I THINK HE WAS MURDERED

A Matt Silvain Investigation

By Michael Gouda

"It's Matthew Silvain, isn't it?"

"Matt," I said automatically and turned to face a mop of bright red hair, a sprinkling of freckles over a straight nose and a pair of wide brown eyes. The face was vaguely familiar and I should of course have recognised him immediately, recalled the name and greeted him warmly. Whoever it was obviously remembered me, the generous lips were smiling. He looked genuinely pleased to see me.

Shit! Where the hell had we met? I hoped it wasn't from some scruffy interlude in a public convenience somewhere, but if it had been surely I wouldn't have given him my name. I scrabbled amongst my few remaining brain cells to come up with the memory, meanwhile stalling for time.

"Hi," I said enthusiastically. "How ARE you? Long time eh?"

"Fine," he said. "What about you? Still in the same line of business?"

Oh God. Getting deeper and deeper into the mire. What was I when I had met him, a journalist, the brief and rather sordid time I spent as a porn film dealer, a car salesman - a job I thought even less honest than peddling skin flicks? Was when we had met so recent that I had already started out on my private investigator career. Matt Silvain P.I. Struggling to keep head above water.

"'Fraid so," I said. "You?"

He gave me a look. "As a stripper?" he asked, a bit of a smile turning up the corners of his lips.

"Yes," I said. I guess the relief must have shown. A stripper? Yes of course. I must have seen him at some club or other, strutting his stuff, removing his clothes, showing his all or perhaps just nearly all. That was why the face was familiar though the name completely forgotten if ever known. Then I started to think. Wait a moment! If that was the case how would he have known my name? "Er. . . "

"You've no idea who I am," he said. "have you?"

"I'm really sorry," I said, feeling really mean. "Your face is familiar but I can't remember your name, or where we met." I gave him a smile which I hoped would indicate genuine regret.

The party swirled around us. Gay young things of indeterminate age chatted, drank and pulled each other's reputations to pieces in bright, artificial tones. I didn't even know whose party it was. I'd been invited by a sort of friend who always said he hated arriving at a party on his own but who always, once arrived, made a point of deserting his companion and looking for - and usually finding - someone more sexually stimulating. I didn't mind. There was some free booze. There was always the possibility that I, also, might find someone of similar attraction - hope springs eternal - and anyway I didn't have anything else to do. Trade was bad. I hadn't had a case to investigate for a fortnight. I'd have to get something or I'd be back on the assistance, or have to find myself a 'real' job (as my mother used to say).

"Paul Massingham."

I determined to remember the name should we ever meet again, though I still couldn't recall where we'd met before.

"Of course," I said. "Sorry."

"We met at Joseph Carter's," he said, reading my mind.

Immediately it all became clear. Joseph Carter. Joe. Brilliant - both in looks and personality. Dark. Hair so black and glossy that it reflected the world around. Eyes dark and brooding, hot caverns of lust. In his company other people melted into the background, became 'just scenery'. No wonder I hadn't noticed - or at least remembered - Paul Massingham. Yet his was a nice face, a genuine face, one that you could really be attracted to - just that, compared to the resplendence of Joe, it faded into vagueness, as no doubt did mine. I was surprised that Paul had in fact remembered my name.

"Ah yes, of course," I said, this time truthfully. "Didn't he . . . ?"

"Kill himself." The words were out, blunt, brutal words. "That was the verdict of the coroner at the inquest."

I remembered the case. It had been in the tabloids a couple of months ago. The young man throwing himself off a balcony of a high-rise flat and crashing to his death 50 feet below. I had thought at the time what a dreadful waste. Wondered why he had chosen such a terrible method, the pause at the top, looking down, the unending seconds of the fall itself when there was no possibility of return. I felt a sort of internal shudder as I pictured the incident.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Was there any doubt about the suicide?"

"I can't talk here," said Paul, glancing around to where a couple of 'long-eared' gossip-mongers were already hanging around listening out for any trace of scandal. "Can I see you alone some time?"

I could have suggested the office the following morning but I wasn't sure if this was a 'case' or just a plea for some friendly advice, so I compromised with, "Well, if you're not too struck on the party, we could slip off now. I've about had my fill of it anyway. Come back to my place and we can chat. It's just round the corner anyway."

My 'not quite a friend' who had brought me to the party saw us edging off together and raised his eyebrows in a complicated query, half questioning, half knowing. I shook my head indicating there was nothing like that but I knew he'd be on the phone tomorrow morning and I'd be in for a grilling.

The sky was clear and there were even a few stars visible, bravely trying to twinkle through the light pollution of the street lamps. The air smelled almost fresh after the warm fug of clashing after-shaves and body-splashes from the party. I heard Paul give a great intake of breath as we stepped onto the pavement and knew he welcomed it too.

My flat was indeed just round the corner so it didn't take too long to get there. We didn't say much on the way, though I was aware of his body beside mine as we walked together, more or less in step. He had a graceful, almost athletic walk; his profile was attractive too, and I liked the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. For the first time I suddenly thought of him as a pick-up rather than as a possible client.

"I was in love with Joe," he said suddenly, almost as if he was reading my thoughts and wanted to make things clear right from the start.

"Weren't we all," I said, dismissing any thoughts of a quickie from my mind.

I opened a bottle of Chateau Plonk and poured some into glasses. I suddenly realised I was hungry and Paul said he was too so I phoned for a pizza. There's a shop just round the corner - everywhere is convenient where I live, except for custom and available cock - and they said the food would be round in ten minutes.

We sat and sipped. He in an armchair and me on the sofa. The wine was quite good for cheap stuff from the local supermarket. "OK," I said, "tell me about Joe,"

Paul looked at me, serious brown eyes. "I'm sure he didn't commit suicide," he said.

"If I remember rightly, there was an earlier attempt. The coroner - well according to the reports in the paper - made a great point of that."

"Yes," agreed Paul. "Joe did. He was very depressed. It was just after we first met. He couldn't see the way his life was going - or at least, he saw only too well which way it was going. An endless array of one-night-stands until eventually he became old, and not so attractive and that would be it. He also had just lost his job. It was silly, and afterwards he regretted it. Might indeed not have been a serious attempt but he swallowed some pills, enough to kill him if he hadn't been discovered, and left a note."

"Was it you that found him?" I asked.

"Oh God, no. Some neighbour who lived in the same block of flats. I think she noticed the door to Joe's flat was unlocked and wondered if there'd been a break-in. She found Joe and called an ambulance."

"He'd left the door open?"

