“That means he’s dead, doesn’t it?” I said, gripping my arm painfully hard as I asked the question.
“Not at all. What it does probably mean is that he’s prepared for this for some time, and has likely obtained forged documents and new bank and credit details.”
“But he used his own passport to go to France.”
“Perhaps the new documents had to be collected there. It’s surprisingly hard to conceal a body, Anton. If he was dead, I think we’d know by now.”
“So he planned to disappear out of my life.”
“We don’t know what he planned or why.”
“So what happens now? If he’s abandoned his old identity completely, how can you find him?”
“One thing we could try is a media appeal. Those can be quite effective, especially if you can hook into a community like gay men. Would you agree to that?”
“Let me think about it. Nick would hate me doing that.”
“Anton, Nick isn’t being particularly respectful of your feelings, is he?”
“No, I suppose he isn’t.”
That evening I tossed the idea back and forth, hating it but knowing George wouldn’t have suggested it without good reason. Finally I decided that a media appeal’s merits overrode Nick’s likely objections. Maybe it would make him angry enough to charge home and tell me off. I could always dream.
Andy had already told me the police wouldn’t make a public statement about Nick since officially he was no longer missing, so I called Harry and asked for help. I knew he’d agree. He’d been enthusiastic about using the gay press to make one since almost the day Nick disappeared. I supplied him with a selection of photos. He wrote up a discreet but emotional press release in the space of an hour which I approved without changes, then I left him to place it wherever he felt best. Our community was global, and its heart huge. This should have encouraged me. It did, but I was growing numb from disappointment. I didn’t want to wake the beast of hope again.
Harry emailed me the next day to tell me that the first stories about Nick had gone live, including a big splash in The Pink News. Comments on line were supportive. Within hours, I’d had emails forwarded from Karl’s secretary, sent to me by people who recognised Nick as my partner, offering help and supposed sightings. Harry, as designated contact, had been deluged with messages. For the first time, I thought it was possible this might work. We were everywhere. Nick couldn’t hide from every gay man on the planet forever.
But once we started to sift through them, my optimism sank. Unfortunately, gay men make no better witnesses than anyone else, and the sightings were so random and far-flung that they were close to useless, at least as far as I could tell.
George agreed that most would be of little value. “But it’s about building up a pattern, and hopefully someone will take a photo which confirms a sighting. Not to mention that the appeal itself puts pressure on Nick and he might even come forward of his own volition. It’s a good move, Anton. Let it play out.”
Harry agreed with George, and with my permission, offered some pieces to foreign magazines and websites to run, and even allowed himself to be interviewed by a couple. I wasn’t sure if I could put myself forward that way. My most recent experience of fame had ended with Nick coming very close to being killed, and I didn’t want to start that up all over again. It was bad enough that a couple of my students had seen the appeal and had emailed me to offer their sympathies, so my secret was out at work. I had worked hard to live down the notoriety of being the victim of a stalker in my own workplace. No one had blamed me for Piers Montgomery’s actions three years ago, at least not to my face. Nonetheless, Prof Carter had received the news that I was stepping back from presenting for the moment with an understated enthusiasm that told me he thought the department could do with a long quiet break.
Still, his disapproval of another drama in my private life was nothing set against the relief I would have from knowing Nick was okay, even if he was out of love with me. If Harry said an interview with me would make a difference, then I’d find the courage and do it.
After a week, no clear pattern had emerged from all the emails, no cluster of sightings that George could pursue. No one had taken a photo of anyone verifiably Nick, though there had been over twenty of people who definitely weren’t him. I wished I had the name and photo of the man he was with. That would have given us better leads. George continued to advise patience and persistence. I continued to do as he said, and fret quietly while I did it.
Then I had a phone call on my weekly journey back from Milton Keynes—from Andy. I hadn’t been in touch with him for at least a fortnight. I couldn’t help feeling a little resentful that he had information that might help me find Nick that he hadn’t shared. That he couldn’t share, of course. I never said I was rational.
“Anton, is there a chance we could meet up?”
“I’m on my way into London now, actually. I could be at Islington in about an hour?”
“That’d be perfect.” He named a pub and I noted the details.
“You don’t want to just tell me over the phone?”
“Better not. I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up and frowned. It had to be about Nick, but why be so secretive?
The pub was the kind that appealed to lager drinkers and football fans, and was not one I would have chosen for a quiet drink. Having been out with Andy and Nick a few times, I wouldn’t have thought it was Andy’s kind of place either. His wince as he walked in told me I was right. I waved and he came over to the table I’d managed to grab.
“Do you want a pint?” he yelled over the helium on speed voice of a football commentator on the pub’s television.
I pondered the options. “Glass of orange juice, actually.” The wine was bound to be as disgusting as the ‘beer’ on tap.
“I’ll be right back.”
I studied Andy as he queued at the bar. His normal happy-go-lucky air was missing, but he was nearly as overworked as Nick, and had a young family to deal with on top of it. Stress was his everyday reality. I couldn’t tell whether he had good news or bad news for me. I wished I had told him not to bother with a drink at all.
