Heat Trap

by J. L. Merrow

  “Want another?” I asked.

  Gary pouted at his glass. “Just a Diet Coke, darling. Putting on weight now would be a disaster. And the same goes for you. A man of your height shows every extra ounce.” He wagged a finger at me and chortled.

  Bloody hell. It was bad enough when it was only Darren making the short-arse jokes.

  After finding out about my real dad from my late Auntie Lol, I’d meant to get right on the case—well, get Phil on the case—of finding out who I really was. But I’d had a run of jobs to catch up on, and what with one thing and another, I just . . . hadn’t.

  It hadn’t helped that I’d had a pretty good idea how my sister, Cherry, would react if I started trying to rake up the past. We’d been getting on a lot better lately, Cherry and me. Seeing a lot more of each other—Sunday roasts with Phil and her reverend fiancé, the occasional weekday lunch in St. Albans for the two of us, that sort of thing. Seemed a shame to upset the apple cart. And, well . . . Dad wasn’t such a bad sort. I mean, he’d been fine about me being gay and not having a high-flying career or anything.

  Although now I was wondering if he just didn’t care, seeing as I wasn’t his.

  But he’d been the one who’d been, well, a dad to me. It hadn’t been his fault he’d been a bit past it by the time I came along and wanted someone to take me playing footie in the park. He’d been the one who’d taught me how to ride a bike—not that I could remember it, exactly, but it must have been him. God knows my big brother, Richard, wouldn’t have bothered. And Dad was the one who’d given me my pocket money and paid for my driving lessons. Not to mention, given me the disappointed look when I pranged the car my first time flying solo.

  It didn’t seem right. Like trying to find my real dad would be ungrateful or something. And, well. It wasn’t like he’d ever bothered to find me, was it?

  So I’d let it slide.

  Now, though . . . Gary had got me wondering again.

  I brought it up with Phil that night, when we were sitting on the sofa, me still picking at my dinner and him flicking through the channels on the telly with Merlin purring away like a buzz saw on his lap.

  “Gary reckons I ought to do something about finding my real dad.”

  “So? Not up to him, is it?”

  I sighed and bunged my plate on top of Phil’s on the coffee table, where it was just far enough out of reach to be a barrier against temptation. I was stuffed, really. Arthur came and gave the plates a sniff, then backed off quickly, furry tail twitching. Apparently, lamb biryani wasn’t his thing. Who knew? Then again, I had pretty comprehensively picked out all the meat already.

  “Yeah, but . . . he’s got a point. I mean, my dad’s got to be, what, at least in his sixties? If he’s even still alive. If I don’t do something now, maybe I’ll never get the chance.”

  Phil pursed his lips. “Not going to be easy, finding the bloke with only a first name and a photo. Have you thought about talking to your mum?”

  “Yeah. A bit too much. Christ, I don’t know.” I closed my eyes and scrubbed my hands over my face. A warm, solid arm slid around my shoulders, and Phil gave me a comforting squeeze. “How am I supposed to even bring the subject up? ‘Oi, Mum, remember the old days when you used to be a bit of a slapper?’ Ow!” Phil had flicked my ear. I opened my eyes and glared at him.

  “Don’t talk about your mum that way. And you’ve simply got to decide, haven’t you? Whether finding your real dad is that important to you.”

  “Important? Of course it’s important. Bloody hell, wouldn’t you want to know where you’d come from?”

  He shrugged. “Some people would say it’s more important where you end up.”

  “Yeah, but . . . it’s blood, innit? Thicker than water and all that crap.”

  “So’s a lot of things. What if he turns out to be a right bastard?”

  There was a split second before he realised what he’d said and tensed. I laughed. “That’s me, remember? Ah, shit. I dunno. Look, I know it’s not fair to ask, but is there anything you can do without talking to Mum?”

  Phil nodded slowly. “Maybe. I can pay a visit to North London, see if I can track down anyone who knew your family when you were living there. Flash your old man’s photo around, see if it jogs any memories.” He half laughed.

  “What?”

  “Bet I can find someone who remembers you, at any rate. Can’t have been too many primary schoolkids stumbling over bodies in the park. Least not back in those days.”

