For the Love of Luke

by David C. Dawson

  “You know I care about you, Mr. Pendley-Evans,” he said. “That’s why I worry about you so much. You flit from one fuck to the next. We’re not at Oxford any longer. Those student days are long gone.”

  Jerry sniffed and blinked his eyes. He released his grasp and rubbed at an imaginary mark on Rupert’s leather jacket.

  “Now,” continued Jerry. “I’m off to get tinsel and a new fairy for the top of the Christmas tree.”

  He leaned forward and kissed Rupert lingeringly on the lips. “Take care, my abomination of Keble College.” And Jerry disappeared into the crowd.

  Rupert stood for a moment and watched the seemingly endless flood of people shove past him. He was unprepared for Jerry’s critical commentary on his lifestyle. He knew his college friend had always had a soft spot for him. When he thought about it, that was probably why Jerry continued to feed him information from the NCA, at considerable risk to himself. But the comments had stung Rupert more than he would have expected. For the first time in a while, his self-assured confidence ebbed away.

  Rupert fumbled for his Oyster card and headed for the ticket barrier. He was not going into the office straightaway. He had an errand to run first.

  THE BELL above the door at Daunt Books in Marylebone High Street announced Rupert’s arrival. It was a place he came to often. The bookshop was a brisk ten-minute walk from the BBC headquarters in Portland Place. Rupert had spent many happy hours dawdling among its well-stocked shelves. After El Ateneo in Buenos Aires, he considered it the best bookshop in the world. Rupert walked to the back of the shop to the art section. He was looking for a book about England he was certain would be perfect for Luke. A thank-you gift for his hospitality while Rupert’s apartment was being fixed up.

  Rupert ran his fingers lovingly along the spines of the books on the shelves, in search of his quarry. On the lowest shelf, he found it. Ghastly Good Taste, by former English poet laureate the late John Betjeman. Rupert’s own copy was battered and dog-eared. He had thumbed through it a thousand times or more since Jerry presented it to him thirteen years ago. Betjeman was one of Rupert’s heroes. A poet, a writer, an architectural campaigner, and a nostalgic for an England long gone. Plus, he had been a brilliant broadcaster. Rupert hoped Luke would like Ghastly Good Taste. It was about the England of Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey. Rupert knew it was probably vastly oversentimental of him, but it had been an impulse he could not resist. He hoped Luke would enjoy the book as much as he did.

  RUPERT HURRIED through the narrow side streets from the bookshop back to the BBC. It was after two, and he was going to be late for his editorial meeting with Eileen Jones. She would want to know what he had found out, and he had yet to look through the contents of the memory stick Jerry gave him that morning. He also wanted to make a call to a pathologist friend, who might know more about the Chiswick suicide.

  He emerged into Harley Street, the home of London’s expensive private doctors and consultants. He waited for the traffic on the busy street to clear. About a hundred yards down, on the opposite side, he saw the tall, toned figure of Luke. His temporary roommate stood on the steps of a distinctive Georgian building, in front of a large, black door. Rupert shouted and waved, but his voice was lost amid the noise of a high-sided truck crawling past. By the time the truck moved on, Luke was no longer visible.

  Rupert crossed the street and strode briskly down to the building. To the left of the imposing black door was a security keypad, below which was a large brass plate. Five smaller plates were fixed alongside a door buzzer. The larger plate read London Psychiatry Partners. The five smaller plates listed the names of physicians. He looked up. A camera observed him.

  He heard footsteps behind and turned to see a woman wearing a navy blue trouser suit and carrying a large cardboard box. She walked up the steps behind him.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks,” replied Rupert. “But do you need a hand?”

  “Are you here for an appointment?” asked the woman, ignoring his question.

  Rupert hesitated. Here was an opportunity to get into the building. His instinct as a journalist was to seize the moment. But he knew it was a gross invasion of Luke’s privacy.

  “No,” he replied at last. “I’ve got the wrong place. Can I help you with that?”

  “That’s very kind,” replied the woman. “Could you push the doorbell?”

