Kissing the Dragon - 32. Police Karaoke

Having spent the past ten days going back and forth to Croxburgh police station, dealing with a specialised selection of boys and girls in blue, I am less than enthused about Chaudhary’s invitation on Thursday night to join them at the copper’s favourite watering hole. But after visiting Ben in hospital that morning—issues with his fractured ankle had meant him enjoying another ten days of hospital food—I promise to keep Chaudhary company. Hopefully he will be out by the weekend and then I will have my hands full. He finally agreed to let me look after him, but only because I no longer need a crutch to hobble around, and then only after I swear to keep his boss company that night.

Fair enough though, because in Ben’s absence Chaudhary has been nothing short of priceless; steering me to the right people, drilling me together with their lawyers on what to say in court, and advising me on the strategy of Morgan’s defence lawyers—Morgan still has money and resources at his disposal. Having been denounced by his partner Jeremy Winterbourne, however, I am not only being supported by the Met’s legal team, but assisted freely and financially by the Winterbourne family. However, one sole piece of evidence displaying the murder of Callaghan by a now-deceased member of Morgan’s entourage was never going to put the big man away. Until a week ago, that is, when Chaudhary informed me that identical packages had been delivered anonymously, the first to one of the country’s leading national newspapers, the other to the head of the CID. Each contained significant and damning information—carefully collated according to the victim—such as letters, memos, printed emails, even telephone recordings of conversations alluding to the deaths of each of Morgan’s ex-employees or business associates. Even without the video, Morgan’s legal team are going to have their hands full trying to untangle the noose. Although Chaudhary said nothing, I am sure like me she suspects this to be the work of the Schwartz woman. Who else could have had access to that amount of information?

As for media interest in me, I have the Met press office—including my sister—at my disposal to deal with any questions. When I find myself unable to sleep, I just recite the phrase ‘no comment’ repeatedly until I doze off. Works every time. To top it all, I now have police protection outside the house, something I am not at all happy about. However, the interest of the press is focused entirely on Morgan and Wintercorp. Public knowledge of the Schwartz woman relates only to her role as personal assistant to Jeremy in his company, and speculation about her sudden disappearance. By now the press have put two and two together, and, somewhat ironically, are hailing her as the anonymous whistleblower. Carter, her brother, has not even warranted a mention.

Because of all this, I have been unable to return to school, and find myself once again housebound. Janine offered to put me up, especially with the downstairs of the house in such a mess, but I wanted to get started cleaning up straight away. So I turned my attention to the fire damage—localised due to the quick actions of the police—which destroyed my old desk, computer, two bookcases, and badly scorched one wall. What horrified me when I first cast eyes on the charred remains was just how serious the damage could have been. Vaughan might have seen that as a good thing, a way to force change on me. Today the ubiquitous smell of paint and turpentine is stifling bordering on suffocating, even though the pungent combination has completely masked any trace of smoke. So a part of me welcomes the idea of a night out.

What does surprise me when Chaudhary shows up on my doorstep—a teetotaller, she has agreed to be the designated driver—is that Billy appears at my elbow dressed to the nines. Apparently Chaudhary knows all about this because she simply nods a smile and ushers us into the back of her black SUV. During the ride he evades answering any of my questions so efficiently, that I cannot help but wonder if Chaudhary has been coaching him too. What might not surprise you is that Billy has decided to stay put with me in Croxburgh. According to him, this is because he would never find as much unadulterated excitement or home-grown conspiracies anywhere else in the country. I half suspect the real reason is more down-to-earth, that he now has his own tales of that night—much-embellished, naturally—to dine out on, or that his friend Marcus asked for more rent than Billy was prepared to pay.

We pull up in front of the police social venue that looks more like a building site. Transience defines the place, which, from the outside, consists of an old brick building in the throes of renovation fronted by Portakabins, temporary but functional structures bolted together and commonly used on construction sites. Inside offers little more than stark comfort, but the atmosphere is loud, good-natured, and upbeat. Chaudhary leads us to a table with wooden bench seats where a familiar police officer is seated, the blond PC Robinson. In jeans and a simple black tee tonight, he springs up from his seat upon seeing us.