  Thanks for the memory, Phil. “What, like it happens every week now? Yeah, you’re probably right. I blame video games. They’re whatsit, desensitising everyone to violence.”

  “Don’t know about that.” Phil leaned back in the sofa. As he still had an arm around me, so did I. Not that I was complaining. Merlin, on the other hand, gave a peed-off miaow at all the shifting around, but he could lump it. “Think about it. If everyone’s indoors on the video games, who’s finding the bodies? Or leaving ’em there, for that matter?”

  I let my head rest against his shoulder. “Stop trying to blind me with logic.”

  “Why, is it working too well?”

  “Git. Hey, what happened with Harry?” I asked as a thought struck me. “You sort something out with her?”

  I wasn’t digging for info.

  Honest.

  Phil nodded. “She’s coming round here tomorrow morning. You’re not working, are you?”

  I did work the occasional Sunday, but generally I tried to avoid them. For one thing, husbands were usually around. I prefer dealing with the wives—and in an area like this, posh commuter belt for the most part, you get an awful lot of stay-at-home wives. They’re usually pretty friendly, only too glad to have someone round to chat to. The husbands, on the other hand, tend to fall into one of two camps. Either they want to keep it all strictly business, no idle chitchat with the help, or alternatively they’re in my face the whole bloody time talking bollocks about how they’d be doing the job themselves, if only the wife hadn’t called me in. I s’pose they feel their masculinity’s threatened or something, just because I know my way around a wrench and they don’t. At any rate, it makes for a less relaxed working environment.

  Anyway, Sundays aren’t supposed to be for working. Not unless you have to. Day of rest, innit? Sundays are for stodgy roast dinners with the family, or if you can think up a good enough excuse to steer clear of your nearest and dearest, slobbing on the sofa watching sport on the telly.

  “No, but I can clear out if you need me to.” Then again, if he didn’t want me around, why bring her to my house? He had a perfectly good flat of his own, not to mention an actual office. “You planning on having me sit in? Harry didn’t seem too keen on me knowing her business back up at the Dyke.”

  “Nah, that was because of your mate Gary. She reckons he can’t keep his trap shut.” Phil’s eye roll made it clear he thought that one was a bit of a no-brainer. “She’s fine with you knowing about it. Her idea, in fact. Think she’s hoping you might be able to put that talent of yours to use.”

  I grinned. “What, that thing I do with my tongue? Thought she wasn’t into blokes.”

  Phil grunted. “Don’t flatter yourself. You know what I mean. Anyway, they’ll be here at ten.”

  “‘They’?”

  “Her and Marianne.”

  “Her and Marianne?”

  “Yeah, you know. New one at the Dyke. West Country girl. Her with the cartoon tattoo.”

  It was a My Little Unicorn in rainbow colours. If she’d got it done to make her look harder, she’d seriously missed the mark.

  “I know who she is. I wasn’t expecting it to be about her, that’s all.” God help me, I was starting to wonder if she was Harry’s long-lost love child.

  “Maybe it isn’t. Maybe she’s just the moral support.”

  “What, her? If Harry leans on her, she’ll snap.”

  “I said moral support, not a bloody crutch.” He looked down at me smugly from
his six foot two. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to judge a book by its cover. Small doesn’t have to mean weak.”

  “Yeah, but if she weighs more than seven stone soaking wet, I’m a sumo wrestler.”

  “Wouldn’t advise it. Those nappies aren’t a good look on anyone.”

  See, this is how I knew he loved me. Because he didn’t add, especially on skinny short-arses like you.

  “So what is a good look on me?” I put on my best flirty smile.

  “Me,” Phil said. And went on to prove it.

  Harry and Marianne turned up on my doorstep dead on ten o’clock Sunday morning, so it was just as well me and Phil had gone for mutual blowjobs and not a full-on shag.

  Harry was in her usual summer gear of khaki cargo trousers and a man’s shirt worn loose over a tank top that would have been at home in an actual army tank—all that was missing was the dog tags. Marianne was all fresh and perky in a pair of denim cutoffs and a tight white T-shirt with The Devil’s Dyke scrawled across her boobs. The boobs I could take or leave, but the shirt covered up the tattoo on her shoulder, which was a definite bonus.

