Trials, Temptation and Triumph - Ch 12.4 (Charlie/Shark, NC-17)
In which Rory has a very, very, very bad day.
For introduction and warnings go here
12.4 Between Scylla and Charybdis
Monday 23rd August 2004 1:30 am
Rory sat up, sweaty and feeling sick. He hadn't woken Charlie this time though, that was something.
Another nightmare. What the fuck was wrong with him, that he should start having nightmares all of a sudden? He never had nightmares, not since he'd left Glasgow, but he'd had several in the past few weeks -- ever since Charlie had told him about the offer from the record company. It had to be connected, even if the nightmares weren't always about Charlie.
This one ... of all the nightmares, this had been the worst. Charlie had been trapped in a room that was filling with water. He was drowning, and looking out of a tiny window. Rory had shouted and shouted, but Charlie couldn't hear him -- he'd just looked sad, as if he were saying goodbye.
Rory was scared and he was frightened, no matter how hard it was to admit, even to himself. He couldn't just dismiss it as a coincidence; it all had to be connected. There was something very bad about this proposed record deal with the band, something that boded ill for all of them, but especially for Charlie. He couldn't let it happen -- he couldn't stand by and let Charlie sacrifice everything he'd worked for over the last couple of years.
He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to ease the discomfort there. Indigestion again. He'd had a lot of it over the last couple of weeks; it seemed to have started at the same time as the nightmares. He hoped it wasn't anything more than indigestion. He refused to think that it might be anything else. He was only 32, for heaven's sake; it couldn't possibly be a heart attack.
He got up and went to the toilet. Relieving the pressure on his bladder seemed to help, and so did going downstairs for a small glass of whisky. He sat in the dark and looked out of the living room window into the night as he drank a second glass. It wasn't really dark out there at all, with all the lights around the apartment block and on the streets, and the clouds reflecting a dull, sickly orange back to the ground. It was more gloomy than romantic; more ominous than beautiful.
It didn't take long for his thoughts to return to the factor that had been disturbing him for the last few days. He was worried about Charlie. More specifically, he was worried that Charlie was again actively pushing for a band reunion. The disappointment of the initial offer had faded, and now Charlie seemed to be focussing on the insubstantial positives that Jason Sanderson had been pushing -- money, publicity and fame. The canny bastard had even offered support for their solo projects, once he'd learned of them. That was the hook that had pulled Sinjin in, and Pat and Charlie had followed.
Rory was very afraid that Liam, now the last hold-out, would change his mind, and then the whole wretched business would start again. Concerts, recordings, photo sessions and promotional appearances: all of them would combine to take Charlie away from him. How long would it take before they were all back on drugs again? Liam was clean now, as far as he knew, but Sinjin was still using, and Rory had no confidence at all in either Charlie or Liam remaining drug-free once the circus started again, as he'd told Charlie several times.
He sat and brooded for nearly an hour before dragging himself to his feet. The pain in his chest had eased and he didn't want to fall asleep down here when he could be next to Charlie. It was going to be a difficult week as it was, and he needed to feel his lover close to him.
He went back upstairs and slid softly into bed. Charlie mumbled something indistinct as the bed moved, but didn't wake. Rory lay on his side and watched his lover sleeping, until sleep overtook him in turn.
~~~~~
When the alarm went off at seven he groaned, and nearly pulled the sheet over his head. He really didn't feel like going to work today; he hadn't slept much at all and felt distinctly weary. He had to get up though -- Charlie needed his methadone, and work needed supervising and clients needed to have money collected from them or his da would be on his back again.
Later, as he made his way up from the garage to his office, he gave serious consideration to chucking in the whole loan-sharking business and telling his father to go fuck himself. It was getting ridiculous, all that menace and bluster to get money out of people who were on the skids anyway ... so much effort for a tenner here or twenty quid there. It was tiresome and irritating and he had lost any thrill he got out of bullying people a long, long time ago. He got far more satisfaction from talking a company into accepting a contract that would give him a clear twenty or thirty percent profit, measured in hundreds or thousands of pounds. He had coasted for a week on the thrill of restructuring so that he'd halved their tax liability. With every year that passed, he found the fat cats of industry and government were far more worthy opponents than the poor and oppressed. And it didn't mean he was losing his edge, he was just picking better targets. Where was the glory in bullying some worn-out loser in an anorak when he could get the better of someone in a bespoke suit?
