by JL Merrow
I hadn’t even shown him the “Zombie plumbers want your drains” one yet.
Sod it. I squared my shoulders, grabbed my keys and made a mental note not to even think of Phil all evening.
It’s only a short drive up to the Dyke from Fleetville, and once you get out of the St Albans sprawl and through Sandridge, it’s all countryside. I cut through Nomansland Common, which was looking green and pleasant in the evening sun, if a bit parched around the edges. Apparently, last night’s downpour had just been a drop in the dried-up ocean. Brock’s Hollow’s dog walkers were out in force, Frisbees were being thrown, and one optimistic sod was trying gamely to launch a kite for his kiddies while a teenage couple interrupted their snogging to stare in disbelief at his hopeless efforts.
The Dyke was tucked out of sight down some winding lanes through scrubby woodland—you’d never know it was there until you were pulling up in the car park. I parked the Fiesta next to a battered old Ford, then got out and wandered round the back to see if Gary was sitting outside.
He wasn’t, and the cloud of midges that buzzed me made it easy to see why. Swatting the little sods away from my face, I made my way to the pub’s back door. There was an abandoned cricket ball on the ground near one of the tables—must have been left over from some kids’ game, though I dunno what their parents thought they were doing, letting the nippers play with a hard ball like that. I kicked it carefully to one side before anyone could tread on it and come a cropper, and pushed open the door into the public bar.
There’s something about walking into your local that’s like coming home after a hard day. Not that the Dyke was exactly local, for me at least—not compared to the Rats Castle, which is just round the corner from my house—but I went there enough that it counted. The Dyke’s got this sort of cosy glow about it, what with the tobacco-coloured walls and the comfy, plush red seats, and unlike some St Albans pubs I could mention, nobody ever gives Gary hassle there for being, well, Gary.
I spotted the man himself straight off. He was about as far from fretting as he could get, chatting merrily and with copious use of hand signals to a distracted-looking Marianne, while Julian rested his great doggy head on a bar stool and soaked the seat with slobber. Gary was relatively soberly dressed in his “IT guys have bigger hard drives” T-shirt, which he’d got the same place he’d bought mine. I’d have worried it might make us look a bit coupley, but then again, his shirt was three sizes larger and bright pink.
I spotted the reason for Marianne’s distraction, too. Grant Carey was sitting at a table in the corner, arms spread on the back of the seat and one ankle crossed over the other leg, smiling away like he owned the bloody place.
Chapter Seven
Carey was with some blonde woman I’d never seen before, which was a bit of a surprise—not that I’d have put it past him to turn up with a new girlfriend to try to make Marianne jealous, but, to put it bluntly, if that was his aim, he’d gone for a strange sort of ammunition. Carey’s smile got broader when he saw me—bit like a shark’s does just before it bites your leg off—and he gave me a cheery wave I didn’t return. The woman with him turned to see what all the fuss was about.
Now, I’d already noticed from the back view that, unlike Marianne, who was basically a stick figure with boobs, this woman was the comfortably well-padded sort. Seeing her face, I’d put her at around forty, which again didn’t seem like Carey’s usual type. But what really put the tin lid on it was the way she was dressed. Sensible skirt, grey cardi—and a dog collar.
And not the sort Julian was wearing either.
I frowned as I joined Gary at the bar. “What the hell’s that all about?”
“What, darling?”
“Him and her in the corner.” I smiled at Marianne. “Pint of Squirrel, love, when you’re ready. And get one for yourself, all right?” From the wobbly smile she sent me in thanks, I reckoned she could probably do with a drink.
“She is our new vicar. Lillian.” Gary gave me an appraising look. “He is just visiting. Although I must say he gave me pause when I walked in. I thought for a moment you must have a twin brother you’ve never told me about before. Which would be absolutely criminal, darling. You know I have a thing for twins.”
“Oi, he doesn’t look anything like me!” I frowned.
