Date: Thu, 2 Aug 2001 09:26:21 EDT
From: MGouda3464@aol.com
Subject: SUMMERTIME (4th Matt Silvain Investigation)

SUMMERTIME
4th Matt Silvain Investigation
Michael Gouda and Stefan Schmidt


"Summertime
And the living is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Oh, your daddy's rich
And your mama's good lookin'
So hush little baby now
don't you cry"

George Gershwin - Dubose Heyward

Well, it was summertime certainly but I had my reservations about the 'easy
living'! I was sprawled on a park bench - no 'sprawled' is the wrong word,
sounds too casually elegant. I was 'slumped' on the park bench taking up as
much of it as I could, with my legs spread out awkwardly. I figured that
anyone passing by would give a look and then pass on by. I wasn't a pretty
sight. My clothes were filthy. I hadn't had a bath for three days and in
this heat, I guess I smelled pretty high. But then you gotta smell right,
looking isn't good enough on its own. I had a bottle of meths and cider mix
and every so often I'd raise it to my lips though I made pretty damn sure I
didn't drink any of the poisonous stuff. I'd spilled some down my jacket -
more of the 'smelling right'.

It was much too hot to be wearing all the clothes but people on the streets
don't take their jackets and shirts off at the first sign of a summer heat
wave. Probably too aware that someone else might make off with them, not
that I could imagine anyone wanting the stuff I was wearing. Even clean it
had been pretty dire, a pair of trousers that would have scarcely fitted a
man twice my waist size, tied round the middle by a frayed piece of
string. A shirt, one of those ones that needed a separate collar, the sort
grandpa wore. Needless to say it had no collar. The jacket - nothing to do
with the pattern of the trousers of course - was worn smooth practically
everywhere so that it had an almost uniform shine that occasionally caught
the sun in a greasy sort of way. My shoes were scuffed and one had its sole
barely attached. The socks were better left undescribed. All purchased
specially from Oxfam and grubbied up specifically for the part.

'The part'. Yes, that gives it away. I was acting a part.

It was the only way I could think of to find out information about Adrian.

His father had come to see me the previous week, a stout, red-faced man
with a bristling moustache and bad teeth. He looked like someone who drank
rather too much for him and smoked likewise - certainly he smelled like an
over-filled ashtray. He limped in to the office favouring his right leg and
helped with a stout walking stick.

"You've been recommended," he said shortly. His voice was gruff, plummy, a
touch of the Cockney almost hidden by Sloane Square.

I gave him an enquiring glance, waiting for more. He mentioned a name but
it didn't register.  Nonetheless I pigeon-holed it for later investigation
and nodded gravely.

"And what can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?"

"Ponting."  He paused as if I should know the name.

Suddenly I did. "Ponting of Ponting's Paints?"

He nodded and his lips opened into a self-satisfied smirk. Pity they
displayed the nicotine-stained teeth. "The very same," he said.

I pretended to be impressed. Pontings Paints of course had been made famous
country-wide after a very expensive TV advertising campaign in which a
large dog had been trained to use a paintbrush held between his teeth. Not
very original but the more times an advert is shown, the more it becomes
known. The dog was actually fairly cute.

"And the problem, Mr Ponting?"

A frown spread over his coarse face and immediately he looked like a
cantankerous stall-holder at the local market who had seen a small boy
running off with an apple, rather than the owner of a paint consortium
worth millions.

"It's my son, Adrian," he said.

I nodded understandingly. Boys, I implicitly agreed, can be a great
problem.

"He's run away," he said.

"The Police," I suggested.

"Wouldn't be interested," he said. "You see he's nineteen years old. Old
enough to make up his own mind."

I nodded again. "I assume there was some reason. A quarrel perhaps. I need
to know the background."

It was hard work, like searching for the meat in a winkle, but eventually I
got the picture. Young Adrian had been at University, red brick rather than
Oxbridge, doing fairly well, average, was expected to get an Honours 2
degree. Then things had started going wrong. ''Got in with the wrong
crowd', whatever that meant, certainly people Papa Ponting disapproved
of. There were hints of drugs - well, as probably 90% of Undergraduates had
experimented with drugs of one sort or another, I wasn't surprised at
that. There had been 'upsets' in the family which consisted of mother,
father, Adrian and his sister, rows, accusations, things said which were
better left unsaid

"Eventually," said Mr Ponting, "everything came to a head. We had a
terrific row and Adrian swept out. We thought he'd gone back to University
but he hadn't. We haven't heard from him since - and that's six weeks ago."

"What happened in that final row?"

"Oh you know. We each said things we didn't mean."

"Exactly what was said," I persisted.

Ponting cleared his throat. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind
about something. "Adrian said he'd run his own life. I said he couldn't
afford to, that he needed my money, his whole life I'd paid for. He had no
job, no real talent, no head for business, no application. He of course
blew up, said he could do without me, without the money. Then he went."

"Could he have got money?" I asked. "Credit card, borrowing from friends,
relations, his mother?"

Ponting shook his head. "I put my foot down. He had nothing."

"Where do you think he might have gone? Is there anyone he might be staying
with?"

"Do you think we haven't tried all those. His friends. No result. I think
he's been living on the streets, a tramp, probably here in London."

"OK, Mr Ponting, I'll do what I can."

There were those final sordid little bits of business like telling him my
terms, which he accepted readily enough, taking down details of how I could
get in touch with him, asking for the names and addresses of his friends
etc. He gave me a photo of Adrian and I saw a fresh-faced young man with
candid grey eyes, a mass of straw-coloured hair and a smile which made him
look attractively disingenuous.

Ponting got to his feet and was about to go out when I stopped him. "One
last point," I said. "What was that final row actually about?"

He tried to dismiss it with a wave of his hand. "You know," he
said. "Family things."

"I don't know," I said, "but I'd like to. It might be important."

"I can't remember," he said, and even though I thought he was lying I left
it at that.

So, here I was, on the streets myself, an undercover job if ever there was
one - and finding the 'living anything but easy'.

There's so much to learn, where to go, what to do and, more importantly,
what NOT to do. Who to avoid, the safe areas, the 'comfort zones' which
basically means where to be without danger. Some people are suspicious,
others surprisingly friendly. I asked around, carefully, not wanting to
give the impression that I was actually searching for an individual. I had
a name, a description, a period of time and, though so far I hadn't
actually used it, the photograph. But it wasn't easy. London's a big
place. People congregate in different parts of it and I didn't know where
to start. But I did get some clues. Someone had seen a guy like I described
in the Finsbury Park area - I'd explained that I owed him a favour and
wanted to find him again. Ask the Bag Lady, he recommended. She's always
there. So here I was, lounging in the sunshine and thinking dour thoughts
about surely there was an easier way of earning my living when -

"Christ! Matt! What's fucking happened to you?"

A voice from the past, though not the too distant past. The red-haired Paul
Massingham, ex-lover, still, if I cared to admit it, in my erotic
fantasies. Looking svelte, slim, and eminently seductive and here was I,
like something that hadn't been emptied out of the dustbin for three
months. Shit! Shit! Shit! In that order...

And also, wallowing up behind him, like a galleon in full sail, plastic bag
top-gallants and all, the Bag Lady, the one I had been expecting to meet -
so I couldn't go into any long, complicated explanations to Paul.

