by JL Merrow
“Oh, them.” Morgan Everton’s crew. “Oi, why’s it got to be me? I don’t know the first bloody thing about writing.” Or private investigating, to tell the truth, although I had got a bit of an introduction to the art since Phil had unexpectedly popped back into my life in Brock’s Hollow.
“Doesn’t matter. Look, I knew someone who used to go along to one of these circles.”
Not, “I had a mate who” or “someone I used to work with.” Which didn’t necessarily mean it was the mysterious Mark, obviously.
But I knew what my money was on.
“Anyway,” Phil was saying, “he said it was just a bunch of old women sitting around drinking tea and writing stories about their cats.” He stroked Merlin’s head and got a toothy yawn for his trouble.
“So?”
“So you’d be a natural. Wow them with a few reminiscences about your Auntie Lol, tell them how Arthur once maimed a burglar, that sort of stuff.”
“In his dreams, maybe.” I cast a glance around for the cat in question and spotted him fast asleep on a chair, tail twitching. Maybe he was dreaming about maiming small furry animals. “Anyway, I don’t think this lot are like that. I can’t see Morgan Everton writing stories about cats, can you? And he’s the wrong sex.”
“Like you’d get anything out of him anyway. It’s the rest of them you need to talk to.” His eyes narrowed. “Just give them a bit of the Paretski charm. You’ll have them eating out of your hand.”
I flashed him a flirty smile. “I can think of someone else I’d rather have eating out of my hand. Or, you know, other places.”
“Focus.”
“Killjoy. Anyway, I still don’t see why you can’t do it.”
“You’ve got the connection with Everton. I haven’t.”
I leaned my head back on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. “We talked for five minutes. I wouldn’t call that a bloody connection.”
“You don’t have to have sucked his dick to have a connection.”
“Great, make me lose my appetite, why don’t you?” I had moussaka in the oven for a late Sunday lunch. I’d be well pissed off if he put me off eating that, after all the faffing around with the sauce.
“Anyway, if I go, it’ll be a whole different ball game. He’ll know—they’ll all know—I’m there to ask questions about Cherry. If you go, they’ll be more willing to buy into the idea you might actually be serious about writing.”
“Yeah, maybe. Until they actually ask me to, you know, write something.”
“You don’t go to these things to write. You go there to talk crap about writing.” He smirked. “So like I said, you’ll be a natural.”
“What, at talking crap? Love you too, you bastard.” There was a catch in my chest as I realised a split second too late that this was the first time I’d said it. That either of us had, come to that. The l-word, I mean, not called him a bastard. I’d done that plenty of times.
I glanced at Phil. He was looking at me funny. Or maybe he just had wind. Then he sort of shook himself. He didn’t say anything.
“Right,” I said, standing up. “Better go check on the moussaka.”
True to his word, Phil buggered off Monday morning, taking his posh holdall with him. Apparently he reckoned murderers had day jobs just like anyone else. Either that or sixty hours straight was as much as he could take of my company, which was fair enough. The place felt a lot bigger without him in it, and Merlin slunk around the kitchen with his belly to the ground as if his best friend had died. Arthur and I left him to it and stretched out on the sofa with the laptop. Well, I stretched. Arthur just curled up into the usual solid, furry lump.
The Lea Valley Literati website, when I finally got it up and running, was so bloody clunky I expected it to carry ads for flypaper and crinolines. Or, you know, my old laptop. But at least it gave me a number to ring to find out where they actually met. This information was clearly too sensitive to be trusted to the World Wide Web.
I punched the number into my phone and waited.
A dozen rings later—I can be a persistent sod when I want to be—the phone was answered with a brusque, “Yes?”
“Is that Margaret Pierce?”
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested. Good-bye.”
She slammed the phone down. Seemed the so-called Paretski charm was getting past its sell-by date.
I sighed and pressed redial. This time, it only took three rings before she picked up and drew in a breath, presumably about to demand to know what I was selling and why I was harassing her like this. “I’m calling about the Lea Valley Literati,” I said quickly, before she could get a word out.