  Rupert did so, and the woman looked up at the camera. A moment later, there was a loud buzz from within. The woman leaned against the door and pushed it open. She turned to Rupert and gave a brisk nod of her head, then disappeared inside. The door closed behind her.

  Rupert stood on the steps a moment longer. Whatever was wrong with Luke, whatever had caused his outburst last night, at least it looked like he was getting help. Rupert glanced at his watch and cursed. Now he was really late for the editorial meeting.

  “I’M SO sorry, Eileen,” said Rupert. “The train broke down outside Oxford Circus.”

  Eileen Jones sat typing at a desk in her small, glass-walled office to the side of the main newsroom. She had her back to Rupert when he opened the door, and continued to type as he waited patiently on the threshold. He knew she could see him. There was a convex mirror fixed on the wall above her desk. It allowed her to see people behind her. After several minutes, the typing stopped. Eileen closed the lid of her laptop and swiveled round in her chair.

  “I don’t have long,” she said. “I can’t imagine you’ve got much to tell me. It’s only a day since I gave you the assignment.”

  Rupert remained in the doorway, waiting for an invitation to enter his editor’s office. None was forthcoming.

  “Not quite,” he replied. “I’ve received some information about a series of apparent suicides around the UK in the last three months. The NCA are investigating them because of similar, suspicious circumstances. They might not be suicides.”

  Eileen looked over the top of her spectacles at Rupert.

  “That’s a crime piece,” she said. “Not a societal impact story with political ramifications. That’s what I commissioned from you yesterday, and I took you off the news desk for it. Sounds like you’re hankering to get back to news.”

  “Eileen,” replied Rupert, “I think it’s too early to disregard the story in relation to the Manwatch report. I need to correlate the statistics.”

  “You say these deaths are in the last three months. The Manwatch report is for the last four years. I very much doubt some serial killer has been on the loose for that long without his efforts going unnoticed. Stick to the Manwatch report. Who have you spoken to so far?”

  “Well, the NCA, as I mentioned—”

  “I meant at Manwatch,” Eileen cut in. She peered intently at Rupert. “You haven’t even spoken to them yet, have you?”

  Rupert didn’t reply.

  “Mr. Pendley-Evans.” Eileen shook her head. “You know as well as I do what I need. Don’t come back until you’ve got it.” She turned back to her desk and glared at him in the convex mirror. “And if you haven’t got it in a week, we’ll sit down and review your career together.”

  Rupert stood in the doorway for a moment longer. I know what you need, Eileen Jones, he thought to himself. But he knew better than to say it out loud.

  SANDRA WAS at her desk when Rupert returned. “Wotcha, darlin’,” she said. “You’ve got a face like a wet weekend.” She propelled her chair across the threadbare carpet and pulled up alongside Rupert as he sat down.

  “What’s in this mystery, gift-wrapped package on your desk, by the way?” She picked up the bag from the bookshop and shook it. “An’ more importantly, ’oo’s it for? Or can I guess?”

  “I’m going to kill that woman very soon,” said Rupert. He threw his notebook down on the desk. “She’s trying to spike my story even before I’ve finished writing it.”

  “I thought you was all kissy-kissy wiv ’er again? Certainly seemed that way after yesterday’s mee
tin’. She takes you off news desk and gives you a feature piece to do.” Sandra leaned across and rested her head on Rupert’s shoulder. “Or are you bein’ Mister Precious all over again?”

  Rupert pushed her away and pulled his chair toward the desk. “Go away, Sandra. I’ve got work to do.”

  “An’ what happened when yer got back last night?” Sandra was not giving up. “Was ’e still up? Is your tasteful little gift in that bag sayin’ ‘thank yer for ’avin’ me,’ or ‘please will yer ’ave me tonight’?”

  Rupert swung round on his chair and glowered at Sandra. She responded by crossing her eyes and blowing kisses at him. Rupert continued to glare at her for several seconds before he gave a deep sigh. He stretched out his long legs, flexed his arms behind his head, and shook his head.

