Pressure Head

by JL Merrow

  “Oh, dear. It is rather shocking, isn’t it? Yes, poor man. He must have been deeply troubled about something.” She pursed her lips. “One can’t help but think it must be connected to poor little Melanie’s death. Remorse can be a terrible thing.”

  My chest felt tight. Was I the only one who still thought there was any doubt he’d done it? “That’s . . . that’s what the police told you, is it?”

  “Oh, the police . . . They never tell you anything, do they? No, I heard it from Alison Mitchell. She goes to clean at the vicarage. She was the one who found him, poor thing. Hanging, he was. Such a terrible thing to find. Of course, we’ve had the police all over the village today.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “That’s why I’m keeping an eye on poor Judith today. I’m afraid she’s—well, obviously she knew him rather well, you see.”

  I darted a glance over to Mrs. Reece, who was staring blankly out of the shop’s glass front. Like you might do if, say, you heard someone talking about you and want to pretend you hadn’t heard.

  “You know what, I just remembered somewhere I need to be. Lovely meeting you, ladies.” I left the cakes on the shelf and walked out of the shop, feeling sick. There was a railing just outside, so I leant on it, breathing in fresh, cold air mingled with exhaust fumes from the cars that ambled past, slowing for the speed bumps.

  Was Merry the murderer? Had I been wrong about him, and about Melanie too? God, he’d been in my house.

  I vaguely registered the automatic door opening behind me, and then Edie was at my side. “Are you feeling quite all right?” she asked. “Don’t worry—I left Judith by the magazines. You can speak freely.”

  I wondered what on earth she was expecting me to say. I was still wondering when she spoke again. “You know, Judith had your young man round this morning.”

  “Phil?” I asked, startled. Although on second thoughts, it wasn’t that surprising he’d wanted to talk to Mrs. Reece. I wondered why she was calling him my young man after the way he’d behaved last time she’d seen us together. In the end, I put it down to some kind of old-lady intuition.

  “Yes. I’m happy to say he’s much more polite when you get to know him. I’d gone round to break the news to her about poor Meredith. Judith doesn’t get out a lot, not with her husband the way he is—I’m sure you understand.”

  I was sure I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. Why hadn’t Phil asked me to go with him?

  “But he would go on asking her about Lionel, and well . . .” She shook her head. “Poor Judith isn’t the strongest personality around, and Lionel can be terribly forceful when he puts his mind to it. He does so like to be in control of everything. That’s why she had to take a little step back from it all. Just a little break, to recharge her batteries.”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can imagine she didn’t find it easy working with old Lionel. Bit of a commanding figure, he is.”

  Edie nodded happily. “Judith and I always call him the Boss.”

  A cold thrill ran through me. “Is that what Melanie used to call him too?”

  “You know, now you ask, I think I did hear her call him that once. I imagine Judith must have mentioned it during the handover of responsibilities. You won’t tell on us, will you?” Edie asked, wide-eyed, like a kid caught with her hand in the pick-and-mix.

  “I— No, course not,” I managed. “Look, thanks for coming out and checking up on me, but I’m fine. You go back to Judith. I’ll be fine.” I started to walk off, but then a thought struck me, and I turned. “Edie, did you tell Phil about Lionel’s nickname?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He seemed quite excited about it.”

  Phil still wasn’t answering his phone, and now it was going straight to voice mail. I didn’t like it. In the end I gritted my teeth and dialled Dave’s number.

  “Southgate,” he answered curtly, putting me off a bit.

  “It’s me, Dave,” I said awkwardly.

  “I know it’s you, Tom. But to coin a phrase, I’m kind of in the middle of something here. Is it about the case?”

  “I— Yeah. Kind of.” I abandoned all ideas of asking Dave if he’d seen my boyfriend. “Is it official, now, that Merry killed Melanie? I mean, did he leave that signed confession you were after, or was there some evidence?” If they had proof Merry had done it, then Lionel’s nickname couldn’t mean anything. Plus, I was betting no one had bothered telling Graham, if so. At least I could go round and give him a scrap of comfort. It was even possible I might find Phil there.

