Staying Together

Hi David,

This story really follows on directly from the previous one, Medical Matters'. It forms part of the series of stories which I have called the "Feltenham Mysteries' as they started in the county town of Feltenham', in the Cotswolds., England.

For anyone wishing to read the preceding stories the titles are as follows:

1. Serial Killer 2. Feltenham Blues 3. London Pride 4. Little Boy Lost 5. Scottish Dance 6. Computer Virus 7. On the Game 8. Medical Matters

They are all I think in the Archives. If anyone has difficulty in finding them, I will be pleased to send by email...

Staying Together

Saturday Evening

"I'm really worried about Phil," said Keith Hatch.

Alan Forrest looked at him, saw the anxious frown, the vertical lines between his eyebrows over the bridge of his nose, the almost papery sheen of his skin. Yes, Phil's recent illness, whatever it had done to Phil himself, had certainly taken it out of his lover. In the space of almost a week, Keith seemed to have aged ten years.

"But you said on the phone he was out of danger." Alan, as he had promised, had come up to London from Feltenham in order to - well, he wasn't quite sure what he had come up for. To see Phil of course. to look after Keith perhaps, and seeing the state Keith was in, maybe he needed to be looked after a bit. Regular meals, certainly, someone to talk to, confide his worries in.

"Oh yes, he's no longer on the danger list, but .... " Keith paused as if uncertain how to express his anxieties. His right hand moved restlessly on the arm of the easy chair picking at the material. If he had been a smoker, he would have been stubbing out a cigarette and lighting another one almost immediately.

"I thought you said he was getting stronger," said Alan helpfully.

"Yes, he is - physically. His colour's back, He's eating OK, It's just - " again he paused while Alan waited patiently. "He doesn't seem to remember things..." There the secret was out and it didn't seem all that terrible to Alan.

"He's been very ill. He's bound to be a bit confused. Probably doesn't remember much about the time."

"No, not about when he was ill. Before. Things we did together." Keith pointed to a photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed a laughing Phil, eyes glinting mischievously, hair attractively tousled. Somehow the snap seemed to have caught the essential Phil, happy, never at a loss for something cheeky to say, sharply intelligent, adorable.

"I took that on a day out in Epping Forest soon after he moved in with me. It's always been one of my happiest - our happiest - memories. I mentioned it to him yesterday. Said we must go there again - and he didn't even remember it. Just looked worried when I tried to describe how we felt, what we did.... And then his course at college. He was doing so well. I said he'd soon be back to studying again and he didn't seem to know what I was talking about."

"It'll be temporary," said Alan. "Have you talked to the doctor about it?"

"That first day - Thursday - when he came round out of his coma. The nurse said something about complications from meningitis, something about a third of those who survive have some long term disability. After all it's a disease that affects the brain. There could be long-term permanent damage. At the time I was so overjoyed to hear he'd regained consciousness, I didn't really pay much attention. He knew me - that was enough. It's only the last couple of days that I've noticed these other things - and I haven't seen the doctor.

Alan put his hand out sympathetically and took hold of Keith's. "Have a word with him tomorrow," said Alan. "I want to see Phil. Will that be OK?"

"Oh sure. There's no problem about him having visitors anymore."

"What's the doctor like? I mean is he OK with the fact that you and Phil are gay and in a relationship?"

"He's quite amenable, I think. He's very young, of course."

"Now that's a sign of growing old," said Alan, smiling, "when you think policemen and doctors are looking young."

"Lots of them are," said Keith. "Take young Peter Lippett, one of the Detective Constables in my unit. He's just a kid. I was almost shocked when he told me he'd been having sex with one of the guys from `the Jam Factory'."

"That's a rent club, isn't it?"

"Yes, but Peter claims the guy, bloke nicknamed `Stiff' - you can guess why - isn't on the game at all... I only hope he knows what he's doing."

"You cluck over these people like an old hen," said Alan. "You always used to worry about me."

"Well I don't have to now! You're mature. But when I first met you you were only seventeen."

"Seventeen and a half."

"Well underage anyway. And I nearly got chucked out of the Police Force for it."

The phone rang and Keith picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment, then mouthed, `Sorry it's work'.

Alan looked at him affectionately. This was the first man he had ever had sex with. The first man he had ever loved. It hadn't lasted of course - Keith's appointment to the Metropolitan Gay Liaison Force had broken them up and then Keith had found Phil - but they had remained friends and Keith was still a precious part of his life.

The call, whatever it was, had temporarily at least removed the worry about Phil from Keith's mind. Now he just looked serious, hazel eyes, mouth set, firm jaw, neatly cut, short brown hair. Alan knew him so well. He thought back to the times they had made love, how those eyes grew large and his breath fast as passion took hold - yet he was always gentle, always considerate.

"I'll get us something to eat," he whispered and went out to the kitchen. It was here, he thought, as he cut some slices from the wholemeal loaf, here over this work surface that we last made love - no, that last time was hardly love, it was real animal lust.

He laughed to himself as he sliced the cheese, cut the cucumber and tomatoes. Right royally fucked he had been - over this work surface in the kitchen - and then Phil had moved in.

He filled the coffee percolator with ground Costa Rica beans which reminded him of course of Esteban, his own ex-lover. Shit! Why did everything have to be connected to the past and the past was always sadly nostalgic?

Keith came in.

"That was Peter," he said.

"Your young constable? The one in love with the rent boy?"

"Yes - it seems that Stiff's got himself in a bit of trouble. I couldn't quite make out what the problem is but he's been arrested and Peter's in a state. I think I'll have to go and see if I can do something."

Alan looked at his watch. "At this hour?" he said. "It's after eleven o'clock. Surely you're not on duty now."

"It's more like doing something for a friend."

"Well have this sandwich and some coffee before you go. You'll need something inside you if you're going to work half the night."

"Now who's acting like a mother hen?"

But he ate and drank as he put his coat on.

"I'll try not to disturb you if I'm late and you've already gone to bed."

"At one time I'd have said - You'd better disturb me if you know what's good for you."

Keith smiled, kissed him and went out.

Saturday Night

The holding cells in Goodge Street Police Station - just off Tottenham Court Road in the West End of London - are not pleasant places. Nor, of course, are they intended to be. Usually the temporary, overnight accommodation for drunks who tend to vomit and urinate in the corners - if not worse - they are approximately ten feet by six feet, windowless, a metal shelf projecting from the back wall is covered by a stained, thin mattress, and that is substantially all. The single electric bulb in the ceiling is protected by a metal grill, the concrete walls are painted institution green, the door is heavy metal and has an eye hole through which the whole of the cell can be viewed from outside.