  “Come on in,” I said, standing back so they could get past. It felt a bit weird having Harry in my space rather than me in hers. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her outside the pub, although I guessed she must leave it all the time, really. Well, at least once a week or so. Probably. “Phil’s in the living room.”

  I ushered them in, and Phil stood up to shake hands. Him and Harry were much of a size, but I reckoned she probably had the firmer grip. Marianne’s handshake looked limp and came with added giggles, like she wasn’t used to all this grown-up stuff.

  That made two of us. I hadn’t even thought of offering a handshake. Then again, I’d known Harry a lot longer than Phil had. Nah, shaking hands would have been weird.

  Phil invited them to make themselves at home on my sofa, which they did, Harry looming protectively over Marianne even when they were sitting down. Merlin stuck his furry nose into the room, took one look at Harry, and made a strategic retreat. Arthur, being made of sterner stuff—not to mention, twice as much of it—padded in fearlessly and jumped onto Marianne’s lap. She winced.

  I gave her bare legs a sympathetic look. “Claws? Just shove him off if he’s a bother.”

  Marianne’s big blue eyes gazed up at me, only the faintest hint of pain in those innocent depths. “Oh no, he’s lovely, he is. I love cats.” Her West Country burr was warmer than the weather as she stroked Arthur with both hands at once. If it hadn’t been for the boobs, I’d have put her age at nearer ten today.

  “Coffee?” I offered, to show I wasn’t totally useless at the old mine-host bit.

  Harry nodded. “Black, two sugars for me.”

  “Plenty of milk in mine, please. No sugar,” Marianne said.

  “Sweet enough already, are you, love?” I teased, which made her giggle again.

  Harry didn’t seem all that amused. Which could have fitted in with the love-child theory, but . . .

  “Do you think they’re . . . you know?” I whispered to Phil, who’d followed me into the kitchen and was frowning into the biscuit tin. “There’s another packet in the cupboard.”

  “Right. And I don’t know, do I?”

  “You’re the private investigator. I thought you could tell things about people. Body language and stuff.”

  “Not stuck out here, I can’t. Just make the coffee, all right? And then maybe we’ll get to hear what it’s all about.” His tone was exasperated, but he gave my arse a squeeze on his way past with the biscuits.

  It felt well weird, bringing out drinks for a pub landlady and a barmaid. I managed without spilling any of them, resisted the temptation to ask for four pound fifty, and we all sat down and sipped our coffee. Marianne carried on stroking Arthur with one hand. Nobody had a biscuit.

  Phil broke the silence. “So what is it you think you might need my help with?”

  Harry put down her mug on the coffee table, and Marianne shot her a wary glance. Arthur stuck out a paw, his claws showing just enough to remind her she was supposed to be stroking him.

  “Marianne’s ex,” Harry growled. “Little shit by the name of Grant Carey.” She tossed a photo on the table. It showed Marianne in a strappy dress with a bloke not much taller than she was. He was around his midtwenties, dark haired, lean and, all right, pretty good-looking, if you liked that sort of thing. Nice taste in suits, not that I’d know, really.

  Phil leaned over, picked it up, and gave it a good, hard stare.

  “Grant, eh? Bet he thinks he’s God’s gift.” I smiled at Marianne. She managed a wan little smile back, but Harry gave me a granite glare.

  Phil muttered, “Christ, you slay me.”

  I straightened my face. “What’s he been up to, then?”

  Marianne made a fuss of Arthur, chucking him under the chin and scratching behind his ears. He gazed up at her in self-centred, slitty-eyed adoration. “It’s not . . . See, he ain’t done nothing. Not really, he ain’t. It’s just he won’t leave me alone. Says I ought to go back home with him.”

  Phil looked up from the photo and voiced what I was thinking. “And you’ve tried asking him to stop pestering her?” His question was clearly aimed at Harry. Put it this way, if Harry asked me to stop doing something, I’d stop it. Grant didn’t look like he’d be able to put up much of a fight either.

  Harry glowered at us. “I tried. Next day I had the coppers turn up and give me a caution for threatening behaviour.”

  Ouch.

