Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2001 06:15:37 EST
From: MGouda3464@aol.com
Subject: Ketamine Kidnap

KETAMINE KIDNAP

11th 'Feltenham' Mystery

Michael Gouda


1
THE QUEEN'S HEAD, ISLINGTON, NORTH LONDON
TUESDAY EVENING 9.30 pm

The man, dark haired, well-dressed in a sharp dark suit, single-breasted,
single-buttoned jacket, sat at the bar and surveyed everyone who came in.
His eyes, over the high cheekbones, had a sardonic glint, derisive and
calculating - if it were possible to combine the unsympathetic cynicism of
the former with the sly cunning of the latter.

The Queen's Head, Islington, was occasionally 'gayish' but not outrageously
so. Tonight it looked anything but. The engraved mirrors on the walls gave
a hint of its Victorian past. The paintwork was tobacco-smoke colour.

The man sipped his glass of lager and looked around. Two young lads were
playing darts, one tall and slim, his friend more tubby and dark. Both in
their way attractive. An elderly man in a cloth cap and a woman who was
presumably his wife - as he paid her no attention at all - sat at a table
in the corner and looked as if they were not enjoying themselves. He had a
pint of beer, she a port and lemon.

Time passed. The dark-haired man ordered and consumed drinks. He
waited. The bar filled.

A youth with longish blond hair curling at the nape of his neck - could he
have been of legal age to consume alcohol in a bar? - came in and perhaps
by chance, perhaps on purpose stood next to the dark-haired man who
observed him closely for a while. The youth tried to attract the attention
of the barmaid, but without success. Maybe she was ignoring him so that she
did not have to refuse him service.

"Let me get you one," said the dark-haired man, and gestured to the
barmaid,

"I ain't gay," said the youth, who clearly knew the scene. He was
adolescently slim, hips encased in loose blue jogging-pants, a fitted white
T-shirt. His eyes were blue, his nose tip-tilted and his lips a slight
pout.

"Never mind. What do you want to drink?"

"Vodka ... " said the youth.

"Neat?"

" ... and orange."

The man ordered and paid for a double.

The youth swallowed. "Do you do this a lot?" he asked.

"Do what?'

"Buy drinks for people you don't know."

"Only if I like the look of them," said the man.

"I ain't gay," repeated the youth.

"So you said. I'm not expecting anything in return."

"Just so as you know." He took another gulp, almost finishing the
glass. "I've gotta go to the bog," he said.

"I'll get you another," said the man. "No strings."

"OK," said the youth. "Thanks." He weaved his way through the customers to
the opposite side of the room where a sign over a doorway said `Gentlemen'.
The man looked round quickly to see if he was being observed then felt in
his jacket pocket and took out a small bottle. Holding it concealed in his
palm he unscrewed the top, then poured the contents into the youth's
half-filled glass. It was a practised movement as if it had been done many
times before. The liquid was colourless and immediately merged into the
drink.

"Put another one in here, please," the man said to the barmaid holding up
the glass.

When the youth came back, he seemed more compliant, less on the defensive.
He sat on the bar stool next to the man and tasted his drink. "Sometimes
they won't serve me," he said confidentially, "but I AM eighteen." His eyes
were naive. He might know this was a gay bar but he hadn't had much
experience, thought the man.

"Of course you are," said the man. "But they have to be careful. They'd
lose their licence if they're found serving under-age kids."

"You're not a policeman?"

The man laughed and shook his head. "If you're not gay, what are you doing
in here?" he asked.

The youth at first looked a little evasive, hesitated, then appeared to
make up his mind. "I was told you could get drugs here," he said.

"You take drugs?"

"Oh well." The tone was blase but it seemed to hide an uncertainty.
"Sometimes. Just for a lift, you know. Not seriously into them."

"Drink up," said the man, "and I'll get you another. By the way, what's
your name?"

"Er ... Lance," said the youth. After the hesitation it sounded unlikely
but the man didn't say anything. After all it didn't matter to him at all.

"You trying to get me drunk?" asked Lance but he emptied his glass and
handed it over.

"You can have a straight orange juice, if you want," said the man, glancing
at his watch. Seven to eleven minutes, he thought.

"I can take me drink," said Lance stoutly. "No problems there."

"Of course you can. Fine, upstanding figure of a man, that you are. I'm
sure you can take all you get."

Lance looked at him sharply to see if he was taking the piss, but the man's
smile hadn't changed from its casually ironic expression, the thick
eyebrows drawn together in - what? A frown? A smirk? A sneer? It was
difficult to tell.

"Vodka and orange," said the man to the barmaid. "Make it a single this
time," he added in a lower tone, "and I'll have another beer."

"What do you do for a living, Lance?" he asked, handing him the glass.

"Unemployed." Suddenly he seemed to find this funny and sniggered, the
laugh extending itself more than was necessary. The man put his hand on
Lance's knee. It wasn't a suggestive move, just implied caution.

"Live at home?"

Lance nodded. "Mum and Dad, two brothers, two sisters."

"That's cozy."

The youth frowned. "Never any room for myself," he said a touch bitterly.
"Always someone there, in the way. And no job means I don't get out as much
as I want. And no fucking money either." His voice rose.

The man patted his leg again. "I understand," he said sympathetically.

"Bet you've got a good job." He frowned again but this time with a
suggestion of apprehension. He touched his head with the palm of his hand.

"You feeling all right?" asked the man.

"Bit dizzy."

"Too much to drink."

"I've only had three," he said indignantly and tossed off the last one.

"Five," said the man. "Come on. I'll see you're OK."  The boy got to his
feet and staggered a little. "I'll make sure he gets home all right," he
added to the barmaid who was staring at both of them. With his arm round
Lance's shoulder he assisted him out of the bar and into the fresh air.

"Where we going?" asked Lance, the words slightly slurred. He didn't sound
alarmed though, not even apprehensive.

"Back to my place," said the man. "Don't worry. I'll see you're OK." The
arm around Lance's shoulders was supportive as well as affectionate.

When Lance got home in the very small hours of the following morning, there
were a few things that puzzled him - not exactly worried him - just things
he couldn't explain. For one thing he had little recollection of what had
happened to him. He remembered the bar and the man with the dark eyebrows
buying him drinks - and after that - nothing.

