Lock Nut

by JL Merrow

  Lola? Christ, I hoped it wasn’t short for Lolita, poor kid. “Is she very upset by her stepdad’s death?”

  I said it sympathetically, but Lilah still gave me a dark look. “Course she is. Just ’cos he wasn’t her real dad don’t mean she didn’t love him.”

  Phil coughed. “I understand this is a difficult time for all of you, but it might help us to have a word with her and your son. Sometimes children pick up on things.”

  Lilah frowned, her mouth pinched. “I don’t want ’em upset. Lola’s not home, anyhow,” she added, sounding pleased about it.

  So, not so upset about Jonny-boy’s death she hadn’t nipped off out with her mates—or at least, presumably that was where she was.

  “Perhaps we could start with Axel, then,” Phil suggested.

  “I suppose. But no upsetting him, right?” Lilah had a determined set to her jaw. “You go and sit in the living room, and I’ll bring him down.”

  We went. “You don’t reckon she’s coaching him on what to say, do you?” I muttered as low as I could in Phil’s shell-like once we’d reached the sofa.

  “Who knows?” He glanced around the room with a suspicious gleam in his eye, although to be fair, that was pretty much a default expression for my beloved, especially when he was on a case.

  “My guess is they’re covering up for little Lola. She bashed Jonny-boy on the head to get back at her mum for the godawful name—I mean, seriously, Lilah and Lola? She might as well have called her Mini-Me.” And now I had that Kinks song stuck in my head. Cheers, love.

  Phil huffed. “You think? She’s probably a foot taller than her mum, remember. Dwarf parents usually have kids of normal height.”

  “Yeah, but ‘mini’ doesn’t have to mean height, does it?”

  “Not unless you’re going by the actual dictionary—”

  He broke off at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

  Seconds later, Axel slouched his way into the living room, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and his gaze skittering away from anything close to eye contact. Lilah’s little boy towered over his mum and looked to my inexpert eye to be in his mid to late teens, with dark eyebrows and five-o’clock shadow that proved he was at least old enough to shave. He slumped into an armchair and stared fixedly at his knobbly knees, both clearly visible through the rips in his jeans.

  “Axel,” Lilah said sharply, perching her own bum neatly on the other chair. “Hood off.” She made a brusque gesture with both hands.

  Her son sent her a sullen glower, but did as she’d told him, revealing fashionably cut dark hair and a pair of top-brand headphones that must have cost Lilah almost as much as one of Jonny-boy’s suits.

  That explained Axel’s lack of reaction to Phil bursting into his room. Lilah made another angry gesture, obviously used to having to communicate via sign language, and the kid took the headphones off and hung them around his neck.

  He had that translucent clear skin some teenagers get, presumably to make the less-fortunate majority feel even worse about sprouting a galaxy of zits, and he’d be pretty good looking if he straightened those shoulders, kept his chin up, and stopped glaring at the world like it’d just kicked his puppy.

  Christ, I was getting old. Next thing you knew I’d be banging on about wanting my country back and getting excited about new slow-cooker recipes.

  “Axel.” Phil stood up to hold out his hand across the fluffy fake-fur rug. “I’m Phil Morrison, and this is my partner Tom Paretski. We’re investigating your stepfather’s death.”

  The kid stared for a moment, then pulled his hand out of his pocket and gripped Phil’s hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure he was doing it right. He straightened up in his seat afterwards, though. Nice one, Phil.

  “Axel,” Lilah butted in. “Say hello. Be polite.”

  Great. Axel slumped back down again with a mutter that could, conceivably, have been “’Lo.”

  Phil showed great restraint in not sending Lilah a death glare, and leaned forward to talk to the kid. “Were you surprised when your stepfather left?”

  “Course he was,” Lilah snapped. “Weren’t you, baby?”

  Baby? Just what a lad needs on the cusp of manhood. Axel’s face turned a not-very-manly shade of blotchy pink, and even I felt hot and embarrassed on the poor kid’s behalf.

  Phil humphed and turned to Lilah. Everyone has their limit. “Mrs. Parrot, if you wouldn’t mind letting Axel answer for himself?”

  “’Scuse me. Well, go on then. Answer him.”

