Lock Nut

by JL Merrow

  “Find out soon enough, won’t you?”

  I hesitated, then said it anyway. “Sure we shouldn’t be heading off down to Camden to have a word with Kelvin Reid? I mean, I know we reckoned it didn’t sound right . . .”

  Phil shook his head decisively. “No. The police will be covering that angle—remember Lilah said she told them it was him?”

  “Doesn’t mean they believed her any more than we did.”

  “They don’t have to believe her. They do have to check out any leads provided by the public, even if they’re probably bollocks.” He gave a grim smile. “Tends not to go down too well with superior officers, ignoring that kind of thing. Especially if it turns out the lead was on track all along.”

  “Voice of experience?”

  “Not personally. Thank God. Anyway, we’ll stick to the plan—talk to the colleagues this afternoon, and visit the pub in the evening. We can pay a visit to Mr. Reid in a day or so. Give him time to get over the official interviews.”

  I frowned. “That’s very considerate of you, seeing as he’s a murder suspect.”

  Phil huffed a laugh. “Not as such. Sorry to shatter your illusions. It just means they’ll either have found something on him and arrested him, or he’ll have let his guard back down.”

  “And there’s the ruthless bastard I’ve come to know and love. Right, are we done here?” I gave up on the fries and placed my cutlery neatly at twenty past four.

  It got me a raised eyebrow from Phil, who’d left his own plate so clean you could eat your dinner off it. So to speak. “You, leaving food? Are you feeling all right?”

  “Hey, I don’t want to be bursting out of my wedding dress, do I? Hand your plate over.”

  Phil knocked back the last of his mineral water, and I took the plates over to the bar, which earned me a smile and a “Bless you, love” from the barmaid. Then we headed off out to the Smithy.

  The postal address of the Old Smithy might have claimed it was in Pluck’s End, but the place itself was so far out in the wilds I half expected to turn a corner and find Bear Grylls doing naked push-ups to stave off hypothermia.

  Okay, so there might have been a certain amount of wishful thinking there.

  After a couple of false starts (because hey, this was our neck of the woods, more or less, so we weren’t going to cop out and use the satnav), we reached our destination down a winding narrow lane with only a few houses for company, of the big, posh persuasion that had names like “Hunter’s Lodge” and “Water End House” instead of numbers. Just in case plebs like me hadn’t got the message They ain’t for the likes of you, mate. It was a sturdy, rambling building, painted gleaming white and no doubt with a discreet plaque somewhere proclaiming its listed-building status, topped off with a neatly maintained thatched roof.

  There was a car park set off to one side in what I guessed had once been a paddock—a sort of waiting room for the horses coming to get shod, maybe? Only without the posters telling you more about various health issues than you really wanted to know, and with no dog-eared, germ-ridden copies of Reader’s Digest to thumb through, either. Or hoof through, as might be. Phil pulled his Golf in there, tutting under his breath as a muddy puddle splashed its pristine silver sides.

  “We’re working for Lilah now,” I comforted him. “You can claim for the car wash on expenses.” Then I thought about it and brightened up. “Hey, that means our lunch was on expenses too, right?”

  Phil huffed a laugh. “I suppose you’d have gone for dessert too if you’d thought about it.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of the client like that.” Although I might’ve had a side salad. Hey, vitamins are important.

  Once out of the paddock, we were walking on deep, crunchy gravel. The near end of the building was set up as a tiny café with its own entrance flanked by big stone urns planted up with colourful winter pansies, and a tastefully chalked-up blackboard advertising fair-trade coffee and gluten-free cakes. I felt like going in and asking for a mug of PG Tips and a choccie biccie on principle, but it was a bit soon after lunch. Maybe later.

  “You’d have thought a thatched roof would be a health and safety risk back in days of yore when the forge was lit and sparks were flying,” I said idly as we walked up to the main entrance.

  “Maybe that’s why they built the place so far from town,” Phil suggested.

  “Yeah? Seems rough on the horses, having to hobble miles to get their shoes fixed.”

