Camwolf

by J. L. Merrow

  “We’re not joined at the hip,” Tiff muttered.

  “Is he all right? I haven’t seen him around lately,” Kate pressed on.

  “Oh, he’s just been busy. Essays and stuff.” Tiff pushed at the last bit of her lasagne with her fork before deciding it’d be a shame to waste it even if she was a bit full. The salad sat on the side of the plate, untouched and looking reproachfully at her, so she put her knife and fork down on top of it. “I’ll see you later, all right? I’ll pop round when I get a mo.”

  Pushing her chair back with a scrape, Tiff stood, then dumped her tray and set off back for her room.

  At least she could get that bloody essay done.

  Apparently Julian wasn’t speaking to him. Nick hadn’t seen him since their ridiculous quarrel two nights ago. Not even passing through the college, which was unusual, but then presumably Julian had never been trying to avoid him before. Several times Nick had considered knocking on Julian’s door, but had thought better of it. After all, what would he say? He was determined not to back down—it was for Julian’s own good, damn it.

  Not to mention your own, dearie. Nadia’s voice sounded disapproving in his head. Nick made an angry sound and threw down his pen. He really shouldn’t be trying to mark essays in this frame of mind. He’d end up giving some poor student an “F” just because he was annoyed at Julian. And his wolf side wasn’t helping, either. It kept reminding him that Julian was his—his pack, his mate—and insisting Nick should go and find him, demand his submission.

  Thoroughly restless now, Nick stood, determining to get changed and go for a run. But before he could take more than two steps across the room, there was a knock on the door. Hope flaring, Nick flung it open—then stood there fighting the urge to snarl. It wasn’t Julian. In fact, it was the last person Nick expected to see. Tiffany Meadows. He forced himself to be polite. “Ah, Tiffany, if you’re after some help with your work…”

  “No.” She cut him off abruptly. “It’s about Julian.” Her chin tipped up as she spoke. “I haven’t seen him in two days, and it’s just not like him. And I thought maybe you might just care—”

  “What? You haven’t seen him at all?” Even to his own ears, Nick’s voice sounded sharp.

  “No. And when I knock on his door, no one answers, and his curtains aren’t drawn at night, and there’s no light on…” She trailed off and thrust a newspaper at him. “And there’s this. If you know where he is, for God’s sake—”

  His chest tight, Nick took the copy of the Cambridge Evening News she held out, expecting to be confronted by a picture of a silver-white wolf, perhaps being muzzled by the RSPCA or whoever it was dealt with such things. The headline screamed his misconception at him: Youth Found Murdered: Hate Crime Suspected. Nick stared, unseeing, at the rest of the text.

  “It’s not him, obviously,” Tiffany said hurriedly. “But all the same…” She broke off at his look, stepping back a pace. “I’m sorry—it’s last night’s, I didn’t realise you wouldn’t have seen it. Sorry.”

  Nick forced his breathing to calm, his face to relax. “It’s all right, Tiffany. I just—no. I haven’t seen Julian since Saturday night. And you’re right, this is concerning.”

  Tiffany looked Nick straight in the eye. He admired her bravado even as her residual fear pricked at his nostrils. “You were out with him Saturday night, right?”

  Nick flushed. “Yes. We came back around midnight.”

  “You went to his room?”

  “I hardly think—no, I didn’t. We, er, we had a bit of a disagreement.” An icy feeling crept through Nick’s insides. That time he’d seen Julian whoring in the alley—that had been after an argument with his boyfriend. Was that what Julian did when things went badly? Went to find someone he knew would want him, even if all that was really wanted was his mouth around the man’s cock?

  “What?” Tiffany gave him a sharp look. “You thought of something. What was it?”

  Nick took a deep breath. Just how close were she and Julian? Would his…activities be news to her? The fact that she knew about his relationship with Nick suggested not. “I think maybe he might have gone out again after we quarrelled, and tried to, well, pick someone up.”

  Tiffany’s eyes widened. “He said he wasn’t doing that anymore. He said…” She flushed and didn’t complete the sentence. Nick had a strong suspicion it had something to do with him, and there was a feeling in the pit of his stomach he was afraid to identify.

