A Sticky End Page 7

  “I suppose so.”

  “You don’t use it yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Are you familiar with a brand called Fresh-O?”

  “I told you, I don’t use the stuff.”

  “Very good, sir. Finally, just one more thing. Did you have any reason to borrow Mr. Bartlett’s razor?”

  “His—razor?”

  “Yes. The one he—the one we removed from the bathroom this morning.”

  “Certainly not. I would never use another chap’s things like that.”

  “Could anyone else have used it?”

  “How on earth would I know? What are you driving at, man?”

  “There were several different sets of fingerprints on it, sir.”

  “Well? What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I’m just curious to know whether you had…moved it, or handled it, perhaps?”

  “No. I don’t even remember seeing it before this morning.”

  You’re lying again.

  “I see.” Weston nodded, Godley scribbled.

  “Is that all?” asked Morgan, putting his hands on the arms of the chair as if he were about to get up.

  “I think so,” said Weston, pushing his chair back. “Oh—a moment, Mr. Morgan. There is one more question.”

  “Yes?” Morgan stopped, halfway between sitting and standing.

  “Did anyone else come to the house yesterday evening?”

  “Anyone…else?”

  “Yes, sir. Any callers at all?”

  “I… I don’t think…”

  “You and Mr. Bartlett were alone in the house all evening, were you?”

  Morgan was darting glances at me, but Godley was watching us closely. I could do nothing to help.

  “Yes. Yes we were.”

  “Nobody could have found their way into Mr. Bartlett’s things, then? Nobody would have gone near the guestroom or the bathroom other than you and Mr. Bartlett.”

  “That’s right,” said Morgan.

  “In that case, Mr. Morgan,” said Weston, standing up and motioning to his sergeant to do likewise, “I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station.”

  “I say,” said Morgan, “what’s this all about?”

  “Just a few more things we need to ask you.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, sir. But it would help matters considerably if—”

  “Mitch?” Morgan looked terrified.

  “It’s okay, Morgan,” I said. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of routine. I’ll come with you if you like.”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Godley. No “sir” for me, I noticed.

  Morgan put on his coat and hat in a daze, and left in the back of the police car with Godley at the wheel and Weston in the passenger seat.

  Young Constable Knight remained standing at the gate.

  We were in trouble.

  This was the third time I’d been involved in a mysterious death. Three years ago, during a long hot weekend that I spent with Morgan at Belinda’s parents’ place, Drekeham Hall, a dead body came tumbling out of the closet—and with it a few family skeletons. The year before last, I got caught up with that murky business at the Rookery Club after a bumpy ride on the Flying Scotsman and a close brush with the British royal family. And in both of those adventures, Boy Morgan had been at my side, the one person I could trust when everyone else was acting suspiciously. He wasn’t always the brightest of sidekicks, but then again, neither were Dr. Watson or Captain Hastings. It was Morgan’s dogged honesty that I could rely on—that, and his eager readiness to jump into the sack whenever the opportunity arose.

  But now things had changed. Everything was in place—a dead body, a heap of unanswered questions and sexual secrets, even a fresh-faced, broad-shouldered young copper who, with a bit of persuasion, might soon be wrapping his cherry lips around my hard dick. Everything but the one thing I needed above all: Morgan at my side. Without him, I was working alone, in the dark, with one hand tied behind my back.

  It wasn’t so much that I relied on Morgan for practical help—it was more that I needed a friend, a pal, some kind of moral absolute in a world where evil so often gets the upper hand. And now not only was Morgan at the police station, but I had the distinct impression that he was keeping something from me. He’d been frank enough about the sexual side of his relationship with Bartlett, but on the subject of their friendship, I wondered if he was telling me the whole truth. If they were such close friends, surely Bartlett would have confided in Morgan before slashing his wrists. I already suspected that there was a piece of the jigsaw missing before the police arrived with their questions about cigarettes and mouthwash, and now I was sure of it.

  Cigarettes.

  Mouthwash.

  Fingerprints on the razor.

  A third party visiting the house—which Morgan denied.

  All of these things pointed to foul play rather than suicide. They had not gone so far as to arrest Morgan, let alone charge him with anything, but they clearly had enough doubt about the appearance of Bartlett’s death to take no chances. If Morgan was the last one to see Bartlett alive, to speak to him, then, reasoned the police, he was the one with the key to the mystery.

  But what was the mystery?

  Cigarettes.

  Mouthwash.

  They suspected something, and that something sounded a lot like poison. But Bartlett cut his wrists with a razor. The evidence was splashed all over the bathroom, according to Morgan.

  According to Morgan, who had lied to the police and who might be lying to me.

  Wait a minute, I thought: this is Morgan we’re talking about, the most honest man I’ve ever met, a man who makes me look like the father of lies. If he’s lying to the police, it’s only because he’s frightened that they might find out about his secret life. He’s muddled. It’s the first time he’s ever had to confront the reality of what he does—of what he is—the fact that the fun and games we have when no one else is around makes him a criminal in the eyes of the law. And now it’s not just me—it’s Bartlett as well, and now Sean Durran. Morgan’s up to his neck in it, and he’s scared.

