Blood Evidence Page 3

  “There’ll be another one in a minute,” I told him soothingly.

  He ignored me entirely, reached down, and pulled a beer can out of his bag. He opened it, took a long drag, and crossed his arms over his chest with the can still held aloft. I couldn’t see his expression behind the black sunglasses he had shoved over his eyes, but I could guess it was defiant.

  Two could play that game. Steadily, keeping my eyes fixed on his glasses, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a packet of gum. I put a piece in my mouth and started to chew. It only took a moment before he sighed noisily and deliberately looked as far across to the other side of the car park from me as he could.

  By the time the taxi came, Ram had finished his beer and I had spat out my now-tasteless gum into the can for disposal. When we gave him the address, the driver just grunted and switched his radio on. It was some local station, playing songs that hadn’t been hits for at least thirty years.

  I watched out of the window as we left the town’s high street, full of chain stores and restaurants placed haphazardly beside historic buildings. It dwindled quickly, and then we were out on a twisting country lane, some kind of park or reserve on our left side.

  I glanced at Ram and saw that he, too, was paying attention. We had parks in London, but not like this. I glimpsed wild deer grazing in a flash between two trees. The taxi slowed to struggle up a hill, on a thin road that was half-blocked by parked cars lining one side. People were walking along the path with dogs on leads. I guessed it was a popular spot.

  The road thinned down to little more than a single file, and then our driver turned onto a gravel path. It went on for what seemed like a very long time. Trees crowded in on us on either side. Even a short distance from the road, suddenly it was like we were plunged deep into a forest. The sky was reduced to a thin column above us.

  Another twist and turn, and the view opened up ahead. A stone house emerged from the trees, fronted by a gravelled parking area already housing several cars. Roofs ascended behind a tall hedge, indicating the presence of several wings and extensions. The whole thing looked like a postcard.

  Our driver stopped beside the parked cars, turning off the engine without a word. I leaned forward to read his metre, blinked in surprise, and handed over a crisp note from my wallet. I waited a moment, but he did not offer me any change.

  With a resigned feeling that I had just been pressganged into leaving a large tip, I got out of the car. I joined Ram, who was already standing and staring up at the building behind his sunglasses. The taxi sped away without so much as a farewell, turning up loose stones under the wheels as it left us behind.

  “Here we are, then,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Great,” Ram muttered.

  The entrance was unmarked, but given that it was the only opening I could see in the neat stone walls, I decided it was probably the right place. The doors were carved wood, marked with metal circles at intervals. They looked like they had been there longer than the bricks themselves, as improbable as that was.

  The interior was dim and gloomy, a sharp contrast to the clear autumn light outside. I hesitated inside a short entranceway, trying to adjust my sight.

  Ram pushed past me, his sunglasses up on his forehead. He soon stopped, however, as we moved into a wider hall.

  The whole place was deserted. There was a wooden table resting directly in front of us, and halls stretched off in two directions. To our right was a series of doors. Everything was carpeted in a lush green which nonetheless had perhaps seen better days. The wallpaper, cream with a heraldic pattern, met dark wood panelling about halfway down.

  “Well?” Ram asked into the silence, looking at me.

  “Maybe this was the wrong entrance,” I whispered, feeling like an invader in someone’s home all of a sudden.

  None of the doors were marked. I was just about to give up and turn back outside. Before I could, an elderly woman appeared from the hall on the right.

  “Oh, are you our new guests?” she asked, her voice crackling as she walked towards us. “Richard should be here to sign you in.”

  She pulled a battered A4 diary out of a cubbyhole hidden away beside a cabinet, and started thumbing through it. Considering that we had seen no sign of anyone, let alone Richard, we said nothing. I had the vague impression that she somehow felt it was our fault we had not been seen.

  “Here we are,” she said, finding the current date and looking up. “You must be William and Julius.”

  “That’s correct,” I nodded.

  “Good,” she muttered, making some notes in a spidery hand. “Alright, well, you’re in room six. Have you stayed with us before at Highcastle Inn?”

  “No,” I said.

  Beside me, Ram had already started to wander away. He was peering into a doorway, apparently looking at something.

  “No, I thought I would have recognised you,” she said thoughtfully. “Double room, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Ram said, not bothering to turn around, keeping his back to her.

  Her attention snapped his way. “Oh, that’s our Dickens room,” she said. If she was perturbed by the idea of two men sharing a bed, she did an admirable job of concealing it. “The man himself used to take tea there.”

  “Right there, did he?” Ram asked, peering in further.

  “For many years,” she confirmed. “Our guests do love to sit in there. It’s like going back in time and sitting next to greatness.”

  “How interesting,” Ram said, looking back and giving her one of his charming grins. The kind that usually made women melt. Not to mention at least a quarter of all men. “Do you still serve tea there?”

  “Of a Sunday,” the woman inclined her head. “I see you’re booked in for tomorrow night as well, so you’ll be more than welcome to partake.”

  “I think we will,” Ram said, grin still in place. He slipped an arm around my shoulders, hefting his bag. “Come on, then. Let’s go find room six.”