Finally he was served, and brought the glasses over.
“Cheers,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“This,” he said, taking a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handing it over. “You never saw this, I never gave it to you, and there won’t be more like this.”
Confused, I read the print out. It took a few moments to work out what I was looking out, then I exhaled in shock. “Rio?”
“Yes. God knows where he is now. I got that because I ‘forgot’ to turn the Interpol alert off. I can get away with this once, but I daren’t risk it again.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
“Put it away and for God’s sake, don’t flash it around or show that detective of yours. You can tell him what you know, but not how. Got it?”
“Yes. Why? I mean, why did you ‘forget’?”
He grimaced at me and took a pull from his beer. “Because it stinks. This isn’t Nick. You know it, I know it, but we can’t prove it. I have no idea what’s going on, but I want to find him too.”
“What about the guy he was with?”
He shook his head. “No information. I ran a check on him—he hasn’t got a record, and no one’s looking for him. Don’t ask me his name,” he added as I opened my mouth to do that. “I can tell you he didn’t go to Rio with Nick though.”
“Thanks. Are you sure it’s Nick using the passport?”
“No, but it would have to be someone who looked enough like him to match the digital image in the passport.”
“Is that possible?”
“Technically. We don’t record fingerprints on British passports, which would make it harder to get away with it. But the simplest explanation is that Nick’s in Brazil. Or was five days ago.”
“Why?”
“No idea, Anton. The whole
thing baffles me. Unless he’s gone barking mad, I can’t make it out. It’s not his style at all.”
“No. At least this gives me something to go on with.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you more. Thing is, I have to be so careful—”
“It’s fine. I understand, honestly. I really do appreciate this and the risk you’ve taken.”
He smiled wryly. “Not much. I wish I could do more. I will do more, if I can. Just ask. I’d do anything for Nick, but I can’t lose my job. At least, not unless it’s life or death.”
“Nick wouldn’t want that. You have a family to think of.”
He shrugged, and drank more of his beer. I was such a worm, blaming him for something he couldn’t do without destroying his career. Nick was important to me, and his friend. But it was enough that I had lost a relationship. To ruin Andy’s life over this would be unconscionable.
I asked him about Michelle and the kids, and we made small talk for a few minutes before he said he had to go. I thanked him again and he nodded. I got the impression he wanted to say something else, but he waved goodbye and slipped out. I gave him a few minutes to make his way to the Tube without running into me again, then I headed to the station.
The trip back to Battersea had never seemed longer, and the second I was inside the house I opened my laptop and logged into Nick’s bank account. My hands shook as I typed in the password, and I held my breath until the details came up. There had been recent activity—in Rio.
I called George. “Nick flew from Berlin to Rio five days ago. He’s paid for accommodation in Rio and coffees, a couple of other purchases from speciality shops, using his credit card.”
“How the bloody hell did you find out about the flight?”
“Can’t tell you. But the credit card stuff is through his online account information.”
“This is great. It’s possible the card’s been stolen, though, just to warn you.”
“I know. What will you do?”
“Contact our local agents and ask them to confirm how the payments were made, and if the merchants can describe the card holder. After that...then someone may need to go to Brazil, if you want to pay for it.”
Chapter 5
A week later, I flew into Galeão International Airport in Rio de Janeiro. I had three weeks’ leave to spend looking for Nick, knowing that he—or at least his passport and credit card—had been in Rio less than a week before I’d arrived. George had cautioned me not to expect too much, but had offered the services of their local agent to assist me as much as they could. It had been a frantic seven days, making arrangements for my students, making contact with Gabriel Cavalcante who had agreed to act as my driver and interpreter, transferring funds and instructions to him, and arranging for Karl to take over the Nick monitoring activities and rerouting my landline calls to him. Gabriel had been a photographer on Karl’s earliest films, and I’d met him while we worked on the gay natural history documentary. When he’d responded to my email positively, I’d taken it as a good omen, even if my superstition wasn’t based on much other than my desperate need to find Nick.
After a fifteen-hour trip, I wasn’t at my brightest or cheeriest, even though I’d always found it easy to sleep on planes so I’d caught some kip. Clearing Immigration and Customs was lengthy and tiresome, but at last I was through. I didn’t have to look for Gabriel. His “Anton! Cá!” and the frantic waving caught my attention as soon as I broke free of the other passengers.
“Gabriel!” I let him wrap me in a warm hug. “Como estás?” He looked much the same as he had the last time I’d seen him. Hair a little shorter, and his former tatty T-shirts had been swapped for a neat collared cotton shirt. His wide grin was exactly the same as I remembered.
“Tudo bem.” He let me go and stepped back to look at me. “I am sorry to hear of your troubles.”
“Thank you.”
“I rented the car, as you said. I spoke to Senhor Alencar yesterday, and he gave me all the documents.”
“You’re a miracle. Thank you again.”
“I thought you would prefer to go to the hotel, start fresh in the morning.”
“Sim. My brain has turned to mush.”