“DS Chaudhary, Mr McCann. Table saved. As requested,” he says, before his expression softens. “Hey, Billy.”

“Thanks, Paul,” says Chaudhary, as a grinning Billy slides in next to the man.

Mystery solved. Although no public display of affection happens—Billy appears to be uncharacteristically reserved tonight—they are now clearly more than just acquainted. It would be remiss of me if I did not throw Billy a reproachful glare or ten. Although he acknowledges with a smiling pout and a one-shoulder shrug, nobody else notices because a deafening announcement comes from the make-do stage. Over a bout of screeching feedback, a deep male voice announces the imminent arrival of the next singer, apparently one of the force’s finest. Neither Ben nor Chaudhary mentioned karaoke. Bad karaoke. Otherwise I might have reconsidered the invitation.

Chaudhary seems to be immune, taking this in her stride. She keeps talking to me across the table even though at times I can barely hear what she is saying, and manage to do so mainly by lip reading. Fortunately for me, they have a decent albeit limited selection of alcoholic drinks. Even more surprising, Billy offers to head to the bar and get another round. Drinks must be subsidised.

“Typical of Ben Whitehead to go chasing off after Schwartz in the pitch black. One day that copper is going to learn that he’s not invulnerable,” she says, gently shaking her head. Not for the first time, her concern for Ben shines through and I find myself missing not having him here. “I can only guess the Schwartz woman taught her brother the back routes. Even then, I’m surprised he got far. From what Ben said, he took a pretty nasty shot to the chest. And the sister slipped right by us. Literally. Must have passed my boys and girls in the corridor, because there’s no way she could have escaped out the back like her brother.”

Right then Billy appears from a side door and heads back to our table carrying a tray of drinks confidently like a professional waiter, grinning his pixie smile at Paul, his new police constable ‘friend’. Oddly enough, there is something about the Britain's Got Talent atmosphere, listening to Chaudhary ramble on, and watching my lodger flirting that warms me.

“Since this all went down, we’ve had a million and one questions about the Schwartz siblings. Like how do two seemingly normal people turn to that kind of crime. Honestly, when we sent them Carter Schwartz’s photo and provided his name—one of many fake names—you’d have thought we’d found an American Lord Lucan, the amount of noise that came down the line.”

“Would the uncle who worked for Morgan have known about them?”

“Absolutely not. Everything we know about Carter Wallace is squeaky clean. As a whistle. A role model employee whose apparent downfall was that he was honest to a fault and worked for Morgan. Not a good combination. No, the man had a large circle of loyal friends, was worshipped by a sister who would otherwise have gone to pieces after her husband walked out, and as an uncle, absolutely adored his nephew and niece, even though he worked over here and would have only seen them a couple of times a year. And as we know, he supported the sister and kids financially.”

“Fortunately our US counterparts managed to fill in a lot of the blanks. Sounds as though their real father was not as missing in their lives as everyone thought. Bellamy Schwartz, an ex-army marksman, and apparently on the FBI watch list. Six months after he walked out on his family, a prominent Ecuadorian politician, fierce opponent of the ruling party, came to a sticky end, shot from a rooftop as he sat in his car at traffic lights in Guayaquil. Nobody was ever found or charged. But Schwartz senior was known to be in the city at the time.”

“So what are you saying? The father recruited his children to follow in his footsteps?”

“Let’s just say that somehow he managed to keep in touch and maintain influence. From what I’ve read, even our US contacts are vague about how he did that. After he disappeared, the home and all the family members would have been under close surveillance. But Schwartz senior certainly managed to get to his son, if not the daughter. After she left college, she had a promising career as a personal assistant in a multinational corporation in Texas. Sounds like the death of the uncle drew them all back together.”

“According to FBI records, was Kit—Carter—ever married?”

“Was he ever what?"

Her blank expression says everything.

“Forget I even said—hang on a minute. Are you telling me there are three Schwartz family members—all professional killers—out there? Probably baying for my blood. Are you trying to give me—?”

