Dust Jacket

By

Alp Mortal & Chambers Mars

Carter Seagrove Book Boutique Edition

Text Copyright© 2014

Alp Mortal & Chambers Mars

www.alpmortal.weebly.com

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

www.seagrove.weebly.com

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Authors’ Notes

Dedication

Chapter One – Soul-fire

Chapter Two – Albino spiders

Chapter Three – Judas

Chapter Four – Knife, paper, scissors

Chapter Five – How many roads …

Chapter Six – Facades

Chapter Seven – Emergences

Chapter Eight – In the mid-night hour

Chapter Nine – Phases of the Moon

Chapter Ten – Triumvirate

Chapter Eleven – The Bard knows best

Chapter Twelve – Playing Safe

Chapter Thirteen – Book ends

Chapter Fourteen – Speak or forever hold your peace

Chapter Fifteen – Allies

Chapter Sixteen – “Don’t make me laugh!”

Epilogue

Authors’ Notes

In tracking down the serial killer Dust Jacket, DI Peter Nation appears to be thwarted at every turn; almost as if the killer were looking over his shoulder. Is the killer on the inside track or is Peter just blind to the truth?

DI Peter Nation has been investigating the serial killer Dust Jacket for the last fifteen years; the killer is elusive to say the least but the murder of victim number sixteen, the celebrated author Matthew Herringbone, brings Peter into contact with two people who provide a new insight to the case. Despite his diligence, Peter is struggling to the see things clearly; a case of not seeing the wood for the trees or is he just so weary that even the obvious answers appear as spectral as Dust Jacket himself?

When Derek, the murdered author's literary agent and Peter start an affair, it starts a chain of events which ultimately bring about the unmasking of the killer. New to the case DC James Capsicum provides a fresh perspective and suddenly all eyes are on the one person whom everyone has overlooked.

Dust Jacket is a collaboration between authors Alp Mortal and Chambers Mars. It is a suspenseful gay romantic thriller/murder mystery written for an adult audience. The project gave rise to the creation of a new author to carry future projects, Carter Seagrove. The Carter Seagrove Project has so far outputted The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries, a new independent book store, a book circle and forum.

Alp Mortal can be found at www.alpmortal.weebly.com and Chambers Mars at www.chambersmars.weebly.com.

As authors, we both look for projects which will stretch our imaginations and styles and we both agree that Dust Jacket certainly did the job! We sincerely hope that you enjoy the story.

Alp & Chambers

August 2014

Dedication

Without doubt, this story would not have come to fruition had it not been for our respective circles of friends and supporters; to you all we give our heart-felt thanks and dedicate this work to you.

Alp & Chambers

June 2014

Chapter One – Soul-fire

Weaving inexpertly through the early Christmas shoppers who were colonising Oxford Circus like so many ants, Brian made the top of Regent’s Street and headed for Piccadilly. He recalled a time when the street was elegant. That’s what was lacking these days, elegance. The object of his sortie was the book store on Piccadilly and his first ‘author signing’ event in twenty years.

The novel, ‘Mirror, Mirror’ had become a startling hit, much to everyone’s surprise; including his own. A tuneless swan song was his own opinion of it; a view not shared by anyone else and the publisher, wishing to capitalise on the seasonal buying spree, had organised the signing event; ‘Matthew Herringbone here today’.

“Here today, gone tomorrow!” Brian muttered to himself.

Derek was waiting for him just inside the door.

“Hello, Brian; good to see you!”

“Hello, Derek. Can we grab a coffee before the off?”

“Sure!”

Brian trailed Derek down the stairs to the coffee shop and plonked himself in one of the seats whilst Derek fetched the coffees. Over the white Americano and skinny latté, Derek outlined the format – which was nothing out of the ordinary – and slipped Brian a cheque.

“I don’t understand why this has made such a splash,” Brian confessed.

“It’s touched a nerve.”

“Have they actually read it?”

“No-one buys books not to read them, Brian; this isn’t nostalgia. People are identifying with the main protagonist and it’s stirring deep emotions.”

Derek viewed Brian as a literary giant; under-valued and under-appreciated. Brian viewed Derek just as he was; an under-achiever, scrabbling for the crumbs which fell from the table. The novel ‘Mirror, Mirror’ was elevating Derek into the upper echelons, which hitherto, he had never dreamed were within his reach. He only wished he had the wardrobe to compete with the likes of Erskine and Mathers who sneered congenially whenever they clapped eyes on him. Tonight however, he was spared their charitable grimaces.

Brian sipped his coffee, feeling drowsier by the minute. He was aching to take off his shoes which pinched and settle into a chair with Chopin and the Burgundy which was breathing on the kitchen table.

It was all rather sad; resembling the sight of the returning prize fighter, pumped full of steroids and standing in the ring for one last time. He had been a prize fighter; a prize winner forty years ago. Time hadn’t stood still; he had, watching the laurels wither and die. Not so much ‘misspent youth’ but rather ‘unspent success’; a disdain for show, preferring the solitude of his study in his loathing of the limelight. These days, successful authors behaved like rock stars. His ‘sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll’ era had consisted of an unsatisfactory fuck with Simon to the accompaniment of Bowie whilst they’d both been high.

“We’re expecting a decent turn-out; what with Christmas around the corner. We were very lucky to get this slot,” admitted Derek, trying to inject some energy into the moment.

“How did we get this slot?”

“Miriam pulled out at the last minute; better offer.”

“And Jonathan; why didn’t he get it?”

“Even better offer.”

A prime London signing event which felt like alms; hardly the taste he wanted in his mouth.

“Shall we then?” ventured Derek.

“Yes; let’s do this!”

They ascended the stairs and found the table designated for the signing easily enough because a huge poster of the book’s cover had been hung behind it. The table had been set with a pile of books ready to be signed in exchange for a voucher which could be purchased at the cash desk or from a number of other selected outlets. There was also a stock of pens, a glass and a bottle of water.

From the inside pocket of his jacket, Brian took out his faithful Pelikan and unscrewed the cap.

“Bring in the Christians!”

The queue was modest at first but the shops were open late.

“There’ll be a rush after the shops have closed before everyone heads home,” announced Derek confidently.

“Two hours of this dribble and drabble!” Brian thought to himself whilst maintaining the outward demeanour of the kindly and much cherished grandfather or uncle who most people seemed to view him as.

He knew the score and feigned joviality whilst totting up his royalties, which were three pounds and ninety-nine pence per copy. Everyone got the one pound, forty-nine smile … but then he did have to pay tax. The gentile badinage rolled off the tongue easily enough, “Oh did you? That’s wonderful! I’m so pleased you enjoyed it …”

Derek replenished the pile of books at Brian’s side but otherwise stood back; his hands clasped behind his back whilst he totted up his own earnings, amounting to eighty pence per copy. His smiles were given away for free.

At around six forty-five pm, the queue suddenly evaporated and Derek fetched them a cup of tea. At six fifty-five pm, a young man walked into the store, glanced over at the signing table, frowned, appeared to have an interesting thought, hesitated, began to move off but then turning back again, he walked smartly over to the table.

“How does this work then? Do I buy the book here,” he pointed towards the cash desk, “or there?”

“You could buy the book and bring it over or buy a voucher and exchange it for one of these,” interjected Derek.

“Oh, right; so either way I’m going to have to queue …”

All three glanced in the direction of the cash desk which resembled Bedlam at medication hand-out time.

“I haven’t got time to queue … couldn’t I just give you the cash?”

“That’s not really-” Derek began to say, feeling awkward, pinched between the man’s exquisite but cruel lips and stone-hard gaze; a face which resembled that of a snake readying itself to lunge unless a good reason could be found not to bite.

“That’ll be absolutely fine,” announced Brian, suddenly feeling rebellious, offering his fruit up willingly and imagining how it would feel to have his phallus eaten by the snake; an excruciating journey to oblivion.

The man slipped his hand inside his jacket and retrieved his wallet from which he extracted two ten pound notes. He handed them over to Brian.

“It’s for my Mother; she’s a big fan.”

Brian doubted that; he hadn’t put anything on the shelf for fifteen years.

“And an exceedingly patient one!” he joked.

“She has a copy of Caravan to Calvaire by her bed and reads a page every night before she turns out the light. I’ve read it but I didn’t really enjoy it. The young man whose journey you describe was far too self-pitying and self-indulgent for someone allegedly searching for his soul-fire.”

For the first time in fifteen years – and probably more like twenty – Brian woke up.

“Can you put Dear Dorothy rather than To Dorothy? She’ll be so happy.”

“Of course!”

“Thanks.”

The young man was about to depart when Brian asked, “Who do you enjoy reading?”

“Lorca! Now he had soul-fire; I’m translating him.”

Brian was transported back forty-two years to his eighteenth birthday and the audience with his father from whom he had received a copy of Divan del Tamarit along with the challenge to ‘translate this and then tell me that you have the heart to write’. His father had also given him the money with which he had funded his first trip to St. Calvaire.

“I’d very much like to read your translations,” admitted Brian, “Mr …?”

“Worthington … Malcolm Worthington.”

“Mr Worthington … I’d be very interested to read your interpretation …”

The young man reached inside his jacket and withdrew a piece of paper.

“Can I borrow your pen?”

Brian handed over his beloved Pelikan without quibbling, especially as there was a stack of biros beside him. The young man wrote his telephone number on the scrap and handed it to Brian along with the pen.

“Call me … sorry but I have to run.”

If Brian hadn’t been mistaken, the young man had grazed his thumb with his finger as he’d handed back the pen and paper. It was difficult to be sure because the man wore gloves; soft, black leather gloves.

In direct contrast to his mood at the start of the event, Brian was positively soaring by the end and it was only partly accounted for by the fact that the stock of books by the signing table had almost been completely exhausted. The neat piles of vouchers had begun to topple over and some had tumbled onto the floor.

Brian and Derek were just finishing up when the doors were finally locked and closed.

“Excellent result, Brian; can you pop into the office tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I have the first bid for the film rights.”

Derek’s tone was a little odd and Brian took a moment to understand the reason. Brian realised, given the success of ‘Mirror, Mirror’, that Derek might have been expecting him to jump ship and into Erskine’s or Mather’s safer pair of hands.

“Excellent! Well done …”

To anyone else the comment would have sounded patronising; to Derek it sounded like an ejaculation; Brian’s praise, the cock in his mouth.

“Thanks!” Derek sucked up.

They parted at the door and went their separate ways. Brian took a cab back to the flat in Mayfair; his feet hurt and his buttocks were numb.

The taxi dropped him off outside the mansion block on Davis Street and due in part to the success of the evening, he tipped the cabbie; something he never did, not that he ever took cabs as a rule.

The flat at the top of the building was owned outright; a minor feat in itself. It had been purchased with the proceeds from earlier works, film rights and Simon’s modest legacy. Half-way up and he berated himself for not having taken the lift. Finally making his own landing, puffing and sweating, he jangled the keys to find the Yale and entered the apartment which welcomed him with the faintly sickly bouquet of the wine and the traces of the heavy tang of the cigar which he had smoked the evening before.

As the door clicked shut, he kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie, throwing the jacket over the hall rack before heading immediately to the bathroom to relieve himself and slosh a little water over his face. Somewhat refreshed, he plucked the wine from the kitchen worktop and made a beeline for the study to flick on the music system and flop into the high back chair, releasing a gravelly sigh before coughing to clear his throat, relishing the prospect of the first sip of the wine.

“Lorca … how extraordinary; and he didn’t even look as if he could read!”

‘Soul-fire’; the words invoked so many memories that none formed clearly. The array of images and sounds was confusing; and much like the junction of Oxford Street and Regent Street, memories were sent scurrying like ants. Only by retrieving the slip of paper from his trouser pocket did the march of maddening snippets halt, leaving him with the crystal clear recollection of his father’s dead body arranged beautifully in the casket.

“I’ll call him tomorrow,” Brian promised himself as he sank into the warmth and comfort of Chopin’s nocturnes and the fumes of the Burgundy.

Gritty and putrid did he wake at two in the morning, heaving on the tannins of the wine which now burned his throat; barely making it to the bathroom to vomit up the wine and the coffee.

Exhausted from being sick and sweating profusely, he threw himself into the unmade bed, stirring up the ashes of the long dead and cold hearth of his ‘soul-fire’. The poetry made him smile despite the attendant wretchedness.

“Must do better, Brian!”

Chapter Two – Albino spiders

Waking up was inevitable but no less painful. Focussing on the bedside clock was a mistake because it suggested it was nine twenty-four am.

“Fuck!”

Madeleine was due at ten to clean and young Sapporo had his lesson at midday.

The bathroom stank of vomit and made him dry heave. Relieved of a bladderful of burning urine, he staggered to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, automatically turning on the radio. Perched on the breakfast bar stool, nursing the tea, dressed in his saggy white Y-fronts and partly wrapped in his robe was how Maddy found him.

“Morning, Mr Sanderson!”

“Yes it is and I’m grateful you didn’t say ‘good’. Leave the bathroom …”

Maddy had been cleaning for Brian for a couple of years and reading the scene perfectly, she cleaned the bathroom first. Returning to the kitchen to make herself a coffee, she opened all of the windows to give the place a blast of fresh air.

“It’s lovely out today; so cold and crisp. How was the signing?”

“Oh, actually pretty good; I saved one for you.”

“Thank you! Mum is such a fan; what she doesn’t know about Caravan to Calvaire is no-one’s business!”

This announcement woke Brian up to the prospect of calling Malcolm Worthington after Sapporo’s lesson. The young Japanese doctor came for two hours a week to improve his grasp of the finer points of the language and they inevitably ended up in bed for a frantic fumble.

“Can you change the bed, Maddy, please?” Brian called out, adjusting his robe, suddenly conscious of his state of semi-nakedness.

She’d already whipped the bedding off of the bed and was hunting for ‘coloureds’ to make up a load. Scurrying back into the kitchen to load the machine, Maddy asked, “Did you see the news?”

“When; last night?”

“Yes … terrible!”

“I didn’t see it; what happened then?”

“Another of those murders; what do they call them; ‘the Dust Jacket Murders’?”

“How do they know it was the same murderer?” Brian queried.

“Same M-O - whatever that means - theatre critic this time; that chap Barry Templemead who writes in The Standard …”

“Modus Operandi … shocking …”

It was shocking but Brian didn’t have the energy to summon the emotion; barely the energy to lunge into the shower, leaving the kitchen empty for Maddy to scour away the remains of seven consecutive nights of ready-meals.

Standing in the shower gave him some vigour; dispelled when he stood in front of the mirror and surveyed the sloping, wrinkly, puffy and flaccid mass which had once wooed young Oxford scholars and earned him the nickname Cudgel.

Washed, deodorised, dressed and in better humour, Brian returned to the kitchen to pay Maddy and give her the book which he’d signed for her mother.

“Same time next week, Mr Sanderson?”

“Yes, please … tell your Mother that I hope she enjoys it as much as Calvaire.”

“I’m sure she will … bye then!”

Save for eating a sandwich and sipping a cup of tea, there wasn’t much to do before Sapporo arrived at midday. Brian had advertised his services as a tutor in the hope that he’d be able to save enough to make one last trip to St. Calvaire before the lid was nailed down. Rotting window frames and spiralling ground rent had put paid to that. The young Japanese doctor had responded to the advert and they had been working on his stress and intonation patterns for the last two years. The remembrance of the first time when something else had been offered still put a smile on Brian’s lips. He had never previously been enamoured of the pale and hairless skinny kind of body which Sapporo offered up like a lily to the lips of a faded vaudeville performer, wrestling with her demons before the swan song and a tragic suicide attempt.

The young man, always so polite and deferential, sat astride the cudgel and rode the rod until Brian, flushed and sweating, dribbled out his meagre load. He remained prostrated beneath the young doctor whilst he masturbated to a climax which ended with a healthy eruption, splattering Brian’s chest; the pearly globs clinging to his sparse grey hairs like albino spiders sat in their webs waiting for the unsuspecting fly.

This week was no different to the last.

As he left, Brian gave Sapporo a signed copy of the book and a wet, sloppy smooch; both accepted with good grace.

It was almost three o’clock and nearly dark outside. Brian threw himself into the chair to pick up the telephone message which had been left during his tussle with Sapporo.

“Brian, it’s Derek; is everything okay? I had expected to see you today. I hope nothing is wrong. Call me.”

“Fuck!”

Having forgotten the meeting, Brian rummaged in his pocket for the telephone book which he always carried in order to find Derek’s number. In so doing, he happened across the piece of paper upon which the young man from the signing had written down his number. He called Derek but retained the slip of paper between his thumb and forefinger, caressing it absent-mindedly as one might stroke the cheek of a sleeping lover.

“Sorry, Derek; felt a bit off … how about tomorrow?”

“Fine, Brian; say eleven o’clock?”

“Perfect … see you then.”

Replacing the receiver, he quickly picked it up again to dial the young man’s number.

“Malcolm … Malcolm Worthington? It’s Matthew Herringbone … yes … well, why not now?”

Brian rattled off the address and replaced the receiver, clutching the slip of paper to his chest as if it were some starry-eyed lover’s missive agreeing to meet him on the Embankment under the silvery moon from whence they would alight to a theatre bar for a glass of champagne and profess all kinds of stupid things.

He made a quick tour of the flat and did a cursory tidy up of the bedroom before closing the door. It was too early to open a bottle of wine so he pre-boiled the kettle, suddenly feeling very nervous without any obvious cause. The young man was coming to share his interpretation of Lorca, nothing more.

At four-thirty, the buzzer sounded and Brian answered the intercom with his finger poised over the door release button.

“It’s Malcolm …”

“Come on up … fourth floor landing, number twelve.”

Having released the street door, Brian opened his own front door and remained on the threshold, waiting for the young man to emerge from either the lift or the stairwell. He cocked an ear but couldn’t hear the lift and therefore assumed – rightly – that he was using the stairs. The young man stepped up onto the broad landing and under the softer light, Brian was suddenly struck by the sheer beauty of the man’s face; largely unnoticed in the bright and bustling interior of the bookshop. In fact, for a moment, he wondered if it was the same person. Didn’t he have blond hair? The man was dressed in black; cargo pants of some description, a half-length overcoat and some kind of boots. The face, as pale as alabaster, was in such stark contrast to the black of the clothing and the hair that Brian thought that it looked like a death head; a skull. It wasn’t a soft white like the skin of Sapporo; it was harsh and almost flinty. Still, it was the most attractive face he could remember ever having laid his eyes upon. The eyes were green whereas in the book shop, Brian could have sworn that they were blue; and even whilst the man had looked down to write his telephone number on the scrap of paper, Brian had experienced the feeling of being scrutinised very closely.

“Brian!”

The sound of his name made his heart stop. And it was like that moment; the one where the mind thinks it’s heard the rumble of thunder but isn’t wholly sure and has to wait for the flash of lightening to confirm it. The silver flash came and struck him repeatedly; jagged and searing hot and the black storm cloud turned red before his eyes.

Chapter Three – Judas

Descending in the lift, expertly turning the coat inside out to present the alternative dark sage green, whipping out the thin scarf to wrap around his neck and the beanie to hide the raven’s wings which flapped about his ears, he managed to calm his breathing and quell the thunderous rolls in his guts. Exhilarated, he exited from the lift and strode confidently across the foyer to push the door release, expelling himself into the cold early evening, barely pausing to check his bearings before turning right.

Quickening his pace a little, he marched the full length of Davis Street until he reached the junction with Oxford Street, where he crossed with cavalier disregard for the traffic, causing him to dodge a bus and a cab before entering Stratford Place and diving down the steps leading to the basement of number seven. As he’d entered the street, his hand had found its way into his trouser pocket to locate the key which he now thrust into the lock, turning it to let himself in. Once the door closed behind him, he slumped against the wall to his right, lowering himself to his knees and pressing his cheek against the cool painted plaster; closing his eyes to hide the fire which he guarded so jealously.

An hour later, stiff from inactivity and fanned by the draught which blew in under the door, he rose and headed for the bathroom to strip and stand under the shower for a good fifteen minutes. Towel-dried but with the ends of his hair still dripping, he proceeded into the modest sized bedroom, slid open the mirrored door of the wardrobe unit and plucked out a set of clothes, all neatly arranged on one hanger. He placed them on the bed, immediately gathering up the clothes which he had shed upon his arrival and thrust everything into a black bin bag which he tied off by the carrying handles. He returned to the bathroom to dry his hair with the hair dryer and clean his teeth. He placed the damp towel over the radiator and stepped lightly to the bedroom to lie down on the bed, reaching out with his hand to caress the cashmere wool of the sweater and the milky softness of the leather jacket.

The blood flowed into his loins; the hot, bright, darting tongues of flame licking his thighs as if Medusa herself were giving him head.

Was it the weather or was he sickening for something? Whatever the cause, he slept until eight and woke with a start, instantly aware of the lateness of the hour.

“Fuck!”

Diving into the clothes and dragging on his shoes took a handful of minutes; after which he dove under the kitchen sink and turned off the water, picked up the black plastic sack and left the flat; remembering on this occasion to flip the main fuse. The cold air brought some relief to the pain at his temples; the pain of two corkscrews which were being slowly twisted into his head. Ignoring the pain as best as he could, he bounced up the steps and bounded across the road to the big rubbish bin into which he thrust the bag. Divested of its weight, he flew upon his feet along the short distance into Oxford Street to join the late night throng of shoppers who, like him, were trying to make their way into Bond Street tube station.

If he’d woken up sooner, he’d have walked to Queensway but as it was, he couldn’t spare the time. The stations of Marble Arch and Lancaster Gate trundled past and in less than ten minutes, he was ascending in the lift to the street. He’d have used the stairs if there had been time; a little exertion to bring that flush to his cheeks which Peter loved and compared to the roses at Kew. As it was, his face bore no colour and betrayed no emotion; the cold grey ash of the dead hearth.

Using the Bayswater Road exit, he turned right and shortly afterwards, he turned right again into the head of St. Petersburgh’s Place. Proceeding at a steady pace, just before reaching the Synagogue, he turned right into Orme Lane and then left into the mews, aiming for the house with the cherry wood coloured front door.

“Cowrie … is that you?”

He padded silently into the small study and slipped his arms around Peter’s neck, pressing his cheek up against Peter’s own to steal a sideways kiss.

“It’s me …”

“You’re late …”

“Christmas shoppers … do you want to go out?”

“Hungry?”

“A bit … tapas?”

“Give me five …”

After fifteen years, the dialogue had become economical at times.

“I thought you’d be working, given the situation.”

“No witnesses and forensics are doing their bit. It isn’t like I don’t know who we’re looking for.”

“Was it Dust Jacket?”

“Without a doubt … and exactly one year since the last; regular as clockwork.”

“Maybe he’ll slip up.”

“He hasn’t up to this point … and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was watching our every move.”

“Let’s go and eat … and if you’re not too tired …”

Peter turned to fully address the man whom he had loved for the last fifteen years and drew on every last available ounce of energy to beam out a smile, knowing that it would flip the switch. Despite being exhausted, there was only one thing he craved more than sleep right now.

“Yeah, let’s go!”

At a back table lit by a solitary candle, some tapas, a little wine and a short coffee provided the perfect entrée to the rest of the evening. It was only just after ten o’clock by the time Peter let them back into the house.

There was no tussle-on-the-stairs of their early days. The pace was leisurely; the hard edges of anticipation of all that was to come having been rounded off over the years.

Peter nabbed the basin first to clean his teeth. It didn’t matter; Cowrie slid his arms around Peter’s waist and planted his lips between the powerful muscles of his lover’s back to massage the patch of skin with his mouth, waiting for the contortions to begin which signalled the onset of Peter’s arousal; always putty in Cowrie’s hands.

Peter leaned forward to spit out the dregs of the toothpaste. In so doing, Cowrie’s lips travelled down his spine and it was like a knife slicing him to his core. The whole of his spine woke up, from the top of his buttocks to the base of his skull. He became liquid and all of his hairs stood on end. Cowrie moved to press himself closer, hugging tighter, already probing a little, aching for the moment when, in bed, Peter lubed them up and raised his legs to offer himself to the nail, crucifying them.

Reaching for a towel with which to dry his hands and mouth, Peter turned to see Cowrie with his head bowed.

“You look tired, sweetheart …”

“A little …”

Peter swapped places with him to allow Cowrie to clean his teeth, taking the opportunity to examine the taut, pale yet luminous plains of Cowrie’s back under the harsh LEDs of the bathroom spotlights to check his moles; a constant worry, seeing as two of them had erupted and had needed zapping with nitrous oxide the year before.

He peered over Cowrie’s shoulder and made no effort to hide his lustful gaze as his eyes travelled south to the pole. Once he had spied the object of his desire, he flicked his eyes back to Cowrie’s and smiled into them, choosing that precise moment to kiss the bony tip of the shoulder, nibbling his way back towards the ear, nuzzling in to elicit a wet, foamy growl.

In bed, the format was well-versed but no less exciting or arousing for it. Peter lay back and lifted his legs to place them over Cowrie’s shoulders as he moved forward and crouched over him. Lubing up Cowrie’s cock made his heart flutter; the blunt-tipped, straight poker was ready for the stirring of the embers which never really cooled. Peter squeezed a little of the gel onto the fingertips of Cowrie’s right hand and held his breath for the stinging cold tingle as Cowrie worked in two fingers.

Cowrie re-positioned himself slightly to bring them into contact, sinking in almost immediately, feeling Peter rotate his hips to open up for him. Once in to the hilt, he squirmed to find the right position for his knees on the mattress before pulling back for a series of short thrusts. These were the best ones in his opinion, whilst the passage was tight and complained.

“Cowrie!”

Words distracted him so he forced his fingers into Peter’s mouth, wishing only to hear the sucking. The open mouth reminded him too much of the snake’s lunging jaws, snapping at his fruit.

Thrusting rhythmically quelled the panic, soothed the bruised soul and quietened the groaning leech which moaned for blood; the leech which he sometimes thought would drive him mad. Gasping for air, Peter twisted his head to free his mouth of his lover’s fingers, instantly finding Cowrie’s lips upon his own, relishing the moment when Cowrie bit down on his lip; the nip like a sting of a nettle. Only once Cowrie had tasted the blood in his mouth could he cum.

