"NO WAY! I can't take any more. No more visiting. I'm tired. I want to go to bed. Enough relatives for one day."
"Aw come on, Gary! It's not late. Anyway, these two aren't relations. The Ducks are nice people. Just a few minutes to say Hi. They expect it. They'll be very hurt if I leave it until tomorrow. I always visit the Ducks after Aunty Gertie."
"More freaks, if they're called 'the Ducks', they'll be freaks. I know it. I can feel it!" Gary wheeled angrily around on Simeon and fixed him in the eye. "I know you of old! You're just trying to annoy me - aren't you? Admit it! Who, for God's sake are the Ducks? Is that their real name?"
This last gave the mischievous friend something to think about. A simple question - but Simeon had no answer. It had always been Duck and Mrs Duck as long as he could remember. She referred to him as 'Arr Dook' and he referred to her as 'Arr Mam'. They referred to everybody else as 'dook'.
"Yes, dook, no, dook, shall ya 'ave a coop o' tea, dook?"
The end of terrace house of number six Bog Hole had always been called 'The Duckery' because the Ducks had always lived there. True, there was a duck pond in the garden but Simeon did not think that was the main reason for their name. How strange, he had never until this moment considered what their real names might be. He explained to his friend that, as a toddler, the Ducks were very kind to him. They took time and trouble to entertain him with cut up cardboard boxes and ... yes, porcelain ducks. Duck was very imaginative with any household materials and paint. He delighted little Simeon with model houses for the pot ducks, all of whom had their own names. The Ducks gave Simeon the most precious gift any lonely child can receive, they gave him time. Aunty Gertie was often busy with her large family but Duck and Mrs Duck talked to Simeon and gave him their full attention. That house was full of love. The Ducks were special. Somewhat unwillingly, Gary listened to this with growing curiosity.
"Was there ever a Mr Duck?"
Again the question took him by surprise! As far back as Simeon could remember there had been just Duck and Mrs Duck, never a Mr Duck ... but ... a glimmer, a distant fragment of a picture came back to him.
"Do you know, Gary, many years ago they used to be visited by a robin! A little robin used to hop on to the window sill. Duck would say -
'Ey oop, Arr Mam, look - it's me dad, it's me dad coom back.'"
"Oh no!" said Gary gloomily, bracing himself for an imminent visit to The Duckery.
No knocking, they just walked in. The Englishman and the American had different impressions. The latter saw two large eggs. The eggs with faces were deeply reposing into a cosy sofa and Gary had formed the impression that they had been sitting there for ever. Each face was wearing an irritating inane grin which Simeon would have described as a smile of welcome. Both fat faces were devoid of a single wrinkle which caused Gary to wonder how old they were, but, there again, his friend could not have given an answer. Duck had never changed. He had always looked the same. He was just ... Duck. The smaller 'Mam' egg cocked up her legs which could not quite reach the floor and spoke first.
"Eee it is nice ta see thee, dook. Are ya all right then, dook?"
The Duck egg appeared to do a quick funny wriggle and with dancing shoulders -
"Bit early aren't ya, dook? Ya don't usually come before t' buddleia."
The strong scented lilac flowered buddleia sprouted all over Bog Hole from mid July onwards. It flourished in gardens, waste ground, any odd corner and shot out of cracks in the pavement. Even Duck's chimney stack sported an excellent specimen and he had always associated the flower with the annual arrival of the child he once entertained.
"Shall ya ave a coop a tea, dook? Will ya friend ave one? Put kettle on, Arr Mam."
"No, Dook. Ave joost sat down. You put kettle on shall ya, Arr Dook."
"All right, Arr Mam, I'll put kettle on."
Inwardly Gary Mackenzie groaned at the thought of more tea but, on completion of introductions, he made a supreme effort to be sociable and communicate with the Ducks. He noted the former toys of his friend, the collection of ornamental ducks and complimented the living room.
"You've made it really nice here. So very cosy and comfortable."
