Stop Cock

A match made in heaven—but the honeymoon from hell.

Plumber Tom Paretski and his newly wedded husband, PI Phil Morrison, plan to enjoy their honeymoon in Italy to the full. It should be the start of a wonderful future together. But when Wayne—Phil’s ex–best mate and Tom’s former bully—turns up unexpectedly at their hotel, issues from their schooldays threaten to derail the fun. Tom may no longer bear a grudge against Phil for past injuries, but Wayne’s another matter—or is he?

Wayne seems determined to make friends, but Tom’s struggling to forgive and forget. To add to his confusion, cryptic messages from home spark the question: Are he and Phil really as in tune as he thought? Tom’s not the first man Phil made a commitment to, and that marriage turned sour sooner rather than later.

It shouldn’t surprise them when death explodes onto the scene in shocking fashion, and their honeymoon turns into a murder investigation. When the group of locals Wayne had been meeting with turn their attention to Tom’s psychic abilities, he and Phil will need to pull together to figure out what’s going on—or risk this trip being the last they’ll ever take.

To the European Union. I miss you.

Lovers, like bees, live a honeyed life — ancient Roman graffiti found on the walls of Casa degli Amanti, Pompeii

I wish! — added by a second writer, directly below the above

About Stop Cock

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

The Plumber’s Mate Mysteries

Dear Reader

Also by JL Merrow

About the Author

Enjoy More Like This

It was what you might call a surprise honeymoon.

The first surprise was when I found out my then-fiancé Phil had booked it without consulting me. Which, yeah, initially I was a bit miffed about, but I was later convinced to view it as a romantic gesture. He can be pretty persuasive, my Phil. In the right circumstances.

The second surprise was turning up to find out a deeply loathed figure from mine and Phil’s mutual past had got there before us.

The third surprise was the dead body. Although to be honest, given the events of the last few years, running into a corpse on our honeymoon wasn’t that much of a shock.

It was late in the evening, and I was feeling pleasantly fuzzy from the drinks we’d had after dinner. Not so fuzzy, mind, that I wasn’t eager to get to bed with my lawfully wedded husband.

We were leaning on the balcony of our hotel room, watching fireworks over the Bay of Naples and looking forward to setting off some fireworks of our own, when the darkness was pierced by a scream. There was a weird Doppler effect as a blurred form plummeted past only inches from our noses, then the cry cut off with a dull thud.

Me and Phil leaned over the railing, staring in horror at the crumpled form lying on the road, far too many feet below us. Had some poor sod taken a tumble from the hotel roof?

Wait a minute. The light wasn’t great, but didn’t I recognise that figure, and those clothes? Hang on, isn’t that . . .

Yeah. It is, Phil agreed, his tone grim.

I gripped his hand. Could still be alive—

A lorry appeared from nowhere, its sides gaily painted with giant lemons, and thundered over the body.

I swallowed. Okay. Probably not anymore.

Naples was a little on the warm side. By which I mean, blisteringly, arse-roastingly hot. You could have used the pavement to fry your eggs on, not to mention any mad dogs and Englishmen who happened along. Like, for example, yours truly and his newly wedded husband. I couldn’t see a handy thermometer on any nearby buildings as we trundled our cases out of the airport, but forty Celsius probably wasn’t far off—that’s over a hundred in old money.

Rubbing the sweat off my brow, I turned back to Phil. He was looking annoyingly fresh, crisp, and tasty . . . Okay, so the annoyance might have turned into lust somewhere along the route. I sent him an appreciative smile that hopefully didn’t come off too soppy. When they said see Naples and die, they meant from heatstroke, didn’t they?

Phil huffed a laugh. I thought you liked the sun?

I like it better when I’m not hauling heavy weights around. My case was starting to veer off in the wrong direction, so I yanked it to heel.

Call that a heavy weight? It’s half the size of mine.

I gave him a look. It’s not the size. It’s how good you are at packing. So to speak.

Don’t worry. I’ve got no complaints in that department. He sent me a friendly leer, then had to dodge sharpish as a little old lady zoomed past without warning, pulling along a case that was bigger than mine and Phil’s combined.

