The Bones of Summer (23 page)
A while later they did it again. That time was bloody good too. They lay for a while in silence. Which was good, but in a different way. Sometimes, Craig thought, all the ruddy words in the world weren't any better than just being with someone after sex, listening to the sound of their breathing.
But the day wasn't over yet, and there was the question he still had to ask Paul. Maybe now wasn't the right time for it, but he wasn't sure there would ever be a right time. Not only that, but he needed to ask it soon or it would be too late. Shifting position so that he lay on his back staring at the ceiling and feeling the heat of Paul's body next to his own, he took a deep breath.
“I need to ask you something,” he said, not looking at Paul. “And it's not about the past or our families or anything. It's about now. And the immediate future.”
A short hesitation and then Paul sighed. “Go on. I think I can guess what you're going to say, but go on anyway. I won't hold it against you that you'll be asking after softening me up with a damn good fuck.”
“Only one fuck?” Craig said, hoping Paul could catch the smile in his voice.
He laughed. “Okay, you're right there. Two good fucks. And, yes, I know that wasn't the question.”
“Good. Then here it is. Will you let me come to see Peter with you? Because this time I need to be there.”
Chapter Twenty
Paul was reluctant, but in the end he must have seen how determined Craig was. Which explained why the two of them were standing outside a large detached house on the outskirts of Woking on a wet Friday in February.
“God, this is some place, isn't it? The bugger must be doing well,” Craig said as he lifted up his jacket collar to keep out the damp.
“Maybe.” Paul smiled. “But it's still Woking.”
“Snob,” Craig hissed at him and would have said more but the door opened and a tall sandy-haired man stood staring out at them. He wasn't smiling.
He was bloody good-looking though. And Craig didn't even like fair-haired men, in spite of being one himself. Or as fair-haired as science allowed him to go. This one wouldn't have seemed out of place in a photo shoot. One for older men of course. Nicely defined muscles, a lean torso under that designer shirt, and good skin. If Craig hadn't been predisposed against the deceiving bastard, he might have offered to put his name forward to his agent, but of course he did none of that.
Paul stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Good afternoon. My name is Paul Maloney and this is my assistant, Craig Robertson. May we speak to Peter Woodthorpe? We've made an appointment.”
“Yes, that would be me. Do come in.”
Still no smile, but then again Craig wouldn't be smiling either if it was him. Peter waved them through the door and into the house. It smelled of herbs Craig couldn't name and he wondered if someone was burning a candle somewhere or cooking something exotic. Immediately ahead of them was a full-length mirror bathed in light. He and Paul were framed in it and seeing the two of them so close and so clear almost made him jump. They exchanged glances but said nothing, following Peter to the left along a short hallway and then right into what Craig assumed was the living room. Still, the picture of Paul and him in the mirror stayed in his head. They looked okay together, he thought, maybe not what you'd expect but okay.
The living room had the same bathed-in-light effect, which only highlighted the enormous blue sofas and chairs and their accompanying yellow cushions. Craig's first reaction was how 1990s this was, but he stifled it. He wasn't here to make a style judgment. He was here to find out if this man knew something more about Michael than he'd so far told anyone. And, if so, what that might mean.
The three of them weren't alone, however. As Peter gestured them both to sit down, presumably on that out-of-date ridiculously grand sofa, another man stood up from what looked to be the television corner and stepped toward them, holding out his hand. He was shorter than Craig, dark-haired and heading toward plumpness. Craig wondered what the hell someone like Peter was doing with someone like this but then thought maybe he shouldn't judge. At least not in that way. Being nearest to the dark-haired man as he approached, Craig took his outstretched hand, gave it a decisive shake, and let him go. It felt as if he'd been holding nothing at all and neither did he trust the other man's smile. This one would sell him without even asking what the price was.
“Ah, this is my partner,” Peter cut in. “Bob Whitehead. Bob, this is Paul Maloney and Craig Robertson. Is that right?”
Craig nodded and Bob smiled.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
Paul shook his hand too and then sat down. Craig joined him but not too closely. Paul scanned the room as if assessing it for bugs—or whatever private investigators did—before looking up at where Peter remained standing and raising his eyebrows.