  Axel’s shoulders hunched so far his headphones half-covered his mouth. “Didn’t know he was going, did I?”

  “Had he shown any signs of feeling under threat?”

  “Why would he?” Lilah burst out. “He wasn’t in any danger here, was he? He was fine until he went back to that bastard.”

  Technically, according to Lilah, Jonny-boy had been fine until he’d decided to come back to her, but she probably wouldn’t thank me for pointing that out.

  “Mrs. Parrot, please?” Phil’s patient-with-the-client tone was starting to wear thin. “Perhaps this would be easier for Axel if you weren’t here?”

  From the ferrety look Axel shot her, I wasn’t sure he agreed. Interesting. I’d have thought he’d be only too keen to undo the old apron strings.

  Lilah pursed her lips. “He’s only fifteen, you know. Ought to have an appropriate adult with him.”

  An appropriate adult. Funny how easily that phrase tripped off her tongue. Had young Axel found himself on the wrong end of a police investigation in his past? Course, I shouldn’t be sexist about it. Maybe it was his sister who’d come to the attention of the Old Bill. Or Lilah herself—I certainly wouldn’t put it past her to have had a misspent youth.

  “Are we done yet?” Axel whined, hands on his headphones.

  “No,” Lilah snapped. She watched him until the hands flopped back to his knees. Axel didn’t actually roll his eyes, but I could tell he really, really wanted to.

  “We’re not the police, and this isn’t an official interview,” Phil told her in his best you-can-trust-me tones. “Just a chat. And kids often worry about disappointing their parents, even if those fears are groundless. Wouldn’t it be better for him to feel he can speak freely?”

  “Well . . .” She was clearly wavering.

  Axel stood up in an explosive, uncoordinated motion. I had to duck so as not to get hit by flailing limbs. “This is stupid. I don’t know anything, and if I did, it’s not going to bring him back, is it?”

  “Axel, baby—” Lilah reached out to her son, but he shook her off.

  “And it’s Axe, all right? Just Axe. I’m not a little kid, Mum.” He stomped off, his face tight with misery.

  Lilah gazed after him helplessly for a moment, then turned back to us with a defiant, “It ain’t his fault. He’s been that cut up about it all.”

  I felt like a git for doubting her word about it earlier.

  “Not to worry,” Phil said. “Perhaps you could show us the garage, now?”

  She led the way, and we duly inspected the golf clubs. They were suspiciously shiny and free from stray bits of mud and grass, but it was possible he’d been the sort of bloke who liked to look after his kit. After that she showed us the pool room, which was a room with a pool table in it, rather than somewhere you could have a dip and a splash about. The balls were stacked on the table in a neat triangle, and cues stood ready by the wall.

  “This was my Jonny’s birthday present back in September,” Lilah said sadly. “Him and Axel used to be in here every night after dinner.”

  We probably ought to take that with a pinch of the proverbial—how many teenage lads would want to spend all their evenings with their real dad, let alone the new(ish) stepdad?—but then again, the blue cubes of chalk sitting on the edge of the table showed deep hollows.

  We poked around a few other nooks and crannies after that, but for a bloke who’d been living here over a year, old Jonny-boy had left an u
nusually light footprint on the place. Maybe he really had spent all his time bonding with his stepson over pool? After all, you didn’t have to be blood to be family. My own dad—the one who’d raised me as his own, despite me being a permanent reminder of Mum’s little indiscretion—was proof of that.

  I’d been feeling bad enough about JP’s untimely demise. Now I felt even worse for the young lad who’d lost his father figure, unlikely as it had seemed.

  We got a few more details from Lilah—addresses for Jonny-boy’s family, apparently estranged, and his former place of work—then took our leave. Not before time, if Lilah’s increasing tetchiness was anything to go by. Maybe her stomach was reminding her it had been a long time since breakfast too.

  “Did you see those golf clubs?” I asked Phil as we walked down Lilah’s weed-free red-brick drive. “Looked like they were barely out of the wrapper. What do you bet he slung ’em in the car, told her he’d be on the course all day, and sloped off down the pub?”

  Phil grunted. “Make a good cover for other things too.”

