Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 (26 page)

“What?”

“These deep thoughts you’re having instead of phoning your sister.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I’ll just give her a call.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts before realising I didn’t actually have her number. Shit. I really needed to get myself organised. I dialled Mum’s number instead.

The phone (landline, obviously) rang eleven times before she picked up and told me the number I’d just rung, in case I’d forgotten during the long wait for the answer. I’ve never quite worked out why she doesn’t just say “Hello” like everyone else.

“Mum? It’s me. Tom.”

“Oh? I didn’t recognise the number.” She sounded suspicious.

I wondered if I was about to be asked for the name of my childhood pet. (It was a goldfish called Chips, if you’re wondering, and I won him at the fair. I was thrilled; Mum and Dad less so, seeing as they had to fork out for a tank for him to live in. Given the number of times he somehow managed to leap out of his new home and land, flapping, on the carpet, I suspect he wasn’t too thrilled about it either.) “Yeah, calling on my mobile. You all right?”

“Well, you know. The usual.”

“Dad?”

“He’s been having some trouble with his knees, and I’m not sure the cortisone injections are really doing what they should…” There was another ten minutes or so in this vein, then a bit about the weather before she finally got round to, “Did you want to speak to him?”

“Er, actually I was ringing to talk to Cherry.”

“She’s gone home. I thought you’d have known.”

Triffic. “Thanks. I’ll try her there. Um. Can you give me the number?”

Mum reeled it off painfully slowly, waiting for me to say “yes” after every digit. “Ta. I’ll, um, give you a call when I’ve got more time to chat, all right?”

She ignored me. “I suppose Cherry told you about Laura?”

“Auntie Lol? Yeah. I was gutted. I mean, she was no age to go, was she?”

“No.” There was a pause. “Did you go to the funeral?”

“No—didn’t find out about it until it was all over.” I tried not to sound too bitter.

“Well, you know how busy Cherry is, with her career.” Mum’s tone was a bit vague, so maybe I’d succeeded.

“Yeah. Listen, I’d better go—”

Just as I was about to say good-bye, she sneak attacked. “Cherry told me you’re seeing someone.”

“Er, yeah.”

“She said it’s that awful boy from the council estate who put you in hospital. Although she didn’t quite put it like that.”

She didn’t? There was hope for Cherry yet. “Phil’s changed, Mum. And it wasn’t really his fault, the accident. You know it wasn’t.”

“All I know is that he chased you down the street, and then I got a phone call saying my youngest son had been hit by a car and was in intensive care.” I heard her take a deep breath. “They told us to be prepared for brain damage.”

Ouch. Way to wring the guilt muscles. “Mum… It was a long time ago. Water under the bridge.”

“Is this a serious thing?”

“Um. Sort of.”

“And are we going to meet him?”

“Uh… Look, I really need to give Cherry a call. We’ll sort something out, okay? You take care of yourself, and I’ll speak to you again soon. Love to Dad.”

I hung up and called Cherry quick before Phil could grill me about the conversation with Mum. Cherry answered on the first ring. She seemed keen enough for us to come over, so she must have been well bored. I supposed Greg was busy ministering to the flock. Or maybe shoving it off the cathedral roof and then stuffing it.

Chapter Nineteen

Cherry’s house was in the old part of Pluck’s End, near enough to the church that the bell ringers must give her a right ear-bashing in the summer. It was smaller than I expected and, well, cosier. You could probably get away with calling it a cottage if you were willing to be fairly elastic with the definition. There was no thatched roof and no roses round the door, but there was ivy climbing up the walls, and the front gate had a roof over it like they do in churchyards. I’ve never quite understood the point of that, but it always looks sort of quaint and rustic. Maybe that
is
the point.

The small front garden was well tended, but there were a trowel and a pair of gardening gloves in a discreet corner of the porch that suggested she did it all herself rather than pay someone to keep it nice. The porch itself was enclosed and had potted plants in it on shelves, including a healthy-looking variegated ivy that hung down and tickled the back of my neck as I rang the doorbell. Presumably she’d be moving out to go and live in the Old Deanery with Greg when they tied the knot. I wondered if she’d miss the place.