Stiff was slumped on the bed' dressed in police overalls (obviously his own clothes had been taken for forensic analysis) and looking miserable. When last Keith had seen him he had noticed what an attractive lad he was, tall, slim, nicely developed under the form-fitting T shirt and molded' jeans which showed off what looked like a fair-sized package. Now his usual cockiness was quite deflated, his street credibility gone. He looked much younger than his stated eighteen years, like a kid who has been found out doing something wrong and sent to his bedroom with the will to rebel completely knocked out of him.

Keith, Peter Lippett and Sergeant Bill Warman went in to see him. Completely against regulations of course but Warman was an old friend of Keith's - they had know each other since Cadet School at Hendon Police College and Keith had prevailed on him - for Peter's sake - to allow them to have a `chat' with their suspect - and Warman had agreed, as long as he was included. He told them the details.

The charge against Stiff, real name Gerald Thornton, was serious. Couldn't have been more serious. He had been arrested for the murder of a 48 year old man, Greg Marwood, whose body had been found in an alley at the back of the Jam Factory earlier that evening. The evidence was circumstantial but various witnesses in the Club had told the investigating officers including Bill Warman that they had seen Stiff in angry conversation with Marwood that evening, another swore that Stiff had left the club with Marwood at about 8 o'clock. Stiff had returned on his own looking and acting, said one of the barmen, unusually `edgy' about quarter of an hour later.

Marwood had been killed by a single knife thrust in the chest which, either by expertise or good luck, had slid between two of his ribs and pierced his heart. The discovery of the body was purely fortuitous as normally no one would go into that alley at night, but about 10.00 pm a young man, Jos Randall, looking for a quiet place to inject himself, had used the alley, tripped and fallen over the body, found himself covered in blood and, running out, bumped into two policeman doing their own nocturnal perambulations. The addict had been cleared of the actual killing. The doctor had estimated time of death about 8.00 pm. And the lad had been picked up for begging, was actually in the police station between 8.00 and 9.30 pm so had a cast iron alibi.

The police had interviewed the club members and staff, including Stiff and arrested him soon after. Stiff had phoned Peter and Peter, Keith.

Stiff looked up as they entered and seemed at first pleased and then worried at the sight of Peter.

Not so Peter, who bounded in, sat down beside Stiff and clasped his hand. For a moment Keith had to remind himself that that they weren't two kids sitting together on the bed but a Detective Constable and a suspected killer. Peter looked as if he might, if the other two hadn't been present, have even embraced him. Bill Warman was not particularly homophobic but Keith could sense his discomfort with the scene and hurriedly tried to kick-start the conversation.

"Stiff," he said, "Peter and I aren't on the case. You don't have to answer our questions. Sergeant Warman is though, but he's allowed us to see you and try to help you. Is that OK?"

Stiff nodded.

"OK. First did you know the man who was killed, Greg Marwood?"

Stiff nodded again.

"Now some people at the Club said they saw and heard you having a bit of an argument with him earlier in the evening. What was that about?"

"Those guys talk too much. It weren't an argument. He promised he'd do something for me and then he didn't. I was a bit pissed off, that's all."

"OK. What was the promise he broke."

"It was a private matter," said Stiff shortly.

"It'll be better for you if you tell everything," said Peter. "Really it will, Gerald."

"It was private," said Stiff, refusing to be persuaded.

"We'll leave that for the moment," said Keith. "Now we were told that at or around 8 o'clock, you and Marwood went out of the Club together."

"No we didn't," said Stiff. "We may of left at the same time but we wasn't together."

"So you split up when you got outside the Club."

"That's right. He went off down towards Leicester Square and I went in the other direction."

"The way towards Leicester Square also leads to the alley to the side of and behind the Club where his body was found."

"S'pose so."

"Can you think of a reason why Marwood would go down the alley on his own?"

Stiff shrugged and didn't answer.

"Where were YOU going?" asked Keith.

"I was going to meet Peter. We'd arranged to meet at Tottenham Court Road station but he weren't there."

Keith looked at Peter who confirmed the statement.

"I couldn't get away," he said. "Inspector Sheridan wanted me to go through some evidence and kept me late. In fact I was so late I knew Gerald wouldn't have still been waiting so I went home, got changed and came straight to the Club. Gerald had been nicked by then. They told me at the Club."

"So," said Keith looking at Stiff again, "when the barman said you were `edgy', it was ... "

".... cos Pete hadn't turned up."

"No other reason?"

"What other reason could there be?"

Warman interrupted. "That you had just stabbed Greg Marwood through the heart."

"I never killed him," said Stiff. He tried to stand up but Peter, who still had hold of his hand, pulled him back. "I never carry a knife. Ask anyone. They'll all tell you. Anyway why'd I want to?"

"Tell us what the quarrel was about," said Warman.

Stiff took a quick look at Peter. "It was private," he said obstinately and from that they could not budge him.

They left him looking disconsolately alone and vulnerable, the door clanging behind with a hollow finality.

"Thanks, Bill, I owe you one," said Keith. "Though it hasn't told us much that we didn't know before."

"I'll bet you a pound to a pot noodle, the row was about drugs. Marwood was a pusher. I know that for a fact."

"Gerald didn't do drugs," said Peter. "He always said it was a mug's game. Anyway I'd know if he was into hard drugs. There were no jab marks on his body."

"You've examined him closely?" said Warman with more than a hint of sarcasm. "All over his body?"

"Yes, I have," said Peter simply and Warman, realising the implication, looked a little uncomfortable.

"Well thanks again," said Keith. "You don't mind if we have a little chat on our own round the Club?"

"As long as you don't upset my boys," said Warman.

"It's just that our being gay might get more out of them than your ..." he hesitated, searching for the right expression.

"... heavy handed straights," finished Warman, but he was smiling.

"We'll let you know anything we find out," promised Keith, as they went out into the night.

"Will you be all right?" asked Keith.

Peter who looked strained, nodded, and they made their separate ways home.

Sunday Morning

"I hate the smell of hospitals," said Alan.

Phil was sitting up in bed when they called to see him the following morning. He looked cheerful though he had lost some weight, thought Alan, and his face was thinner than the last time he had seen him.

