Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 (11 page)

“Oh no, no, no. In my other life, I’m a writer.”

A writer as well as a reader? I wondered if he did ’rithmetic as well. “Yeah? What sort of stuff?”

He shrugged, which actually came over as a bit threatening, what with the way his shoulders were all sort of hunched over towards me. “Novels of the human condition. Human frailties, I should say. I’m chairman of the Lea Valley Literati. A local writers’ group,” he added kindly for the benefit of tradesmen and the otherwise educationally disadvantaged.

“Hey, are you the lot who did that anthology?” I frowned. “What was it called again? Something about angels. I saw a copy in the White Hart—”

“No!” he barked. “We are
not
affiliated with that organisation.” You’d have thought I’d just accused him of having been a founder member of the Hitler Youth.

“What, the White Hart?” They had some pretty naff décor—I mean, come off it: suits of armour and red plush thrones? It was like they were expecting the Beckhams to drop in for a pint—and the “haunted” bit gave me the creeps, but it was an okay place for a pint.

“No. That was the
other
St Albans writers’ group.” He glared at me. “A ragtag, unschooled bunch of self-published hacks and writers of”—his voice dropped in loathing—“genre fiction.”

I decided it was probably just as well I hadn’t mentioned I liked a good thriller every now and then.

“Some of them,” he added, bending low to breathe sherry fumes right in my face, “write
erotica
.” His voice was husky with prurient outrage, and his face had gone as red as his trousers.

“Well, sex is all part of the human condition, innit?” I said breezily, just to see if I could bring on a stroke. “If you’re doing it right, that is.”

“Sex,” Morgan said sternly, “should not be used to titillate.”

Nope, I decided. He was
definitely
not doing it right. If he was doing it at all. “Is there a Mrs. Everton?” I asked, just to test my personal theory.

“We are sadly estranged.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that.” I bet Mrs. E wasn’t, though.

“And yourself?”

“Nah, nobody’s liked it enough yet to put a ring on it.” Well, not a wedding ring, anyhow. I had a few fond memories of a mildly kinky ex. And a lot more memories of the bastard that weren’t fond in the slightest, but that was another story. Talking of which… “So, you had any of these novels of yours published?”

“I’m currently between agents,” Morgan said shortly.

I wasn’t sure whether to commiserate or congratulate him. Playing it safe, I held up my empty glass. “Right, I’m off for a refill. Get you one?”

He shook his head grumpily and held up his own, full glass. I’d checked before I’d offered—I’m not daft.

“See you around, then.” I legged it.

Phil was still over in the corner, holding his sherry glass up in front of him as if to ward off evil spirits and/or evangelists. To be honest, it looked a bit too small to do a proper job on either of them, especially in his meaty paws. When I caught his eye, he made a pissed-off face. I raised both eyebrows, trying to convey
sorry, but you’re the one who insisted on coming
. The glare didn’t alter, so I reckoned my eyebrow semaphore must need a bit of work.

Either that or he was just determined to be a grumpy old sod. I sighed (quietly, because my mum brought me up to have manners), dumped my empty glass on a side table and started to weave through the crowd towards him. Not as easy as you might think. If Jesus was looking for another rock to build his church on, he could do worse than some of the little old ladies forming a solid wall across the room like a wrinkled, cardi-wearing version of the Arsenal line-up.

“’Scuse me, coming through,” I said to the smallest and therefore hopefully least immovable one, flashing a smile so she wouldn’t notice I was basically manhandling her out of the way. Then I stopped, still with both hands on her bony, wool-clad shoulders. “Edie?”

Edith Penrose turned and blinked up at me with her disconcertingly bright eyes. “Hello, Tom. Fancy seeing you here! Did you bring your young man?” She lowered her voice. “Such a dreadful business that was. Murder, in Brock’s Hollow!”

I rubbed my arm. “Yeah, not what you move out to the country for, is it?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t catch me living in a city. Old people aren’t safe there, you know. And I could never leave my Albert.”

