Date: Wed, 4 Jun 2003 09:16:19 EDT
From: MGouda3464@aol.com
Subject: Murder Most Foul

Murder Most Foul
Matt Silvain Investigates (No. 10)

The body was lying on the bed. It was still wearing the clothes it had worn
when I saw it last. IT? Not 'it', him, him HIM! Him, as I had seen him when
we ran into each other in the coffee bar earlier that same afternoon, He,
taking refreshment, innocently; me, cruising, I guess you could call
it. Guiltily.

Why 'guiltily'? Well, mainly because I'm married - or actually not
'married' though we've talked about it, me and my lover, Paul, who, as far
as I know and believe, is monogamously faithful. Whereas I, well, I've got
a recurrent problem, a sort of linguistic impediment - I can't say
'no'. Certainly not to a guy like the one who'd come in to the 'Coffee
Experience' earlier that day and sat down on the stool next to me at the
counter.

I thought at first he'd been out jogging. Mid-twenties, I guessed. A dark
blue vest exposed his arms, tanned lightly from the early summer sunshine,
light blue baggy pants, showing nothing until they stretched over two
hemispheres of more than earthly delight. Brown hair bleached at the tips,
expertly done so that it looked natural. Dark eyebrows, the left one raised
slightly, quizzically so that I knew he saw everything, life, love, the
Stock Market, the danish pastry he had bought with his cafe latte, was a
universal mischief and could be treated with equal lack of seriousness.

I won't go into the episode too fully as I'm not all that proud of what I
did. Suffice it to say that I smiled as he took out a respectable bite from
his pastry and he smiled back. Smiles led to chat, and chat to a casual
brush of leg against leg from our adjacent stools. Pressure and an
answering pressure. He obviously wasn't quite so innocent as I'd first
thought.

"I'm Matt," I said eventually, when I was sure the way things were going.

"Pete."

"Hi, Pete. Got any place to go?" Very forward on my part but we'd discussed
the weather already and there didn't seem to be any point in hanging back.

"I'd like to, Matt, but. . . I'm seeing someone in a quarter of an
hour. It's only business and I have to go. I wasn't expecting to meet up
with . . ."

He looked at me and I filled in the gap - a guy as attractive and sexy as
you. Oh well, I thought. Perhaps it's for the best. At least I won't have
to feel guilty afterwards.

Then he said, "But later. I'll be free later. Come round to my place, if
you like, about 4 o'clock." He looked at me, the quizzical eyebrow
raised. "It'll be fun."

And that was it. He gave me the address, a flat off the Balls Pond Road,
and out he went, sashaying into the street, those perfect hemispheres doing
a caramba samba which juggled me into an erotic fantasy which kept me as
good as comatose until the guy behind the counter - not my type at all -
asked me if I was OK - and I came to and left.

I never saw Pete alive again.

* * * * * *

At about two minutes to four I climbed up the two flights of stairs leading
to the flat he'd given me the address of, pressed the bell and
waited. There was no answer but then I saw that the door was open so I went
in. Not, you might think, the most sensible thing to do. In films it's
always that scenario, the open unlocked door, which leads to the heroine
getting jumped on, ravished, killed - but I didn't think too much of it. I
was expected. He'd left the door ajar. Sounded sensible to me.

I went in and shut the door behind me. Inside there was a narrow sort of
hall/lobby/passageway, some coats hung on hooks fastened to the wall, more
doors further down on each side of the corridor. The carpet was thick and
felt expensive underfoot. Wallpaper not magnolia emulsion.

"Pete," I called out. No answer.

The flat, I could see was all on one floor so all the rooms presumably led
off this central corridor. I tried the first on the left, a small kitchen,
a couple of mugs upturned on the draining board. Tidy! There was another
door on the other side leading to a lounge/dining room. That sounds rather
grand but it was one of those rooms which did for both. A table on one side
with four upright chairs around it, a comfortable-looking sofa on the other
faced a TV/entertainment centre. Pete, or someone wasn't short of a bob or
two. On the walls some pictures, bright, Mediterranean colours, sort of
abstract landscapes. Windows looked out onto the central courtyard with the
windows of the flats opposite looking straight at me. There was no one
around. Just a sweet-smelling aroma which I recognised as Homme Massif - an
expensive aftershave I loathed. It hadn't been on Pete when I'd been with
him earlier. Was there someone else there?

A further door led me back into the passageway. I shouted his name again,
feeling, for the first time, some twinges of doubt. He was expecting me so
why the silence? Surely I wasn't in for a surprise party! I tried the door
opposite, a bedroom, the curtains drawn so that everything was dim. I could
just make out a figure on the bed, lying still, turned away from me.

"Pete," I said, though he must have been fast asleep indeed not to have
heard my other calls. He didn't stir. Doubts now turned into an unpleasant
feeling of apprehension. It's a clich^Î to say that my hackles rose, but
I did feel the hairs on the back of my neck stir.

I touched him. He was warm but he didn't move and, when I felt it, there
was no pulse in his neck.

The obvious thing was to phone for an ambulance or the police but I
hesitated. Did I want to get involved with this? I didn't know the guy and
here I was in his flat - and he was dead. The best thing - even if it was
the cowardly thing - was to get out, find a public call box some way away
and phone from there. I'd be clear. There'd be no embarrassing
questions. Even better Paul wouldn't find out. OK. I was behaving like a
selfish shit but, there was nothing to be done for Pete now - apart from
finding out why he had died - and that was a police job.

The only thing that troubled me was whether I had touched anything in the
flat. Would my finger prints be all over the place? I tried to think
back. The door handles. I'd wipe them on the way out. I turned to go - and
jumped as the front door bell shrilled.

Jesus!

I froze. Perhaps whoever it was would go away if I stayed quiet.

But the bell went again and I heard a shout from outside. "Police!"

Oh God! If I was found skulking here with a dead body, it would look worse
than ever. I ran out into the hall just as something heavy crashed into the
other side of the door. I wrenched it open before it was kicked off its
hinges. Two policemen in uniform were outside.

It was stupid of me, but I wasn't thinking clearly. "Is there anything I
can do for you?" I said.

I should have said something like. "Thank God you've come! There's a body
in the bedroom."

"We've had a phone call, sir," said one of the cops, he with a thin,
ferrety face and a moustache. "Is everything all right."

"Phone call?" I said. "I don't understand. Why shouldn't everything be all
right?" As I said it I knew I was digging the pit for myself even deeper.

"Are you Mr Palmer?" asked the other policeman, whom I might have fancied
in other circumstances.

So that was Pete's name. Peter Palmer. Not a particularly euphonious choice
by his parents. "Er no," I said. "He's - er - not in at the moment."

