A Sticky End (8 page)

He held out the index finger of his left hand—there was a small nick between the first and second knuckle, about a quarter of an inch long, and not very deep, but enough to have drawn blood.

“Durran looked worried then, and well he might—I was sucking my finger, and my hands were shaking, and I don't think he wanted me waving a razor in his face. So Frank took it back and finished the job himself. Durran washed his face, and then got back to sucking Frank's cock. After a while, Durran and I got out of the tub and dried each other,
while Frank had a quick splash around, and then—well, we finished off.”

“How, exactly?”

“I was down on my knees sucking Frank's cock, when I felt Durran's fingers at my rear end. So I hoisted my bum up in the air like a dog, and he fucked me. God, Mitch, I like a good fucking—nobody knows that better than you—but that thing was enormous. I felt like he was stretching me.”

That explained why Morgan had afforded such easy entry this morning.

“But once he was in, and I'd got used to him, it was fine. I had Frank down my throat and Durran up my arse, and I just let myself go. I don't know who came first. I wasn't even aware that I'd come at all, until we were wiping up afterwards and I noticed that there was spunk all over the floor underneath me. I'd lost all track of the world—all I could think about was cock.”

He sighed.

“And then Durran left?”

“After a while. I went downstairs to get my clothes, because I was cold. When I went back up, Durran was on his way down. He slapped me on the arse and told me I was a lovely ride, or something like that. Then he went down to get dressed, and I went to see what Frank was doing. He was in the bathroom with a towel wrapped round his waist, standing at the sink cleaning his teeth. It was his normal ritual after sex—he'd brush his teeth, he'd go over them with a toothpick, he'd gargle with that infernal bloody mouthwash of his, and I knew better than to interrupt him. I stood in the doorway for a while watching him, thinking how little I really knew him, wondering what surprises he had in store for me.”

“Did you speak?”

“No. Not really. Maybe a few words. ‘You all right?' ‘I'm fine,' that sort of thing. Then I heard Durran moving around
downstairs and I thought, hang on, there's a strange man in my house and he could be helping himself to the family silver. So I popped downstairs and he was waiting in the hallway with his cap in his hand, looking a bit awkward, like a schoolboy who's been called up to see the head. He lit up when he saw me, and said all sorts of thanks, and asked if he could come round again, and I said no, that wouldn't be convenient—I was dreading that he would try to blackmail me, or something. But he said he understood, he was a married man himself, and he wished me all the best and said that if I ever wanted to see him again, he could often be found down at such and such a pub in Clapham or Tooting or somewhere. And then he put his cap on and tied his scarf round his neck, and shook my hand as if he'd just been round to fix a leak in the roof or something, and we said good night.”

“What time was it by now?”

“About nine. No, later than that. Nearer ten.”

“You'd been at it for a long time.”

“I suppose so. You know what it's like.”

“Did you see a clock? Or look at your watch?”

“No, I can't honestly say I did. But it must have been pretty late, because I was dog tired.”

“I'm not surprised, after all that.”

“And I thought—well, time to turn in. I needed a bit of shut-eye. Up I went again, and Frank was still in the bathroom, only now the door was locked. I told him to hurry up, and he said he wouldn't be a minute. He must have been having a crafty smoke in there—he was partial to a smoke after you-know-what—because I could smell it coming out from under the door. I said I'd be waiting for him in bed, and I was looking forward to talking it all over with him—everything we'd just done, and all the things we could do in the future. I felt quite excited, really. It was like I'd been given a wonderful new toy. God, how selfish of me. How stupid, how bloody stupid and selfish.”

“And that was—?”

“Yes. That was the last time I spoke to him. I undressed and got into bed, then I had a brainwave—I'd better just mess up the bed in the guest room a bit, just in case the servants came back unexpectedly, or, God forbid, Belinda. If anyone came in, we'd hear them, and Frank could run back to his room and no one would be any the wiser. I checked that all the lights were off downstairs, I crossed the landing back to my bedroom, and I yelled out one more time, ‘Hurry up, Frank.' ”

“Did he respond?”