"I'm getting up later," he confided, sounding like a child who had been promised a great treat.

"But you were up yesterday," said Keith.

Phil looked confused. "I don't think so. You didn't come to see me yesterday - so how would you know."

"Of course I did. I come in every day." Keith looked despairingly at Alan. "I'm going to see if I can locate Sister Windsor," he said, "or the doctor."

"Why?" asked Phil, suddenly acutely aware that there might be something going on that he wasn't being included in.

"It's all right, honey - just to find out when you can come home."

Alan sat on the chair beside the bed while Keith went down the ward to the little room at the end.

"How you feeling, doll?" Alan asked.

"I'm really worried about Keith," said Phil. "He keeps talking about things I know nothing about."

"He's been very busy," said Alan reassuringly. "Things on his mind. You'll have to be patient with him."

Phil nodded in complicity.

Keith found Sister Windsor in her little room writing busily. She looked up with a smile when she saw who it was.

"Bureaucracy, Administration, Forms, Reports. There seems to be less and less time for real nursing," she said. "Well, Mr Hatch, I trust you are pleased with Phil's progress?"

"He seems much better, but his memory isn't working properly. He can't remember things."

Sister Windsor looked serious. "I did tell you there might be problems," she said. "Physically he's fine. The doctor says he can go home tomorrow."

"But his mind...."

"You had better have a word with Doctor Goodwin. He's not in until Tuesday but I'll ask him to get in touch. I've got your phone number, haven't I? At the moment all Phil needs is rest and looking after. I'm sure you can do that."

Keith thought, with a slight feeling of dismay, of the hours on end his job demanded. Inspector Sheridan, the guvnor, was a sympathetic man but there were limits to the time he could take off.

"I'll do my best," he said.

Sunday Evening

"So this is where you met Phil?" Alan looked around `the Jam Factory', sensing the predatory atmosphere, the almost tangible monetary availability of the young guys standing around, tight jeans or thin cotton chinos emphasising the shapes of buttocks and groins.

"It wasn't like that then," protested Keith. "In fact the first time I came here, it reminded me of a Church Hall. Of course Phil behaved like a tart, but there was an innocence, a charm about him which excused his shameless blatancy."

"It's nothing like that now."

Indeed the place - a rectangular room with a bar down the left hand side, lit by rows of low-wattage bulbs - whether for atmosphere or to rejuvenate the looks of the clients was anybody's guess - could have been mistaken for a soup kitchen were it not for the shelves of alcoholic drinks behind the bar. Sunday being Sunday, the club was only sparsely populated, probably more because tomorrow was a working day rather than for any religious reasons.

The sole young man behind the bar was the same one Keith had spoken to the last time he was in. The guy looked up. In his late twenties, he had dark eyebrows and a not unattractive smile which he immediately put on like a polite uniform, as soon as he saw a potential customer.

"We're friends of Stiff's." said Keith.

The man did not look particularly impressed by the announcement. "Do you want drinks?" he asked.

Keith bought two beers and offered the barman one. He poured himself a gin and tonic.

"You know Stiff quite well?" asked Keith.

The barman shrugged and Keith, assuming this implied the affirmative said, "What about the man who was killed? Greg Marwood?"

"I used to see him in here from time to time." The answer was guarded. "You the police?"

Well yes," admitted Keith. "But we're gay and we're really trying to help Stiff."

"I told the other cops all I know."

"Was Marwood gay?"

The barman smiled. "As a pantomime."

"And he was a drug dealer?"

The barman immediately clammed up. Allowing drug dealing on the premises was ample grounds for the withdrawal of the licence.

"Oh come on," said Keith. "I'm not interested in that aspect. I just want to help Stiff get off the murder charge." He paused then asked, "Did Stiff do drugs?"

The barman hesitated, then answered. "Course he did.... Didn't inject but he snorted a bit and some crack."

"Then the row with Marwood was about drugs?"

"Guess so," said the barman. "Stiff probably didn't have enough to pay him and Marwood wasn't one for giving credit."

Keith had an idea. "Could Marwood have taken payment in kind?"

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean a free fuck... or at least a fuck in exchange for a fix? Would Stiff be prepared to do that?"

"Oh sure," said the barman. "Trousers down and bend over for practically anything, that one."

"Did Stiff usually carry a knife."

"Nah. Wasn't his style. He'd get out of most problems by offering himself. Wasn't all that fussy."

"Poor Peter," said Keith on the way out. "Good thing I didn't bring him along. He really thinks the sun shines out of Stiff's arsehole."

"Seems like everything else's been up there," said Alan. "So it's quite possible Stiff and Marwood went into that alley together, and Stiff's lying."

"But why kill Marwood? If Stiff was dependent on Marwood for his drugs, he wouldn't want to kill him, especially as he knew he could get them so easily."

Alan shrugged. It wasn't his problem.

Monday Morning

The following morning round about 11.00 am they collected Phil from the hospital and brought him home. Keith didn't have to go on duty until the afternoon. Returning to familiar surroundings seemed to cheer Phil up. He lounged full length on the sofa, shoes off, a camp version of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, while Keith and Alan fussed around him, making sure he had everything he wanted until even Phil decided he had had enough and started to fidget.

The ever-intuitive Alan announced he was going out, would go shopping, get some takeaways for lunch - be out `for at least an hour'. This last proclaimed pointedly. He kissed them - "Have fun, my darlings," he said and left.

Keith sat down on the sofa and held Phil's feet on his lap. "It's good to have you home."

Phil allowed his feet to wander around Keith's groin.

"Oi! Oi! Watch it, sailor," said Keith. "You'll be getting me all worked up."

"Why do you think I'm doing it?" asked Phil. "It's been a long time."

Keith looked doubtful. "Do you think you should? Rest and relaxation is what the doctor ordered."

"Did the doctor say I couldn't have sex?"

"I didn't actually see the doctor and to be honest, I didn't think to mention it to Sister Windsor."

"Too bad," said Phil, probing with his right foot. "I'd like to have heard her answer." He went off onto another tack. "Can I feel something happening there?"

"Too right," said Keith, taking off Phil's socks and cradling his bare feet in his hands. "Care for a foot massage? They do say that you can influence other parts of the body through judicious manipulation of the sole."

"I think you've found the spot connected to my cock," said Phil. "Come up here

and kiss me."

