A Sticky End (15 page)

“How are things going back at the station?” I asked, as casually as possible.

“Hard to say,” said Knight, as we walked side by side along the street. “They're still questioning your friend.”

“I'm sure he's helping them as much as he can.”

“Yes.” He looked down at his feet; this was enough to tell me that things were not going well for Morgan. I felt a tightness around my heart. God, I had been ready to find him guilty myself, to execute the sentence—and I was supposed to be his friend. I had a sudden urge to save him, and felt ashamed of what I had allowed myself to think. That was not the action of a friend. Morgan would have sworn to my innocence and knocked down anyone who accused me, even if I'd been found covered in blood with the razor in my hand, such was his faith in me. And I'd been ready to condemn him on nothing more than hearsay.

It felt good to be doing something, at least. “So, where are you taking me?”

“First stop, Clapham High Street.” Knight grabbed my arm and ran. “Come on! That's our bus!”

Twenty minutes later we were seated in the saloon bar of a tiny little pub under the railway bridge at the north end of Clapham High Street, rather ambitiously named the Queen's Head. Less regal premises it was hard to imagine, though judging by the number of soft felt hats, suede shoes, and colored scarves in the lounge bar, it was possibly not to the royal variety that the name alluded. As for the head—well, there was a silhouette of Victoria on the sign above the door, but I could think of other meanings, and remembered with pleasure the taste of PC Knight's spunk in my mouth a few hours before. He was eager for a return engagement, that was obvious—but he'd have to wait awhile. Tippett had drained me dry, and I would have nothing for my sexy little copper until bedtime at the earliest. I wondered where I would end up sleeping—my room at the Middlesex,
Morgan's sad, blighted house, or—where did Stan Knight live?

We had a pint and watched the comings and goings, but there was nobody in the Queen's Head resembling Morgan's description of Sean Durran, and by half past eight I was getting anxious. We were wasting time. The clientele of the Queen's Head, at least tonight, looked more like out-of-work chorus boys and window dressers than rough trade. A cursory glimpse into the public bar told me that I would find nothing to my advantage in there—the hostile glances, the loud, braying conversations, showed that this was not a sympathetic environment.

Next stop, the Ring of Bells in Balham, another short bus ride away. Stan was an efficient little Virgil in this trip through south London's underworld. “We raided this a few months ago,” he said cheerfully, as we pushed through the swinging doors. “All sorts goes on here. A regular brothel, it was.”

“And now?”

“It's been quiet for a while, but they'll soon get going again. Landlord pays us off, I reckon. That's how it usually works.”

“Nasty business.”

“Way of the world, I'm afraid. Come on.”

Two more pints were ordered and drunk; Stan was slightly merry now, and let his knee touch mine rather more often than was necessary.

“That him?” he asked, nodding toward a handsome brute in the corner, his hands dirty from a day's manual labor.

“Could be.”

“Shall I ask him?”

He seemed eager, perhaps thinking of what he, I, and the dirty-handed brute in the corner got behind closed doors.

“All right. But be tactful. Don't mention—”

“I'm not going to ask him if he knows anything about
the death of Frank Bartlett,” he said. “I'm trained in these matters. Leave it to me.”

I watched the two of them chatting, occasionally looking over to me; when the laborer sized me up, I raised my glass and jerked a thumb at the bar. He nodded slowly, so I ordered another pint.

“Says he knows Sean,” said Stan when I delivered the beer.

“Oh yeah? Good. Know him well?”

“Well enough,” said the man. “He drinks here and at the Bear.”

“That's the White Bear in Wimbledon,” said Stan. “You know.”

“Ah.” I wondered if this was the big brute who had so scared Morgan in the White Bear's urinals. “Any idea where he is tonight?”

“Sunday? At home, if he's got any sense.” He took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, grimaced. “Waste of time being out tonight.”

“Too quiet for you?”

“Yeah. Even here.”

“What about the Ship?” asked Knight. “Think he might be there?”

