Kissing the Dragon - 18. Enough

Cycling back from the station by streetlight on my newly fixed up Campagnolo, I feel liberated and weightless, back on the open road despite the rush of chill February air numbing the skin of my face. Bob has done a first class job, the bike handling as well as the day I bought her. Brakes are just sensitive enough, gear changes slick and smooth. As I speed into the mouth of Cyder Drive, I notice the tail lights of a silver car speeding in the other direction away from my house. Is that the Lexus Dennis Marsh mentioned? Too dark to see now.

Freewheeling to the pavement, I hop off and lift the light frame onto my shoulder. No lights burn from inside the house, always a sign that Billy is not in residence. Only as I squeeze past the tall hedges and approach the door do I spy the note fixed above my bronze letterbox. Having mislaid yet another mobile phone, Billy has resorted to the primeval form of texting with a Post It note scrawled in black felt pen: ‘Cum to Smuggs - 6 to 9 happy hour - might even get laid’. Sign-off comes in the form of a smiley face with its tongue hanging out.

Smugglers is Croxburgh’s one and only gay pub tucked away down a side road from Croxburgh High Street and Thursday night will be fairly heaving, which is not ideal but will provide welcome anonymity. Any companionship feels so much like an antidote to life that I do not even bother to enter the house. After locking up my bike and shopping bags in the front shed, I head to the main road and jump on the next high street bound bus.

Billy’s painfully thin friends turn out to be barely older than some of my sixth form students—and far less interesting. After an hour of forgettable chit-chat centring around celebrities I have never heard of and television singing competitions I have never seen, I find myself proofreading the various tacky or semi-pornographic posters plastered up around the crowded bar. With loud chatter emanating from the four walls, and with a far younger crowd than I ever remember, the bar has lost its bygone allure. Stifling a yawn, I am mentally grasping for an excuse to bid them farewell and head home. Billy notices me fidgeting, rolls his eyes, and is about to berate me. Just then, something catches his attention over my shoulder and he straightens up, his eyes widening incredulously towards the door.

“You've got to be fucking joking,” I hear him mutter, his expletive making me cringe.

When I finally see what has caught his attention, my jaw drops. Detective Constable Whitehead, dressed in stonewash denims, burnt brown leather jacket and a black, tight-fitting Radiohead tee, looking entirely immune, swaggers through the bar. Plenty of heads turn and eyes of desire follow in his wake.

“Is he one of ours?” murmurs one of Billy’s friends, all of them craning their necks like meerkats in the sun.

“Trust me, darling,” sneers Billy, shaking his head at the friend. “That is one dick, no matter how good looking, that we do not want anywhere near our side of the fence.”

Although I grudgingly admit that he looks hot, perhaps I am the only one to notice how his unwavering stare, steadfastly ignoring the flirting glances of the men he moves past, flickers involuntarily as his arm brushes up against a random someone, betraying his true revulsion. He disappears behind a group of men clustered around the bar counter and appears to be chatting to one of the bar staff. As a member of Billy’s group, I try to melt into the fray, and even wonder if I can slip out without being spotted.

“What’s he doing here?” I hear myself mutter.

“Who the fuck knows. Suppose he could be on duty,” says Billy, turning back to the group. “Rumour has it there was a drugs bust here last November.”

“Seriously? A drugs bust in Croxburgh?” I say to Billy, my derision plain. “What did they find? Illicit peddling of ibuprofen. This is hardly downtown LA, Billy.”

“As I keep saying. You need to get out more.”

When I look back again, Whitehead has stepped away, stopping to scan slowly around among a sea of admirers, seeking someone out. For one shocking moment I wonder if he is here for a hook-up. As I grimace away the ridiculousness of the thought, his gaze finally targets me and his features relax. Is there also a hint of that arrogant smile? Now there's something to scare the life out of any decent death-fearing homosexual.

"Well, well. Look who it isn't. Our very own—" begins Billy, as Whitehead approaches the group.