His lips, soft and inviting, pressed like a contract against Keith's and then opened to allow his agile tongue to enter Keith's mouth, to find and embrace Keith's tongue, to play up his hormones and arouse his prick so that their erections pressed hard against each other. Keith felt his emotions surge. This was his love, his life, his all. He had never felt like this about anyone else before - and was sure he never would again. The kiss seemed to go on for ever. The world turned but here in this room between the two of them it stayed still.

They lay together side by side facing each other on the sofa.

Keith's hand fastened onto Phil's erection where it lay outlined by the restraining material of his jeans. Phil stretched out and let his right leg roll open. Keith's hand enclosed the swelling bulge, rubbing it. He worked the cock upwards so that it stood against Phil's stomach. The hand groped upwards so that he found the zip link and slowly drew it downwards. He went inside and took hold of the penis, now only protected by the underpants, striped blue. Phil's mouth opened in a gasp. The elastic top was inched down and the prick stood open and erect. The hand caressed the shaft, curled underneath and took hold of the testicles, hard nuts, stretched tight by the scrotum. A glistening drop of liquid appeared at the top of his penis. Phil lifted himself so that the exploring hand went further underneath the perineum, a finger probing the opening of his arse. His breathing felt constricted.

Keith used both hands to undo the press stud at the top of Phil's jeans and edge them over the slim hips and down to the knees. The underpants followed. Phil's lower body was revealed, the brown tan stopping below the waist just above the upturned vee of pubic hair out of which the genitals sprang. Phil was half-lying, offering himself to Keith's stroking hands. He leant over him, his left hand under the thin buttocks, the longest finger embedded in the centre of his arse, deeper and deeper. Phil's muscles relaxed, allowing him to go yet further. Slowly Keith's face lowered. His tongue gently licked the skin and hair, tasting the salt. His lips approached the erect penis, nuzzled the top then took the whole shaft, sliding down until the full erection was enclosed in the warm moistness of his mouth and throat. The head raised and lowered and Phil's body followed, forcing up into the mouth and down onto the finger. Sounds issued from Phil's throat.

Words.

"I'm coming. I'm coming."

Keith stopped and withdrew. Phil gave a great shuddering sigh, a moan of frustrated desire. He lay flat on his back. Keith, grasping him with both hands, one on each side of his pelvis, gently turned him over. Limp, unprotesting, Phil allowed himself to be turned. The material of the sofa felt strange and exciting to the bare skin of his stomach and his heated genitals. The twin curves of his buttocks bulged upwards. They looked defenceless and white. Slowly, with great care Keith parted them. Phil could feel Keith's breath and then a warm, moist tongue inserted within the open crack. It licked, leaving moisture, lubricating. Above him he could hear a zip being opened and then he felt a knee on each side and the weight of Keith above him, settling, with a hard warmness in the centre of his anus. The sphincter muscles clenched automatically but Keith's hand came underneath him, gripping his tool, rubbing it up and down and, excited, he relaxed his arse. The prick slid in, in and then further, was withdrawn and then pushed as far as it would go.. There was a sharp pain and then the excitement took over. Phil pressed his buttocks upwards into Keith's pelvis so that the alien penis almost seemed to pierce him through and through. His own in Keith's hand throbbed and throbbed and exploded with spunk..

Phil gasped.

Semen spurted into Keith's hand and in concert the sphincter muscles of Phil's arse clenched and clenched around Keith's cock. He also came, pulsing into Phil's rectum.

For a while there was a cessation.

The two lay together, one on top of the other.

When Alan returned with the takeaway, Keith and Phil were sitting together on the sofa, drinking glasses of wine and exhibiting that elusive but immediately recognisable afterglow which comes from a session of enjoyable sex. They looked relaxed and happy.

"So what have you got us to eat?" asked Keith, pouring a glass of wine for Alan. "It'll have to be quick. I've got to be at work by half one."

Immediately Phil looked anxious. "You're not leaving me?" he asked plaintively.

Keith looked at him oddly. "I told you. I said I was working this afternoon when we brought you home. Didn't I, Alan?"

Alan, who didn't want to appear to be taking sides, said, "It's OK, Phil. I'm staying. I'll be with you. We can go out for a walk if you like - or stay in." He started unpacking the bags. "Let's have some plates, Keith. It's Indian. Chicken Vindaloo and...."

Phil seemed calmed and sniffed the curry smell appreciatively.

"I'll get the cutlery," said Alan and went out to the kitchen where Keith was getting plates from the rack.

"You see," said Keith in a low voice. "You were there when I told him this morning and he's forgotten it already. And he doesn't want to be left alone. God knows what will happen when you go back to Feltenham."

"He can come back with me if he wants to," said Alan. "I've got some days holiday due. Anyway I'm the boss now - and if I do have to go into the record shop, he can come in as well. Serve in the shop. It'll take his mind off things. Give it a week and see how he is then."

Keith sighed, warming the plates under the hot tap. "I'll think about it," he said. "I guess it would solve the immediate problem. Come on, let's get back. Don't want him thinking we're hatching a conspiracy, plotting against him."

They sat down to the meal and, as they did so, the telephone rang.

"Shit," said Keith. He stood up, crossed the room and picked up the receiver. Like all telephone calls where you can only hear one side, it sounded strangely disjointed. "Hello . . . Yes . . .Yes . . . Oh hello, thanks for ringing." His gaze flickered to Phil and then away again. "Yes I did . . . OK . . . Yes that would be fine . . . OK . . . Until then. Bye."

The other two looked at him.

"Just work," he said though he didn't look straight at them but sat down and concentrated on his meal. "Well, Phil," he said after a brief pause, "it's going to be really difficult for you here. I may have to go out quite a bit. What do you say to the idea of going down to Feltenham with Alan for a few days.

Phil looked doubtful. "I don't know," he said.

"When are you going back?" asked Keith.

"Guess it'll have to be tomorrow," said Alan. "What do you say, honey. It'll be a complete rest."

Phil considered then nodded. "OK."

"We'll have a ball."

"Not too much of one," said Keith. "Remember he's an invalid."

Monday Afternoon

Keith was on the telephone again, this time from his little office at work.

"Sergeant Warman, please... Oh hello, Bill. Keith here. Look we had a chat to the barman, Charlie Barnard, at the Jam Factory yesterday. There are a few points you might like to consider. No, I know you're not looking for anyone else but just listen for a moment."

He made sure Peter wasn't in earshot. He would have to be told eventually but Keith wanted to pick his time.

