by JL Merrow
“What? You haven’t—oh God, tell me he’s not—”
“Oh! Sorry, sir. Slip of the tongue.”
You bastard. Nick could barely contain himself from shouting out loud. “If you’ve quite finished trying to trick me into confessing to a crime we don’t even know has been committed?” he asked tightly. “I thought you had an actual murder to investigate.”
“Well, since you bring up the subject—” Phillips pushed a photograph across the desk. “This is Andrew Wilson, the young man who was murdered in the early hours of Sunday morning.” He paused. “Shortly after you and Mr. Lauder had your little altercation in the Porter’s Lodge. His skull had been caved in, and his neck snapped. The body was then roughly hidden behind some rubbish sacks. Were you acquainted with Mr. Wilson?”
Numbly, Nick studied the picture. It showed a smiling young man, probably in his early twenties. He looked far happier and more carefree than any murdered man had a right to. Julian would have made a far more plausible victim, with that hunted look that crept into his eyes when he thought no one was looking. Christ, Nick was being morbid.
“Mr. Sewell?” A little steel had crept into Phillips’s tone.
“No. I’m afraid he doesn’t look familiar at all.” Nick shrugged awkwardly. “There’s no reason he should, after all. I’m aware of the existence of gay bars in the city, but I can’t say I ever go to any of them.”
“No?” Phillips made some more notes.
“Not that I have any dislike for that sort of place, or that I’d be embarrassed to be seen in one, of course,” Nick added hastily, cringing internally at his defensive tone.
“Of course,” Phillips agreed. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. They were at odds with the rest of him: stubby and blunt, they didn’t appear to belong to his wiry frame. “What about young Mr. Lauder? Did he ever mention Mr. Wilson to you? As a past—or indeed, present—lover, perhaps?”
“Oh, for—I’d be the last person he’d mention something like that to!”
Phillips raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Would you say you were a jealous man, Mr. Sewell?”
Nick laughed nervously, feeling as transparent as glass. “No more so than anyone else, I’m sure.”
The policeman nodded. “Still, passions can run rather high, can’t they? Particularly when someone like your Mr. Lauder is concerned. Judging from the photographs I’ve seen, he’s just the sort of young man someone like yourself might have found very attractive.”
Someone like yourself. Nick struggled to keep his temper. And Phillips had deliberately laid stress on young, Nick was certain of it. “Well, of course I found him attractive. I was going out with him.” Nick felt a stab in his gut as he realized his slip. “Am going out with him,” he corrected himself weakly.
“Of course, Mr. Sewell. Well, I think that’ll be all for now.”
He didn’t rise, much less offer Nick his hand. It was probably just as well. In his current mood, Nick might very well have ripped it off.
“BLOODY BIGOTED breeder bastard!” Nick exploded as he left the Master’s Lodge.
“Nice line in alliteration, dearie, but I doubt it’ll help your case if the sergeant hears you talking like that.” Nadia gave him a comforting squeeze.
“My case? I see even you’ve got me halfway to the dock already. Have you seen the way that man looks at me? As if it’s only a matter of time before he gets me down to the station and starts pressuring me to admit that I found Julian with the murdered man and killed them both in a jealous rage! God knows where I’m supposed to have put Julian’s body, but I’m sure they’ll be able to tell me!”
“Come on, dearie, I don’t think we should be talking about this out here. Students everywhere, the sneaky little buggers. Let’s go on up to your rooms and have a glass of that ghastly sherry you keep for anyone unfortunate enough to visit you.”
Nick allowed her to lead him up to his rooms, where she eschewed the cut-price crystal in favor of pouring him an earthenware mugful of Harveys Amontillado.
“Now then, lovey, you sit down there and have a swig of that. Tell Aunty Nadia all about it.”
Nick almost spilled his sherry with his expansive, despairing gesture. He gripped the mug in both hands and took a hefty swallow. “What is there to tell? The police are a bunch of homophobic bloody bigots who think I’m some kind of serial killer!”