“Yes?”
I’d been hoping for a more encouraging response. “Er, yeah. You’re the contact name on the website? I was thinking of joining.”
“I see. Well, you’d be very welcome to come along to a meeting.” Her tone called her a liar. I felt about as welcome as syphilis.
“Great! Er, so when and where?” It’d said on the website that they met on Monday evenings, so there ought to be a meeting tonight, but it’d been a bit short on any other helpful information.
“We meet at the chairman’s house.” That, if I wasn’t mistaken, was my old friend Morgan E. “Half-past seven. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll set my alarm. So where’s that, then?”
“You do understand this is a literary society?” She reeled off the address—one of the posh places in Redbourn. Nice if you can get it. I’d done some work up that way not so long ago. Friendly lady, always happy to chat and served up Marks and Spencers choccy biccies with the morning cuppa. Terrible taste in carpets, though. She went for these fluffy cream ones that showed a speck of dirt at five hundred yards. I mean, I always took my boots off when I went inside, but that place made me worry even my socks weren’t clean enough.
“I’ll see you tonight, then. Cheers.” I managed to stop myself calling her “love”. I had a feeling she wouldn’t have been impressed.
I’d almost forgotten about going to see Auntie Lol’s ex. If Cherry hadn’t rung from her sick bed to remind me, I’d have ended up blowing him off. As it was, I didn’t much fancy going round there—seemed a bit, I don’t know, disrespectful, messing about with gag gifts from beyond the grave when Cherry had just come close to joining Auntie Lol in the afterlife.
Not that I believe in the afterlife, really.
Well, probably not.
I mean, who knows?
Anyway, I thought seeing as Cherry had bothered to ring and remind me, I should probably bother to go, and it wasn’t like I had any jobs on, seeing as I’d blanked out the space in my diary. So I bombed down the A1(M) in the van to the sounds of an animated discussion on Radio 5 about violence on the football pitch. Just as I reckoned they were about to come to blows in the studio, I hit Mill Hill. The satnav perked up at finally having some work to do, so I had to switch off the radio and listen to Sean Connery doing James Bond as he told me to turn left at the lightsh.
The roads got posher as I neared my destination. Shame I hadn’t brought any leaflets to bung in letterboxes. There’s a lot of money in Mill Hill, although it’s got its grotty side too. Morangie Manor (not that it was actually called that, mind) was very definitely at the posh end, near the old village centre rather than the modern bit around Mill Hill Broadway. This is commuter country, same as St Albans, only more so, seeing as it’s that bit farther down the line towards London. Lots of high-powered jobs in the City funding all the big houses and professionally tended gardens.
I wondered if Mr. M had a high-powered job. Mind you, he was what, in his sixties now? So he could be retired. Maybe he’d be glad to get rid of the big house and move somewhere smaller.
Or maybe he’d be horrified at the thought of moving after living in the same house so long. God, I felt like a home wrecker, or some heartless bastard of an absentee landlord turfing old folks out of their homes so Tesco could build their six-millionth store.
; I gave a low whistle as I pulled up outside Mr. M’s place. Suddenly, his offer didn’t look anything like as generous, if we really were talking half the house. Half of this place wouldn’t just take a chunk out of my mortgage, it’d pay the lot off with change to spare. I wondered what I’d do with the money, if I got it. Develop a cocaine habit? Buy a wardrobe of cashmere sweaters to match Phil’s?
No point counting those chickens, I thought. I got out of the van, walked up the short brick drive and rang the doorbell.
“Morning,” I said cheerily as Mr. M opened the door.
His sour expression didn’t alter. “At least you’re punctual.” He stood back, leaving the door open, so I took that as all the invitation I was going to get and stepped into the house. It was weird—once I was in there, I could actually really imagine Auntie Lol living there. She was into all this sort of stuff: solid, chunky furniture that had had a few knocks in life and looked like it could take plenty more, and bright, cheery fabrics. The sofa and chairs were covered with the sort of scatter cushions posh women on the telly show you how to make yourself for only three times the price you could buy them in a shop, and the walls were cheerfully accessorised with haphazardly arranged pictures showing animals and landscapes.