"Ben," comes his deep voice, cutting Billy off. He nods to the circle of eager eyes, before his gaze comes to rest on me. “Mc—Colin. Finally tracked you down.”

Tonight he carries with him a tiredness and crabbiness I have not seen before. Bruising underlines his dark eyes and the five o’clock shadow seems less fashionable, more unkempt.

"How on earth did you?" I begin, wondering if he has followed me. Anticipating my question, he unfolds his palm to reveal Billy’s day-glow yellow Post It note.

“Sorry Ben,” says Billy, stepping in front of me and plucking the note from his hand. “But you’re in queerspace here. By invitation only. McColin’s invited, but you’re not.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” says Whitehead evenly, but I am only too familiar with the dark and dangerous gaze that drops to challenge Billy’s.

Billy, bless him, is not about to give ground. At another time I might have been amused, even flattered, seeing Billy’s tiny frame and jutting chin confronting the man mountain detective. Instead Whitehead raises his eyes clear of Billy’s head and addresses me directly.

"A word outside please, Colin,” he says, his words coming as an imperative.

At that moment I feel myself scowl, probably at his use of my given name and the recent memory of him stranding me at a private club in London, because I am sure uncertainty flashes across his face. Despite the usual hard exterior, I realise up close that discomfort radiates from him like heat from a midsummer motorway, and wonder if the cause is his distaste of Smugglers and all that it represents.

“Can I finish my drink first?” I ask, smiling pleasantly.

A flicker of annoyance touches his brow but he nods his agreement.

"Get you something, Ben?" asks Billy, still facing the detective. “Orgasm? Blow job? Slow Comfortable Screw—"

"I'm fine thanks. Maybe a cola. I’m driving,” says Whitehead, to placate Billy or probably to avert further attention.

While the detective has made no bones about making me feel uncomfortable or guilty or usually both whenever and wherever we meet, I find difficulty in sitting by and witnessing his discomfort. Initially I plan to milk the situation, sip slowly on my large glass of over-sweet Chilean house wine and continue to attempt conversation with Billy’s tall, anorexic friend called Marlin. But every time I glance over at Whitehead, my heart tugs with either sympathy, irritation, or annoyance—or a mixture of all three. Eventually I place my half empty glass on the counter and nod to him. Clearly relieved, he shoves his tumbler onto the bar, nods a cursory farewell to the boys, and turns on his heel.

"Should I expect you home tonight?" I murmur to Billy, as I ready to go, pulling his attention away from a small cluster of older Marlborough men across the other side of the bar.

"Likelihood is less and less by the second," he replies, his lascivious smile fading when he turns his attention to Whitehead's retreating back and then to me. "Unless you need reinforcements."

“Heavens no. Don’t worry about him," I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ve handled bigger bullies than that during my teaching career. Just want to get whatever this nonsense is over with and then head home.”

When I follow in Whitehead's trail and haul open the pub door, a blast of chill evening air hits me. Sudden sobriety burns into my lungs and after a couple of steps into the night, my body comes to a halt.

"Where are you going?" I shout out. Ahead of me Whitehead is already striding purposefully across the car park towards his BMW, keys dangling from his hand. Hearing my voice, he stops and swivels around, crunching gravel underscoring his response.

"What?" he calls back confused.

"You said you wanted to talk,” I say, standing my ground, hands thrust into my jacket pockets. "So talk."

He stares at me for a moment as though I have gone completely insane. Perhaps I have.

"Are you serious? You expect me to talk out here where anyone and his sidekick can hear?" he says, irritated, glancing around at the empty lot. "Get in the car. We'll talk while I drive you back to your home.”

"You know, I am getting more than a little sick of you ordering me around. If you hadn't noticed, I'm trying to have a rare but reasonably normal night out. So say what you came to say and let me get back to my friends."

