Next Of Kin (Unnatural Selection #3) (12 page)

Andy’s call
woke me the next morning, even though he didn’t ring that early.
I’d worked through until dawn, listing all the clinics I could find
and all the staff listed. I had found ten with possible Brazil
connections based on names, biography or training, though the
connections were pretty tenuous. I planned to dig more when I had
some sleep.

I yawned and
half-swallowed the “Anton Marber?” with which I answered the
phone.

“Having a
lie-in, Anton?”

“Not exactly.
Tell me about these two vees.”

“I don’t know
what went on with one of them, but the coroner returned an open
verdict. That was only last week, in fact. The other is definitely
dodgy. Three months ago, he drove himself near to Severn Bridge and
disappeared, leaving his car behind but no note.”

“Beth said it
was a presumed suicide.”

“Yeah. Only
because the bridge is famous for it. The guy had no history of
depression, wasn’t in financial difficulties and there were no
marriage problems. Thing is, I think someone might have read about
the disappearance of a musician called Richey Edwards around twenty
years ago and decided to be a copycat.”

“Never heard
of him.”

“Manic Street
Preachers?”

“Sorry—before
my time.”

“Well, anyway,
the body was never found, but he was declared dead thirteen years
after he disappeared.”

“You think
it’s fake?”

“I think the
coincidence with the Edwards case, and the fact he’s a vee like
Nick who’s also missing with someone wanting us to believe he’s
dead, is too much to ignore. It could be a faked death but there’s
no motive. No insurance policy to pay out, and like I said, no
obvious problems to escape.”

“Tell me about
the other one. Another man?”

“Yeah. Weird
case, but this time there was definitely a body. Man driving back
to his home near Woking ends up in a burning car about a mile from
his house. He was definitely dead before the fire started, and the
fire was definitely arson, but the coroner couldn’t determine how
the man died. He had no enemies, lived alone and was a very quiet,
law-abiding person.”

“
What’s your gut feeling?”

“I think it
has to be connected to Nick and the other guy.”

“Here’s
something else.” I told him what Michel had told us. “Harry’s going
to chase down any rumours of clinics here using ISH. I’ve made a
list of clinics and I have a list of possible connections to
Brazil.”

“Good work,
Anton. I’ll pass that on to the team investigating Nick’s
disappearance.”

“Uh...any luck
with ‘Gregorio’?”

“Not a fucking
thing. Interpol haven’t got the smallest lead. He’s just not in the
system at all.”

“That’s weird,
don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I do.
Anyway, you probably want some more sleep.”

On cue, I
yawned again. “Probably. I’m supposed to be doing some work-work
too. I have to go to Milton Keynes tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you
go then. Keep your chin up.”

I couldn’t go
back to sleep after that. I went downstairs, put on the
coffeemaker, and opened up the laptop while the coffee was brewing.
Three mysterious disappearances and a death from the same small
group of people in a short period couldn’t be coincidence. That one
of those three cases was a definite death didn’t exactly cheer me
up. Now I wished I’d asked Andy exactly when those cases had
occurred. But the fire death would have been in the news,
surely.

It was, and I
now had a name for all the good it did me. Murray Norwood, aged
fifty, found dead in his blazing car off a quiet country lane five
months ago. Severn Bridge man went missing three months ago, Andy
said. Nick went missing two and a half month ago. So there was a
two-month gap between the first and second cases, and only a couple
of weeks between the second and third.

I stared at my
laptop screen, trying to work out if that meant anything. What if
Charlotte had been right, only about the wrong person? What if
Murray Norwood’s death was a kidnapping that had gone horribly
wrong, and the arson was to cover their tracks? The longer gap
could have been while the people behind this rethought their
tactics.

I looked up
this Richey Edwards case that Andy had mentioned, and immediately
saw what he meant. The details of the two disappearances were
eerily similar, except Edwards had a history of serious depression,
and the second disappeared vee didn’t. Edwards was almost certainly
dead. To an experienced police officer like Andy, the vee story
didn’t pass the smell test.

