A Sticky End (27 page)

“So? It worked, didn't it? He was nice again for a while.”

“But then?”

“He stopped seeing me altogether. Said he had to leave town for a few weeks. Don't know whether that was true or not—but whatever he was doing, I never heard from him for ages. And then, every time I tried to find him, he gave me the brush-off.”

“So you started blackmailing him?”

“What else could I do?”

That was such a bizarre question that I didn't bother answering.

“I admit that it was stupid and wrong. But I was desperate. I missed him, and I missed the money. I went back
to seeing other gentlemen, and they just weren't the same. Older than him. Not as…nice. I didn't want to do it anymore. Not after him.”

“How much did you get out of him?”

“I don't know.”

“Come now, McDermott. Don't pretend that you've conveniently forgotten.”

“All right. He paid me off in the end. There. Is that what you wanted? Five hundred pounds.”

I whistled. “That's a lot of money.”

“He could afford it.”

Yes, I thought—with a bit of help from Bartlett and Ross. That would explain the financial trouble to which both Tippett and Trent had referred. Bartlett must have thought it was money well spent—the price of ditching one lover in favor of another. Because, by the time McDermott was cashiered, Frank Bartlett had taken up with his new lover—Boy Morgan.

Now it was with Morgan that he shared that hotel room in Euston.

It was Morgan whom he took to dinner, to the theater, on weekend trips.

It was Morgan—a respectable, presentable young professional with a wife and children—whom he welcomed into his home, introduced to his wife, brought into his business.

It was for Morgan that he bought a house.

It was in Morgan's favor that he changed his will.

What McDermott barely dared to dream of, Morgan had been given—or, at least, had taken.

But was it given freely? And at what point did Bartlett's desire to hold on to a lover become unbearable?

Did Morgan drive him to suicide?

McDermott was looking at me with such sad eyes that I had no choice but to believe that what he had told me was true. I left him as quickly as I could, with a hasty promise
that I would see him again. Whether he wanted to tell me more—or whether he wanted to fuck—I do not know.

I left him sitting in that dismal barroom, and ran down the stairs to the street.

If only I could have run from the thoughts and suspicions that pursued me.

I returned to Wimbledon. What else could I do? That was where my duty lay—even if only to comfort Belinda. For all her strength, she must be feeling awful. Unless, by some unsuspected turn of fate, Morgan had been released and all was well.

I approached their front door with a sudden thrill of hope. While I was out in town, suspecting the worst, the truth had come to light, Morgan was home, and we would raise a glass together.

One look at Belinda's face told me all that I needed to know. She had been crying, and her cheeks were pale.

“Mitch.” She didn't look particularly pleased to see me.

“Any news?” I stood on the porch, feeling like a door-to-door salesman.

“None.” She sighed. “You'd better come in. We're in the drawing room.”

We? Who was here?

“Ah, Mitchell.” Hugh Trent, the dead man's brother-in-law, stood up to greet me. He did not look exactly thrilled to see me either.

“How is your sister?”

“Much the same,” he said, stroking his moustache, “much the same. She keeps to her room.”

“I'm sorry. I hope she will soon feel better.”

“Better?” He glared at me. “No, I don't suppose she will feel better.”

How different he was from the cordial, confidential character he had presented at our earlier meeting! Why the change? What had I done?

“Would you like a drink, Mitch? You look tired,” Belinda said.

“I've been working,” I said, though I didn't go into details. “I wouldn't say no to a whiskey.”

“Of course.” Belinda poured me a scotch—she knew exactly how I like it, with just a dash of water—while Trent continued to scowl. I was obviously
de trop
. Why was he here? What were his intentions toward Belinda and her family? What had he told her about Morgan and Bartlett?

“Cheers,” I said, feeling anything but cheerful myself. Neither of them answered. I took a swig and was glad of the alcohol. “Any word from the police?”

“They've been here,” said Trent, before Belinda could answer for herself.

“And Morgan?”

Trent cleared his throat, as if I had said something embarrassing. Belinda would not catch my eye. What had he been saying to her?

“Billie,” I said—Trent raised an eyebrow at the familiarity—“things are going to be fine. We'll have him back soon enough.”

“We?” said Trent, with an unmistakable sneer.

“Morgan and Mitch are very old friends,” said Belinda, with a horrible note of apology in her voice.

“I see,” said Trent.

Was he trying to turn Morgan's own wife against him? Was he so sure that Morgan had caused Bartlett's death? Had more evidence come to light? Why was nobody talking?

“Will you not have a drink, Trent?” I said.

“No, thank you.”

“You will. I don't like to drink alone.” I poured a large measure of Morgan's scotch into a glass, sloshed in some water, and handed it to him. “There. Good health.” He could not decline without being rude, and I sensed that he was not yet ready for an open declaration of hostility. He
went to take a sip just as I reached out to clink glasses; in the confusion, I nudged his elbow, and he ended up with whiskey sloshing into his mouth, soaking his moustache, and dripping off the end of his chin. He flinched violently, turned away, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, holding it up to his wet face and hurrying out of the room.

“Oops,” I said.

Belinda smiled for the first time. “Clumsy,” she said.

“Yes. What a shame.”

“Mr. Trent has been…very kind.”

“Mr. Trent is a pompous ass,” I said. “Why is he here?”

“He was kind enough to call,” said Belinda, “to see if there was anything I needed.”

“I see. And he was here when the police arrived?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing much. They're keeping Harry in tonight.”

“No charge?”

“Not yet.”

“And Trent? Did he hear this?”

“Yes. He was most concerned.”

