To Find Him and Love Him Again (Volume 1): Book Ten (1) in the Tyack & Frayne Mystery Series

by Harper Fox

  Baby Cadan continued to contribute to Elowen’s peace of mind by taking steadfastly after Michel instead of her complicated, painful Tyack relations, right down to the sophisticated Gallic manners: Lee would come upon him munching his rusk with the air of a Montmartre demimondaine, admiring passing ladies, who returned his attentions delightedly, stopping to make a fuss of him at every pass. Tamsie was a hoyden by comparison, but they loved each other. She helped out in the trenches when she could, more for the joy of the mud than the antiquities, as far as Lee could see. She called Elowen Lowen, and Lee contrived to forget Rufus Pendower’s theories about the sound of those two syllables in Breton dialect. With a little mental rearrangement, he managed to forget Pendower himself. Forgot Launceston and Alice Rawle, who was safely locked up in a high-security unit somewhere in Devon, and might as well have been on the moon. Even Gideon had set her aside. David Rawle was missing, and the investigation of his abandoned school had stalled out amid a rush of more urgent work, as the concept of Brexit shone a more and more lurid green light for every racist, xenophobe and—inexplicably; perhaps just part of the general tide of hatred for all that was different—gaybasher on the peninsula.

  A summer of love for Lee despite all this, a Woodstock, a night hand-in-hand with the women of Greenham Common, forging a human chain around the cruise missiles. Tamsyn created the space and Lee occupied it, too tired for once in his life to question the process. And like that long-ago Woodstock summer—like all frail hopes in a bad old world where the hawks ate the doves for breakfast, dinner and tea—it couldn’t last.

  ***

  “Ugh,” Gideon said, turning over the pages of Monday morning’s Herald. “Poor Jenny Spargo. That’s right on her home turf.”

  The day was so fine that they’d taken their early breakfast outside into the orchard. Neither had bothered much so far with clothes, and the place was a rare kind of Eden, all serpents welcome under contract to bring only the knowledge of good. This sounded to Lee like a breach of the rules. He came round to Gideon’s side of the trestle table, clambered onto the bench beside him. “Nothing up with our Jen, is there?”

  “No, but a body’s been found up near Pendethy. Been identified as...” Gideon paused, then actually began to chuckle. “Pol Teague! I don’t bloody believe it. My God, talk about good riddance.”

  “I know that name, don’t I?”

  “Yeah, you do. Brother of the less famous Jim, who happily killed himself in a single-vehicle RTA a few weeks ago. Pol’s been in and out of the papers for years. He’s a stalker, and a right slippery bastard too—drove one girl to suicide, and a couple of others had to change their names and leave Cornwall to get away from him. Everyone knew what he was doing, but there was never enough concrete evidence to pin the little fucker down.”

  Out of habit Lee glanced over his shoulder, but Tamsyn was safely out of reach in Uncle Zeke’s house, ready for a trip with her cousins and her Gran to see the fossils at Chesil Beach. “Fuck the little fucker, then,” Lee agreed, hooking his arm through Gid’s. Odd that after all their intimacies, such an ordinary gesture could feel so hot, the satiny rub of skin fresh from the shower. “What happened to him?”

  “Pissed off the wrong boyfriend, maybe. Or knowing those Pendethy ladies, maybe the wrong girl. They found him in his latest victim’s car, only the car was at the bottom of a ravine just outside of the village, which is why it hasn’t come to light till now. The roof of the car had been... Let me see, how did our intrepid Herald reporter put it? Oh, yes. The roof had been peeled back like the lid of a sardine tin.”

  “Crikey,” Lee said comfortably. Gideon’s bare shoulder felt like a flank of the moor this morning, a place to stretch out and rest all day in the sun. “Is the girl all right?”

  “Fine, thank God, singing the praises of whoever knocked Teague off, although I dunno about that—sounds to me like a case of a big nutcase versus a little ’un, and that’s not good. Still, they found rope and a knife in the guy’s pockets. They reckon he was waiting in the back seat of her car for her to come out of her new boyfriend’s house.”

  “Jesus. Why is it Jenny’s problem, though? She’s working with you out of Bodmin, isn’t she?”

