Page 23 of Pressure Head
“Yeah, I’m good,” I said, speaking up so he could hear me over the din. “Where are you?”
“Down the Goat with a couple of lads from the station. Want to join us?”
Not a lot, as it happened. Dave’s a good bloke, but coppers en masse are not exactly my favourite drinking buddies. Just imagine a gang of unreconstructed Phil Morrisons, only without the looks, and with the force of law to back up their bigotry. Maybe I’m maligning our gallant boys in blue, but I’d seen the looks they’d thrown me up on Nomansland Common. Psychic and a poof—not a popular combination with that lot. “Tell you what, Dave—you eaten yet?”
“Not as such,” he said, which I took to mean he’d had a packet of crisps and some pork scratchings, but nothing with any actual nutritional value. He sounded a bit cautious. Bloody hell, not another one scared I was going to swoon embarrassingly at his feet.
“Don’t worry, I’m not inviting you out for a candlelit dinner for two. Just wondered if you fancied grabbing a bite somewhere. I can’t be arsed to cook tonight.”
“Yeah, why not? How about the White Hart? This lot’ll be buggering off home to their wives soon enough.” Bit of a sore point for Dave, seeing as Mrs. Southgate had done some buggering off herself six months previously, saying she needed to redefine herself now the kids had left home. I had a vague idea the current definition involved her old personal trainer, who was ten years younger than Dave and about twenty years fitter.
“Sounds good. See you there in half an hour—just got to feed the cats.” Merlin was currently doing his best to make sure I didn’t forget, winding himself in and out of my legs as if he wanted to tie them in Shibari knots. Arthur, true to form, was sitting regally on the sofa, front paws folded, but he was giving me a mean stare.
The White Hart is an old coaching inn on Holywell Hill, just opposite St. Albans Abbey. It’s all Ye Olde black beams in a white front, and oak panelled inside. Gives it a cosy feel, although the suit of armour by the door is a bit naff. I don’t go in there a lot, and as I pushed open the door from the car park, I remembered why. Definite bad vibes, although they were old and weak. I tamped down hard on my spidey-senses and wondered if I was feeling things more because I’d been deliberately trying to lately.
Then again, the place has a reputation for being haunted. Maybe my psychic so-called gifts were diversifying.
Dave was already there, perched on one of the stools at the bar like Humpty Dumpty about to come a cropper. He hailed me with a wave. “Tom! What are you having?”
“Pint of bitter—cheers, mate. You ordered your food yet?”
“No, I was waiting for you. I’m having the steak-and-mushroom pie.”
I quite fancied the roast-pumpkin risotto, but I knew Dave would think that was poncey, so I told the bloke behind the bar, “Make that two.” I’d be the same size as Dave if I didn’t watch out.
We paid our money and took our drinks over to a table by the window, next to a shelf of books. The inn still operates as a hotel, so I guessed they were there for the benefit of the guests. I picked up one that had an interesting title,The Archangel and the White Hart. I thought maybe it was about religious apparitions at the inn, and might explain the vibes I kept feeling, but it turned out to be an anthology by a local writers’ group. “Bit too literary for me, that,” I muttered, putting it down again quickly. “So come on, Dave, what’s got you in a bad mood? Is it the Melanie Porter case?”
From the way he was chugging down his beer, I guessed it was his third or fourth already. “God, I hope your day’s been better than mine. We had the boyfriend in for questioning again today. Useless little tosser.”
“Oh, yeah?” I tried not to sound too interested, or too pissed off on Graham’s behalf. “Still not admitting to it, then?”
Dave took another swig of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thing is, I’m starting to think he didn’t do it. Talk about not doing yourself any favours, though. If it did go to trial, a jury would convict him soon as look at him.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, there he is—supposedly the bereaved lover, innocent of all wrongdoing, et cetera, et cetera. Will he let us search his bleeding flat without a warrant? Will he, my arse. So we have to make it all official, and we take him in to the station so he can’t clear the place out while they dot all the bloodyi’s and cross all the soddingt’s, and what do we find at the end of it? Not so much as a dodgy cigarette.”
My beer curdled in my stomach. Bloody hell. Phil and I had done Graham more of a favour than we’d known. Thank God we’d got well away from the place before Dave and the boys in blue turned up, warrant in hand.
Dave belched. “Saw your van parked up on the estate—you working up there today?”
“Yeah—just a couple of taps,” I lied, feeling like a total wanker.
“Don’t suppose you get the big money jobs around there,” Dave commiserated.
If he ever found out about me and Phil removing evidence, I’d be in deep shit, and I’d deserve it too. “So, er, what happened about this phone call you told me about?” I asked quickly—then uncertainty twisted in my guts. He had told me that, hadn’t he? Christ on a crutch, I was crap at this. It was hard enough remembering not to let on I was a friend of Graham’s. “Does that back up the boyfriend’s story?”
“Yeah.” Dave put down his pint. We were silent a moment as the food arrived and we got busy with knives, forks and a shed-load of salt and vinegar for the chips. “Now,” Dave continued around his first mouthful of pie. “I didnottell you this, mind—but there was a phone call, all right. From the phone box in the village—you know, the one behind the church. And who the hell uses phone boxes these days? I’ll tell you who.” He wagged a chip at me. “People up to no good, that’s who. Means we’re dealing with premeditation, here, not just some poor bastard losing his rag.”
“So it couldn’t have been Graham,” I said, relieved—and nearly choked on my next chip as I realised midswallow I’d called him by name.
Luckily, Dave didn’t seem to have noticed. “Maybe. Maybe. Or maybe he set that up—got a mate to call.”
“That’d mean someone else running around who knows he killed her—if he did, I mean. Why would he want to take that risk? You’ve got to admit, it’s a bit of a favour to ask—’Scuse, mate, mind helping me out with a murder?”
Dave laughed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? You’d be bloody amazed at what some of these addicts are willing to get up to, though.” He finished his pint. “Same again?”
“Nah, my shout.” I was only halfway through my drink, and I was a bit pissed off I’d have to let my food go cold while I went up to the bar, but manners is manners. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait to be served—there was hardly anyone else in tonight. I hoped the place did a bit better out of the hotel than they did out of the bar.
