Page 32 of Pressure Head
Tuesday turned out to be one of those days when everything goes right, for a change. For one thing, it didn’t involve Phil Morrison. So, feeling I was probably due to balance the karmic scales a bit, I got in the Fiesta and headed off to Brock’s Hollow after work to be a good little Samaritan.
To be honest, I didn’t much fancy going to see Graham. It’d been bad enough last time, sitting on his sofa, talking about Melanie . . .
And how bloody hard must it be for Graham, living there on his own now? Time to stop being such a bloody selfish git and go and do my good deed for the day.
I’d have rung him up, but I didn’t have his number and chances were he wasn’t answering his phone anyhow. So I just rolled up there. It was pitch-black, and once again a stiff breeze was blowing through the estate like a hail of icy needles on my skin. I wrapped my arms around myself as I waited for him to answer the door buzzer. He was taking his time, but I could see light at his curtained windows, so I pressed it again.
“Who is it?” Graham’s voice sounded tired and suspicious—or maybe I was just reading too much into those electronically distorted tones.
“It’s me. Tom Paretski. I thought you might—” I broke off as the door buzzed open.
The stairwell seemed even bleaker in the pale light coming from a single, cobwebbed fitting. I jogged up quickly, ignoring the pain in my hip. When I got to Graham’s door, he was standing behind it, peering through a narrow gap with the chain on.
“Hi, can I come in?”
He didn’t answer, just pushed the door shut. I heard the rattle of the chain, and a moment later, the door opened again, this time fully. I stepped through and closed it behind me.
“Phil said you’d been here. You and him. When I was out,” Graham said, his voice flat.
God, yes—the drugs. I’d forgotten he’d have to knowsomeonehad been here. Presumably Phil had decided letting Graham think the police had found the drugs and were keeping them for later would just be too cruel. “Er, yeah. Did a bit of spring-cleaning in your bedroom.” I paused, but he didn’t say anything. “You know, you really ought to be careful about that kind of thing.”
Graham slumped on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t using. It was just so I had it, if I needed it. That was all. It’s just been so hard—I wasn’t sure I could carry on . . .”
“Course you can,” I said heartily. “Listen, have you eaten yet?” He looked at me blankly, then shook his head. “Why don’t you come round to mine, then, and I’ll cook us something? We can, you know, catch up a bit.”
He looked down at himself. “I’m not really . . .”
He wasn’t wrong. He obviously hadn’t shaved for days, and his clothes looked like he’d been sleeping in them for at least that long. To be brutally frank, he was starting to whiff.
“Tell you what, I’ll see what’s on the telly while you grab a shower, and then I’ll drive you over to mine. Does that sound all right?” Graham nodded, and I settled down on the sofa and hoped he wouldn’t be too long. My stomach was rumbling already.
Maybe Graham’s was too, as it was only around twenty minutes later when he came back into the living room to tell me he was ready. He looked a lot better—the circles under his eyes were still as dark, and his face was just as haggard, but without the wild, unstable air that probably hadn’t been doing him any favours with the police. “Good,” I said and turned off the news quickly before he saw anything upsetting. “Let’s get going.”
We passed a couple of Graham’s neighbours on the way back to my van, two young women with scraped-back hair and plenty of makeup. Nobody said hello. They just stared at us, while Graham kept his head down. “Have things been all right round here?” I asked, suddenly worried.
Graham shrugged, his hands deep in his pockets. “You know. Dog shit through the letterbox a couple of times.”
“Bloody hell—have you told the police?”
“What for? They think I killed her too.” His shoulders hunched up even further, and he watched his feet like he was worried they might turn against him as well.
We were halfway to St. Albans before he spoke again. “I never believed it, you know.”
“Believed what?” I asked, pulling out to pass a cyclist.
“About you being a homosexual.”
I turned to stare at him before remembering I really ought to keep my eyes on the road. “Graham, I am a, er, homosexual. I thought you knew that.” Although now I came to think about it, I wasn’t sure just how he’d have known—unless Phil had told him, which apparently he hadn’t. Bloody ironic he’d suddenly started worrying about my reputation now, when I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I wondered what Phil was up to right now. Working? Just because he’d spent a lot of time on the murder lately didn’t mean he might not have other cases on the go.
I realised Graham hadn’t said anything more. “Does that bother you?” I asked. “Me being gay?”
“No, it’s fine.” He stared straight ahead at the lights of St. Albans, his face as unreadable as Phil at his stoniest. “Are you in a relationship?”
“Nah—footloose and fancy-free, I am.” I gave him my stock answer for that kind of question, then cringed as I realised how it must sound to a bloke who’d just lost his fiancée. I felt like a total tosser. “Shit—sorry.” I took a deep breath. “Do you, um, want to talk about Melanie? Or would you rather not?”Please, God, let him go for the second option.
Graham made a funny little snorting sound. “Sometimes I think I dreamed it all. Her and me, I mean. And sometimes I think I only dreamed she died—but she’s gone. Really gone.”
“How did you two meet?” I asked, tapping my fingers on the wheel as I waited for the traffic lights to turn green.
