Though I Walk Through the Valley (21/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (21/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Here you go all. Almost 9,000 words of case fic. Not the most complicated one in the world, but it's so nice to have Greg being good at his job.
Warnings: None for this chapter
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29
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The next day was a sleep deprived nightmare. Dragged from sleep by the most annoying alarm tone he had been able to find on his phone, Greg had stumbled through a shower, pressed fingers against Mycroft’s door as both greeting and goodbye, and inhaled his toast en route to the Yard. Tamara hadn’t been working that morning, but the man behind the machine had taken one look at Greg and made the strongest infusion possible without Greg having to say anything.
He’d met Sally on the way in, her own overly large coffee clutched in her hand, and they’d grunted at each other in greeting. The rest of the team had trickled in slowly, giving Greg enough time to set up the facts as they knew them on the board.
The briefing was brief and to the point. Everyone was tired after the late night. Some had clearly taken the ‘at this stage no sleep is better than almost none’ route, others had catnapped like Greg. No one complained - they were cops, it wasn’t like this was the first time, certainly wasn’t the last, and everyone knew the first twenty four hours were the most critical in an investigation. Once the caffeine had kicked in there wouldn’t be any signs that these police officers were anything other than fully rested for the general public to pick up on.
Tasks assigned, everyone dispersed. Sally disappeared into the bathroom with a small bag and emerged looking bright-eyed and bushy tailed: the power of makeup. Greg resorted to a couple of handfuls of cold water splashed on his face in his own effort to perk up.
The interviews lasted eight hours, four cups of coffee, and a rushed takeaway sandwich eaten in the car. Following up the enquiries and potential leads generated by the rest of the team took until the businesses were well and truly shut and it was too late to reasonably call on people.
Tromping into the station with heavy feet Greg pulled aimlessly at his tie, too drained to even bother removing it. Wincing at what was coming, he switched his computer on and left it to boot as he went in search of tea. On the way back he started shifting the papers the constables had left in missing persons and a couple of boxes of records to his office. The way it was all boxed up, the constables had been called away to other duties and it’d be up to Greg to finish it somehow.
It took two trips to move the couple of overly full boxes, in between which he logged in and set his ancient machine to its second loading sequence as it attempted to display his desktop. By the end his office was looking very crowded and Greg longed to put his head on his desk just a little, but in true intractable form his computer chose that moment to finally be ready for use.
Greg had been right. Emails. Lots of them.
It would be alright, he reflected, if most, or even any, of them were useful, really useful. Instead there were the usual administrative memos about staff reviews, training seminars, the necessity of PCF42 so would everyone please fill it in when doing their paperwork, and a reminder to have all timesheets submitted for review by Thursday night; the usual IT memos about the internet policy, system updates, and the danger of opening unknown attachments; all the usual committee emails regarding meetings, agendas, and minutes. Greg flipped through as quickly as he could, saving a couple to read properly later and deleting the rest. The spam that had made it past his filter went too, leaving him with a much shorter list of unread messages.
There was one from Mulgrave, saying there was an important meeting Monday morning so all DIs and DSs needed to have their butts in the Yard in time for it. There was one from the Super saying essentially the same thing in much more pompous prose. Greg entered the meeting into his electronic, desk and personal diaries, knowing each entry was as useless as the last as all of them lived at the Yard and that Sally would have to remind him as usual.
The next email was from forensics acknowledging the task list he’d sent with Anderson and reminding him these things took time. Greg snorted and filed it carefully as proof they had got the list, just in case anyone tried to say otherwise later.
The one after that was from one of the Constables on missing persons duty apologising for leaving, but DI Gregson had needed them, Greg snorted again, and summarising their progress. Greg left it in his inbox, easily accessible for later.
A total surprise, the last email was from pathology apologising for the delay and promising him at least one report that night, even if that meant the interns were there until midnight to get it done. Doctor George was a battle axe and meant what he said. Greg was stupidly glad the other Alpha was back from leave and was once again exerting his iron fist over the forensic services pathology lab.
“Here you go.” Sally dropped a takeaway bag on his desk, the mouth-watering smell of Chinese rising from its depths.
“Thought I told you to knock off?” Greg attempted to glare at Sally over his stomach’s loud rumble.
“You’re still here.” Sally pointed out reasonably. “Help clear the desk.”
Sighing, Greg obeyed and shifted paperwork until there was room for various containers and a bag of prawn crackers on the desk.
“Meeting on Monday.” Greg mumbled around a prawn cracker.
“I saw. Unlike you I can check my email on my phone.” Sally passed him chopsticks and a plate filched from the little kitchen unit. “What else have we got?”
“Apart from a foot high stack of pre-reports and witness statements to read through? George promises a pathology report tonight, come hell or high water.” Greg cracked open a can of cola and took a sip.
“He’s only got a couple of hours left.” Sally took a swig from her own drink.
“Torturing interns.” Greg grinned.
Sally laughed, tiredly, but genuinely. “So glad he’s back. Did he say which one?”
“Nomphe.” Greg swallowed and tried again. “Nope, just a report.”
“One is better than none. In the mean time?”
“Take your pick. Foot of reports from today, all the leftovers from yesterday we were meant to do, the missing persons stuff.”
Sally groaned and held out her hand for the reports next to Greg. “That’s no choice at all and you know it. Got to read all this paperwork to generate our own.”
“Yep.” Greg handed her half the stack. “Of course it’s due-”
“Tomorrow.” They chimed in unison.
“And Mulgrave will want it tomorrow morning, not tomorrow afternoon.” Sally pulled a face.
“Yep. We’re also due progress reports on the Robinson and Carson cases, else I’d say stuff it and do it in the morning.” Greg flipped open the first report on his pile. It was Weatherly’s.
“Good thing I got these then.” Sally deposited a six pack of energy drinks on the desk.
There was quiet except for the rustle of pages, scrape of chopsticks and quiet thud of cans being replaced on the desk. An hour and a half in, they swapped stacks and cleaned the empty food containers off the desk. Two hours in, Sally cracked open the first energy drink. Greg held out his hand and took it, leaving Sally to give a disgruntled huff and open another.
Five minutes before midnight Greg had a dot pointed draft report. He also, he noted, had an email from George.
“Got the pathology report.” His voice sounded harsh after the silence, fingers tapping as he sent his thanks back. “It’s for the Robinson case.”
“Guess we’ve got to read it tonight then.” Sally had her own dot points next to her arm.
“Think we could get away with a verbal report tomorrow?” Greg eyed the clock wistfully.
“Meeting on Monday, Sir.” Sally pushed to standing and went to fetch her laptop so she could type her report up in his office.
It was Sally’s personal laptop, the Yard would never shell out for that when the computers were still running Windows XP, but it did make these late nights easier.
Greg printed the report and took his own walk past the bathroom. In the harsh fluorescent lights his skin looked even more washed out and grey than it was. His beard was beginning to show and he had purple bags from two nights on poor or little sleep.
Turning off the taps Greg stopped looking at the reflection. He was tired and worried about My. Definitely not the time to let negative thoughts about his looks enter the scene. He’d be all too receptive to them in that state, he was well aware.
Sally finished her report well before him by virtue of being a better typist, which allowed Greg to read it and provide the summary in his report as he was meant to. In the meantime Sally took to George’s report with a highlighter.
She offered it to him when Greg had finished stapling the required form to the front of his preliminary report, but Greg shook his head.
“Just summarise.” He said wearily, tilting back his can of liquid energy and artificial additives.
It was empty, so he cranked open two more, settling them down in front of himself and Sally.
“Nothing unexpected. Our Vic died from massive blood loss and trauma resulting from a stab wound. Wound appears to be from a fairly ordinary knife. Blade appears to be relatively long, but George estimates something of similar proportions to your average carving knife so it’s not going to be an unusual item.”
“Find those everywhere.” Greg sighed. He’d had two in his old flat and hadn’t had a roast in at least five years.
“Unfortunately,” Sally agreed. “Knife skirted off the rib, nicked the lung and slashed through a load of blood vessels. Even with medical attention it would have been touch and go. No drugs in his system and it doesn’t appear he’d had sex, no secretions or spermicides on his genitals, but that’s not conclusive.”
“So no drugs, no sex.” Greg leant back in his chair and hummed.
“No sex before death, but doesn’t mean he didn’t think he was going to get some. Based on the strength of the thrust, George is suggesting a male offender, but he won’t rule out a strong, athletic or desperate woman.” Sally set the report aside with a side. “And of average to tall stature, so Adam Hastings is well clear.”
Greg pulled the paper copy of the file over and added the report into the back.
“Should we write them up as connected?” Sally asked, pulling her notebook over in preparation of summarising.
“Not yet.” Greg decided. “Write them up separately and note the link.”
“Flip you for Robinson?” Sally hopefully held up a coin.
“Get real.” Greg snorted. “You did all the Carson interviews, you write up the long one.”
“I also did all the Robinson interviews.” Sally sniffed.
“You type faster,” Greg shot back, “and I’m pulling rank.”
Time had reached the point it started dragging then racing unexpectedly ahead in impossible leaps. Greg summarised the progress they’d made, pen scratching over the paper in a slow steady drag as he crossed items off his list of things to include. Sally’s fingers created a steady metronymic click in the background, interspersed by Greg’s bursts of self-taught typing.
There wasn’t much to write in the Robinson case report. Greg summarised the pathology findings, transcribed the relevant notes from Sally’s interview with the bartender (turning a blind eye to the fact the contact details Sally had been given were his personal ones while Greg had been given his work ones), and finally noted that the vic was seen talking a young Beta Sub who was later a victim to a violent assault. He copied across the case file number for the Carson case as reference and triumphantly pressed print.
The clock showed it was already three in the morning. Even if he left that instant he wouldn’t be home before half past and it would take another quarter to half an hour to clean up. Besides that, Sally was still wading through all the interviews for the Carson case and Greg wasn’t about to bail on her now.
Instead he cleared the desk again, taking the empty cans to the recycling and snagging a case file from the stationary cupboard to start filing relevant notes and paperwork. Due to the public nature of the murder there was an above average amount of paperwork. Already full to the brim with crime scene reports, the file was shoved in the case box helpfully set up by one of the constables earlier that day and left on his desk for Greg.
“How’re you going?” He leant over Sally’s shoulders and peered at her screen.
“Getting there.” She stretched out her joints and shook her head to loosen her neck. “If you’re done Sir, you can head home. You don’t need to wait.”
“At this point Donovan I’m resigned to a sleepless night. Even going home now’d be pointless.” He took another sip of the artificial stimulant keeping him going. “Too much of this stuff anyway. Probably just lie there.”