"On a job," I snarled at him out of the corner of my mouth. "Bugger off,"
slightly louder for the Bag Lady's benefit.

"On a what?" asked Paul.

"On yer bike," I said loudly. "I've gottasmuch right to sit here as anyone
else . . . " With the eye on the side away from BL, I gave him an
exaggerated wink. "I'll be in touch," I whispered.

Paul's bemused expression cleared. "Have a bath first," he said and walked
on, not looking back. I would have liked to have given him an appraising
look but there was work to be done.

The 'Bag Lady' - no one knew her real name - squatted on the seat next to
me, leaning against the back rest and feeling the sunshine on her
face. Around her she disposed her plastic bags, black, rubbish bags,
striped ones from Tesco, yellow, rather stronger carriers from
Sainsbury's. They contained her possessions and she guarded them jealously,
exposing her blackened teeth in a snarl if anyone came too close. In those
bags were all the things she owned, gleanings from the rubbish bins of the
more fortunate, broken toys, books with covers missing, damaged plastic
ornaments - if it had been discarded, it was hers.

She wore all the clothes she had, layer upon layer of grubby materials
which had mostly lost their original colours and now seemed uniformly dark,
and smelled - not so much rank as - old, with that old smell you get in
churches, composed of dust and damp and decaying hymn books.

She had no worries - except that someone might steal her belongings. She
often knew the pangs of hunger but the Sally Ann would be round sometime
with soup and bread. The cold at night she could endure and company she had
certainly no wish for. The fact that I was sitting next to her evoked her
almost ritual response, upper lip drawn back in a snarl, a hiss of
displeasure, enough, she knew, to frighten off most unwelcome visitors.

Then she saw the bottle in my hand and her look changed to one of almost
winsome ingratiation.

"I'm awfu' thirsty," she said. Her voice was gruff and rusty as if she
didn't use it often.

I passed over the rot-gut brew and she took a man-sized swallow, then
another. I wondered what the stuff was doing to her insides. She handed it
back. I was tempted to say, 'Keep it', but of course that wouldn't have
been in character. An occasional expression of generosity is OK but John
Paul Getty-type magnanimity is sure to arouse suspicion.

"Ta," she said grudgingly, and belched. She looked at me and for the first
time seemed to focus on what she saw. "I ain't seen you 'ere before," she
said, suspicions returned.

I hadn't seen her before either - well, except from a distance - but I knew
a lot about her. Everyone knew 'the Bag Lady', and, according to most, she
knew everybody which was why I had chosen this bench at this time of day as
I knew it was her regular place.

"Name's Matt," I said.

"Didn't ask you yer name," she said, though I knew she'd store it away
somewhere in the ragbag of her mind. "Where you kip?"

Much more important than a name, a place to sleep at night. "Station." I
said.

She gave me a look and then said, "Arsenal's better'n Finsbury Park."

I realised that, for some reason, I'd clicked. She was offering me good
advice. I nodded. To be too effusive in my thanks would have given rise to
mistrust.

I left it for a while, just passed over the bottle and she had another two
swallows.

Then I said, "Seen Adrian lately?"

She wiped her lips, then as an afterthought had another swig. If it was
questions I was asking, she could exact payment in booze. "Poofy sort o'
name," she observed, though it seemed a statement rather than anything
requiring comment. "Old Adrian or Young Adrian?"

"Young Adrian."

She gave the question some thought - or at least I assumed that was what
she was doing - though she might have been allowing the meths fumes to
dissipate. "Saw him last week," she said. "'E said he was off North."

Reykjavik, I wondered wildly, the North Pole, or perhaps further
afield. The idea of being in proximity to an iceberg was not unattractive
at the moment.

"Belsize Park."

"That's the Adrian with blond hair," I checked to be sure.

She nodded. "Poof," she said.

"Is he."

That was interesting, I thought, as I shambled off sweating through the
sunshine. I wondered if that was the bit of information Papa Ponting had
failed to tell me in his account of the final quarrel. Not that it was too
significant. Gay or straight, a guy on the streets needs other talents to
stay healthy.

Belsize Park. A long steep hill outside the tube station, upwards to the
posh heights of Hampstead Heath, down to the murky depths of Camden Town. A
row of shops opposite, greengrocers, delicatessen, travel agent, baker. I
went into this and bought a sausage roll. The woman behind the counter
obviously didn't like me coming into her hygienic shop - I hardly blamed
her - but she served me civilly enough with barely a grimace.

I went outside and sat down on a seat conveniently situated so that anyone
there could get the full effect of the exhausts from all the passing
vehicles. A man - a fellow 'free spirit' I assumed - was sitting at the
other end. He was wearing a long grey overcoat which came down to his
ankles and from underneath protruded a pair of sandals. Inside these his
feet were dirty with what looked like mud. His ankles were scratched. I ate
my sausage roll and then prepared the way for conversation by producing my
bottle of cider and meths, waving it in his direction so that he could
hardly fail to see it.

"That stuff will kill you, you know," he said in an educated accent. He
looked at me from under a pair of grey eyebrows. He didn't look well. There
was a pallor to the skin of his face and a faint sheen of sweat - but then
it was a hot day and he was wearing a thick coat.

"You're quite right," I said. "You don't fancy a swig, I suppose."

"If I wanted to kill myself, I could go home and put my head in the gas
oven."

I didn't point out that natural gas isn't the lethal stuff the old version
was and that he'd have to wait until it filled the room to he exclusion of
all the oxygen before it suffocated him. Clearly he wasn't a gentleman of
the road in spite of appearances. He might, however, if he was an
habitu^Î of this seat which overlooked all, know of some of them, or at
least have noticed them.

"Sorry, guv," I said. "D'you see many guys hanging around here?"

The man bridled. "What makes you think I go looking for guys," he said.

I realised I'd made a mistake. "No, I didn't mean that. I'm looking for a
particular person. Someone told me he'd been seen in Belsize Park. Name of
Adrian."

"I wouldn't know his name. What does he look like?"

I felt in the inside pocket of my appalling jacket and produced the
photo. The man took it a little hesitantly but after glancing at it, he
gave a start and peered at it more closely. "Why, yes," he said. "I did see
this young man. I remember the hair. He wasn't looking so happy of
course. In fact I thought he looked a bit scared. Kept glancing behind him,
as if he thought someone was after him."

"When was this?" I asked.

"This morning. Couple of hours ago, I suppose. Probably about eleven
o'clock."

"Where did he go?"

"Up Rosslyn Hill. Towards Hampstead." He gestured with his head to the
left.

I was about to get up when a thought struck me. "And was there?" I asked.

"Was there what?"

"Someone following him?"

"Not as far as I could tell. Didn't notice anyone." He paused. "Only you,
of course."

I smiled and stood up.

"Well, perhaps a little drop," he said.

His hand was shaking so I left him with the bottle.

The hill was steep and I sweated a bit more as I climbed it. I passed the
hospital on the right and the road that leads down to Keat's House. Just
past Flask Walk there were two lads leaning on the wall outside 'The Flask'
public house. They were holding pint glasses of beer and I envied
them. They looked harmless enough but you never can tell.

"Hi," I said. "I'm looking for this guy." I showed them the photo.

