"You look amazing. Are you going to clear up all the stuff you're not wearing? Or should I put it in a charity bag for you?"
"God, Morgan. You're such a nag, you know?"
Morgan smiled to himself and sipped his tea.
Chapter Three
Morgan started his Wednesday by hoovering the Northwest quadrant within an inch of its life. The colours on the rug brightened up a fraction, but it would take more than a hoover to make it clean. Mental note: make list of carpet cleaning firms. Even if Hunter ignored it, or ripped it up, or used it to start off another pile of paper in the space Morgan had cleared, at least he'd have tried. The thought of Hunter undoing all Morgan's hard work the minute he'd left made him feel a bit sick. He needed to get the filing system worked out, fast.
The now-familiar thump of the front door opening dragged Morgan out of planning mode and was followed by footsteps taking the stairs two at a time. Hunter.
"Shit, what the…" Hunter's voice boomed through the half-open door to his office. "Oh, it's you. I thought we'd been burgled."
"Morning," said Morgan.
"You're early. God, you haven't been here all night, have you?"
"I'm supposed to start at nine."
"And it's ten to." Hunter didn't even have to look at his watch.
"So I thought I'd get the noisy part done before you got here. I hope that's all right. Only you did give me a key and–"
"Of course. Well, I can't fault your enthusiasm. But you're not a cleaner, Morgan."
"Perhaps you should hire one."
Hunter looked at the patch of bare carpet. "How are those invoices coming along?"
Morgan felt a prickle of failure. "Nothing yet. Just case files and newspaper clippings, mostly. Oh, and a box of computer parts."
"That was here when I arrived. I never really knew what to do with it."
"Shall I throw it out?"
Hunter gave Morgan one of his lopsided smirks. "Why not? I think that would be quite liberating."
Morgan grinned back. Or possibly mirrored the smirk. Hunter was wearing a black t-shirt, which stretched snugly across his chest and hugged his firm, rounded biceps. His eyes were twinkling.
Morgan cleared his throat. "I should get on. Unless you want to talk about the case, first?"
'Which case?"
"Osbourne White? From yesterday? I took notes like you asked, and I've typed them up. Should I email them to your regular email address, or do you have a confidential one?"
"No need. I'll ask if I need to check anything." Hunter pulled out his phone.
"I had a few ideas, if you–"
Hunter put up a hand to shush him, held his phone to his ear and started talking, moving back towards the door. He shut it behind him and took the call at the top of the stairs.
Morgan felt a pinch of disappointment, but really, what did he expect? He knew nothing about PI work, and, thanks to his perusal of TrustPI.com, he was well aware of the dangers of amateurism. He wasn't here to detect anything other than invoices. So he put Osbourne White to the back of his mind and resolved to get started on the north west quadrant.
He stuck the hoover in the corner of the room and set to work. Morgan had (naturally) developed a system over the past two days. As he couldn't yet reach the filing cabinets, he had arranged a row of stacking boxes along the wall by the bookcase and roughed out a colour coding system for typical materials. Things that needed to be kept together, like case files, went in a clearly marked file. A lot of the stuff Hunter would need to go through himself, which gave Morgan a pang of anxiety every time he considered mentioning it to him. But even if he never got around to it, Morgan figured he could at least stack the lot of it in a corner marked 'archive' and put the filing cabinets into use for contemporary items.
Thankfully, Hunter wasn't adding to the mess as Morgan worked. There was no sign of a printer, and not one piece of paper mail had arrived since Morgan started. Perhaps what Hunter really needed was a curator.
And those invoices. Right.
Hunter stuck his head around the door. "I'm going out. Probably most of the day. Are you okay to lock up tonight?"
Morgan once again had to bite back a twinge of disappointment, but he put a grin on his face and said, "Actually, it'll go a lot faster without anyone getting under my feet." Which was absolutely moronic and so unprofessional Morgan shocked himself.
But Hunter gave one of his barky laughs and said, "Right you are."
His footsteps faded down the stairs, and Morgan was alone with the South West quadrant.