Even from ten paces away, by the wan light of the pub car park, the sudden annoyance that flashes across his brow is palpable. When he strides towards me, I stumble back a few paces until my shoulder grazes the pub wall. Within punching distance of my face, his bulk stops and he holds a finger in front of my raised chin.

"I don't need this today, McCann. I'm trying to help you. Yours is not the only fucking case I'm working on right now," he says, with barely restrained anger. “DCI’s already questioning why I'm spending so much time on it."

"So why are you, detective?” I counter, trying to sound calm, even though my heart is pounding against my ribcage.

His gaze freezes, the eyebrows crinkling into a deeper frown.

"Don't fuck with me, McCann. You know why. Something’s off about this case. You could be in danger.”

“From an overactive imagination maybe. So far you have solid proof of nothing, as you took great pains to remind me the other night. Denny's unfortunate encounter in the woods. Tony's suicide. As far as you’re concerned that’s all they are, isolated incidents. It's only me who had the imagination to try to join the dots. And what I find most curious is why you’re even bothering. Why waste your time on a bunch of queers?”

Even as my last words fade away, I can tell by the dark thunder gathered in his eyes that I have gone too far. This time his anger flows with quiet strength, and I flinch when he smacks the palm of one hand on the wall behind my head and grabs a handful of my collar with the other. Feeling the rough skin of his knuckle touch my neck, I scowl down at the offending hand.

"Look at me," he says quietly. When I do not respond, he shakes the fistful of shirt, inadvertently scraping my skull against the wall, and repeats through clenched teeth. "Look at me."

I meet and match his glower, his dark eyes, my heart racing like a thoroughbred.

"Don’t you dare pigeon-hole me," he says, his face a few inches from mine. "Whether you believe me or not, I don't give a shit, but I have faith in what I'm paid to do. If someone's broken the law, then I am going to catch the bastard. No matter who they’ve targeted, gay or straight, or how clever they think they are, no matter what it takes. Eventually I will nail their arses to the floor—"

"No matter how many innocent people’s lives get trampled along the way.”

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he says, loosening his grip.

"First off," I say, shoving his hand away, courage coming from I have no idea where. “You intimidate me in front of my deputy head, who suspends me from my teaching post for the week. Then you barge into my house unofficially and as good as accuse me of Denny's murder, wilfully omitting to mention that I had a cast iron alibi. And after I agree to help you out at that questionable club, you think nothing of dumping me there without even having the decency to tell me why. Now you hunt me down on a rare night of freedom, drag me outside and expect me to follow you without question. Don’t know about you detective, but this is beginning to feel a lot like police harassment."

"Police—? Fuck you, McCann," he spits out finally, after processing through everything I have said. Pushing the fistful of shirt into my throat he continues through gritted teeth. "You think I'd drive across town trying to find you if I didn't think it was important. Christ, I ought to—"

"What?" I interrupt bluntly, my chin thrust forward, my mouth working independently of my common sense. "Lay one on me. Go on then. If it’ll make you feel better.”

His eyes darken so fiercely that I am in no doubt how much I have overstepped, and he remains unflinching for a full three breaths. When he releases my shirt and transfers his steel grip to the back of my neck, I stiffen and squeeze my eyes shut fully anticipating him to smash his broad forehead into my face. No question who will come off worse. Panicking, I brace my hands against his chest struggling to push him away, to wrench out of his grip. But I might as well be wrestling a monolith, his bulk unmoving, pinning me to the wall. And then, despite my resistance, he draws my head forward and brings our mouths together, his lips locking onto mine. My body remains rigid, my mouth frozen in a fearful grimace, his stubble grazing my chin. But his embrace continues, pressured like granite, and in my confusion I feel myself succumbing. If he thinks this tactic can intimidate me, he has me seriously underestimated. When his hands move to hold either side of my face, I push my tongue forward against his teeth, returning the fervour, and feel them open to allow me in. Warm and moist, and tasting of sweet cola, I soon have his tongue dancing around mine exploring the crevices of each of our mouths. Something in me crumbles then, a carnal need surfacing. For months I have neither kissed nor been kissed, and I allow myself to become lost in the sensuousness of the encounter, unable or unwilling to make sense of it. I let myself free-fall in the reawakened feelings, giving as passionately as I receive. Whitehead does not hesitate for one moment but kisses confidently, strong and active, in the moment. Musky combinations of a subtle citrus aftershave, his natural body odour, and his leather jacket have my full aroused attention. Wrapping my hands around his waist, I try to pull his bulk closer. Although the effort is insufficient to shift him, he understands the gesture and steps in to crush his hard body into mine, to pin me to the pub wall. As well as his warmth and strong heartbeat, I felt the hard bulge in his groin rub against mine. He feels it too because I sense, more than hear, a low moan rumble from the depths of his chest.