Nadia fixed a shrewd eye upon him. “Or possibly the detective inspector just doesn’t approve of student-fellow relationships? Now, I’m all for calling a queer-basher a queer-basher, and if he is allowing prejudice to affect his handling of the case, I’ll be the first to support you putting in a complaint, but I’ve had dealings with Phillips before and he seemed a decent sort—for a man.”
Nick put the mug down. He noticed she’d chosen the one that proclaimed, in the face of all the evidence, that he was the “World’s Best Lecturer.” Presumably unconscious irony.
Tiredly, he ran his fingers through his hair. “God, I don’t know.” He gave a bitter laugh. “It is usually the lover, isn’t it?” He was silent a moment, then asked the question he was dreading having answered. “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”
“I think, dearie, that nothing is to be gained by giving up hope just yet. Now, come on, I’ll treat you to lunch in town.”
“I’m not hungry,” he protested.
“Nonsense! It’ll do you good to get away from this place for a bit.”
And from all the accusing eyes, Nick thought. Resignedly, he followed her out into the sunlight.
Chapter Thirteen
TIFF HAD never been in the Master’s Lodge before. Somehow she’d thought it would be grander—it was nice enough, with some lovely wood paneling on the walls and lots of stern-looking portraits of previous masters, but a bit faded, somehow. The curtains smelled dusty, like the ones in her Nan’s house that her mum always said couldn’t be washed, as they’d fall to pieces if you tried. She was shown up to a room with a tatty carpet and an old desk with a plainclothes policeman sitting behind it.
“Tiffany Meadows? I’m Detective Inspector Phillips. Come and sit down. Is it all right if I call you Tiffany?”
“Er, yes.” Tiff pulled the chair out and sat, her hands on her knees. “But I don’t know what you’re expecting me to tell you apart from what I told them before.”
“Oh, I just like to hear things myself. Reported speech is never as good as speaking to the witness yourself.”
“But I haven’t seen anything—that’s the whole point. Joo… Julian’s just disappeared. As far as I knew, he was just going out for the night on Saturday. He didn’t say anything about going anywhere afterwards.”
“Hmm. He went out with Dr. Sewell, didn’t he?” The detective smiled at her, but Tiff noticed his eyes stayed cold. “I gather Dr. Sewell is your supervisor? That must be a little strange, your best friend going out with the man who marks your essays.”
Tiff shrugged. “It’s all right. Dr. Sewell’s nice.”
“It was a bit of a tempestuous relationship, though, wasn’t it?”
“What?” Tiff frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you? Ah, I see. Dr. Sewell didn’t tell you he and Julian had an argument on Saturday?”
“No. But what’s that got to do with him disappearing? You think he’s just bogged off because he was in a mood? Julian wouldn’t do that.” Not to me, she managed not to add. Then another thought struck her. “You don’t think Dr. Sewell’s got anything to do with it, do you? That’s just daft—” She colored, realizing that probably sounded a bit rude. “I mean, why would he do that?”
“I’m sure you realize we have to explore all the avenues,” Phillips said blandly. “Now, is there anything else you can tell us about Julian? Any, ah, relationships he had which were worrying you? Anything at all unusual?”
Tiff stared at the detective and tried to remember all the things that were supposed to make you look innocent. Eye contact—you had
to make eye contact. And wasn’t there a direction people’s eyes were supposed to shift in after telling a lie? Probably safer just to keep on looking at him. But her eyes were watering from the effort.
“Everything all right, Tiffany?”
“Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Just trying to think.” Tiff laughed nervously, her hands balling into fists in her lap. “No, I don’t think so. Jools is pretty normal, really.”
For a werewolf.
THE COLLEGE grapevine was in fine fettle, Nick discovered when his first-years turned up for their supervision at two o’clock. Richard (minor public school, plodder) wouldn’t meet his eye, and Kate tiptoed in nervously as if she expected Nick to go homicidal any minute. Tiffany looked tired and stressed, her newly styled hair straggling around her face in rats’ tails, and Nick felt a sudden surge of affection for her. At least she genuinely cared about Julian. He wasn’t just a case to her, or a scandal waiting to happen.
It was easily the least inspired supervision Nick had ever given, but then he strongly doubted any of his students were paying enough attention to notice.
