Next Of Kin (Unnatural Selection #3)

by Somerville, Ann

  “How certain are you?” Nick asked.

  Harry waggled his hand in a ‘sort of’ gesture. “I know of two definite cases where blokes suddenly came out as vees, and they’d also had recent plastic surgery. I don’t know cause and effect. The blood thing is rumour and friend of a friend kind of thing.”

  “But if there are doctors treating people with ISH illegally, they’d have to use blood and not official NHS sources,” Nick said. “It’s barking mad.”

  “Presumably they have to infect any patient with something pretty virulent first. But I thought blood wasn’t actually all that good as an inoculant?”

  Nick thumbed at me as he shook his head. “Listen to my mad scientist husband. Yeah, blood’s not what they use in hospitals, not any more. I think these rumours are crap—or someone’s being conned.”

  “Pretty dangerous con,” Angus rumbled. At six foot five, and a voice that emanated from his boots, Angus—who was a very sweet Home Office statistician, no matter how many black belts he had—didn’t have to speak often to make his presence felt.

  “Why’s that, love?” Harry asked.

  “If they’re infecting people with hepatitis or whatever, then they can’t cure them.”

  “Maybe that’s just a ploy to get them into the NHS system,” I said.

  Nick took a slurp of his beer, still frowning. “Angus is right though. ISH isn’t a guaranteed cure, and becoming a vee morph even less so. So you could end up dead, or ISH positive without anything to show for it.”

  “Except protection against cancer and life-threatening viruses,” Harry said.

  “True. I just don’t believe it. After the prosecutions in 2009, I don’t think any doctor here would risk it.”

  “But it’s not happening here, Harry said. What about Europe? Russia? Middle East?”

  Nick shrugged. “It’s possible. But it sounds more like scrambled facts and jealousy bacon to me.”

  “Man’s a poet,” Harry said, grinning at my spouse.

  “That was one of Phil Mbeke’s sayings.” Nick finished his beer, stood and set his glass on the table. “Anyone for a walk? Come on, Harry, you’re getting fat. Angus, I thought you were sorting him out.”

  Angus leaned back and folded his arms. “I am. But he eats faster than I can fuck him.”

  Harry spat beer back into his drink. Angus grinned at us over his head.

  Chapter 2

  The night at the theatre was our last ‘date’ for three months. Nick’s excellent health meant he had to flog in day in and day out, while his comrades went off with flu, colds, and other non-lethal stress-related illnesses. His station remained understaffed, while the work piled on thanks to energetic criminal gangs, a killer targeting young women catching late night transport, and the discovery of an anti-immigrant terrorist cell operating out of one of the poshest addresses in the borough, planning mayhem in some of the poorest places in London.

  By June I jokingly offered to break his arm just to let him take some time off. He held out his right hand. “Be quick then.”

  “I’m kidding, love.”

  “I know, but I wish you weren’t.”

  “Maybe we should break one of your boss’s arms.”

  “Now there’s a thought.”

  “Roll over and let me give you a massage.”

  He grunted and shimmied into position, groaning extravagantly as I dug into his shoulder muscles.

  “I won’t need to break anything. Your shoulders are so tense, you’ll dislocate them one of these days.”

  “Probably. Daffyd’s supposed to be back in a fortnight. Though they’ve been saying that for over a month now.”

  I kept up the massage concentrating on his tight shoulders and lower back. He looked thinner to my eyes than he should be, even though the ISH was supposed to keep the individual at the optimum weight for their height. There was no satisfactory way for an ISH-positive person to put on weight. Anything but HRF—or alcohol—went through the system unabsorbed, and his liver would pack it in before he could booze his way back to proper weight. He could drink more HRF but the virus ensured any excess calories were simply expelled. A dieter’s dream, but the last thing an overworked cop needed.

  “Can’t wait until September,” I said.

  “October. Bugger, I forgot...Thorpe turned down the leave request. Said I’d have to take it two weeks later than we wanted.” He rolled over to face me. “Sorry, it was only yesterday that he told me.”

