“Ugh,” Beth said. “Kidnapping sounds positively sane next to these theories.”
I shrugged. “Now you see how I’ve come to this point. Beth, I don’t want anyone involved if it’s going to upset them.”
“I’m fine. It’s just all so weird. But I want to help for Charlotte’s sake. And Nick’s. It’s awful if he’s being held somewhere.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you, Beth. Charlotte, she’s a treasure.”
Charlotte squeezed her girlfriend’s hand. “Trust me, I know.”
Angus stretched. “I don’t know about you lot, but I think I need another pint after all that.”
“Lunch and another round on me, then,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m so grateful no one’s called to have me sectioned.”
~~~~~
Without asking me, Karl picked up one of the bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon we’d bought the day before in Waitrose, and opened it. “You look shattered,” he said. He poured a glass and handed it to me.
“Yes, but I’m wired as well. I didn’t expect much to come of that meeting. I was mostly hoping people would offer to help.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said, pouring his own wine. “It’s a hell of a tenuous theory.”
“I know. I’m trying to make sure I’m the only one who suffers.”
“And you think that makes it okay with me?” He stared at me over his glass.
“We’ve been around and around on this, Karl. I can’t not try to find him.”
“No. But it could be delaying the inevitable when you have to face he’s gone.”
“Not until there’s a body. No one can force me to accept he’s dead. Not even legally.”
“And his parents? How long do they wait for a funeral?”
“Look, if I say I think he’s dead, and give up, how does that change things for them?”
“They can move on. More importantly, you can.”
I drank some of the wine. “I’m not there yet. Nowhere near. Too many questions. Andy agrees with me.”
He said nothing, sipping his wine and looking out of the window. I wandered back into the living room and sat down. My head was throbbing. So much tension, for so long. What I’d give for a good night’s sleep, wrapped in Nick’s arms.
Karl came in after a few minutes and took the other end of the sofa.
“Still planning to go back to Bristol tomorrow?” I asked.
“I really have to. I wish I could convince you to come with me.”
“Not a chance. I need to be here when Harry makes contact with Klein’s partner.”
“All right. But I want to talk to you about a project Raksha and I have been tossing back and forth, tracing the energy cycle in different environments.”
I shook my head. “Sounds interesting but—”
“But Nick blah blah. Yes, I know. Do you think he wants you putting your life on hold?”
“I think he wants me to find him and bring him home.”
Karl sighed. “Can I at least send you a proposal? I really do want your opinion.”
“Okay. But Nick’s my top priority.”
“I know.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “This is unknown territory for me. I wish I knew there was a happy ending to look forward to.”
“I won’t collapse if the ending’s tragic.”
“I don’t think you can make that kind of prediction. That’s okay. That’s what big brothers are for—to worry about you.”
“You tell Michael that?”
“I’ve been telling him since he was two that he had to look out for his little sisters. So far, he’s doing a good job.”
“Nick doesn’t have an older brother. He only has me.”
“I’m sure he’ll be proud of you.”
If he’s still alive, was what Karl didn’t say. What he didn’t need to say. Visions of Nick lying dead haunted my dreams, and even filled my waking thoughts if I dared let them drift. I’d sat by Nick’s bedside in hospitals too often now not to be able to imagine the life draining out of him.
But dwelling on Nick being dead didn’t help either of us. I chose to think of him as alive, but needing rescue. At some point, one reality would be revealed. Until then, he was Schrödinger’s cat, and I didn’t know how to open the box. Once I succeeded, then I’d have to handle what I found.
Chapter 7
Jack Klein’s partner, Michel Baillaud, was a French composer who had made his home with his late lover in LA and London. After Jack’s death, Michel had come to London with the intention of selling their apartment here. Harry’s call had come just days before Michel was due to fly back to the States to wind up affairs there. Harry arranged for us to meet him at his hotel off Piccadilly.
Michel opened the door to us, and I immediately regretted imposing on his grief. His handsome but haggard face, the dull eyes, spoke of weeks of sorrow and lousy sleep. “Monsieur Pilkington, Monsieur Marber, welcome. Monsieur Marber, I am a fan.”
“Merci bien, Monsieur Baillaud. Please call me Anton, and forgive us for intruding.”
“It’s fine. The days are empty now. It’s good to have a distraction. Please, have a seat. Shall I order coffee?”
We declined, and sat on the sofa. He took the armchair. “I know you want to ask me about Jack.” He pronounced it with a soft ‘sh’ sound, making the name sound sweetly affectionate. “But I don’t understand how this helps your spouse, Anton.”
“It may not help. But it depends on exactly what treatment Jack had in Rio de Janeiro.”
Michel pursed his lips. “It isn’t legal here, you realise. And not there, strictly.”
“We’re not the police, Michel,” Harry said. “Was he there to be infected with ISH? To become a vee?”
