Kissing the Dragon - 20. Morning

Warm breath tingles the fine hairs on the back of my neck on Friday morning as I surface from pleasant slumbers. For a big man, Ben Whitehead barely makes a sound when he sleeps, heavy regular breathing but not the snoring that I might have anticipated. His torso pressed firmly up against my spine with a heavy arm draped comfortably around my waist, body heat radiates from him like a home fire. Although my limbs and insides feel sore from the exertions of the night before, I have slept soundly and wake refreshed. Part of me wonders why he is still here, why he did not up and disappear during the night. But while he continues to sleep next to me, I refuse to think about what his turning up has meant and the inevitable complications, instead resolving simply to enjoy the moment.

At the sound of the front door slamming I glance up at the alarm clock on top of the wardrobe. The display reads seven-forty-five. Billy must have eventually come home last night, and I wonder absently at what time, and whether he heard anything. Unlike me, he still has to work and the sound would have been him leaving to catch his train. Whitehead and I have the house to ourselves. As if hearing my thoughts, he yawns and rolls away onto his back.

“What time is it?” he whispers, and I notice his eyes scanning the ornate cornices around the ceiling of the room.

I shift onto my side to study him better. The morning after the night before can be horribly tense, I remember that much from my college days. And I have that anxious feeling waiting to find out whether he might regret what happened between us.

“Quarter to eight,” I reply, studying his face to see if I can read the thoughts going through his mind. “Do you need to be somewhere?”

“Not until ten-thirty,” he says quietly, turning his head to me. “Why? You want to get rid of me?”

“No. Definitely not. I just wondered if you had time for breakfast. I do a mean fry up.”

“What about your lodger?”

“Is that why you’re whispering? Don’t worry. He left for work a couple of minutes ago.”

“So what? We have the place to ourselves?” he says, his fingers trailing slowly up the inside of my leg from my knee and ending with my balls firmly cradled in his hand. At his renewed intimacy, I allow myself to relax and enjoy the contact. “And by the way, did anyone ever tell you what amazing thighs you have?”

“Not lately. But I’m always open to compliments. And it’s probably because I’ve been cycling everywhere since the age of six,” I say, unable to stop my arousal, something he has noticed and begun to capitalise on.

“Explains your killer backside too, then.”

“Which is as sore as hell this morning, in case you were getting any ideas.”

At that remark he laughs aloud again, open and genuine, a really nice sound that I realise I like hearing. While he works on me, I reach down and grip his thick and already throbbing morning glory in both hands. Lying side by side and clamping our mouths together, we bring each other to a shuddering climax.

“Who’d have thought?” I say, chuckling as we clean up with the roll of toilet paper I bring from the bathroom. In my timidity, I use the opportunity to wrap a bath towel around my waist.

“Mmm.”

At that single sound of uncertainty, I gaze anxiously into his face as he shifts to sitting on the side of the bed.

“Is this a problem for you?”

“Not quite sure what this is yet.”

“Then don’t over-analyse. I don’t want you thinking you’ve compromised your investigation.”

“By doing something unethical like sleeping with a key witness? If Chaudhary found out I’d be thrown off the case. And probably kicked out of the force.”

After a moment’s pause, I drop down next to him and study his handsome profile.

“I’m not an idiot, Ben,” I say, and then falter when I inadvertently use his given name. “This is strictly between us. And I know when to keep my mouth shut. You need to trust me on that.”

“I do,” he says, his features softening. “Sorry, I’m thinking out loud. I do trust you, Colin. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.”

Happily, my self-doubt dissolves when he uses my name.

“Good,” I reply, standing abruptly. “In which case, you go grab a shower while I start breakfast.”

“You’re not showering?” he says, pulling a face.

“I can do that later.”

“You could do that now,” he says, catching me off guard as he tries to yank the towel away from me. “Show me the ropes.”

“Sorry. None of that kinky bondage stuff in this house.”

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. And shift that gorgeous arse of yours into the bathroom.”

“You’re somebody who’s used to getting his own way, aren’t you, Ben Whitehead?” I say, stepping away from him, removing the towel as I back away from him.

