Page 67 of Pressure Head
“What do you mean, ‘it suits him to be nice’?” And what did he mean,now?
“You know. Your little talent. Thefindingthing. Gift from the bloody gods to a PI, aren’t you? I bet he’s like a kid with a new toy right now. Just you wait, though. Sooner or later, he’s going to end up chucking you out of the pram.”
I wished I hadn’t drunk that sugary tea. I felt sick. “You think he’s sleeping with me just so I’ll find stuff for him?” That couldn’t be right, could it? We’d done all the finding stuff well before he’d made a move, hadn’t we?
“I just mean, it’s in his interests to keep you sweet at the moment, that’s all.” Dave rubbed his neck, looking more tired than ever. “The thing about you is, you only ever want to see the best in people. And that’s great, Tom. Makes you a good bloke to be around. Trouble is, though, you work in this job a few years, you get to realise most of humanity is a load of bleedin’ tossers you wouldn’t want to piss on if they were on fire.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, but my voice sounded funny. “It’s not your fault—like you said, it’s the job. But that’s not— He’s not—”
“Tom,” Dave said, leaning forward over the table. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now. But take care, all right? Don’t be too ready to trust him.” He pushed back his chair and stood. Guessing the interview was over, I did the same. Dave was halfway to the door when he turned and spoke to me again. “Oh, and Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“For God’s sake, take a shower and get some clean clothes on before you get pulled in as a public health hazard. You stink like a bloody sewer.”
By the time I finally got out of the police station, I was late for one customer and I’d missed another altogether. I made a few damage-limitation phone calls to the clients, then went home, threw my clothes in the washing machine, and stepped wearily into the shower.
The hot water seemed to wash some of the fog out of my brain, and I realised what I should have done as soon as I got home. I should have called Phil and told him about poor old Merry. But after I’d towelled myself off and pulled on some clothes—even when I was standing in the living room, phone in hand—I couldn’t seem to make myself dial the number.
Was Dave right about Phil? Was he just using me?
No. That couldn’t be true. What about that hidden stash of photos and the bit cut out of the paper? I gave a twisted smile as I pictured myself telling Dave about, in Gary’s words,my own personal stalker. Yeah, right. That’d really reassure him.
Should I be worried? I slumped onto the sofa a bit too heavily, startling Merlin, who shot out of the room like I’d shoved a rocket up his bum. Looking smug, Arthur padded heavily over and settled in my lap, a lead-lined furry cushion. “What do you think, Arthur?” I asked, knuckling him between the ears. His eyes slitted in bliss as he started to purr. “I’ve got to call him, haven’t I? He’d be well pissed off if he found out I knew and didn’t tell him.”
I hit the dial button before I could talk myself out of it again.
Of course, after all that bloody angsting, it ended up going to voice mail. I wondered what he was up to, and why he wasn’t answering his mobile—maybe he’d left it on silent by mistake? I’d done that often enough myself, before I’d worked out the connection between missed calls and lack of money to pay the bills.
Maybe Phil had heard about the Rev already and was snooping around Brock’s Hollow? Why bother, though? What was left to investigate? I wondered if the Rev had left a confession, and if the police would still carry on looking for Melanie’s murderer if he hadn’t. Would Phil? Maybe he’d stopped already and was back home typing up his final bill for the Porters.
I couldn’t help feeling a bit hurt he hadn’t at least phoned to check if I’d heard the news, and if I was okay about it. He’d been keen enough to come round last night, after Merry’s visit.
Perhaps he hadn’t thought there’d be a shag in it this time.
Sod it. I sent Phil a brief text:Rev is dead, suicide, and then headed off to my customer in Harpenden.
