Free A Sticky End by James Lear Page A

sex—he’d brush his teeth, he’d go over them with a toothpick, he’d gargle with that infernal bloody mouthwash of his, and I knew better than to interrupt him. I stood in the doorway for a while watching him, thinking how little I really knew him, wondering what surprises he had in store for me.”
    â€œDid you speak?”
    â€œNo. Not really. Maybe a few words. ‘You all right?’ ‘I’m fine,’ that sort of thing. Then I heard Durran moving around
downstairs and I thought, hang on, there’s a strange man in my house and he could be helping himself to the family silver. So I popped downstairs and he was waiting in the hallway with his cap in his hand, looking a bit awkward, like a schoolboy who’s been called up to see the head. He lit up when he saw me, and said all sorts of thanks, and asked if he could come round again, and I said no, that wouldn’t be convenient—I was dreading that he would try to blackmail me, or something. But he said he understood, he was a married man himself, and he wished me all the best and said that if I ever wanted to see him again, he could often be found down at such and such a pub in Clapham or Tooting or somewhere. And then he put his cap on and tied his scarf round his neck, and shook my hand as if he’d just been round to fix a leak in the roof or something, and we said good night.”
    â€œWhat time was it by now?”
    â€œAbout nine. No, later than that. Nearer ten.”
    â€œYou’d been at it for a long time.”
    â€œI suppose so. You know what it’s like.”
    â€œDid you see a clock? Or look at your watch?”
    â€œNo, I can’t honestly say I did. But it must have been pretty late, because I was dog tired.”
    â€œI’m not surprised, after all that.”
    â€œAnd I thought—well, time to turn in. I needed a bit of shut-eye. Up I went again, and Frank was still in the bathroom, only now the door was locked. I told him to hurry up, and he said he wouldn’t be a minute. He must have been having a crafty smoke in there—he was partial to a smoke after you-know-what—because I could smell it coming out from under the door. I said I’d be waiting for him in bed, and I was looking forward to talking it all over with him—everything we’d just done, and all the things we could do in the future. I felt quite excited, really. It was like I’d been given a wonderful new toy. God, how selfish of me. How stupid, how bloody stupid and selfish.”

    â€œAnd that was—?”
    â€œYes. That was the last time I spoke to him. I undressed and got into bed, then I had a brainwave—I’d better just mess up the bed in the guest room a bit, just in case the servants came back unexpectedly, or, God forbid, Belinda. If anyone came in, we’d hear them, and Frank could run back to his room and no one would be any the wiser. I checked that all the lights were off downstairs, I crossed the landing back to my bedroom, and I yelled out one more time, ‘Hurry up, Frank.’ ”
    â€œDid he respond?”
    â€œYes, I think so. He said something indistinct—I just assumed that he was cleaning his bloody teeth again. I was used to his ways, and I thought nothing of it. And as soon as I lay down in bed and closed my eyes, I started thinking about all the things we’d done, and I drifted off to sleep.”
    â€œAnd when you woke up?”
    â€œI told you. He wasn’t there.”

Chapter Five
    I HAD A THOUSAND QUESTIONS TO ASK MORGAN. WHAT kind of mood was Bartlett in when last they spoke? Why would Bartlett, who had set such store by getting Morgan alone for the weekend, suddenly decide to pick up a piece of rough trade at a notorious pub? Why would he put so much at risk—his marriage, his professional reputation, not to mention his friendship with Morgan—for the uncertain pleasures of a casual encounter? And,