Cherry opened the door in a big, hairy man’s sweater—the sweater was hairy, I mean; I couldn’t vouch for the man—and, ye gods, leggings. The outfit took ten years off her, compared to her buttoned-up workwear.

“All right, Sis? You’re looking better.”

She gave a faint smile. “I should hope so. Come in. Phil, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“You didn’t last long at Mum and Dad’s,” I said as we wiped our feet.

Cherry rolled her eyes. “Couldn’t stand it any longer. I swear they have the thermostat turned up to thirty degrees. And the television’s always at full volume, because Dad won’t admit he needs a hearing aid. I’ve got loads of paperwork to catch up on, and it really wasn’t helping.”

The house was a little on the cool side, but when she ushered us into the living room, it was cosy enough. There was a real log fire laid in the hearth, and although it wasn’t lit, it gave the impression it could be, if you know what I mean. The furniture was a bit old-fashioned for my liking, but the fabrics were all in warm reds and golds, and the sofa, when I parked my arse on it, was way more comfortable than Morgan’s had been.

Plus, of course, it had the added advantage of Phil taking up space at the other end. Cherry took one of the armchairs and swung her legs up onto the seat beside her, like she used to do when I was little. I had a sudden flashback to her in a pink leotard and tights, back home from ballet class and with her hair up in a bun. She’d looked impossibly grown-up to my pre-school eyes, but she must only have been in her early teens.

I blinked the memory away and waved at a gift basket of toiletries sitting on the hearth. It was all cellophane and curly ribbons, and even from a few feet away, the pungent smell of fruity bubble bath and body lotion and God knows what else was threatening to send me into a sneezing fit. “Greg been sending you welcome-home pressies?”

“Actually, it’s from the Literati.” She smiled, looking genuinely touched. “They clubbed together to get it. It was so kind of them, but the trouble is, I can’t use any of it.” She caught my look. “Allergies, remember? That’s why I’ve never been able to wear makeup. I was going to give it to Mum next time I go over there.”

Phil frowned. “I’d hold off on that if I were you. Better make sure none of it’s been tampered with.”

We stared at him in unison. “I don’t think Mum’s planning on drinking any of this stuff,” I said at last. “I mean, she may be getting on a bit, but last I checked she hadn’t gone completely gaga.”

“Doesn’t matter. Nicotine can be absorbed topically as well as by ingestion. How else did you think those nicotine patches smokers wear work? There was even a woman back in the forties who offed her husband by mixing the stuff with his aftershave.”

“Oh.” Cherry and I said it at the same time. It was a bit creepy, to be honest.

“Oh my God,” Cherry went on. “I could have killed Mum!”

“Look, we’re being a bit hasty here, aren’t we?” Voice of reason, me. “We don’t
know
there’s anything wrong with it.”

Phil frowned. “No, but we don’t know there isn’t, so until we do, no one touches anything in that basket. Who gave it to you?”

“Well, the card said it was from all of them. I found it in the porch when I got home.”

“Still got the card?”

“It’s up on the mantelpiece. The one in the middle, tucked behind the clock.”

We looked. There were half a dozen or so Get Well cards up there, mostly floral but with a couple of jokey-looking cartoon hospital scenes. Phil strode over, grabbed the one in the middle and opened it up. He grunted and held it up for the rest of us to see.

It was written in block capitals with a thick black pen, and all it said was
GET WELL SOON FROM THE LITERATI.

“That’s not a lot of help.” I glanced at Cherry. “Unless you recognize the writing?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen their handwriting. Everyone uses a word processor.”

I turned back to Phil. “What about the card?”

“Just your bog-standard card from M&S.” Phil shoved it back behind the clock, leaving them both a bit wonky.

I slumped back in the sofa and blew out a frustrated puff of air. “So how are we going to get this stuff checked out?”

