"If you will come this way, Mr. Pellin, the Chief Constable will see you now." The reporter followed the secretary through the door, finding behind it the sort of office he had expected, sleek, tidy, impersonal and a man he had never expected to see again.

"My god, it's you isn't it?" He blurted out.

The Chief Constable of Eastland extended his hand over the empty desk top. "Hello, Tom. Nice to see you again." He turned to smile at his secretary. "No calls if at all possible, please."

They shook hands and Tom Pellin dropped into the guest's chair. "To say I'm surprised would be a huge understatement." He said, accepting the proffered cup. "How... I mean... why?"

"Why are you here or why am I?" A sudden, shockingly familiar grin lit the face beneath the unfamiliar close-cropped hair. "It's a long story."

"It must be - and I've got all day. We're not one of the big papers and, when a senior policeman offers The Gay Times an exclusive, the editor clears the front page and I clear my diary. So, why am I here?"

Cade sat back in his swivel chair and looked at him over steepled fingers. "It's about the Eastland Ripper." Well, that was no surprise. The Eastland Ripper was the biggest crime story to come out of the region since the war, a serial killer with at least 15 victims over a three year period, all gay men and women, and all gay men and women in long-term, stable relationships.

"I thought it might be, and I hope you haven't dragged me out into the sticks just so you can make another appeal for information." It was a commonplace of Ripper reporting that the investigation was being badly hampered by the reluctance of the gay community to deal with the police.

"Not exactly. I dragged you out into the sticks to tell you I'm taking personal charge of the investigation, with immediate effect."

"That's not one of the usual duties of a Chief Constable." Pellin was fumbling for his note book and tape recorder.

"No, it's not. I shall, in effect, be taking a sabbatical from my main job until the investigation is over."

"Why?" The six-four thousand dollar question.

"I don't have to tell you how much trouble we're having gathering information on this case. Half the people we talk to think we're out to get them for some real or imaginary offence, and the other half are convinced the Ripper's a policeman and we're all covering up for him."

"Is that possible?"

"Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor... who knows? And please don't try to trap me into writing your headlines for you. The last thing we all need, especially the public, is 'Cade says the Ripper may be policeman' headlines." The smile took just enough sting out of the acid words. Pellin realised the man he faced now was, in many ways, a much tougher cookie than the man he had met all those years ago. He nodded acknowledgement of the point and bent back over his note book.

"I'm not saying the reluctance isn't entirely understandable but it's fatal to any chance we have of catching the man. We're just not getting the information we need and, if we don't catch him soon, chances are he'll kill again. I hope that, by leading the investigation myself, I can encourage people to come forward."

"Why?"

"I flatter myself I have a particular insight into the problem." He smiled at the younger man's obvious incomprehension. "I thought you might have guessed - I'm bi-sexual. I lived with a man for seven and a half years. If he hadn't been killed, we'd still be together."

Pellin gaped. "Is this on the record?" he asked incredulously. There had to be a catch.

"Oh yes, that's the whole point of this interview. I want the word out on the streets, I'm here and I need to speak to anyone who has any information that can help. Obviously I can't speak to everyone personally, but I've assembled a small, hand-picked team of detectives to assist me and ..."

"Are they all gay too?"

Cade snorted, amused. "I doubt it very much but I haven't asked them. All I did ask for was an open, unprejudiced mind - I think I got that."

"And you think that, by announcing you had a gay relationship, you'll somehow persuade people to come forward?"

"Well, at least they'll know that there's someone on this side of the fence who understands what it's like, to live with someone you love but whom society treats as little more than your flat-mate. Someone who understands about discretion and, most of all, someone who understands what it's like to lose your partner and to have your loss discounted and demeaned. You know, someone actually said to me, 'It's not like you two were married' when that's exactly how it felt to both of us. I grieved like a spouse - I still do - and there was and is no place for that in the straight world."

He shook his head. "I've seen some shocking sights since these murders began: a man who shared his lover's life for 27 years, barred from his funeral; a woman evicted from the home she'd lived in for over a decade because her partner forgot to make a will. I want to catch this man and I don't care what I have to reveal about myself to do it."

"You think people will believe you?"

Again that sudden, shocking grin and a small, almost imperceptible, shrug. "I'm a policeman, I think people will realise there's no reason for me to say if it wasn't true."

"How the hell did you manage to get away with it?"

"Tom, we were in CI5. You met George Cowley, you think he cared what we got up to in our spare time? So long as it was legal and we turned up whenever he shouted for us, he didn't give a flying fart what we did together." As he spoke of the past, glimpses of the rougher-edged younger man peeped out from behind Cade's more urbane facade.

"You were both in ... So it was that chap you were working with when we met last time?"

"Yes. I'd prefer it if you didn't mention his name. He has family, they didn't get on but I see no reason why they should suffer the attentions of the gutter press."

"So, what happened?"