They looked at me suspiciously and, not for the first time, I wished I'd
gone home and changed out of my 'hobo' gear into something more
respectable. I could have had a shower too. The thought of clear, clean
water and a bar of soap suddenly seemed paradise.

"What do you want him for?" asked one of them.

"Hey, isn't that the guy who asked what the time was," said the other,
clearly less mistrustful. "And you told him, time 'e got hisself a watch,"

"Thank you, gentlemen," I said trying to keep all traces of sarcasm out of
my voice and moved sharply on, followed by a shout of "Wanker". But it
wasn't threatening and they didn't pursue.

Over the road was the gay pub 'King William IV' but I ignored it. It's
rather piss-elegant and I was hardly dressed for it. I did however look in
the little courtyard outside where drinkers were sitting at tables and
tearing reputations to shreds. Adrian, as far as I could see wasn't amongst
them.

I turned right at Hampstead Tube Station, incidentally the deepest one in
the whole London underground system, and struggled up Heath Street, the
steepest bit, which led to the Round Pond, Jack Straw's Castle and the
Heath proper.

As I arrived I heard the sirens. Some people standing around the pond
watching an overgrown schoolboy sailing a model yacht looked up with
interest. A police car and an ambulance raced along Spaniards Road and
screamed dramatically to a halt, officers and paramedics leaped out and ran
down a narrow path that led into the wooded area that was called the Heath
extension. I suddenly had a chill of apprehension and followed
them. Perhaps a hundred yards further on under the trees there was a guy
standing with a mobile phone in his hand. As the police ran towards him, he
pointed into the tangled undergrowth of brambles at the side of the path. I
could see something lying there, a patch of blue, a crop of yellow hair.

One of the paramedics knelt down beside and started busying herself. A
policeman turned and faced me and the other curious onlookers who had
followed.

"There's nothing to see," he said, which wasn't quite true. "Please stand
back."

I took a breath and committed myself. "I think I might know who he is," I
said.

The policeman gave me a look which took in my clothing, the dishevelled
state, the general unreliability of such a person, and therefore any
statement he might make. "This isn't a joke, sir," he said. I could see the
'sir' stuck in his craw.

I got out the photograph and showed it to him. "Is this the man?"

He took it and had a look, then turned and went back to the others crowding
round the prostrate form. There was conversation and the other policeman, a
sergeant, turned. The constable pointed. The paramedic stood up and shook
her head. The constable returned and gestured with a head movement for me
to go ahead, at the same time holding back the others who looked as if they
wanted to approach as well.

The boy lay on his back with the sunlight dappled through the leaves
lighting up his face. The eyes were open and staring, the mouth wide in a
soundless last cry. His hair lay around his head like a golden aureole. The
blue I had seen was his pullover. As I arrived, they were lifting him onto
a stretcher and I saw the back of his head where the blond hair was stained
and congealed into a dark brown mass. Someone had bashed the back of his
head in.

"O.K., son," said the sergeant. "You'd better tell us what you know."

Afterwards, after I'd shown my 'credentials', explained my appearance, the
commission from Adrian Ponting's father, how I'd 'tracked' the boy from
Finsbury Park following the information from various individuals along the
way who, no doubt, could be traced and corroborate my evidence, I was
allowed to go home.

As far as I was concerned the job was done. I had found Adrian and by now
Mr Ponting would have heard the news. I knew that later I would have to get
in touch with him, if he didn't contact me first. Briefly I thought about
the bill for my services but dismissed that for the time being as being a
little insensitive. I got out of the horrible clothes and stepped under the
shower where I remained for half an hour soaping myself until all evidence
of the past few days was gone. The sight of Adrian's body, though, I could
not wash away however much I scrubbed.

I didn't feel hungry. I didn't want to be alone. There were various people
I could have phoned but I knew that whoever I got in touch with, I'd start
talking about Adrian, and for some reason I didn't want to. For most of
them it would just be a subject of salacious tittle-tattle, and I was too
close to it. Then I remembered Paul. I owed him an explanation, after this
morning's meeting. Did I want to renew my acquaintance with him, though?
The break-up had been pretty tough last time. Before I talked myself out of
it I rang his number. If he was out, I told myself, I'd forget about the
whole thing.

He answered at the third ring and the sound of his voice made my knees
tremble. Hopefully this wouldn't show in my voice.

"Sorry about this morning," I said. "You must have thought I was really
down on my luck."

"God, Matt," he said. "I didn't know what to think. If you hadn't given me
that wink, I'd have been back with a tenner to drop into your grubby little
hand."

"Aren't I worth a bit more than that?" I asked, joking.

His voice was serious though. "Yes you are," he said, and my knees trembled
again. "What was it all about?"

"It's a long story," I said.

"You want to tell me? Let's have a drink, if you're free - but only if
you've had a bath!"

I was free. I'd had a good shower. I smelled, I thought, ravishing. We met
at the Cutlas and Pistol which was just round the corner from his place. I
had a car and he hadn't.

As we sat opposite each other in the 'snug', I looked at Paul, trying to
see him as if for the first time. Red hair, spiked with gel, a deep red,
not an anaemic shade of light brown, or carroty. Dark eyebrows. I studied
his face, fresh complexioned, youthful. I could remember his whole body
with that soft, smooth skin. Brown candid eyes and a smile that curled up a
pair of invitingly generous lips.

He had changed from his 'shop clothes' and now wore a white pullover - sort
of cricket. Made him look clean and healthy. I thought about peeling it off
as a prelude to even more delicious things and found myself getting quite
excited. But I'd fucked up the relationship and I doubted whether there was
a chance of it ever getting off the ground again.

"It's good to see you again, Matt," he said. "I've missed you."

"Oh come on, it's only been since this morning."

He smiled, wrinkling up his nose in that way I remembered so well. "Always
the same. You're never serious."

"Perhaps I don't want to get hurt again."

He looked me straight in the eyes for so long, I felt embarrassed, but I
didn't know what to say or do next. Eventually I broke the contact. "I bet
you want to know what was happening in the Park this morning."

Paul gave a little sigh. "I didn't know what to think."

I told him the outline of the story, about how a father had engaged me to
find his son who, he thought, was roughing it on the streets, about the Bag
Lady sending me to Hampstead and the old guy in the grey overcoat up to the
Heath. Then I told him about finding the body of Adrian Ponting.

"Who?" said Paul.

"Adrian Ponting," I said.

"Ponting's Paints?

I nodded.

"But I know - knew him."

I am continually surprised at the way the gay fraternity is one mass of
interlocking relationships. Of course there are those who are so closeted
that they hardly even come out even to themselves but give me a gay name
and the odds are that at least one of my friends will know him, probably
have slept with him.

"Did you sleep with him?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Sorry. Just
curious."

"Once," he said. "He was really neurotic. Dead scared his parents might
find out about him being gay and that."

"They did," I said. "I'm sure that's what caused the row."

"And now he's dead. What do the police think?"

"That it was some gay-bashing that went too far."

"But, in the middle of the day. Doesn't sound all that likely."

I agreed. "He was in a gay pick-up place, though hardly likely to be active
at lunchtime. Still that's what they seem to think."

"So nothing will be done."

"They'll go through the motions I guess, but he'd probably been dead for
about two hours when they found him. Whoever did it would have had plenty
of time to get away. And if there's nothing to link the attacker with
Adrian, the odds of their finding him are pretty remote."