Think she’s got a motor installed on that thing? Phil muttered.

I grinned. Either that, or she’s heard her hotel’s handing out welcome drinks and it’s first come, first served.

The coach, when we finally clambered on board, was air-conditioned, which was a blessed relief. Bagsy the window seat. If you nab it, all I’ll see is your big mug.

Phil laughed. Bagsy? What are you, five? And anyway, I thought you liked my mug. You married it, remember.

I could feel a slushy smile forming on my own face, so I pushed past him before he could notice. And let me tell you, that wasn’t easy in the narrow aisle. My beloved husband is the sort of bloke who tends to fill all available space, mostly with his shoulders.

Occasionally with his pig-headedness.

I claimed my seat and settled down to goggle out of the window. The sky was that vivid blue you see in travel brochure photos and always assume they must have used a filter to get. Tiny wisps of cloud floated aimlessly here and there with nothing to do but provide a touch of contrast.

There was the usual hanging about while sundry holiday-makers slogged their way over to the coach, popped their heads in to check it was the right one, and milled around outside until the driver slung their luggage in the hold. The schools back home hadn’t broken up yet for the summer, so pretty much everyone on board was old enough to see an X-rated movie. I figured I could grab Phil’s hand without anyone getting their knickers in a twist about us corrupting innocent young minds.

He gave a surprised huff and squeezed back, those baby blues of his suspiciously moist. Didn’t think PDAs were your thing.

Hey, we’re on honeymoon. Plus, I didn’t reckon we were in any danger of icy stares and/or hostile comments from our fellow travellers. Most of them still had the glazed eyes and haunted expressions of the modern airline passenger. Not to mention, there were only half a dozen or so who could see us from where they were sitting.

A last couple hurried on board—a man and a woman in their midtwenties, good-looking in an expensively groomed way. They’d clearly been together for longer than us, if the constant sniping back and forth was any guide. After a brief but bitter squabble over who got the window seat, they sat down, and the coach gave a jolt and headed off.

We moved swiftly through the back streets of Naples, which were about as scenic as back streets usually are. My mind wandered until I realised I was humming that sixties song about the girl with the cleverly designed topless swimsuit and hurriedly cleared my throat. Think that’s Vesuvius? I gestured at a mountain out the back of the city. Is it supposed to be there?

I don’t think it’s been going walkabout, Phil said with the suspicion of a smirk.

I gave him an affectionate dig in the ribs. Oi, no making fun of me. I never got on with geography in school.

You did all right as I remember.

"Seriously? You remember how well I did at a subject I last took at age sixteen?" It wasn’t like I’d been top of the class or anything. I think.

I always noticed you.

I chanced a glance at Phil. He’d gone all sombre, which, fair dues, the subject of our mutual schooldays wasn’t a happy one for either of us. So I didn’t say, Busy thinking of ways you and your mates could duff me in after class, were you? Instead, I grabbed his hand again, squeezed it tight, and said lightly, Well, that’s where you went wrong, innit? If you’d paid more attention to Mr. Whatshisface instead of mooning over me, you’d have got As across the board in your GCSEs.

Then I rambled on about whether real Neapolitan pizza was going to live up to its reputation, and after a mo he relaxed enough to start dissing my culinary discernment, and we were back on safe ground.

Once we left the city behind us and headed south around the Bay of Naples, the scenery got better and better. There were no blocks of flats or even houses anymore; you’d have to call them villas, all gleaming white against the piercingly blue sky and garnished with exotic plants and flowers us Brits only get to see in reruns of Death in Paradise.

Ah, this is the life. I gestured out the window again. You know you’re abroad when you see real live lemons growing on trees.

Phil smirked.

What?

Oh, nothing.

I didn’t get it. Still, whatever it was, there was a fair chance I didn’t want it, so I shrugged and soldiered on. And those trees—see over there? The ones that look like a pine tree got frisky with an umbrella. What are they called, anyway?

Umbrella pines.