He was fairly sure that Chris felt the same way, too, although they had never discussed it. Ken was the only one who really enjoyed the strong-arm stuff, but Rory knew better than to let Ken out unsupervised -- the idiot would lean too hard on someone and bring the fuzz down on them like hounds on a fox.
He opened the office door to find Chris there already. That wasn't much of a surprise, since Chris was there before Rory most days, even before Charlie had started his methadone programme. What was somewhat surprising was Chris's expression, which was darker and more menacing that Rory had seen in a long time.
"What's up?" he asked as he closed the door behind him.
"That eejit Hanley."
Rory closed his eyes. This, he did not need, not today. "Don't tell me he hasn't finished the tender yet?"
"Oh, he's finished it, all right. He put it in the post at seven yesterday evening."
"What?" He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "The fucking cretin! Didn't you tell him it was due today?"
"I did. And I told him last week he'd have to courier it to us."
"Fuck. Did he at least keep a copy?"
"Aye, he says he has it all on his computer."
"Right. Take Ken, go to his office, and stand over him while he prints it out again. I also want a disc with all the files. Get back here as soon as you can, I need to read it through before we drop it in."
"It's going to be tight, boss. And we need three copies, bound."
"I know. Fuck." He took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest. Maybe he was getting an ulcer -- he'd read somewhere that ulcers could give you chest pain. "Get back here as soon as you can. Once I've checked them over we can get them bound at Staples."
"Aye."
"What have I got this morning?"
"Nothing much. I'll cancel the meeting with Walter this afternoon - it was nothing urgent, anyway."
"Good."
Rory strode into his office and sat down, opening up the laptop and logging in automatically. There was nothing in his email that needed attention, for which he was grateful. His mind was still churning. He wanted that contract, dammit.
The contract was for a three-year cleaning and maintenance contract for the Territorial Army Centre. It was an attractive opportunity, not least because it would replace a school cleaning contract that was due to expire soon. All his cleaners hated working the schools, and he'd had steadily increasing problems with complaints and absenteeism over the preceding months. The army centre would bring its own problems, of course, but the relative absence of chewing gum was seen as a major bonus.
Unfortunately, drafting the tender had proved a little more difficult than he had anticipated. Ministry of Defence tenders had to be organised and formatted in a specific way, one that Rory and Chris hadn't been familiar with. Hanley's accounting firm had handled a lot of local MOD contracts and Hanley had assured Rory that they could take his figures and put them into the correct format much faster than he could, saving them time and money. Rory had had some misgivings -- he hated providing any information to an outsider -- but time had been short and he had judged it worth the risk. Now, however, he was bitterly regretting that decision.
And Hanley was going to be bitterly regretting his mistake just as soon as Rory had lodged that tender.
Chris returned with the files just after ten -- a two-inch pile of papers and a CD. Rory loaded the disc files into his laptop while Chris arranged the papers on the desk, and then they set to work while Ken manned the phone from the front office. It took them over three hours to go through, line by line, checking for errors and misprints. After the first hour Rory decided that he could live with minor typographical errors.
Finally, sometime after two, they finished. Chris took the files to print the final copy and Rory stood up and stretched. Luckily for Hanley's continued health, his team hadn't made any serious errors in the cost estimates, and Rory was happy that they could provide the contracted services and still make a reasonable profit. There was still the issue of his incompetence in delivering the tender, but Rory would deal with that tomorrow.
Right now he had to stretch his legs and walk off some of the irritation. Maybe he could get something to eat -- Ken had brought them both a sandwich for lunch, but it hadn't done much to alleviate the churning in his gut that had persisted all morning.
He left the office, telling Chris he'd be back in half an hour or so, and headed to the delicatessen down the road. He took his time, absently wondering if Charlie was going to be cooking that night. Maybe he could pick up a couple of pork pies to take home ... or maybe not, since the last time he'd had cold pork pie he'd had nightmares.
Mentally shaking himself, he ordered his roll and returned to the office, where Chris was giving Ken his final instructions. Rory nodded at them and settled back into his office, catching up on the work he'd had to abandon for the tender.