  “It’d be rougher if the whole village went up in flames.” Phil’s face was grim, and I wondered if he was remembering the fire at the Dyke, which me and him had had front-row tickets for. And great, now I was picturing it in all its terrifying glory. We could have lost each other that day. I shuddered and pushed open the door.

  The theme of arsonist’s delight carried on inside the Smithy, with bare wooden floorboards scattered with the odd flammable rustic rag rug, firewood furniture and fittings, and a large, open wooden staircase leading up to the first floor, presumably to allow airflow to fan the flames. Not that I’m paranoid or anything. The centrepiece of the ground floor was a massive anvil, nearly three feet long, displayed on a cast iron stand. It looked just like the ones in cartoons, with one pointy end and one square, although it didn’t have the brand name Acme written on the side, and there were definitely no flattened coyotes underneath. When I ran a hand over its surface, it wasn’t as cold as I’d been expecting, and the metal, although pitted by hammer blows, felt smooth.

  Having worked with cast iron pipes, which were what half the plumbing in this place likely consisted of, I did a rough-and-ready guesstimate in my head. “Blimey, this must weigh three or four hundred pounds. And that’s without the stand.”

  Phil raised an eyebrow. “You’d know about that if it fell on your toe.”

  “Or if it got dropped on you from a height. Actually, hang about, no, you probably wouldn’t, in that case. You’d be too busy doing pancake impersonations.” I grinned. “Think anyone’s ever been murdered by anvil?”

  “You want to murder someone, you’d be better off using something from that little lot.” Phil nodded towards the back wall, which was hung with a wicked selection of aggressively large hammers, long-handled pliers and other implements of medieval torture and the farrier’s trade.

  “Point. Think they’re for sale? Or just there for decoration? Or, you know, defence against burglars?”

  “Place like this? They don’t defend against burglars. All they do is put in a hefty insurance claim once the stuff’s gone walkabout.”

  So much for Lilah reckoning this place to be a home away from home for a bloke from Camden Market. The Old Smithy bore about the same relation to a market stall selling vintage goods as I do to the Queen. Oh, they had old stuff for sale, but that was about the only similarity. In fact, when I examined it all more closely, I saw that half the goods on offer weren’t proper antiques, just crafty stuff in vintage style, like hats and mittens your granny’s granny would have turned her nose up at as too old-fashioned and knickknacks made out of leather or felt that didn’t seem to have any purpose apart from looking vintage. It didn’t even smell old in here—more like potpourri and furniture polish.

  Then there was a whole section labelled Vintage, Retro, and Reclaimed Lighting, which mostly seemed to consist of perfectly good, if battered, pieces of equipment like phones with actual dials, tripod cameras, and old electrical meters—which some git had then desecrated by shoving a light bulb in the top.

  I felt like taking them home and giving them a decent burial—until I saw the prices. “Bloody hell, who buys these things?”

  Phil cast an appraising eye over the poor bastardised gadgets. “Steampunks?”

  “Do what?”

  “You know. Dress up like Charles Dickens gone postal in a clock factory. Say ‘Splendid’ a lot and go on about tea. Read a lot of Victorian science fiction. Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, and all that.”

  “Oh. Right.” I squinted a
t the, for want of a better word, lamps. “I don’t get it. Where’s the steam? Where’s the flippin’ punk, even?”

  Phil shrugged. “It’s an aesthetic.”

  “Don’t reckon it’d send me to sleep. Give me nightmares, maybe.”

  “Funny. And seriously, a bunch of lamps?” Phil actually took a step away, all the better to give me the side-eye.

  I hunched my shoulders. “It’s . . . I dunno. Making things be something they’re not. I don’t like it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It’s not a—”

  “Nope. It’s not.”

  We both knew he’d been about to ask if it was in any way, shape, or form related to my so-called gift.

  We also both knew I hadn’t exactly given the matter due consideration but trust me, when I’m already on edge and we’re about to talk to someone about the murder of a family member isn’t the best time in the world for indulging in spiritual self-examination.