Once Cowrie had finished pumping, he withdrew quickly to go down on Peter, taking the semi-erect probe into his throat, praying the leech would be satisfied with his gift. Peter swelled quickly and cut off Cowrie’s air. Only when the red mist passed across the backs of his eyes, did he pull away a little to replenish his lungs. In this semi-conscious state, he was only peripherally aware of Peter grabbing him around the back of the head and fucking his throat savagely until the exquisite moment of pollination when the hot seeds burst from their swollen pod, at once free and captive.

oOo

Waking up alone in bed was the worst part of being the lover of a busy and harassed detective. The note which lay on Peter’s pillow read ‘don’t expect me before nine. Plod x’.

The nickname had been chosen shortly after they had met; which had been one of those things. Peter had been sitting in the park under a tree, reading a book. Cowrie had chosen to take a walk and find a quiet place to study his recently acquired copy of Poet in New York. He had chosen to sit beneath the same tree, apparently oblivious to Peter until he had begun to read the anthology aloud. It had earned him applause from Peter who had been genuinely enrapt by the recital which seemed to him to be a letting of blood, a catharsis; strangely erotic. The man was alluringly and dangerously magnetic; a flame and he the tortured moth. So pale and dressed in green, Peter had likened him to a snowdrop. Peter had asked him to read some more of the poetry and sitting crossed-legged, had enjoyed another half an hour of being charmed like a snake.

In the conversation which had ensued, Peter had disclosed the fact that he was a Detective Constable and Cowrie had christened him ‘plod’. Peter had never returned the compliment, preferring ‘Cowrie’ to any nickname. In any event, Cowrie looked too thin to be able to withstand much ribbing; a slender green stem topped by a fragile bloom under a cloud of jet black curls which Peter thought looked like a mass of question marks; the outward sign of the enquiring mind.

“What do you do?” he’d asked.

“I’m a literary agent …”

Cowrie rose and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee and flick through the post which Peter had left on the table. It was mostly junk mail except for his favourite magazine’s subscription renewal and the bill for his phone. He tossed them aside to make his breakfast. From his vantage point, he could see a portion of the hall and the edge of the seat upon which they habitually threw their jackets and bags. His bag lay under it; ignoring it was impossible now.

Abandoning the orange squeezer, he padded over to the chair and whipped the bag out from under it, placing it on the vacant seat opposite his at the kitchen table. Only after he had breakfasted, rinsed the crockery and cutlery and stacked everything neatly into the dishwasher, did he return to the bag to empty it onto the table. Only one article warranted any close inspection.

“’Mirror, Mirror’ by Matthew Herringbone … stupid fucking name …”

He placed it on the shelf in the living room, next to his copy of Caravan to Calvaire and headed for the shower.

By ten-thirty, he was installed in Café Nero in Old Compton Street, awaiting the arrival of Jolly so he could hand him the publishing contract to sign, together with a cheque for five thousand pounds; it being his first advance royalty payment.

“Jolly!”

“Hey! Guess what? I popped in to see Derek Battersea and he told me that Matthew Herringbone had been found murdered.”

“You’re joking!”

“Murdered on his own doorstep, yesterday.”

“How did he know?”

“He said that he had been expecting Matthew and when he hadn’t turned up, he’d got worried and he’d sent Luke Farthing from his office over to check on him.”

“So Luke found him?”

“Yeah … and Derek said that Luke was still with the police.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“No … they think it’s another one of those serial killings like Templemead and all those others.”

Cowrie paused; if only to give the impression that he was struggling to digest the news.

“How was Derek?”

“Don’t worry; I’m not jumping ship.”

“Well, he didn’t get you this did he?” Cowrie chortled as he waved the cheque under Jolly’s nose.

“No, he didn’t; give that to me!”

“Sign first.”

“I’m only tying myself in for ‘The Wanderer’; Erskine called, inviting me to lunch …”

“Did he …?”

Parting an hour later after assassinating all of the competition on both sides, Cowrie shooed Jolly in the direction of the Charing Cross Road whilst he skipped over to his doctor’s clinic in Dean Street to have a blood test and DRE to check for the early signs of prostate cancer. His father had been carried off by it, aged forty-three.

“Results in a week, Cowrie; it feels a little enlarged but let’s wait for the blood test result before we schedule a biopsy …”

Reassured, Cowrie sauntered to Foyle’s and spent an hour with the manager organising Jolly’s signing event. The rash of curiosity began to itch and soon after lunch he found himself at Derek’s door.

“Derek …”

Derek eyed Cowrie suspiciously; the man didn’t usually call in to gloat. In fact, he didn’t usually call in at all, preferring to telephone. In all of the years in which he had competed with Cowrie Montague for clients, he couldn’t swear to having seen him more than three times.

“Cowrie … did Jolly tell you?”

“Yes; how awful, especially for Luke … is he back?”

“Sent him home; he was in a dreadful state.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing, except that Matthew had been stabbed. The police told him that he couldn’t say any more than that … I only saw him the day before yesterday at the signing … I was meant to see him yesterday but he didn’t show and when I called, he complained that he was feeling ‘a bit off’ so we rearranged to meet today. When he didn’t answer the phone, I sent Luke over to see if he was okay and that’s when he found him.”

“Terrible … still, won’t do his sales any harm-”

“Cowrie!”

“What? Don’t tell me you didn’t think it … however, that won’t last and I’ve signed Jolly. Who have you got coming on?”

“No-one to be honest; I’d rather neglected my other leads in favour of Bri … Matthew.”

“Try Elizabeth Autumn; I know she’s unhappy with Erskine … and you did get Brian to complete Mirror, Mirror and everyone was very impressed by the deal you struck with PP.”

Derek eyed Cowrie with even deeper suspicion; the man never gave anything away, least of all a prize winner.

“Why are you telling me this and not hammering down her door yourself?”

“It’s Christmas … and Erskine is a cunt!”

“He’ll pass her to Mathers and get his kick back if he thinks he’ll lose her entirely.”

“Not if you call today … ciao!”

As he bobbed back to the house, he was inwardly roaring with laughter at the thought that in a cut-throat business such as theirs, wasn’t it poetic that sometimes a throat did actually get cut?

He admonished himself for giving Luke such a fright and then congratulated himself in hooking Elizabeth. Once Derek had called her, she was sure to turn to him.

“Cowrie Montague; the safe haven in such turbulent times!”

Chapter Four – Knife, paper, scissors

“What have we got, Peter?”

“The same as always … cut to ribbons; but the knife wound to the heart is the official cause of death.”

“And the same book cover?”

Yes; the same book cover nailed to his chest … which leaves us with the same question. Where the fuck did he get it? The damn book has been out of print for fifty or more years! No security and no cameras in the building and the neighbours were out. Sanderson must have let him in; suggesting that he knew his killer or was expecting him.”

“Any leads?”

“I’m just going over to see this literary agent chap, Derek Battersea. Apparently, Sanderson had cancelled a meeting the day before, citing some kind of illness and was due to see him yesterday but didn’t turn up. Someone who works for Battersea … Luke someone or other … was sent over to check on him and he found him.”

“How did this Luke person gain entry?”

“Let in by a neighbour; already ruled him out as a suspect because he has an alibi for the day before.”

“And none of the other neighbours on that floor saw anything?”

“All out of town … Christmas shopping in New York!”

“Why Sanderson?”

“Fits the profile … late fifties, early sixties, lived alone; an author just like five of the others - no apparent link - fairly reclusive, fat, bald and gay.”

“How do you know that he was gay?”

“Found traces of semen on his chest and stomach … not his own.”

“The killer’s?”

“Unlikely; Sanderson was found on the threshold, as if he’d just opened the door. The blood splatter in the hall suggests that he was standing in the doorway at the time of the attack. No blood in the flat. Place was clean although the bed looked as if it had been hastily made; presumably after Sanderson’s visitor had left.”

“Rent boy?”

“Possibly … maybe Derek Battersea will know if he was seeing anyone. I’ll update you later.”

“Thanks, Peter.”

Peter turned to leave, halting when his boss asked him another question.

“Templemead’s murder was exactly a year since Daish; why did he murder Sanderson so soon after Templemead?”

“I think an opportunity arose and he couldn’t pass it up … or he’s becoming more insatiable; but I think it was opportunity.”

Peter closed the door behind him, hoping that it had indeed been opportunity rather than a growing thirst. Even after fifteen years, the savagery of the attacks on Barry Templemead and Brian Sanderson were almost as much as he could stomach … and he’d seen more than enough over the years.

“Danny, where’s Chandler?”

“Checking all of the bookstores - again - to see if anyone’s been asking for copies of Angry Fire.”

“Fine … when he gets back, ask him to phone all of the escort agencies and see if Sanderson had booked anyone … and get the phone records for the landline.”

“Okay …”

Peter didn’t think that Sanderson was the kind to loiter in toilets; he was a recluse. To have let him in must have meant that he trusted him, therefore knew him. Everyone called him ‘Dust Jacket’ because he nailed a book cover to the chest of the victim over the open wound to the heart. In every case, the cover of the same book – Angry Fire by Opedia Gregory.

Peter secretly called him ‘Christmas Fairy’ because it appeared that the killer sent him the victim as his gift for Christmas; and in every case, the victim was gay, over-weight and bald; their genitals having been expertly opened up, probably with a scalpel, to resemble some grotesque insect displaying its ingenious wings.

“Derek Battersea, please.”

“I’m Derek Battersea.”

Granted he was sitting behind the reception desk in the outer office when Peter arrived but Derek couldn’t help wondering; surely he couldn’t look that inconsequential?

“Sorry … I’m DI Nation; we spoke on the telephone.”

Derek jumped up and held out his hand which Peter grasped reasonably firmly, receiving a firmer grip than he was expecting in return.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“Uhm … no, thanks … like I said on the phone, I have some questions for you; shall we?”

Peter gestured towards the inner office, automatically taking the lead. The gesture acted like some kind of invisible propulsion and Derek found himself scurrying around from behind the reception desk to enter his own office before Peter beat him to it.

“Brian Sanderson cancelled your meeting the day before yesterday … did he say why?”

“He said he was feeling unwell and we rescheduled for yesterday. When he didn’t show up, I telephoned; he didn’t answer and I was concerned, which is why I sent Luke Farthing over to check on him.”

“Was Brian Sanderson seeing someone to your knowledge?”

“I don’t think so … I didn’t really know him that well. I got the impression that he was a bit of a loner. Have you spoken to the cleaner?”

“The cleaner?”

“Yes; he had a cleaner … Maddy. I only know her name because Brian told me at the signing event to make a point of keeping back a book for her … well, two books in fact.”

“Did he say who the other one was for; himself perhaps?”

“No and I don’t think it was for himself … I don’t think he was that-”

“Vain?”

“Bothered … it was a little bit of a surprise to us all just how well the book was being received; actually he didn’t rate it and all the fuss was making him a bit uncomfortable … sold the film rights too.”

“Who to?”

“Falcon Films … though Mat- … Brian hadn’t signed the contract and that was one of the reasons why he was coming over.”

“Maddy … do you know how we can get in touch with her?”

“I imagine her number is in Brian’s book; just like everyone else’s.”

“Haven’t found a book … any crackpot fan mail … anything which-”

“He didn’t get fan mail … refused to market himself at all; had to bully him into coming to the signing event … Luke said-”

“Let’s not speculate … did he say anything or do anything or talk about anyone which struck you as odd?”

“There was this guy at the signing event who gave Brian his number because Brian asked for it and it was all about this guy’s translation of something which got Brian all excited …”

“Description?”

“Christ … uhm; tallish, about your height … slim, blond, green no blue eyes … I think … a bit scruffy; uhm, jeans … they may have been black; black coat … gloves! I distinctly remember that he wore gloves … I think he had an accent …”

“Would you recognise him if you saw him again?”

“I think so …”

“Did he give his name to Mr Sanderson?”

“Uhm … it was Malcolm something … Wertherington; something like that. I wasn’t really that close to the table; I stayed back out of the way for the most part. My job was really just to keep the pile of books topped up for Brian … I’m sorry; I haven’t been much help, have I?”

“Amazingly helpful … do you know if Mr Sanderson actually met this man Wertherington?”

“I don’t know … he didn’t say that he had when I spoke to him on the telephone.”

“What got Mr Sanderson excited?”

“I have no idea; he was a very private man-”

“No … you said that this man got him excited about something … a translation?”

“Oh, sorry … his translation of Lorca.”

Peter hadn’t fixed his gaze on Derek during this interview; he reckoned the poor man was struggling enough … and he was struggling a little too; struggling to quell an odd feeling in his loins. It was as if the whole area had been numb and now the pins and needles had started, fizzing like a soluble aspirin, heralding the return of proper sensation.

“You’re sure it was Lorca?”

“Positive … Brian is - was - a bit of a fan, shall we say? So, is this man from the signing Brian’s killer?”

“As I’ve already said, Mr Battersea; let’s not speculate … thank you for your time. If you think of anything else then call me. Where’s Mr Farthing?”

“At home; terribly upset as you can imagine.”

“Understandably … thanks; I’ll see myself out.”

Peter had a hundred thoughts and parked himself in the café of the National Gallery to telephone Chandler before heading off.

“Rent boy?”

“Appears not … the phone records are here; should have them checked by the time you get back. CCTV in the book shop at the time of the signing was useless; the advertising hording obscured the area from the door to the table … should have the street CCTV this afternoon. No prints at the scene; Gauge has two ten pound notes found in the victim’s trouser pocket which have some smudges, possibly a partial print … when will you be back?”

“Give me an hour; gotta get Cowrie’s Christmas present …”

He was tempted to buy a framed print from the gallery’s gift shop but that felt hasty and a bit of a cop-out; albeit they had a beautiful poster of the Temeraire by Turner.

He re-traced his steps back up the Charing Cross Road, past Derek’s office, into Tottenham Court Road and into one of the electrical stores to buy the digital camera which he knew that Cowrie wanted for their mythical trip to the Great Barrier Reef the following Spring; a trip of five years in the planning and saving.

Once back at the station, he re-convened with Chandler.

“Phone records?”

“Tracked down the cleaner Maddy Hart and what looks to be the afternoon visitor; a Japanese doctor – he’s coming in – and a mystery mobile which Sanderson called later in the afternoon; the last call that he made.”

“It’s the guy from the signing; has to be.”

“What guy from the signing?”

“Sanderson’s agent said some guy handed him a number at the signing event; something to do with a translation …”

“Did Battersea know the name of the guy at the signing by any chance?”

“Malcolm Wertherington or something; it’s him … but why approach Sanderson at the table? He ran so many risks because the agent can identify him … FUCK! He must have had a book for signing … how did he get the book?”

Peter grabbed the phone and called Derek to establish exactly how the signing event had worked.

“He bought the book at the table, handing Brian twenty pounds instead of queuing for a voucher … Brian signed the book for him-”

“What was the dedication?”

“I recall he said something about his mother and the name Dorothy …”

“Does the name Sapporo mean anything to you?”

“It’s the name of Brian’s student; he was helping him with his English …”

“Need you to come over and construct a ‘photofit’ of this Malcolm Wertherington.”

“Sure; tomorrow?”

“Come over at ten. I’ll be here.”

“Okay …”

So close yet so far away and Peter wagered the cost of the camera that Dust Jacket would have been in disguise if there had been any risk of anyone identifying him later. Approaching Sanderson at the table had been either an act of supreme confidence or rashness. Either way it spoke of a crime of opportunity but with some degree of preparation; triggered perhaps by the advertising of the signing event.

Peter went to see Gauge.

“Anything?”

“Some black woollen fibres which could be from the killer’s jacket; trace of some black material – most likely leather – under one finger nail. I think this chap reached out and grabbed him at one point; wounds are consistent with a scalpel … wound to the heart made by the same knife as before … four six-inch nails and a book cover.”

“Same trace?”

“Yes; the oak and the wax … it’s him.”

“Yeah … but why so soon after Templemead?”

“Opportunity; perhaps the most pertinent question would be who’s next?”

“Authors, theatre critics, actors, an artist … what links them apart from their obvious physical characteristics?”

“All English and all the same age … did Sanderson go to Cambridge?”

“No, Oxford … like seven of the others – whom we’ve already established probably knew each other; likewise those who went to Cambridge … in fifteen years we have never found anything that links all of the victims and none had a link with Opedia Gregory … and I’ll bet you a pound to a penny that Sanderson won’t have links to Gregory either!”

“Then the partial print on the ten pound note which I found in Sanderson’s pocket is the only thing you have to go on … and there were no matches, not even close. Sorry, Peter but I’m afraid that your mystery man at the signing table – if it was him – left no positive or useful trace.”

“Thanks, Gauge … you still coming for Christmas lunch?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

Painstaking analysis of phone records, scrutiny of the CCTV footage from the street, witness statements from the employees of the shop, Maddy Hart’s sketch of the events leading up to the point of Sapporo’s arrival, Sapporo’s account of the afternoon; nothing helped. Only Derek’s rather shaky description of the man at the signing event and a partial print on a ten pound note brought Peter any relief from the black as pitch swirling vortex which threatened to suck him down as he admitted – once again – that he was no nearer to finding the killer than he had ever been.

“Perhaps Cowrie has had a better day!” he hoped.

“What’s in that bag?” Cowrie queried hopefully.

“Never you mind; don’t go poking in it. Gauge is still coming for lunch on Christmas Day … did Sara confirm?”

“Mum’s poorly … doubtful.”

“How was your day?”

“Signed Elizabeth Autumn and got Jolly his signing gig for the twenty-fourth.”

“How the fuck did you manage that?!”

“Sweet talked Benjamin - as usual; promised him Elizabeth for the January sales.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a better day than me. What’s for dinner?”

“Ragout … take a bath, you stink of the mortuary!”

“Sorry … can you drop this stuff off at the dry cleaner’s for me tomorrow?”

“Sure … and do I order a crown of turkey or beef?”

“Mmmm … beef!”

“Your Mum called … oh, and I’m taking the car tomorrow.”

“Fine, sweetheart; the tank’s full.”

Peter slipped out of his suit and straight into the bath as Cowrie finished dinner and lit the candles on the dining room table. He was pouring the wine when Peter returned, dressed in jog pants and a plain white tee shirt speckled with drops of water which were still dripping from the ends of the hastily towel-dried mop of chestnut brown curls which Cowrie likened to milk and white chocolate seashells now that the grey was becoming ever-so-slightly more noticeable.

“Don’t catch a cold.”

“This ragout will warm me up. It’s gonna drop below freezing tonight.”

“I’ll warm you up … if you’re up for a little dessert …”

No response was forthcoming; none was necessary. The seriously wicked glint in Peter’s eye communicated that he was definitely up for that.

“If Gauge is coming for lunch then I’ll invite Angela to even up the sides … or Toby … or both.”

“What did Mum say when she called?”

“Usual drivel and we’re expected on Sunday … no excuses.”

“Bollocks … still; it’ll get it out of the way. When are we seeing your Mum?”

“Not … won’t be coming back until February. Apparently Patagonia is just amazing at this time of year …”

“Is that what she said? I wish mine would go to fucking Patagonia … This rice is flavoured with bergamot …”

“What do you want for Christmas?”

“A new Kindle …”

“I wish you’d read proper books.”

“I want it for the trip … shit! Five more months; I can’t fucking wait!”

They finished dinner in contemplative silence, re-running through their personal wish lists of the things they wanted to see and do during the three months they would be in Australia.

“Go and call your Mum whilst I load the dishwasher …”

Peter took his wine glass through to the study to call his Mother and confirm their attendance at Sunday’s lunch party whilst Cowrie cleared up. Before Peter had extricated himself from the familial bonds of gossip and guilt, Cowrie had disappeared into the bedroom.

Once Peter had put the phone down, he stepped lightly to the bathroom and then to the bedroom, pausing at the door which had been left ajar; as if he were garnering himself for something unpleasant; perhaps the admission of some misdemeanour. However, that which waited for him behind the door was very far from unpleasant. Pleasant or otherwise, he always felt like he was at the zoo, surreptitiously opening the door of the lion’s cage, trying to be as quiet as a mouse, attempting to win approval from some invisible friend or the older brother he so wished he had.

Cowrie was already naked and sitting up in bed, his back against the heavy wooden bedstead with his arms stretched out espalier-style along the top rail of the smooth mahogany frame. A number of coils of silk cord sat on the sheet beside his thigh; alongside them, a pair of blacked-out swimming goggles, a ball gag and a thick long dildo, the surface of which resembled the skin of a pineapple. Peter said not one word as he placed the goggles over Cowrie’s eyes and forced the ball gag into his mouth, securing it behind Cowrie’s head by the two straps and the Velcro fastening. Next, he lashed Cowrie’s arms to the bed frame by his wrists, elbows and the top of his arms, effectively immobilising him. Needing to catch his breath, he lubed up the dildo liberally. Cowrie drew up his legs whilst Peter clambered onto the mattress, allowing Cowrie to place his feet on his chest, using them to push himself up and tilt his hips a little so that Peter could work the dildo in until only the thick wide base was visible. Then he let Cowrie’s legs down, slipping the final set of cords around his ankles, pulling each leg to one side to fix the other end of the cord to the heavy side support of the bed frame.

Thus bound, Cowrie was powerless and at Peter’s mercy; the flush of their arousal already blooming over their chests and necks. Peter paused to survey Cowrie’s taut skin and straining muscles; a stripped lamb ready for slaughter, a martyr on the cross. The proud, hard, burnished nail already hammered through the delicate ivory flesh; the swollen red tip, aching for his prayers.

He knelt between the soft, petal-smooth thighs and dug in his nails near the top; hearing the sibilant hiss of a sharp intake of breath muffled by the gag, sensing the agony of the burgeoning anticipation of the moment when he dug deeper and broke the skin to draw blood. The tiny wounds wept a drop with which he anointed his lips before enveloping the nail head in his hot mouth to suck until the taste of metal was washed away. He gripped Cowrie’s scrotum and squeezed, watching Cowrie buck. Sensing the moment was right, he levered himself up and eased himself onto the nail and drove himself down, breaking out into a sweat as the hot, raw pin pierced him. Only when Cowrie was buried deep within him did he dare to breathe and only then in gasps; as if each was possibly to be his last.

Cowrie bucked beneath him, driving up and causing his own muscles to contract against the thick rubber plug which fixed him as securely as any nail would. Peter steadied himself by gripping Cowrie’s shoulders, aware of the mounting urgency in his own loins. A series of short, staccato thrusts signalled that Cowrie was about to release. Peter ground his buttocks down hard and claimed his tribute, clenching and unclenching to suck the sap from the weeping stalk. Quick as lightning, he released the gag and levered himself up to sink his cock into Cowrie’s mouth, pulling his lover’s head forward onto the stake until his face was buried in his groin and finally he released in powerful shuddering eruptions, feeling Cowrie’s throat work to swallow his load. He fell back, the black swirling vortex of his defeats turning red; the roaring in his ears drowning out the wailing mourners of their deaths.

Once the madness had passed, lying quietly together, gently tracing lines up and down each other’s flanks, they smiled and kissed each other on the lips.

“I love you, plod.”

“Love you too, angel.”

Chapter Five – How many roads …

‘Have a safe trip. See you tomorrow. Plod x’

Waking up alone brought with it a routine; its own rituals. Coffee in bed, sitting naked at the computer checking emails, masturbating to porn and trimming his pubes in the shower tray whilst it was dry to be better able to hoover up and in so doing, avoiding the call out charge from the plumber to unblock the insanely narrow pipe work which seemed to be the bane of their lives.

Cowrie packed an overnight bag and plucked his other bag – his tool bag as he called it – from the back of the bin store before lobbing both into the luggage compartment of the ancient yet serviceable Mark One Porsche 911 which had been restored by Cowrie’s father before his untimely demise from prostate cancer.

A leisurely trundle through the busy streets to hit the A2 started the first leg of the journey to Allington in Kent to check up on his mother’s house during her sojourn in Patagonia. To Cowrie’s mind, her equivalent of a sports car or a motorbike … or a younger lover; never the weeping widow, more the freed bird. Cowrie’s father had been somewhat of a cage to them both.

On auto-pilot, he navigated his way out of London and hit the relatively calmer waters of west Kent, leaving the choice of the motorway or the scenic route to the last possible moment. He chose the scenic route, exiting from the A2 to dissect the town of Strood and approach Allington from the Larkfield side. He drew into the lay-by at the old cement works in Snodland and lobbed the mobile phone into the old gravel pit which was now full of water.

His mother’s house in Allington had a view from the rear terrace of the park and the castle, sitting quietly and majestically by The Medway. Pulling into the driveway, two hours and thirty minutes after leaving the house in London, coincided with the tolling of midday.

He popped the car away into the garage first, leaving his toolkit in the passenger footwell for the moment. He found the front door key and the code to disarm the alarm, written on a piece of paper which was lodged under the sun visor on the driver’s side of the car. Once he had gained entry and had turned off the alarm, he flipped the fuses and whacked up the central heating thermostat, pausing momentarily to listen for the boiler to kick in; all was good there. Unlocking the internal door connecting the rear of the hall to the garage, he retrieved the bag and carried both bags upstairs to his room, dropping one onto the bed and the other onto the floor. He returned to the kitchen where he ran the cold tap to flush the pipes before filling the kettle to make a cup of tea and since the fridge was turned off, standing silent with its door wide open, as was the freezer, Cowrie rooted around in the cupboard under the stairs to find a carton of sterilised milk. He perched at the breakfast bar and drank his tea whilst quickly writing out a list of things to pick up from the local supermarket.

He sorted the mail into the three boxes which his mother had left on the hall table; one labelled, ‘junk’, another, ‘bills’ and the third, ‘other’.

An hour later, he returned from the supermarket with two modestly packed bags. By this time, the house was warming up nicely and it felt comfortable enough to sit and watch a bit of TV in the lounge whilst he powered up the netbook to answer emails and send an email to his mother, reassuring her that the house had not burned down and no foreigners had moved in next door.

As the light faded and the various outside lights came on, he was ready for a stiff drink and eager to unpack and put everything away safely.

En route, stopping at the foot of the stairs to fish out a pizza delivery service flier from the junk mail box, he admonished himself for having wasted six quid on sea bass fillets which he would now waste unless he could be bothered to turn the fridge on and allow time for it to defrost the following day before closing everything down.

oOo

“That bloke Derek is ready for you, Peter.”

“Thanks, Danny; get him a drink and tell him that I’ll be a few minutes. Is that the photofit?”

“Higgs was just gonna clean it up a bit.”

“Leave a printed copy on my desk, would you?”

