Page 46 of Pressure Head
I nearly jumped right out of my skin. I whirled to see a woman several inches shorter than me with silver-blonde hair. It was hard to tell how old she was, with her big, blue eyes and waiflike figure. She looked beautiful but fragile, as if she’d been made out of the same bone china as Lionel’s little teacups.
I gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, love—I was looking for the loo. Think I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.” I smiled at her, trying to hide the pounding of my heart.
She smiled back. “The bathroom’s just down the hall, the second on your right. You’ve come to see Lionel, haven’t you?”
I nodded. “Are you, er, Mrs. T.?”
“Patricia, please.” She held out one tiny hand, and I took it carefully, paranoid I’d crush it with my plumber’s grip. “Delighted to meet you.”
“Yeah, same here. Oh—I’m Tom, sorry. Tom Paretski. Did you make those shortbread fingers? Because they were lovely. Best I’ve ever tasted.” I managed to stop babbling, eventually.
A tiny flush of pink appeared in her cheeks, and her smile deepened. “I only followed my mother’s recipe. But I’m so glad you enjoyed them.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Still, I mustn’t keep you.” Her cool, soft fingers slipped away from mine, and I carried on mechanically towards the bathroom she’d pointed out. Bloody hell, she was unreal. Unearthly. She was the sort of woman you could imagine slaying dragons for, or launching a thousand ships . . . I shook my head. What kind of effect did she have on a straight bloke, for fuck’s sake?
The bathroom was big and plush, and completely bare of dirty secrets, unless you counted that Lionel didn’t bother to clear his pubes out of the drain after a shower. Mrs. T.—Patricia—was still audibly pottering around upstairs, so although I stood on the landing for a moment, listening, I didn’t try to look in any more rooms.
God, Phil was going to love me.
When I got back downstairs, I got the feeling the interview was over. Lionel and Phil were standing by their chairs, and all the shortbread was gone. Bastards.
Lionel shot me a sharp look. “I hope you didn’t get lost?” The implicationand steal a few priceless knickknacks on your wayhung in the air between us.
I gave him a carefree smile. “Ran into your missus, actually. Lovely lady.”
Lionel’s expression softened, though he still looked a bit wary. “She is indeed. Her father was a High Court judge, you know.”
I wasn’t sure what that had to do with the price of fish—did he wish he’d married the judge?—but I nodded and tried to look suitably impressed.
“Well, as I was saying to your colleague, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. An appointment with my solicitor, you know how it is. Sorry to cut things short—but, well, I’m sure the police can only be days away from arresting that young man in any case.”
Phil didn’t look happy. “Before we go, could I just ask you—”
Lionel cut him off. “Sorry—I really do have to go.” He steered us firmly out into the hall, managing without any of the little shooing motions the Rev had used. There was no doubt about it, the bloke had presence.
“Are your guests leaving so soon, Lionel?” Again, the melodic voice seemed to come from nowhere, without warning.
We all turned to look up at Patricia, who was standing halfway down the stairs as if she’d been posed there by MGM. I glanced at Lionel. As he gazed up at his wife, he gave a gentle, seemingly unconscious smile that made him look about ten years younger. “Oh, you know, darling. That wretched appointment with Cameron.”
“Oh? I thought that wasn’t until four thirty.”
“Change of plan, my dear. He has another client who’s being difficult, so . . .” He shrugged.
“Of course.” She wafted down to stand on the bottom step. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Mr. Paretski.”
“Tom,” I said, stepping up quickly and taking both her hands, because weirdly, it seemed the only proper thing to do.
She smiled. “Tom, then. And your friend . . .?” She glanced over at Phil.
“Morrison,” Lionel said. “He’s a private investigator.”
Patricia’s eyes widened. “That must be very exciting.”
“Mostly routine,” Phil said, like he couldn’t give a toss what she thought. I wondered what the hell his problem was.
“Mrs.— Patricia,” I blurted out. “Don’t suppose I could trouble you for that shortbread recipe?”
