Camwolf

by J. L. Merrow

  “He has been dealt with. Permanently. The police will find no trace of him.”

  “Good man.” Markham gave Herrscher an approving look. Nick felt the childish urge to jump up and say “It was me! I killed him!” God, upset at being denied credit for a murder. Suddenly it didn’t seem even remotely amusing. Herrscher’s plan sounded perfectly sensible, so why did Nick feel the urge to smash his fist into something? But what else could he do but go along with it all? Demand that Julian stay with him? In what way, precisely, would he be any better than that bastard Schräger?

  As Julian moved to go with his mother, he finally raised his eyes to meet Nick’s. For a moment Nick’s heart leapt, but it was a fleeting glance, soon over. “I’ll come and see you,” Nick repeated, but his voice sounded flat even to his own ears.

  Julian didn’t reply, just left, his head bowed once more.

  After they’d gone, Nick tried to force himself to think of practicalities. He should be getting back to college—should he give the Markhams ten minutes’ head start? It would hardly look good arriving back in Cambridge in convoy. He managed to locate his keys and noticed with distaste that there was a smear of blood on the fob. Setting his jaw, he rinsed it under the hot tap, noticing with annoyance that Herrscher had come into the kitchen and was watching him. “You may want to check there’s no blood on the bathroom carpet, that sort of thing,” Nick said to break the silence. “You don’t want the owner of this place getting suspicious about you.”

  “That will not be a problem.”

  Nick looked up tiredly from the sink, his fingers throbbing from the hot water. “Why not? Planning to kill them too?”

  Herrscher smiled. “I have no need to do that. The owner of this house is my wife. My ex-wife, I should say. Lili.”

  Nick stared. “But… When did all this get arranged?”

  The bastard was practically grinning now. “Before you called me. Lili telephoned to me as soon as she heard that the boy was missing.”

  “And Markham?” Nick shook the drops from his hands and dried them and the keys on a tea towel.

  “Does not know. And I do not think it would be good for him to find out.” Gallingly, Herrscher’s tone was not so much threatening as confident that Nick would not tell. Nick strode away from him to look out of the living room window.

  Christ, what the hell kind of game was Lili playing? Nick ran his hands through his hair, finding it still somewhat damp from the shower, then wiped them on his borrowed trousers. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to go back to his rooms and curl up under the duvet. “I’ll be going now,” he said, trying in vain to capture Herrscher’s tone of arrogant certainty.

  “Goodbye, Dr. Sewell,” came Herrscher’s reply. “I do not think we will see each other again.”

  “That’ll suit me fine.” Nick walked past Herrscher and out of the kitchen, managing not to be childish and barge shoulders with him. Remembering that there was likely to be blood in his car, he returned to the bathroom to grab a couple of towels. He’d have to scrub the Mini Cooper out with disinfectant when he got a chance. Or burn it, one of the two. He’d always been rather fond of his little car, but the thought of driving it polluted with Schräger’s blood turned his stomach.

  Slinging the stained towels vaguely in the direction of the front door, Nick climbed into the Mini Cooper and drove numbly back to college.

  Back in his rooms, Nick was aware he ought to be celebrating—but he felt nothing. No jubilation at having got Julian back safely—just a flat, tired emptiness in his soul. He’d killed a man. Torn out his throat with his teeth, for God’s sake.

  And he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Christ, what kind of man was he to be entrusted with the education of Britain’s finest young minds? What kind of a protector had he been for Julian? Nick peeled off his borrowed clothes, stuffing them into a bin bag, and stepped into the shower. He turned the temperature up high and scrubbed at his skin once more, trying to erase the stink of Schräger’s blood.

  It wasn’t until he was dressed in his own clothes once more that Nick felt somewhat easier in his mind. He paced aimlessly about his rooms. Surely there were things he should be doing? He should tell people Julian was all right—Tiffany, at least, she’d earned that much. But a bone-crushing weariness seemed to have settled on him, robbing him of the will to go anywhere, do anything. Nick looked at his watch.

  It was four o’clock in the morning. He should go to bed.

