Blood Evidence Page 13

  “Just… start going back over the witness statements,” Will says, unexpectedly. I thought he would try to change my mind. “We have a lot of information to go through already, and now that we’re here, we can match statements to places and put together a better timeline of Ray’s last few days before he went off-radar again.”

  “Fine,” I say, the heat taken out of me for the most part. I was ready to fight him, to argue my point. I don’t know what to do, now that he agrees.

  “I’m going back out for a bit,” Will mutters, and then he is gone.

  I should probably have asked where he was going and when he would be back, but I get the feeling that the answer would be something close to: as far away from you as possible, for as long as it takes for you to calm down.

  I pick up the phone and call the room service number, waiting for Stacey’s cheerful voice to ask me what I want. “Have you got a bottle of Jack – no; Grouse? … Great. No, I want the whole bottle. Yes, just bring it straight up. Thanks.”

  When she knocks on the door and hands me a tray, I don’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t need both glasses.

  The witness statements can wait. I’ll take a look at them later. I will. I just need something to settle my nerves first, take the bite out of all of this. Stop the ghost of San Francisco floating around my head.

  Stop the shudder that comes all the way down my spine when I think about ghosts.

  One glass isn’t enough, though I appreciate the burn. Two glasses has me feeling a little righter, a little straighter on my axis. I look over and spot Will’s laptop lying unattended on the side table, placed meticulously straight and unplugged.

  There’s something that has been bugging me for a while. The way he slams the laptop shut every time I walk into the room at home is one thing. One very suspicious thing that I don’t think he would come clean about if I asked.

  I don’t think it’s porn. I don’t even know if Will looks at porn. But what could it possibly be that he would feel the need to hide from me?

  For a while there was a little inkling in the back of my head that whispered something about an online relationship, maybe someone he met and doesn’t feel he can introduce to me yet. Or, knowing Will, he’s gone and fallen for someone based across the other side of the world while living in a city full of singletons.

  But then he left his phone on the table while we ate, and something flashed up on the screen – an incoming email notification. The subject line, which I speed-read upside down before he saw, was: URGENT: B.J. WONG DRAFT. Only a snippet of the text was visible below that, but I saw: Hi Will, When will you be sending…

  It’s almost a riddle. I don’t understand what any of it means. Which has me more than curious about finding out – especially if that email is linked in any way to the reason he keeps hiding his screen from me.

  Still, I didn’t want to ask him outright. I mean, I shouldn’t have been reading his private messages. He has a right to his privacy. It’s not like we’re fucking dating. Or, well, fucking.

  But I’m curious, and the third glass of Grouse has worked its way deep enough inside me that finding out the truth seems like a really, really good idea.

  I grab the laptop and take it into the bathroom, which seems like the safest place if he comes back unexpectedly. I don’t know how I will cover up the fact that the laptop is now in the bathroom instead of the bedroom, but that’s a problem for the future.

  I open it up, and am met with an unwelcome sight: a login screen.

  Okay, it’s not a problem. I can do this. The user account is filled in already, so I just need to figure out the password.

  Let’s see…

  WillWallace

  No, that’s a negative. Alright: May29, Will’s birthday.

  Nothing. SerialInvestigations. SerialInvestigationsLondon. No, that’s crazy, no one would have a password that long.

  Ambassador. bulgogi. bubbletea. Ah, shit, what else does he like? BTSfan. BTSstan. kpopforever. I’m being an idiot now.

  Password. Passw0rd. 123456. Pa$$word.

  Ugh. This is getting me nowhere. I have to think more carefully.

  Will’s the kind of person that would have something logical – something secure. Like a random letter and number string. But he would have to remember it somehow, anchor it in something.

  I line my head up against the keyboard so that I can see along it, trying to figure out which keys are the most well-used. E-A-T-S-R-H-D-N…

  No, those are just the most commonly-used letters in the English language. Now that I think about it, he types a lot. He probably types his password far less often than common words like “and” or “the”.

  I take one more guess, squinting at the screen, having to delete and start again as my sluggish fingers miss a key. willandram.

  A message flashes up on the screen, telling me that I have exceeded the number of permitted login attempts and will now be locked out for thirty minutes.

  Some great fucking detective I am. I can’t even figure out the password my live-in best friend and business partner uses for his laptop.

  Fuck it. I stash the laptop back where I found it and go back to the Grouse. I leave the glasses on the table. All I need is the bottle.

  Twenty – Will

  The September days were long enough that it would be light out for a few more hours. I made up my mind to go out. I wasn’t going to help anything by hanging around Ram like a bad smell. He clearly needed some time alone to calm down.

  I didn’t exactly like leaving him when he was in this kind of mood, because I knew what he would do. Even as I thought to myself that it might not be so bad, I knew in my heart that it would be. By the time I got back, he would be wasted. But I also knew from experience that I was only going to catch shrapnel if I hung around him right now. There wasn’t anything I could do to help.

  Maybe in the morning, this whole thing would be over and Ram would be back on the case, determined to prove that Cameron was innocent.