This area of the room contained the desk that had formed the initial obstacle to getting into the office. It was covered in old cardboard boxes and piles of papers, but Morgan could make out the outline of a rather nice curved reception desk underneath. Had Hunter had an assistant at some point? A receptionist? It seemed unlikely, if he didn't receive his clients here at all.
A distant pulse of drum and bass started up from the vintage clothes shop next door, and Morgan pulled the first pile off the desk to go through.
Most of the papers there were letters, including a few from the bank that Morgan sneaked a proper look at. They were dated a few years ago and were moderately threatening. Apparently business hadn't been so good back then. He put them in the financials box, in date order. At least he didn't have to worry about Hunter paying him: the agency took care of all that. Anyway, more recent bank statements were much more promising. And Hunter could afford to take clients (and assistants) to lunch.
Like Osbourne White.
What had been the point of that? It had been so exciting, the idea that Hunter trusted him to really be part of his work after only a couple of days. To give him a little insight into his world of mystery and adventure. But that seemed to have fizzled to nothing overnight.
Unless… What if it was a test? What if he was leaving Morgan to his own devices to see what he was made of?
And if he was made of the right stuff, perhaps he'd get to stick around longer. With Hunter.
Morgan slumped against the edge of the desk. He couldn't afford to develop an attraction to Hunter. Hunter was his boss. He blew hot and cold worse than the heater in Caleb's car. And he didn't even like Morgan very much. Not like most people did. Unless…
What if he did like Morgan, and it was a problem? Because he was the boss. Perhaps he thought the agency frowned upon clients who seduced their temps. (They totally did: he could imagine the look on Pearl's face right now, complete with steam coming out of her ears.)
Wait.
If Osbourne White had found his 15-year-old daughter having sex with her dance instructor, why the hell hadn't he called the police?
Or had he?
Morgan pulled out his phone, opened his browser and started searching. News items, court appearances, dance schools. Poppy White, dancer. He found a Facebook page for a production of Grease that she'd been in just a few months ago, run by her dance school. Adrenaline started to rush through Morgan's body. He Googled 'Flash School of Performing Arts', found the site, clicked on staff… And there they were. Poppy's teachers.
And every single one of them female.
Morgan made a chirrupy noise of excitement and searched some more. Went back through dozens of photos of old productions, programmes, reports in the local press. There had never been a male teacher at that school, at least, not in Poppy's lifetime.
Osbourne White was lying.
Morgan tried his best to focus on the job at hand. He considered phoning Hunter to share his discovery, but he wanted to do it face to face. Was it even safe to be sharing case details over the phone? Certainly not in a text message. No. He'd wait until Hunter got back.
By six o'clock Morgan had revealed another quarter of carpet, a desk chair and two fully usable and mercifully empty filing cabinets. He'd worked an hour extra, but it was worth it. He hoovered the rug, polished the desk and stacked another two boxes with the rest by the bookcase. Finally he went to the bathroom and washed o
ff the stickiness and dust of the afternoon as best he could. He didn't want to be the stinky person on the train nobody wanted to sit with. He wet his hands and ran them through his hair a few times. Six fifteen. And still no Hunter. It was disappointing not to be able to share his news, but Morgan had run out of excuses to wait.
He went back to the lovely, curved reception desk, now restored to its full glory. He sat for a moment while he popped his lunch box back inside his rucksack, and then he lingered for a moment longer to run his hand over the smooth wooden surface. Perhaps he should bring in a pot plant. A pen holder. Maybe an in tray of some kind…
The door swung open. Morgan had been so absorbed in his desk daydream he hadn't heard Hunter come up the stairs. And now here he was, staring at Morgan and the desk as if he thought he'd come into the wrong office.
"Fucking hell," said Hunter.
"Sorry," said Morgan, and stood up from the desk he needed to remember was not his.
"What for? This is brilliant!" Hunter cracked a smile that lit up his whole face, shifting from astonished to delighted in the blink of an eyes. "You've made serious progress, Morgan."
Morgan looked around him. "Well, yes. I haven't found the invoices yet, though. I've divided everything up by–"
"Do you fancy a drink?"
"I was about to–"
"Unless you have a train to catch, or…?"