“Calm down, Colin. Bellamy Schwartz was killed during a police raid in Brazil. Around two years ago. But you know what? It won’t do you any harm to stick with DC Whitehead for a couple of weeks or so. Unless they’re stupid, the Schwartz twins would have skipped the country by now. And, if they are as smart as they seem, they’d have split up, too. But they can’t run forever, Colin. Interpol are back onto them. Slipping in and out of South America or parts of Asia is one thing, but border security here and in the US is another thing entirely.”

It still feels strange when Chaudhary calls me Colin. Even though she has asked, I cannot bring myself to call her Jo or her full given name Jonina. And I take her assertion about Kit lightly—I still cannot think of him as Carter either—being caught anytime soon. Without any difficulty whatsoever, he managed to slip into this country. Neither do I like being reminded about him and what he tried to do to me. Deep down, it is not just the feeling of betrayal, but the fact that he fooled me into believing he had feelings for me. And the fact that I had begun to have feelings for him. Still, there was something about the look on his face when he was about to kill me, when he paused just one moment too long.

Right then, speakers around the room release a familiar piano trill followed by violins playing two simple but powerful refrains. Although I cannot place the actual song, the opening is instantly familiar rising like a mothership above the chatter around me when the bass and drums kick in and set the song rumbling along the skyline. Lord, please do not let some tone deaf amateur murder this classic.

“I’m not saying they aren’t resourceful. Heaven knows, the brother aligning himself with your sports teacher’s family was masterful. Almost under the radar. And in many ways, the pair of them finally helped us bring Morgan and Hand to justice. Well, the woman, anyway. Never in a million years could we have found that much evidence on him, not without search warrants that we would never have been granted.”

“Drinking in the morning sun.”

Instantly the song title comes back to me. One Day Like This by Elbow. Chaudhary misinterprets my relieved sigh—which is due to the karaoke singer having a tuneful voice.

“I know,” she says, nodding. “As wrong as it sounds, part of me sympathises with them too. Perhaps Morgan didn’t pull the trigger, but he made damned sure the uncle was silenced. Then again, if they knew Hand committed the crime, why not simply take care of him and then use hard evidence to destroy Morgan, why involve all those innocent lives? Now that I can neither fathom, nor reconcile as anything other than pure evil.”

I breathe out a sigh, wanting to drop the subject. Over her shoulder I crane my neck to see who is singing, but the stage is empty. Sounds like the same ginger-haired guy who was giving a fairly decent rendition of a Coldplay classic as we arrived. Chaudhary’s words are a cold comfort. Prosecution councillors have already warned me that the case involving Morgan alone could drag on for months. Winterbourne’s interest and financial backing might help speed the process but even so the case will be long and loud. After pinching the bridge of my nose, I notice Chaudhary’s attention has focused somewhere over her right shoulder. Billy grins at me and nods his head towards the stage.

All I can see is a small crowd of heads gathered at the front, the singer apparently among them. A huge drunken cheer goes up followed by a round of applause. Thankfully the voice is strong, expressive and in key. Not with Garvey’s Lancashire accent, but solid nonetheless. And strangely familiar. Now I am thoroughly intrigued. Then, in a musical break, a figure holding the microphone is helped up onto the stage.

“You’ve got to be joking,” I mutter.

Ben Whitehead with his foot in a plaster cast.

Once in place on the stage, using the mike stand for support, he belts out the number unselfconsciously and unashamedly. Another side of him I have never seen. In the gap between verses, he scans the room until his gaze fixes on mine. Right then, he smiles broadly, winks and sings the next lines directly to me.

“’Cause holy cow I love your eyes. And only now I see the light.”

And in that moment, I have no idea what Chaudhary is saying because I am grinning back so hard, shaking my head softly and failing to stop tears welling in my eyes. Bastard. He may not even be aware of the words that are coming out of his mouth—although knowing him that is not the case—but he has me boxed, wrapped, and bowed. Even though his figure on the stage has become a blur, I cannot help staring and smiling like an idiot.

“You know what?” comes Chaudhary’s softened voice. “I’d give anything to have someone look at me the way you’re looking at Whitehead right now. I hope he deserves you.”