  “Ah, she’s in the same boat I am here in Dark. Pendethy born and bred, and she still lives in the village, so everyone there thinks it’s her job to look after them. She won’t mind too much, I reckon. She’s gunning for CID, and cracking a case like this would sort her out handsome.”

  Something cold touched the back of Lee’s throat, as if he’d woken up alone on his moorland hill and found that the world had dropped into winter around him. “When did this happen?”

  “Oh, about three weeks back. Girlfriend didn’t think too much to it when she came out of the house that night. Just thought someone had nicked her car. What’s up, morning glory? Not getting any kind of flash about this, are you?”

  “Nope. Sticking strictly to my holiday rules. Jen will have to do her sleuthing on her own.”

  “Good. And you know what? I hope she doesn’t find a thing, CID or no CID. Who cares about any of these guys—Pol Teague, or John Tregear, or that creep over in Bodinnar last year who turned out to have a cage and shackles in his garage, and not the fun kind? If some vigilante’s taken to cleaning them up, more power to him. Who cares?”

  Lee wriggled round on the bench. Then he hitched himself up onto the table to sit in front of Gideon, taking care to move his paper, tea mug and the remains of his toast out of the way. The cool press of the planks on his bare backside was a distraction, but he pushed it aside. He had to keep his mind out of his genitals for five minutes at a stretch, even with Gid staring up at him in open-mouthed, sleep-dishevelled wonder. “The weird thing is,” he said, reaching to stroke the dark head, “that you used to. Care, that is, about all these creeps and villains. You’d bust them, but then you’d come home and tell me how this one never stood a chance with the family he’d had, or this other one was an addict or never got sent to school, or this one was abused himself and was passing it on.”

  Gideon sighed, blowing out his cheeks thoughtfully. “Yeah, I suppose I did. Not much point to it, though, was there?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t sneak into Bodmin jail at night and let any of ’em go. But you did make recommendations for their custody, for rehab and psychiatry if you thought that would help.”

  “I still do most of those things. You’re right, though—I don’t care, not the way I used to.” He laid one hand to each of Lee’s knees, carefully, as if weighing up pros and cons. Then he ran both palms warmly up his thighs. “There’s just so much to do, love. I’m getting cases wrapped up faster than I ever did before. I’ve got so much energy, and I feel clearer somehow, less distracted. Let me be that kind of man for you.”

  Lee was losing track. The breeze was rustling in the apple leaves overhead. He was in his life’s brief summer, and the air was sweet. “What kind?”

  “The kind who doesn’t worry too much. Who takes care of everything while you rest.”

  What a dream. Who ever got to hear that, in a world that demanded everything twice over from most families, then asked for the cherry on top? Gid was watching him, the picture of health and contentment, all brightness and bounce and readiness to pounce. Lee gave it up. “All

  right, Sergeant. What’s on the menu today?”

  Gideon grinned in unashamed anticipation. “Don’t you mean who? Some nice juicy morsels for starters. Members of Kernow Glan Nowydh, will you believe, setting up shop in Bodmin. So far they’re all about sticking flyers on lampposts and telling anyone with a tan that they have to fuck off home now, but if they’re modelling themselves on the original movement, we have to keep an eye on ’em. New Cornish Purity, my arse.”

  Lee sketched him a salute. “Go get ’em, copper.”

  “Then I’m on my beat for the rest of the afternoon unless I get called up to Pendethy. I tell you what I will do at lunchtime—I’ll swing by Liskeard and see Rufus
Pendower. I’ve been meaning to.”

  “Yes. Do. Wait, though—he’s not one of the morsels, is he?”

  “No, not at all. I know we kid around, but I’m worried about him. One of my mates in the Devon squad says he’s been missing work. I’ll be nice.”

  “Course you will.” Lee sat back a little. He was in no place to lecture Gid about caring. He should’ve gone to see Rufus himself, straight away after their encounter at Beaumont Hall. He should offer to join Gid in Liskeard. Sleepy arousal swept through him instead. “Did we ever do it this way before?”