  “But you’re giving him masses of notice.”

  “I know. He’s being a dick about nearly everything. I think he wants me to leave.”

  “Then why don’t you? You don’t have to put up with his bullshit.”

  “No. I’ve started looking. Finding time to apply is the problem. But after we get back from Sweden, I’ll definitely put a rush on.”

  “Why wait?”

  “Worst time. Summer, people on leave, all that. I really am looking, Anton.”

  I leaned down and kissed him. “I believe you. He definitely approved the changed dates?”

  “Yeah, I got that much out of him. I’ll email you with the details so you can book the flight and let Laurens know. But...I managed to wangle this weekend off.”

  “You didn’t.”

  He smiled at my shock. “Yup. So I want you to hire us a car so we can take off somewhere nice and green and not London.”

  “Wales?”

  “If you like. You want to visit Karl?”

  “Maybe for lunch. We don’t have to.”

  He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close. “Anything you want. So long as it’s with you.”

  “I’ll make it a good one. Er, does this mean Thorpe will take it out of your hide?”

  “Probably. But you can always break my arm for real if he’s too much of a tosser.”

  “How does your GP feel about diagnosing unspecified lower back pain?”

  “I don’t know but I’m prepared to find out if Daffyd doesn’t come back soon. Come to bed?”

  Fortunately, Nick’s accident-prone colleague, DS Daffyd Jones, did return to duty as promised, but with the start of summer and officers going on leave and the usual influx of visitors and criminals to the borough, Nick was no less busy, and had no more time than before to look for transfer opportunities. I wasn’t as much support as I could have been, since summer is a very busy time for the Open University. All we could do was steal a few days and nights together when we could, and long for October and two weeks’ uninterrupted peace.

  Since Nick’s DI had ruined our usual plans for our wedding anniversary in September, I decided to make the date itself a little special. There was a limit to what I could do—Nick had to work the next day, and with his workload, I didn’t dare make bookings for a film or the theatre. We’d learned our lesson the hard way on that, after two outings had to be cancelled because he was called in to deal with emergencies.

  So I did some clearing and rearranging downstairs, and when Nick called to let me know he was on the train back to Clapham Junction, all I had to do was shower and make sure the curtains were drawn.

  When he came in, I was sitting on the sheepskins we keep in the spare room. I smiled up at him.

  “Bloody hell, there’s a naked man in our living room. Here, put this on. It’s shocking what some people will do for attention.”

  He handed me a smart carrier bag, in which there was a large flat box. I opened it and found a leather vest.

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted one like this,” I crooned, holding it against my chest. The leather was butter soft and smelled gorgeous.

  “Go on, put it on.”

  “Like this?”

  “Especially like that.” He gave me a heavy-lidded look, and started taking off his shirt and tie.

  I slipped the lovely thing on, and he knelt in front of me. “Oh God, if you could see yourself now.” He leaned in to kiss me, licking his way down my neck. “Leather makes me hot.”

  “Now he tel
ls me,” I said. I shuddered as his hands played over my nipples. “I...I was...going to...I can’t talk....”

