I woke up, the way I often do, just a couple of minutes before my alarm was due to go off. Right. Early drain. I turned the alarm off quickly, not wanting it to ring and wake up Phil. He was lying on his back, his mouth slightly open, breathing softly. I had it on good authority that if I tried that, I snored like a foghorn. His face was softer in sleep, more vulnerable, the blond hair mussed up and boyish. I briefly wondered about waking him up with a kiss or possibly a morning blowjob, then regretfully decided we probably weren’t at that stage yet.
Yet. That was implying things were going to carry on from here. We hadn’t done a whole lot of discussing things last night—maybe Phil didn’t want to carry things on? Maybe last night had been his way of getting me out of his system? My chest felt uncomfortably tight at the thought as I swung my legs out of bed and got up. My bum was aching a bit. I’d be thinking of Phil all day whether I wanted to or not.
Coffee. That’d make me feel better.
When I got downstairs, Merlin greeted me like I’d been gone for a week, winding in and out of my bare legs like I was a kitty slalom course. Arthur just yawned at me from his perch on top of the fridge, the big lump. I got the kettle on and filled up the cafetière; then I took pity on poor, skinny Merlin and filled up his food bowl. That finally got Arthur’s attention, so I fed him as well.
“Bloody hell, aren’t you frozen?”
I straightened to find Phil standing in the doorway, fully dressed, which made me feel twice as naked, if that’s possible. “You could come and warm me up,” I suggested.
He gave me a speculative look, then, just as I’d convinced myself he was going to make his excuses and leave, possibly forever, he moved. Four silent steps, and his arms slid around my waist, pulling me close. I hadn’t realised I was cold until I felt the warmth of him against my skin. I breathed out into his cashmere sweater, the soft fibres tickling my nose. When did the smell of him get so bloody familiar? His hands dropped to my arse, kneading it gently.
I took that as an encouraging sign he probably wasn’t finished with it yet, and pushed him away gently. “I’m going to have to cut and run,” I said. “Customer’s expecting me. Just got time for a bit of breakfast.”
He smiled. “God forbid you go without your food. All right, what’s on the menu?”
“Toast,” I said. “But I’ve got some bacon and eggs in the fridge if you want to cook yourself something and let yourself out after.”
“Toast’s fine,” he said, running his hands up and down my hips. Then he stepped back, away from me. “Suppose I’d better let you get on with it.”
I made toast and marmalade, and we ate leaning against the kitchen counters. I still felt naked, but it looked like Phil appreciated the view. Scars and all.
“Thanks for coming round last night,” I said as I bunged my plate in the dishwasher.
Phil handed me his plate. “My pleasure.” He took the opportunity to grope my arse a bit more, and when he pulled me back against his body I could feel his erection growing.
“Some of us have got work to do,” I said, moving away from him with regret.
He raised an eyebrow. “What, you can’t spare five minutes?”
“Only five? Is that all?”
“I bet I can get you off in five minutes.”
My dick jumped up to say it’d take that bet, and against my better judgement I let him pull me against him once more, this time face-to-face. His lips were salty from the butter on his toast, there were a couple of tiny crumbs in his stubble, and I was in way over my head, here. He kept on kissing me like the toast had just been the first course and it was me he really wanted for breakfast, while one hand massaged my arse and the other worked on my cock. Pleasure surged through me in pulses, making me gasp into his mouth.
Five minutes? It was more like two and a half before I was coming helplessly, my spunk shooting out in an arc that landed on the kitchen floor, narrowly missing the cats. Merlin gave me a disgusted look, then carried on chowing down.
Phil backed off a couple of inches, a smug expression on his face. “Better wipe that up before anyone slips in it,” he suggested. “Oh, and Tom?” he added as I reached a limp arm over to the kitchen roll.
“Yeah?”
“I’d think seriously about getting some blinds in here. The neighbours are getting a right eyeful, and I think they’re getting a bit pissed off about it.”
I darted a panicked glance to the window. There was no one there, of course. “Stop winding me up, you git,” I muttered as I bent down to clean up the mess.
“Now there’s a sight I could get used to,” Phil murmured.
“Since when have you liked to watch and not touch?” I said over my shoulder, with my best come-hither look.