"He shouldn't get away with it whoever the killer is," said Paul. "What are
you going to do about it?"

"Me?" I looked at him almost at a loss for words. Then I found them. "Oh
come on, what can I do? As far as I'm concerned the case is over. I've
found Adrian. Mission accomplished."

Paul looked at me again and I could see he was disappointed. I tried to
find excuses. "If the police can't find him, how on earth can I?"

He still looked at me. I gave in. "OK. I'll ask around. See if I can find
anyone who was in the woods at the time. They might talk to me when they
wouldn't to the police." Suddenly I remembered something. "An old guy I met
outside Belsize Park station did say Adrian was looking scared. Said he
kept glancing back as if he thought he was being followed."

Paul smiled. I felt a warm hand on my knee under the table. "I knew you
would." I covered it with my own. We were both leaning forward so that our
faces were very close. I wanted to kiss him.

"I knew you would," he repeated. "In spite of all that laid-back talk,
you're quite a nice guy."

I wondered if I would have agreed if it had been anyone but Paul who had
asked me. "Aw shucks," I said.

His hand, on my knee moved slightly, upwards, towards my groin. "Do you
want to come back to my place?" he asked.

I did! I did! I did!

My cock did as well. But....

"Last time we took it all too quickly," I said.

His expression didn't alter but I felt his hand squeeze my leg. I think
that meant that he understood. I kissed him before I got into my car to
drive home. In a shop doorway where no one could see us and he pressed his
body close to mine. I nearly changed my mind about going home but he drew
away and went off saying, "See you soon." I hope he meant it.

Next morning early I got a visit. And I mean early.

Four o'clock. Before even the sparrows had started to chatter outside my
bedroom window, there was a loud banging on the front door. I didn't have
much more time to open my eyes, notice that the LED display on my radio
alarm showed 4.01 am when there was a shout from outside, 'Police', a
massive thud followed by a splintering sound and heavy size 12s pounding up
the stairs.

Two massive six-footers burst into my bedroom - wouldn't usually complain
about this, but this time it was quite scary, dragged me out of bed, naked
as I was and quoted the old arrest spiel. 'I'm arresting you on suspicion
of the murder of Adrian Ponting. You do not have to say anything, but it
may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something
which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in
evidence. Do you understand?'

"No," I said, but they didn't take any notice just told me to put my
clothes on and come down to the station.

I could see it was no use arguing so I did what they told me. They allowed
me to have a pee with one guy standing at the door watching me closely and
then I was off in a police car after briefly trying to put the bits of my
front door together so that it wouldn't be obvious to every casual
passer-by looter that my house was open and available.

"There'll be some officers back to search the place," said one of the
policeman, a statement which didn't give me much comfort. I had some fairly
explicit pictures on my hard disc. I didn't think they were really against
the law but who knows?

At the Nick, they searched me - thoroughly, even though they'd watched me
get dressed and knew that I didn't have anything on me at all - and put me
in a cell. "I want to call a lawyer," I said.

"Later," said the duty sergeant. "He'll hardly be in his office at this
time." Which of course was true, though it didn't cheer me up any. I tried
to think what could have happened. There was no way I could have been
anywhere near the Heath at the time that Adrian had been killed. The old
guy in the grey overcoat would tell them I was at Belsize Park, and then
there were the tossers outside the pub.

Anyway if I had killed him, why would I have come back to the scene of the
crime and identified him - and myself? It made no sense. All of a sudden I
felt I was in one of those helpless Kafkaesque situations, and felt a bit
frightened.

A constable brought me a cup of tea a bit later which was sweet and
milky. I drank it even though I hate it like that. "The CID officers will
be in at eight," he told me.

"Couldn't you have just asked me to come down to the station at half past?"
I asked but for some reason he didn't think much to that and went out.

I sat on the hard bench and waited.

A couple of centuries later I was taken for an interview, small room, no
windows, vomit green paint on the walls, slight smell of disinfectant. A
table, three chairs. Two plain-clothes sat me down on one of them and sat
down themselves on the other two. They introduced themselves as Inspector
Rees and Detective Constable Parry. Rees was tall and thin and looked as if
he permanently suffered from indigestion. Parry was young, good-looking in
a beefy, Rugby-playing way.

I know I should have stayed silent but I couldn't stop myself. "What's all
this about?"

"Surely you've been cautioned," said Rees. He turned to his
partner. "Constable, hasn't Mr Silvain been cautioned?" His tone was dry,
acerbic, obviously taking the piss.

"I don't understand," I said. "I was here yesterday. You seemed quite
satisfied with what I told you."

Rees opened a folder which had been lying on the table in front of him. He
looked at it as if he'd never seen it before. "Ah yes. You said you had
been commissioned by Mr Bernard Ponting to look for his son, Adrian."

"That's right," I said.

"We informed Mr Ponting of the unfortunate demise of his son. He claims to
have no knowledge of you, denies he ever asked you to look for him."

I was gob-smacked. It didn't make sense. I began to have dark forebodings -
well even darker ones than I'd already had since I'd been so rudely roused
from my slumbers in the small hours. I couldn't cope with this on my own.

"I want to see a solicitor," I said.

"Do you have one in mind?" asked Rees smoothly.

I, of course, didn't. I'd never had occasion to use a lawyer, didn't even
know the name of one. I shook my head.

"You are of course entitled to legal advice," said Rees. "We can supply you
with one. Unfortunately he won't be available until 9.30 which is when he
starts work."

"I'm not saying anything until he arrives, then," I said.

Rees sighed, as if I was being totally unreasonable. "Mr Silvain," he said,
"probably a little chat and we can sort the whole matter out long before
the duty solicitor can get here."

An arrest for murder carried out in the small hours involving breaking and
entering. It didn't sound like the sort of thing easily 'sorted'.

"You are, of course, perfectly within your rights but look at it from our
perspective. You have this strange story of following the victim, dressed
as a tramp, and the reason you gave is denied by the very person you said
told you to do it."

"But I was nowhere near the Heath when he was killed."

"Ah yes, this man in the grey overcoat and the two lads outside the
pub. I'm afraid we haven't been able to locate any of them. But even if it
was as you said, it would have been possible to kill Adrian then return to
Belsize Park and come back to the Heath again."

"Why would I do that?"

"Yes, that's the question isn't it? What motive could you have for killing
Adrian Ponting, a lad you say you didn't even know, had not even met
before." He sat back in the chair and looked at me. This sounded like the
only thing so far which was in my favour. I felt a slight lightening of my
spirits.

Then Parry spoke for the first time.

"Are you a homosexual?" he asked.

Are you or have you even been a practising homosexual. Only until I'm
perfect at it. The old joke ran unbidden through my head. I didn't like
that. No doubt they'd found the 'incriminating' pictures on my hard
disc. Not that there was anything particularly kinky on there, not in gay
terms anyway. No underage stuff or anything like that. But it was pretty
conclusive. I could scarcely deny it. Not sure that I wanted to. It wasn't
any of their business. All of a sudden I felt very defensive.

"Yes, I am," I said. "It's not against the law, you know."

Parry had laid the groundwork, now Rees stepped in with the coup de
grace. "And if you had tried to pick up Adrian Ponting as he was strolling
through the woods, and he had 'spurned' you, looking - and smelling - as
you did, and you got cross and gave him a 'tap'. . . ."

