Free Pressure Head by J.L. Merrow

road?”
    Had he set this up? I sent him a suspicious look, but seeing as it only reached the back of his head as he set off down the hill without waiting for an answer, I might as well have saved myself the bother. Still, I wasn’t exactly averse to spending a little more time in his company. If he could only keep his mouth shut, he’d be perfect. I smiled as I got a vivid image of Phil Morrison in my bed. Gagged.
    “Something funny?” Bugger. He’d turned at just the wrong moment.
    “Trust me, you don’t want to know. This it, then?” We’d stopped outside the offices of Village Properties, which was next door to the Women’s Institute shop. I could see hand-knitted dollies peeping coyly out from behind patchwork cushions and strange, vegetable-shaped ornaments in their window.
    Phil, of course, didn’t spare a glance for the ladies’ handiwork, and pushed open the estate agent’s door. I followed him in—and nearly tripped over the doormat when I saw the bloke at the desk. Bloody hell, that photo had done him no justice at all. He wasn’t just nice ; he was gorgeous.

Chapter Six
    For a moment, I thought George Clooney must have decided to turn his back on the acting profession in favour of flogging houses to the middle classes. And while he was at it, turned the clock back fifteen or twenty years.
    “Good afternoon,” he greeted us in ringing, mellow tones.
    “Hi,” I said, giving a daft little wave like I was a geeky teenager with a crush. I think I even blushed. Phil stared at me for a moment, which helped to bring me back to earth.
    “What can I help you with?” Cloney Clooney asked, rising from his seat and extending a hand. “I’m Robin East, delighted to meet you.” He glanced shrewdly between me and Phil. “First house together, is it?”
    If Phil had looked any stonier, Cock Robin would probably have taken his details and sold him to a family of four as a desirable property in need of some modernisation. “Mr. East, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions,” he ground out while I stifled a laugh.
    Gorgeous brown eyes narrowed, looking no less sexy for all that. George Clooney playing some kind of legal eagle; he could cross-examine me any time he wanted. “Press?”
    “No. Private investigator.” Phil handed him a card. “I’m looking into Melanie Porter’s death.”
    Robin slumped back in his chair, looking genuinely troubled. “God, what a nightmare. Such a sweet girl—I can’t believe anyone could do such a thing.” Now he was back in the ER role, and a patient had just died despite all his efforts… I had to stop doing this, I told myself firmly. The bloke might be sex on legs, but he was probably straight and definitely a suspect.
    “You saw her the night she died, didn’t you?” The expressionless way Phil asked it sent shivers down my spine.
    Robin’s eyes widened. “No! No, as I told the police, that wasn’t me. The phone call, that is. I was working late, yes, but I didn’t call Melanie.”
    “So you were here alone?”
    Was it my imagination, or did Robin’s cheeks start doing a faint impression of his namesake’s breast? “Yes, I’m afraid so. Quite alone.”
    “Make any phone calls at all?”
    “Ah, no. Catching up on paperwork, I’m afraid.” Robin fiddled distractingly with a pen on his desk. It was a Montblanc, which didn’t surprise me; I’d seen the prices in the window on the way in.
    Phil nodded; I wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with. Maybe he just liked to nod at people he was interviewing, so they’d think he was on their side. “Did Melanie mention she was going out that night?”
    “Not to me.” He put the pen down very deliberately—sensible; you don’t want to risk breaking a posh pen like that—but then his fingers started drumming on his stack of papers. I read the top one: Exceptional living space and stunning views make this superb barn conversion… I stopped reading before I could get to the price and have a heart