It was maybe an hour later when Chris called him.
"Mr McManus?" That got his attention -- Chris generally called him "Boss" unless something serious was going on.
"Aye," he replied, somewhat warily, and waited for the bad news.
"I have two polis here from London, they want to talk to you."
Rory swore to himself. Police. As if he needed anything else to make his day worse.
His heart sank even further as he registered that they were from London. He'd had the occasional interview from local cops over the years, but police coming up all the way from London could mean only one thing -- Tuomi Saastimoinen. Fuck! Of all the days they had to choose ... six fucking months they'd faffed about and they had to pick today of all days to question him?
"Send them in, then." He sighed and flipped the laptop shut, pushing it to one side. He took a deep breath, feeling a bit of tightness in his chest, but not wanting to think about it.
The door opened and Chris ushered in two police in plain clothes. The older one was average height, with a thin pale face and greying hair, looking a bit like a very intelligent rat. The younger one was taller, darker and less alert. Neither of them seemed particularly hostile, though, which was a better start than he'd hoped for.
The elder one spoke first. "I'm Detective Inspector Pointer and this is Detective Constable Williamson. We're from the Metropolitan CID. You are Francis Ruaraidh McManus?"
"I am, though I go by Rory. Francis is my father." He gestured for them to sit down, asking, "What can I do for you?"
"We have a few questions for you."
"What about?"
"We're investigating the murder of a Finnish national, Tuomi Saastimoinen, in London. I believe you may have been acquainted with him."
His first instinct was to deny any knowledge of the man, but Charlie had already been questioned, back in April, and no one would believe that he was completely unaware of what had happened. "I never met him," he said. "My ... my partner did, though, a couple of times last year." And fuck that, he'd just come out to the police, not that they hadn't known anyway, but still ... at this rate it wasn't going to be long before everyone in the entire country knew he was gay.
"That would be Charles Pace, musician, currently residing with you in Whitefield?"
"Charlie, yes."
"Our colleagues here took a statement from Mr Pace in April concerning his acquaintance with Mr Saastimoinen. Are you aware of that?"
"Aye, I know. And I know what he said." He couldn't quite keep the growl out of his voice, but then the police wouldn't expect him to be happy about it.
"Quite." There was a bit of an awkward pause during which all three men tried not to squirm at the thought of being raped and beaten.
"Have you had any contact with Mr Saastimoinen yourself?"
"No." It was a flat-out lie, but he was good at lying.
"Have you been to London recently?"
"No."
"When was the last time you were in London?"
Rory had to think about that. "Och, it would be a couple of years at least ... 2002 maybe? Aye, June 2002. The DriveShaft concert in London, the end of their European tour. There was a big party afterwards and Charlie invited me." It had been their last big concert, in fact, because Rhythm Records had been bought out just three weeks later, but he doubted the police were interested in that small detail.
"You didn't by any chance go there in February or March this year?"
"No, why?"
"What about your colleagues?" The inspector gestured to the outer office.
"I don't think so. We've been pretty busy this year." He hoped they weren't going to question Chris or Ken. Stupid, he thought, of course they'd question Chris and Ken -- they were known to be his enforcers. He'd just have to hope that neither of them slipped up, Ken especially.
"We'll verify that, of course."
"Of course."
The inspector consulted his notebook and then asked, "Have you ever met a Peter Penrose?"
This time Rory didn't have to feign a puzzled expression. He'd never heard the name before and said so.
The inspector let it pass, and moved on. "It must have been very distressing for you to learn what had happened to your partner," he said, and either he was as good an actor as Rory or he was genuinely sympathetic.
"Not as distressing as it was for him to go through it.'
"Did you advise him to go to the police?"
Rory shook his head. "He didn't want to. It was his word against that bastard's and he was frightened."
"There might have been evidence."
"I doubt it. It was weeks before he told me, and all the bruises had faded by then."
"There could still have been traces of his presence in Mr Saastimoinen's flat, though."
Aye, and a lot more besides, thought Rory, but he wasn't going to be caught out that easily. "What would it prove except that Charlie was there? It would still be his word against the Finn's. He was a known heroin addict, homeless, criminal record." He looked Pointer in the eye and said, "You know how it is. You know what they'd have put him through. Better to let it go and concentrate on getting over it."