Then there was the fact that his clothes didn't seem to be on properly. The
buttons of his shirt were fastened cackhandedly, his belt was on the wrong
hole, his underpants were missing - as if he had dressed himself hurriedly
or - stupid thought - as if someone else had dressed him.

He felt strangely excited, found himself almost jumping as he let himself
in through the front door, ran up the stairs without any caution and
entered the bedroom he shared with his younger brother. His arse felt sore,
no not exactly sore - stretched, and he didn't know why.

"Is that you, Darren?" asked his brother sleepily. "What time d'you call
this?"

"Later than you think, squirt," said 'Lance', undressing. He got into his
bed and almost immediately fell asleep.



2
WEDNESDAY NIGHT, ISLINGTON, NORTH LONDON 11.30 pm

He didn't grate the gears. The tarmac slipped smoothly beneath the tires.
Bennie flicked a switch on the real wood dashboard and music played, a pop
song with heavy pounding rhythms and a chorus of boy singers with
strangulated falsettos. But the tune was catchy and Bennie sang with it.
His face was lit intermittently as the car passed under the street lights.
His eyes gleaming, a smile on his mouth, he hadn't a care in the world.

"It's like flying," he said and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. He
approached a turn and negotiated it without slowing down, the tyres
screaming.

It was at that moment that this old guy stepped out from the pavement. He
shouldn't have been out at that time of night. Must have been deaf as a
post as the car was making enough noise, Bennie jammed on the brakes. The
tyres squealed again but this time with a different sound. The man heard,
turned, saw - and had no idea what to do... He hesitated, seemed about to
run on, then stepped back. Bennie twisted the wheel and the car missed him
but skidded across the road, straight into the wall on the other side. The
windscreen shattered, pieces of glass catching the lights like a shower of
sparks. The bonnet crumpled. Bennie's body went forward into the wheel and
his arm snagged on a sliver of glass. Blood welled from the wound. For a
moment the high, almost sexless, singing went on. Then it stopped.

The old man stared at the wreck, at the driver in his seat, looked about
not knowing what to do. The driver stirred, obviously not dead as the old
man had at first feared. There was a telephone box just down the road. He
dialed 999 and asked for Ambulance, the Police, explained the details.

They arrived together, sirens sounding in competition. The paramedics had
first go. The driver was conscious, in fact seemed to be in a state of wild
exhilaration, the wound in his arm causing him no concern at all. Did he
remember his name, they asked. "Bennie," he replied and laughed as if this
was a great joke. "Bennie Charter."

"Do you feel any pain?"

He shook his head, roaring with laughter.

"Drunk," said the constable from the police car. "Can we take a breath
test?"

The paramedics got him out and tried to lay him down on a stretcher but he
shook off their hands and stood in the road.

"Blow into this," said the P.C. and Bennie did so though it seemed
uproarious.

"Below the limit," said the P.C. sounding surprised. "Drugs?"

"We'll get him to hospital and give him a test."

But there were no positive results for the usual sorts of drugs and the
case remained a mystery. In the morning, when he had recovered, he was
still unsure of what had happened. All he remembered was that he had been
in the Queen's Head, Islington the previous night, had had a drink - no
more than one, he stated, with someone - the description was vague though
he thought he was dark and could remember nothing more. However he was
charged with dangerous driving and a report was made. Because it was in
Keith Hatch's area, a copy was sent to him.


3
THURSDAY MORNING 10.30 am
'Trendy Clobber' clothes shop, ISLINGTON, NORTH LONDON

Peter Lippett surveyed himself ruefully in the full length mirror of the
department store cubicle. The trousers didn't fit; the jacket was too young
for him. It might suit a teenager, but not someone of twenty-three, a
police constable in the London Metropolitan Force and street-wise man of
the world.

Not that he'd lost his figure. He had no need to suck in his stomach, not
like many of his other colleagues - boozers all, looking middle-aged before
they'd got out of their twenties. That didn't of course include his boss,
Inspector Hatch, who must be thirty-five if he was a day and for whom Peter
had an almost hero-worship attachment. Trouble was Inspector Hatch - Peter
liked to think of him as Keith, but of course never called him that - was
married. Married in the gay sense and would never, Peter knew, be detached
from his partner, whatever opportunities Peter was prepared to offer.

He sighed.

The curtain which protected his privacy twitched and was flung aside, the
rings rattling on the metal rod. The sales assistant swept in. Dark-haired,
dark eyebrows, a single earring in his left ear. Apart from that he was
dressed conventionally in jacket and trousers. Must surely be gay though.
Wouldn't have come in like that otherwise hoping to catch him with his
trousers down.

"Oh dear," said the assistant, posing for a moment and surveying with one
finger at his lips, then smiling. "That doesn't suit sir at all. Trousers
not nearly snug enough." His hand grasped the loose crotch, fingers
grazing, surely not unintentionally, Peter's cock, dressing to the left as
always. "We'll have to do something about that." What he wanted to do and
what he was actually referring to was hinted by the uplifted right eyebrow.

"I want something smart," said Peter, ignoring any invitation which might
be being offered. "It's a big interview, and I've got to look smart."

"Sir is going for a new job?" asked the assistant.

"Promotion interview," said Peter. He hoped he wouldn't be asked any
further questions. It was always difficult as to the right time to tell
someone he was a policeman - albeit in the Gay Liaison Force. On the first
meeting, before getting into bed, after sex was over, the following morning
- if it got that far?

"I see sir in something blue. Dark blue, to match sir's eyes.
Single-breasted.  A single slit up the back. Now that's an interesting
idea."  His own eyes were provocative. "And very close fitting trousers.
Such good legs." He ran his hands appreciatively from the knee up and
stopped just a centimeter below propriety. "Don't run away," he said and
exited with a swish of the curtain.

Peter stood for a moment looking at himself in the mirror, but thinking
about the young assistant. Did he want this new entanglement? Keith always
accused him of getting involved with the wrong type of guy and Peter knew
that this was true. The first one had been Stiff whom he'd met at a gay
club and who had been a suspect in a murder investigation . Also a drug
user and dealer. And a male prostitute. Looking back Peter realised how
stupid he'd been to get involved and how inevitable the ending. Others had
followed, equally doomed. Why he couldn't be satisfied with one night
stands and no commitment, he didn't know. He shrugged. Perhaps the next one
would be the right one.