“Un vampire?” He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Jack joked about it. He would pretend to bite comme çi.” He mimed someone biting his neck. “He was afraid of getting old. You see, he was older than me, and he worked in a business where being old is like being dead. He thought it would be better than surgery. He had a friend—another actor—who had been to Brazil. He said it was the easiest thing in the world. A month’s holiday, the treatment was fast and painless, and voilà, suddenly you are thin and healthy and looking fabulous.” He stared out of the window. “He already looked fabulous. I tried to discourage him. I didn’t like the idea of being infected with something so powerful. But he wouldn’t listen. He was so afraid of not being able to work any more.”
“What happened in Rio?” I asked.
“Everything went smoothly at first. He received some drugs to make his immune system...fail? Is that how you say it?”
“To suppress his immunity?”
“Yes, that. Then they gave him something else—another disease, but I don’t know what. They said it was to trick his body so the virus would take. Again, all was well. Finally they gave him the virus. A week, they said, and then he would be well and able to go home.” He rubbed his eyes. “But two days later, his organs began to die. He was in intensive care for three days, and finally everything stopped.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
He coughed, then blew his nose. “Eh bien. I have to move on with my life, as he always said. Does this help your husband?”
I explained our theory. He listened, frowning. “But why bring the blood from Britain?”
“We don’t know. We don’t know it’s happening. But we wanted to know for sure that a Brazilian clinic was using ISH.”
“But there are at least five. Jack’s friend told us. We looked at that many who offered this treatment. The government turns a blind eye. It doesn’t really care so long as the clinics pay their taxes, I think.”
Harry asked Michel for details of the clinic where Jack died, and what he remembered of the others they’d enquired about. I pondered the significance of what Michel had said. I’d assumed it was one rogue clinic. But his words made sense. The Brazilian plastic sur
gery industry was very lucrative. If one was cashing in on the vee mania, so would the others.
“How long has he been missing?” Michel asked when Harry had his information.
“Several weeks. Too long.”
“You find it hard.”
“Yes. I think you know.”
“Oui, vraiment.” He stood, and the interview was clearly over. “I hope you have good fortune, Anton. Better than me, anyway.”
I offered my hand and he shook it. “I wish you bonne fortune too.”
“Those clinics should be stopped. It’s not right, that treatment. It’s dangerous.”
“It is the way they’re doing it. We’ll do what we can.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
~~~~~
“Want to go to Starbucks?” Harry asked. “We need to talk about what we do next.”
“Actually, I could do with some air.”
He glanced at me sideways. “Michel’s situation hitting a little close to the bone?”
“A little.”
“Not surprised. We can go for a walk instead.”
So we bought takeaway coffees, and walked through Green Park, the feeble late autumn sunshine through the leafless plane trees adding little but the illusion of warmth.
“Our problem is that there’s no connection between any Brazilian clinic and what happened in Bélo Horizonte,” Harry said. “Sure, they’re using ISH illegally. But so what? They have vees in Brazil.”
“I think the Brazilian side of things might be a red herring. I’m sure Nick’s still in England, the UK at least.”
“So what was all that about?” He spotted a bench and flung himself onto it, giving me a sour look. “Wasting my time?”
“For God’s sake, Harry—as if I would do that. First of all, it confirms the suspicion there’s a fairly solid market for ISH blood, and if Beth’s right, especially for that of the earliest patients. Second, if I’m right, and Nick’s here—who handled the blood? You or I can’t just post blood here, there and everywhere. There had to be someone with a plausible reason to receive a litre of blood in Beagá. That’s likely to be a clinic, or possibly a major hospital.”
“But we have no way of finding—”
I held up my hand. “I know. But we need to join up the dots. We need to find someone, or a bunch of someones, with connections to Brazil and here, and with access to the personal information from that longitudinal study. Again, it’s not going to be Joe Bloggs. I think we’re looking for a doctor or a clinic, and possibly one in the same line of work as the one where Jack Klein died. A plastic surgery facility, or something like that.”
He whistled. “Wide net.”
“I know. So we start at the narrowest end. Who can access the longitudinal study data?”
“Beth could be a good person to find out.”
“Yes. We need to find this ‘Gregorio Goncalves’ too. False passports and identities aren’t cheap, and neither are airfares to Brazil. Someone with money is behind him, and behind Nick’s disappearance. What do you know about clinics alleged to be offering ISH here?”
“Not much. That’s very hush hush.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have thought that would be much of a problem for a clever investigative reporter like you.”
He grinned. “You’re right. I haven’t looked into it before, but I can now.”
“Concentrate on those centred in the southeast for now. We can widen it later. We’re looking for a Brazilian connection—a doctor, owner, investor, someone like that.”
“What if it’s someone who just has friends in Brazil?”
“Whoever it is wanted their help in something illegal, and not just a minor crime. The connection will be stronger than just going to the same medical school. I’m thinking family, marriage, something like that.”
“Makes sense. There must be dozens of clinics in or near London who handle plastic surgery.”
“Hundreds, probably. If you do your ferreting around, I’ll start looking at websites, see if there’s anything obvious. If you come up with some clinic names, we can focus on that. And if Beth’s willing to help, that might narrow things down too.”