  But lying to me? His best friend, almost his brother?

  Well, said a cold little voice in the back of my mind, he’s been cheating on you. Why shouldn’t he start lying to you as well? He lies to Belinda.

  No—that’s not how our friendship works. We have no hold on each other. We are not tied. I have Vince, he has Belinda, we both have fun when the opportunity arises—God knows I do. Just because he’s been seeing Bartlett on a regular basis.

  He feels more for him than he ever felt for you.

  My head felt full of clouds. I couldn’t think straight. No—if Morgan is a liar, then nothing in the world makes sense anymore. I can’t let sexual jealousy turn me into a cynic. Okay, so he’s been fucking Bartlett—I’d have done the same thing. An older man, experienced, wealthy, who takes an interest in you, befriends your family, helps you out financially, and has a big dick that he wants to stick up your ass? Who am I to say that Morgan shouldn’t have done it? I’d have done it. Hell, I’d have seduced Bartlett even if he hadn’t been interested. Morgan was flesh and blood, as I knew only too well.

  I took a deep breath to clear my head.

  If Morgan really was in trouble, then I had to help him. And in order to help him, I had to find out why he had been taken to the police station. And in order to do that, I had to speak to a policeman.

  And, as luck would have it, there was a very fine specimen of the force standing at the gate.

  At times such as these, one really can combine duty and pleasure.

  I sauntered out the front door, being careful not to let it close behind me; Morgan had left in a hurry, and I wasn’t sure where he kept his keys. It was a pleasant afternoon on a pleasant street. The only false note was the uniformed policeman. Well, that would give the neighbors something to gossip about.

  PC Kn
ight was standing in classic cop position, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back, facing out into the street. I had a moment in which to survey him from the rear—the golden stubble on the back of his neck, catching the sun and shining like straw, the broad shoulders and narrow waist accentuated by the tapered cut of his tunic, the strong legs curving up to a nicely rounded ass. And all topped off with a helmet.

  He heard me and turned around, touched two fingers to his brow.

  “Sir.”

  “Knight, isn’t it?”

  “Sir.”

  “Left you to keep an eye on the place, have they?”

  “Sir.”

  They obviously don’t teach the art of conversation at police training college. I would have to ask a more openended question.

  “Why have they taken Mr. Morgan to the station, Knight?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that, sir.”

  Not much better—but enough to establish that he had a London accent, and a pleasant, deep voice that worked well with his boyish blond looks.

  “Poor guy looked terrified. I would be as well. Not only does he discover a business colleague bleeding to death in his bathroom, he then gets hauled off and treated like a suspect.”

  “Sir.”

  The only monosyllables I wanted to hear from PC Knight were “yes” and “God” when I fucked him. Well, he could call me “sir” then too, if he wanted to. I wouldn’t object.

  “Did they give you any lunch, Knight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can I make you a cup of tea? Or would that be inappropriate?” I could see that he was gasping for a cup of tea, but he couldn’t leave his post. “I’ll bring it out.”

  “Very kind of you, sir. I won’t say no.”

  I already had plans for Knight—but first, I needed information. The rest would have to wait. I brought him his tea, well sugared, and the moment he had his hands around the cup he relaxed.

  “Nasty business, this.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You can say that again.”

  We then went through the usual dialogue in which the English workingman expresses his delight at meeting a real, live American, and I play up the accent for maximum effect. It’s been an invaluable weapon in my arsenal of seduction; I’ve found that most Brits are willing to do things with a foreigner that they wouldn’t consider with their own country-men. There’s also the abiding myth that all Yanks are filthy rich—and I never let them down until afterward.

  We chatted about life across the Atlantic, and by the time I’d spun a few yarns about skyscrapers and fast cars, jazz clubs and movie stars, he was putty in my hands.

  “That boss of yours is a prick,” I said, apropos of nothing.

  “Who, sir?”

  “Sergeant Godley. Rude bastard.”

  Knight blushed and half smiled.

  “It’s okay, pal,” I said, “you don’t have to say anything. But I don’t like the way he barged in here and treated Morgan and me as if we’d done something wrong.”

  “Well, sir, we have certain procedures that we have to follow in cases like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, if there’s a reasonable suspicion of foul play—”

  He must have seen my eyes widen, because he stopped in midsentence. I thought it better not to push the point; I didn’t want us to get back to one-word responses. Still, I smelled a rat, and I intended to flush it out.

  “Poor old Morgan, he’s half crazy with worry. His wife and kids are staying with Mrs. Bartlett at the moment. I mean, if they keep him in, what is poor Belinda going to do? That’s Morgan’s wife. Belinda. Lovely girl.”

  “I’m sure that he won’t be away for long.”

  “Are they questioning him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about?”

  “A few things that came up this morning.”

  “You mean evidence?”

  “Yes, from the lab.” He was warming up now, not thinking so carefully about his answers.

  “Ah, right. Scientific stuff. Well, that’s important, of course. I’m a doctor myself.”

  That surprised you, I thought. Suddenly, Knight’s manner was more respectful.

  “A real doctor, sir? Like a medical doctor?”

  “Exactly so.” And I wouldn’t mind giving you a thorough physical, copper.