Okay, so maybe she does know Whitehead better than I had given her credit. And if Billy’s smug expression is anything to go by, my fondness for a certain CID detective is no longer privileged information.

“He saved my life. He owns me.”

At the music track fades, a huge cheer goes up, accompanied by loud and enthusiastic applause. Ben is helped down, as the applause turns into a slow hand clap accompanied by the noisy and repeated refrain of ‘Ben-jy, Ben-jy’. Like the parting of the waves, the crowd moves out of his way, his co-workers grinning and patting him on the back as he hobbles past.

When he reaches us on crutches, helped by a colleague, we make space for him at the end of the bench. Togged out comfortably in a navy Met Police sweat shirt and grey track bottoms, one of his feet sports a track shoe, while the toes of the other poke out from a plaster cast boot. Refusing help, he lowers himself slowly and cautiously next to Chaudhary and opposite me, so that he can stretch out his leg without impeding others walking past. We all wait quietly for him to settle comfortably and turn his grinning face to us.

“Benjy?” I query immediately, with amused satisfaction, raising one eyebrow. “Finally I have something on you.”

At that, everyone around the table bursts into laughter, even Ben.

“Don’t even think about it, McCann,” he says, with mock seriousness. “It’s more than your life’s worth.”

After everyone has welcomed or fired questions at Ben, and conversations drift off, he and I are able to speak to each other in relative privacy.

“You look good,” I say, feeling oddly nervous.

“Doctor said she was happy to release me today, as long as I agreed to lots of bed rest, gentle exercise, and, most importantly, someone to take care of me. Don’t suppose you know anyone?”

“Might do,” I smile back.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “If it’s too much trouble—“

“Don’t even think about it, Whitehead,” I butt in, leaning across the table and throwing his words back at him. “You’re coming with me. Tonight. Arrangements are already underway. Although I didn’t think you’d be out until the weekend. So having you back early is a bonus. And although I’m going to make sure you get plenty of care and bed rest from tonight onwards, I hope you don’t mind expending a bit of energy first. You have a promise to keep.”

Feral hunger lights his eyes at that remark, and I feel my cock grow heavy beneath the table. A moment later, I feel his good foot rub against mine.

“Loved the song, by the way,” I murmur, in a effort to reduce the swelling in my trousers.

“You were meant to.”

“I was?”

“It’s my job to listen and observe, sunshine,” he says, with an enigmatic smile.

Rather than probe, I smile and file the remark away for future processing. We sit around chatting for the next hour listening to more amateur warblers, during which Ben has an intense twenty minute conversation with Chaudhary—work talk, no doubt—but eventually I can tell he is getting restless.

Chaudhary drops Ben and I back home, while Billy stays behind. Either he is giving us some time together or, more likely, has other plans with his new beau. Even though Ben has been to the house a number of times before, I realise that on none of those occasions did I invite him. When I carry his bag inside the house and punch in the simple house alarm code, he stops outside the front door observing me. After I have switched on the houselights and look back, I find him still at the front porch, staring hard at me.

“That’s the first thing that’s going to change around here, sunshine,” he says, nodding at the alarm panel.

In the past, I might have become irritated by such a blunt command, but he is right; I have to start looking after myself better. Once he clunks inside, I close and lock the door behind him, and march back into the warm centre of the room. With the lights ablaze, I reevaluate the practicality of the glass staircase—the ghost of Vaughan still in my ear again—as Ben clunks to a stop on his crutches just inside the threshold.

“Are you okay?” I ask, dropping his bag beside the sofa, and turning back.

“This feels strange,” he says, and I realise when I study him, that I have never seem him appear so lost, so vulnerable or uncertain of himself. “Are you sure about this?”

A wave of affection washes over me then. Without hesitating, I stride back and pull him into my arms. At first he remains tense, but as I squeeze his rigid body into mine, he slowly relaxes.

“Of course I’m sure, Ben. Least I can do. Come on, let’s get you settled.”