He took off the jacket, unzipped the unbecoming trousers and bent to take
them off.

The curtain swished open again and the assistant came in with some suits on
hangers draped over his arm. "Hm. Nice," he said.

Embarrassed, Peter stood up, the trousers in a tangle around his ankles. He
felt at a distinct disadvantage. He tried to lift his feet out of the
clinging material.

"Can I help sir?" Without waiting for an answer he went over to Peter,
knelt down. "Lift your foot," he said. Peter did so and, off-balance, felt
himself losing his stability. To steady himself he grabbed hold of the
shoulder in front of him. Efficiently the assistant removed one trouser leg
and then the other.

Kneeling, he looked up at Peter's face, Peter's hand still on his shoulder,
and then straight ahead at eye level where Peter's crotch, in its white
cotton jockey shorts was directly ahead of him. His hands hovered for a
moment and then homed in on the bulge. Peter felt his cock grasped and two
lips nuzzling where his shirt opened to expose the smooth skin of his
stomach, where the fine hairs disappeared beneath the waistband of his
shorts.

Peter drew his breath in. His cock hardened and the hand stroked it under
its cloth protection, then peeled the elasticated waist band down so that
the cock sprang out, inviting. Lips opened and mouth, warm, moist, clamped
over it.

What was he doing, Peter thought, his eyes fixed on that insubstantial
curtain between them and the outside world, a world where people walked,
picked up clothing, casually took them into changing areas to try them on,
whisking the curtain aside to reveal.... Headlines flashed in front of his
eyes. 'Policeman caught in compromising situation'. No they would be much
franker than that. 'Copper copping off in shop'. But still the mouth held
him in its tender vice.

Then, abruptly, suddenly, heart-stoppingly, a voice from outside. "Jason,
are you free?" Camp, awful echoes of 'Are you Being Served?'

"I'm busy with a customer," said Jason, taking brief time off from sucking.

But Peter had had enough. "Not here," he said, pulling himself away,
covering his erection with his pants. "It's too dangerous."

"Eric knows what I mean when I say that," said Jason, reaching again for
the bulge.

Peter shook his head. "Somewhere else," he said. "If you want to. But not
here."

"I finish at half past six. sir."

"My name's Peter."

"Until you buy a suit, you're a 'sir'. After that...." Jason smiled and
gave him a kiss and a final grope before proceeding with the fitting and
eventual sale of a suit.


4
THURSDAY EVENING 6.30 pm

That was how Peter had met Jason - in the changing-room of a men's
boutique.  It wasn't an auspicious beginning but it got better afterwards.
That Wednesday had been Peter's day off so there was no obstacle to get in
the way of his being outside 'Trendy Clobber' at 6.30 pm. Peter hadn't
decided where they would go afterwards. He lived in a policeman's block
and, though the others knew he was gay, bringing back other guys led to
ferocious kidding which Peter could well do without. He had no idea where
or in what circumstances Jason lived.

They compromised with a drink to start off, dropping into the nearest pub
which happened to be 'The Queen's Head'. It was early and there were few
people in the bar. One dark-haired, saturnine-looking man sitting by
himself at the bar gave them a searching look as they went in but Peter
didn't notice and Jason gave no sign of doing so.

"Are you hungry?" asked Peter.

"For food?" asked Jason, smiling and standing close enough that their hips
touched briefly.

"Food - at the moment."

Jason nodded. "Ravenous," he said.

Peter bought two halves of lager and two pies and they chose a table in an
alcove by the door. Jason slid in one side and Peter debated whether to sit
beside him, where he could get close, or opposite, where he could look at
him. He decided on the latter, sliding along the bench so that their knees
touched under the table.

There was a brief moment of shyness which they covered by eating. Jason
lifted his pie and took a bite. Some rich gravy oozed out and ran down his
chin.

Peter laughed. "Did you ever see that old film, Tom Jones?" he asked.

"The dinner scene." He made his pie into a travesty of a sexual object and
started licking it suggestively.

"I love those old 1960s films," said Peter.

"Barbarella," said Jason and they both laughed. "Carnivorous dolls and
flying away with a blind angel."

"He was beautiful."

"Beautiful as me?" asked Jason coquettishly. Peter was aware that his left
knee was imprisoned between a pair of legs under the table while a hand
stroked his thigh going higher and higher.

He looked at Jason. Dark hair, spiked with gel, the ends bleached blond,
dark eyebrows, these he had noticed the first time. Now he studied his
face, fresh complexioned, youthful. Peter could imagine his whole body with
that soft, olive skin. Brown candid eyes and a smile that curled up a pair
of invitingly generous lips.

He had changed from his 'shop clothes' and now wore a dark blue pullover
emblazoned with the letters 'UCLA' on the front and back in white. Peter
envisioned peeling it off and found himself getting quite excited.

"Not quite," he said, "but very nearly so."

"I base my clothes-removing technique on Barbarella."

"I think I'd like to see that," said Peter.

"Here?" asked Jason, half standing and looking as if he was prepared to
remove his pullover immediately.

"Haven't you any better place we can go to? Perhaps somewhere slightly less
public?"

For the first time Jason seemed slightly less sure of himself. "It's
difficult," he said. "I still live with my parents." Suddenly he
sneezed. "Bloody hay fever," he said.

For a moment Peter wondered how old Jason was. Since the recent passing of
the Age Consent Law, 16 was the legal limit but Peter didn't feel it
appropriate to have sex with a kid of 16.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Don't worry," said Jason, "I'm old enough. Just haven't got a place of my
own. Haven't you anywhere to go?"

Peter looked at the young, eager face watching him and made a decision.
"Yes," he said, "I've got a place but there's something you have to know.
Don't freak out. I'm a policeman."

He'd had a variety of reactions to this announcement varying from horror to
fear. Jason's face broke into a delighted grin.

"Just wait till I tell Eric tomorrow," he said. "OK, guv, it's a fair cop.
I'll come quietly."

"I hope you do," said Peter. "The walls are very thin."