"So you are?"

"A friend of his," I said, putting off the evil hour for a moment.

"And your name is?"

"Matthew Silvain," I said, finally capitulating.

"Could we come in for a moment, sir?" said the ferret and it was less a
question than a statement of intent.

I knew the game was up.

"There is a bit of a problem," I admitted.

The next hour was something of a blur. I showed them into the bedroom. They
rang for a medical team, though I knew it was too late. They took me down
to the station where an Inspector Skipton saw me. Cooly efficient, hair
parted conventionally on the right-hand side, so young-looking, he was
obviously fast-track. Up the police ladder so quickly that he had nothing
of the usual 'I've been a sergeant for twenty years' cynicism. Too bright
for his own good, I thought, but I tried not to show it. For some reason I
took an inexplicable dislike to him - but then he was trying to fit me up
for murder. I told all! My story sounded tacky especially the bit about
picking Pete Palmer up in the coffee bar. The inspector who appeared
fishy-eyed the whole time looked even more sceptical so when I mentioned
his name.

"We've established that Mr Palmer, who owns the flat is in his forties," he
said. "His first name is Harold. The person in the bed wasn't Mr Palmer."

"So who is Pete?" I asked, genuinely bewildered. "And where is Palmer?"

"We hoped you'd tell us," he said. "Have you found any more bodies in your
visits to other people's flats?"

I ignored that one, but he made me go through the whole story again.

"Did this Pete say whom he was seeing when he left the coffee house?"

"No," I said. "Just that it was business, and he'd be back home at 4
o'clock."

"'Home' being Mr Palmer's flat."

"Apparently," I said. "That's the address he gave me."

Skipton didn't look as if he believed me but after we'd gone exhaustively
through my 'credentials', confirmed that I was a registered private
investigator who had actually helped the police in the past, he cautioned
me not to leave the area without informing him, and finally he let me go -
I felt, a trifle unwillingly. I'd been a murder suspect once before and it
didn't feel any more pleasant this second time.

"We'll probably need to talk again," he said.

I had no doubt about that, but at least I was able to go home - and start
explaining to Paul.

* * * * *

As I think I mentioned, Paul Massingham is my lover. He's tall and slim,
twenty-six, though I think he still looks like a teenager. He's got red
hair and a bright, shining personality. I love him with all my heart - it's
my body that occasionally lets me down with other guys. I didn't want him
to know about my most recent indiscretion - which in fact hadn't of course
happened - through no fault of my own, so I invented a little white porkie.

In my story Pete became a client who had called me on the phone asking for
help. He'd said he didn't want to come to the office so I'd agreed to go
round to his place. The rest of course was the truth. If you're telling
lies, keep them simple, and use as much of the truth as possible. It saves
on the memory.

"How did he die?" asked Paul.

I shrugged. The police hadn't told me, perhaps they didn't know themselves
at the time. There had been no obvious signs, no dagger sticking in his
heart, no rope around his neck. "Suspicious death," I said.

"You don't think the police really suspect you," said Paul.

"I was the only one in the flat," I said. "I'm the obvious one."

"Well, you'll just have to find the real murderer," said Paul, with, as
always, supreme - though sometimes unfounded - confidence in my
abilities. "What about this Palmer guy?"

"Yes. I think that's the only reason they didn't actually arrest me. It
seems he's missing so it does look a bit suspicious."

"Was Pete living with Palmer? Were they gay?"

"Pete certainly was. I don't know anything about the relationship," I said.

Paul was on me in a flash, though the tone wasn't accusing, just
interested. "How do you know Pete was gay? You only saw him after he was
dead."

Whoops! Strands of 'tangled web'. I hadn't seen that coming. "Sorry," I
said. "It was stupid to say he 'certainly' was gay. He sounded gay. The
police implied this was a gay killing."

Paul nodded, and I breathed again.

"I'll do a bit of detecting first thing tomorrow," I said.

Paul came over and sat beside me in the chair. It was too small for both of
us but we managed and fitted our limbs together so that we first got
comfortable, then I, and a little later, Paul got randy so that what
started as cosiness became an entanglement of sexual gymnastics. Fun all
round. I made up for what I'd missed that afternoon.

* * * * * *

It had been an easy promise I'd made to Paul the previous evening though
what I could do when it came to the point I wasn't sure. I didn't know
where Pete had gone from the cafe the day before. I'd watched him go out,
turn left down the road, Marylebone High Street, look back at me through
the window, wave and then disappear. I'd told the police the truth. The
only thing I knew for sure was that he'd said he had an appointment a
quarter of an hour's journey away. Whether it was on foot or by taxi, I
didn't know though the way he'd set out so purposefully didn't suggest that
he was looking for a taxi.

Suddenly I was saddened by the whole thing. I hadn't known Pete long,
scarcely ten minutes in all, but while I had, he'd been alive and vital,
and handsome and sexy - and now he was dead. Yesterday it had been a shock,
what with the finding of the body and the questions at the police station,
now I looked back and felt angry that someone had cut short that life. His
last words came back to me 'It'll be fun'. Now all fun, as far as he was
concerned, had gone for good.

Paul and I travelled into town together on the Underground and, after he
got out at his station, I went on to the one nearest the coffee shop. The
same guy was behind the counter. He was wiping the counter with a
cloth. There weren't many customers in and I suppose he had to look busy. A
badge pinned to his shirt told me his name was Robert - not 'Bob' which
might have been considered cuddly but the coldly formal 'Robert'.

"Hi," I said. "Do you recognise me? I was in here yesterday."

Robert gave me a look, uninterested, but that was all right because all I
wanted was information. "Yeah," he said eventually. "You're the guy that
was trying to pick up Pete."

Bull's eye! I felt a bit pissed off by the 'trying to' but it wasn't worth
while quibbling.

"So, you do know him," I said. "What's his other name?"

He looked at me in a rather superior fashion. I probably should have
ordered a coffee to start with. "If you didn't get off with him last time,
there's no point in trying again."

His angular, rather flat face, twisted into a sort of grimace. I detected
in his tone a trace of frustration, perhaps that he'd tried himself and
been refused.

Patiently I started again. "It's not like that at all," I said. "The guy's
dead. We're trying to trace his movements yesterday. At the moment we don't
even know his full name." I purposely tried to make my comments sound
official. The 'we' I hope sounded bureaucratic. I also hoped by the sudden
bald announcement of Pete's death to shock him into some sort of reaction
but the expression in his face merely changed from 'supercilious' back to
'deadpan'.

"Dead," he said, his voice expressionless. "How did he die? Well, with a
job like that, there's always danger."

