by JL Merrow
Or, you know, not.
“Jesus, I dunno. Jen’s already bought up more stuff than one kid could use in a lifetime. You save your money, mate. Use it to buy me a pint or six when the credit card bills come in.”
We hung up, by which time Phil had got back with the Indian takeaway and opened up a couple of bottles of beer. I wasn’t sure which of ’em I was gladder to see.
Not including Phil, obviously.
We sat down in front of the telly, food on the coffee table where the cats gave it a good sniff before stalking off, unimpressed. “Stop judging my taste in food,” I told Merlin. “I saw you eat a moth last week. And it was still flapping at the time. You haven’t got a paw to stand on.”
Merlin gave me a disdainful flick of the tail, then settled down to wash his rear end, which is just what you want to look at while you’re eating.
“I swear he does that on purpose,” I muttered, sitting back with my plateful of bright-red chicken tikka masala and sag aloo, ’cos you’ve got to have a bit of green stuff in there so you can kid yourself it’s not that unhealthy, honest.
Phil huffed. “What, you think it’s possible to lick your own arse by accident?”
“Maybe. If you’re a cat. He could be washing, I dunno, his leg, and forget to stop?”
“More likely he’s looking for his bollocks, poor sod. Now shut up and eat your curry. Makes me nervous, seeing you with a plate of food in front of you and not shovelling it in like there’s no tomorrow.”
I stuck up one finger at him. And with the other hand, got on with shovelling down my food like there was no tomorrow. Just call me the king of multitasking.
I slept badly that night, despite Phil staying over, and not for any of the fun reasons either. I hadn’t set my alarm, but still ended up staggering out of bed before eight. It could’ve been even earlier, but getting up before seven on a Sunday would’ve seemed like admitting defeat.
The cats must’ve thought it was Christmas, getting fed so early without any application of claws to sensitive areas. I wasn’t totally sure I was hungry, myself, so I just made coffee—bunging an extra scoop of coffee grinds into the cafetière while I was at it—and chucked a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.
I still wasn’t sure I was hungry by the time it was done, but seeing as the secondary purpose had been to lure Phil out of bed with delicious, toasty aromas, I counted it as a win when he stumbled, bleary-eyed and fluffy-haired, into the kitchen. “Do I smell breakfast?” he muttered, coming over to give me a half-awake kiss.
“It’s yours if you want it,” I said, getting out the marmalade.
I could tell how awake he wasn’t by the way he didn’t even smirk at the innuendo. “Cheers. Coffee?”
I handed him a mug. Phil leaned against the counter and yawned. Then he took a gulp from his mug and grimaced. “Bloody hell, are you trying to give me heart palpitations?” He grabbed for the milk and sloshed a load more in his mug.
“Uh, sorry. Fancied it a bit stronger this morning.”
“Next time, warn me. Because believe me, I can think of ways I’d rather you got my heart rate going.” He grabbed for me, but I sidestepped and crouched down to stick my head in the fridge instead.
“Fancy bacon and eggs for afters? Seeing as it’s Sunday? Could grill up a couple of tomatoes to pretend it’s healthy, if you like. Or there’s mushrooms. Could make an omelette, come to that. If you like.” I paused, realising the conversation had got a bit one-sided. “Phil?”
There was a sigh. “Didn’t sleep well last night, did you?”
I shrugged, which felt a bit lopsided with one hand full of eggs and the other holding a packet of bacon. “Just a bit restless, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened yesterday, would it?”
“Dunno,” I lied, turning to the stove and putting down the bacon so I could grab a pan. “So what’s it gonna be? Fried, scrambled, or omelette?”
Phil’s hands landed gently on my shoulders. “Could always let me cook if you’re having trouble choosing. Pretty much cuts the options down to scrambled.”
I smiled at the cooker hood, relieved he wasn’t going to make me talk about it. “Nah, don’t do yourself down. I can definitely tell your fried eggs from your omelettes. Well, most of the time, anyway. Tell you what, we’ll have fried, and I’ll show you how to do the yolks properly, yeah?”