  “Oh, do let us know if you wish to have dinner tonight,” the woman said hastily. “We’ve got a party booked in tonight, so it may get a bit crowded at the bar. Breakfast is served from eight til nine in the morning.”

  Ram took the key from her outstretched hand and flashed that brilliant grin at her one more time.

  We walked down a corridor decked out in the same style. A broad staircase in a dark wood stretched up ahead of us. I glanced back to see that the woman wasn’t following us, and shucked Ram’s arm off my shoulders.

  There was something a little too painful about pretending to have the thing you wanted most.

  “I wish you wouldn’t lay it on thick,” I said quietly. “It’s not even like it’s true.”

  “Why not? I like antagonising these country types,” Ram said airily. “They probably don’t get a lot of gays out here. I’ve got to represent the team, make sure they get used to seeing us.”

  I snorted. “The team? I didn’t realise you had a sports league.”

  “Of course,” Ram said. “Why do you think they call it batting for the other side?”

  I shook my head as we started up the stairs. The wood creaked ominously under our weight. I felt my knees creaking in their own way, protesting against the movement. I felt a little faint. It had been a long while since breakfast.

  “Let me take that,” Ram said, his voice rough and brusque all of a sudden. Before I could react, he reached over and snatched my bag out of my hand.

  “I’m fine,” I protested, though not too strongly. In truth, it was a relief for him to take the weight. I held onto the bannister, using the strength of my arms to pull myself up the last steps.

  He wasn’t looking at me. He set off down a new corridor, this one narrower still and furnished with decorative plates hanging on the walls. They were hand-painted with country scenes, and images of regal-looking boys and girls.

  The doors branched off around us, two on the side of the staircase and three opposite. A final door sat at the
end of the corridor. Number six.

  Inside was a tightly-packed room fitted with a double bed, a cramped wardrobe, and a few other pieces of furniture which looked ready to tumble down.

  A double bed.

  I walked over and prodded the centre of it, trying desperately to find the gap that would separate the two singles. After several long moments of prodding a mattress like a deranged idiot, I had to admit the truth.

  There was none.

  “This is a double bed,” I said.

  Ram was watching me with an amused look on his face. “You don’t say?”

  “I thought it would be two singles and we could push them apart,” I said. I felt accusatory, as if it was his fault. I knew it wasn’t.

  “We’ll just have to make do.”

  His casual manner annoyed me. As always, something that meant so much to me was nothing at all to him. It was always that way.

  I wanted to hate him sometimes for the way everything was easy for him. How he could be comfortable, and easy, and free. How the things I found most difficult came to him like breathing.

  Still, I never could.

  We unpacked a little, hanging up clothes and settling washbags into the small en suite bathroom. I stood looking out of a window cut into the slope of the roof. I made out expansive grounds, a fence separating the main garden from a wild area with a pond and a grazing pony.

  “Let’s get some room service,” Ram said. “Sounds like it’ll be packed down there.”

  My stomach ached at the prospect of food. But the idea of ordering from a room service menu made it ache in other ways. It wouldn’t be healthy. Wouldn’t be pure.

  Sometimes the guilt went away, but it wasn’t like the work we had done recently had been important. It had been a long time since we saved a life. What right did I have to indulge myself in greasy, fatty, sugary food?

  Ram caught the expression on my face, and his mouth set into a hard line. Before I could object, he lifted the room telephone to his ear, dialled the kitchen, and ordered. Burger and chips, times two. And I couldn’t miss the irony of the fact that even when deliberately trying to control me and keep me on track, he ordered a whiskey for himself.

  5 – Ram

  There’s nothing like a good old greasy burger and chips to get you in the mood for, well, just about anything. Anything that doesn’t involve strenuous physical exercise, anyway. It’s probably not the best choice before a marathon.

  I wipe my mouth with a serviette and throw it onto the plate with a deep sense of satisfaction. Glancing over, I see that Will has finished about half his plate. He seems to have given up. Par for the course; at least he forced down something.

  “We should head downstairs,” I say. “See if we can get a word with the staff.”

  “They said there was a party on.” Will gives me a dubious look.

  I reach over and ruffle his hair as if he’s a teenage kid. He scowls and pulls back out of my reach, quickly reaching up to rectify the mess. His hair is soft under my fingers, and soon settles back into place. I guess he takes pretty good care of it.

  “We can join the party,” I say. “Come on, Will baby. Relax a little. Just because we’re here to investigate, doesn’t mean we can’t also have fun.”

  “We can’t have your kind of fun,” he says, looking pointedly at my empty glass. “Your kind of fun doesn’t lend itself to good investigating.”

  “You’ve never tried my kind of fun.” I wink. “Besides. I checked Grndr earlier and there’s no one around here. Only your fake profile popped up.”

  Will gives me a startled glance.

  “You forgot to delete it, huh?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he says.

  It’s only been a short while since that case, really. Since Will went so far as to go undercover in a gay bar to try and clear my name. It feels like it might as well have been a thousand years ago.

  “We’ll go try and blend in,” I say decisively, getting up and grabbing my jacket to slip over my shoulders. “I’m not taking no for an answer. We’ve got to start somewhere, and this is the last address Ray Riley gave to the police.”

