Pressure Head by J.L. Merrow

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Chapter Five
    I wasn’t expecting to hear from Phil again. Morrison, I mean. I thought he’d have decided my peculiar talent was of no further use—and it wasn’t like we’d been getting on all that well.
    He called me next day. I was in the van, just coming down King Harry Lane, so I pulled into the lay-by next to the park to take the call.
    Not that I thought it might be him or anything.
    He didn’t bother with hello . “Can you come round to Graham’s?”
    Again? What the hell had happened? “What, now?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “The police have taken him in for questioning again.”
    “And?” It was like pulling teeth.
    “I want to have a look around his place while he’s not there.”
    I drew in a sharp breath. “That’s illegal. And hang on, I thought you and him were mates?”
    “We won’t be breaking in. Melanie’s mum gave me a key. Are you coming?”
    I sighed. It was a good thing I hadn’t given the customer a definite time I’d be there. “Fine. I’ll be around fifteen minutes, okay?”
    The gods of the traffic lights smiled on me, and I got there in ten. Phil was sitting in his car outside the flat. Probably tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, but if so, I didn’t manage to catch him at it. As I parked my van behind him, he got out of the Golf and stood waiting for me on the path, arms folded.
    “Ready for the crime spree?” I asked, tongue in cheek.
    He almost smiled. “All in a day’s work.”
    We set off across the grass to Graham’s front door. “What do you reckon we’ll find?”
    Phil shrugged. “Maybe nothing. That’s the best-case scenario.”
    “And the worst-case scenario?”
    “Oh, blood-stained clothes, murder weapon and a video recording of the whole thing so he can sit down and watch it on cold winter evenings when there’s nothing on the box?”
    It was a bit sick, but we both laughed. Phil’s laugh was a low, quiet rumble of genuine amusement that took me right back to when we’d been at school, reminding me I’d noticed more about him than his physique back then. You get a bunch of teenage lads together, often it’s like they’re competing to see who can laugh the loudest, but he’d never been the sort to fake it like that.
    Funny, the stuff I’d forgotten about him. I shook my head. “Seriously, I can’t see Graham as the killer. I mean, come on, this has practically wiped him out.”
    “Guilt can do that to a bloke.” He looked away from me.
    “Got a few skeletons in your own closet, have you?” I couldn’t resist needling him. “Still, at least you’re not sharing it with them anymore. Must have been bloody uncomfortable, that—all those bony elbows.”
    He gave me a look as we jogged up the stairs to the flat. “Yeah, well, I’m surprised you ever came out of yours.”
    “Why?” I asked, suspicious.
    He smirked. “Wouldn’t have been short of headroom, would you?”
    “Are you making fun of my height? Don’t answer that. Where do you want me to start, then?”
    Phil shrugged. “I don’t know. Just do your stuff. Get out your divining rod, or whatever it is you do.”
    “I’ll get mine out if you show me yours,” I said with a leer. He pointedly turned away to start searching a bookshelf.
    I sighed and started looking. It wasn’t easy to concentrate with Phil in the room, so I decamped to the bathroom—you wouldn’t believe the kinds of stuff I’ve found in toilet cisterns over the years. Red faces all round, and a husband who’d be getting an ear-bashing when he got home from work.
    I had to do it the old-fashioned way, using my eyes—all that water messes with the vibes—but all I found in Graham’s bathroom was a flourishing crop of mildew. And it looked like the loo would need a new siphon pretty soon.
    I moved on to the bedroom. It was small—barely bigger than the admittedly king-size bed. There were built-in wardrobes with not an inch of door clearance to spare, and a small chest of