Peter hurriedly finished signing off Chandler’s overtime, throwing the forms into the admin tray to leg it up to the interview room to see Derek Battersea who had just finished with the photofit.

“Good morning, Mr Battersea.”

“Please call me Derek … good morning.”

“How’s Mr Farthing?”

“Gone to his Mum’s in Cheam; really shaken up.”

“I can organise counselling if he-”

“His Mum’s a psychiatrist.”

“Oh … how about you?”

“Okay … still shaken. I did the photofit thing; it’s not very good I’m afraid; it’s like his face was jumbled up.”

“Can I be completely honest with you, Derek?”

“Of course …”

“The man you saw was Brian Sanderson’s killer and the man credited with fifteen prior murders, earning himself the name Dust Jacket-”

“Oh my God …”

Derek paled and placed a hand over his mouth, fighting the rolling boil in his stomach; not so much upset at Brian’s death but shocked to realise how close he had been to a killer. He was also feeling guilty for his lack of temerity; had he been braver and eyed the man up he might have produced a better photofit. If his memory of the physical description of the man was less than useful it was completely at odds with the remembrance of the strange sensation of being judged by something like God; if not God then a higher power; definitely something unworldly.

“Do you need a minute?”

“No … I’m fine.”

“Did Mr Farthing tell you what he saw?”

“Yes … poor Mat- … Brian; why?”

“We have never established a clear motive … to be honest, we’ve never established a clear anything. You’re probably the only person who has ever seen him.”

“Am I in danger?”

Peter paused, suddenly registering the quake of fear in Derek’s voice.

“I don’t think so … you don’t fit the profile of the victims … that said, it might be wiser if we were to organise protection for you … where do you live?”

“Surrey Quays … Brunswick Quay, overlooking the water; cost a mint and worth peanuts now … still …”

“Dust Jacket believes himself to be untouchable; approaching Sanderson as he did, speaks of a supreme confidence in his ability to evade us … but the crime was out of synch. We believe he saw an opportunity which was too good to miss and that may give us an edge. Is there anything about him which you can remember that could help us?”

“Oh, Christ; I’ve been racking my brains for anything. He definitely had an accent; not West Country or anything Northern … soft … maybe Sussex? Dressed in black … the gloves were beautifully made. He was wearing glasses and his eyebrows were darker than his hair and they looked shaped …”

“Are you gay, Derek?”

Derek coughed and swallowed; not so much taken aback by the question, more the tone, which was something akin to hope.

“Yes I am …”

“We believe the killer is too-”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I’ll let you in on a personal theory. I think the killer is trying to impress me; perhaps playing with me … trying to prove to me perhaps that in my inability to find him and in his ability to remain undetected, he is somehow better than I am … the proverbial game of ‘cat and mouse’ if you like. The first killing took place on the day I took up this post, fifteen years ago. Every year since, he has killed a man such as Brian Sanderson-”

“Fifteen! But I thought there were only-”

“Now sixteen … and we haven’t reported all of them as Dust Jacket murders; the Press is already having a field day. I feel sure Brian Sanderson was opportunistic. When did the signing event first get advertised?”

“A month ago in the Press. The posters went up in the shop about two weeks ago and the hording was put up at the beginning of the week.”

“When did Brian actually confirm that he was going to attend?”

“Actually he didn’t do that until the day before.”

“Who knew that?”

“Me, Luke … and Cowrie Montague …”

“Cowrie Montague?”

“Yes, he’s Jolly Banks’ agent and would have slotted Jolly in at the last minute had Brian pulled out. Why do you ask?”

“No reason … anything else?”

“He paid for the book in cash; borrowed Brian’s pen to write his number down on the scrap of paper which he then handed Brian.”

“And the translation was to do with Lorca and the man’s Mother was called Dorothy-”

“And his name was Malcolm Wertherington or something similar …”

“What about his teeth?”

“Oh … uhm … straight and white … re-faced, I think … he was very pale.”

“Dimples?”

“Not sure; he didn’t smile.”

“Jewellery … pierced ears … earring?”

“None of any kind … not sure about the ears; definitely not wearing an earring but could have been pierced.”

“Two ten pound notes …”

“Which he extracted from his wallet; a Loake I think-”

“How do you know it was a Loake?”

“They have a contrasting white band running across the front; I have one …”

“Scars, distinctive lines or marks, moles or spots, worry lines, crows-feet, a shaving cut …”

“Nothing that I can remember. I don’t know why but I thought he was older than he looked.”

Peter pushed himself back in his seat, aware that he had been gradually leaning forward ever since he’d sat down. He raised his arms above his head, gripped his left wrist with his right hand and stretched, cracking his spine. Replacing his hands on the table, he reached out for the non-existent cigarettes. Derek caught sight of the reflex and smiled.

“I’m trying to give up too …”

Peter looked down at his hand and smiled wearily.

“For the time being, I think it would be best if you were under our protection. Is there anyone at home we need to contact?”

“No … I’m single. Do you think he’ll come for-”

“I don’t know. Brian’s murder was so out of character; he may come to remember something which he said or did and realise that it will give us a lead … like the wallet or the phone number. I’m sorry but this is going to fuck up your Christmas …”

“No plans.”

“I need to make the arrangements to transfer you to a safe house. Do you desperately need to get anything from the office or home?”

“Well; my laptop … clothes.”

“Going back to the office is okay; not home. I’ll sort you out some clothes and presumably toiletries?”

“Yeah; how long will I need to be in a safe house?”

“Can’t say … it feels to me like the trail is already growing cold but for now it’s still warm enough; another week and I’m sure we’ll know if any lead will bear fruit. Strangely, I envy you.”

“Why?”

“You’ve looked into his eyes. I’ve always wanted to look into his eyes and ask why.”

“I’d rather you had and I hadn’t.”

“Quite … please wait here. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Peter headed back to the office to find Danny and start to get things organised.

“Trudy, where’s Danny?”

“No idea … Chandler’s at the dentist.”

“Bugger!”

Having no-one else readily at hand to do the donkey work, he had to do it himself.

“I’m taking Derek Battersea to the safe house … when I get back we all need to meet up, okay?”

He quickly thrust the printout of the photofit into his satchel-style bag and picked up his phone and keys, stopping briefly to haul out a holdall from a cupboard in the main office. Retrieving Derek from the interview room, he escorted him to the rear of the building and to a nondescript Ford Mondeo.

“We’ll swing by the office so that you can get your laptop and then we’re off to the safe house.”

“Okay.”

The mood was quiet with nervousness and not without a little excitement … of the crap your pants kind. Peter didn’t feel the urge to talk but Derek did.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Uhm … yeah; married actually … we’ve been together for fifteen years.”

“Wow! What does he do?”

Peter didn’t know why but he knew it would be politique to steer the conversation away from his matrimonial bliss with Cowrie.

“He’s an accountant …”

“Oh … right … how did you guys meet?”

“Through a friend …”

“Fifteen years … I’ve never managed more than fifteen months … he must be very understanding and supportive; your job can’t be easy.”

“He is … very understanding and supportive. For the most part we keep work out of the house. We’ll both be forty in July and we’re planning to take three months off to tour Australia and go scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef.”

“Cool! I’ll be forty in April …”

Peter thought that Derek looked closer to forty-five and the frayed edges of the suit cuffs did little to post a better picture; then he admonished himself for feeling superior and replied lamely, “Life begins at forty they say …”

“That’s what they say … can’t wait!”

They laughed dryly and fell silent for the rest of the journey to the office where Derek nipped in and grabbed the laptop and a leather bound, journal-style book.

“Okay … I’ll have to speak to Luke; fortunately a lot of my work can be done via email …”

Peter was about to say something about Cowrie having mentioned the same thing about his own business but nipped his comment in the bud just in time.

“ … Where’s the safe house?”

“A flat in Putney … near the bridge. It’s not too bad actually.”

“How does this work then?”

“Basically, you stay put until the coast is clear … one of my colleagues will be over later. Do not answer your mobile phone; tell no-one where you are; try not to speak to anyone unless you have to.”

“Disappear then … I’ll tell everyone I have the ‘flu.”

“Good idea.”

“What if you don’t catch him?”

“We will.”

Derek was going to state the obvious but thought better of it; highlighting the fact that the killer had evaded the police for fifteen years did not feel right somehow whilst the investigating DI was sitting a foot away, possibly armed.

Peter was expecting the comment and when it didn’t come, he threw a glance in Derek’s direction, seeing a sort of resoluteness in his face which boded well; key witnesses in previous cases had never gone underground with so little fight or made so few demands.

Their chit-chat felt false and laboured and both fell into contemplative silence for the journey to Putney. Peter crossed the river at Putney Bridge and turned right, heading along the riverbank to a development on the left which had once been a notorious social housing estate. Now it was full of bankers and lawyers with year-old Porsche Boxsters.

“Wow! These are really nice,” commented Derek.

“Yours is round the back so it doesn’t have a view of the river I’m afraid …” Peter replied, blipping the remote controller for the gates. Once inside, he drove to the end of the block and turned right along the back wall of the main building, pulling into one of the few covered parking bays.

Peter grabbed the nylon holdall and waited for Derek to walk around to his side of the car before marshalling him through a door for which both a code and a swipe card were needed to gain entry. From this lobby, they took the card and code operated lift to the top floor. Ascending via the stairs would also have required use of the card and code to open another door. The level of security felt reassuring to Derek, already relaxing a little, wondering if there was a plasma TV and maybe a dishwasher.

They entered the apartment using the same key card and code.

“Fucking hell! I wasn’t expecting this!”

“Previous occupants have insisted on a few … creature comforts.”

“Can I go out?”

“No. You can smoke on the balcony and there is a gym in the basement. Whilst I can’t stop you from leaving, it is for your own protection; please don’t tell anyone … and I mean anyone … where you are.”

“No … obviously … how do I reach you?”

“Use this phone,” Peter replied, popping the bag on the table and unzipping it to retrieve the phone. “It’s pre-programmed with the numbers for all of the team. If there’s an emergency and you can’t use the phone, then hit that red button by the door. Do not use the video intercom … keep the blinds drawn on that side at all times …”

“What about food?”

“Text me a list of the things that you want and I’ll get someone to bring it over later. There should be some basic supplies in the fridge for the time being … any questions?”

“Oh … uhm; not really … can I get online?”

“Sure; there’s Wi-Fi; try to relax.”

“No; this is okay … it’s just a precaution, right?”

“Absolutely … I do not believe that you are in any danger … but … if the photofit or the partial fingerprint which we found on one of the ten pound notes in Brian’s pocket start to get us close to him then things may change. For now, he thinks that he’s got away with it … and for now he has … but something about this one tells me there’s a clue just waiting to trip him up. I believe he planned to kill Templemead but Brian was opportunistic. Clearly he was still prepared but he hadn’t planned it like the others … which hopefully means he’s made a mistake.”

“Can I help?”

“You’ve already been incredibly helpful.”

“I mean … you said that you’ve never found a link between the sixteen victims apart from their general age and appearance and the fact that they were all gay. Perhaps I could find something; I used to be a data analyst.”

Peter was hard-pressed to stifle the chuckle and coughed to mask his reaction.

“Right … I’ll give you the names; they are all in the public domain. I can’t share anything else … It’s a good idea; the boredom would kill me.”

Perhaps not the best turn of phrase under the circumstances but it lightened the mood.

“Okay … so I’ll see you …?”

“Probably tomorrow … Danny or Chandler will be over later; text me the list and just relax.”

Peter left and blew out his cheeks. Not because he was relieved that they had made it to the house in one piece without being seen; no, he was relieved that his erection hadn’t been so obvious as to draw Derek’s attention.

oOo

His mother had kept his bedroom just as it had been when he had left home twenty years before. He was welcomed by the same single bed, the same chest of drawers and the same wardrobe. He pulled the steel box mounted on wheels out from under the bed and flipped the lid which was unlocked.

From the ‘tool’ bag, he took out everything and arranged all of the contents neatly on the carpet to check that everything was accounted for before placing it in the steel box. First, the glasses and the wig, then the cheek implants which widened his face and tightened the skin around his mouth, hiding the dimples. Second, the false eyelashes and eyebrows which were three shades darker than the blond of the wig and more natural looking. Next, he removed from the ‘tool bag’ the small flexible tubes which he inserted into his nasal passages to widen his nose and because they restricted his breathing, they also gave his voice a subtle but distinctive twang. He took out the contact lenses and the precious gum shields which gave the appearance of perfectly straight and white teeth; his being less than perfect.

From a separate compartment within the bag, he withdrew the latex product which he used to cover the lower half of his face to mask the darker shading caused by his rampant beard growth; he was blessed with a five o’clock shadow by lunchtime usually. The latex was accompanied by a pharmacy of cosmetics to mask various blemishes and lines.

From one of the outer pockets, he withdrew all of his father’s documents which he had saved and guarded or renewed religiously; including driving license, passport and bank cards; even the library card and Nectar card. From the other outer pocket, he slipped out the tool roll which contained the scalpel, the knife and the hammer and nails. Unrolling the canvas roll was like unswadling a baby; the flattened out roll resembled it’s ironed out little body, all his tools the vital organs.

Once everything was stowed safely away, he locked the box and pushed it back under the bed. Before he quit the room to order the pizza, he checked the drawer which formed the base of the heavy oak wardrobe. It was locked and he unlocked it with a small brass, stubby-barrelled key which he kept hidden in a hole in the mattress. In the drawer there were ten more copies of Angry Fire by Opedia Gregory, resplendent in their pristine dust jackets.

“Sleep tight, my darlings!”

As he left the room that strange feeling took hold of him, like he had shed a heavy coat. Often in the past, it had seemed to him that it was akin to being sheared like a sheep after the winter; all that matted, crusty, filthy and stinking wool just fell away. He felt so light that he ran to the pizza outlet and back, donating the sea bass to the foxes which played in the back garden after dark once the lights at the edge of the terrace had dimmed to a glimmer.

He ate the pizza and drank a glass of wine, stoppering the bottle to take it back home. He read The Gypsy Ballads and called the house, getting no reply save for the answerphone. He texted Peter and soaked in the bath for an hour before getting into bed. For a while, he lay on top of the counterpane, examining the bruises and the tiny raw mouths of the wounds which Peter had left behind on his thighs, imagining how a medieval monk would probably have had the same marks from where he had tightened the cilice to remind himself that there was but one God and he tolerated no weakness.

“The afternoon, grown wild

with figs and hot murmurs,

swoons and falls into

the rider’s wounded thighs.

And black angels were soaring

through the western sky.

Angels with long tresses

and hearts of olive oil.”[1]

At midnight, Peter texted back:

‘Goodnight, sweetheart; see you tomorrow. Be in at around eight. Love you, Plod x”

Chapter Six – Facades

That they kept work out of the house was true in the main. Occasionally, Peter brought home a file to read, occasionally a sheaf of photographs to study or a court transcript; never before a photofit ID picture, forgotten in his haste to get home. Occasionally, Cowrie would lift the corner of a page and read a line of a statement or stare at the grainy photograph of some thugs involved in a drug deal. Never before had he seen a picture – albeit crudely rendered – of his alter ego, staring out at him from the confines of a thin manila folder, half poking out of Peter’s satchel.

“Honey … do you want some wine?” he called out to Peter who was in the bath.

“Love some!”

Taking in a glass of wine, he paused in the doorway to feast on the exquisitely toned arms which lay along the edge of the bath and the ruggedly handsome face of the man with whom he had shared the past fifteen years of his life.

“Any developments?”

Peter opened his eyes and focused them on Cowrie’s face.

“Nothing concrete; trail is growing cold … again …”

“I’ve ordered the beef and confirmed with Angela and Toby …”

“Excellent. I’ll get the wine and the champagne. Was everything okay at the house?”

“Everything was fine … the car ran like a dream; though I’m thinking of trading her in for a Boxster.”

“Really? They’re such a pussy boy’s car … why not the A8?”

“It screams penis infatuation!”

And they both laughed.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart … but maybe we’ll see after the trip?”

“No, I thought that too; every penny we save now is spending money; all the other stuff has been paid for. Has your leave been approved?”

“In principle … and when I come back I’m going to ask for a transfer-”

“A transfer!?”

Peter levered himself up, readying himself to get out of the bath.

“Yes … a new challenge for the next ten years before I retire.”

“Which branch?”

“Serious fraud; no gruesome murders.”

“I thought you said that the SFO would bore the nuts off of you?”

“It probably will but it has its compensations … does it matter?”

“Not to me, sweetheart … don’t be long; the soup’s ready …”

“Okay …”

It didn’t matter … only it did … to a small degree. There was nothing like having someone on the inside. And if Peter did ever get close to solving the Dust Jacket murders then Cowrie was pretty sure that he would know about it first. A new DI, a fresh pair of eyes, a radically new approach … this would not have boded well had the idea of defeat any chance of gestating in the womb of his ego; for though the tortured lamb twisted under the knife, it never gave up the fight.

Throughout supper, he had one recurring thought and it wasn’t about Peter’s planned transfer; it was ‘Who provided the description for the photofit?’

“Your Mother called and asked if we could get down by one o’clock at the latest on Sunday.”

“Okay … you look a little tired, sweetheart.”

“Oh, do I? I am working hard with Elizabeth to brighten up her image and cast off that dowager look. In the end, I may regret having poached her from Derek Battersea.”

“Amazes me how you all just pass these people around like you’re playing pass the parcel … don’t they mind?”

“Too vain and - or - ignorant to notice most of the time … actually I do feel bad at having taken her on; Derek has no-one at the moment.”

“Which is uncharacteristically charitable of you … are you sure you don’t have a fever?”

“Cheeky sod! Maybe I’ll see him tomorrow and discuss a joint venture. If he doesn’t buy a new suit soon, they’ll mistake him for one of his clients …”

Peter didn’t even have to try to bite his tongue. Fifteen years had taught him some important lessons; chief amongst them being that the whereabouts of a key witness was never disclosed to anyone outside of the office, not even to the love of your life.

“I hope we don’t have to endure the vicar for tea on Sunday; pompous arse.”

A sex-free evening and a brief cuddle up confirmed that they were both tired. However, the following morning, Peter was later to rise and this rare occurrence was cause for celebration.

Cowrie slipped out of bed and made the tea which he carried back to the bedroom, placing a mug of the brew on Peter’s bedside table. Five minutes later, a snort, a fart and a stretch indicated that the man was awake.

“Tea … you’re an angel.”

“I had the blood test for the prostate thing … and the DRE-”

“DRE?”

“He stuck his finger up my bum and had a wiggle; a bit enlarged he said so the blood test will show them if I have increased levels of PSA and if I do then they’ll plan to do a biopsy.”

“Okay … how are you feeling about it?” Peter asked as he propped himself up and grabbed the tea.

“I’m okay. I’ll have it taken out if there is the smallest sign; hopefully not before we go away.”

“When do you get the results of the blood test?”

“Tuesday … are you working tomorrow?”

“I’m trying not to; I may be late today but if I am then the chances are that I won’t have to work at all tomorrow and that makes for a more relaxed Sunday. What time are you going in today?”

“I’ll call Derek and swing by his place first; say ten-thirty … what time are you due in?”

“Around eleven …”

The pause on both sides telegraphed the processing which was rapidly taking place, leading to the conclusion that a sedate romp was both necessary and imminent.

It was a romp of their early days; no bondage or bruises or bite marks but a leisurely fuck, spoon-fashion. Peter had felt more languid and encouraged Cowrie to do the honours. In truth, no urging was necessary; they were versatile and both were blessed with pretty high libido levels. The games had been introduced after the first five years of conventional bedroom antics. Cowrie had suggested it; a little role play at first and some innocent bondage. The effect had been miraculous; both had scaled new heights. An accident, resulting in a cut, had led Cowrie to kiss the ‘wound’ better. It had been akin to throwing petrol on a fire. Peter had been - and remained – less comfortable with the idea of inflicting any real pain. When he did, he felt scared of himself. Some kind of beast lurked in the sand like broken glass waiting for the unwary bather; he feared to tread that shore-line too often. Cowrie was more comfortable and practically demanded to be abused, relishing not the pain but the sight of Peter losing control and the fear in his eyes.

As he left, he kissed Peter very passionately, pushing him up against the wall of the hallway, practically gorging himself.

“Try not to be too late.”

“After that, I might just hand in my notice!”

“I love you, plod … have a good day.”

“Love you too, angel.”

In the half hour between Cowrie leaving and his own departure, he ground into dust the thought of Cowrie having to have surgery but checked that their private health insurance was up to date and covered the procedure. Assured on both counts, he left and scooted briefly to the office before heading over to see Derek and advise him of the schedule for the weekend when both Danny and Chandler were due a break.

He found Gauge in his office.

“Gauge?”

“I can’t yet be one hundred per cent sure … but … I think we have traces of blood on one of the ten pound notes which does not belong to Sanderson. It’s right on the very edge and appears to have resulted from a good old-fashioned paper cut; had they been older notes it wouldn’t have happened I’m sure but these are brand new. So we have DNA.”

“Any match in the system?”

“None … and whoever left that trace has alarmingly high levels of PSA; which in itself suggests that the donor is at least forty with a history of prostate cancer in their family.”

“It’ll just be my luck that he dies of cancer before I can get the noose around his neck - figuratively speaking of course - thank you.”

“You’ll get a lead, Peter; no-one could do more …”

Gauge left and Peter turned his attention to the ID picture, staring into the photofit eyes, willing there to be a break soon. His arrest and conviction rates were exemplary but even they would not even up the scales if he walked away in six months’ time leaving Dust Jacket at large.

Chandler walked in.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing … did you get a look at the CCTV footage from the street?”

“Yeah; bloody useless; too dark and in any event, no likely suspects … it’s like he knows where all the blind spots are.”

“Maybe he does … how was Derek Battersea last night?”

“Fine … seems very calm.”

“Why shouldn’t he be?”

“Once that description gets published, old Dusty will know who clocked him, won’t he?”

“He approached the signing table, suggesting he didn’t care if anyone did which also suggests to me that he was heavily disguised.”

“He’d have to have been pretty confident in the disguise to risk a full frontal-”

“Perhaps he’s had training … and he has had fifteen years of practice. I’m off to see Battersea and sort out the weekend cover. Did anything come back on the phone number?”

“Registered to a SIM card given away as part of a promotional campaign by one of the pound shop chains … wait for it … five years ago!”

“The cunt!”

“All is not lost … the original credit on the SIM had expired; the top up was purchased a month ago with cash-”

“Where?”

“Waiting on that … technology will get this guy in the end.”

“Thanks … I’ll be back after lunch.”

There was some comfort in the notion that technology advances probably would catch him in the end. He drove to Putney, calling Derek en route to find out what he wanted for lunch. He asked for a mushroom, tomato and fresh pesto Panini.

“There you go; how are you doing?”

“Not too bad; caught up on all of my emails and started that research. You look thoughtful.”

“The description and the picture are going to be published in The Standard tonight and nationally tomorrow … it kind of ups the ante as far as you are concerned.”

“He’ll know that I gave you the description.”

“Almost certainly he’ll assume it was you; apart from Brian, no-one else got closer.”

“He must have been disguised or he wouldn’t have risked it, would he?”

“It’s becoming a safe assumption that he must have been disguised … and he must have been disguised when he visited Brian.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

“I don’t think Brian would have let him in if he hadn’t been.”

“So twice in a twenty-four hour period, he was out on the street in the same disguise …”

“And probably he wore it when he visited Templemead. Someone always sees something … if we can just get a sighting of him somewhere it might narrow down the search for a likely bolthole.”

Derek smiled encouragingly, already in tune with the frustration which Peter barely concealed from him.

“Coffee?” Derek asked.

“Thanks; has anyone tried to get hold of you?”

“Cowrie Montague wanted to see me today and I told him that I had the ‘flu.”

“Why did he want to see you?”

“Wanted to discuss some kind of joint venture; I put him off until after Christmas.”

“What did you tell Luke Farthing?”

“The truth … obviously not where I am but he can’t keep things running if he’s completely in the dark.”

Peter quizzed his lips and quirked his eyebrows.

“Guess not … I see the cigarettes have made an appearance!”

“Stress management … I need one now actually; do you mind?”

“Not in the least …”

Derek moved to the terrace door and slid it open to step outside. Peter remained at the dining room table and finished his lunch, absently keeping an eye on Derek as he paced to and fro, puffing regularly.

Peter had to agree with Cowrie that the suited look did nothing to advance Derek’s charms. Here, now, dressed casually in jeans, a plain tee shirt layered with a zip through top and sporting old but cherished trainers, the man looked relaxed at least and it did wonders for his skin tone. Apparently, Luke Farthing had picked up a bag of clothes for him and Danny had delivered them with the breakfast order of bagels and coffee. Chandler had texted to say that he had torn a strip off of Danny for laughing when Derek had offered to pay for the food.

Peter finished his Panini and gave his eyes a rest from following Derek up and down the terrace.

“You said that you needed to outline the format for the weekend,” Derek reminded him as he stepped back inside.

“Yeah … we’re slightly under-staffed this weekend. Troyes will be over tomorrow to deliver food, probably in the morning then you’re on your own until Monday … but if you’re worried then I’ll arrange something else. To be honest, the fewer number of people who know that you are here the better. Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine … I don’t usually go out much.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t come across as the literary agent sort. I thought you’d be more-”

“Confident and outgoing?”

“Yes … sorry; that was probably too honest …”

“Occupational hazard?”

Peter chuckled in reply, “The honest policeman? I suppose so but I also like to think that I read people pretty well. You seem at odds with your … world …”

“It’s easier to promote someone else’s success.”

“Do you mean that you write too?”

“I wouldn’t call it that. I thought that if I moved into this business then I’d learn something about writing and publishing and maybe it would help me as an author … but all I really do is tell lies; to the author about their pile of shite which we are trying to market and to myself that I’m making any kind of difference or learning anything … except to be a better liar.”

From a self-professed liar, the man’s words felt uncommonly honest and Peter shifted in his seat, trying to avoid the roving microscope.

“Maybe whilst you’re here you can write.”

“Perhaps I will … I’ll major on that research too.”

“All we’ve ever really been able to establish is that they were all scholars at either Oxford or Cambridge; they probably knew each other to one degree or another … most had a front line role in the entertainment or the arts business and all were gay.”

“A crusade?”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps he’s trying to rid the world of something.”