“Well, he does dress rather more smartly. But pop him in one of your lumberjack shirts, muss up the hair a little…” Gary trailed off, eyeing me with faint surprise. “Well. Who pooped in your potty?”
“That bloke,” I said firmly, taking Gary by the elbow and leading him to a table as far away from Carey as we could get without actually going in the beer garden and getting eaten by midges, “is the bastard who’s been hassling Marianne.”
“Well, she never said.” Gary pouted, looking hurt. “Neither did he, for that matter. He seemed quite sweet when I spoke to him earlier.”
“Yeah, right. Sweet like…” I struggled to think. “Cyanide,” I finished.
“I thought that was supposed to have a bitter taste? Like wedding favours after the divorce?”
“Look, that’s not the point. Stay away from that bastard, all right? He’s already threatened Harry, me and Phil. And that was in the limited free time he gets from stalking Marianne and getting business rivals banged up in prison.”
“Really?” Gary cast Carey a dubious look. Carey waved back at him happily.
“Yeah, really. So stop bloody looking at him, all right? I don’t want you getting in his sights and all.”
“Oh, I’m not worried. Julian will protect me, won’t you, my precious boy?” Gary bent down to ruffle Julian’s neck fur. “Yes, you will.” It was a toss-up who was slobbering more right then.
“What was he talking to you about, anyway?”
“Oh, business matters, actually. He thought he might be in need of IT support in the near future. I gave him my card.”
“Bloody marvellous.” Now Carey knew where to find my best mate. I consoled myself with the thought it was actually pretty hard to lose Gary. “So what’s he doing with the Rev?”
“Do I look like the sort of man who has his fingers in everybody else’s pies?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
Gary sniffed. “Fine. Why don’t you ask her yourself, then? I’ll introduce you.”
Carey had got up from the Rev’s table and sauntered over to the bar, and was leaning on it smiling at a clearly uncomfortable Marianne. I was torn—I felt like I ought to go and rescue her from him, but on the other hand it was a golden opportunity to find out what his game was with the Rev. And while I was at it, maybe warn her off the bastard.
After all, her immediate predecessor had come to a bit of a sticky end, hadn’t he? It wouldn’t look too good for the village church to have history start repeating itself.
“All right, then,” I said, getting up. “Let’s go for it.”
We carried our drinks over to the corner table, Julian panting along in our wake.
“Lillian, darling, there’s someone you simply must meet,” Gary trilled out when we were in earshot. “If ever you need your pipes seen to, Lillian, Tom’s your man.”
She looked round, smiled and actually stood up to greet me. This new Rev was a bit of a change from the old one. Poor old “Merry” Lewis had been tall, thin and nervous. Not to mention male. This one was about my height with a fair bit of padding on her hips, and an open, friendly smile. She had neatly styled blonde hair to go with her ecclesiastical grey cardi and dog collar.
She also had a firm handshake, I discovered. “Lillian James. I’m the new incumbent at St Anthony’s. Lovely to meet you.”
“Tom Paretski. Plumber, in case you were wondering what Gary was on about.”
“Yes, the T-shirt is a bit of a giveaway, there. And you don’t look the sort for organ maintenance, which would be the other sort of pipes I have to
deal with, of course.”
Of course. And there was a sort for organ maintenance? Thin and skeletal, maybe, with a mask covering a terrible disfigurement and a nice line in evil laughter?
“Drinkies, Tom?” Gary put in, waving his empty martini glass under my nose. He’d put that one away quick.
“’S okay, I’ll get them,” I started, but he carried on getting up anyway, stepping carefully over Julian and sashaying around the old oak table.
“No, I insist. Lillian?”
“Not for me, thank you. I’ll have to be going soon.” She took a dainty sip from her small glass of white wine.
“Well, if you’re sure…”
Gary wafted away, and I sat down next to the vicar and tried to remember how to make polite conversation. Well, I could hardly leap straight in with the interrogation. “You settling in all right at the vicarage?” Too late, I realised that might be a bit of an awkward question. I wondered if anyone had told her what had happened there last winter.