"What job?" I asked, ignoring his first question.

"Surely you knew. He was on the game."

Now that did surprise me. I've met a few hustlers in my time - purely in
the course of my investigations, you understand, but none had behaved like
Pete had. With the others it had been money first whereas Pete hadn't even
mentioned it. 'It'll be fun' he'd said. Surely he hadn't been the sort that
would take you back, get you all excited and then come out with the
'That'll be fifty quid, guvnor, before we go any further.' And then there
were his looks. Not that a pretty face isn't an advantage in the trade but
he'd looked so open, so honest. OK maybe I was being naive but I sure was
surprised to hear that.

"A hustler," I said, hiding my dismay, for I really felt in a way let
down. "OK, now do you know his surname?"

A cunning. mercenary look crept over Robert's face. "What's it worth?"

I was really pissed off with this guy. I took out a notebook, I always keep
- though really just for appearances. "If you start obstructing the
authorities," I said in my best 'official' voice, "You'll find yourself in
real trouble, sonny. Now we'll have your name first and then Pete's full
name."

He crumpled, like most bullies do. "OK. OK. No need to act like that. You
can't blame a guy for trying. They don't pay millionaire's wages in
here. I'm Robert Wilkins. Sure I know Pete's name. It was Palmer."

Palmer? What was going on? The more I heard about Pete, the odder it
became. "Do you know a Harold Palmer?," I asked. "Guy about 40?"

Robert gave a nervous glance over his shoulder though there was no one
within listening distance. It was so shifty it almost made me laugh. "He's
Pete's brother."

"What's he look like?" I asked.

"Nothing like Pete," he said. "He's got a scar on his face." With his
thumbnail he drew a line down from just underneath his left eye to the side
of his mouth.  "He's dangerous. I don't want to talk about him." And that's
just what he wouldn't do. In spite of my veiled threats, he refused to
answer anything more about Harold Palmer - or indeed about Pete.

"Don't know," he kept on saying. "Don't know nothing about any more. Even
though you're the police, I can't say what I don't know."

Before I left I had to disabuse him of this. What if Inspector Skipton or
one of his lackeys spoke to Robert later and found out I'd been
impersonating a police officer. Then I'd be in real trouble - not that
being a murder suspect wasn't enough in itself. "I never said I was with
the police," I said.

Robert's eyes, narrowed. "You bastard," he said. "Who are you with then?"

I left without answering.

* * * * * *

Was I any further forward? Well, I'd found out that Pete and the elusive Mr
Harold Palmer were brothers. Fratricide isn't all that uncommon but I
couldn't really understand why Harold would have killed his own brother in
the flat which presumably they both shared. Hang on a minute! If both lived
there, where did they sleep? Of course I'd never got into that last room
next door to the bedroom where I'd found Pete's body, but I'd assumed it
was a bathroom. Surely Harold's 'nastiness' didn't include incest with his
own brother.

And what about Robert. He was an unpleasant enough guy but did that make
him a murderer? If he had fancied Pete - and been turned down - or perhaps
worse for his ego, been told it would cost him big money - was that enough
motive to kill him? I doubted it, though I'd have to keep him in mind.

Worse though, I hadn't any other leads to investigate - except, except - I
suddenly wondered whether Inspector Skipton might like to have a chat with
me. He might appreciate the information I'd gleaned, perhaps even share
some he'd found, like the cause of Pete's death.

The sergeant at the desk of the nick was my old friend Charlie Shepherd.
Usually stout and amiable, he regarded me this morning with a less than
amiable frown.

"I hear you're in trouble," were his first words to me. Not encouraging.

"It was all a big mistake," I said.

"That's what they all say."

"Do you think I could see Inspector Skipton, Charlie?"

"You're in luck this time. He's just gone out."

"He doesn't really suspect me of being involved in the death of that lad?"

"I doubt it - but I'm only the desk sergeant here. He doesn't tell me
anything."

"Why did he give me such a hard time yesterday?

"I don't think he likes P.I.s."

"Well, that's a change. I thought you were going to say he doesn't like
queers."

Charlie smiled. At last a breakthrough. "Don't tell me you're gay!" he
said. mock outrage covering his round, amiable face.

He didn't expect an answer so I didn't give one. Instead I changed the
subject. "Have they found out how he died?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "I'm not sure I should tell you but as it's to be released
to the press later today, I suppose there's no harm. He was drugged and
then suffocated, probably with the pillow."

So that was the reason why there was no trace of violence. Well, if he had
to die, I guess, it was as painless as possible. "I had a bit of info for
Skipton," I said.

Charlie crossed his arms over his chest looking like an good-humoured
Buddha. "'Inspector' Skipton," said Charlie. "You young whippersnappers
have no sense of respect for senior rank."

"You call me young!" I said. "Inspector Skipton must be at least a couple
of years younger than me."

Instantly Charlie was serious and I could see that Skipton's leapfrogging
through the ranks had left grievances with the lower echelons. "Shall I
pass on a message?" he asked.

"Only that I heard that the murdered guy was the brother of the missing
Harold Palmer."

Charlie nodded, not seeming too surprised.

"He knew?" I said. "He knew all the time!"

"Well, it took a little time to leak 'up' to Inspector Skipton, but most of
the blokes from constable up know about Harold Palmer. Harold the Hammer,
they call him."

"Not a nice guy I hear."

"Certainly not, especially if you're one of the guys who've been under the
hammer."

"Literally?"

"Literally."

Suddenly a theory struck me. "So, he'd have quite a few enemies? Enemies
who might try to get back at him by bumping off his little brother?"

"Be safer to bump off Harold himself. I guess he'd be rather peeved at
whoever done it, and when Harold Palmer gets peeved . . ." He left the
sentence unfinished but I could imagine the rest.

"Got any names for these 'enemies', Charlie?"

"Sure," said Charlie. "Take your pick: Skip the Wad, Daddy Cool, Canvas
Ken, the Padre. They're quite a few others as well."

"And their real names?"

"Sorry, Matt, but you really don't want to know," said Charlie. "They're
not the sort of people you want to meet. Best leave it to us, son. I'll
tell the guvnor you were here. If you really want to see him, come back
tomorrow." He busied himself with some papers and I knew I'd get nothing
more from him that time.

* * * * * *

It was I suppose good advice but when I got out into the sunshine I felt I
was on a trail. It wasn't so much now that I'd got to prove that I was
innocent, but I was taking it personally. Pete, I was sure, had been a
'good guy', even though his brother might be a villain. Someone had bumped
off the good guy and, despite Charlie's warning - and no doubt Skipton's
disapproval if he should ever find out - I wanted to find out who'd done
it.