“Probably.” Sally agreed turning her attention back to her report.
Greg sat and stared for a few minutes trying to work out what he was going to do next. He had to stare at them a few minutes before reluctantly acknowledging the missing persons records.
The search was slow going. People always thought it was so simple to identify the dead, but usually that was only when they already had some idea who they were. It wasn’t like on TV where the corpses were portrayed as still, resting humans. The changes to skin and muscles, along with any facial injuries sustained during their death, made it exceptionally hard to match a living face to a dead one.
Greg could still remember one of the talks George had given to the force as part of an effort to bring the forensic services ‘into’ the Yard, the flavour of that month for the internal policy machine. He’d projected a picture onto the board, told them that they all knew who this was, that they’d been famous and everyone had seen photographs of them when they’d been alive. When asked who it was no one had guessed correctly. Ten people in the group hadn’t even picked the correct gender, thought they had been reassured that that would be less of a problem in the field.
Marilyn Monroe looked very different dead to alive.
This meant Greg and the constables he’d instructed weren’t trying to match their John Doe’s face, but other statistics: height, eye colour, age range. Hair would be used as well, once forensics confirmed whether or not John Doe was really a brunette. Gender would be added at a later date, though they’d likely never know his dynamic.
The constables had placed blue sticky notes on all the possible matches. There were depressingly few, and Greg didn’t think that any of them were likely. He’d have forensics check against he attached dental records anyway, but none of them seemed right to him.
Picking up the folder after the red divider, Greg started sorting through. Female, too short, too short, too young, too tall, too old, female, female. The time the process took was less about time on individual records and more about the number of them. Two days of work and only five years had been checked.
He trawled through record after record until his eyes began to blur and he realised he couldn’t remember the numbers he’d just looked at.
“How’re you going?” He replaced the lid on the box and pushed to his feet.
“Done.” Sally hit print and gave him a tired smile.
“Well done.” Greg opened his desk drawer and pulled out a towel and change of clothes.
“Breakfast after?” Sally shut her laptop down and unplugged the power cord.
Greg nodded and walked out down to the showers. The addition of showers to the Yard had been a welcome move. More often than they liked officers worked through the night and the ability to have a shower made those nights slightly more bearable. They were also frequented after particularly gruesome crime scenes or when constables had been sent dumpster diving.
The water sluicing over Greg’s back was relaxing. It was so tempting to rest his forehead against the wall and close his eyes for a few minutes. If he’d been at home in his sparkling clean bathroom he would have, but the showers in the Yard were only one level above scummy and no one wanted to make contact with the walls more than possible.
Trying not to move too slowly Greg washed, dried and redressed, smoothing his hair and then roughing it up again with the towel in an effort to stop the loose drops running down the back of his shirt. Lastly, but with no small amount of relief, he quickly shaved.
Looking less like a vagabond and more, he hoped, like a dignified detective inspector he went to replace everything in his office, scrawling a post it note reminder to take his clothes home for wash. Sticking his head out the window revealed Sally wasn’t back from her own morning shower, but a couple of other DIs who had particularly challenging cases had arrived and were booting up their computers. Greg waved hello and retreated to his desk.
Sally’s summation of the Carson case was a quick read, mainly because Greg was only skimming, and he signed off on the relevant form before taking all three reports and dropping them in DCI Mulgrave’s pigeon hole, set up purely so reports could be delivered whenever. The claim had been convenience for his DIs, but no one fooled themselves that the convenience of not having to be up and behind his desk at seven in the morning to receive the reports wasn’t the convenience Mulgrave had meant.
Reports delivered, a couple of other administrative tasks completed, and Greg found himself wracking his brain for what he had to get done that day. Various leads from yesterday still needed to be chased up, as did the mysterious caller Carson talked to, but never saved. John Doe was more missing persons, so Greg mentally shelved the case until things were a little calmer. His other cases were in the paperwork and preparation for court stages, so nothing too pressing there yet, mostly just case management.
Oh, and he had to get back to Sherlock.
Time then to catalogue Carson’s effects from the hospital. There were of no use forensically, Sam, the paramedics and medical staff at the hospital having been more concerned with his life than preventing contamination of the evidence, as was so often the case, but now that Greg had them he really should get them properly logged as evidence.
He was halfway through when Sally got back carrying a drinks tray with two juices and more bags. Greg forced her to take a £20 to cover last night and that morning, and set the box aside to investigate what she’d brought.
Croissants and fruit salad. Apparently not being home wasn’t going to get him any unhealthy bonuses.
“What were you looking at when I came in?” Sally asked, packing the rubbish back up when they’d eaten.
“Carson’s effects.” Greg swivelled in his chair and started to move everything back onto his desk. “Getting them logged.”
“Had to do that after I’d already written the report.” Sally grumbled.
Greg gave her a sheepish grin.
By that stage most of the officers on shift had arrived for the day. The steady thrum of computers and low conversation merged with the shuffle of papers and click of pens to create the subdued chaos that was a Friday morning. The sounds danced through the door as Sally left to dispose of the garbage, but Greg was well and truly used to the background cacophony of the Yard and it was no longer a distraction.
Picking up the next item Greg noticed a gold glint caught on the edges of the fabric. Gently working it free, Greg could see it was a bracelet.
The bracelet was a simple affair, delicate even. Thin gold links formed a fragile chain, connected at one point to a thin, flat gold plate with Carson’s name engraved into it.
“What’s that?” Sally asked as she sat back down.
“Not sure.” Greg turned it in his hand, holding it up to the light.
It was well polished, each link gleaming in the weak office light. There were lots of scratches, even quite a deep gauge running across the back of the name plate. Well cared for, but carelessly treated.
What did that mean? Greg wasn’t Sherlock, couldn’t draw those final dots together.
“It looks like a young girl’s.” Sally took it from him to look more closely. “These were really popular when I was a kid, until a children’s group argued they were sexualising children.”
She flipped it around a few times, examining it under the light as if there was room for some kind of hidden compartment.
“It’s definitely his.” She eventually concluded. “The name makes that fairly clear. Maybe it’s a medical alert bracelet.”
Sally’s tone of voice made it very clear that even she believed her explanation was grasping at straws.
“With no medical information on it?” Greg accepted it back and dropped it into a ziplock bag for safekeeping. The clothes were write offs, but like the phone Carson would probably want this back if he ever woke up.
“Guess he just liked wearing a name bracelet. It’s not like it’s ever going to be mistaken as a claim.” Sally shrugged. “Unusual, but I’ve seen stranger.”
“Yeah.” Greg didn’t mention his own necklaces at home and kept staring at the bracelet, thoughts niggling and trying to tug his mind this way and that. “Get onto the hospital and confirm that Carson doesn’t have any medical flags for me, and get a photo from the flatmate. Recent, and so you can see his wrists.”
“You want to see a photo of him wearing it.” Sally frowned as she thought.
“Might be nothing, but worth seeing. Check whether he was right or left handed while you’re there.”
“What’re you thinking?” Sally leant forward intent.
“Don’t know.” They felt like the right questions to ask, so ask them Greg would. It was as close to gut instinct as anything, but he could and had worked with that.
“As you wish, Sir.”
Once Sally was gone Greg raced through logging the rest of the items, reflecting that Peter Carson’s wallet was even blander than Greg’s own (no photos, but two different library cards), and turned his attention back to the bracelet.
His forays into Google suggested that this one was custom made as none of the fancy little chains mass manufactured for young girls to play dress up with came close to matching. That would possibly help if they needed to trace it, but only if they could find the correct jeweller first.
Skimming down the next few links, Greg was surprised to see one to the history museum. He clicked on it out of curiosity and spent half an hour reading about the history of exchanging collars and bracelets. Fascinating, but not really relevant.
“Sir.” Sergeant Williams poked his head around the door and held out a piece of paper for Greg.
Greg looked at it and couldn’t hold back a fairly shark-like grin. He loved it when a case started to fall into place.
~*~
Sally double parked as Greg hustled himself into the car. He managed it just before the cars behind were impatient enough to start honking and Sally pulled smoothly away.
“Where to?” The tiredness in her voice made Greg glad he’d dashed out and got them more coffee when she’d called to say she was on her way back from Carson’s flat with the photo, even if they were well over their recommended caffeine intake, probably for the whole week.
“30 Ripplevale Grove, Islington.” Greg set the coffees carefully in the cup holders and began to shuffle his overcoat off, trying to manage without punching Sally in the eye. He did, but the folder he’d had on his lap spilt onto the floor.
“Posh. Why are we headed there?” Sally deftly manoeuvred through traffic and took a gulp of her coffee, now that Greg’s flailing arms were out of the way and she wasn’t likely to end up wearing it.
“Because that,” Greg announced triumphantly as he slid his seatbelt buckle into place, “is where our mysterious caller lives.”
“Huh.” Sally pointed behind her. “Your picture’s on the back seat.”
Greg twisted around to retrieve it. It must have been from last summer because Carson and his uncle were both in shorts and smiling broadly through sun tinged cheeks. The gold bracelet glittered on Carson’s right wrist, small enough to escape notice unless someone was looking for it.
“And he’s?”
“Right handed yes.” Sally frowned. “Are you seriously thinking it’s a claim, Sir? Carson didn’t have a Dom.”
“Yet he wears an old fashioned, custom made bracelet on his right wrist, receives mysterious phone calls that he always takes and last upwards of an hour, has been sent flowers, and shows no interest in any of the Doms around him, even when they show interest in him.”
“He’s shy.” Sally countered.
“Yeah, but it’s still suggestive.” Greg leant back against the headrest and then sat up lest he fall asleep. “The question if I’m right becomes why was the relationship secret? And why did Robinson die and Carson get bashed?”
“If Carson had a Dom Robinson may have been a possessiveness or jealously motivated killing. Maybe Mr Mysterious thought he was getting overly familiar with his Sub.”
“That was the old theory.” Greg agreed.
“But?” Sally asked, resigned.
“Well doesn’t that seem like an overreaction to you? Robinson talked to him once for less than five minutes and dies because of it?”
“It has happened.”
“Yeah, but I’d expect Carson to be an Omega to inspire that kind of reaction from his Dom, and even then that is one overly possessive Alpha. Surely an Alpha who’d react like that wouldn’t be likely to let him out at all.”
“True, and how would his Dom have even known? None of his friends had any idea about him having a partner and no one randomly disappeared during the evening, so it’s none of them.”
“And why would his Dom assault Carson days later?” Greg tapped a finger on the car window.
“Sorry to say, Sir, but your theory has more holes than a sinking ship.”
“Yes, it does.” Greg was forced to agree.
