steroids just kicked in or something?
Phil turned into Hatfield Road, crawled along with the Fleetville traffic for a few minutes, then took the left into Regal Road and drew up outside my house. He wasn’t ranting anymore, but I didn’t think he was all that chilled, either. The handbrake made a painful sound when he pulled it up sharply, and I couldn’t help wincing in sympathy. He reached awkwardly into his back pocket.
“Forget the fee,” I said. “I didn’t find anything, did I?”
“I said I’d pay you for your time.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being daft ; I’m honouring the agreement we made.” He pulled out a handful of twenties and thrust them in my direction.
For fuck’s sake, were we going to have a row about him paying me, now? I put up a hand. “Keep it, all right? You wouldn’t pay an informant who didn’t bloody inform, would you? And anyway, we’re doing this for Graham. Just…buy me a drink sometime, or something.” I hesitated, while Phil slowly put the money back in his pocket. “Who’s next on the list?”
“What list?”
“You must have other people you want to talk to.” How long had he been in this business? “So you’ll be wanting me along for all the mystic crap .”
He stared at me, and then he laughed like he couldn’t help himself.
“What?” I wasn’t going to let him disarm me so easily.
Probably.
Phil was still chuckling. “The next one’s going to love you and your bloody witchcraft. He’s the vicar.”
I was about to make some crack about us going to see the vicar like a loved-up couple arranging their wedding, but then I thought Phil might flip out again if I mentioned marriage, and I was kind of liking him in cheerful mode, so I just mumbled something noncommittal.
He leaned back in his seat, obviously taking my mutterings as a sign I wanted to know more. “Remember what Pip Cox said about Melanie filling in for the parish administrator? Got me thinking. Say Robin East didn’t call her that night. Who else might she have referred to as the boss ?”
“Nice. All right—you’ve sold me on it. So when are we dropping in to take tea with the vicar? Can’t go tomorrow—Sunday’s his busy day.”
Phil nodded. “I’ll have to give him a call, make an appointment. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” I hesitated. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”
He looked at me for a moment, and I’d swear he was tempted—either to take me up on the invitation, or to ask, for a bit of what? But then he shook his head.
“Sorry. Things to do. But I’ll try and fix the vicar up for early next week, all right?”
“Long as you give me enough notice so I can do a bit of juggling. And if you need me for anything, you’ve got my number.”
He smiled. “And you’ve got mine. Take care, Tom.”
I met up with Gary at the Dyke again that night. I could tell something had happened the minute I set eyes on him—he was, as they say, all a-twitter. And I don’t mean he was tapping 140-character pearls of wisdom and/or cattiness into his iPhone.
“Tom! Darling—come and give me a kiss.” He proffered his cheek.
I gave him my best impersonation of a blushing virgin. “But Gary—this is all so sudden. I don’t know what to say…”
He tutted. “Well, in that case, just sit that luscious little bottom on the chair, here. I have news, my dear. Wonderful, wonderful news. I’m in love!”
I sat and pulled up a beer mat for my pint next to Gary’s vodka martini (stirred, not shaken). “Okay, this really is sudden. Who’s the lucky bloke? I take it it’s a bloke, and you’ve not started cheating on Julian with another dog?”
“As if I would! He’s a greengrocer. A market trader, I should say, shouldn’t I, Julian?” Gary ruffled his dog’s fur. “He’s got a stall in St Albans market. That’s where we met, just this afternoon.” He fluttered his eyelashes—Gary, that is, not the dog. “He asked if I’d like to
Phil turned into Hatfield Road, crawled along with the Fleetville traffic for a few minutes, then took the left into Regal Road and drew up outside my house. He wasn’t ranting anymore, but I didn’t think he was all that chilled, either. The handbrake made a painful sound when he pulled it up sharply, and I couldn’t help wincing in sympathy. He reached awkwardly into his back pocket.
“Forget the fee,” I said. “I didn’t find anything, did I?”
“I said I’d pay you for your time.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being daft ; I’m honouring the agreement we made.” He pulled out a handful of twenties and thrust them in my direction.
For fuck’s sake, were we going to have a row about him paying me, now? I put up a hand. “Keep it, all right? You wouldn’t pay an informant who didn’t bloody inform, would you? And anyway, we’re doing this for Graham. Just…buy me a drink sometime, or something.” I hesitated, while Phil slowly put the money back in his pocket. “Who’s next on the list?”
“What list?”
“You must have other people you want to talk to.” How long had he been in this business? “So you’ll be wanting me along for all the mystic crap .”
He stared at me, and then he laughed like he couldn’t help himself.
“What?” I wasn’t going to let him disarm me so easily.
Probably.
Phil was still chuckling. “The next one’s going to love you and your bloody witchcraft. He’s the vicar.”
I was about to make some crack about us going to see the vicar like a loved-up couple arranging their wedding, but then I thought Phil might flip out again if I mentioned marriage, and I was kind of liking him in cheerful mode, so I just mumbled something noncommittal.
He leaned back in his seat, obviously taking my mutterings as a sign I wanted to know more. “Remember what Pip Cox said about Melanie filling in for the parish administrator? Got me thinking. Say Robin East didn’t call her that night. Who else might she have referred to as the boss ?”
“Nice. All right—you’ve sold me on it. So when are we dropping in to take tea with the vicar? Can’t go tomorrow—Sunday’s his busy day.”
Phil nodded. “I’ll have to give him a call, make an appointment. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” I hesitated. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”
He looked at me for a moment, and I’d swear he was tempted—either to take me up on the invitation, or to ask, for a bit of what? But then he shook his head.
“Sorry. Things to do. But I’ll try and fix the vicar up for early next week, all right?”
“Long as you give me enough notice so I can do a bit of juggling. And if you need me for anything, you’ve got my number.”
He smiled. “And you’ve got mine. Take care, Tom.”
I met up with Gary at the Dyke again that night. I could tell something had happened the minute I set eyes on him—he was, as they say, all a-twitter. And I don’t mean he was tapping 140-character pearls of wisdom and/or cattiness into his iPhone.
“Tom! Darling—come and give me a kiss.” He proffered his cheek.
I gave him my best impersonation of a blushing virgin. “But Gary—this is all so sudden. I don’t know what to say…”
He tutted. “Well, in that case, just sit that luscious little bottom on the chair, here. I have news, my dear. Wonderful, wonderful news. I’m in love!”
I sat and pulled up a beer mat for my pint next to Gary’s vodka martini (stirred, not shaken). “Okay, this really is sudden. Who’s the lucky bloke? I take it it’s a bloke, and you’ve not started cheating on Julian with another dog?”
“As if I would! He’s a greengrocer. A market trader, I should say, shouldn’t I, Julian?” Gary ruffled his dog’s fur. “He’s got a stall in St Albans market. That’s where we met, just this afternoon.” He fluttered his eyelashes—Gary, that is, not the dog. “He asked if I’d like to
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