  Gid’s eyebrows flew up. “I, er... don’t think so. Over the table and under it, but not with you sitting there.” He gave it thought. “I could suck you off something beautiful. You’d have to scoot back a bit, though. Mind out for splinters.”

  Lee obeyed. His cock was stirring. In the space between beginning and completion, erection and orgasm, he would be safe, his mind full of windblown apple blossom and stars. He’d been hiding there for weeks, he suddenly understood: since the solstice full moon, in deep trenches of sleep, between the waves of pleasure Gideon could pull from his flesh. “No,” he whispered, and Gid, who’d been leaning in, glanced up enquiringly. “No. I’m sorry, love. I know I started it, but...”

  Gideon surged off the bench. He scrambled onto the table top with Lee, almost knocking him off the end of it with the force of his tackle-hug. “What does it matter who started it?” he demanded. “You can say no at the top of the craziest fuck we ever had. Mid-flight. Anytime. Christ, Lee—you do know that, don’t you?”

  What a question! For six years, Lee had known that his slightest word and smallest twitch of discomfort would halt Gid in his tracks. He could have said no in the light of the full solstice moon and stopped the avalanche, he was almost completely sure. “Course I know. I’m sorry to stop you, that’s all. But you’ve shagged me out, big man. Gonna have to let the wells fill before we go for another round.”

  He huddled into Gideon’s arms. He was suddenly cold despite the sun. He didn’t want his lover to know, but Gid gathered him up with the irresistible warm strength that seemed to be summoned by such changes, the answer to unexpressed need. Lee rubbed his cheek against the broad, fine-skinned shoulder. Baulked of arousal, all his body wanted now was to shut down into sleep, and he fought the reaction unwillingly, swimming against the tide. Gideon’s morning scent, soap and clean moorland air and the tiny, subtle, thrilling undercurrent that marked him out as himself, pure Gid, wrapped Lee round like a cloak. “You’d better go,” he whispered, half-hoping he wouldn’t be heard. “You’ll be late.”

  “In a minute.” A chuckle shook the big frame. “Oh, wait. Are we getting there?”

  “Where?”

  “You know.”

  Lee did. He was charmed that Gid found it charming, a goal to be aimed for in their marriage: the time when sex dropped down their list of priorities, when one or the other or both of them would be too worn out to get it up, or do anything with it if they did. Lee loved the idea too, for his own reasons. If he and Gid ever got to that stage, they must have had time together—acres of time, buckets and rivers and truckloads, time enough to wallow in and run like precious gold dust between their hands. “I think we have to be indoors for that,” he said, making sure to keep his tone light as Gid’s mood. “Outside on a picnic bench is a bit too sexy.”

  “Oh, right. That’s it. We have to be falling asleep on the couch in front of the TV.”

  “That’s it. Right pair of old farts. Oh, I want that, Gid.”

  “We’ll have it.” Gideon held him fiercely. “We’ll have every minute of it, I swear.”

  “Go on, then. You’d better keep earning your fat police pension. My ghosts and monsters aren’t gonna keep us in our ripe old age.” Lee swiped a slap at Gid’s backside, let go of him and reluctantly released himself. “Fresh uniform’s on the back of the bedroom door. Get lost.”

  He watched him stride off across the lawn. He left something in the air behind him—a trace of that scent, perhaps, or just a warm vibration, but Lee seldom felt wholly alone when he was anywhere on the premises, as if he could turn the whole house, the very air, into an extension of his embrace.

  Lee closed his eyes, considering this. Before he could formulate any coherent thoughts on the subject, the man himself was back anyway, smartly kitted out from cap to boots and on the run. He took the steps from the French doors to the garden in one leap. “It’s all off,” he yelled, waving a hand at Lee as if trying to flag him down and heading towards him at a jog. “All off. Forget it. I looked at the calendar. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “We do?”

  “We do. I forgot. It’s your appointment day.”

  Lee blinked at him. Dentist? The car’s MOT? It took him long seconds to grasp at the answer, and when he did he broke into laughter. “Oh, what—my brain scan? That doesn’t matter.”

  Gideon crunched to a halt by the bench. He put his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels, the very picture of an outraged village bobby. “It bloody does, you know. We missed your last two.”

