Heat Trap

by J. L. Merrow

  His tone implied that if he had his way, she’d shortly be regretting it. Marianne tried to twist out of his grasp. “You leave Harry out of this. Let go of me!”

  “Oi,” I butted in, just as Harry started to advance. “Hands off the young lady, all right? I don’t care if she is your sister, there’s no need to get physical.”

  He let go of Marianne all right, and turned to loom over me instead. “You can fuck off out of it.”

  “Right, that’s it.” Harry’s voice cut through the atmosphere like a machete. “You? You’re barred. I want you out that door now, or I’m calling the police, you got that?”

  Kev’s face turned even uglier as he glared at her. I was pleased to note the scrape of chairs as a couple of other patrons put down their drinks and stood up—at least, I assumed they were offering support, rather than preparing to leg it or looking forward to getting into a bar fight. “Think I want to hang around here with your sort? There ought to be a law against what you done.”

  Harry held up her phone. “You leaving, or am I dialling?”

  Kev glowered at her, grunted something in the language of his people, and left.

  “You all right, love?” I asked Marianne. She looked a bit pale and trembly now he’d gone.

  Harry gave her a hug. “Go make yourself a cup of tea, and sit in the kitchen and drink it.”

  “No, I’m fine, really I am,” Marianne protested, but she was already on her way out, Harry steering her firmly with a hefty arm around her bony little shoulders.

  “What’s the brother’s story?” I asked Harry when she reappeared.

  Harry humphed. “Him? Don’t reckon he’s got the brains for a story. Lives on the dole, sponges off his dad, and spends half his life drinking the local Wetherspoons dry and the other half at the bookie’s. Tried to make a go of it as a burglar, but ended up spending more time in the nick than in other people’s houses. I told her not to tell ’em her address, but did she listen? Said she was worried something might happen to her dad, and she wouldn’t know.”

  I winced at the venom in Harry’s voice when she mentioned the pub chain. She wasn’t exactly a fan of what she liked to call money-grabbing bastards buying up our heritage. Luckily for my eardrums, she was too worked up about Marianne’s woes to spare a thought for the homogenisation of British watering holes right now.

  “What’s he doing around here, then? Long way to come just to give Marianne grief.”

  “Way I hear it, that’s the main occupation of Drinkwater men—giving the women grief. They had Marianne’s mum six feet under before she was fifty, and her dad’s bit on the side moved in the day after the funeral.” Harry snorted a laugh. “Sounds like she didn’t last long. You heard what that waste of space said—they just want Marianne back so she can cook and clean for their lazy arses.”

  I frowned. “He mentioned Carey too—sort of. You don’t reckon they’re, well, chumming up together, do you? I mean, Kev seemed to like the idea of her having a bloke.”

  “Him and Carey? There’s a match made in hell. Bastards like that think any man’s better than two women together—unless it’s in a bloody porno.” Christ. Anyone who thought she was better off with Carey than with Harry needed a serious overhaul of their priorities. I hoped Harry had a decent first-aider on staff. If she clenched her fist any harder around that pint glass she was polishing, we’d be finding out pretty quick if there was any truth in the rumour she bled neat malt whiskey.

  “Have you said anything about him to Phil?” I asked, thinking getting back on topic might be a good idea in more ways than one.

  She frowned at me. “Thought you’d have done that.”

  “Got a bit distracted, didn’t I?” I rubbed my head. Uncharacteristically, Harry ducked hers, like she was embarrassed or something. “I’ll tell him tonight.”

  We hadn’t said we’d be meeting up, but I reckoned he’d be pretty keen to find out what Mrs. M. had had to tell me. If anything. Speaking of which, I needed to get going, or I’d risk being late to meet her. Shame about the drink, but I couldn’t count on the M25 not having a snarl-up right at the wrong moment. “Right, I’m going to have to love you and leave you. But listen, don’t let that Kev give you any more grief, all right?”

  Harry just nodded. And cracked her knuckles.