5
THURSDAY EVENING
Peter's flat 9.30 pm

They went up to Peter's bedroom which was chilly in the evening and he
switched on both bars of his electric fire. Soon it was warm. They sat on
Peter's bed, side by side, close so that their thighs touched. Peter put
his hand on Jason's thigh and slowly moved it upwards.  Jason lay back and
Peter grasped hold of his groin and softly squeezed him through the
material of his jeans. Jason reached up and grabbed Peter's arms, pulling
him down on top of him.  Their faces were close and Peter's mouth fastened
on to Jason's. There was a moment's resistance and then Jason responded,
opening his mouth and letting his tongue join with Peter's.  At the same
time they pushed their bodies together, pressing pelvis against pelvis so
that they seemed almost to be trying to get inside each other.

Jason came up for air. "Let's take our clothes off," he said. Swiftly they
took off trainers and socks, sweaters, shirts and jeans and underpants
until they stood, completely naked facing each other. They both shivered
with the chill and the excitement and they climbed into bed, holding each
other, their tongues and hands exploring each others' bodies. Peter, on
top, slowly inched down Jason's body, kissing and licking. He paused and
sucked at the nipples, then went down and put his tongue in Jason's navel.

Jason giggled and wriggled so Peter went even lower so that he could feel
the fuzz of pubic hair around that sprouting cock.

"Turn round," said Jason's voice, high with arousal, "so I can do the same
to you.  Peter needed no second urging and soon both their faces were
buried in each other's groins. Peter ran his tongue up and down the erect
shaft and then licked the firm young balls, taking each one into his mouth
and gently mouthing them one at a time.  Then he moved back and enclosed
the prick as far as he could into his mouth.  He could feel his own
erection being taken into Jason's warm mouth and knew ecstasy. He put one
arm over Jason's legs and gently explored his arse.  He found the hole and
inserted his finger.  He heard Jason gasp and then felt him doing the
same. He pushed harder, at the same time sucking and wanking with his free
hand.

Jason gasped, "I'm coming," and then clamped his mouth down again.There was
a warm, salty spurt into Peter's mouth but all he felt was his whole being
centred in his own groin as a source of pleasure, exploding and pulsing
again and again. Afterwards they lay there, sticky and satisfied, just
happy to be together, occasionally stroking each other, finding out slowly
and carefully, each other's secret parts.


6
THE QUEEN'S HEAD, ISLINGTON
THURSDAY EVENING 9.30 pm

"Do you want a drink?" asked the man with the dark eyebrows and the cynical
smile.

"Sorry, mate, you're not my type," said the young man with the curly hair.
He said it pleasantly enough but his eyes were searching the room for
someone who presumably was.

"No strings," said the man. "I was only looking for company. Have a drink
anyway."

The youth shrugged. "OK," he said. "Thanks. I'll have a beer."

The man went to the bar. He seemed to be having a little trouble with the
glasses as he turned them round a couple of time with an odd motion of his
hand over them before picking them up and bringing them over. "Cheers," he
said and raised his glass.

The youth took a deep swallow, breathed deeply a couple of times, coughed.

"Are you all right?" asked the man.

"Bit of asthma." The youth took out an inhaler from his pocket and sucked
two deep puffs from it.

"Getting very common these days," said the man sympathetically. "It's the
pollution, I guess. Though some put it down to central heating."

The youth didn't seem too interested in the subject. He took another long
swallow from the glass. Perhaps he regretted his acceptance of the drink,
now saw it as some sort of an obligation and wanted to finish it as soon as
possible. But the man chatted amiably enough for a while and the youth
found himself telling his name - Joe Randolph, his job - bricklayer, where
he lived - Finsbury Park, chattering away carelessly until suddenly he
stopped and put his hand to his head.

"What's the matter?" asked the man.

"I feel funny."

"Get some fresh air. I'll take you outside."

Joe made no obvious objection and the man helped him from the pub.


7
SATURDAY MORNING 9.30 am

Detective Inspector Keith Hatch of the Metropolitan Gay Liaison Force,
brisk, efficient, short-cropped brown hair and intelligent eyes, skimmed
through the autopsy report. It was an odd case. A young man, Joe Randolph,
aged 20 had been found dead the day before in a car park by a postman doing
his rounds in the morning. The body had been there, it was estimated, most
of the night and preliminary examination had suggested oxygen starvation to
the heart and muscles, and a resultant heart attack.

But there were other elements. The young man had had anal sex, he being the
passive partner, shortly before he died. Traces of semen had been found
inside him. The police had obviously taken an interest and a post mortem
ordered to see if there were any signs of foul play. Now the autopsy report
confirmed that there were no physical bruises or cuts on the body, that
there was a small amount of alcohol present but also traces of a drug,
ketamine hydrochloride.

Inspector Hatch had never even heard of it. He rang the pathologist, Henry
Styles.

"Ah yes..." said Styles as soon as she had got through to him and
identified himself, "How's your Chief Inspector? How's Sheridan?"

"He's retired," Keith said and thought - and not before time as well,
though he said nothing. "As far as I know he's well." Eating too much, he
thought, not taking enough exercise. If anyone should have had a heart
attack, it ought to have been ex C.I. Sheridan.

"Is he?" said Mr Styles. "Is he indeed? Well what can I do for you."

"It's this case," said Inspector Hatch. "Joe Randolph. Can you tell me
something about this stuff you found in him, `ketamine hydrochloride'?
I've never heard of it."

"Haven't you?" said Styles, in a surprised tone as if it showed supreme
ignorance. "Well I suppose it is rather new. Ketamine is a powerful
anaesthetic used in the UK mainly by vets on farm animals ... "

"Farm animals!"

" ... although it does have some human medical applications," said Styles
ignoring his amazed interruption. "It blocks signals in the brain that
recognise the sensations of pain. It also lowers the heart rate and so with
larger doses it can lead to oxygen starvation to the brain and muscles. An
overdose can also cause the heart to stop."

"And that's what happened to Joe? An overdose?"

"Not necessarily. The young man was an asthma sufferer, who sometimes react
badly to ketamine."

"Was it injected?" asked Keith.

"I couldn't find any marks," said Styles, "but it's quite possible to take
it in liquid form, in a drink for instance."