He cocks an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“I think I’d better go and start the shower.”

Thanks to Uncle Dominic’s unquestionable good taste, the spacious bathroom adjoining the bedroom, of dark polished floorboards and cream tiled walls, has a sizeable white porcelain tub complete with a shower head and splash guard. Weekdays, because to do so is more efficient than bathing, I shower before heading to work. Only on Sundays do I allow myself the luxury of a leisurely bath. After starting the shower water running, I open an airing cupboard in the wall and pull out another plump white bath towel. When I turn around, the impressive naked figure of Ben Whitehead lounges in the doorway.

“Very nice,” he says, appraising my nakedness. “Why is it we never have a digital camera to hand when we need one.”

“Could say the same thing.”

“Nice bathroom, too,” he says, tearing his gaze away to scan the room. “Exactly how much do they pay you teachers?”

“Ever the detective?” I reply with a chuckle, arranging the new towel and my own on the solid oak chair next to the bath. “The house is a legacy, an inheritance. As I’m sure you already know. From a generous and talented bachelor uncle who saw much of himself in me. Although the upkeep is costly enough on a teacher’s salary. Hence the need for a paying lodger.”

That is not strictly true. Billy’s rent is negligible, far below market rate. To me it is more about the company. As well as the house, Uncle Dom left a sizeable sum of money, enough to cover repairs and bills for the next ten years. When Vaughan lived here he used to contribute generously enough. But I am not ready to start sharing my emotions concerning Vaughan with Ben Whitehead. Instead, I stride to the bathroom cabinet and toss a new toothbrush to him. Naturally, he catches the pack effortlessly in one hand.

“Doesn’t your errant partner still contribute?” he asks. One night together and he can already read my mind. I feel my cheeks colouring and turn away in the pretence of testing the shower temperature.

“I’m not cheating on him, Ben. We parted ways. A mutually agreed break instigated by him. Before he left for Asia.”

“And I wasn’t judging you, sunshine,” he says, with a chuckle. “I’d kind of worked that much out already. To be honest, there’s almost no evidence of anyone else having lived here but your uncle.”

At the time, that comment does not signify and I let it go.

“So. Anything else you want to tell me?” he asks, the tone indicating that he thinks there is.

“Don’t think so,” I answer, turning to him with a grimace. “Like what?”

“Like the fact that Janine Carter-McCann is your sister.”

I feel my stomach curdle. What has Janine said to him? Moreover, has he said anything to her about me?

“Does it make a difference?”

“It does to me.”

“Why?”

“Had I known, I wouldn’t have been such as asshole. Did you ask her about me?”

“What do you think?”

“And what did she say?”

I adjust the heat of the water which is too hot and think briefly whether to tell him. I decide to go with the unedited truth.

“She likes you. Thinks you were a good copper but an even better detective. Said you had some issues on your last case. Didn’t know what, but said that’s why you’re partnered with DS Chaudhary.”

I stop talking on seeing the discomfort bruise his face.

“Why did you lie to Chaudhary?” he asks quietly.

“I have never lied to Chaudhary.”

“What about when you told her we bumped into each other on the street outside your house. When, in fact, I came knocking on your door.”

“Ah, that. More of a white lie really. I thought if I told her the truth, I might get you into trouble.”

He studies my face then and, while nodding, finally manages to force a smile.

“You would have. So what else did your snitch of a sister tell you?”

“Nothing of importance. Apart from telling me to go easy on you.”

The remark makes him laugh out loud, that nice sound again, and I find myself laughing along with him.

“Did she now?” he says.

“She told me to go easy on you,” I repeat, to lighten the mood. “Can you believe that? My own sister.”

“She’s solid gold. Chief Inspector has a soft spot for her. Piss her off and you piss him off too.”

“Oddly enough I can believe that,” I say, shaking water from my hand into the tub. “Okay that’s about hot enough. Jump in while I go and tidy the bedroom.”

After wiping my hands on one of the towels, I walk over to where he stands filling the doorway, but he does not budge.