Paul shrugged. "That first attempt wasn't important," he said. "It was just the coroner who thought it was. Afterwards, Joe was completely different. We started a relationship. He was happy. We were planning on buying a house together. He got another job which he enjoyed. There was no reason for him to kill himself."

"Did you say all this at the inquest?"

"I wasn't asked. I told the police, but you know what happens when one half of a gay partnership dies. If you haven't got it all legally tied up, the authorities just ignore the survivor. His parents didn't want to know about us, or even see me at the time. Joe had tried to commit suicide once - and failed. The second time he had succeeded."

I knew only too well. "Apart from what you know about his state of mind," I said, "is there anything else?"

"Yes. He wouldn't have done it that way. Not jumping off the balcony. He was terrified of heights. If he had wanted to, he'd have taken pills. He'd never, never have been able to jump."

I nodded, understanding quite well how impossible it would have been for me to jump off a tall building. I shuddered again at the thought as I had at the party. "So what did you do?"

"I told the police again but now, of course, with the inquest result, they were even less interested. I kept on at them for a while until they told me to - well not to put too fine a point on it - they told me to piss off." He looked almost distraught, his eyes, wide, the skin stretched taut over his cheek-bones.

"What would you like me to do?"

He looked at me. "You'll help me?" he said. His brown eyes for a moment looked weepy and I hoped against hope that he wasn't going to cry. I can't stand weeping guys - or women for that matter. They embarrass the shit out of me. Instead he got up from the chair and came and sat next to me on the sofa - close.

"Jesus," he said, "You don't know how grateful I am. No one listened to me. It's been like beating my head against a brick wall. " He put his hand on my leg.

"Feels much better when you stop," I said, quipping. It was nice feeling, the warmth of his palm through my trousering but I didn't think I wanted to be the recipient of a sort of backlash gratitude, on the rebound. I like sex to be because they like me, not just out of thanks. But he seemed determined to make this physical. His hand moved gently upwards and I could feel myself responding.

The doorbell rang. Pizza boy!

I don't know how it is that all pizza delivery boys are supposed to be young, attractive and available. The ones they always send round to me are either middle-aged or so unfortunately pimple-afflicted that I'd prefer to pay them for the junk food they're bringing rather than reward them with my sex. This one was genial but unattractive. I paid him and brought the box inside.

Paul was still sitting on the sofa but I could see the moment had passed.

"Food time," I said. "Let's eat and we'll talk more."

We finished the bottle with the pizza. I asked him what he thought could have happened if it hadn't been suicide. Accident?

"Impossible," he said. "There was quite a high balustrade to the balcony. He'd have had to climb over. I think he was murdered."

I looked at him in much the same was as the police probably had done.

"There's one thing more I haven't told you," he said. "The so-called suicide note."

"The second one?"

"Both," he said. "They were the same."

"You mean he wrote the same words in both?"

"No," said Paul. "It was the same note." He explained. "The first time it wasn't a police matter so the note just stayed there. I came across it later after Joe was back from the hospital. I wanted to destroy it but Joe said no. It would remind him of a stupid episode and be a warning if he ever felt like that again." He paused, and took a drink. "Then, when he was killed, the police took things away and must have eventually returned all the stuff to his parents. Personal things, you know. They didn't want them so they asked me if I did. I suppose after they'd got over the shock, they felt a bit guilty. Amongst the things I found the letter. It was in a police bag, marked up with the date and everything. It was the same letter, used again."

That certainly sounded odd but then people when contemplating suicide do behave oddly. "Have you any suspicions about who might have done it?" I asked. "Surely he was universally liked."

"Too much," said Paul. "There were some who were absolutely besotted with him. And until he met me he was very much a one-nighter."

I nodded, thinking to myself that Joe and I were in some ways quite similar.

Paul looked at me. "You're a bit like him," he said, "to look at anyway."

That really freaked me out. What was it with this guy, reading my mind all the time. "Look," I said, "it's late. Why don't you come to the office tomorrow and we'll talk about it again. I need a clear head to think with."

Paul got up. Was it my imagination that he seemed a little reluctant? I think he'd have stayed but I called a mini-cab anyway.

I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately. A couple of hours later and I was awake again, thoughts buzzing round my head. Joe Carter had left the door open after his first attempt at suicide. Was that carelessness? Or did he hope that someone would find him before it was too late? But he had risen from the depths of depression after the affair with Paul had started - or so Paul had said. No more casual sex - or had there been? Talking about people being besotted with Joe, had that included Paul himself? What if Paul was the jealous type? But if Paul had pushed Joe off the balcony, why was he aggravating to get the case re-opened when it was all safely sealed?

It all sounded kosher, except for the method of suicide. If Joe really had a fear of heights, like I did, I knew that nothing on earth would make him choose that way to go. It was just impossible. Even the thought of standing on the balcony, climbing the rail, looking down at the space below, made the palms of my hands start to sweat. I lay awake for a long time, thoughts tumbling around, before eventually I dozed off.

The following morning I had begun to regret making the arrangement to meet Paul as early as 9.30. I felt like shit - and looked like it too. Bloodshot eyes stared back at me from the mirror. There are some people who look pale and interesting after a sleepless night and half a bottle of vino. I decided I wasn't one of them. But I did the best I could.

Paul, on the other hand, who turned up dead on the stroke of 9.30, looked marvellous. His eyes were sparkling, his lips smiled, his skin glowed with health. He wore a green open-necked shirt and white chinos. I hated him. Well I would have done if he hadn't been so fucking attractive.

I determined to put this on a business footing - hell I needed to, I couldn't afford to give out freebies to all the pretty young men in London, so, after explaining my terms, I asked him to tell me everything that had happened on the night that Joe Carter had died. I switched on the tape recorder.

"OK," he said. "There isn't much to tell. I got home from work about six o'clock - "

"Home?" I asked. "Were you living at his flat?"

"Well, more or less. It wasn't really big enough for two and I did have my own bed-sitter which I'd kept on but mostly I stayed at his flat. I told you we were planning on getting a house together."

I nodded. "He was there when you got in?"

"Well, first I thought he hadn't got home himself. The lights were out and it's not a big enough place to lose someone in. But then I saw his coat was hanging in the hallway. I assumed he'd just gone out to get something from the corner shop." He paused and I could see he didn't like thinking about the next part. "Then - well, I started to get some food together in the kitchen. Nothing special, something on toast, I think. He still hadn't come back by the time it was ready so I took mine into the living room to eat while watching the telly."

"Just let me have a picture. What did the flat consist of?

"OK. It was on the 10th floor of a high rise. There's a tiny hall, more of a little box as you come in the front door. The kitchen is off to the right - another little box. The living room is on the left and through that is the bedroom and a bathroom and toilet."