  Chapter Twenty

  God, Dr. Sewell looked a state. He’d knocked on Tiff’s door just before lunchtime, but she reckoned he couldn’t have been up long. Either that, or he’d never got to bed at all. The dark circles around his eyes looked like they’d been tattooed on and his hair obviously hadn’t seen a brush in days. He hadn’t shaved, either, although that was probably a good thing—at least the stubble brought a bit of colour to the greyish tones of his skin. Tiff bit back a comment about how she’d been going absolutely bloody frantic waiting for some news.

  “Julian’s safe,” was the first thing he said.

  Tiff’s legs felt wobbly, and the room seemed to tilt for a moment. “Oh, thank God! Where is he? Is he back in college?”

  “No. With his parents, at the University Arms.”

  There was something weird about his manner. Tiff’s eyes narrowed. “And he’s definitely all right?”

  Dr. Sewell just nodded. She’d have thought he’d look a bit bloody happier about it.

  “So, did you find him at one of the places I told you about?” Crack butted in, stepping up behind her. Tiff felt her face grow hot as Dr. Sewell’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, Crack just slept on my floor last night as we were up so late, talking, after we got back from Dr. Pawlaczek’s,” she explained hurriedly.

  Dr. Sewell’s face went carefully blank, proving he hadn’t believed a word of it. Which she wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t been true. “I’ll see you later,” he said and turned to go without answering Crack’s question. Then he swung back round. “It would be better if you didn’t talk about this. Both of you. Better for Julian,” he added. He seemed about to say something else, but then turned away again and, this time, headed for the stairs.

  “Looks to me like Julian didn’t want to come back home,” Crack said thoughtfully.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, it’s obvious Dr. Sewell’s got the hump about something, innit?” Crack leaned against her wall, looking a bit like a daddy-long-legs with his spindly arms and legs.

  Tiff resisted the urge to fetch a rolled-up newspaper. “Don’t be daft. Why would Jools want to stay with a bloke who knocked him around?”

  Crack shrugged. She was vaguely surprised his shoulder blades didn’t slice through his T-shirt and turn into wings, completing the resemblance. “Well, you know him better than I do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “So you’d know if the rumours about him were true. About him liking it rough.”

  “No. They’re not true, all right? And if anyone else says stuff like that, you can tell them from me it’s a load of bollocks.”

  “All right, all right.” Crack pushed himself off the wall and gave her a wonky smile. “Sorry. Don’t shoot the messenger, all right?”

  Tiff looked away, shame burning a hole in the pit of her stomach. Because it was true, she knew it was. She’d seen the marks on Jools’ body. But there was a difference, wasn’t there? Between liking the kinky stuff and domestic abuse? “Look, I’m going to go and see Julian. Thanks for the information and stuff.”

  “Okay.” Crack grabbed his jacket and slung it on, then just stood there, waiting.

  Tiff sighed under her breath. Looked like she was going to have an escort whether she wanted one or not.

  When they got to the University Arms, Tiff had a moment of doubt. Would Julian’s mum and dad—stepdad, she presumed, else why would he be staying with her?—even let her in to see him? Crack was no help, just slouching against the reception des
k as she made her request. At least she managed to remember Julian’s mum’s new surname. “Yes, that’s right,” she told the scarily efficient-looking girl at reception. “Tiffany Meadows and, er, Crack Uppingham.” She shot a glance at her companion, but he didn’t correct the name.

  She smiled in relief as the reception girl put the phone down and turned to her with a nod. “They’re in room 321. Top floor—the lift is just down there, to the right. Turn left when you get out. They’re expecting you.”

  The lift was one of the old-fashioned ones where you had to shut this big folding iron gate thing. Tiff had thought those had been banned by health and safety, but maybe this one got special dispensation for being really old. There was a portrait hung inside it of a bloke in a wig, looking really uncomfortable while he pretended to read a book. “You’d think the artist could have painted on a smile, wouldn’t you?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a photo.”

