Kissing the Dragon - 13. An Unusual Favour

On Thursday and Friday an uneasy calm descends on the house apart from the occasional call from one journalist or another. After sauntering back from Kit’s place on Wednesday night, my tennis bag slung over one shoulder, I arrive home around ten, my gaze drawn immediately to a flashing red light of the answering machine. Three messages, the display reads, and the first is from another reporter urging me to call her back. Both irked and unsure of what else I can add to the story already given to the Surrey Chronicle, I decide to delete all messages without listening to them before heading for bed. DS Chaudhary would surely approve. For those calling over the next few days, I follow Chaudhary’s advice to the letter and either ignore them or only give away the bare minimum. So far, this has worked and, more importantly, the calls seem to be decreasing so perhaps interest is waning. Only the text message from Kit in the early afternoon of Friday throws me off balance.

- Thanks again for Wednesday night, Cole.

My pleasure. How’s York-Shirley?

- Sub zero. Heading back tomorrow am.

Are you going to make the party?

- Why? You need a date?

There he goes again, openly flirting with me. I might need to have a quiet word with him when he returns. Mortified still at misreading him and embarrassing myself on Wednesday, I want to avoid doing anything similar again. But these teasing morsels of his are sending my heart into a tailspin. After a pause, I decide to play the adult and avoid flirting back, but once again his response floors me.

Never told me you were a part-time comedian

- Will do my very best to get there, handsome. Have a surprise for you.

My instinct is to text back immediately and ask what. But I stay my hand even though my mind has gone into overdrive.

By Saturday morning, the events of the early part of the week still hang over the house like a death sentence. Nine-fifteen Saturday morning, having finished my domestic routines and having just opened the morning paper, I am pestered again by a call from the same reporter who left a message on Wednesday night. Once again, I provide a lacklustre interview and am hard pushed to keep my temper when she asks inappropriate and loaded questions about the depths of my relationship with Denny. After slamming down the phone, I decide to try calling the number Vaughan gave me for Roland, the friend of Tony. After three rings someone picks up.

“‘ello?”

The voice is young and female.

“Good morning. I’m trying to get in touch with Roland.”

“Role ain’t taking any jobs at the moment.”

My brain takes a moment to decipher her meaning.

“I don’t want to book him. I just want to talk. About Tony.”

“Tony’s dead.”

Her bluntness stuns me into silence for a second.

“I know. A good friend of Tony’s told me. He overdosed, didn’t he?”

Silence from the end of the phone.

“The thing is,” I say, forging on. “I met Tony some years back at a party, and he seemed like a nice lad, the last person on earth who would get into that kind of scene.”

“You the police?”

“No, I’m an old friend. I met him and Roland at a dinner party held by Denny and Alfie. My name’s Colin. McCann. If you mention my name, Roland might even remember me. And I really do need to talk to him?”

Another silence descends which I am about to fill when she replies.

“You can’t come here.”

“Since I don’t know where you are, that won’t be hard. Maybe I can meet him somewhere public? A coffee shop or a pub?”

“Don’t think he’ll want to, but I’ll ask. I’ll text you on this number.”

Before I have a chance to say any more, call waiting pops up on my phone. My sister.

“Look, can I call you…? Hello?”

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the display. The girl has already ended the call so I select the new caller whose name is prominently displayed in the middle of the screen.

“Hi Janine,”

“Is this a good time?” she asks. She is outside somewhere, walking quickly, her breath heavy and laboured, the faint sound of constant traffic and distant roadworks her soundtrack.

“As good as any. Fire away.”

“First off little brother, you have nothing to worry about. You’re in the clear.”

“Yes, I know that now. I saw Chaudhary Wednesday. Apparently that numbskull Whitehead knew all along, but decided to keep me in the dark.”

Janine’s familiar chuckle comes from the other end of the phone.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but apparently he tried to beg off the case. Doesn’t feel it really warrants his time. He’s used to more hardcore police work: stakeouts, drugs busts, tackling organised crime. That kind of thing.”

“But not cases where the victim’s a homo.”

“Be nice. Apparently the man’s working through some personal stuff right now. Might be why he messed up on the last job. Not sure what exactly but enough that the chief has told us to give him a wide berth.”

“Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear.”