Now, I've got a friend who knows everything and everybody - on the gay
scene that is. His name's Ross. I've never been quite sure whether that's
his first name or his surname so you can see we're not exactly close. He's
helped me out before though.

"Where've you been, doll?" he said, bubbling down the telephone when I
called him from the office. "I nearly crossed you off my guest list. Still
with your delicious redhead?"

He knew I was of course. If I hadn't been, by some incredible, almost
telepathic means, he'd have been the third person to know about it - after
Paul and myself. Though I wondered if he might have found out something
like that even before I did.

"Yes," I said. "Ross, I've got myself into a bit of a situation. There's
this guy who's been murdered."

"Peter Palmer," he said.

"How did you know?"

"The word gets around." Certainly did as far as Ross was concerned.

"Anyway," I continued, "I just happened to be in the flat when his body was
discovered, and I seem to have turned out to be one of the suspects. Not
the prime one, of course, but. . ."

"So, what do you want to know?" Ross asked.

"There were some guys who might have a motive, but all I know are their
nicknames. I just wondered if you'd know who they really are."

I'd, jotted down the names as soon as I'd got out of the police station so,
I could reel them off quite easily. "Skip the Wad, Daddy Cool, Canvas Ken,
the Padre," I said.

There was silence at the other end. "Not heard of them?" I said. Well, it
had been a long shot.

"Jeez, sweetie," came a whistling sound from the other end. "When you get
yourself involved you really go for it in a big way. These are NOT the sort
of guys you want to play around with."

But I was too exhilarated to concern myself about his warnings. Ross always
went way over the top anyway. "Great! You know them. Tell me. All the
details, please, and I'll owe you for ever."

Ross sighed. "OK, doll. Skip the Wad, I've never heard of. Daddy Cool and
the Padre run the main clubs for Stepney and Marylebone areas
respectively. Organise the drugs too I wouldn't be surprised, Certainly any
amateur runners get short shrift and soon back out - if they can still
walk."

"Canvas Ken?"

"You can give him a miss. He's in prison - not I guess that that could stop
him from organising a killing if he really wanted to, but he's more into
the art world scams. I'd forget about him."

"OK," I said, "so who are 'Daddy Cool' and 'the Padre'?" Notebook out, biro
at the ready.

"Real names Ken Roach and David Macmillan. Roach lives in Stepney above one
of his clubs, 'the Commodore' - in Commodore Street - not exactly bulging
in the imagination department." He paused.

"And Macmillan," I reminded him.

"Ah . . . now he's got a big house in the country somewhere. When he's in
London though he can usually be found at - er - 12 Henrietta Place. Nice
little pied-^È-terre," he paused and then added, "I believe."

"You know so much about them, they must both be gay."

"Both gay? Daddy Cool certainly is - likes young chicks, though treats them
reasonably well, as long as they don't get tired of him before he does
them. The Padre's probably bi. He's got a wife tucked away somewhere but he
pulls guys like a good'un."

There was something about his tone, the hesitations, that made me
wary. "You've been there, haven't you?" I hazarded. "To his house. You've
been with him?"

"OK. I confess. There was an occasion. I was in his club, 'Gracey's' in
Connaught Place, and he took a fancy to me. You know me - I'm just a girl
who can't say no." I knew exactly. It struck me suddenly that Ross and I
weren't so unlike. That worried me a bit.

"What's he like?" I asked.

"Big man, strong, mid-forties. scary, if you don't do exactly what he
says. He's got some interesting little games he likes to play whips and
stuff. But it wasn't bad. I've had worse."

I could imagine. "Thanks, doll," I said. "You've a treasure. We must get
together some time."

"Promises, promises! Now you be careful. These aren't your average nelly
queens. Remember they're gangsters and they have guys who'll do anything
for them, no questions asked. Even if they don't want to do it themselves -
for pleasure."

He rang off.

I made myself a cup of instant brew and then looked up the clubs and
addresses Ross had given me in my A to Z. Roach's 'Commodore Club' of
course was way out in the East End. If I wanted to go there, I'd have to
save it for later on in the evening. Henrietta Street and Connaught Place
on the other hand weren't too far away - in fact - in fact - it hit me
suddenly like a massive brain haemorrhage - walking distance, say ten or
fifteen minutes, but more to the point, the same distance from 'the Coffee
Experience' - and that was where Pete had been when he'd said he had a
'business' meeting with someone in a quarter of an hour.

* * * * * *

'Gracey's' mid afternoon looked less than ordinary, at least from the
outside. It was in a Regency terrace which could have been at home in any
spa town, Bath or Cheltenham for example. Originally the houses had been
built as elegant town houses with restrained simplicity and imitation
classical Greek pediments, mouldings and pillars. Now most had been divided
into separate flats and offices. Some not very well. In fact one I noticed
had a partition wall built right across the window, dividing it
vertically. But Gracey's looked fairly unspoilt. Some steps led up to an
elegant portico with a front door painted in a rich dark red on which was a
polished brass name plate with just the name. There were window boxes with
blue and white flowers flourishing profusely. I tried the door and it
opened. I remembered the last time this had happened and wondered what I
was letting myself into.

A gorilla of a man stood in the shadowy entrance hall. all muscles under a
dark blue suit which looked as if it could scarcely contain them. He was
wearing a white short and a tie which - just - held together the collar
around that bull-like neck.

"Good afternoon, sir." The accent was educated, high pitched almost refined
and I could scarcely believe it came from the same guy, but his lips seemed
to be operating in sync with the words. Perhaps the tie was constricting
his larynx. "Are you a member of the club, sir?" he asked. "I don't think I
recognise the face."

"Er, no," I said, uneasily aware that it wouldn't take much from him to
rearrange even a familiar face into something completely
unrecognisable. "If it's possible, I'd like to have a few words with Mr
Macmillan."

He fixed me with a look. I wasn't sure if it was hostile or not.

"If he's available," I added.

"You don't have an appointment?"

"No," I said.

"Would you mind telling me what it's in connection with."

Well, at least the guy could make elementary grammatical gaffes - like
ending a sentence with a preposition. "It's about a friend of mine, Peter
Palmer." 'Friend' was stretching things a bit but I felt it was more likely
to get a favourable response.

"Ah yes," said the gorilla, "Poor Mr Palmer, met with an accident, I
understand. Such a sympathetic young man." He sounded genuinely concerned
and I almost warmed to him. "Your name is?"

"Silvain," I said. "Matt Silvain."

"You're not, of course, with the police?"

"No."

"I'll see if Mr Macmillan is in, Mr Silvain."