“Nice place you've got here,” he said.
“Yes, we're happy with it. We moved in four years ago. It suits us.”
“Must be worth a fortune.”
Peter half-smiled at that. “It is.”
“I see,” Paul replied and then sat forward, still staring up at the man they'd come to meet. “Tell me, are you happy to discuss your relationship with Michael Harris in company or would you prefer a private conversation?”
For a second or so, the room was utterly silent. Then, to Craig's surprise, Peter gave a short bark of laughter.
“You don't mince your words, do you, Mr Maloney?” he said. “I guess if I'd been trying to keep my past a secret from Bob, it would be a little late now.”
“Apologies,” Paul said, not looking in the least bit sorry. “I don't like to waste your or my client's time. I can't imagine you like having a PI in your home, so I thought it best to get on with what I've come for.”
“Fair enough. But, first, would you like coffee? We were just making some.”
“Please,” Paul said, relaxing back into his seat once more. “A dash of milk, no sugar.”
“I'll do it,” Bob said, cocking his head at Craig. “And what about you, Craig?”
“White, no sugar,” he replied, wondering how they'd moved from crisp questioning to suburban coffee morning so quickly.
It didn't seem to faze Paul though. He waited in silence until the coffee arrived, which only took a couple of minutes. Craig thought Peter might sit down, wait for the interview to start, but he didn't. Instead he paced to the window, a frown creasing his brow, and stared out at the garden. Which, even to Craig's unprofessional eye, looked as if it had been landscaped.
Rich tosser,
he thought. What the hell had Michael been doing with him anyway?
And what might Peter have done to him after Michael left Devon? If
Michael left Devon. If he had, then maybe it was Peter after all. Maybe his boyfriend was right and Craig had been wrong about what had happened on the farm. Perhaps Michael had gone home and then vanished.
Hell,
he must stop chasing after all the possibilities at once. He would soon not be able to think straight at all. Mind you, if Paul wasn't here, Craig didn't know if he'd be able to sit calmly and look as if he didn't have a connection to Peter. No matter how indirect.
A hand on Craig's arm brought him to himself. He realized his skin felt hot and his shoulders were tense. This was no way to pretend to be a PI's assistant, was it? He should try to look like he wasn't personally involved, but he didn't know how to act that role. Already it felt as if the words
You had a relationship with Michael, you bastard, and so did I
were tattooed onto his forehead and glowing in the pulsating overhead light. He only hoped no other bugger could see it. Even he could tell misplaced jealousy would get them nowhere.
It was Peter who spoke first, just as Bob was bringing in a ridiculously shiny coffee pot and an equally glittering tray. Did neither of these guys ever go for subtle?
“I didn't think I'd have to talk about this again,” he said, still staring out at his garden. “I thought it was over.”
Something in his voice made everything fall silent. Even Bob said nothing. He just hunkered down, easing the tray onto the glass table, and waited. While Peter spoke and Bob poured coffee into china cups, Craig set his gaze on the magazines piled up on the table's lower level: scattered remnants of the
Sunday Telegraph
and a few copies of
Gay Times
. The combination didn't surprise him.
“I spoke to Michael's sister,” Peter said, “but I imagine you must know that. We argued—she accused me of all sorts of things that were probably true. Yes, Michael and I were never the best suited of couples. Yes, I did cheat on him. All the way through our relationship, in fact, though I didn't tell Eva that. But no, what I got up to was never serious and I didn't want him to leave me. Call me a shallow bastard if you like but I thought that if anyone did the leaving, it would be me. I suppose she's already told you all that, or what she knew of it, hasn't she?”
He turned around at last. His expression was completely still, the beauty of his face unchanged.
“Yes,” Paul agreed. “Mrs. Langley has spoken to us about her brother's disappearance. But I want to hear what happened from you. Go on.”