“You promised me a demo, teach?” he says, his grin still in place and arms folded across his broad chest.

“What do you need to know? Stand under water, lather up, rinse off, towel dry. Pretty elementary stuff. Even for the CID.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he says, grinning and bringing his big hands to my waist. “Come and show me.”

“I’m not going to win this one either, am I?”

He replies by effortlessly turning me around and urging me forward.

Showering together is not something Vaughan and I ever did. Our daily domestic routines were separate and efficient, the most intimate thing we ever ventured was shaving together in the same mirror, and then only if both were in a hurry. Ben seems to have no inhibitions nor is he in any haste where bathroom intimacy is concerned. As for me, my arousal is plain when he allows me to coat his chest and back in a layer of soapy shower gel and then pull him under the water, to watch the dragon tattoo reappear glistening and snarling into daylight. After that, I lean in smoothing my lips over his left pectoral and lap my tongue around the nipple.

“What are you doing?” he asks, as I draw level and kiss him, a quizzical lilt to his brows.

“Kissing the dragon.”

“You got some kind of tattoo fetish I should know about, McCann?” he says, smirking.

“Just this particular one,” I say, grinning back and tracing my fingertips along the neck of the beast.

Breakfast has me feeling as nervous as a virgin bride. Cooking is one of my passions and a good old English breakfast is not difficult to conjure, but I like to add in little specialities such as devilled kidneys and spicy black pudding, base ingredients bought fresh from the local organic butcher. I plate up most of the cooked food but pile extra toasted doorstops, field mushrooms, creamy scrambled eggs, Lincolnshire sausages and mozzarella-topped grilled tomatoes onto separate plates. My efforts do not seem to disappoint either. Ben Whitehead has the appetite of a teenaged boy, attacking everything with gusto. Although he prefers freshly brewed coffee ‘as it comes’ to my pot of Earl Grey, I am mildly amused that we share a partiality for spicy HP Sauce.

While I perch opposite him my mobile phone beeps. When I check the message from an unknown caller reads, cryptically: ‘Colin. Meet sat 10am. Joe java again. LizZ’. When I gaze up Ben is staring at me, as unreadable as ever.

“Putting out feelers,” I say, carefully placing the phone face down on the counter. “You told me to ask around about Tony’s friends.”

“Last night,” he says, an eyebrow raised. “Impressive.”

“Only doing as asked, detective constable, sir,” I say, flicking a salute with my forefinger and smiling, even though I feel bad keeping the truth from him. Perhaps I ought to confess to having met Roland and Lizzie already, but then there is nothing much to tell. Apart from the diary and most of that is written in gobbledygook. Better to wait until Saturday and see if Denny’s letter to Tony holds anything significant.

“And?” he says, eyes flicking to my phone.

“Give me a chance. Only just put the word out.”

He gives me his sexy crinkled grin and nods, before returning his attention to the food. Although I enjoy his approval, I resolve not to mention anything about Saturday, because he will undoubtedly insist on coming along. And Roland and Lizzie are scared enough already.

“What’s through the door?” he asks, and I look up to see him peering quizzically to his left.

“Dining room. Haven’t used it in ages.”

“Can I take a took?”

“Go ahead,” I answer, and get up to slide open the partition door between the kitchen and the rest of the conservatory. Walls of glass bring sunlight into the dazzling white room. Although regularly dusted and polished by Mrs Greenfield, my part-time cleaner, the long dining table of solid oak with a long white runner and two lone wooden candlesticks as a decoration is only missing Miss Havisham.

“As I say, haven’t used the space in ages. Vaughan used to refer to this house as my uncle’s museum.”

“Bit harsh.”

“I know.”

“Even museums have visitors.”

“Ouch.”

When we return to the kitchen, Mr Waldorf, who had been absent until then, announces himself by clattering noisily through the cat-flap, rubbing himself against my calf and miaowing for attention. Smiling to myself—because I have much to smile about—I slice off the end of a piece of sausage, kneel down and feed him. When I stand again, Ben is studying me, a devilled kidney held before his mouth.

“I’m not used to this,” he says.