  “Nah, they didn’t do smiles in those days. Not for official portraits, anyway.” Crack seemed uncomfortably close and ridiculously tall in the cramped lift. Tiff was annoyed to feel short and squat by comparison. “Nice wig, though.”

  Tiff squinted round him to read the inscription on the frame. “Waygood Otis. Waygood? God, some parents!”

  Crack snorted. “Oh, it could be worse. Believe me.”

  “Forgotten who you’re talking to, have you?”

  “Don’t you like Tiffany? I think it suits you.” The lift stopped, and he pulled open the gate. “After you.”

  Tiff tried to work out if he’d been being sarcastic as they walked up a short flight of stairs to room 321. When they built this place, clearly anyone rich enough to stay here could afford a fleet of servants to carry them upstairs if they were disabled. Tiff wondered why her mind kept going off on a tangent when she was about to see Julian again—then jumped as a tall, posh-looking bloke opened the door to room 321 before they’d even knocked.

  He gave Tiff a pinched-looking smile, and Crack a rather more welcoming one. “Caractacus, how are you? I didn’t know you were a friend of Julian’s.”

  Tiff stared. Crack—Caractacus?—was actually blushing. She stifled a giggle.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Markham. Er, nice to see you.” Crack’s accent had done the speediest bit of social climbing she’d ever witnessed. Zero to posh in nought point three seconds.

  Julian’s stepfather nodded. He and Crack were the same height, but where Mr. Markham was quite well-built in an upper-class sort of way, Crack looked like a stick figure next to him. “How’s your father? Still leading the hunt?”

  “Er, yes,” Crack answered. “Although he says it’s not the same, these days. You know, without the foxes.”

  Mr. Markham was nodding in agreement. He probably missed his regular bit of rending small animals limb from limb too. “And you must be Tiffany. Julian mentioned you in his letters. Delighted to meet you.” He held out a hand and Tiff shook it, feeling a bit daft. “Well, I know you’re here to see Julian, so I shan’t keep you. Glad to see he’s made some friends at college. He’s through here.”

  “Caractacus?” Tiff whispered, as Mr. Markham showed them through a lounge area to the bedroom. “Caractacus?”

  “Well, it’s not like I asked to be called that, Tiffany.”

  “Yes, but…Caractacus?” Half of Tiff knew she was finding this way too funny. The other half didn’t give a toss; Julian was all right, and she was going to see him now. “We should have kids together,” she said, trying to straighten her face. “I’ve already picked out the names: Tarquin and Chardonnay. Or, you know, Waygood. Seeing as you seemed to like that one.”

  She pushed open the door to Julian’s room, and suddenly her laughter died. Julian was lying propped up in bed, his face almost as pale as the white bathrobe he was swaddled in, his eyes dull and listless. God, he looked awful. Tiff had to fight back tears. “Jools!”

  He flinched as she flung her arms around him. Behind her, Tiff was vaguely aware of Crack muttering something about leaving them alone and edging back out of the door. “I’ll bloody kill that bastard!” she sobbed out.

  “Too late.” Julian was all sort of hunched in on himself and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  Tiff let go of him reluctantly and was shocked despite herself as the meaning of his words sank in. “Your dad actually killed him?” How come he wasn’t in jail? Was he in jail? You couldn’t really go around killing people even if they did deserve it, could you?

  “No. Nick.”

  “Dr. Sewell?” Tiff had a weird feeling in her stomach. “But he’s…nice.”

  Julian shrugged and didn’t say anything.

  “How…was there a fight?” Tiff thought of nature programs she’d seen, with wild animals bringing down their prey. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t had breakfast.

  “Yes. He was the stronger.”

  There was something in Julian’s voice—was it pride? Satisfaction? Tiff shuddered. How the hell was she going to face supervisions with Dr. Sewell after this? “So is he going to get into trouble? With the police, I mean?”

  Julian looked up then. “No one knows. You must not tell anyone. The police think I escaped from Boris, and that he has run somewhere. They don’t know that Nick had anything to do with it. You must not tell anyone the truth.” His eyes were burning with a scary intensity as he leant forward to grasp her arm so hard it hurt.