  “Yeah, I know. But everything was all right, wasn’t it? This one will be fine as well. I’ll go along on my own.”

  “No way. Part of my conjugal duty, this kind of thing is.”

  “Oh, you’re more than paid up on your conjugals, handsome. Look, it’s completely routine. I’d way rather think of you knocking Kernow Glan’s crew-cut little wooden-top heads together than waiting round in corridors with me. A much better use of your time. Besides, you couldn’t get the time off at this short notice.”

  “Bugger that. Let ’em fire me.” These words out, Gid appeared to reflect on them, and perhaps upon the pension, too, and the practicalities behind the dream of growing old with the man he loved. He pushed his cap a little way back off his brow. “Having said that, I might have a bit of a struggle to swing it past Lawrence. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “On my heart.” He traced two short lines on his own chest, and then two upon Gideon’s, just over the blue police badge on his utility vest. “There. A St Piran’s cross to seal it for both of us. I swear.”

  ***

  The Kernow Glan interviews turned out to be the easiest part of Gideon’s day. The worst of the bad old lot had gone down with John Tregear, part and parcel of the fantastically damning mobile phone that had been posted to Bodmin HQ in the wake of the Falmouth bombing. Attempted bombing, Gideon corrected himself with a surge of satisfaction, revving the police truck and peeling away off the Twelvewoods roundabout towards Liskeard. If he’d remained becomingly modest around Lee, his boss, the press and even Her Majesty, when that lady had stepped forward to present him with his medal, that didn’t mean he wasn’t blisteringly proud. Or not even proud, exactly—just happy, in a hot, enduring way he’d never experienced before. A detonation in the Pride parade would have killed dozens, maimed dozens more. People were alive and whole today because of him. His heart rose in his chest. He’d growled and glared at this new bunch, the ones calling themselves Nowydh, across the interview tables, and they’d crumbled and given one another up with frantic enthusiasm.

  Villains weren’t what they’d used to be. At least the likes of Bill Prowse and Tregear would’ve put up a fight. They’d been sure of their hatreds, bitter and unashamed. The new ones swung like compass needles in a magnet factory, confusing their racism with homophobia, refusing to understand that the Brexit they’d voted for wouldn’t prevent the appearance in their streets and pubs of the brown and black faces they despised. How far do you think Europe goes, Gid had demanded wearily on the fourth or fifth futile go-around, attempting to reason. The Middle East? Africa? Their goals were stupid and small, a grab at imaginary spoils: jobs they couldn’t do, money they hadn’t earned. John Tregear’s rage would’ve set the whole planet on fire. Christ only knew how Dev Bowe had managed to kill him.
/>
  Gideon’s world jolted on its axis. He missed the junction with Lanchard Lane, and only just braked down in time for the twenty zone in the town centre. His enjoyment of the day and himself flew out of the Rover’s windows like birds from a cage. He swallowed hard, grabbed at the wheel with suddenly sweat-damped hands. Something somewhere was terribly wrong. In Gideon’s world his fears always began in the same place—well, two places now, two beloved epicentres, and he took the next right, doubled back and pulled over in the nearest available space.

  He got a loving earful from Lee, who’d almost managed to parallel-park in a tight spot outside the hospital until distracted by the buzzing of his phone. He was fine. Tamsyn was fine too, as Zeke’s texted photo confirmed, grinning with her cousins over their haul of ammonites and shells. Gideon hung up smiling, shivering slightly with relief. His fit of the horrors ebbed, probably nothing more than a touch of indigestion anyway. Inwardly vowing to quit his new habit of roadside-caff lunches, he looked around him.

  By luck, he’d stopped more or less outside Pendower’s house. He and Lee had been here several times before, for awkward, well-intended dinners with Rufus and Daisy. The neatly paved drive was the same, the little brick wall and the gate.

  Everything else looked wrong. The lawn was overgrown and starred with dandelions. Orange geraniums—ugly customers at the best of times, but a favourite of Daisy’s—had collapsed and were lolling over the sides of their pot by the front door. Someone had pulled the curtains at random across the windows, a kind of half-measure that would do for night or day.