  I nipped home to change before I headed off to Ealing. Not because of what Phil had said, all right? It was on the way, more or less, and steel toe caps are not exactly ideal summer footwear. While I was there, I put on a clean shirt as well, and some lightweight summer trousers Gary had persuaded me to buy last time I’d made the mistake of letting him drag me round the shops. I felt like some posh nob on his way to a Buckingham Palace garden party, but seeing as I also felt a lot cooler, I reckoned I could learn to live with it.

  The traffic on the M25 wasn’t too bad in the end. Apparently all sensible people were soaking up the sun in their back gardens rather than driving around London in a hot little metal box with no air-con. It was a relief to arrive in Ealing—at least the air outside the car ought to be marginally fresher.

  The swings Mrs. M. had asked me to meet her at were in a small, closed-off area that was on the edge of a much larger, leafier park, bordered by areas of well-grown trees and bushes. I couldn’t help thinking you’d be spoilt for choice for where to hide a body, and clamped down hard on my spidey-senses in case I found something I’d rather not. The kiddies’ area, though, was bright and open—in fact it was a bit more exposed than I’d have expected Mrs. M. to go for, but then again, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump away from her kids’ school.

  And she’d have a better idea than I would as to whether him indoors was likely to come wandering along.

  I parked the Fiesta under a chestnut tree down a side street and strolled over there. I was a bit early, so I sat down on one of the benches bordering the area and faffed about with my phone, trying not to look like some kind of pervert eyeing up the tots. There were only a handful of them, and soon after I’d got there, the last of them disappeared. Either they were being dragged off to pick up older brothers and sisters from school, or I looked more sinister than I thought.

  One thing this playground could definitely have done with was a bit of shade. It was blistering hot out here in the sun, and the trees had been pruned back to well beyond the chain-link fence enclosing the play area. All they did was cut off entirely the feeble breeze that had cooled me down a fraction of a degree as I walked here.

  I didn’t have to be a deductive genius to work out when school ended. The noise levels coming from the primary school rose by a factor of about a thousand as the kiddies were let out of their stuffy classrooms and into the playground. It was around three minutes after that when the first of the mums trundled their buggies into the play area. They came in twos and threes, most of them, but Mrs. M. was on her own when she appeared. Well, apart from little George and Julia, of course, but they scarpered to the climbing frame the minute they got in the gate without even a backward glance for their poor old mum.

  She gave a tight, relieved smile and a wave when she spotted me, and made her way over to my bench. “Thank you for coming. I don’t know what I’d have . . . Anyway, thank you.” Despite the obvious nerves, the whole impression she gave was fresher and prettier today, dressed in a floaty summer skirt and top that had to be in a whole different price range to the loose cropped trousers and vest tops sported by the other mums. It looked like she hadn’t got around to downsizing her wardrobe yet. She’d done something with her hair too—it curved around her face instead of just hanging there.

  “Good to see you. Kiddies all right on their own for a mo?”

  “Oh, they’ll be fine,” she said. They ought to be—the playground was one of those with rubber flooring around the play equipment. God knew how George had managed to hurt his knee so badly yesterday. Maybe he’d hit the rubber bit and bounced onto the tarmac beyond.

  I patted the bench next to me, and Mrs. M. sat down, smo
othing her skirt so it wouldn’t crease. Unless it was to draw my attention to the shape of her bum—but no, despite what I’d said to Phil, I couldn’t really see her as being after a bit of the old extramaritals. She seemed the sort to stick with her man no matter how far he dragged her down.

  I wasn’t really sure why I felt so sorry for her, especially if old Alan had had his fingers in as many dodgy pies as Marianne reckoned. Yeah, the family had had a knock, but they weren’t exactly living on the bread line. Mr. M. was even out of jail now. On paper, they should be celebrating. But I got the impression it was a long time since Mrs. M. had felt like cracking open a bottle of bubbly.

  She’d fallen silent and was fiddling with the strap of her leather handbag. I drew in a breath to ask her what she wanted to talk to me about, but she beat me to it.