In keeping with the general character of Bog Hole, The Duckery was fixed somewhere inside a time warp, in this case possibly mid 1930's. Cosy and comfortable were apt terms here. Everything was soft and cushy. In contrast to the spiky Aunty Gertie, the conversation in this room was all ductility, well matched to the occupants, mild and downy. It had always been a great place for Simeon Hogg. In this old fashioned feathery room he had always been cushioned from the hard knocks of life. Nothing nasty or hurtful ever came from Duck, friendly podgy Duck, ever mellow and mellifluous. At worst, on the occasions in which he did criticise, he would begin with his characteristic wiggle, dancing shoulders and the one word - 'Meself' Like now, regarding the subject of Annie Oaks and her pricing policy -
"Meself, a think she's a bit dear. Don't ya think so, Arr Mam."
"She is, Arr Duck! Them eggs were five pence cheaper int' village. She teks advantage. She knows a can't walk far."
The conversation continued to touch on similar inanities which included the thoughtless Vivienne whose bouncing ball often annoyed 'Arr Mam', a dripping tap which Fred Hogg had promised to fix last month and an unpleasant character in a popular 'soap' who was -
"Nasty! Is really nasty. No need ta be like that. It's oopset Arr Dook, 'e 'as, ant 'e, Arr Dook?"
As expected these trifles irritated Gary Mackenzie to distraction. Concerns about a person on television who does not exist and an endless stream of minutia caused him to give Simeon an angry glance which said - 'For God's sake rescue me from this!' Gary was missing the sophisticated stimulation of the dishy BBC producer he had recently met in London -
"Simeon you have to meet him! Incredible background! He was an equity funds lawyer based in the Cayman Islands. He has an apartment in Mayfair to die for, speaks of friends in Hong Kong and owns a motor cruiser on the Thames. Super intelligent conversation!"
Naughty Simeon knew he was mixing an explosive chemistry by introducing Gary Mackenzie to the trivial and spongy world of The Ducks in which the conversation was somewhat less than 'super intelligent'. Simeon had no wish to meet Gary's new friend. He saw the Ducks differently: they were warm and generous: they were non-contentious and undemanding. He found the quaint chatter balmy and mildly entertaining. He was always happy in The Duckery - but Gary had a face of thunder and now was the time to leave - and leave quickly!
Chapter 25
The Hustler, the Pimp and the Murderer
Dozy tired eyes, unwillingly, gradually, opened early the next morning. Slowly they focused on a clear blue sky: bright blue, happy blue. Simeon's mattress and his head was always situated just under the sash window, always open to the maximum extent when he was resident at Horsley Woodhouse. He was very comfortable, so very cosy tucked up under numerous good quality blankets, some of which dated back nearly 100 years. His body was warm, but a cold face gladly gazed out into that magnificent firmament and watched two black specs, very far away, involved in some sort of aerial ballet. Two large birds, way up high were circling, soaring, tumbling, falling, catching the wind and stabilising - just playing. They were enjoying their freedom, enjoying their life. "Two for joy!"
Simeon's heart leapt for joy as he remembered and realised that beautiful and total reality that he, yes, he too was now free. No more yobs to be disciplined. No more slags to be reprimanded. No more scumbags to be tolerated. No more progressive colleagues would ever taunt, needle or control him and no more left-wingers would ever infuriate him with -
"Cheer up, Simeon! You look so miserable. It can't be as bad as that."
The crows were now calling to each other. Their raucous caws blended with other reassuring nostalgic sounds. He was comforted by singing blackbirds, a crowing cockerel and mooing cows from a nearby farm. A distant man called out a greeting to another - "Ey oop, Jack, art rate!" It was
all as it should be. He was home and safe. He was all right.
Another sound was very close by, the sound of rustling paper from within the room. He struggled his lazy body to peer into the relative gloom and saw Gary, sitting up in bed, studying the long letter written by Detective Inspector Derek Russell.
"Good morning! Sleep well? I've been awake ages and read this several times - interesting, but not very illuminating."
