Stroking the Flame - 3. Small Concessions

Being grounded, Ben made up his mind to sort out a number of things in his life. Rather than continue the constant recce back and forth to his one bed flat—boomerang visits he calls them—he decided to move more clothing and especially his treasured mountain bike into my house. Little gestures like these continue to lift my spirits, especially as they are being made without any prompting on my part.

We arrive in his BMW that Sunday morning, not to the ramshackle part of Croxburgh where he temporarily rented an apartment during Denny’s murder enquiry, but to his own flat in Battersea. Sensible, really, because most of his time, he reported into the HQ in the City of London. A far cry from the previous neighbourhood, this part of Battersea screams affluence, perhaps even yuppiedom. With a smirk of pleasure, I follow his tightly jean clad muscular backside up the three stone steps through the security door and into the lift. His apartment on the 11th floor has a fittingly met police dark blue front door.

Feeling like an intruder, I hover near the entrance, even though I have an overwhelming urge to see how my other half lived his life before becoming a part of mine. Of course, Ben senses my hesitation—he reads me so well—and smiles.

“Come on in,” he says, from inside, holding the door open for me. “And keep in mind that I am not obsessive compulsive like you. If I see you so much as reach for a duster, I will cuff you.”

“Promises, promises.”

Four hesitant steps into the place and my internal critique is already running on overdrive. I tend to base my assessment of a person’s living environment on three senses; sight, sound and smell, and how they combine to make a space individual. When you open the door to Billy’s bedroom in my house, for example, your senses are immediately assaulted. Teeth rattling house music combines with surfaces strewn with fake animal skins: zebra, leopard, antelope, snake, mixed with a variety of multi-coloured feather boas. To mask other smells—poppers and lube, I have to assume—he has a vaporising machine working twenty-four-seven which pumps out ginger-lily or lavender scented aromatherapy oils. His boudoir, he calls it, and for a very good reason.

From where I stand in Ben’s home, what I experience viscerally would send Billy screaming into the streets. Neither untidy, nor dirty or neglected, the space is quite the opposite. Functional minimalism barely defines the spotless living room with its neutral coloured walls, sanded but otherwise untreated bare floorboards, and total lack of any embellishment. Only a couple of black framed photos of family members sit on a single pine build-it-yourself bookcase, which also houses Ben’s various police procedurals. This is not a small living area and the simple two piece grey settee, mini smoked glass coffee table and flatscreen TV on a low pine cupboard are lost in the space. No dining table or chairs, no rugs or other furniture, no obvious attempt at decoration. Even the thick blackout curtains are plain grey, matching the cotton settee fabric. The only discernible odour comes from a lemon air freshener sitting on the window sill. There is not even the smell of Ben, maybe because he spends so little time here. As bachelor pads go this borders on monastic, and I am caught off guard when a wave of sadness fills me.

But then I spot the replica vases sitting either side of the television. Stained glossy black and illustrated with orange-red figures depicting battle scenes from ancient Grecian history, I bought them in a shop in Athens, a gift for Ben for inviting me to accompany him on his sailing holiday. Rather than pick them out myself—my eyes being drawn to the raunchier ones of ancient Greek Spartans in various gay sexual positions—I let Ben choose. Part of me is surprised they did not end up at my house, but I am pleased he has something to connect himself from his old to his new life.

“Here,” he calls, appearing the other side of the open kitchen and tossing something to me. Behind him, I notice the red light from the kettle he has switched on. “Keys to the outside storeroom beneath the stairs. Bike’s in there. Although you might want to check the tyres before cycling her back.”

“Shall I go on ahead?”

His stance is not difficult to read. Behind the counter, he stands with hands on hips, his eyes darkening, surveying me appreciatively me as though I am the offer of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“What? No cup of tea? And don’t you want to check out the bedroom?”