  “Mr. Paretski, I—”

  “Oi,” I interrupted without thinking. “I told you to call me Tom, remember?”

  That got me half a smile and an almost teasing suggestion of “I suppose Mr. Paretski’s your father?”

  Ouch. Mrs. M.’s face fell, and I guessed I must have winced visibly. “Er, yeah. Bit of a sore point that, these days.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Nah, nothing like that,” I was quick to reassure her. “Fit as a fiddle, he is. Just, er . . .” I trailed off, realising we’d got seriously off track here, and gave her a wonky smile. “I’d tell you, but it’s probably more information than you actually want. So what was it you wanted to—”

  “I think my husband’s being blackmailed,” she blurted out. That handbag strap was going to be showing serious signs of wear and tear soon, the way she was twisting it in her fingers, decent bit of leather or no. “I think it’s the man who framed him—he was innocent, you know that, don’t you? He should never have gone to prison. Alan’s never broken the law in his life.”

  That wasn’t what I’d heard, but I let it slide. “This blackmailer—you know who he is?”

  “Carey. Grant Carey. I never liked him.” She stared out over the playground. Julia was on the climbing frame, but I couldn’t see George at all. Still, at least he wasn’t standing on the swings again.

  “You met him, then?” I encouraged.

  “Once or twice. Socially, you know. He had this girlfriend who was far too young for him—little blonde airhead, all legs and pumped-up breasts.” Her lip curled in distaste.

  I frowned. “Marianne?”

  Mrs. M. nodded, still staring at the kiddies. “That was the name. A real oo-arr country-bumpkin type. From Somerset, I think.”

  All right, so I wasn’t feeling quite so sorry for Mrs. M. right now. “Why do you think he’s blackmailing your husband? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I mean, not that your husband would blackmail anyone,” I added hastily as she gave me a sharp look. “I just mean, if he’s managed to prove he didn’t do the crime he went away for, maybe he’s in a position to get Carey into trouble? Get him done for the frame-up?”

  Mrs. M. bit her lip. “Alan won’t tell me anything. But I think . . . I think Carey must have threatened to hurt me or the children.” Her hands were clenched hard on her handbag strap, the knuckles white and trembling a bit. “I daren’t let them out of my sight. If he comes near them . . .” She looked up, her eyes boring into me. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him for what he’s done to us. Don’t you understand? We were happy until this happened. Life was perfect. We had a lovely house, and holidays, and friends . . . I don’t know anyone here. Everything’s so different. Half the children in the school live in council houses, and they speak umpteen different languages. Punjabi, Somali, Polish . . .” She went a bit pink. “Not that I’m racist. Please don’t think that. But it can’t be good for their education.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I mean, I could have reassured her I wasn’t actually Polish, but that wasn’t really the point. At least, not in my book, it wasn’t. “Ah, kids manage better than you think. But what makes you think he’s made these threats? Did you, I dunno, see them talking? Answer the phone to him?”

  She nodded. “He came to our house soon after Alan was released. Brought me flowers—a housewarming gift, he said. And a bottle of champagne, to celebrate. We had to drink it with him.” Her tone was bitter. Anyone listening in would probably wonder what she was complaining about, but having met the creep myself, I could sympathise. “Alan told me to put the children to bed early, and when I came downstairs again, that horrible man was gone, and Alan was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “I . . . I didn’t like to. Alan’s been so . . . You have to understand, prison was a terrible ordeal for him. People like us don’t belong in there. He’s found it so hard to get over it all. He still is finding it hard.”

  I ignored the people like us bit, and tried to put the next question delicately. “Did, um, anything really bad happen to him inside?”

  “Well, of course, the whole experience was terrible for him,” she said heatedly, like she thought I hadn’t been listening properly.

  Maybe I’d overdone the delicacy. “I meant, well, was he victimised in any way?”

  Instead of answering, she stood up and called out to her daughter. “Julia! Let the other little girl have a turn on the swing. Come on. Now, or we’re going home.”