  “But it’s the sort of thing he’d do, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

  “Yes. He told me you get some rough types round there. Round Green Street, I mean. I didn’t think—” She bit her lip. “I think that’s where it happened. The murder, I mean. ‘Two streets away from a popular gay bar in the city centre’ is what they say in the article, but it’s not like there’s a lot to choose from, is it?”

  Nick scanned the report. The phrase ‘Sometime in the early hours of Sunday morning’ jumped out at him. In other words, shortly after he and Julian had parted. “It doesn’t say how he died.” He looked up sharply. “You can’t possibly imagine Julian had anything to do with it!”

  “What? Of course not! But what if he saw something? What if he, I don’t know, knew the bloke or something? He might have run away, been too scared to come back to college.” She straightened her shoulders. “Look, it’s just too much of a coincidence. I think we have to tell someone about this.”

  It all seemed to happen so quickly. One minute Nick was reporting his concerns about Julian, the next he was watching Sands, the head porter, use his master key to enter Julian’s room. Which was empty, of course, the only signs of life a carton of milk turning pungently to cheese upon the windowsill. And then the whole college machinery seemed to whir into motion, and before Nick knew it he was being summoned to an interview with a police officer in the Master’s Lodge.

  Detective Inspector Phillips looked to be in his late thirties, with a mostly unlined face but sandy hair that had noticeably thinned on top. He looked like a man who ran regularly, or possibly cycled competitively—there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His pale blue eyes were intelligent and, Nick thought, distinctly unfriendly. Nick was hazy on police procedures, but he somehow doubted that an officer of his rank usually got involved with missing persons. Which meant they must be taking seriously the possibility of a connection with the murder case.

  Phillips waved him to sit down and then leaned forward on the battered wooden desk that separated them. The light from the small window behind him shone through his hair and gilded it into a halo, as though he were some kind of angel of righteousness. “Now, Mr. Sewell, this isn’t a formal interview, and you’re not under caution. We just need to ask you a few questions. I understand you were, ah, friendly with the young man who’s disappeared?”

  It was quite clear what he was implying and how he felt about it. Nick wondered if the omission of his academic title had been deliberate too.

  “Yes.” Nick forced his voice to be calm. “Yes, we’re both members of the University German Society and we, ah, sort of got to know each other through that.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Nick drew a deep breath. “And we’re rather more than friends,” he admitted—and from the look on the policeman’s face, Phillips clearly felt it was an admission.

  “I see. Mr. Lauder is just eighteen, isn’t he?” The tone was so damned bland Nick wanted to scream.

  “Nineteen, actually,” Nick corrected, wincing internally as he recalled Nadia’s comment about that. “And yes, that is quite a large age gap, but it’s hardly that unusual and it’s certainly not illegal.”

  Phillips looked at him for a moment, then scribbled a few words in his notebook. No doubt something along the lines of “suspect became defensive under interrogation”, Nick thought bitterly. “Indeed not, sir. Not these days. Now, can you tell me about your last meeting with Mr. Lauder?”

  Nick felt himself flushing. “We went for a drive in the country.”

  “At
night, sir?”

  “Well, they do say moonlight is romantic, don’t they, Inspector?”

  Phillips sniffed. “Did you meet up with anyone else?”

  What, for kinky group sex in car parks? “No,” Nick said shortly. “We didn’t.”

  “How long did this drive last?”

  “Well, we went soon after Formal Hall, so I suppose we were on the road by nine-ish. We went out along Hills Road—towards the Gog Magogs—and parked by some woodland for a walk.”

  “In the dark, sir?”

  “As I said,” Nick snapped.

  “And how long did this walk take you?”

  “We were back in college by midnight.”

  “And you parted on good terms?” This was the question Nick had been dreading. Briefly he considered lying, but he had an awful feeling if he did, Phillips would be bound to dredge up a witness from somewhere. The sound of the window slamming replayed itself in his mind.

  “No, I’m afraid we didn’t. We had…words.”

  “You argued, in fact, didn’t you, sir?”