"Woo-hoo! Get a room you two," shouts a playful, unfamiliar voice from across the car park. Moments later an engine starts up and the noise fades off into the high street.

Slowly releasing the embrace, Whitehead steps backwards. Turning to the direction of the departing car, he appears as bewildered as me and mutters a curse. Seeing his confusion, I stare down at the car park gravel, panting steamy breaths into the night. Unsure if the profanity relates to our embrace or our being witnessed, I try to make light of the moment.

"What just happened?" I whisper, raising my eyes to his shoulder and chuckling nervously into the night air. "I thought you were going to clobber me."

“Really need to work on that stereotyping of yours, McCann," he says, scanning the rest of the car park. His previous hard tone has vanished but there is no humour in his voice. “Look, we do need to talk. Can you at least come and sit in the car for a moment?"

“Actually, home's a good idea,” I reply quietly, feeling suddenly tired and dumbfounded, even though I feel sure his company will prove awkward and uncomfortable. "If you don't mind dropping me off. You can talk along the way."

Which is what happens, and as expected the ride goes by largely in silence. But then Whitehead has called me out so I am happy to wait for him to open up.

“Turns out you were right to tell Chaudhary your suspicions about the rent boy’s death. Real name Alistair Anthony McDonald," he says eventually, as he stares ahead, navigating a roundabout. “The postmortem correctly indicated an overdose of heroin. Police report says he booked into a motel room alone and topped himself. Cleaning staff found him in the morning. Although he wasn’t a known user, he had a record of other minor offences, and based on the lowlife company he kept, we had no reason to suspect anything suspicious. But I managed to get hold of a copy of the full report and the forensic pathologists also found traces of flunitrazepam in the bloodstream. Enough to put someone out for the count.”

"Flu what?" I ask, turning to him. Even though we have reached a straight stretch of road, he keeps his eyes glued to the way ahead.

"Flunitrazepam. Officially it's used to help acute insomniacs get a good night's sleep," he continues, lightly pummelling the heel of his palm on the steering wheel. "And it works fast. But it's also been used for, let's say, less honourable purposes."

"Tony was obsessive about drug use and abuse. That's why I remember him so well. He lost a sister to crack. We had a long conversation when I met him and he was passionate about it.”

"I know. Chaudhary told me what you said.”

"So what then? Someone put him under then killed him with an overdose of heroin. But why?" I ask, again trying to assess his reaction.

By now I realise he is making a point of not looking at me. We have crossed a line and he has reverted to his previous, professional, stick-up-the-arse self. What kind of man does that? Divorces his feelings from the real self. Curious straight guys and coppers. Or a combination of both, I suppose.

“Who can say?” he shrugs, turning the car into my road. "Maybe he was blackmailing someone or had something somebody wanted badly. Maybe one of his clients gave away confidential information during a moment of weakness and then needed to ensure he kept his mouth shut. At the moment it's all speculation and guesswork. Anyway, after your comment I did a bit of digging around. Managed to get a copy of the CCTV feeds from the service station motel where McDonald died. There’s a camera set up each end of the corridor on each floor. I wanted to see if anyone else entered his room. Turns out the nearest camera had been knocked out of place. The video only captured the wall at the time of McDonald’s death.”

