Kissing the Dragon - 15. The Open Lockup

Seven-thirty on Monday night, and the Open Lockup Club turns out to be situated in the deserted heart of an industrial estate on the boundary of Wandsworth and Battersea. Signage for the club is not so much subtle as virtually non-existent. Whitehead relies on his GPS to get us there. Once he has parked up, he jumps out and stomps ahead without waiting for me, his heavy steps clanging off the steep black metal stair fixed to the front of the nondescript building.

Unsurprising because most of the fifty-five minute journey over has been suffered in angry silence. My attempts at conversation, at lightening the mood were unreciprocated. Annoying too, because I have been feeling in an upbeat mood following an email on Sunday from Alan Redfern, my friend from Argentina, telling me it would be nothing short of a travesty if I am not invited over to interview. Even if I felt the urge to tell him—which I do not—DC Whitehead would not give a hoot about my good news. As though trying to stamp on my mood, he turns up at the front door twenty minutes early and despite being invited in, remains on the doorstep forcing me to rush to get ready, something I hate doing. Straight from work, he wears his usual brand of baggy suit, this time in navy, over a white polo shirt open at the collar. He appears relaxed and comfortable, immune to the numbing coldness of the evening.

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Any more developments on the case?”

“No.”

“Did you get a chance to check into my story?”

“Not yet.”

After that enlightening exchange, I fall silent for a while but then decide to continue in spite of the frosty atmosphere in the car.

“So we’ve been together since August last year. Six months,” I read, reciting from the relationship history form Chaudhary provided. This is mainly in an attempt to make sure we are both on the same page for the counsellor. A full day’s stubble accentuates the detective’s jaw line in an attractive way, but his eyes and mouth seem frozen and humourless as he skilfully navigates the busy rush hour traffic.

“We met at a charity benefit for underprivileged children held at Croxburgh school—my school—last summer. Good, something I can talk about with some degree of authority. You were attending on behalf of the Met and I was one of the organisers. We’ve been having relationship issues since before Christmas. Sex is still good, but not great. Sounds like you’re the commitment obsessive one of the two, want us to live together, get married, total monogamy. I’m the opposite, want to keep things casual and flexible. In bed, you tend to be the passive one of…”

Next to me Whitehead snorts softly and turns his head away.

“What? You want to be on top?”

“Whatever,” he replies with a soft sigh, gently shaking his head.

“Are you alright with this?” I ask, putting the form back into the inside pocket of my jacket.

“Over the moon,” mutters Whitehead, without taking his eyes from the road.

“Then why did you agree?”

“Because it’s my job.”

“Such a romantic. This is a first for me, too.”

“Is that so,” he answers indifferently, scratching the side of his nose.

“No date. Not even a kiss, let alone anything carnal. And here I am being whisked off to couple’s therapy.”

“Hysterical.”

After a short pause, I fall silent. In spite of my efforts I am determined not to let this man sour my good mood. I pray we can find some useful information and get out of there before I have wasted the whole evening. For the next few miles I sit whistling softly to myself, deciding not to ask for the radio to be turned on. Ten minutes later, stopped at traffic lights, Whitehead turns to me.

“Okay, McCann. I’ll bite. What are you playing at?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Stringing Chaudhary along with this bollocks about a rent boy?”

“I’m not stringing anyone along. What Tony did was out of character. I simply voiced my concern.”

“To Chaudhary. Which is like throwing paraffin on a barbecue. Thanks to you we’ve had to search his flat—again—and found absolutely nothing—again. All you’re doing is getting us to waste police time. When we could be doing what we’re paid to do.”

“So what then? I should have kept my mouth shut?”

“Unless you had clear proof, clear evidence, yes. That’s the way the criminal justice system works in this country. Now I have to waste an evening of my time because of your bullshit theory. I knew you were going to be trouble the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Up to that point my mood has levelled off to being largely neutral. Now my jaw clenches and I begin to seethe, something that happens rarely but when it does casualties should be expected. I rationalise that Whitehead is getting paid to work in the evening. I am doing them a favour, at an explicit request from Chaudhary.

“Okay, if we’re going for honesty and openness, I have a question for you. Why have you taken an instant dislike to me? It’s irrational. Is it because of my sexuality? Are you threatened—”

“Your sexuality?” he says, laughing grimly. “Nobody gives a rat’s arse about your sexuality. I only want this case done and dusted, closed and filed away. And I think you’re deflecting. Getting us to take our eye off the real issue. Harrison in the woods cruising the wrong guy.”

