James Lear | An excerpt from THE SUN GOES DOWN

Mitch Mitchell needs a vacation, and he is determined to make the most of his trip to the Mediterranean island of Gozo. Death never takes a break however, and at the behest of fellow doctor Bob Southern, Mitch soon finds himself investigating the demise of a young, gay lance corporal. The police have ruled it a suicide, but the young man's boyfriend claims it was murder. Suspecting an official cover-up of a queer scandal, Mitch gets to work on an investigation that leads him into a labyrinth of lies, false identities and secret sex.

With tension, humor and plenty of Mitch Mitchell's exuberant sexual encounters, The Sun Goes Down cranks up the Mediterranean heat for one of his most baffling and dangerous cases.

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A little farther along the deck, huddled in chairs and surrounded by excessive amounts of luggage, was an English family with thin, pinched faces, gray hair and ill-fitting clothes that were quite unsuited for the weather. That is how the parents looked, at least: could have been a schoolteacher and his do-gooding wife. The son was a different matter. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Young, perfectly

blond, rosy cheeked. Dressed as if he’d just come off the cricket pitch: a white
wool sweater knotted around his shoulders; white shirt; cream trousers. He
shaded his eyes with one hand, squinting towards the horizon where the land mass
of our destination was now clearly visible, getting larger. Gozo, smaller sister
of Malta, separated from the main island by three or four miles of deep-blue
sea, half an hour on the ancient vessels that ply the route day in, day out,
steaming past the brightly painted fishing boats that bob along the waves, nets
cast, waiting.

“Look,” he shouted, turning a bright, eager face to his parents. “We’re nearly
there!”

They glanced up from their reading matter (religious tracts?), frowned in
perfect unison and looked down. The boy’s face fell, his pink lips hanging open,
blue eyes bright and wet, perhaps just from the stiff sea breeze. This wouldn’t
do. I strolled over.

“There she blows,” I said, standing next to him. “Journey’s end.”

The boy smiled and jumped to his feet, grateful for any attention. “At last! I
thought we’d never get here!”

The parents turned stony, disapproving faces towards me. If I’d been wearing a
hat I’d have raised it. Instead I said in my best Beacon Hill tone, “Dr.
Mitchell. Pleased to meet you.” The “doctor” part always works wonders. They
looked away, content to let me babysit their son.

“You travel over from England?”

“Yes. We come here every summer.”

“Lucky you.”

The boy sighed and looked to the island. “I suppose so.” The side of his face
was smooth, soft, his ears red from the sun. “It’s very beautiful.”

“Sure is,” I said, not meaning the island. His neck was like a column of marble
disappearing into the cool whiteness of his shirt. For someone who’d been
traveling for so long, he was remarkably unruffled. “I’ve never been before.
Perhaps you could show me around.”

“I’d be delighted.” He smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. I hoped
he knew how to shield them with his lips because he was going to need to before
long.

A little farther along the deck, huddled in chairs and surrounded by excessive
amounts of luggage, was an English family with thin, pinched faces, gray hair
and ill-fitting clothes that were quite unsuited for the weather. That is how
the parents looked, at least: could have been a schoolteacher and his do-gooding
wife. The son was a different matter. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Young, perfectly

blond, rosy cheeked. Dressed as if he’d just come off the cricket pitch: a white
wool sweater knotted around his shoulders; white shirt; cream trousers. He
shaded his eyes with one hand, squinting towards the horizon where the land mass
of our destination was now clearly visible, getting larger. Gozo, smaller sister
of Malta, separated from the main island by three or four miles of deep-blue
sea, half an hour on the ancient vessels that ply the route day in, day out,
steaming past the brightly painted fishing boats that bob along the waves, nets
cast, waiting.

“Look,” he shouted, turning a bright, eager face to his parents. “We’re nearly
there!”

They glanced up from their reading matter (religious tracts?), frowned in
perfect unison and looked down. The boy’s face fell, his pink lips hanging open,
blue eyes bright and wet, perhaps just from the stiff sea breeze. This wouldn’t
do. I strolled over.

“There she blows,” I said, standing next to him. “Journey’s end.”

The boy smiled and jumped to his feet, grateful for any attention. “At last! I
thought we’d never get here!”

The parents turned stony, disapproving faces towards me. If I’d been wearing a
hat I’d have raised it. Instead I said in my best Beacon Hill tone, “Dr.
Mitchell. Pleased to meet you.” The “doctor” part always works wonders. They
looked away, content to let me babysit their son.

“You travel over from England?”

“Yes. We come here every summer.”

“Lucky you.”

The boy sighed and looked to the island. “I suppose so.” The side of his face
was smooth, soft, his ears red from the sun. “It’s very beautiful.”

“Sure is,” I said, not meaning the island. His neck was like a column of marble
disappearing into the cool whiteness of his shirt. For someone who’d been
traveling for so long, he was remarkably unruffled. “I’ve never been before.
Perhaps you could show me around.”

“I’d be delighted.” He smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. I hoped he knew how to shield them with his lips because he was going to need to before long.