“Tampered with?”

“Impossible to say. But two days before the angle was perfectly fine. Front desk said they had maintenance people in during the week so it could have been one of them,” he says, bringing the car to a stop opposite my house, pulling on the handbrake and switching off the engine. “The second feed from the other end of the corridor shows a few people coming and going, but the far end is in shadow, impossible to see details. So this is where we need your help again.”

"Great," I sigh unenthusiastically, releasing my seatbelt and letting it go with a clatter for effect. "What makes me think I'm not going to like this either?”

“The link between the deaths of Harrison and McDonald is tenuous at best. As you said yourself, we have nothing solid at the moment, only gut instinct. But there are other things. We confirmed that the two of them met at The Open Lockup two days before McDonald's death. It’s my belief something happened during this meeting to make your friend Denny the next victim. Another thing. Did you know the back gate to Harrison’s house opens on to a secluded pathway that leads directly into Casham Woods?”

“I didn’t.”

“But if someone did, they would have known they’d be able to get his body to the ponds through the woods without being seen. Especially under cover of heavy snow and darkness.”

If Whitehead has decided to share this theory with me then surely he must have changed his mind about how Denny was killed.

"Is there more to Denny's murder?” I ask, after a pause, and feel vindicated when I hear him snort softly.

“Chaudhary was right. Harrison was killed at home. But there was no sign of forced entry. Unless someone met him at the front door—“

“No. I stood there, I saw him enter the front gate. Nobody was there. And the last time I looked back I saw lights on in the house.”

“So you’ve said. Which means that either someone turned up later or they were waiting inside for him. Either way it was someone known to him. Harrison had brought out a bottle of vintage cognac and a couple of lead crystal brandy glasses. Not the kind of reception you give your average house burglar. Something else which may or may not be related.”

“Go on.”

“At the school, we asked you about the night you saw Harrison. Are you sure he didn’t have a light pink handkerchief arranged in the top pocket of his jacket that night?”

“Positive. At least not when I left him. Like I said, he disliked anything pink. Why do you ask?”

“You saw the photograph. When they fished him out of the pond, he had the addition of the handkerchief. But the funny thing is that McDonald had the same expensive brand of handkerchief tied around his left wrist when he was found. Maybe gifts to each other?”

In the short silence that follows, my mind is working frantically. Perhaps it has something to do with the tension in the car, but something about the detail has me intrigued.

“The one found on Tony wasn’t green, was it?”

Whitehead swings around then, his full attention on me.

“How the hell would you know that?”

“A guess. It’s a gay code thing, sometimes called flagging. Didn’t know if it was even used any more. Colour defines the preferred sexual practice of the person. Usually hung out of either the right or left back pocket to indicate a dominant or submissive role for the given activity.”

When I turn to him, he is staring at me aghast.

“Do you…?” he begins to ask.

Seeing his shocked expression, I laugh aloud and just about manage to shake my head. Is Whitehead priggish? Surely someone in his profession needed to be more urbane.

“God no. Mine have only ever been used for conventional purposes. But if I remember my gay culture correctly, green was used by hustlers and male escorts, while pink meant someone into toys. Dildos, butt plugs, and the like.”

“And Harrison had quite the collection,” says Whitehead, the corner of his mouth dropping further with disgust. “All nicely arranged in a display case in his bedroom. So these handkerchiefs would not have been gifts to each other?”

“Doubtful. A person normally buys their own, depending on what they’re into. And from what you say, it sounds as though these were added afterwards. So what does that mean? The hanky killer’s motive is a hatred for gay men?”

“Hanky killer,” snorts McCann. “I like that. But no. McDonald’s murder was premeditated. The overdose would have been planned, and he’d have been out for the count by the time death came. As a rule hate crimes are random and violent. As you know, Harrison was killed by two blows to the back of the head with a wooden log. But the cause of death was drowning. He would have been breathing but unconscious when he went into the water.”

