Bloodless

  Contents

  Title

  One - Will

  2 – Ram

  Three – Will

  4 - Ram

  Five - Will

  6 – Ram

  Seven - Will

  8 - Ram

  Nine – Will

  10 - Ram

  Eleven – Will

  12 – Ram

  Thirteen – Will

  14 - Ram

  Fifteen – Will

  16 - Ram

  Seventeen - Will

  18 – Ram

  Nineteen - Will

  20 – Ram

  Twenty-One - Will

  22 - Ram

  Twenty-Three - Will

  24 - Ram

  Twenty-Five – Will

  26 – Ram

  Twenty-Seven - Will

  28 - Ram

  Twenty-Nine – Will

  30 – Ram

  Thirty-One - Will

  32 – Ram

  Thirty-Three – Will

  34 – Ram

  Thirty-Five - Will

  CODA

  Copyright © 2019 by Rhiannon D’Averc. Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher / author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  Rhiannon D’Averc - www.rhiannondaverc.co.uk

  First Edition May 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental, save where historical references are made to existing crime cases for illustrative purposes.

  BLOODLESS

  Serial Investigations 1

  RHIANNON D’AVERC

  One - Will

  Unlocking the door to your new home for the first time is supposed to be exciting. I guess it was the jet-lag, but I couldn’t even force myself to smile as we walked in. Not even for Ram’s sake.

  We crashed in hungover and out of it, the sparkling wine and whisky of the plane no longer seeming like such a good idea. I chose a bedroom and dragged my suitcases inside. It felt good to no longer have all of my worldly possessions attached to my person. Without the weight of my backpack on my shoulders, I could feel just how much strain the muscles had been under.

  I found Ram still standing at the wide windows of the living room. He was looking out of the clean, fresh glass into the grey and drizzling London of December. It felt like a jolt to look out and see not palm trees, but old Victorian factories and blocks of flats as far as the eye could see.

  But then again, no one has ever mistaken Whitechapel for California. It was always going to be a bit of a culture shock, coming back home again.

  I shook him by the shoulder, trying to ignore the pit in my own stomach. Maybe if I could get him to snap out of this weary daze we had both fallen into, he would be able to wake me up in return.

  “Ram?” I asked, after a moment. He simply swayed under the movement of my hand, like a doll. I wasn’t even sure he was actually looking out at anything.

  He turned and looked at me when he heard his name. It was like he was looking at someone he didn’t recognise from a long distance away. If I had felt uneasy before, that expression made my scalp itch with worry. Of the two of us, Ram is the calm and centred one. Even when he’s so drunk he can barely walk, he doesn’t lose it. Not like me. But I’ve never seen him like this before.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, after a moment, seeming to rouse. He shrugged off my hand and walked away, leaving me stood watching the place where he had been stood watching. I felt like a sentinel. Something had left us behind and we were plunging into a bowl of cold water, too confused to even try to hold onto the side. I wondered if it would even wash away what we had on our hands.

  I was alone, without the option of distracting myself by looking at him. The only thing I could do was to keep moving. I heard the sound of the shower turn on, and I guided my weary feet into my new room. It felt like midnight, but the sun wasn’t even at its midday apex. I went from task to task, like an automaton, letting the cogs turn by themselves to keep my mind empty. Suitcase unzipped; clothes pulled out; find hangers; one by one, up on the rail. Knick-knacks. Decorations. Picture frame.

  The flat came furnished, but now I realised that on our hasty flight out of San Francisco we forgot to take a few things into account. The beds had mattresses, but no pillows or sheets. The drawers in the kitchen held no cutlery, crockery, or mugs for tea. Even if they did, there was no kettle, no bags of tea, no instant coffee machine.

  I ran out of things to do but I had to find something. I stalked from room to room, tablet in hand, stabbing the pages of an online shopping site. Kettle – black, chrome, retro. Tea bags – Earl Grey, Caramel Rooibos, Herbal Blend. Bed set – plain blue, reverse check, king size. Next.

  Ram’s room. Suitcases still locked, black leather bag slung onto bare mattress, leather jacket discarded next to it.

  He wouldn’t mind. It’s not like we have any secrets from each other.

  Or many, at least.

  Open the suitcase (correctly guess the code on the lock). Take out clothes, one by one, to string them up on hangers and leave them waiting for him. Personal items. Books stacked by the bed. Jewellery case. Boots on the floor by the door. Leather jacket hung up last, finally, the only thing left untouched.

  I wondered how long it must have been now.

  A long time, surely, but all I could hear still was the water hitting the shower tray. Over and over, the same hiss in the same tone.

  A long time for Ram to be in there, on his own, with those thoughts swirling around in his head.

  With razors and scissors and other sharp things.

  “Ram?” I shouted, pounding on the locked bathroom door.

  Nothing but the sibilant hiss of the water.