The rest of the ride was spent imbuing their systems with as much caffeine as possible. Greg was getting to the point where it wasn’t doing much more than making him shake and he suspected he was now running almost off pure adrenaline.
30 Ripplevale Grove was a semi-detached brick building with a neatly maintained if somewhat sparse garden and a crisp white door.
“Nice.” Sally commented as she shut and locked the car.
Greg nodded, glad he had taken the time that morning to shower and shave. He rang the doorbell and they waited patiently as footsteps approached the door at a steady pace.
“May I help you?” The door opened and a young well-dressed male hovered in its wake.
From his face and the clothes Greg put him at mid to late twenties. From his stance and the arrogant tilt of his chin Greg suspected not just Dom, but Alpha.
“Daniel Hill?” Greg asked, reaching for his ID. The young Alpha nodded and Greg held out the warrant card for him to see. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Detective Sergeant Donovan, might we come in?”
Daniel took in both their IDs in a glance and stood back, gesturing them inside. Shutting the door behind them he led the way to the sitting room.
“Tea?” He offered politely.
They both demurred and settled themselves lightly on the flowered armchairs.
“Very nice place you’ve got.” Greg remarked conversationally.
“Thank you. It’s my Sire’s, of course. I could never afford anything like this.” Daniel Hill sat stiffly on the arm chair opposite Greg.
“What do you do, Mr Hill?” Sally enquired politely.
“I’m studying for my Masters at LSE. My Sire would like me to follow him into the family business.”
There was no invitation as there had been with Sam to call him Daniel.
“Banking?” Greg asked, taking a wild stab in the dark.
“Indeed.” Daniel’s voice was as formal as his posture.
“You don’t see very excited about it.” Sally offered.
Daniel shrugged. “It’s a job, but I highly doubt you wanted to speak to me regarding my career plans.”
“No.” Greg pulled his folder out from under his arm and set it on the coffee table between them. “Do you know a Beta by the name of Peter Carson?”
“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with such a person.” Daniel didn’t even twitch.
“Are you sure? Think carefully.”
“Very sure, Detective Inspector.” Daniel’s voice could have frozen steam.
Greg had to hand it to the kid, he was good.
“Maybe this will help.” Greg pulled the photo of Carson and his uncle out and slid it across the table. “Carson is the one on your left.”
“I assure you, Detective Inspector, I have no knowledge of this Beta.” Daniel drew himself up and raised his chin, refusing to even look at the photograph.
It took Greg a moment to work out that the younger Alpha was Domming him. Not actively, but passively the way John had described with body language and signals and the like. Now that he’d had John’s explanation behind him, Greg could recognise what was fairly common Dominant suspect behaviour for what it was, though mentally it reminded him of teenage jocks posturing more than the brilliant displays animals used to warn off challenges.
Unlike John and Mycroft Greg didn’t have any Dominance to pull to the fore and let bubble just below the surface, however he’d had more than enough proof over the years that he didn’t need to, and pulling Sherlock to the front of his mind, tried to copy exactly how the younger Sub had acted when he’d set Greg down at the pub.
He didn’t try the active Dominance Sherlock had used, he suspected that trick took years to master and he’d only cock it up and reveal himself. Besides which, it wasn’t legal to use Dominance in the course of questioning a suspect.
They held the tableau, Greg thanking his lucky stars that he’d spent so long around Mycroft (and Sherlock) pretending to be a Dom because it made young Mr Hill’s efforts easily resistible by comparison, until eventually Daniel didn’t quite cave, but relaxed.
It wasn’t, Greg realised suddenly, really about winning or losing. In theory winning and losing would have happened quite quickly. The prolonged contest was about determining who was of a level and earning respect. He also realised that old family upbringing or not, Daniel Hill was not a strong Dom else he would never have felt the need to give Greg a chance to prove his resistance.
Nuances and undercurrents.
Greg wondered how much else he’d missed over the years by just not realising it was there.
Daniel’s eyes flickered to the picture and back up again. “Never seen him before in my life.”
“Mr Hill, I must ask you to look and look carefully.” Greg requested sternly, readying himself to pull out the phone records.
Daniel reluctantly dropped his eyes again. Forced to look at Carson he could only maintain the facade a few seconds before his face crumpled.
“Yes, I know him.” He slumped down in his chair, eyes still fixed on the photograph. Slowly he raised his head. “Why are you - something’s happened to him hasn’t it?”
The answer must have been written on Greg’s face because Daniel leapt to his feet in a panic.
“What happened? Is he dead? Oh God, he’s dead isn’t he? Oh God, oh God-”
“Daniel, Daniel!” Greg stood and grabbed his arm. “Daniel, he’s alive.”
The strength went out of Daniel’s legs and he collapsed back down into his armchair, forcing Greg to release his arm or be pulled over the coffee table.
“Daniel,” Greg kept his voice soft, “why do you think something has happened to him?”
“You’re here aren’t you?” Daniel’s voice was part dull relief, part exhausted panic. “And he was always worried...”
“What was he worried about?”
“Us, someone finding out. There,” Daniel hesitated, “there wasn’t really anything to find out. A few kisses. Something always made him pull back from more.”
“So the two of you weren’t-” Greg waved his hand a bit, whether to indicate serious or playing was left up to interpretation.
“It’s complicated.” Daniel sounded resigned, not defensive as Greg would have expected him to be if he’d reached the end of his patience and become aggressive. “At first I wondered if he was ashamed of his friends and that was why he didn’t want me to meet them, but he’d always tell me stories about them and never seemed hesitant. The opposite - I can tell you all about Mabel’s latest drama or Azir’s latest conquest or the love triangle at uni between Stephanie, Louise, and Rebecca.
“Then I wondered,” his voice faltered slightly, “whether he was ashamed of me, he didn’t want them to meet me, not vice versa. He picked up on that pretty quickly. Petey was never dumb, just quiet.”
“And what did he do?” Greg asked gently.
“Fell over himself trying to convince me otherwise. He was so upset I thought that. Not at me,” Daniel hurriedly corrected, “at himself for making me feel like that. He cried.”
The helpless tone in Daniel’s voice at that confirmed for Greg that even if Daniel and Carson hadn’t been playing together and didn’t have a formal arrangement, Carson was still very much Daniel’s Sub. No Dom liked seeing his Sub cry unless it was part of a planned and deliberate session.
“He,” Daniel swallowed, “he always said everything would be okay once he finished uni, that it’d be safe then.”
“Safe from what?” Sally asked.
“I don’t know.” Daniel sounded anguished. “He, he asked once whether if it came to it, I’d leave with him, go somewhere no one knew us and start again as a couple. A proper one, together.”
“And what did you say?”
“Yes.” Daniel glared at her defiantly. “Anything.”
“But he never gave you a hint as to what he was scared of?” Greg pressed.
“No. I asked, but he’d get so upset about it, and I didn’t want him to leave.” Daniel swung back to face Greg. “What’s happened to him?”
“Have you ever seen this Alpha before?” Greg pulled Robinson’s photo out of the file and laid it on the table.
“What’s-?”
“Have you ever seen him before?” Greg repeated firmly, well used to maintaining the upper hand in interviews with other Doms. “Look carefully, please.”
Daniel picked up the photo and studied it for several minutes. Even watching carefully Greg could see no flicker of recognition.
“No, sorry.” Daniel’s grip tightened around the photo. “’Is he the one, what did he...?”
Sally gently worked the photo from his hands.
“Where were you the Thursday before last?” Greg asked keeping a careful eye on Daniel’s reactions.
There was muted tension, slowly gathering and winding in him like a spring, but no sudden flashes that would indicate the date meant anything in particular to him, especially not in a negative sense.
“At my mate’s, trying to write a paper.” He sounded baffled and reluctant, an undertone of urgency pushing his voice.
“And last Saturday?” Greg asked.
“Trying to get the paper finished over at my mate’s. Uni life’s not as glamorous as people like to remember.”
“Why did you stop calling Carson a week and a half ago?” Greg asked, pressing forward.
“He asked me to.” Daniel answered automatically.
Greg reflected back over all the blank spots in the phone record. “Was this a common thing?”
“Sort of.” Daniel looked at him with wide beseeching eyes. “We’d meet up at the library and spend time together there, have coffee, but mostly Peter preferred calling.
He was worried about us being noticed together, and he never let me call when he was going home for the holidays, only at his. He was so upset when I called at Christmas, but I just had to...”
“What’s different this time?” Greg kept his tone brisk, though he wanted to soften it and be reassuring.
“He was scared.” Daniel whispered. “Said it was too dangerous for me to call. I asked him why, but he was in a panic and just kept repeating that it wasn’t safe. I begged him to go to the police if he wouldn’t tell me, but he refused. Told me not to call until he called to tell me it was okay, and that if anyone asked I didn’t know him.
“Please,” Daniel’s voice cracked and he looked unbelievably young to Greg’s eyes. “What has happened?”
Greg took pity on him, though he wasn’t sure whether telling him was really much of a favour. “Peter was attacked last Saturday night. He’s in the hospital in a coma.”
“No, no, no.” Daniel leapt to his feet. “I have to go, I have to go to-”
“Daniel.”
“-him. He’s alone, he’s hurt, God, he’s hurt and-”
“Daniel.”
“-I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”
“Daniel!” Greg grabbed the young Dom and pushed him back down into the chair. “Daniel, you need to listen to me.”
“I have to go. I’m his Alpha, his Dom.” Daniel pleaded.
“I know, I know, but you don’t know where he is, and,” he increased pressure as Daniel tried to stand again, “obviously he was right about it being dangerous. If you go to him now you’ll be putting both of you in harm’s way.”
“But-” Daniel’s eyes were wild.
“But for now he’s safe and he’s stable. There’s nothing you can do by going to him, except possibly get him hurt.”
“Do you think so?” Daniel asked, wide eyed and subdued.
“I don’t know.” Having successfully redirected the Alpha protectiveness into a useful vein, Greg let go of Daniel’s shoulders and sat back in his chair. “From what you’ve said though he was worried about someone finding out about your relationship, whether to protect you or as a trigger for something. Until we know more, it’s better to treat what he said as more than mere paranoia given what happened to him.”
Daniel nodded reluctantly. “That man, the other one you showed me, is he the one who...”
Greg shook his head. “He was seen talking to Peter at a club two days before Peter was attacked. Later that night he wound up dead. We don’t,” Greg had to raise his voice as Daniel began scrabbling against his chair to stand again, “know whether the events are connected yet, but in light of the coincidence we’re investigating any possible link.”
Daniel reluctantly sank back down at Greg’s glare.
“I know it’s hard, but be patient, yeah?” Greg tried to smile reassuringly.