Simeon, still unable to articulate, just grunted. Gary was long accustomed to his friend's initial morning stupor and simply carried on -
"I hate to boast, but, well ... Are you coherent enough to take in my conclusions?"
Simeon grunted for the second time.
"Remember what you told me yesterday, in the car? That long account of your schooldays? The answer is there - not here."
Simeon blinked and grunted a third time.
"Just like a typical detective story. You had the answer all the time!" Gary met his friend's bewildered look and pressed on. "OK. In short, this document is a red herring. The police are fools."
Simeon sat up and found his voice.
"So where is Brian?"
"Where I said he was, walled up in Cressbrook Hall. All right, of course I can't be sure of the exact location ... "
"Gary, you're not making sense. Russell's account gives us some very logical suspects. The over sexed Tonks is a strong candidate. Coggan actually provided services to gay men who were prepared to pay. No doubt some of them were chicken hawks ... and that Wormall character, well, he was actually found with Brian's bike."
"Freaks! My friend, they were freaks for God's sake! What do we have: a screaming queen addicted to toilets, a little fat queen ever circulating in an underworld of seedy pubs and an ancient crone running a dingy medieval massage parlour for the desperate. Don't forget, in those days they were all operating well outside the law and outside the approval of society in general. They were scared, Simeon - scared! They lived their sad little lives as best they could. No wonder they were reclusive, reluctant to co-operate. Aware of murder, sure they'd be scared - dead scared."
"But the bicycle ... "
"I've a theory about that. I'll come to it later. Simeon, listen to me." Gary drew up closer. "You've been around. You must have heard the expression 'hang it on the fags'. You know what I mean - 'let the fags take the heat'? That is precisely what Algernon Hardman did - he let the fags take the heat."
"But surely ... we're talking about an educated respectable man, a careful man with everything to lose ... if anything should go wrong ..."
"And it did go wrong! But what better place to try his hand with two 'known' gay guys conveniently on the spot. Get real! He knew the cops would focus on his staff."
"What makes you so sure they're innocent?"
"Who said they were innocent? Far from it. They were both dependent on Algernon Hardman and in it up to their necks. He used them. And he had another accomplice. I'll come to him later. This is a gut feeling based on experience. Freaks they may be, Tonks, Coggan, Wormall and Piggs, but they don't sound the type to be interested in chicken."
Gary Mackenzie leaned back on his pillows, sighed and resumed. He looked at his old friend - a knowing look.
"You've known chicken hawks. I've known lots. What do they look like?"
"What do they look like!"
"You know exactly what I mean. They're not types out of a book of fairy tales like that hideous goblin." He leaned forward. "They look like you!! And they look like me. They look like Algernon Hardman. They blend into the background. They're ordinary, not quirky, not camp, often quite butch. Admit it, Simeon, you've always like 'em young."
"I've liked them old too - sometimes very old - with certain necessary skills - of course. I'm not sure I like where this is going! I've never coerced and never abducted."
"I never called you a chicken hawk. You're too mild, tame, too much of a coward. No. I'd call you a chicken fancier. Back to the point - what do these freaks have in common - apart from their freakishness? They are all queens. And you know very well that all queens like 'em big, butch and mature. They'd have no use for a weedy chicken who, if anything, looked even younger than his years."
Simeon considered the wisdom of this statement but suddenly remembered -
"Guzzly Granddad! He doesn't sound very ladylike. He was ready to consume Russell and Winter - well, part of them anyway."
"True. And he liked to have boys around him, older boys according to Russell. But scrub the other three. No point wasting our time. They are probably involved in some way, but I'm certain they wouldn't be interested in Brian Forrester."
"So Algernon Hardman is our man? But, hang on ... you mentioned an accomplice. Who would ... "
He was interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. As both men were well covered, Simeon called out - "Come in". Ponderously, Aunty Joyce entered manoeuvring a tray supporting a large brown steaming tea pot, milk, an unwanted sugar pot and two large Denby beakers. Averting her eyes, lest they see anything untoward, she placed her burden on an ancient dressing table which was probably a wedding gift to her mother in the early years of the 20th century. Carefully looking out towards Crich Stand and clearly embarrassed, she attempted a little small talk -
"I 'eard ya talkin' an thought yad like a bita tea. Shall ya av a bita breakfast?"