He moved off into the shadows, walking on the balls of his feet, very
lightly for such a big man, and disappeared through a door on the right. I
looked around. Dark wood panelling. I couldn't see this as a gay club at
all, not unless there was some basement downstairs with laser lights and
hot smells of sweat and aftershave, and undercover substances available for
the right price. Here it looked like the entrance to some very respectable
Conservative gentlemen's club. But appearances are deceptive, look at
gorilla face with his prissy voice and light, elegant movements. Someone -
something - cleared its throat. I jumped. I hadn't even heard him return
and here he was right beside me.

"Mr MacMillan will see you, sir."

He walked me to the door, opened it and then stood back so that I could go
through first. Like a lamb to the slaughter. I could see into the room,
sumptuously furnished with dark red flock wallpaper and a figure sitting in
an arm chair in front of a fireplace. I walked towards him. Then a ton
weight fell on my head and for a while I knew nothing.

I came to with the mother and father of headaches and slightly blurred
vision. I thought I probably had concussion and hoped it wasn't too
severe. Then I wondered if this was the greatest of my worries. Now there
were two men staring at me sitting together side by side though a
respectable distance apart. They looked as if they were temporarily united
but didn't fancy sitting too close to each other. I didn't know either
though I could hazard a guess and, even through the fuzziness, I was
surprised. One was thickset, fortyish, grey hair, the other had a scar on
his face from just under his left eye down to his chin. MacMillan and
Palmer (elder brother), apparently in cahoots and not looking in any way
friendly towards me. They hadn't tied me up but there was scarcely any
need. Standing alongside me I could just make out the bulky figure of the
gorilla. I wondered who had clobbered me. Presumably whichever of the guys
had not been sitting in the chair in front of the fire.

"I don't know him," said MacMillan. "Do you, Harold?"

"Stranger to me," said Palmer.

"What did he say his name was?" asked MacMillan, and I realised he was
talking to the gorilla.

"Matt Sinclair, sir," he said.

"Silvain," I said. "My name's Matt Silvain."

For the first time, one of the two men talked actually to me. His tone was
neutral, not exactly threatening but I got the impression that he knew I
knew he was very much in charge. "And you claim you were a friend of my
brother's? A close friend? I think not, otherwise we would probably have
met." 'My brother'. Well, that confirmed that this one was Harold
Palmer. So the other one was MacMillan.

"I found Peter's body," I said.

"That makes you his friend?"

"Up till then we'd been getting on well."

"What are you doing here?" asked MacMillan suddenly.

"The police found me in the flat. They suspected me of killing Pete. The
only way I can get them off my back is to find the real murderer."

"And you think one of us might have done it?"

All of a sudden coming here seemed even less of a sensible thing. "No," I
said. "It's just that Pete went to meet someone yesterday - from the
cafe. He said he had a business meeting in a quarter of an hour and this
place takes about that time to get to. I thought he might have met someone
here."

"He did," said Palmer. "He met me."

His candour was surprising. Even more so was what he said next. "We'd meet
every day. He'd pass over the money he'd earned. Purely a business
arrangement. He had free use of the flat and anything over our arranged
amount was his."

So Harold Palmer was his brother's pimp. I wondered whether Pete had tried
to back out of the arrangement and whether this could be a motive for
murder. What was I doing here? Yet, apart from the crack on the head, these
two guys' attitude to me didn't seem - at the moment - threatening. Quite
the opposite, in fact, as far as MacMillan was concerned who seemed to be
giving me appraising looks which I could easily interpret as amorous - if
that isn't too weak a word for someone whose features reminded me of
pre-stressed concrete.

I remembered Ross's comment: 'He's got some interesting little games he
likes to play - whips and stuff' - I certainly wasn't into that!

"Who could have killed Pete?" I asked. I was looking at MacMillan and he
shrugged.

"Can be a dangerous game, the hustling business," he said. "You don't know
who you might pick up."

"Pete could look out for himself," said Palmer, giving his partner - or
whatever the relationship was - an angry look.

"There was no force," I said. "Pete was drugged and then suffocated with a
pillow. He must have trusted whoever it was."

They didn't say anything. "Look," I said. "I'll be honest with you. I'm a
private investigator. The rest I've told you is the truth. I met Pete
yesterday and he asked me round to the flat. When I got there, he was
dead. Then the police arrived and arrested me."

"They believed your story?" asked MacMillan.

"Well, I'd done some work for them in the past - and anyway I had no
motive." I paused. "They're looking for you," I said to Palmer.

"Of course they are. The flat's registered in my name. They wouldn't know I
never lived there."

"Is that the only reason you're doing your bit of detective work?" asked
MacMillan. "Because you're in the frame for his murder?"

"I didn't know him well," I said, trying to be honest, "but I liked
him. Whoever did it shouldn't get away with it."

"You certainly didn't know Peter Palmer well," said MacMillan bluntly. "He
was a bastard. Handsome and charming, sexy too but if you got on the wrong
side of him, he'd drop you in it without any hesitation at all. And once
in, you'd stay 'dropped'. Not averse to a bit of blackmail either, eh,
Harold?"

I saw Palmer give him yet another of those angry looks. I wondered what it
was that was holding the two men together. It certainly wasn't personal
friendship. Probably business - and that of course almost certainly meant
drugs.

"Do you know a guy called Robert Wilkins?" I asked.

Palmer was about to answer when there was the sound of a buzzer. MacMillan
switched on a TV monitor and I could see the full length of the hall on the
screen. "See who's there, Cedric."

The gorilla (Cedric?) disappeared through the door and I could see his back
going towards the door. He opened it and there were two men standing
outside. Even though the image was slightly grainy, I could recognise the
haircut of one of them. It was surely Inspector Skipton - with a uniformed
constable in attendance.

"It's the police," I said. "Is there a back way out? I don't really want
them to find me here."

"Nor me," said Palmer.

"Pity you have to go," said MacMillan, looking at me. "I had plans."

Palmer led the way through another door and down some steps into what was
obviously the main club. At this time of the afternoon it was empty and had
a sad, stale smell about it - the musty aftermath of too much sweat, body
lotion and sex.

"Was MacMillan right about your brother?" I asked.

"He had his little ways," he said and didn't seem to want to elaborate.

"What about the Wilkins guy?" I persisted.

"Now that is a real, little shit," said Palmer. "You don't want to get on
the wrong side of him. Looks as if a puff of wind would blow him over but I
wouldn't want to turn my back on him in a dark alley."

And this from the guy they called 'the Hammer'!

I followed him down the centre of the room. On one side was a bar, at the
moment in darkness. The only light there was came from some translucent
square blocks in the ceiling at the other end. I realised that the room
went under the pavement. I could see feet walking overhead though there was
no sound. A door just before the blocks led out into the open air, a
narrow, rather damp rectangular space and some steps up to ground level.