“Oh, absolutely. Well, I’m rattling around a bit, but one can never really have too much space, can one?”
“I know I can always do with a bit more.” Chiefly when Phil was around at mine and spreading case files—or, as it might be, me—on the coffee table, but I didn’t reckon she was after that kind of detail. “You’re on your own, then?” I’d have pegged her for the married-with-kids sort, but I supposed it just went to show you couldn’t judge the Good Book by its cover.
“At least until the end of the month. After that, I’m not sure—I’ve given up trying to predict what my children will get up to in their uni vacations.” She smiled that sort of serene smile you often get on vicars. Maybe they teach it in theology college, along with the less advanced stuff like sermonising and baby-dunking. “I’m afraid I lost my husband a few years back, on a caravanning trip in Ireland.”
I blinked and managed not to ask if they’d sent out a search party. “Sorry to hear that. Was he, um…?” About to say in the God-bothering business too, I realised in time that might not come across too well and gestured vaguely at her clergy get-up instead.
Luckily, she got what I was on about, rather than thinking I meant “on the cuddly side” or anything even more embarrassing. “Oh no. Colin was a corporate lawyer.” She dimpled. “He always used to say he only married me to have someone pray for his soul.”
“Don’t believe it for a second,” I said with a smile, and she dimpled even more. “So did you have to move far for this job?”
“Just across from Norfolk. I was in a seaside parish, and I shan’t miss the winters there, with the wind coming straight off the North Sea.”
I nodded as my hip twinged in sympathy.
“And it’s nice to be nearer to the children, of course,” she went on, “with Emma in Oxford and Charlie at Imperial.”
“Yeah? Sounds like you’ve got yourself a couple of high-fliers there.”
“Well, I do think I’ve been blessed. They work hard, which I always think is the most important thing.” She picked up her glass of wine and drained it. “And now I need to follow their example, I’m afraid. It’s been lovely to meet you, Tom.” She stood up, just as I was about to ask her if she knew Cherry’s Greg.
Bugger. Note to self: next time, less of the polite conversation, more of the third degree. “Yeah, you too. Er, I saw you talking to Grant Carey earlier…?” I left it hanging.
Lillian stalled in the act of leaving. “The young man at the bar? Yes, he came over and introduced himself. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Er…not exactly. What was he after? Um. If you don’t mind me asking?”
She gave me a penetrating look. “That’s rather a curious question. Still, I don’t suppose he’d mind me telling you what we talked about. Marriage is, after all, a public declaration of commitment.”
I stared. “He told you he was getting married?”
Lillian smiled. “Yes—to the young lady behind the bar. Now, I really must be going.” She said it a bit more firmly this time.
I was still reeling from the nerve of that bastard. Unless Marianne really had agreed to marry him… No. He was just messing with us all. Wasn’t he?
Shit. Maybe I should have a word with Marianne toot, as Darren would say, sweet. “Er, right. I’ll say your farewells to Gary, then, shall I?”
“No need—I’ll catch him on the way over.”
Their paths crossed in the middle of the pub, just past the old blocked-up well which Flossie was currently guarding, i.e., sitting on top of the see-through cover. Lillian scratched the collie behind glossy black-and-white ears, submitted gracefully to a good-bye kiss from Gary in the region of her ear, then veered off to the bar for a word with Harry. If she was looking for new recruits to the God Squad, I reckoned she was well off track there, but you had to give her points for trying.
Gary set my pint down on the table and flopped back down on the seat with a world-weary air. “So did you manage to get all your pumping done with Lillian?”
“I hope you mean for information. Yeah, I heard enough. Cheers, mate.” I took a sip of my pint. I’d have to leave talking to Marianne and/or Harry for a bit. Carey was still propping up the bar looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
Gary beamed. “Excellent. So what do you think of our new vicar? She’s being an absolute darling about our blessing.”
I blinked. “Your what?”