Again he paused. "I sat down and started to eat. The news was on. More unrest in Israel . Suddenly I felt a draught from behind me. There are some glass doors - well windows that open like a door, you know, French windows, onto the balcony outside. The doors were open. I couldn't understand why. It was winter and Joe wouldn't have opened them or gone out at that time of year. Anyway I went out, just to see and glanced over the balustrade."

This time the pause was a dead stop. His face was pale, eyes strained, the skin taut over his cheekbones. I didn't like forcing him but the details were important. I waited just a bit then said, "Go on."

"I - I - " he swallowed, "I looked over the rail into the open square below. It was still light enough to see - to see - his body sprawled below - so far below - he didn't stand a chance.' His face was agitated and I knew he was crying inside. Soon the tears started to run down his cheeks. I looked away.

In fact I went over to where I've got a small kettle and made two mugs of coffee. I suppose I could have gone to him and hugged him, but I'm not too good with emotions. When the coffee was made - there was no milk - I had of course forgotten to bring any in - I took him one. He had recovered a bit. He sipped at it. "Sorry," he said.

Now that's when I could have hugged him but I thought it might complicate things so instead I asked, "Did you go down first or phone the ambulance?"

"Ambulance. I knew it was useless but I thought there just might be a chance and I wanted to get help as quickly as possible."

"Who got the police?"

"The paramedics called them, as soon as they knew there was nothing they could do for Joe."

"And the letter?"

"Letter?"

"Yes, you said the suicide note was the same as the previous one."

"It wasn't the same as - it WAS the previous one. I didn't notice that at the time. I was in a dreadful state. All the police asked was if that was Joe's writing, and I said yes."

"Where did they find the note?"

For a moment, Paul looked confused. Then he answered, "It was on the balcony, in a corner."

I let him finish his coffee. If it was the same as mine, it tasted pretty foul, but he didn't complain.

"Now you said last night that there were some people who hated Joe. Who were they?"

Paul pushed his fingers through his red hair, If anything in its dishevelled state, it made him look even more attractive. "There was one in particular. A guy named Ivor. Ivor Mitchell. He and Joe had had sex, I think only once, or possibly a couple of times, and for Joe that was usually enough. But Ivor was obsessed with him. He used to phone him at home and if I ever answered, he used to scream obscenities at me, saying I'd taken Joe from him. Making all sorts of threats. I'd never keep him. He'd get him in the end. You know the sort of thing."

Well, I didn't - but I could imagine. "But, what makes you think he'd kill Joe. If anyone, surely it would be you that he'd want out of the way."

"At the start, yes, but as time went on, it was Joe that he began to hate. The phone calls changed. He'd scream at him, and if I answered he'd just say things like, you won't have him for long, you know. What will you do when you lose him? I thought he meant that Joe would get tired of me but . . . "

Paul left the sentence unfinished so I ended it for him. "But he could have meant he'd get rid of Joe himself - by killing him."

Paul looked at me gratefully. "Yes," he said.

"He'd be mad to make threats like that and then carry them out."

"But he IS mad," said Paul. "I'm sure he's round the bend."

"Could he have known about the suicide letter?"

That brought him up short. He hesitated. "He had been to the flat," he said. "When Joe first picked him up, I think, and then a couple of times afterwards - before he became so insanely jealous. He was quite good company before."

"Did you tell the police about Mitchell?"

Paul nodded. "But they didn't take much notice - and of course, at that time I didn't know about the suicide note. I was in such a state I couldn't really think clearly about anything."

"OK, Paul," I said. "I'll see what I can do, make some enquiries, perhaps even see Mitchell. I don't want to raise any false hopes but I'll do what I can. Give me your telephone number so I can get in touch."

Just before he left he came over to me and kissed me - not a fully-fledged kiss but not just a peck either - on the lips. He smelled nice. I was so surprised that I didn't really return it, in fact almost recoiled so that he looked a little hurt, as if I'd rebuffed him. I wanted to put my arms round him and really kiss him, but by that time the moment had passed. How easily do we let these times slip by.

After he'd gone, the office seemed a miserable place. I made some notes on my pad. Later I'd transfer them into the computer - if I had time. The telephone rang. It was my 'sort of' friend from last night, demanding to know everything that had happened.

"Nothing at all," I said - sometimes I DO tell the truth. "He's just a client."

"A very pretty one," said my friend. "Are you sure you didn't take him into your bed? Isn't he Joe Carter's ex-partner?"

"Yes, that's right." My friend knows everyone and everything, or at least thinks he does. "What do you know about him?"

"Just that he was the one that took Joe off the available list, much to everyone's regret. The meat market was all the leaner once that one got his claws into him."

That was unfair, I thought, but 'fairness' isn't included in my friend's vocabulary. Sometimes he's useful so I don't fall out with him over it. "Do you know a guy called Ivor Mitchell?"

"Mad Miss Mitchell? Another of Joe's cast-offs," he said. I wondered whether my friend had been one of the few people who hadn't slept with Joe Carter and was a bit bitter about it. "You don't want to get involved with her. Talk about 'Fatal Attraction'. She'd boil your rabbit as soon as look at you. Last I heard of her, though, she was on the game."

"Do you think she - he would really do something desperate?"

"Shouldn't be surprised," he said. "Wait a moment, there's the most dishiest hunk just strolled by outside. I'm sure he's just panting for it. Talk to you later, love. And let me know when you get into the luscious redhead's knickers."

"Do you know . . . ?" But he had rung off.

Many Private Investigators are ex-police. Those that are have the advantage of being aware of the way villains work, most indeed have spent many years in the company of villains. They also probably have contacts still within the police force and can often ask a 'mate' to have a quick shufti at the PNC database to check on the whereabouts of a particular person they are interested in. Against the law of course but it goes on.

Never having been a copper, I miss out on all these perks. Paul didn't know Ivor Mitchell's address, though he thought he lived Balham way. I didn't have time to ask my 'friend', now no doubt in hot pursuit of the lovely who had walked past his window. I fell back on the telephone directory. Yes, there was a 'Mitchell I.' living in SW12 - Lochinvar Street - highly appropriate! I could have rung him up but I wanted a more casual approach. Everything I had heard about the sort of person Ivor was, suggested that he'd be someone who cruised around quite a bit. Weekends, probably up west, today being a Tuesday, he might be local. I checked up in my little black book of useful places, gathered over many years and quite a few adventures, and made a shortlist of some gay pubs and clubs in the area.