I looked up at the front door but Skipton and associate had disappeared,
presumably inside. I'd like to have been a fly on that wall. We reached the
pavement and battled into the passers-by. Palmer tapped me on the shoulder.

"I'd leave the investigating to those who know something about it," he
said.

"The police?"

"Me," he said. "Oh by the way, you were quite lucky to get out of there."
He disappeared into the crowd.

* * * * * *

Well, I'd met some of the protagonists who might or might not have been
responsible for Pete's death. Had I learned anything? Mainly that I perhaps
was wrong about Pete being a good guy - and, in some strange way, I rather
warmed to Harold, even though he must have been the one who'd clobbered
me. I felt the bruise and winced. MacMillan was creepy. I rather hoped he
was the murderer but he hadn't sounded in any way guilty when he talked so
openly about Pete.

So, Wilkins was a dangerous shit, was he? Despite the fact that we hadn't
exactly hit it off the last time we'd met, I thought another visit was in
order so I walked back to the office via the Coffee Experience. But Robert
Wilkins wasn't behind the counter. Instead a blond late-teen was cheerfully
serving coffee - a vast improvement, except that I wanted to talk to Robert
Wilkins.

"Hi," I said, "Where's Robert?"

"I can do anything that Robert can," he said.

"And probably more willingly," I said. "Trouble is, I really need to talk
to Robert."

"You won't find him here in the afternoons this week," said the lad, whose
name, according to his tag, was Alec. "He's on mornings and evenings." He
looked at me with a smile. "Are you sure I can't do instead?"

"So he was off yesterday afternoon," I said, ignoring with difficulty the
implication of his last question.

Alec nodded.

That meant he could have been to Pete's flat.

"Do you know a guy named Peter Palmer?" I asked.

"Hold on, honey," he said and sashayed down the counter to where a customer
was waving a five pound note. I watched Alec's butt with interest, 'pert'
was the word I'd use - I like 'pert'. The uniform - white cotton military
style tunic came just to the top. Then I watched his crotch as he came back
- and that was a dream, his tight-fitting white cotton trousers clinging to
long, well-muscled legs and embracing his male equipment with a tender
grasp emphasising its already sizeable proportions. He knew I was looking
too.

"Now, what were you saying?"

"Peter Palmer," I reminded him.

He pouted. "Questions," he said, "and all about other guys."

"I'm investigating his death," I said.

"You a cop?" he asked, sounding naively excited.

"Private dick."

He smiled. "What's the good of private ones? I only go for those that get
shared around."

I tried to concentrate. "You were going to tell me about Peter Palmer," I
said. "Did you know him well? What about his friends?"

Someone was waiting to be served. "We can't talk here." He turned towards
the back and called, "Sam, take over for ten minutes will you."

A guy came out, sized up the situation, muttered "Slut" hardly under his
breath and started serving. "Ten minutes tops," he said as Alec motioned
with his head and I followed him towards a sign that said, 'Gents'.

There's a Boy Scout promise that talks about being 'clean in thought, word
and deed'. I'd never have made a good Scout. On the other hand, their
motto, 'Be Prepared' I was good at.

Not that we made the Gents. Just before, there was an unmarked door which
he opened and disappeared inside. I peered in - a cupboard with some mops
and buckets. A hand pulled me in. The door was pulled shut and instantly
black blindness. I stumbled over something and fell face downwards. Someone
collapsed on top of me, an outstretched hand landing on the top of my leg,
just below my buttock, felt for my groin. For a moment we were struggling
together, then I turned over and he was lying on me, full length, face to
face, chest to chest, groin to groin.

"Is this what you intended?" I asked.

"Quiet!" Alec's soft voice from out of the darkness and as if to emphasise
the command, his mouth closed on mine.

Taking that for agreement, one by one I undid the buttons of his uniform
tunic and cat-licked my way down the centre of his chest to his umbilicus
and after that, unzipped his trousers and pulled down the elastic waistband
of his shorts, I tasted the head of his cock which already exuded a
transparent drop of excitement.

He pulled me up into another kiss.

The point of his tongue emerged, insistently probing between my lips, past
my teeth, into my mouth and meeting mine, tasting the saliva, joining our
two tongues. It was as if this inspired a fresh urgency in the groin, each
pushing against the other, My hands cupped the cheeks of Alec's buttocks,
the middle finger of my right hand now exploring the deepness of the cleft
until it found and entered the crinkled hole. Alec sighed.

"I 'd like you to fuck me," he said.

I inserted another finger and moved both, enlarging the hole. He opened his
legs and then raised his knees so that the access could be easier and my
fingers probed deeper.

I said 'Be Prepared' was my motto. Cute and willing as this guy was, I
wasn't going to risk riding him bareback. I groped in my pocket and found
the flat, square packet, broke open the seal and struggled to pull the
rubber over my cock. "Hurry up," said Alec. My, this guy was eager. My
prick got its protective coating and I guided it into the waiting hole. He
tensed, then relaxed and allowed it to pierce and enter. I felt his flesh
surround me. And I pushed, first gently allowing the alien muscle to become
part of him. My hand returned to his cock, grasping it, rubbing the outside
skin over the rigid central core. His breath panted, sometimes in time with
my lunges, at others out of phase as I varied the stroke.

There we were, assailed from the back, frotted in the front, the familiar
feeling building up in my loins, focusing on that centre of my being, my
sex, until I could hold back no longer.

Suddenly there were voices outside the door, two at least, possibly
more. They seemed to pause, hesitate for a moment as if not certain whether
to come in or not, The closeness of people outside added to the
excitement. "Aaaaaaaahhhhhh," I said and we reached our climaxes,
separately yet together, me into him, he into my hand.

The voices proceeded, receded, faded and finally ceased. There was a
moment's quiet and then Alec opened the door letting in a narrow strip of
light, just enough to see by. We adjusted clothing. I wiped my hand on a
duster. We left the filled condom in the cleaner's bucket.

"Peter Palmer," I said.

"Never heard of him," said Alec, smiling, thinking he'd got away with it.

That made me a bit cross. Not that the episode hadn't been pleasurable, but
I objected to being taken for a mug. He was on his way out when I grabbed
him from behind between his legs, feeling the soft ballsack through the
thin material of his trousers - and squeezing - hard.

"Ow," he said. "Christ. That hurts."

"Peter Palmer." I held on, not relaxing.

"Please," he said, almost a whimper. "I'll tell you. What do you want to
know?"

"Who might have had it in for him?"

"I don't know. Ouch. I really don't know."

