Ketamine Kidnap

KETAMINE KIDNAP

11th 'Feltenham' Mystery

Michael Gouda

1 THE QUEEN'S HEAD, ISLINGTON, NORTH LONDON TUESDAY EVENING 9.30 pm

The man, dark haired, well-dressed in a sharp dark suit, single-breasted, single-buttoned jacket, sat at the bar and surveyed everyone who came in. His eyes, over the high cheekbones, had a sardonic glint, derisive and calculating - if it were possible to combine the unsympathetic cynicism of the former with the sly cunning of the latter.

The Queen's Head, Islington, was occasionally 'gayish' but not outrageously so. Tonight it looked anything but. The engraved mirrors on the walls gave a hint of its Victorian past. The paintwork was tobacco-smoke colour.

The man sipped his glass of lager and looked around. Two young lads were playing darts, one tall and slim, his friend more tubby and dark. Both in their way attractive. An elderly man in a cloth cap and a woman who was presumably his wife - as he paid her no attention at all - sat at a table in the corner and looked as if they were not enjoying themselves. He had a pint of beer, she a port and lemon.

Time passed. The dark-haired man ordered and consumed drinks. He waited. The bar filled.

A youth with longish blond hair curling at the nape of his neck - could he have been of legal age to consume alcohol in a bar? - came in and perhaps by chance, perhaps on purpose stood next to the dark-haired man who observed him closely for a while. The youth tried to attract the attention of the barmaid, but without success. Maybe she was ignoring him so that she did not have to refuse him service.

"Let me get you one," said the dark-haired man, and gestured to the barmaid,

"I ain't gay," said the youth, who clearly knew the scene. He was adolescently slim, hips encased in loose blue jogging-pants, a fitted white T-shirt. His eyes were blue, his nose tip-tilted and his lips a slight pout.

"Never mind. What do you want to drink?"

"Vodka ... " said the youth.

"Neat?"

" ... and orange."

The man ordered and paid for a double.

The youth swallowed. "Do you do this a lot?" he asked.

"Do what?'

"Buy drinks for people you don't know."

"Only if I like the look of them," said the man.

"I ain't gay," repeated the youth.

"So you said. I'm not expecting anything in return."

"Just so as you know." He took another gulp, almost finishing the glass. "I've gotta go to the bog," he said.

"I'll get you another," said the man. "No strings."

"OK," said the youth. "Thanks." He weaved his way through the customers to the opposite side of the room where a sign over a doorway said `Gentlemen'. The man looked round quickly to see if he was being observed then felt in his jacket pocket and took out a small bottle. Holding it concealed in his palm he unscrewed the top, then poured the contents into the youth's half-filled glass. It was a practised movement as if it had been done many times before. The liquid was colourless and immediately merged into the drink.

"Put another one in here, please," the man said to the barmaid holding up the glass.

When the youth came back, he seemed more compliant, less on the defensive. He sat on the bar stool next to the man and tasted his drink. "Sometimes they won't serve me," he said confidentially, "but I AM eighteen." His eyes were naive. He might know this was a gay bar but he hadn't had much experience, thought the man.

"Of course you are," said the man. "But they have to be careful. They'd lose their licence if they're found serving under-age kids."

"You're not a policeman?"

The man laughed and shook his head. "If you're not gay, what are you doing in here?" he asked.

The youth at first looked a little evasive, hesitated, then appeared to make up his mind. "I was told you could get drugs here," he said.

"You take drugs?"

"Oh well." The tone was blase but it seemed to hide an uncertainty. "Sometimes. Just for a lift, you know. Not seriously into them."

"Drink up," said the man, "and I'll get you another. By the way, what's your name?"

"Er ... Lance," said the youth. After the hesitation it sounded unlikely but the man didn't say anything. After all it didn't matter to him at all.

"You trying to get me drunk?" asked Lance but he emptied his glass and handed it over.

"You can have a straight orange juice, if you want," said the man, glancing at his watch. Seven to eleven minutes, he thought.

"I can take me drink," said Lance stoutly. "No problems there."

"Of course you can. Fine, upstanding figure of a man, that you are. I'm sure you can take all you get."

Lance looked at him sharply to see if he was taking the piss, but the man's smile hadn't changed from its casually ironic expression, the thick eyebrows drawn together in - what? A frown? A smirk? A sneer? It was difficult to tell.

"Vodka and orange," said the man to the barmaid. "Make it a single this time," he added in a lower tone, "and I'll have another beer."

"What do you do for a living, Lance?" he asked, handing him the glass.

"Unemployed." Suddenly he seemed to find this funny and sniggered, the laugh extending itself more than was necessary. The man put his hand on Lance's knee. It wasn't a suggestive move, just implied caution.

"Live at home?"

Lance nodded. "Mum and Dad, two brothers, two sisters."

"That's cozy."

The youth frowned. "Never any room for myself," he said a touch bitterly. "Always someone there, in the way. And no job means I don't get out as much as I want. And no fucking money either." His voice rose.

The man patted his leg again. "I understand," he said sympathetically.

"Bet you've got a good job." He frowned again but this time with a suggestion of apprehension. He touched his head with the palm of his hand.

"You feeling all right?" asked the man.

"Bit dizzy."

"Too much to drink."

"I've only had three," he said indignantly and tossed off the last one.

"Five," said the man. "Come on. I'll see you're OK." The boy got to his feet and staggered a little. "I'll make sure he gets home all right," he added to the barmaid who was staring at both of them. With his arm round Lance's shoulder he assisted him out of the bar and into the fresh air.

"Where we going?" asked Lance, the words slightly slurred. He didn't sound alarmed though, not even apprehensive.

"Back to my place," said the man. "Don't worry. I'll see you're OK." The arm around Lance's shoulders was supportive as well as affectionate.

When Lance got home in the very small hours of the following morning, there were a few things that puzzled him - not exactly worried him - just things he couldn't explain. For one thing he had little recollection of what had happened to him. He remembered the bar and the man with the dark eyebrows buying him drinks - and after that - nothing.

