Page 12 of Pressure Head
Despite the dowsing, I’m not psychic in any other way, shape or form. So I had absolutely no grounds for trusting my gut feeling it wasn’t the last I’d be hearing from Phil Morrison. When the phone rang on the way to a new customer for a bathroom leak, I answered with “Paretski Plumbing,” because it could have been anyone—Phil hadn’t given me his number, obviously being adon’t call us, we’ll call yousort of guy.
“Tom? It’s Phil. Are you busy right now?”
“Just on my way to a job. Over in Harpenden. Why?”
The line crackled. “I want you to come and talk to Graham.”
I didn’t have a clue why he’d want me to do that, but I’d have to admit I was curious to see Graham again. Leaving aside the fact that it’d mean seeing Phil again. “Can’t come right away. Would, say, an hour and a half’s time do? Give or take. You’re up at his place, right?”
“No. St. Albans. I just got a call from his lawyer. I’ll meet you at yours, all right?”
“Fine. Although if you’re charging the Porters by the hour, I hope you’ll be bringing some work to do while you wait.”
I hung up and drove on to sort out Mrs. M. She was a yummy mummy in skinny jeans, presumably to showcase the figure she’d sweated blood to get back after popping out the kids. “You’re my last hope,” she told me. “I’ve had three plumbers round this week andnoneof them could find where the water was coming from.”
Nice to know where I stood on her preferred plumbers list. I checked out the ceiling, noted the water stains, then headed up to the bathroom, which was about the size of my living room. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s locate a leaking pipe. All part of the weird and wonderful stuff that goes on in my head. I stood on the rustic floorboards next to the bath, making sure I didn’t wipe my clod-hopping feet on the fluffy white bath mat, and let my spidey-senses loose.
Nothing. I knelt down and put my hands on the fittings, because sometimes touch helps—but still nothing. All those connections were sealed up tighter than a puritan’s arse.
There was no leak. But how the hell was I going to persuade Mrs. M. of that? Some blokes I know would have just banged around in here for half an hour doing nothing, then told her it was fixed and charged her a hundred quid. But I’m not like that. Plus, it was bugging me now. What had really been causing the water to come through the ceiling? As I stood there, frowning, a round little face with big blue eyes like Mummy’s peeked around the bathroom door.
I smiled. “Hello, poppet. Come to watch me work?”
She nodded, but didn’t smile back.
“Well, come on in, then—I don’t bite.”
She edged her way into the room and scurried to hide behind one of the gleaming white bath towels. Just before she disappeared, I noticed she was carrying something.
Light began to dawn. I crouched down to toddler level. “What have you got there, sweetie? Is it a Barbie?”
Shyly, she held out the toy. It was Barbie all right. Mermaid Barbie.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she? I bet she likes going swimming.”
There was another vigorous nod of her head—and then the door swung open. “Thereyou are, Jocasta. You mustn’t bother the man while he’s working.”
“No problem—I love kids,” I said from my crouched-down position. I usually add,Couldn’t eat a whole one, though, but I didn’t think Mrs. M. would see the funny side.
I straightened. “Your pipes are fine. There’s your leak,” I said, nodding to the kid.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. M. looked horrified.
“Just ask her to show you how Barbie goes swimming.”
Ten minutes and about a gallon of spilt water later, I was walking out of the house while Mrs. M. wrung her hands in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” she kept saying. “Dragging you out all this way for nothing.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her, and made sure I gave her a cheeky grin with my business card so at least I might get some work from her in the future.
She smiled back. “You know, your English is awfully good. How long have you lived in this country?”
I didn’t let the grin waver. “Oh, a few years.”
When you’ve got a Polish name and you’re a plumber, it’s no use trying to tell people you grew up here. They’ll only be disappointed.
When I swung the van back into my road, I found Phil sitting in his Golf outside my house, scribbling in a notebook. Damn. I hadn’t expected him to be here already—thought I’d have time for a cup of tea, at least. Mrs. M. hadn’t bothered offering any.
Phil spotted me coming and leaned over to open the car door. “That was quick,” he commented. “Right, get in, and I’ll drive you.”