It might be a long night, so I shut up shop, went home and caught up with the sleep I had missed the previous night. I slept like a babe, just before dropping off, remembering the soft touch of Paul's lips on mine. No! I am NOT becoming in any way infatuated with the guy! Honestly!

I felt and looked much better when I woke up at six o'clock. I had some food and set off in my trusty old Vauxhall for Balham, Gateway to the South. The first two clubs drew a blank, though I knew my hunch was paying off because Ivor Mitchell was known in both. At the third, a rather tatty rent bar called ‘The Jam Factory' the clientele were making - or at least trying to make - a living. I could almost smell the acquisitiveness in the air. It came from the anxious searching in the older men's eyes and the weary availability in those of the younger ones. It was summed up by the dollar sign embroidered neatly on the arse cheek of one young man's jeans.

Or perhaps not so young! Though his hair was fashionably cut, and his smile engaging, his skin seemed to be almost too perfect for any but extreme youth, and underneath the almost professionally-applied make-up, there were tiny signs of Time's cruel fingers, mini-wrinkles that I myself noticed while looking at my own face in the shaving mirror, but which I hadn't yet felt the need to try to conceal.

I knew none of the three bar-staff here, all of whom looked just as financially available as the others though probably not until later in the evening but I went up to the one who was at present rinsing some glasses.

“I wonder if you can help me,” I said carefully.

The guy looked up. In his late twenties, he had dark eyebrows and a not unattractive smile which he immediately put on like a polite uniform, as soon as he saw a potential customer.

“I hope so,” he said. “You'd make a welcome change from these other wrinklies.”

I thought sadly of the desperate men searching for pleasure who had been condemned by this unfeeling man who would himself not be long before he joined the same band.

“I'm looking for Ivor Mitchell,” I said.

The smile left the barman's face. "That's him over there." He nodded towards the corner where a slim, young man in his early twenties was standing in a temptingly alluring pose against the wall opposite. I bought two drinks and went over to him. He looked me up and down. He obviously thought he was the sort who could pick and choose his custom and indeed he was an attractive guy, tall, slim, nicely developed under the form-fitting T-shirt and ‘moulded' jeans which showed off what looked like a fair-sized priapic package.

Again I was surprised. I had expected a much older man, though I don't know why - possibly because the fuss he had apparently made sounded like someone who was desperate. This one looked much too street-wise and confident to behave in the unhinged way I'd had described to me.

"Ivor Mitchell?" I asked.

The guy raised an eyebrow, not giving much away, though could be asking how I knew. "You come recommended," I said.

"I come frequently," he said.

I acknowledged the quick-wittedness of his reply and handed him the drink I had bought.

"Do I know you?" he asked. "You look familiar." Oh God I thought, not another one who thinks I look like Joe Carter. "Never mind," he went on. "Let's sit." He led me to a small alcove which had a table and a cushioned bench behind it. He sat down and patted the space beside him.

I joined him and he moved closer so that our thighs touched. He certainly didn't waste any time. His hand went straight for my crotch, grabbed my cock through the material and gently massaged it. I had no option but to grow. Then he let it go and moved away.

"That's for the drink," he said. "Anything more is extra."

I decided he wasn't a very nice person. Not that I felt particularly frustrated - well, perhaps I would have liked him to continue for a little longer. "I really want to ask you a few questions," I said.

His expression of bland superiority altered slightly. "Are you the police?"

I shook my head but he still seemed worried. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"

"My name's Matt," I said. "Matthew Carter." I didn't see why I shouldn't make use of the resemblance if that's what it was.

Ivor jumped as if I'd stabbed him. "Carter!" he said. "A relative of Joe Carter's?"

"My brother," I lied modestly.

"Jesus," he said. "I didn't know he had one." He seemed genuinely upset, all his former cynical street-cred evaporating, leaving him, I thought, looking a little - what was it? - frightened? "What do you want?" he asked.

"I'm worried about how he died," I said - which was true.

"Has that little Greek trollop been talking to you?"

"Greek trollop?" I said, mystified.

"Paul Massingham."

"I didn't know he was Greek."

"Oh he isn't, just obsessed with all things Greek - since he went on that trip with Joe. They both came back in love with Greek islands. Had the idea of forming some sort of gay couples' holiday agency."

I hadn't heard any of this before and determined to find out from Paul what all this was about but first I needed to get Ivor's slant on Joe. Not sure how to phrase it, I tried the tentative approach. "You were very fond of Joe yourself?"

"I was out of my mind," he admitted, I thought honestly. "I made a fucking idiot of myself for a time."

"But you got over it?"

"I had to, didn't I? He was dead."

"How did that affect you?" I asked.

"I was shocked, of course."

"Shocked!"

"OK, I behaved like a jerk. I was jealous, and when he died, I went over the top." He sounded sincere.

He moved closer so that his thigh touched mine again. "You do look very like him," he said. His hand returned to my groin. This time it remained there, holding me. "I'm sorry I was like that before." His hand found my zip and drew it slowly down, then went inside, fiddled through my underpants until he found and grasped my cock.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" he asked.

I was sorely tempted. I didn't like him as a person but physically he was attractive. I could feel myself weakening as my cock grew stronger so I shook my head.

"You sure? I didn't mean that about charging."

"Gotta go," I said before my hormones took over and stood up, forgetting for a moment how exposed I was. I sat down again and obeyed the injunctions which used to be displayed at the exit of every public toilet. 'Kindly adjust your dress before leaving'.

This time I made it to the door.

Outside I felt frustrated and wondered why I'd refused the offer. A clock from some nearby church or public building chimed. Eight o'clock. It wasn't all that late. I rang Paul on my mobile, not really expecting him to be in - but he was. He sounded almost pleased to hear from me.

"I've just seen Ivor," I said. "I don't think he had anything to do with Joe's death. He told me about the Greek thing, though, you never mentioned that."

"I didn't think it was important," said Paul. "It's complicated to explain over the phone though."

"We could meet," I said, leaving it vague.

"Do you want to come round? Where are you?"

"Balham," I said, "but I've got the car."

He explained where he lived and half an hour later I was outside the house, another of the red-brick Victorian terrace houses which are so common in London . He'd obviously been looking out for me because by the time I'd parked and opened the gate to a small patch of grass which was the garden, he had the front door open and was waiting for me - smiling. Which was nice to see.