"Was there anyone he saw regularly?"

"I don't know." A squeeze. "Yes. Yes. There was. I never saw him but Pete
used to talk about him. Said it had to be a secret, because otherwise the
guy might get into trouble. Pete thought it a bit of a joke. Felt as if the
guy was, almost, in his power. You know. He could make him do anything he
wanted. Please, let go."

I relaxed my grip. The guy must have been in agony. He clutched at himself
tenderly rubbing his abused parts.

"Did you ever see this other guy? Did Pete ever give a hint what he did?"

"No," said Alec. "I swear. Only thing he ever told me was that he used to
meet him at 'Gracey's'. That's a gay club at . . ."

"I know where 'Gracey's' is," I said.

We went back into the cafe, Alec hobbling a little and looking strained.

"Crikey," said Sam, observing from behind the counter. "He must have been
good."

* * * * * *

It had been a long day and I thought I'd had enough excitement. I phoned
Paul on his mobile to see whether he was home, going home or still at
work. And yes, I did feel guilty. I was sore - though probably not as sore
as Alec - and I knew that, yet again, I'd done the dirty on my partner,
who, I was pretty sure, would never do the same to me. One of these days
I'd get found out and then it would all be over and I'd be devastated. Paul
was everything to me and yet time and time again I allowed my wretched cock
to plough its way into foreign fields.

Paul answered.

"Hi, lover," I said, not without a feeling of hypocrisy, though I meant it
fervently.

"How's the sleuthing going?"

"I've been seeing people," I said. "And listening to stuff."

"Got the murderer?"

"Clues," I said vaguely. "I'll tell you when I see you."

"Do you want to go out tonight?" he asked. "Clubbing, film, theatre? It's
been a long, boring day and I could do with some entertainment."

"I'll provide that," I said. It was true, even though I say it myself. This
afternoon's little skirmish wouldn't diminish my prowess at all.

"That's something to round the evening off with," said Paul. "Let's paint
the town pinkish first."

"Well, we could go to Gracey's. There's a bit of unfinished business there
that needs looking into."

"Not too much business. I want some pleasure."

"I promise you that," I said. "See you at home in half an hour."

* * * * * *

We ate, showered, dressed ourselves in our trendiest and were off, first to
a restaurant which, though not generally considered the acme of smartness,
did provide excellent food at a reasonable cost. I drank my lover's health
whilst sitting opposite him and staring into those beautiful eyes,
sparkling with fun and amusement, and wondered, for the fiftieth million
time why I felt the urge to bother with other people when this delicacy was
all mine.

I guessed that, to get into 'Gracey's' would cost and was surprised when
Cedric on the door greeted me with, "Good evening, Mr Sinclair." He still
got the name wrong, but he passed us both in without any fuss at all.

'Gracey's' was not very different from any other gay Club in London, or
probably in any city all over the world. It was hot and crowded, dark and
noisy - Paul immediately felt at home in it and I, as usual, a little
uncomfortable. It was 9 o'clock when we got there and, being Saturday
night, was approaching its apogee. The dancing area was at its most lively,
sweaty bodies leaping and vying with each other to seem the most athletic,
the bar at its busiest, the music at its loudest.

A regular flashing which triggered off some other occasion where lights
flashed though these beat in time to music. Harsh pounding rhythms with the
bass notes on drums and bass guitar, the melody sharper, more intense,
weaving in and out of the throbbing pulse. Coloured beams of light which
lit up sweat-slicked bodies. Maleness and sex. Contorted limbs sharpened by
the rampant rhythms, dancing to the strident disharmonies of the
lights. The persistent, insistent thump gave me, as it always did, an
erection.

Some guys were standing in a group over at one side, clustering round a
small raised stage. On it a pair of youths were dancing, erotically,
wearing only the briefest and tightest of shorts, their bodies entwined
though not quite touching, their naked bodies shining with perspiration,
their faces contorted, mouths open in a mutually soundless cry.

"Beer," I said. "I must have a beer. Do you want the same?"

Paul nodded. I plunged into the throng around the bar.

"Still pretending to be the fuzz," hissed a voice in my ear. It was Robert
Wilkins, his usual flat, expressionless face now twisted in what looked
like a parody of a sneer.

"I told you I wasn't the police," I protested, waving a ten pound note at
one of the barmen, who ignored me completely. I turned back to Robert. "I'm
sorry we started off on the wrong wavelength. I just wanted to know about
Pete."

"And I told you he was a hustler - and you didn't believe me."

"I was wrong and you were right," I said. I tried again with the
barman. "Excuse me. Could I have two beers." I might have been invisible. I
wondered if Robert might still be able to see me. "I found out though that
he had a regular boyfriend - call it what you want - and that he often met
him here."

"How should I know? He didn't tell me anything." Robert raised a finger and
the barman came over.

"How did you do that?" I asked, and then before the barman could
disappear. "Two beers, please - no make that three." It seemed the least I
could do.

There was no change from the tenner. This wasn't a bar I'd be frequenting
regularly - or for long. I pushed the beer towards Robert. "Thanks anyway."

Perhaps he wasn't used to people buying him drinks but it was as if his
attitude suddenly softened. "Don't know his name, but there's a guy he was
often with. The one with the spiky hair." He pointed to the end of the bar.

A young man stood there, hair indeed spiked and tinted blond at the
ends. He was wearing shades though it must have made everything look very
dark in this dim place lit only by the lasers and the lights at the back of
the bar. Perhaps the laser beams hurt his eyes. Perhaps it was a fashion
statement.

"Thanks Robert," I said and carried the two remaining drinks to Paul. He
was still watching the two on the dais. They had now reached a stage of
simulated - if not actual, copulation.

"Wow," said Paul, looking at the couple. "It makes me sort of randy just
looking at them." He sipped at his beer. "I don't think I want to stay here
long. I guess I'm looking forward to an early night." He gave me a
lecherous leer and put his hand on my groin.

"I promise," I said, "but first I must check out a guy."

I steered him towards the end of the bar where spiky-hair was still
standing. He was smoking and looking soulfully into a glass, probably
dismayed at the price it had cost him. We approached from the rear and thus
were able to get close without attracting his attention. As soon as I got
within smelling distance I got a whiff of that perfume I hated so much,
'Homme Massif', and remembered that the last time I had smelled it had been
in Pete's flat - just before finding the body. I didn't recognise him but
there was something strangely familiar about him. Had we met before? It
worried me that I couldn't remember. I wondered how I could get in touch
without arousing his suspicions. Paul and I went back into the crowd.

"That guy with the dark glasses," I said quickly. "I think he's got
something to do with Pete's death."

"Do you want to talk to him now?" asked Paul.