At the end, Tiffany stood up resolutely. “Dr. Sewell? Can I have a word with you?”
“Yes, of course, Tiffany.” Nick glanced pointedly at Kate, who was dithering in the doorway.
“Um, do you want me to wait for you, Tiff?” Kate’s eyes darted to Nick and then flicked away again as if it might be dangerous for them to linger.
Clearly Nick wasn’t the only one she was irritating, as Tiffany rolled her eyes briefly before turning to the girl. “No, thanks, I’ll be fine.”
Apparently Kate wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure?”
Tiffany gave her a patently fabricated smile. “If I’m not out in an hour, you can call the police, all right?” After Kate’s huffy departure, she turned to Nick with a guilty look. “Um, sorry about that.”
Nick shrugged. “No offense taken.” He paused. “Was it something to do with your studies you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked, trying to show willingness.
“Um. No. It’s—Julian. I just thought maybe we should pool our information. Apart from the obvious problem that I haven’t got any. But I think we’re the people who know him best, so maybe…?”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Nick ran a hand through his hair. “Look, sit down, and I’ll make us some coffee.”
Once they’d established that she wasn’t the one student in a million who didn’t take her coffee white, no sugar, an uneasy silence fell which, predictably, they both tried to break at once.
“Sorry. You go on,” Nick encouraged her, glad to have the excuse of politeness for not speaking first.
Tiffany bit her lip. “Look—I thought I ought to say, I know about Julian. What he is, I mean.”
Nick stared at her, heart racing.
She swallowed. “The wolf thing, I mean. He showed me. He said you knew too,” she added, obviously panicking slightly at Nick’s lack of response.
Nick felt light-headed. It all seemed so unreal, discussing this with a student in broad daylight. “Yes. Yes, I knew. Know.”
The tension dropped out of her shoulders. “Good. So do you think it’s got anything to do with that? I mean, maybe he saw—you know—and panicked? Got stuck in wolf form and couldn’t get back?”
Nick couldn’t imagine anything less likely. “I suppose… maybe he didn’t want to change back?” he mused aloud. “But damn it, it was such a stupid quarrel.”
“That police detective said you’d had a row.”
Nick flushed. “Yes—well, just a disagreement, really. I can’t—no, no, that can’t be it.” Nick stared into his coffee cup, watching the dark flecks swirl around where he hadn’t stirred the granules in properly. “He wouldn’t do that, would he? Make us all worry like this, I mean?”
He felt a hand touch his arm. “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t. Not for so long—I mean, they’re contacting his family and everything.”
Nick looked up into her soothing dark eyes. He gave her a wry smile. “Except, that’s hardly comforting, is it? We’ve just determined that the only reason he’s not come back to college is because he can’t.” He took a deep breath. “Did he ever tell you about someone in Germany? A… boyfriend, I mean. Well, he might not have called him that. Someone who didn’t treat him very well.”
She frowned. “Boris. But that was ages ago, wasn’t it?”
Nick sighed in frustration. “I know—but damn it, it’s all we’ve got to go on.”
Tiffany looked troubled. “It could have been anyone, though, couldn’t it? I mean, there’s got to be plenty of weirdos out there. Sorry. This isn’t helping, is it?”
“Actually it is, in a strange sort of way,” Nick admitted. Somehow it was a comfort, having her here. She was kind, and concerned, and she smelled familiar…. He frowned, nostrils flaring. “Is that Julian’s jacket you’re wearing?”
Tiffany colored faintly. “Yes. He lent it to me last week, and I never got around to giving it back.”
“It smells of him, doesn’t it?” Nick sympathized without really thinking what he said. Tiffany’s eyes widened. Too late, it sunk into his aching brain that she hadn’t known he was a werewolf. It didn’t seem all that important now, in any case.
“I was wearing it the other night,” she began slowly. “I put my bike in the shed, and then I had this feeling there was someone watching me. I thought I saw his eyes….” She swallowed. “I didn’t realize at the time, but they were wolf eyes. Dr. Sewell, this Boris bloke—was he a wolf?”
