Page 10 of Pressure Head
“For fuck’s sake, I never laid a finger on you! It was that prick in the Chelsea tractor who did the damage, not me.” He was breathing hard, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. I was starting to wonder just how safe I was in his car when he spoke again. “What the hell do you expect me to do? I tried to apologise, but— Fuck it.” Morrison clammed up, his jaw tense.
I wasn’t sure if I felt more angry at him—or guilty. Was my moral high ground really the boggy ditch he was making it out to be? Then again, did he think an apology was some kind of emotional Band-Aid? Stick it on, give the kid a kiss better, and all the pain goes away? “You can’t just turn up after a dozen years, say ‘Oh, sorry,’ and expect us to be best mates all of a sudden,” I said, softening my tone a bit. “It doesn’t work like that.” I wished I knew how it bloody well did work.
“Want me to go down on my knees, do you?” Phil asked wearily, and all of a sudden I got a picture of just that. Him in his posh suit and all. My throat closed up with desire, and things below the belt got a bit uncomfortable. I stared straight ahead at the pitch-black road lined with trees that loomed ominously over us, dark shadows against the cloudy sky. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Phil—Morrison—flashing me a strange look. Did he know? I wondered—could he tell he still got to me?
I cleared my throat. “So where’s this house, then?”
The Porters’ house, like Morrison’s suit, was big and posh, out in the well-kept rural wilds towards Kimpton. I wondered what they’d thought about their daughter moving in with an ex-junkie on a council estate. Morrison had said they believed Graham was innocent, but just because they didn’t think he was a murderer didn’t mean they necessarily thought he was a good prospect for a son-in-law.
I supposed I’d find out soon enough. Morrison rang the doorbell, which even sounded classy—old-fashioned and mellow, like something Gary might approve of, not a tinny little buzzer like the one that’d come with my house. The door was opened by a lady who looked to be in her sixties. She tried to raise a smile for us, but her mouth settled back into its haggard lines before the effort really got off the ground. Melanie’s mother, I guessed.
“Come in, please,” she said.
Morrison’s voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it as he introduced us. “Mrs. Porter, this is Tom Paretski.”
She nodded and held out a cold, dry hand for me to shake. “Please come in,” she said again, and led us to a largish sitting room. A man who must be Melanie’s father was sitting in an armchair, staring at the curtains. His gaze flickered to us briefly, then returned to the pale-pink damask.
I really, really didn’t want to be here.
“Howard, this is Tom Paretski,” Mrs. Porter said. “He’s the one who . . . who found Melanie.”
The man didn’t react. “Please sit down,” she told us, and we perched gingerly on the sofa while she sat in an uncomfortable-looking upright chair. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
I wished she’d offered something stronger. “No, I’m fine, thank you,” I said firmly. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. What was the point of me even being here, intruding on their grief? “I’m really sorry about your daughter,” I said, the inadequacy of it a bitter taste in my mouth.
Morrison shook his head in his turn, and Mrs. Porter reached over to put her cold hand on mine. I tried not to shiver reflexively. “Thank you for finding her. I don’t like to think of her, all alone . . .” She sat back and blinked rapidly a few times, her face turned away from me.
“Tom,” Morrison said, my Christian name sounding strange in his voice, “if there’s anything you can tell us—anything at all that might help . . .”
I stood up convulsively and walked over to the fireplace. “I wish there was,” I said, looking at a photograph of Graham and Melanie on the mantelpiece. He’d hardly changed since I’d known him—still the same skinny, serious face and unruly dark hair. They both looked well and very happy together. “I really wish there was. I’m so sorry. I just—I just have this knack of finding things, that’s all. Or people,” I added, realising what I’d said.
“Philip told us you were a friend of Graham’s,” Mrs. Porter said. It sounded like she’d got up and followed me over here. “We know Graham could never have done this.”
How could she be so certain?
“He loved her too much. He worshipped her,” she went on, answering my unspoken question.
You always hurt the one you love, I thought.
I steeled myself and turned round. As I’d suspected, she was standing right by me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter,” I said. “If there was anything I could do to make sure the killer of your daughter is brought to justice, I would. But there’s nothing I can tell you. I’m sorry.”
We drove off in silence. After a while, Morrison spoke. “I believe you don’t know anything.”
“That’s nice of you.” It might have come out sounding a bit sarcastic. I certainly meant it to.
He sighed. “Look, put yourself in my position. The girl you’ve been hired to find turns up dead, and now her fiancé—a friend of yours—faces getting stitched up for murder. Wouldn’t you do anything you could think of to get a witness to open up?”
“They were engaged?” I flashed back to when I’d held her hand. God, yes, there had been a ring. I shivered. “Look, for God’s sake, I don’t want Graham going to jail for something he didn’t do any more than you do, but—”
“I told you, I believe you.” He cut me off impatiently.
“Have you seen him?”
“Earlier today. He’s a wreck—no surprise there. It doesn’t help, the police pulling him in for questioning every five minutes.”
“Maybe he should stay with the Porters,” I mused.
Morrison gave a derisive snort. “Shemay believe in him, but the husband’s not so sure. Didn’t you notice he didn’t say word one this evening?”