“Turn the car around then. Forget I said anything.”

“Too late now. Chaudhary’s made arrangements.”

After the outburst, I fold my arms and glare out of the side window. The rest of the journey is suffered in angry silence.

At the top of the metal stairs leading to The Open Lockup entrance, I haul open the solid metal door that Whitehead has let slam closed behind him. Inside, warm air mixed with cloying lavender room freshener fills the small, brightly lit reception area. Whitehead has his back to me, both hands planted on the reception desk, already deep in conversation with a smitten young man on duty. I lower myself into a seat next to a pleasant looking West Indian couple. We nod to each other and exchange pleasantries.

“Who’s vetting you?” murmurs the nearest guy. Even though nobody else occupies the room, we converse in hushed voices.

“Someone called Baxter?”

“Supposed to be a bastard,” says the furthest guy, leaning forward.

Taye Diggs style, he has a beautifully shaped bald head of shiny flawless skin. They wear matching polo shirts in different colours, indigo and apricot, the OL club insignia emblazoned on the left breast.

“Don’t let the whole caring Tinkerbell act fool you. He cuts deep with his questions. And if he thinks you’re yanking his chain, trying to pull the wool over his eyes just to get membership, you’ll disappear quicker than a Red Square gay rights protester. But it’s worth the ordeal just for the club membership. Best this side of the river.”

“Right on. We never miss Car Key Cocktail Sundays.”

Despite mildly piqued interest, I decide not to probe. At that moment, a tall slender woman appears at the door marked private and calls out their names. Gentle strains of a modern pop ballad seep into the room.

“This is our forth session,” says the guy next to me, smiling as he stands. “Monday is ADHD night.”

“Attention Deficit Disorder?”

“Nah, mate. Amateur Drag for Hags and Divas. Always good for a laugh.”

Despite my sour mood, I chuckle and glance over at Whitehead, wondering what his reaction will be to the spectacle.

“Is that your man?” asks the furthest guy, standing too and indicating Whitehead’s back with a tilt of his head.

Just then Whitehead turns to look at us and I grimace at the bald guy while gently nodding my head.

“Afraid so.”

“Nice,” he drools, with a toothy smile and a wink.

“You think so? Please be my guest.”

“Oh man,” chuckles the first guy, who has turned at the door. “You are going to get on just fine here. Come and find us if you want some company.”

Alone now, Whitehead comes over and stands next to me. I make a point of not looking up at him.

“Baxter’s on his way,” he mutters.

“Whatever.”

After a moment’s pause, he lowers his bulk into the seat next to me.

“What’s up?” he asks, looking my way. “Don’t fuck this up, McCann—“

“Let’s get something straight, shall we?” I whisper harshly, turning and giving him my full attention. “I’m here right now because I’m doing you and Chaudhary a favour.”

“You’re being a good citizen helping the police—”

“Rubbish. I’ve got better things to do with my time. I have no ulterior motive. This is not my job and I could have easily refused. I almost did. I am giving up my evening, my time, to help you with your investigation.”

“This is not my…” he whispers angrily, and then stops and softens his tone. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Something we can agree on.”

After what seems like hours but is likely minutes, the private door swings wide and a man glides in. Whether purposely or not, he appears to strike a pose, languishing against the door frame while dramatically surveying the room. Completely unnecessary considering we are the only guests left in the reception. Once again, pleasant music invades the room filtering in from somewhere beyond the doors. The man’s taut pale skin and tightly greased-back raven hair combines to create a stark severity, an almost vampire-like appearance. At odds, though, he dresses in skin tight slacks of black and white stripes, and an equally tight black polo neck sweater, as though he has stepped out of a swinging sixties fancy dress party. Finally acknowledging that we are the only people waiting, he peers down at a clipboard, and a unique, androgynous yet commanding voice issues from him.

“Benjamin Whitehead and Colin McCann. This way, please.”

Clearly eager to get moving, Whitehead leaps up and reaches the man first. Baxter holds the door open, all the time unashamedly appraising the detective, something to which Whitehead is blissfully unaware. I catch the door just as Baxter lets it go and follow them both into the lion’s den.

Seductive music from the club downstairs becomes staunched completely once the heavy door to Arlington Baxter’s cocooned therapy room thumps closed. Armchairs and sofas of soft black leather fill the centre of the open space, while large rectangular cushion pads covered with a milk coffee coloured hessian reminiscent of those found in recording studios lines the walls. A long walnut credenza stands against one wall housing a huge flatscreen television which is bordered each side by matching lacquered vases of bronze and black. Baxter’s choice of sixties attire blends perfectly.