  Julia got sulkily off the swing, and Mrs. M. sat down again. “I’m not sure how much more I can tell you,” she said, her voice a bit shaky. “But you have to do something about Grant Carey. Alan said you wanted to get him put in prison—you do, don’t you?”

  I tried to look confident. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Good. But you can’t involve Alan.” She reached out, took my hand between hers and gazed at me intently with eyes that seemed a lot bluer than they had yesterday. “You have to understand that. You can’t involve him at all.”

  So that was a . . . Well, I wasn’t sure what it was, to be honest. I racked my brains on the drive home, but I couldn’t see how any of what Mrs. M. had said was going to help us. I mean, we already knew Carey was a dangerous little shit.

  I got back to my house, kicked off my shoes in the hall, and wandered into the living room.

  And got the fright of my life.

  Carey was sitting on my sofa. Stroking my cat.

  For one crazy moment, I thought he was going to open with “So, Mr. Paretski, we meet again. Mwha-ha-ha-ha.”

  I stared at him for a long, long moment. “What the bloody hell—”

  He smiled, a slightly rueful, lopsided effort that made his face look open and boyish, and I had to remind myself he was nothing of the sort. “Hope you don’t mind. It was your neighbour who let me in—Sharon from number twelve. She saw I was waiting for you, and invited me in for a cup of tea, but then she had to go out. She insisted you wouldn’t mind her using her spare key so I wouldn’t have to wait around in the hot sun. Such a kind lady.”

  I was going to have to have words with Sharon. That key was supposed to be for emergencies, like feeding the cats when I was away or, as it might be, letting in the cavalry when I was being menaced by criminals who’d gone off their rocker. Not letting in said criminals and giving them the freedom of my bloody sofa.

  “What do you want?” I snapped.

  Arthur cracked open an eyelid and flicked his tail at me reproachfully from his position on Carey’s lap.

  “I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot?” Carey made a sort of oops-face. “I’m afraid I do have a tendency to get a teeny bit defensive around people like your boyfriend. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he’s very good to you, but, well.” He sighed. “I haven’t had the best of experiences with people like that.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was implying, but I was fairly certain I didn’t like it. “People like what?”

  “Oh, you know.” Carey gave a sheepish little shrug. “Sometimes I think strength is all they understand, a
nd, well, fake it until you make it, as they say. Still got the odd scar from bullies at school—psychologically, I mean. Well, most of them,” he added, seeming embarrassed to admit it. Then he rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, get over it already, but when you’re faced with someone so much more physically intimidating, some habits are hard to break, aren’t they?”

  “Right,” I said, thrown. He was being so . . . human, I s’pose. He even looked different today to my mental picture of evil-guy-in-a-suit—he was all casual in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair was rumpled like he’d just got out of bed, and he hadn’t shaved. He was making me feel seriously overdressed. You’d be amazed how often that doesn’t happen to me. Well. Maybe you wouldn’t. “So what do you actually want?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it up even more. “God, it sounds so stupid. I just—I’ve been feeling really bad about some of the things I said. I babble on insanely when I’m nervous. I just wanted to say, well, I’m sorry. That’s all.” He made a face. “God, I’m sure you don’t even care. I’m an idiot. I’ll get out of your hair, now.”

  He stood up, even apologising to Arthur before gently encouraging him off his lap and onto the sofa.

  “I just miss Marianne so much,” he said, like he couldn’t help it. “She was always . . .” He ducked his head and laughed under his breath, then glanced up again with a twisted smile. “My moral compass sounds so grandiose, doesn’t it? But she was always so good at counteracting the cynic in me. Encouraging me to believe they’re not all out to get me, and defence doesn’t have to mean offence. I miss that. I miss her. I know you’re a friend of hers. She looks up to you.” He held up a hand as I started to say Oi, is this going where I think it is? “I’m not asking you to help me get her back or anything like that. Just . . . It would be nice to think not everyone around her was an antagonist. You know?”