Page 80 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
But . . . not to be sexist, but she was a girl. Maybe I’m not the biggest bloke around, but she could never have had a hope of overpowering me, could she?
I remembered the broken-off tap head and shuddered.
And there had been time, hadn’t there? In between my attacker running off and her opening the front door. Maybe whoever had tried to kill me hadn’t, as I’d thought, legged it down to a car parked on the main road and scarpered. Maybe they’d just nipped round the house and gone in through the back door.
But I’d just spent all that time with her. I’d have known if it’d been her slinging that cord around my neck.
Wouldn’t I?
Phil was talking. “Have they checked out where the rest of ’em were that evening? Mr. Majors, Fenchurch, Frith . . .?”
Dave stood up, looking grim. “I think I’m going to have to have a little chat with our DI Sharp. I’ll keep you posted. Tom, no going anywhere alone, right? Not even to take a piss. I’m sure you can find someone around here willing to hold your hand.”
Or other bits, I scribbled hastily and held up for Dave’s perusal.
Too hastily, apparently. Dave squinted, frowned, and gave up. “Whatever that said, I’m sure I don’t wanna know.”
Vi Majors turned up at the house next, bringing a huge basket of pink and orange flowers all bound up with satin ribbon and guilt. No lilies, I noted with approval. I wondered if she’d remembered I had cats, or if it’d just been the luck of the draw.
“Oh God, you look awful,” was her opening shot, proving she belonged to the Dave Southgate school of cheering up the ailing. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried. I looked up strangulation on the internet after you’d gone, and there are all kinds of things you have to worry about.”
Yeah, like getting arrested if you’re the one who lured the victim over in the first place.
I didn’t say it.
Phil folded his arms. “Who else knew you’d called Tom over last night?”
Vi made an exasperated sound, with accompanying hand flap. “Not you as well. I’ve been through all this with the police. Nobody knew, but for God’s sake, I didn’t try to kill him. Someone must have been following him and took advantage of the opportunity. It’s the only explanation.”
“Why?”
She stared at him. “Why what?”
“Why would anyone want to kill Tom?”
At least Vi didn’t make any jokes about it. “I don’t know. Maybe they think he knows something? Or . . .” She flushed. “Maybe they think he really can read minds or talk to ghosts.”
Great. Maybe I should take an ad out in the paper or something: Tom Paretski: His Limits. I scribbled down Family dinner—plumbers moan and held it up for them to see.
Phil looked well confused.
Vi squinted. “Oh—that. You mean who was there when Daddy talked about that rip-off merchant? We all were, really. I mean, Uncle Arlo of course, and Lance, and Toby.” She had a little twist to her mouth that suggested she’d have enjoyed her meal a lot more without the bishop’s presence. “Oh, and Elizabeth Fenchurch, of course,” she added dismissively.
I got the feeling a lot of the family were a bit dismissive about poor old doesn’t-rate-an-Auntie Elizabeth. Including, I wouldn’t mind betting, her own husband.
Phil coughed. “Want to fill me in on this?”
“Oh, it was the day before the funeral.” The day she’d fired us, in fact. “We met up to talk about what Amelia would want people to say, that sort of thing. It was at the George Hotel—you know, that place not far from the cathedral? They do a very nice venison roast.”
“And the plumbers moan?”
“That was while we were having coffee, I think.” She flushed. “You see, well, somebody mentioned Tom. Wondering if he’d turn up to the funeral, and whether it would be in good taste.”
Great to know my social graces or lack of ’em were a topic of after-dinner conversation. Although, on the other hand, I do get a lot of my work via word-of-mouth, and they say any publicity is good publicity.
“What exactly was said?”
She went even pinker. “I really don’t remember.”