He received a brusque nod in return.
Packing away the photos into the folder, Greg stood.
“Let me know if you find anything. Please.” The please sounded tacked on the end as Daniel struggled with not being able to do anything for, or even see, his Sub.
“Daniel,” the name was sharp, “you need to stay away from him.”
The chin rose defiantly before dropping in acquiescence. “I know.”
“I mean it. You gave him the bracelet you did so this would stay secret, don’t mess it up now.” Greg warned sternly.
“Bracelet?” Daniel looked at him confused. “What bracelet?”
Frowning slightly Greg extracted the plastic bag from his inside jacket pocket and held it out for Daniel to see.
“Oh, that.” Daniel returned it with barely a glance. “That’s not from me. Some family thing I think. He always wore it.”
“Really? Unusual choice.” Greg put the bag back in his pocket.
“Yeah, he never really wanted to talk about it.” Daniel stood too.
“Then if we can just grab the name and phone number of your friend that’d be great. We just,” Greg held up a hand to forestall further protests, “have to check, Daniel.”
Sighing Daniel gave them a name and mobile number, looking disgruntled as he did.
“Thanks. Call me if you can think of anything else that might help.” Greg held out his card.
“Of course.”
Offering to drive on the way back felt like a hugely demonstrative gesture to Greg, but Sally brushed him off, a fact for which Greg was glad. The lack of sleep was really beginning to catch up with him and she was, at least, one night better off than him.
“Well you were right about the secret Dom.” Sally commented.
“Wrong about the bracelet and the motive though.” Greg leant his head against the window. Leaning back would send him to sleep, but he was trusting the cold glass to keep him awake.
“Well, yes,” Sally smiled, “but I was going to be nice and not mention that. What next?”
Greg sighed. “Drop me at the train. You head back to the bartender and get a positive ID on Carson from the photo.”
“I’ll have to go to his house. It’s a bit further out.” Sally warned.
“I know, but at least it’s something that can be ticked off. I’ll call this mate of Daniel’s, confirm his alibi.”
Hopefully the walk would wake him up a bit.
“What do you think Carson was so afraid of?”
“I don’t know, Donovan, I don’t know.” Greg shook his head.
Sally dropped him at the station and sped off to collect the necessary formal identification from Clive the very cute bartender. Greg was tempted to tell her to take her time, enjoy a chat, but the way she was studiously ignoring her phone as it plaintively buzzed and buzzed trying to get her attention he thought it would be safer to keep his mouth shut.
As expected Daniel’s alibi panned out for the attack on Robinson, and if the young Alpha was guilty of attacking Carson Greg would nominate the kid for a BAFTA and throw in his towel and retire. This left him back at his office bouncing ideas off his wall by ten in the morning. A depressing time to be on his nth caffeine hit for the day, but nothing he could do about that now.
Eventually he started on a list of questions that still needed to be explained in an attempt to order everything in his head.
Greg put a star next to number nine. For some reason he couldn’t explain, the bracelet still struck him as important.
There was, Greg noted, an imbalance of information about Carson and Robinson. They’d been assuming that Carson was the nexus that got Robinson killed, but maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Carson was targeted because of Robinson.
A quick call to Carson’s acting physician at the hospital confirmed that even if Carson was dealing drugs, he wasn’t taking them, the blood work backed up by hair samples. There were, however, some unexplained oddities in Carson’s blood work that they were investigating. Importantly, Carson had shown some signs of waking, so even though they’d abated, the doctors were hopeful.
Everything would be so much easier, Greg sighed, if he could just write it all off as drugs.
Resigning himself to investigating Robinson and his Leicester Square body some more and letting this case rest a while, Greg wasn’t really paying attention as he answered his phone until Sally’s excited tone shook him back to awareness.
“Donovan?” Greg squinted, though it did nothing to help his hearing. Just a silly automatic response of a body straining to catch up.
“You’re never going to believe this, Sir.” The car door slammed and the engine roared to life as Sally started the car in a rush.
“Clive didn’t identify Carson?” Greg was slightly disbelieving given everything else and graciously ignored the fact that in her excitement Sally was driving and using her phone at the same time.
“He did better than identify Carson.” Greg could picture the excited gleam in her eyes. “He identified the uncle.”
“What?” Greg sat bold upright in his uncomfortable office chair.
“The picture has Carson and his uncle in it. Apparently not only was little Peter there that night, but Uncle Carson was being the lecherous creep at the bar, you know the type. Clive can’t remember much, just that he was watching the room intently, like he was waiting for someone and they hadn’t arrived, and, get this, he bought his last drink and left just after pathology starts our window for time of death. Clive was glad to see him gone. Really gave him the willies, apparently.”
Never so thankful for mobile phones, Greg barrelled down to AV.
“Stevens, I need the footage from the Illusion club, now.” Greg barged between Gregson and the tech who was about to load something up for him.
“Come off it, Lestrade.” Gregson complained. “I’m-”
“Shut it, Gregson, you stole my constables. Now, Stevens! Sally, does Clive remember about when he arrived?”
“He was at the bar not long after Carson.” Sally replied.
The tape was still paused where they’d left it at Carson’s arrival, so Greg told Stevens to play on, ignoring the fuming Gregson glaring daggers into his back. It only took two minutes, ten minutes in real time, before the security footage showed Michael Carson entering the club.
“Stevens, I need to know what time that Beta leaves the club. Donovan, get back here as fast as you can. Legally. We’ve got an alibi to crack.”
Hanging up, Lestrade spared a quick nod for Gregson, now being helped by Adams who’d arrived back from wherever, and raced back to his desk, trying to tell himself not to get too over excited about this.
Carson Senior was at the club. That was all. There was no motive for him attacking Robinson, even less for him going on to assault his own nephew while he was apparently in Scotland. There was no evidence he’d even seen Robinson at the club. Everything was circumstantial.
It just felt right, like puzzle pieces slotting into place. Now he just had to see what the picture was.
Pulling a sheet of paper out of the case file on his desk he dialled a number.
“Hello?” Voices could be heard talking in the background with what sounded like the TV and some sort of movie full of explosions.
“Sam? It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade. I was wondering if you could answer a couple more questions for me, if you have the time.”
“Sure, let me just…” The background noise faded as Sam stepped out of the room. “What did you want to know?”
“Peter’s relationship with his uncle, what was it like?”
“Good, I suppose. Compared to the rest of his family certainly.”
“Good you suppose?” Greg asked, resisting the urge to chew on his pen in agitation.
“Better than his parents. Pete’d always seem a little wound up when he was going to visit, but it was mainly just the stress of knowing every time he went home to his uncle he’d have to see them too, even just for a bit. He was so much more relaxed when he came home. Sad though, and guilty. Family always made him feel like that.”
“Did you ever meet his uncle?”
“Yeah, once. Went out for dinner with him and Pete not long after I answered the ad for a flatmate. I think his uncle wanted to check me out. He relaxed when he found out I was a Sub.”
Interesting, but any protective parent would be the same.
“What was your impression of him?” Greg asked.
“Um, a bit over the top. You know those embarrassing uncles everyone has, the ones that are really loud and physical, always slapping you on the back and pinching your cheeks when you’re little? He’s one of those. I think it made Pete a bit uncomfortable as he was kind of stiff, almost flinched a couple of times.” Sam seemed to realise how that sounded. “Pete’s not big on physical contact and he prefers to blend into the background, rather than loud and in your face. Mr Carson is very in your face. Pete was a little embarrassed of him.”
“I know the sort.” Greg casually remarked. “Always trying to be as macho and outgoing as Alphas.”
“Exactly.” Sam sounded relieved. “I think Mr Carson must have been a little self-conscious that his brother was an Alpha and he’s not, cause he really tries to make up for it. Dude looks like he’s on Roids or something.”
“Thanks Sam.” Greg gave in and bit the end of his pen. “I’ll call if there’s anything else.”
“Sure thing.” Sam sounded puzzled, but didn’t ask the motivation behind Greg’s questions.
“Oh, just one more quick one.” Greg caught himself just before Sam hung up. “How do you think Carson would have reacted to Peter getting a Dom?”
“No idea,” Sam replied, “but he did check me out like I said, so I’d guess he’d want to meet him, check he wasn’t going to do wrong by Petey.”
“Right, thanks.” Greg made a note on his paper.
“Anything else, Sir?” Sam asked.
“No, thanks Sam. You’ve been very helpful.” Greg hung up and contemplated what Sam had said.
“Sir.” Sally poked her head around the door.
“Carson Senior is a possessive wanna be Alpha uncle.” Greg told her, without looking up, doodling on the page next to his list of questions. The picture he was starting to uncover was looking ugly.
“He was in Scotland.” Sally stated plainly.
Greg brought his eyes up to meet hers. “Let’s check that shall we.”
The flurry of phone calls that followed confirmed that Michael Carson had been at the pharmaceutical conference, had checked into his hotel, and had been at both the conference lunch and the breakfast the next day.
In between there was no one who could confirm anything.
Sally managed to sweet talk the hotel security footage out of their manager and was at her desk, pouring over the files transferred to her through some file sharing program Greg didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Greg was emailing the railway station where, if he’d come back to England, Michael Carson would have boarded. Hopefully someone would recognise him and recall him getting on a train. If Carson had flown back things would be more complicated and Greg would have to review all the airport security footage as well. That would be a long slog.
While he waited for the emails back, Greg tried to make the picture clearer in any way he could.
“Sir.” Sally carried her laptop in, screen split to show the grey pixelated image of Michael Carson exiting and entering the hotel.
At 4:16pm and 6:23am respectively.
“Nothing in between?” Greg squashed the excitement.
“Nothing in between.” Sally’s eyes practically glowed.
Greg’s email chimed and holding his breath he turned and checked.
Anderson with the preliminary forensics report for Wednesday’s crime scene.
Greg sighed. “Nothing from the railway yet at the other end.”
“What do you want to do?” Sally asked.
Greg chewed at his pen, wishing that passports had to be used to travel internally within the UK. “There’s nothing we can do to prove anything. We can’t put the knife in his hand, we can’t prove he hit Peter Carson, only that he had the chance to do both.”
“We need a confession.” Sally summarised.
“We need a confession.” Greg confirmed.
“Think we can get it?” Sally worried at her lip. With good reason because their evidence was practically nil.
“We’re going to have to.”
“How?”
Greg tapped his pen on his desk. “We’ll have to ask.”
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (21/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Here you go all. Almost 9,000 words of case fic. Not the most complicated one in the world, but it's so nice to have Greg being good at his job.