"Without the person's knowledge?"

"I suppose so."

"And what would be the reaction?"

"Sleepiness a short while after ingestion, then in fact complete
unawareness of what has been going on. When the drug wears off there is
often a feeling of exhilaration but probably no recollection of what has
happened. In medical uses, the patient is kept very quiet."

"Drug assisted rape," said Keith.

"Exactly so. A serial rapist's panacea."

"And could have been used on many victims."

"I cannot speculate but I should imagine so."

An unpleasant thought struck Inspector Hatch. "Is it possible to test the
traces of semen for HIV?" she asked.

There was a brief pause, then an affirmation. Keith rang off looking
thoughtful. He glanced through the rest of the memos on his desk but there
didn't seem to be any of importance - though one of dangerous driving
caught his attention briefly - then he called for his assistant. "Peter,
come in here will you. We could've got a big problem."

Police Constable Peter Lippett came into his boss's office smiling broadly
and looking as if his attention was anywhere but on the case in hand.

Keith Hatch viewed him with apprehension. Freed now from the worries over
his partner, Phil's arrest he was able to give complete attention to his
assistant's behaviour. He knew the signs. Peter was in love - again.

It wouldn't do his promotion prospects any good. Peter was a degree
graduate, on fast track to a Sergeant, at least, by twenty-five. Dear old
Sergeant Webb was due for retirement in two years time and Keith thought
Peter would make a good replacement. He and Peter worked well together. He
hoped this current infatuation wouldn't jeopardise the lad's chances. He'd
have to have a word with him about it, though he disliked interfering in
Peter's private life, unless he, himself raised the subject.

"There could be a guy going around drugging youngsters, taking them home
and raping them," he said. "One lad has certainly died as a result of the
drug."

"Sick," said Peter.

"It's possible that the man doesn't realise how dangerous the drug is. The
guy who died suffered from asthma and apparently asthma, hayfever, diseases
that affect the breathing react badly to the drug."

"Even so," said Peter.

"Yes, we've got to stop him. We've got to catch him."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Well we know where the body was discovered - Jasmine Street. We know where
the guy, Joe Randolph. lived - Fortescue Road. They're what, about half a
mile apart. He was obviously local, presumably met the person who drugged
him, also locally. After sex, Joe collapsed, perhaps on the way and he left
him there."

"Joe could have known the guy and gone to his house, got the drug there and
when he collapsed, the guy panicked and took him to where he was found."

"I've got the report here," said Keith picking up a folder. "There's no
evidence that Joe died anywhere but where he was found. There's even
scratch marks made by Joe in the dirt when he struggled for breath."

"We could go round the pubs and clubs in the area," said Peter. "Have we
got a photo?"

Keith nodded.

"What is this drug?" asked Peter.

Keith read out from the notes he had made while talking to the pathologist.
"Ketamine hydrochloride. It stops the user feeling pain, which could lead
the user to cause injury to him or herself without them knowing it. It also
lowers the heart rate and so with larger doses it can lead to oxygen
starvation to the brain and muscles. An overdose can cause the heart to
stop."

"Never heard of it."

"It's not one of your everyday, man-on-the-corner pills. Ketamine is
commercially sold as Ketalar and is a powerful anaesthetic used in the UK
mainly by vets on farm animals, although it does have some human medical
applications."

"Farm animals? Hardly likely in the middle of London."

"The supply is thought to come mainly from opportunistic thefts from vets
premises and vehicles as it isn't, on the whole, stored on farms. It
usually comes as a liquid in its pharmaceutical form - stolen vets supplies
will probably come in this form - although it is also found as a white
powder or pill."

"Even so. Why keep it in vets when there aren't any farms around?"

"There's an inner city farming project at Surrey Docks, a herd of milking
goats, a flock of laying hens, sheep, cow, pigs, bees, ducks and geese."

"Bit out of our area, guv," said Peter. "Thought we'd decided it was all
local."

"I've a feeling about this," said Keith. "Find out from the database if
there were any reports of thefts from vets over, say, the last year."

Peter made for the door and his computer but was stopped. "And then you can
take this photo around the local pubs and clubs. See if anyone recognises
him and if he was there last Tuesday."

"All on my own, guv? Don't I get any help?" He could see his day lasting
well into the evening - and he had arranged to meet Jason at half past six.

"Soon as you get your Sergeant's stripes, we can get a really keen PC, and
we'll have that much extra manpower."

Peter went out. Sergeant Webb has sitting at his own desk, shuffling paper
and waiting for his retirement. For one moment Peter thought of telling him
that Inspector Hatch wanted him out on the streets but knew it would be no
use. He sat down at his desk and logged on to the police database.


8
SATURDAY

11.00 am: "Yes," said the receptionist, a young girl with tied back blond
hair. "There was a break in. A coupla months ago. Not much was taken,
according to the vet, but we had to report it because of the insurance." A
black and white dog nosed experimentally about the two policemen's
crutches. "Stop it, Laddie. Sorry about that! He's only being friendly. Do
you want to see Mr Mason? He's busy in the surgery at the moment, but I
expect I can interrupt him."

"Not necessarily. Have you got a list of what was taken?"

She rummaged around in a drawer for a while then found a sheet of paper.
"Here you are. Mr Mason wrote them down and then I typed out the report,"

Keith looked at the list. He didn't recognise any of the names but there
was no 'Ketalar' listed amongst them. "Thank you," he said. "Come on,
Peter, we've others to see." He patted Laddie's head as they went out and
the dog wagged its tail.

The receptionist went into the examination room where the vet was
inspecting an X-ray film on the light board. "The police were here about
the break-in, Mr Mason," she said. "I don't think they've found anyone
though."

Neil Mason frowned, his dark eyebrows almost meeting over the bridge of his
nose. "I doubt they'll make an arrest," he said with a twist of his lips.

The receptionist was never sure whether her boss was smiling or smirking or
sneering. She was a little in awe of him and thought he was strange but to
her he had never been anything except polite and courteous.

12.45 pm: They stopped off for a sandwich and a half of beer at the Dog and
Dumplings in Southgate Road. "I'm sure this pub was called something else
last time I was here." said Keith. "We're losing all the historical
connections we used to have in the old names."