  I don’t turn around to watch him follow me, because I know he will. Sure enough, as I start down the corridor, I hear him lock our door and run a few steps to catch up with me.

  There’s no noise from any of the other rooms that we pass by, but as we descend the stairs, I start to pick up the sound of music. The further we go down, the louder it gets, until a door close by bursts open and it spills out fully. Behind the girl dressed in a simple black uniform I can see the bar, manned by a woman in the same outfit and swelling with guests.

  We round the corner into pure noise. The tinned music here is overwhelmed by conversation, a group of young twenty- and thirty-somethings crowded together in groups around the room.

  They are almost incongruous, in thoroughly old-fashioned settings. Out at the other end of the bar is a new glass extension, the last of the late sun still bursting through it and sparkling on wine glasses and bursting beer bubbles.

  “This is more like it,” I grin, looking back to catch Will’s eye. A drink sounds like exactly what the doctor ordered.

  He doesn’t return my smile. In fact, he looks worried more than anything.

  “We need to focus on asking questions,” he says.

  “Feeling a bit shy?” I ask. I wanted it to come out as sympathetic, but when I hear the words out loud, I almost wince. It sounded like I was mocking him. That wasn’t how I meant it.

  Will takes a deep breath, looking kicked. “I just didn’t think it was going to be like this. The place is a country inn, for god’s sake.”

  “You can hide behind me,” I say, giving him a lopsided smile that I hope conveys the fact that I am being sincere. “I promise.”

  Will manages a short laugh. “Well, it’s not like it’s hard. You do like drawing attention to yourself.”

  I walk over to the bar, jostling my way past a young couple. A very young couple, actually, when I give them a second glance. She looks almost underage.

  “What can I get you?” the woman behind the bar asks.

  “A whisky for me,” I say, then glance back at Will. He looks deeply uncomfortable. I decide to be charitable. “And a lemonade. Sugar-free, if you’ve got it.”

  The woman nods, and starts pouring our drinks. I hand her a ten-pound note, fully expecting to receive only small change. When she hands me a smaller note back, I blink.

  “No more London prices out here,” Will breaths. He has found a place beside me, occupying a stool that has just been vacated.

  “No kidding,” I say, putting the money back in my wallet. “I’m actually impressed.”

  “Imagine living in a place where you don’t need a second mortgage to go out for a drink,” he sighs wistfully.

  I laugh. At least being funny is a sign that he’s settling down again. Whatever that moment of anxiety was, maybe it’s passing.

  The barmaid turns to serve another customer before I can get her attention to ask some questions, so I take the opportunity to look around the rest of the bar. There are no signs or banners indicating what kind of party it is, but there are a lot of striped polo shirts and tight minidresses. At least that is enough information to tell me that this is not, at all, my kind of scene.

  I wouldn’t even call this a party. Not compared to the kind of scenes I grew up seeing. Young Julius would often wake up in the morning and have to step over snoozing Hollywood actors and Playboy bunnies draped over the floors and furniture of my parents’ various homes. I could recognise every Class A drug on the market by the time I was thirteen, and mix just about any cocktail. This? This is a retirement home compared to the parties at the Rakktersen house.

  “What’s going on tonight?” I ask my neighbour, leaning forward. He’s a thin young man, slightly nervous-looking. A bit like Will, I reflect.

  “Birthday party,” he says. His breath is thin, and his voice comes out kind of m
isty. Like he’s trying to talk to us from a distant dimension. “So I hear.”

  “You’re not celebrating, then?”

  “No, I’m a guest here,” he says.

  “Oh, us too,” I say, showing friendly. “Your first time here?”

  “Yes,” he breathes, and that puts him out of my area of interest. “I’m just taking a weekend away.”

  “By yourself?” I can’t see anyone who looks like they belong to him.

  “I like the trees,” he says, looking out towards the glass walls of the extension.

  “Alright then,” I say, leaning back into my own space. The breathy young man doesn’t seem to notice; he’s too busy staring off out into the garden.

  “Have you seen this?” Will asks, grimacing. He’s nodding towards a guy with spiked-up hair and a gold chain around his neck, who is openly making out with a young woman right in the middle of the bar while they pretend to dance to the music. By making out, I mean everything but fucking with clothes on. His hand is so far up her thigh that I can see her underwear.

  “The uncivilised masses,” I say, shaking my head.

  “One drink and people just lose all control,” he sniffs.

  I glance sideways at him. Was that an attempt at being snarky towards my own habits? “I think they’ve had a bit more than one,” I say.

  “Still,” he says, and shifts so that he can’t see them anymore.

  “We’re not going to get anything out of anyone tonight,” I say, noting the renewed queue along the side of the bar.

  “Agreed. It’s so loud in here.”

  “We’ll finish these and then go back up.”

  I watch, swilling the whisky around in my glass idly. There’s something delicious about watching people, especially when you have no stake in it. I’m not on the prowl tonight – just looking for the sake of looking. A young man comes in through the entrance, hesitating when he sees how busy it is. He’s wearing a nice dark shirt and a tie. Very different to the rest of this crowd.