Then there was the fact that his clothes didn't seem to be on properly. The buttons of his shirt were fastened cackhandedly, his belt was on the wrong hole, his underpants were missing - as if he had dressed himself hurriedly or - stupid thought - as if someone else had dressed him.

He felt strangely excited, found himself almost jumping as he let himself in through the front door, ran up the stairs without any caution and entered the bedroom he shared with his younger brother. His arse felt sore, no not exactly sore - stretched, and he didn't know why.

"Is that you, Darren?" asked his brother sleepily. "What time d'you call this?"

"Later than you think, squirt," said 'Lance', undressing. He got into his bed and almost immediately fell asleep.

2 WEDNESDAY NIGHT, ISLINGTON, NORTH LONDON 11.30 pm

He didn't grate the gears. The tarmac slipped smoothly beneath the tires. Bennie flicked a switch on the real wood dashboard and music played, a pop song with heavy pounding rhythms and a chorus of boy singers with strangulated falsettos. But the tune was catchy and Bennie sang with it. His face was lit intermittently as the car passed under the street lights. His eyes gleaming, a smile on his mouth, he hadn't a care in the world.

"It's like flying," he said and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. He approached a turn and negotiated it without slowing down, the tyres screaming.

It was at that moment that this old guy stepped out from the pavement. He shouldn't have been out at that time of night. Must have been deaf as a post as the car was making enough noise, Bennie jammed on the brakes. The tyres squealed again but this time with a different sound. The man heard, turned, saw - and had no idea what to do... He hesitated, seemed about to run on, then stepped back. Bennie twisted the wheel and the car missed him but skidded across the road, straight into the wall on the other side. The windscreen shattered, pieces of glass catching the lights like a shower of sparks. The bonnet crumpled. Bennie's body went forward into the wheel and his arm snagged on a sliver of glass. Blood welled from the wound. For a moment the high, almost sexless, singing went on. Then it stopped.

The old man stared at the wreck, at the driver in his seat, looked about not knowing what to do. The driver stirred, obviously not dead as the old man had at first feared. There was a telephone box just down the road. He dialed 999 and asked for Ambulance, the Police, explained the details.

They arrived together, sirens sounding in competition. The paramedics had first go. The driver was conscious, in fact seemed to be in a state of wild exhilaration, the wound in his arm causing him no concern at all. Did he remember his name, they asked. "Bennie," he replied and laughed as if this was a great joke. "Bennie Charter."

"Do you feel any pain?"

He shook his head, roaring with laughter.

"Drunk," said the constable from the police car. "Can we take a breath test?"

The paramedics got him out and tried to lay him down on a stretcher but he shook off their hands and stood in the road.

"Blow into this," said the P.C. and Bennie did so though it seemed uproarious.

"Below the limit," said the P.C. sounding surprised. "Drugs?"

"We'll get him to hospital and give him a test."

But there were no positive results for the usual sorts of drugs and the case remained a mystery. In the morning, when he had recovered, he was still unsure of what had happened. All he remembered was that he had been in the Queen's Head, Islington the previous night, had had a drink - no more than one, he stated, with someone - the description was vague though he thought he was dark and could remember nothing more. However he was charged with dangerous driving and a report was made. Because it was in Keith Hatch's area, a copy was sent to him.

3 THURSDAY MORNING 10.30 am 'Trendy Clobber' clothes shop, ISLINGTON, NORTH LONDON

Peter Lippett surveyed himself ruefully in the full length mirror of the department store cubicle. The trousers didn't fit; the jacket was too young for him. It might suit a teenager, but not someone of twenty-three, a police constable in the London Metropolitan Force and street-wise man of the world.

Not that he'd lost his figure. He had no need to suck in his stomach, not like many of his other colleagues - boozers all, looking middle-aged before they'd got out of their twenties. That didn't of course include his boss, Inspector Hatch, who must be thirty-five if he was a day and for whom Peter had an almost hero-worship attachment. Trouble was Inspector Hatch - Peter liked to think of him as Keith, but of course never called him that - was married. Married in the gay sense and would never, Peter knew, be detached from his partner, whatever opportunities Peter was prepared to offer.

He sighed.

The curtain which protected his privacy twitched and was flung aside, the rings rattling on the metal rod. The sales assistant swept in. Dark-haired, dark eyebrows, a single earring in his left ear. Apart from that he was dressed conventionally in jacket and trousers. Must surely be gay though. Wouldn't have come in like that otherwise hoping to catch him with his trousers down.

"Oh dear," said the assistant, posing for a moment and surveying with one finger at his lips, then smiling. "That doesn't suit sir at all. Trousers not nearly snug enough." His hand grasped the loose crotch, fingers grazing, surely not unintentionally, Peter's cock, dressing to the left as always. "We'll have to do something about that." What he wanted to do and what he was actually referring to was hinted by the uplifted right eyebrow.

"I want something smart," said Peter, ignoring any invitation which might be being offered. "It's a big interview, and I've got to look smart."

"Sir is going for a new job?" asked the assistant.

"Promotion interview," said Peter. He hoped he wouldn't be asked any further questions. It was always difficult as to the right time to tell someone he was a policeman - albeit in the Gay Liaison Force. On the first meeting, before getting into bed, after sex was over, the following morning - if it got that far?

"I see sir in something blue. Dark blue, to match sir's eyes. Single-breasted. A single slit up the back. Now that's an interesting idea." His own eyes were provocative. "And very close fitting trousers. Such good legs." He ran his hands appreciatively from the knee up and stopped just a centimeter below propriety. "Don't run away," he said and exited with a swish of the curtain.

Peter stood for a moment looking at himself in the mirror, but thinking about the young assistant. Did he want this new entanglement? Keith always accused him of getting involved with the wrong type of guy and Peter knew that this was true. The first one had been Stiff whom he'd met at a gay club and who had been a suspect in a murder investigation . Also a drug user and dealer. And a male prostitute. Looking back Peter realised how stupid he'd been to get involved and how inevitable the ending. Others had followed, equally doomed. Why he couldn't be satisfied with one night stands and no commitment, he didn't know. He shrugged. Perhaps the next one would be the right one.