Strangely enough, I am not sure I do. Mainly because before we met, I knew he had occasional hook-ups here and, more than likely, that would have been where the action took place. But then again, maybe I ought to be the last one to put my stamp on that particular lair.

“Lead the way.”

As stark as the living room, Ben’s bedroom houses a simple double bed with a curtained window above the headboard and a simple wardrobe built into the length of the right hand wall. Painted the same nondescript beige as the walls it is almost invisible. Ben—or his landlord—clearly has a thing about the colour grey, because his curtains are the same as the living area. Even the bedspread and pillows match. Before I have a chance to say anything, he has me pinned up against the door,

“Stop thinking and start stripping,” he says, reaching for my belt.

Just the musky smell of him, as he envelopes me, gets me aroused. Taking turns, each of us yanks the other’s tee off over our heads and then we lock lips again. At one point, he purposefully pulls away and holds me at arm’s length.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever actually kissed in this room. I want you to know that.”

Odd really, that comment sends a ripple of pleasure through me, even though I ought to be jealous about the other carnal activities that may have taken place. Finally, we are both down to our briefs and he has just traced the fingers of his right hand along the ridge of my backside, when the doorbell rings.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Or not, as the case may be. “Who the hell can that be?”

“Maybe it’s one of your old hook-ups come for a threesome,” I venture.

“Not even remotely funny,” he says, with a grimace while hopping back into his jeans. “Whoever it is, let me go and get rid of them.”

“You want me to stay in here,” I ask, still naked except for my white briefs, my hands held out either side.

“Bloody right I do,” he says, with a smirk and an appraising glance, before pulling his tee shirt on. “We have unfinished business.”

When he heads out, I leave the bedroom door ajar slightly so that I can hear what is going on. After a few moments, it is clear that Ben knows the person and when he drops the name Bartie, I realise his visitor is DI Pollard, his superior but also his friend on the force. Seconds later I hear the front door close, but, to my slight irritation, the voice remains inside.

“Saw your car downstairs and thought I’d try my luck. Popped my head in to see how you’re doing, son. You know what it’s like in the office. Impossible to have a private conversation without everyone earwigging.”

“Don’t I know it. Cup of tea? Kettle’s just boiled.”

I huff out a silent sigh, and during the short pause, pray that Pollard will decline. No such luck.

“Go on, then. If you’re having one.”

Even from the open kitchen, Ben’s voice still rings out loud and clear.

“Listen, if you’re worried about Callaghan, then don’t. Seems as though he’s off my case right now. Although the internal investigation boys still pop by from time to time. See if I’ve remembered anything else.”

“And?”

“You were there, Bartie. If I didn’t remember anything then, when it was fresh in my mind, then I’m sure as hell not going to remember anything now.”

“You’ve still no idea what Banner was going to tell you?”

“Christ, don’t you think I wish I did. I would give anything to relive that conversation. Even then, it might have been nothing important.”

Poor Ben. He has probably heard that question a thousand times since the incident. My nightmares about drowning must be on a par with his ones about wishing he knew what Banner was going to tell him.

“Mind, it’s hot.”

Ben’s voice comes louder now, he has obviously made tea and re-entered the living room.

“Thanks, son. So do you think he said anything to Longman?”

“Who knows? But I don’t see why. If you ask me, Longman’s too junior to merit Banner’s confidence. And they barely knew each other. Apart from me, if he’d said anything to anyone, it would have been Singh. And Singh’s dead now.”

“This is a right royal fuck-up.”

“Tell me about it. How’s the house-to-house going?”

“Dead ends. Nothing but dead ends. But if ballistics are right, the shooter was killed by someone in the office block or from that direction. Bloody ironic, eh? We thought the first shooter was there, but it turns out that’s where the shooter’s killer was installed.”

“They find anything?”

“Diddly-squat. Went over the place with a fine tooth comb when it first happened. Second search turned up nothing new. But again, somebody somewhere had to have seen something.”

“You’d think with all the CCTV around these days that something would have been recorded.”