“The profiling suggests that he is gay too … some crusade!”

“But he mutilates them-”

“You don’t want to hear the theories about that … they give me nightmares.”

During this exchange, Derek had seated himself back down at the table, directly opposite Peter. Having placed his cigarettes on the table, Derek reached for them again, shuddering at the description which Luke had furnished him with of Brian’s condition. Absent-mindedly, Peter reached for them too. Their hands touched for a second and Peter pulled his away quickly but disturbed the lighter which skidded across the glass surface of the table and landed on the floor.

“Sorry!”

“Old habits die hard.”

Peter stretched down to the side of his chair and retrieved the lighter, placing it back squarely on top of the cigarette packet. As he did, Derek reached out and touched his fingers, stroking them timidly before withdrawing his hand.

Peter looked up into his eyes but found Derek’s head bowed, his cheeks burning red.

“I …” Peter began but he had to clear his throat before he could continue.

“Sorry …’ Derek interjected but his head remained lowered.

“Don’t apologise; it’s common in these circumstances … you’re feeling vulnerable and it’s only natural to reach out.”

Derek looked up, not convinced by the psycho-babble but appreciative of Peter’s effort to counter his embarrassment.

“Actually, I’m just lonely.”

Honesty made for a powerful aphrodisiac and Peter experienced the same pins and needles sensation in his groin as he had during their first meeting.

“I …”

Usually so eloquent, he failed to grasp a single syllable of coherent thought and was powerless as the vortex sucked his brain down into his guts where it then started to flip over and over, making him feel sick and hot. Derek got up, grabbed the cigarettes and hurried out onto the terrace again.

Standing with his back to the door, puffing furiously, he was unaware of Peter’s presence until he felt the two strong hands come to land on his upper arms. He began to turn but the hands said no; he slumped a little but a second later a magical power re-inflated his spine and he forced himself to turn against the pressure and hug the cactus of Peter’s ineptly veiled need until his spiny prickles caved, shattering like glass needles, resurrecting themselves as virgin stamen, eager to powder coat their petal lipped hosts.

The vortex carried them as far as the sofa where they ripped off their skins and barred their glistening souls; the smooth, slick clouds of veins and swollen need.

oOo

“Luke!”

“In the back; is that you, Cowrie?”

“Yeah … popped over to see Derek at the flat but it was empty. I thought he had the ‘flu?”

Luke emerged from the back office and stepped into the reception area of the pokey quarters which he and Derek called ‘The Lansdowne Agency’.

“Gone to his Mum’s for some t-l-c … what did you need?”

“A chat about a joint venture involving Elizabeth Autumn and Charles Everson; I can’t manage both of the batty birds.”

“He’s answering his emails.”

“Yeah; I’ve sent him one. How are you?”

“Not too bad … still having nightmares to be honest.”

“Is it true that-”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Cowrie … that poor man.”

“Who?”

“Brian!”

“Oh, yeah … I thought you meant the clueless detective; what’s his name … Nation?”

“DI Peter Nation … and not so clueless. Have you seen the early edition of The Standard?”

Luke pulled the newspaper out from beneath a box of fliers which was sitting on the reception desk and handed the paper to Cowrie.

“Well, well … nice looking fucker …”

“If you go for the psychopath type … I was just gonna close up and head off, Cowrie, unless there was anything else.”

“No, good plan; start the weekend early. Say hi to Derek for me if you see him and jivvy him up to answer the email.”

“Sure … bye.”

Luke scooped up a couple of bundles of fliers and flicked off the light before locking up and skipping down the stairs to rendezvous with Siobhan who had agreed to hand out the fliers that evening. The fliers advertised a new cocktail bar in Wardour Street. Derek had picked up the meagre bit of business when the bank account had hit the limit of the overdraft. From the shop doorway of the tobacconist’s opposite, Cowrie watched Luke leave, allowing himself the cheap thrill of briefly grazing on the sight of the pert little bum as it sashayed through the bargain-crazed shoppers and bewildered tourists.

Flitting across the road to the office building Derek shared with the solicitor’s located on the ground floor, Cowrie pushed open the outer door which was always unlocked and bounded up the stairs to the office on the first floor. His breath caught as he slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved an old Oyster card which he squeezed into the gap between the worn bolt and strike to prise the lock open. Once inside, he padded quickly through to the inner office and sat down at Derek’s desk, trying all of the drawers and finding all of them locked.

Undeterred and remembering something Luke had once said, he lifted the mouse mat lying beside the keyboard and found the desk key. He opened the set of three drawers on the right first and found nothing more interesting than the latest edition of Gay Times. In the left hand set of drawers, he found a pristine copy of the Chicago Style Manual and the thin, oblong back-up drive for the computer which Derek had conveniently placed in a protective, padded neoprene sleeve. He put it in his inside jacket pocket and relocked the drawers, replacing the key under the mouse mat. He retraced his steps to the outer office door, opened it slightly and listened for a few seconds before slipping out. He used the same Oyster card to ease the door closed, unwittingly breaking the corner off; also unwittingly nicking his thumb on the broken edge as he popped the card back into his trouser pocket.

Standing halfway on the stairs, he timed his final descent and exit to coincide with the next bus which trundled past.

Exhilarated, he glided expertly down the Charing Cross Road to cut in front of the National Gallery to hit Cockspur Street, then Haymarket and finally Jermyn Street where, in his favourite boutique, he purchased a new pair of gloves for himself and pair of cufflinks which he planned to give to Peter as a Christmas stocking present. Riding the wave of adrenalin, he strode the full length of New and then old Bond Street, to cross Oxford Street into Vere Street, thence right onto Henrietta Place then left into Wimpole Street and his own office above the print shop.

He locked the back-up device in his desk drawer, picked up the mail, slinging the junk into the recycling bin and pocketing the bills and the cheques. He called in and ordered new business cards at the print shop and then hailed down a cab to take him home.

When he reached the house, even before he took off his jacket, he sat down at the computer in the study, booted up, logged on, found the website address he was not meant to know and scanned the last hour of CCTV footage for sightings of himself; jubilant that he had remembered the correct route and wishing that there had been more time to reconnoitre the required detour to pass by Roger Fibtree’s office; but the leech was asleep and if there was one golden rule it was to let sleeping dogs lie.

Chapter Seven – Emergences

The bleep of his phone woke him and for a second he didn’t know where he was. The realisation that it was Derek’s and not Cowrie’s hot body pressed up against him brought on the flood of remembrances. He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth and swallowed with difficulty, hoping there was tea to wash down the dregs of his sin. Slipping out of the bed, he padded through to the kitchen to pop the kettle on and found a new box of tea bags in the cupboard above it, along with a jar of granulated sweetener. The fridge yielded skimmed milk.

He popped to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror, still happier to be playing truant though the feeling couldn’t last. He made the tea and carried the mugs into the bedroom, deliberately plopping himself down heavily on the bed to wake up Derek.

“Hey,” Derek moaned as he surfaced.

“Tea?”

“Thanks … what time is it?”

“Three o’clock; I have to go soon.”

Derek reached across to pick up a mug from the bedside table, avoiding the impulse to touch Peter’s back en route. The fact that Peter was sitting with his back to him spoke volumes. He rolled his tongue around his mouth, preferring the taste to the one he usually encountered; bitter dregs. He sipped the tea, finding it sweetened to the appropriately disgusting degree and sank back a little to survey the hunched form beside him.

“Was it that bad?”

Peter turned and looked over his shoulder, smiling weakly.

“It wasn’t bad at all … it was fucking incredible. I’m-”

“Still wishing it hadn’t happened though …”

“Not exactly … I don’t know why it happened … but it did. I’ve never cheated before and I’ve always thought of myself as entirely happy with my choice. I can’t lie and say that this was just fun; it was definitely more than that …“ he sighed, “I’m gonna take a shower and head off-”

“Please don’t go yet-”

“I have a husband at home cooking me dinner, a trip to my mother’s on Sunday, a Christmas lunch to plan-”

“So? I’m not asking you to give any of that up. I just wanted to hold you; this will probably never happen again.”

Peter swivelled round, raising one leg up onto the bed to make it easier to turn.

“It most definitely shouldn’t happen again … but I think it probably will.”

He moved and crawled onto the bed and sank back into the eager and comforting arms, feeling strangely safe for the first time in years and almost totally at peace with his soul-fire. He then realised something; he’d always worked hard to impress; first his father and then his succession of bosses. He had chosen his friends to increase his capital; had agreed to marry Cowrie out of a sense of rebellion mostly directed at his mother. The house was their jointly displayed penises. Derek was pure and simple; so much more enlightened than he probably realised; not a heart beating out an iambic pentameter, clogging the arteries with some self-referential bullshit … just a beating heart. Derek’s rather maternal curves made him smile and he felt genuinely happy; all the artifice in his world felt like ashes in his mouth when he realised and admitted to that truth.

Derek turned over within the confines of Peter’s arms and pleaded with him to fuck him again. They’d fucked raw as neither had been prepared. Peter eased in, biting his lip, expecting to feel the sharp sting of coarse sand as he ground up his guilt and milled the husks of his vows to Cowrie. Instead, he sank in on the silky tide of his earlier load and imagined Derek’s opening to be a full-throated bloom, like a Brugmansia, the angel’s trumpet. A cushion of chrysanthemums softened the blows and caressed his glans; it was the best fuck he had ever had.

They showered together and shared a final cigarette before Peter left, lingering by the door like a couple of love-struck teenagers.

“I’ll be over on Monday-”

“I know … don’t worry …go!”

oOo

“You’re early, sweetheart … will you have to work tomorrow?” asked Cowrie as Peter walked through the door at about six o’clock.

“Hey … no, I’m good for tomorrow and Sunday … pizza?”

“Yes … fresh … we can go shopping together tomorrow then?”

“Absolutely … and perhaps we’ll get the tree and decorate the house.”

“Christ! Did you get a promotion … catch a villain?!”

“Am I usually only this happy and compliant when I have?” Peter retorted good-naturedly.

“You usually take a little more encouragement than the average man usually needs to go shopping; especially at this time of year … and of course I meant a straight man.”

“I want the house to look nice for the party and there might not be time next weekend. How was your day?

“Uneventful; put together the marketing plan for Elizabeth and Charles … oh, no doubt you’ve seen the front page of The Standard …”

“I have. It might just lead to the breakthrough we’ve all been praying for.”

“I hope so too. Get changed and I’ll pop the pizzas into the oven. Did you stop at the pub on the way home? You reek of cigarette smoke.”

“I treated Chandler and Danny to a pint at The Yard.”

“Hang that suit in the hall; it’ll stink the bedroom out.”

“Sorry.”

Peter stripped and showered whilst Cowrie finished dinner. Even before they had sat down, Peter’s mobile was humming and propelling itself across the table.

“Fuck no!”

“Sorry, Cowrie; I know the rules but what with the picture going out …”

“At least eat first!”

Peter glanced at the screen to see that Clive, the DCI had been trying to reach him.

“Bollocks! It was Clive; has to be serious if he’s on the blower … I’ll call him and then eat before I do anything else.”

Peter got up from the table and tramped to the study, closing the door. Fifteen minutes later he emerged and rejoined Cowrie at the table upon which the pizzas now sat, still sizzling, their edges crisp.

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes … but not until after dinner; seems there’s a firm lead …”

Peter was always suitably vague; it immunised their life together from the stresses and strains of police work.

“Really?”

“Yeah … the first; but it’s not much and could be useless … let’s eat!”

Cowrie was reminded of a similar episode fifteen years before, just after they had met and were getting serious. Peter had spent the day being inducted into his new role and had come home shattered. A single phone call from the DI at the time to call him in to join the team which would investigate the murder of an eminent publicist had changed everything. The same look in his eye then as now; the look of the hunter, getting the scent of his prey.

After Peter had scoffed his share of the pizza, he scurried to the office to pick up his satchel, returning to the kitchen to say goodbye.

“I might not be too long … I’ll text you if it looks like it’s going to be an all-nighter.”

“Okay, sweetheart; take care and good luck!”

“Thanks.”

They grabbed a quick peck and Peter left for the office, leaving Cowrie at the sink, rinsing the plates before he stacked them in the dishwasher. Cowrie’s antidote to the moment, as was so often the case, was to quote his favourite verse from Shakespeare’s The Tempest; but tonight the words had a more solid ring of prophecy as never before.

“ … Now my charms are all o'erthrown,

what strength I have's mine own,

Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,

I must be here confined by you,

Or sent to Naples. Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got

And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell

In this bare island by your spell;

But release me from my bands

With the help of your good hands:

Gentle breath of yours my sails

Must fill, or else my project fails,

Which was to please. Now I want

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be relieved by prayer,

Which pierces so that it assaults

Mercy itself and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon'd be,

Let your indulgence set me free …”

oOo

“What we got?”

“A cabbie who almost knocked him over in Oxford street-”

“Credible?”

“Seems to be …”

“It’s not much though is it?”

“Might narrow down the search for something …”

Peter had hoped for more. A sighting was something but not much more in itself than the sighting in the book shop. Still, leads sometimes developed and they gave everyone a bit of hope.

“How many calls, Trudy?”

“Seven hundred … of which six hundred and ninety-nine are from the usual suspects. Someone swears they saw Lord Lucan and Shergar … obviously not Lord Lucan riding Shergar …”

“Obviously … so, what are we going to do?”

“We need some heat and noise; force him to break cover.”

“How?”

“Send the cadets in and turn the area upside down.”

Peter sat back in his chair and puffed out his cheeks. So often he felt that his grip on this was so tight; every lead followed. Now it just felt … tenuous. Maybe some heat and noise was called for. He picked up the phone and dialled Steve at Hendon to rally the cadets. A bus load of cadets eager to be doing something would create the right kind of energy. The cabbie’s description had confirmed Derek’s own of the man who had so confidently approached the table that night.

“Sanderson was an opportunity too good to miss; the risk was high but he couldn’t pass it up; the usual routine and rituals abandoned …”

He paused to look at the map on his wall which had sixteen red pins stuck into it, reminding him that all of the murders had occurred within the Borough of Westminster …

“The bolthole has to be close; he has to ditch the disguise quickly; it has to be safe … Trudy!”

“Yes, Guv’?”

“Have we run Malcolm Wertherington and all possible combinations through the system?”

“Nothing … Chandler found that the phone credit was purchased at the Waitrose store in Aylesford … a month ago.”

“CCTV-”

“Already requested …”

“How many purchases of phone credit by cash that day?”

“Five …”

“So we’ve got him!”

“Not quite … I know what you’re thinking; we know which top-up code was used to top up the phone but we won’t know which customer bought which voucher …”

“Aren’t they issued sequentially?”

“Random number … it‘ll be one of the five but could be any of the five.”

“But one of the five will fit the overall physical description … Derek said that the man was as tall as me and I’m six foot-two …

“It’s still not much …”

“He may have driven … CCTV hopefully covers all areas of the car park … he buys the voucher-”

“Someone buys the voucher; he didn’t necessarily buy it himself.”

“He works alone; we know that.”

“Works alone; that doesn’t mean he is alone. I bought Steve’s credit for months … only then to find out that he used it to text that slut MAXINE!”

“Get your point, Trudy … he gets the credit, tops up the phone which is used to receive the call from Sanderson. I know that doesn’t place him at the scene of the murder but I’m sure Sanderson would not have let him in unless it was the same man who he’d met at the table …”

“Could be someone else … just because someone called up Sanderson that doesn’t mean that he actually turned up. There’s no video intercom … Sanderson didn’t know who he was letting in.”

“He wouldn’t have let someone in who he didn’t know; he would only have let him in if he’d recognised the voice.”

“Maybe he did and they talked and then this book shop guy left … and Dusty came in straight afterwards; maybe Wertherington even held the door open for him.”

“How many Malcolm Wertherington’s are there in London?”

“None; but more than a thousand permutations …”

“An out-of-towner doing his Christmas shopping … seen at the signing table and the day after on Oxford Street, within the time  frame which Gauge has given us for the time of death; chase that CCTV, Trudy, please …”

“So close but not close enough.”

Chapter Eight – In the mid-night hour

“How did you get to be a literary agent?”

“I was a proof-reader for a publisher and I learned a thing or two. I started out small and gained a few clients, getting them deals with the publisher … he took a kick back on my deals with them in exchange … a few reasonably successful books later and authors are hunting you down and you don’t have to pay the kick back any more.”

“Pretty cut-throat then!”

“Like everything … why are you a policeman?”

“I like to catch villains!”

“Do you?”

“Some of the time … they say I have a knack for seeing the clue which no-one else sees.”

“Would you like to get a coffee?”

“Love to … what were you reading?”

“Lorca’s The Gypsy Ballads … do you know him? Many people don’t.”

“I’ve heard of him but I don’t think I’ve read anything by him. Isn’t he Spanish?”

“Yeah … in my humble opinion, he’s the greatest poet who ever lived.”

“Are you Spanish?”

“No; born in Allington in Kent … what about you?”

“Guildford … I don’t read much but I like poetry … my Father was a policeman; which kind of explains why I am … my Mother is the head teacher at a private girls’ school …”

“My Father died last year and my Mother works in the gift shop at Allington Castle … but she’s developing a taste for travel …”

“I’d love to go to Australia.”

“Me too …”

Peter wasn’t convinced but as come-ons go, it wasn’t too bad an effort. This man was intriguing him; he found himself mesmerised by the lips which danced under the spot lights of the lively green eyes. This performance was under constant threat of the curtain of black hair coming down on it; though the slender hands were continually employed in the pushing of the heavy and luxurious locks out of the way to relentless calls of ‘encore’!

They wandered through the park and settled for an outside table at the little café by the Bayswater Road entrance to Queensway tube station. Peter lit up as soon as the coffees were delivered to the table.

“Sorry; I didn’t ask if you minded.”

“I don’t mind … my Father swore that he would skin me alive if he ever caught me smoking; my Mother does and she still looks over her shoulder just before she reaches into her bag for them even though he’s gone.”

“How did he die?”

“Prostate cancer … he was forty-three.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five this year … you?”

“Twenty-five this year too … in July.”

“Me too; say the tenth and I’ll marry you!”

“The tenth-”

“I do!”

They laughed; it was one of those silly but incredibly important moments in the birth of a relationship; a contraction, a spasm. And the canal through which their emotions were surging, opened up a little.

“Where do you live?” asked Peter, feeling brave and hoping that the question did not just telegraph his oh-so-difficult-to-ignore need which was growing like a mushroom in his lap.

“Princes Square … just down from St Sophia’s … you?”

“Above a shop in the Portobello Road but I was looking to move nearer to Paddington.”

“For work?”

“Yeah; and it’s a bit cheaper to buy here than up there. Are you working this afternoon?”

“No … you?”

“No …”

“Shall we then?”

Peter blushed, convinced that Cowrie could see his blood rushing around his body and collecting in a certain place.

“Uhm … yeah, why not?”

“No reason at all. I’m getting turned on just thinking about that cigarette I’ll be begging from you afterwards …”

Cowrie downed the dregs of his coffee first and stood up. Peter hurriedly finished his drink whilst standing up, fumbling in his jeans’ pocket to find some money, knocking his cup over with the corner of his bag as he turned to catch the eye of the waitress.

“Sorry!”

“Relax …”

Cowrie slipped his arm through Peter’s and guided him away from the table, navigating them expertly between the other chairs and tables, weaving effortlessly through the tourists who were standing in small groups outside of the entrance to the station. Cowrie sailed them down Queensway and then left into Moscow Road. After a hundred yards and just after the gym, he turned right into Ilchester Gardens. A little way beyond the sub-station, he stopped at one of the big five storey town houses.

“Here we are …”

He let them in by punching a code into the keypad, pushing on the door as soon as the buzzer sounded. Cowrie let his arm slip from under Peter’s, grabbing his hand to tow him up the stairs to the top landing and one of two doors.

“Excuse the books and general lack of furniture …”

Peter hadn’t spoken since leaving the café; his brain hadn’t been able to keep up with his feet. Now, alone with Cowrie, standing on the threshold of the flat, he suddenly found his voice … but very little courage to use it.

As he roused himself to say something, Cowrie dipped his head and placed his lips on Peter’s partly open mouth, gently squeezing the lips together like he was pinching the edges of a pie crust, simultaneously sliding his hands up Peter’s back to rest them on his neck, pulling him in to deliver the first kiss.

“What do you like?” Cowrie murmured, pulling away slightly.

Peter smiled instead of answering the question, risking a glimpse into the eyes which seemed to be willing him on yet flashing a warning at the same time.

Cowrie fished for his keys and opened the door, gently pulling Peter in, who barely had the presence of mind to close the door behind him. As soon as the door was closed, Cowrie dropped his hand and scuttled into the main living space to attempt to clear a path to the sofa bed. Books lay in piles everywhere.

“Wow! You weren’t wrong about the books.”

“A book is a loyal friend … who’s your favourite author?”

“Carter Seagrove-”

“The Blakely Affair! That’s his pile over there; have a rummage whilst I find the bed …”

Peter chuckled, finding the obsession quite touching in its own way. He squatted beside the pile of books which Cowrie had indicated and found his beloved Blakely, turning it over to read the synopsis which he knew almost by heart, even turning it back over and opening it to find the first line of chapter one which read ‘Dorchester didn’t have a clue’.

Cowrie moved several piles of books out of the way and cleared the top of the bed of its covering of journals and a seemingly endless number of ‘Reader’s Digest’ monthly issues. Then, without asking or prompting, he disrobed and padded over to Peter, who was still crouching by the books, lifting him up and turning him into an embrace.

”I should warn you … I like it rampant between the sheets.”

Peter kissed his response back, feeling somewhat braver than his shaking hands suggested, experiencing that uncomfortable swelling in his groin which grew like a vine and twisted its way up to the top of his spine. In the squall of contortions which followed, Cowrie ripped Peter’s shirt up and over his head, exclaiming unashamedly, “You’re hairy; I love that!”

Peter looked up coyly, yet feasting his eyes on the pale as milk, hairless stalk of asparagus which suddenly dropped to its knees and expertly unbuckled his belt, yanking down the jeans and briefs to then steam cook his stalk, all the while stroking his billiard ball tight sack with feather weight fingertip pressure. At one point, Cowrie looked up and Peter saw two moons reflecting the oddest light; shards of a hard silver light which coalesced into a glob of mercury just as they threatened to pierce his lips; as if the stem of the rose which he had romantically placed between his teeth had turned to honey, simultaneously stinging and soothing his lips. The maelstrom carried them to the bed and Peter found himself uncharacteristically buried to the hilt, pounding the little pink mouth which sat in the cleft of the two hard-boiled egg-like mounds of Cowrie’s buttocks.

Having taken the initiative so blindly, Peter felt suddenly conscious of the fact that they were fucking raw; but that only spurred him on to thrust harder. His load was ejected like a dart of that same mercury and the cry which accompanied his release was triumphant. Still held within the coils of the python which writhed about him, he was barely aware of Cowrie’s gentle manoeuvres to crawl from under him. Only when Cowrie’s weight pressed down on his back and forced him to yield, did he realise that the serpent’s head was already squirming inside to sink its fangs into his fruit. The two pin-pricks of pain sheathed the duller ache of the pummelling and only once he and Cowrie had collapsed did he see the twin geranium-petalled welts of the bite mark on his upper arm.

“Fuck! I’m sorry.”

Peter saw the fear in Cowrie’s eyes and guessed that he must have been looking stern or angry.

“You did say rampant …”

For a second, Cowrie froze; held in the momentary stasis of indecision; to smile or cry. Joy overtook angst and he clung to Peter as a survivor might who finds themselves hanging onto the side of a life raft in the midst of the hurricane; his guttural heaving breaths aping the prayers for deliverance.

“I did …”

oOo

“What time is it?”

“Midnight …”

“Perhaps I’ll be go-”

“Stay …”

Peter felt the word envelop him in lead. Cowrie lit a cigarette and placed it between Peter's lips, lighting another for himself before leaning over the side of the bed to rummage around for the ashtray lying amongst the ‘car crash’ which seemed to be every single possession Cowrie appeared to own.

Propped up on one arm, looking down on Peter, Cowrie left the cigarette between his lips, using his free hand to caress the furry bumps of Peter’s chest and stomach, tracing the swirling lines of hair, drawing a map to somewhere. Cowrie stopped to pluck the cigarette from his lips to knock the ash into the ashtray, leaning over Peter in the process, his chest hovering a few inches above the bruised lips of his sleepy-eyed cupid. Peter raised his head and kissed the daisy-like nipple, tasting sweat and sex; bees buzzed in his ears and eyes.

“Turn over,” Cowrie commanded softly and Peter obliged, anticipating the fuck but Cowrie slid down to kiss the swollen edges of his entrance which begged for something icy to lessen the throbbing. Cowrie licked and then let his hot saliva cool to bring the craved for relief, opening up the little mouth with two fingers, kissing the coral coloured purse, eliciting a groan which he echoed.

“More?”

“Slowly …”

They fucked each other again; illuminated by the lurid, pale green glow of the LED display of the clock radio which was hiding between Chaucer and Socrates.

oOo

“Guv’! The tapes have just arrived; the manager brought them up himself.”

“Give the man a cup of tea and get Joel to set that thing up as soon as he can …”

Peter dived into the toilet to take a leak before settling himself at the console beside Joel who had, by now, the first of the supermarket’s in-store tapes loaded into the machine.

“Fucking terrible quality.”

“We have the times of the transactions so we won’t have to watch it all; have we got the car park ones too?”

“Yes, Guv’ …”

“What time was the first transaction?”

“Nine-oh-three …”

Joel quickly advanced the tape and slowed it right down to just before the allotted time. The grainy picture showed a middle-aged woman approaching the kiosk where the phone top up vouchers, cigarettes and lottery tickets were sold.

“Next!”

“Ten-forty-eight …”

Even before Joel had slowed down the tape, Peter recognised the man approaching the kiosk as Cowrie. He was wearing his unmistakable leather jacket over the petrol blue hoody top he always wore to his mother’s.

“That’s Cowrie …”

“Guv’?”

“That’s Cowrie,” Peter repeated more clearly and loudly; “what the fuck is he … oh, he was at his Mother’s …”

Whilst Peter had dallied, the frames had advanced slowly as Joel waited for the instruction to fast forward. The picture rolled on to show Cowrie receiving his voucher and turning away from the assistant.

“Guv’?”