"Apparently Stiff IS a user - Oh you know that. Admitted it did he after we'd gone? Probably wanted to keep it from Peter. Well the barman thinks the row was over drugs and that, as Stiff hadn't enough money, he paid for his fix `in kind'... if you see what I mean... Yes, very amusing, Bill... Now the point is, why would he want to kill his supplier if he was getting it so comparatively easily? ... Don't agree. No motive whatsoever... "

"Oh by the way, have you found the knife? You haven't eh? So they're no fingerprints.... Anyway Charlie Barnard said Stiff never carried a knife... What about his clothes? Any blood stains? None? You got no case, boyo... OK.. So there wasn't much blood from the wound, more internal bleeding eh? But there must have been a bit of blood around. When Jos found him, he got bloodstained, didn't he? I don't think you've got much, do you?"

"... You did what?... Rectal examination? Of Marwood? Oh of Stiff? Bet he enjoyed that... Recent sex eh? Well that's what we thought. You've what? Found the condom? In the alley? My you do have a jolly little life. Can you say who the `donor' was?... And the recipient? ... DNA?... How long will that take? Two or three days... You can't keep him that long without charging him... Oh have you? ...

"Right... just one more question. Did you find any drugs on Marwood? None at all? What about Stiff? Clean too? That's interesting... Yes I know it was two questions... Well keep in touch. There's just one more person I want to have a chat with... Yes, must have a drink together one evening... And up yours too."

He rang off.

"Pete, you doing anything important?"

Peter Lippett looked up from typing away at his word processor in the outer office. He looked miserable and there were dark rings round his eyes as if he hadn't slept the previous night. "It's the monthly Gay Liaison Report, Sarge," he said. "You know how the guvnor always wants it done on the first Wednesday of every month."

"Are you a secretary or a detective?" asked Keith.

Peter appeared to have to think about this, his brow furrowed, fair hair tousled, looking little more than a kid himself.

"OK," said Keith. "Next question. Where's Inspector Sheridan?"

"He's not in until tomorrow, as you well know."

"Exactly - so do you want to help Stiff?"

Peter saved the file and shut down the computer. "Where are we going, Sarge?"

"To see Jos Randall."

Peter looked puzzled. "I've heard the name."

"The guy who found Marwood's body. He's unemployed and lives just off the Tottenham Court Road. We'll go and see him. He's expecting us."

They went out into a grey London where heavy clouds had rolled in from the west and a spiteful squall of spitting rain made them hurry to the nearest bus stop. Unusually a number 88 bus came along within minutes and they clambered aboard.

"I wanted a special word with you," said Keith as they sat side by side. "You and Stiff. It's not getting a big thing is it?"

Peter hesitated, seemed about to say something and then counteracted with a sharp. "Why?"

"It's just that you can't afford to get involved with people like him."

"What do you mean, `people like him'? Murder suspects?"

"Well there's that for a start, of course. But there are other aspects of his life which may come out in the enquiry. He's not driven snow, you know."

Peter looked as if he was about to defend Stiff, proclaim his innocence in all matters, but then suddenly he crumpled, looked devastated. "I know," he said so softly Keith could barely hear him. "I tried to pretend it wasn't true, but here - " and he tapped himself rather histrionically on the left side of his chest " - I knew."

A woman with an astonishing number of bulky plastic bags pushed past them on the way to a seat down the front of the bus. Keith waited until she had gone by before continuing the conversation. "You know he takes drugs?" he said.

Peter nodded. "He's not really hooked." he said, but then seemed to admit to himself that this wasn't true. "Yes, I know."

"You know he's on the game."

"A prostitute. I guess so. But what he does with me is nothing like that. I mean he ... "

"You mean he doesn't charge you?"

Peter shook his head violently. "He's got to live," he said after a slight pause, then looked rather shamefaced as if he realised it wasn't a very good argument.

Keith felt he had dealt him enough body blows for the time being. "OK," he said. "We'll see what we can do for him. If we can get him out of this present mess, perhaps we - you can help him with the other things. Does he care for you?"

"I think so."

They remained in silence for a while until the bus pulled up and Keith glanced out of the window. "Come on," he said. "This is our stop."

Jos Randall lived half way down Rathbone Street. A flight of stone steps led down to a basement. At the bottom there was a scuffed painted door which had once probably been brown and a window which had bars on it. Keith knocked at the door and after a while a man opened it. He looked unwashed and unshaved, older than his stated twenty-six years. Keith announced his and Peter's names and the two went in. Inside lit by the subdued light from the window was a single squalid room which contained an unmade bed, a small table and two chairs and in the corner a gas ring and sink. In the furthest corner a greasy-looking plastic curtain hid probably what was a shower.

Someone had tried to brighten the walls with an amateurish painting of a country scene showing a cottage set in a wood with hills in the background but the proportions and perspectives were all wrong and Keith thought that, if the room had been his, he would have painted it over with a coat of white emulsion. A faded and dirty rug, its once red colour and pattern barely discernible, covered the centre of the floor. The room smelled of neglect and damp.

Keith sat down on one of the chairs and Randall on the other, the table between them. Peter stood by the window and took out his notebook. He was proud of his shorthand which he had just painstakingly learned - though he still occasionally had difficulty reading it back.

"Mr Randall," said Keith. "We know you couldn't be responsible for Greg Marwood's death as you were in the police station at the time he was killed. Tell us, though, why you went into that alley almost immediately after you were released by the police."

"I needed a fix."

"You had no drugs on you at the Station. We know that for certain as you were searched."

"I was going to buy some."

"From Marwood?"

Randall nodded.

"So you knew he'd be in the alley?"

"Either him or the other one. From eight o'clock onwards. Most nights."

"The other one?"

"The one they call Stiff."

It was a bombshell and, silhouetted against the light from the wondow, Keith saw Peter tense and hoped he wouldn't lose his self-control.

"So Marwood and Stiff worked together?"

"Oh no. They were rivals. I think Stiff was trying to take over Marwood's patch. Sometimes they had terrific rows, almost coming to blows. Made it very difficult if you was waiting to do a deal."

"Why on earth," wondered Keith, "in that case did they use the same place?"

"Both claimed it as their patch. It was bound to come to violence in the end."

"So you think Stiff killed Greg Marwood."

"Wouldn't be surprised."

Peter was quiet on the way back.

"It doesn't look good for Stiff," he said when they eventually got back to the office.