"A 'tap'," I said, remembering the blood-soaked mop of hair I'd
seen. "Christ, that was more than a tap."

"Yes, that was unfortunate," said Rees. "It seems that Adrian Ponting had
an abnormally thin skull. He might have never known it himself, but any
knock could have killed him." He looked at me. "Is that how it happened?"

"Of course it fucking wasn't."

"So how did it happen?"

"Just as I told you yesterday." There was a silence. I tried to calm
down. Then I said, "Aren't you supposed to be recording this?"

"It's just a little chat," said Rees easily. "No need to be too formal."

There was a discreet knock on the door. Rees looked annoyed. A constable in
uniform came in and whispered in his ear. Rees looked even more annoyed. He
got up and went towards the door. As he passed me he said, "It seems you've
got a solicitor after all. Obviously one who keeps early hours."

The door closed and I was left alone with Detective Constable Parry. He
looked at me and I looked at him. He had rather nice brown eyes. In fact if
you like the 'well-built' type, he was rather dishy. I smiled and he looked
away. He knew I was gay - and I suspected he was too, but of course he was
not likely to 'come out' - not to a suspected murderer, in an interview
room, in his local Nick. For a moment I allowed my imagination to take
control, being shafted by a prop-forward over the table. In spite of all
the circumstances I felt the beginnings of a stirrings in the loins.

Then the door opened again and Rees came back, this time with a young/old
man, looked young until you peered carefully and saw the little lines
around his eyes, the slight sag under his chin, the grey hair around his
temples. So this was my solicitor. I'd never seen him before in my life.

"I'd like a word in private with my client," he said.

Rees grunted and motioned with his head to Parry. They left. The man held
out his hand and we shook. His palm was dry, the grip firm. I hope mine was
too.

"My name is Grant, Mr Silvain, Alisdair Grant." He had a Scottish accent,
not pronounced but there - pleasantly. "Your friend, Paul Massingham,
phoned me - early - to tell me you might need my assistance."

"Paul?"

"Apparently he rang you - again very early - and was answered by a strange
voice who admitted to being a police officer. Paul was worried. The police
wouldn't say what had happened to you. Paul came round, heard from the
neighbours about your arrest and got in touch with me. We've been friends
for a long time. I promised I'd help as much as I could."

Dear, dear Paul... I love him like a brother. No I don't. I must have been
out of my mind to let him slip away like I did. If I can get out of this
mess, I'll do everything this side of Armageddon to get him back. But Grant
was waiting.

"If you can get me out of this," I said and explained my side of the issue.

"Inspector Rees has told me what happened as far as he is concerned. I
think the real problem is that there's been pressure on solving homophobic
attacks from above. Things had to be seen to be done so Rees and his men
were a bit 'over enthusiastic'."

"Kicking down my front door," I said bitterly.

"We'll get that sorted," said Grant. "In fact I think temporary repairs
have already been effected. Now as regards this other matter."

The 'other matter' of course being my arrest for murder.

"I don't think he's got much of a case," said Grant. "Not even
circumstantial. There's nothing to put you at the scene at the time of the
crime. Probably we can find some CCTV cameras which will locate you getting
off a tube at Belsize Park when you said you did, one coming from the other
direction from Hampstead so that will clear you. I've no doubt with a
little more effort they'll be able to locate the men you met yesterday. Now
the only thing is Ponting's denial that he ever commissioned you."

"Jesus!" I said, slapping my head at my stupid forgetfulness. "I've got his
signature. I had him sign his agreement to my terms. It's in my office."

And that was it. Well, nearly. Well, in a couple of hours. Later that day!
Someone had to go to the office and get the paper. For one dreadful moment
I thought that perhaps I had dreamed it all but the paper came back, duly
signed. Not that anyone could really tell that it was Bernard
Ponting's. Could have been anyone really, Brian Peasbody, Barry
Piss-elegant, Harry Snogsworthy. Anyway, Grant got me out on police bail
(473'd) which, I suppose was the best I could expect in the
circumstances. I was given the customary warning that I must return a week
today, otherwise I would be arrested and not be liable for police bail
again. DC Parry saw me out and I gave him a cheerful wave - not returned,
though perhaps secretly he wanted to. Who am I kidding?

The air smelled good as I stepped out of the Police Station with Alisdair
even loaded as it was with exhaust fumes and the smell of curry from the
Balti shop just down the road. We'd got so chummy now, I didn't think of
him as Mr Grant, the solicitor. He gave me a lift home. The front door had
been cobbled together and, though it obviously wouldn't stand a determined
onslaught, it would probably deter daytime opportunists. The first thing I
did after Alisdair had left was to ring Paul. He sounded so relieved to
hear my voice and that I wasn't incarcerated in the Tower that my heart
went out to him.

"Why did you phone?" I asked.

"I don't know. I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about us. I wanted to
sort things out, I guess, so I rang to catch you before you went off for
work."

"You've saved my life," I said, exaggerating. "What can I do for you in
return?" I have to keep everything on a jokey level otherwise I tend to get
over-emotional.

"See me this evening," he said. "And this time I won't take 'no' for an
answer."

"Your place or mine?" I said, having no intention of saying 'no'.

"Whichever has most food for the weekend," he said, and I realised it
wasn't just an evening's date.

That sorted out, I planned my itinerary for the rest of the day. Must
contact Ponting - even better I wanted to confront him. I also thought I'd
stand a better chance of finding the old guy in the overcoat, and perhaps
even the two drinkers from the Flask. Clearly the police hadn't been over
scrupulous in their search. I rang Ponting at home but got an answering
machine. I didn't leave a message, thinking I'd try again later.

I shaved and changed and went out. It was still glorious June sunshine -
Wimbledon weather, though not quite as hot as it had been the last few
days. I took my car and went via Camden Town to Belsize Park. There was no
one sitting on the seat opposite the station so I went on up the hill.

As I passed the Flask, I saw the two guys leaning casually against the
wall, holding their pints - exactly as they had been the day before. I
parked the car in a side road and walked back. They did not recognise me
until I got really close. "Jeez," said the less bright one, "You've come up
in the world since yesterday."

"I see your boyfriend got snuffed," said the more unpleasant.

I decided on a bit of bluff. "I'm a police officer," I said. "You obviously
know more about this than we do."

They were taken aback, not scared but just knew that their previous
attitude would hardly be appropriate. "I don't know nothing," said one.

"But you saw him yesterday?"

They nodded.

"I suppose you didn't see anyone following him?"

"Well, there were quite a few people around at the time."

"No one you noticed in particular?"

"Didn't see any one follow him into the queer pub."

I looked at the one who was doing most of the talking. I guess he wasn't a
bad guy, just wanted to seem to be normal and straight and all that that
implied in their world.

"He went into the William IV?"

"Yeah. Me and Jed here had a bet that he was queer. I said he was, and Jed
wasn't sure. Then he went to the pub so I won. Cost Jed a pint."

"And you didn't see anyone follow him in?" I persisted.

"No."

"There was that fat guy," said Jed.

"He's always in the William IV."

"And the one with the red face."

"Oh yes. Never seen him before."

I butted in. "Red face? Anything else you can tell me about him?"

"Old," said Jed's mate. "Grey hair. Posh sorta suit."