Peter wasn't quite sure what Keith was talking about. He allowed his mind
wander and wondered what Jason was doing, whether he was in that changing
cubicle 'fitting' a new customer. He was surprised at the emotive charge
that this idea gave him. Was he falling for Jason? Certainly his thoughts
kept returning to him. He struggled to bring his attention back.

"Not a very productive morning, Peter."

"So much for your 'special feeling', guv!"

"Peter, once you're a Sergeant you can find fault with me to my face. At
the moment, as P.C. Plonk, my word is God!" His smile took the sting out of
his words. "Anyway I still think vets have something to do with it. How
else could our man have got hold of this Ketamine stuff?"

Peter had no ideas about this.

"Look, I've got to get back to the office," said Keith, swallowing the last
of his drink. "I'd like you to take the photo of the guy who died around to
as many pubs you can manage. Probably your best chance will be gay
pubs. After all that's who this guy's after."

1.30 pm: Keith went through the morning stuff that he had discarded
earlier.  Again he noticed the drink-driving report and this time something
about it caught his attention. The description of the man, no apparent
feelings of pain for his wound, the almost frenzied elation which the
arresting officer had first thought was drunkenness, his apparent lack of
memory about what had happened before the accident.

Surely - these were symptoms of Ketamine poisoning.

"Sergeant," he called to the outer office. "This report on Bennie Charters.
Can you find out where they did the drug analysis of the samples from
him. Urgent, please."

Sergeant Webb stirred himself from his lethargy and dreams of a country
retirement pub and did some telephoning.

By a stroke of good luck, the hospital pathology had not destroyed the
sample taken from Bennie. They had found nothing incriminating in their
tests up to date and would normally have disposed of the urine immediately,
but, because the result had been inexact and the police bewildered, they
had saved it in case further investigation was required.

"Great," said Keith. "Did you test it for ketamine hydrochloride?"

"We weren't asked to."

"It's really rather urgent. Would you be able to?"

"Yes, of course."

"By today?"

"Tomorrow."

"That'll have to do."

3.45 pm: Bennie Charters looked younger than his 24 years. His flat on
Florence Street, N1, was decorated in a style which showed he had good
design sense, too minimalist for Keith's taste but then he had been
'corrupted' by his lover, Phil's love of camp, florid rococo.

"Tell me what happened last Thursday. You say you went to a pub. Which one
was that?"

"The Queen's Head. I remember going in and this chap bought me a drink."

"He didn't give you anything? A pill for instance?"

"No, just a half of bitter. Well a couple of halves, in actual fact."

"What do you think he was after?" asked Keith.

"Oh it was obvious, but I wasn't interested and he said, no strings
attached."

"Was he so unattractive?"

"No, it wasn't that. He was dark, with black hair - and high cheek bones -"
he touched his own to illustrate " - and a sort of smile that wasn't a
smile. Just not my type. He was quite charming though, sort of seemed
interested in everything I said. Though he didn't say much about himself.
In fact I can't remember anything he told me about himself."

"Did he say what his name was?"

"No I don't think he did. Oh wait a minute. Neil, was it? Think so."

"What happened then?"

"I remember feeling a bit dizzy. It wasn't the drink. After all I couldn't
have actually drunk more than a pint. Just strange...." He paused - and
looked a bit confused.

"And then?" prompted Keith.

"Nothing," said Bennie. "I can't remember anything until I came round in
the hospital. And now they're charging me with dangerous driving." He
looked distraught. "I need my car," he said, "for my job. If I lose my
licence, I don't know what I shall do."

Keith tried to comfort him. "It may not have been your fault," he said.
"I'll do what I can."

5.50 pm: Peter produced the photo of Joe Randolph for the umpteenth time.
"He may have been in the pub last Thursday. Do you recognise him?"

"Quite good looking," said the barman. "What's 'e done?"

"He hasn't done anything," said Peter. "He's dead."

"Shame," said the man. "I'd remember him, I think. No I haven't seen him."

"Were you on duty on Thursday?"

The barman thought. "No," he said eventually. "I only work at weekends."

Peter sighed. He would be late for Jason. The Queen's Head was the other
side of the borough and it would take over three quarters of an hour to get
there, but duty was duty. "Is there anyone here who was working last
Thursday?" he asked wearily. It had been a long day.

The barman thought. He didn't seem too bright. "There's the manager. He's
on every day."

"I better have a quick word with him, then." He would talk to this man and
then call it a day. He wanted to see Jason. He bet Inspector Keith Hatch
had already gone home.


9
THE QUEEN'S HEAD, ISLINGTON
SATURDAY EVENING 6.30 pm

It was raining and Peter wasn't waiting for him outside the shop when Jason
eventually finished work at about half past six. That wasn't of course too
much of a worry. They had arranged that if ever they were going to meet and
one was delayed, then the other would wait in the pub along the road. As on
the previous occasion when he and Peter had been there it was too early for
there to be many customers. Later, though, it would be crowded.

Jason went up to the bar. A man with dark hair, dressed in a suit was
sitting on a stool. His eyes, over the high cheekbones, had a contemptuous
look, cynical and shrewd. Jason waited for the barman to finish serving
someone along the bar.

"Can I get you a drink?" asked the man.

"It's all right, thanks. I'm waiting for a friend."

The man smiled though it was almost a sneer. "No strings," he said. "Just
fancied a chat."

Jason looked at him. He couldn't work out what it was but there was
something a little scary about the man. But there couldn't be anything
wrong in having a drink. The poor guy was lonely.

"OK. I'll have half of lager. Thanks. My friend won't be long though."

The man nodded and ordered drinks, The barman put the glasses down in front
of them. Jason took a swig. Already he was regretting the acceptance. The
man had said there were no strings but he felt under a sort of obligation.
He wished Peter would hurry.

But the man was talking, chatting away pleasantly enough and soon Jason
found himself telling the man - he said his name was Neil - about his job,
about Peter. about his hopes and aspirations. This guy should have been a
psychiatrist, he had a way of extracting information. almost painlessly.

Jason sat with his glass in front of him on the counter, clasped between
his hands. Neil seemed strangely uncomfortable with this. He kept urging
Jason to drink up, to have another. Once he encouraged Jason to turn round
and look at someone who had just entered through the door behind. "Is that
your friend?" he asked but Jason could see reflected in the mirror behind
the bar that it was not. He didn't turn round.

