Next Of Kin (Unnatural Selection #3) (9 page)

I showered and
went to bed, as I hoped we would be leaving immediately after
breakfast in the morning. Gabriel puttered about but went to bed
not long after I did.

The mattress
was comfortable, the room quiet, and I was worn out. But I couldn’t
sleep, a problem I’d had for weeks now. I gave it an hour, then got
up, fetched one of the beers, and went back onto the balcony. The
air was still warm and humid, the city lights twinkling
prettily.

Nick would
have loved it. I swore that when—not if—I found him, and if he
still wanted to be with me, we would come back here properly, wash
bad memories away.

But that
assumed two things. That Nick was still alive. That Nick still
loved me. Wanting them desperately to be true, didn’t make it so.
My only, best hope was the craziness of the whole narrative. None
of it made sense, either in parts or as a whole. Was that only
because I was missing so much information about the story? Or
because someone was leading me around by the nose, trying to make
me believe the impossible?

And who was
that someone? Was it Nick himself? Was it someone who had Nick in
their control?

The picture
shifted every time I tilted it. One second it was a straightforward
relationship breakdown, the next a mad, paranoid fantasy that Ian
Fleming would have scorned as unrealistic.

If it wasn’t
so late, I would call Karl because he had a way of laying things
out calmly that didn’t necessarily make them better, but at least
they felt more manageable. The best I could do was talk to my inner
Karl and ask him to shuffle my thoughts into a less circular
pattern.

It took
a couple of hours and another beer, but inner Karl finally did as
much as I could hope for. Beer consumed, I used the loo, and hoped
my bed would seduce my tired body into some kind of rest.
Eventually, it did.

~~~~~

“A French
tourist found this wallet on the ground in an alley yesterday. The
shirt was a little distance from it, balled up. The ground was
soaked in what is estimated to be one litre of blood, type O
negative. Do you recognize the shirt or wallet?”

Both the
wallet and shirt were drenched in blood. I didn’t want to touch
either, even wrapped in plastic evidence bags. I nodded. “The
wallet...was a gift. An anniversary gift. I don’t recognize the
shirt.”

“And these
things were inside the wallet. This business card is yours?”

“Yes. That’s
Nick’s driver’s license, and his police ID. He...uh...is type O
negative. Is it his blood?”

I
nspector
Ferreira
’s hard gaze held no
sympathy. “We don’t know yet. Once we extract the DNA, we will have
to match against a sample provided by the British police. Do you
have anything with you we can use? A hairbrush, perhaps?” I shook
my head. “You didn’t know your partner was in Brazil?”

“Not until a
few days ago. I’ve been looking for him.”

I
described, with help from Gabriel and Paul Reynolds, the weeks of
searching for Nick and how little we had found until I discovered
the credit card transactions in Rio. The inspector showed little
interest, and appeared to find my conjectures about a stand-in,
amateurish and of no importance to the case in hand. The only thing
he found useful I’d passed on the previous day.

“Oh, and one
more thing that is odd. He’s ISH-positive.” The inspector gave me a
blank look. “A vee.” I pointed to my canine teeth. Gabriel
explained a little further.

“What of
it?”

“Well,
he has a very limited diet. He can drink certain things, eat a very
limited number of foods, but he
must
have haem replacement fluid to survive. The hotel said he
checked in with a single small pack and no other luggage. HRF is
reasonably bulky, so if he didn’t bring it, he had to obtain it
while he was staying there. He ordered no food or drink while
staying there. We asked the local
drogaria
—he didn’t buy any there either.”

“So he bought
it somewhere else. Now—”

“And the other
thing....”

The
inspector exhaled in exasperation. “Yes?”

“He can drink
coffee but he doesn’t like it. He drinks tea exclusively at home.
But several places we visited said he had ordered coffee. Never
tea.”

The
inspector sighed. “On vacation, people’s habits change,
Senhor
Marber. Our coffee is the best
in the world, after all. Now, to confirm—you have had no actual
contact with him at all?”

“Nothing
except that one text message. Inspector, what do you think has
happened?”

He
glanced at Reynolds before answering. “It’s difficult to say. If
the blood is
Senhor
Guthrie’s, then he must have suffered a very severe
wound.”

“Fatal?”

“Not
definitely. There is a gash in the shirt which appears to be made
by a knife, and there is no money in the wallet. It could be a
simple robbery gone wrong.”

Gabriel
asked the inspector something, and the man answered somewhat
impatiently, Paul translating word for word as he had done from the
start. “Yes, it could be an attack because he was gay.” The
inspector had actually used the word ‘
viado
’ which I knew not to be a very nice word for
homosexuals. I chose to pretend I didn’t know that.

“But where is
he? Or his body?”

“We
believe that the victim may have been put in a vehicle, as the
trail of blood stops very suddenly. We are still investigating
this. However, we simply needed you to verify that these are
Senhor
Guthrie’s possessions. Unless
you have further information regarding his whereabouts or
movements, then I will have to ask you to be patient until our
investigations bear fruit.”

“How
long?”

The
inspector rolled his eyes before composing his face in a more
tactful expression. “
Senhor
Marber, there are many things we have to work on in this
case, and we have many cases. I suggest you return to England,
and
Senhor
Reynolds
can keep you informed. For now, I thank you for your help and bid
you good day.”

I let
Paul guide me out of the room. Gabriel was fuming.
“
Filho da
puta!
Why did he have to
be so rude?”

“Leave
it be, Gabriel,” I said. “Paul, are they taking this seriously? Or
is he just another dead gay man to them?”

“They’re
taking it as seriously as they would any other case involving a
foreigner. Whether that’s enough, I don’t know. He’s right
though—you should go home. There’s nothing you can do here, and you
could just get in the way.”

“How am I in
the way when I’ve just given them more than twice the information
they already had?”

He held
up his hands. “I’m sorry, Anton. You’ve been very helpful, of
course, and I’m sure Inspector
Ferreira
realizes that. But what can you do now? We don’t
even know the blood is Nick’s.”

“And if it
isn’t? The victim had his wallet.”

“Which he
could have stolen.”

“So where is
Nick?”

“I don’t know.
But is there anything you can do here but not back in England? You
can track his bank activities and so on back there. The police have
his photo, and the name and description of the man he was
travelling with—”

“Gregorio Goncalves,” I said, unable to resist the
temptation.

“Yes. A
Portuguese citizen. I understand he entered the country four days
ago.”

“And where is
he?”

“Anton, be
reasonable. You’ve given the police a great clue to follow up. Let
them do their job.”

“Can’t
Scotland Yard take an interest?”

“Not
until they’re asked. Of course I’ll keep the relevant parties
informed of progress here. You too, naturally. But you can’t do any
more. Look, I’ve seen families beggar themselves hanging around in
a foreign country waiting for investigations to resolve. Don’t do
that to yourself. If Nick, God forbid, has been murdered, you can’t
help him. If he’s alive, then he’ll emerge somewhere, and you’re
more likely to discover that first than anyone else.”

“His
passport will be on a watch list?”

“Yes, and his
name will be flagged at car hire venues and so on. No one can exist
without leaving a trace. Even if he faked his own death—”

“He wouldn’t
do that. There’s no reason for him to.”

“All
right. I’m only saying that even those people who do, are usually
eventually found.”

He was talking
perfect sense, and I’d promised myself to act sensibly. “All right.
I want to stay a couple of days just to make sure the police have
all they need. I have to arrange my flights and so on anyway.”

“I understand.
And I’m available for you to call if you need any help or
information.”