Even though I am still not completely stable with one leg noticeably and annoyingly stronger than the other, I help him over to the settee. Blind leading the blind. Once there I reach onto the coffee table, slide a neat pile of papers out of the way, and place a cushion on top so that Ben can raise and rest his ankle.

“What’s that?” he asks, settling back into the chair and nodding at the brochure on top of the pile. Glossy fronted, the name St Matthews College, Buenos Aires is emblazoned on the front, the brochure still sitting on the cardboard DHL pack that also contained the offer of an interview.

“Nothing important. Not any more, anyway. I decided to withdraw my application. Too many other things to take care of around here. Needed the letter for the phone number, to call them.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” says Ben, reaching into the pocket of his sweat shirt and pulling out a photocopied piece of paper. “Talking of letters. Chaudhary told me to show you this. The letter Morretti kept, the one McDonald wrote to Harrison that he never received. Thought you might be interested to see.”

Intrigued, I grab the paper and plonk down on the sofa next to Ben. Almost illegible, there is no doubt who the scrawl belongs to. Matching that in Tony’s pocketbook diary.

Den,

If anything happens to me one of my pals is going to hand you this. Its mega important that you do what I ask coz it involves Huey.

Remember that lipstick computer device I made for you? Pink your faverite colour lol? Asked you to keep it for me. The one I told you had some cool programs on what I was going to teach you one day? Well that werent strictly true. Anyway you need to take it to Huey urgent and tell him there is some serious shit there. Might involve his dad. But let him decide what to do about it. Dont you do nothing stupid yourself. I know you dont know how to use these things. And honest in this case thats a good thing. Huey knows that too so he will know you aint seen nothing. Dont push him Den but be there for him whatever he decides. Its not nice stuff. Remember he is your best bud.

And just so you know, I dint go straight to him coz hes trying to become the bloody prime minister or something right now. But I am going to talk to his dads lot, which is why I left the lipstick with you. Its my insurance in case they get rough if you know what I mean. So if something does happen to me just do what I say.

Feels really weird writing this coz it means thats exactly what happened and Im not around no more. So if your reading this Den - thanks for everything. Werent much of a life but Im glad you were a part of it.

Tony

“So Denny had no idea what was on the thumb drive. But I still have questions, Ben. Like why was he carrying the lipstick thumb drive around with him the night he met me, the night he died?”

“Some things we’ll never know, sunshine. Maybe it was just something he did, to remind himself of McDonald. You said he asked you about computers that night. Maybe he thought it was time the device had a better home.”

“Then why not just tell me?”

Ben shrugs then. Of course, he is right. Only Denny holds the answer to that question.

“And about that night,” I continue, still curious. “You said Denny had brought out two brandy glasses? Who was he expecting?”

“Again, not something anyone can reliably answer. Maybe he thought you would change your mind and come back. We know he didn’t call anyone. My guess is that Schwartz followed you both home, and minutes after you left Harrison, he turned up on the doorstep.”

Someone had stopped at the end of Cold Blows alley that night. Had that been Kit?

“But Denny didn’t know him. Why would he let him in?“

“That’s not exactly true, is it? According to your statement, Harrison and Schwartz met outside the pub that night. Maybe they had even met the week before when you didn’t show. My guess is that Schwartz told him he’d come looking for you. Thought he’d seen you enter the house.”

And knowing Denny, he would have bought that, would never have questioned him. I had personally seen Kit’s charm machine in action. In Denny’s state he would have been only too pleased to welcome such a pleasant looking male specimen into his house for a nightcap, would have fallen over himself to entertain Kit—Carter. A fatal invitation, as luck would have it.