He took off the jacket, unzipped the unbecoming trousers and bent to take them off.

The curtain swished open again and the assistant came in with some suits on hangers draped over his arm. "Hm. Nice," he said.

Embarrassed, Peter stood up, the trousers in a tangle around his ankles. He felt at a distinct disadvantage. He tried to lift his feet out of the clinging material.

"Can I help sir?" Without waiting for an answer he went over to Peter, knelt down. "Lift your foot," he said. Peter did so and, off-balance, felt himself losing his stability. To steady himself he grabbed hold of the shoulder in front of him. Efficiently the assistant removed one trouser leg and then the other.

Kneeling, he looked up at Peter's face, Peter's hand still on his shoulder, and then straight ahead at eye level where Peter's crotch, in its white cotton jockey shorts was directly ahead of him. His hands hovered for a moment and then homed in on the bulge. Peter felt his cock grasped and two lips nuzzling where his shirt opened to expose the smooth skin of his stomach, where the fine hairs disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Peter drew his breath in. His cock hardened and the hand stroked it under its cloth protection, then peeled the elasticated waist band down so that the cock sprang out, inviting. Lips opened and mouth, warm, moist, clamped over it.

What was he doing, Peter thought, his eyes fixed on that insubstantial curtain between them and the outside world, a world where people walked, picked up clothing, casually took them into changing areas to try them on, whisking the curtain aside to reveal.... Headlines flashed in front of his eyes. 'Policeman caught in compromising situation'. No they would be much franker than that. 'Copper copping off in shop'. But still the mouth held him in its tender vice.

Then, abruptly, suddenly, heart-stoppingly, a voice from outside. "Jason, are you free?" Camp, awful echoes of 'Are you Being Served?'

"I'm busy with a customer," said Jason, taking brief time off from sucking.

But Peter had had enough. "Not here," he said, pulling himself away, covering his erection with his pants. "It's too dangerous."

"Eric knows what I mean when I say that," said Jason, reaching again for the bulge.

Peter shook his head. "Somewhere else," he said. "If you want to. But not here."

"I finish at half past six. sir."

"My name's Peter."

"Until you buy a suit, you're a 'sir'. After that...." Jason smiled and gave him a kiss and a final grope before proceeding with the fitting and eventual sale of a suit.

4 THURSDAY EVENING 6.30 pm

That was how Peter had met Jason - in the changing-room of a men's boutique. It wasn't an auspicious beginning but it got better afterwards. That Wednesday had been Peter's day off so there was no obstacle to get in the way of his being outside 'Trendy Clobber' at 6.30 pm. Peter hadn't decided where they would go afterwards. He lived in a policeman's block and, though the others knew he was gay, bringing back other guys led to ferocious kidding which Peter could well do without. He had no idea where or in what circumstances Jason lived.

They compromised with a drink to start off, dropping into the nearest pub which happened to be 'The Queen's Head'. It was early and there were few people in the bar. One dark-haired, saturnine-looking man sitting by himself at the bar gave them a searching look as they went in but Peter didn't notice and Jason gave no sign of doing so.

"Are you hungry?" asked Peter.

"For food?" asked Jason, smiling and standing close enough that their hips touched briefly.

"Food - at the moment."

Jason nodded. "Ravenous," he said.

Peter bought two halves of lager and two pies and they chose a table in an alcove by the door. Jason slid in one side and Peter debated whether to sit beside him, where he could get close, or opposite, where he could look at him. He decided on the latter, sliding along the bench so that their knees touched under the table.

There was a brief moment of shyness which they covered by eating. Jason lifted his pie and took a bite. Some rich gravy oozed out and ran down his chin.

Peter laughed. "Did you ever see that old film, Tom Jones?" he asked.

"The dinner scene." He made his pie into a travesty of a sexual object and started licking it suggestively.

"I love those old 1960s films," said Peter.

"Barbarella," said Jason and they both laughed. "Carnivorous dolls and flying away with a blind angel."

"He was beautiful."

"Beautiful as me?" asked Jason coquettishly. Peter was aware that his left knee was imprisoned between a pair of legs under the table while a hand stroked his thigh going higher and higher.

He looked at Jason. Dark hair, spiked with gel, the ends bleached blond, dark eyebrows, these he had noticed the first time. Now he studied his face, fresh complexioned, youthful. Peter could imagine his whole body with that soft, olive skin. Brown candid eyes and a smile that curled up a pair of invitingly generous lips.

He had changed from his 'shop clothes' and now wore a dark blue pullover emblazoned with the letters 'UCLA' on the front and back in white. Peter envisioned peeling it off and found himself getting quite excited.

"Not quite," he said, "but very nearly so."

"I base my clothes-removing technique on Barbarella."

"I think I'd like to see that," said Peter.

"Here?" asked Jason, half standing and looking as if he was prepared to remove his pullover immediately.

"Haven't you any better place we can go to? Perhaps somewhere slightly less public?"

For the first time Jason seemed slightly less sure of himself. "It's difficult," he said. "I still live with my parents." Suddenly he sneezed. "Bloody hay fever," he said.

For a moment Peter wondered how old Jason was. Since the recent passing of the Age Consent Law, 16 was the legal limit but Peter didn't feel it appropriate to have sex with a kid of 16.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Don't worry," said Jason, "I'm old enough. Just haven't got a place of my own. Haven't you anywhere to go?"

Peter looked at the young, eager face watching him and made a decision. "Yes," he said, "I've got a place but there's something you have to know. Don't freak out. I'm a policeman."

He'd had a variety of reactions to this announcement varying from horror to fear. Jason's face broke into a delighted grin.

"Just wait till I tell Eric tomorrow," he said. "OK, guv, it's a fair cop. I'll come quietly."

"I hope you do," said Peter. "The walls are very thin."