"And he followed the blond-haired guy into the pub?"

"Oh no! He just went up the street." Jed laughed. It had been a wind-up.

Slightly annoyed with myself, I crossed the road to the pub standing,
squarely brick-built next door to a car showrooms. It had two doors, one
leading to the public, the other to the saloon but as both areas met up
inside around the central bar, there wasn't any clear division once
inside. A further door from inside led into the 'garden' which was just a
paved area with a couple of wooden tables and some uncomfortable looking
benches. There was a mixture of young and not so young, looking summery in
light clothes.

I bought a pint and then just hung around on the fringes trying to overhear
gossip. Not unnaturally most of the talk was about the 'gay-bashing on the
Heath'. There was general outrage that such a thing could happen, a hint of
fear from some. "I'm not going trolling up there again!" and a couple of
mentions of a 'Geoffrey' who would be 'upset'.

One group to my right trilled away about 'Geoffrey'.

"Have you seen him since?"

"How's he taking it?"

"He's out in the garden now," said one, and there was a general craning of
necks towards the open door though not, I was pleased to see, any exodus to
gawp.

I went out casually.

There was a bright group sitting round one of the tables obviously enjoying
themselves, not one of whom looked the slightest bit 'upset'. At another a
solitary black guy was staring with a flat, expressionless gaze into a
glass of what could have been gin, vodka or water. He had black cropped
hair, not shaved, but very short, rather hooded eyelids, the most flawless,
dark chocolate skin. It wasn't a hard conclusion to come to so I went up to
him and said, "Geoffrey?"

He looked up, and was obviously trying to put a name to a face which was
completely unfamiliar to him. I wondered whether to do the old 'surely you
remember me; didn't we meet at that party' ploy but in the end I decided on
the truth.

"My name's Matt," I said. "Matt Silvain. I'm a Private Detective, looking
into the killing of Adrian Ponting."

Well, he'd looked pretty miserable before but my introduction doubled
it. He had large brown eyes and they filled with tears, running down over
his cheeks.

I sat down on the bench beside him and instinctively put my hand over his,
which was lying on the table. "It's going to be difficult," I said, "but
you want to get the bastard that did it, don't you?"

"If only I'd been here, it wouldn't have happened," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"We'd arranged to meet," he said. "Here. But I was late. Adrian must have
got here, seen that I wasn't around and left."

"Couldn't he have waited?"

"He probably didn't have any money to buy a drink. Didn't want to hang
around."

"Why would he have gone up to the Heath?" I asked.

Geoffrey shrugged. "It was where we met about a month ago," he
said. "Perhaps he thought I was up there. He was very insecure."

"You mean his father?"

Geoffrey nodded. "He hated the idea that Adrian was gay - and if he had
known that I was black, I don't know what he'd have done. He hated blacks
even more than gays."

Perhaps he had found out. The more I learned about Papa Ponting, the less I
liked him. I suddenly thought of the description of the 'old guy' in the
expensive suit that Jed's friend had talked about. Though meagre, it
matched more or less how I remembered Ponting from his visit to me. Only
thing I hadn't asked was if the man had limped.

There wasn't much I could say to Geoffrey apart from recommending him to
'hang in there, mate'. If he wanted companionship there was probably some -
of a sort - inside the pub. I guess though that for the time being he
wanted to be alone.

I didn't realise how wrong I was. I was still holding his hand on the table
in a way which, I felt was comforting, companionable - platonic
certainly. Suddenly he turned his hand round so that we were palm to
palm. His skin felt warm and slightly moist. Then, equally surprisingly, he
took hold of my hand and transferred it into his lap. Wow! Talk about
banana. I could feel the whole diameter of it through the thin cloth of his
trousers, but I'd have to explore to find the length.

In a strange way I felt let down. Here was this guy, one minute grieving
over the loss of his lover and the next getting horny with the first
stranger he met. Not that it wasn't affecting me. I didn't want him to
think I was rejecting him so I did a bit of exploration, just to satisfy
myself of the dimensions. Wow! Wow! And wow!

"Unfortunately," I said, "I've got an appointment to see someone. Otherwise
I'd love to . . ."

I looked at him, those tender brown eyes, the responsive mouth. I wondered
what I was doing. Why shouldn't I take the rest of the day off - and the
evening - and the night? Except of course for Paul. I disengaged.

"You've been kind," he said.

"I'll do my best to catch the guy," I assured him and left, arranging
myself as best I could so that I wasn't obvious to everyone in the pub.

Jed and his mate had disappeared so I got back to the car and sat inside. I
tried Ponting again on the mobile and this time a woman answered. She had a
pleasant, soft-spoken voice, with a catch in it. I think she might have
been crying. "This is Matt Silvain," I said. "I'd like to speak to Mr
Ponting."

"I'm afraid my husband is at work," she said. Work? The day after his son
was killed?

"I really need to speak to him," I said.

"He should be back later. Probably about six."

I rang off. I had two hours to fill. For a moment I thought of going back
to Geoffrey. I argued with myself. Should I take advantage of someone's
loneliness and grief? On the other hand might he not need some love and
affection? OK I admit it. I'm a slut. I didn't use either of those
excuses. My cock was talking or at least his was! In the end though I
didn't go back to the William IV. I drove down the hill to see if I could
find my man in the grey overcoat, figuring that his evidence (if I could
prompt it) might be more convincing than that of the two louts from the
Flask.

As I drove past the seat I could see that he wasn't there but I parked the
car round the corner and got out, walking back. An old woman - a local if
ever there was one - was hovering on the curb with a small dog of
indeterminate breed and uncertain temper - it growled as I got near.

"Don't grumble at the nice man, Dolly," she said, as I approached.

"Doesn't she like strangers?" I asked pleasantly.

"Doesn't even like me," said the woman. "Don't know why I bother to keep
her."

"Company, I expect."

"Huh," she said. The dog yapped twice and looked at my ankles.

"I suppose you don't know a man who sometimes sits on that bench," I
asked. "He wears sandals and a long grey overcoat."

"Fred Warren," she said. "Oh everyone knows Fred Warren."

"Has he been around today?"

"Haven't seen him," she said. "Come away, Dolly." She tugged at the lead
and Dolly, who had been getting near to my trousers, was almost yanked off
her feet. "Has a go at people's ankles," she explained. "Gives them a fair
old nip if she can." She smiled with an air of satisfaction, exposing a set
of unnaturally white false teeth.

"No idea where I could find him?"

"Who? Old Fred Warren? Everyone knows where Fred Warren lives."

Everyone but me, of course. "Where is that?"

"Why there," she cackled, as if it was a great joke. She pointed to a house
over the road and next door to the entrance to the Underground station. It
was a tall, three storey house of elegant proportions though looking a bit
run-down, the paint peeling from the windows. "In a flat?" I asked. "Bed
sit?"

She thought this was really funny, gasping as if to catch her breath - and
Dolly took advantage of her inattention to edge near enough to me to take a
nip at my ankles. Luckily I was able to hop out of the way. The woman
thought this was even funnier. I was glad I had made her day.

"In a flat," she repeated through wheezing breaths. "No, love, it's his
house. Rich as Creosote, he is, though won't spend a penny unless he has
to. Got some funny ways, has Fred Warren." She went off dragging her foul
dog with her and I heard her laughing until she went round the corner.