“Not many people are. Billy hates them. They’re a bit of an acquired taste,” I reply, spooning more stewed mushrooms onto my plate. “Some people overdo the Worcester Sauce. My uncle taught me how to cook them properly. Arranged on a slice of fried crusty bread.”

“No,” he says, chuckling in his deep voice, once he has allowed me to finish rambling, before swiping a hand around the space. “I mean all of this.”

“Oh. I see,” I say, even though I do not.

Unable to meet his gaze, I pick up my tea mug and rub my thumb along the red and pink equality icon plastered on the side. I have to admit that just sitting opposite him, sharing a meal has me feeling happier than I have in a long time. So different from the last times he had been here. His pure bulk, sheer presence, together with his keen intelligence has my stomach tied in knots. And the sex was pretty damn amazing. Scratch that, I have never had such incredible sex in my life. Why spoil things? Up until last night he seemed like a bullying prick. But maybe I have misjudged him, have not given the real Ben Whitehead a chance. On the other hand, what does he mean exactly mean by ‘all of this’? And then a gut-wrenching thought cuts through me. What if his real life involves a family: wife and kids? That kind of duplicity I cannot accept, not from him, not from anyone. That would be a deal-breaker. No question.

“Colin,” he says, his voice lined with humour. “Not sure what’s buzzing through your mind right now but relax. I simply meant I don’t normally do sleepovers.”

“Fine,” I reply, finally raising my eyes to meet his, realising he has been studying me. In an attempt to keep things light, I add. “Don’t worry about it. Not going to charge you.”

I know what he is doing, making sure I am not making more of our night together than what it was, the physical, carnal act. Keeping our emotional cards under the table, so to speak. In fairness, what he does in his personal life is none of my business. We are both adults and apart from having had great sex we are no more than two very different men flung together at a difficult time. Perhaps my offer of breakfast was overdoing things. Maybe I should have let him leave after the shower. Or maybe I should have slammed the front door on him yesterday evening before passions had a chance to escalate. But even mulling that over, raking through my own feelings about last night, I know I would have done nothing differently.

We both carry on eating without speaking, the only other sounds are the clink of cutlery on china and pop music playing gently in the background from the kitchen radio.

“Okay,” I sigh eventually, as casually as possible, swirling the tea in my mug. “Since you’re clearly going to make me ask. Why is it don’t you do—what did you call it—sleepovers?”

From the way I hear him carefully arrange his knife and fork on the plate, and take a deep breath, I assume he has been anticipating my question. Bracing myself, I wait for his answer.

“Not my style.”

“I see. So why did you? Was this a mistake?”

“More of a—one-off,” he says, and although I keep my gaze on my tea, I can tell by the way he speaks, carefully choosing his words, that he is gauging my reaction. ”I don’t want to set any precedents. Or raise any expectations.”

And with that, my suspicions are ignited.

“You haven’t. But…”

“But?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Ben” I say, thumping down my mug, and glowering at him. The abrupt action makes his eyes widen. “Just tell me you haven’t got a wife and kids waiting for you at home.”

“Wha-at?” he says, through a stutter of laughter. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“I’m serious, Ben. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought—”

“Come on! No, of course not,” he says, still amused, until he realises my anger is real. Abruptly, he reaches a hand across the table and squeezes my forearm. “No Colin. Even I’m not that much of a wanker.”

Although I feel some relief, I also realise he has put last night’s passion firmly in its place. Something that is not going to happen twice. At least, not one that entails spending the night together again. All this time he has been sitting at breakfast figuring out how to articulate the rules and limits to our brief liaison. Deciding not to probe any further, I rise from the counter and move over to organise the pans and dirty crockery in the sink.

“So what are you up to today?” he asks casually, bringing plates and cutlery over to me while I rinse them in the sink and load up the dishwasher. Just his voice and proximity behind me is playing havoc with my libido.