  “Talk later. I want to be bad now.”

  ~~~~~

  After he had his wicked way with me—twice—he got up and fetched the sparkling Shiraz I’d put in the fridge, along with the box with his name on it sitting on the kitchen counter. I was incapable of moving, so he poured the wine.

  I waved at the box. “Thing, yours.”

  “I love it when I reduce you to monosyllables.” He undid the ribbon and opened it. “Well, that settles it. We’re both utterly traditional.”

  “Leather for the third anniversary? Of course. Every year should be leather.” I sniffed my vest and fluttered my eyelashes at him, which made him grin. “You like it?”

  He opened the wallet out and did a thorough job of exploring all the cavities. He traced his finger over the ‘NG’ impressed on the outside. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  “Not as perfect as mine. Happy anniversary, love,” I said, lifting my glass.

  “And to you, Sherlock.”

  We drank our wine, then took the glasses and set them aside. He nudged me back to lie on the sheepskins again. He pushed my sweaty hair off my face, and kissed me. “If I say something utterly, dreadfully sappy, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

  “I promise not to tweet it or update my Facebook with it, if that’s what you mean. But you don’t know the meaning of the word ‘sappy’.”

  He stared into my eyes. “Before I knew you, I hated leaving work. There was nothing for me at home—there wasn’t really even a home, and I found my own company boring. I didn’t mind. I had the job, and that was all I cared about. The busier the better, so far as I was concerned. But now I actually resent being busy because I have you waiting for me. When I’m having a rough day, knowing you’re here gets me through. You’ve given me a home to come back to.”

  I let out a breath in shock.

  “Too much?” he said, quirking up one side of his mouth.

  “Yes. I mean, God no. I love you, Nick.” I pulled him down into my arms, and kissed his ear. “That was the loveliest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “But sappy.”

  I smacked his arse. “Was not. It was lovely. Wow. But now I do want to Facebook it so everyone knows what a wonderful man I married.”

  “You do, and I’ll run away.”

  “With your clothes tied up in a bundle on a stick?”

  “Sod. Don’t you dare put this on Facebook.”

  “All right. But you’ve got no chance of me ever forgetting this.”

  “Good.” He nuzzled against my cheek. “Planning to sleep down here?”

  “We could, but there’s not much point.”

  He sighed. “No, and my back would probably appreciate a proper bed. Long day tomorrow.”

  “Sweden in two weeks.”

  “It’s all that’s keeping me sane right now. And from killing Thorpe.”

  “Let’s not talk about Thorpe.”

  “No.” He sat back, then stood, offering me his hand. “Come on up to bed with me. I’ll even tuck you in.”

  “Now that’s sappy.”

  “No Facebook.”

  “No, dear.”

  “Or Twitter.”

  “No, dear. You haven’t mentioned Tumblr—”

  “Anton....”

  “No Tumblr either, dear.”

  ~~~~~

  I had to travel to Milton Keynes the next day, and given what Nick had said about being busy, I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t home when I got back at seven. He’d texted me around lunchtime, and I’d replied, but he hadn’t sent another message about working late. Not that this was unusual, if something had blown up suddenly in the area. There was nothing on the news but being with Nick all this time had taught me how selective the reporting was on police matters. He would tell me when I saw him, or it would be on the late night news.

  He still hadn’t come home by eleven, and there was little point in waiting up for him. I sent him a text saying “ILU” and expected to find him asleep beside me when I woke.

  But he wasn’t. I checked the London news to see if something was happening in Richmond. I found a report of a body being found in the river, and traffic congestion causing problems in the park. Nothing to warrant Nick being asked to work an extra shift.

  I ate breakfast and sent him another text. No reply to that or the one I’d sent the night before. An hour later, I tried his mobile, but it went to his voicemail.

  He was probably super busy. I forced myself to concentrate on the response to a research proposal I’d promised to send that morning, and even managed to finish it, but Nick’s lack of contact was still at the back of my mind. At noon, I gave in to temptation and called Richmond station. I was told that Sergeant Guthrie wasn’t available. “Could I speak to DI Thorpe, please?”

  I was put through.

  “DI Thorpe.”

  “Inspector, it’s Anton Marber. Nick Guthrie’s partner.”

  “Oh really. Finally getting around to calling in sick, is he?”

  This was the first time I’d spoken to the man, so I wasn’t sure if the derision in his voice was habitual, but it put my back up immediately. “Sorry, what? I was calling you because he hasn’t come home.”

  “Guthrie hasn’t turned up today, Mr Marber. When you see him, perhaps you could ask him to contact the station.”

  “But...inspector, that means he’s missing. I want to put a report in.”

  “He left the station at eight last night, so he’s only been out of contact just over twelve hours. Sounds more like he’s skyving.”