Someone wanted
the world to believe that two otherwise unconnected vees had either
been murdered or killed themselves. Oscar Wilde might have said
that to lose one early adopter vee was unfortunate, but losing two
was carelessness. And losing three? Either it was another serial
killer or someone was trying to collect a set.

I spent three
hours playing creepy stalker with the personnel listed as connected
to the longitudinal study on its website. I chased down every bit
of available information I could find on the internet for them, but
not one had the smallest connection with Brazil or with cosmetic
surgery. All the researchers were either solidly respectable
medical professionals, or young post-grads with impressive CVs.

Frustrated by
the lack of clues, I wanted to examine the cosmetic surgery doctors
I had flagged as potentials in more detail. But I was also guiltily
aware that I was way behind on my paying job. I compromised by
emailing the list to Harry with the information Andy had given me,
then forcing myself to attend to the agenda for the staff meeting
the next day, and an urgent grant application.

Maybe it was
the fatigue, maybe it was emotional exhaustion, but for the first
time since I’d started work at the OU, I found myself unable to
give a shit about the meeting or the grant. I loved my job. If I
lost my enjoyment for it on top of losing Nick, there would be very
little left for me. Research, sure, and Karl at least pretended he
wanted me to continue our collaborations. But being an educator and
being Nick’s husband, were my two proudest achievements. Was I
going to lose both?

It was
the lack of sleep doing this to me. Not just one lost night, but
weeks of them. I could try to deal with that, at least. I found the
store of sleeping pills that I had ignored quite deliberately for
weeks, and took the recommended dose. I needed to be sensible about
this. I could worry about becoming addicted to sleeping pills, or I
could worry about Nick and do my job. I couldn’t do both.
When
Nick came home, I’d deal with
any addictions and bad habits I’d picked up then.

The pills
worked, and next morning the worst of the depression had
disappeared with the tiredness. I reread my notes for the meeting
as I travelled to King’s Cross to catch the train, and they seemed
modestly coherent—a minor miracle under the circumstances. After
today, I had a two-week break from attending the campus in Milton
Keynes. If I managed to get more sleep, I should be able to catch
up with my OU work and still investigate the new lines of
enquiry.

My mobile
rang. It was Andy.

“Hi. Have you
got more news?” I asked.

“Uh...not good
news, unfortunately.”

“They’ve found
Nick? His body?”

“Hell, nothing
like that. I didn’t mean to frighten you. No, it’s the missing
persons investigation. I passed on what you’d told me, made the
links with the study, and they said they’d already looked at the
study when Gordon Dangerfield disappeared.”

“That’s the
fellow at the bridge?”

“Yeah. They
said there’s nothing suspect about the personnel there, and it’s
just an awful coincidence.”

“But the ISH
thing?”

“Same
problem. Nothing to link anyone in Britain with what’s going on in
Brazil, and nothing to link it to the study group. They said they’d
look at anything I could give them that
did
link it. Or if there was a link between the three
vees at least. They can’t apply for a warrant just on a theory that
has no factual basis.”

“I thought you
said they were putting in a special effort because Nick’s a
cop.”

“They are.
They just need something to tie it all together.”

“Why don’t
they look for it?”

“Because they
don’t have the manpower to chase down every possibility based on
your gut instinct, Anton. It’s not like television. We don’t have
officers sitting around working on a single case and spending days
and days following up every idea that pops into their heads.”

“So Nick can
rot, is that what you’re saying? Because the Met can’t be
bothered?”

“Maybe I
should call you back later. I’ve got to go.” He hung up.

I shoved my
phone back in my coat with a growl. The police had bloody databases
and computers now. I’d have thought they could look up reports of
illegal ISH treatment or something like that. Had anyone even
bothered to check if there were vees missing in other parts of the
country? What about Europe?