  “Well, then, you’ll understand. They weren’t satisfied with the corpse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. Something about inconsistencies.”

  “You mean they didn’t tell you.”

  “No, but I can figure it out for myself. They sent stuff off for tests.”

  “Stuff they took from here?”

  “Yeah. The mouthwash from Mr. Bartlett’s room.”

  “I see. And what did it come back with?”

  Knight drew breath to answer, but then stopped himself. Damn—he’d remembered just in time that I was Morgan’s friend, possibly an accessory to a crime.

  “I don’t know, sir. Thanks for the tea.”

  He tried to get away from me.

  “Listen, Knight,” I said, taking his arm and turning him back toward me. “Have you ever had a buddy? Not just a friend or a mate, but a really good buddy? Someone you would do anything for?”

  “Sir?”

  “Is that a yes or a no, damn it?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Well then, you’ll understand what I’m about to say. Morgan is my buddy, see? We’ve been friends since we were kids.” This wasn’t strictly true, but I didn’t mind lying; I could see from Knight’s pretty, open face that it was working. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that guy. I’d walk through fire for him. He’s like a brother to me. And if he’s done anything wrong—well, I just won’t believe it until I’ve seen the evidence. And even then I won’t believe it. So I might as well tell you, Knight, that I’m going to do anything in my power to make things right for Morgan.” He looked ready to crumble. One more turn of the screw. “And for his wife and kids.”

  That did it. The blue eyes turned to me, the rose-pink lips parted.

  “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, sir.”

  “It’s okay, Knight. You can trust me.” I almost added “I’m a doctor.”

  “The thing is… I mean, Mr. Morgan’s really lucky to have a friend like you.”

  “Damn right.”

  “I’ve had a friend like that myself.”

  Oh yes? I would have to find out more about this mystery friend—later. “I bet. You’re the kind of guy any decent fellow would want to—help.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure.” This was developing nicely; should I ask him in for a further discussion of Anglo-American relations?

  “And I’d hate to see an innocent man go to the gallows.”

  The gallows? Fuck, that took the wind out of my sails. But I kept a poker face and said, “You’re right, there, Knight.”

  “The weird thing is, sir—I mean, it was Mr. Bartlett’s, wasn’t it? It’s not like it was something that Mr. Morgan had given him.”

  “What was?”

  “The mouthwash.”

  “What about the mouthwash? Spit it out.”

  “That’s what they sent to the lab, you see.”

  “Bartlett’s mouthwash? Why the hell would they—”

  “And when the lab called back at lunchtime, that’s when Sergeant Godley contacted DS Weston, and—”

  “What the hell did they find?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you this, sir, but—” He leaned close; I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Strychnine.”

  Holy shit. Strychnine.

  “And do they think—”

  “I don’t know, sir.” He was closing down, aware that he’d said too much. But the damage was done.

  “Do you have any idea what strychnine does to a man?”

  “Kills him, sir.”

  “Yes, Kni
ght, kills him—eventually. But first it causes agonizing convulsions, starting with the head and neck, then moving through the body until, finally, the backbone is arching continually and uncontrollably. What kills you isn’t the poison itself—it’s exhaustion or asphyxiation. It’s the most horrible way to die.”

  Knight was pale. “Right.” He ran a finger inside his collar. “I see.”

  “And don’t you think that if Mr. Bartlett had died of strychnine poisoning, then Morgan would have heard something? He’d have been thrashing around on that bathroom floor like a landed fish. Morgan’s a heavy sleeper—trust me, we used to share rooms at Cambridge, and he could sleep through a lot. But I think he might have heard a man dying of strychnine poisoning in his bathroom, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And how do you explain the razor cuts?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Surely Godley doesn’t think that Bartlett attempted to shave after taking strychnine, and the razor got out of control and accidentally slashed his wrists?”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Why are you looking for a secondary cause when it’s clear that Bartlett bled to death?”

  Knight was gaping, and looking puzzled; this one would never get beyond the rank of sergeant, I thought. But it wasn’t his intellect that attracted me. I needed help, and I wanted to fuck him. Not a bad basis for a beautiful friendship.

  “Another cup of tea?”

  “What I really need is a drink,” he said, clearly rattled by my melodramatic account of strychnine poisoning, something I’ve never actually witnessed, thank God, but have read about in medical textbooks, not to mention Conan Doyle.

  “A brandy?”

  He frowned. “I’m on duty.”

  “You won’t be for much longer if you don’t pull yourself together. You look as if you’re going to faint. What is it? The idea of the razor slashing into the flesh, the blood spurting out of the wound, or the horror of the convulsions?”

  That did the trick. “Perhaps just a very small one.”

  “You’d better come inside. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see you drinking out on the street. Come on. It won’t take a moment.”

  He followed me down to the kitchen with uncertain footsteps, like a stray dog that can’t quite believe it’s been adopted. I wasn’t going to pounce; I know enough about the male mentality to realize that a precipitate move can spoil any hope of winning the ultimate prize. But to have him alone in the house, with a drink in his hand, was a big step. He’d disobeyed two important orders in order to please me; I’m a great believer in starting at the thin end of the wedge and working my way in.