When I got in I found that the original three storey house had been divided into three flats. Paul's was the downstairs one. He took me into the living room. It had a sofa and an easy chair, a pine table under the window, a CD player and a TV set with video. Book shelves held paperbacks and some cassettes. A cabinet with drawers against the wall had some bottles and glasses standing on top. An open door in one corner led off to a tiny kitchen, another one was shut, presumably to the bedroom. There were rugs on the floor and some pictures, framed views of sea coasts, on the walls. It was pleasant and comfortable. Rather more middle-class than I'd have expected from Paul but much nicer than the tip that was mine. The lights were low though whether this was for my benefit or because he normally had them like that, I didn't know.

I sat on the sofa - hoping.

"Do you want anything to drink?" asked Paul.

"I wouldn't mind a coffee."

"Only instant," he said and went out into the kitchen. I heard the rush of water into a kettle. I got up and went to the doorway looking at the back of his head, admiring the M-shape that his red hair made at the nape of his neck. I fantasised about going in and planting a kiss on it. I took a step forward.

He turned around. "Milk and sugar?"

He brought the mugs into the room and I sat down again on the sofa leaving plenty of room next to me. He took the chair opposite.

"What's all this about the Greek islands?" I asked.

"It all started after Joe and I went to Greece . It was right at the beginning of our relationship, before things really got serious. Joe was down, after the suicide attempt. He wanted a holiday; I wanted a holiday. We went together, not really as a couple, just as friends. We came back as - "

His face took on an expression which, had I not found him so attractive, I would have tossed off as a Mills and Boone one. I felt a twinge of jealousy - no, not jealousy so much as envy. No one, I knew, had ever looked like that over me. Perhaps no one ever would.

"So what happened when you came back?" Notice I didn't allow him to finish his sentence!

"Well I had this idea. It was only a suggestion at first but Joe took it seriously. We'd had such a marvellous time, in such a beautiful setting, I thought - why couldn't other gay couples - yes I thought of us as a couple by then - book up for their, you know, honeymoons through us."

It all sounded a bit corny but I suppose it could have caught on. "Gay Honeymoons?"

"It was corny but it caught on."

There he was - doing it again. Pinching stuff from my brain.

"We started making a bit of money. Then we got into difficulty. Cash flow problems, you know."

Did I too? Had them all the time.

"Trouble was we had to pay for the bookings at the hotels before we got the money from the clients. After a while that caused an awful lot of . . ."

I nodded, understanding, not really listening. God, he was cute. serious brown eyes looking straight into mine, a mass of flaming red hair, a column of throat coming out of a black T shirt. I wanted to kiss it, in the hollow where the shoulder blade was just visible. Hold him against me. I could almost feel his body against mine, Twice that evening I'd been aroused. I was frustrated. Let's face it, I wanted sex and particularly sex with Paul. I felt my cock twitch. It was uncomfortable and needed re-arranging but I couldn't do it without Paul noticing.

He smiled. God, was he reading my mind again? He had stopped speaking.

"So," I said, wildly reaching for something to say. "So, how did it all work out?"

"That's when Nick turned up."

"Nick?"

He didn't say anything just looked at me, a look that became more intense as the moments ticked by. I knew something was going to happen. I held out my hand and he got up from his chair, crossed that short space between us and sat on the sofa beside me.

I moved closer so that our thighs were touching and then leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, lips closed, for a moment the sort of kiss an aunt might give. Then, when Paul responded, I let my lips open and my tongue pressed against his lips so that he opened up to the peaceful invasion.

Gently I pulled up his T-shirt and ran my hands over his chest and then down to his stomach. Paul lay back, happy to be caressed. My hands felt under the waist band of his jeans and then the elastic of his underpants, delving into the pubic hair. Paul wanted me to go further, to touch him, hold him. I opened the stud and the zipper slid down revealing his white underpants swelling with the ridge of his erection. I lowered my face to the bulge taking it sideways and nibbling it with my teeth, then licking it through the material. I could smell his maleness through the soft cotton.

Paul spread his legs wide, throwing his head back. I pulled down the waistband so that the cock was revealed, the skin soft and sensitive covering the rigid core. I cupped the ballsack in my palm and took the shaft into my mouth sliding down over the head, the foreskin peeling back.

There was a sound from outside. In the hall? No it was a key turning in the front door. The door opening. "Christ!" said Paul. "My parents."

It was a word which in a situation like this still had the power to bring out the old instincts of terror and shame - as when I had been caught, once masturbating in the bath, the door carelessly left unlocked, and again with a friend from school who, on the pretext of helping with homework, had initiated into rather more esoteric practices. Mother had entered my bedroom bringing coffee and biscuits for sustenance.

Luckily Paul and I hadn't gone far enough for concealment to be impossible. I was still fully clothed, he with T-shirt disarranged and flies unzipped, managed to make a recovery before the door opened and Mr and Mrs Massingham entered.

"Ah," said Paul. "I didn't think you'd be back so early. This is Matt Silvain. My parents."

I stood to shake hands, well aware that I still had an erection making a sizeable bulge in my trousers but they either didn't notice or were too well-bred to acknowledge - even with a glance.

They were very pleasant and friendly though at the moment I could have wished them in the bottommost circle of Dante's Inferno. "I see you've had coffee," said Mrs Massingham. "Would you like some more?"

"No, thanks," I said. "Actually I was just about to leave."

Mr Massingham smiled affably in the background. I could see where Paul had got his red hair from, though his father's was a little grizzled, salt amongst the pepper.

"I'll see you out," said Paul. We went into the hall together. I snatched a brief kiss before he opened the front door. "Why didn't you tell me you lived with your parents?"

"I moved in when Joe died," said Paul. "I wasn't expecting them back until after midnight."

"We have some unfinished business, I think," I said.

"I'll come round to the office tomorrow."

Driving home, I decided that today had been an unmitigated disaster, sex-wise at any rate. I wasn't even sure it had been much better in terms of the enquiry into Joe's death. I tended to believe that Ivor hadn't had anything to do with it. Perhaps it was all in Paul's imagination.

Next morning I learned a bit more about 'Gay Honeymoons'. It had all started in a fairly amateurish way, from Paul's initial idea. Joe had planned out the details and put the whole thing on a website. From there it had begun to take in some money but not nearly enough. Too soon the cash flow problems increased until it seemed that they would have to give up the idea. Then Nick Warren had arrived. Paul wasn't quite sure where Joe had found him. "Probably," said Paul, with a hint of sadness, "from one of his many pickups."

But Nick had proved a godsend, injecting much-needed capital into the business so that it began to make more money than either Joe or Paul had ever expected or indeed hoped for. In fact he'd taken over quite a bit of the business, certainly the computer side, but then, as neither Joe not Paul were particularly interested in this, they didn't object.

"So everything was coming up roses?" I said.

He nodded, seemed about to say something but stopped.