I was nearly
at Milton Keynes and so I could do nothing but fume. I did my best
to respond politely to people wishing me well after my three-week
break, and asking after my health and for news of Nick, but my
thoughts kept drifting during the meeting. My contribution was far
from stellar. When Prof Carter wondered if I had time to chat, I
knew what he wanted to talk about. I tried a pre-emptive
apology.

“Prof, I’m
sorry. I had some unhelpful news on the train about the
investigation into Nick’s disappearance.”

“Yes, I
thought something of that sort had happened. Anton, why are you
back at work?”

“My leave is
over, Prof.”

“But your
spouse is still missing, and you’re clearly not capable of
attending to other matters.”

“He could
remain missing for a long time. I don’t want to lose my job
too.”

“I’m not
suggesting in the least you should. You’re a valued member of this
department. I want to help you manage this situation. I don’t want
to lose you.”

“Oh. I’m
sorry.” He shook his head at me with a smile as if to wonder how I
could be so stupid. “What do you suggest?”

We discussed
the things that took up most of my time—grant applications—and
while these couldn’t be dropped entirely, he offered to make help
available to write them. He suggested I skip the departmental
meetings for the next month at least, and longer if I felt I needed
it. My graduate students were fortunately mature and independent
souls, and bedded in well with their research projects. Prof Carter
said he would offer guidance in the first instance if they needed
it, and call me in if necessary. One was writing his thesis to
defend in the New Year. Prof Carter said he would help him with
that and I could take over when I was able.

“Now, will
that be enough, do you think?”

“I hope so.
I’m very grateful. I’m sorry—”

“Never mind
the apologies, Anton. I can imagine how stressful this must be for
you. Now I suggest you talk to your students and let them know what
we’ve discussed, and see if there’s anything we haven’t foreseen.
Then go home and deal with this latest business. I take it that
there has been no positive development.”

“Unfortunately, no. But there haven’t been any negative ones
either. The absence of bad news is good news.”

“Yes, I
imagine it is. I’ll talk to you later this week about that
application.”

Three hours
later I was calmer and more rational. Amazing how being around calm
and rational adults will do that for you. Now I realised I had been
an utter prat to Andy who wasn’t responsible for Met policy or the
decisions of another team. I needed to call him and apologise.

But I had
barely settled in my seat on the train when my mobile rang. “Hello,
Harry. Listen about that list—”

“Forget the
list, Anton. I’ve got the name of a clinic that’s offering ISH
treatment here. Heartwell Medical Centre in Braintree.”

“Are you
sure?”

“I spoke to
someone whose sister-in-law had ISH treatment with them. And it was
definitely for cosmetic reasons.”

“That’s
fantastic. Is that person willing to talk to the police?”

“God no. They
only spoke to me on the basis that it was all off the record.”

“Bugger.
Still, now I’ve got a name. Andy said the Met investigators didn’t
think there was a link between the vees and the cosmetic treatment
angle. We're going to have to do the work for them.”

“Not
surprised. Heartwell’s director runs a number of clinics—including
one in Brazil. One that offers ISH there too.”

“That’s the
one! I don’t suppose he’s called ‘Gregorio Goncalves’.”

“Nope. He’s a
Brit called Henry Burton. But he’s married to a Brazilian woman.
I’m digging as much on the two of them as I can.”

“This is
brilliant. If we can just get a link between Burton’s outfit and
someone working on that study....”

“It’s possible
there isn’t one. If the data was obtained without their
cooperation, I mean.”

“We have to
get the police to look at it again. Find out if there’s been a
break-in. But Andy said they already looked at the study and found
nothing suspicious.”

“Maybe they
didn’t look in the right place.”

“Maybe. I’ll
call Andy now. Keep going, Harry.”

I resisted the
temptation to punch the air or bounce up and down on the chair like
an overexcited toddler, but damn it. Our first real break!

I called Andy.
He picked up on the first ring. “Andy, it’s Anton. Listen, I’m
sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t worry
about it. I’m as frustrated as you are.”