He grinned. “I know the feeling. You only have the one bag? Good.”
The night air was steamy and lush with unfamiliar scents. The city, as we drove from the airport island, glittered with promised excitement, yet I found it difficult to work up any enthusiasm for being in this most famous of exotic locations. It was my second visit to Rio, though the first was only a two-day stay in preparation for heading out to film in the wild. I’d enjoyed the rainforest and mountains last time. This time, I doubted I’d have time to sightsee.
I’d asked Gabriel to book us into the hotel in Santa Teresa where Nick’s credit card had been used. Santa Teresa was a charming residential suburb away from the main tourist areas. The hotel itself was quiet and a little shabbier than I had expected, but comfortable. Just what I would have chosen for myself—or Nick and me together. I swallowed the pang I felt, and registered with Gabriel’s help.
“We’re sharing a room,” he said. “You don’t mind, I hope.”
“Of course not. You don’t?”
“Your virginity is safe with me, amigo.”
I snorted. Gabriel was straight, but gay friendly as they came. Not something I could take for granted here, though Brazil was one of the less hostile countries a gay man could visit in South America. Was that why Nick had come here? But why South America at all? We’d made jokes about going to Patagonia, but Nick had never mentioned Brazil or anywhere with serious intent.
Before we left reception, I produced two of the photos I’d brought with me. “Can you please ask him if he remembers this guest?”
Gabriel showed the receptionist the pictures. He selected one, clearly recognising the subject, and he and Gabriel had a short conversation, with Gabriel appearing to draw more information out. “He remembers him. Stayed for two nights, and was on his own. He didn’t have any special requirements.”
“Did he say anything about his plans? Does this man remember how he seemed?”
Gabriel asked again. “Nothing about plans. He just said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. He didn’t try to talk to anyone. There was nothing special about his mood.”
Gabriel said something else to the receptionist and the man gave me a sad look. “Eu sinto muito.”
“I told him that this man is your good friend who has gone missing, and that you are worried for his safety. He says he’s sorry.”
“Obrigado,” I said.
The receptionist nodded to acknowledge me, then Gabriel steered me away from the area towards the lifts. “Maybe Nick just wanted time for himself?” Gabriel said as the lift doors closed. “You know, umas ferias? A vacation?”
“It’s possible.” I waited to say more until we were in our room, and had set my pack down. “The problem is, the photo the receptionist picked out isn’t Nick.”
Gabriel straightened up in shock. "O quê?"
I held up the two photos. “This photo is an English actor called Paul Bettany. This one is Nick.”
Gabriel sat on one of the beds. “Okay, now I am confused. Senhor Bettany used Nick’s credit card?”
“I doubt it. This is Nick on holiday last year. It’s a good likeness. This is his passport photo.” A habit I had learned early on was to keep multiple colour copies of important documents in case they were lost while I was travelling. Nick did the same, fortunately. “It’s not really a good photo of him. They never are.”
Gabriel looked at me, still puzzled, so I explained. “The man who used Nick’s credit card and showed his passport as identification might not have been Nick—just someone who is also a pale-skinned, red-haired man with an English accent.”
“A trick?”
“I don’t know. Have you got the copies of the credit card payment slips? With his signature?”
Gabriel dove into his bag and
pulled out a plastic folder. He leafed through the sheets and extracted one. “This one?”
I examined it, and compared it to the photocopy of Nick’s driver’s license. “They look similar. Do you agree?”
“Yes? Anton, what—”
“Anyone who had a copy of Nick’s signature could practise it well enough to sign a credit card slip, and if that person looked enough like Nick’s passport photo to pass, then the payment would be accepted. It doesn’t mean Nick was here at all.”
“Ah, entendo. But why do such a thing?”
“I have no idea. But this is what we’re going to do tomorrow. Ask questions, show both photos to different people, see what answers we get.”
“It’s like TV! We’re detectives on the CSI.”
I grinned. “I guess. But now, a shower and sleep.”
“Está bem.”
~~~~~
After breakfast in the morning, there was a new receptionist on duty. I took the opportunity to try out the photos on her, and again Paul Bettany was identified as their guest from days before. She seemed a little unsure, as if neither photo was like the man she remembered. “Please ask her if she thinks maybe she might be mistaken.”
Gabriel obligingly did so. The woman frowned, and pointed to the photo, speaking rapidly. “She says the mouth is different maybe. But she knows this face from somewhere.”
“She probably does. He’s been in a few films. Thank her for me.”
We had a short list of places where Nick’s card had been used, mostly around the Largo dos Guimarães, the trendy bohemian heart of Santa Teresa, so the Internet had assured me. We played tourist all morning, drinking coffee and eating bolos, looking at art galleries and boutiques, and showing people my collection of photos. We found a handful of people who remembered ‘Nick’, but of all the people who chose a photo and definitely identified it as the man they remembered, only a quarter of those chose Nick’s—a result no better than random chance. However, Senhor Bettany had apparently enjoyed himself at many of these places.
Next Of Kin (Unnatural Selection #3) Page 5