He leads us to one of the sofas, invites us to sit one at each end while he slides into an armchair opposite. A coffee table of dark frosted glass sitting on a chocolate brown rug acts as no-man’s-land. Arranged on a stainless steel tray in the middle of the table, elegant bottles of still and carbonated water are arranged next to a column of glass tumblers. After offering us drinks, which we both decline, he begins.

“Some members like to use the club before their therapy sessions but I prefer to have clients clear-headed and responsive. So, if you are approved, please come here first. We’ll start gently today. Allow you each to find a quiet space while ingesting my method of functionality. In turn, this allows me to observe your relational dynamic. If future sessions are deemed necessary, we’ll aim to peel away layers, address harder themes; expectations, limitations, boundaries, sex life, fantasies. I only ask that you are open and non-judgmental. Mutual respect and support are paramount. Are we all happy to agree to this verbal contract?”

While I nod my agreement, I wonder what is going through Whitehead’s mind. If I feel wound this tight at the moment, what on earth must he be feeling? Moreover, if I had known we were going to have these types of questions I would have insisted on a rehearsal. No wonder Whitehead tried to beg off the case from the beginning. In the meantime, Baxter begins reading off and probing into random parts of the fabricated information Chaudhary has provided about the status of our six-month ‘relationship’. Satisfied, he puts his clipboard to one side, crosses his legs, fixes his plastic smile in place and gives us his full routine.

“Let’s begin with each of you revealing three things you like about the other person. Don’t over-think this, just speak the first thoughts that comes to mind. Let’s start with you, Ben.”

Grateful to be off the hook, I rack my brains to think of three nice things to say about Whitehead. Without looking around I sense Whitehead’s discomfort. Breaking the lengthy silence that ensues, Baxter offers him an olive branch of compromise.

“Okay. Let’s start with one thing, Ben. One thing you particularly like about Colin.”

Whitehead shuffles uncomfortably before his baritone voice sounds.

“His house. I like Colin’s house.”

Perhaps my tense state is to blame, but I turn my head away and clamp a hand across my mouth in a failed attempt to stop laughter from hissing out from between my fingers.

“Don’t laugh at me,” growls Whitehead, glaring at the coffee table.

I finally understand Chaudhary’s reasoning. She is absolutely on target. Together we make the perfect dysfunctional couple.

“Colin,” says Baxter, his usual calm tone now admonishing. “I’m sensing hostility instead of openness. Let’s be supportive, shall we? Ben’s doing his best here. And Ben. Try for something more intimate. Something about Colin the man—.”

“His eyes,” says Whitehead, almost too quickly.

“Okay. Good. Can you expand? What exactly do you like about them?”

Uncomfortable silence again. I sit patiently, waiting for him to elucidate with something along the lines of ‘the fact that he has two’ when his actual response startles me.

“The colour. I’ve never met anyone with such green eyes. Deep forest green. Amazing.”

A familiar tremor of embarrassment ripples through me even though I have no idea if the remark is genuine. Being complimented on anything has never been my thing, but for some reason is especially difficult coming from Whitehead. I have often wondered if there is a psychological condition for this, because ever since childhood I have been completely open to criticism, however harsh, taking negative comments on the chin, whereas I dissolve into listlessness every time I hear praise. At Whitehead’s words, I am unable to stop my face from flushing scarlet.

“Excellent. And now you, Colin. One thing you like about Ben?”

Fortunately for me, I have had time to process the question.

“I like—uh—Ben’s presence. His physical presence.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“To be honest when we first met I found him intimidating. Before we grew to know each other, that is. But now that I do, I feel secure when he’s around. And it’s not just because of his job or his size, both of which are daunting. It’s more innate, something to do with the air of calm confidence he brings with him into a room.”

As I speak, I sense two things. First Baxter nods gently in Whitehead’s direction, and I recognise a familiar sheen of desire curl his lips while his eyes trace the detective’s face. At the same time, I sense Whitehead’s scrutiny turn my way. Ever the professional, Baxter’s head snaps back to me as soon as I finish speaking.

“Nicely articulated, Colin,” he says, jotting into his notepad. “Ben. How about something—we’ll stick with one thing this time—that you dislike about Colin?”

“Easy. He makes assumptions about people without asking questions or thinking things through. Not exactly a sympathetic trait for someone in the teaching profession. When I first met him, he assumed—probably because of my occupation and my physical presence—that I’m a beer drinker, which could not be further from the truth. I’m sure even now he has a mental list of incorrect assumptions about me.”