“Well, thanks to my week of incarceration, I’m up to date with lesson planning and marking until the end of term. So I thought about—um—checking out a specialist bookstore. In London,” I say, the first thing that comes to mind. After checking the secondhand bookshop in Victoria for books on Argentina with little success, I had been considering trying the reputable bookshops around Charing Cross Road. I know I could surf the internet for information but I prefer to browse and to walk away with something in my hands to read. “Probably catch the mainline up from Croxburgh.”

“Perfect. In which case I’ll give you a lift to the station,” he said brightly, and then adds. “Past the scene of the crime.”

For a moment, I am flustered because I have not hammered out an exact plan. Part of me wonders what he means by scene of the crime until I realise he will be driving past Denny’s cottage. The thought sends a shiver through me.

“You don’t have to,” I hear myself say, trying to buy myself some time. “I can easily cycle from here.”

“No need. I’m going into the office anyway. Just need to pop home first for a change of clothes. Then the station’s on my way. I’ll drop you off at the gate,” he says, plain and simple, case closed.

At the front door, pushing both mobiles phones into my jacket pocket I watch as he squeezes into his leather jacket, after which we stand for a moment looking awkwardly at each other. Do we kiss, hug, shake hands, or what? I have never known the correct etiquette for a one-night-stand.

“Okay then,” I say, slapping his upper arm, then reaching past him to open the front door and welcome the outside world, negating any need or possibility for any intimate farewell gestures.

Ben has parked his old navy BMW a few streets away so we walk together in silence. I wonder if he notices as I furtively scan the road to see if the silver Lexus is parked nearby. Knowing him, he is probably doing the same thing. Falling in step alongside him feels completely natural, comfortably matching his stride. Despite a few errant clouds the day has begun sunny, fresh and optimistic. Unlike the morose person who stepped into Smugglers and hijacked my Thursday night, Friday morning Ben Whitehead seems positively sanguine. Seated behind the wheel of his car, he snaps on the sound system, prods to a CD track and begins to sing along to a song I recognise instantly, a very fitting ‘Kiss This Thing Goodbye.’ My father was the only one of our family who ever made such public displays and even then he only whistled quietly and often tunelessly when busy, something that drove my mother crazy. Ben has a good baritone voice, tuneful and melodic and used sparingly. At one point as I study him, while the palm of one of his hands thumps out a rhythm on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear stick, he turns to me.

“What?” he says, the crinkled smile I like so much back on his face.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t like the music?”

“I love Del Amitri. And you’ve got a good voice.”

“Favourite band?”

“Lots. But I do have a soft spot for Elbow right now.”

Without losing the smile, he returns his gaze to the road and nods approvingly in time with the music. Perhaps his good humour has something to do with the fact that he is about to be rid of me. Turns out he lives in a less salubrious part of Croxburgh—perhaps rented for the duration of the investigation—and as we drive along, I muse over the fact that I could easily have cycled to the railway station by now. After fifteen minutes, we pull up outside a rundown pebble-dashed semi on Albion Street, clearly designed to be divided into two self-contained flats, with a set of concrete steps running up the side of each.

“Give me five minutes,” he says, leaving the engine running and striding towards the steps on the right of the building.

The neighbourhood is very different from mine; neglected gardens, flaking paintwork and ancient rust tainted cars sit parked on the street or dismantled in front yards. I wonder vaguely about his background, whether he comes from a family of modest means, has fought his way up the ranks of the force despite being socially disadvantaged. Or I am being fanciful? I know absolutely nothing about the man. Maybe he prefers living in the real world. I could always call Janine and ask. But then she might cotton on. In her eyes, I am as transparent as plate glass.

He returns after more like ten minutes, bouncing down the steps two at a time, now sporting a white v-neck cotton tee, black jeans and black woollen jacket. Good enough to eat, he still sports his trainers.

“Sorry about that,” he says, a quick apologetic glance my way. “Had a couple of phone messages.”