  “I really don’t know what’s going on, Sandra,” he said. “He gives me come-on signals. Then, when I make a move, it all comes to a shuddering halt. Normally when that happens, you won’t see me for dust. But this time….”

  “Ooh, Rupert’s in love.” Sandra jumped to her feet, clasped her hands to her heart, and flickered her eyelashes at him. He shook his head and turned back to his desk.

  “Go away, will you? I really need to catch up after this morning.”

  Sandra picked up the bag with Luke’s gift inside and dangled it in front of Rupert’s face.

  “Go on,” she said. “What you got ’im, then? I ’ope it’s somethin’ sexy.”

  Rupert grabbed the bag away from Sandra and put it on the opposite side of the desk.

  “It’s a book by Sir John Betjeman if you must know,” he replied as he logged into his laptop. He took out the memory card Jerry had given him earlier and plugged it into the side of the computer.

  “Who the fuck’s ’e when ’e’s at home?” asked Sandra.

  “He’s a poet,” replied Rupert, testily. “From the twentieth century. He was poet laureate in fact.”

  Sandra burst out laughing. “Poet to the Queen? Now I understand.” She leaned forward to whisper in Rupert’s ear, “You queens ’ave got to stick together after all, ’aven’t yer?”

  Chapter 10

  RUPERT REACHED into his desk drawer and pulled out a pair of large headphones. He plugged them into his phone and chose a playlist he had long ago dubbed his “Sandra Silencer.” He loved Sandra deeply, but right now she was driving him up the wall.

  He turned to his laptop and gazed at the contents of the memory stick. There was only one document, and it was encrypted. Rupert entered the password Jerry had given him for any documents they exchanged.

  Jerry’s report was seventy-eight pages in total. The first four were a tightly written summary of four male deaths, with similarities, coincidences, and speculation highlighted. The remaining seventy-four were copies of the autopsy reports for three of the four deaths Jerry had outlined to Rupert. The report for the Chiswick death was not yet available. Rupert rapidly skimmed through the four-page summary. The Chiswick autopsy was being handled by a pathologist called Dr. Rosalind Friend. A piece of luck for Rupert. He and Rosalind had been on the planning committee of London’s Gay Pride three years in a row. She was about five years older than him, with a good heart and an acid tongue.

  He paused the music on his phone, dialed a number, and took off his headphones. The call only rang twice before it was answered.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to call me. What do you want?”

  “Lovely to speak to you too, Rosalind,” replied Rupert. “Have you missed me?”

  “How can I miss you?” came her response. “You’re never out of the newspapers.”

  “You don’t have to read them, my sweet,” countered Rupert.

  “That’s true,” mused Rosalind. “And the ones you’re in are such rags. Aren’t you embarrassed to be splashed across their pages?”

  “Should I hang up and call back later?” asked Rupert. He was not in the mood for Rosalind’s barbed jibes. “It’s clearly a bad time.”

  “Oh, don’t be so sensitive, young man. This is what they call banter. I’m sure you must have heard it before. Although maybe your little fawning, sycophantic entourage in the BBC is far too deferential to subject you to that.” Rupert heard Rosalind take a long drag on a cigarette. She exhaled as she spoke. “Think on this as an education for your eventual ejection into the real world.”

  Rupert was about to reply when she pressed on.

  “But to the matter in hand. I presume you’re calling me about twenty-year-old Richard Barnett. Found hanging in a Chiswick boathouse three days ago. Death by strangulation. Traces of a drug, apparently a refined derivative of scopolamine, in his bloodstream and urine. No other signs of violence or injury to the body. Healthy young man in a reasonable physical condition. Bizarre religious paraphernalia concealed in an inner pocket of the boy’s—sorry, young man’s—jacket and hidden in his shoes.” She exhaled noisily before continuing. “You can’t come round today because I’m too busy, but if you want to visit tomorrow, I expect at least a bouquet of roses for my troubles.”

  Rosalind’s explosive laugh turned into a fit of coughing.

  “You know those things will kill you, don’t you?” said Rupert.

