‘So you don’t confuse us thick plods, eh?’ Carol teased.
‘It’s more about self-preservation. The last thing I want is to give the sceptics another big stick to hit me with. It’s hard enough getting people to accept that my reports are even worth reading without alienating them with all that unnecessary pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo.’
‘I believe you,’ Carol said ironically. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Sure. There is one thing I would like to bounce off you now,’ Tony said, suddenly serious again. ‘The victims. Everybody’s assuming this killer is targeting gay men. Now, there are hundreds, probably thousands of openly gay men in Bradfield. We’ve got the biggest gay scene in the country outside London. Yet every one of those victims has no known history of homosexuality. What does that say to you?’
‘He’s in the closet himself and he only goes for men who are closeted too?’ Carol hazarded.
‘Maybe. But if they’re all busily passing as straight, how does he meet them?’
Carol straightened the edges of the papers to give herself a moment. ‘Contact magazines? Small ads? Multi-user phone chatlines? The Internet?’
‘OK, all possibilities. But there was no evidence of any of those interests, according to the reports of the officers who searched their houses. Not in one single case.’
‘So what are you trying to say here?’
‘I don’t think Handy Andy gets turned on by gay men. I think he likes them straight.’
Sergeant Don Merrick decided he’d never felt more fed up. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had Popeye on his back over the guv’nor’s new assignment, he was now a servant of three masters. He was supposed to make sure that Inspector Jordan’s orders were carried out when she wasn’t around, and he was also supposed to be working for Kevin Matthews on the Damien Connolly case as well as liaising with Bob Stansfield on the work that he and Inspector Jordan had already completed on the Paul Gibbs case. To top it all, he was spending his evening in the Hell Hole.
Never, in his opinion, was a club more aptly named. The Hell Hole advertised itself in the gay press as ‘The club that dominates Bradfield. One visit and you’ll be enslaved. You’re bound to have the time of your life in the Hell Hole!’ All of which was a coy way of saying that the Hell Hole was the place to go to pick up partners if sadomasochism and bondage was how you got your rocks off.
Merrick felt like Snow White at an orgy. He didn’t have a clue how he was supposed to behave. He wasn’t even sure if he looked right. He’d opted for an old, ripped pair of Levis that normally only saw the light of day when he was doing odd jobs around the house, a plain white T-shirt and the battered leather jacket he used to wear on his motorbike in the days before the kids came along. In his back pocket were his official handcuffs, there in the hope they’d lend some verisimilitude to his pose. Looking round the dimly lit bar, Merrick spotted so much distressed denim and leather that he expected to see an SOS flare rising above the dance floor. Superficially, at least, he thought he might just look the part. Which was worrying in itself. As his eyes grew accustomed to the low lighting, he caught sight of a few of his colleagues. Mostly, they looked as uncomfortable as he felt.
The club had been virtually empty when he’d first arrived just after nine. Feeling incredibly conspicuous, Merrick had asked for a pass-out and gone back on to the streets. He’d wandered round Temple Fields for the best part of an hour, stopping in a café-bar for a cappuccino. He’d wondered why some of the gay clientele had been giving him strange looks until he realized that he was the only customer wearing leather and denim. Clearly he’d transgressed some unwritten dress code. Uncomfortable, Merrick had swallowed the scalding coffee as quickly as he could and got back out on to the streets.
He felt seriously vulnerable, alone on the pavements and walkways of Temple Fields. The men who passed him, either singly, in couples or in groups, all eyed him up and down speculatively as he passed, most glances pausing at his crotch. He squirmed inside, wishing he’d picked a pair of jeans that didn’t hug his body quite so tightly. As a couple of black youths walked past, arms entwined, he heard one say loudly to the other, ‘Great ass for a white guy, huh?’ Merrick felt the blood rise to his cheeks, unsure whether it was anger or embarrassment. In a moment of dreadful clarity, he realized what women meant when they complained of being treated as objects by men.
He returned to the Hell Hole, relieved that the place had filled up now. Loud disco music throbbed, the beat so strong Merrick seemed to feel it inside his chest. On the dance floor, men in leather adorned with chains, zips and peaked caps moved energetically, showing off their Nautilus-hardened muscles, thrusting their groins into empty air in bizarre parodies of sex. Stifling a sigh, Merrick pushed his way through the crowd to the bar. He ordered a bottle of American beer that tasted unbelievably insipid to a palate trained to expect the nutty sweetness of Newcastle Brown.
Turning round to face the dance floor again, Merrick leaned against the bar and surveyed the room, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with anyone in particular. He’d been standing like that for about ten minutes when he became aware that the man standing next to him wasn’t actually trying to be served. Merrick glanced round to discover the man’s eyes fixed on him. He was almost as tall as the detective, but with a broader, more muscular build. He wore tight black leather trousers and a white vest. His blond hair was cut short at the sides, longer on top, and his body was as tanned and smooth as a Chippendale. He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Hi. I’m Ian.’
Merrick grinned weakly. ‘Don,’ he replied, raising his voice to combat the music.
‘I’ve not seen you in here before, Don,’ Ian said, moving closer so that his naked arm pressed against the worn leather of Merrick’s sleeve.
‘It’s my first time,’ Merrick said.
‘You new in town, then? You don’t sound local.’
‘I’m from the North East,’ Merrick said carefully.
‘That explains it. A bonny laddie from Geordieland,’ Ian said, with a bad imitation of Merrick’s accent.
Merrick felt his smile grow sick and die. ‘You a regular here, then?’ he asked.
‘Never miss it. Best bar in town for the kind of guy I like.’ Ian winked. ‘Can I buy you a drink, Don?’
The sweat trickling down Merrick’s back had nothing to do with the warmth of the bar. ‘I’ll have another one of these,’ he said.
Ian nodded and turned round to the bar, using the crowd around him as an excuse to thrust himself against Merrick. Merrick stared across the room, his jaw set. He noticed one of the other murder squad detectives watching him. His colleague gave a grotesque wink and mimed one finger pumping into the closed fist of his other hand. Merrick turned away, coming face to face with Ian, who had been served. ‘There you go, bonny laddie,’ Ian said. ‘So, you looking for a bit of fun tonight, Geordie?’
‘Just checking out the scene,’ Merrick said.
‘What’s the scene like up in Newcastle, then?’ Ian asked. ‘Bit lively? Cater for all tastes, does it?’
Merrick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not from Newcastle. I come from a little village up on the coast. It’s not the kind of place where you can be yourself.’
‘I get you,’ Ian said, laying a hand on Merrick’s arm. ‘Well, Don, if you want to be yourself, you’ve come to the right place. And you’ve found the right guy.’
Merrick prayed he didn’t look as terrified as he felt. ‘It’s certainly busy enough,’ he tried.
‘We could go somewhere quieter, if you like. There’s another room through the back there, where the music isn’t so loud.’