Page 17 of Pressure Head
“Oh, for—” He stood suddenly and flung his arms out, so wide I ducked instinctively. “I’m looking for whatever there is to find, all right? I don’t know who killed her.I don’t know. I’m hoping it wasn’t Graham—but if there’s evidence he did it, I’m not going to cover it up.”
“Apart from the drugs,” I reminded him, nettled.
“That’s just evidence he’s a prat!”
I stood, not much liking the added height difference with him standing and me not. “It doesn’t mean he’s a prat; it just means he was desperate. Have you ever tried to give up something you were desperate for?”
It was a rhetorical question, so I was surprised when he answered it. “What the hell’s that got to do with you?”
“You were on drugs?”
“What? No, I wasn’t.” His fists clenched, and I tensed, wondering what the hell this was all about. Phil turned away from me, and I heard him take a couple of deep breaths. “Was there anything else? Hidden in here, I mean.”
“Yeah.” I frowned, not that he could see me. It was probably just as well. “You’ll need to get the drugs out of here, though, if you want me to find it.”
“Why? We’ve found them—they’re not hidden anymore.” He turned but made no move to do as I’d asked, the annoying git.
“I don’t know why! They’re still giving off vibes, all right?” Actually, they were already shouting at me a lot less brightly—oh, you know what I mean—but I was damned if I was going to backtrack now.
He stared at me, eyes narrowed. I stared stubbornly back.
“Fine.” Phil stomped out, plastic baggies of heroin stashed in his pocket.
Feeling smug, I set to work. Trouble was, as I said before, everyone hides stuff in the bedroom. I found several items neither Graham nor Melanie’s parents would thank me for mentioning, plus a little suede case where she kept her decent jewellery.
Nothing that’d explain her death, though. I made sure I put everything back exactly as I’d found it. Not so much because I was worried Graham would realise I’d been in here, but because, well, I like to have a bit of respect for people’s stuff. Most of my work is in other people’s homes, so I get to see a lot of things even their best mates never see. Doesn’t mean I have to trample all over it in hob-nailed boots, does it?
“Drawn a blank,” I said, returning to the living room.
Phil stepped back from the bookshelf he’d been rifling through and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How about in here?”
I listened. “Nope. Are we done here, then?”
Phil sighed. Then he nodded. “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No,” I said cautiously. Was he about to ask me out?
Apparently he was. “Come for a pub lunch, and I’ll fill you in about Melanie’s boss.”
I didn’t get why he wanted to talk to me about the bloke—but sod it, I was hungry, and having a good-looking bloke sitting across the table from me has never been known to harm my appetite. Plus, I reckoned he owed me, after all that. “All right. Where did you have in mind?” We left the flat, Phil locking the door behind us, and clattered downstairs. Either all of Graham’s neighbours were out, or none of them were curious enough to poke their heads out of their front doors to see what we were up to.
Phil shrugged. “There must be places in the village.”
“Don’t you know?” I frowned. “Are you still living around here?” I’d have thought we’d have bumped into each othersomewherebefore now, if he was. Up at the Dyke, if nowhere else.
“Just moved back to St. Albans. I was in London before that.”
“Oh? I’d have thought that’d be better for business, in your line of work. How come you moved back out to the sticks?”
His face went stonier than a brick wall. “Personal reasons.” His tone said loud and clear,Ask me at your peril.
I managed not to roll my eyes like a teenager. “All right, keep your hair on. I’m not the one who makes a living poking his nose into other peoples’ business. How about we try the Duck and Grouse? The Four Candles is all right, but the Duck and Grouse is more relaxed. And the food’s cheaper.”
“Fine. Your car or mine?”
“Why don’t we both drive?”
“Got it in for the environment, have you?”
