Page 18 of Pressure Head
“Fine. Yours, then. I’ll save my petrol as well as the planet.”
It took all of two minutes to drive there and park in the little car park at the back of the pub. It was just down from the village primary school, and I could hear the shrieks of the kiddies in the playground as we got out of the car. Phil’s head turned towards the sound, and I could have sworn he got a wistful look in his eye.
I thought about asking him if he was planning on having kids one day, but something told me it’d just piss him off. “Coming?” I said instead and led the way into the pub.
The Duck and Grouse in Brock’s Hollow is a cosy sort of place. It dates from around Shakespeare’s time, but bits have been added on or taken off in the centuries since then, so it looks more grown than built. Inside, there are ancient timbers and fireplaces, and the sort of red patterned carpet you only ever see in old pubs or your gran’s hallway. And they’ve got a pool table and Sky Sports, a definite improvement on Ye Goode Olde Days. It’s a bloke’s pub, I suppose. Even the girls who go regularly tend to be a bit laddish, although not in the Devil’s Dyke sort of way. More in the getting pissed and showing your knickers sort of way.
And the food’s decent, although if I kept on having pub lunches at this rate, I’d end up as soft as Gary, I thought ruefully as I ordered my fish and chips.
“Garden peas or mushy?” the girl asked in a perky voice.
“Mushy, please, love.” I gave her a smile, which she returned, a pink tinge on her cheeks. I could practically hear Phil rolling his eyes behind me. I noticed she didn’t smile as he ordered his steak-and-kidney pie.
We got our drinks—pint for Phil, Diet Coke for me—and pulled up a couple of stools around a wobbly table in the corner. Bloody awful sight lines for the telly, which meant we had a bit of privacy. “If that’s what you’re like with bar staff, I’d hate to see you with the bored housewives,” Phil murmured, sounding amused.
“Oh, for— I only smiled at her.” I folded up a beer mat and slipped it under a table leg. Perfect.
Phil paused for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure whether to speak his mind or not. “I think you underestimate the power of that smile.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should try it some time. Smiling, I mean,” I added, in case he thought I was suggesting he tried my smile, not that I was actually sure what that would have meant in any case. Mostly because ninety percent of my brain was a bit preoccupied with the thought that Phil liked my smile. I coughed. “So come on, what was it you were going to tell me about?”
Phil reached into his jacket and drew out a small sheaf of papers. One of them was a photo, which he slid across the table to me. “That’s him. Robin East. Manager of Village Properties.”
The photo showed a man in his forties or so, his face turned away from the camera to give an excellent view of a classically handsome profile. “Nice,” I said without thinking. I wasn’t sure, but I think Phil might have tutted. “So this is the bloke Melanie went to meet that night?”
“Yeah. Except according to him, she didn’t. He claims he didn’t even call her.”
“Can’t the police check phone records and find out who called?”
Phil nodded. “They can. I can’t.” He looked down at his pint for a minute. “How good a mate of yours is Dave Southgate?”
Great. Bloody brilliant. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not going to do your sodding job for you. Dave’s a mate. I’d like him to stay one. And hang on, didn’t you used to be on the force anyhow? You must have friends there yourself.” His jaw tightened, and I wondered if it was a sore point.
“I can get the information. But it’ll take time—and it’ll mean calling in favours. Would it kill you just to ask the bloke? For Graham, if not for me?”
I heaved a sigh and looked pointedly over at the bar. The sooner they served our food and I could eat it and get out, the better. “Fine. I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises.”
Phil nodded slowly. “Seeing anyone at the moment?”
I nearly spilled my Coke all down myself. “Jesus! Where the hell did that come from?”
He laughed, the bastard. “Just passing the time of day.”
“I’ll give you passing the time of day, you smug—” I didn’t finish the insult, because our food arrived. “Cheers, love,” I said instead. “That looks smashing. Got any ketchup?”
The waitress smiled and fetched a bottle of Heinz from the side. “Here you go. Enjoy your meal.”
“I will, don’t you worry.” I watched her walk back to the bar with a spring in her step.
“Are you sure you’re even gay?” Phil muttered, poking at his pie like he thought there might be a body hidden in it.
“There are other reasons to be nice to people than just because you want to get your leg over.” I gave the ketchup bottle a hefty whack on the bum, and tried not to think about other sorts of red stuff.
Phil made a derisive sort of noise. “So, are you, anyway?”
