Dreams of a Hero Read Online Free PDF Page B

minds?” Roger suddenly looked up from contemplating his coffee cup. “Seems to be my morning for saying ‘sorry.’ I was thinking out loud.”
    “Not a bad question, though,” Miles replied. “That’s what you could do with, Mr. Strauss. A mole. Like in the spy books.”
    “It’s Ian—we’re not in court.” Strauss eased off his jacket, the temperature already starting to build on what was going to be a steaming day. The ventilation system was fighting a losing battle, especially with the steady stream of people in and out of the door. “Maybe we could, but I’m not sure any of us would relish the task. Assuming we could penetrate the family defences.”
    “You make it sound like Fort Knox.” The story was getting odder by the minute. “They’re not members of some strange sect, are they?”
    “Only if you define being a male-chauvinist-dominated, homophobic, nineteen-fifties-style family unit as a strange sect. No, don’t answer that.” Strauss seemed to have slipped into default lawyer mode—maybe he never really came out of it, like Roger could never really stop being a writer, always on the lookout for a story. Would he be using this as the framework for his next murder mystery, sending his long suffering Inspector Hargreaves over here to work with the local force?
    “Mrs. Phillipson suffers the same sort of treatment?” Roger looked worried.
    “Not that I know of. No dark glasses in public or anything that might be hiding bruising. I think he’s put her on a pedestal to worship her. So long as she’s happy to be stuck up there, nothing’s going to happen. He likes everyone to know their place, or what he thinks is their place.”
    “And you won’t keep in yours?” Roger said, his elegant fingers drumming the table as he sat, evidently working his thoughts.
    “Got it in one. I don’t suppose the Phillipsons would give a damn if we just do whatever we do in the privacy of our own our walls and put on the ‘one of the boys’ image in public. He could pretend we didn’t exist, then.”
    “I bet he loves all those Rock Hudson and Doris Day films.” Miles knew the type, all right. The ones in his parents’ generation who laughed like a drain at Larry Grayson or Kenneth Williams but who wouldn’t have wanted a real “queer” within a mile of them. “But you’ve had the nerve to go around being yourselves. Tut tut.”
    Strauss threw up his hands. “Guilty as charged.”
    “Do they hate queers or secretly fancy them?” Roger cut across the conversation and straight to the point, as always. Maybe it was all that practice with creating pivotal bits of a plot which helped him to get right to the hub of what was important.
    “Now, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Strauss leaned forward again.
    There was no need to elaborate—anyone present could have named plenty of examples of people shouting loudest, and fighting hardest, against what they were trying to fight against in themselves. Or the thing to tempt them most, the desire for indulgence which they had to keep hidden.
    “Old man Phillipson as closet gay? I don’t see it myself, but the son, he’s another kettle of fish. Who the hell knows?” Strauss turned round, calling over to the barista. “Harry, the guys here want to know if there’s a chance Alex Phillipson’s gay.”
    “Don’t tell me they’ve got the hots for him?” Harry’s low, lilting voice had a pleasant timbre. You could imagine people wanting to pour out their hearts to him, under the influence of those confidential, comforting tones.
    “He’d have to be the fittest bloke on the planet for us to, given the circumstances.” Miles laughed. “Is he?”
    “Not my type.” Harry grinned. “Unless you like them big and a bit dumb.” He gave Roger the once-over. “Which I’m assuming you don’t.”
    “Nothing sexier than a man with brains.” Miles was pleased to see Roger blush. “So he’s big and dumb, but is he in the