"So what went wrong, then?"

"Well nothing really. I guess it was just a business difference. Something to do with the appearance of the website. Joe wondered why Nick had added something but I didn't really pay much attention. It seemed all right to me."

"Is the business still going strong?" I asked.

"Sure," said Paul. "As far as I know. I gave up my side of it when Joe died. Nick bought my share, and I suppose Joe's share from his parents."

"You didn't inherit anything from Joe?"

"We'd never thought that far ahead," said Paul. "I guess we never thought anything could happen to us."

"Let's have a look at the site."

I switched on the computer and Paul came and sat next to me. I could feel the warmth of his body and smell the clean, fresh smell of him. I let him type in the URL and waited while the screen filled with a picture of lush Greek landscape, a headland with the ruins of a temple on it, white in the sunlight, the sea in the background blue and sparkling. Bouzouki music tinkled in the background. The words 'Gay Honeymoons' in convoluted lettering and rainbow colours headed the page. It was all fairly stomach-churning.

'Find your ideal Honeymoon island,' enjoined the instructions. A list of hotels and islands followed all praised and described in the most Mills and Boon language. A further page got down to the sordid details of price and availability. I suppose, to couples who were in love and wanting to spend a memorable fortnight, it was attractive enough.

"Was it all this - " I gestured to the technicolour flatulence on the screen " - that Joe objected to?"

"Oh no. That was our idea."

I took a look at his face. It was suffused with the sort of nostalgic expression that betokened love. Again I experienced a twinge of that envy I had felt before.

"So what was it?"

He pointed to a small white rectangle at the bottom of the page. It was so inconspicuous I hadn't really noticed it. "What is it?" I asked.

"A place to enter a password," said Paul. "It just gets you into a private area. Something to do with the accounts or something. I think he told me once but I've never tried it."

"Do you remember the password?"

"It was one of the Dodecanese islands, I think."

"They being?"

"Oh - " He reeled off a string of names, scarcely any of which I'd heard. "Adelphae, Agathonisi. Arki, Astypalea. Halki, Kalymnos, Karpathos, Kassos, Kos, Leros, Nisyros, Patmos , Rhodes, Ro, Saria, Symi, Tilos. . . and that's just some of them."

"OK," I said. "You try them."

He began typing in the names. At the third one, the screen gave way to one filled with columns of figures. "There you are," he said. "Told you it wasn't very interesting."

He was right. There's nothing so boring as financial accounting. Nevertheless I took a printout of the pages. I've got a friend who's that way inclined and I thought of showing them to him to see if he could see anything dodgy. While the printer was whirring and clacking away, I turned my attention to something infinitely less tedious. Paul's ear or rather the space just beneath it, where the rich red hair curled under. It was the part I had desired - well, one of the many - when I looked at him the previous evening as he was making the coffee. I favoured it with an experimental kiss.

He responded with the alacrity of a puppy who has just been offered a stick to play with. Indeed he reacted with ardour, turning and gripping me with such fervour that I was forced to call a halt to the proceedings unless we were to have full-scale sex on the office floor.

"Let's wait until this evening," I said, in short, sharp gasps, my mouth releasing his only long enough to get out the phrases. "You can stay the night. At my place. We won't be interrupted there."

After he'd gone, but before I'd quite cooled down, my 'not quite a friend' rang. "How's Little Miss Red Riding Hood?" he asked. "Got into her knickers yet?"

The very thought triggered the usual response. Strictly speaking I had of course, but not in the sense he meant. "Not yet," I said.

"Ah ha! There's a chance then?"

"Possibly." I changed the subject. "What happened with your dishy hunk yesterday?"

"Oh that one!" My friend's tone was dismissive. "Doesn't know what she wants. Pretended to be straight but when I lost interest, she started getting really uppity."

"So, no luck there, then?" I almost laughed. Well we both had been disappointed last night but I obviously had got further than him - and knew I had the better chance of going the whole way.

I was about to ring off when a thought struck me. "Know anything about a guy called Nick Warren?" I asked.

"You know some funny types, Matt. My God, What hasn't Naughty Nicky done? Used to be a barman, I believe, somewhere down in the West Country. Branched out into all sorts of things after that, if the rumours are to be believed. Pimping, a bit of blackmail here and there. Was involved with a young rent-boy who got killed. Made some money on shady deals and ended up in London . Don't know what he's doing now, though."

I did, but I didn't say. Client confidentiality and all that.

I wondered whether I ought to see this Nick Warren. Of course making the meeting casual might be difficult. I didn't know anything about his movements as I had with Ivor, and my 'friend' obviously didn't either. Even if I could find him, I doubted whether the 'I'm Joe's brother' stratagem would work as Nick, being his business partner, had presumably known Joe much better than Ivor Mitchell had.

The telephone rang again. I picked up the receiver. A dark brown voice with more than a hint of attractive menace said, "Silvain? My name is Warren, Nick Warren. I understand you are investigating Joe Carter's death. I think we should have a chat."

I didn't let my surprise show in my tone of voice - or at least I don't think I did. It must have been Paul who had told him, I reasoned, though I wished he would let me know these things beforehand so that I could get myself prepared for them.

"Do you want to come over, Mr Warren?" I asked.

Nick Warren, when he arrived, turned out to be dark-haired, mid thirties, with an air of confidence, of always getting what he wanted. His slightly irregular eyebrows and the world-weary twist to his sensual lips gave him an attractively sardonic look. The suit he was wearing looked expensive, the grey tie, discreet against his white shirt. He didn't waste any time on preliminaries.

"Joe was always neurotic," he said. "Paul thought he knew him better than anyone else, but it was his emotions talking most of the time."

"You mean there never was any doubt about the suicide?"

Nick shook his head.

"But - throwing himself off the balcony. How could anyone with a fear of heights do that?"

Nick made a gesture with his hand as if to dismiss my objection as completely groundless. "He was in a dreadful state," he said. "He felt things were going wrong like before. He'd started drinking again." He lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply.

I stared at him. "Paul didn't tell me any of this. He said completely the opposite. They were in love and happy. The business was flourishing - after you stepped in."

"Well certainly the business was in a good state," agreed Nick. "But Paul was wrong about everything else. Probably he didn't want to believe it but Joe was looking elsewhere - and not only looking. He was fucking everything in trousers - or out of them. I know; I was one of them."

Nick's dark, saturnine face smiled twistedly at me through the tobacco haze. his dark eyebrows, his black hair, springing from his forehead, the smile - or was it a sneer. I didn't want to believe him but he sounded just too convincing.