“Uhm … sorry; next …”

“One-twenty-eight …”

It was a teenager and the next two were markedly older men, probably in their fifties.

“He’s the right height,” ventured Joel, wondering why Peter wasn’t jumping for joy.

“Follow them all out into the car park and get registration details if possible,” Peter ordered, slipping out of the chair to stride back to his own office.

Trudy found him staring into space when she brought him in a coffee.

“Guv’?”

He refocused and threw out a smile of the blank-eyed variety, finding his mouth dry and his lips stuck to his teeth.

“One of those five people purchased credit and it was used to top up the phone belonging to Malcolm Wertherington which Brian Sanderson called on the day he was murdered …”

“Yes, Guv’ … well; four if you discount Cowrie.”

Everyone knew Cowrie because everyone had been at the wedding and a picture of Cowrie, seated in the newly refurbished Porsche, sat on Peter’s desk.

“I need to speak to him; he was at his Mother’s … probably just before she left for South America … he’d have been buying the credit for her.”

The statement sounded more like a question.

“The last man is Malcolm Wertherington; once Joel has the car ID’d, we can pick him up …”

“Yes … can Joel clean up the picture and get stills?”

“On it!”

Anxious to do something in the hope that the huge, inexplicable gulf which had opened up beneath him would shrink again, he called Derek despite the lateness of the hour.

Peter explained what had happened.

“Do you want me to come in and look at the footage?”

“No … stay put; I’m bringing over the stills.”

“There’ll be a line-up won’t there?”

“If we can ID the car and pick him up … don’t worry about it. I’ll be over in an hour or so. Is everything okay?”

“Yes … I’ve got some interesting facts about the group for you.”

“Good … it all feels like it might be coming to a head … which is tempting fate.”

“You said he’d slip up eventually …”

“At the moment it feels like I have a cobra by the tail.”

“Be the mongoose!”

Peter laughed out loud at the rather strange joke and felt a tonne slip off of his shoulders; a tonne which he’d never realised had been there.

“I’ll call you before I come up. For some strange reason I feel that he could be closer than we think; lock the terrace door.”

“Peter, you’re freaking me out … relax …”

The word triggered a cascade of memories; all of them involving having sex with Cowrie. It was his special word; the one which he’d whispered into Cowrie’s ear as he’d pushed his way into the tight cavity, already stuffed with a butt plug. Cruelly stretching the skin and ramming his cock in hard had been one of the ways in which he’d dealt with the stress of the earlier years of their relationship as the work piled up and the debts of purchasing the mews house had mounted until he’d received his share of his father’s legacy.

“… Peter?”

“Sorry; I’m just a little strung out … see you in an hour.”

He dropped the phone back onto its cradle and called out for Joel; “Have we ID’d the car?”

“The last is only a partial plate; Trudy is tracking them all down … here are the stills of the last guy.”

“Thanks; is Danny back yet?”

“On his way; picking up Chandler.”

“Let me know the second that you find that car … I’m off to see Derek Battersea to show him these photographs.”

“Cowrie’s in Reception.”

Joel left, leaving Peter standing above the abyss for the second time in less than an hour. Cowrie didn’t visit the office unless it was an emergency. He found him chatting to Trudy.

“Cowrie … is something wrong?”

“I brought you something to eat; Trudy says it could be a long night.”

“Uhm … yeah; thanks!”

Trudy scuttled away, leaving them alone.

“Sorry, Cowrie; things are hotting up and I have to go … but thank you for bringing this.”

“Take care … I won’t wait up.”

Cowrie sneaked a kiss and readied himself to head back out; Peter stayed his arm and gave him a kiss of his own.

“You take care too … did you drive?”

“I grabbed a cab.”

“I haven’t got time to drop you back; I’ll get-”

“It’s fine; I’ll grab another cab.”

He hugged Peter before turning to leave, pressing his lips to Peter’s ear, murmuring; “I love you.”

“I love you too …”

“Bye!”

“Bye …”

He didn’t know why he felt nonplussed but that was how he felt; wrong-footed but at a loss to explain the origin of the black moon rising at the back of his head which always signalled the onset of a migraine. Scurrying back to his office to grab the photographs, he swallowed two painkillers and sank the rest of the coffee, heaving slightly on the aroma wafting out of the plain paper bag which Cowrie had handed him; salt beef and pickles, drenched in mustard. He’d discovered this delicacy on their first trip to New York City, proclaiming it to be the food of the gods. Ever since then, Cowrie had made it whenever things had looked iffy.

“Trudy …call me the second you get an address … I’m going to be at the safe house. What happened with the cadet search?”

“Steve’s bringing it over; I’ll get Chandler and Danny to sort it.”

“Okay.”

He strode out of the office, through reception, wondering who the slightly perplexed looking man was who was seated in the foyer.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Trevor Lockyear, the manager of Waitrose … I brought some CCTV tapes up and I was just wondering what I should do.”

Peter felt slightly embarrassed, admonishing himself for not seeking the man out to thank him for bringing the tapes up so quickly.

“Thank you … I’m sorry, I’m DI Nation, Peter Nation. Are you hungry?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Here, on me!” Peter thrust the bag into the man’s hands; “I’m sorry but I have to go. There are some forms that you will need to sign-”

“I did; a young lady said that you might want to speak to me.”

“Can I call you?”

“Yes, of course … can I go then?”

“Yes … I’m sorry to have to leave you to fend for yourself; I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Peter hurried out, practically running to the car, at a loss to explain why some invisible count-down clock suddenly seemed to be flashing before his eyes. He met Danny and Chandler in the car park, unloading the bags from Steve’s car.

“Danny, come with me; you drive … Chandler, sort that … thanks, Steve.”

Only once they were in the car, did he relax a little.

“Take the scenic route.”

“Boss?”

“Something feels out of kilter …”

Danny knew Peter well enough to know when to just drive and listen.

“It’s this fucking phone … DJ does not take risks; he does not walk into supermarkets and buy credit for the phone he plans to use to speak to Sanderson-”

“He went to the signing event …”

Albeit momentarily irked at being interrupted, he actually appreciated the comment.

“Yes … he did; supremely confident that he wouldn’t be recognised once he’d dropped the disguise. If Battersea identifies the man in these photographs as Malcolm Wertherington then I’ll be almost disappointed.”

“He could have obtained the phone in any number of ways; maybe he stole it from this guy in the supermarket.”

It felt like a reasonable supposition; but after fifteen years of being sorely tested, he did not want their swan song to be mute.

“Drop me at the bridge; I’ll find my own way back. Get that stuff sorted from the search … and if Trudy gets an address, get down there with the local boys and call me immediately.”

“Okay, Guv’ … we’ll get him; like you said, he slipped up this time and we just have to work out how.”

“Drop me here.”

He felt strangely naked and vaguely criminal standing in the middle of Putney Bridge at two o’clock in the morning. A sudden blast of chilled air forced him to move and dig his hands deeper into his pockets, making him wish now that he’d driven himself but the pain which was wrapped around his skull like a headband reminded him that he’d have been sick if he had chosen to drive.

The ten minute walk to the apartment building helped to cool his brow. He called Derek as he passed through the pedestrian access gate into the compound, alerting him to his imminent arrival. Five minutes later and he let himself into the apartment.

“Hey!” Derek called out, jumping up from the sofa where he had been reading.

“Hi … is everything okay?”

“Yeah … is everything okay? You look a bit green.”

“Migraine coming on; I need you to look at these photographs,” Peter announced, already grabbing the envelope stuffed with the stills from his bag.

“Okay … can I get you a drink?”

“Tea … please … I’m sorry; I’m probably coming across as very-”

“Worried and stressed? It’s okay … I wasn’t expecting flowers and chocolates.”

Peter laughed dryly, “The shops were closed.”

“A likely story … won’t you at least sit down whilst I make the tea?”

“Thanks … tell me about the stuff you found.”

Derek moved to the kitchen area, aware of the invisible electric fence which encircled Peter; the warning light still blinking red.

“Oh; the connection is Lorca … in a roundabout sort of way.”

“How so?”

“Opedia Gregory’s novel, Angry Fire is a kind of homage to Lorca. Once I realised just how important Lorca is to Dust Jacket, I saw the fact that he nails the book cover to the victim’s chest as a kind of … memorial almost … and definitely a warning.”

“Why a warning?”

“Because of the thing which all of the victims share-”

“What do they share!?”

“At one time or another, they all criticised the work of the great man. All of those who went to Oxford were on the debating team which successfully defended the actions of the Spanish militia who shot him despite the spirited riposte of the Rugby team …”

“Seriously?”

“Which is why Brian’s murder is slightly at odds with the facts because he proclaimed himself to be a devotee; it was the reason that he invited Malcolm Wertherington to his flat in the first place.”

“So Dusty is protecting Lorca’s reputation and punishing those who have even dared to suggest that he was anything less than the greatest poet who has ever lived?”

“Exactly!”

“What about the men who went to Cambridge?”

“Take Templemead … he played Lorca on stage and won critical acclaim for his portrayal but privately burned copies of A Poet in New York, citing the works to be the ravings of a self-indulgent and vain scribbler who was only trying to impress Dali and get himself fucked … he was interviewed on the TV years ago; I found it on YouTube.”

“A personal crusade to cleanse the world of the haters … Jesus …”

“Did you want sugar?”

“Thanks, but no milk … then … who’s got it coming to them?”

“I don’t know … but I think I know how many.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you read Angry Fire?”

“I’m a little ashamed to say that I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s hardly a light read but once you get past the lyrical stuff, you’re into the hard core and she is highly damning of the man’s detractors who, at the time of his death, she described as ‘wailing, widow weeded whores; your shameful faces hidden behind a web of avarice and conceit; but for the fact that his mercy endures forever would you be burning in Hell, gripping your flaccid cocks; the sickly pupa of the Strepsiptera-”

“Strepsiptera?”

“Commonly known as the twisted wing parasite … I think that’s why he mutilates them …”

“I still don’t understand what you said about the number.”

“Oh; it’s the reference to Psalm 136 … that his mercy endures forever … it’s repeated twenty-six times, once in each verse; I think he views it as a kind of eulogy or even their epitaph …”

“If you ever need a job …”

During the course of Derek’s explanation, Peter had stood up and had moved slowly towards the kitchen area. Now, mere feet away, when Derek looked him full in the face, brimming with child-like satisfaction that he had finally done something useful, Peter could see plainly the hesitation in his eyes and relaxed his guard, offering a smile in payment, holding out his hand to accept the mug of tea.

“Thanks … so ten more … where in fuck’s name did he get twenty-six copies - pristine copies - of the book?”

“His first victim was the publisher Adolphus Clifton; also an avid book collector … it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that Dust Jacket found them and maybe even thought that Clifton was somehow suppressing them … her … him … and they’re worth a small fortune.”

“Anything else?” Peter asked tongue-in-cheek as if that lot hadn’t been enough.

“All of the victims lived and worked mostly in London-”

“Yeah; I realised that all of the murders took place in Westminster … why?”

“He knows London and has a bolthole to which he can quickly navigate after each murder …”

“Would you mind looking at the photographs?”

“No, of course not …”

Peter returned to the table in the living space and slid the photographs out of the envelope, arranging them on the table for Derek to examine.

“I can tell you already that it isn’t the same man.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He’s too bulky; the man who was standing in front of that table was slim. Yes, this guy looks to be the right height but he’s much heavier and his hands are too big …”

“Fuck!”

“But he bought the top-up so he’s – what do you call it – an accomplice?”

“Possibly … though nothing has ever pointed to Dusty working with someone else … once we pick this guy up, you’ll need to come in and do the line-up.”

Derek detected the slump in both of the shoulders as well as the voice.

“I could be mistaken; the photographs aren’t very good and you always look heavier in photographs. Don’t let’s give up.”

Peter heard the tone and glanced sideways to throw a bleak but grateful look in Derek’s direction.

“Thank you … we’re so close to getting him; I can feel it.”

“Then don’t panic. It’s like when I sign up an author. They always chop and change their mind until the last minute …”

“I don’t relax; haven’t for more years than I care to remember … it’s like I have a stone in my shoe and it doesn’t matter how many times I take it off and shake it out, the stone is still there.”

“Go bare-foot …”

Derek had meant the words in jest but Peter heard something far more profound in them; certainly much more than Derek could have intended.

“I relax around you … isn’t that strange?”

“Is it? Normally I’m on edge but when you’re around I feel safe; I guess that means that we’re good for each other.”

Peter smiled and rubbed his hand over his face as if to erase the image of Cowrie gazing at him lovingly from the bed or the bath as he was prone to do. It was the overture to his arousal; a kind of warm up though Peter always saw it as a question; ‘do you want me?’ And the answer had always been ‘yes’ … until now.

“What now?” asked Derek, a little unsure of the ground as Peter hadn’t actually responded to his assertion; however naïve it may have sounded.

“We’ll bring this guy in-”

“I meant … what about you and me?”

“I don’t know-”

“It’s okay-”

“No … I was going to say … I don’t know why I’m even here. When you fall in love with someone, isn’t it for life?”

“No … least I suppose it can be … but you don’t choose to fall in love and therefore you don’t choose to fall out of love. Do you still love your husband?”

“I thought I did. This is going to sound really … way out … but it’s like he has been the shadow eclipsing the moon for most of the fifteen years that we’ve been together. I can see the moon but only through him; darker and less distinctly than if he was to step out of the way. That sounds fucking terrible doesn’t it?”

“Most people only see the shadow, not the moon; he must be special in that respect. Perhaps it’s just a … phase.”

“A phase of the moon … he’d appreciate the poetry in that.”

“I didn’t think accountants liked poetry.”

“He’s …”

Peter was on the verge of admitting the truth but still he held back.

“… different to most accountants; I’m tired and I should go. I’ll call you if you need to come in. Are you still okay here?”

“Yes, I’m fine … it could still be him but if it turns out that he’s just an accomplice then you’re a step closer in any event.”

“True … thanks.”

Peter got up from the table and was pulling together the shots to return them to the envelope. Derek reached out, placing his hand on Peter’s arm, exerting no pressure.

“Peter …”

The sound of his name was like fire at the end of a long trudge through deep snow where the wind had been biting and nipping all the while.

Derek gripped the arm a little more tightly and then went for broke, slipping his hand down to cover Peter’s own, locking their fingers. Meeting no resistance, he stood up and towed Peter to the bedroom, neither looking back nor asking any questions. Only once they were in the bedroom, did he turn and slip his arms around Peter’s waist to hug him to his chest and plant his lips on the throbbing temple.

“Kiss the shadow away …”

oOo

“Guv’! Where have you been?”

“Following up a lead of my own … sorry.”

“The Kent boys have him in Maidstone.”

“What’s his story?”

“A semi-retired college lecturer called Colin Denby; married with three kids and a wife called Karen.”

“Who was the phone credit for?”

“One of the daughters who was going on a school trip the following day; the phone top-up voucher number was not the one used to top-up the phone which Sanderson called.”

“How do we know?”

“He’d kept the receipt. Colin Denby ain’t Dusty, Guv’; sorry.”

“Derek Battersea discounted him as soon as he saw the photographs.”

“That leaves us with the other man, the teenager and the woman.”

“Have we traced them?”

“Not yet; the teenager arrived and left on his bike.”

“It won’t be any of them; this is a red herring. The phone somehow came into the possession of DJ sometime after the top-up was applied. Either he stole or he found it … what about the search?”

“Chandler’s going through everything now … what do you want me to do?”

“Get this food for Derek Battersea, drop it off and go home until Monday.”

“Guv’?”

“It’s alright, Danny. I just thought we had him.”

Danny knew better than to rattle off the usual pep talk and quickly checked the shopping list before heading out.

“What the fuck is hummus anyway?”

“A mix of chickpeas, sesame seeds, garlic, lemon juice and olive oil; it’s a dip.”

“Sounds disgusting … see you Monday.”

Staring at Cowrie’s picture was how Trudy found him an hour later.

“Guv’ … got something; best you come down.”

Chapter Nine – Phases of the Moon

“I love you …”

Who says it first is often the defining moment of the relationship; that’s what Peter thought as he summoned up the courage and waited for the right moment.

“Peter? You look as if you’re about to give birth.”

“Sorry?”

“You looked pained, sweetheart … what’s wrong?”

“I … wanted to tell you something.”

Cowrie squinted, arming himself for the let down; though there had been no signs of that.

“What?”

“I got the job as DI-”

“Oh WOW! I knew you would … congratulations!”

Cowrie launched himself at Peter, grabbing him in his arms and hugging him tightly.

“It’ll mean longer hours and-”

“It’s fine; I’m so happy for you … and so proud of you too!”

After that reaction, Peter wasn’t sure if declaring his undying love and affection wouldn’t be anti-climactic.

“There was something else ...”

Cowrie began to pull away so that he could look Peter straight in the eye but Peter held onto him tightly.

“I love you …”

Cowrie hugged him back, burying his face in Peter’s chest, garbling something into the flesh and blood pillow. Only when Peter insisted on seeing his face did he realise that Cowrie had been sobbing.

“Sweetheart?”

“Oh, no … I’m so happy … I knew I loved you but I wasn’t sure how you felt. I didn’t want to pressure you into making any kind of declaration until you were ready.”

“I wasn’t sure how you felt … and I didn’t want to say it and for work to get in the way and then it would look like I hadn’t really meant it.”

“I know you mean it; work gets left at the door, however late you walk through it … well, not that door anyway. One of the mews houses has come up for sale …”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you … for us.”

The word carried so many connotations. As much as he wanted to believe that the fairy-tale was coming true, the arms which were encircling him at that precise moment felt like the coils of a python readying itself to crush him to death. He was reminded of a visit to the zoo on the Isle of Wight as a child. Jack, the old man who had owned the place, often took a python out of the reptile house and allowed the children to be photographed with the snake draped around their necks. Jack had placed the small yellow python around Peter’s neck, much to everyone’s enjoyment. Whilst his father had positioned himself for the snap, the python had raised its head and had tucked it in right under Peter’s chin. Unbeknown to Peter, Jack had said something to one of the handlers and they had quickly removed the snake before Peter’s father had taken the picture.

“Us …?”

“You practically live here now; our joint rents will cover the mortgage.”

“What about the deposit?”

“I can fund that from the money which my Father left me; you can pay me back as and when … does it matter?”

“Only that it should be equal shares.”

“Prices are on the up, Peter … if we don’t move on it now then it might not be within our reach by the time you get your half together.”

oOo

“How was your day, sweetheart?”

“It was okay … lots of administration and meeting people … how was yours?”

This little domestic dance had felt strangely orchestrated. Barely two months before, they had talked about the possibility of buying the house and now they were planning to redecorate and sand the wooden floors. Wine before dinner and convivial evenings in front of the telly with pizza or takeaways felt weirdly and scarily grown up.

“Absolutely fine … had a meeting with a very talented, young author and all being well, I’ll sign him tomorrow. The publisher is crucifying him with the deal he’s got him on now; like so many debut authors, he grabbed the deal to get his first book into print and now he rues the day that he signed away his next three at four per cent.”

Peter’s mobile phone rang, effectively cutting Cowrie off.

“Sorry, hon’ but I have to take it; it’s from the DCI.”

Peter moved into the study come lumber room and closed the door. When he returned five minutes later, he was pale and blotchy.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“There’s been a murder … I have to go in for a briefing. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine … just text me if you have to stay later than midnight. What about something to eat?”

“I’ll grab something on the way.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, honey? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Apparently it’s pretty gruesome; probably a good thing I haven’t eaten yet.”

Peter left after a supportive hug and kiss from Cowrie, promising to take care and to call if things looked iffy for midnight. Taking his wine into the study, Cowrie sat down at the desk and removed the plain shod copy of a book from the drawer, placing it in a black holdall which he kept under the spare bed; the surface of which played host to the contents of their chests of drawers whilst the bedroom walls were re-painted. Returning the holdall to its hiding place, he squared up the kitchen, putting food back into the fridge and turning off the oven which was pre-heating.

He picked up the phone and dialled his mother’s number.

“Hey! I’m coming down tomorrow … at about lunchtime … I’ll meet you at the shop … it doesn’t matter, I can wait … absolutely fine … we can pop to the travel agent’s if you want … okay … bye, Mum; see you tomorrow.”

When Peter returned at one in the morning, Cowrie was in bed. Seeing only that the small lamp was on in the living room, Peter crept to the bathroom and then slipped into the bedroom, hoping not to disturb his lover.

“Hey,” Cowrie mumbled, reaching out, finding the furry mass, demanding that it shuffle up and cuddle him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay; I hate it when I fall asleep by myself.”

“They’ve handed me the lead on this case.”

“Jesus!” Cowrie came to his senses, flicking on the bedside table lamp, adding; “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied quietly, feeling both uncomfortable that his chance to shine was coming at the expense of a human life and euphoric that all of his training would soon be put to the test.

“Was it very gruesome?”

“Yes … turn out the light would you? Just hold me.”

Twenty minutes later, after Cowrie detected that Peter was no longer shaking, he asked, “What do you want for Christmas?”

“What do you want for Christmas?”

“A weekend in New York!”

“We can’t afford that; we need-”

“Yes we can … my Mother wants to treat us.”

“She’s crazy!”

“And very difficult to ignore when she’s got an idea in her head. I’m going down to see her tomorrow but I won’t stay over.”

“I’ll be working late. Why don’t you stay over and take her to the Marlowe to see the production of The Jew of Malta that she’s been going on about.”

“Oh … I could do that; she’d be over the moon. What do I say about New York?”

“I’d love to go.”

“Me too … sleepy?”

“No, not really …”

“Turn over and I’ll massage your back.”

“You’re tired-”

“Don’t be silly; I won’t see you tomorrow. If I’m too tired in the morning, I’ll take the train and you can come and pick me up if you have time on Friday.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you … now turn over …”

oOo

“Where was it found?”

“Stratford Place; road had been up so the wagon couldn’t get up there to empty the bins. If it had, this lot would already have been incinerated by now.”

“Clearly what he was expecting.”

“The clothes match the description given by Battersea; haven’t found the wallet yet.”

“Der- … Battersea said it was a Loake and they retail at two hundred pounds so I’d be surprised if he threw that away. Good job … has Gauge confirmed if the blood matches?”

“Still waiting … and the material found under Sanderson’s fingernail looks to be the same as the glove … and it’s scratched.”

“Malcolm Wertherington is Dust Jacket; let me know the second that Gauge confirms the bloods. What about the man and the woman from the CCTV?”

“The man is Sam Carpenter, a builder from Maidstone; five feet six and currently going through a divorce. The woman remains unidentified.”

“Shit! I forgot to phone the manager and thank him … what’s in Stratford Place?”

“The High Commission of Botswana, the High Commission of Tanzania, the Kabbalah Centre and the Oriental Club … some IT firm … no residential.”

“Where did he get changed then?”

“Selfridge’s?”

“Too risky … but it had to be close. Check the membership roll of the Oriental and see if any guests were staying and if so who signed them in … and Trudy …”

“Yes, Guv’?”

“Any chance of a coffee?”

“Sure thing …”

An hour later, Gauge walked through Peter’s office door, clutching a sheaf of papers and half a cup of cold, stale coffee.

“Gauge …”

“The blood on the clothing is Sanderson’s-”

“All of it?”

“No … unidentified trace which matches the blood found on the edge of the bank note … no prints of any use; all of the clothing was brand new; several black pubic hairs found in the undergarment … also seminal fluid.”

“Excuse me?”

“Judging by the staining, I’d say he ejaculated a goodly amount.”

“For God’s sake … skid marks?”

“No … and the blood came from what appears to be evidence of rectal bleeding … probably from a fissure or ruptured internal haemorrhoid … waiting for that sample to be tested. If you find him then it’s all here to place him at the scene; fibres from the carpet in the hallway of the landing outside the flat match fibres from the tread of the boots, material of the glove - which is leather - matches the trace found under Sanderson’s fingernail, inside of the glove bears traces of a wood polish which matches a trace lifted from the edge of the book cover … what’s wrong, Peter?”

“Why can’t I see the clue?”

“He’s the invisible man … though I’m surprised he was so … sloppy … given that the trace lifted so far exceeds all other crimes we have attributed to him.”

“Sloppy or desperate or just too confident …”

“He’s goading you; bored of the chase … or I think that he wants to get caught this time … he just doesn’t want to make it too easy.”

“Battersea suggests he plans ten more-”

“Battersea?”

Peter explained the theory which Derek had offered.

“A crusader … have to admit, I hadn’t seen that angle … and what were crusaders usually after?”

“The Holy Grail?”

“No … to free Jerusalem and earn their place in Heaven.”

“We’ve never had so much evidence, never before an eye witness. If we don’t find it soon then it could be another year before he surfaces again.”

“Piece it all together … and look at the evidence from a different angle … he’s as precise with a scalpel as I am. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed by the neighbours when he cut up Sanderson. He knew there wasn’t security or CCTV in the building … he stalks his prey and chooses his moment with split second accuracy … if Battersea is right; who’s he gunning for next?”

“Thanks, Gauge … beef for Christmas day?”

“Lovely! See you later.”

Gauge left and Peter was only marginally more energised by the visit. He called Derek.

“Who does he plan to kill next?”

“There isn’t anyone left in the same year group who has been that outspoken … it’s a potentially endless list and many of his biggest critics don’t live in London. I’ll keep looking.”

“Found the clothing and it was covered in Brian’s blood.”

“How did no-one see that?!”

“We think he turned the coat inside out to hide the worst and it was dark when he left.”

“Still a risk though … obviously didn’t use public transport … had somewhere to clean up; a private location accessible and within easy enough walking distance from the scene of every murder … I thought CCTV covered every square inch of the city?”

“It does now but it wasn’t always the case. He appears to know the weaknesses in the network and chooses a route to reduce the risk of being seen. If I give you all of the co-ordinates for every crime scene, do you think you could do anything with them?”

“I’ll try … not much else doing.”

“No; sorry … have you spoken to Luke?”

“He texted … he’ll be in the office on Monday to deal with the post.”

“Okay; I’ll email the information over … there isn’t anywhere else to go with this.”

“When will you be over?”

“Monday … meant to be going to my Mother’s tomorrow … talk to you later.”

“Okay …”

Peter dry humpf’d to himself, acknowledging how pathetic things really were, given he’d as good as delegated the case to the star witness. After fifteen years did he really know so little? He knew his eyes had grown weary; like the author who reads and re-reads his cherished manuscript, missing all of the obvious errors, dreading the moment when he receives back the editor’s marked-up copy which would point them all out.