“Yes, I think so. He said something indistinct—I just assumed that he was cleaning his bloody teeth again. I was used to his ways, and I thought nothing of it. And as soon as I lay down in bed and closed my eyes, I started thinking about all the things we'd done, and I drifted off to sleep.”

“And when you woke up?”

“I told you. He wasn't there.”

I HAD A THOUSAND QUESTIONS TO ASK MORGAN. WHAT kind of mood was Bartlett in when last they spoke? Why would Bartlett, who had set such store by getting Morgan alone for the weekend, suddenly decide to pick up a piece of rough trade at a notorious pub? Why would he put so much at risk—his marriage, his professional reputation, not to mention his friendship with Morgan—for the uncertain pleasures of a casual encounter? And, above all, what had happened after the wild enjoyments of the bathroom to pitch Frank Bartlett into suicidal despair? Morgan isn't the most sensitive of souls, but even he would have noticed something that dramatic.

But, as it was, there were no witnesses. At the time of his death, Bartlett was alone in a locked room without other means of access. Nobody could have spoken to him after Durran left, after his last indistinct communication with Morgan. Certainly, nobody could have snuck into the bathroom and murdered him. It was suicide, all right—but why? The obvious interpretation, and the one the police
would surely jump to if they even sniffed the truth, was that Bartlett had killed himself out of remorse for his shameful, unnatural actions. But that was not consistent with the behavior of a man who introduced his male lover to his wife, who made extravagant monetary gifts, who cheerfully picked up Sean Durran in a pub and enjoyed him so fully. A remorseful man wouldn't indulge in shaving and pissing and sharing his boyfriend, as Bartlett had done. He would be furtive and hectic in his behavior: I should know, I'd fucked the type often enough. So what secret had driven Bartlett to this ghastly death?

I wanted to ask Morgan a lot of questions—and I wasn't the only one. The doorbell rang, and I looked out the landing window.

“It's the police, Morgan.”

Sergeant Godley was back, with his handsome young blond sidekick, PC Knight, and this time they were accompanied by a man in a well-cut suit and a brown herringbone overcoat.

“You answer it. I need to—you know.”

If ever a man looked as if he had something to hide, it was Boy Morgan at that moment. He was pale, his eyes red and shifty, and for a second I wondered if he'd told me everything. Well, it was too late now—the cops were back, this time with a detective, and they meant business. I'd have to make the best of what I'd got. I went down to let them in.

Godley looked at me as if I were something he'd just stepped in; he may not have liked Americans, plenty don't, but I wondered if there was something else behind his obvious hostility.

“This is Detective Sergeant Weston,” said Godley. The plainclothes officer took off his hat, observed me coolly, but at least shook my hand. He looked like a university man, the type of highflier one encountered at Cambridge or Harvard, clean cut, bespectacled, hair neatly parted, a glint of
icy intelligence belying the rather eager-beaver manner. He must have been in his mid-30s, his hair slightly receding at the temples, the parting a little wider than it might once have been.

“Is Mr. Morgan at home?” he said in a friendly tone, as if his call were purely social.

“I'll get him.”

I showed them into the dining room; Godley and Weston sat, while Knight, once again, stood sentry by the door. I looked back at him as I ran up the stairs, and found myself wondering if, somehow, I could get him alone.

But there were more important matters than satisfying my taste for uniformed junior police officers. Morgan was standing on the landing looking as if he'd just shit in his pants.

“What do they want?”

“For God's sake, Morgan, pull yourself together! They just need to ask you some more questions. It would help if you could try looking a bit less guilty.”

“Guilty?” said Morgan. “Guilty of what?”

“Hey! Calm down!” Something was wrong, and I think if Morgan could have shinnied down the drainpipe without being caught, he would have done it. “They're taking it seriously. It's a good thing. They want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.” I bit my tongue; that wasn't the most sensitive way of putting it, given what Morgan had just been telling me. I took him by the shoulders, forced him to look at me. “Come on, Boy. I'm with you. There's nothing to worry about. Just answer their questions.”