He dropped a kiss to my neck. “Can’t see the point of going to so much trouble, to be honest. They all taste the same smothered in brown sauce.” I swear I could hear him smirking behind me, the palate-less git.
“The chickens that laid those eggs would be crying in their coops if they heard you say that.”
“No, they wouldn’t. We ate ’em last night, remember?” Phil’s arms snaked around my waist, and he rested his head on my shoulder. “What you were saying yesterday. About me moving in. That what you want?”
He wanted to talk about it now? “I dunno,” I said, slapping some butter into the pan and turning on the heat. “I mean, we haven’t even set a date for the wedding. I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”
“Stop evading the question.”
“Hey, it’s a valid concern for some people.”
He huffed down my neck just as I was cracking an egg into the pan, and I nearly broke the yolk. “What, elderly spinsters of this parish?”
“Oi, don’t you talk about my sister like that.”
“Git.” He paused. “Think you should give her a call and make sure she’s all right? About that woman dying, I mean. They were friends, weren’t they?”
I was touched, ’cos, well, Cherry and Phil hadn’t exactly hit it off immediately when we started going out together. “Yeah . . . I reckon friends would be overstating it a bit. But I’ll ring her later. After church.” By which I meant, after she’d been to church, not me.
He nodded. “We don’t have to talk about the other stuff right now. Let me know when you’re ready.”
“It’s not—” I stopped. We both knew what I’d been about to say was a lie.
Phil kissed my neck. “Come on. Show me how you do those yolks.”
So I did.
I seriously didn’t deserve him.
I must have been a bit previous calling Cherry, as when she picked up the phone there were the unmistakeable sounds in the background of an after-church coffee morning going full swing.
“Want me to call back later?” I asked after we’d exchanged hellos.
“Oh God, no.” It sounded a lot quieter on her end now. I guessed she’d nipped off for a bit of privacy. “It’s horrible. All anyone can talk about in there is the fayre.”
“I’m guessing you don’t mean the ferret racing.”
“I really don’t know why Gregory didn’t cancel coffees today. He said Amelia would have wanted us to carry on as normal and not make a fuss, which I completely disagree with. She’d have wanted there to be as much fuss as possible.”
“You’re not wrong there. Was it Greg’s turn to do the service today, then?”
“No, but the bishop asked him to take over as he was too distressed.” There was a sarcastic edge to Cherry’s voice on the last word.
“Yeah, he seemed to be coping just fine yesterday, didn’t he?”
“Mm. Honestly, you have to wonder just why some people even join the church.”
“Mi-aow.”
“Oh, shut up. I’ve had just about enough of all the falseness her death’s brought out. Everyone saying how dreadful it was, when they obviously only want to hear as many details as possible. It’s just ghoulish, and it’s horrible.”
Okay, so Sis was definitely a bit more cut up about it all than I’d thought. “You want me to come over later? Or you could come to mine?”
There was a sniff. “Thanks, but we’re having tea at Mum and Dad’s later. I’d say come over and join us, but you know how they don’t like too many people round at once.”
I did. “Ye
ah, no worries. Say hi from me, though. And Phil, obviously.”
“I’ll give them your love.”
“What, Phil’s and all?”
“Of course. You’re engaged now. Have you set a date yet, by the way? You know Mum will ask.”
“Uh, no. Thought we’d get you and Greg hitched first, yeah?”
“Oh, Tom. A wedding takes a vast amount of planning. Don’t leave it too late.”
I’d been expecting a call from Gary all day, seeing as I hadn’t spoken to him since the fayre and he’s not normally the type to shy away from delicate subjects like yours truly falling over another corpse. So when the doorbell rang midafternoon, I thought it might be him.
It wasn’t. A flash blinded me, and then some bland-looking bloke I’d never met before lowered his camera and asked if I’d mind answering a few questions about Mrs. F-M.’s death for the benefit of the local rag.
“Uh . . .” Actually, I did mind, and I was still trying to think how to say that politely but firmly when Phil loomed up behind me.
“He says No bloody comment, and you can quote me on that,” Phil growled, and slammed the door in his face.
Fortunately he didn’t have a foot stuck in the doorway, or we might have ended up with a few toes as a souvenir.