~~~~~

Two days later
Gabriel drove me back to Rio to catch my flight. He’d offered to
pay back the money I sent him to retain his assistance, but I
refused. “Then I will be at your service here if you need it, any
time.”

“Thanks.
You’ve been a good friend, Gabriel. Not much fun for you.”

“It has been
exciting, but sad. I wish you had had better fortune.”

So did
I. The police had made no more progress by the time I left Beagá,
not that I’d expected them to. I’d called Nick’s father to give him
the bad news, which he took stoically. I thought it was almost as
if he’d expected it. On my instructions, Andy had already retrieved
Nick’s hair and toothbrushes from the house to collect DNA from. I
didn’t want the Brazilians to have the slightest excuse for delay.
Until we knew whose blood was in that alley, I couldn’t make any
decisions about what to do next.

At the
airport, Gabriel hugged me, and his eyes were red as he said
goodbye. “I wish I knew you would be coming back here with
Nick.”

“Me
too.” I swallowed against the lump in my throat.
“
Obrigado.
Muito obrigado, meu amigo
.”

“'Good
luck, Anton. I hope you find him soon.
Força
!”

I shook his
hand and he hugged me again. I waved as he headed back to the car,
and resisted the temptation to call him back and tell him I had
changed my mind. I had reasons to go back home. Staying would be
pure self-indulgence, and of no use to anyone. Not even me.

My first four
days back in London could only be described as ‘bloody’. Calls to
Nick’s family, calls to my family, calls to his snotty boss, and
back and forths with the police and the Foreign office, providing
information, paperwork, and trying to get answers, the tiniest hint
that Nick’s whereabouts were known one way or another.

But once
the shock, the phone calls, and the raw worry had subsided a
little, I was left twiddling my thumbs. George Adeyemi said their
investigation would have to be suspended given the involvement of
the police, and that considering they hadn’t found Nick, there
would be no charge for the search. I felt a little guilty about
that, but the Brazil expedition hadn’t been cheap. I’d have been
happy to pay George’s bill, but was glad not to have to.

I could have
cancelled my leave, but I didn’t feel I could give work the
attention it deserved. Prof Carter had suggested I take more than
three weeks if I needed it. I’d be out of my mind with boredom and
anxiety if I didn’t return to some semblance of a normal existence
in three weeks’ time.

Andy did
give me one piece of interesting information though it wasn’t much
help. ‘Gregorio Goncalves’ was a fake identity, which supported my
theory that Nick’s disappearance was more than it seemed, and the
police’s conjecture that he was behind the suspected attack on
Nick—or whoever it was—in Bélo Horizonte. But ‘Gregorio’s’ identity
and location were as yet unknown, though Interpol were helping
trace his photo. Andy said the British police were looking at the
‘missing person’ aspect since they couldn’t interfere with the
Brazilian investigation. I didn’t care how they fudged it, so long
as they chased whatever leads they had.

A week after I
flew back from Rio, the other boot dropped. Paul Reynolds called
direct from Brazil, rather than allowing the local liaison to
handle it.

“It’s Nick’s
blood, Anton. No doubt about it.”

I clutched the
phone hard. “But no body.”

“No body.
Nothing else has changed. He could still be alive.”

“Only he’s
missing a litre of blood.”

“It doesn’t
look good. You know that. But nothing else has changed. So...you
need to be prepared for bad news, but there’s nothing to say he’s
not alive somewhere.”

“I
understand.”

“I’m sorry,
Anton.”

“No...no, it’s
good news. I mean, that we know.”

“Yes. Do you
have support?”

“I’m fine. I
appreciate you calling.”

“It’s the
least I can do. I’ll let you know if there are any developments,
the second I hear.”

“Thank
you.”

I bit my
lip after Paul hung up, and made a decision. I was damn tired of
being led around by the nose. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble
to make me think my husband was gone.

Well,
bugger that. I hadn’t lost him to a serial killer or a murderous
stalker. I wasn’t going to lose him to some stupid head
game.

Time for a
council of war.