I have no idea what his issues might be and while I do sympathise, he will get nothing more from me. Uncle Dom died last March and I only had Vaughan and Janine for emotional support. And Vaughan only temporarily.

“More to the point, how are you doing, Collie?”

“I thought I could handle this but it’s beginning to rattle me,” I say, the caring words threatening to wobble my stiff-upper-lip. “Denny, the break-in. Now hounded by reporters and stuck like a prisoner in this house. I am going bats, sis, completely—”

“Then get out of there. Nobody’s making you stay home.”

“You sound like Martin. As soon as I get off the phone I’m heading into town.”

“Why don’t you come and stay here next week. Until it all blows over.”

“Not sure that would be fair on Billy,” I reply, mainly because I value my peace and, however much I love my nephew and niece, I am not sure the lack of personal space would be worth the trade off. “But apparently I’m going to be invited down to Dorset, to stay with Derek and Hugh next weekend. I wasn’t going to accept but I think the change might do me good.”

“And so it will. Send Derek my love. Hugh’s Jeremy Winterbourne’s son, isn’t he? I wonder if you’ll get to meet the big man. Or his partner.”

“Jeremy’s partner? I thought he was married.“

“Business partner, smartass. Constantine Morgan. You must have heard of him. More of a silent partner, by all accounts. Anyway, I’ll let you go. There was something else I needed to tell you, but it’s slipped my mind. Can’t have been all that important.”

“If it was anything to do with family then let it stay slipped.”

“She’s getting old, Cole. She’s not going to be around forever.”

Just then my mobile phone beeps with a message.

“Stop trying to cheer me up.”

“I’ve invited her over for Easter. So don’t plan on going away anywhere.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I want us all to be together as a family. So no pulling a fast one such as telling me Vaughan’s booked a surprise last-minute holiday like you did last Easter, because that one won’t wash again.”

“Doubt Vaughan will be doing that anytime soon. Not with me, anyway. But you never know, I might be loved up by then.”

“Yes, and I might be the new Queen of England. Oh shit!”

As she is talking I hear a child screaming blue murder in the background.

“Better go, Collie. That’s Mark junior fighting with his sister again. We were never like that, were we? Hell, there was something else I wanted to ask you but it’s slipped my mind. If I remember, I’ll text.”

After pulling the phone away from my ear, I end the call with Janine and take a few calming breaths before clicking on the message.

- Role sez he’ll talk. Will txt details later.

After eating a tuna sandwich lunch at the local coffee shop, and successfully arranging a gift voucher for Barney and Jenny’s engagement party, I reach home to find an elderly man standing at my front gate fiddling unsuccessfully with the latch while peering up at the house. For a second I wonder if he is another journalist but then notice that he is significantly older, possibly in his mid to late seventies, although these days age is hard to determine. Something familiar rings about his appearance, of clipped grey hair, trim red and black lumberjack shirt, and pressed green gardening slacks. A fair-weather gardener. Maybe we have met. Nothing seems to signify these days.

“Can I help?” I call, as I near.

“Bob Grant,” he says, turning stiffly and prodding his gloved thumb in the general direction of his home. “Number twenty-three.”

“My alibi,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand, but faltering when I see the muddy palms of his gardening gloves. “I understand I owe you a debt of thanks.”

“Only told them what I saw with my own eyes,” he shrugs, plain and simple. Although I have lived here for many years, to my shame I know none of my neighbours. “Deborah and I—Mrs Grant—treat ourselves to a Chinese once a month.”

“Why don’t you pop in for a cup of tea,” I offer.

“Would love to, but can’t right now. Wife’s waiting for me. I’ll take a rain check. Would be interesting to see what old Dom did with the place though. We even knew the previous owners. Odd couple.”

Strange, I never heard Uncle Dom mention who he bought the property from.

“Anyway, Deb’s waiting for me to take her shopping. We’re driving up to Scotland first thing tomorrow morning. Golfing week. I just wanted to come over and ask if you knew the driver who parks across from your house. Silver Lexus. Seen him there a couple of times last weekend and during the week. Then last night and early this morning. Just seems a bit odd, is all. Parking there and sitting in the car, staring at the house.”

“No, I don’t,” I reply, and on reflex glance around but see nothing. “But thanks for letting me know.”