“Did you find out whether anything was stolen from the house?”

“No way of knowing. He lived alone so there’s nobody who could confirm one way or the other. But the house was immaculate. And the weird thing is a lot of valuable items that could have been taken weren’t touched. Harrison had jewellery; gold and diamond rings, watches and gold chains—valuable stuff—in his bedroom. Apart from his toys, he also had a penchant for antique books, first editions, worth a pretty penny sitting there in his bookcase. If this was a robbery—and I still have my doubts—it wasn’t random. My guess is they were targeting something in particular.”

“Any other fingerprints?”

“Only yours. On the water bottle.”

At the mention of my presence that night, I glance over at him but he keeps his gaze fixed ahead.

“But as Chaudhary said, if you’d been in the house that night, your fingerprints would have turned up on more than the bottle.”

“If there are no fingerprints, then isn’t it similar to my break-in? You don’t think the robberies might be connected?”

“Chaudhary mentioned the same thing. But unlike your friend, you’re still very much alive,” he says, beginning to turn his head my way but stopping himself.

“Unlike my friend, I wasn’t home when it happened. And besides, they wouldn’t have had time. With my alarm going off.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble but professional criminals are rarely deterred by home alarm systems,” he says, before looking past me to my house. “And although you and the rest of the world think it’s a great deterrent having that large box above your front door conveniently advertising the alarm company, it isn’t. For most burglars, it simply announces the type of system they need to bypass when they’re scouting a building.”

“Shit,” I say, rapping a knuckle on my chin, a memory flooding back. “I forgot something.”

“What?” he says, finally shifting his hard gaze back to me.

“It might not be anything. But the neighbour who spotted me coming home last Friday said someone’s been parking opposite the house. Just sitting there parked up. Last weekend and early this week. In a silver Lexus.”

Whitehead’s eyes narrow in on me.

“And you never thought to mention this to me before?”

Normally something like this would not slip my mind but the week has been anything but normal. I sigh and shake my head.

“He stopped by yesterday. And to be honest, my first thought was that Billy had a new admirer. Or an old one. Besides, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Don’t suppose he took down a number?”

“I asked, but no. Said he’d keep an eye out.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Whitehead gently shaking his head. Although as a teacher I do my fair share of reprimanding kids, I am never happy when the tables are turned. Oddly enough, I feel as though I have betrayed a trust even though up until this point none was given. We sit there for a few moment before I decided to break the silence.

“So what is it you want from me?”

The question seems to ground Whitehead’s mood and this time he takes a deep breath.

“See if you can find me a list of McDonald's clients. Or if not, names of his close friends. We didn't find anything written down or on his computer but some people don't. We picked a handful of names, family and friends, from his SIM card. I’ve already spoken to them. Or tried to. But their friends, fellow workers and clients might know more. They don't always like talking to us.”

"Strange that. When you're all such sweet, kind-hearted people."

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“This is on the understanding that anything you find, or find out, you give to me to handle. Understood?”

Letting him know that I already have Tony’s diary would probably not be a good move at this point.

“Understood,” I reply, just as a question comes to me. This time I stare ahead, almost afraid to hear the answer. "Why couldn't you have phoned and told me all this? Why chase me down tonight?"

Even though I am the one staring ahead, I sense him turn my way.

“Partly to apologise for Monday night. But also—and what you have just told me bears this out—because I really am beginning to believe that you’re linked to these deaths in some way, and I want you to be on your guard. How well did you know McDonald?”

“I told you. We met at a couple of dinner parties three to four years ago.”

“And you never met him since?”

“No.”

“Take a look at this.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a modern mobile phone, a large screened android model, and after flicking through a couple of screens, passes the device to me.

“What am I looking for?”

“It’s McDonald’s phone. Check the contacts. See if you recognise any of them.”