“And who’s fault is that?” I hear myself blurt, annoyance erupting.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You never tell me anything. We’ve just spent an hour’s car journey over here with me doing most of the talking. It’s like chipping away at an iceberg with a toothpick.”

“If you’d been talking about anything meaningful instead of just babbling, I might have—“

“Okay, okay gentlemen. You’ve both made your point. Let’s try to keep this civilised, shall we?” interrupts Baxter, in a loud calming tone, scribbling on his pad. “Let’s hear from Colin. One thing you dislike about Ben.”

“Just one?”

“Colin. Come now. One thing.”

“His arrogance.”

“I see. And would you like to expand?”

“No.”

Again Whitehead’s head has swung my way but I keep my gaze firmly on Baxter. I imagine the copper in him is about ready to punch my lights out or throw my arse out of the fire exit. Probably both, one after the other.

“O-kay,” says Baxter, eyeing me in judgement, before jotting something down on the pad balanced on his knee. “Let’s try something a little less emotive. In front of each of you are blank two-by-four cards. This exercise aims to assess your level of mutual understanding. Without showing each other, can you write down the answers to the following three questions. Pick up your cards and pencil.”

When I glance at Whitehead his brow has crinkled but he leans forward and picks up the items as instructed. I follow suit and we settle back into the couch awaiting instructions.

“On the card, write down first of all what would be your partner’s favourite dinner. Secondly, which celebrity your partner finds the most attractive. And finally, what is your partner’s favourite activity in the bedroom.”

My mind is a blank. By his size, he seems like a T-bone steak and chips kind of man, but appearances can be deceiving. I had his preferred tipple completely wrong. How seriously are we supposed to take this? I decide to run with my first instinct. Second on the list is a tough one. Probably Angelina Jolie or Charlize Theron, someone sexy and stylish but someone who could still challenge him intellectually. Perhaps he already has one of those at home. But I cannot jot down either of those, so I go with someone popular and, importantly, male; John Barrowman. And as for in the bedroom, once again I am at a loss. I decide to run with humour and write; snoring.

“Okay, hand me your cards,” says Baxter, after a five minute pause, leaning forward to gather them up. As I hold mine out, I notice the huge onyx and jewelled ring wedged onto the thumb of his right hand. “Now take a new blank one, and jot down your own answers to these questions. Once you’re done, we’ll compare.”

In quick succession, at Baxter’s invitation, Whitehead rattles off his own answers: Bouillabaisse, Robert De Niro, and Reading. When Baxter reels off my answers, I lower my head, pinch the bridge of my nose and let out a groan. Next to me I hear Whitehead snort softly at the last answer I provide.

“Okay Colin,” says Baxter. “Let’s hear yours.”

“Beef Wellington, Anderson Cooper and Vacuum cleaning”

“Thanks Colin. Ben seems to think you like Teppanyaki, Ian McKellen and Hoovering. I suppose one out of three isn’t bad.”

McKellen? Then again, Sir Ian is probably the only gay celebrity Whitehead has heard about. Funny how he matched one of my answers, and good to know an arse can also have a sense of humour.

“So,” concludes Baxter, after having scribbled onto his pad, leaving us both sitting in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the court’s verdict. “You’re clearly ready for an intervention. Interesting that you’ve both deflected the bedroom question. Let’s arrange another session for the same time next week. Body language aside, I am sensing animosity and communication issues.”

This man deserves a Nobel prize.

“When can we go downstairs?” comes the voice of Whitehead.

“Right now, Ben,” says Baxter, smiling lasciviously, which of course is lost on Whitehead. Putting his notes down, Baxter unfolds his long legs and rises gracefully from his chair. He glides over to the door before twisting his upper body around. “Give me one minute to fetch your membership cards. You’ll need them to purchase anything, as well as to enter and exit the club.”

As soon as the door closes, I peer around at Whitehead.

“That went well. Think you’ve got yourself an admirer.”

Busy checking his phone display and, without turning to me, he issues a soft snort of disgust.

“So what’s our game plan?”

“Our what?” he says, his gaze finally narrowing in on me.

“Downstairs in the club. How do we go about interviewing people?”

“Let’s get something clear, McCann,” he says, putting the device back in his inside pocket. “We’re not interviewing anyone. Just single out people you recognise. Then introduce me. And talk about things you’d normally talk about. As natural as possible. If there are questions to be asked, I’ll ask them at the right time.”

Can this evening get any better?