  I threw my shoulder into the door, felt it bounce back against me, sending a shockwave through from the impact. Again. The door rattled, the lock unable to give. Again. Again. As many times as it took, again, ignoring the flower of pain blooming out across my shoulder and back. Once more, and I was stumbling forward into the room, momentarily disorientated as the momentum carried me onwards.

  The glass of the shower door was all steam, except for a patch near the bottom where the spray of the water was heavy enough to keep it clear. I saw his legs, sprawled across the floor, and I could barely breathe for the fear that I had realised too late.

  I wrenched open the door and saw him, and for a moment I understood nothing. He was whole – yes. No blood. But he was lying naked under the water, letting it hit his face and open eyes without blinking, not even reacting to my appearance.

  “Ram?” I said again, but his eyes didn’t even flicker in response.

  I reached in and grabbed his shoulder, ignoring the water. It quickly drenched my shirt through to the skin, spreading up over my chest and into my eyes as I shook him.

  Slowly, like he was caught in a time lapse, his face swivelled around. His eyes looked at me, but they were empty. I don’t think he even saw me.

  “Everything’s going to be alright,” I said, reaching up and turning the shower off. I didn’t know if it was the truth, but he was alive. For the time being, that was enough.

  He stirred a little when the water stopped hitting him, but only for a moment. His shoulders slumped back down and he rested, resigned, still looking fixedly at nothing.

  I grabbed a towel from my bathroom, thankfully one of the few things I did remember to bring with me. I ran back to find him still sitting in the same place. It was like there was no one left inside to notice that he must be cold and uncomfortable. I pulled him out of the shower and into my waiting arms. He came willingly, falling against me like a doll. I towelled him dry as best I could and held him tight, like we were kids again, trying to take some small comfort from one another. His head slotted under my chin, and it felt right but so wrong, because Ram is supposed to be the strong one.

  “Everything’s going to be fine, Ram, I promise,” I said, closing my eyes and praying that I was telling the truth.

  2 – Ram

  “Why the fuck should we care?” I ask, flicking away a small fly which has landed on the sleeve of my leather jacket.

  Will sighs, clearly exasperated. I love winding him up. He’s so easy. “This is our first client in weeks,” he says. “Realistically, we need the work.”

  “Right, so we’re doing it out of capitalist greed,” I say. “Just wanted to get that clear.”

  “Everything anyone does is out of capitalist greed,” Will says, shaking his head. He reaches into his pocket for a packet of chewing gum, and I try not to jump down his throat for it. He knows I hate when he chews gum. Fuck.

  But I’m trying to be better. After all, it was him who saved me from, well, I don’t know what, those months ago when we first came home. If I can’t give my best friend a bit of a break after he literally pulled me back from the brink, then when can I?

  “Not true,” I say. The sun is shining merrily overhead, a nice June day. Almost hot enough to take off my jacket. What more could you want for a stroll throug
h the streets of London? “I’m often motivated by a selfish desire to prove myself as superior to all other living human beings.”

  “Well, then I guess that makes you better than the rest of us,” Will says, dryly. “Can we focus? We’re going to be there in ten minutes, and I need you prepared.”

  “Fine, fine,” I roll my eyes. “Tell me everything.”

  “So, like I was saying, the police haven’t been able to solve the break-in. The client says it’s not about the money, as hardly anything was taken – he just had the cost of repairing the broken window. He wants to sleep easy in his bed.”

  We pass by a pub, the staff just setting up for the day and putting up chairs and tables outside. I can’t help but follow it with my gaze as we walk by, my head turning as we pass. A drink would be mighty good right about now. Maybe we can stop by on the way back. I wish we didn’t have to go on this stupid errand.

  “I can’t believe we’re solving a break-in where nothing was stolen. Are you sure our website’s actually visible? We must be able to get better clients than this,” I complain. I try and focus on the smell of pretzels wafting out of an international food court set up in an abandoned petrol station instead of thinking about the bar. Oh, London. I really did miss this while we were away.

  “Something was stolen,” Will says, in-between chews of his gum. It’s like nails on chalkboard for me. I steal a glance at his dainty Korean jawline and regret it immediately. “A jacket.”

  “A jacket,” I repeat to myself, watching his chin moving up and down. “Christ, can you stop that? You’re making my jaw ache.”

  “It’s just gum,” Will shrugs.

  “Filthy habit,” I say. “You’ll start spitting in the fucking street next.”

  Will rolls his eyes. He’s heard me say this a million times. I don’t know why I always think this time will be the time when he actually listens.

  “Turn down here,” he says, pointing to a road sign above.

  I feel itchy. We’ve been steadily heading into nicer territory for a while, and now we find ourselves on Gloucester Place, where every single room in the terraced houses is probably worth more than our entire flat. These kinds of places always make me feel like an intruder. Like maybe I’m the one about to rob the place.

  The door Will stops at is painted a classy black, just like almost every other house I can see up and down the road. There’s another thing. Who’d want to pay so much money just to get something exactly the same as everybody else?

