Camwolf

by JL Merrow

  Sick to his stomach, Nick reminded himself Julian had turned on Schräger in the end. Had chosen Nick. Christ, how much must it have cost him to do that?

  TIGHT-LIPPED, NICK watched as Herrscher and his henchmen, now dressed again, wrapped the wolf’s carcass in a blanket and carried it out of the cellar. He felt light-headed and unreal and wondered if he was going into shock. He’d killed a man.

  No, what was it Markham had said? Schräger had been an animal. He’d needed to be put down. Clutching that thought to himself, Nick stood. “Come on, Julian. We need to get you home.”

  Herrscher looked up sharply. “You cannot return to your college in such a state. You must come with me to where I am staying.”

  Nick could feel the snarl that twisted his face. “No. No, I don’t think so. Julian is coming with me.”

  “You have blood all over you.” Herrscher’s voice was thick with derision. “You think you can just walk into your college like this?”

  “Nick?” Julian’s voice was still shaky. “We have to do what he says.”

  A low growl started in the base of Nick’s throat. He was damned if he’d do a thing Herrscher told him to. This was his territory, his pack.

  “Please?” Julian asked him.

  The appeal brought Nick back to himself. God, he was behaving like an animal. They were right. Where the hell could he go, looking like this? Back to college? To Nadia’s? He nodded at Herrscher, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Good. You have a car? We will use that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  SITTING IN the passenger seat of the Mini Cooper, the forlorn figure of Julian slumped in the back, Herrscher was entirely too close for comfort. For the first time, Nick gave serious thought to getting a bigger car. Thank God the other two men had remained with what was left of Schräger.

  Herrscher directed him to a cottage in Fen Ditton, one of the villages a few miles out of town. It was set back from the road and shielded from view by a thick, tall hedge. Convenient. Nick wondered, as he got out of the Mini Cooper, just how many killings Herrscher had had occasion to cover up in the past. He seemed to be awfully good at it for a first attempt.

  “What will you do with the body?” he asked as they crunched up the gravel drive.

  “They will bury it. Far from here. After they have torched the house. You need not worry. Luther and Wahl are reliable.”

  Nick refrained from asking whether he’d used to say that about Schräger too.

  Herrscher unlocked the door and let them in, then led them straight up to the bathroom. “I will find you fresh clothes. There are towels on the rails.” He left them standing together, Julian with his eyes fixed on the tiled floor.

  “You can take first shower,” Nick said awkwardly. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Julian nodded jerkily without lifting his eyes. Should Nick offer to stay with him? Hold him? Or would he just want to be left alone? Julian didn’t say anything to contradict this last guess, so Nick turned and left the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, and a few moments later the shower started.

  Solitude, Nick discovered, was not a good thing. With nothing now to distract him, he was hyperaware of the crusted blood grown stiff upon his skin, the reek of Schräger’s clothes, the foul taste in his mouth. He fought the urge to retch over the banisters.

  Fortunately, Julian didn’t leave Nick pacing restlessly for long. He emerged from the bathroom mere minutes later, skin pink and hair plastered down to his skull. He was swathed in a large black bath towel that covered up the marks of his imprisonment.

  Nick stood aside for Julian to pass, not wanting to sully him with a touch, and stepped wordlessly into the bathroom to finally rid himself of Schräger’s hated scent. Stepping into the shower, he turned the water as hot as it would go and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the rust-colored stream that poured from his body and spiraled down the drain. He soaped himself several times over, desperate to clean away every taint, and didn’t stop until the water ran cold.

  BY THE time Nick finished in the bathroom, Julian had disappeared and a set of clothing had appeared in his place, slung over the banisters. Nick dressed quickly, nose wrinkling at the unmistakable smell of Herrscher, and made his way downstairs.

  Julian sat huddled in an armchair, the clothes he’d borrowed fitting him rather better than Nick might have expected. Not his father’s, then. Herrscher was ignoring his son in favor of the television, so Nick ignored him in turn and went to crouch down by Julian’s chair. “Are you all right?”

  Julian’s eyes stayed firmly upon his hands, which were kneading each other distractedly. “Yes.”

  Nick wanted to put an arm around him, but wasn’t sure how it would be received. Julian’s whole posture seemed to scream “don’t touch me.”

  When Herrscher’s guttural voice broke in upon them, Julian started, and Nick felt a fresh surge of loathing. “His mother will be here soon.”

  “His mother? Why?”

  “It will be better if he does not reappear with you. You do not, I think, wish for more questions from the police?”

  Nick suppressed a shudder at the thought of being interrogated by Detective Inspector Phillips when he really did have something to hide. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” He turned back to Julian, softening his tone. “I’ll come and see you as soon as I can, all right?”

  Julian didn’t respond, unless you counted seeming to hunch even farther into the chair. He wasn’t the only one to jump as the doorbell sounded.

  Nick stood as Herrscher showed the visitors in.

  “Julian!” Lili Markham’s soft voice broke on the last syllable as she flung her arms around him. Julian allowed the embrace, looking dazed.

  Markham’s gaze fell on Nick, and he nodded but said nothing, stepping forward to place a fatherly hand on Julian’s shoulder. Nick’s temper surged at Julian’s flinch, followed inevitably by a wash of guilt. Markham didn’t deserve his anger.

  “The boy will return with his mother,” Herrscher said in a tone that didn’t merely brook no dissent, it frankly refused to believe such a thing was even possible. Nick’s eyes happened to be on Lili, and he noticed a curious look pass between them. “He will say that he was with Schräger, but that he knows nothing of the killing of the young man in the alley. He will say that he became frightened by Schräger’s behavior and ran away, and that he telephoned to his mother to pick him up. He will not remember clearly where he was. He will say that he may have been drugged, but he will not wish to press charges against Schräger.”

  Markham nodded. “Absolutely. No need for Julian to go through anything that isn’t absolutely necessary.” He paused. “Schräger is, I take it, no longer a threat?”

  “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 leaped, 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. After what had happened, would Julian even want him to visit? Nick had promised him protection—and he’d failed.

  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 s
mear 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, which he used to wipe down the seats and steering wheel. Thank God he had classic black faux leather upholstery that wouldn’t show stains. He’d still 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 color to the grayish 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 to college,” 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 like a crane fly 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 rumors 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’s 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 desk 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 woman at reception. “Tiffany Meadows and, er, Crack Uppingham.” She shot a glance at Crack, but he didn’t correct the name.

  She smiled in relief as the receptionist 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 that’d been sarcasm 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.”