I turned to frown at Phil. “Oi, I could’ve handled that. You didn’t have to be rude.”
“Yes, I did. That’s all their sort understand. Did he ask permission before he took your photo?”
“No. Shit. Is that gonna go in the paper?”
“Maybe. We didn’t give him much of a story to go with it.”
I didn’t much fancy my customers finding out about my little habit of tripping over dead bodies. Funny how getting mixed up with a few murders can give people second thoughts about inviting you into their house. And I didn’t need any more publicity for my psychic bloody talents, either. “Can we stop them printing it?”
Phil stared at me. “They print naked pictures of royalty. What do you bloody think?”
“Bloody marvellous. Great. So all I can do is hope for another sinkhole to open up and swallow a few houses this time.”
Phil nodded, a half smile on his lips. “That’d knock you off the front page all right.”
The next time the doorbell rang, I didn’t bother getting up from the sofa, where Phil and me had been pretending to do paperwork while watching the motor racing on the telly.
“Don’t answer that,” Phil warned, presumably in case the old reflexes were just being a bit slow today.
“Wasn’t gonna,” I assured him.
Then a voice called through the letter box. “Yoo-hoo! It’s only us.”
Gary. And Darren, presumably. That was a relief. And not just because it gave me an excuse to leave off doing the VAT return for a bit. I opened the door and cracked a welcoming smile at them. “‘Yoo-hoo’? Seriously?”
“Did the job, dinnit?” Darren stomped past me into the hall, carrying a six-pack of beer in each hand. I felt a sudden surge of affection for him. “How you doing, short-arse?” he carried on.
Ah, well, the affection had been nice while it lasted. “I’m good. Want to bung those in the fridge?”
“Cheers, mate. Got any crisps?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Bleedin’ ’ell.” Halfway to the kitchen, he turned to Gary. “I told you we shoulda brung crisps.”
Gary rolled his eyes at me—after Darren had disappeared fridgewards. “Husbands. What can you do?”
I grinned. “I’ve got some dry-roasted peanuts.”
“Nah, cheers, mate, but I like my nuts just to taste of salt, like nature intended.” Darren had reappeared and was now off to the living room. “Phil! How you doing there, mate?”
Phil said something I didn’t hear, and Darren gave a loud cackle.
Gary beamed. “Isn’t it lovely how well our other halves get on together? Now, if you ever reconsider on the foursome . . .”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I assured him. And it’d be sweater weather in hell, I didn’t add. I wouldn’t want Gary to take it the wrong way. Or even the right way, for that matter. “I’ve got some pizza in the freezer, or we could get a takeaway—”
“You’re a treasure, but no. We’re dining with Darren’s family tonight. This is just a flying visit to see how you’re bearing up. How are you bearing up? After all that unpleasantness yesterday.”
I made a face. “Ah, you know. Wasn’t great, finding her like that. Did you know her?”
“Only in passing. Which, I might add, I did as quickly as possible. One does hear things.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Oh, only that she had something of a forceful personality. I wouldn’t have wanted to be a keg of gunpowder anywhere near when she and her stepdaughter got going.”
“Ever hear about her playing away from home?” I asked, ’cos that reminded me about what Vi had said about me being her stepmum’s latest bit of rough.
Gary just shrugged. “Well, who could blame her? Alex Majors is hardly the sort to get anyone’s juices flowing. Now, shall we join the boys?”
Phil shut his laptop, I shifted my files off the sofa, and we all sat down with a beer—well, all except Gary, who pulled out a mini bottle of piña colada from his jacket pocket. I got him a glass and some ice. What with the sleepless night I’d had, the beer went right to my head, but I wasn’t complaining.
“So, are you officially consulting with the police on the murder?” Gary asked, while Darren munched on a packet of mini Cheddars Phil had found for him, which I’d have sworn we didn’t have in the house.
I snorted. “No. I’m helping with their enquiries, which, believe me, isn’t the same thing at all.”
“Ah, coppers. Can’t trust ’em as far as you can throw a panda car at ’em,” Darren put in. “No offence, mate,” he added to Phil.
“None taken.” Phil was smiling, so I guessed it was true. “Tom’s not about to be arrested. They just asked a few questions about his psychic demonstration.”
