Page 75 of Pressure Head
We decided to stay put, rather than go outside and risk getting caught up in any amateur dramatics Lionel might have decided to put on. Plus, I had a feeling my legs might be embarrassingly wobbly. When Dave turned up at the garage, looking weary but triumphant, he gave my arm a dirty look. “Didn’t I tell you hanging around with Phil Morrison would be bad for your health?”
“Hey, if it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be dead,” I protested. “He pulled me out of the way of the blast—I hadn’t even realised Lionel was about to shoot.”
“Like you’d even have been here if it hadn’t been for Morrison.”
Okay, maybe he had a point. “You’ve got him, right?” I asked. “He’s not still running around somewhere, pointing guns at people—”
“Pushing them into swimming pools,” Phil put in.
“That’s what happened to you?” I asked, twisting round to look at him. Now he mentioned it, I could smell the chlorine on him.
Phil nodded. “Caught me by surprise—pushed me in, then whacked me over the head when I was trying to climb out. Suppose I should be grateful he didn’t leave me in there to drown.”
“Too risky,” Dave commented. “They’d have got chlorinated water out of your lungs. He was probably still hoping to pin it all on Graham Carter, and last time I looked, flats on the Dyke Hill estate didn’t come with their own swimming pools.”
“Didn’t think about the clothes, though, did he?” Phil said, sounding amused.
Dave shared a smile with him. “Amateurs, eh? But just as well your skull’s a bit thicker than Melanie Porter’s. Right, we’ve got an ambulance waiting for you, Tom—and you’d better get checked out too, Morrison. If you drop dead from hypothermia, it’ll make a right mare’s nest of my paperwork.” He turned to grin at me. “Come on, Tom. You can’t tell me you’re not gagging to get him out of those wet clothes.”
Bloody hell—Dave, joking about my poofy sex life? As I stared at his retreating back, Phil leaned closer to whisper in my ear. “Close your mouth. Much as I’d like to take advantage, I doubt I’ll be up for any of that tonight.”
He wasn’t joking, I realised, as we staggered out to the waiting ambulance together. Phil leaned on me heavily, and his steps were stiff and jerky. The paramedics took one look at him and broke out the shock blankets. Then they whisked us off to hospital, and that was the last I saw of Phil for a while.
By the time I’d been through the system—shot tweezered out of me; stitches; police statement—it was beyond late and well into early. Dave came over personally to tell me they were letting me go, which I appreciated. “Want a lift home?” he offered.
I hesitated. “I might wait for Phil . . .” I stifled a yawn.
“You’ll have to wait a long time. They’re keeping him in overnight. Just for observation. Come on, you look dead on your feet. You’d be no use to him anyhow.” He laughed.
“Are you always this cheerful when you catch a murderer?”
“Much as I’d like to think so, no, probably not.” Dave paused for a moment, then burst out with, “Jen’s back. Turned up this evening—last night, now. Said she realised she still loves me and asked if I’d take her back.”
“Yeah? That’s great! I mean, you do want her back, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, in spite of everything—I do.” There was a big grin on his face. “Now, let’s get you home so you can get some sleep, because I’m bloody well not planning to.” He winked, presumably in case I hadn’t quite grasped what he was intending to do instead.
“Cheers, Dave,” I muttered. “Give me nightmares, why don’t you?”
Once we got in Dave’s BMW and set off, I couldn’t stop yawning. It would’ve been easy enough just to drop off in the passenger seat, lulled by the purr of a finely tuned engine, but something was still bugging me. “How . . . ’scuse me . . . How did Lionel know Merry needed murdering? I mean, I get there was some kind of blackmail situation going on there, and that must have been one of the things Merry was going to sort out—but how did Lionel know?”
Dave’s smile disappeared. “The stupid sod told him. Rang him up at 6 a.m. and asked him to come to the vicarage to discuss it. Lionel said he just flipped out, though not in so many words. Strangled the Reverend with the curtain tie, then strung him up so it’d look like suicide. Except he hadn’t realised the bruising would be in the wrong place. See, when you strangle someone—”
“Leave out the details, all right?” I said, making a face. “That really is going to give me nightmares.” I didn’t want to think about poor old Merry with his face all red, his neck bruised— Nope, didn’t want to think about it. “Was it quick?” I couldn’t help asking.
“There’s worse ways to go, believe me.” Dave’s face was grim as he said it, and I decided I was bloody glad I didn’t have his job.
“And it was all about him ‘borrowing’ church funds?”
Dave nodded. “Seems his construction company hasn’t been doing too well lately. Treadgood started out just steering all the church work their way—breach of trust in itself—but it wasn’t enough. Turns out that posh house of his is mortgaged up to the hilt, and the only way he could see to save it all was by taking a hammer to the church piggy bank.”
“Was it worth it? I mean, how much money do churches have?” I was thinking of Merry’s frayed cuffs.
“This one, apparently, had three-quarters of a million quid. Emphasis onhad.”
“Bloody hell! What did they do—win the lottery?”
“In a manner of speaking. Get a lot of old people in churches, don’t you? Round here,richold people. You only need one or two of ’em to leave their money to the church when they pop their pious little clogs, and you’re laughing.”