“Guess not.” Clearly she reckoned her Albert wouldn’t be up for moving out of Brock’s Hollow. I had to agree, seeing as he’d had a steady job pushing up daisies in St Anthony’s Churchyard for the last twenty years now. “Hope he appreciated you when he was alive,” I added.

“Oh, he was a lovely man. You’d have liked him. But how’s that young man of yours? Is he here too?”

I gestured towards Phil’s corner, but he was ignoring us, the sod, in favour of renewing his acquaintance with the Awfully Reverend’s badger, liberated from the study in honour of the occasion. He was right. It
was
bigger than you’d expect. He didn’t look as pleased as you might think to see it again, though—Phil, I mean. The badger seemed happy enough, although his grin was a bit fixed.

Maybe Phil was thinking about his own dead husband.

“Oh dear. He doesn’t look much like he’s enjoying himself. Not really one for parties?”

“Not this sort, anyway. So…” I tried to think of a way of asking Edie who’d invited her that didn’t sound like
what are you doing here?
“You know my sister, do you?”

“Never met her before. I must say, she’s not at all what I would have expected. Still, at my age, one rather relishes being surprised. No, I knew Gregory in his first curacy, bless him. Such an intense young man. I always thought he’d go far. He buried my Albert, you know. It was Gregory’s first funeral, and he did such a lovely job of it.”

“Yeah? Small world, innit? Was he into the taxidermy back then?” Hopefully she didn’t think I was asking if she’d had her Albert stuffed.

Edie nodded happily. “He was just starting out in that too. I do feel it’s important for a young man to have a hobby. Do you have any hobbies, Tom?”

Er… “Well, you know. Going down the pub, watching the footie…”

“You need to find an interest, young man.” She cocked her head on one side. “Something creative, I think. But perhaps not working with your hands, as you do that in your profession.” She nodded, more to herself than me. “No, I can see you with a more intellectual hobby.”

She could? I was one hundred percent certain nobody else could. Including, to be fair, me. “Yeah, see, school and me didn’t go all that well.”

“Oh, school.” She flapped her crepey hands as if to shoo away such ridiculous, new-fangled notions. “I think a lot of people don’t really flower there, don’t you? Such a rigid sort of place.”

“Edie, you rebel, you.” I grinned. “How about I get you another sherry?” Phil would just have to wait.

“That would be very kind of you. But don’t think I don’t know you’re just changing the subject!”

I finally bumped into Cherry over at the drinks table. Not literally, luckily, as she was holding on, tight-knuckled, to a brimming glass of something that looked a lot stronger than sherry.

“All right, Sis?” I asked. She was looking a bit harassed, to be honest.

She glared at me like I was the one who was doing the harassing. “What were you talking to Morgan about?”

Morgan? Right, no-sex-please-we’re-British bloke. “Reading and writing, mostly. Why? Worried I’ll tell him all your dirty little secrets?”

“What? No, don’t be silly. It’s just… Honestly, I wasn’t expecting him to be here.”

“You didn’t invite him? Want me and Phil to strong-arm him out?” I didn’t mention it’d be Phil doing most of the heavy lifting there, and I was grateful she didn’t either.

“No—God, no. The last thing I want is a scene.” Her face turned a bit pink. “But it’s kind of you to offer,” she added without a lot of conviction.

“Mate of Greg’s, is he?” Maybe he liked playing with dead furry animals too.

Cherry was starting to resemble her name. “He’s—well, he used to be—a friend of both of ours, actually. Well, in a way. We used to be members of the same writers’ circle.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? What have you been writing?”

“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in. A book.”

“Cheers, Sis.” My sister: a card-carrying member of Intellectual Snobs ‘R’ Us.

“Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, it’ll probably never get published. But Morgan and I had a bit of a falling-out, and we—Gregory and I, that is—we left the circle. It was utterly ridiculous—he said I’d accused him of misuse of funds, which I didn’t at all.”

I could believe that. If anyone knew about slander laws, it’d be my sis. “Maybe he came here to mend some fences, then?”

