I’d arranged to meet Gary outside the Merchants Café in St. Albans at eleven the next day, so he could show me his new light of love. He was ten minutes late, and I was about to nip inside for a cappuccino when I saw his cuddly teddy-bear figure lumbering towards me. “All right, Gary?” I called, waving. He gave a cheery grin and let Julian drag him in my direction.
“Fantastic, darling. Found anything interesting in the drains this morning?”
I’d had a loo to unblock. “Only a toilet duck and half an Action Man,” I said, hampered by the huge, hairy paws that had landed on my chest. Julian’s paws, that was, not Gary’s. “God, you’re a ton weight,” I told the dog. “What has your daddy been feeding you?”
“Tender young virgins, of course. It helps keep his coat glossy. Shall we?”
Leaving the café behind us, we elbowed our way through the crowded streets of market-day St. Albans. The market’s a jumbled mix of food and clothing, leather goods and bolts of fabric—something for everyone, and everyone seems to turn out for it. We passed a fishmonger’s stall and were nearly knocked flat by the whiff—the cats would have been in ecstasy. Stall holders assaulted our ears with cries of “Two fer a pahnd, when they’re gone they’re gone,” and I felt a sudden burst of nostalgia for my London childhood.
“So are you going to tell me about this bloke of yours?” I asked, dodging a couple of tracksuited mums pushing armoured buggies.
“Darren? Oh, he’s just adorable. You’ll love him. Very good-looking. Actually—” Gary broke off and glanced around furtively before whispering in my ear. “He’s an ex-porn star.”
“Yeah?” I tried not to sound too staggered. Gary’s a great bloke, and I love him to bits, but I’d never have expected him to land a porn star. “Oi, I hope you’re using protection,” I added.
“Sweetie! We’ve hardly done more than kiss, so far.”
“And how long’s that going to last? Make sure you’ve got some on you at all times, then you won’t be tempted to take a risk.”
“Tommy, darling, I may be besotted, but I’m not silly. Of course I’ll use protection. Scout’s honour.”
“You were a Boy Scout?” I was having a lot of trouble picturing it. Girl Guides, maybe, but Boy Scouts?
“For about a month. The uniform was lovely, but the other boys were terribly rough. And going camping wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’d thought it would be. Here we are,” he added, his voice suddenly breathless. “This is Darren’s stall.”
Even though I was gagging to see what the porn star looked like, something about the way Gary said it made me glance over at him, instead of at the stall. There was a faint flush on Gary’s cheeks, and his eyes were shining, his lips parted in a tender smile.
Bloody hell. I’d never seen him like this before. It must be love. I stared for a moment, then dragged my eyes round to the stall.
Gary’s bloke was currently selling fruit and veg to an old dear with a bag on wheels. As she shuffled away, her place was taken by a Boden-wearing lady who looked at the bowls of mixed veg (“pahnd a bowl, three bowls for two pahnd”) as if she’d found a cockroach in one of them. “I really only want a cauliflower,” she said doubtfully, in ringing middle-class tones.
“Here you go, love,” he said, his tones slightly nasal as he unabashedly tipped the contents of the bowl into a paper bag, twirled it shut, and handed it to her. “That’ll be a pound for the cauli, and just for you, I’ll throw the carrots in free.”
She paid up, either overpowered by the force of his personality or just not too strong on logic.
I studied Darren carefully. He had dark hair swept back from his face, and a neatly trimmed goatee. There was certainly something arresting about his looks. I could see why he’d got a job in film—although to be honest, I reckoned a handsome face was probably an optional extra in the sort of films he’d been in. He towered over us from behind the stall, but I got the weirdest feeling something wasn’t quite right. It took me a moment to work out what it was. His proportions were all wrong, for a big bloke. His arms were too short, and his torso was as well, unless . . . unless he was standing on a box.
A big box, I decided. “Gary!” I hissed furiously. “You didn’t tell me he was a dwarf!”
Gary looked like he was about to pitch a fit. “Well, if that’s all you can think of to say—”
He was interrupted with a cheery call of, “Gary! All right, mate?” We’d been spotted. Gary’s face transformed as he turned to the (fresh, juicy, four-for-a-pahnd) apple of his eye.
“Darren, sweetie, this is Tom,” he said, having apparently forgotten he was pissed off with me.
I was given a brief but thorough inspection by the undeniably good-looking man behind the counter. “This the one you was telling me about?”
“The same,” Gary cooed. “Thomas Paretski, plumber extraordinaire.”
Darren’s eyes narrowed. “Bit of a short-arse, ain’t he?”
My jaw dropped, as Gary shrieked with laughter beside me.
Sod Rome—apparently these days, all roads led to Brock’s Hollow. At least, I found myself driving through the village again that afternoon, after a sandwich lunch in the Merchants with Gary, taking the not-quite-direct route to a cracked kitchen sink in Harpenden.
I wasn’t the only one paying the place a visit. Dave Southgate and his boys in blue were parked in the lay-by outside the church, the one the hearses always parked in so they could take the coffin in through the lychgate. Looked like today it was Robin East’s funeral. He crossed the road between Dave and a uniformed officer, his face flushed but his head held high. George Clooney starring in a remake of Papillon, maybe.