We are back on our way instantly and before long turn into the more familiar Croxburgh High Street, passing the florist above which Kit Hansen lives. A trickle of guilt washes through me even though I have done nothing wrong. When I peer out the window again, I notice what looks like Kit’s hire car, the Mercedes, parked down the side street. Even though he is probably paying premium daily rates for the beast, I consider it a sensible precaution not to have driven to Scotland, given reports of snow blizzards in the north of the country. When we get there, I barely recognise the turnoff from Collingwood into the narrow avenue that is Station Lane. On the corner, Denny’s cottage still has police tape hanging off the front fence, and Ben slows the car as we pass. Despite its obvious charm, of lemon yellow exterior and white paintwork, the cottage now radiates sadness and neglect. Or perhaps that is just my clouded perception.

“Poor Denny,” I hear myself whisper.

Ben turns to me, surprised. “Happens every day, sunshine.”

“Not to people I know.”

He snorts softly and shakes his head. Maybe he deals with this kind of thing often, has seen his fair share of violent crime in the course of his work, but I have always led a very cloistered existence where crime is concerned. Apart from bad behaviour in the classroom, serious criminal matters at East Barton were dealt with by the principal. The closest I have come to police attention is forgetting to pay a parking fine. I hardly notice as we pull up outside the station entrance.

“Here we are,” says Ben, keeping the engine running.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“You too,” he says, with a wink. “And you’re right, by the way. You do cook a mean breakfast.”

Not wanting to suffer through another awkward farewell, I get out of the car, slam the door shut and give him a cursory salute through the window. As I approach the gate into the station, I hear his voice behind me. He has lowered the car window on the passenger side and is waving me back over. Like a trained labrador, I turn on my heel and go to him. When I lean inside, he turns down the music.

“Don’t forget the phone. Call me if you find anything.”

“Will do.” I say, and then hesitate, patting my hands on the frame of the open window, because he looks as though he wants to say something more. “So can I go and get my train now, detective constable?”

“Be my guest,” he says, smiling but avoiding my eyes. “And thanks, Colin. For last night. For everything.”

“Same here. Drive safely.”

Ben Whitehead. Total enigma.

I pretend to study the train timetable until I hear his car drive away. Breathing a sigh and at the same time feeling foolish, I use my finger to check the scheduled times from Croxburgh to Charing Cross. Although I would change nothing from the evening and especially the morning, I hate to leave the house without a firm plan in mind. While reading down the list, a name on the timetable jumps out at me. Braxley Park. Two stops outside Maidstone on the Victoria-Maidstone line, and where Tony had his cash-in-hand job. Would the police have known? Doubtful that Roland and Lizzie would have told them. Maybe I ought to call Whitehead and check, or get him to go and see them. After last night he seems to be taking me more seriously. In more ways than one. Would also be an excuse to hear his voice again. After his warning last night I know I need to start being more cautious, but the message feels unreal right now and with a whole day to kill and Whitehead already on his way to wherever he needs to be, I tell myself there is no harm in making a small detour. Having the diary in my possession will already give me another chance to speak to Whitehead—the thought alone sends fluttering warmth into my stomach—but what if I can find something else to firm up his case?

Almost two hours later, I step out onto Braxley Park mainline platform, one of those bleak unmanned stations. After buying the Guardian from a nearby convenience store and asking directions to the town’s one industrial estate from the owner, I make my way along the high street. As luck would have it, I find the computer service centre—Reboot Sales and Servicing—situated at the near end of the Braxley Park industrial estate. A shabby shed-sized reception announces servicing facilities and seems to front a more voluminous operation at the back. Along from there, a larger, more plush showroom is splashed with advertising and discount sales signs. I opt for the smaller reception where inside the minuscule space is further reduced by floor stacks and straining shelves full of old computers and monitors, some looking like antiques from the eighties and nineties. A gum-chewing goth girl who could easily pass as Lizzie’s sister slouches behind the narrow four-foot counter texting on her hand phone.

“Help you?” she says without looking up.

“Morning. How are you?” I ask, and then wait until she gives me her full attention. “I’m trying to find some information about someone I think is an employee of yours, Tony McDonald? I believe he works evenings or night shifts.”

