Lost Lad (31 page)

Another sound was very close by, the sound of rustling paper from within the room.  He struggled his lazy body to peer into the relative gloom and saw Gary, sitting up in bed, studying the long letter written by Detective Inspector Derek Russell.

           
"Good morning!  Sleep well?  I've been awake ages and read this several times - interesting, but not very illuminating."

Simeon, still unable to articulate, just grunted.  Gary was long accustomed to his friend's initial morning stupor and simply carried on -

           
"I hate to boast, but, well ... Are you coherent enough to take in my conclusions?"

Simeon grunted for the second time.

           
"Remember what you told me yesterday, in the car?  That long account of your schooldays?  The answer is there - not here."

Simeon blinked and grunted a third time.

           
"Just like a typical detective story. 
You
had the answer all the time!" 
Gary met his friend's bewildered look and pressed on.
  "OK.  In short, this document is a red herring.  The police are fools."

Simeon sat up and found his voice.

           
"So where is Brian?"

           
"Where I said he was, walled up in Cressbrook Hall.  All right, of course I can't be sure of the exact location ... "

           
"Gary, you're not making sense.  Russell's account gives us some very logical suspects.  The over sexed Tonks is a strong candidate.
 
Coggan actually provided services to gay men who were prepared to pay.  No doubt some of them were chicken hawks ... and that Wormall character, well, he was actually found with Brian's bike."

           
"Freaks!  My friend, they were freaks for God's sake!  What do we have:  a screaming queen addicted to toilets, a little fat queen ever circulating in an underworld of seedy pubs and an ancient crone running a dingy medieval massage parlour for the desperate.  Don't forget, in those days they were all operating well outside the law and outside the approval of society in general.  They were scared, Simeon - scared!  They lived their sad little lives as best they could.  No wonder they were reclusive, reluctant to co-operate.  Aware of murder, sure they'd be scared - dead scared."

           
"But the bicycle ... "

           
"I've a theory about that.  I'll come to it later.  Simeon, listen to me." 
Gary drew up closer.
  "You've been around.  You must have heard the expression 'hang it on the fags'.  You know what I mean - 'let the fags take the heat'?  That is precisely what Algernon Hardman did - he let the fags take the heat."

           
"But surely ... we're talking about an educated respectable man, a careful man with everything to lose ... if anything should go wrong ..."

           
"And it
did
go wrong!  But what better place to try his hand with two 'known' gay guys conveniently on the spot.  Get real!  He knew the cops would focus on his staff."

           
"What makes you so sure they're innocent?"

           
"Who said they were innocent?  Far from it.  They were both dependent on Algernon Hardman and in it up to their necks.  He used them.  And he had another accomplice.  I'll come to him later.  This is a gut feeling based on experience.  Freaks they may be, Tonks, Coggan, Wormall and Piggs, but they don't sound the type to be interested in chicken."

Gary Mackenzie leaned back on his pillows, sighed and resumed.  He looked at his old friend - a knowing look.

           
"You've known chicken hawks.  I've known lots.  What do they look like?"

           
"What do they look like!"

           
"You know exactly what I mean.  They're not types out of a book of fairy tales like that hideous goblin." 
He leaned forward.
  "They look like you!!  And they look like me.  They look like Algernon Hardman.  They blend into the background.  They're ordinary, not quirky, not camp, often quite butch.  Admit it, Simeon, you've always like 'em young."

           
"I've liked them old too - sometimes very old - with certain necessary skills - of course.  I'm not sure I like where this is going!  I've never coerced and never abducted."

           
"I never called you a chicken hawk.  You're too mild, tame, too much of a coward.  No.  I'd call you a chicken fancier.  Back to the point - what do these freaks have in common - apart from their freakishness?  They are
all
queens.  And you know very well that all queens like 'em big, butch and mature.  They'd have no use for a weedy chicken who, if anything, looked even younger than his years."

Simeon considered the wisdom of this statement but suddenly remembered -

           
"Guzzly Granddad!  He doesn't sound very ladylike.  He was ready to consume Russell and Winter - well, part of them anyway."

           
"True.  And he liked to have boys around him, older boys according to Russell.  But scrub the other three.  No point wasting our time.  They are probably involved in some way, but I'm certain they wouldn't be interested in Brian Forrester."

           
"So Algernon Hardman is our man?  But, hang on ... you mentioned an accomplice.  Who would ... "

He was interrupted by a gentle knock at the door.  As both men were well covered, Simeon called out -
"Come in".
  Ponderously, Aunty Joyce entered manoeuvring a tray supporting a large brown steaming tea pot, milk, an unwanted sugar pot and two large Denby beakers.  Averting her eyes, lest they see anything untoward, she placed her burden on an ancient dressing table which was probably a wedding gift to her mother in the early years of the 20th century.  Carefully looking out towards Crich Stand and clearly embarrassed, she attempted a little small talk -

           
"I 'eard ya talkin' an thought yad like a bita tea.  Shall ya av a bita breakfast?"