Bloody hell. Had it been him after all? There was a gaggle of old dears and young mums gawking at him from outside the WI shop, and they obviously had him tried and convicted already—arms folded, noses in the air, they might as well have been shouting I always knew he was a wrong ’un for everyone to hear. Standing in the doorway of the estate agents was a pale, hunched-over Pip Cox.
I didn’t think twice—just turned the van into Four Candles Lane and left it in the car park behind the pub. The kitchen sink could wait. They could always bung a bucket under it. By the time I got to Village Properties, the lynch mob had taken their disapproval elsewhere, and Pip had disappeared inside. The sign on the door had been turned round to Closed, but I went in anyway.
Red-eyed, Pip looked up from her desk. The pale-green cardie she was wearing cruelly highlighted how blotchy her face was. “W-we’re closed,” she stammered, sounding an inch away from tears.
“I know, love. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I saw what happened.” I leaned against the doorframe, my hands in my pockets, so she wouldn’t feel I was barging in on her. Looking round the office, I saw a kettle in the corner. “Want me to make you a cup of tea?”
She stared at me silently for a moment, then bit her lip and nodded.
I smiled encouragingly and closed the door. “Bit of a shock, I expect, having your boss carted off by the police. Have they arrested him, or is he just helping with enquiries?” I checked the kettle, decided the water in there would just about do, and switched it on.
“They didn’t—they didn’t say he was under arrest. Just that they wanted him to come down to the st-station.” Pip swallowed.
“Might just be a routine thing, then,” I suggested, trying to cheer her up.
“They said—” She broke off for a minute, then rallied. “He told them he was working late, the night Melanie . . . But they said someone had told them it wasn’t true.”
“Oh?” I turned round, mugs in hand. “Milk and sugar?”
She shook her head, so I carried her black tea and my white one over to her desk. “Wouldn’t have been the missus, by any chance, would it? Because I’ve met her, and she’s a right— Sorry.” I made a zipping motion by my lips. “Forgot she might be a friend of yours.”
Pip’s mouth twitched into what was trying to be a smile. “No. We’re not friends. But I don’t think . . . They said they’d been told there were no lights on. The inspector—”
“Dave Southgate. Yeah, I know him.”
“He asked Robin if he’d been working in the dark. I know who told them about it,” she surged on, suddenly fierce.
“Yeah?” I parked my bum on the corner of her desk, and tried to look casual as I took a sip of my tea. Hmm. Maybe I could have done with using fresh water, after all.
“It was that hateful old woman next door,” Pip said, looking surprised at her own venom.
“What, the Women’s Institute lady? Her with the homemade chutney and the crocheted dollies?”
She nodded. “But it’s not true. I know he didn’t kill Melanie. I know it.”
I sighed. “I know you don’t want to believe it, love. I don’t want to believe it. But if he’s innocent, why would he lie to the police in the first place?”
Pip burst into tears. She put down her tea with wobbly hands and sobbed like her world had just ended.
There was nothing else for it. I shuffled round to her side of the desk and put my arms around her, patting her back, stroking her hair, and muttering soothing phrases. To tell the truth, I felt a bit of a bastard for what I’d just said. If being willing to lie to the police was a sign of guilt, we all ought to be banged up. Everyone makes bad decisions when they’re scared.
I held her for a long time, until the sobs died down into sniffles and my shirt front was unpleasantly soggy. “Hey,” I said, once I reckoned she’d hear me. “Why don’t you go on home? No point you trying to hold the fort here. All you’re going to get is nosy bloody parkers.”
Pip lifted her head. Her face was blotchier than ever, but she seemed a bit calmer. Not as much as I’d have liked, mind. “I can’t go home.”
“If you need a lift, I’ve got the van round the back of the Four Candles.”
“No—I mean, thanks. It’s not that.”
A nasty little suspicion clouded my mind. “Him indoors, is it?”
She didn’t answer, just stared at her desk.
“How come he’s not at work?”
“He— Well, it’s been hard for him. Finding work. Since he got laid off, he’s . . . It’s been hard.”
I nodded sympathetically. “And now you’ve got him moping round the house all day, making the place look untidy. Tell you what—why don’t I take you out for a proper cuppa? Something stronger if you like—they serve all sorts down the Four Candles.”
Pip gave a couple of rogue paperclips a thorough once-over while she mumbled something embarrassed and incomprehensible. I reckoned I had a fair idea what she was worried about.
“Hey, I’m not trying to chat you up or anything. You’re a married lady, and I’m, well, let’s just say I might have my eye on someone. And nothing personal, but he’s a lot more my type than you are.” She glanced up at that, and I gave her a smile. “So just a friendly drink, all right?”
She bit her lip, but she was looking a lot happier. “All right.”
I took the mugs out back for a rinse while Pip got her coat, closed the blinds, and shut up shop.
“So what’s Pip short for?” I asked as we headed down the road. “Philippa?”
She looked at her feet. “Persephone.”
“That’s a nice name. Suits you. You should use it more. Or if you don’t fancy using the whole thing, there’s lots of ways you could shorten it—Seffy, maybe? Or how about Persie? Or Phoney?”