I do as asked and am surprised there are so few. When I reach DTa for Denny Harrison I let him know. Others, including the initials he uses are unknown until I spot one that is instantly recognisable under CTe.

“He has my mobile number. Why does he have my number?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Both your friend Harrison and the rent boy have your number on their phones.”

As I flick through the last few numbers, that knowledge hits me hard. Denny’s I can understand, but why would Tony have my mobile number? Unless Denny gave it to him. If not him, who else? When I arrive at VLa, the penny drops. Denny the tailor, Colin the teacher and Vaughan the lawyer.

“Vaughan’s details are here. He helped Tony’s friend out of a tight spot. Perhaps he gave my number to Tony.”

“Maybe. The point is, how many more people know? And if what I think is correct, that McDonald had something he shared with Harrison, something dangerous, possibly about one of McDonald's friends or clients, then it would only be a matter of time before attention turned your way.”

“I’ve racked my mind about that night, but Denny didn't tell me anything of importance. Like I told you," I say, distracted as Whitehead leans across and opens the glove compartment in front of me while I am talking, brushing his arm on my leg.

"I know. And in case you have any doubts now, I believed you then,“ he says, pulling something out wrapped in a plastic sheet that for some reason I think is a gun. Instead, he reaches a hand in and offers the item to me, a new mobile phone. "But the killer doesn't. In future, we contact each other using this. It’s a pay-as-you-go. Pretty much untraceable.”

“Wait, are you serious? You think my phone’s being tapped?" I ask, more than a little disconcerted.

"Come on McCann. Don’t you read the newspapers? Or about the now defunct ones in this country. If someone's desperate and powerful enough, they can do pretty much anything to listen in on your calls and voicemail,” he says, and notices my blanching complexion. “We don’t know anything concrete. But it’s best not to take any chances. Just, you know, lock up before you sleep, check who's at the front door before you open up. Keep your wits about you.

“Reassuring,” I say, glancing at my beautiful castle across the road, what I had come to view as my own private impregnable sanctuary until Monday’s break-in.

“We could be way off the mark here,” he says, trying to sound calm but making me feel even less comfortable. “Just…take care.”

Despite my sudden wave of paranoia, that last remark touches me. Does he actually care whether I live or die? Or is that just a throwaway comment used by members of the force to ensure any potential victims cannot hold them accountable. In case they survive whatever crazed designs some homicidal lunatic has planned for them? Surely the latter. Whatever, I suddenly need the sanctity of my home. Unbuckling my belt, I reach forward to open the car door.

"Look, about earlier," mutters Whitehead.

When I swing towards his voice, he is staring uncomfortably out of the car screen again. My heart sinks. The last thing I need right now is a confessional from him, or to endure a convoluted justification for his actions.

"Forgotten. Clearly a mistake," I say, pushing the car door half open. "Heat of the moment thing."

"Yes," he says, exhaling, relief lightening his voice. "Something like that."

"Not as though I'm going to say anything," I add, staring straight at him now. “Who’d believe me anyway?"

"Exactly," he says quietly, glaring through the window screen. "We’re good then?"

"We're good," I echo, pushing the door wide open and clambering out of the car. Part of me is relieved that the incident can be swept under the carpet, but I am sure he knows as well as me that things between us can never be the same. In the back of my mind, I will always be wondering what single thing ignited that emotion in him, what words or action pushed him over the edge to embrace me in that way. Not only that, but I know I will be questioning my own reaction and why I did not find the encounter repulsive. Quite the opposite, if I am going to be honest with myself.

About to shut the door, I hesitate and bend down to address him directly.

"For the record, though, Detective Constable Whitehead. You're a surprisingly good kisser.”

Before he can turn my way or respond, I slam the door shut and begin the short walk across my road. On reflection I think I preferred him when he was cursing me or when I thought he was threatening to head butt me. As I enter the gate to my house, and head for the front garden shed to collect the shopping I had dropped there earlier, the engine behind me roars to life and fades off down the road.