“Could be. That's his manor.” The laborer thought for a while, drank off half his pint, and smacked his lips. “That's better. Gets the plaster dust out of a man's throat. Not good, working on a Sunday. Still, needs must.” He drained his glass and placed it carefully on a beer mat.

“Another?”

“Wouldn't say no.”

“What's your name?”

“Bert.”

I gave money to Knight. “Three more pints, Stan, if you would.”

“He your bit of stuff?” asked Bert, when Stan was standing
at the bar. “Nice arse. Bet he's a good ride. Not seen you round here before.”

“I'm not from around here.”

“Right.” I expected the usual dialogue about Americans, but instead Bert said “North London, I suppose,” as if that were just as remote as Massachusetts. “Come down south for a bit of trade?” He let his huge hand dangle in front of his crotch.

“That sort of thing.”

“I know Sean. Nice lad. He been recommended to you?”

“Yes, in a way. Friend of mine—”

“Yeah, very popular is Sean. Should be. I broke him in. Trained him to the work, if you like.”

“I see.”

“Met him on a building site. Arse like that, boy, I said, money in the bank. And he likes it, too. They're always the best, them that actually likes it. He's a good fuck, my Sean.” He sighed. “Would have kept him for myself, if I had the readies.”

“And what about you, Bert? Do you like it?”

“Yeah.” His eyes shone, and his face opened up into a smile, huge creases appearing along his cheeks. “I love it. But that's not what gents want from me, is it? It's this.” He gave his cock a squeeze. “So that's what I give 'em. Don't like to disappoint by rolling over and sticking me arse in the air, do I?”

“I don't know that you should be telling me this, Bert. Suppose I was thinking of…using you.”

“Don't get me wrong. I like giving it as well as taking it. And I give satisfaction. I've got a lot to give, if you know what I mean.”

I thought I probably did.

“But once in a while it would be nice to…you know.”

“Roll over.”

“Yeah.” Stan brought the drinks, and half of Bert's disappeared immediately.

“I'd be more than happy to oblige,” I said; I like nothing better than turning the tables on men who are bigger and stronger than me. Fucking slim lads like Tippett, or eager young puppies like Stan, is one of life's greatest pleasures, but slipping it to a caveman like Bert would delight the true connoisseur.

“But first,” I said, “I need to find Sean.”

“Why?” Bert's eyes narrowed. “Is he in trouble?”

“No. But I think he knows something about a friend of mine who is.”

“You ain't been to the cops.” It wasn't a question.

“Of course not,” I said, hoping that none of the patrons of the Ring of Bells recognized Stan Knight out of his uniform. “This is a…private matter.”

“All right. Look for Sean at the Ship. If you don't find him there, come back, and I'll get a message to him.”

“Thanks.”

“But promise me one thing.”

I saw his eyes glancing down at my crotch, and I thought I could guess what that one thing was.

“Bert,” I said, “I'll be happy to fuck you all night long, in any position you like, as often as you want, if Sean can help my friend.”

“Good.” He finished his pint, shifted around in his seat—he obviously had a hard-on, and if it was as large as he said, it must have been causing him some discomfort. “Now drink up. Let's go.”

“You're—”

“Yeah. I'm coming with you.” He leaned toward me and whispered in my ear; I could smell the beer on his breath. “There are rooms upstairs at the Ship, and I've got my own key.”

And so we were a party of three taking the bus further
south to Tooting Broadway. Bert was well known at the Ship, dispensing handshakes and backslaps and greetings on all sides, and, as his guests, we were made welcome too.

“Sean in?” he asked the landlord, a short, balding, pointy-featured man with a sandy moustache.

“In and out.”

“Working?”

The landlord shrugged and continued to polish glasses.

“He won't be long,” said Bert. “While we wait, we'll have three pints and three whiskey chasers. On the house, eh?”

The landlord nodded. “ 'Course, Bert.”