  “Can I help you, or are you just browsing?” We both spun round at the sound of that nicely-brought-up voice. Giving us a polite smile was a young man—early twenties, I’d guess—who set my gaydar pinging off the scale. So going by past results, he was probably happily married to his second wife and with a baby or six on the way. He had fashionably—but not too fashionably—cut dark hair and the figure of someone who watched what he ate. Good-looking, but in an abstract way, not in an I’d-tap-that way.

  Phil cleared his throat. “Are you the manager here?”

  “Me? No. Merely a humble minion. Would you like to speak to Ms. Lovett? She’s the owner.” He didn’t bother waiting for our yay or nay, and took a couple of paces away from us before twirling like a dancer to ask, “What can I say it’s about?”

  “Jonathan Parrot,” Phil said quietly, but with emphasis. “We’re investigating his murder.”

  That stopped the bloke. He retraced his steps and stretched out a hand, which Phil grasped for a short, businesslike handshake. “Oh, how thrilling to meet you. I’m Oliver. Oliver Proudfoot.”

  “Phil Morrison. And my partner, Tom Paretski.” My turn to shake hands. Oliver gave my palm an extra squeeze, which got me wondering if I’d pinged his gaydar, and then Phil went on, “Before we see Miss Lovett, you must have known Mr. Parrot pretty well.” It was half a question and half not.

  Did Oliver freeze for an instant there? Or had I imagined it? Almost immediately, his face turned sad. “We’re quite a tight-knit team here. We’re going to miss him terribly.”

  Phil put on a puzzled expression. “From what I heard, he stopped working here several weeks ago. Had you seen him since then?”

  Okay, I definitely hadn’t imagined it, because there it was again. That tiny pause before Oliver answered. “No. I’m afraid not. Shall we go on up? It’s Mzz Lovett, by the way. She’s very particular about that. And no jokes about pies, if you want to stay on her good side.”

  Phil smiled, but it seemed forced to me. “Let me guess, she’s heard them all before?”

  “Uh?” was my intelligent contribution to the discussion.

  I got a pitying look from Oliver. “Sweeney Todd? The musical?”

  “He killed ’em; Mrs. Lovett baked ’em,” Phil explained.

  “‘Worst pies in England,’” Oliver singsonged helpfully if tunelessly. “Or was it London?”

  “London,” Phil told him, at the same moment as I said, “Right. I knew that.” We’d watched the film round at Gary and Darren’s a while back, though it hadn’t really been my cup of gin.

  “And no,” Oliver went on as he gestured up the open staircase. “Ms. Lovett tends not to have a sense of humour about her name.”

  I got the sense he was itching to add, Or at all, but that could just have been me. And after all, this was Lilah’s sister we were talking about. Mzz Tallulah Lovett was likely to be as down-to-earth and unpretentious as the original.

  We trooped up the stairs, me in the lead and Oliver politely following us, probably so he could get a good view of Phil’s arse.

  “Ms. Lovett?” he called out as we reached the top. “There are some gentlemen to see you.”

  A pair of denim-clad female ankles appeared in my field of vision, swiftly followed by another pair, these ones in sheer tights and flashily expensive shoes. I looked up and blinked.

  “All right, Tom?” Lilah said loudly.

  Lilah beamed at us from the top of the stairs with a smile like a shark’s. “I thought I’d better give Loos here a heads-up you might be coming round. Didn’t want you to catch her on the hop, did I?”

  Bloody hell. So much for the element of surprise. That’d teach us to stop for lunch en route. “Lilah, good to see you again so soon,” I said cautiously as I reached the landing. I was having real trouble working our esteemed client out. Did she want us on the job or not?

  I shot Phil a glance as he joined me, but he had that stony expression he always wears when he wants to hide the fact someone’s just bogged up his best-laid plans.

  Standing next to each other, Lilah and Loos—Loos?—looked exactly like before-and-after pictures of some poor woman who’d been stretched on the rack. It was well weird. The sister was, I realised once we were on the same level, no more than a couple of inches shorter than me, but in all other respects she was eerily like Lilah. Even down to clothes size, in anything that didn’t come with long sleeves or legs. Except . . . somehow the figure that was so voluptuous on Lilah seemed average and nondescript on the sister.