  “Okay! Jools, it’s okay, I won’t tell, I promise.” She tried to make her voice sound soothing. “But where is he, anyway? I’d have thought he’d be here, with you.” She looked around nervously.

  Julian’s head dropped again, and he released her arm. “He doesn’t want me.”

  “What? Are you mad? Of course he wants you! He bloody killed someone to get you back.”

  “No. He killed because Boris had taken what was his.”

  Tiff felt a sudden, searing desire for hell to be real and that bastard to burn there for all eternity. She rubbed her arm. “Dr. Sewell’s not like that.”

  “You don’t understand.” It was almost a snarl. “I betrayed him. I went with Boris.”

  “That’s bollocks.” Tiff hesitated. “Look…don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but…why did you go with him? Boris, I mean. Did he give you a choice?”

  Julian dropped his head again. “We quarrelled. I asked for too much, and he was angry with me.”

  “Boris?” She frowned, confused.

  “Nick.”

  “Oh. Jools, don’t you think maybe you were over-reacting? I mean, going back to Boris…”

  “He said Nick didn’t love me. That if he cared about me, he wouldn’t let me wander the streets on my own, where I could get into trouble.”

  “That’s not love. That’s…psycho stalker stuff.” Tiff bit her lip. “He hurt you, didn’t he? Boris, I mean, not Dr. Sewell—Dr. Sewell didn’t hurt you, did he? Jools, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  Julian’s face was all screwed up like he was trying to work it out. “I prefer Nick,” he said at last.

  To be honest, she’d expected a bit more enthusiasm. Maybe he was just shell-shocked from whatever had happened? Or maybe there really wasn’t all that much difference between the two of them… No. She wasn’t going to think that. Tiff put a hand on Julian’s arm, only partly for his benefit. “You don’t have to be with either of them, you know. Do you love Dr. Sewell?”

  Julian ran a hand through his hair, finally grabbing the longer bits at the back in a grip that looked almost painful. “I don’t know. I don’t think I understand love.”

  Tiff felt her smile go a bit wobbly. “I don’t think you have to understand it. You just have to feel it.”

  “Have you? Been in love, I mean?”

  It was a wrench, saying it. Like peeling off a scab—you knew it had to go, you wanted it to go, but it still bloody well hurt. “No. Not really.” She sighed. “But I think I know, a bit, how it feels. Jools, if you never saw Dr. Sewell again, how would you feel?�
��

  His eyes were wide and dark as he answered. “Empty.”

  “There you go, then. You have to tell him that.” Tiff’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. This wasn’t exactly the advice she’d have thought she’d be giving. She just hoped she hadn’t got it horribly wrong.

  “It’s not my choice,” he said, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  In any case, that was just daft. “Well, whose choice is it, then?”

  Julian stared blankly into space. Either that or he really liked the weird abstract print on the other side of the hotel room. “He…after we cleaned up and changed, he didn’t want to touch me. I revolted him.”

  “Then he should stop being such a bloody prat.” Tiff sighed. “Look, this has got to be the worst possible time to be making decisions, all right? For both you and Dr. Sewell. You’ve just been through—well, you know what you’ve been through.” She risked giving him another hug, and this time he didn’t flinch, although he didn’t seem all that relaxed, either. “I’m sure he cares about you. You should have seen what a mess he was when you were missing. Just—don’t leap to conclusions based on how he’s behaving at the moment, okay?”

  It wasn’t much of a nod, but it was there, and his eyes didn’t look quite so bleak anymore.

  Once again, Tiff just hoped she wasn’t making a godalmighty cock-up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After speaking to Tiffany, Nick headed mechanically down to the Porter’s Lodge to check his mail. He stood there, a bundle of letters in his hand—bank statements; academic circulars; the usual junk mail—and tried to care enough about any of them to open them, or even just to keep them from slipping through his fingers to the floor.

  “I hear it’s good news, Dr. Sewell,” the head porter greeted him.

  “Oh. Yes.” Nick tried to dredge up a smile from somewhere.