“Not a friend of your renter?”

“I don’t think so,” I answer. For a moment, my mind singles in on the idea of someone from the press who might be getting bolder, getting ready to tackle me in person. But if Grant had seen the car last weekend, they would not have known about the crime. Maybe someone is stalking Billy. Apart from his spat with Mr Big, it would not be the first time Billy had brought unwelcome attention upon himself.

“I’ll check with him tonight.”

“Can’t be too careful these days,” he says.

“You can say that again. Did you hear about my break-in on Monday?”

“No, I did not,” he says, and appears appropriately rattled. “Used too be unheard of down here. I blame that new estate at the end of Benson. Yobs aerosol painting obscenities on walls and revving cars in the early hours. And now burglaries. Don’t you have an alarm system?

“Thankfully I do. But they still managed to get in. Didn’t take anything valuable, thank goodness. Think the alarm scared them off.”

“Good thing too. We were out all day Monday. Saw that parked car again in the evening as we were driving home from the club. Around eleven.”

“Don’t suppose you got a licence plate number.”

“No, son. But I’ll keep an eye out now.”

With that Bob Grant makes his farewell and heads back across the street. Digging out my door keys, I step up to the front door, barely acknowledging the sound of a car pulling up outside my house. On hearing the engine cut and a car door slam, my attention is piqued. As soon as I swivel around and take in the confident bulk of DC Whitehead striding around the front of the car, I cannot stop the familiar wave of annoyance mixed with dismay that washes over me.

“Mr McCann. Perfect timing.”

“If that were true I wouldn’t be home.”

“A moment of your time,” he says, my comment unacknowledged.

Before I can begin to object, another car pulls up behind his and out glides DS Chaudhary. You would think the environmentally conscious modern police force would consider car-pooling.

“If this is a bad time, Mr McCann,” she calls out, stepping up next to Whitehead, “then please say so and we'll come back later. We were in the neighbourhood and thought we'd check on the off chance you might be home.”

Seeing and hearing Chaudhary softens my mood. Doubtless if this is something important they will persist until I eventually give in, so better get it over with sooner.

"No, it's okay. Now's as good a time as any. Come in."

Inside the house, both accept my offer of tea, Whitehead following Chaudhary’s lead. I settle them on the sofa in the den and head into the kitchen. While filling and switching on the kettle, I overhear their murmured voices but cannot pick out exactly what they are saying.

“Before we begin," says Chaudhary staring straight at me as I take a seat opposite them. "I want to reiterate that you are not, in any way, being viewed as a suspect in the murder of Mr Harrison. At the approximate time of death, you were entering your home. DC Whitehead had that confirmed by Mr Grant, your neighbour, after he bumped into you on Monday.”

I glance over at Whitehead, but his frozen gaze drills into my coffee table. When I look back at Chaudhary her eyes are still on me, equally unmoving and inexpressive. Does she know the real story, of what really happened Monday night?

“What about the water bottle I gave to Denny? With my finger prints on it?” I ask, directing my remarks to Whitehead. “Or the fact that I’ve applied for a teaching position in Buenos Aires?”

Chaudhary appears confused. Perhaps she is unaware of my conversations with Whitehead.

“We know about that. But my understanding is that you gave the bottle to Harrison on your walk home.”

“I did. But I have no way to prove that. And I had been led to believe that mine were the only other set of prints found in the house.”

As though the penny drops, Chaudhary throws a white hot glare Whitehead’s way, before letting out a sigh and shaking her head.

“Mr McCann, if you had been in the house with him that night, then we would have found a lot more of your fingerprints on surfaces to corroborate the fact. There were none. And applying for a position in an overseas college that does not commence until September of this year is hardly a desperate attempt to abscond. So can I just clarify once more. You are not—I repeat, not—a suspect. And for the record, I never thought you were.”

“Thank you. And I appreciate the reassurance,” I say eventually, a weight lifting off me.

"However," continues Chaudhary, “you have to understand that this is an ongoing murder investigation. And as you’re the only credible witness we have, we’d really value your continued support. Wouldn't we DC Whitehead?"

At her question, she turns to Whitehead who shifts his uncomfortable gaze up to her eyes. After a moment, he turns to me. Something has happened between them, words have been spoken. Dynamics have changed, but I don’t know what or why.