5 THURSDAY EVENING Peter's flat 9.30 pm

They went up to Peter's bedroom which was chilly in the evening and he switched on both bars of his electric fire. Soon it was warm. They sat on Peter's bed, side by side, close so that their thighs touched. Peter put his hand on Jason's thigh and slowly moved it upwards. Jason lay back and Peter grasped hold of his groin and softly squeezed him through the material of his jeans. Jason reached up and grabbed Peter's arms, pulling him down on top of him. Their faces were close and Peter's mouth fastened on to Jason's. There was a moment's resistance and then Jason responded, opening his mouth and letting his tongue join with Peter's. At the same time they pushed their bodies together, pressing pelvis against pelvis so that they seemed almost to be trying to get inside each other.

Jason came up for air. "Let's take our clothes off," he said. Swiftly they took off trainers and socks, sweaters, shirts and jeans and underpants until they stood, completely naked facing each other. They both shivered with the chill and the excitement and they climbed into bed, holding each other, their tongues and hands exploring each others' bodies. Peter, on top, slowly inched down Jason's body, kissing and licking. He paused and sucked at the nipples, then went down and put his tongue in Jason's navel.

Jason giggled and wriggled so Peter went even lower so that he could feel the fuzz of pubic hair around that sprouting cock.

"Turn round," said Jason's voice, high with arousal, "so I can do the same to you. Peter needed no second urging and soon both their faces were buried in each other's groins. Peter ran his tongue up and down the erect shaft and then licked the firm young balls, taking each one into his mouth and gently mouthing them one at a time. Then he moved back and enclosed the prick as far as he could into his mouth. He could feel his own erection being taken into Jason's warm mouth and knew ecstasy. He put one arm over Jason's legs and gently explored his arse. He found the hole and inserted his finger. He heard Jason gasp and then felt him doing the same. He pushed harder, at the same time sucking and wanking with his free hand.

Jason gasped, "I'm coming," and then clamped his mouth down again.There was a warm, salty spurt into Peter's mouth but all he felt was his whole being centred in his own groin as a source of pleasure, exploding and pulsing again and again. Afterwards they lay there, sticky and satisfied, just happy to be together, occasionally stroking each other, finding out slowly and carefully, each other's secret parts.

6 THE QUEEN'S HEAD, ISLINGTON THURSDAY EVENING 9.30 pm

"Do you want a drink?" asked the man with the dark eyebrows and the cynical smile.

"Sorry, mate, you're not my type," said the young man with the curly hair. He said it pleasantly enough but his eyes were searching the room for someone who presumably was.

"No strings," said the man. "I was only looking for company. Have a drink anyway."

The youth shrugged. "OK," he said. "Thanks. I'll have a beer."

The man went to the bar. He seemed to be having a little trouble with the glasses as he turned them round a couple of time with an odd motion of his hand over them before picking them up and bringing them over. "Cheers," he said and raised his glass.

The youth took a deep swallow, breathed deeply a couple of times, coughed.

"Are you all right?" asked the man.

"Bit of asthma." The youth took out an inhaler from his pocket and sucked two deep puffs from it.

"Getting very common these days," said the man sympathetically. "It's the pollution, I guess. Though some put it down to central heating."

The youth didn't seem too interested in the subject. He took another long swallow from the glass. Perhaps he regretted his acceptance of the drink, now saw it as some sort of an obligation and wanted to finish it as soon as possible. But the man chatted amiably enough for a while and the youth found himself telling his name - Joe Randolph, his job - bricklayer, where he lived - Finsbury Park, chattering away carelessly until suddenly he stopped and put his hand to his head.

"What's the matter?" asked the man.

"I feel funny."

"Get some fresh air. I'll take you outside."

Joe made no obvious objection and the man helped him from the pub.

7 SATURDAY MORNING 9.30 am

Detective Inspector Keith Hatch of the Metropolitan Gay Liaison Force, brisk, efficient, short-cropped brown hair and intelligent eyes, skimmed through the autopsy report. It was an odd case. A young man, Joe Randolph, aged 20 had been found dead the day before in a car park by a postman doing his rounds in the morning. The body had been there, it was estimated, most of the night and preliminary examination had suggested oxygen starvation to the heart and muscles, and a resultant heart attack.

But there were other elements. The young man had had anal sex, he being the passive partner, shortly before he died. Traces of semen had been found inside him. The police had obviously taken an interest and a post mortem ordered to see if there were any signs of foul play. Now the autopsy report confirmed that there were no physical bruises or cuts on the body, that there was a small amount of alcohol present but also traces of a drug, ketamine hydrochloride.

Inspector Hatch had never even heard of it. He rang the pathologist, Henry Styles.

"Ah yes..." said Styles as soon as she had got through to him and identified himself, "How's your Chief Inspector? How's Sheridan?"

"He's retired," Keith said and thought - and not before time as well, though he said nothing. "As far as I know he's well." Eating too much, he thought, not taking enough exercise. If anyone should have had a heart attack, it ought to have been ex C.I. Sheridan.

"Is he?" said Mr Styles. "Is he indeed? Well what can I do for you."

"It's this case," said Inspector Hatch. "Joe Randolph. Can you tell me something about this stuff you found in him, `ketamine hydrochloride'? I've never heard of it."

"Haven't you?" said Styles, in a surprised tone as if it showed supreme ignorance. "Well I suppose it is rather new. Ketamine is a powerful anaesthetic used in the UK mainly by vets on farm animals ... "

"Farm animals!"

" ... although it does have some human medical applications," said Styles ignoring his amazed interruption. "It blocks signals in the brain that recognise the sensations of pain. It also lowers the heart rate and so with larger doses it can lead to oxygen starvation to the brain and muscles. An overdose can also cause the heart to stop."

"And that's what happened to Joe? An overdose?"

"Not necessarily. The young man was an asthma sufferer, who sometimes react badly to ketamine."

"Was it injected?" asked Keith.

"I couldn't find any marks," said Styles, "but it's quite possible to take it in liquid form, in a drink for instance."

"Without the person's knowledge?"

"I suppose so."