She almost giggled at that.
“That’s better,” I said, pleased to see her looking a bit more cheerful. I linked an arm in hers. “Right, let’s get—”
I didn’t finish my sentence, because right then an angry-looking man with a dark beard came round the corner in front of us, stared for a second, then launched a fist at my face.
Just because I’m small and I’ve got a duff hip doesn’t mean I just stand there and take it when someone lays into me. I was a bit hampered by Pip being so close on one side, but I still managed to dodge the punch and land one of my own, right in his flabby gut. He doubled over, and I was going in for the knockout when Pip grabbed hold of my arm and tried to pull me back.
“Stop! It’s my husband!”
This was Mr. Pip? “What the bloody hell did he want to hit me for, then?” I demanded.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she gabbled—whether to me or to him, I wasn’t sure. I was keeping my eye on the bastard as he staggered and wheezed, his eyes sending death threats in my direction. “He must have thought— I’m so sorry.” Obviously deciding it was safe to let go of me, she went over to Mr. Pip and tried to put an arm around him. He shrugged her off viciously. “Nigel, he was just—just looking after me. Robin’s been arrested, and I was upset, so he was going to take me for a drink, but there’s nothing going on, I promise.”
I didn’t much like the pleading tone in her voice. Far as I was concerned, he was the one who ought to be apologising, not her. “Maybe Nigel should go and cool off somewhere,” I suggested—I’d have been very happy to throw him in the river, personally. “And I’ll take you for that drink?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’d better—we’ll go home, Nigel, all right?”
Nigel wiped his mouth with his sleeve, glaring at me all the while. “You stay away from my wife,” he snarled. I got a waft of beery breath as he spoke.
Apart from wrinkling my nose a bit, I ignored him. “Pip, are you sure you’re going to be all right with him?”
She nodded. “It’s fine. Nigel just— It’s fine.”
It wasn’t my definition of fine, but at the end of the day, what could I do? “If you need anything—if you ever need anything—give me a call,” I told her. “I’m in the book—Tom Paretski. Or look in the Yellow Pages under plumbers. Promise?” I added, because I didn’t want her to think I was just being polite.
“I’ll be fine,” was all she said, as her husband grabbed her hand and pulled her away.
I felt like kicking something, hard, but I’d only end up knackering my hip. So I headed back to my van and sat there for a moment, thinking about what she’d said about relationships, and nobody knowing what they were really like except the people in them. Had that been a cry for help? Or her way of saying despite appearances, she was happy with Mr. Pip? God, there was no accounting for the bastards some people ended up with.
Which reminded me, I’d better call Phil and let him know what had happened.
He picked up on the first ring. “Tom? Good to hear from you. Between jobs?” He sounded cheerful and chatty. It was unnerving.
“Uh, yeah, but I didn’t ring up for a chat. Listen, have you heard about Robin East?”
“Heard what?” His tone went from relaxed and playful to sharply focused.
“He’s been, well, not arrested, exactly, but Dave and the boys went and picked him up from the estate agent’s. Very publicly. And apparently some old dear’s trashed his alibi for the night of the murder.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, but he didn’t say anything.
“Phil?” I asked.
“Thinking.” He was silent a bit longer, but just as I was about to say bye and leave him to think in peace, he spoke again. “Just because he wasn’t where he said he was, doesn’t mean he’s the killer. Secret love nest, remember?”
“Yeah. Do you think the police know about that?”
He laughed. “They may do after today. Be interesting to see where he heads when they let him go—if they let him go. How’d the secretary take it?”
“Pip? Badly. I met her husband, by the way. Nice bloke—I’d known him for all of half a second when he took a swing at me.”
“Are you all right?” Phil’s voice was even sharper now, and his obvious concern for me sent warmth flooding through my chest. I’d been expecting something more like a joke about how I had that effect on a lot of people.
“I’m fine—he never touched me. I winded him, though. Course, I didn’t know who he was, did I? She went home with him afterwards.” I let my tone tell him what I thought about that.
“Did he have a reason for attacking you? Or do you just have that effect on some people?”
Ah, there it was. “Very funny. He told me to stay away from his wife, so he must have thought I was after her.”
“Interesting.”
“Which bit?”
“The bit where he just assumed there was something funny going on as soon as he saw you together.”
“Ah. Well, I sort of had my arm in hers at the time, so I s’pose it did look a bit suspect.”
There was a stifled sound on the other end of the line. “Christ, do you ever stop?”
“I never even started! I was just looking after her, that’s all. She was in a right state.”
“Fine. I’ll believe you; thousands wouldn’t. Right—I’ve got stuff to do. Thanks for calling; I appreciate it.” He hung up before I even had a chance to suggest we meet up for a pint or something.
Feeling a bit let down, I put the van in gear and headed over to Harpenden.
Where I found a pissed-off Post-it on the front door, with Waited over an hour for you. Don’t bother to call again, scrawled on it in angry Biro.
Swearing under my breath, I dug in my pocket until I found a stubby pencil. I wrote Sorry at the bottom of the note, then I turned back around and headed home.