Nick stared at her, his throat gone dry. Up until now he hadn’t really believed it could be that psychotic bastard who had Julian. “We need—” Nick cleared his throat and started again. “We need Julian’s father’s address. No, telephone number.”
“His father?”
“Yes.” Nick could feel his face twisting in disgust. “This Boris is a friend of his.”
IT TOOK a combination of lies, half-truths and evasions, evenly distributed between the head porter, the Master, and Angus Lemon, but eventually Nick was in possession of Peter Herrscher’s telephone number.
Dialing it, Nick suddenly wished he’d had a stiff drink beforehand. Christ, how was he going to persuade the man to help? Or even talk to him? From all Nick had heard, Julian’s father didn’t give a damn about his son. His tension increased with every ring of the telephone, and he started when a click announced his call had been answered.
“Herrscher.”
Mustering his clearest Hochdeutsch, Nick began his spiel. “Hallo? I’m Dr. Sewell, a fellow at your son’s college. I regret to tell you Julian has disappeared—”
“This is already known to me,” Herrscher interrupted brusquely.
Nick swallowed and continued. “I wondered if you might be able to tell me anything about Boris Schräger? Are you still in contact with him?”
There was a short silence. “I will be with you tomorrow,” Herrscher announced and hung up.
BACK IN her room, the door locked and bolted, Tiff hugged her cup of coffee. She waited in vain for it to warm her. Dr. Sewell—nice, ordinary Dr. Sewell—was a werewolf. She couldn’t believe it. He rode a bike to lectures and drove a Mini, for God’s sake. But he’d smelled Julian’s jacket, like a bloodhound or something. That was when she’d remembered what Jools had said, that night he’d changed in front of her. He’d said Dr. Sewell was in disguise too. How could she have forgotten? Of course, she had just seen her best friend turn into a bloody werewolf. That sort of thing wasn’t exactly going to help with the logical thinking, was it?
God, how many of them were there round here? Julian, Dr. Sewell, that bastard in the bike sheds who might or might not be holding Jools captive… who might or might not be a murderer. Did the police have any idea about all this? Should she tell them? God, they’d think she’d gone mad, babbling about werewolves. And they’d never listen to anything she told them ever again.
Or worse, maybe the police did know about all the supernatural
stuff. Maybe the Chief Constable was a vampire, and all those well-trained police dogs were actually shape-shifters…. Tiff choked off a nervous laugh, even though there was no one there to hear it. No. She couldn’t betray Jools’s secret. Especially when there was so little chance she’d be believed anyway.
Tiff tried to imagine Dr. Sewell as a wolf. Looking at her with big, amber eyes. Slinking around the college on all fours, hunting for prey. Her stomach churned, and she put the coffee mug down on her desk, unable to face drinking any more. It’d gone cold in any case.
Maybe she was reading too much into what he’d said? No. It all made sense. She’d wondered—God, she’d been naïve—just what Dr. Sewell had that all the other blokes Jools had shagged hadn’t got.
Turned out it was four legs and a tail.
AS DUSK fell, Nick leaned his bike against a wall at the edge of Coe Fen and fastened the padlock. He wished to God the phrase “clutching at straws” would get out of his head. All right, it wasn’t much to go on—but if the Cambridge News werewolf sighting had been real, and if the wolf had been Julian’s insane German abuser, then just maybe the fact that he’d come for a run out here meant he was living nearby? And that Julian might be a captive somewhere near? Which meant, in turn, that there was a chance Nick might be able to catch his scent. After all, surely that had been what led him to Julian that night, months ago, outside the Rat & Ferret, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time?
It was still too light for Nick to risk changing into a wolf just yet—well, actually, changing into a wolf he might have got away with, as any witnesses were highly unlikely to call the police and risk getting carted off to the funny farm. It was the stripping naked that had to precede the change that might just cause the odd problem. Nick could just imagine what Detective Inspector Phillips would think if he got himself arrested for indecent exposure. So he walked anxiously across the fen in human form, cursing the sun for setting so bloody slowly today. He tried to pick up all the scents that were blowing in the bitter wind, but his human nose was just not equal to the task.
