanted his breakfast.
“They didn’t mention that the replica necklace was found on her body?”
I froze—but yeah, Vi had told us that, hadn’t she? So Phil wasn’t dropping Dave in it.
“My sister was found in possession of one of her possessions? Dear me, how extraordinary.” It was a good thing old Arlo didn’t keep any potted plants in his office. They’d have withered and died at that tone.
Added to which, I might’ve been tempted to throw one at him.
Phil was made of stronger stuff. “Can you think of any reason why she’d have taken the replica of a very valuable piece of jewellery to a country fete?”
“I’ve no idea. Why don’t you get the psychic sidekick to ask her? And find the real necklace, while he’s at it—isn’t that what he’s famed for, and what you were actually hired to do? Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Uncle Arctic’s voice, as he stood up, could’ve cut diamonds.
I’d got to my feet when he did, which was just as well. A little bit of spit had flown out of his mouth and landed on the desk just where I’d been sitting.
“Look,” I began, but Phil grabbed my arm.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Fenchurch. We’ll see ourselves out.”
I waited until we were on the other side of the Sorry We’re Closed sign. “Oi, why’d you stop me talking to him?”
Phil turned to raise an eyebrow at me as we walked briskly back to the car. A light drizzle had started to fall, and a few leaves drifted down from trees to complete the picture of autumn setting in. It was like someone had sneakily flicked a switch on the seasons while we were closeted in Uncle Arlo’s windowless office. “Let me guess. You were going to give him a rundown of the actual psychic talents of one Tom Paretski?”
“Well, yeah. I don’t want everyone thinking I talk to dead people. That’s just creepy.”
“And we need him to have this info because?”
“Because . . . ’Cos otherwise he’ll have the wrong idea about me?”
“So why do you give a toss what he thinks? He’s a murder suspect.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” We climbed back into Phil’s Golf, feeling a bit damp. “So what have we learned? Apart from that Uncle Arlo isn’t as cuddly as he looks? And before you start, no, I didn’t fancy him.”
Phil stuck up a finger, but only briefly as he needed that hand to put the car in gear. “Fenchurch is running scared, and he knows the necklace and the murder are linked.”
“He didn’t seem to know they’d found it . . . You know. In her mouth.” I blinked. “So it can’t have been him.”
“Or that’s just what he wants you to think.”
“Nah, it can’t have been him. Why would he leave something at the scene which links him to it?”
“People don’t always think logically after they’ve killed someone. Especially someone they love. Or hate, for that matter.” He was silent a mo, slowing down to let an oncoming car pass. Bit winding, the lanes around here. “I spoke to the woman running the Cats Protection stall—remember, they were next door to the reptile tent? She reckoned she might have heard an argument going on in there, just before you found her.”
“‘Might have’?”
“She was talking to someone who was interested in signing up as a volunteer, at the time. She didn’t hear what they said in the tent, only the tone, and she remembered thinking the tent ought to be empty, and maybe that was why whoever it was had gone in there to have their domestics.”
“‘Domestics’? Was it a man and a woman?” Because most people even nowadays tended to assume people were straight until proven otherwise, so chances were the thought wouldn’t have occurred to her if they were both female voices. Or both male, of course, but I was betting one of ’em had to belong to Amelia.
Unless, of course, there had been two murderers, and they’d had a row? Say, for instance, over putting that bloody necklace where they’d put it?
“She wasn’t sure. She was busy writing down this woman’s contact details before she could change her mind about helping out. Oh, and the row might not have been in the tent after all. Could have been behind it instead. Or the other side of the hedge.”