“Nice house you’ve got here.” I cringed inside. Shit, did that sound like I was looking forward to kicking him out of it? He didn’t reply. “No Mr. Wood?” I tried again.
“He’s been detained.”
I hoped that just meant he’d been held up, not that he’d been arrested or anything. Still, it wasn’t like he was my solicitor, so no skin off my nose either way. “So, should I just get started?”
Mr. M glared at me. “Tea?” he said abruptly.
“Ta. White, no sugar, please. Actually, second thoughts, I’ll drink it black.” I was betting any tea served in this house would be more watery than the River Lea.
Mr. M stomped off to make it, and too late, I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be accepting any offers of refreshments. Still, it’d be okay if I watched him make it, wouldn’t it? I hesitated, then followed him into the kitchen. It had honest-to-God gingham blinds and tiles with hens on. Had Auntie Lol married him for his house?
Then I remembered they’d bought it together. Maybe she’d decorated, and he hadn’t bothered to change anything since she’d left? I wasn’t sure I’d be too happy living in a house that had my ex stamped all over it.
“So, er, how’s things?” I went on awkwardly as Mr. M fussed with his state-of-the-art electric kettle. Auntie Lol had had an antique stovetop one that even whistled, like the ones in the battered old Enid Blyton books she used to lend me. I remembered being fascinated by it as a kid. I wondered if it was still around here somewhere, shoved in a cupboard after she’d left. Maybe that was what she’d left me in her will. “Family okay? Cherry said you had a son—what is he, about my age? He doesn’t still live here, does he?”
His face went purple, and he turned on me. He was still holding his box of Waitrose Ceylon teabags, and I winced a bit as it crumpled in his hand. “I’ve changed my mind. I no longer wish to allow this imposition. You can leave, now.”
“What?” Seriously, what? “Sorry if I said something to upset you—”
“Do you want me to call the police? Get out!”
“All right, I’m going!”
I scuttled back to the van with my head in a whirl. How the hell had I buggered that up so badly? Not to mention so bloody quickly. I’d barely been in the place five minutes.
I was not looking forward to letting Cherry know about this little fiasco.
Chapter Thirteen
After the wasted morning at Mr. M’s, I had a pretty busy afternoon, work-wise. What with getting home, having a shower, feeding the cats and even grabbing a bite myself, it was well on the way to seven o’clock before I knew it. I thought about ringing Phil and telling him I was off to see the literary crowd, but it seemed a bit, well, unnecessary. I might be a short-arse with a dodgy hip, but I can take care of myself. I shoved my phone back on the table.
Then I remembered what’d happened to six-foot, able-bodied Phil when he’d turned up to a suspect’s house on his tod back in Brock’s Hollow, and decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to text him the address at least. I picked my phone back up again.
Secure in the knowledge that if Morgan Everton battered me to death with a typewriter tonight, Phil would at least be able to find the body, I set off for the Lit fest just after seven. I wanted to make sure I could find the place all right. Yeah, I know I could’ve just borrowed the satnav from the van, but I don’t like relying on it all the time, ’specially when I’m going somewhere local. Anyway, I’ve got GPS on my phone if it all goes tits-up.
Actually, I’m pretty sure Gary thinks I’ve got GPS implanted in my brain. He’s never really got how my finding-things talent works.
As it happened, I found the place with no trouble and got there with ten minutes to spare. So I sent Phil another text—was nice knowing you, pls look after cats—and got one back saying wankr. Then another that said call me when ur out.
It wasn’t quite I love you, but it showed he cared, right? Anyway, time to get out of the car.
Morgan’s place was big, but there was something about it I didn’t much like. It was right on the edge of Redbourn village, and I’d passed a lot of nice houses on the way—I couldn’t see them very well, as it was pitch-black right now, and the place had the sort of street lighting you get in the countryside, meaning practically none—but I knew they were there. I’d been a bit disappointed to pull up outside this mock Tudor monstrosity, tall and austere looking, with square, unfriendly pillars holding up the porch. A security light flashed on when I got out of the Fiesta and nearly blinded me as I crunched up the drive to the front door.