  Phil recovered before I did, and stepped forward to offer his hand. “Phil Morrison. And this is my partner, Tom Paretski. We’re investigating Jonathan Parrot’s death.”

  “Where are my manners? This is my little sister, Tallulah Lovett.” Lilah smiled. Mzz Lovett didn’t, although she did shake Phil’s hand while giving him a thorough examination. Apparently big, built, and blond was her thing too.

  But ye gods, Lilah, Tallulah, and Lola? I was struggling to see what Axel thought he had to complain about, name-wise. And while Lilah was every inch Sampson’s temptress (hey, I paid attention in Sunday School. Until they kicked me out), Tallulah’s name didn’t seem to fit her, as if she’d borrowed it from her sister.

  If I’d had to guess, I’d have put Tallulah as the elder, and not because she was taller. There were hard lines around her mouth, and the cords in her neck stood out, ropy and taut above the designer scarf she was wearing in a failed attempt to make her jeans-and-blazer outfit less boring. I also got the distinct impression she wasn’t half as fond of her big sis as Lilah seemed to think she was, although fair dues, it could have been down to the godawful nickname. Oh, Loos smiled to Lilah’s face all right, but her expression soured as soon as Lilah turned away. She noticed me noticing that, and sent me a glare of my very own that seemed to say Keep your nose out of my family business if you know what’s good for you.

  Or maybe she just didn’t like me. Actually, come to think of it, I was fairly sure there was something personal about it. I say personal, but maybe it was men in general she didn’t like. Or gay men. Or plumbers, come to that—you get a few who’ve been ripped off once by some cowboy, and think we’re all like that.

  I wondered what the word for it would be, if there was one. Plombist? Mariophobic?

  “Lilah told me about you,” Mzz Tallulah said, proving me right with a curl of her thin, imperfectly bleached upper lip. “I told her it was all a big con.”

  Okay, maybe she simply had a natural aversion to anything that smacked of mystical bollocks, which was fair enough. Her accent was a weird mix—her consonants were all present and correct, but the vowels kept wandering off to somewhere less reputable when she wasn’t paying attention. She and Lilah might have left the East End behind, but it hadn’t left either of them, and whereas Lilah was happy to display her origins in her front window, in Tallulah’s case they might as well be a nasty smell coming out of the cellar. I flashed her a smile I wasn’t feeling and put on a chipper tone. “Found him, though, didn’t we?”


  “You gotta admit, Loos, he’s got a point.” Lilah turned to us with a rueful smile that tugged on the old guilt strings. “I’ll be buggering off now. You must be getting sick of the sight of me.”

  “Course not, love,” I assured her. “What bloke would ever get tired of looking at you?”

  And yeah, I was laying it on with a shovel, but Lilah’s eyes sparkled at the compliment, so clearly she wasn’t complaining. “Watch out for this one, Loos, he’s a right charmer.”

  Phil coughed. “We’ll need to ask you a few questions, Ms. Lovett, but we hope not to take up too much of your time.”

  Tallulah gave a tight little smile. “Of course, I’ll be happy to give you any help I can in finding out what happened to poor Jonathan.” Her face called her a liar. “Although I don’t see—”

  “Laters, Loos,” Lilah cut her off. “And don’t forget you’re taking Axel out on Sunday, yeah?” She gave my arm a squeeze as she went past, heading for the stairs.

  “I won’t forget.” Tallulah watched her sister leave with narrowed eyes and not a word of farewell. I hoped she was nicer to her nephew. “You’d better come on through,” she told us snippily. “I’m not doing this here.”

  Tallulah strode off briskly in her sensible heels to a small office set right at one end of the building. With me and Phil in it as well as Mzz Lovett, it threatened to burst at the seams, particularly as she didn’t bother to go sit behind the surprisingly modern desk. It could have been politeness, seeing as that was the only chair in the room, or it could simply have been a natural desire not to get loomed over.

  I mean, I could relate.

  “Well?” she asked, folding her arms in an I’m far too busy to bother with minor matters like the murder of a brother-in-law way.