“I'll take a rain check on the whiskey,” I said; I'd already had too much beer, not to mention the scotch I'd drunk with Tippett earlier in the afternoon. “I don't want to disappoint you.” I winked.

We made ourselves comfortable at a corner table, and surveyed the room. The customers here were a rougher bunch than in Clapham and Balham—much more to my taste. A casual visitor might have mistaken this for any other workingman's pub, the air thick with tobacco smoke, the tables covered in sticky rings and puddles of beer, the voices thick and deep. But to the practiced eye—and my eyes were just as practiced as my other organs—it was clear that this was a specialized hostelry. Men were standing a little too close at the bar, their legs touching, hands dangling into crotches. Every so often, a better-dressed customer would arrive, to be greeted with a lot of jostling and posing—not the exaggerated preening of the boys in the West End, but recognizable as a rougher, more masculine form of display. The men who visited the Ship were hunting different game.

We watched as two or three men—city workers, perhaps, or civil servants, doctors, lawyers, maybe even vicars far from their parish—came in, took their pick of the men at the bar, bought drinks, and retired to tables to discuss the issues of the day. Some of them disappeared into the toilets, where,
Bert informed us, the cubicles were large and the lighting was low. Others left the Ship together, bound for flats or hotels. The upper rooms, Bert told me, were out of bounds to all but regulars, of which he was obviously one.

So it looked as if my berth for the night was secure—and, of course, it would be so much more convenient to Morgan's house than my room in town.

Stan was enjoying his night out more than circumstances justified; I think he was just as eager to get into my pants as Bert was, and the idea of having both of them begging for my cock was extremely agreeable. When Bert suggested that we might repair to the bathroom for a little preview—well, that's not exactly how he put it, he actually said, “Give us a taste while we're waiting”—I was quick to agree. That's how seriously I was taking my investigative work. My advice to any would-be detectives would be: avoid strong drink, big men, and low dives, in any combination. The three of them together, with my little tame cop Stan Knight as the cherry on the cake, had almost driven Morgan out of my mind.

We left our drinks unfinished and hurried into the toilet, making no attempt to disguise the fact that we were going together; the landlord must have felt very confident that he was not currently under police observation. Little did he know what Stan did for a living.

No sooner had the door swung shut behind us than Bert was on his knees in front of me, heedless of the dirt on the floor, unbuttoning me with his huge, dirty fingers, leaving chalky traces over the front of my pants. His skin, when it came into contact with my cock, felt rough, and there were big calluses on his hands; whatever else he did to earn a living, Bert was no stranger to manual labor. He was no stranger to cocksucking either, judging by the ease with which he took me down his throat. I wasn't yet fully hard—there had been no preamble before he swallowed me—but even at this halfway stage I was big enough to make most men gag.
But when I hit the back of Bert's mouth, he just opened up and admitted me, running his lips down to form a tight seal around the base of my cock. I rubbed his head; his hair was thinning, close-cropped around the back and sides, with a tuft at the front that was now marooned as the rest receded around it. Seeing him like this, this huge brute of a man on his knees sucking me, was enough to bring me quickly to maximum hardness. In fact, if I hadn't been so efficiently drained by Tippett, I might have spewed a load down Bert's throat there and then. The fact that Stan was beside me, his arm around my waist, watching the show, added greatly to my enjoyment. I was tempted to abandon the chase and take advantage of Bert's private key. And I might have, if the door hadn't opened and a rough voice which I recognized as the landlord's said, “Sean's in.”

Bert mumbled some sort of reply and kept sucking; now that he had me, he was reluctant to let go, and it took all my willpower to step back and button up. “Now you know what you've got to look forward to. Get up, Bert. Don't waste it.”

He growled and grumbled, but did as he was told. “Come on, then,” he said, sounding like a sulky child. “Let's go and find out what all the fuss is about.” He held the door open for me. “You will fuck me later, won't you?”

“I promise.”

“All right.” We went back to the bar. “You're worth it.”