With nothing fresh to go on, he left to go home and catch some sleep, readying himself to apologise to Cowrie for ruining their shopping trip, wondering if his mother would forgive him if he cancelled, knowing that she had probably already gone to M&S to purchase their lunch fare.

Just before he left, Trudy caught him to update him on the identity of the woman seen buying phone credit.

“Looks like a foreign plate … can’t see it clearly enough but I‘ve circulated it for what it’s worth. Only she and the teenager don’t check out …”

He knew he’d have to ask Cowrie about it; it was just part of the process but he still felt guilty and uncomfortable at the thought of even mentioning it.

The Porsche was missing and Peter slumped a little bit more, anticipating that Cowrie had gone without him.

“Honey!”

The house sang with silence and he threw his gear onto the hall chair and headed straight for the fridge to grab a beer in the hope that it nudged him into the zone where he might find some sleep.

Cowrie found him slumped on the sofa when he returned at five o’clock, dragging in the tree and a mountain of bags containing tinsel and garlands of LED lights.

“Hey!”

“Hey, sweetheart; I’m so sorry-”

“Honey! You don’t need to apologise … and I’ve ordered in Chinese for tonight. I take it things have begun to happen?”

It was the only real question which was allowed in the work-free zone; it couldn’t be ignored all of the time.

“Yes … to a degree … but still nothing conclusive. I’m half-tempted to cancel tomorrow and I would have had I not fallen asleep; she’ll definitely have shopped by now.”

“I’ll drive so you’ll only have to smile and eat all of your vegetables. If not tomorrow then when?”

“True …”

Despite the domestic bliss, the issue of the phone credit was preying on Peter’s mind and he didn’t really know how to broach the subject. The CCTV footage from the supermarket had clearly shown Cowrie buying phone credit on the day in question. As a lead, it was nothing but it had to be checked and discounted because someone would remember and ask the question.

Cowrie was sorting bags away, not intent on putting the tree up until the Monday.

“Sweetheart!” Peter called out, struggling to find the correct tone of voice; much like the doting parent might use to ask the apple of their eye if they had indeed thrown the rock at the neighbour’s greenhouse, however unlikely.

“Yes, hon’?”

“Did your Mother take a mobile phone with her when she went to South America?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Why do you ask; do we need to phone her?”

“Oh, no … I just wanted to know in case we needed to get hold of her.”

“I bought her a brand new phone for the trip and because I have a spare number on my contract, I gave it to her so that she didn’t have to worry about topping it up out there. She’ll repay me the charges when she gets back.”

“Good idea. Do we still have the old spare in the Porsche; in case of emergencies?”

“Uhm … yes … and I topped it up the last time I was down with her, just before she left.”

“Great … I always forget.”

“Are you worried about my prostate thing on Tuesday? I’ve emailed her already and told her about the test.”

“Not worried exactly; I didn’t want you to think that I’d forgotten about it.”

“Honey!”

Cowrie scampered over to plonk himself down at Peter’s knees, hugging them reassuringly.

“You’re always thinking about me and don’t imagine for a second that I don’t know how stressful work is for you right now. I took the test to get the earliest possible indication; it’s really just routine.”

“I know … but I can’t stop myself from worrying; even just a little bit.”

“Have a bath, sweetheart and I’ll sort the bags and go and get our Chinese. If you really want to cancel tomorrow then I’ll call Miriam and lie to her that I have the ‘flu or something.”

“No; we must go … I will have a bath though; I must stink!”

“A little musky, agreed … not unattractive.”

The rather salacious tone slithered into Peter’s ears and drew a smile on his lips, flicking the switch behind his eyes, igniting the pilot light. Why then did he see Derek’s face in his mind’s eye; and then the phrase he had used ‘a phase of the moon’ spun through his head like an asteroid hurtling through dead empty Space.

“Peter?”

He came to his senses; “Shit! Sorry; I’m just so tired.”

He struggled to his feet to head for the bathroom, avoiding Cowrie’s eyes as he did so, hoping that his excuse answered the question. As strange as it sounded, as soon as he was alone in the bathroom, he felt as if he was waking up from a deep trance; as if the snake had charmed him and then, just before the strike, the sudden and alarming rapid beating of a gong had dragged him out of the stupor, sending the snake darting back into its basket.

“Where is thy luster now? All dark and comfortless …”

“Why are you quoting King Lear?”

He hadn’t heard Cowrie approach the door, bringing him another beer.

“It’s as if he plucks out my eyes whenever I manage to see anything clearly.”

“It’s because you’re so close, Peter. He’ll do anything to stay one step ahead … just relax.”

Peter accepted the beer and watched Cowrie disappear down the hallway.

“I’ll never care what wickedness I do; if this man come to good.”

oOo

“Bye, Mum; thank you for the perfect lunch. Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier coming to us for Christmas?”

“Don’t be silly, Peter. Joyce is expecting me and I can walk. Just call me as usual.”

“Okay; I love you.”

“I love you too. Tell Cowrie not to drive too fast!”

“Mother!”

Peter joined Cowrie who was already warming up the car.

“Don’t drive too fast!”

“Oh, God! If only she knew that you get more speeding tickets then me!”

“Don’t tell her!”

“Why? Perhaps she should know what a reprobate you really are. Relax; I’ll take it easy.”

Peter sunk back in the seat and closed his eyes, actually willing time to fly to bring the day of the trip that bit closer and with it, the prospect of the transfer to SFO. The sands of his motivation to get DJ were slipping through the glass and now everything seemed confusing and pointless. Cowrie flicked on the radio to find some classical music, partly to quell his desire to put his foot down and partly to dispel the raw acid taste of another afternoon with Miriam who he knew hated him and always had.

“Peter … I’m going to stop for a coffee at the services; do you want one?”

Peter turned his head, barely opening his eyes; “No thanks, darling.”

Pulling into the services at Wisley, Cowrie aimed for the parking bays out of the way of the petrol pumps and hopped out to amble to the shop to grab a coffee, leaving Peter semi-comatose, listening to Dvorak’s New World Symphony.

After a little doze, he woke up completely. The windscreen had misted up and he reached into the glove box for the pad which they used to de-mist the screen.

He found the de-misting pad but realised that the spare phone was missing. It was difficult to miss because it was kept in a lurid, neon green cover, laughingly to make it easier to find in the dark. He wiped the windscreen from top to bottom, clearing tracks in the fog. He squinted for signs of Cowrie, now anxious to just get home and go to bed.

He could see Cowrie talking to a woman just inside the big automatic sliding door of the petrol station. It appeared to Peter that Cowrie handed her something; then he turned and strode towards the car, quickening his pace when he saw that Peter was awake.

“Right! Let’s go …”

Whilst Cowrie was fumbling to insert the key back into the ignition, Peter asked, “The spare phone isn’t in the glove box. Do you-”

“Shit! I left it on charge at my mother’s; bollocks!”

“It doesn’t really matter; it’s only useful because it gets a better signal than either mine or yours when we turn off at Compton.”

“I’ll get it next time I’m there.”

Cowrie re-started the car and pulled out, blipping the accelerator to increase his speed to match the other cars on the main carriageway which he joined expertly, weaving in between two cars to pull into the fast lane and let rip for thirty seconds.

“That camera definitely flashed.”

“I only have three points on my license at the moment … I want to move out of London …”

Peter took a moment to process the sudden, seemingly random statement.

“Why?”

“I’m tired and bored of the place. If you get a transfer then I’m going to use that to try something new myself.”

“Where?”

“Actually, I like Guildford … or Godalming … Petersfield is very nice …”

“What would you do?”

“I can do most of the job by phone and email … I could travel in for meetings; we could have a garden … and a dog!”

“Oh my God! What did my Mother put in that tea?”

Cowrie pulled out to overtake a lorry and Peter sensed that the manoeuvre had been unnecessarily risky given the state of the roads which were already sparkling in places where the ice was forming.

“Cowrie?”

“I fucking hate the way that your Mother treats me at times!”

The outburst was both unprecedented and unannounced.

“Sweetheart?”

Silence reigned for a few seconds.

“Swee-”

“I’m sorry … she always looks down on me and I really don’t know why.”

“I don’t think she does … you know she’s uptight about everything. Your Mum is so much more laid back … anyway … duty done and she’s not coming for Christmas.”

“Sorry …”

Peter wanted to divert the conversation away from mothers and remembered the woman in the petrol station.

“What did that woman in the petrol station want?”

“Which woman?”

“The one you stopped to speak to; the one who was just inside the doors of the shop.”

“Oh … her … nothing; she needed some change for the vending machine.”

The question appeared to diffuse the bomb; the remainder of the journey was outburst-free and they avoided any more speeding fines. However, as soon as they let themselves back into the house, Cowrie headed straight for the study and Peter assumed that he planned to email his mother, who Peter had secretly nicknamed ‘Ellen the melon’; primarily because she was so chilled and slightly round.

Whilst Cowrie was thus engaged, Peter changed and sat down in the living room to finalise the menu for Christmas lunch and jot down the list of wines which he wanted to buy. Needing to check whether Toby was still a vegan, he popped into the study to ask Cowrie and found him glued to his seat in front of the computer screen, checking something on what Peter recognised as Cowrie’s bank’s website.

“Hey … is Toby still vegan?”

Cowrie turned slowly, exhibiting some difficulty in peeling his eyes from the screen.

“Uhm … yes … what time are you going in tomorrow?”

“Early; you?”

“Late … and drinks with Jolly.”

“I’ll be late … I’ll grab something out so don’t cook.”

“I’ll suggest to Jolly that we eat out then … oh, and I’m seeing the doctor at ten o’clock on Tuesday; the clinic emailed. They have the blood test results back.”

“Did you want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s fine, sweetheart but thanks; it’s just routine.”

“Okay … I was going to have a shower and get ready for bed … you going to be long?”

“No … I’ll come and find you …”

“Okay …”

Before he headed for the shower, Peter texted Derek and indicated that he would be over for breakfast. He got a smiley face texted back and despite all reason, smiled to himself and actually felt the heat of a blush paint his cheeks.

As he stood under the rose of the shower and let the water rinse the shampoo out of his hair, Cowrie joined him, squeezing in to the cubicle, instantly pressing his lips to Peter’s own, manoeuvring him slightly to get his fair share of the water.

“Let me scrub your back …”

Peter, being well-versed in the routine, smiled broadly and with his eyes still closed, turned within the confines of the reduced space, feeling Cowrie’s erection graze his thigh. Whilst Peter was braced against the tiled wall, Cowrie first soaped up his crack, lingering over the bud which to him resembled a rose which had been pressed flat. A faded dusty red rose, retaining the faint perfume of its heyday; much like the one he had found between the pages of the copy of Caravan to Calvaire which he had plucked from the bookcase all those years ago, pausing for a moment to read the dedication which had read ‘To Adolphus, with grateful thanks, Brian’.

“That feels amazingly good …”

Peter’s words brought him back to the here and now, adding a piquancy to the moment as he delved and probed, transferring some of the soapy foam to his cock for the planting.

He pressed the rose anew and allowed Peter to squirm his way to their mutual climax, biting down on his shoulder at the last moment to elicit a final strangulated FUCK from his lover’s mouth whilst he sucked and drew up a fresh bloom; a contusion of cravings and needs that never faded; painted on the ivory skin as delicately as those hand-painted roses on the tea cups which his mother kept for best.

Towel-dried and standing behind Peter at the bathroom sink, he dabbed at the tiny puncture wounds with the antiseptic, grimacing at Peter’s sharp intake of breath.

“I love you …”

Peter searched and in the mirror’s reflection found those fathomless hypnotic green stars which flashed their warning yet invited him in.

“I’ll come with you on Tuesday …”

Chapter Ten – Triumvirate

“Fresh bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon; freshly squeezed orange juice, double espresso and two hundred Dunhill International.”

“Good morning, Peter!”

“I know this sucks but at least you’ll die of boredom with a full stomach at the tax payers’ expense.”

“Wait until you see the analysis … thank you …”

Peter was in unfamiliar territory; he’d never wooed a mate before. Up to the point of meeting Cowrie, he’d only fucked men whom he’d met at the gym. He’d never wanted the complication before he’d met Cowrie and though he’d never admitted it to himself, Cowrie was complicated; and much like his mother’s obsession with needlepoint, he could never justify the investment of energy in the process which seemed to bring her so much pleasure. Cowrie satisfied a different need but demanded so much in return.

Derek was uncomplicated as far as he could tell; alluringly simple and untroubled by the hint of a paunch which, under Peter’s hand, filled his head with more romantic thoughts in the course of one hour than in all of the previous fifteen years.

Derek had moved in the direction of the large coffee table upon which was spread out a map of Westminster. Peter joined him to be wooed in a different way.

“I’ve plotted all of the murder scenes; those are the red dots … most coincide with the blue dots which are either the places of work or homes - or both - of each victim-”

“What are the black lines?”

“The routes which had no or the least number of CCTV cameras operating over them.”

“But what was the starting point? I mean; routes from where?”

“Stratford Place; where the clothes were found. It’s the only verifiable sighting of him other than at the book shop.”

“How did you find all this stuff about the CCTV cameras?”

“They’re all on the internet … not that it’s that obvious but all of the lines dissect a certain point; well, not a point, more of an area. I couldn’t be too precise because there are multiple routes from one location to another … but this area here …”

And Derek pointed it out, tracing the outline of the space with his finger like he was stirring a cup of coffee …

“… is where all the lines at least touch and in some cases criss-cross.”

Peter peered intently at the map and the web of lines which drew him in like the fly he felt he must ape at times.

“Stratford Place …that’s here …”

And Peter placed his finger directly on the junction of Stratford Place and Oxford Street.

“… if he’d changed somewhere and bagged up the clothes, he wouldn’t risk carrying them too far; there are too many residential properties just north of this area to search; there are none to the south, east or west of it.”

“What about Stratford Place itself?”queried Derek.

“No residential; just the Oriental Club, the Kabbalah Centre and the two high commissions … and this IT firm which occupies number seven.”

“There has to be something near there …”

They shared breakfast as they pondered the questions.

“Anything more on the links between the victims or on the book?”

“Nothing; Opedia Gregory wrote one book - Angry Fire - and then retired to Spain. She died thirty-five years ago.”

“Why champion her cause?”

“I don’t know … what next?”

“For now, we wait until he enters the system or re-surfaces and makes a mistake which leads us to him.”

“You mean his finger-print?”

“That or his DNA …”

“If I saw him again then I’m sure I’d recognise him.”

“Out of the disguise?”

Peter wasn’t being deliberately dismissive; he’d just learned to be very cautious in the estimation of his chances.

“Maybe something would gel; a look, his mannerisms or how he walked.”

“How did he walk?”

“A confident stride … determined, not cocky.”

Try as hard as he could, Peter couldn’t completely hide the frustration. Derek’s efforts merely added to it at the moment. In so many ways, he thought that he’d over-analysed the entire case and in so doing, had overlooked the obvious clue which, when pointed out, would make everyone gape in wonder or utter disbelief.

Peter flopped onto the sofa and let out an agonised sigh, covering his eyes with the balls of his thumbs, pressing hard to counter the pressure behind his eyes. When Derek’s hands landed on his knees, he lifted his palms but dared not risk meeting the gaze. He relinquished himself by letting his knees fall further part and when Derek slid his hands along the length of his thighs, he let himself be exposed; not the defiant lamb inviting the blade but the supplicant, pleading for leniency. Derek’s hands glided into the narrow point of the ‘v’, framing the mound, causing the fabric of the suit trousers which Peter was wearing to stretch and accentuate the curvature of his cock and the plumpness of his scrotum. It elicited a sigh of a very different kind.

He was barely aware of Derek’s efforts to unbuckle his belt and unzip his flies. Only when he felt the man’s fingers push aside the vent in his briefs and fish out his cock, did he really connect with the sensations and then he had no choice as Derek enveloped him and sucked hard; yet still he could not look.

Quickly the surge was upon him and it rose majestically like a swan; broad powerful flaps carried him higher and he imagined his load flying from the edges of the wings of the bird like droplets of water raining down as shards of light which pierced the surface of the lake, sending up sprays of pond lilies in their stead. The touch of Derek’s lips upon his shattered the scene and the harsh realities came down as the curtain does at the end of the play.

“Look at me.”

He opened his eyes, expecting the familiar swirling eddies of green but found the safe comforting pools of brown.

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know,” Derek stuttered, smiling cautiously, almost timidly.

“I can’t promise anything-”

“I wasn’t asking you to. Just be honest with me when the time comes.”

“I can promise you that … are you sure?”

“Surer than I’ve ever been. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Be a little patient … I can’t just walk away.”

“Of course you can’t. What will you say?”

“I don’t know yet; probably nothing about us. Separating will be hard enough without the inquisition. It’ll all come out in the end but just for now I need to play it very carefully.”

“I’ll be here for you. What about now?”

“I have to go soon; it’s always the curse of this job. If you need to get out this week then I’ll arrange it.”

“I have to sign some things and I really would like to see Luke before Christmas.”

“Safer if he comes here; I’ll sort it.”

“Thank you. Will you be back today?”

“I’ll try; can’t promise. I’ll call you later.”

They got up from the sofa and Peter put himself back together, smiling coyly from beneath his eyebrows as he tucked himself in and zipped up.

“Speak to Luke and get him to organise all of the stuff that he needs to bring over and I’ll sort out the transport when I get back and I’ll call you to confirm.”

“Okay … take care.”

Derek was slowly bouncing from one foot to the other; almost afraid to reach out in case he broke something. Peter caught him up in an embrace and kissed him hard; momentarily confused when he tasted his own sex on Derek’s tongue, melting into the kiss as Derek’s stubby little fingers wove themselves into his hair.

Breaking away breathless and flushed, Derek said, “Don’t forget the map; maybe someone at the station will see something we haven’t.”

“Good idea; thank you.”

“No worries …”

The harsh beep and drone of the buzzer which signalled that Derek had just received a text animated them both. Derek grabbed the phone and read the text.

“Luke is at the station … he called you but got Chandler. There’s been a break-in at the office.”

Peter responded by picking up his own phone. Once he’d switched it back on, he was greeted with three text messages from Chandler, each asking the same question – Where are you?

Peter dialled a number rapidly, puffing out his cheeks and stealing a glance at Derek before being connected, “Put Luke Farthing on … at the safe house … immediately … go get him then!”

Peter turned to Derek, “Probably best if you come back with me; you can show Joel the map …”

Derek said nothing and set about collecting up the papers, ferreting for his bag which was under the table.

“Luke; this is DI Nation … I’m bringing Derek back over … I don’t know. What was taken … are you sure? Fine … unlikely … half an hour or so … yes; wait there. Okay … bye.”

“What did he say?”

“The computer back-up drive is missing from your desk. He knew that you didn’t have it because he put it away himself after he backed up the system before the weekend.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that he can see … we’ll dust the place down.”

“But why take that? It’s not worth anything.”

“Is it encrypted?”

“Yes …”

“Get your stuff; let’s go!”

The silence in the car just made more space for the unvoiced questions; both knew what the other was thinking but lacked the courage to say anything. The tension was only bearable because the traffic was a bitch and demanded Peter’s attention. Ultimately, it was Derek who put their thoughts into words.

“It was him, wasn’t it?”

“I think he’s trying to flush you out.”

“But even if he knew that I had provided you with the photofit, I wasn’t the only one in the shop … and like you said, out of the disguise, I probably wouldn’t recognise him … so what’s he worried about?”

“It’s something else … he’s remembered something … as unhelpful as the analogy is; your finger is on the trigger because sooner or later you’re going to realise what it is that you know.”

“So you think he’s going to try to k-”

“I don’t know what he’s going to try to do … just relax.”

“He can’t get to me at the station, can he?”

“No … nor will he. We’ll move you again.”

Arriving at the station brought some relief as they busied themselves, gathering up bags to head for the entrance. As they entered, Peter stepped quickly forward to catch the attention of one of the young officers behind the counter to ask him to escort Derek upstairs and deposit him with Joel. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a man who had stood up quickly and advanced; turning, he took a second to register who it was.

“Peter!”

“Cow … Cowrie; what-?”

But instead of answering him, Cowrie turned his head towards Derek.

“Derek? What are you doing here? I thought you were at your Mother’s …”

Disarmed by the tone which was bordering on accusational, Derek managed to stutter, “The office was broken into … I-”

“Field! Take Mr Battersea upstairs, would you?”

Peter turned to Derek, gesturing with his hand that he should follow the young officer; “I’ll be up in a moment.”

“Okay,” managed Derek, unable to stop himself from glancing at Cowrie; at a loss to explain why he felt so threatened.

Only after Derek had disappeared, did Cowrie advance any closer or say anything and when he did, Peter detected the forced injection of confidence mixed with joviality; the same tone with which he always addressed Miriam.

“I’ve bloody well gone and locked myself out of the car; I need to borrow your keys …”

“Oh … uhm; hang on then …”

Peter rummaged in his satchel for his set of keys. Once he’d dug them out, he set the bag down to remove the spare car key from the ring.

“There you go … I’m sorry, Cowrie but I have to run.”

“No; go ahead. It was just the keys; see you later.”

Cowrie took the offered key and surreptitiously gave Peter’s hand a squeeze, whispering, “I love you; take care!” He bounded out before Peter had a chance to reply with anything more than a sad and hollow little 'bye'.

Only as he mounted the stairs to ascend to his floor, did he realise that Cowrie hadn’t phoned or texted to alert him to the fact that he needed the key or that he was waiting for him.

Chapter Eleven – The Bard knows best

He found Derek with Joel and they were both peering at the map, now laid out on the big outer office table. As Peter entered the office, Derek glanced up in Peter’s direction, the eyes asking all of the questions pertinent to the exchange which had taken place downstairs.

“Derek, do you have a moment?”

Derek followed him into his office and closed the door.

“Why didn’t you tell me th-?”

“That I’m married to Cowrie? Because everyone here knows him and tongues will wag …”

“I think he knows; about us.”

“I think so too … I’ll deal with it later. What was on the back-up drive that could conceivably be of value to someone?”

“Bugger all really; the odd draft manuscript, contracts, accounts … it’s all encrypted though. Why does he want me in the open?”

“Probably to see how well you are being protected; which will tell him how important you are to the case.”

“So he must be watching.”

“It’s a safe assumption. Just run through the signing event one more time.”

Derek recounted the events and stopped repeatedly to clarify a point or correct his portrayal; now convinced he’d dreamed half of it.

“From which pocket did he take the wallet?”

“The inside left.”

“Was the wallet new?”

“As new; not bulging … as far as I could see, it contained just the two ten pound notes. I don’t remember seeing any credit cards.”

“We didn’t find it with the rest of the stuff which he dumped; which suggests to me that it wasn’t a prop but something personal … perhaps even cherished.”

Silence reined for a minute before Derek suggested tracking down Luke.

“Yes; let’s find him. Once you’ve done the admin then we’ll move you again.”

“Won’t he try and flush me out again? If you send me home, won’t that suggest to him that I’m no longer important?”

Peter quirked his lips, struggling with the definition of that word.

“We can’t risk it-”

“He broke into the office … what will he do next time?”

“I will protect you-”

“What about Luke … or my Mum?”

Peter didn’t have a ready answer; the spiel he usually ran out didn’t sound convincing enough.

“What do you want to do?”

“Go home; I’d rather take my chances.”

“I can’t sanction that; you’re the only witness … I can assign protection to Luke and your Mother.”

“For how long?”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

Derek jumped back from the edge of the desk and a few seconds later, Trudy opened the door, poking her head in.

“Guv’?”

“Find Luke Farthing, Trudy, please.”

Peter attempted to regroup, making the mistake of looking at the photograph on his desk.

“I’m sorry, Derek … we just need a little more time to work out the best plan.”

“It’s okay … I wasn’t trying to be difficult.”

“I know … sort your stuff out with Luke and we’ll agree on the next step. I need to speak to Joel and see Gauge.”

Luke appeared at that moment and saved them both from any further angst. Leaving them to sort out the affairs of the business, Peter headed over to see Joel who was examining the map.

“What do you make of it?”

“First rate analysis … but the key is to add the lines as each CCTV camera was added to the network. Fifteen years ago, there were many fewer and he could move more freely; now he’s much more restricted. As each camera was added, you can see the change in the route he would have to have taken … if we assume he started out from somewhere in the five hundred metre radius of Stratford Place.”

“I need to see Gauge; get Chandler to check all of the properties north of Stratford Place which have not changed hands for the last fifteen or more years.”

“How will he do that?”

“Council tax records, register of electors and school admission roles … this guy hasn’t moved in fifteen years; there can’t be too many like him.”

“Anything else?”

“Where can you buy a Loake wallet? Find records of sales within the last six months … and has Trudy got anything back from our European brethren on the woman or the car?”

“Okay, Guv’.”

Peter descended to the first floor and found Gauge in his office.

“Gauge …”

“Nothing much new for you, Peter … something I can’t yet identify on the very edge of the collar of the jacket, fibres on the socks which probably transferred from the carpeting of the location where he changed into them, evidence of recent dry cleaning of the jacket. I found a dead moth in one of the pockets so I assume he had it dry cleaned to rid it of the smell of the camphor which I also found minute traces of; these clothes have been stored for a long time …”

“Thank you …”

“Don’t look so dejected, Peter; we will get him. What’s the significance of this break-in which Danny was spouting on about in the canteen?”

Peter explained as best as he could and offered up the theory.

“I’ll let you have the results as quickly as I can … how’s Cowrie?”

“Fine … gets the results of the blood test tomorrow; the prostate is slightly enlarged and the chances are that he’ll have it out in January.”

“Probably best … go and do something, Peter. I’ll report on the break-in by lunchtime; sooner if there’s anything of note.”

Peter retraced his steps to find Derek and Luke who had just finished their administration. Both looked up expectantly.

Taking a deep breath to give himself the extra moment of processing before having to come to the decision about protection, he was interrupted by Trudy.

“Guv’; got something back on the car.”

Grateful for the interruption, he apologised to the two men and towed Trudy into his office.

“Car and driver matching description from the CCTV in the supermarket being held by Immigration at Dover.”

“What’s her story?”

“Visiting family and friends before Christmas; stopped to buy fuel and got the credit in case she broke down.”

“So she was using an English mobile phone.”