“Well, there’s private labs. Easiest would be to have a word with your mate DI Southgate.”

I nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Wait a minute,” Cherry burst out. “Why on earth would the Literati want to, well, hurt me?” She looked upset, which I guessed wasn’t all that surprising. I’d be pretty miffed if a bunch of people clubbed together to try and off me, although I suppose the chances were it was just one person acting alone and trying to spread the guilt. A murder shared is a murder halved, that sort of thing.

“We were coming to that.” Phil was into business mode, all stern and efficient. “What do you know about David Evans?”

“The old chairman? In what sense?”

“Specifically, the way he died.”

“Well, he was ill, poor man, wasn’t he? Heart disease, and then…” Her face paled. “You don’t think he was poisoned, do you?”

“Didn’t get any gift baskets the week before he died, did he?”

“No—I mean, I can’t believe it. He was such a lovely old man. He was writing a murder mystery, you know? It was really very good. Terrific plot, terribly ingenious. He asked me about a few things—court procedure, that kind of stuff. He made me promise not to tell the other members of the group—you know what Morgan’s like about genre fiction. Plus, there had just been all this hoo-ha about plagiarism within writing groups, and David said while of course he trusted all the Literati, he didn’t want to risk being disillusioned at his age. He was rather sweet about it.”

She hugged herself, which was so un-Cherry-like I felt awkward watching her. Sort of like I was failing in my brotherly duties by not going over and giving her a hug myself, but God, this was Cherry. She’d probably be horrified. It’d been different, somehow, when she’d been in hospital.

“You know,” she continued, staring at the unlit fire, “the circle was so much more fun with him as chairman. Morgan and I never did really get on. Meetings got a lot, well, stuffier after he took over.”

“How did they decide who got to be the new chairman?” I threw in. “Draw straws, hold a vote, or was it just no one else wanted to do it?”

Cherry frowned. “You know, I really don’t know. I think, actually, he just stepped in, and of course, nobody protested. I mean, we could hardly have made a big fuss about leadership when poor David had just
died
. We were all really upset, and it just wouldn’t have been, well, the thing.” Her eyes widened. “Oh God. I’ve just realized—I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea. You’d like one, wouldn’t you? Milk? Sugar?” She jumped up and scurried into the kitchen without even waiting for an answer.

I exchanged glances with Phil and followed her in there. She’d taken the kettle over to the sink to fill it. “I’ll do that,” I started.

Cherry jumped a mile, turned the tap on too full, and water spurted everywhere. “Oh…
Bugger
.”

I reached past her to turn the tap off, and Cherry just stood, staring at the puddle on the floor. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you jump.” I patted her awkwardly on the nearest woolly shoulder. The whole front of her sweater (Greg’s sweater?) was wet, so I handed her a tea towel. “Should have left that to me. You know water’s my area.”

Cherry managed a wobbly smile as she mopped herself up, but it didn’t last. “It’s all just so…so bloody horrible. To think someone hates me so much. And I don’t even know who it
is
. Or why.” She sniffled. “I’m going to be expecting bricks through the window. And razor blades in the post.”

“Nah, you’ll be all right. You’re coming back to mine.” I hadn’t really thought about it, but well, it made sense, didn’t it? “That way, you won’t be on your own at night. And my neighbours are a lot closer.” And nosier, probably, come to that. “Go on, go and pack a bag.”

“You don’t have to… I mean, Gregory’s got plenty of spare rooms in the Old Deanery.”

I gave her a look. “What, and you and him only engaged? Are you trying to cause a scandal in the church? Those old ladies who do the flowers would probably keel over in horror.”

She huffed. “
Fine
. I’ll get my things. Can you sort the floor out? There’s a mop behind the door.”

“Oi, what did your last slave die of?” I went and grabbed the mop anyway. I was just about to start when I noticed she hadn’t gone yet. “Cherry?”

She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t Gregory, you know. He’d never hurt anyone.”