  I walked rather than get a taxi. I didn’t want to talk to anyone else, I just wanted to be alone. Enjoy some time in my head. It felt like there was a lot to think about, lately. I couldn’t even tell you what paths my mind took me on, but it was enough of a distraction that I couldn’t focus on much else anyway.

  I remembered the nature reserve we drove past on the way to the Inn, and soon found myself outside it, walking past parked cars with their wheels up the kerb. The area was clearly popular, but even as I approached, people were getting back into their cars and driving away. It was getting late; time to go home and eat if you’d been spending your afternoon in a park.

  I found the entrance and stepped in. It was quiet enough out here already, the traffic not too frequent and the town centre far enough away that I couldn’t hear anything from it. There were the occasional barks of a dog, and sometimes someone laughing a little louder drifting through the reserve. Mostly, though, it was quiet; quiet enough that the sound of a bird calling out far above me seemed to fill the whole sky.

  I walked along a part of the ground that seemed better-trodden, dirt emerging in a thin line through the grass. I let it take me wherever it went, trusting the people who had come before to show me the best route. I wasn’t here for any particular reason, wasn’t looking for a particular spot. I had the luxury of wandering.

  But even as I walked, I found my head turning in certain directions. I looked at a twisted tree with wide, low branches, filled with leaves now starting to turn in colour. I saw them, and thought of how easy it would be to drag someone behind them, out of sight. Visible only to anyone who walked between that tree and the small copse behind, deliberately, but hidden from anyone else.

  I saw a low hummock with scuffed-up dirt, perhaps the scratchings of dogs hunting for something interesting. But in my mind’s eye I saw a gravesite, a recent burial whose scent still attracted the hounds.

  I looked at a hole in the ground beside an incline, perhaps a fox den or a badger
sett. I thought how easy it would be to kill someone and hide them in there, whole or piecemeal, pushing them further in until they were hidden from sight, letting the animals do their work.

  A shudder ran through me. Is this how easy it was for me to think of death now? How comfortable and calm it seemed?

  Was I so damaged that all I could see around me now were places a man might die?

  I stopped walking and turned my head to the sky. I stayed still, looking up at the blue, tracking the flight of birds. I took a deep breath of fresh air, inhaled the scent of wildflowers, grass, trees, dirt.

  Something in me gave way and I sat there on the dusty path, raising my knees against my chest, putting my palms down on the grass. I started to catalogue all of the things I was connected to here. The grass and the dirt right under my fingers. Worms and stones and bones and bits of ancient pottery under the ground. Tree roots stretched up into trees and branches and leaves, and birds sitting in them. Birds that lifted free into the air, darted through clouds, caught insects, sang.

  Insects that flew or dropped to crawl the earth, to be eaten by small things. Mice and rats and squirrels that hunted for nuts, weasels and foxes, badgers, rabbits running zig-zag across the open areas. Things that I didn’t know the name of.

  Down by the water, frogs or toads or whatever the difference between them was, maybe herons, ducks. Fish maybe swimming through silver-like water, their fins catching the light from the late summer sun that gleamed over flashes of scales.

  And William Wallace, whatever that was, whoever that was, sitting connected with it all and yet not part of anything.

  Not Korean, because I grew up here. Not English, because I was born there. Not straight, because I’ve never been attracted to a woman. Not gay, because I don’t dare say it. Not a policeman, not a federal agent, but not a failure, because we dropped out top of the class. Not a victim, because Ram saved me at the last minute. Not a murderer, because it wasn’t my fault. Not a son, not really, to anyone. Not a Christian or a Muslim or a Buddhist or a Jew, because I didn’t know what to believe in. Not a writer, because I didn’t take it seriously.

  So then, what was I?

  I raised my head slowly at a sound ahead. I had been sitting so still for so long, and I could no longer hear the sounds of other humans. Everything was quiet, even the deer that stood watching me curiously from across some clear distance, right from the fringe of trees.

  He – or she, maybe; it had no antlers – watched for what felt like a long while, but might have been only minutes. Then she picked her way delicately over the ground, lowering her head to sniff and pull at a clump of long grass that must have seemed particularly enticing. Her slender body was followed by several others, smaller, that nosed along the ground behind her or lifted their heads to scamper a few paces ahead.

  And they stepped around a mound of earth that looked a different colour to everything around it; looked freshly disturbed. Exactly the kind of mound that could be a grave. And in spite of everything, my head was back there again.

  I watched them until they moved back inside the line of the trees, and felt for my phone in my pocket.

  I tried not to think about the usual things as I dialled the number. About the anxiety that would cripple my throat and make me shut down the call, the fear of rejection, the risk. I just closed my eyes and let it ring.

  “Hello?”

  I found I didn’t know what to say.

  “Is – is that Will? From the bar?”

  I opened my eyes. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry to call like this.”

  “Well, don’t be sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think you were ever going to use my number. I heard something about you and Julius getting back together.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. I felt the back of my throat start closing up and an itch on the back of my head. I swallowed one and ignored the other. “I… have to tell you something.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” he said, and it really sounded like it was. “Did you want to meet?”