“Frequent visitor; kept one in the car because it was cheaper than using her Spanish one …”

“Have we checked that the voucher she purchased was used to top up the phone in her possession?”

“Waiting on it … what do I tell them?”

“Anything; she was caught speeding on the M20 or parked on double yellow lines in Faversham … she doesn’t move before that phone is checked out … because if she does check out then it was the teenager and we’ve got nothing on him.”

“Okay … and Battersea?”

“I’m going to take him back to the safe house and post uniform with Farthing and Battersea’s Mother.”

“The DCI wants a word.”

Peter guessed he would, given the overtime forms which he’d signed for the weekend.

After parking Derek and Luke in his office, using the hastily called audience with the DCI as cover for his delay in explaining the plan, he marched quickly to Clive’s office.

“Clive …”

“Got a new chap starting who I’d like you to use on DJ …”

And there it was; the ringing of the bell which signals that they had reached the last lap; well, Peter’s last lap. Would it turn out to be a lap of honour? Peter somehow doubted it.

“Who?”

“Capsicum; DC James Capsicum; comes highly recommended … fresh eyes on the case, Peter.”

The tone invited no comment.

“Has my leave been approved?” Peter asked in the most casual tone possible, knowing the response would answer all remaining questions.

“Approved … as has your request to transfer to the SFO.”

“R-i-g-h-t … best get on then!”

The DCI didn’t even look up from his desk.

Alleviated of a mountain of pressure because clearly no-one now expected him to solve DJ, his step back to his office was a tad lighter than of late but his guts squirmed with so many unspent emotions.

“Derek; I’m taking you back to the safe house and posting uniform to look after you, Luke and both of your Mothers.”

“What if he’s watching?” ventured Derek.

“If he is then he’s doing it via the CCTV network … which will be switched off for twenty minutes just as we leave. He won’t have a clue as to where we are.”

“What about the office?” asked Luke, looking at Derek, “What about the business; won’t we’ll lose it?”

Derek’s face suggested that the business had already been lost once he’d agreed to hand out flyers to advertise cocktails bars.

“Out of bounds until after the New Year,” interjected Peter.

“Take a break, Luke-”

“But-”

“Gentleman, we have to leave shortly.”

That ended the conference and propelled them all into action.

As Derek and Peter left the office, Peter signalled to Joel who picked up the phone on his desk.

“We have twenty minutes of black out.”

“Can you do that?”

“Not officially; I’ll probably lose my job.”

“Please don’t lose it on my account.”

“Why not?”

Throughout the entire journey, Derek had a smile on his face and Peter hummed his favourite adagio.

Back in the apartment, it was without any ceremony that they moved to the bedroom and started to disrobe.

“Fuck!”

“What?”

“Your shoulder … what happened?”

Peter turned his head to survey the bruise, wondering how honest he could afford to be.

“Things got a little … rampant.”

“He knows and he wanted me to see it.”

“Why?”

“So that I would know that you’d been … together … and that he’s stronger.”

“I will leave him.”

“Will he let go?”

Peter didn’t want to think about Cowrie and invited Derek into his arms, hugging him so tightly that Derek could hardly breathe.

“I-love-you … Pe … ter …”

The words caused Peter to release his hold and slump against Derek who struggled to keep them upright. In a somewhat ungainly fashion, he managed to stumble to the bed before they crashed onto it.

“You barely know me, Der-”

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”[2]

“At least it wasn’t fucking Lorca!”

Chapter Twelve – Playing Safe

Trudy’s update came through just as he pulled away from the flats.

“Got something, Guv’ … and Gauge needs to speak to you … avoid the DCI at all costs … who the fuck is James Capsicum?”

The message, delivered in Trudy’s customary deadpan tone which she used when leaving messages, kind of put everything into a nutshell.

“It ain’t over until the fat lady sings …”

Swinging into the car park, he spied the Porsche parked up in one of the visitors’ spaces.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Cowrie was in the outer office, apparently waiting to hand back the car key.

“Uhm … thanks but you didn’t need to call in specially.”

“I don’t trust myself not to do it again; better that you have it back … Jolly cancelled so I’ll be in earlier tonight.”

“I won’t be that much earlier than I planned.”

“Text me if you think it’ll be past midnight.”

“Okay …”

No stolen kiss or squeeze came Peter’s way before Cowrie simply upped and left.

“Trudy!”

As it was, Trudy, Danny and Chandler trooped in behind Peter.

“Who the fuck is this James Capsicum, boss?”

“Fresh eyes on the case, Danny … and probably the next occupant of this office.”

“When are you leaving?”

“April, Chan’ … don’t queer your pitch with him, else you’ll be back on the beat. What we got, Trudy; let’s at least attempt to go out in a blaze of glory!”

“The Spanish woman is actually English; Jocelyn Gregory; she lives in Madrid. Something’s not quite right because although she used the voucher to top up her own phone, amongst the numbers she called there are two which appear almost daily …”

Trudy handed Peter the print out with the highlighted numbers.

“Are you sure these are right?”

“Positive.”

“That’s my landline and that’s Cowrie’s mobile.”

None of the others said anything; nor did they when Peter picked up the phone and called Cowrie.

“Cowrie … who is Jocelyn Gregory? … Oh is she … oh you are … tell you later … bye.”

Peter turned to the others, “She’s an author whom Cowrie is attempting to sign up; they’ve been negotiating contracts over the last month. I wonder why they didn’t just meet …”

“What do we do with her?”

“Let her go, Trudy …we’re left with the teenager and unless anyone can identify him then we’re back to square one … who do you buy credit for?”

“An ex who should have his kna-”

“Yes, Trudy! Who else?”

“Older family members, a grandparent; more likely to be someone older because they don’t use the phone that much unless he bought it for himself.”

“That’s the point, Danny; he didn’t … five ten pound vouchers bought by five different people. We knew which voucher was used to top up DJ’s phone; we just didn’t know who had bought that voucher. We’ve eliminated four out of the five so the kid bought the voucher for DJ … we assume they know each other … or the kid lost the phone or it was stolen …”

“So we have to find the kid.”

“Guv’ … is there any point in looking through the CCTV from the supermarket since that date? In case he topped up again and gives us a better view of his face?”

“Be my guest, Chan’ … maybe Joel can help with that facial recognition software he conned me into buying. So; one teenager and a break-in at Battersea’s office … did Gauge say what he’d found, Trudy?”

“The corner of an Oyster card which looks to have been used to open the lock; probably broke off …nothing else disturbed; thief knew exactly where to find the desk key.”

“We know it wasn’t an inside job because Battersea was at the safe house and Luke was at his Mum’s … who knew then?”

“A close friend?”

“It was of no value to anyone except possibly a competing agent … but the data was encrypted.”

“They wouldn’t necessarily know that though, would they?”

“No … so it could be a genuine theft by a competitor … or it was DJ trying to flush Battersea out.”

“Battersea doesn’t know anything.”

“He doesn’t think he does … if it is DJ just trying to keep tabs on him then maybe that works to our advantage … usually he goes underground; now he’s above ground and it’s not his preferred habitat … what would you do, Chan’?”

“Eliminate Battersea and remove the threat …”

“Best keep him safe then!”

There was a knock at the door and everyone turned because everyone was in the room bar Joel who never knocked.

“Come in!”

“I’m looking for DI Nation,” said the man who walked through the door as if he’d just strolled off of the cover of GQ.

“I’m DI Nation … you are?”

“DC James Capsicum …”

oOo

“Cowrie!”

The house was in darkness and silent save for the steady hum of the central heating boiler.

“Cowrie?”

Peter dumped his stuff on the kitchen chair, slipping his hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone to check for messages. There were none, so he called Cowrie and got his voicemail service. He left a short message and then called Derek.

‘Hey!”

“Hi … I appear to be alone; maybe he’s beaten me to the punch … anyway, the DC who has joined the case has suggested we stage a re-enactment of the signing event to jog memories … how would you feel about that?”

“Okay, I guess … who’s playing DJ?”

“Undecided; but you’d be okay with it?”

“Yes … anything to help …”

Neither spoke until Peter felt compelled to say something about Derek’s declaration.

“I don’t want to say how I feel over the telephone … I’ll see you tomorrow. I have to bring the DC over to meet you and he’ll want to run through the re-enactment with you because no-one else can describe the scene as clearly as you can. I’ll call you in the morning to let you know what time we’re going to be over. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah … where is he?”

“No idea …he had drinks planned with Jolly Banks but that got cancelled so maybe he’s hooked up with someone else. We have the clinic in the morning to get the blood test result back then I’ll be over with this new DC … it’s late.”

“It’s okay; you’re tired … I was never one for the long goodbye … sleep well and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“For sure; bye.”

Peter thought how unlike Derek was to Cowrie in almost every way. In the past, their goodbyes had taken longer than the main topic of conversation. As he flipped the phone shut, he heard the familiar sound of the keys jangling in the lock.

Peter flicked on the hall light and stood waiting for Cowrie to walk through the door.

oOo

Emptying the wardrobe and the set of drawers into the two newly acquired suitcases had taken an hour. A further two hours had been spent cleaning everything and wiping down with the stuff that Gauge had once recommended for cleaning the kitchen worktops. The fact that it was usually reserved for cleaning the mortuary table was rather poetic he thought.

He waited for dusk and left the flat, nipping across the road to deposit the black bag which was full of the cleaning cloths into the waste bin. Switching everything off, he trundled the suitcases behind him until he reached the corner of Oxford Street, where he hailed a cab. He directed the cabbie to take him along Oxford Street towards Centre Point, asking him to turn left at Tottenham Court Road which they followed until they reached the junction with the Euston Road where they turned right and then left into Eversholt Street. Cowrie asked the cabbie to drop him opposite the Travel Lodge.

Once the cab had driven off, he walked smartly, occasionally stopping to allow a pedestrian to pass him as he had the two bags in tow. At Barnby Street he turned left and immediately dived into the first basement flat, leaving the bags at the top of the steps until he had unlocked the front door. For now, he left the bags in the hallway and scooted back to Euston to take the Tube to Oxford Circus, changing for the Central Line for home to freshen up for drinks with Mathers and Elizabeth.

None of this cured him of the feeling of annoyance which made him feel itchy and the effort to ignore it was at no small cost.

The trigger had been meeting Derek in the police station; clearly not suffering from a cold and evidently under protection, albeit a fact that he would never have expected Peter to share with him; but it still irked that something had fallen beneath his radar. The obvious connection between Peter and Derek had only registered once he’d returned to the house and logged on to the CCTV monitoring website; only to be presented with a blank screen.

“He’d never risk it for anyone else … fuck!”

Annoyance built to a head of angry steam as he realised that Peter had out-smarted him. Jocelyn’s carefully worded text brought about a moment of complete dumbfoundedness.

“How-the-fuck did he find her?”

If Peter had found her then the call was expected; the cover story was sound but he’d never been so close to the centre of the cross wires. In many ways it was exciting.

When the CCTV monitoring station feed was restored, he scanned the obvious routes but got tired of watching stationary queues of traffic. When Peter’s call did come, he knew it was time to move. Cutting his emotional tie to Peter was only marginally more difficult than it had been to forge it in the first place; beefy, hairy coppers did nothing for him. The years of careful grooming had added but a veneer which was no thinner than when the simple plod believed himself to be ‘hopelessly in love’.

“Good luck, Derek!”

He practised his splitting up speech whilst totting up the value of the partnership’s assets; chief amongst them, the house and some ISAs. Hopefully Derek would buy out his half of the trip to Oz!

When Jocelyn texted to report that she was finally on her way, he almost stalled. No; not if the rather tasty, freshly minted DC who had arrived at the station whilst he’d waited for Peter to return in order to hand back the key was anything to go by; fulfilling his potential would be a welcome change … and that look had bordered on salacious, hadn’t it?

Jolly’s cancellation opened up the opportunity to invite Elizabeth out for drinks with Mathers with whom a new partnership now looked advantageous.

Stepping lightly up to the front door at the end of the evening was spiced with thoughts of just what would Peter say in his defence?

oOo

“Hi …”

“Just tell me that you’ve been playing safe whilst you’ve been sleeping around …”

Chapter Thirteen – Book ends

“I’ll be back for the books when I’ve sorted my new place-”

“COWRIE!”

“Leave it, Peter … I hope that you’ll be very happy together; truly, I do-”

“Please let me explain-”

“We’ve been through this a hundred times, Peter; the valuer will be round to value the property at some point this week. I’ll accept ten thousand for my share of the car or all of the ISAs; you decide.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m at my Mother’s for the time being-”

“What about your chemo?”

“All sorted … just let it go, Peter. I don’t think I can handle your guilt on top of that … you’ve made your bed so lie in it; at least you won’t be alone.”

Three weeks hadn’t taken the edge off of the performance; what had all that training been for, if not to fool the audience?

Storming out on the night of the confrontation had set things up nicely; Christmas had been ruined and Peter’s emotional state had consigned his career to the backwaters of file reviews with the SFO. The hiatus in the DJ investigation whilst James got himself up to speed provided Cowrie with the perfect window; and being diagnosed with prostate cancer, the resulting surgery and the chemotherapy diverted attention and kept the sympathy vote firmly lodged in his corner.

Now he just had to decide when to fly out and see Jocelyn.

When he thought about Peter and Derek, he did have to treat himself to a wry little smile. He gave them a year before the cracks started to appear. James was being very attentive; a little circumspect but that was to be expected, wasn’t it?

oOo

“Shall we box these books up then? It’ll save us having to watch him do it.”

“If you want, Derek …”

“Peter?”

“I don’t regret what I did for a second … and I’m so happy … it’s just … well, you know what I’m trying to say. I’ll fetch the boxes from the garage and we’ll make a start. Once it’s all gone, we’ll redecorate and then there’s Oz to look forward to.”

“I wish you’d let me pay half-”

“It’s your birthday present; unless you would rather go to California.”

“No … I’m good … we’re together and the rest is a bonus.”

Peter headed to the garage to fetch the boxes for the books, hoping that he’d inadvertently scratch the Porsche and have to have it repainted; the green only sought to remind him of a certain person.

“Stack them in the hall and I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Okay … I’ve decided to take that job as the data analyst; moving back with ATOC again.”

“And are you sure that you don’t want protection?”

“I can’t live out the rest of my life in that box … if he was going to do something then he would have done it by now.”

Derek’s announcement that he wanted to leave the safe house did not sit comfortably with Peter. He knew better than anyone just how patient DJ could be.

“He’s patient … God knows that I want you here but-”

“No buts … if he is then he’d only have to sit and wait before he found the flat … like you said, he’s gone to ground. I can only place him at the book shop; it’s his blood which will convict him, not me.”

“I know … so what then?”

“I’m going to take the analyst’s job at ATOC … and if you’re still sure about it then I’ll move in.”

“Good! What about Luke?”

“Charles Everson has agreed to join The New Lansdowne Agency as an equal partner and start the authors’ co-op. He and Luke are even going to open a bookshop just for self-publishers to stock their books.”

“Great … and you’re certain you don’t want to be part of that?”

“I don’t … I’ll write instead and publish myself … shall we make a start then?”

“Sure …”

Derek cleared a space in front of the bookcases and lined up the first of the boxes, ready to accept each volume as Peter took it down, dusted it off and handed it over. As Derek leaned over to move the boxes closer to the shelves, his shirt rode up and the furry small of his back was revealed, dissected by the band of his briefs. Peter caught a tantalizing glimpse and felt his cock buck slightly. Derek straightened up and turned to grab the first book from Peter.

“What?”

“Nothing … just thinking.”

“Something impure judging by the look on your face … I thought you wanted to get this out of the way.”

“I did-do … I’m like the blind man who’s got his sight back.”

Derek completely straightened up and tentatively held out his hand. Peter put his hand in Derek’s and squeezed gently.

“You say that like I’m the world’s best catch-”

“You are … for me. I was blind … Cowrie fascinated me … scared me; even when he put himself completely under my control, I felt submissive … and I couldn’t help myself.”

“What changed?”

“I hate to say it but I was getting bored. The part of him that I wanted and loved was getting smaller and smaller somehow … maybe that meant that he was trying less and less … I wonder if he actually loved me.”

“Why did he stay with you for fifteen years if he didn’t love you?”

“I think he loved a part of me just as I loved a part of him; but that part got smaller and less important … perhaps that’s how you fall out of love.”

“He seems uncommonly … robust, seeing as he caught you out … but from what you’ve said, he doesn’t really give the impression that he cared that much and if anything he does seem almost … relieved.”

“It’s strange; when we first met, I couldn’t believe that he wanted me because he’s so much more attra-”

“Please!”

“No, he is … well, okay, he has a quality which a lot of men find attractive … but what I wanted to say was that after a while it seemed to me that he was less happy with his choice than I was with mine. If I’m honest, I think I’ve been waiting for him to call time for a while. The words we said to each other began to sound hollow; not really words anymore … just sounds. I’m scared that I don’t feel more upset about it …”

“Delayed reaction?”

“Could be … that might not be so nice for you …”

“Just tell me what you want me to do …”

“I want to make love to you …”

Derek smirked and blushed; still totally at a loss as to why this amazing man had chosen him.

“Why me? I mean … me.”

“I can’t answer that question … hear my soul speak; the very instant that I saw you did my heart fly to your service …”

“Did it?!”

Jesting aside, Derek allowed himself to be caught up in the embrace and all doubt evaporated as their passion ignited the kindling in their mouths; all made sense when all else was tossed on the fire.

It was also the first time they had made love in the house; it was the first time that Derek had stepped foot in the place, having remained at the safe house throughout the last three weeks.

Knowing that Peter would not willingly sanction his removal, he’d removed himself and turned up with pizza and a bottle of wine as he might have done on a first ‘at home’ date. The haranguing over the idiocy of putting himself at risk lasted until the ice cream but Peter hadn’t shooed him out or called Chandler to take him back.

Neither looked nor moved in the direction of the bedroom; that was truly out of bounds until it had been stripped back to the bare plaster and wood and all of the furniture had been replaced. Very slowly, Peter toppled them onto the sofa, stepping backwards and pulling Derek down with him, never letting his lips breakaway from Derek’s; no easy task in itself being six inches taller.

Fully reclined along the length of the sofa with Derek lying on top of him, Peter crushed him to his chest to fill the void, the space which ached day and night. At first he was convinced that his heart had flown the coop; so what was that beating in his chest? He realised the ache must be a growing pain and readied himself for the moment when he opened the doors of the cage and allowed his heart to fly.

Somehow they managed to undress without falling from the sofa. In the process, Derek managed to turn Peter over and get his face buried in his musky crevasse, using his tongue like a key to wind up the mechanism of some strange little box which played a vaguely recognisable tune, accompanying the oddly provocative gyrations of the little ballerina with the rose in her hair, adorning the lid.

The sweat, the tang of the sex, the taste of fresh cum; like otters chasing trout in rivers, like stags locking horns; like an elephant or a rhino defying gravity to shift its enormous bulk to plant his phallus into the swollen lipped, ripe cunt of his mate; like darting fish and swooping birds; like scuttling beetles and harried ants; like gazelles, like leopards or lions; like stiff jointed men and supple dancers, they fucked.

Curled up under a blanket but with no real fire to watch, they gazed at the books on the shelves which, from that distance, created a kind of collage, a mural.

“I want to keep The Blakely Affair; it’s my favourite,” announced Peter, wondering if Cowrie would miss it.

“You’ve got it on your Kindle …”

“It was the only book I ever bought for myself. I lent my copy to my Mother who mistakenly put it in the charity shop bag.”

“I’m sure he won’t miss it; there has to be a thousand there.”

“He can sue me … I let him keep the new digital camera … apparently he’s going to Spain on pilgrimage and wants it for the trip.”

“Who told you?”

“Gauge … who was told by James and Gauge said he knew that James was only telling him because he wanted me to know.”

“And is James going with him?”

“Gauge reckoned yes …”

“I always wanted to walk the camino de Santiago.”

“He’s not going to Santiago; he’s going to Fuente Vaqueros to visit Lorca’s birthplace.”

“Ah, of course … Lorca!”

“I love the lyricism and the melody of the man’s work but I don’t always see the poem beneath the sand …”

“I think there are more important things beneath this blanket to be honest …”

The chuckle broke into a snigger which ended up as a belly hugging laugh.

“What about tomorrow?” Peter asked.

“What about it? I have to see the accountant and sign over my shares.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive … I’ll also go and get some stuff from my flat and be back to start dinner. I’ll have time to finish the books in the morning.”

“I’m sorry I have to leave early; there’s a tonne of SFO stuff I still have to read and they’re talking about me studying forensic accounting … life truly will begin at forty!”

“Life begins and ends with every breath; the wailing mourners carry the shrouded corpse to the grave; bury day in perpetual night and await love’s resurrection …”

“What was that?”

“Something I’m working on … yeah, I know data analysis is the-”

“Please … you have a wonderful style and a beautiful voice; recite some more …”

oOo

“If you feel unsafe then go straight to the station; call Danny-.”

“I will; I’ll be fine. Go to work and stop worrying. I’m going to sort the books and go to the office then pop to the flat and be back to cook.”

“Okay … I love you.”

“I love you too.”

In the quieter moments over the last few weeks, he had planted himself on the sideline and studied the game called relationships. Was Peter using him as a life raft? The boat had sunk but was Peter that uncertain of his chances of survival that he’d cling to almost anything? If Cowrie was behaving as if it didn’t matter then maybe Peter was right in his view that Cowrie had been planning to call time … but maybe Peter wasn’t the only one anticipating a delayed reaction. Was it possible that a relationship built over the course of the last fifteen years could end so abruptly; as if it was built on sand? And if it had been built on sand, were there shards of glass waiting to lacerate the soles of the feet of the unwary beachcomber? Derek began to see the potential at least of a relationship which could at once present the elegant façade to the world but hide the ugly truth from all but the unwilling participants who had practised the denial like learning a multiplication table.

If his own relationships had been swift they had at least been honest.

In an utterly depressing conclusion, he saw Peter and Cowrie as blind men perpetually regaining their sight only to find themselves on the dark side of the moon or presented with the sight of the sun rising over the dunes, clinging to their shrouds of dew only to see the moon eclipse the fiery orb for the rest of the day. And every day, in the final dying embers of its sunset, a slim hope was born; that tomorrow it would all be so much better.

Hope; yes, better to hope than to despair.

It seemed pretty certain to Derek that the job of clearing all of the books would take more than two hours so he set himself a time limit and then planned to stop so as to avoid being late for the meeting with the accountant and the celebratory drink with Luke and Charles.

“The man knew his books; Jesus! A first edition of Doctor Pascal …”

And so the weird kind of eulogy continued as each book was taken down, inspected, commented upon, dusted and placed in a box.

At about ten-thirty, with one book case emptied, Derek was just about to shift the full boxes into the hallway when the doorbell rang. He wiped his hands on the cloth he had been using to dust the books and padded down the hallway to answer the door, expecting it to be the postman with a parcel or the local MEP candidate, canvassing ahead of the poll which was in three weeks time.

“Cow-”

“Hello, Derek …”

Chapter Fourteen – Speak or forever hold your peace

“I was … uhm; the books … I was just sorting them … what-?”

“Yes, the books … I hope you haven’t damaged any of the covers … are you going to invite me in?”

“Perhaps it would be better if Peter was here-”

“I think we can manage a few books between us, Derek … shall we then?”

When Peter had described the paralysing effect of the tone, he hadn’t understood; he did now. Paralyzed and then re-animated but under some supernatural control; an automaton only capable of a restricted range of movements and none involving the tongue.

Derek stepped back and Cowrie moved forward, looming larger than life but then he was six feet two. He propelled Derek along with invisible hands towards the kitchen, adding; “Pop the kettle on, Derek.”

His tongue would not obey his commands but that didn’t stop his brain from working; but working to produce a stream of babble which he alone could hear.

“Tea?” Being the only word that did not require the articulation of both tongue and lips.

“Coffee, please … you’ve made a start … good! Peter at work?”

“Yes …”

Cowrie surveyed the boxes, allowing a little play to open and close on his brow as he grudgingly but gratefully acknowledged that Derek’s efforts to stack the books properly were indeed better than his own would have been.

“This won’t take long …”

Derek made the tea and brought the mugs into the living room and placed them on the coffee table which was half-covered by the next set of volumes needing to be dusted and put away.

“Amazing collection …”

Cowrie turned and smiled into Derek’s eyes, “A labour of love … but one which should endure …”

“I’m sorry, Cowrie-”

“A little late for the apology, Derek … not that I hold you responsible. As fruits go, they wouldn’t have tempted me but Peter’s taste was always … more eclectic … much like mine in books …”

Devoid of weapons and armour, Derek returned to the task of dusting the books, handing them to Cowrie who placed them in the boxes.

“Oh my! The Blakely Affair … I suppose he wants that one.”

With which, Cowrie slung the book onto the sofa, ripping the dust jacket in the process, eliciting a wince from Derek who kept his head down.

“Leave those, Derek; they need to be wrapped in bubble-wrap. I’ve got some in the car … finish those; I won’t be a minute.”

“Okay …”

Cowrie strode out of the room and headed towards the front door. Derek was in two minds as to whether he shouldn’t call Peter. Before he had a chance to make the decision, let alone act on the impulse, Cowrie had returned with a holdall which Derek assumed contained the protective wrapping.

“Luke tells me that you’re not joining the co-op; why?”

“Oh, I thought about it but in the end I decided that rekindling my career in data analysis was a better prospect.”

“Shame … that deal you struck with PP showed some flair … Mathers and Erskine are spitting feathers … serves them right for vacillating. Fortune favours the brave, isn’t that what they say?”

Derek felt very far removed from brave.

“It is … still, Jolly and young Fitzgerald offer them a good prospect-.”

“Whatever; I’m going on pilgrimage so the cunts can weep into their beer all they like.”

“Pilgrimage?”

“To Lorca’s birthplace … Fuente Vaqueros … I have a friend who lives not too far from the town; from there we’ll go to Madrid and perhaps to New York.”

“Quite the odyssey.”

“No less than the man deserves … if Jocelyn and I don’t keep the flame alive then who?”

“Lorca has many fans.”

“None of whom think of him … understand him … as we do. They talk of the poems beneath the sands … they miss the point!”

“Which is?”

“He wrote with his blood for the blood; Goddamnit, he practically wrote in blood!”

This sudden outburst caused Derek to stutter in the allotted task and his stomach flipped as it always did when anyone shouted.

