Page 25 of Pressure Head
When Phil turned up next morning, Merlin gave him a hero’s welcome, winding round and round his ankles. You’d have thought he’d turned up with a crate of tuna and a can opener. Maybe Merlin just really liked Phil’s shoes. They looked like quality—ordinary tan lace-ups, but with the sort of no-styling styling you only get on posh shoes. “Nice shoes,” I said, nodding at them.
“Thanks.” He looked down at my feet and smirked. “Are you going out in those?”
“Are you dissing my slippers?” They were great hairy brown bear’s-feet ones Gary had bought me for Christmas. Complete with fake claws.
“Would I? Just thought it might be a bit hard for the witness to concentrate on her story if you walk in looking like you just trod in a couple of furry animals.”
“That’s the idea—put her off guard. Lull her into a false— ’Scuse me.” I stifled a yawn. “Sense of security. Fancy a coffee before we go?”
Phil looked at his watch. “It’ll have to be instant.”
“I can do instant.” I led the way into the kitchen, and he leaned on the counter while I clinked around with mugs, spoons, and the coffee jar. “I saw Dave Southgate last night,” I said, as I dived into the fridge for the milk. “Asked about your phone call. He said it came from the phone box behind the church.”
Phil didn’t answer immediately, so when I stood, I glanced back at him. If I’d thought he was ignoring me, I’d been wrong. He was looking straight at me. “Thanks,” he said, then ducked his head and rubbed his neck with one hand, in a way that really showed off the bulkiness of his arms and shoulders but, at the same time, made him look almost vulnerable. It did weird things in the pit of my stomach. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do that. I know he’s a mate of yours.”
I passed him his mug, feeling awkward. “It’s all right. He was a bit pissed last night anyhow—I doubt he’ll even remember I asked. Wife’s left him, poor bastard,” I added, because I didn’t want him thinking Dave was some kind of alcoholic.
Phil gave a bitter kind of laugh. “Marriage, eh? Sometimes I wonder why anyone ever bothers.”
Samantha East, it turned out when we got to her and Robin’s house, was slim, blonde, beautiful—and on a mission to prove Phil’s cynicism about marriage was well-founded. She opened the door dressed for some kind of fitness class, but she had on a full face of expertly applied makeup and her hair looked like it’d just been blow-dried. She sneered down her no doubt professionally sculpted little nose at Phil and me like we were something the cat had sicked up on the mat.
“Mr. Morrison, is it? You didn’t say there would be more than one of you.”
“This is Tom Paretski,” Phil said in his polite voice, the one he never bothered to use when he was talking to me. “He’s an associate.”
Great. Now we sounded like the Home Counties branch of the Mob. Not that anyone was ever going to take me for the hired muscle.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. East.” I gave her a smile and held out a hand, both of which she pointedly ignored.
“I suppose you’d better come in. Please wipe your feet; the cleaner’s just been.”
We dutifully shuffled about on the doormat, then trooped into what her husband would probably describe as an extremely well-appointed country residence; price upon request. She led us through an expensively tiled hallway and into a large, airy kitchen, also tiled. I could only conclude she didn’t trust us with the soft furnishings.
“Please sit.”
We pulled out high-backed wooden chairs from the rustic kitchen table and sat, like the good little doggies we were. As she sat across from us, I looked around. There was a coffee grinder, an espresso machine, and, sitting on the Aga, a posh stovetop kettle with a little birdie on the spout that probably added fifty quid to the price. She still didn’t bother offering us a drink.
Phil cleared his throat. “Mrs. East, we just need to ask you a few questions—”
She cut him off. “I suppose you want to hear all about my husband’s affair with that littletartfrom the office?” she said, an ugly curl to her lip.
Phil tensed next to me. It was probably the effort of keeping himself from leaping up and punching the air. Even I felt a sort of frisson at this confirmation of what we’d barely suspected—although it was tainted with disappointment on Graham’s behalf. All right, so I’d never met the girl, but still, I’d expected better from Melanie. “By which you mean Miss Porter?” Phil asked.
“God, I should hope so. Have youseenthat scarecrow of a secretary of his? Although he’s probably screwing her too—and God knows, I’m sure she’d be pathetically grateful.”
“You’re certain about this?” Phil asked, leaning forward on the table.
She leaned back, away from him, as if he had raging halitosis and/or the plague. I considered belching loudly just for fun but decided Phil would be more pissed off than she would be. And after all, he was paying for my time here.
Actually, come to think of it, I should probably start earning my keep. “Mrs. East?” I said with my best smile. “Do you mind if I use your loo?”
Mrs. E. looked briefly horrified, so I turned up the smile a bit. “Don’t worry—I promise to flush. And wash my hands afterwards.” She went a bit pink under her blusher.
“Of course. It’s, ah, through the hall, back towards the stairs.”
“Oh, I’ll find it. I’m good at finding things.” I winked, and her expensively pumped-up breasts heaved as she took a deep breath. Result. Bloody hell, though—no wonder Cock Robin had been playing away from home if she was like this with him. I frowned to myself. Or had he? We only had her word for it, and personally, I’d trust that woman’s word about as far as I could throw her house.
Which reminded me—I was supposed to be searching the place. I stood still, listening.