"Yes," says Whitehead obediently. "Yes, we would."

“Mr McCann, we’re here today because we need your help,” says Chaudhary, asserting her authority. “What you brought to light about Tony McDonald may provide insights into this case. It might be nothing, but there’s a club that Denny Harrison, McDonald and his friends and co-workers regularly frequented. Harrison and McDonald met there two days before McDonald’s death. It’s called The Open Lockup, a gay men’s club in Wandsworth. Are you familiar with the place?”

“I don’t go to clubs,” I answer, after cringing at images the club name conjures.

“I see. We keep close tabs on all private clubs and this particular one has a spotless record. Aside from all that, I know the owner and if he steps out of line, trust me, he’ll have me to answer to. No, if there’s any connection between the place and McDonald’s death, then it has something to do with its clientele. Usually we would infiltrate slowly and unobtrusively using members of our squad, but this club is too small, too intimate. And time is of the essence. We need someone who has history with the deceased. Someone who knew Harrison and McDonald, in whatever capacity. Someone who could talk about them with familiarity and authority. Someone—“

“Like me?” I offer, incredulous, finally catching up with her thread. “You want me to join this club?”

She ignores my indignation and forges ahead. From the kitchen, I hear the electric kettle click off, but tea can wait. My attention is now focused on Chaudhary.

“I appreciate this is a stretch for you, Mr McCann, but—“

“Hang on a minute. For starters, Vaughan and I never went to clubs. All our friends know that. Too noisy, too crowded. Never been our thing. So if I were to turn up somewhere like this, and were to meet people I knew, it would appear not only incongruous but also downright suspicious.”

“What did I tell you—“ says DC Whitehead, turning to Chaudhary.

“Ben, let me handle this. Why don’t you go and sort out the tea.”

Whitehead’s brow creases and his mouth sinks into a frown. In turn, she nods once, a silent communication passing between them. Hoisting his impressive bulk from the sofa, he lurches off towards the kitchen.

“It’s not that type of club, Mr McCann. This is more upmarket, more of a private members club, more—specialised.”

Something curdles in my stomach at her use of the word. I am at a loss for words. If Denny frequented the place I can only imagine what kind of sordid specialisations she is referring to.

“Not sure what’s going through your mind but I’m guessing you’re way off the mark. The Open Lockup works closely with bona fide LGBTQ support organisations to help gay couples who wish to salvage or re-energise their relationships. Special membership is only granted once interviews or introductory counselling sessions with one of the club’s counsellors have taken place.”

She has my attention now. Maybe this is something Vaughan and I should have considered.

“After that, they meet up with other couples experiencing similar issues, in a social setting, or employ third parties to help get them back on track. The building consists of a small intimate nightclub, a restaurant, and overnight accommodation in themed rooms that can be booked on the day or in advance.”

I should have stuck with my initial impression. Her omissions flood my head with curiosity. What kind of themed rooms? Booked out and used for what? And what kind of third parties, unless she means the likes of Tony… And then the whole sleazy picture comes into focus. This is a variation on a sex club. Perhaps not something Vaughan and I might have considered after all.

“Harrison and McDonald met there every month. The last time in early January. Two days later, McDonald commits suicide. A month later Harrison is found dead. We could really use your assistance here. You would be helping us to rule any connection between the club and the two deaths.”

Trust Chaudhary to play the friend guilt card. But she has not finished. While I am thinking this over, she plays her trump card.

“I spoke to your sister last night.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Janine Carter-McCann. Your sister. She organises a WTF—Women in The Force—meeting every Tuesday evening at HQ. She’s also a close friend. I thought she was going to call you this morning.”

“She did. But she never mentioned this.”

“The thing is, Mr McCann. I know she’s your sister, but she’s also your biggest fan. And she told me that if we were up against it, we could always rely on you to help.”

Janine had something else she wanted to tell me. Without a doubt, she meant to tell me about Chaudhary’s request.

“Two things,” I say, seeing immediate obstacles that come to mind but knowing there must me more. “First, wouldn’t I be putting myself in harm’s way? If there’s a connection between their deaths and we find out that it is something suspicious, wouldn’t my showing up at this club put me in danger? And second, you say this is a couple’s club, but I have no partner right now. I mean, he’s currently working in Southeast Asia.”