  “No, Rupert,” replied Rosalind, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. “Ridiculous deadlines with no extra resources from my so-called superiors will kill me. Cancer sticks will simply make that experience more bearable.”

  “Red or pink?”

  “What?”

  “The roses,” replied Rupert. “Red to match your eyes or pink to go with your pouting lips?”

  Rosalind laughed. “That’s better. See what ten minutes with me does for you? How’s your love life by the way? Still with that Portuguese boy with a big dick and no brain?”

  Rupert had to think for a moment.

  “Oh, you mean Antonio,” he replied, as he recalled the three-month fling he had started back in April. “He was from Brazil, not Portugal. That was ages ago. We went to Berlin together, and he never came back. He’s moved in with some Nordic god he met in a leather bar.”

  “Oh, you boys and your obsessions with dressing up,” said Rosalind with a sniff. “Women are far more straightforward.”

  Rupert laughed loudly. The sound drew a quizzical look from Sandra.

  “Now I know you’ve been drinking the formaldehyde again, Rosalind,” he said. “How is Alison, by the way? It would be good to have another night out with you two again.”

  “Only if we go to a place where you’re not distracted by some twink after less than an hour,” said Rosalind. “Now, I have to go. I’ve left a death by drowning out of the chiller for over half an hour, and he’s beginning to whiff a bit. See you at two tomorrow with a dozen red roses.”

  And she hung up.

  Rupert sat and stared into the distance. Rosalind’s question about his love life brought his thoughts back to Luke. He closed his eyes and recalled the sight of the sleeping American from the previous night. He pictured the slope of Luke’s broad shoulders, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The light from the half-open doorway had highlighted curls of black hair down his abdomen, on his upper arms, and on the exposed thigh of his right leg. Rupert felt a stirring in his groin. He held his eyes closed and indulged the memory of a moment unfulfilled. The moment when he could have crossed the threshold to enter Luke’s room. Rupert slowly ran his hand down the top of his thigh and imagined it belonged to Luke.

  “Oy, sleepyhead!”

  Sandra’s voice cut through his daydream. He opened his eyes and shook his head.

  “I’m going to get coffee. Do you want it black?”

  RUPERT COULD hear an Adele album playing loudly even before he opened the front door of Luke’s apartment that evening. As he walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, the music switched to a track by an American artist he had listened to when he lived in Washington. Rupert could hear Luke singing along loudly. Rupert’s calls of greeting went unheeded. He stood in the kitc
hen doorway and admired the sight of Luke’s swaying hips. They described a slow arc to the rhythm of the singer’s ballad.

  “At last I’ve found what I’m looking for,” sang Luke loudly. “This is the love I’ve longed for—”

  Luke expertly crushed garlic and salt using the flat face of a sharp knife. Within a minute it had transformed into garlic paste. He picked up the chopping board and scraped the paste into a skillet of hot butter. With a loud sizzling noise, the rich smell of frying garlic hit Rupert’s nostrils.

  “I can sing it out loud, but words are not enough,” Luke continued singing. He put down the chopping board and turned, the knife still in his hand. He froze when he saw Rupert watching him.

  “Oh my God. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough,” Rupert said with a laugh. “Please, carry on. It’s a sight for sore eyes after today.”

  Luke turned back to the stove. “I can’t perform with an audience.” His voice was subdued. “I can’t sing anyway.”

  Rupert stepped into the kitchen and placed the bookshop bag on the worktop to the right of Luke. He turned and put an arm across Luke’s shoulders.

  “I disagree. You have a great voice. And your hips move even better.”

  Luke twisted his shoulders awkwardly. He reached away from Rupert and retrieved a bunch of parsley, which he rapidly chopped and scraped into the skillet of frying garlic. Then he reached for a bowl of uncooked king prawns and stood, bowl in hand, stirring the garlic and parsley with a wooden spatula. Rupert dropped his arm from Luke’s shoulder and picked up the bookshop bag. He pulled out the gift-wrapped book and offered it to Luke.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Luke,” he said. “Here. I got this today. A small thank-you for putting up with me.”