Warnings: None for this chapter
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29
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The next day was a sleep deprived nightmare. Dragged from sleep by the most annoying alarm tone he had been able to find on his phone, Greg had stumbled through a shower, pressed fingers against Mycroft’s door as both greeting and goodbye, and inhaled his toast en route to the Yard. Tamara hadn’t been working that morning, but the man behind the machine had taken one look at Greg and made the strongest infusion possible without Greg having to say anything.
He’d met Sally on the way in, her own overly large coffee clutched in her hand, and they’d grunted at each other in greeting. The rest of the team had trickled in slowly, giving Greg enough time to set up the facts as they knew them on the board.
The briefing was brief and to the point. Everyone was tired after the late night. Some had clearly taken the ‘at this stage no sleep is better than almost none’ route, others had catnapped like Greg. No one complained - they were cops, it wasn’t like this was the first time, certainly wasn’t the last, and everyone knew the first twenty four hours were the most critical in an investigation. Once the caffeine had kicked in there wouldn’t be any signs that these police officers were anything other than fully rested for the general public to pick up on.
Tasks assigned, everyone dispersed. Sally disappeared into the bathroom with a small bag and emerged looking bright-eyed and bushy tailed: the power of makeup. Greg resorted to a couple of handfuls of cold water splashed on his face in his own effort to perk up.
The interviews lasted eight hours, four cups of coffee, and a rushed takeaway sandwich eaten in the car. Following up the enquiries and potential leads generated by the rest of the team took until the businesses were well and truly shut and it was too late to reasonably call on people.
Tromping into the station with heavy feet Greg pulled aimlessly at his tie, too drained to even bother removing it. Wincing at what was coming, he switched his computer on and left it to boot as he went in search of tea. On the way back he started shifting the papers the constables had left in missing persons and a couple of boxes of records to his office. The way it was all boxed up, the constables had been called away to other duties and it’d be up to Greg to finish it somehow.
It took two trips to move the couple of overly full boxes, in between which he logged in and set his ancient machine to its second loading sequence as it attempted to display his desktop. By the end his office was looking very crowded and Greg longed to put his head on his desk just a little, but in true intractable form his computer chose that moment to finally be ready for use.
Greg had been right. Emails. Lots of them.
It would be alright, he reflected, if most, or even any, of them were useful, really useful. Instead there were the usual administrative memos about staff reviews, training seminars, the necessity of PCF42 so would everyone please fill it in when doing their paperwork, and a reminder to have all timesheets submitted for review by Thursday night; the usual IT memos about the internet policy, system updates, and the danger of opening unknown attachments; all the usual committee emails regarding meetings, agendas, and minutes. Greg flipped through as quickly as he could, saving a couple to read properly later and deleting the rest. The spam that had made it past his filter went too, leaving him with a much shorter list of unread messages.
There was one from Mulgrave, saying there was an important meeting Monday morning so all DIs and DSs needed to have their butts in the Yard in time for it. There was one from the Super saying essentially the same thing in much more pompous prose. Greg entered the meeting into his electronic, desk and personal diaries, knowing each entry was as useless as the last as all of them lived at the Yard and that Sally would have to remind him as usual.
The next email was from forensics acknowledging the task list he’d sent with Anderson and reminding him these things took time. Greg snorted and filed it carefully as proof they had got the list, just in case anyone tried to say otherwise later.
The one after that was from one of the Constables on missing persons duty apologising for leaving, but DI Gregson had needed them, Greg snorted again, and summarising their progress. Greg left it in his inbox, easily accessible for later.
A total surprise, the last email was from pathology apologising for the delay and promising him at least one report that night, even if that meant the interns were there until midnight to get it done. Doctor George was a battle axe and meant what he said. Greg was stupidly glad the other Alpha was back from leave and was once again exerting his iron fist over the forensic services pathology lab.
“Here you go.” Sally dropped a takeaway bag on his desk, the mouth-watering smell of Chinese rising from its depths.
“Thought I told you to knock off?” Greg attempted to glare at Sally over his stomach’s loud rumble.
“You’re still here.” Sally pointed out reasonably. “Help clear the desk.”
Sighing, Greg obeyed and shifted paperwork until there was room for various containers and a bag of prawn crackers on the desk.
“Meeting on Monday.” Greg mumbled around a prawn cracker.
“I saw. Unlike you I can check my email on my phone.” Sally passed him chopsticks and a plate filched from the little kitchen unit. “What else have we got?”
“Apart from a foot high stack of pre-reports and witness statements to read through? George promises a pathology report tonight, come hell or high water.” Greg cracked open a can of cola and took a sip.
“He’s only got a couple of hours left.” Sally took a swig from her own drink.
“Torturing interns.” Greg grinned.
Sally laughed, tiredly, but genuinely. “So glad he’s back. Did he say which one?”
“Nomphe.” Greg swallowed and tried again. “Nope, just a report.”
“One is better than none. In the mean time?”
“Take your pick. Foot of reports from today, all the leftovers from yesterday we were meant to do, the missing persons stuff.”
Sally groaned and held out her hand for the reports next to Greg. “That’s no choice at all and you know it. Got to read all this paperwork to generate our own.”
“Yep.” Greg handed her half the stack. “Of course it’s due-”
“Tomorrow.” They chimed in unison.
“And Mulgrave will want it tomorrow morning, not tomorrow afternoon.” Sally pulled a face.
“Yep. We’re also due progress reports on the Robinson and Carson cases, else I’d say stuff it and do it in the morning.” Greg flipped open the first report on his pile. It was Weatherly’s.
“Good thing I got these then.” Sally deposited a six pack of energy drinks on the desk.
There was quiet except for the rustle of pages, scrape of chopsticks and quiet thud of cans being replaced on the desk. An hour and a half in, they swapped stacks and cleaned the empty food containers off the desk. Two hours in, Sally cracked open the first energy drink. Greg held out his hand and took it, leaving Sally to give a disgruntled huff and open another.
Five minutes before midnight Greg had a dot pointed draft report. He also, he noted, had an email from George.
“Got the pathology report.” His voice sounded harsh after the silence, fingers tapping as he sent his thanks back. “It’s for the Robinson case.”
“Guess we’ve got to read it tonight then.” Sally had her own dot points next to her arm.
“Think we could get away with a verbal report tomorrow?” Greg eyed the clock wistfully.
“Meeting on Monday, Sir.” Sally pushed to standing and went to fetch her laptop so she could type her report up in his office.
It was Sally’s personal laptop, the Yard would never shell out for that when the computers were still running Windows XP, but it did make these late nights easier.
Greg printed the report and took his own walk past the bathroom. In the harsh fluorescent lights his skin looked even more washed out and grey than it was. His beard was beginning to show and he had purple bags from two nights on poor or little sleep.
Turning off the taps Greg stopped looking at the reflection. He was tired and worried about My. Definitely not the time to let negative thoughts about his looks enter the scene. He’d be all too receptive to them in that state, he was well aware.
Sally finished her report well before him by virtue of being a better typist, which allowed Greg to read it and provide the summary in his report as he was meant to. In the meantime Sally took to George’s report with a highlighter.
She offered it to him when Greg had finished stapling the required form to the front of his preliminary report, but Greg shook his head.
“Just summarise.” He said wearily, tilting back his can of liquid energy and artificial additives.
It was empty, so he cranked open two more, settling them down in front of himself and Sally.
“Nothing unexpected. Our Vic died from massive blood loss and trauma resulting from a stab wound. Wound appears to be from a fairly ordinary knife. Blade appears to be relatively long, but George estimates something of similar proportions to your average carving knife so it’s not going to be an unusual item.”
“Find those everywhere.” Greg sighed. He’d had two in his old flat and hadn’t had a roast in at least five years.
“Unfortunately,” Sally agreed. “Knife skirted off the rib, nicked the lung and slashed through a load of blood vessels. Even with medical attention it would have been touch and go. No drugs in his system and it doesn’t appear he’d had sex, no secretions or spermicides on his genitals, but that’s not conclusive.”
“So no drugs, no sex.” Greg leant back in his chair and hummed.
“No sex before death, but doesn’t mean he didn’t think he was going to get some. Based on the strength of the thrust, George is suggesting a male offender, but he won’t rule out a strong, athletic or desperate woman.” Sally set the report aside with a side. “And of average to tall stature, so Adam Hastings is well clear.”
Greg pulled the paper copy of the file over and added the report into the back.
“Should we write them up as connected?” Sally asked, pulling her notebook over in preparation of summarising.
“Not yet.” Greg decided. “Write them up separately and note the link.”
“Flip you for Robinson?” Sally hopefully held up a coin.
“Get real.” Greg snorted. “You did all the Carson interviews, you write up the long one.”
“I also did all the Robinson interviews.” Sally sniffed.
“You type faster,” Greg shot back, “and I’m pulling rank.”
Time had reached the point it started dragging then racing unexpectedly ahead in impossible leaps. Greg summarised the progress they’d made, pen scratching over the paper in a slow steady drag as he crossed items off his list of things to include. Sally’s fingers created a steady metronymic click in the background, interspersed by Greg’s bursts of self-taught typing.
There wasn’t much to write in the Robinson case report. Greg summarised the pathology findings, transcribed the relevant notes from Sally’s interview with the bartender (turning a blind eye to the fact the contact details Sally had been given were his personal ones while Greg had been given his work ones), and finally noted that the vic was seen talking a young Beta Sub who was later a victim to a violent assault. He copied across the case file number for the Carson case as reference and triumphantly pressed print.
The clock showed it was already three in the morning. Even if he left that instant he wouldn’t be home before half past and it would take another quarter to half an hour to clean up. Besides that, Sally was still wading through all the interviews for the Carson case and Greg wasn’t about to bail on her now.
Instead he cleared the desk again, taking the empty cans to the recycling and snagging a case file from the stationary cupboard to start filing relevant notes and paperwork. Due to the public nature of the murder there was an above average amount of paperwork. Already full to the brim with crime scene reports, the file was shoved in the case box helpfully set up by one of the constables earlier that day and left on his desk for Greg.
“How’re you going?” He leant over Sally’s shoulders and peered at her screen.
“Getting there.” She stretched out her joints and shook her head to loosen her neck. “If you’re done Sir, you can head home. You don’t need to wait.”
“At this point Donovan I’m resigned to a sleepless night. Even going home now’d be pointless.” He took another sip of the artificial stimulant keeping him going. “Too much of this stuff anyway. Probably just lie there.”
“Probably.” Sally agreed turning her attention back to her report.
Greg sat and stared for a few minutes trying to work out what he was going to do next. He had to stare at them a few minutes before reluctantly acknowledging the missing persons records.