“If I do that, I'll be the one in prison.”

So that's what this was about; he thought they'd come to arrest him on a buggery charge.

“Look, Morgan, they're investigating a murder. Even in the Metropolitan Police, that's more important than prosecuting queers.” I hoped that sounded convincing; I was far
from believing it myself. “Let's go downstairs. It won't look good to keep them waiting. Just pretend they've come to the bank to ask for an overdraft. Breathe deeply. Good boy.”

The color returned to his cheeks, and he was the charming Boy Morgan once again.

“Mr. Morgan.” Weston stood up, shook hands, and set Morgan at his ease. He was definitely “our class,” unlike the somewhat boorish Godley.

“What can I do for you? Awful business,” said Morgan. “I wish to God I knew what had got into Bartlett's head.”

“Please, sit down,” said Weston, gesturing toward a chair. I could see Morgan's jaw muscles working—he would not like being invited to sit down in his own home. But he kept calm. “We have a few more questions, that's all.”

“Fire away.”

“What brand of cigarettes did Mr. Bartlett smoke?” asked Weston.

“Gosh, I don't know. I've never noticed. Turkish, I think. He always carried them in a cigarette case.”

“Would you recognize the smell of his regular brand?”

“I suppose so,” said Morgan. “I never gave it much thought. Bartlett wasn't a particularly heavy smoker.”

“When did you last notice him smoking, Mr. Morgan?”

“Good Lord, you can't expect me to remember a thing like that!” I caught Morgan's eye and raised my eyebrow; it was enough to calm him. “Sorry, officer,” he said. “I'm still terribly upset. Now, let me think. I suppose he must have been smoking last night when we were working.”

“What time did you retire last night, sir?”

This seemed to be taking us onto dangerous ground, but Morgan kept his cool. “About ten, ten-thirty, I suppose.”

“And did Mr. Bartlett go to bed before you, or after you?”

Surely they weren't trying to trick him into saying “with me,” were they?

“After. He was finishing work when I went to clean my teeth, and then he was in the bathroom after me. I vaguely remember thinking that he was taking a long time about it, but then I dropped off.”

“Was Mr. Bartlett a fastidious man, would you say?”

“Come again?”

“Particular in his personal habits.”

“Oh, golly, yes. A great one for dental hygiene and all that malarkey.”

Weston nodded, perhaps wondering how Morgan knew so much about the deceased's bathroom behavior. “I see. And you say he was not a heavy smoker.”

“That's right.”

“We found ash in the bathroom, sir.”

“Ash?”

“Do you smoke in the bathroom?”

“Certainly not. Disgusting thing to do.”

“Would you have expected Mr. Bartlett to do so?”

“No, but now you come to mention it, I did smell smoke. I was just telling Mitch.”

“Ah.” Weston looked at me, the light from the window reflecting in his glasses. It was hard to read his expression. “Mr. Mitchell. You weren't here last night, were you sir?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“When was the bathroom last cleaned, Mr. Morgan?”

“Yesterday morning. The maid does it every morning, I believe.”

“And neither you nor your wife—”

“I can assure you that Mrs. Morgan is not in the habit of smoking in the bathroom. Nor, indeed, anywhere else.”

“Of course, of course,” said Weston. “I am simply trying to be methodical, sir. Does it strike you as unusual that a man of Bartlett's high personal standards would smoke in the bathroom?”

“Yes, it's odd,” said Morgan. “Seems out of character.
That said, though, we had been working jolly hard. Maybe he just fancied a quick puff to calm himself down.”

“Perhaps,” said Weston, nodding at Godley, who was taking notes. “Mr. Bartlett was in the habit of using mouthwash, was he not?”

“Good grief, I don't know,” said Morgan.

But you do know, I thought. Why are you lying?

“We removed a bottle of mouthwash from the bathroom this morning. I assume it was his.”