Camwolf

by J. L. Merrow

  Too painful? Or not private enough? Nick could think of several reasons why the Markhams might not want their discussions overheard.

  He hoped the true reason wasn’t that, like Inspector Phillips, they’d already decided on his guilt and intended to bludgeon him to death and hide the body.

  Nick decided to walk to the hotel rather than cycle. It would give him a chance to grab a sandwich on the way and avoid lunch in college. God knew he had little enough appetite as it was, without having to face the stares of a Hall-full of prurient students.

  He bought a cheese-and-tomato roll from the baker’s in St. Andrew’s Street and sat to eat it on a bench on Parker’s Piece. On a fine summer’s day this squarish patch of grass would have been crowded with young people from town and gown alike, enjoying the open space and a rare chance to acquire a suntan. Even on this grey autumn afternoon, there were a few hardy students playing an impromptu game of football. Nick envied them their lack of any more pressing worries than whether they’d manage to get their essays in on time, or whether their student loans would last out the term so they wouldn’t have to go begging for handouts from Mum and Dad.

  Turning up the collar of his jacket against the freshening breeze as it sent its icy fingers playing along his spine, Nick stared across the Piece at the hotel. The Master hadn’t given him a clue how he was likely to be received by Julian’s parents, but they obviously knew about him and Julian. Nick could hardly imagine them being overjoyed about their son’s relationship with a man so much older. Perhaps they saw him as some kind of English Schräger, taking advantage of a vulnerable boy? Nick shuddered.

  At least Julian’s sexuality couldn’t have been news to them. And they were aware of his promiscuity—Angus Lemon’s comments about Markham proved that. Perhaps, then, they might not be so upset at learning that he and Nick had been in a steady relationship?

  Nick crumpled up the paper bag that had housed his lunch and stood. Sitting here putting things off wasn’t helping anyone, least of all himself. Chucking the rubbish into a nearby bin, he set off across the grass towards the University Arms.

  The University Arms was perhaps not the most exclusive hotel in Cambridge—the Garden House, down by the river, was generally considered to hold that honour—but it did have a certain old-world grandeur. The chandelier in the lobby could have been a stand-in for the one in The Phantom of the Opera, and some of the staff even spoke with English accents.

  Nick was directed to a lift of the old-fashioned cage sort, with a plaque commemorating its installation by Waygood Otis himself in 1927. Nick wondered irrelevantly, as he slammed the iron gate shut, what had happened to names like Waygood. It was probably ripe for rediscovery by modern generations—he could easily imagine a couple of chavs looking fondly at their newborn, one of them saying “Yeah, Chantelle, he looks way good.” A portrait of the man himself stared back at Nick from the lift wall. He didn’t look like he’d have much of a sense of humour about his name or, indeed, anything else. Nick felt a childish urge to make a rude gesture at him, but instead pulled open the gate once more as the lift juddered to a halt.

  The Markhams were staying in suite 321, which was the most expensive in the place. Nick straightened his shoulders as he knocked on the door, reminding himself that, as a fellow of a Cambridge college, he had no reason to feel ill-at-ease in such surroundings. Nevertheless, it took all his effort not to jump when a stern voice shouted “Come in.”

  As he stepped into the room, Nick’s eyes fell first upon a blonde woman standing by the window, her face pale in the grey autumn light. Julian’s mother, she must be—but Christ, she could have passed for his twin sister. Same hair, same slender beauty…same troubled eyes. No wonder the boy had a difficult relationship with his father. There must have been nothing of the man in him.

  Markham was a stiff figure at her side, somewhat round-shouldered in the manner of the unusually tall man who spends his life bending down to talk to people. His arm hovered constantly around his wife’s shoulders, but it seemed to Nick more of a protective than a possessive gesture.

  “Ah. Sewell?” Markham stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  Nick took it mechanically. Markham’s grip was cautiously firm, as if he worried smaller fingers might be crushed by his outsize grasp. “Mr. Markham. And Mrs. Markham. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we’re meeting under such difficult circumstances.”