"He was killed in the Mafeking Street bombing." For the first time, the even voice faltered and the reporter saw the hand resting on the desk, tense and then relax.

"It says in the clippings you were involved in that mess too."

Cade nodded. "I was badly injured and spent over a year convalescing. The rest of the Red Dawn lot were still on the loose and looking for me. I was in no state to deal with them so I was set up with the Cade identity. When I was fit again, I spent the three years after that with the Hong Kong Police and came back to the Met after Perez and the last of his lot blew themselves up in Singapore airport. I suppose I could have gone back to being Doyle, but by then there seemed little point."

Pellin looked at him, consideringly. Just how naive was the man? "You realise there's going to be a hell of a fuss when this comes out?"

"Tom, I'm counting on it. The wider the word spreads, the more chance we have of someone coming forward and the more chance we have of catching this maniac. With any luck it'll be a nine day's wonder and even if it isn't - so what? This isn't exactly a low-profile job at the best of times, a bit more flack isn't going to make that much difference."

"What did the-powers-that-be have to say about it all?"

"They weren't happy but they came round in the end - the body count was getting too high to ignore."

They both jumped as the tiny tape-recorder spooled to the end of the tape. Deliberately Pellin did not turn the tape. "And there's several would-be-powers who'd jump at the chance of a little ammunition to shoot you in the back with?"

Cade wagged a finger at him, the warning friendly but a warning nonetheless. "I told you - I'm not writing your headlines for you. Part of the reason I chose you to talk to when I saw your name on the masthead, was because I thought I could probably trust you. You're not going to make me regret it, are you? I'm doing this to catch the Ripper, I'm not here to 'fight the gay fight'." He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a folder. "This is the press-pack on the case and a list of those partners of victims who are prepared to be interviewed. The rest know what I'm doing, so they can go to ground if they want."

As Pellin reached over for the folder, Cade held on to it, forcing the reporter to meet his eyes. "Tom, you can help set the tone for all the reports that follow. Get the word out - people can talk to us and they can trust us. Try to focus on the case - I'm a means to an end. Nothing else."

"Yeah - and the end may be the end of your career."

Cade got to his feet, the interview was obviously over.

Pellin stood up, still faintly unsatisfied. He had come to journalism late and, like many late-bloomers, was passionate about what he did. He had to understand what drove this man before he could make sense of what he had been told. "Doyle, Cade, whatever the hell your name is - don't you care what happens to you?"

For a split-second, the expensively-tailored shoulders seemed to slump and then straighten.

"No - I care about the job but if the job isn't about saving life and protecting the public, then I don't care about that either."

Inspiration was an almost tangible shock. "You still miss him, don't you?"

Green eyes met brown. "Always and for the rest of my life."

---

If not quite a nine days wonder, it lasted no more than eighteen; overshadowed by the successful arrest of the Eastland Ripper, one Julian Arthur Gledhill, a 46 year old, single man living alone. Despite attempts by his defence lawyers to have him declared unfit to plead, he was tried, convicted and sentenced to the maximum the law allowed. It was thought unlikely he would ever be released.

The celebration party at Eastland HQ was raucous and drink-sodden and the Chief Constable made an early exit. Wearied by the investigation, the publicity blitz, the political in-fighting and nauseated by this triumphant dance around the funeral pyre of Gledhill's victims, he headed for his office.

On the way out he paused to thank his team, for their efforts and for their patience when the news broke in The Gay Times. He had been a beat copper in his time and knew all about the infamous 'canteen culture'. Although none of them had said anything, he had a pretty fair idea of the sort of stick they must have been getting over the last 6 months, working for a self-confessed queer on a bunch of queer murders. They all deserved commendations and several had obviously learnt a lot from the case. Johnson in particular was ready for promotion and Kaur was over-due. Bloody glass-ceiling again probably, he must remember to look into it - tomorrow.

The woman waiting in his secretary's office had been there for over three hours. Nobody knew who she was, she was conservatively well-dressed, in early middle-age and had a security rating that made the constable on door-duty blink. She sat quietly in a corner, refusing refreshment, obviously determined to wait, twisting a handkerchief over and over.

As Cade strode past her towards his office, she stood up.

"Ray?"

He swung round, his face creasing into a grin of delighted recognition. "Betty!" Then reading her expression, the grin vanished and he stood for a long beat, just looking at her. They went into his office in silence.

Ten minutes later the door crashed open and Cade erupted out, struggling into his overcoat.

The stranger followed at a wary distance. "Cancel all my appointments for the next two days, Diane. I'll take the mobile but try not to contact me unless you have to."

He was more tense than she had ever seen him, energy sparking from him like static electricity. She hurried to present the day's letters for signature. "Tell personnel I want the files on Johnson and Kaur when I get back and tell the press, no more interviews until further notice. Get PR to put a polite gloss on it. I'll check in tomorrow but, unless something appalling happens, I'm on leave."