I sighed, then tried to hide it. "Thanks for telling me this, Mr Warren. It certainly makes a difference to what I was led to believe."

He nodded, crushed out his cigarette and went out. Even from the back, he looked lithe, confident - even arrogant. Poor Paul! What was I going to tell him this evening?

But before that I faxed the figures to my accountant contact with a request to see if there was anything obviously wrong. I didn't think there would be and wasn't too surprised when I got a note faxed back saying that there didn't appear to be anything fishy and I owed him a large drink.

I bought some food on the way home, and a bottle of the better sort of wine. If the evening was going to turn out as I expected and hoped it was, Chateau Plonk was not good enough.

When Paul arrived, though, it didn't immediately happen. There was no spontaneous hurling into my arms, no covering of my poor defenceless body with passionate kisses, no grappling for my - weakly protected - erogenous zones. Instead, after a brief kiss, he produced a small suitcase.

"I'd almost forgotten I had these," he said in explanation. "This is what I got from Joe's parents after the funeral. I wondered if they might be something to do with all this." He took out some floppy discs and held them up with an air of triumph.

It was not exactly what I had planned. I had hoped that we could dispense with the Joe Carter affair, certainly after what Nick Warren had told me, and get down to my own pending one. But obviously Paul had other ideas. "What are they?" I asked.

"I think they're to do with 'Gay Honeymoons'," he said. "Have you got a computer."

Of course I had a computer. Everyone has got one of the bloody things these days. Not that I used it often but it was up in my bedroom gathering dust so I was not all that averse to taking Paul up there. "Care for something to eat first? Or a glass of wine?"

He shook his head impatiently and we went upstairs, he first, me following with my eyes on that seductively moving butt, encased as it was in denim at the moment. I could scarcely keep my hands off it.

"First on the right," I said and ushered him into the sanctum sanctorum, now suitably cleaned and sweetly smelling with proprietary room freshener. The bed was even made, clean sheets and all. I switched on the computer and, while it did those things that computers do while they're warming up, Paul told me a bit more about the discs.

"Some of them are just copies of the site that we set up at the very beginning," he said. "Then they're some after Nick came in with us. They're a few which have some copies of personal letters from Joe."

"What do you expect to find out from them?" I asked, perhaps unfairly.

His brightness dropped. "I thought you might notice something," he said with that air of trust that I found very appealing but which I had no way of gratifying.

"OK. Let's have a look."

They were indeed as he said, some early drafts for the website. JPGs of Greek coastline and views which had been used, some copies of web creator files which showed what had been first proposed and rejected. I could see nothing significant in any of them. The ones after Nick had taken over also seemed quite as innocent. The letters from Joe were personal but most dated from way back, long before the suicide so I didn't read them. "Isn't there anything from round the time when he died?" I asked.

"A couple," said Paul obviously growing dispirited. "Here's just a list of Greek Islands ." On the screen was just such a list as Paul had reeled off this morning when we tried for the password to get into the accounts. There were however considerably more this time. "About 200," said Paul, "though there are even more than that, some of course just little more than bits of rock sticking up out of the sea." He scrolled down to the bottom where there was a gap, then a single word, and 'see Nick'.

"Parakeet!" I said. "Is that the name of a Greek island?"

"No, of course not."

"What does it mean? Did Nick keep birds?"

Paul shook his head looking genuinely puzzled. "I don't know what it means. Do you think it's important?"

"Probably not," I said, "but . . . " It sounded silly, so I hesitated.

"But what?"

"Well, if the names of islands were used as passwords, couldn't this also be one?"

"What for?" asked Paul. "We've found out about the accounts. What else would you need a password for?"

"I thought it was a stupid suggestion."

He typed in the 'Gay Honeymoons' URL and then, in the blank space at the bottom put 'parakeet'. The screen cleared, to be replaced by a single request: 'Please enter your name'. Paul looked at me. I said, "Try 'Nick Warren'."

"Holy Shit!" I stared, horrified. Then turned to look at Paul. "Is this stuff yours?" I asked.

From the look on his face I realised he was equally shocked. "Of course not."

"Do you think it was Joe's?"

"Christ, no!"

"It must be Nick's," I said.

"Jesus! And Joe found out about it. Accused Nick and he killed him, to stop him talking. What do we do? Go to the police?"

"There's no actual proof it was Nick. I'll have to go and see him - tomorrow."

"Jesus!" repeated Paul, appalled. He shivered and I held him until he stopped. Then I kissed him. After a while he responded. I took him by the hand and took him over to the bed. He lay on his back and I lay next to him, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine. Then I held him closer and he moved to face me so that we lay mouth to mouth, chest to chest, groin to groin and I could feel his hardness against mine.

I kissed him under his ear and on his neck. Paul's eyes were closed but his hands were fumbling at my shirt, then lower at my belt and zipper. The clothes were getting in the way. "Let's take them off," he said, trying to get up but I pushed him back.

"Let me do it," I said.

I took off Paul's T-shirt pulling it over his head, Paul lifting his arms, revealing the reddish hair in his armpits. Then, kneeling at his feet, I undid his trainers, taking them off and then his socks, my tongue cat-licking the soles and between the toes so that Paul twisted and turned with the sensation which was both almost unbearable and yet at the same time too exciting to deny. At long last I stripped off his jeans and underpants. Paul lay there naked. His chest slimmed to a small waist just below which the honey of his pubic hair led to and surrounded his cock and balls.

I stood up and took off my own clothes. Paul lay back on the bed and I kissed his throat, his neck, everything, starting at the top and working downwards. My naked body was on top of him and the feel of skin against skin, cocks together, hard flesh against hard flesh was like an electric charge, driving out every other feeling. He pushed his body upwards holding me and pulling me down on top of him. We held each other, our tongues and hands exploring each others' bodies. His mouth was moist, warm, wildly irresistible.

On top, I slowly inched down Paul's body, kissing and licking. I paused and sucked at the nipples, then went down and put my tongue in Paul's navel. Paul giggled and wriggled so I went even lower so that I could feel the fuzz of rust-coloured hair around that sprouting cock.

"Turn round," said Paul's voice, high with arousal, "so I can do the same to you." Soon both our faces were buried in each other's groins. I ran my tongue up and down his erect shaft and then licked the firm young balls, taking each one into my mouth and gently mouthing them one at a time. Then I moved back and enclosed the prick as far as I could. I could feel my own erection being taken into Paul's warm mouth.

I put one arm over Paul's legs and gently explored his arse. I found the tender hole, stroked it and then inserted my finger. I heard Paul gasp and then felt him doing the same to me. I pushed harder, at the same time sucking. and stroking with my free hand.

