Page 94 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
They disappeared into the living room while I peeled back the rug and lifted the floorboard.
The valve was still there, but no answers. Of course, if Vi had sabotaged her own plumbing, would she have let it get so bad? Would she have bothered to pretend she didn’t know where the stop valve was while water was pouring out onto her floors?
Maybe, I supposed, if she wanted to play up the I’m-so-helpless thing and make it seem less likely she’d been the one to cause the problem. I was still staring into the hole in the floor when I heard a key turn in the front door, barely audible over the sound of voices from the living room. Had the plod let Alex go?
I looked up to see Uncle Arlo walk in.
Well, that cleared up the question of whether he had a key or not. I stood up quickly, wishing I’d brought in a monkey wrench or something equally hefty. He didn’t seem surprised to see me, which bothered me.
Then I told myself not to be so daft. “Looking for Vi?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable under the weight of his steady gaze.
Finally he spoke, his voice quieter than I expected. “Well. I must say you look the part now. Positively possessed.”
“They’re in the living room,” I said shortly. “Her and Phil.”
And I’d be bunging the floorboard back in place and joining them sharpish. I know they say the more the merrier, but I’m not sure that really applies to murder suspects. Arlo nodded, gave me another searching look, and padded slowly past in his soft-soled shoes. As he did so, I got a faint metallic whiff, as if he’d spritzed today with eau de workshop.
Then it clicked. When I’d been attacked, I’d thought I’d tasted blood. Except there hadn’t been any blood. My mouth had been open, gasping for breath. I hadn’t bitten my tongue or my lip or anything like that.
And it hadn’t been a taste. It’d been a smell, only I’d been too preoccupied at the time with almost dying to notice the distinction.
The metallic smell, not of blood, but of Uncle Arsehole’s workshop.
I couldn’t stop a sharp intake of breath. My veins filled with ice as I stared at Arlo—and he wheeled to stare straight back at me.
He knew. Christ, he knew.
“Phil?” I croaked, but it wasn’t sodding loud enough. The murmur of voices coming from the living room didn’t falter.
“Oh, you don’t need Phil,” Arlo said quietly, walking towards me with an unhurried tread.
I unfroze and darted past him—or tried to. A massive weight hit my thigh, and I went down hard. My hip screamed, the pain so bad I was winded by it.
He’d rugby tackled me, the bastard, and now his weight was pinning me, the metallic smell stronger than ever. I tried to wriggle out from underneath him, but, Jesus, he was twice my size. I drew in a shaky breath to have another go at calling out for help—and then his big hand was over my mouth, covering my nose as well.
Christ. He was insane. There were two other people in the house. He couldn’t mean to—
Suddenly I could breathe again. It wasn’t good news. As I gasped for air, he grabbed my head with both hands—and banged it hard on the wooden floor.
My vision went. I heard a distant voice calling, “Phil? Tom’s fallen.”
Next thing I knew Phil’s face was all I could see. “Tom? Tom?”
I tried to speak. Something I had to tell him . . . Then I saw the blurry shape of Arlo behind him. “Arlo,” I gasped.
Phil turned, thank God. He threw up an arm as something came down—cried out when it hit, and fell on top of me. Christ. Arlo had the loose floorboard. He was swinging it again.
The bloody stupid bastard on top of me was trying to shield me with his body. I tried to shove him off, get him out of the way, but my arms were made of limp spaghetti.
Fuck it. Adrenaline kicked in, and I made a superhuman effort to twist my body, rolling us over, me on top.
Who needs an intact skull, anyhow?
There was a bang like the end of the world.
Phil swore and pushed me off him.
I blinked. Arlo had fallen back against the front door clutching his side. His shirt was blossoming red stains that spread from beneath his hands.