The signatures dashed off, he headed down the corridor, the woman behind him, trotting to keep up with his longer stride. As they disappeared, Diane Lewis heard him say, in a voice she had never heard before, part towering rage, part something else entirely, "Betty, I don't know whether to kiss you or kill you."

They went in her car and, as she drove, she could see the hands that rested on his knees were trembling. She was, as she had known she would be, afraid of and for him.

"Why, Betty? For god's sake why?"

"He made us promise, Ray. He was in an awful state after the bombing and any time anyone mentioned you he got... well hysterical. He didn't want you to see him, not like he was and he was terrified of being a burden on you, of holding you back. He always thought you'd go a long way - you know that." She watched the hands clench and unclench.

"How is he now?"

"A lot better than he was. He has some residual vision in his left eye and the scarring has faded a lot. He still can't walk but he keeps up with all the medical advances and hasn't given up hope. He can stand with a back-brace."

"And mentally?"

"There was never anything much wrong with him mentally. Emotionally, he's more or less back on an even keel. He gets depressed occasionally - who wouldn't? And he's lonely."

"Whose fucking fault is that?" Alan Cade was unravelling before her eyes and Ray Doyle was re-asserting himself, less assured perhaps, less controlled certainly, less of a gentleman even, but oh how much more alive!

"Ray - don't. He did what he thought was best - maybe he was wrong but, even in the state he was in, he was trying to do the best he could for you."

"And George bloody Cowley let him!"

"You have to understand, we all thought he was going to kill himself as soon as he could. Rather than live as he was; rather than drag you down with him. We promised so that we could keep him alive and then we kept the promise because we couldn't see how to break it without tearing you both apart. I wouldn't have come even now if I hadn't seen the interview you gave Tom Pellin and I only saw that yesterday."

The interview had been a revelation. Despite the sensational subject matter, it had been a dignified portrait of a dignified man, still mourning his lover and his partner; a lonely man, despite an interesting and fulfilling life, and a man who refused to be anything but proud of what he had had and then lost. It was that portrait that had sent her to Eastland without telling the man whose secret she had kept for so long.

Desperate to make him understand, and terrified that she had made a dreadful mistake, she put her hand on one clenched fist. "Just think about it! After you got back from Hong Kong, you looked to have made a life without him, what good would it have done to tell you then?"

"What good? What Good?" She could feel the rage that consumed him, an almost physical weight like impending thunder. "For crissake, I loved him! I've never stopped loving him! I've led my life on fucking auto-pilot for the last god knows how long because I thought I'd lost him for ever. And now you tell me all this time he's been living not 70 miles away!" He broke off, biting his bottom lip until he drew blood, fighting for a control he had not lost in over 15 years.

"Ray, until the last few years he was in no state to be with you or anyone else who loved him. He'd have destroyed you both."

Doyle shook his head, refusing to acknowledge that there could be any truth in this. He loved the fucking idiot, it was his right to be there for him. "What the hell has he been living on all this time?"

"First his savings, he had quite a lot put by from his mercenary days, then Mr. Cowley left him everything he had." She paused, worried at how he was going to take this last bombshell. "For the last few years he's been living off his writing." Her passenger's head whipped round at that. "He's A.J. McEvoy."

"Fucking marvellous! I've been crying myself to sleep over a best-selling author." He lapsed into silence, staring out of the window, occasionally shaking his head violently, as though trying to shake it clear.

The speed they were travelling at ate the miles between Eastland and the London suburbs, and it was not long before the car was swinging into the drive of a modest detached house on one floor.

The passenger door was open before the brakes were applied and Doyle was waiting impatiently by the door by the time Betty joined him, fumbling in her handbag for the keys. He snatched them and shouldered her aside, heading for the room which contained the figure he had seen through the window. Still tall, still broad-shouldered, the short, dark hair no more than flecked with grey, standing at a lamp-lit desk at the far end of the room.

Doyle flung the door open and watched as the figure raised its head, from where it had been peering at something from very close range indeed.

"Betty, is that you? You're late this week." The voice at least was unchanged and surprisingly cheerful.

"No, it fucking isn't."

Standing outside the room, not daring to watch, Betty heard the faltering. "Ray?"

The reply was ice cold. "You lousy, miserable, stinking son of a bitch. I ought to kill you myself." The door slammed behind him, shutting her out.

For long minutes she listened, trying to pick out something from the sounds that rose and fell within, all sense filtered out by the solid oak of the door. Eventually silence fell and, heart pounding, more afraid than she had been for a long time, she went outside to look through the study window.

The last of the winter sun shone full on the glass and she stood on tiptoe, peering into the darkened room. The lamp was out and at first she could see nothing. Then the fire leapt and in the flickering light she saw them, standing by the desk, dark figures almost hidden in the shadows.

They were together, in each other's arms, and she could not tell who was supporting who.

-- THE END --

(Sentimental is my middle name)
(It may not be good -- but it's as grammatical as hell!)