“The police should be doing this.”
“Not sure they could do it faster than we can. All we need is something to toss at Andy. The sooner, the better.”
He finished his coffee and chucked the cup at the nearby rubbish bin. It landed neatly inside. “Wish everything I did went that well. You done?”
I disposed of my cup, and we walked back towards Hyde Park Corner to catch the Tube. “I bet there are more Jack Kleins out there we haven’t heard about,” Harry said. “It’s criminal.”
“It’s so bloody stupid too. Dying of vanity.”
“Dying of age discrimination, you mean.”
“Yes, true.”
“This could all be a dead end. Nick’s disappearance might have nothing to do with ISH treatment.”
“I know, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“You have to try. He’s worth it.”
Harry was happily engaged to Angus, and his relationship with Nick had been over long before I’d ever met either of them. But Harry still carried a depth of affection for Nick that I found oddly sweet and rather comforting. If anything happened to me, Harry would be there—with Angus—to help Nick through. And Harry would fight just as hard to find out what happened to Nick as I would.
I pulled him into a hug, which made him laugh with surprise. “Steady on, Anton. It’s not Gay Pride week.”
“Bugger off.” I let him go. “Nick’s lucky in his friends.”
“And his lovers.”
“Yes, he is.” We were at the Tube station now. “I’ve got to go this way.”
“Yeah, and I’m the other way. I’ll let you know what I find as soon as I do.”
“Thanks.”
Beth called while I was on the bus from South Kensington. “My friend tells me that in the last three months, apart from Nick, they’ve lost two people from the study. One was a suspicious, unexplained death, and the other an apparent suicide, though the body was never found.”
“Really? How much more do you know?”
“That’s it, sorry. I’ve already sent the information and approximate dates to Andy, but I thought you’d want to know. That suicide rang alarms bells for me.”
“And me. Well done. Beth, I need another favour. Does your friend know who would have access to the personal data on that study? Names, addresses and so on?”
“Already asked her, and she said only the members of the team, unless they receive a special request from someone wanting to do research on the same group. It’s all incredibly tightly controlled. The police will need warrants before she can even tell them the names of the people who dropped out.”
“I thought so. But the GPs would know.”
“Pardon?”
“The GPs taking the blood samples from their patients.”
“Apparently they have a study nurse researcher who does that. The collections are done in some of the GP practices, but some are done in the patient’s home.”
“What about the names of the research staff?”
“That should be on the study webpage. I’ll email you the URL. But I don’t think any of the researchers would have anything to do with something like what you suspect.”
“Probably not, but maybe someone used them unwittingly for access. It’s a long shot. You’ve done very well, Beth. Thank you so much.”
The temptation to jump off the bus and grab a taxi so I could get home and start looking up websites was almost too much to withstand. The traffic was heavy enough that it would have saved me no time at ridiculous cost, so I had to content myself with doing preliminary searches for plastic surgery clinics on my phone. There were fewer than hundreds, but more than dozens. I had a long night ahead of me, because I wouldn’t be able to s
leep until I’d made a solid start on this. Beth’s information convinced me we were on the right track. It took all my willpower to stop myself calling Andy and asking him what he knew. I had to trust people to do what they’d promised. So far, no one had let me down.
Andy’s call woke me the next morning, even though he didn’t ring that early. I’d worked through until dawn, listing all the clinics I could find and all the staff listed. I had found ten with possible Brazil connections based on names, biography or training, though the connections were pretty tenuous. I planned to dig more when I had some sleep.
I yawned and half-swallowed the “Anton Marber?” with which I answered the phone.
“Having a lie-in, Anton?”
“Not exactly. Tell me about these two vees.”
“I don’t know what went on with one of them, but the coroner returned an open verdict. That was only last week, in fact. The other is definitely dodgy. Three months ago, he drove himself near to Severn Bridge and disappeared, leaving his car behind but no note.”
“Beth said it was a presumed suicide.”
“Yeah. Only because the bridge is famous for it. The guy had no history of depression, wasn’t in financial difficulties and there were no marriage problems. Thing is, I think someone might have read about the disappearance of a musician called Richey Edwards around twenty years ago and decided to be a copycat.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Manic Street Preachers?”
“Sorry—before my time.”
“Well, anyway, the body was never found, but he was declared dead thirteen years after he disappeared.”
“You think it’s fake?”
“I think the coincidence with the Edwards case, and the fact he’s a vee like Nick who’s also missing with someone wanting us to believe he’s dead, is too much to ignore. It could be a faked death but there’s no motive. No insurance policy to pay out, and like I said, no obvious problems to escape.”
“Tell me about the other one. Another man?”
“Yeah. Weird case, but this time there was definitely a body. Man driving back to his home near Woking ends up in a burning car about a mile from his house. He was definitely dead before the fire started, and the fire was definitely arson, but the coroner couldn’t determine how the man died. He had no enemies, lived alone and was a very quiet, law-abiding person.”
Next Of Kin (Unnatural Selection #3) Page 8