“Blessing, o ye of little faith. Lillian is going to bless Darren and my union in church, just as soon as we’re back from our honeymoon.”
“Isn’t that a bit horse before cart? I mean, a blessing’s like a church wedding, only not quite, is that right? Shouldn’t you get the official stamp of approval before you go prancing off into the sunset?”
He pouted. “Next you’ll be saying you’ll expect me to be a virgin on my wedding day.”
“Gary, you weren’t a virgin on your parents’ wedding day.” Which was actually true, if you could believe Gary’s story, although to be fair they hadn’t bothered to get hitched until he was fifteen, and only did it then because the travel company they were going to Goa with offered a free upgrade to honeymoon couples. God knew what the reps thought about teenage Gary tagging along. “Anyway, how come you’re getting it done in Brock’s Hollow? I’d have thought you’d be having the ceremony in St Leonard’s cathedral, seeing as you and Greg are so chummy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. The cathedral? What do you think I am, some kind of diva?”
I raised both eyebrows. “Do I really have to answer that?”
“And anyway, the other bell-ringers at St Anthony’s wanted to give us a peal. I could hardly say no to that, could I? Even if it does mean letting a novice ring my bell.”
I grinned. “I’d have thought Darren would have something to say about you letting someone else ring your bell. I thought he was the only one who got to tug on your rope these days.”
Gary gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Really, Tom? I think someone’s been a bad influence on you.”
“You’re probably right there. And I’m looking straight at him.”
“Hmm. I reserve judgment. So tell me, how goes it with the Neanderthal? I presume we’re still expecting him as your plus-one for the wedding?” Gary sucked the olive off his cocktail stick with a thoughtful pop, chewed and swallowed. “Of course, Darren seems to have taken quite a shine to him. He’s such a sweetie.”
“Who, Phil?” I said to wind him up.
Gary did a poor imitation of someone choking on his martini. “Please! I nearly snorted an ice cube. Darren, of course. Always ready to see the best in people. I’ve told him, you can’t go looking at the world through rose-tinted spectacles all your life. Sooner or later grim, sordid reality will intrude.”
My turn to splutter on my drink. “You what? He’s an ex porn star, for fuck�
�s sake. I’m pretty sure your Darren knows all about the sordid side of life.”
All I got for that was a dreamy smile. “And isn’t it just wonderful how he’s kept his essential innocence?”
I drew in a breath, then changed my mind. Gary knew the score. If he wanted to pretend his fiancé was a cross between a fluffy kitten and Christopher Robin, who was I to burst his bubble? “Wonderful. Just wonderful,” I said instead. “So how’s all the wedding preparations going?”
That was Gary’s cue to spend the next couple of hours bending my ear about wedding favours, florists and the pianist they’d booked for the reception, who was apparently a total drama queen, fancied himself as Hertfordshire’s answer to Sir Elton John, and had flounced off in a huff when asked to play a jazzed-up version of “Wind Beneath My Wings”.
I kept half an eye on Carey, of course. He didn’t collar anyone else for conversation after Lillian disappeared, just sat there doing genial everyone’s-best-mate impersonations. You’d have thought he’d have got bored, but maybe stalking Marianne was entertainment enough. The only interesting thing that happened was when Flossie padded over to say hello. Living in a pub, Flossie’s the friendliest dog you’ll meet—with the possible exception of Julian, who’s happy to slobber on anyone. But as soon as she got within three feet of Carey, the bloke tensed up like someone had set a Rottweiler on him. Obviously sensing the vibes, Flossie tensed up too, and it was an anxious moment all round until Harry snapped out “Flossie!” in a low bark, and she scarpered back to her mistress at the bar.
Not long after that, Carey seemed to decide that, fun as this all was, he’d had enough. He got up from his seat like a snake uncurling from its nest, and slithered over to the bar. I couldn’t hear what he said to Marianne, but it made her cringe away from him. Harry, hovering over her shoulder, looked like she’d cheerfully murder the bastard.