Morgan processed what Hunter was saying to him. "No! I mean, not a specific one. Is this another meeting with a client?"
"No. Off the clock. I sometimes go to the Pig and Fig around the corner after work for a drink and something to eat. It beats the microwave, right?"
"Oh." Morgan's belly was all a-flutter. He had to remind himself, very firmly, that this was a work thing. Hunter was pleased with his performance, that's all. "Thanks. That would be great. There's something I wanted to talk to you about, anyway. If that's okay. I mean, a work thing."
"So long as it's not too tedious. I spent all day at HMP Doncaster."
"The prison?"
"Of course, the prison, Morgan. C'mon. If I'm going to tell you about my day I need a pint in my hand first."
The Pig and Fig was more of a bar than a pub, really. Its decor was colourful and there were a lot of mirrors. The menu was 'Mediterranean-Indian fusion', which was a bit strange, but Morgan wasn't averse to spiced aubergine so it worked out fine. He had a peach and strawberry mocktail, while Hunter had a glass of foggy, in-house micro-brewery beer called 'Pig-in-a-Poke'.
"So you've been in prison," said Morgan, unable to contain himself.
Hunter rolled his eyes. "Never overnight, I'm glad to say."
"Who were you visiting?"
"A very nasty man who is refusing to divorce his wife out of spite. Or, at least, he was." Hunter's half-smirk came out again. "I think he'll decide differently after today."
"How did you persuade him?"
"I tried common sense. Then I tried veiled threats. But he was as stubborn as a rock, so I had to pull out the pictures."
"You had pictures?" Morgan leaned in a little, fascinated.
Hunter nodded. "And a video, but I didn't have to go that far. People should be careful when they're going dogging, at least if they don't want to get found out."
"Dogging?"
Hunter paused with his glass half way to his mouth. "You do know what dogging is, don't you, Morgan?"
"You mean dogging as in…" Morgan's cheeks went hot. "Public sex?"
"Taking your pug for a trip round the park isn't exactly grounds for divorce, now, is it?"
"No, I mean I know, so… Dogging? Don't they wear masks? I mean, so I've seen. On documentaries. And such." Morgan cleared his throat.
"On this occasion, they were dressed in full fur-suits. Dogs, zebras, minotaurs, the lot. Quite the party. And our naughty little puppy was taking it up the arse from a fox."
Morgan's brain short-circuited at the word 'arse'. He'd been trying very, very hard not to think of sex and Hunter at the same time, and as soon as Hunter said that word he failed spectacularly and imagined Hunter nailing him up against a tree. He scrambled himself back as fast as he could. He wasn't actually drooling, but his trousers were tight and Hunter was looking at him funny.
"A f-fox?" was all Morgan's poor brain could manage.
"With a big bushy brush."
Morgan was struggling his way around that mental image when the food arrived. He'd never been more grateful to be distracted by the smell of sweetly spiced vegetables.
Logic filtered back through Morgan's neural pathways and presented him with a conundrum. "If he was wearing a fur suit, how can you tell it's him?"
Hunter swallowed a piece of chicken and grinned. "That's the right question, Morgan. Two words: birthmark and Prince Albert."
Technically that was three words, but Morgan did not have the presence of mind to correct him. "On the, um, puppy?"
"Yep. Both very distinctive. Oh, and the car he was getting fucked on was his, too, registration plate clearly on show. Very clumsy. Poor guy, he had no idea his mate had been snapping away while he was getting it on with Mr Foxy. Or that the minute he got himself locked up for carrying with intent to supply, his mate went round to console his wife. One thing led to another… And voila. Grounds for the divorce he didn't want."
"Did his wife know he's gay?"
"Even he doesn't know he's gay." Hunter's nose wrinkled up. "At least he claims he's not. Just a one-time thing."
"In a fur suit? In public? That's pretty specific for a bit of experimentation."
"Quite."
Morgan set down his knife and fork and took a gulp of peachy strawberry drink. Then he took a deep breath, ignored the heat in his cheeks and said, "I hate that straight guy bullshit. Big turn off for me. I refuse to be anyone's experiment."