  Dave didn’t say anything for a long time.

  “Dave?”

  “Look, Tom, you did not hear this from me, understand? And I’m only telling you now because you’re a mate, and you were so bloody cut up about it all.”

  “Telling me what, Dave?”

  Dave’s voice went so low I could barely hear it. “The Reverend didn’t kill himself. It was a setup.”

  “What? Merry was murdered?”

  “You’d better not be in a public place spouting off like that, I’m warning you.”

  “I’m not—I’m in the van. Windows closed and all. But bloody hell!” That meant . . . that meant he hadn’t killed Melanie, most likely. And his death definitely hadn’t been my fault. Relief flooded through me, bringing guilt bobbing along in its wake. This really wasn’t all about me.

  “Exactly. Now, I’m not going to tell you not to mention it to the boyfriend—I’m not that bloody naïve—but you tell him from me, it stops with him, right? I don’t want to find out he’s tweeted it to all his bloody Facebook friends.”

  “Um. Have you seen Phil today?”

  “Run out on you already, has he? He was around Brock’s Hollow this morning, sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, but since then I haven’t had the very dubious pleasure of his company. You want to get him tagged.”

  “Yeah, right. Listen, Dave—did you know Lionel Treadgood’s nickname was the Boss? Edie Penrose told me that this afternoon.”

  “You’re joking. Seriously? Bloody hell.” Dave swore, this time with even more feeling. “I wonder what they’re teaching them in Hendon these days, I really do. Couldn’t find their own arses with a map and a satnav, some of ’em. Right. Cheers, Tom. Anything else?”

  “Are you going to arrest Lionel now?”

  “All in good time, all in good time. If I arrest him on hearsay, his lawyer’ll have me for breakfast. We’ll wait and see what forensics come up with. And no going round there to ask him if he did it, all right? I mean that, Tom. That’s an order. You stay well away from Treadgood. Same goes for the boyfriend too. I’ll see you around.” Dave hung up.

  I did the only thing I could think of—drove the van round to Phil’s place. I had to park it illegally, which meant I had roughly thirty seconds before I’d be getting a ticket. I swear the population of St. Albans halves when the traffic wardens go home for their tea.

  Phil’s car wasn’t outside his flat, and when I rang his doorbell, following it up with the ones for all the other flats, no one answered. I swore, then ran back to the van. I hadn’t got a ticket, but I’d have traded that for knowing Phil was safe any day. I couldn’t help thinking he must have gone to confront Lionel. And he wouldn’t know how dangerous the bloke was—wouldn’t know about the second murder. He still thought Merry had killed himself.

  Why the hell hadn’t he called me to go with him?

  Was it because he didn’t think he needed me anymore? Dave’s warning was eating away at me like caustic soda. I didn’t want to believe Phil had just been using me—but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility, either.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  Dark had fallen by the time I parked my Fiesta halfway down Pothole Parade, and went the rest of the way to Lionel’s house on foot. One advantage of the rich liking their privacy was that the road was lined with high hedges, broken only by the entrances to long, twisting driveways, so I was reasonably certain no one saw me acting furtive. There wasn’t even any street lighting,
this being a private road. I felt my way along and tried not to curse too loudly when I stumbled.

  The Treadgoods’, with its wide, open-plan gravel driveway, had to be the bloody exception, of course. Even the crunching of the stones under my feet seemed louder than a pneumatic drill in the still, quiet evening. The security light came on as I approached. I’d just have to hope Lionel and Patricia were having their tea, or maybe watching EastEnders to marvel at how the other half lived—at any rate, too busy to look out of the window and see me messing up their freshly raked gravel.

  The water in the swimming pool was still messing with my spidey-senses—but there was nothing wrong with my eyes. And I reckoned the little summerhouse next to it would be pretty much perfect for stashing someone you’d, say, caught snooping around (on his own, the daft prick) and bashed over the head. If it came to a fight, Phil would beat Lionel easily, I was sure—but all Lionel would need to do would be to get behind him and catch him unawares—like he must have done to poor Melanie. He could have tied Phil up, gagged him so as not to annoy the neighbours, and left him there, ready to finish off later.