  “I can’t right now. I’m not in London. Is it okay if we just talk?”

  There had been some noise in the background, traffic perhaps, or wind rushing past, or people. But it quietened, and now I could only hear Harry. Harry, the friendly yet feisty redhead I’d met in a gay bar in Soho, who had helped me set up my Grndr profile when he thought I was trying to get over Ram. One of Ram’s former conquests, himself. Except all of that had been a lie.

  “Alright, I’m listening,” Harry said, a note of concern in his voice. “What’s up, boo? You don’t sound too hot.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wryly. “I, um. I think I should start at the beginning.”

  “Go ahead,” Harry said encouragingly. I had a moment to appreciate the fact that this man, this wonderful, open young man, didn’t have a single second of hesitation when I asked for his help. Then as now, he had simply leapt in, giving me what I needed. I hoped there were more people like Harry in the world than I had given it credit for.

  “So, first of all, I lied to you, and I’m really sorry,” I said, my words coming in a rush. “I was undercover. I’m not in a relationship with Julius and I never have been. We were just trying to find a connection to the Highgate Strangler, figure out who he was.”

  “And you did,” Harry says. There’s a funny note in his voice, something stiff and yet not unkind. “I thought something was off, when I saw in the news that you’d had a hand in catching him. You and Julius, your pictures were shared on a few… forums, you know. People were saying that you’re the straight one. Lots of disappointment about that, by the way.”

  “They did?” I asked. “I mean… there was?”

  “You’re a straight-up hottie,” Harry told me, without a hint of embarrassment. “Take it as a compliment.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that at all.

  “Look, there’s more,” I said.

  “I figured there would be,” Harry said easily.

  “I… things have been… It’s been piling up on me, I guess,” I said. I didn’t think I was expressing it right at all. I couldn’t grasp the right words, the right way to say it. A big part of me wanted him to figure it out and say it for me, so that I wouldn’t have to.

  “Like what things?” Harry asked.

  “This is stupid,” I muttered under my breath. “You know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “No, no,” Harry said quickly. “Don’t hang up. It’s obviously important, or you wouldn’t have reached out. Maybe I can try to guess what’s wrong?”

  “Maybe,” I said, dubiously and reluctantly, but also with relief.

  “You called me for a reason. I mean, me. Not anyone else. So I think this has to be connected to the fact that I helped you out that night in the bar. Am I warm?”

  “Getting there,” I said.

  “Okay. And you don’t know much about me, apart from three things: I’m gay, I used to be with Julius, and I’m happy to help out where I can. Correct?”

  “That sums it up,” I admitted.

  “Believe it or not, I actually get that a lot. People coming to me for help. I don’t mind,” Harry said. “I actually like it. I like being able to help. So I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you need help with what most people come to me for help with.”

  “Which is what?” I held my breath.

  “Your sexuality,” Harry said bluntly. “You have questions. Or maybe you know, and you don’t know how to turn your inner life into your outer life. Am I there?”

  I tried to answer, but I had to swallow twice before I could manage it. “You – you’re there.”

  “So which is it, hon?” he asked. “You know, or you don’t know?”

  “I think I know,” I said.

  “We can work with that,” he said. “How are you feeling right now? Is this a crisis moment?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed, tilting my head back and hugging my knees to my chest. I
closed my eyes tightly to fight the moisture welling up in them. “I don’t know who I am. Everything feels so… disconnected.”

  “Let me ask you this bluntly, and I need you to be honest,” Harry said. “Do you feel like you might do something to harm yourself, or someone else?”

  “No,” I said, my eyes snapping open. “God, no. I… I just got a little overwhelmed. Ram – Julius is in one of his moods and there’s nothing I could do about it, and I just walked away, and I couldn’t keep a grip on things for a moment.”

  “Alright. With that being the case, I’d like to see you in person. If you start to feel like things are too much again, you can call me. But I think I’ll be able to help you work through this better if we meet up. When are you back in London?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” I said, looking at my watch as if that had the answer. A nonsensical habit. “We’re working on a case.”

  “Well, look. I don’t have anything on that can’t be cancelled. When you get back, you call me, okay?” Harry said.

  “Okay,” I agreed. My throat felt thick again. “Thanks.”

  “Will?” Harry said. “I mean it. Call me. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll just track you down. Don’t make me worry.”

  I smiled, despite all the conflicting feelings that were squeezing at my windpipe. “I’ll call you,” I promised.

  We both hung up, and I sat looking out over the darkening landscape. The air had cooled on my skin, and I felt I should have worn something heavier. Still I sat and looked just a little bit longer, until I had to turn on the torch on my phone to find my way back to the Inn.

  21 – Ram

  I don’t know where I am.

  I look out of the windows, and nothing looks familiar. No landmarks in the distance. No indication even of the country – except, no, I think I can see a Chinese takeaway, and the sign is in English.

  Shit. Where the fuck am I? How did I get here?

  The banging in my head and that sick, roiling feeling of having drunk too much last night gives me at least some idea of why I don’t know. I lurch back onto the bed to steady myself, trying desperately to think.