“Burn them down, more likely.” Something caught her eye then, and she glanced over my shoulder. “Oh—Richard’s here.”

I turned to the door. “Bloody hell, what happened to his hair?” Big Brother, currently folding his trench coat, was balder than a ball-cock. Granted, he’d been heading that way last time I’d seen him, but he’d at least had a bit of fluff to keep his ears warm back then. “He hasn’t been ill or anything, has he?” You couldn’t
catch
cancer, could you?

“Don’t be stupid. What did you think was going to happen? Look at Dad.”

I couldn’t, because he wasn’t there, but I took her point. My dad, as far as I could tell from old family photos from before I was born, went bald early. And thoroughly. He didn’t mess about with a comb-over or those little fringes of hair that make you look like a monk. No, he was doing ping-pong ball impersonations before he was thirty. Fortunately, I seemed to have inherited Mum’s hair, although thankfully not the rigid ’50s “do” even she’s too young for. In her seventies. “Doesn’t always follow, does it? I mean, look at me.”

She did. With a funny expression, like she was about to say something—then she sort of shook her head. “I’d better go over and introduce him and Agatha to Gregory.”

“I’d leave your drink here, then, if I were you. You know what Agatha’s like. You’ll end up getting the
evils of binge drinking
sermon if you’re not careful.”

Cherry looked at her glass as if it was someone else’s hands holding on to it for dear life. “Oh. Yes.” She handed it to me absently and drifted off. I raised it, trying to look like I was just having a sip, and gave it a sniff. Ye gods, she was on the Slivovitz. Maybe letting Cherry get the binge-drinking lecture would have been a good idea after all. I put the glass down carefully at the back of the table so no one would pick it up by mistake, then glanced over guiltily at the door.

Agatha, like most people in my family, was taller than me. She also loomed over Richard, but he obviously didn’t mind too much, seeing as he’d married her. Maybe he’d been too scared not to. Right now, her hawk-like eyes were scanning the crowd as if for prey. I wondered what Greg would make of her. Probably some kind of taxidermy tableau, with her swooping down for the kill on some innocent partygoer.

I hoped he didn’t have me on a short list to play that part.

Deciding it was high time I got back to Edie with her sherry—after all, she wasn’t getting any younger, bless her—I started to meander in that direction. When I got halfway there, though, I saw she’d already somehow managed to get hold of one that was considerably larger than the glass I had in my mitt. Maybe Edie had some psychic powers of her own. Or more likely it was just down to the natural affinity between old ladies and sherry.

Feeling a bit wrong-footed, I took advantage of a sudden opening in the crowd to make a beeline over to Phil, which entirely coincidentally took me in the opposite direction from my sister-in-law.

“Sherry?” I offered him the glass.

He gave me a look but took it anyway and drained it in one. “Cheers.”

“Just warning you, we’ve got incoming. My brother and his wife.”

“I noticed.”

“How? I mean, how did you know it was them?”

“I searched him up on the Internet. Richard Paretski, consultant oncologist. Works at the Herts Breast Unit. There’s a picture of him up on the website.” Phil smirked. “Bet he feels a tit sometimes.”

“Okay, this sense of humour you’ve developed lately? I liked you better without it.”

He ignored me. “What does the wife do?”

“You’re the private eye who’s been stalking my family, you tell me.” He glared at me. “She works in the STD clinic, all right?”

“Bloody hell. I bet she reduces infection rates. Probably scares them all into chastity.”

“I think she has the same effect on Richard. At least, they’ve been married six or seven years and still haven’t had kids.”

“Not everyone wants kids.”

There was something in Phil’s tone that made me glance at him sharply, but he was wearing Patented Unreadable Look #3 so I let it slide.

It’s funny—if you’re just mates, or even casual acquaintances with someone, you can ask if they plan on having kids one day. And if you’re married, or as good as, well, it’s a discussion you probably ought to have sooner rather than later. But if you’re just going out and not living together or even close to it, you can’t do it. It’s like saying,
Do you want to get married?
You can’t do it without it sounding like there’s a silent
with me
on the end of it.