He stayed thither. “I can wait till there’s time to do the job properly. And that arse is definitely worth doing properly.”
I waggled it at him, then went upstairs to get dressed with a smile on my face.
When I came down again, he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t got any other clothes here—what’s your excuse? Forget to do your laundry, did you?”
I looked down at my clothes. All right, I’d worn them last night, but they weren’t that crumpled. “I’m not putting on clean clothes to go shove my head down a blocked drain. Trust me, no one’s going to even notice if I pong a bit.”
Phil shook his head. “All the jobs you could have done—rat catcher, traffic warden, dustman—and you chose to go wading around in other people’s shit for a living.”
“It’s a labour of love,” I said, straight-faced.
We parted company at the front door ten minutes later, and Phil went off back to his place for some clean socks—actually, come to think of it, socks were the one item of clothing I could actually have lent him. It wasn’t exactly a sentimental farewell: just a nod and a “See you later.” I had to get a shift on, over to the other side of St. Albans for Mrs. R. and her blocked drain. Still, at least I was pretty certain I would see him later. All of him. My good mood lasted all the way to her house, and even through lying on the ground with my arm down a foul-smelling pipe to the shoulder—then disappeared down the plug-hole when Dave called.
He was another one who didn’t bother with hello. “What’s all this about the bloody vicar, then?”
“Kind of in the middle of a job, here,” I protested, trying not to drip slime on my clothes from the hand that wasn’t holding my phone, while Mrs. R. wrinkled her nose at me. In the cold light of day, it all seemed a bit daft, me getting so creeped out by the Rev.
“Put that on your gravestone, shall we?”
“What? Look, you’ve got it all wrong. He was just acting a bit odd, that’s all.” I glanced at Mrs. R., who was cleaning her glasses on her sari and trying to pretend she wasn’t listening in. “Look, I can’t talk right now. I’m with a customer.”
“How soon will you be finished?”
“Half an hour, maybe? Depends.”
“Soon as you can get away, I want you down the station.”
“You what?”
“You heard me. I want a proper statement from you about what the vicar told you—none of this oh, he was acting a bit odd, but I’m sure it’s nothing. I want the facts, that’s all. And then I’ll decide if it needs following up.”
“Fine.” I might have huffed a bit.
“And you can leave off the martyred tone, all right? This isn’t a bloody game. It’s a murder investigation. So we do things my way—no, bollocks to that, I do things my way. You don’t even breathe funny without a court order and a note from your mum.”
“That’d be you, then, would it? All right, all right, I’ll be there, keep your hair on. What’s put you in such a bad mood—did she stand you up last night or something?”
There was a heavy sigh. “Oh, she turned up, all right. Bit older than I was expecting, but we had a great evening—went out for a meal, talked for hours. I told her all about Jenny and the job and everything.”
“But?” because there was obviously a but.
“But, at the end of the evening, she says, Sorry, Dave, you’re a nice bloke, but you’re too hung up on your ex-wife. So that was that.”
“Her loss, Dave,” I said kindly. Then I put the phone down and got back to the serious business of sorting out Mrs. R.’s drain.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to remember a conversation you had the day before, word for word. I found myself making a right hash of it, although it probably didn’t help that every time I shifted on the hard chair in Dave’s police interview room, a twinge in my arse sent my mind skipping happily back to last night with Phil. I’d headed straight round to the police station after Mrs. R.’s, thinking if Dave was going to make such a song and dance about the whole thing, he could bloody well put up with me whiffing a bit, but I was starting to wish I’d nipped home for a shower and a change of clothes first. Apparently, the police force weren’t big on windows that opened. Funny, that.
“Right,” Dave said wearily. “So the Rev’s a bit limp-wristed. No surprise there. And he did a few things when he was younger he wouldn’t want the bishop finding out about.”
Of course, from what Darren had said, there was a good chance the bish might have got up to some of the same tricks, but I wasn’t going to mention that to Dave.
“And,” Dave went on, “he had his knickers in a twist about the whole thing, but after he’d talked to you—you being, apparently, Hertfordshire’s new gay Agony Uncle—he’d decided what to do about it, and was feeling a bit better. Is that it?”