“Ooh, that reminds me,” Gary piped up. He looked at Darren. “The hobby. Shall you tell him, or shall I?”
The hobby? What hobby, and did he mean mine or his?
I wasn’t even sure I had any hobbies, unless you counted the cooking. Oh, and slobbing out in front of the telly with my bloke.
“I’ll tell ’im, pumpkin. See, Geoff, that’s the leader of the Stompers, he was wondering if you’d be up for doing mates’ rates on a job for us. Course, I told ’im I don’t reckon it’s your line, but I’d ask you anyhow.”
I was getting a bad feeling about this.
Darren took a swig of beer, belched, and carried on. “See, it’s our hobby. Some turd borrowed it while we was watching you do your stuff, and we found it shoved in the ’edge with a flippin’ great dent in it. Geoff’s hopping mad. So he was hoping you could do, like, a reading on it or something. Find out who done it.”
“Okay, what? I haven’t got a bloody clue what you’re on about. What do you mean your hobby? And what do you want me to read, for God’s sake?”
“He means the horse, Tommy,” Gary put in. “Well, the horse’s head worn by one of the dancers. It’s called the hobby. From hobbyhorse? Or maybe that’s where hobbyhorse came from. Do you know, sweetie pie? Which came first, the hobby or the horse?”
“Hang about,” I interrupted before the plot got totally lost. “What exactly do you expect me to do with a horse’s head? And, oi, keep it clean. There’s no Tory politicians round here.”
“Spoilsport.” Gary pouted and took a sip of his piña colada.
Phil put his beer down on the table. “He wants you to see if you can get any vibes off the horse costume. Anything that might tell you who damaged it.”
I frowned at him. “That’s not what I do. You know it isn’t.”
“Could be linked to the murder—if you saw someone wearing a papier-mâché horse’s head, you’d assume it was one of the Morris dancers, woul
dn’t you? Might be a good way to sneak up on the victim without anyone knowing.”
“What? It’d be a bloody awful way to sneak up on anyone. You think the witnesses wouldn’t have remembered a six-foot-tall horse man?” And great, now my nightmares about stranglers were going to be even more colourful and disturbing.
“Might not hurt to see what you can get from it.” Phil’s tone was that careful I’m not judging you one he uses when interviewing people, so naturally enough, I got all defensive.
“It’d be a total waste of time. I don’t get vibes off things unless they’re hidden, all right?” Whose talent was this, anyway?
“Have you tried?” Gary asked.
“I don’t need to try, all right? I know how it works. Hidden stuff. And water. That’s it.”
Darren shrugged. “’S all right. I’ll tell Geoff you’re not interested. No worries.”
“I’m not . . . not interested. It’s just not my thing, all right?”
“Yeah, ’s what I said, innit? I’ll tell ’im. Don’t get your kecks up your crack.” Him and Phil shared a look, which didn’t make me any happier.
“Did you have any premonitions before you found her?” Gary said, leaning forwards.
“Not exactly,” I said, just as Phil came out with a huff and a “He doesn’t do premonitions either.”
Everyone stared at me.
Great. “It wasn’t like I knew anything was going to happen before it did, all right? It was just that the trail I was following felt . . . I dunno. Wrong. Nasty.”
They all nodded solemnly.
“Do we have to talk about this all evening?” I said, picking up my beer and realising I’d finished it already.
“Course not,” Darren said brightly. “So anyhow, you and Phil set a date yet? Got the venue sorted?”
Bloody marvellous.
“Ooh, yes.” Gary beamed. “After all, you don’t want to leave it—”
“Too late,” I finished for him. “I know, all right? I know.”
I was glad to get back to work on Monday, if I’m honest. Had a mare of a job sorting out a blockage at one of those big, posh houses on London Road—God knows what the cowboys who put the original plumbing in were thinking. They put in some of the pipes so the water literally had to run uphill, and when I took off the bath panel to have a butcher’s, there was all kinds of old crap they’d just shoved in there rather than clear up after ’emselves. Including—I kid you not—someone’s greasy sandwich wrapper, still with a mummified apple core inside.