  Or he could have finished him off already and stashed his body in there, of course. But I didn’t want to think about that possibility. I wondered if I’d know—if it wasn’t for the water in the swimming pool, would I know from the vibes whether the body I was searching for was living or dead? I hoped not. At a time like this, you want to keep hoping for the best as long as you can.

  I’d expected the summerhouse to be locked, and it was. Good job I’d brought along a few tools. Dave could do me later for breaking and entering; right now I was all about getting in as fast as possible. I forced a flat-headed screwdriver into the lock. The surrounding wood started to give, and I tensed up, worried it would splinter with a crack and give me away, but in fact it more or less crumbled, damply and relatively quietly. The sickly sweet smell of decaying wood tickled my nose, overpowering the chlorine from the pool for a moment. Someone ought to tell Lionel to do something about the rot pronto, or he’d have the whole place tumbling down around his ears.

  I was buggered if it was going to be me, though. ’Specially if it turned out he had my boyfriend hidden away in here. I smothered a nervous laugh, checked one last time there was no one sneaking up on me with a tyre iron, pushed the door open, and stepped through, closing it behind me. My hands were shaking as I flicked on my torch. Moving its pathetically weak beam of light over the interior of the summer house, I listened out with my sixth sense for anything it could tell me.

  Mostly, it told me there was a shed-load of water not six feet from my back. I wasn’t having much more luck with senses one to five. The place seemed pretty bare, everything neatly packed away at the end of last summer, with just a few things, like a mop and bucket, showing signs of having been bunged in at the last minute. Where the hell was Phil? It was brass monkey weather, there in the damp chill of the summerhouse, and the sweat trickling down my back made me shiver. Was this all a bloody wild-goose chase? Wait—there. A chest. Big enough to fit even large, boneheaded private eyes. I scrambled over to kneel in front of it, got out my chisel to break it open—then realised it wasn’t even locked. My heart pounding, I flipped up the lid.

  Cushions. Sodding seat cushions. Damn it. Although it was better than finding a body.

  Think, Paretski. If Phil wasn’t in here—and I was getting more and more certain he wasn’t—where else might he be? In the house? No. No way was I buying Patricia being involved in any of this. The car parked out in the drive? Plenty of room in the boot of Lionel’s Range Rover to hide a body or two, but would he really have the nerve to keep something so incriminating out in front of the house like that?

  Still, I’d have to look. I wouldn’t be able to break in quietly, but I reckoned I shouldn’t need to. Touching the car ought to do the trick. Using all of my senses, I took one last look around the summerhouse, then switched off my torch and headed outside.

  Even the faint breeze that had blown as I’d got here had now dropped, and everything was eerily still. A tired moon lounged back in the sky, and a few stars twinkled blearily through the clouds. God, it was quiet out here. Round where I live, it’s never quiet—even in the early hours, there’s always neighbours having domestics, someone driving down a road nearby, or a bunch of lads laughing and joking on their way home from a drunken night out. But out here, the main roads were too far away for the traffic noise to carry, and all the houses had thick walls and double glazing. Not that their owners would likely dream of washing their dirty knickers in public or having the telly loud enough to disturb the neighbours.

  Lionel’s Range Rover stood sentry near the front door. I crouched down to cross the treacherous gravel as quietly as I could, muttered a brief prayer to anyone who might be listening that he wouldn’t have a touch-sensitive car alarm, and put my hands on the boot to listen in.

  Nothing. Nothing at all. So where the hell did that leave me? Bloody frustrated, that’s where. Then it occurred to me—living out here, in a big posh house, just how likely was it Lionel and Patricia had only one car? Actually, come to think of it, where the hell was Phil’s car? I had to assume he’d driven here.

  Oh God . . . My stomach churned as I realised there could be another reason for missing cars. Lionel could be out in one right now, about to get rid of Phil. Permanently. I crouched down behind the Range Rover and leaned against one thickly treaded tyre to take a couple of steadying breaths. I couldn’t focus on all the what-ifs. I just had to carry on hoping.