From the tone of his voice, I could feel a caution for Wasting Police Time coming on. “It . . . look, you had to be there, all right? He just seemed a bit, well, off.”
Dave massaged his temples. “Can you give me a for instance?”
I screwed my face up so hard, thinking, I could feel a headache of my own coming on. “Sorry,” I said in the end. “I did try and tell you on the phone it was just a feeling.”
“Feelings. Gawd help us.” Dave sighed heavily and pushed back his chair. “Just leave the investigating to the professionals, all right?”
“Sir?” A uniformed constable hovered at the door, although from the look of him, he ought to have been in school studying for his GCSEs. I had a vague idea that probably meant I was getting old, if the policemen started looking younger—but sod it, the kid had acne. “You’re wanted. There’s been a development.”
Dave looked round sharply. “What kind of bleedin’ development?” The constable’s eyes flicked over to me. “Fine, fine, we’re done here anyway. Tom, you can go—come back and see me when the Reverend gives you his signed confession, all right?”
PC Puberty’s eyes went wide. “Um, sir, you might want to hear about this before you let the witness go.”
“Oh?” Dave’s voice went sharp. “Hear about what?”
He wasn’t looking at Constable Kid. He was looking straight at me.
“Er, well, there’s been another incident.”
“Another murder?” My voice cracked. Was this what Merry had meant about stuff he had to take care of? Oh God.
“Well?” Dave demanded.
The kid swallowed. “They found the Reverend Lewis dead in the vicarage this morning.”
An ice-cold pain shot through my chest. “Merry’s dead?” I asked, my voice sounding like it was coming from another room. I wondered why they were looking at me strangely.
“How?” Dave barked.
“Hanged himself, it looks like, sir.”
“Suicide?” My voice was a croak. Oh God. He’d killed himself after speaking to me. That meant it was my fault, didn’t it? “I thought he was feeling better . . . Oh God.”
It shouldn’t have hit me so hard, I suppose. I hardly knew the bloke. I hadn’t even liked him.
But I’d felt sorry for him. He’d had such a crap life. The only time he’d managed to get a few kicks, he’d ended up regretting it for—fuck—the rest of his life. Bloody hell, from what Darren had said about that party, he hadn’t been in much of a state to even remember what he’d been so ashamed about. “He seemed so much happier,” I kept saying. My fault, my fault ran through my head on permanent loop, and I bit my tongue to keep from blurting it out.
Dave took pity on me and got the constable to fetch me a cup of tea. I found myself wondering if he’d got a grown-up to help him with the kettle, and almost gave a really inappropriate giggle at the thought. He’d put two sugars in it, and I drank half of it down before I even noticed.
We had to go over last night’s visit again, of course. And this time, make it official, with a signed statement. I might have been the last person to see the Rev alive. My fault, my fault.
It helped, actually, going over the conversation again. Reminded me he’d already been in a right state when he’d got to my house. Maybe I hadn’t helped him like I’d meant to—but I’d done what I could. I began to breathe a bit more easily.
“Right,” Dave said at the end, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “So Lewis left you shortly before eleven, and you called me, then went straight to bed after that?”
“Um,” I said. “Sort of.”
Dave narrowed his eyes. “Want to expand on that?”
I took a deep breath. Best to get it over with. “I called Phil, and he came round and stayed the night, all right? Left just before eight.”
“Phil . . . Morrison.” Dave looked unhappy. “So you and him are . . .?”
“Um,” I said again.
“Well, are you or aren’t you? How bleedin’ hard is it to tell?”
“We slept together for the first time last night,” I said in a rush, trying to get it over with. I wasn’t feeling too happy myself about the way the conversation was going. Dave and me, we were friends—but there was a sort of unwritten rule I wouldn’t go shoving my homosexuality in his face. I’d always reckoned he was fine with me shagging blokes, just as long as he never, ever had to think about it. And I’d been okay with that. Like I said before, some things you’re better off not knowing, even about your mates.
I didn’t want to find out Dave was a bigot. I was ninety-nine percent certain that any prejudices he had were a product of his upbringing, and he was struggling to overcome them. But if I ever found out for certain they existed, well, it’d change things between us. It’d have to.
Because there was always that one percent chance he really meant them.