  God, he had found a witness. How the hell had he managed that already? Or was it just a bluff? “We disagreed, yes. But it was nothing serious.” Suddenly Nick snapped. “Look, I had nothing to do with whatever’s happened to Julian, and I’m out of my mind worrying about him! Can’t you just concentrate on trying to find him? He’s not—he’s vulnerable…” Nick trailed off, aware that this outburst had probably not helped him in the least.

  Phillips was looking like a hound that had just caught the scent. “Vulnerable, sir?”

  Nick took a deep, calming breath. “He had—at least I believe he did, he didn’t really talk about it—he had an abusive boyfriend back in Germany.”

  “And you’re suggesting this boyfriend might have had something to do with his disappearance?”

  “Christ, I don’t know—I mean, it was, what, two years ago? But it couldn’t hurt to look into it, could it? But what I really meant was that he—Julian—he doesn’t fight. If someone’s taken him…” Nick found he couldn’t go on. Tears were pricking at his eyes, and he hated himself for feeling so mortified at the prospect of crying in front of a bloody homophobic police officer. All he should be caring about now was Julian, not what anyone thought of him.

  “I see, sir.” Phillips paused. “And you have reason to suppose he might have gone into town after you left him?”

  Nick swallowed. “He—he was upset. He might have, yes.” It was his biggest fear: that Julian might have gone somewhere seedy looking for comfort and found… Nick didn’t want to think of what he’d found. “He did occasionally use to visit gay night spots in town.”

  “Did Mr. Lauder have any particular favourites?”

  He’s not dead, Nick wanted to scream. Stop talking about him in the past tense! “I don’t know. It wasn’t something we ever did together, and I thought he’d stopped all that when we…when we started our relationship.” He hesitated, hating to admit this about Julian. “He was…promiscuous, I think, before he and I got together. I used to see him with a lot of different boys.” Which implies you were watching him, you idiot. As if they don’t have you pegged for a pervert already. “I know he went to the Rat & Ferret at least once, but I don’t suppose that’s much help,” he added uselessly.

  Phillips made another note in his book and grunted noncommittally. “Can you tell me what your…difference of opinion with Mr. Lauder was about, Mr. Sewell?”

  Nick looked down. The worn carpet at his feet was no help whatsoever. “I’ve decided to move out of college. Rent a house in town, or just outside. Julian wanted to move in with me, when I find somewhere.”

  “And you didn’t want that?” Phillips’ tone was pointedly bland.

  “I didn’t think it was a good idea for him to cut himself off from the other students in his first year here.”

  “Mm-mm. Was he very…upset?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say very upset, but—you know how it is, sometimes these things get blown out of proportion.” Nick hesitated. “Julian’s not very good at dealing with what he sees as rejection.”

  Phillips looked at him shrewdly. “So you’d broken things off?”

  “No! No, not at all. It was just a difference of opinion, that’s all. We’d have sorted it all out next time we saw each other.”

  “But now you won’t be able to,” Phillips said so sympathetically that for a moment, his words didn’t sink in. As they did, Nick felt his stomach lurch.

  “What? You haven’t—oh God, tell me he’s not—”

  “Oh! Sorry, sir. Slip of the tongue.”

  You bastard. Nick could barely contain himself from shouting out loud. “If you’ve quite finished trying to trick me into confessing to a crime we don’t even know has been committed?” he asked tightly. “I thought you had an actual murder to investigate.”

  “Well, since you bring up the subject—” Phillips pushed a photograph across the desk. “This is Andrew Wilson, the young man who was murdered in the early hours of Sunday morning.” He paused. “Shortly after you and Mr. Lauder had your little altercation in the Porter’s Lodge. His skull had been caved in, and his neck snapped. The body was then roughly hidden behind some rubbish sacks. Were you acquainted with Mr. Wilson?”

  Numbly, Nick studied the picture. It showed a smiling young man, probably in his early twenties. He looked far happier and more carefree than any murdered man had a right to. Julian would have made a far more plausible victim, with that hunted look that crept into his eyes when he thought no one was looking. Christ, he was being morbid.