  Elisabeth Markham gave a wan smile. “You must call me Lili. I know…my son has written to me about you.”

  Well, that at least was a relief. Probably. Nick hadn’t been looking forward to dealing with a mother coping with the dual blows of her son’s disappearance and the revelation of his homosexual relationship with an older man. “Oh? He, ah, didn’t mention that to me,” Nick stalled, hoping she’d let slip just what Julian had said about him.

  “He finds it difficult, sometimes, to be open with people. He’s just a boy.” She seemed to be struggling not to cry.

  Markham stepped in firmly. “Point is, Sewell, the boy trusts you, so we do too. Drink?”

  Nick took the glass of sherry Markham poured him from the decanter in the room, although he was rapidly coming to loathe the stuff. They trusted him because Julian did? Nick wasn’t sure that he’d take that as any kind of recommendation.

  “Now, we understand you’re aware of Julian’s…unusual background,” Markham began.

  Nick shot him a sharp glance.

  “He said that you were one too,” Lili put in softly.

  Well, this was all just so terribly British, wasn’t it? All of them dancing politely around the elephant in the room, leaving Nick totally confused as to whether it was in fact an aardvark. Abruptly he couldn’t take it anymore. “You mean a homosexual? Or a werewolf?” Nick’s heart was pounding ridiculously at his having come out and actually said the last word.

  Markham just gave him a disappointed look, as if he’d caught him cheating at cricket. “Both, of course.”

  “Right. Yes.” Nick felt wrong-footed, somehow, as if he hadn’t been the one to try to force the candour in the first place. He forced himself to look Julian’s mother in the eye. “That doesn’t worry you? I mean, after what happened in the past…” He trailed off as she flinched at his reference to Schräger.

  “It is what he needs,” she said in her quiet, musical voice.

  Nick’s eyes darted to Markham, but his face was unreadable. What must it be like, to have to accept all this from the outside? Or was it simply that he didn’t really care about Julian? Nick tried to imagine caring for the offspring of the person he loved and another man, and failed dismally. Remembering the glass in his hand, he took a quick drink.

  “We need to know if there’s anything you can tell us. Anything you might not have wanted to say to the police.” Markham’s tone was softer, this time, as if in deference to the woman by his side.

  “About where Julian might be? I wish to God there was,” Nick told them. Although that wasn’t exactly true, was it? “I should probably tell you I’ve been in touch with…” Nick hesitated. Saying “Julian’s father” might not go down too well with Markham. “Peter Herrscher,” he finished.

  Markham stiffened, his arm tightening around his wife as she paled still further.

  Nick hastened on. “He said he would be coming here tomorrow. Actually that’s pretty much all he said, I’m afraid. He was somewhat brusque.”

  “Now, see here!” Markham’s voice was tight. “I really don’t see any reason for that man to be involved.”

  Nick had been dreading this. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but we may need him.” He was still stalling, he realised. “I think Boris Schräger may have Julian,” he said bluntly.

  Lili seemed to crumple, and Markham helped her into a chair, shooting Nick a look of pure loathing that he tried not to take personally. “You’d better have a damn good reason for suggesting that.”

  “I don’t, not really. But a friend of Julian’s tho
ught she saw a dark wolf a few nights ago, and Herrscher’s reaction to the name was instant. I don’t think he’d be rushing over here if Schräger was still safely under his thumb in Germany.”

  “Damn it!” Markham swore explosively. “You’ll have to excuse me, but the man’s a psychopath. Julian was a damned mess when Lili first brought him to me. Took a good year to get him even halfway straightened out. Wish to God I’d brought my gun. Brute needs to be put down like the animal he is. No offence meant, Sewell.”

  “None taken,” Nick said dryly. Lili was still looking like a beautiful marble statue, but she roused herself, showing a hint of the determination that had carried her and her damaged son across Europe. “If he is offering help, you should accept it, Dr. Sewell,” she said in a low, firm voice. “But do not leave him alone with my son.”

  Nick nodded grimly. “You don’t need to worry on that score.”