  “You reckon he was cheating on her? Nipping off down to Camden to see the ex?” I frowned. “S’pose he doesn’t really count as an ex if Jonny was still seeing him, does he? But oi, you sure it’s not just all your other cases making you cynical in your old age?”

  “Maybe,” Phil said in a tone that meant Yes, I’m sure.

  We reached the car and got in. “She didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about us investigating Jonny-boy’s death. Although, mind you, I s’pose if you’re a brand-new widow, it’s hard to scrape up enthusiasm for anything much. You went for the hard sell a bit,” I added, buckling up my seat belt.

  Phil humphed. “Like you didn’t? There’s something dodgy about this case. That package she got us to deliver, the way he ran . . . That story about the boyfriend doesn’t fit. And I don’t like the timing.”

  “You mean, him getting offed right after we found him?”

  “Yes.” Phil stared straight ahead through the windscreen as he started the engine, a haunted look in his eye.

  Huh. Seemed I wasn’t the only one worried we’d basically delivered a death sentence to the poor bastard.

  “Did you get anything at all?” he asked after we’d pulled out onto the road.

  I screwed up my face, thinking. “Nah. Not really. There was stuff, lots of it—but I’m pretty sure most of it was Lilah. I s’pose if you work in porn, you’re bound to have a few secrets. It didn’t feel like she had the murder weapon stashed somewhere in the house,” I added, because I knew Phil was about to ask.

  “Most of it,” he said thoughtfully, turning onto the main road.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You said, ‘most of it.’ So was some of it our Mr. Parrot?”

  “I dunno . . .” I shook my head. “It was flippin’ hard to tell, but I don’t think so? It was more . . . maybe one of the kids? What did you make of Axel, sorry, Axe, anyhow? Seemed genuine, him being all cut up about his stepdad.”

  Phil didn’t answer for a moment. “Seemed to be,” he said at last.

  “You didn’t buy it?”

  “Could’ve been guilt.”

  “What, you reckon he done it? Huh. Lilah’s going to be pissed off if she ends up paying you to get her kid banged up.”

  “Did I say he’d done it? Maybe Axel and his stepdad didn’t get on as well as she reckons they did, and the kid blames himself for Jonathan walking out and going back to the ex.”

  “You mean all those evenings in the pool room weren’t as cosy as she painted them?” I thought about it. “Yeah, I could buy Axe being a little shit to try and drive his stepdad away better than I could buy him actually killing the bloke. Shame we didn’t get to talk to him properly, though.”

  Phil hummed something noncommittal. “I’d like to have a word with his sister.”

  “Yeah. How old do you think she is? Must be teens at least, or Lilah wouldn’t have let her out the house on her own.”

  “We don’t know that. Some mums are more protective of their sons than their daughters. And we don’t know she’s out on her own.”

  “Yeah, guess not. S’pose we should have asked Lilah about her.”

  “No. I’d rather do a bit of digging first.”

  “Fair enough.” I was silent a mo, watching the countryside fly past. “How’s your sister doing these days?”

  “Leanne’s fine.” He gave me a sharp look. “Since when do you worry about my sister?”

  “She’s family now. Or going to be. You know, when we, uh . . .”

  “The phrase is ‘get married,’” Phil said drily. “If you can manage to get the words out, that is.”

  “Oi, are you suggesting I’m getting cold feet?”

  There was an ear-splitting silence. “I wasn’t,” Phil said in the end.

  Oops. He didn’t sound amused. “’Cos, well, I’m not. Obviously. Been thinking about flowers and everything, haven’t I?”

  There was another silence, this one slightly less wince inducing.

  But only slightly.

  “So, uh, where are we off to now?” I asked with the sort of fake brightness you use with terminally confused old folk and loved ones you’ve just mortally pissed off.

  “Lunch. Then the Old Smithy,” Phil said, changing gear with unnecessary force.

  “Right. Good.” I clammed up.

  Phil was an ex-copper, remember? Anything I said could and would be taken down and used in evidence against me.

  I was worried the conversation over our pub grub would be stilted, but as I ought to have guessed, Phil treated it as a working lunch. We’d picked a likely looking local establishment, the Brewer’s Droop—all right, Phil had picked it, using criteria not vouchsafed to yours truly—and he grilled the bar staff about Jonny-boy while the kitchen staff grilled our Aberdeen Angus steak burgers.