“Wait here,” she replies, unsmiling, before turning and disappearing through hanging beads into the back of the store. When the beads fall back into place, I realise they form the name of an everyday brand of personal computers, which strikes me as an unlikely marketing gimmick for a technology company. In the distance I hear her voice screech out the name Tom and smile at an Indian guy who walks through the beaded curtain. However, he simply glances at me before walking around the counter and heading to one corner of the store. When a large Caucasian guy enters the space with the girl in his shadow, I guess this must be Tom. Much older—in his late forties or early fifties—the man exudes the grimness of a bouncer. Tattoos cover both arms and climb out from beneath the neckline of his tee. Something about the skin of his bald head, arms and hands, sallow and prematurely wrinkled, leads me to believe he is a chain-smoker. Unlike Whitehead, there’s a grubbiness about the skin art, overly done and on a soiled canvass. Tom’s voice, however, comes out both educated and with forced obsequiousness.

“Yes, sir. How can we help you?”

Once again, I go through my request for information about Tony, adding that I think he may have worked there as a casual labourer.

“According to whom?”

“According to a friend of his.”

“I’m afraid this friend is misinformed. For a start, we don’t employ casual labour. Too unreliable. All of our employees are hired on either a full or part-time time basis. All on the books. Each and every one accounted for. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“I see,” I reply, not wanting to push but intrigued nonetheless. ”Must be busy for you over the Christmas season.”

“Trade has been fairly brisk this year, yes.”

“I’d have thought casual labour would have been a must. To help you through a busy period like that.”

Without missing a beat or giving anything way, he maintains eye contact when he replies. “We cope perfectly with the staffing we have.”

Even the girl gives him an odd look then. Although I find this hard to believe, I have no reason to challenge him, so I bid my thanks. As I turn to leave, I stop to help the Indian guy who has his arms full of old hard drives, trying to negotiate the front door with his foot. While I stand holding the door, I glance back into the glare of Tom.

“Anything else I can help you with?” comes a voice that now seems to hold a note of menace.

“Not really,” I reply and then a thought comes to me. “Although, I don’t suppose there are any other computer service centres around here?’

“There’s a one-man outfit on the high street that fixes and sells all sorts; TVs, DVD players, computers. Bill’s Boxes. Not somewhere I would recommend. You’d be better off trying Maidstone town centre, if it’s that important.”

After nodding and leaving, I stand in the cold daylight for a second assessing just how much time and money I have wasted, before beginning the stroll back towards the station. I only manage a few paces before a hushed voice calls out to me.

“Hey, mate.” With a wave of his hand, the Indian guy beckons me over from the back of his small white Dodge van. As soon as I approach, I realise why. The van blocks the view of the service reception hut. As I stand there, he reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a pack of cigarettes. When he offers me one, I shake my head and watch him light up. “Tom’s a lying sack of shit. Probably shouldn’t be telling you this but I remember Tony. Blond guy, yeah? Been bit-working here for around eight months. Cash jobs, under the radar. Does weeknight shifts when he’s free. I worked on a couple of jobs with him. Nice bloke, and bloody good, too. He hasn’t been in for a while. Boss is a totally pissed off ‘cos Tony’s one of his boys, one of the best and brightest. We get a lot of business in after the Christmas rush. What happened to him?”

Selecting facts carefully, I mention how Tony was found in a motel room having taken an overdose that took his life. The poor lad is visibly shaken. Folding his arms across his chest, he leans back heavily against the van, tilts his head up and blows a stream of smoke at the sky.

“Shit. Didn’t seem the type,” he says, and although I am respectful of his pain, I am secretly glad to have my suspicions confirmed again. “You know what I mean? We get all sorts in here, so I know what I’m talking about. He seemed so—I dunno—together.”

“I know exactly what you mean, and I agree. Completely out of character.”

“Did he have family?”

“Not that I know of. His close friends told me about this job. Came down because I wondered if he might have left any personal belongings behind. Did he have his own workspace?”

“No. We all hot-desk. Tony would have slipped into any chair that was free for the night. We have lockers to keep our personal stuff in.”

“So Tony would have had his own locker?”

“Yeah,” says the lad, catching my meaning. “But he’s not been here since before Christmas. So if he’d left anything valuable, it’d more than likely be gone now.”