"And what would be the reaction?"

"Sleepiness a short while after ingestion, then in fact complete unawareness of what has been going on. When the drug wears off there is often a feeling of exhilaration but probably no recollection of what has happened. In medical uses, the patient is kept very quiet."

"Drug assisted rape," said Keith.

"Exactly so. A serial rapist's panacea."

"And could have been used on many victims."

"I cannot speculate but I should imagine so."

An unpleasant thought struck Inspector Hatch. "Is it possible to test the traces of semen for HIV?" she asked.

There was a brief pause, then an affirmation. Keith rang off looking thoughtful. He glanced through the rest of the memos on his desk but there didn't seem to be any of importance - though one of dangerous driving caught his attention briefly - then he called for his assistant. "Peter, come in here will you. We could've got a big problem."

Police Constable Peter Lippett came into his boss's office smiling broadly and looking as if his attention was anywhere but on the case in hand.

Keith Hatch viewed him with apprehension. Freed now from the worries over his partner, Phil's arrest he was able to give complete attention to his assistant's behaviour. He knew the signs. Peter was in love - again.

It wouldn't do his promotion prospects any good. Peter was a degree graduate, on fast track to a Sergeant, at least, by twenty-five. Dear old Sergeant Webb was due for retirement in two years time and Keith thought Peter would make a good replacement. He and Peter worked well together. He hoped this current infatuation wouldn't jeopardise the lad's chances. He'd have to have a word with him about it, though he disliked interfering in Peter's private life, unless he, himself raised the subject.

"There could be a guy going around drugging youngsters, taking them home and raping them," he said. "One lad has certainly died as a result of the drug."

"Sick," said Peter.

"It's possible that the man doesn't realise how dangerous the drug is. The guy who died suffered from asthma and apparently asthma, hayfever, diseases that affect the breathing react badly to the drug."

"Even so," said Peter.

"Yes, we've got to stop him. We've got to catch him."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Well we know where the body was discovered - Jasmine Street. We know where the guy, Joe Randolph. lived - Fortescue Road. They're what, about half a mile apart. He was obviously local, presumably met the person who drugged him, also locally. After sex, Joe collapsed, perhaps on the way and he left him there."

"Joe could have known the guy and gone to his house, got the drug there and when he collapsed, the guy panicked and took him to where he was found."

"I've got the report here," said Keith picking up a folder. "There's no evidence that Joe died anywhere but where he was found. There's even scratch marks made by Joe in the dirt when he struggled for breath."

"We could go round the pubs and clubs in the area," said Peter. "Have we got a photo?"

Keith nodded.

"What is this drug?" asked Peter.

Keith read out from the notes he had made while talking to the pathologist. "Ketamine hydrochloride. It stops the user feeling pain, which could lead the user to cause injury to him or herself without them knowing it. It also lowers the heart rate and so with larger doses it can lead to oxygen starvation to the brain and muscles. An overdose can cause the heart to stop."

"Never heard of it."

"It's not one of your everyday, man-on-the-corner pills. Ketamine is commercially sold as Ketalar and is a powerful anaesthetic used in the UK mainly by vets on farm animals, although it does have some human medical applications."

"Farm animals? Hardly likely in the middle of London."

"The supply is thought to come mainly from opportunistic thefts from vets premises and vehicles as it isn't, on the whole, stored on farms. It usually comes as a liquid in its pharmaceutical form - stolen vets supplies will probably come in this form - although it is also found as a white powder or pill."

"Even so. Why keep it in vets when there aren't any farms around?"

"There's an inner city farming project at Surrey Docks, a herd of milking goats, a flock of laying hens, sheep, cow, pigs, bees, ducks and geese."

"Bit out of our area, guv," said Peter. "Thought we'd decided it was all local."

"I've a feeling about this," said Keith. "Find out from the database if there were any reports of thefts from vets over, say, the last year."

Peter made for the door and his computer but was stopped. "And then you can take this photo around the local pubs and clubs. See if anyone recognises him and if he was there last Tuesday."

"All on my own, guv? Don't I get any help?" He could see his day lasting well into the evening - and he had arranged to meet Jason at half past six.

"Soon as you get your Sergeant's stripes, we can get a really keen PC, and we'll have that much extra manpower."

Peter went out. Sergeant Webb has sitting at his own desk, shuffling paper and waiting for his retirement. For one moment Peter thought of telling him that Inspector Hatch wanted him out on the streets but knew it would be no use. He sat down at his desk and logged on to the police database.

8 SATURDAY

11.00 am: "Yes," said the receptionist, a young girl with tied back blond hair. "There was a break in. A coupla months ago. Not much was taken, according to the vet, but we had to report it because of the insurance." A black and white dog nosed experimentally about the two policemen's crutches. "Stop it, Laddie. Sorry about that! He's only being friendly. Do you want to see Mr Mason? He's busy in the surgery at the moment, but I expect I can interrupt him."

"Not necessarily. Have you got a list of what was taken?"

She rummaged around in a drawer for a while then found a sheet of paper. "Here you are. Mr Mason wrote them down and then I typed out the report,"

Keith looked at the list. He didn't recognise any of the names but there was no 'Ketalar' listed amongst them. "Thank you," he said. "Come on, Peter, we've others to see." He patted Laddie's head as they went out and the dog wagged its tail.

The receptionist went into the examination room where the vet was inspecting an X-ray film on the light board. "The police were here about the break-in, Mr Mason," she said. "I don't think they've found anyone though."

Neil Mason frowned, his dark eyebrows almost meeting over the bridge of his nose. "I doubt they'll make an arrest," he said with a twist of his lips.

The receptionist was never sure whether her boss was smiling or smirking or sneering. She was a little in awe of him and thought he was strange but to her he had never been anything except polite and courteous.

12.45 pm: They stopped off for a sandwich and a half of beer at the Dog and Dumplings in Southgate Road. "I'm sure this pub was called something else last time I was here." said Keith. "We're losing all the historical connections we used to have in the old names."