The pub filled. The clock on the wall told Jason that it was after seven.
Someone jostled him from behind. "Let's take our drinks over to the alcove
there," suggested Neil. "It'll be out of the way of the hoi poloi."

Jason nodded. It was getting uncomfortable up at the bar with people behind
constantly clamouring over their shoulders to be served. He did not, on the
other hand, want to get too intimate with this man. He'd finish his drink
and, if Peter hadn't arrived by seven thirty, he'd go off home. A wasted
night but that couldn't be helped. There'd be others. The cigarette smoke
in the air was aggravating his hay fever. His nose felt clogged.

"You go over and make sure the seats aren't taken," said Neil. "I'll just
get a refill."

Jason protested. Really he didn't want another drink. "Oh come on," said
Neil, "you can't just stick on a half. I'll bring it over."

It wasn't worth arguing over so Jason went over to the alcove and arranged
himself on one of the seats, rather hoping that someone else would come and
sit with them. A little later Neil arrived carrying the two glasses of
beer.

"That's yours," he said, putting one down on the table in front of
him. "Drink it up."

Jason didn't want anymore to drink but it would be churlish to refuse. He
sipped at the beer, deciding that he didn't really like the taste. Perhaps
it was his hayfever but the lager seemed to have a sourish taste to
it. Well, finish it off quickly and he'd leave. He took a gulp.

The man almost looked relieved, then smiled - if the twisted look of his
lips could really be construed as a smile. "I've seen you in here before,"
he said. "With another young man. Would that be your friend?"

"Yes, that's Peter."

"And what does he do for a living? Works in a shop like you?"

Jason wasn't sure whether Peter wanted the fact that he was a policeman to
be disclosed to all and sundry. "A Civil Servant," he said vaguely, which
was of course true if slightly ambiguous.

"Uh huh," Neil didn't seem all that interested. He glanced at his watch. "I
guess he's not coming."

"Sometimes he has to work late," said Jason. "Perhaps I'll go home." He got
to his feet and, as he did so, everything seemed to blur in front of him.
He staggered and Neil caught him before he could fall.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Don't feel too good," said Jason. "Need some fresh air."

"I'll help you out." With Neil's arm around Jason, he supported him towards
the door.



10 SATURDAY NIGHT The Queen's Head 7.30 pm

It was already dusk and the street lamps were popping on, first deep red,
then brightening to orange sodium so that soon all faces would be lit by
that ghastly yellow colour. The light from flashing neon advertisements lit
up the dark blocks of buildings with intermittent washes of red and
yellow. A brief spatter of sooty raindrops fell from the clouds scudding
across the sky. Early evening passers-by stepped aside to avoid the dark
caverns of doorways which were at that hour already home to the homeless
poor.

Peter sniffed the air - take-away hot dogs, onions and chicken tikka
masala. Petrol and exhaust fumes from the cars and taxis temporarily halted
at the red traffic lights. Air that had been breathed in and out, used air,
tired air. But it was London air.

He hurried along the street, the pavement crowded with passers-by so that
he had to dodge and weave. He was over an hour late.  The buses had been
slow and infrequent and it was well after half past seven. He hoped Jason
would still be waiting in the pub. If he had already left there was no way
he could get in touch with him before Monday. Jason had his phone number
but hadn't given Peter his, not wanting to risk contact with his parents.

Peter was in sight of the doorway to the Queen's Head when he saw two
figures emerge with their arms around each other and walking up the street
away from him. One appeared to be stumbling, the other supporting. Surely
it was a bit early for them to be drunk. Then through the gathering gloom,
he made out some letters on the shorter guy's back. 'UCLA'

"Jason," he called but the pair didn't stop.

Peter broke into a run, dodging round some walkers in between and barging
into a youth who got in the way. "Sorry, mate," he grunted in answer to the
guy's "Oi!"

Jason, if it was he, was staggering so the pair weren't making too fast a
progress and Peter was soon able to catch up with them. "Excuse me," he
said.

The taller man turned and stared at Peter quizzically. He seemed to be
smiling though it was a strange, almost contemptuous twist of the lips, the
look of a man who has been deprived of a conquest at the last moment. But
Peter was too concerned to analyse the significance of the look. His
companion was indeed Jason but a Jason who was nothing like the one he
knew. There was no recognition in his eyes as he stared dully at Peter, his
eyes unfocused.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Peter.

The other man shrugged. "Too much to drink," he said. "He said he felt odd
in the pub and I brought him out for some fresh air. Wait. You're his
friend, aren't you? Peter? He said he was waiting for someone."

It all sounded plausible. The man could have been a Good Samaritan but
something struck Peter as being odd. He didn't know Jason all that well but
couldn't see why he should have got so drunk in such a short space of time
while waiting for him. They had discussed the possibility of his being late
and Jason hadn't seemed worried. Anyway this looked an odd kind of
drunkenness. Almost as if he was on drugs. The significance of that struck
him. He had been looking all day for a guy in a gay pub who had been
doped. Here was Jason looking stoned and - a sudden fear hit him. Ketamine
could be dangerous if the taker had asthma - or hayfever.

"I don't like the look of him," Peter said. "I'm phoning for an ambulance."

"OK," agreed the man. "If you want to take over, I'll leave him with you. I
was only trying to do him a good turn." He let go of Jason who slumped
against the door of a newsagent's.

"Just hang on for a moment, would you," said Peter. "It might help if they
knew exactly what happened in the pub." He got out his mobile phone and
punched in 999. "Ambulance," he said. "Just outside the Queen's Head,
Islington. Suspect drug overdose."

The man suddenly looked anxious, his former self-confidence disappearing.
"I think..." he started. "I don't want to get involved."