Dave was rubbing his face again. “Tom . . . Look, don’t take this the wrong way, all right?” He paused like he was waiting for me to cross my heart and hope to die. Just like poor old Merry. I’d got it all wrong last night. I’d reckoned he’d hoped to finally start living.
“What?” I asked a bit sharply. I wasn’t promising Dave anything.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be involved with Phil Morrison,” he said bluntly.
I stared at him. “Why?”
“You told me yourself he was a bully at school. That sort never change. Christ, Tom, he could flatten you as soon as look at you. And all right, it suits him to be nice to you right now, but sooner or later, that’s going to change.”
“What do you mean, ‘it suits him to be nice’?” And what did he mean, now?
“You know. Your little talent. The finding thing. Gift from the bloody gods to a PI, aren’t you? I bet he’s like a kid with a new toy right now. Just you wait, though. Sooner or later, he’s going to end up chucking you out of the pram.”
I wished I hadn’t drunk that sugary tea. I felt sick. “You think he’s sleeping with me just so I’ll find stuff for him?” That couldn’t be right, could it? We’d done all the finding stuff well before he’d made a move, hadn’t we?
“I just mean, it’s in his interests to keep you sweet at the moment, that’s all.” Dave rubbed his neck, looking more tired than ever. “The thing about you is, you only ever want to see the best in people. And that’s great, Tom. Makes you a good bloke to be around. Trouble is, though, you work in this job a few years, you get to realise most of humanity is a load of bleedin’ tossers you wouldn’t want to piss on if they were on fire.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, but my voice sounded funny. “It’s not your fault—like you said, it’s the job. But that’s not— He’s not—”
“Tom,” Dave said, leaning forward over the table. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now. But take care, all right? Don’t be too ready to trust him.” He pushed back his chair and stood. Guessing the interview was over, I did the same. Dave was halfway to the door when he turned and spoke to me again. “Oh, and Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“For God’s sake, take a shower and get some clean clothes on before you get pulled in as a public health hazard. You stink like a bloody sewer.”
By the time I finally got out of the police station, I was late for one customer and I’d missed another altogether. I made a few damage-limitation phone calls to the clients, then went home, threw my clothes in the washing machine, and stepped wearily into the shower.
The hot water seemed to wash some of the fog out of my brain, and I realised what I should have done as soon as I got home. I should have called Phil and told him about poor old Merry. But after I’d towelled myself off and pulled on some clothes—even when I was standing in the living room, phone in hand—I couldn’t seem to make myself dial the number.
Was Dave right about Phil? Was he just using me?
No. That couldn’t be true. What about that hidden stash of photos and the bit cut out of the paper? I gave a twisted smile as I pictured myself telling Dave about, in Gary’s words, my own personal stalker. Yeah, right. That’d really reassure him.
Should I be worried? I slumped onto the sofa a bit too heavily, startling Merlin, who shot out of the room like I’d shoved a rocket up his bum. Looking smug, Arthur padded heavily over and settled in my lap, a lead-lined furry cushion. “What do you think, Arthur?” I asked, knuckling him between the ears. His eyes slitted in bliss as he started to purr. “I’ve got to call him, haven’t I? He’d be well pissed off if he found out I knew and didn’t tell him.”
I hit the dial button before I could talk myself out of it again.
Of course, after all that bloody angsting, it ended up going to voice mail. I wondered what he was up to, and why he wasn’t answering his mobile—maybe he’d left it on silent by mistake? I’d done that often enough myself, before I’d worked out the connection between missed calls and lack of money to pay the bills.
Maybe Phil had heard about the Rev already and was snooping around Brock’s Hollow? Why bother, though? What was left to investigate? I wondered if the Rev had left a confession, and if the police would still carry on looking for Melanie’s murderer if he hadn’t. Would Phil? Maybe he’d stopped already and was back home typing up his final bill for the Porters.
I couldn’t help feeling a bit hurt he hadn’t at least phoned to check if I’d heard the news, and if I was okay about it. He’d been keen enough to come round last night, after Merry’s visit.
Perhaps he hadn’t thought there’d be a shag in it this time.
Sod it. I sent Phil a brief text: Rev is dead, suicide, and then headed off to my customer in Harpenden.