"Did you ever think about taking some sort of revenge yourself?"
"Aye, I thought about it," he growled. It wouldn't hurt to admit that -- he'd be less than human if he hadn't thought about it, and thinking wasn't a crime.
"And?"
Rory shrugged. "I couldn't leave Charlie. He was sick, really sick -- he had pneumonia and he wasn't stabilised on the methadone yet. He was also frightened that Tuomi would follow him to Manchester. Aye, I'll confess if he had, there might have been murder done. But he didn't, and I had to stay close to Charlie. By the time he was better, it wasn't quite so urgent. I figured I'd have plenty of time to work out what to do." He shrugged again. "Then the police questioned him and told him Tuomi was dead."
"How did you feel about that?"
"Happy he was dead, angry I couldn't make him pay for what he did to Charlie."
"You called him Tuomi?" asked the sergeant, his voice carefully uncurious. "I thought you said you'd never met."
Rory remained calm. "Charlie called him Tuomi. I didn't know his surname until long after."
"So you are quite sure that you never travelled to London in February, and you never met Mr Saastimoinen?"
"Quite sure."
The inspector smiled, and it had a predatory note in it, like a very polite shark. "No doubt it would surprise you to know that we have a witness who describes three men -- men who bear a striking resemblance to you and your two colleagues -- with Mr Saastimoinen in his flat in London in February, on the same day that he disappeared."
Witness? That floored Rory for a moment -- what witness?. They hadn't seen so much as a curtain twitch either coming or going, and they'd been careful to keep their heads down as they entered and left the flat. There was no way anyone could have given the police an adequate description -- certainly nothing detailed enough for anyone to make the connection to Rory.
Then, with a sinking heart, he remembered the boy they'd found in the flat, terrified and tethered to the wall: another one of Tuomi's victims. Ken had cautioned him against letting the boy go, but Rory had considered it a small enough risk. The kid had been a junkie, already into withdrawal, stuttering and twitching and as anxious to leave as they'd been to see him go.
The inspector had mentioned a Peter Penrose a few minutes back -- it was probably the boy's name. He had to be the witness, he was the only one who knew they'd been in Tuomi's flat. But if it was him, why wait until now to tell the police? It was almost six months since Tuomi's death, and he couldn't believe the police would have taken that long to make the connection. Fuck, this was going to require some serious tap-dancing.
Rory gave his own shark smile, one which trumped the inspector's in every way. "I'd be very surprised indeed. Incredulous, even. But then, there are millions of men in the UK -- an awful lot of them will resemble me and my colleagues. It's probably just a coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidence," said the inspector. "I think it might be a very significant finding."
"You're entitled to think whatever you want, it's still a free country."
"You won't mind if we question your colleagues?"
Yes, he fucking well would, but he had more sense than to say it, or even to hint at it. "Not at all. I doubt they'll be able to add anything, though."
The inspector nodded, and they both rose and went up to the outer office. Rory could hear them talking to Chris, but he had no worries there. Chris was as solid as a rock. Ken, now, Ken was more of a worry. He was tough, but he wasn't all that bright, and Rory feared that the police might trip him up with some fancy questioning. Luckily Ken was still out delivering the tender that had consumed so much of his day, and Rory hoped he'd stay out until the police had gone and he could give him a refresher on the official story.
He sighed. How the fuck had the police got hold of the boy? And what had he told them, the ungrateful bastard? A description was bad enough, but what else had he told them? Maybe Ken had been right, maybe he ought to have topped the boy ... but no, he couldn't have killed him in cold blood. Mind you, if he met him anytime soon he'd give him a crash course in manners, one which he wouldn't forget in a hurry.
He sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating -- he hoped the police hadn't picked up on it too much, or had ascribed it to the humidity. That indigestion was back again, too, fuck it, he was going to have to go and see the doctor if it continued. But not today. Today he had too much to consider and plan, he had to talk to Chris and Ken, and he had to evaluate the risk of them talking to Charlie again -- who might just remember being dumped on his parents for a day back in February and come to some fairly distressing conclusions. In the meantime he reached for the roll of antacid tablets he'd put in his desk the week before, and swallowed a couple. They tasted like chalk, but they did seem to ease the pain a little.