“Since last July. Janine filled me in about your ex. Which also means that you might be forgiven for doing something out of character. Like letting your hair down. And we would pair you up with one of our own undercover officers.”

“A policeman? My partner would be some random police officer?”

“Not exactly random,” she says, looking down at her hands.

“Who then?” I ask, the penny still not dropping. Her hesitant reply should really have given me a clue.

“DC Whitehead,” she says, looking towards the kitchen.

“Him?” I blurt, as the realisation fully sinks in. I almost laugh until I realise she is serious, after which I round on her. “Come on, detective. Are you serious? Nobody would believe we’re a couple. Yes, he’s physically attractive in a Men’s Health kind of way, but that’s all there is. And apart from the fact he could never pass as gay, he’s just not my type.”

A soft but unmistakeable clink of china draws our attention. DC Whitehead stands behind the sofa, a tea tray in his large hands: three mugs, a pot of tea and a carton of milk. Had I not been uncomfortable that he may have overheard my reproach, I might have laughed. His expression is, as ever, unfathomable.

“Tea. As requested,” he says, walking around and setting the tray down, before beginning to pour without waiting for a response.

“Mr McCann,” Chaudhary continues unfazed, “you’d be surprised what people will believe. And remember you and Whitehead would be a dysfunctional couple. So nobody’s going to expect you to be holding hands or sitting in each other’s laps. Ben would be there to keep you out of harm’s way and to use his talents as a skilled interrogator, trained to get people to open up.”

“If it’s any consolation, I like this as much as you do, Mr McCann,” mutters Whitehead.

“It isn’t, and I doubt that,” I mutter back. After he serves Chaudhary, I accept a tea mug from him. Absently and with a twinge of irritation I notice he has managed to find my best china tea pot, something I usually only unveil on special occasions. What also strikes me is that from the range of teas in the cupboard he has made my favourite; Earl Grey.

“So is it a yes or a no?” asks Chaudhary.

“No. Of course not.”

“Doesn’t matter, Jo. If you really insist on going through with this, I can partner up with Bellamy,” says Whitehead with relief, throwing himself back into the sofa and folding his arms. “Or Matthews.”

Whitehead ignores me now, his gaze trained her way. Ignoring him, her attention narrows in on me even more than before.

“I’m asking this personal favour of you, Mr McCann, because you are our best shot. If it turns out you are familiar with any of the clientele they’ll naturally be far more likely to open up to someone they know and trust. As you rightly brought to our attention, something about this case is not clear cut. And I would be really grateful if you could assist, even if just to close the book on this particular avenue of enquiry. At the very least, I think both Denny Harrison and Tony McDonald deserve that, don’t you, Mr McCann?”

I must admit I was expecting her to pull out the thumb screws, but her reasoning is sound and she has made her case succinctly. Clearly they have a contingency plan but her argument makes perfect sense. Both her and Whitehead sit quietly, him staring at the coffee table, her eyes dispassionately observing me. I feel sure Whitehead is hoping I will refuse. My mind is working to imagine meeting anyone I know with DC Whitehead in tow and trying to act as though we have anything at all in common. Not only that, but telling stories to people I may know, about how we met and things we’ve done. And then getting grilled about Vaughan and what happened between us. Then again, the thought of refusal fills me with guilt and disgust.

“Fine,” I say, breathing out a sigh and nodding.

While Chaudhary produces a satisfied smile, Whitehead turns his head away.

“Good. There’s actually a waiting list so I’ve called in a favour with the owner. You’re both expected on Monday evening at seven-thirty. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

“My dance card is not exactly full these days.”

“You’ll be seeing their specialist—someone called Baxter—for an initial assessment,” she says, her scrutiny still on me. She reaches into her suit jacket and pulls out a sheet of folded paper. “In the hope that you would agree to helping, we’ve completed an application form for you both. It has your relationship history to date so make sure you do your homework and swot up before Monday. DC Whitehead will pick you up from home. What time, Ben?”

“Sorry?” says the big man, brought out of his thoughts.

“What time will you pick Mr McCann up?”

“Six forty-five. Prompt,” he says, glowering at me. “Be ready.”