He glanced at Hunter to get an idea of his reaction. Hunter held his gaze, nodded once and said. "Yes. Same."
A thrill went down Morgan's spine. He'd thought so. He'd felt a vibe. But magic didn't amp up your gaydar, and Hunter was one of those ambiguous sort of guys who didn't give out signals.
It shouldn't matter. Hunter was his boss.
Hunter. With the broad shoulders and the quirky smile and brilliant blue eyes, way bluer than eyes had any right to be.
"Another satisfied customer." Hunter raised his glass.
"What? Er, oh. Yes." Morgan clinked it with his own. "Speaking of customers, I did a bit of checking about Mr White."
"Ah, our missing daughter case. And?"
"I thought he was a bit relaxed about the man he found her with. Her dance teacher. Considering he was older and in a position of trust and everything. Only, it turns out there aren't any male dance teachers at that school. Not one, the whole time Poppy's been going there. So either her dad made a mistake or he made it up."
"Actually, it was a bit of both."
"Pardon?"
"The guy was a dancer, but not from the dance school. He was a fellow student from her A-Level Dance and Performance Class. Six months younger than she is. They'd been to dance practice the day Ozzie found them, so the guy had his dance kit with him, including a big bag with the dance school log on it. Osbourne put two and two together and came up with five. Then he embellished a few points to make himself look better and voila."
Morgan felt a bit disappointed. He'd thought he was so clever, doing all that research. But it turned out he had nothing Hunter didn't already know. Shit.
"So what d'you think?" Hunter said.
"What did he embellish?" Morgan said.
"Well, put it this way: would you risk having sex with your boyfriend in the middle of the living room when your Dad was due back from work any minute?"
"I don't… My Dad was never around."
"Semantics, Morgan."
"Oh, well, no. Even when Mum was away, I wouldn't." How were they talking about sex, again? Did all of Hunter's cases hinge on some specifics of an illicit sexual act? And did he have to look so smug (in a
cute way, damnit) while he talked about it? As if he was testing Morgan's embarrassment circuits so he could tease him more effectively?
"Seriously?" Hunter said.
Morgan glared at him and bit down hard on a bit of mushroom. It was delicious. Everything here was delicious.
He was so screwed.
"My Dad was pretty strict," Hunter said. "And he wasn't entirely on board with what he called me being a 'friend of Dorothy'. Well, he said he was, because I don't think he wanted to seem like an arsehole. But he's always been twitchy about it." Hunter shrugged his shoulders and dragged a chip through his chicken gravy. "Point is, I don't think Ozzie saw nearly as much as he thought he saw. I think he saw his sweet little girl snogging a boy and lost his temper."
"The outcome was the same. She left because he was being over-protective."
"Ah, but it could be very important for him to face up to what really happened. He needs to let go of his little fantasy, because otherwise any custody mediator could simply point out to him that, according to him, his daughter's dance teacher assaulted her under his roof, and he didn't even report it. It's a good thing there isn't a bloke teaching at that school, or you could throw a libel suit into the mix."
Huh. Morgan hadn't thought of it that way, exactly. He'd been focused on what Ozzie had to hide, assuming he had a sinister motive. "Do clients often lie to you?"
"One way or another, yes. Human nature, I suppose. They assume I need winning over."
"And you don't?"
Hunter subjected Morgan to the full force of a twinkly-eyed smirk. "Not always."
Morgan resisted the urge to squirm in his seat and look away, and instead he grinned back. He'd been told he had a devastating smile. The way Hunter stared at it suggested he thought so too.
It was gone eight o'clock by the time they left the pub. The day was cooling off as it slipped into a pleasant, sunny evening. It turned out that Hunter was headed for the station, too, so they walked together, talking about movies (they both had a weakness for arty films and 1960s avant guarde) and music (Hunter liked classical, Morgan was more about obscure indie bands) and theatre (Hunter loved everything, Morgan had only ever been to the pantomime). Eventually they reached the station turnstiles, where they had to part for different platforms: Morgan for Burley Park and Hunter for York. Hunter said, "Thanks, Morgan. You're doing a really good job with the office."
Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher Page 3