Peter wasn't quite sure what Keith was talking about. He allowed his mind wander and wondered what Jason was doing, whether he was in that changing cubicle 'fitting' a new customer. He was surprised at the emotive charge that this idea gave him. Was he falling for Jason? Certainly his thoughts kept returning to him. He struggled to bring his attention back.

"Not a very productive morning, Peter."

"So much for your 'special feeling', guv!"

"Peter, once you're a Sergeant you can find fault with me to my face. At the moment, as P.C. Plonk, my word is God!" His smile took the sting out of his words. "Anyway I still think vets have something to do with it. How else could our man have got hold of this Ketamine stuff?"

Peter had no ideas about this.

"Look, I've got to get back to the office," said Keith, swallowing the last of his drink. "I'd like you to take the photo of the guy who died around to as many pubs you can manage. Probably your best chance will be gay pubs. After all that's who this guy's after."

1.30 pm: Keith went through the morning stuff that he had discarded earlier. Again he noticed the drink-driving report and this time something about it caught his attention. The description of the man, no apparent feelings of pain for his wound, the almost frenzied elation which the arresting officer had first thought was drunkenness, his apparent lack of memory about what had happened before the accident.

Surely - these were symptoms of Ketamine poisoning.

"Sergeant," he called to the outer office. "This report on Bennie Charters. Can you find out where they did the drug analysis of the samples from him. Urgent, please."

Sergeant Webb stirred himself from his lethargy and dreams of a country retirement pub and did some telephoning.

By a stroke of good luck, the hospital pathology had not destroyed the sample taken from Bennie. They had found nothing incriminating in their tests up to date and would normally have disposed of the urine immediately, but, because the result had been inexact and the police bewildered, they had saved it in case further investigation was required.

"Great," said Keith. "Did you test it for ketamine hydrochloride?"

"We weren't asked to."

"It's really rather urgent. Would you be able to?"

"Yes, of course."

"By today?"

"Tomorrow."

"That'll have to do."

3.45 pm: Bennie Charters looked younger than his 24 years. His flat on Florence Street, N1, was decorated in a style which showed he had good design sense, too minimalist for Keith's taste but then he had been 'corrupted' by his lover, Phil's love of camp, florid rococo.

"Tell me what happened last Thursday. You say you went to a pub. Which one was that?"

"The Queen's Head. I remember going in and this chap bought me a drink."

"He didn't give you anything? A pill for instance?"

"No, just a half of bitter. Well a couple of halves, in actual fact."

"What do you think he was after?" asked Keith.

"Oh it was obvious, but I wasn't interested and he said, no strings attached."

"Was he so unattractive?"

"No, it wasn't that. He was dark, with black hair - and high cheek bones -" he touched his own to illustrate " - and a sort of smile that wasn't a smile. Just not my type. He was quite charming though, sort of seemed interested in everything I said. Though he didn't say much about himself. In fact I can't remember anything he told me about himself."

"Did he say what his name was?"

"No I don't think he did. Oh wait a minute. Neil, was it? Think so."

"What happened then?"

"I remember feeling a bit dizzy. It wasn't the drink. After all I couldn't have actually drunk more than a pint. Just strange...." He paused - and looked a bit confused.

"And then?" prompted Keith.

"Nothing," said Bennie. "I can't remember anything until I came round in the hospital. And now they're charging me with dangerous driving." He looked distraught. "I need my car," he said, "for my job. If I lose my licence, I don't know what I shall do."

Keith tried to comfort him. "It may not have been your fault," he said. "I'll do what I can."

5.50 pm: Peter produced the photo of Joe Randolph for the umpteenth time. "He may have been in the pub last Thursday. Do you recognise him?"

"Quite good looking," said the barman. "What's 'e done?"

"He hasn't done anything," said Peter. "He's dead."

"Shame," said the man. "I'd remember him, I think. No I haven't seen him."

"Were you on duty on Thursday?"

The barman thought. "No," he said eventually. "I only work at weekends."

Peter sighed. He would be late for Jason. The Queen's Head was the other side of the borough and it would take over three quarters of an hour to get there, but duty was duty. "Is there anyone here who was working last Thursday?" he asked wearily. It had been a long day.

The barman thought. He didn't seem too bright. "There's the manager. He's on every day."

"I better have a quick word with him, then." He would talk to this man and then call it a day. He wanted to see Jason. He bet Inspector Keith Hatch had already gone home.

9 THE QUEEN'S HEAD, ISLINGTON SATURDAY EVENING 6.30 pm

It was raining and Peter wasn't waiting for him outside the shop when Jason eventually finished work at about half past six. That wasn't of course too much of a worry. They had arranged that if ever they were going to meet and one was delayed, then the other would wait in the pub along the road. As on the previous occasion when he and Peter had been there it was too early for there to be many customers. Later, though, it would be crowded.

Jason went up to the bar. A man with dark hair, dressed in a suit was sitting on a stool. His eyes, over the high cheekbones, had a contemptuous look, cynical and shrewd. Jason waited for the barman to finish serving someone along the bar.

"Can I get you a drink?" asked the man.

"It's all right, thanks. I'm waiting for a friend."

The man smiled though it was almost a sneer. "No strings," he said. "Just fancied a chat."

Jason looked at him. He couldn't work out what it was but there was something a little scary about the man. But there couldn't be anything wrong in having a drink. The poor guy was lonely.

"OK. I'll have half of lager. Thanks. My friend won't be long though."

The man nodded and ordered drinks, The barman put the glasses down in front of them. Jason took a swig. Already he was regretting the acceptance. The man had said there were no strings but he felt under a sort of obligation. He wished Peter would hurry.

But the man was talking, chatting away pleasantly enough and soon Jason found himself telling the man - he said his name was Neil - about his job, about Peter. about his hopes and aspirations. This guy should have been a psychiatrist, he had a way of extracting information. almost painlessly.

Jason sat with his glass in front of him on the counter, clasped between his hands. Neil seemed strangely uncomfortable with this. He kept urging Jason to drink up, to have another. Once he encouraged Jason to turn round and look at someone who had just entered through the door behind. "Is that your friend?" he asked but Jason could see reflected in the mirror behind the bar that it was not. He didn't turn round.