I sat on the bench and looked over the road at the house. Even from where I
was sitting, I could see that the windows were dirty and the curtains
behind them looked unkempt. So he was a sort of miser, was he? Worth
millions but not prepared to spend anything unnecessary. Presumably very
little to keep him occupied which was why he sat on the bench and observed
the world - but not young men, as he had so peremptorily informed me - go
by. I wondered where he was today. Perhaps I was completely wrong and he
had some all-consuming passion, literary possibly, which he carried on
behind that closed door, those grubby windows, only emerging when he needed
a break for some fresh air.

I got up and crossed the street, walked up the flight of stone steps and
rang the bell. It sounded hollowly through the house. I waited before
ringing again but I felt there would be no answer. Some other time,
perhaps.

I felt a bit depressed. I wasn't really getting anywhere. So far all I was
following was a hunch started off by a pair of piss-taking yobs. I had
hoped that old grey-coat would have supported some of it, confirmed that a
red-faced, grey-haired man with a limp had also come out of the station
after Adrian and followed him up the hill. To kill him? Because he was gay
and had a black boyfriend? Could I believe that?

I must see Ponting. I looked ay my watch. Four thirty. Still an hour and a
half, It would be an imposition, perhaps even cruel, but if I went to
Ponting's house, I might be able to have a word with Mrs Ponting. They
lived in Maida Vale, sounded a rather smart address. It would take me half
an hour to drive there.

The house was smart and expensive, the Regency facade white painted and
some black decorative iron railings to keep the hoi poloi out. I peered
through them, feeling like a 'Bisto kid'. A garage - that must have put
another 10,000 onto the asking price. Masses of geraniums in tubs and a
small car on the gravel. No BMW or Mercedes so I assumed his Lordship
wasn't yet home. The gates provided yet more material for the metal-workers
art. They were oiled and opened without a squeak. The front door was
painted an elegant forest green - same colour as the Queen's Rolls Royce -
except that that's red.

A girl - possibly Filipino - opened the door. "My name is Matt Silvain," I
said. "I should like to speak to Mrs Ponting."

"Are you expecting?" she asked which had me for a moment. I was saved from
answering by the appearance of a woman, tall, very beautiful in an elegant,
anorexic sort of way. The words of the song flashed into my mind:

Oh, your daddy's rich And your mama's good lookin' So hush little baby now
don't you cry

But poor Adrian had had every cause to cry - and now he was dead.

"That's all right, Angelina," she said to the girl, who shimmied off into
some, no doubt, lowly area of the house. "What did you want to see my
husband about?"

"I really am sorry to trouble you at a sad time like this," I said, putting
on my 'caring' face, which wasn't too difficult. I suspected that the news
of her son's death must have affected her much more deeply than her
husband.

She brushed aside my condolences with a slight wave of her hand. "It's just
that Mr Ponting was employing me to find your son - "

"And you wanted your payment now that he's been 'found'?" Her eyes flashed
with a sudden anger.

"No, it's not like that at all. Considering what happened, I'm quite
prepared to waive the bill. It's just that he's got me into a bit of
trouble with the police, by denying he ever gave me the job. I just wanted
to sort it out before I got arrested again."

"It's affected him really badly," she said. "He and Adrian were very
close."

Were they, I thought cynically. That's not the impression I, and others,
got. "Yet he's gone off to work today, you say?" I made no attempt to leave
out a touch of criticism from my tone.

"Unfortunately a problem arose and he was needed. He was of course
devastated when we heard yesterday. I know what he said about you to the
police. I think it was a spur of the moment thing. He didn't want Adrian's
being gay to come out, though I suppose it was inevitable, so he just said
the first thing that came into his head. It was silly and I'm sure he'll
put it right with the police. In fact, I'll make sure he does."

"You knew Adrian was gay?" I said.

"Oh yes," she said. "I've known for years. I think his father did too,
though he tried not to believe it. I knew about the boyfriend too. Adrian
told me. He was so happy." Her eyes filled with tears. I wondered what she
would have thought if she'd seen me and Geoffrey 'fondling' in the William
IV earlier.

She pulled herself together. She was a fighter all right. "And yesterday
was going so well. I'd nearly talked Harry into accepting Adrian's
'problem' as he called it. We'd gone to Colchester to see some relatives
and on the way back in the car, we talked about it - so calmly - and then,
when we got home, to find the police here, with the news."

I was stunned. That was my little hypothesis completely blown away. And no
doubt his alibi could be checked with the relatives etc. I didn't know what
to say. 'Life's a bitch' was probably the most apposite though hardly the
most sensitive.

"I'm so sorry to have bothered you," I said, and made my exit. She looked
at me from the front door until I'd reached the pavement. Then she shut
it. Sooner or later her husband would get back from work and they would
share their grief together.

But I had other plans afoot. Mostly they centred on getting myself fully
ready, willing and able for a weekend of, I hoped, debauchery with Paul -
so home for preparation and then round to his house. He had cooked a meal
and we ate it together

 Afterwards I followed him to the kitchen where he took the dirty plates
and stacked them in a corner. My heartbeat quickened. Was this it? The
start to a wonderful weekend together? I'm not that over-effusive normally
but I had promised myself to do everything for him if he helped me to get
out of prison. He did and it wasn't just thankfulness I felt. He turned,
the soft brown eyes commanding more than inviting when he stepped closer to
embrace me and all the old feelings I thought I had lost were there again.

His kiss was soft first, then urgent and demanding. He whispered some words
near my ear I didn't understand, instead I concentrated on starting to
undress him, while he did the same to me. He didn't rush and that was a
thing I quite liked - nice and slow, as if it was the first time. But I
remembered the previous times, the impatient guy who couldn't wait that
long. This time was different though. It took him a long while until he had
unbuttoned my shirt, opened it and bent down to flick his tongue around my
nipples. I sensed his teeth, biting me softly and in no time my whole body
was covered with goose bumps. He still uttered some incomprehensible words
while he opened the belt of my trousers and then drew down the zipper,
staring into my eyes with an unfocused gaze. I knew that look all too well,
reached out and touched his crotch where I was greeted with a pleasant
hardness; long and hard. I don't have to mention mine was in the same
condition, aching and straining against the waistband of my pants. I was
sure it had already soaked the fabric by he time he had finally managed to
drop my trousers, went to his knees and soaked it even more with his
saliva, outlining the shape of my cock. My head flung back, suddenly seeing
where we were, in the kitchen, amid the used plates and dirty table from
the effort he took to cook the meal. As much as I hated to stop him but I
did need a bed, a soft surface to lay him down and to do the things I was
dreaming of ever since I had entered his flat.

I took him by the arms and pulled him towards the bedroom, our clothes
scattered on the floor. Paul was all over me, the lovely red hair glued to
his forehead, he lay beside me and I felt more than good. I struggled with
his trousers and the shirt until he was naked except for his briefs, like
me. If I ever had thought to find this all in other men I was certainly
wrong. There had been many naked bums and cocks but there was just one Paul
Massingham for me right now. I rolled myself over his body, pressing our
covered dicks together, heard him groaning in pleasure, his hands and
tongue left me as a squirming bundle between the dishevelled sheets and
once more I promised to give him everything. His hands cupped my buttocks,
freeing them from the underpants, squeezing them hard and sliding into my
crack, his lips kissing me hard until I couldn't breathe any more. I panted
for air, rolled down from his body and started to wash his body with my
saliva; he smelled nice, fresh and like the soap I was familiar with.