Peter nodded. “When I found out that Michael was having an affair, I couldn't believe it. He was always completely monogamous, or so I'd thought. He lived a lot of his life in his own head, if you see what I mean. Sometimes it could be hard to get near. Which was perhaps why I ... never mind. It doesn't matter now, does it? Anyway, when I found out, I did what he'd never done with me. I confronted him. Asked if it was serious with whoever it was. God, I can't even remember his name now.”
“Adrian,” Craig said, his voice as clear as if he was making some kind of announcement. “His name was Adrian.”
Peter half-jumped and glanced at him. Craig could tell he'd almost forgotten he was there at all. “Was it? Oh well, now I suppose I know.”
Craig opened his mouth to say more, but Paul spoke first, one hand gripping his arm. Warning him.
“How did Michael respond?” he asked.
“How do you think?” Peter replied, taking two or three steps to the still-unoccupied part of the suite and flinging himself into the chair. “He was bloody furious. It all came back at me then. All the times I'd been with other men. God, he must have been storing it up in his head, all those years. We ended up shouting at each other in a way we'd never done before. Worse.”
“You fought him then?” This from Paul.
Peter nodded, looking away from them now. “Yes. I didn't have a choice. He hit me. Suddenly, as we were facing off in the dining room at our old house. I couldn't believe it. Neither could he. Then I hit him back and we really began to fight. We were rolling over and over on the floor. It was stupid. I don't remember how long that went on for—not long, I think. It was just the heat of the moment. We only stopped when I pushed him and he hit his head against the wall. Not hard enough for him to black out or anything, but hard enough for us both to come to our senses.”
“And you say that hadn't happened before?” Paul chipped in.
“
No
.” Peter's eyes narrowed as he gazed at his questioner. “I'm not usually violent. Michael's disappearance after he left me has got absolutely nothing to do with
me
.”
“But you drove him away,” Craig said, unable to keep silent any longer. “So that's not true, is it? You drove Michael away and then he ... he vanished.”
Peter's eyes locked onto his. Craig could feel the sweat on his face and wondered if the other man had noticed that too. It was as he'd thought; he wasn't going to be able to keep up this pretense of not being involved. In truth, he'd known before he came here that, even in spite of being with Paul, sometimes it felt as if Michael and he had only just seen each other. As if he'd been waiting for seven bloody years for him to come back and to find out for sure what really happened that summer he'd left home.
Without realizing it, Craig had leaned forward and was glaring at Michael's ex. For a moment, Peter was still and then, unexpectedly, he smiled. Not a gesture Craig returned at all.
“That's one interpretation of what happened, certainly,” he said, his tone dry, almost amused. “I assume you believed what Eva had to say without question then. A response which surprises me in an investigation firm, I must say.
I
like to think that what happened was that Michael and I fought and he decided to leave me—not a decision I went along with. In fact I begged him to stay, several times. But he'd decided to go. And once Michael decided anything, he stuck to it. Always. So he went. Not even to be with this ... Adrian character, I understand. No, he left to ‘have some space’ and be on his own for a while and ended up at his sister's. Which you obviously already know. From there, he chose to go on holiday—to Devon—and from there, well, from there nothing. And
that
, Mr. Maloney and Mr. Robertson, is all I know. And all I'm prepared to say.”
“You didn't have any other contact with Michael after he went to Devon?” Paul cut in, which was probably a good idea as it must have been obvious to him that Craig was losing it. “Letters? Cards? Phone calls?”
“No. None of those. I've just said that, haven't I?” Peter's face remained still, as if it had been carved from granite and the emotion removed. Or contained. Craig wondered how that emotion expressed itself when it needed an escape route. The man was just too damn perfect. “Which is what I told both the police and, later, Eva's other PI. There's nothing more I can tell you.”
Craig wasn't so sure about that but Paul was already standing up, nudging at him to do the same. Craig wanted to protest, to stop the onward movement to this man's door and away. Surely they had other avenues to explore? But, as Paul went through the usual rituals of leaving, something twisted up inside him to keep the words at the back of his tongue and he found himself outside in the chill winter air in a matter of moments.
He said nothing while Paul started the car and began to drive off. A few roads away from Peter's home, Craig found his voice.