The search was slow going. People always thought it was so simple to identify the dead, but usually that was only when they already had some idea who they were. It wasn’t like on TV where the corpses were portrayed as still, resting humans. The changes to skin and muscles, along with any facial injuries sustained during their death, made it exceptionally hard to match a living face to a dead one.
Greg could still remember one of the talks George had given to the force as part of an effort to bring the forensic services ‘into’ the Yard, the flavour of that month for the internal policy machine. He’d projected a picture onto the board, told them that they all knew who this was, that they’d been famous and everyone had seen photographs of them when they’d been alive. When asked who it was no one had guessed correctly. Ten people in the group hadn’t even picked the correct gender, thought they had been reassured that that would be less of a problem in the field.
Marilyn Monroe looked very different dead to alive.
This meant Greg and the constables he’d instructed weren’t trying to match their John Doe’s face, but other statistics: height, eye colour, age range. Hair would be used as well, once forensics confirmed whether or not John Doe was really a brunette. Gender would be added at a later date, though they’d likely never know his dynamic.
The constables had placed blue sticky notes on all the possible matches. There were depressingly few, and Greg didn’t think that any of them were likely. He’d have forensics check against he attached dental records anyway, but none of them seemed right to him.
Picking up the folder after the red divider, Greg started sorting through. Female, too short, too short, too young, too tall, too old, female, female. The time the process took was less about time on individual records and more about the number of them. Two days of work and only five years had been checked.
He trawled through record after record until his eyes began to blur and he realised he couldn’t remember the numbers he’d just looked at.
“How’re you going?” He replaced the lid on the box and pushed to his feet.
“Done.” Sally hit print and gave him a tired smile.
“Well done.” Greg opened his desk drawer and pulled out a towel and change of clothes.
“Breakfast after?” Sally shut her laptop down and unplugged the power cord.
Greg nodded and walked out down to the showers. The addition of showers to the Yard had been a welcome move. More often than they liked officers worked through the night and the ability to have a shower made those nights slightly more bearable. They were also frequented after particularly gruesome crime scenes or when constables had been sent dumpster diving.
The water sluicing over Greg’s back was relaxing. It was so tempting to rest his forehead against the wall and close his eyes for a few minutes. If he’d been at home in his sparkling clean bathroom he would have, but the showers in the Yard were only one level above scummy and no one wanted to make contact with the walls more than possible.
Trying not to move too slowly Greg washed, dried and redressed, smoothing his hair and then roughing it up again with the towel in an effort to stop the loose drops running down the back of his shirt. Lastly, but with no small amount of relief, he quickly shaved.
Looking less like a vagabond and more, he hoped, like a dignified detective inspector he went to replace everything in his office, scrawling a post it note reminder to take his clothes home for wash. Sticking his head out the window revealed Sally wasn’t back from her own morning shower, but a couple of other DIs who had particularly challenging cases had arrived and were booting up their computers. Greg waved hello and retreated to his desk.
Sally’s summation of the Carson case was a quick read, mainly because Greg was only skimming, and he signed off on the relevant form before taking all three reports and dropping them in DCI Mulgrave’s pigeon hole, set up purely so reports could be delivered whenever. The claim had been convenience for his DIs, but no one fooled themselves that the convenience of not having to be up and behind his desk at seven in the morning to receive the reports wasn’t the convenience Mulgrave had meant.
Reports delivered, a couple of other administrative tasks completed, and Greg found himself wracking his brain for what he had to get done that day. Various leads from yesterday still needed to be chased up, as did the mysterious caller Carson talked to, but never saved. John Doe was more missing persons, so Greg mentally shelved the case until things were a little calmer. His other cases were in the paperwork and preparation for court stages, so nothing too pressing there yet, mostly just case management.
Oh, and he had to get back to Sherlock.
Time then to catalogue Carson’s effects from the hospital. There were of no use forensically, Sam, the paramedics and medical staff at the hospital having been more concerned with his life than preventing contamination of the evidence, as was so often the case, but now that Greg had them he really should get them properly logged as evidence.
He was halfway through when Sally got back carrying a drinks tray with two juices and more bags. Greg forced her to take a £20 to cover last night and that morning, and set the box aside to investigate what she’d brought.
Croissants and fruit salad. Apparently not being home wasn’t going to get him any unhealthy bonuses.
“What were you looking at when I came in?” Sally asked, packing the rubbish back up when they’d eaten.
“Carson’s effects.” Greg swivelled in his chair and started to move everything back onto his desk. “Getting them logged.”
“Had to do that after I’d already written the report.” Sally grumbled.
Greg gave her a sheepish grin.
By that stage most of the officers on shift had arrived for the day. The steady thrum of computers and low conversation merged with the shuffle of papers and click of pens to create the subdued chaos that was a Friday morning. The sounds danced through the door as Sally left to dispose of the garbage, but Greg was well and truly used to the background cacophony of the Yard and it was no longer a distraction.
Picking up the next item Greg noticed a gold glint caught on the edges of the fabric. Gently working it free, Greg could see it was a bracelet.
The bracelet was a simple affair, delicate even. Thin gold links formed a fragile chain, connected at one point to a thin, flat gold plate with Carson’s name engraved into it.
“What’s that?” Sally asked as she sat back down.
“Not sure.” Greg turned it in his hand, holding it up to the light.
It was well polished, each link gleaming in the weak office light. There were lots of scratches, even quite a deep gauge running across the back of the name plate. Well cared for, but carelessly treated.
What did that mean? Greg wasn’t Sherlock, couldn’t draw those final dots together.
“It looks like a young girl’s.” Sally took it from him to look more closely. “These were really popular when I was a kid, until a children’s group argued they were sexualising children.”
She flipped it around a few times, examining it under the light as if there was room for some kind of hidden compartment.
“It’s definitely his.” She eventually concluded. “The name makes that fairly clear. Maybe it’s a medical alert bracelet.”
Sally’s tone of voice made it very clear that even she believed her explanation was grasping at straws.
“With no medical information on it?” Greg accepted it back and dropped it into a ziplock bag for safekeeping. The clothes were write offs, but like the phone Carson would probably want this back if he ever woke up.
“Guess he just liked wearing a name bracelet. It’s not like it’s ever going to be mistaken as a claim.” Sally shrugged. “Unusual, but I’ve seen stranger.”
“Yeah.” Greg didn’t mention his own necklaces at home and kept staring at the bracelet, thoughts niggling and trying to tug his mind this way and that. “Get onto the hospital and confirm that Carson doesn’t have any medical flags for me, and get a photo from the flatmate. Recent, and so you can see his wrists.”
“You want to see a photo of him wearing it.” Sally frowned as she thought.
“Might be nothing, but worth seeing. Check whether he was right or left handed while you’re there.”
“What’re you thinking?” Sally leant forward intent.
“Don’t know.” They felt like the right questions to ask, so ask them Greg would. It was as close to gut instinct as anything, but he could and had worked with that.
“As you wish, Sir.”
Once Sally was gone Greg raced through logging the rest of the items, reflecting that Peter Carson’s wallet was even blander than Greg’s own (no photos, but two different library cards), and turned his attention back to the bracelet.
His forays into Google suggested that this one was custom made as none of the fancy little chains mass manufactured for young girls to play dress up with came close to matching. That would possibly help if they needed to trace it, but only if they could find the correct jeweller first.
Skimming down the next few links, Greg was surprised to see one to the history museum. He clicked on it out of curiosity and spent half an hour reading about the history of exchanging collars and bracelets. Fascinating, but not really relevant.
“Sir.” Sergeant Williams poked his head around the door and held out a piece of paper for Greg.
Greg looked at it and couldn’t hold back a fairly shark-like grin. He loved it when a case started to fall into place.
~*~
Sally double parked as Greg hustled himself into the car. He managed it just before the cars behind were impatient enough to start honking and Sally pulled smoothly away.
“Where to?” The tiredness in her voice made Greg glad he’d dashed out and got them more coffee when she’d called to say she was on her way back from Carson’s flat with the photo, even if they were well over their recommended caffeine intake, probably for the whole week.
“30 Ripplevale Grove, Islington.” Greg set the coffees carefully in the cup holders and began to shuffle his overcoat off, trying to manage without punching Sally in the eye. He did, but the folder he’d had on his lap spilt onto the floor.
“Posh. Why are we headed there?” Sally deftly manoeuvred through traffic and took a gulp of her coffee, now that Greg’s flailing arms were out of the way and she wasn’t likely to end up wearing it.
“Because that,” Greg announced triumphantly as he slid his seatbelt buckle into place, “is where our mysterious caller lives.”
“Huh.” Sally pointed behind her. “Your picture’s on the back seat.”
Greg twisted around to retrieve it. It must have been from last summer because Carson and his uncle were both in shorts and smiling broadly through sun tinged cheeks. The gold bracelet glittered on Carson’s right wrist, small enough to escape notice unless someone was looking for it.
“And he’s?”
“Right handed yes.” Sally frowned. “Are you seriously thinking it’s a claim, Sir? Carson didn’t have a Dom.”
“Yet he wears an old fashioned, custom made bracelet on his right wrist, receives mysterious phone calls that he always takes and last upwards of an hour, has been sent flowers, and shows no interest in any of the Doms around him, even when they show interest in him.”
“He’s shy.” Sally countered.
“Yeah, but it’s still suggestive.” Greg leant back against the headrest and then sat up lest he fall asleep. “The question if I’m right becomes why was the relationship secret? And why did Robinson die and Carson get bashed?”
“If Carson had a Dom Robinson may have been a possessiveness or jealously motivated killing. Maybe Mr Mysterious thought he was getting overly familiar with his Sub.”
“That was the old theory.” Greg agreed.
“But?” Sally asked, resigned.
“Well doesn’t that seem like an overreaction to you? Robinson talked to him once for less than five minutes and dies because of it?”
“It has happened.”
“Yeah, but I’d expect Carson to be an Omega to inspire that kind of reaction from his Dom, and even then that is one overly possessive Alpha. Surely an Alpha who’d react like that wouldn’t be likely to let him out at all.”
“True, and how would his Dom have even known? None of his friends had any idea about him having a partner and no one randomly disappeared during the evening, so it’s none of them.”
“And why would his Dom assault Carson days later?” Greg tapped a finger on the car window.
“Sorry to say, Sir, but your theory has more holes than a sinking ship.”
“Yes, it does.” Greg was forced to agree.
The rest of the ride was spent imbuing their systems with as much caffeine as possible. Greg was getting to the point where it wasn’t doing much more than making him shake and he suspected he was now running almost off pure adrenaline.
30 Ripplevale Grove was a semi-detached brick building with a neatly maintained if somewhat sparse garden and a crisp white door.
