A Sticky End (4 page)

“Oh, just one more thing,” said Godley. “Don't go into the bathroom under any circumstances. It's a crime scene now. Good morning.”

We listened to the heavy tread of their feet until they disappeared. Morgan put his head in his hands.

“Oh God, Mitch, this is a ghastly business.”

“It would help if you told me all about it.”

He looked up with hope in his eyes. “Really? You won't be…angry?”

“Morgan, the only thing that is making me angry is the
horrible feeling that you're holding out on me.”

“Then I suppose I have to tell you everything, don't I?”

“You sure do,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “But first of all…” I picked up the telephone and handed him the receiver. “Your wife.”

I left him to it. Apart from not wishing to eavesdrop on what was bound to be a painful conversation, I had some thinking to do.

Morgan was in trouble, that much was clear. But how much trouble? What did he know of the reasons for Bartlett's suicide? Was he himself one of the reasons? How could he explain that to the police? And if, as I guessed from Sergeant Godley's questions, there was some suggestion of financial wrongdoing, was Morgan implicated in that as well? I did not for one moment entertain the idea that Morgan had deliberately, knowingly involved himself in any shady business—but I could not rid myself of the suspicion that, somehow, he had got himself tangled up in another man's crime, and now he had blood on his hands. Or at least on his pajamas.

He came out of the drawing room, pale but calm.

“She's staying with Vivie for a while,” he said. “Jolly good of her. Poor thing is in a terrible state, apparently.”

“She's just lost her husband.”

“Quite so, quite so…” He seemed distracted, unable to grasp the reality of Vivie Bartlett's bereavement.

“Morgan…”

“Hmmm?”

“Penny for your thoughts.”

He'd started to put on his coat and was stepping into his outdoor shoes. “I thought we might get some fresh air.”

“The police told you to stay put.”

“I don't think they meant that I couldn't take a walk on the Common, old chap. Come on. I've got to get out of here. You'll make sure I don't do anything silly, I'm sure.”

“Like what? Run away? Is that what you were thinking of doing?”

“Don't be daft,” said Morgan, and knelt down to tie his laces.

Wimbledon Common started just two streets away; the solid suburban houses stopped suddenly, and nature, or some well-managed version thereof, took over. It was a pleasant enough day, and it felt good to be out of a house where death had come so recently, so violently. Away from that locked bathroom, and the horrible imagining of red blood on white tiles. Morgan took huge strides with his great long rower's legs; I almost had to trot to keep up with him.

“There's a pleasant spot just up here,” he said, after we'd walked for ten minutes in silence. “Nice view, and a bench to admire it from. Come on.”

The bench was on top of a little hill, well away from paths. We could see anyone approaching from some distance. I assumed this was not accidental. I lit cigarettes for both of us, and we looked out over the golf course and the horse rides. I could see from the expression on Morgan's face that he was working up to a confession.

“That first night in the hotel,” he said at last, “I knew that this was going to be a serious business. You know me, Mitch. I take life pretty much as it comes. I'm not a deep thinker. Things usually work out for me—I mean, look at you, and Belinda, and the little ones. My job, my new house—it's all fallen into place, hasn't it? You and I have been in some funny old scrapes”—I thought that was a strange way to refer to two murder investigations in which we'd nearly lost our lives—“but things have always turned up trumps. You and I have a bit of fun, and that's nobody else's business but ours. It's not as if it matters to anyone.”

Keep saying that, I thought, and maybe one day you'll convince yourself.

“But this was different. There was something about
Frank Bartlett—I knew it from the very first moment that I met him, to tell you the truth—something deep and…well, serious.”

“I see.”

“I don't mean that we were ever real friends, not in the way that you and I are, Mitch. You're like a brother to me.”

A brother who fucks you.

“But he was something else. At first he was a sort of father figure, I suppose. He was so much older and wiser and more successful than me, but he took an interest in me and seemed to want to help me.”

He wanted to get into your pants.

“But after that first night…”

“Wow,” I said, trying to keep the tone light, “he must have been one hell of a fuck.”

“Yes,” said Morgan, “he was.”

That took the wind out of my sails; I was hoping to hear that Bartlett couldn't hold a candle to me. Then I realized that I was feeling jealous of a man who was lying in the morgue, minus several pints of blood.

“That hotel that he took me to wasn't the nicest of settings, to be honest—but I didn't notice. It could have been the Taj Mahal or a Whitechapel slum as far as I was concerned. Mitch—I've never felt such power coming from another man. It was as if he'd hypnotized me. He just drew me in, and when he shut the bedroom door, we were in another world. He took my clothes off—I stood there like a stuffed dummy—and when I was completely naked, he kissed me all over. I was trembling, and he took me to bed, stripped, and—”

“Pounced?”

“I suppose so. But it didn't feel like that. I knew what to expect, of course—I mean, we've done it often enough, and I've always had a jolly good time—but he took me by storm.
It was as if I was drunk, or flying, or falling, or something. I've never experienced anything like it.”

“What, then,” I said, sounding like a bitter old maid. “He fucked you, did he?”

“Yes. And then I fucked him. And then he fucked me again. And then, afterwards, we took a bath. It was a dreadful old rustbucket of a bath, all the enamel chipped off, great brown water stains under the taps, and to be honest the water was none too hot when it came, but it didn't matter. We could have been floating in the Pacific Ocean. He washed me, so gently and tenderly, like you'd wash a child. And then, when it was really too cold, he dried me. And then—”

He stopped, swallowed hard, and stared out over the Common.

“What, Morgan?”

“He shaved me.”

“He shaved you?”