“Shall I take these boxes to the car?”

Cowrie composed himself, momentarily closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“Yes … please.”

Scuttling out of the room and down the length of the hallway brought some welcome relief and Derek got an inkling as to the meaning of Peter’s words when he had said of Cowrie ‘there are drama queens and then there’s Cowrie Montague!’’

Stepping outside into the mews, Derek was expecting to see some kind of estate car but he found the mews completely empty and he even looked up and down a few times, certain that his eyes must be playing tricks on him.

From the doorstep he called out, “Cowrie … where’s the car?”

When there was no answer, he returned, closed the door and ventured back to the living room, half expecting Cowrie to be seated, nose stuck into a favourite book. Cowrie indeed was leaning against the bookcase closest to the window with his nose in a book.

“Where is the car parked? I couldn’t see it …”

“In Orme Lane; I didn’t want to pull in, only then to find that you were not at home and then have to struggle to reverse it back out … I’ll move it in a minute … c’mon then!”

Derek moved forward, simultaneously raising his hands to accept the volume from Cowrie. In some respects he only noticed it more than he had the others because it didn’t have a cover. The plain, steel blue tooled leather binding was like so many that he had seen over the years except that this one had a beautiful woodcut style figure of St. Sebastian embossed on the front cover. He accepted it from Cowrie’s hand and turned it to read the title.

“Mirror, Mirror … by Matthew Herr-”

“Oh dear; I’d forgotten about that.”

Derek looked up; he saw the hand lunge for his throat but was totally unprepared for the force which slammed into him and carried him backwards. The edge of the coffee table hit him behind the knee and he went down, banging his head with a sickening thud against the solid oak floorboards. Cowrie hadn’t lost his grip in the tumble; now he released his hand from around Derek’s throat, confident that Derek was out for the count.

“We’re all curious about what might hurt us …”[3]

Chapter Fifteen – Allies

“Peter?”

“Yes …”

“It’s James Capsicum … sorry to bother you but I wondered if you had some time this morning.”

“Uhm, depends … I do have rather a lot on.”

“There’s been another murder-”

“Who?”

“Roger Fibtree, the literary agent-”

“Is it-?”

“Yes; we think so … and I would appreciate your … insight.”

“On my way!”

As he dived out of his office in Cockspur Street to hail a cab, he wondered what that call had cost James. But by the time he was scrambling into the back of the taxi and giving the address, all thoughts of scoring points melted in the heat of the rekindled buzz.

oOo

When he came to, he was immediately aware of the restriction in his movements; despite the blackout hood he could feel the bindings cutting into his wrists and ankles. The chair was hard and he guessed that he was seated on the dining room carver which he had noticed sitting in the corner of the living room out of the way, apparently reserved for the ironing pile.

When the hood was plucked from his head, his thoughts coalesced into a green vortex as he found Cowrie’s face very close to his own; so close in fact that he could make out the tips of the individual hairs on Cowrie’s face which had escaped the razor.

“Wakey-wakey …”

Cowrie’s breath buffeted his face and made him blink rapidly and even that small effort was enough to connect him with the dome of pain which sat at the back of his head, causing him to wince and screw up his eyes.

“Sorry, Derek; I’ll get you some painkillers in a minute … try to relax.”

The voice was on an even keel; quite at odds with the wringing of the hands.

“I suppose you’re wondering why. Let me tell you why … because whatever Peter may have said about us, I mourn his loss; so retribution is my only ally … I’ll be sparing you the infatuation he has with his penis and Shakespeare … you’ll thank me in the end.”

Derek was attempting to process his responses but all he was managing to do was to stare and sweat profusely.

“You look in pain; let me get you the painkillers …”

Cowrie straightened up and turned tail to stride quickly to the bathroom, bringing back a packet of Nurofen and a glass of water. He extracted two of the caplets from the blister pack.

“Stick out your tongue … c’mon!”

Derek obliged and Cowrie placed the caplets on his tongue then reached for the glass of water, offering it to Derek’s lips. He sipped gingerly at first and then stole a glug.

“That’s better … though it’s not the first time I have had you hoodwinked!”

“Excuse me?”

“That I am Dust Jacket … I was standing as close to you then as I am now and you didn’t recognise me …”

“Brian was a fan so why did you kill him?”

“HE-WAS-NOT-A-FAN! Caravan to Calvaire is a TRAVESTY!”

Derek winced again, trying to move back. Cowrie leaned forward until the tips of their noses were almost touching.

“Jocelyn saw right through him …”

“Wh-who is Jocelyn?”

“Oh; this is where it gets really, really good … you must have read Angry Fire, no?”

“Yes; by Opedia Gregory … you nail the dust jacket of it to the chests of your victims.”

“Quite! Jocelyn is her daughter … met her quite by chance; now there’s someone who knows a thing or two about soul-fire!”

Cowrie moved back quickly as if the phrase scared him and he needed to regroup. Derek pressed his advantage, hoping that by keeping Cowrie talking, he would somehow diffuse the bomb.

“Did she tell you to kill all of those men?”

“Not in so many words but I knew that it pleased her … I really wish I could have met her Mother … when I go to Spain, I’m going to visit her grave with Jocelyn.”

“Who’s next?”

“I’ll let you in to a little secret … I did Roger Fibtree this morning just before popping over here. He was Brian’s agent at the time he wrote and published Caravan to Calvaire … he redeemed himself with Mirror, Mirror so you would have saved yourself … but sadly you know too much … if only you hadn’t fallen for Peter …”

“He doesn’t know though, does he? And I won’t tell … James isn’t half as good …”

“I think that James has more potential than Peter ever had … investigating Fibtree will be his big break; just like Adolphus Clifton was Peter’s … so, c’mon, I know you’re dying to ask!”

Derek didn’t have a clue what he should have been dying to ask … but if it meant that he would die if he didn’t …

“How did you get away with it?”

“Ah! You see; that’s been the key to all of this … getting away … did you know that there are literally thousands of CCTV cameras? Trouble is they all have their blind spot … you just have to know where they are … and I do!”

“Why do you mutilate them?”

“Oh, surely you’ve worked that out; you said that you’ve read Angry Fire.”

“Strepsiptera … the twisted-wing parasite.”

“Precisely! You’re so much better at this than Peter; he’s never even read it … so why the book cover?”

“The epitaph … and a warning.”

“They earned me my calling card …but yes, a suitable grave marker …”

“Lorca said of death-”

“DON’T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT LORCA SAID! I’ve memorised every word the man ever wrote … in BOTH languages!”

oOo

“What have you got, James?”

“All the usual … attributes …but I’m confused as to the timing.”

“I believed that Sanderson’s murder was opportunistic, coming so soon after Templemead’s … I think this suggests that DJ is becoming more insatiable.”

“Fibtree was on Battersea’s list-”

“Along with forty others … it was impossible to keep tabs on all of them without causing mass panic.”

“The location of Fibtree’s office and home are some way from Stratford Place; we think he’s moved.”

“We identified thirty properties where it appeared that the owner had not changed hands for fifteen or more years; those which had been rented mostly checked out; not everyone would admit to having rented the property out. Of those who did rent out the property, some had records but in too many cases there were gaps and anomalies. There are decent records of the owners of the properties in Stratford Place; number seven is owned by a pension fund and the tenants have changed pretty infrequently.”

“We’ve checked out the current tenants; an IT firm … Q M Montague and Associates incorporating Alpha Cloud Technologies …”

At hearing the name ‘Montague’, Peter’s ears naturally pricked up and the initials Q M rang a faint bell.

“Q M Montague?”

“Yes … do you know them?”

“No …at least, I don’t think I do … it’s just that Cowrie’s Father’s name was Quentin Marshall Montague and he worked in IT …it’s strange to hear those initials … he died more than fifteen years ago.”

There was a slight tremor in Peter’s voice which James detected, causing him to raise his eyes and rest them on Peter’s head which was angled downwards as he examined the newly added lines to the map which Derek had created.

“They sublet the basement to a wholesale bookseller … name of Clifton Bulk Press Ltd …”

“That doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Danny’s checking it out just to be on the safe side.”

“Anything come of the teenager on the CCTV who was buying credit?” Peter asked casually, wondering exactly what James had really wanted with him - if it wasn’t just to gloat – seeing as his insights had not exactly been called upon yet … not that he had any to offer.

“No further sighting; your conclusion that he possibly purchased the credit for DJ - unwittingly or otherwise - or bought it for himself and then lost or sold the phone is probably right.”

“Anything on the blood trace or the partial print from the Sanderson scene?”

“Only that the blood which was found on the edge of the ten pound note matched the spot of blood found on the doorframe at Battersea’s office after the break in … for what it’s worth, the fragment of the Oyster card came from a special edition card commemorating one hundred and fifty years of London Transport ...”

Sensing that the invitation to share his insight had been no more than an attempt on James’ part to tour the exhibit of that which once had been mighty, Peter readied himself to leave but just then Danny walked in.

“Hey, Gu …Peter …”

“Danny …”

“Did you find anything, Danny?”

“A Loake wallet!”

And Danny held up the evidence bag to show them, smiling at Peter.

“Where did you find it?”

“Under the wrought iron stairs which lead down to the basement.”

“He must have dropped it when he dumped the clothes after Sanderson’s murder … anything in the property?” asked Peter, instantly aware of the fact that he’d just stamped on James’ toes.

“Clean … and I mean really, really clean …”

“So he moved; but he had access … Danny, get on this Clifton Bulk Press Ltd …who worked for it, who cleaned the place?”

“On it, Guv’!”

Danny leapt to it, leaving James scrutinising the wallet through the plastic bag in which it was currently encased whilst Peter again readied himself to leave, wondering if this was the breakthrough for which he had worked so diligently and from which James would now reap all of the rewards.

“Thanks for inviting me over, James. See you soon.”

“Yes; thanks, Peter …”

Peter headed out, trying to avoid the looks thrown in his direction from all quarters, feeling the keen edge of the nickname bestowed upon him by Cowrie all those years ago.

Peter was at the front desk, saying goodbye to Gauge when Danny crashed through the door, clearly looking for him.

“Guv!”

oOo

“What did Lorca say of death, Derek?”

He took a moment to re-group and was transported back to his frequent detentions at school; always getting caught having a crafty puff behind the bike sheds. The ogre who had supervised the class of miscreants, Mr Ayers, had single-handedly cured him of his stutter and had imbued him with a love of poetry; both lessons reinforced with the slipper across his backside.

“As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die …”

“Exactly …”

And the word reached out as a lover who wished to caress his cheek might do.

“… it isn’t how I planned it … Peter was to be the last. I was going to burn him on a pyre like Guy Fawkes and raise him as a martyr to the cause … your death will be seen as necessary; DJ finally admitting that he could have made a mistake in going for Sanderson at the wrong time … it was your fault for slotting him in after Miriam Holtz pulled out. I’ll make sure you’re dead before I cut to reveal your pupa; chances are that it won’t survive; blood alone may suffice if he sees that this little death was necessary.”

“He?”

oOo

“What is it, Danny?”

“We’ve found something … c’mon!”

Not only Peter but Gauge too, followed Danny back upstairs to James’ office where Chandler and Trudy were already huddled with James around the circular conference table, frantically sifting through a pile of papers.

“Clifton Bulk Press Ltd belonged to Adolphus Clifton, DJ’s first victim.”

This fact was being relayed by James and as he raised his head to check on who had walked into the office, he spied Peter and directed his next comment directly at him.

“Adolphus Clifton rented the basement from the IT company which occupies the other floors.”

“Adolphus Clifton was murdered more than fifteen years ago … surely the company knows that … who’s been paying the rent?”

“No-one has been paying the rent, Peter … there are no payments in the accounts of the IT company … in fact, there are virtually no payments at all; it’s a shell.”

“Who owns it?”

“Q M Montague Holdings-”

Again the name stung like a wasp.

“But … what is it then; a tax dodge?” Peter ventured, processing the possibilities rapidly but James’ reply interrupted his train of thought.

“Could be … Q M Montague, the IT company, won the contract to provide the CCTV network infrastructure sixteen years ago … they sub-contract everything to the other firms who missed out on the bid for the contract. It makes a small profit which is paid over to a Bolivian-based charity at the end of every year.”

“Who owns Q M Montague Holdings?”

“Let’s see … Q M Montague Holdings … registered office is in Maidstone in Kent … directors listed as Q M Montague, E Montague and J Gregory …tax returns for the first two show an address in Allington in Kent … J Gregory appears to reside in Madrid-”

“Jocelyn Gregory … that’s the-”

“Woman who bought the phone credit.” Trudy interjected.

“But … Cowrie’s Father’s initials are Q M; his Mother is called Ellen … Jocelyn Gregory is the author who Cowrie has just signed up … Quentin died more than fifteen years ago.”

“Not according to the tax returns … if it’s the same man.”

Peter scanned the tax paperwork and confirmed that the address in Allington was the same address he knew to be Cowrie’s parents’ home.

“None of this makes any sense … one of these people is dead, another travels for half of the year and the other one lives in Spain; what the fuck do they have to do with this IT company?”

“It appears to exist merely to make a small profit for the benefit of a charitable trust based in Canterbury.”

“Who works in the office?”

“No-one; the post and the telephone calls are forwarded to a business services company in Whitechapel-”

“Where is the post being forwarded to?”

“Picked up in person along with the telephone messages.”

“Who picks up?”

“Q M Montague-”

“But he’s dead!”

“Then someone is posing as him … the invoices for the charges from the business services company are being sent to the registered address of the holdings company in Maidstone …”

Peter picked up the last set of company accounts for the IT company and flipped to the profit and loss account for the last financial year.

“Why all this … complexity just to raise four thousand pounds for this charity?”

“Can I suggest, Peter, that the true nature of the company is not so altruistic … a copy of every frame of CCTV footage ever taken over the last sixteen years has been passed to Alpha Cloud Technologies, purportedly for research and development … trouble is, it hasn’t actually produced anything tangible.”

“Who or what is Alpha Cloud Technologies?”

“A wholly owned subsidiary of a company called C M Enterprises …”

Peter’s head was already spinning even before he heard James say the name.

“That’s … the same name as Cowrie’s company …”

oOo

“I am sorry, Derek …”

“He’ll know it was you.”

“No; he’ll know it was DJ … he’s been expecting it; which is why he’ll blame himself for not insisting that he took you back to the safe house last night-”

“You were-”

“Yes … he’ll blame himself and that will rot and poison him slowly until the choice I offer him will be a welcome relief. If you promise not to scream, I won’t gag you but if there’s a chance that you will, I’ll have to.”

He remembered that Mr Ayers had once asked him if he wanted to bite down on something as he delivered six of the best. Then, he’d been given an old leather bound prayer book.

“Fuck yourself, Cowrie; you’re a sick cunt …”

“Tsk-tsk …your chance of immortality so readily shunned; your name will be remembered forever; DJ’s eighteenth victim … Derek Battersea … one time literary agent and data analyst … leaves behind DI Peter Nation … distraught.”

Derek futilely twisted his hands to free them from the bindings, not to escape but to punch Cowrie in the face.

“Gag it is then … the first cut is the deepest; you may just hold on long enough to feel the scalpel run along the full length of your penis … it’s fascinating to watch!”

There was a moment; as if the entire scene had been constructed on some stage; a montage created for the amusement of a country house gathering of the local gentry. In that moment, the central heating boiler kicked in, detecting a fall in the temperature which had only just climbed above freezing from the night before when the temperature had plummeted to minus seven degrees Celsius. Cowrie instinctively froze and listened for the whistle of the water pump which needed replacing.

“DEREK?!”

oOo

It was obvious that James wanted Peter out of the way but seeing as Gauge, Danny, Chandler and Trudy were standing behind him protectively, there was no easy way to navigate through these bonds of loyalty and friendship without appearing officious at best and dismissive at worst.

“Where will we find Cowrie, Peter? A few answers and this will all be cleared up …”

“At the office in Wimpole Street or at his Mother’s in Allington … I’ll call him.”

“Do that …”

James scanned the faces of the team and inexpertly conveyed the fact that they should be leaving right now. Gauge cottoned on and marshalled them out like so many stiff-jointed mannequins.

Peter had by now withdrawn his mobile phone and was dialling the number; his face unreadable and anyone would have been forgiven for thinking that someone had just informed him of the death of a loved one judging by the pallor of his skin. When the phone connected and the dialling tone could be heard, he took a breath and readied himself for the call. The phone skipped immediately to the voicemail service at which Peter swallowed and left a simple request for a call back. He cut the connection and looked at James with a mixture of doubt and pleading as if such a look – and such a man – could make sense of it all with nothing more than the utterance of one syllable or a well-timed quirk of the lips.

“Where’s Derek Battersea?”

“At my house … or at his office … why?”

“At your place?”

“He arrived last night unannounced …”

“Are you two … involved?”

“Yes …”

“Is it wise-?”

“I didn’t plan it that way, James!”

“I meant, is it wise that he is unprotected?”

“He said he’d rather take his chances.”

“His decision of course … but if DJ is at large then would it not have been sensible to have at least posted uniform?”

“I … I didn’t-”

“Call him …”

The look of doubt and pleading was replaced by cold fear when the phone remained unanswered. He didn’t wait for the message service to kick in and immediately dialled the house. The remaining colour drained from his cheeks when the house phone was also unanswered; and when Luke confirmed that Derek was not at the office and already late for the drinks, Peter panicked.

“SHIT! Where the fuck is he?”

James was already grabbing his jacket and picking up keys before Peter’s question died on his lips.

“I’ll drive, you navigate … C’MON!”

oOo

Noticing only cars which he recognised in the lane and seeing none in the mews, quelled his panic for a moment. Their approach was unannounced; his Mondeo and the squad car glided into the narrow road which was not much wider than an alleyway. The uniformed officers, already primed with their instructions - and their guns - moved cautiously to the rear and the wall which separated the back garden and the service road for the college which sat behind the terrace of houses which had once been stables.

Peter, James, Chandler and Danny exited the Ford and broke into pairs, positioning themselves on either side of the front door. Peter checked that everyone was ready by casting a brief look into each face; receiving an affirmatory nod, he stepped up to the door and reached for the lock with his key.

One pronounced nod of his head signalled that he was going in and only by envisaging Derek’s moon-like face did he keep a grip on the key.

Key found lock and he pushed and turned, simultaneously pressing the weather board with the toe of his shoe because the wet weather was making the door stick.

oOo

Momentarily thinking that Derek had shouted out his own name, Cowrie didn’t immediately perceive that anything was amiss. The blast of cold air from the hallway soon brought him to his senses though. Peter’s appearance at the archway which separated the hall from the living room elicited two responses; the first, a slash with the knife and the second, a garbled quotation, ejected on the crest of a blood curdling scream.

“But now I am no longer I; nor is my house any longer my house!”

The post mortem found all four bullets lodged in the apple sized tumour which was growing quietly between the Lateral Sulcus and the Parietal Lobe.

Chapter Sixteen – “Don’t make me laugh!”

“Hey, sweetheart; how ya doin’ today?”

“Hey … like a psychopath put a knife between my ribs … do not make me laugh.”

Peter didn’t think it was likely but appreciated the warning.

“There’s going to be an investigation.”

“You said that there would be.”

“Everyone thinks that I knew what he was doing and covered for him; worse, used him to further my career.”

“Not everyone believes that; Chandler, Danny, Trudy and Gauge don’t believe it.”

“It didn’t do their careers any harm either; could get nasty … I can hardly believe it myself; for pity’s sake, can a man honestly say that he did not know that his lover of fifteen years was a serial killer?”

“You didn’t-”

“Everything will be checked; like the fact that I didn’t verify that the phone had or had not been topped up with the voucher he purchased which was recorded on CCTV … the fucking book was on the SHELF!”

“Peter … Peter, I know you didn’t know; he told me … it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because it’s the truth.”

“At best I’ll be dismissed and at worst they’ll prosecute.”

“Cross that bridge … what about Jocelyn Gregory?”

“Nothing to answer for; she asserts that their relationship was strictly professional; author and agent and there’s nothing to counter it … she says that she knew no more about it than I did.”

“You’ll be exonerated; you’ll see.”

“Maybe I will; it won’t alter the fact that he used me for fifteen years and I didn’t know; everything was a lie.”

“I’ll never lie to you.”

“I know … can you just get well and come home?”

“I’m working on it … I’m sorry you’re lumbered with Mr Tickles.”

“Who calls a cat … never mind … can I get you anything?”

“Could you download some new stuff onto my Kindle?”

“Sure; any preference?”

“Contemporary science fiction or erotic romance.”

“I thought you liked crime thrillers.”

“Don’t make me laugh, I said!”

Epilogue

“Hey, beautiful! Did you have a good day?”

“Pretty good, thank you … did you?”

“Yeah; made some progress on the customer database …”

“Good …”

It’s the beginning of our dance; the music has started and Peter has offered me his hand to escort me to the dance floor. I suspect it will be a slow waltz tonight.

“Peter, your Mother called and asked us to lunch on Sunday … I accepted the invitation but if you’d rather stay here-”

“No; that’s fine; it’ll be nice to see her …”

This prelude is accompanied by a glass of wine being placed in my hand and a kiss planted on my lips. He wants to taste my breath and determine if I popped in and saw Luke on the way home; even before he asks, I venture the information. I see the checklist behind his eyes and the mental tick mark being applied.

“How was he?”

“Doing just fine …”

He lights the candles and picks some imaginary lint from the table cloth, stepping lightly over to the coffee table to flick it into the ashtray, automatically picking up his cigarettes and lighter. I know what he’s going to ask next.

“I called at lunchtime but Mark said that you were in a meeting …”

“Avacon brought forward the deadline so I convened the project team over lunch to reassess the priorities … he’d said you’d called but I didn’t get a chance to phone you …”

I am well used to being tracked and mapped; it is oddly reassuring to feel the tug of the cord. He knows that I would never lie to him but still he asks and for the most part he is insensible to the impulses which give rise to these questions; he asks and I answer.

“I did the household accounts and there’s a debit of fourteen pounds and seventy-eight pence which I don’t appear to have a receipt for …”

“I think that will be the cost of those books you downloaded from Amazon …”

“Of course it was!”

Should I mind that he reconciles our accounts to the penny? Should I baulk at being given my allowance each week on a Sunday evening? Should I mind that he checks every journey I make and charge to the Oyster Card?

“Dinner will be fifteen minutes, sweetheart, if you wanted to change …”

He’s already marshalling me towards the bedroom to accept my suit and hang it up and in the process check the pockets. He picks up my shoes and turns them over to examine the soles; I really don’t know what he expects to see; but then I never have to worry about getting them re-heeled because he always takes them for me; maybe even getting Gauge to give them the once over before handing them in at Timpson’s.

Divested of my work clothes, he sidles over and slips his arms around my waist and pulls me in and though it costs me some pains to remain on tiptoe for three minutes, I do and relinquish myself; a fish putting itself into the net. Rather that way than being caught on the line and having to have the cruel hook twisted out of my lip or cheek. We tolerate no pain. It was the hardest habit to break; denying him the sting of the bite and the taste of the blood was almost cruel at first; more than a few nights were spent in separate beds.

“Get dressed and I’ll serve up … do you want some bread?”

“No thank you …”

I slip on jog pants and a rugby shirt, knowing that they are freshly laundered and every square millimetre will have been examined for a stray thread or a hair which does not match the colour of mine or his; should I complain?

There will come a day when the bonds of his slavery will be cut free from his wrists and ankles; until then I gratefully receive the gift of love and I honour that gift the best way that I know how. Fifteen years is a long time to suddenly find that you were living the lie. A year is no time since you put a bullet in the brain of the man you believed that you loved and who you believed loved you. A year is a long time to be sat in the dock, waiting for the powers that be to conclude that you did not know and that you did no wrong.

He blames himself; we all would.

We share a cigarette on the balcony of the flat which we bought together in Battersea. I never tire of the jibe; ‘Derek Battersea of Battersea’. A hair’s breadth either way and the knife would have consigned me to the cold, hard ground. He was cremated.

Ellen still calls from time to time. I guess she feels responsible; not that she could have known that he was using her. When she found out that he had been posing as Quentin, only then I think did the guillotine finally come down and sever the cord. History can’t be rewound, nothing will change the facts; you can’t take back love from the dead. Guilt gets transported to La Paz in the form of clothes, toys and books for orphans.

As we ready ourselves for bed, he examines me under the bright LEDs of the bathroom spotlights. I have an in-growing hair on my shoulder and he tweezers it out, dabbing at the spot with some TCP. It took a year for the nightmare to stop; the one where his groin grew into a fantastical yet macabre insect that ate itself. The black moon still rises into the starless sky and I see the pain tighten around his head and I reach for the painkillers before he does; that smile, the one which he gives me as he accepts the caplets and the glass, is the most honest I will have seen since yesterday’s.

I read him Plato:

"For there is no light of justice or temperance or any of the higher ideas which are precious to souls in the earthly copies of them; they are seen through a glass dimly; and there are few who, going to the images, behold in them the realities, and these only with difficulty …”

And he questions me and comes to the same conclusion:

“God will see me for who I truly was.”

I slip my hand down across his chest and abdomen and find my prince of cocks, which, as I touch it and complete the circuit, becomes magnetic and drags my mouth down to suck. At the beginning, he wept and cried that the spawn of the Strepsiptera would grow in my throat and crawl into my brain and eat reason. He does make me insensible to rational thought. I am that fly caught in the web of the albino spider, encased in silk which tastes of milk and honey.

The smile on my lips is the most honest he will have seen since last night’s.

Notes

[←1]

Taken from ‘Reyerta’ - The Gypsy Ballads – Federico Garcia Lorca.

[←2]

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116

[←3]

Federico Garcia Lorca

Table of Contents

Authors’ Notes

Dedication

Chapter One – Soul-fire

Chapter Two – Albino spiders

Chapter Three – Judas

Chapter Four – Knife, paper, scissors

Chapter Five – How many roads …

Chapter Six – Facades

Chapter Seven – Emergences

Chapter Eight – In the mid-night hour

Chapter Nine – Phases of the Moon

Chapter Ten – Triumvirate

Chapter Eleven – The Bard knows best

Chapter Twelve – Playing Safe

Chapter Thirteen – Book ends

Chapter Fourteen – Speak or forever hold your peace

Chapter Fifteen – Allies

Chapter Sixteen – “Don’t make me laugh!”

Epilogue