“I can well imagine.” Damn Trent for his curiosity. He was trying to protect his sister, no doubt—to get to the bottom of Bartlett's death, just as I was. I resented his presence.

“Look, Billie,” I said, finishing my drink, “there's nothing I can do here. I'll be at the hospital if you need me. I'll call you first thing in the morning.”

We kissed each other on the cheek.

“Just one thing before I go.”

“Yes, Mitch?”

“Be careful with Trent. I don't know what he wants.”

“You're so suspicious of everyone.”

“Usually with good reason.”

“I can take care of myself, thanks.”

“I don't doubt it for a moment. Good night, Billie.”

“Good night, Mitch.”

I let myself out. As I walked down the half-dark street, a familiar silhouette approached.

“Mitch!”

“Stan!” My young blond cop was back in uniform. “How's your ass?”

Even in the twilight, I could see him blush. “Sore.”

“Good. I look forward to making it worse.”

“How's Mrs. Morgan?”

“Awful, thanks for asking. How's her husband?”

“Not too good.”

“Shit.” My guts churned, and I had a desperate longing to see Morgan. “Any news?”

“Not much.”

God damn the Metropolitan Police—they were after a quick conviction, that was all, and the truth be damned. While I was out spending pints of semen in the name of investigation, they were simply cooking up charges that they would find a way to make stick. Morgan was done for.

“For Christ's sake, Stan, there must be something.”

“Well, there was one thing that puzzled me.”

“What?”

“The death certificate. It doesn't make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cause of death. They've put loss of blood as the primary.”

“Well?”

“But then there's the secondary. Poison.”

“So? They think he put strychnine in the mouthwash. In other words, either Morgan drove Bartlett to slash his wrists, or he poisoned him, or both. Either way, they'll charge him.”

“But on the death certificate—”

“This isn't helping, Stan.”

“When it says about the poison. It doesn't say strychnine.”

“What?”

“It says mercury chloride.”

“Mercury? But that's a completely different thing.”

“I know.”

“I mean, the symptoms are nothing like those associated with strychnine poisoning.”

“Profuse sweating, skin discoloration, swelling and peeling of skin.”

“Very good.”

“I've been reading it up.”

“You'll go far, Stan.”

“I'd like to work at Scotland Yard.”

“And strychnine?”

“Violent convulsions, asphyxiation, exhaustion. Victims frequently injure themselves during the fits.”

“Good boy. So what happened here?”

“I don't know. Someone made a mistake.”

“You don't make mistakes like that. Not in a suspected murder case.”

“Or something's wrong.”

“You bet your sweet ass something's wrong, Stan. And I'm going to find out what.”

I was halfway down the street, but he ran after me.

“Mitch? When this is over—”

“Yes, Stan, I'll fuck you as hard as you could possibly want.” I had some busy times ahead, it seemed.

The young copper went back to his post with a spring in his step; I ran up the road with a terrible pounding in my chest, as if I, too, had taken poison.

Something is wrong. Something is wrong. The words drummed in my head as the train pulled out of the station, heading back to town. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. I closed my eyes, watched strange blurred shapes
drifting behind my eyelids, crossing, colliding, coming together, forming new shapes, new patterns, trying to show me something, trying—

The train stopped at Balham. I opened my eyes just as the sign on the platform appeared at the window. Balham. The Ring of Bells in Balham. Where Stan and I had found Bert, the giant with the proportional cock. Just last night.

I looked at my watch: eight o'clock.

And without thinking about it, I got off the train just before it pulled out, earning a dirty look from the guard in the process.

When Sherlock Holmes is faced with a seemingly insoluble problem, he retreats into an interior world, usually accompanying himself on the violin. When Hercule Poirot is approaching his conclusion, he gives up all attempts at investigation and treats himself to a good dinner, some fine wine, and a digestif. Like my fictional mentors, I felt that I had done enough running around in the last 36 hours—that nothing more could be gained from trundling up and down London's suburban railway lines, interviewing people, discovering contradictory facts, all of which somehow added to the horrible suspicion that Morgan was responsible for Frank Bartlett's death.

No—it was time to stop doing. Time to cast my mind adrift—to lose myself. And I could think of no better way of losing myself than by taking the biggest dick possible up my asshole. The moment I saw the word “Balham” on that station platform, that itch returned, and it needed scratching. It wasn't a complicated chain of reasoning: Balham—the Ring of Bells—Bert the laborer—the biggest cock I've seen in months—my hungry hole needs filling.

Holmes has his fiddle, Poirot his liqueurs—I have cock. We all have our methods.

I saw him as soon as I pushed open the pub door, sitting in the corner nursing a pint, the mug looking small in
his vast hands. He looked up when I came in, as if he was expecting me. His face, none too clean after a day's labor, broke out in a smile. He stood and held his arms open.

“Mitch!”

“Bert.”

“I knew you'd be back.” When I was close enough to hear without him shouting, he said, “You want this, don't you?” and squeezed his groin. Ah, how simple the world suddenly seemed!

“Yes.”

“You look done in. Bad day?”

“The worst.”

“Your friend…”

“Still being held by the police.”

Bert scowled and shook his head. “I'm sorry. I wish I could help.”

“You can,” I said. “You can take me to a room somewhere and spend the night fucking my brains out. That's what I need.”

He knocked back his beer, smacked his lips, and thumped the glass down on the bar.

“Plenty of time for that,” he said. “You need cheering up first. I want to fuck you, Mitch, but I don't want to fuck you while you've got a frown on your face. You need to relax and have a laugh.”

What I needed was half a yard of hard penis in my guts, but I humored him. “What did you have in mind?”