Page 76 of Pressure Head
“Lionel must have been,” I muttered.
“Gift from the bloody gods, wasn’t it? Of course, the way he tells it, he wasn’t even doing anything wrong. Says he’s authorised to make investments on the church’s behalf. Trouble was, while he could bully the Reverend and the old parish administrator, Judith Reece, into going along with it, signing off on stuff, Melanie Porter was a whole different kettle of fish. She told him she’d report him if he didn’t pay back the money—which of course, he couldn’t do, ’cause he’d already spent it on keeping the business afloat and the wife in foreign holidays.”
“Do you think she knew about it?” I didn’t like to think of Patricia going along with stealing from the church.
“No—at least, that’s what old Lionel says, and I reckon he’s telling the truth. If you ask me, that’s the worst part of all this sodding mess, for him—having her find out what a god-awful pig’s arse he’d made of it all. Bit of an old-fashioned marriage, that—don’t you worry your pretty little head about money, that sort of thing.”
I nodded. “That’s what he said in the garage—why did you have to tell her?” God, I wondered how she was coping, now she knew the worst. Maybe I’d email her, tomorrow. Seeing as I was indirectly responsible for her husband ending up behind bars, I thought turning up in person might not be the best idea, at least until I’d tested the waters.
“Has he told you how he was planning to frame Graham for Phil’s, you know, death?” I couldn’t say the word without wincing. “I’ve been trying to think what motive Graham was supposed to have, but I’m coming up blank.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like you’re not the only one. Guess whose business card Lionel had on him?”
I yawned again. We were getting near Fleetville, and my bed was calling me. “Not a clue. Surprise me.”
“Some Polish cowboy by the name of Paretski. Apparently, your boyfriend’s untimely death was supposed to have been the result of a lovers’ tiff, and the body was going to turn up in the close vicinity of your house.”
Suddenly, I was a lot less sleepy. “What? He was going to frame me for it? Hang on a minute, how did he know me and Phil were seeing each other, anyway?”
Dave laughed. “Sunshine,everyoneknows you and Morrison are seeing each other.”
“Wish they’d bloody told me a bit sooner, then,” I muttered, huddling down in the seat. We drove on in silence for a few minutes as I thought about it all—Phil dead, and me arrested for it. I’d almost been feeling a bit sorry for Lionel until now. Then again, that wasn’t exactly fair on Melanie and Merry either.
“How did Lionel dig up the dirt on Merry in the first place?” I asked as we drew into my road.
“He didn’t. That’s the sad part about it. I mean, yes, he was blackmailing the Reverend—but he didn’t have a bloody thing on him.” Dave shook his head. “Poor bastard—God knows what he thought Treadgood had found—apart from the gay thing, but let’s face it, you could tell that just by looking at him. Seems all Lionel had to do was justhintabout secrets Lewis might not want spread about, and the Reverend was bending over backwards to do anything Lionel wanted. Guess we’ll never know what it was really all about, now.”
I swallowed. “No. Guess not.”
Oh, Merry, Merry, Merry. I didn’t like to speak ill of the dead—or even think it—but Christ, what a fucking car crash of a life.
At least he’d seemed a bit happier after we’d spoken. Maybe now he’d finally found some peace.
I slept like the dead for what was left of the night and woke up late to the sound of someone banging on my front door. The cats were milling around in the hallway when I went downstairs, Merlin peeking nervously out from behind Arthur’s solid form. From the general size and shape of the figure behind the frosted glass, I had a pretty good idea who was out there. My heart gave a little jump, like Merlin at his most skittish, as I went to open the door.
“About bloody time,” Phil grumbled. He was still looking a bit pale, or maybe it was just the contrast with the dark circles under his eyes.
I couldn’t seem to stop smiling at him. “Well? Are you coming in or what?”
“See you put on some trousers to come downstairs today,” he said, stomping through the hallway. It sounded like he disapproved.
“You might have been the postman. Or the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Course, that’d have been one way to scare them off,” I added, thinking about it.
“Or get yourself into even more trouble than usual,” Phil groused.
“Hey, it wasn’t me who was tied up in the boot of his own car,” I reminded him.
Without warning, he spun around and pulled me to him, crushing my bare chest against the soft warmth of yet another cashmere sweater. Maybe he had his own herd of goats. “Do you want to be?” he growled.
“Have you seen the boot space in a Fiesta? I might not be large, but even I wouldn’t find that a lot of fun.” I pretended to think. “The back of my van, on the other hand . . .”
“Kinky little sod.”
“I do my best.”
“That a promise?”
“Hey, are you really up for any of that sort of thing? When did they let you out of hospital?”