"That is most kind of you, Aunty Joyce. You shouldn't have troubled ... "
"Breakfast sounds real good!" interrupted Gary, who with his lean and energetic metabolism, was always hungry. As Aunty Joyce was heard clomping slowly down the stairs, her nephew, desperate for his morning tea, jumped up, seized the pot, gave the tea a quick stir before completing the ritual so familiar to Gary Mackenzie - who did not want tea anyway.
"An accomplice?" said Simeon resuming, his face partly obscured by a steaming beaker. Gary (making do with the beverage provided as coffee was apparently unknown in Bog Hole) became thoughtful and chose his words carefully. He took a deep breath -
"Hold tight, old friend. You're not going to like this. Try to take it slow and gentle. I hate to sound like Poirot lecturing Hastings, but ... you really do already have the solution. You know the answer. You gave it to me yesterday in the car. You can't see the solution because you're blinded by nostalgia and affection. How much did you really know about those kids? Did they see things the same way as you? Did they feel things the same - with the same intensity? OK, let me give you the clues.
One beautiful, stunning blond hunk desired by all the girls. A gleaming new bicycle which cost a lot of money. A keen intelligence, an independent spirit and athletic frame with lots of energy which enjoyed regular excursions into the Peak District."
Simeon had frozen. The beaker was still up at his face, but the sipping had stopped. He found voice -
"What? What ... what is this?
"You know what it is. A gorgeous kid like Scott is going to be approached by somebody sooner or later, probably sooner." He headed off an attempt by Simeon to object. "Let me finish. I know what you're going to say. Heanor's a small place and 43 years ago it was a different world when that sort of thing was unheard of - but human nature was just the same. Scott was a combination of things. He had beauty, brains and mobility. Just suppose that, one day, out on his tatty old bike, he falls into casual conversation with a smooth type like Coggan ... "
"Hold it right there! If such a soft scented rotundity ever made a dodgy comment to Scott North - well, he would become very hungry."
"Hungry? I've lost you?"
"You need teeth to eat. That 'Dolly' would have got Scott's fist right in the middle of his fat face. Gary! Hear me good. Scott North was as straight as a die."
"That I don't doubt for a minute," persisted Gary " It is not the issue here. Stick with this - somebody, maybe Tonks or even Hardman himself, suggests to Scott that he can have a nice new bike and be the envy of the school. All kids want nice things. I keep hearing how poor the Heanor folk were. Do you seriously expect me to bel
ieve that your friend bought his brand new expensive bike with the money from a paper route! Get real! He gets a few shillings a week and then he turns up at school one day with a machine costing more than £20!"
This last left the two silent for a few moments. A few moments were needed for it all to sink in. Gary continued, slowly, cautiously -
"He may have hustled a little, many handsome straight kids will, if the price is right or, (and this is where it gets a little sinister) he may have been asked if he knows any younger kids who'll do it - again for a price."
"You're unbelievable!"
"No. Listen to me. Scott may look and act like 18, but really, he's only 15 and he could be persuaded that a 'willing friend' will come to no harm. He may be tempted by good money for just a few minutes work. Hardman was rich. He could afford to part with a nice big bill now and again for his few moments of ecstasy. With sufficient incentive, Scott would overcome his natural disgust ... touching and being touched by a dirty old man can be tolerated - can even get to be pleasant. And Scott would take the view that a 'willing friend' could do the same. I'm guessing of course, but, say .. a fiver for Scott and another fiver for the friend. Tight pants, no underwear, a sexy rough stripling - they get approached - it happens."
"It never happened to me!" spoke Simeon in a slight tone of disappointment.
"You had zits. You said it yourself, a face full of pimples. I can see the pock marks from here. Adults with money can afford to be choosy. Was Brian Forrester desirable? Would he play?"
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