  “Mr. Sewell?” A little steel had crept into Phillips’ tone.

  “No. I’m afraid he doesn’t look familiar at all.” Nick shrugged awkwardly. “There’s no reason he should, after all. I’m quite aware of the existence of gay bars in the city, but I can’t say I ever go to any of them.”

  “No?” Phillips made some more notes.

  “Not that I have any dislike for that sort of place, or that I’d be embarrassed to be seen in one, of course,” Nick added hastily, cringing internally at his defensive tone.

  “Of course,” Phillips agreed. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. They were at odds with the rest of him, Nick noticed: stubby and blunt, they didn’t appear to belong to his wiry frame. “What about young Mr. Lauder? Did he ever mention Mr. Wilson to you? As a past—or indeed, present—lover, perhaps?”

  “Oh, for—I’d be the last person he’d mention something like that to!”

  Phillips raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Would you say you were a jealous man, Mr. Sewell?”

  Nick laughed nervously, feeling as transparent as glass. “No more so than anyone else, I’m sure, Inspector.”

  The policeman nodded. “Still, passions can run rather high, can’t they? Particularly when someone like your Mr. Lauder is concerned. Judging from the photographs I’ve seen, he’s just the sort of young man someone like yourself might have found very attractive.”

  Someone like yourself. Nick struggled to keep his temper. And Phillips had deliberately laid stress on young, Nick was certain of it. “Well, of course I found him attractive. I was going out with him!” Nick felt a stab in his gut as he realised his slip. “Am going out with him,” he corrected himself weakly.

  “Of course, Mr. Sewell. Well, I think that’ll be all for now.”

  He didn’t rise, much less offer Nick his hand. It was probably just as well. In his current mood, Nick might very well have ripped it off.

  “Bloody bigoted breeder bastard!” Nick exploded as he left the Master’s Lodge.

  “Nice line in alliteration, dearie, but I doubt it’ll help your case if the sergeant hears you talking like that.” Nadia gave him a comforting squeeze.

  “My case? I see even you’ve got me halfway to the dock already. Have you seen the way that man looks at me? As if it’s only a matter of time before he gets me down to the station and starts pressuring me to admit that I found Julia
n with the murdered man and killed them both in a jealous rage! God knows where I’m supposed to have put Julian’s body but I’m sure they’ll be able to tell me!”

  “Come on, dearie, I don’t think we should be talking about this out here. Students everywhere, the sneaky little buggers. Let’s go on up to your rooms and have a glass of that ghastly sherry you keep for anyone unfortunate enough to visit you.”

  Nick allowed her to lead him up to his rooms, where she eschewed the cut-price crystal in favour of pouring him an earthenware mugful of Harveys Amontillado.

  “Now then, lovey, you sit down there and have a swig of that. Tell Aunty Nadia all about it.”

  Nick almost spilled his sherry with his expansive, despairing gesture. He gripped the mug in both hands and took a hefty swallow. “What is there to tell? The police are a bunch of homophobic bloody bigots who think I’m some kind of serial killer!”

  Nadia fixed a shrewd eye upon him. “Or possibly the inspector just doesn’t approve of student-fellow relationships? Now, I’m all for calling a queer-basher a queer-basher, and if he is allowing prejudice to affect his handling of the case, I’ll be the first to support you putting in a complaint, but I’ve had dealings with Phillips before and he seemed a decent sort—for a man.”

  Nick put the mug down. He noticed she’d chosen the one that proclaimed, in the face of all the evidence, that he was the “World’s Best Lecturer”. Presumably unconscious irony. Tiredly, he ran his fingers through his hair. “God, I don’t know.” He gave a bitter laugh. “It is usually the lover, isn’t it?” He was silent a moment, then asked the question he was dreading having answered. “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”

  “I think, dearie, that nothing is to be gained by giving up hope just yet. Now, come on, I’ll treat you to lunch in town.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he protested.

  “Nonsense! It’ll do you good to get away from this place for a bit.”

  And from all the accusing eyes, Nick thought. Resignedly, he followed her out into the sunlight.