"We'd better talk about it," said Keith. He perched himself on the top of the desk and looked at Peter's downcast expression. "Let's review the evidence - there's more than you know - I went to the Club on Sunday and got some more statements - but first, Stiff claims he went out of the Club at the same time as Marwood but left him there. He, Stiff, went to the underground to meet you. It is possible that he could have killed Marwood then hurried to the station hoping that you would give him a sort of alibi."

Against his will, Peter followed the line of reasoning. "But as I was late, he went back to the Club. Surely if he had just killed a man, he wouldn't be likely to do that."

"Well, he'd know you'd turn up there eventually and it would look odd if he wasn't there."

Peter nodded. "'S'pose so."

"The barman told me that in all probability the quarrel in the Club was about drugs and if what Jos said is true, then I think that's probably right. He also suggested that Stiff allowed Marwood to fuck him in exchange for a supply."

Keith could see that that really hurt Peter, but he continued nevertheless. "Now Jos says that Stiff and Marwood were competitors in a drugs racket."

"But if that was true, Stiff would hardly rely on Marwood as his supplier and if he was a dealer himself, Stiff isn't likely to want a single fix for himself."

"Well at least we'll find out if they had sex. Sergeant Warman's lads found a used condom and, as soon as they've analysed the DNA, they'll be able to tell if Marwood used it and if he used it with Stiff."

Tuesday Evening (Feltenham)

Phil seemed to find the Feltenham air more salubrious than that of London. He was almost his old self as they got off the train in the early evening and walked through town to Cadogan Square where Alan still lived. The autumn wind had blown drifts of russet-brown leaves against the walls and into the gutters. Phil scuffed through them happily like a small boy on his way home from school.

"You're like a big kid," said Alan affectionately.

"Big kid yourself," said Phil and gave him a playful push.

"I can't afford to brawl with you. I'm a respected member of the commercial community these days. What would people say if they saw the manager of Geraldo's Record Emporium scuffling with his ex-boyfriend's boyfriend in the streets?"

"You're getting to be a right wazzock!"

They turned into the square of Regency houses built with a restrained simplicity and imitation classical Greek pediments, mouldings and pillars. Alan's flat at the top of number 2 had been the attics and though the ceilings sloped making headroom perilous, the dormer windows let in good light. They overlooked, at the front, the grassy Square with its borders of silver birch trees and, at the back, three floors down, a jungle of untended weeds that someone might optimistically call a garden.

"Isn't it about time you got yourself a new place? Now that you're a boss, surely a three room flat is a bit beneath your dignity."

"I'm still looking for someone to settle down with," said Alan, "But I like the old place. Lots of memories - some even happy." There was a lightness in his tone but the underlying seriousness made Phil stop his teasing.

"OK. What we going to do tonight?"

"For you. Feet up on the sofa while I prepare something for us to eat."

"No. Come on. I'm no longer an invalid. Let's go out somewhere. Have a meal at that Thai restaurant on the corner by the Library and then see what's happening at `the Olympia'."

"Slow down, Dobbin," said Alan. "I've got to answer for your R & R with Keith. If he hears we've been painting the town crimson or even a gentle pink, he'll kill me. Anyway the Thai place is closed."

"Italian then?"

"Sure you're up to it?"

"Sono assolutamente sicuro," said Phil with a passable Italian accent, " - and then afterwards `the Olympia'."

"Are you sure? Nick'll be there of course."

"Who?"

"Nick. Nick Warren, You know, the barman." Phil couldn't have forgotten him.

"Oh yes, Nick," said Phil. - Thank God for that, thought Alan. - "It'll be nice to see him again," Phil continued.

Nice! Surely Phil couldn't mean that. Not after the episode when Nick had tried to rape him. When Phil had had to fight him off to escape and had actually broken Nick's nose with a frantic - though probably unintentional - head butt . Could he have forgotten all that? Keith was surely right. There was something seriously wrong with Phil.

Over the tagliatelle and chips - Phil's choice - Alan probed a little deeper.

"Ever been to Epping Forest?" he asked in as casual a tone as he could.

Paul thought for a moment. "My parents took me and my sister there once when I was about thirteen, I think," he said. "Don't remember much about it. Lot of grass and trees. Why?"

"Keith was saying you went with him once."

Phil looked puzzled. "No," he said. "Don't think so."

The Olympia Club was fairly full for a Tuesday evening. Alan had tried to persuade Phil not to come but he'd insisted. Alan was afraid of what embarrassments Phil's obviously selective memory loss might cause if he saw Nick Warren - and it was practically certain that he would be there. Since his excursion into the pimping trade had collapsed after the murder of the young rent boy, Lucas Dexter , Nick had become full time manager/bartender at the club and there were very few evenings when his sardonically handsome face, hardly impaired at all by the broken nose, couldn't be seen behind the bar. Alan was pleased that he didn't seem to be there when they went in.

Phil chattered away almost as if he was his old self.

"Phew. I don't know how Italians keep so slim - all that pasta and stuff."

"I don't think they eat it with chips," said Alan. "Anyway are they all that slim?"

"You don't think I'm putting on weight, do you?"

Phil, thought Alan, had probably lost a couple of stone over the course of his illness and his stay in hospital and looked the complete opposite of `putting on weight'. But his thinness suited him, his eyes - always his best feature - were large and almost hypnotic as they gazed out from the thin face, over his high cheekbones, framed by the unruly curls of dark gold hair.

"I think you'll need a few more meals at Mamma Lucca's Ristorante Italiano and then you'll be just perfect," he said.

"I've had this feeling for some time now that you're trying to make me look so enormous that you'll be able to cop off with all the available talent."

"As if you'd look at anyone else except Keith."

"Keith! Who's Keith?"

Alan looked up, alarmed, startled. Surely... but Phil was smiling. "Oh you mea n the old man we left behind in London," he said. "Probably stuck at home watching Crown Green Bowling."

Alan Laughed. "Do you think he's OK?"

"Of course he's not OK. Poor chap. He can't even cope with operating a pedal bin."

Clearly Phil was in a good mood. "What do you want?" asked Alan.

"A night of unbridled passion... Fantastic sex from curfew to cockcrow."

"I was thinking more of a beer or a short."

"Oh - a beer I guess. Gin makes me depressed. I throw up after sixteen Scorches. Vodka - " he stopped suddenly. Alan looked at him. He had gone quite white and his face was set in a rigid mask. He was staring across the room.

"What's the matter?" Alan followed his gaze and saw that Nick Warren was standing behind the bar.