Paul gasped, "I'm coming," and then clamped his mouth down again.

At the same time there was a warm, salty spurt into my mouth but all I felt was my whole being centred in my own groin as a source of pleasure, exploding and pulsing again and again.

We lay together for a while, then got up and had some wine, discussing what to do. Later I took him back to bed again and we had another go, this time ending up in some other, equally pleasurable places.

The following morning I phoned Nick. I told him I'd seen Paul and that there were a couple of points I thought he might be able to clear up. Could we meet? He seemed a little reluctant. Couldn't we do it over the phone? But I told him there was something I wanted to show him - which was true, and he agreed. Yes, he'd come into the office about eleven.

Paul was nervous. He wanted to come with me but I said it would be better if he stayed away. If anything went wrong - I didn't specify - at least he'd be there to go to the police. This, of course, made him even more nervous and the idea didn't actually have a calming effect on me either. We made some plans, had a little private business - God, that lad is insatiable, once he gets started - cleaned up and I set out.

Nick was waiting outside the office when I arrived. I must have dallied rather longer with Paul than I'd intended. I apologised for being late and Nick muttered something to the effect that if he treated his work as casually as I did mine, there would be little profit made.

"OK," I said, unlocking the door and ushering him inside. "Let's get right down to the matter in hand." I switched on the computer.

Nick looked at me, a smile on his arrogant lips. "Well, what's young Paul been saying?" The emphasis he gave to the adjective implied that whatever it was, it had no value at all. Just jejune fantasy.

I turned and faced him. "Parakeet," I said.

Instantly his eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared. We both knew that the other understood exactly what the word denoted. "How did you find out?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," I said. "What does is that Joe also found out. What did he do? Came and told you that he knew you were using his perfectly innocent site as an advertisement for your pedophile ring? Kids available for sex? So you pushed him over the balcony?"

Nick shrugged. "Well the first part's about right. Yes he did tell me, but I didn't push him. That was an accident. He went almost mad, flinging himself about, and I was just trying to calm him down. He tried to get away. The door to the balcony was open. He ran out, tripped and fell over the rail. There was nothing I could do, but obviously I didn't want the whole thing to come out. I'd no proof of my story. I knew about the old suicide letter. Joe had showed it to me, saying what a fool he had been, so I got it out of the drawer and left it on the balcony."

"All that story you told me yesterday about Joe going back to his old ways. That was a lie?"

"Yes," said Nick. "I didn't want anyone poking around. I thought I was covered but you never know. And obviously I wasn't."

"The kids' stuff?"

"Oh come on," said Nick, "you're a man of the world. It's profitable. I'll give you a cut of the profits. There's plenty enough to go round."

I thought of the pictures I had seen. The innocent - well had been at one time - kids, laid out like meat on a butcher's slab, girls and boys, their slender limbs posed in spurious erotic positions, too young indeed even for pubic hair to have grown. I felt sick. "You're going to prison, Warren ," I said. "Maybe they won't get you for the murder of Joe Carter, but they will for this."

Nick gave a short laugh. "And when the police look, they'll find the whole site wiped clean," he said. "It won't take me more than a couple of minutes."

"We've recorded everything that was there," I said, knowing I was on shaky ground now. "Paul's showing them everything and they're probably looking at the site at this very moment."

"There's nothing to link me with it."

"Only what you've just admitted, all of which is on my tape recorder."

Immediately I said this I knew I'd made a dreadful mistake. Nick Warren wasn't one of those guys you can cower into submission, who'll give up without a fight.

"I think," he said, slowly and with menace, "that I'll take that from you now." On the last word he produced an object from his pocket, pressed something, there was a snapping sound and a long blade suddenly appeared, the light from the window glinting on it. From nowhere into my mind came the words 'the vorpal blade went snicker-snack'. I'd never really known what the line from Lewis Carol's poem, 'Jabberwocky' meant before - but I did now.

I'm not a brave person. Something inside seemed to shrivel up as I saw that long, vicious blade and the man holding it. No compassion in his eyes, mouth twisted in a grimace, perhaps even of enjoyment, certainly of anticipation.

"Don't be a fool," I babbled. "Paul knows I'm seeing you here. If you kill me, they'll be after you straight away. Joe may not have been a murder but this will. They'll catch you. There'd be no way out. As it is, well, I don't know what you'll get for the kids' ring but it wouldn't be anything like what you'd get for murder."

I rabbited on, not really sure if I was making sense or not, but something must have got through. I saw the tenseness go out of his body, his eyes relaxed. He was thinking which, as far as my safety was concerned, was probably better than him running purely on adrenalin.

"OK," he said, with a return of his old sardonic arrogance. "Well, I'll be seeing you." He turned to go and, as I relaxed and thanked my lucky stars for my escape, he turned back and made a lunge at me with the knife. I was completely unprepared for the attack and it was only instinct that made me dodge at the last moment. Too late though, to escape the wild rake of the knife completely. It caught my chin and then travelling down cut through my shirt and into my chest. I felt a hot shock, rather than pain, and the dribble of warmth down my skin.

As he raised the knife again, I saw, behind him, the door open. There were people there. Paul was one of them, his eyes wide with alarm. Others had on blue uniforms. They quickly had Nick in a hold and wrested the knife from him.

"Matt, are you all right?" asked Paul. A silly question as there was blood streaming down my shirt front, but I had to answer bravely.

"Just a scratch," I said - and then I must have fainted.

I woke to find myself flat on my back in an ambulance, with Paul holding my hand, under the somewhat disapproving gaze of a paramedic.

"We'll be in the hospital in a moment," said Paul.

"You'll be all right, son," said the paramedic. "I've stopped the bleeding and there's nothing vital been touched."

After I'd got patched up and sent home, Paul put me to bed - well on it anyway. He looked down at me on the bed. I lay there on the candlewick counterpane, completely naked and at my fork my cock rested on my thigh, soft and, I hoped, inviting. Some of the rest of me was bandaged and I had a strip of plaster on my chin. Paul knelt down beside the bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. My face was puffy and sore as were my chest and stomach. "I just need treating gently," I said and tried for a smile. It was not a great success.

"At least Nick's behind bars."

I didn't want to talk about him for the present. I'd always wanted to investigate a murder. This one had proved to be altogether too uncomfortable. "Kiss me," I said. "But not on anywhere painful."

"I don't know where to kiss first," Paul said.

Our lovemaking was tender and gentle. I wasn't able to do as much as I wanted so it wasn't quite what I had planned, but it would do - for the present.

There was lots of time.