When I reached his belly button he started to giggle, ruffled my hair and
pushed me lower. I turned until my face was level with his lovely, hard
cock and started to lick away the drops that had appeared, flooding down
the shaft and wetting his reddish pubic hair. I was infatuated again, I
heard his approving moans, his hands groping for my own penis, dangling in
front of his mouth and then felt it vanish into a velvet warmth that was
his mouth, gently grazing it with his teeth, alternating with soft sucks. I
mumbled likewise incomprehensible words I think, while breathing through my
nostrils, spreading his legs apart to give me access to the sweetness down
below his balls. He squirmed, tossed his head upon the sheets when I
entered him with my fingers, then I looked up, my eyes searching for a
yes. In answer he passed over the tube of jelly and a condom and pushed my
hands aside. He gently rolled it over my cock and lay down again, pulling
me with him.

I didn't need any other encouragement. Just to feel the tip of my penis at
his opening was more than I could bear that moment. "Don't let me wait", he
said, his face flushed with excitement. "I need you". I needed him
too. This felt so right... a little push and I broke the barrier. His face
did not show any signs of discomfort, so I pushed forward, little by
little, my arm supported my weight, the other hand I used to rub his
member, smearing the drops all over. I was as deep in him as I could go and
was rewarded with the most blissful feeling I'd had in a long time.

I gave him time and me to cool me down a bit, until his eyes opened again
and started to glisten. His hands cupped my buttocks again and pulled me in
even deeper if that was possible, wriggling his ass, and clamping the
muscles in there. I started to smile and he responded. I bent down to kiss
his luscious red lips, his tongue slipped into my mouth, he moaned while I
increased the speed, still rubbing his cock until my neck muscles started
to hurt. I sat upright, giving him one last sounding kiss and then started
to fuck him seriously.

His eyes were closed, a faint smile around the edge of his mouth, and I
stared into his face, withdrawing to the tip and pushing forward again in a
steady speed until he hissed "more, more", and "faster". I followed his
desires. We were in perfect rhythm, he approaching my body whenever I
shoved in, his ass muscles squeezing my penis, faster and faster until the
semen in my balls seemed to boil and we were covered in sweat completely. I
can't remember the next seconds, they are razed out in my memory. Just the
blissful feeling stayed, the hot gushes as I emptied myself into him; a few
moments later he came too without touching himself. His penis squirmed and
squirted high in the air, hitting my chest and his belly, his abdomen and
his hair.  "Jesus Christ", he muttered. "I didn't expect you to be that
good...." I took it as a compliment. "Don't go", he said, looking up at me
and I bent down, kissing him feverishly, exhausted and happy.

I was surprised that I wasn't getting soft, he really must have turned me
on... It was just so... we kept staring at each other and smiling, the
muscles in his arse clenching and pulsating, I had no choice. Paul giggled
boyishly and pulled me even closer, his legs spread so wide that I thought
he would get cramp. I was sliding along into the wet and slippery tunnel,
raising to full erection once more. What was the guy doing to me?

"Oh yes," I heard him saying, "Oh yes, oh yes!" I don't know how long we
stayed glued together. I was madly pushing in and out of his body,
overwhelmed, tired, drenched, drained and all too horny. My mouth had
neared his cock, my back was aching but I didn't mind. I sucked him while I
was loving him and the cries yelled in my ear. My yells and his. I hoped
the walls were thick enough. And then again complete bliss, dark memory and
hands, pulling at my neck to suck my tongue and bite my lips, his legs
lowering, embracing me while I was lying heavy upon his body. Content and
happy.

The following day we drove together to Belsize Park. It was nice and
companionable. I could tell Paul thought the same even though he didn't say
anything. I wondered what it would be like to have a partner - at work I
mean. There were times when it would have been useful to have someone to
stay watching while I had to follow a suspect. To be realistic though, the
job didn't pay enough for two - sometimes it barely paid enough for one,
and, I reminded myself, I'd told Mrs Ponting that I'd waive the bill this
time. That had been foolish, more than that, incredibly, ineffably,
unspeakably stupid.

I metaphorically kicked myself and, as if he knew what was going on in my
mind, Paul put his hand on my arm and squeezed it. I liked it, knowing that
he was sitting next to me.

We went through Camden Town, Chalk Farm and up Haverstock Hill. People were
out doing their Saturday morning shopping. As we turned the corner and
Belsize Park station came into view, it was obvious something was wrong. I
had that deja vu feeling. There were two police cars and an ambulance
parked outside Warren's house.

"Not again," I said.

"Shall we leave it?" asked Paul. "Just drive by and go home."

But I couldn't. I guess that's why I'm a P.I. Just have to poke my nose
into things. I found a place to park and we walked back. A small crowd had
formed on the pavement outside the front door and a policeman in uniform
was standing there. He was a different one from the one on the Heath but it
felt the same. As we arrived a man came out. It was DC Parry. We looked at
each other and the recognition was mutual.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

"I came to have a word with Fred Warren."

He sighed. "How did you know? Oh well, you'd better come in."

He turned and Paul and I followed him back into the house. The crowd
watched curiously. I saw the old lady with the snappy dog and gave her a
little wave. Instantly she became the centre of interest.

Inside the hall, dark, high-ceilinged and with old-fashioned wallpaper,
Parry turned and saw Paul. "Who's this?" he asked.

"Paul Massingham," I said. "My partner."

I could see from the expression in his eyes that he was wondering in what
sense I had used the word. I suspected that Paul was a bit confused as
well.

"OK," said Parry, "now tell us what you wanted to see Warren about."

"He was the man I told you about yesterday. The one in the overcoat who
told me about seeing Adrian on his way to the Heath. The one you couldn't
find."

"You didn't know his name when you talked to us yesterday morning," said
Parry suspiciously.

"But I did by yesterday afternoon," I said. "I asked around and the woman
outside with the little dog told me. Ask her, if you don't believe me, but
watch out for your ankles."

Parry grunted.

"What's happened to Warren?" I asked.

"Next-door neighbour was worried that she hadn't seen him for a couple of
days. Told the police and when we broke in, we found him hanging. Probably
suicide. There's a note but it doesn't make much sense."

"He was an odd man by all accounts," I said. "I thought he was a tramp but
apparently he had millions. What did the note say?"

"I can't tell you that," said Parry scandalised.

"Just thought I might be able to help."

Parry gave me one of those long, searching looks. "OK," he said and handed
me a sheet of paper which had been enclosed in a plastic folder.

'I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident. He thought I was after him and
grabbed hold of me. All I did was give him a push and he tripped and
fell. When he didn't get up, I turned him over and saw the . . . '

"It doesn't really say why he hanged himself. It isn't even finished."

I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. I thought I could see the
explanation. I remembered the startled jump Warren had given when I showed
him Adrian's photograph. I could see the mud on his ankles, the scratches
from the brambles. The denial that he was after young men. Had he been
protesting too much? It had been a tragic accident after all, but Warren
had felt responsible. And hadn't been able to live with the guilt.

"Oh God," I said, and started to explain.


17, Sun Jun, 2001