“Nice.” Sally commented as she shut and locked the car.
Greg nodded, glad he had taken the time that morning to shower and shave. He rang the doorbell and they waited patiently as footsteps approached the door at a steady pace.
“May I help you?” The door opened and a young well-dressed male hovered in its wake.
From his face and the clothes Greg put him at mid to late twenties. From his stance and the arrogant tilt of his chin Greg suspected not just Dom, but Alpha.
“Daniel Hill?” Greg asked, reaching for his ID. The young Alpha nodded and Greg held out the warrant card for him to see. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Detective Sergeant Donovan, might we come in?”
Daniel took in both their IDs in a glance and stood back, gesturing them inside. Shutting the door behind them he led the way to the sitting room.
“Tea?” He offered politely.
They both demurred and settled themselves lightly on the flowered armchairs.
“Very nice place you’ve got.” Greg remarked conversationally.
“Thank you. It’s my Sire’s, of course. I could never afford anything like this.” Daniel Hill sat stiffly on the arm chair opposite Greg.
“What do you do, Mr Hill?” Sally enquired politely.
“I’m studying for my Masters at LSE. My Sire would like me to follow him into the family business.”
There was no invitation as there had been with Sam to call him Daniel.
“Banking?” Greg asked, taking a wild stab in the dark.
“Indeed.” Daniel’s voice was as formal as his posture.
“You don’t see very excited about it.” Sally offered.
Daniel shrugged. “It’s a job, but I highly doubt you wanted to speak to me regarding my career plans.”
“No.” Greg pulled his folder out from under his arm and set it on the coffee table between them. “Do you know a Beta by the name of Peter Carson?”
“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with such a person.” Daniel didn’t even twitch.
“Are you sure? Think carefully.”
“Very sure, Detective Inspector.” Daniel’s voice could have frozen steam.
Greg had to hand it to the kid, he was good.
“Maybe this will help.” Greg pulled the photo of Carson and his uncle out and slid it across the table. “Carson is the one on your left.”
“I assure you, Detective Inspector, I have no knowledge of this Beta.” Daniel drew himself up and raised his chin, refusing to even look at the photograph.
It took Greg a moment to work out that the younger Alpha was Domming him. Not actively, but passively the way John had described with body language and signals and the like. Now that he’d had John’s explanation behind him, Greg could recognise what was fairly common Dominant suspect behaviour for what it was, though mentally it reminded him of teenage jocks posturing more than the brilliant displays animals used to warn off challenges.
Unlike John and Mycroft Greg didn’t have any Dominance to pull to the fore and let bubble just below the surface, however he’d had more than enough proof over the years that he didn’t need to, and pulling Sherlock to the front of his mind, tried to copy exactly how the younger Sub had acted when he’d set Greg down at the pub.
He didn’t try the active Dominance Sherlock had used, he suspected that trick took years to master and he’d only cock it up and reveal himself. Besides which, it wasn’t legal to use Dominance in the course of questioning a suspect.
They held the tableau, Greg thanking his lucky stars that he’d spent so long around Mycroft (and Sherlock) pretending to be a Dom because it made young Mr Hill’s efforts easily resistible by comparison, until eventually Daniel didn’t quite cave, but relaxed.
It wasn’t, Greg realised suddenly, really about winning or losing. In theory winning and losing would have happened quite quickly. The prolonged contest was about determining who was of a level and earning respect. He also realised that old family upbringing or not, Daniel Hill was not a strong Dom else he would never have felt the need to give Greg a chance to prove his resistance.
Nuances and undercurrents.
Greg wondered how much else he’d missed over the years by just not realising it was there.
Daniel’s eyes flickered to the picture and back up again. “Never seen him before in my life.”
“Mr Hill, I must ask you to look and look carefully.” Greg requested sternly, readying himself to pull out the phone records.
Daniel reluctantly dropped his eyes again. Forced to look at Carson he could only maintain the facade a few seconds before his face crumpled.
“Yes, I know him.” He slumped down in his chair, eyes still fixed on the photograph. Slowly he raised his head. “Why are you - something’s happened to him hasn’t it?”
The answer must have been written on Greg’s face because Daniel leapt to his feet in a panic.
“What happened? Is he dead? Oh God, he’s dead isn’t he? Oh God, oh God-”
“Daniel, Daniel!” Greg stood and grabbed his arm. “Daniel, he’s alive.”
The strength went out of Daniel’s legs and he collapsed back down into his armchair, forcing Greg to release his arm or be pulled over the coffee table.
“Daniel,” Greg kept his voice soft, “why do you think something has happened to him?”
“You’re here aren’t you?” Daniel’s voice was part dull relief, part exhausted panic. “And he was always worried...”
“What was he worried about?”
“Us, someone finding out. There,” Daniel hesitated, “there wasn’t really anything to find out. A few kisses. Something always made him pull back from more.”
“So the two of you weren’t-” Greg waved his hand a bit, whether to indicate serious or playing was left up to interpretation.
“It’s complicated.” Daniel sounded resigned, not defensive as Greg would have expected him to be if he’d reached the end of his patience and become aggressive. “At first I wondered if he was ashamed of his friends and that was why he didn’t want me to meet them, but he’d always tell me stories about them and never seemed hesitant. The opposite - I can tell you all about Mabel’s latest drama or Azir’s latest conquest or the love triangle at uni between Stephanie, Louise, and Rebecca.
“Then I wondered,” his voice faltered slightly, “whether he was ashamed of me, he didn’t want them to meet me, not vice versa. He picked up on that pretty quickly. Petey was never dumb, just quiet.”
“And what did he do?” Greg asked gently.
“Fell over himself trying to convince me otherwise. He was so upset I thought that. Not at me,” Daniel hurriedly corrected, “at himself for making me feel like that. He cried.”
The helpless tone in Daniel’s voice at that confirmed for Greg that even if Daniel and Carson hadn’t been playing together and didn’t have a formal arrangement, Carson was still very much Daniel’s Sub. No Dom liked seeing his Sub cry unless it was part of a planned and deliberate session.
“He,” Daniel swallowed, “he always said everything would be okay once he finished uni, that it’d be safe then.”
“Safe from what?” Sally asked.
“I don’t know.” Daniel sounded anguished. “He, he asked once whether if it came to it, I’d leave with him, go somewhere no one knew us and start again as a couple. A proper one, together.”
“And what did you say?”
“Yes.” Daniel glared at her defiantly. “Anything.”
“But he never gave you a hint as to what he was scared of?” Greg pressed.
“No. I asked, but he’d get so upset about it, and I didn’t want him to leave.” Daniel swung back to face Greg. “What’s happened to him?”
“Have you ever seen this Alpha before?” Greg pulled Robinson’s photo out of the file and laid it on the table.
“What’s-?”
“Have you ever seen him before?” Greg repeated firmly, well used to maintaining the upper hand in interviews with other Doms. “Look carefully, please.”
Daniel picked up the photo and studied it for several minutes. Even watching carefully Greg could see no flicker of recognition.
“No, sorry.” Daniel’s grip tightened around the photo. “’Is he the one, what did he...?”
Sally gently worked the photo from his hands.
“Where were you the Thursday before last?” Greg asked keeping a careful eye on Daniel’s reactions.
There was muted tension, slowly gathering and winding in him like a spring, but no sudden flashes that would indicate the date meant anything in particular to him, especially not in a negative sense.
“At my mate’s, trying to write a paper.” He sounded baffled and reluctant, an undertone of urgency pushing his voice.
“And last Saturday?” Greg asked.
“Trying to get the paper finished over at my mate’s. Uni life’s not as glamorous as people like to remember.”
“Why did you stop calling Carson a week and a half ago?” Greg asked, pressing forward.
“He asked me to.” Daniel answered automatically.
Greg reflected back over all the blank spots in the phone record. “Was this a common thing?”
“Sort of.” Daniel looked at him with wide beseeching eyes. “We’d meet up at the library and spend time together there, have coffee, but mostly Peter preferred calling.
He was worried about us being noticed together, and he never let me call when he was going home for the holidays, only at his. He was so upset when I called at Christmas, but I just had to...”
“What’s different this time?” Greg kept his tone brisk, though he wanted to soften it and be reassuring.
“He was scared.” Daniel whispered. “Said it was too dangerous for me to call. I asked him why, but he was in a panic and just kept repeating that it wasn’t safe. I begged him to go to the police if he wouldn’t tell me, but he refused. Told me not to call until he called to tell me it was okay, and that if anyone asked I didn’t know him.
“Please,” Daniel’s voice cracked and he looked unbelievably young to Greg’s eyes. “What has happened?”
Greg took pity on him, though he wasn’t sure whether telling him was really much of a favour. “Peter was attacked last Saturday night. He’s in the hospital in a coma.”
“No, no, no.” Daniel leapt to his feet. “I have to go, I have to go to-”
“Daniel.”
“-him. He’s alone, he’s hurt, God, he’s hurt and-”
“Daniel.”
“-I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”
“Daniel!” Greg grabbed the young Dom and pushed him back down into the chair. “Daniel, you need to listen to me.”
“I have to go. I’m his Alpha, his Dom.” Daniel pleaded.
“I know, I know, but you don’t know where he is, and,” he increased pressure as Daniel tried to stand again, “obviously he was right about it being dangerous. If you go to him now you’ll be putting both of you in harm’s way.”
“But-” Daniel’s eyes were wild.
“But for now he’s safe and he’s stable. There’s nothing you can do by going to him, except possibly get him hurt.”
“Do you think so?” Daniel asked, wide eyed and subdued.
“I don’t know.” Having successfully redirected the Alpha protectiveness into a useful vein, Greg let go of Daniel’s shoulders and sat back in his chair. “From what you’ve said though he was worried about someone finding out about your relationship, whether to protect you or as a trigger for something. Until we know more, it’s better to treat what he said as more than mere paranoia given what happened to him.”
Daniel nodded reluctantly. “That man, the other one you showed me, is he the one who...”
Greg shook his head. “He was seen talking to Peter at a club two days before Peter was attacked. Later that night he wound up dead. We don’t,” Greg had to raise his voice as Daniel began scrabbling against his chair to stand again, “know whether the events are connected yet, but in light of the coincidence we’re investigating any possible link.”
Daniel reluctantly sank back down at Greg’s glare.
“I know it’s hard, but be patient, yeah?” Greg tried to smile reassuringly.
He received a brusque nod in return.
Packing away the photos into the folder, Greg stood.
“Let me know if you find anything. Please.” The please sounded tacked on the end as Daniel struggled with not being able to do anything for, or even see, his Sub.
“Daniel,” the name was sharp, “you need to stay away from him.”