  He knocks on the door, and it sweeps open before us, revealing a tall man in a tweed jacket with matching trousers. His hair is thinning at the top, and I immediately dislike him. I especially dislike his little tweed waistcoat, and the old-fashioned gold chain hanging from one pocket.

  “Hullo,” he says, stepping forward and glancing out at the road. “Are you the chaps from Serial Investigations London?”

  “Liam Xavier?” Will asks.

  “Yes, that’s me,” the client confirms.

  “Hello, I’m Will Wallace,” he says, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “William Wallace?” Liam says, with a sparkle in his eyes like he’s just thought of the best and most original joke in the world.

  “Not that one,” Will says smoothly. He’s heard it a few times before. “And this is my colleague, Julius Rakktersen.”

  “Oh,” Liam says, nodding to me as he shakes my hand – his palm is warm and clammy. “There’s a Swedish church right around the corner from here, you know.”

  “I’m not Swedish,” I say, as he leads us in to a shadowed hallway with chessboard floor tiles.

  “Norwegian,” Will cuts in hastily, trying to defuse the situation. “His father is Norwegian.”

  “Oh,” says Liam, staring at me with his mouth open and head cocked to one side. He looks like a particularly stupid dog.

  “So, you wanted us to help you out with a break-in?” Will asks.

  “Yes, well, I’m very glad you’re here, as it happens,” Liam says, hooking both thumbs into the sides of his waistcoat. “The police have been absolutely useless. Those bloody Labour types, isn’t it?”

  I exchange a sideways glance with Will, so quickly that the man probably didn’t even notice it. “Er,” Will says, clearly not sure whether to agree or disagree.

  “Making the whole country soft, they are. All that liberal socialism twaddle. Direct snowball effect to the decline of the police force. Used to be you could be proud of this country. Anyway, thank goodness for a Tory government, eh?”

  “… Quite,” Will says.

  I’m pleased he managed something. Because frankly, I’m a little speechless. And once I stop being speechless, I might have some interesting words to choose from. Most of them four letters long.

  “Well, anyway, they left behind just about everything of value, as you can see. Bloody yobs. They wouldn’t know an item’s worth unless it was coated in Burberry stripes, I wager.”

  “Can we see the entry point?” I cut in. This guy’s idea of conversation is already doing my head in.

  “Oh, yes,” Liam says, unhooking his thumbs and striding across the hallway through an open door. The back of the house is full of light from a conservatory extension, where the sun feels far too hot even at this mild temperature. In a few weeks, it would feel like hell in there.

  “The perpetrator had to break a window in order to get in, is that correct?” Will asks.

  “Yes, quite,” Liam says, stepping around a rattan sofa set to point to one of the panes of glass next to the conservatory door, leading to the small patio space at the back of the home. “This one here.”

  “You had it fixed already?” Will asks.

  “Well, of course,” Liam replies, giving us a puzzled look. “I wasn’t going to sit here with a draft for the last six months.”

  Three – Will

  “Six months?” I exploded, after the longest pause in the world.

  “Well, yes,” Liam said. “The break-in was in January. That’s why it was so puzzling, you see. Why leave all the new gadgets and expensive Christmas gifts, and bags full of purchases from the January sales, just to take a jacket?”

  I stared at him, rage bubbling up underneath my thoughts like lava. This was supposed to be something that Ram and I could get stuck into, a real case for us to solve, to keep Ram on track. To stop him from going off the rails again. I’m supposed to be finding a purpose for the both of us, a reason for us to be here. And this guy was going to mess us around like this?

  “How,” I asked, carefully, evenly, “Are we supposed to find any evidence by looking at a crime scene that was cleaned up six months ago?”

  “Oh, you’re the experts in that,” Liam said, hooking his thumbs into that stupid waistcoat. Does he realise how idiotic that makes him look?

  “We aren’t going to be able to find anything!” I shouted. “You said this was an urgent case! You’ve led us here on a complete wild goose chase, you time-wasting piece of -”

  “Alright,” Ram said loudly, cutting over me and effectively shutting me up. “Sir, I’m afraid there’s only a slim chance we’re going to be able to find any leads at this late stage. If you have any documents given to you by the police, I’d appreciate you emailing us a PDF copy. We’ll do what we can.”

  Liam’s face was pale, but he cleared his throat and managed to recover a little. “Thank you,” he said, nodding to Ram and ignoring me. “I’d appreciate that. I’ll send you the email later this afternoon.”

  Ram grabbed hold of my arm, his fingers pressing deep into my skin through my shirt and thin summer jacket, and steered me towards the door. I wanted to protest, but I knew in the back of my mind that he was right. I couldn’t stay, because I was going to have a fight with this man. And we couldn’t let a potential payday turn into me being arrested for assault or property damage.

  I waited until the front door was closed behind us and we were out on the street to let out the breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. I felt a shake coming over me now, the same shaking that always accompanied my rages.

  “Fucking toff wanker,” Ram said, with a sniff.

  I looked round at him for a moment, then laughed. If there’s one thing that can be said about Ram, it’s that he always manages to cheer me up somehow.