           
"That is most kind of you, Aunty Joyce.  You shouldn't have troubled ... "

           
"Breakfast sounds real good!"
interrupted Gary, who with his lean and energetic metabolism, was always hungry.  As Aunty Joyce was heard clomping slowly down the stairs, her nephew, desperate for his morning tea, jumped up, seized the pot, gave the tea a quick stir before completing the ritual so familiar to Gary Mackenzie - who did not want tea anyway.

           
"An accomplice?"
said Simeon resuming, his face partly obscured by a steaming beaker.  Gary (making do with the beverage provided as coffee was apparently unknown in Bog Hole) became thoughtful and chose his words carefully.  He took a deep breath -

           
"Hold tight, old friend.  You're not going to like this.  Try to take it slow and gentle.  I hate to sound like Poirot lecturing Hastings, but ... you really do already have the solution.  You know the answer.  You gave it to me yesterday in the car.  You can't
see
the solution because you're blinded by nostalgia and affection.  How much did you
really
know about those kids?  Did they see things the same way as you?  Did they feel things the same - with the same intensity?  OK, let me give you the clues.

           
One beautiful, stunning blond hunk desired by all the girls.  A gleaming new bicycle which cost a lot of money.  A keen intelligence, an independent spirit and athletic frame with lots of energy which enjoyed regular excursions into the Peak District."

Simeon had frozen.  The beaker was still up at his face, but the sipping had stopped.  He found voice -

           
"What?  What ... what is this?

           
"You know what it is.  A gorgeous kid like Scott is going to be approached by somebody sooner or later, probably sooner." 
He headed off an attempt by Simeon to object. 
"Let me finish.  I know what you're going to say.  Heanor's a small place and 43 years ago it was a different world when that sort of thing was unheard of - but human nature was just the same.  Scott was a combination of things.  He had beauty, brains and mobility.  Just suppose that, one day, out on his tatty old bike, he falls into casual conversation with a smooth type like Coggan ... "

           
"Hold it right there!  If such a soft scented rotundity ever made a dodgy comment to Scott North - well, he would become very hungry."

           
"Hungry?  I've lost you?"

           
"You need teeth to eat.  That 'Dolly' would have got Scott's fist right in the middle of his fat face.  Gary!  Hear me good.  Scott North was as straight as a die."

           
"That I don't doubt for a minute," 
persisted Gary
  " It is not the issue here.  Stick with this - somebody, maybe Tonks or even Hardman himself, suggests to Scott that he can have a nice new bike and be the envy of the school.  All kids want nice things.  I keep hearing how poor the Heanor folk were.  Do you seriously expect me to believe that your friend bought his brand new expensive bike with the money
from a paper route!  Get real!  He gets a few shillings a week and then he turns up at school one day with a machine costing more than £20!"

This last left the two silent for a few moments.  A few moments were needed for it all to sink in.  Gary continued, slowly, cautiously -

           
"He may have hustled a little, many handsome straight kids will,
if
the price is right or, (and this is where it gets a little sinister) he may have been asked if he knows any younger kids who'll do it - again for a price."

           
"You're unbelievable!"

           
"No.  Listen to me.  Scott may look and act like 18, but really, he's only 15 and he could be persuaded that a 'willing friend' will come to no harm.  He may be tempted by good money for just a few minutes work.
 
Hardman was rich.  He could afford to part with a nice big bill now and again for his few moments of ecstasy.  With sufficient incentive, Scott would overcome his natural disgust ...  touching and being touched by a dirty old man can be tolerated - can even get to be pleasant.  And Scott would take the view that a 'willing friend' could do the same.  I'm guessing of course, but, say .. a fiver for Scott and another fiver for the friend.  Tight pants, no underwear, a sexy rough stripling - they get approached - it happens."

           
"It never happened to me!"
spoke Simeon in a slight tone of disappointment.

           
"You had zits.  You said it yourself, a face full of pimples.  I can see the pock marks from here.  Adults with money can afford to be choosy.  Was Brian Forrester desirable?  Would he play?"

This sudden off hand reference to his long lost friend made Simeon emotional.  His mind went back across the decades to that ever smiling baby face of perfect complexion, that mischievous cheeky grin, the breathy way he said 'Dobba' and that sexy sliding tongue.  Gary had said enough.  Dobba did not want to answer the question, but it triggered a special secret memory of damp towels, the smell of chlorine, standing on duck boards in a shambling cubicle at the old Langley Baths.  Both boys having dried off had donned tatty shirts and nothing else.  Both boys were facing each other in a rare moment of guilty silence.  One boy had replaced the smile with a downward look of pure wonder.  The other, getting highly excited, noted the opening little mouth and a crafty protruding glistening tongue.  Inquisitive little fingers of one smooth hand reached out to tickle and tantalise a raging phallus, sticking up, pleading - begging for relief.  The other naughty fingers investigated, teased and stroked pleasure regions below.  Fiddling fingers, busy fingers, only stopped by a sudden ecstatic spurt of finality: a milky mess hurriedly cleaned up with a dingy raggy towel. 

Mindful of this broody silence, Gary softened his tone.