  “And after they’d gone, he was back, the little turd. Told me I’d better hope he didn’t even break a nail in future, or he’d have me up on assault charges before you could say ‘lost licence.’”

  “Shit. Could they really take your licence away?” I asked.

  Harry and Phil nodded in unison. Well, he’d been a copper for six years; I supposed he’d know the law. It was Harry who answered, though. “Conviction for assault—it’s like a bloody red rag to the Licensing Committee. Not that they need one. Bloke in Kent lost his licence a few years ago for letting a horse walk into his pub.”

  I stared. “Bloody hell, I bet no one was asking ‘Why the long face?’ that day.”

  Marianne giggled, then went pink and busied herself appeasing her lord and master, otherwise known as Arthur.

  It wasn’t funny, though. If Harry lost her pub licence, she lost her home and her livelihood with it.

  Phil leaned forwards again. “Those were his words, were they? About losing you your licence?”

  Harry nodded, her face stony. “Oh yeah. That bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “Yeah, but,” I put in, leaning forwards in my chair, “can’t Marianne make a complaint about him? I mean, if he wants to make it police business, why don’t you play him at his own game? Get a restraining order to stop him coming near her, that sort of stuff?”

  Harry and Phil exchanged glances. There was a general undercurrent of some-mothers-do-’ave-’em in the air. Even Marianne sent me a pitying look, and Arthur flicked a contemptuous tail.

  “What?” I asked, narked.

  It was Marianne who answered. “He wouldn’t like that, see.” She seemed to hunch in on herself. “He don’t like it when people tell him what to do. Gets real nasty about it, he does.”

  “Nasty, as in . . .?” I prompted.

  Harry made a disgusted sound. “Come on, there’s plenty of ways he could get back at Marianne through me. Setting me up for allowing underage drinking. Letting loose a box of cockroaches in the kitchen and calling Environmental Health. From what she’s told me, I wouldn’t put it past the little shit to get someone to punch him so he can claim it was me.”

  Did people actually do that? “Seriously?” I turned to Marianne. “You know him best. You really think he’d do something like that, just for revenge?”

  She wasn’t stroking Arthur so much now as cuddling him like a teddy bear. He kneaded her legs with his paws
, clearly not entirely certain he approved. “He would too,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  Crap.

  “So what do you want me to do?” Phil asked.

  Harry leaned in, her fists balled on her knees. Her scarred knuckles didn’t actually have LOVE and HATE tattooed on them, but they looked like they ought to. “I want you to find something on him. Anything. Little shit like that, there’s bound to be something we can hold over him.” She barked an angry laugh. “Or send him down with. Nice long stretch in prison’d do wonders for his manners.”

  Not to mention his social life, I thought grimly. Small, slim, and pretty in prison? I was starting to feel a bit sorry for the bloke.

  “Got any pointers for me?” Phil asked. He’d taken out his notebook and pen. “Any dodgy business you know he’s mixed up in? Ex-girlfriends who might have something on him?”

  Marianne bit her lip. “I only know about his last girlfriend before me.”

  Phil nodded encouragingly. “Name? Any contact details so I can have a word with her?”

  “Well, I got ’em. But it won’t help you.” Marianne looked unhappy. “She killed herself, see. That’s how I met him—at Keri’s funeral.”

  Bloody hell. My budding sympathy for Grant Carey was rapidly getting napalmed into extinction.

  “She was a friend of yours?” Phil asked.

  “We weren’t best friends or nothing, but yeah, I knew her. We worked together, see? At this café in Docklands.”

  Marianne’s little pink lips turned downwards. “Keri used to say some stuff about him, sometimes . . . But he seemed so nice when I met him, you see? And he was ever so sad about her. I thought maybe it’d all been in her head. It weren’t till it started with me and all—that was when I knew it hadn’t been just her.”

  Phil frowned. “Could you be a bit more explicit about his behaviour? Was he violent towards you?”

  “Yes,” Harry growled, right as Marianne said, “No, not really.”

  Phil’s frown turned on Harry. She frowned back. For a moment, I thought they were about to start pawing the ground as a prelude to charging each other, but then Harry looked away. “You tell ’im. But no making excuses for the bastard.”