  There was a driveway running between the house and the swimming pool—more of that gravel. Lionel had to have bought up half a quarry’s worth. There must be a garage down there—there certainly wasn’t one up here, and this wasn’t the sort of house that left your expensive cars to shiver outside in the cold and the weather. I peered cautiously around the side of the car, and when I saw the coast was clear, edged around the house.

  Lionel and Patricia weren’t big on closing their curtains after dusk, it seemed; light spilled from the large bay windows and onto the vast, sunken lawn at the back of the house. Flood-plaining, I guessed; the river ran along the bottom of the garden. I could feel it, a reassuring, constantly changing vibe, nothing like the flat, dead noise of the swimming pool.

  A figure moved in front of the window, and I froze, but Patricia just reached up and drew the curtains, and I breathed again. It was darker than ever now as I crept through the shadows towards a low, white building that had clearly been built with more than one car in mind. It was on the same raised ground as the path, which made sense, obviously, cars and flooded rivers not tending to be a match made in heaven.

  When I got to the garage, I felt horribly exposed against the bright-white paint and slipped around to the side farthest from the house. It turned out to be a good move; I’d been wondering how the hell I’d get through the metal drive-through door at the front, but here at the back was a normal, people-sized door.

  I reached for the handle, all my senses alert—and my knees buckled and nearly dropped me to the ground. Phil was here. Thank God. I could feel him, all tied up in tangles of fear and hate and anger. And a sense of something unfinished, which I clung to desperately.

  I really didn’t want Phil to be finished.

  The door was locked, of course, but it was no match for my trusty screwdriver. Which was not to say it went down quietly. My heart racing, I winced at the loud cracking sound—why the hell couldn’t this door have been rotten too?—and despite my desperation to get inside, I held my breath as long as I could, listening for any outcry from the house.

  There was nothing, so I opened the door, flicked on my torch, and stepped inside.

  “Phil,” I whispered urgently, as loudly as I dared. “Phil, it’s me. Tom.” My torch lit on two cars parked side by side. I’d been right: one of them was Phil’s Golf. I scrambled over to it, put my hands on the boot. Result. I barely managed to stop myself pounding on the hatch, desperate for
some sign from Phil that he was still there, still alive. I hefted my chisel—then thought to try the lock. It opened, and I threw up the hatch.

  He was there. Tied in some kind of tarpaulin. “Phil, it’s me,” I repeated, struggling with the knots in the thick cord that bound him. He wasn’t moving. Christ, he wasn’t moving. “Phil, it’s Tom. I’m getting you out.” I finally got the tarpaulin unwound. Shone my torch on his face. Phil’s eyes were closed. Was that good? Dead people didn’t close their own eyes, did they? I fumbled at his throat, my hand shaking. Where the fuck was his pulse? He was still warm, so that was good, wasn’t it—except didn’t they say you’re not dead until you’re warm and dead? “Don’t you fucking dare be dead, you bastard,” I muttered. He’d been gagged with a tea towel. I loosened the knot and yanked it off. There was blood on it—from a head wound?

  Phil groaned.

  “Oh, thank God,” I breathed. “Phil, can you hear me? It’s Tom.” His eyelids fluttered open, then screwed shut against the light of my torch. He didn’t look all that with it. “Phil, you’ve got to wake up. I’m going to get you out of here but you’ve got to bloody well wake up, all right? I’m going to untie you.” My fingers were numb with cold and clumsy with nerves as I worked at the cord binding his hands behind his back. It was slippery and broad—a tie, I realised. It was like something out of The Dangerous Book for Boys—“How to incapacitate an enemy using stuff you find around the house.” The tie was soaking wet—as were the rest of Phil’s clothes—making the knot much harder to undo. God, it was a wonder Phil hadn’t frozen to death out here. That tarpaulin had probably saved his life.

  “Nearly there,” I panted. Damn it, I had half a dozen blunt instruments on me—why the hell hadn’t I thought to bring a knife? If I kept talking, maybe Phil would stay with me. “Just got to . . . There! Done it.” I dropped the tie on the floor and moved to check Phil’s ankles—

  Light flooded the room, and a low, commanding voice said, “Stop right there.”