"I don't know. There's something familiar about him, though I can't think
what. We may have met somewhere."

"I haven't. Do you want 'me' to talk to him?"

I was dubious. "I don't trust him," I said.

"Oh come on," said Paul. "Nothing can happen here. You can keep an eye on
me anyway."

"OK," I said. I gave him another £10 note. "Buy him a drink. Then see if
you can get into conversation. Talk to him if you can, try to find out
anything about Pete. But be careful."

I watched Paul go to the bar. After a short while I saw the two of them
talking. I sat at the bar and sipped my beer. I could see the two reflected
in the mirror at the back of the bar.

"Can't you keep away?" said someone next to me.

I turned.

Harold Palmer stood beside me, a smile on his thickset face. It was twisted
by the scar and if anything it made him look more sinister. "Mr Palmer," I
said.

"At least you remember my name," he said. "You could call me Harold."

He looked round at the crowded bar around them. "I'd like to see you
privately - to talk."

"Only to talk?" I asked and hoped it didn't sound arch. "I think I know who
killed your brother," I said.

"I thought I told you to leave it to the professionals."

"That's what I am," I said. "Well, if you're not interested."

He grabbed me by the arm. "Don't play with me," he said. The grip hurt. I
remembered again Ross's warning. Remember they're not nelly queens.

"OK," I said. "It was the aftershave. I smelled it in the flat when I got
there. Then Alec at the coffee-bar told me Pete was blackmailing some guy
he used to meet at the club and finally Robert pointed him out just
now. He's wearing the same aftershave. It's the one at the end of the
bar. In the dark glasses with the spiky hair."

"Look again," said Palmer.

I glanced at the mirror. Paul and the guy I suspected were no longer
sitting at the end of the counter.

"Where are they?" I said. "They were sitting down there. They couldn't have
got out without passing us."

"There's an exit at the back. He went out a coupla minutes ago with the
red-haired boy."

"Oh Christ!" I said. I'd let Paul go off with a possible murderer. I forced
my way through the crush on the dance floor. At the other end there was a
door with 'Fire Escape' painted on it and 'Push Bar to Open'. But the bar
to open seemed jammed when I pushed on it. I tried again - frantically but
still nothing budged. Then another body arrived. Stocky and obviously
considerably stronger than me. With one hand Palmer pushed at the bar. The
doors flew open. I felt fresh air on my face.

We were out in what was obviously the back of the house. It was still light
enough to see the small courtyard bordered by brick walls with uneven
concrete paving blocks through which a few weeds pushed their way. A couple
of dustbins stood against the side wall. There was no one in sight.

"Come on," said Palmer and raced away towards the bottom end where a small
gate opened onto a back road. The street lights were on and cast an orange
sodium glare on two figures, moving rapidly, one stumbling, away to the
right.

Palmer shouted, "Stop," and waved his arm in the air. To my horror I saw
that he had a gun in his hand. If he fired he would just as easily hit Paul
as the other guy. In the gathering gloom I could scarcely make out which
was which. "Don't shoot," I shouted but Palmer took no notice. He levelled
the gun. Desperately I knocked his arm and the gun went off, the bullet
presumably going off harmlessly into the air. Palmer swore, turned on me
and hit me with the gun. For the second time today I was knocked out. well,
to be strictly accurate, this time I didn't actually lose consciousness. I
felt the pain and everything went suddenly awry, the pavement becoming a
wall, the wall a sky. I was on my knees and could still see the pair and
Palmer taking aim again. Another explosion and one of them dropped.

"Fucking shit," I screamed and staggered to my feet, hobbling down the road
after Palmer. I got to where the unhit guy stood, staring down at the body
in the road. He turned to me and it was Paul. "Thank Christ," I said and
took him in my arms, squeezing him until he groaned. "Mind my ribs," he
said.

Only then did I look at the other guy. Flat on his back, legs and arms
sprawled, no sign of the bullet hole which must have hit him in the
back. His glasses had fallen off and lay shattered on the curb. I
recognised him. Without the glasses, and even with the spiked hair instead
of his usual conventional parting, the identification was obvious. It was
Inspector Skipton, in death looking even younger than he had when alive.

"Oh God," I said to Palmer. "You've shot the policeman."

"Get out," he said. "Leave this to me. Get away from here and say
nothing. You don't want to get involved. What does accessory to murder
sound like?"

He was right. I didn't want to stay around. Woozily, I grabbed hold of Paul
and we went off into the night. Paul drove home.

* * * * * *

"Jeez, I'm so sorry, I got you involved," I said later when we were
home. "And now I've got Skipton killed. There wasn't any real evidence. You
couldn't even call it circumstantial. Just a few bits of gossip and that
bloody aftershave."

"He did it," said Paul. "He as good as admitted it when I mentioned Pete. I
told him how close we'd been and how he shared all his secrets with me. He
hustled me out so quick I hardly knew what was happening. I guess I'd have
been next, if Palmer hadn't shot him. All I don't really understand is why
he did it."

But I did. I saw it all now. Skipton obviously didn't want to come out of
the closet. There's no rule that a Police Officer can't be gay but it would
probably mean a stop on his promotion and even worse was consorting with a
male prostitute, brother of a drugs dealer. There have been - and no doubt
still are - gay Chief Constables but they don't admit to being gay until
they've reached the top and almost always not even then.

I explained as much to Paul. "If Pete was blackmailing him - as Robert said
he was - then Skipton couldn't afford to let the relationship continue, and
if Pete was as much of a bastard as MacMillan said he was, then Pete knew
he was onto a good thing - and wouldn't let go. So Skipton presumably went
back with Pete, drugged his coffee - I remembered seeing the two mugs on
the draining board. Then he killed him with the pillow. With Skipton as
Inspector in charge of the case, he could make sure that there was no
evidence of his being in the flat before I arrived."

"Except the smell of 'Homme Massif'," said Paul.

I might so nearly have lost Paul. Even now we were not exactly safe. The
police wouldn't give up when one of their own had been killed. They
wouldn't know that their Inspector Skipton himself was a murderer. Some
time - sooner or later - Palmer would surely be arrested and then what
would happen. Would he sacrifice us? But I had to put that out of my mind
for the present.

"Promise me you'll never wear that stuff," I said.

"I promise," Paul said - and kissed me.

* * * * * *

1 see "Summertime" Matt Silvain story No. 4
2 see 'Burn-Up' Matt Silvain story No. 7
3  see  'I Think he was Murdered' Matt Silvain story No. 2

Date started: 5, Wednesday March, 2003
Page Number:
Words: 10,925
Date finished: 29, Thursday May, 2003 5:18 pm