The pub filled. The clock on the wall told Jason that it was after seven. Someone jostled him from behind. "Let's take our drinks over to the alcove there," suggested Neil. "It'll be out of the way of the hoi poloi."

Jason nodded. It was getting uncomfortable up at the bar with people behind constantly clamouring over their shoulders to be served. He did not, on the other hand, want to get too intimate with this man. He'd finish his drink and, if Peter hadn't arrived by seven thirty, he'd go off home. A wasted night but that couldn't be helped. There'd be others. The cigarette smoke in the air was aggravating his hay fever. His nose felt clogged.

"You go over and make sure the seats aren't taken," said Neil. "I'll just get a refill."

Jason protested. Really he didn't want another drink. "Oh come on," said Neil, "you can't just stick on a half. I'll bring it over."

It wasn't worth arguing over so Jason went over to the alcove and arranged himself on one of the seats, rather hoping that someone else would come and sit with them. A little later Neil arrived carrying the two glasses of beer.

"That's yours," he said, putting one down on the table in front of him. "Drink it up."

Jason didn't want anymore to drink but it would be churlish to refuse. He sipped at the beer, deciding that he didn't really like the taste. Perhaps it was his hayfever but the lager seemed to have a sourish taste to it. Well, finish it off quickly and he'd leave. He took a gulp.

The man almost looked relieved, then smiled - if the twisted look of his lips could really be construed as a smile. "I've seen you in here before," he said. "With another young man. Would that be your friend?"

"Yes, that's Peter."

"And what does he do for a living? Works in a shop like you?"

Jason wasn't sure whether Peter wanted the fact that he was a policeman to be disclosed to all and sundry. "A Civil Servant," he said vaguely, which was of course true if slightly ambiguous.

"Uh huh," Neil didn't seem all that interested. He glanced at his watch. "I guess he's not coming."

"Sometimes he has to work late," said Jason. "Perhaps I'll go home." He got to his feet and, as he did so, everything seemed to blur in front of him. He staggered and Neil caught him before he could fall.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Don't feel too good," said Jason. "Need some fresh air."

"I'll help you out." With Neil's arm around Jason, he supported him towards the door.

10 SATURDAY NIGHT The Queen's Head 7.30 pm

It was already dusk and the street lamps were popping on, first deep red, then brightening to orange sodium so that soon all faces would be lit by that ghastly yellow colour. The light from flashing neon advertisements lit up the dark blocks of buildings with intermittent washes of red and yellow. A brief spatter of sooty raindrops fell from the clouds scudding across the sky. Early evening passers-by stepped aside to avoid the dark caverns of doorways which were at that hour already home to the homeless poor.

Peter sniffed the air - take-away hot dogs, onions and chicken tikka masala. Petrol and exhaust fumes from the cars and taxis temporarily halted at the red traffic lights. Air that had been breathed in and out, used air, tired air. But it was London air.

He hurried along the street, the pavement crowded with passers-by so that he had to dodge and weave. He was over an hour late. The buses had been slow and infrequent and it was well after half past seven. He hoped Jason would still be waiting in the pub. If he had already left there was no way he could get in touch with him before Monday. Jason had his phone number but hadn't given Peter his, not wanting to risk contact with his parents.

Peter was in sight of the doorway to the Queen's Head when he saw two figures emerge with their arms around each other and walking up the street away from him. One appeared to be stumbling, the other supporting. Surely it was a bit early for them to be drunk. Then through the gathering gloom, he made out some letters on the shorter guy's back. 'UCLA'

"Jason," he called but the pair didn't stop.

Peter broke into a run, dodging round some walkers in between and barging into a youth who got in the way. "Sorry, mate," he grunted in answer to the guy's "Oi!"

Jason, if it was he, was staggering so the pair weren't making too fast a progress and Peter was soon able to catch up with them. "Excuse me," he said.

The taller man turned and stared at Peter quizzically. He seemed to be smiling though it was a strange, almost contemptuous twist of the lips, the look of a man who has been deprived of a conquest at the last moment. But Peter was too concerned to analyse the significance of the look. His companion was indeed Jason but a Jason who was nothing like the one he knew. There was no recognition in his eyes as he stared dully at Peter, his eyes unfocused.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Peter.

The other man shrugged. "Too much to drink," he said. "He said he felt odd in the pub and I brought him out for some fresh air. Wait. You're his friend, aren't you? Peter? He said he was waiting for someone."

It all sounded plausible. The man could have been a Good Samaritan but something struck Peter as being odd. He didn't know Jason all that well but couldn't see why he should have got so drunk in such a short space of time while waiting for him. They had discussed the possibility of his being late and Jason hadn't seemed worried. Anyway this looked an odd kind of drunkenness. Almost as if he was on drugs. The significance of that struck him. He had been looking all day for a guy in a gay pub who had been doped. Here was Jason looking stoned and - a sudden fear hit him. Ketamine could be dangerous if the taker had asthma - or hayfever.

"I don't like the look of him," Peter said. "I'm phoning for an ambulance."

"OK," agreed the man. "If you want to take over, I'll leave him with you. I was only trying to do him a good turn." He let go of Jason who slumped against the door of a newsagent's.

"Just hang on for a moment, would you," said Peter. "It might help if they knew exactly what happened in the pub." He got out his mobile phone and punched in 999. "Ambulance," he said. "Just outside the Queen's Head, Islington. Suspect drug overdose."

The man suddenly looked anxious, his former self-confidence disappearing. "I think..." he started. "I don't want to get involved."