There was one of these big brass knockers on the door, which was probably supposed to look grand and imposing but just made me think of Mrs. L in Sandridge. I would’ve knocked, but despite all the coloured blobs floating in my vision courtesy of that bloody security light, I could just about see that the front door was ajar. Talk about sending out mixed messages. After a moment’s dithering on the doorstep I walked straight in, trying not to look like an opportunistic burglar. The hallway was in darkness, which didn’t help one bit.
If I’d got the wrong house, this was going to be really embarrassing.
Thankfully, I could hear voices down the other end of the hall, coming from another door that was open just a crack to let the treacley glow of a low-wattage bulb spill out.
I was under strict instructions from Phil to use any opportunity to have a nose around the place, and I wondered if now would be a good time. Trouble was, I hadn’t expected Morgan to make life easy for nosey parkers, so if I took time out now, I’d be late. Margaret would probably stab me with a fountain pen for that even if I didn’t manage to get caught sneaking about. I had a feeling it wouldn’t make a great first impression with the group.
I walked down the hallway, wincing a bit as my boots clattered on the tiles and trying to tread more lightly. No wonder Morgan felt safe leaving his front door open. His whole bloody hallway was an early warning system. Just as well I hadn’t tried any sneaking.
I knocked lightly on the door at the end and poked my head into what turned out to be a large sitting room, the dim light seeming to soak straight into the antique furniture. Perched uncomfortably on various hard-looking chairs and horsehair-stuffed sofas were a motley bunch I guessed must be the writers’ circle. There were five of them in the room, which to my mind made a pentagon, not a circle. It also made me wonder if there were any Satanic rites about to be performed—no, hang on, that was pentagrams, wasn’t it?
I still wouldn’t have put it past this lot.
Morgan Everton was in the far corner, heads-down over a wodge of dog-eared papers with a skinny young Asian bloke. Neither of them looked up when I spoke, but three faces turned my way with varying degrees of welcome.
“Hi, I�
��m looking for the Literati?”
“Yes?” The woman who spoke was in her fifties, thin and beaky, and I had a feeling I’d seen her before somewhere. At Cherry’s do? Maybe. Or maybe she just reminded me of one of Greg’s cathedral ladies. I tried to picture her with a plate of sausage rolls but came up blank.
If she’d seen me before, it looked like she hadn’t enjoyed the experience. “So is that you lot?” I prompted when nothing else was forthcoming.
“Oh yes.” The breathless voice came from a washed-out looking, forty-something woman draped in fifty shades of grey. I was betting it wasn’t ironic. “Are you here to join us?”
“That was the plan. Hi, I’m Tom.”
“Hannah.” Grey-Lady turned a bit pink as she took my outstretched hand in her warm, plump little mitt. “And this is Margaret, and Peter.”
“Margaret, hi! We spoke on the phone? I’m Tom.” Beaky looked down her considerable nose at me and gave me a damp, bony handshake.
“You found us all right, then?” She sounded disappointed.
I flashed her a winning smile, as if to suggest it was all down to her address-quoting skills. “Yeah, thanks. No problem.”
She sniffed.
Peter, although younger, was as grey-looking as Hannah. But where she was soft, he looked hard as ice. He had a sharp, ferrety-looking face, and a jerky way of moving as if he’d been filmed in stop-motion like a cut-price knock-off of Wallace and Gromit. He didn’t take my hand, just nodded, the stuck-up sod.
“And over there are Morgan and Raz. Raz is a poet,” she added in awestruck tones.
“Yeah, me and Morgan have met. It’s how I heard about you lot.”
Finally, they looked up. Morgan’s eyes were shifty, like he wasn’t too keen on owning up to the acquaintance. I imagined Margaret flashing him a look of triumph behind my back, in an “Ah, so he’s your fault” sort of way. “Ah, yes,” he admitted finally, under the weight of their collective stare. “Tom. Good to see you again.”