  Markham nodded. “Good man. Lili, why don’t you go lie down for a while? I’ll come in and see you in a minute. Just a couple of things I want to talk over with Sewell.”

  She gave a wan smile and nodded. “Thank you for coming to see us, Dr. Sewell. I hope that next time we meet it will be under happier circumstances.”

  Nobody spoke until the door to the bedroom had closed behind her, then Markham heaved a sigh. “I don’t mind telling you, we’d hoped to hear better news from you. With the news of that murder…well, we’re under no illusions as to Julian’s character. Fact is, we rather thought you’d been responsible for the boy’s disappearance.” He held up his hands as Nick rounded on him, shocked. “I may not have your inside knowledge, but I’m well aware that things are done somewhat differently in your world. Can’t say I approve, but, well, there it is.”

  Nick’s mind reeled. “You thought I’d…what? Found Julian screwing around, murdered one boy and beaten the other bloody, then hidden him away somewhere until he was fit to be seen?” He turned away to look out of the window, leaning heavily upon the sill. “Christ, don’t even tell me.” This was what they thought of him—and yet they said they trusted him? Outside, the skies were greyer than ever, and a fine mist of rain had begun to fall. “You’re wrong. The only ‘world’ I know is All Saints’ College, Cambridge.” And Julian. “I suggest you stop thinking of me as a, a werewolf and start thinking of me as a lecturer in History.”

  Markham puffed out another heavy sigh. “Well. Can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I suppose there’s no help for it. Perhaps it’s just as well that damned Herrscher’s on his way.”

  Nick walked slowly back to college, the rain soaking into his hair and trickling down inside his collar. The footballers on Parker’s Piece had abandoned their game and the place now looked empty and forlorn. Even the people in town now hurried from shop to shop without looking at one another, their heads bent against the rain.

  Nick had never been amongst so many people, yet felt so alone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tiff sat in her room, staring out of the window. She’d had a rubbish night’s sleep and even her third cup of coffee didn’t seem to be having much effect. Unless you counted making her hands shake and her stomach feel queasy. Everyone said not knowing was the worst bit—but surely it was better to have even the smallest bit of hope? Tiff couldn’t imagine she’d feel relieved if they found Julian’s body. She hugged herself, fighting the sting of tears. God, she was being pathetic. Fat lot of use she was to Julian, wherever he was.

  Where the hell could he be? “Think, Tiff,” she told herself aloud, which at least distracted her from her misery by making her feel like a prat. “Think logically.” If Jools was alive, he was obviously being held somewhere, or he’d come back, wouldn’t he? So that meant some kind of building. But how had Boris the Bloody Bastard—if it was him—come up with a building to hold people in? Well, rental was the obvious answer, but only if you didn’t know Cambridge. Halfway through the Michaelmas term was the worst possible time to find anything to rent round here.

  But then, what if he’d planned this ages ago? He’d been hanging around for a while, she was sure of it. Doing the creepy stalker thing. He was probably the sort of person who didn’t deal well with people—seemed a fair enough guess, from what she’d heard and seen. This was the sort of bloke whose idea of social interaction was stalking people in underground bike sheds.

  So where would he go? Somewhere out of town? Tiff’s heart sank. He could be anywhere. But then, did he even have a car? Could he have rented one? Bought one? He must be capable of acting human enough to get a bloody airline ticket, after all. Tiff chewed her lip in concentration. She didn’t know. But somehow, she just had this feeling he was closer at hand. He’d been seen on Coe Fen—if you were living out in the wilds and you wanted a run, you’d stay out in the country, wouldn’t you? And well, he just seemed like the sort of psycho who’d want to keep as close an eye on Julian as he could.

  She hoped.

  So. Assume, for the sake of sanity, he was still in town. Where was he living? Not in a hotel, that much was obvious. And she doubted he had any friends in Cambridge—certainly none who’d be willing to give indefinite houseroom to a madman and his kidnap victim. A lone wolf. He’d probably have gone round looking for an empty house—even here, there were abandoned properties, their boarded up windows mocking the poor students who could only find somewhere to live way out past Girton. Derelict houses, investment properties. Squats.