While I stare off into space, lost in thought, Ben’s warm fingers land on my chin and turn my face towards him. Breathing out a sigh, I lean in to give him a kiss but his mouth opens hungrily and he tugs my body into his. Arousal erupts inside me then, and I straddle his lap, all the while sensitive to his injured leg. Ravenous for his touch, his scent, his nearness, and with our tongues dancing together, my hands venture beneath his sweat shirt. Lean hard muscle meets my touch, my fingertips brushing over the hair of his chest and his nipples eliciting a shuddered sigh from him. As though understanding, he releases our embrace, leans back and hauls the sweatshirt over his head, to reveal the contours of his naked chest, allowing the dragon and I to become reacquainted. Warm hands clamp immediately onto my backside and begin to knead my cheeks. Instead of falling back into him, I drop to my knees and tug at his sweat pants. Obligingly, he lifts his hips and allows me to pull them down together with his underpants, releasing his other beast. After a quick appraisal, I take the warm tip into my mouth, using my lips to pull back the foreskin and circle the bulbous head. Above me, Ben gasps softly. I smile then, and after a couple of tentative sucks, swallow the whole shaft. Once released, I grip his girth firmly with one hand, while I run my tongue around the head and then slowly down to the shaft while my other hand gently squeezes his balls. By the third or fourth time he is breathing heavily, and as I am about to deep throat him again, he clamps his hands firmly on each of my ears, pulling my head away, bringing our gaze together.

“Want inside. Together.”

Amazing how minimal communication works perfectly under the promise of passion. I reach over to the table next to the sofa and yank open the second drawer. Surely Billy would not begrudge me a condom and a squirt or two of his designer lube. After I unzip and remove my trousers, Ben grabs the gel from me and starts loosening me up, while I unbutton my shirt. Already we have developed slick teamwork where sex is concerned. Naked, I straddle him again, push my arms around his neck and bring our lips together. No need to rush now, he is here for the night, for many, no need to worry about him making an escape, he is mine.

For now.

One finger becomes two, pushing inside me, twisting and pressing my sweet spot, and I moan into his mouth. When his fingers leave me, I hear a packet being torn and moments later, feel Ben junior tapping on the door to let him in. When I lift my mouth away from Ben’s and take a deep breath, we stare enraptured at each other as I lower myself slowly down on him. Rising and falling in his lap, a now familiar gallop begins, fast bouts followed by slow, rocking gently together as one. Until suddenly his pilot light ignites, and he is thrusting up to meet me. Overwhelming sensations hit me then, familiar and yet shocking every time. As if sensing my advanced state, his hand grips my shaft and begins pumping. And as our mouths clamp together to celebrate our combined release, hot semen sprays from me hitting his chin and chest, coating both our bodies, as I sense heat from the filled condom inside me. Sweaty and breathless, we remain as we are, unspeaking, clinging hold as though newly rescued, until his relaxed cock slips out unaided.

Naked and spent, I roll off him and we lounge back next to each other, my leg draped over the thigh of his good leg. For a long time we both savour the silence until he speaks.

“In my whole life, I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared,” he says softly, turning to me, his breath hot on my neck. “And that’s saying something in my line of work. When I saw a shape go down and heard you drop into the pool, my heart stopped. You barely made a splash. Thought I’d lost you.”

“You saved me.”

“On instinct. But what I did was risky, against everything I’d been trained to do, and could have ended with us both dead. I had no clear idea of Schwartz’s position, only a vague notion from the direction a metal pool chair fell when he fired and missed me. Neither of us had the advantage of a clear line of sight.”

“Lucky for me you have good instincts then,” I add quickly, not wanting to dwell on what could have been. “Now how about I help us both get cleaned up, and then we enjoy a nice bottle of chilled Pouilly-Fumé—a favourite of yours, I’m told—followed by me whipping up a duck pasta with a simple rocket salad?”

“Sunshine, at this rate you’ll never get rid of me.”

If I say I had never entertained the thought, I would be lying. But the last thing I need to do right now is get my hopes up.

“You know you can stay here as long as you like, Ben?”

“I do. And I will. Until we’re both back on our feet.”

I nod then, before turning away and rising from the sofa, refusing to show the tinge of disappointment that eats away at me from that tiny but telling response.

hr /> A very special thanks to Timothy M for helping to edit this chapter, and also to point out continuity issues, areas for clarification, and to provide encouraging noises. How many frigging beers do I owe him now?
I really hope you enjoyed this final chapter (with an epilogue to come). If you'd like to join in a chat or leave any additional comments about the plot or cast of characters, I have created a forum accessed via on the link below:
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