"I'm a police officer," said Peter. He took a deep breath. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of - " He struggled to think, what charge? " - conspiracy to drug with intent to rape - " It sounded preposterous but he struggled on. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

The man started to object but then, as if suddenly making a decision, turned and made off down the road. Peter leapt after him and managed to catch hold of his jacket before the man struggled free of it leaving the coat in Peter's hand. He raced off down the street. Peter did not know what to do, whether to stay with Jason or pursue but, glancing back and seeing that Jason had now fallen to the ground, he decided to remain with him. The lad's breathing was shallow and Peter could scarcely detect his heart beat. Several people stopped and stood around as they always do when there's been some sort of incident resulting in human injury. There were anxious minutes before he heard the sound of an ambulance siren. At last it drew up and two paramedics climbed out.

"He may have been dosed with ketamine hydrochloride," said Peter. "He suffers from hayfever. His heart may be affected."

"Are you a doctor?" asked one of the paramedics.

"Police officer," said Peter shortly.

Swiftly they got Jason into the ambulance with an oxygen mask, and headed for the Royal Free Hospital.

11 SATURDAY NIGHT The Royal Free Hospital 10.30pm

Keith Hatch, alerted by a phone call, had left his lover, Phil, at home complaining. Now he faced an anxious Peter Lippett beside the bed of a young man. So this was Peter's latest. He looked down at the pale face, the fragile eyelids with their blue veins, the spiked hair making a statement about youth. He could see the attraction. He only hoped Peter wasn't making another of his dreadful mistakes.

"He'll be all right," he said, uncomfortably aware how others had said the same comforting words on so many occasions and with as little justification. "You did the right thing, staying with him. We'll get the bloke though. We've got a good description of him."

"We've got more than that, guv," said Peter. "I got his jacket before he took off. Here's his wallet. It's got credit cards, driving licence, everything. His name is Neil Mason, and there's his address. But how can we prove that he actually did anything?"

"Jason can identify him, so can Bennie Charters but more than this we've got a genetic DNA print of the person who had sex with Joe. And there's - " He broke off suddenly. "What did you say his name was?"

"Neil Mason."

"That's the vet we went to see. The one where we saw the receptionist and didn't bother to interview the vet himself." He smacked himself angrily on the leg. "Let's see the address. Yes it's the same area. He probably lives near his surgery. I told you I had a 'feeling' about vets. I'll get him picked up."

The figure on the bed suddenly gave a start, opening his eyes. For a moment he looked a bit bemused but then he recognised Peter and smiled.

"Hi, honey," he said. He tried to sit up but Peter gently held him back.

Jason caught sight of Keith standing behind. "Who's the hunk?" he said.

"My boss, Inspector Hatch."

"Ah, the one you fancy rotten?"

Peter blushed and Keith rescued him. "I've got things to do, Constable," he said. "You stay here. I'll tell a nurse on the way out that the patient appears to have recovered."

12 SUNDAY NIGHT Peter's Flat 11.00 pm

The following night they lay together on the bed. Jason had been discharged from hospital during the day, had gone home to reassure his parents and, at the first opportunity had joined Peter at his flat. At the moment they were fully clothed, just happy in their closeness, their touching.

"That'll teach you to accept drinks from strange men," said Peter.

Jason looked at him and smiled. "Well I accepted one from you the first time," he said.

"I'm not strange."

"You were wearing some very strange trousers the first time I saw you," said Jason.

"Shut up talking," said Peter and closed his mouth with a kiss.

Jason's hand wandered into Peter's groin, finding a hardness. "Something thinks you're wearing too much trousers now," he suggested.

"Take them off then."

Peter's black T-shirt had ridden up exposing a downy flat belly. Jason took his time getting there, exploring with his tongue and lips various places along the way, nuzzling under the rucked-up T-shirt, the hollow above the shoulder blade then he inched downwards, his lips soft and infinitely arousing, across the broad chest pausing to take care of Peter's nipples, his belly button, the trace of brown hair which led downwards before spreading into his bush of pubic hair.. Proficient fingers undid his belt, unzipping his jeans, removing shoes and socks, pulling the jeans over his feet until Peter lay naked apart his jockey shorts against the dark red material of the bedcover.

"I've met these before," murmured Jason, burying his face in the soft material that covered a hard erection before taking these, the last covering off. The touch of Jason's hard body pressed against his was exciting, the movements, the caresses, the kisses, the hands that felt and probed his private places. Peter's own body responded.

"Get your fucking clothes off," he said.

The UCLA pullover disappeared, grey chinos vanished, socks and trainers might never have been there in the first place.

"You're right about Barbarella," said Peter impressed. "You're an expert."

"I was taught by an expert," said Jason grinning and falling on top of him so that they lay, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, groin to groin, hard cocks pressing and searching for somewhere to go. Peter could feel his lover's skin touching his, erotic and sensual.

Jason slid slowly down his body, kissing, tasting, rubbing, stroking until he reached that straining prick. He took it into his warm, moist mouth and at the enclosure Peter nearly came, such was the ecstasy of the feeling. But Jason seemed to realise how close to orgasm Peter was, and, determined to hold it off for as long as he could, he stopped his sucking and moved his body round so that his groin was opposite Peter's face, his prick pointing towards Peter's mouth.

The indication was obvious and Peter did not hesitate, first washing it with his tongue and then taking the member in as far as he was able. He took hold of his lover's buttocks one with each hand while his fingers found the crack between and probed deeply. He heard Jason's long audible breath expressing longing and felt his own member swallowed by that rapacious mouth.

He could no longer hold himself back and, with a cry, discharged again and again. At the same time Jason's own prick swelled and pulsed and Peter's mouth was filled with a substance which gave his taste buds a new, but to his surprise not unpleasant, sensation.

Peter sighed. He moved himself around and so that he and Jason were the right way round and their lips met in a long, slow kiss. Then he pulled Jason to him, cuddled close to him, put his arms round him, defined delicately with the tips of his fingers the contours of Jason's body.

"And what did you see in me?" asked Peter sleepily.

Jason looked at him for a while until Peter felt almost embarrassed. "Genuineness, loyalty, a hint of sadness. That was the thing that first attracted me," he said

"You make it sound like an act of charity."

"I'm no angel," said Jason, "but I have a couple of bad habits which several guys in wheelchairs would testify to."

Peter kissed him.

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