Page 61 of Pressure Head
Once he’d gone, I bolted the door, put on the chain, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
Then I grabbed my phone from the kitchen and called Phil.
He didn’t bother with hello. “What is it, Tom?”
“I— Uh, can you come round? Sorry.”
“Tom? Has something happened?”
“Yeah, kind of . . .” Now I had to explain it, I felt stupid. “No, I’m just being daft. Forget I called.”
“I’ll see you in five minutes.” He hung up.
This time when the knock came on the door, I didn’t take the chain off until I was sure it was Phil.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said ominously.
“Either that, or just narrowly missed becoming one,” I muttered. Phil didn’t laugh—if anything, his frown deepened—so I hurried on. “I just had a visit from the Rev. It freaked me out a bit, that’s all. I shouldn’t have bothered you about it, though. Sorry.”
“Stop fucking apologising. What happened? And how did he know where you live, anyhow?”
I stood back so Phil could get his broad shoulders inside and wipe his size-eleven feet on my doormat. “From the phone book, maybe?” I tried to rein in the sarcasm. “I do have a business to run here. Are you telling me you’re ex directory? Do your clients have to hire someone just to find you?”
“I’ve got an office on Hatfield Road.” Phil stayed put, just inside the house, so I had to sidle past his reassuring bulk to shut the front door. I wasn’t complaining.
“With a sexy secretary in six-inch heels and bright-red lipstick?” I quipped, feeling better already for his presence.
He folded his arms, but it didn’t come across as a defensive gesture. It came across more as ajustin case you’ve forgotten the size of my bicepsgesture. I hadn’t forgotten, but the reminder didn’t hurt one bit. “No, as it happens. Why? You want to apply for the job?”
“Heels, with my hip? And red’s really not my colour. No, ta. Look, come in properly.” I shepherded him through to the living room. “Do you want a drink?”
He nodded. “I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got some.”
I got us a bottle each, opened them up. Nearly dropped them when I looked up and realised Phil had followed me into the kitchen in those stealth moccasins of his. I flushed and waited for the sarcastic comment. It didn’t come, so I handed him his beer.
“That’s better,” he said after a long swallow. “Want to tell me all about it, now?”
Somehow it was easier to talk to him in the kitchen, leaning against the counters opposite one another while the cats milled around our legs. Where had they been when Merry was here? Staying out of the way due to some sixth sense of their own? Thanks, guys. Trading them in for a pair of Rottweilers was looking more appealing all the time. “You know what I said about Darren recognising him? Well, he came round in a right paddy. The Rev, I mean, not Darren. He thought I’d set it up, thought I was after something.”
“And?”
“I told him I wasn’t, obviously. Then he went on and on about the terrible things he’d done when he was younger—that was his words,terrible things—and how he still wanted to do them. And that he knew what he had to do now.” I shook my head, not looking at Phil. “Go on, rub it in about how bloody certain I was this morning he hadn’t done it.”
There was aclunkas he put down his beer, and then the dark, cashmere-clad bulk of him intruded in my vision. I looked up to find him only inches away from me, and took a sharp breath. Phil smelled warm and solid, with a hint of spice.
“Why did you call me?” he rumbled. “Why not DI Southgate?”
My smile was as weak as the rest of me felt right now. “Call the police? Christ, I don’t know. If I sic them on the Rev, they’ll dig up all the stuff he wants buried, but if I don’t . . . Do you really think he’s a danger?”
“I think it wouldn’t hurt to give your mate Dave a call. You don’t need to go into details. Just tell him the vicar’s been acting a bit odd, and you’re worried.”
“Yeah. I guess.” I grabbed my phone from my pocket, and dialled Dave’s number. It went straight to voice mail, so I left a long, garbled message and hung up. “Great. Now he’ll probably call me for details at 3 a.m.”
Phil had an odd expression on his face. I couldn’t quite work it out, and then it hit me—he didn’t look stony in the slightest. He looked younger, less cynical—almost fond. My chest felt warm and tight, and I had to take a deep breath, which I managed to turn into a yawn.
“Need your beauty sleep, do you?” Phil asked. “Guess I’d better be going, then.” There was a definite hint of disappointment in his voice.
“No—don’t go.” I swallowed. “I mean, if you’d like to stay . . .” My heart raced.