"That's the guy," stuttered Phil. "That's the one who tried to - . That`s Nick!"

"I told you. You said . . ." Alan broke off. Clearly the sight of Nick had triggered off the memory. So they were not entirely lost, those memories which had seemed so elusive. In time, perhaps, they would all return.

"What do you want to do?" asked Alan.

"Let's go home," said Phil, "before he sees us."

Tuesday Evening (London)

Doctor Goodwin's consulting room was quite imposing. In the centre of the ceiling a plaster rose provided a setting from which a small but elegant chandelier hung. The wallpaper was Regency stripe decorated tastefully with some 18th Century hunting prints. A deep, comfortable-looking leather-covered chair for the patient and a large walnut desk and upright chair for the doctor. A computer - the only modern accessory - strove to be unobtrusive on a shelf in a corner. Some abstruse, and no doubt quite out-of-date medical volumes with gold-embossed leather spines filled a small bookcase. The curtains hanging each side of the two sash windows were of subdued green velvet and the carpet was patterned in shades of viridian and brown. Everything was in harmony. The patient - whatever his or her problem - felt eased. At least, if the news was bad, the surroundings were comfortable.

Only Doctor Goodwin himself looked a little at odds with the decor. In his mid thirties, abundant black hair, an olive, almost Mediterranean skin and wearing a dark blue, open neck shirt and black trousers, he was an agreeably exotic figure in that conventional setting.

Trained to notice, Keith took in the details in the short journey from door to desk. Dr Goodwin, standing, shook his hand. His grip was firm, dry and warm. It lingered for just a little longer than was perhaps absolutely necessary.

"Mr Hatch, glad you could make it. Sorry it had to be here - and so late," he gestured at the surroundings.

"It's very impressive," said Keith. "I thought N.H.S. doctors didn't get paid so well."

Goodwin laughed. "Oh, this isn't mine," he said. "It's the consultant's private room. He's the one who really gets paid. He lets me use it if he doesn't need it himself. I'd prefer to meet for a chat like this in the pub - " He hesitated, then added, " - or the Club."

The last three words made little impression on Keith who was more concerned with the diagnosis on Phil's condition. He explained the situation, expressing his doubts. "... and often he doesn't seem to remember things that happened recently so it's both his long-term and short-term memories that are affected," he said.

"The majority of people who contract bacterial meningitis and meningococcal septicaemia survive and make a full recovery, however, some are left with after effects or serious disabilities."

Keith looked alarmed but Dr Goodwin continued, "Meningitis and septicaemia are serious diseases from which it can take months to recover. Afterwards many people find that they have days when they feel very good, and others when they feel so bad that they may worry that they are becoming ill again. Although this up and down recovery pattern is normal, it can be very depressing and even frightening. As time passes, however, the good days will usually outnumber the bad.

"Remember that although many of these after effects may be very worrying for you and of course, for Phil, particularly those relating to emotional or behavioural problems, it is likely that they will completely disappear in six to twelve months after the illness."

Keith felt a certain amount of relief. There were perhaps rather too many `maybe's, possibly's and usually's' but the general tenor of the prognosis was reassuring.

"Thank you," he said, allowing himself to look at Dr Goodwin as a man rather than as a doctor. For the first time he realised how attractive he was. Subtly Goodwin had altered his body stance, was perhaps looking at him in a less than professional way, a calculating, almost sexual manner. Suddenly Keith realised that Goodwin was coming on to him. His smile was no longer solicitous, it was downright seductive. Keith could see the shape of his upper body under the midnight-blue shirt. His olive skin was smooth and would, Keith was sure, feel velvety under his fingers. He felt his own cock stir and wondered, if Goodwin were to stand up, whether there would be an answering response in those expensively-tailored black trousers.

He thought back to those three little words he had ignored earlier - in the Club' - not in my Club'. Surely that must mean a club which both of them had frequented? "Did you mean `the Jam factory'?" he asked. He must have sounded completely irrational but Goodwin was smiling.

"Of course," he said. "I have seen you there twice. Do you often go there?"

"No. They were the only two times I've been." Not quite true but the first time had been years ago . "But I was on duty, on a case - well on two actually." He paused. "But what were you ... I mean." For a moment the possibility that Dr Goodwin moonlighted as a rent boy crossed his mind but he dismissed it immediately - which meant that Goodwin must be - a client. "Surely ... " he said, stammering a little. "You don't need to ... "

" ... pay for it," finished Dr Goodwin. "It is a matter of choice."

"I don't understand."

"It suits me. For one thing, there is no possibility of rejection. I take my pick of what is available and there's always new `stock' if you know what I mean. It is a financial arrangement. There is no obligation, no strings, no messy affairs."

It was a cold, calculating conception of sex but one which some people had, Keith knew. He nodded. "Dr Goodwin," he said, "that last time you saw me there was Sunday wasn't it?"

"Call me Tony, please. Yes it was."

"Do you know a guy called Stiff, Gerald Thornton, I believe his real name is?"

"Oh yes indeed, a charming, most accommodating young man."

"And what about Greg Marwood?"

Tony Goodwin frowned. "Not so pleasant," he said.

"I suppose you didn't see them together that evening?"

"Why yes I did. I had the notion of `booking' Stiff for later but he went out with Marwood and I had to look elsewhere."

"You know Stiff has been charged with Marwood's murder?"

"Yes, such a shame - such a waste."

"Marwood?"

"No certainly not. Marwood was an unpleasant character. I cannot condone the idea of murder but if there was a person who deserved it, then that one was surely Greg Marwood."

"I suppose you can't tell me anything else?"

"About that evening?"

"Yes."

"Only that Charlie Barnard went out almost immediately afterwards."

"Charlie Barnard, the barman?"

Tony Goodwin nodded.

"And what do you think of him?"

"Charlie? He's pleasant enough. Good fuck actually. Of course he wants to take over the drugs racket.

"The one Marwood was running?"

Goodwin corrected him. "The one Marwood and Stiff were in conflict over."

"Did you see Barnard come back again?"

"Why yes. I was chatting up another prospect. I'm sure you'd like him yourself. Looks a little like your Phil, though younger, I guess. But I saw Charlie come in again. About a quarter of an hour later."

"How did he look?"