“I know. CCTV in the office block was offline that morning for regular routine maintenance, according to the building’s technical team. Seems a little too convenient to me. Got my boys to check into it, but they turned up nothing. My guess is the shooter knew the maintenance routine. We’re vetting the entire technical team.”

They fall quiet again and I hope Pollard’s tea is warm enough for him to finish up and go. But he is not done yet. Not by a long chalk.

“So. Are we ready to talk about the elephant in the room?”

I freeze. Are they about to talk about me?

“Sorry? The what?”

“Newnam’s intel. Come on, son. Surely I’m not the only one questioning the reliability of his sources?”

“In the past, he’s been solid.”

“You don’t need to tell me. But this operation has been fraught with fuck-ups. And maybe I’m speaking out of school, but this latest catastrophe was arranged at short notice because of his tip-off. And where is he when everything goes south? Bloody America. With an untouchable alibi.”

Ben goes quiet then. Has he been having the same doubts about Newnam? A silence ensues and I guess Ben is loathe to be drawn on giving an opinion about a superior.

“Look, this conversation is between you and me. Although you should know that I have made my concerns known to a couple of others on the force, confidentially, of course. Christ knows, I’m scrambling to make sense of all this. Especially as it happened on my watch. But if you do hear anything—however minor—come straight to me. How’s your mother?”

“Hanging in there. She’s a tough old stick. Has good days and bad. Not going to say it hasn’t been hard on the rest of us. Dad’s taking it the worst. My heart misses a beat every time I get a call from him.”

Ben seldom speaks about his mother’s cancer and I have never been one to probe. Whenever he returns from a visit, I am always sensitive to his mood, always make sure I am there for him, with a decent meal and emotional support if called upon.

“I went to see her, you know? In the hospice. When you were away.”

“Dad told me. I really appreciate that, Bartie.”

“She was on pretty good form. Worries about you, though. Thought you’d finally managed to settle down. But then there you are, back single again.”

“Can’t all be like you, mate. Perfect wife, two well-adjusted teenaged kids, beautiful detached cottage in the country. I know you’re a good role model, but for some of us, things just aren’t meant to be that simple.”

“You think it’s simple?” snorts Pollard, the derision in his voice plain. “Takes bloody hard work and perseverance, mate. Let me tell you.”

Once again they fall silent. A single shiver runs through me and I realise I am beginning to get cold standing there.

“I never asked how the holiday went. Your father’s yacht, wasn’t it? In the Med?”

“Adriatic. And I had a fantastic time, thanks. Nice weather, great food—”

“Fantastic sex,” I whisper to myself, perching down on the end of the bed and reaching quietly for my shirt.

“Amazing scenery. Very relaxing.”

“Good for you. And nice to see the tan hasn’t completely faded yet. Did you go alone in the end?”

“Went with a friend.”

Even from behind the door, I can tell Ben’s voice has become slightly guarded. Another shiver rattles through me.

“Oh, yes? Anyone we know?”

“They’re not on the force, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Come on, Ben. It’s me you’re talking to. Don’t be defensive, I’m not going to go blurting it out around the department or running to tell your ex-wife, if you’ve got yourself a bit on the side.”

“It was a just a friend, Bartie. A male friend.”

Incredible how much tension a silence can contain, even when you are hidden in another room and cannot see the faces of the speakers.

“Not the teacher?” comes the voice of Pollard. Perhaps I am being too sensitive, but this time there definitely appears to be a note of contempt in Pollard’s voice. Maybe I am being naïve, but I never once considered that our friendship might cause Ben any problems.

“Colin McCann, yes.”

A silence falls and I strain to hear what is happening in the room.

“Look, son. I know I have no right to tell you who you should and should not befriend outside work. But surely you can see that, from a career standpoint at the very least, being seen hanging around with McCann’s not going to do you any favours. For starters he’s been a material witness in the Crown prosecution case against Morgan. Yes, I know Morgan died in a plane crash but they might still go after his personal assets. And, more importantly, McCann’s a known homosexual. In our line of work—trust me—you do not want to get tarred with that brush. Even by association.”