  “But he’s a police officer.”

  “He’s gay. Maybe he found himself a playmate cottaging down by the river. Anyway, I’m flat out here because one of my sergeants is absent without permission. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work I need to be doing.”

  He hung up. I stared at my phone, shaking slightly from shock and anger. I considered calling the station again and speaking to Thorpe’s higher-ups, but for all I knew, his homophobia was SOP down there. No point in pushing things if it was.

  Nick wasn’t the kind of man to ditch work for sex, even if I wasn’t in the picture. That Thorpe thought he was capable of that, told me that Thorpe was utterly incompetent. Therefore I needed a competent police officer to deal with this.

  I called Andy McDiamond at Islington, and as I hoped, he grasped the seriousness of the situation immediately. “Thorpe didn’t take you seriously?”

  “I don’t think he could hear what I was saying over the gay bashing he was doing.”

  “I’m sorry you had to experience that, Anton. Let me get all the details, and then I’ll pass it to your local station. Someone from there should come and see you this afternoon.”

  “Can you contact Chris Stevens? He was based at Battersea and Nick knows him pretty well.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Now, when did you last have definite contact with Nick?”

  Andy took down a thorough set of details, and gave me a report number. “Anton, are you all right? You’re welcome to come over.”

  “Thank you, but I, um...want to be here in case he calls. Or comes home.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  “Can you trace him by his cell phone?”

  “I’ll do my best, and track his credit card, that kind of thing. I won’t be sitting on my arse, I promise you.”

  “Thanks. Uh...do you have any ideas where he might be?”

  “Not a one, Anton. Every time I speak to him he’s either bitching about Richmond, or talking about you.”

  “Do you...uh...think it could be foul play?” I put my hand on my throat. Saying the words actually hurt.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said, professional kindness infusing his voice. “Let me contact Battersea. Now you call me if you remember anything, or if Nick contacts you, or you want to talk. And the offer for you to c
ome over stands.”

  “I appreciate it. Thank you, Andy.”

  That Andy was taking it seriously was both a comfort and a worry, because he seemed to agree with me that there was something to worry about. Andy was one of Nick’s oldest friends, his former work partner, and if he thought Nick’s disappearance was out of character, then it wasn’t just my neurosis creating that idea. I chewed my lip, wondering if I should call Nick’s parents, or Charlotte. After the officer from Battersea had been, I decided. In the meantime, I checked Nick’s laptop and email to see if there was anything out of the ordinary on it. There was nothing that I could identify. Of course, this assumed Nick was using his regular email. But why wouldn’t he be?

  A panda car turned up in half an hour, which was either a tribute to Andy’s powers of persuasion, or a sign that a missing police officer really was a big deal. To my relief, one of the two officers who turned up was indeed Chris Stevens, and he shook my hand warmly.

  “Anton. Nice to see you again, though perhaps not....”

  “No,” I agreed. “Come in.”

  The other officer looked around our little home with restrained curiosity, but let Chris do the talking for her while she took notes. I ran over the same details that I’d given Andy, and Chris nodded sympathetically when I told him of DI Thorpe’s response.

  “Unfortunate he took that attitude. He confirmed that Nick knocked off at eight last night, and was seen by several officers actually leaving the station. I’ll check Richmond Station to see if he was captured on their CCTV. Anton, I have to ask though—”

  “Not a chance in hell,” I said. “Nick wasn’t playing away.”

  “How do you know?” the other officer asked. “No offence, Dr Marber, but if he was seeing someone else, you wouldn’t necessarily know.”

  “He didn’t have time. The man goes to work all the hours of the day, and comes back here to sleep and eat. We’ve barely been able to scrape any time together for ourselves in months.”

  “Are you sure he’s at work as long as you think he is?” she asked. “Sorry, I have to ask this.”

  “I understand,” I said, fighting the urge to snap. “Check payroll. He’s been working idiotic amounts of overtime, and Thorpe wouldn’t be signing off on it if Nick wasn’t there.”