“Yes. He stood behind me at the sink, his cock was hard again, pressing into my arse, mine was hard, resting on the edge of the sink. He ran a little more hot water, he lathered up my face, and he shaved me. It was the best, closest shave I've ever had. Better than you get at the barber. Much better than I can do myself. He took his time, stroking the blade over every part of my face, so softly, like I was being tickled by a feather. Afterwards, my skin felt like silk. I don't think I've ever done anything so exciting.”

“Wow.” I was hard again too; why hadn't I thought of shaving Morgan, damn it?

“Afterwards, he rinsed off the razor and put it very carefully back in its case.” Morgan shuddered, thinking, I suppose, about the razor's ultimate use. “And then, with what was left of the lather, he soaped me up and fucked me again.

“My God. The man was an animal.”

“It was like he was making up for lost time, Mitch. He told me afterwards that he and Vivie no longer had relations. I'm not sure if they ever really had. I think it had been a long time since he'd been really satisfied. I had trouble keeping up with him.”

“What was he like when you finally finished?”

“I don't know. Quiet, I suppose. I tidied myself up and got dressed in the bedroom. He stayed in the bathroom for a while, cleaning his teeth, gargling with mouthwash. He was always very particular like that, especially after…you know. He spent ages brushing and slooshing and spitting. I suppose it made him feel clean again. That's why last night, when he didn't come to bed…”

“So it wasn't just a business visit.”

“Of course not.” Morgan sounded angry, impatient. “That's what I'm trying to tell you. After that first time, we were together as often as we could be. Sometimes we went to that same hotel, sometimes we stayed at his club, but we had to be so dreadfully careful there. Sometimes I had to accompany him out of town on a business trip—you'd be surprised how many business trips he arranged.”

“Didn't Belinda suspect anything?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“But weren't your tanks rather low?”

“She was expecting Teddy by this time. I think she was rather glad that I wasn't pestering her in that department. I kept up a decent show of willingness… God, what a cad I am. How could I do this to her?”

“You didn't mean to, Morgan.” Like hell—he'd cheated on Belinda since before they were even married, with me. And with who knows who else? I felt a wave of indignation, until I realized that I, too, had been consistently unfaithful to Vince. But it was different for me, wasn't it?

Of course it wasn't. I was just pissed because I thought Morgan was mine—at least, that part of him. Now I knew
what it was like to be deceived. It hurt, just as it would hurt Vince and Belinda.

“No, I didn't mean to. I was carried along. And then the girls got to know each other, and it became even more complicated.”

“How on earth did you let that happen?”

“I couldn't very well avoid it. I mean, we were spending so much time together, it would have looked very odd if we hadn't met socially. Bartlett was a great one for appearances. And so he invited Billie and me over for dinner at their house in Teddington. Lovely place. Huge great villa near the river. Billie was right at home, but, of course, she comes from that kind of background. I was a bit overawed, kept tripping over things, didn't know which spoon to use and all that. But Vivie is a lovely woman, and she put me at my ease, and by the time Frank had poured a few drinks we were getting on like we'd known each other all our lives. Vivie and Billie knew a lot of people in common, and by the end of the evening they had their arms round each other like sisters. Frank was delighted.”

“Yes, I'm sure he was.”

“What's that supposed to mean, Mitch?”

“Well, it sounds as if he planned all this very carefully. Making you part of the family, binding you closer to him. That suited his purposes nicely.”

“If you're suggesting that Frank was the one who did all the running, you're wrong. I was just as bad as he was. I wanted him all the time. I would have taken stupid risks just to spend time alone with him—he was always the one who advised caution. I was head over heels. God, it was mad—really, it was like a form of madness. The more I saw him, the more I wanted him. It wasn't just the way he made me feel when we were in bed together, although that was a big part of it. It's the way he made me feel as a man—he was so confident, so clever, so experienced, and that's how I started
to feel. He cared about me, and he wanted me to do well. He taught me things. I've never felt so…so cared for.”

I knew that Morgan's relationship with his own father had been chilly and distant, without much love on either side. I didn't wish to sound like some kind of crazy trick cyclist, so I said nothing—but this sounded like a mixed-up Oedipus complex to me.

“So what happened?”

“We carried on like that for months. It seems like a dream, or a nightmare, to me now. I suppose what really snapped me out of it was when Teddy was born. Suddenly I couldn't just leave home at the drop of a hat. I had responsibilities, I had a loving, beautiful wife and two children who needed a father. I tried to talk to Frank.”

“And he didn't want to hear it?”

“On the contrary,” said Morgan. “He was very understanding. He said that my duty was with my family, and that he didn't expect to see so much of me. And he was as good as his word. I didn't see him for a couple of weeks, then a couple more, then a month. I couldn't stand it, Mitch. I couldn't sleep. I wasn't eating. Billie didn't notice much because she was preoccupied with the children, and to be honest it wasn't easy to sleep through the night even without Frank on my mind. But eventually I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to arrange a meeting with him at the bank anyway, and afterwards I told him that we were going out for dinner. I couldn't stand being without him anymore.”

“And he would have known that, Morgan.”

“What? Maybe. Perhaps it was all part of his plan. I don't know.”

“And what happened that night?”

“We had dinner at his club. It was all very civilized. I tried to touch him under the table, like I had before, but he very discreetly moved my hand away. He said we needed to talk about business.”

“Really? At a time like that? What was so important?”

“He had an offer to make me. He said he realized that, with a growing family, my salary was pretty stretched. He seemed to know exactly how much I earned, and exactly what my outgoings were. I don't know if he'd been prying, or if it was just a shrewd guess; like I say, he was a brilliant businessman. And it was true—the money didn't go as far as I'd have liked. We were still living in the old house in town at this time, of course, and with two children on the go there just wasn't enough room. We didn't want to bring them up in town, we wanted to move out somewhere with more space and fresh air. Like this.”