"Well I was rather `occupied', of course so I didn't take too much notice but I'll tell you one odd thing. When he came back he was holding his arm over his chest in a very strange way. I thought at first he'd hurt himself, medical training coming out - I doubt whether I'd have noticed it otherwise - but then he went into the back room and came out a couple of minutes later and he seemed perfectly OK. Nothing wrong with his arm at all, but ... "

"But?"

"He'd changed his shirt."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes, quite sure. He had been wearing a white one. When he came back we has wearing purple. Very fetching colour."

Keith stood up. "I'll have to go," he said. "Thank you, doc- Tony. You have been very helpful. On two accounts."

Tony Goodwin seemed disappointed. "Perhaps you and I can have a drink some time," he said.

Tuesday Night

It was late when Peter Lippett got to the Jam Factory - so late indeed that people were coming out and the bar staff were obviously clearing up in preparation for closing. The bouncer on the door tried to stop Peter entering but he showed his warrant card and walked in.

The disco lights had all been switched off and only those behind the bar were left on. Charlie was alone behind the bar. He looked up as Peter came in. "Why it's the pretty policeman," he said. He seemed to be much more at ease than the last time - almost arrogant. Peter wondered whether it was because Keith was not with him.

"I'm afraid you're too late for a little buddy," said Charlie, "unless I'll do. My rates are quite reasonable."

"No, thank you, sir," said Peter carefully, "but I'd like just a little of your free time."

"Suit yourself." Charlie came round the bar and sat down on a stool, carefully posing so that his legs revealed the bulge in his groin. "Shoot," he said suggestively.

"Stiff wasn't the person Marwood had sex with." said Peter. "We've had the results of the DNA sample."

"Well it wasn't me," said Charlie. He seemed to be treating the whole thing as a joke.

"Wasn't it? Don't you think it odd that neither Marwood nor Stiff had drugs on them when the police searched them."

"Stiff could have taken it off the body and hidden it somewhere when he went off up the street."

"How did you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That Stiff went off up the street. Only the police and of course Stiff knew that he was on his way to Tottenham Court Road underground station to meet me."

Charlie seemed momentarily flummoxed. He stirred uneasily.

"There's only one way you could know that and that was if you were there. Followed the two out, saw Stiff go up the street and then yourself went after Marwood into the alley. What did you want, Charlie? Was it YOU that Marwood had sex with? It would be quite easy to prove. A little DNA test and we'll know. Then what happened? Marwood refused you payment, the drugs you wanted? He was like that, Jos said. And so you killed him?"

Charlie's smile had left his face. There was the sound of a door closing. Charlie's eyes momentarily flickered towards the exit. "The doorman's gone home," he said. "Now we're alone together. You've got no proof to support your little theory, pretty boy."

Peter looked at him sitting displayed on the barstool - so confident - and suddenly knew he had done it. Before, he hadn't been sure - it was just a theory born from his gut feelings that Stiff wasn't - couldn't have been - a killer. Now he knew.

"It should be quite easy to find out if you left the club soon after Marwood and Stiff went out," he said. "The other investigating officers never asked about you. Then if the DNA evidence puts you on the scene of the crime, that's a little bit more. Did you get any of Marwood's blood on your clothes?" He saw Charlie's eyes narrow and realised he had hit the jackpot. "You did, didn't you? For your sake I hope you've got rid of them or forensic are going to come up with the final bit of evidence."

Charlie glanced towards the bar and the door at the back of it. Peter noticed and put two and two together. "They're there, aren't they?" he said. "So cocksure that you didn't even bother to destroy them."

He stood up but Charlie had slipped off his stool before him and in a single stride was next to him, clasping him in a two-armed grip around his chest. Peter could smell his aftershave, feel the heat from his body. Charlie's breath was harsh in his ear.

"So you're a clever one as well as pretty. I don't think I can afford to let you pry any further." One of Charlie's arms released and groped for something in his short barman's jacket pocket. Peter wrenched himself out of the grip and turned to face him.

Charlie's body was low in a threatening crouch. In his left hand he held a knife - probably, thought Peter through his fright, the same one that had slipped between Marwood's ribs and pierced his heart. The blade glinted gold with the reflected yellow lights from the bar. Peter thought back to his course at Police Training College. Keep your distance. Hit the assailant's wrist with a truncheon, Talk to him. The first he could see the sense of. Unfortunately he no longer wore a police uniform or carried a truncheon. He tried the third.

"Charlie, if you kill a policeman, you'll never get away with it. They'll pursue you for ever."

"Killing Marwood, killing you - what's the difference? You shouldn't have come in here alone, pretty boy. Showing off your cleverness. I got away with the first one. And you'll just disappear."

"Your doorman saw me come in," said Peter desperately.

"And he'll say he saw you leave." He gave a sudden lunge, catching Peter by surprise. At the last moment Peter dodged and the knife scraped past his ribs, cutting through his jacket and shirt. He felt a dribble of something warm run down his side.

"That's enough," said a voice from the shadows. Charlie whirled around, the knife threatening whoever it was. For a brief moment he had his back to Peter and in that fragment of time Peter kicked out at the back of his legs, losing his own balance as he did so. Shouting, Charlie fell spreadeagled, the knife clattering across the floor.

The shadow stepped forward and twisted Charlie's left arm behind his back. After a short while he stopped struggling. Peter from the floor stared up into the face of Sergeant Keith Hatch.

"Think you'd better caution him?" asked Keith.

Afterwards when Barnard was safely in the cells, Warman had been roused from his sleep and told the news, Peter had had the scratch in his side looked at and dismissed, Keith had roundly told him off for going to the Club alone - and then had also told him about Doctor Goodwin's evidence which had been the reason why he, Keith, had - somewhat fortunately for Peter as it turned out, gone to the Club himself.

Alone, thought Peter, but didn't say it.

Peter had insisted that Stiff be released immediately - and Keith had backed him up. While they waited for the formalities to be processed, Peter admitted that the relationship wasn't going to be easy.

"He takes drugs," said Keith. "He's rent."

Peter nodded. "We'll work something out," he said.

Stiff appeared, sleepily rubbing his eyes and seemingly scarcely believing he was free.

"You owe it to Peter," said Keith.

"I always knew you hadn't done it," said Peter.

Stiff smiled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." He kissed Peter there in the Police Station and the two went out together. Sergeant Warman looked after them and shook his head.

"You'll have to look after that constable of yours," he said.

Keith sighed.

Tomorrow, he thought, he would ring up Phil. Perhaps ask Inspector Sheridan if he could have a few days off, go down to Feltenham.

He wanted to be with Phil.