The chin rose defiantly before dropping in acquiescence. “I know.”
“I mean it. You gave him the bracelet you did so this would stay secret, don’t mess it up now.” Greg warned sternly.
“Bracelet?” Daniel looked at him confused. “What bracelet?”
Frowning slightly Greg extracted the plastic bag from his inside jacket pocket and held it out for Daniel to see.
“Oh, that.” Daniel returned it with barely a glance. “That’s not from me. Some family thing I think. He always wore it.”
“Really? Unusual choice.” Greg put the bag back in his pocket.
“Yeah, he never really wanted to talk about it.” Daniel stood too.
“Then if we can just grab the name and phone number of your friend that’d be great. We just,” Greg held up a hand to forestall further protests, “have to check, Daniel.”
Sighing Daniel gave them a name and mobile number, looking disgruntled as he did.
“Thanks. Call me if you can think of anything else that might help.” Greg held out his card.
“Of course.”
Offering to drive on the way back felt like a hugely demonstrative gesture to Greg, but Sally brushed him off, a fact for which Greg was glad. The lack of sleep was really beginning to catch up with him and she was, at least, one night better off than him.
“Well you were right about the secret Dom.” Sally commented.
“Wrong about the bracelet and the motive though.” Greg leant his head against the window. Leaning back would send him to sleep, but he was trusting the cold glass to keep him awake.
“Well, yes,” Sally smiled, “but I was going to be nice and not mention that. What next?”
Greg sighed. “Drop me at the train. You head back to the bartender and get a positive ID on Carson from the photo.”
“I’ll have to go to his house. It’s a bit further out.” Sally warned.
“I know, but at least it’s something that can be ticked off. I’ll call this mate of Daniel’s, confirm his alibi.”
Hopefully the walk would wake him up a bit.
“What do you think Carson was so afraid of?”
“I don’t know, Donovan, I don’t know.” Greg shook his head.
Sally dropped him at the station and sped off to collect the necessary formal identification from Clive the very cute bartender. Greg was tempted to tell her to take her time, enjoy a chat, but the way she was studiously ignoring her phone as it plaintively buzzed and buzzed trying to get her attention he thought it would be safer to keep his mouth shut.
As expected Daniel’s alibi panned out for the attack on Robinson, and if the young Alpha was guilty of attacking Carson Greg would nominate the kid for a BAFTA and throw in his towel and retire. This left him back at his office bouncing ideas off his wall by ten in the morning. A depressing time to be on his nth caffeine hit for the day, but nothing he could do about that now.
Eventually he started on a list of questions that still needed to be explained in an attempt to order everything in his head.
- Why did Robinson die?
- Who killed him?
- Who attacked Peter Carson?
- Why?
- What was Carson scared of?
- Why would he talk to Hill only at his home?
- Are the cases connected?
- Why was Robinson in the alley?
- The bracelet - who, why?
- Daniel’s reaction - genuine, but a little over the top?
- Since SD mentioned it, why was Carson wearing so much cologne?
- Uncle - believable?
- Who or what did Carson see before he died?
- Was Carson messed up in drugs? Running or dealing?
Greg put a star next to number nine. For some reason he couldn’t explain, the bracelet still struck him as important.
There was, Greg noted, an imbalance of information about Carson and Robinson. They’d been assuming that Carson was the nexus that got Robinson killed, but maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Carson was targeted because of Robinson.
A quick call to Carson’s acting physician at the hospital confirmed that even if Carson was dealing drugs, he wasn’t taking them, the blood work backed up by hair samples. There were, however, some unexplained oddities in Carson’s blood work that they were investigating. Importantly, Carson had shown some signs of waking, so even though they’d abated, the doctors were hopeful.
Everything would be so much easier, Greg sighed, if he could just write it all off as drugs.
Resigning himself to investigating Robinson and his Leicester Square body some more and letting this case rest a while, Greg wasn’t really paying attention as he answered his phone until Sally’s excited tone shook him back to awareness.
“Donovan?” Greg squinted, though it did nothing to help his hearing. Just a silly automatic response of a body straining to catch up.
“You’re never going to believe this, Sir.” The car door slammed and the engine roared to life as Sally started the car in a rush.
“Clive didn’t identify Carson?” Greg was slightly disbelieving given everything else and graciously ignored the fact that in her excitement Sally was driving and using her phone at the same time.
“He did better than identify Carson.” Greg could picture the excited gleam in her eyes. “He identified the uncle.”
“What?” Greg sat bold upright in his uncomfortable office chair.
“The picture has Carson and his uncle in it. Apparently not only was little Peter there that night, but Uncle Carson was being the lecherous creep at the bar, you know the type. Clive can’t remember much, just that he was watching the room intently, like he was waiting for someone and they hadn’t arrived, and, get this, he bought his last drink and left just after pathology starts our window for time of death. Clive was glad to see him gone. Really gave him the willies, apparently.”
Never so thankful for mobile phones, Greg barrelled down to AV.
“Stevens, I need the footage from the Illusion club, now.” Greg barged between Gregson and the tech who was about to load something up for him.
“Come off it, Lestrade.” Gregson complained. “I’m-”
“Shut it, Gregson, you stole my constables. Now, Stevens! Sally, does Clive remember about when he arrived?”
“He was at the bar not long after Carson.” Sally replied.
The tape was still paused where they’d left it at Carson’s arrival, so Greg told Stevens to play on, ignoring the fuming Gregson glaring daggers into his back. It only took two minutes, ten minutes in real time, before the security footage showed Michael Carson entering the club.
“Stevens, I need to know what time that Beta leaves the club. Donovan, get back here as fast as you can. Legally. We’ve got an alibi to crack.”
Hanging up, Lestrade spared a quick nod for Gregson, now being helped by Adams who’d arrived back from wherever, and raced back to his desk, trying to tell himself not to get too over excited about this.
Carson Senior was at the club. That was all. There was no motive for him attacking Robinson, even less for him going on to assault his own nephew while he was apparently in Scotland. There was no evidence he’d even seen Robinson at the club. Everything was circumstantial.
It just felt right, like puzzle pieces slotting into place. Now he just had to see what the picture was.
Pulling a sheet of paper out of the case file on his desk he dialled a number.
“Hello?” Voices could be heard talking in the background with what sounded like the TV and some sort of movie full of explosions.
“Sam? It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade. I was wondering if you could answer a couple more questions for me, if you have the time.”
“Sure, let me just…” The background noise faded as Sam stepped out of the room. “What did you want to know?”
“Peter’s relationship with his uncle, what was it like?”
“Good, I suppose. Compared to the rest of his family certainly.”
“Good you suppose?” Greg asked, resisting the urge to chew on his pen in agitation.
“Better than his parents. Pete’d always seem a little wound up when he was going to visit, but it was mainly just the stress of knowing every time he went home to his uncle he’d have to see them too, even just for a bit. He was so much more relaxed when he came home. Sad though, and guilty. Family always made him feel like that.”
“Did you ever meet his uncle?”
“Yeah, once. Went out for dinner with him and Pete not long after I answered the ad for a flatmate. I think his uncle wanted to check me out. He relaxed when he found out I was a Sub.”
Interesting, but any protective parent would be the same.
“What was your impression of him?” Greg asked.
“Um, a bit over the top. You know those embarrassing uncles everyone has, the ones that are really loud and physical, always slapping you on the back and pinching your cheeks when you’re little? He’s one of those. I think it made Pete a bit uncomfortable as he was kind of stiff, almost flinched a couple of times.” Sam seemed to realise how that sounded. “Pete’s not big on physical contact and he prefers to blend into the background, rather than loud and in your face. Mr Carson is very in your face. Pete was a little embarrassed of him.”
“I know the sort.” Greg casually remarked. “Always trying to be as macho and outgoing as Alphas.”
“Exactly.” Sam sounded relieved. “I think Mr Carson must have been a little self-conscious that his brother was an Alpha and he’s not, cause he really tries to make up for it. Dude looks like he’s on Roids or something.”
“Thanks Sam.” Greg gave in and bit the end of his pen. “I’ll call if there’s anything else.”
“Sure thing.” Sam sounded puzzled, but didn’t ask the motivation behind Greg’s questions.
“Oh, just one more quick one.” Greg caught himself just before Sam hung up. “How do you think Carson would have reacted to Peter getting a Dom?”
“No idea,” Sam replied, “but he did check me out like I said, so I’d guess he’d want to meet him, check he wasn’t going to do wrong by Petey.”
“Right, thanks.” Greg made a note on his paper.
“Anything else, Sir?” Sam asked.
“No, thanks Sam. You’ve been very helpful.” Greg hung up and contemplated what Sam had said.
“Sir.” Sally poked her head around the door.
“Carson Senior is a possessive wanna be Alpha uncle.” Greg told her, without looking up, doodling on the page next to his list of questions. The picture he was starting to uncover was looking ugly.
“He was in Scotland.” Sally stated plainly.
Greg brought his eyes up to meet hers. “Let’s check that shall we.”
The flurry of phone calls that followed confirmed that Michael Carson had been at the pharmaceutical conference, had checked into his hotel, and had been at both the conference lunch and the breakfast the next day.
In between there was no one who could confirm anything.
Sally managed to sweet talk the hotel security footage out of their manager and was at her desk, pouring over the files transferred to her through some file sharing program Greg didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Greg was emailing the railway station where, if he’d come back to England, Michael Carson would have boarded. Hopefully someone would recognise him and recall him getting on a train. If Carson had flown back things would be more complicated and Greg would have to review all the airport security footage as well. That would be a long slog.
While he waited for the emails back, Greg tried to make the picture clearer in any way he could.
“Sir.” Sally carried her laptop in, screen split to show the grey pixelated image of Michael Carson exiting and entering the hotel.
At 4:16pm and 6:23am respectively.
“Nothing in between?” Greg squashed the excitement.
“Nothing in between.” Sally’s eyes practically glowed.
Greg’s email chimed and holding his breath he turned and checked.
Anderson with the preliminary forensics report for Wednesday’s crime scene.
Greg sighed. “Nothing from the railway yet at the other end.”
“What do you want to do?” Sally asked.
Greg chewed at his pen, wishing that passports had to be used to travel internally within the UK. “There’s nothing we can do to prove anything. We can’t put the knife in his hand, we can’t prove he hit Peter Carson, only that he had the chance to do both.”
“We need a confession.” Sally summarised.
“We need a confession.” Greg confirmed.
“Think we can get it?” Sally worried at her lip. With good reason because their evidence was practically nil.
“We’re going to have to.”
“How?”
Greg tapped his pen on his desk. “We’ll have to ask.”
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