“How’s that?”

“We had a break-in Boxing Day. Got in through the toilet window and crowbarred open all the lockers. I only ever leave my favourite ergonomic keyboard locked up here and it must have looked too tatty to pinch. Bunch of idiots, by the sounds of things. Tom’s paranoid, convinced it was an inside job. But they didn’t even touch the office or the reception where Shirley keeps the petty cash. Nor the main distribution storeroom where we keep the new stock.”

Seem to be hearing my fair share of stories about unusual break-ins lately.

“Opportunists probably. So did Tony make any close friends here?”

“Doubtful. None of us do. I mean we get along with each other okay, usually talking about work. Get Tony talking about operating systems like Linux and you’d never shut him up. But we all do such bloody stupid hours. Last thing you want to do after a long shift is socialise with the people you work with. Most of the time, I just want my bed.”

“Fair enough. Is this a good place to work?”

“S’alright. Pretty free and easy. No boss breathing down your neck, as long as you get your quota done. I’m like Tony too, do a bit of freelance work when I get the opportunity, during slow times. Everyone turns a blind eye. They’ve got some good diagnostic tools here. Even so, sometimes clocking off can’t come soon enough, specially when you’ve worked an all-nighter. What do you do for a living?”

“Teacher.”

“Nine to five? Sweet,” says the guy, with a chuckle.

“Look, thanks for your honesty,” I say, pulling a home card from my wallet. “I’m going to head off now but if you do think of anything else, give me a call or text me. Incidentally, why wouldn’t the bald guy—Tom—tell me any of this?”

“‘Cause he owes Tony back wages and his Christmas bonus, and he doesn’t want to pay up, the tight bastard. Probably thought you were his dad, older brother or something, come to collect. He’s not supposed to pay cash-in-hand. He only does it for a few of the talented ones. If the tax people caught him, he’d be in deep shit.”

With nothing left to do, I check the time before making my way back to the station. Almost two thirty. Weighing up the options of heading into London or back to Croxburgh, I decide on the latter, stopping first to use the well stocked high street supermarket to buy items for dinner. Looking forward to a Friday night indoors, I decide to reward myself with one of the better creations in my culinary. After that I will call Whitehead about the diary and treat myself to the sound of his earthy baritone voice.

At the deserted station, I head across the metal footbridge to the far side platform. On my way down the steps, one of the phones in my pocket pings with a message tone. I yank out and check the one Whitehead gave me first, feeling a tinge of disappointment on finding the screen blank. The other phone has a message from Kit.

- Greetings from the frozen north. How’s it going, handsome?

Strange how one night can change everything. Having felt the extent of Whitehead’s strength and passion last night, the enigma that is Kit has lost much of its power. Even though Ben claims what we had was a one-off, and even though a hunger inside me has been sated, my heart still beats a little faster at the thought of him. In my mind Kit remains a friend—a good one at that—but my desire for us to be anything more has receded. Perhaps that is a good thing. Unrequited attraction has alway felt like such a waste of angst.

Fine. Out and about. Travel book shopping.

- Buenos Aires?

London.

- Ha. Thought I was the comedian?

Yes, Argentine research. How’s your research?

- Done. On the motorway now. You catch a movie last night?

No. Quick drink with Billy & friends. Then home to bed.

- Yeah? Find anyone to tuck you in?

That would be telling. See you Sunday.

- Not coming to the Duck tonight?

Going to pass. Not in the mood for more interrogation.

- Shame. Could use a dose of that smile. See you Sunday.

When I put the phone away, smirking to myself, I stare up into a sky full of racing clouds. Am I writing Kit off too soon? There’s something fun and uncomplicated about our friendship. If only I could meld Ben and Kit into one person and make the perfect partner. Kit with his loose limbed style and sense of fun. Ben with his….

And right there is the clincher. All I need to do is to mentally picture Whitehead in all his naked glory and, despite the gusts of icy wind swooping along the platform to buffet me, my heart starts beating faster and blood races to swell my cock. Somehow or another, my mind needs to work this out soon, because my body seems to have already chosen.