  Given how much they were planning to charge us for the food, I hoped they were doing a bloody good job of it. And yeah, I’d already got an inkling from the prices, not to mention the poncy microbrews on offer, that this might not have been old JP’s home from home in any case, but you never knew. And I was flippin’ starving.

  I sat back with my Diet Coke and checked my phone for messages—one from Gary with a link to the box set of Prison Break, which I deleted without a qualm, and another from a customer with a leak which I felt a bit bad about leaving for later—until Phil came back with our meals.

  “Any joy?” I asked, just about managing not to snatch the plate he passed me from his unwary hands. “And you do know they have people to bring the food over, right?”

  Phil shrugged. “Not like I wasn’t coming this way. And no. They said our Mr. Parrot had been in here once or twice, but it wasn’t his local. They suggested we try down the road at the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “Oh? I wasn’t expecting that,” I said idly, picking up a fry—it was way too skinny to qualify as a chip—with my fingers and bunging it in my gob.

  He winced, which, fair dues, was all that feeble Monty Python joke deserved. “Word of advice, Paretski. Don’t give up the day job.”

  I laughed, because his face was a picture. “Which one? The plumbing, or the nosy-parker business? Don’t answer that. So it’s a pub crawl, then, is it? Cheers.” I raised my Coke in an ironic salute, then tucked in to my burger. It wasn’t bad. The meat still had a bit of life in it, so to speak, and the bun was decent quality, with a generous amount of homemade pickle.

  “You wish. No, we’re sticking to the plan. It’s the Old Smithy next. Makes more sense to do the pub in the evening.”

  “A whole day out in Pluck’s End? Blimey, it’s like we’re on honeymoon already.” I hesitated, then decided to go for it on the basis it might help persuade Phil I wasn’t having second thoughts about the wedding. “While we’re on the subject, we probably ought to get something booked—”

  “Let’s keep our minds on the case for now,” Phil cut me off almost literally, with a wave of hi
s steak knife. “We can talk about that when we’re off the clock.”

  “What, we don’t even get a lunch hour? I’m guessing there’s no such thing as a trade union in the private-eye business, then.”

  “Smart-arse.” He smiled, though, so I reckoned I was back in his good books. “Just think we should focus on the case while we’re out here and it’s all fresh in our minds.”

  “Fair enough.” I scoffed down some more of my burger, and a thought struck. “Oi, we need to interview Darren, don’t we? Him being a mate of Lilah’s. And by we, I mean you. Tell you what, we’ll make a night of it. I’ll distract Gary with martinis and you can have a word with Darren.”

  “They’re not joined at the hip. I can catch him on a Monday night.” Monday nights were when Gary went out to tug repeatedly on something long and sausage-shaped and make a lot of noise in the company of other like-minded individuals—in other words, he had bellringing practice.

  I shrugged. “Fine.” I could catch up with Gary another time. Although despite what Phil said, catching Gary on his own hadn’t got any easier since him and Darren had tied the metaphorical. What with Dave being stuck indoors changing nappies, I was feeling the lack of someone to have a drink and a moan about my bloke with.

  Not that I’d actually got a lot to moan about, with Phil. Obviously. But it’d be nice to think the opportunity was there if I needed it.

  It was like the ex-Mrs. Z. had been saying to me when I went round to fix her loo—once all your mates get coupled up and/or sprogged up, any poor sod left single finds their social life’s completely gone down the pan. Maybe it’s just part of getting older. Maturing.

  I blinked as fingers snapped in front of my face. “What?”

  “Still in there?” Phil asked with a smirk.

  “Oi, I was focussing on the case,” I lied, and took a large bite of my burger to cover up any tells.

  “Right.” I’m sure I imagined the scepticism in the voice of my beloved. “So you’ve come up with a strategy for dealing with our Mr. Parrot’s colleagues at the Old Smithy?” he went on.

  “I didn’t say I was focussing productively. Anyhow, thought I’d leave all that to you. Wouldn’t want you to think I was after your job.” I chewed on a fry thoughtfully. It was edible, even borderline tasty, but give me proper chip-shop chips any day. “Wonder what Lilah’s sister’s like? The antiques business is a bit different from, well, porn.”