Relief Valve by J. L. Merrow

Author:J. L. Merrow
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Tags: Nightmare
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: 2014-03-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Of course, halfway home, with some idiot babbling away on the radio about how Rooney hadn’t been playing half so well since the latest cosmetic touch-up, I started to feel a bit daft. Not to mention, embarrassed. Cherry was going to kill me—although not literally, I hoped—when she found out I’d all but accused her bit of reverend rough of trying to off me in a house of God.

And seriously, what had he actually done? Given me a bit of a fright and then saved me from splatting myself on the cathedral floor. If he’d wanted me dead, why bother grabbing me back from the brink?

Course, it was probably easier offing someone if they weren’t staring at you in abject horror. Maybe he just couldn’t do it, when push—hah—came to shove.

But I kept coming up against the question, why? What on earth had I ever done to the dubiously reverend Greg? I could just about see him trying to off Cherry in a crime of passion—although it was a stretch: passion wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind when I thought of her. Then again, that was probably just as well, her being my sister and all. But me? It just didn’t make sense.

I wasn’t sure whether to tell Phil about it or not. I felt a bit of a prat, to be honest. Either Phil was going to think I was being a total drama queen, or he’d go totally the other way and get in a huff with me for going up in the bloody roof with a possible murderer in the first place. Nah, it was better to play this one down. Keep mum about it for now, then laugh it off the next time we were all together.

Then again, I thought as I reached the outskirts of St Albans, seeing as I didn’t have a right lot else to do today, I might as well pop in and see if Phil had worked out who was trying to do my sister in yet. I was not just running off to see my bloke because I’d had a bit of a scare. This was practical stuff, all right? He might have had something he wanted me to check out. Or something. And anyway, this time of day, he’d be in his office, if he wasn’t out investigating, and it was on my way home.

I swung the Fiesta down Hatfield Road. Parking’s a bastard in town—all vouchers and permits and traffic wardens who’ll have your nads if you stay one second over time—but the big advantage of Phil’s little shoebox is it’s got a tiny car park out back of the building, with two designated spaces for Alban Investigations Ltd. Not, to be honest, that I couldn’t have parked at my house and walked there—Hatfield Road runs right through Fleetville, and Phil’s office was halfway back up towards St Albans centre, up above a gang of ambulance chasers. Well, lawyers who specialised in compensation claims. I wasn’t sure if they actually did any ambulance chasing.

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