  But how did you find out about these places? If you were a wolf, she supposed, you just wandered round until you found a place that didn’t smell inhabited. Or you stayed in a hotel and looked around in human form, maybe. He’d had all the time in the world, after all.

  But Julian didn’t. Julian needed to be found as quickly as possible. Tiff threw herself out of her chair and paced restlessly across the carpet. She could try an estate agent—they’d know about empty properties, wouldn’t they? Or would they only know about the ones owned by their clients? Tiff realised she didn’t have a bloody clue how it worked. But surely they’d specialize in non-abandoned properties, anyway? She needed someone who knew about potential squats. Maybe there was some sort of student network for finding them? Like Facebook, only seedier? Squatbook? Mysquat?

  Tiff didn’t know. But she knew a man who would.

  Crack.

  Slinging on Julian’s jacket, she raced down to the Porter’s Lodge. Crack, Crack…what was his last name? Uppingham, that was it. He was a second-year Social and Political Sciences student and, more to the point, he lived in a squat. He was famous for it—the closest thing All Saints had to a rebel, really, in the sea of awfully nice middle-class students from minor public schools. She’d never actually spoken to him, but then, she’d never imagined she’d want to speak to him before. She’d always thought he was a bit of a poser, really.

  Tiff scanned the bank of pigeonholes for Uppingham, C. There it was. Stuffed to bursting, mostly with flyers for student rallies by the look of it, but also with a big wodge of photocopied lecture notes, presumably from a friend who didn’t mind being the one to get up early. So he hadn’t been into college yet today. Should she leave him a note, or just hang around and wait? A couple more students bustled in, giving her brief, curious glances as she dithered. Clearly she couldn’t wait here. Maybe in Main Court with a book and hope he came in for lunch?

  But what if she missed him? Belt and braces, she decided, and left a brief note saying she had to speak with him urgently about Jools. Hopefully the gossip factor would get his interest because her name certainly wouldn’t. Then she took a quick detour to the college library and settled down on a bench in the watery sunshine with Far From the Madding Crowd.

  Tiff had just got to the part where Bathsheba tells Gabriel she doesn’t love him, and he replies “But I love you—and, as for myself, I am content to be liked.” It was a load of bollocks, she decided. Didn’t he have an ounce of self-respect? She shut the book with a disgusted snap and only then noticed a slender shadow falling acro
ss her.

  Crack.

  He was tall, taller than Julian, even, and way, way thinner. If you sat on his lap you’d be worried his legs might snap. Tiff wondered if he’d taken in his skinny black jeans himself—no shop sold jeans that narrow—or if he had an anorexic girlfriend back home who did it for him. Come to think of it, he’d probably nicked them from the anorexic girlfriend. Slung round his hips was a thick, studded leather belt that probably doubled his body weight. He was ghostly pale and had a long, straight nose—all the better to look down at you, my dear. Tiff shivered as she realised where that came from. God, was she seeing wolves everywhere? She gave him a searching look in the eyes—green, thank God, not amber—and then felt her face grow hot. As if he’d have wolf eyes in a human face.

  Then she saw the faint smile curling those thin lips. Oh, bloody hell, he thought she’d been eyeing him up again. You could probably cook eggs on her face now, Tiff thought, but she was damned if she’d let embarrassment get in the way of anything that might help Julian. “Crack! Um, thanks for…can we talk?”

  He tossed his head, dead-straight black hair falling to one side. “I’m listening.”

  “Um, do you want to sit down?” Tiff scooted self-consciously across the seat to make far more room than his skinny arse would need. He didn’t take it, anyway.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Poser. “Well, I’m not. I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you,” she snapped before realising this probably wasn’t the best way to go about getting him to do her a favour. Then again, he sat, so maybe she was doing all right.

  With him sitting, they were almost of a height. Was he entirely made of legs? Bony knees jutted skywards, and Tiff remembered her earlier thought about sitting on his lap. You’d end up with major lacerations to the buttocks. “I need to know about squats,” she blurted out before her head could get any more scrambled.