"I'm a police officer," said Peter. He took a deep breath. "I'm arresting
you on suspicion of - " He struggled to think, what charge? " - conspiracy
to drug with intent to rape - " It sounded preposterous but he struggled
on. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you
do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in
court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

The man started to object but then, as if suddenly making a decision,
turned and made off down the road. Peter leapt after him and managed to
catch hold of his jacket before the man struggled free of it leaving the
coat in Peter's hand. He raced off down the street. Peter did not know what
to do, whether to stay with Jason or pursue but, glancing back and seeing
that Jason had now fallen to the ground, he decided to remain with him. The
lad's breathing was shallow and Peter could scarcely detect his heart
beat. Several people stopped and stood around as they always do when
there's been some sort of incident resulting in human injury. There were
anxious minutes before he heard the sound of an ambulance siren. At last it
drew up and two paramedics climbed out.

"He may have been dosed with ketamine hydrochloride," said Peter. "He
suffers from hayfever. His heart may be affected."

"Are you a doctor?" asked one of the paramedics.

"Police officer," said Peter shortly.

Swiftly they got Jason into the ambulance with an oxygen mask, and headed
for the Royal Free Hospital.


11
SATURDAY NIGHT
The Royal Free Hospital 10.30pm

Keith Hatch, alerted by a phone call, had left his lover, Phil, at home
complaining. Now he faced an anxious Peter Lippett beside the bed of a
young man. So this was Peter's latest. He looked down at the pale face, the
fragile eyelids with their blue veins, the spiked hair making a statement
about youth. He could see the attraction. He only hoped Peter wasn't making
another of his dreadful mistakes.

"He'll be all right," he said, uncomfortably aware how others had said the
same comforting words on so many occasions and with as little
justification.  "You did the right thing, staying with him. We'll get the
bloke though. We've got a good description of him."

"We've got more than that, guv," said Peter. "I got his jacket before he
took off. Here's his wallet. It's got credit cards, driving licence,
everything. His name is Neil Mason, and there's his address. But how can we
prove that he actually did anything?"

"Jason can identify him, so can Bennie Charters but more than this we've
got a genetic DNA print of the person who had sex with Joe. And there's - "
He broke off suddenly. "What did you say his name was?"

"Neil Mason."

"That's the vet we went to see. The one where we saw the receptionist and
didn't bother to interview the vet himself." He smacked himself angrily on
the leg. "Let's see the address. Yes it's the same area. He probably lives
near his surgery. I told you I had a 'feeling' about vets. I'll get him
picked up."

The figure on the bed suddenly gave a start, opening his eyes. For a moment
he looked a bit bemused but then he recognised Peter and smiled.

"Hi, honey," he said. He tried to sit up but Peter gently held him back.

Jason caught sight of Keith standing behind. "Who's the hunk?" he said.

"My boss, Inspector Hatch."

"Ah, the one you fancy rotten?"

Peter blushed and Keith rescued him. "I've got things to do, Constable," he
said. "You stay here. I'll tell a nurse on the way out that the patient
appears to have recovered."


12
SUNDAY NIGHT
Peter's Flat 11.00 pm

The following night they lay together on the bed. Jason had been discharged
from hospital during the day, had gone home to reassure his parents and, at
the first opportunity had joined Peter at his flat. At the moment they were
fully clothed, just happy in their closeness, their touching.

"That'll teach you to accept drinks from strange men," said Peter.

Jason looked at him and smiled. "Well I accepted one from you the first
time," he said.

"I'm not strange."

"You were wearing some very strange trousers the first time I saw you,"
said Jason.

"Shut up talking," said Peter and closed his mouth with a kiss.

Jason's hand wandered into Peter's groin, finding a hardness. "Something
thinks you're wearing too much trousers now," he suggested.

"Take them off then."

Peter's black T-shirt had ridden up exposing a downy flat belly. Jason took
his time getting there, exploring with his tongue and lips various places
along the way, nuzzling under the rucked-up T-shirt, the hollow above the
shoulder blade then he inched downwards, his lips soft and infinitely
arousing, across the broad chest pausing to take care of Peter's nipples,
his belly button, the trace of brown hair which led downwards before
spreading into his bush of pubic hair.. Proficient fingers undid his belt,
unzipping his jeans, removing shoes and socks, pulling the jeans over his
feet until Peter lay naked apart his jockey shorts against the dark red
material of the bedcover.

"I've met these before," murmured Jason, burying his face in the soft
material that covered a hard erection before taking these, the last
covering off. The touch of Jason's hard body pressed against his was
exciting, the movements, the caresses, the kisses, the hands that felt and
probed his private places. Peter's own body responded.

"Get your fucking clothes off," he said.

The UCLA pullover disappeared, grey chinos vanished, socks and trainers
might never have been there in the first place.

"You're right about Barbarella," said Peter impressed. "You're an expert."

"I was taught by an expert," said Jason grinning and falling on top of him
so that they lay, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, groin to groin, hard
cocks pressing and searching for somewhere to go. Peter could feel his
lover's skin touching his, erotic and sensual.

Jason slid slowly down his body, kissing, tasting, rubbing, stroking until
he reached that straining prick. He took it into his warm, moist mouth and
at the enclosure Peter nearly came, such was the ecstasy of the
feeling. But Jason seemed to realise how close to orgasm Peter was, and,
determined to hold it off for as long as he could, he stopped his sucking
and moved his body round so that his groin was opposite Peter's face, his
prick pointing towards Peter's mouth.

The indication was obvious and Peter did not hesitate, first washing it
with his tongue and then taking the member in as far as he was able. He
took hold of his lover's buttocks one with each hand while his fingers
found the crack between and probed deeply. He heard Jason's long audible
breath expressing longing and felt his own member swallowed by that
rapacious mouth.

He could no longer hold himself back and, with a cry, discharged again and
again. At the same time Jason's own prick swelled and pulsed and Peter's
mouth was filled with a substance which gave his taste buds a new, but to
his surprise not unpleasant, sensation.

Peter sighed. He moved himself around and so that he and Jason were the
right way round and their lips met in a long, slow kiss. Then he pulled
Jason to him, cuddled close to him, put his arms round him, defined
delicately with the tips of his fingers the contours of Jason's body.

"And what did you see in me?" asked Peter sleepily.

Jason looked at him for a while until Peter felt almost embarrassed.
"Genuineness, loyalty, a hint of sadness. That was the thing that first
attracted me," he said

"You make it sound like an act of charity."

"I'm no angel," said Jason, "but I have a couple of bad habits which
several guys in wheelchairs would testify to."

Peter kissed him.


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