“He’s a good friend. And quite frankly it’s nobody’s business but my own.”

Even with Ben defending me, my stomach clenches with nausea.

“I know, I know. I’m just looking out for you. Between you and me, I’ve been pushing Callaghan to put you up for promotion again. You should have been shunted up long before Banner, everyone knows that. But, son, with your track record you’re going to need to stay squeaky clean. Don’t want anything stupid happening that might scupper the proposal this time.”

“I appreciate everything you’re doing, Bartie. I really do. But at the moment all I can think about is finding the bastards who killed my colleagues.”

“I hear you. And we will. Nobody kills coppers and gets away with it.”

“Amen to that.”

“Okay, I’d better get going. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

While Ben sees Pollard out, I get dressed quickly and quietly. No longer in the mood, I sit on the edge of the bed and think things through. Catching me off guard, Ben pokes his head around the door.

“You hear any of that?” he asks.

Before I can filter what I want to say, the words are out there.

“Is he right? Am I holding you back?”

“No,” he says, coming in, sitting next to me and placing a steadying arm around my shoulders. “Absolutely not. What you’re giving me is a life I thought I could never have. I don’t give a flying fuck about promotion. All I’ve ever wanted was to serve in the force, to catch the bad guys. Duty means everything to me. I’m not in this for the glory, I do it because it’s the right thing to do.”

Chaudhary said as much about him. Yet even so, I cannot help thinking that Pollard may be right, that our association—however discreet—could have the potential to damage his career or his chances of promotion. We enjoy each other from within a comfortable bubble right now, one that could pop at any moment.

Colin?” he says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger into the tension along the back of my neck.

“Sorry, Ben. Let’s save it for later,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ve lost the mood now. And I know I’m probably overthinking things. But let me ride your bike back—clear my head—and start lunch. How long will you be?”

“Seriously? You’re going to ride from here?”

“Why not? It’ll take me an hour tops. How long are you going to be?”

“Let me pack a few more things and then I’ll drive home. Probably an hour. Is that okay?”

“An hour’s fine. If the traffic’s as bad on the way back, I’ll probably beat you home.”

“In your dreams. And Colin?”

“Yes.”

“I love what we have, love coming home to you. And I don’t want anything to change that. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do. See you at home.”

Am I overreacting? Maybe. What I find reassuring is when he uses words like ‘home’ to describe my place. Yes, maybe I wish Ben was less closeted than me, but as he has explained time and again, his dangerous line of work calls for discretion.

Ben’s bicycle is locked away in his dedicated storeroom next to his flat. I haul out the navy framed mountain bike with the trademark thick tyres. Squeezing each in turn, I am satisfied they are filled sufficiently and then check the seat. Ben is slightly taller than me, but I am convinced I can still straddle the contraption comfortably. Before doing so, however, I lock up the cupboard and then walk the bike to the lift. As I get there, a pretty woman with copper hair wearing a thick winter coat open to reveal a baby sling emerges, scanning the doors. Seeing me with the bike, she stops and kindly holds the lift door open for me.

“Did you come from Ben Whitehead’s place?” she asks, as I thank her. “Is he in?”

“He is, yes,” I reply.

Although I want to ask who she is, that might come across as impolite, so with a smile I let the lift doors close on me. On the way down I mull over who she might be. I seem to remember Ben saying he has a sister with kids, but I got the impression she was older than him. Apart from bearing no family resemblance, this woman seems around my age, perhaps younger and the sleeping child has the underdeveloped features of a newborn. No doubt Ben will let me know later.

Maybe the sudden gust of chill wind is to blame, but when I hop onto the bike and start to pedal away, as I turn to observe Ben’s apartment block, a bone rattling shiver passes through me.