Damn the police for turning up like that. He thought he'd handled it reasonably well, considering that he'd had no warning at all. It was clear that they had some circumstantial evidence, but not much, not yet -- not enough to bring him in for questioning and a DNA test, let alone enough for an arrest. He had no doubt that they would try their hardest to get a sample from him, and there was always a small risk that he -- or Chris or Ken -- had left some traces in Tuomi's flat. But they hadn't been there for long, and from what the police had told Charlie back in the spring, it had been almost four weeks before they'd found Tuomi's body, so things had undoubtedly got a bit muddled. He could only pray that they stayed muddled.
The police obviously got very little out of Chris, because it was barely ten minutes later that the door opened and Chris leaned in. They looked at each other.
"I'll get hold of Ken before he comes back and take him for a drink," said Chris in a low voice. He understood the risks.
"Thanks, Chris."
There wasn't much else to say, so he simply nodded and opened up the laptop again. It was hard to concentrate, though -- that pressure in his chest hadn't really eased with the tablets. He grimaced. He was going to have to ring Dr McKenzie soon and get himself checked out, it was getting beyond a joke.
He looked at the clock -- a couple of minutes after four. Oh, what the hell, he was going to leave early for once.
He shoved the laptop into his briefcase and picked up his jacket. "I'm away home now," he said to Chris as he came out of his office. "I'll be back in the morning,"
"I'll lock up. And I'll get hold of Ken before the police find him."
He nodded and left, heading down the stairs to the garage. The roads were much less busy than in peak hour, for which he was grateful, since he was having difficulty concentrating properly with all the tension and the discomfort.
~~~~~
He'd imagined surprising Charlie at some domestic task, or playing his guitar, or reading.
What he found was Charlie was on the internet, halfway through booking a flight to Sydney the next day.
Rory stood there, briefcase in hand, mouth open, transfixed in shock. "What the fuck are you doing?" he exclaimed, as soon as he'd recovered enough to breathe.
Charlie looked a little shame-faced, caught out in his deceit. "I have to go and see Liam. I have to talk to him in person."
"I thought we'd agreed you weren't going to go." He took a deep breath, then dropped his briefcase on the sofa and took off his jacket. "I thought we'd agreed that it was a waste of time."
Charlie frowned. "Jason rang this morning. He said he'd got formal approval to support one solo album for each of us in addition to the DriveShaft albums. And they've increased the offer by another ten per cent advance payments and two per cent royalty. That adds up to a fair amount over three years."
"I still can't believe Liam would be interested."
"I talked to him, this morning. He was coming around, I know he was. He just didn't want to admit it. He was just acting like a prick, like he always does."
Rory shut his eyes for a second. That weight in his chest was getting worse every minute. "I still don't see why you have to go there. If Liam's being a prick on the phone he's not going to be any nicer in person."
"I have to talk to him. I have to try to make him see that it's the right time for DriveShaft to re-form, to make a new album."
"Charlie, don't do this. Please." He hated pleading, but it scared him and Charlie was being an idiot and there was something terribly wrong with the world today.
"I have to try. The record company wants the band, not just me."
"They want the money. I've told you that. Why are you so bloody oblivious?"
"I'm not."
"Then why are you trying to re-create a situation that caused nothing but trouble?"
"Because I want to. I want to be a success again."
"You will be, but not on these terms. Bide your time, and get a better deal in a couple of years."
"You just don't want me to leave. You want me to stay here and be dependent on you."
"No! That's not true."
"Jason says you are."
"Jason? You're taking fucking relationship advice from an accountant now?"
"No! But he's right, you're trying to keep me from being a success."
"I'm not!"
"Then why are you trying to stop me doing this?"
"Because it's the wrong thing to do. It's not the right deal. I keep on telling you that and you just don't fucking listen."
"Because you refuse to accept that this is our only chance to revive the band!"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Rory exploded, as much in fear as anger. "You're so fixated on that bloody band you can't see anything else! DriveShaft is dead. Let it rest. Get on with your life."
"It's not dead!"
"It fucking is, and if you can't see that then you're even more stupid than I thought you were."
"You think I'm stupid? I'm not. I'll prove you all wrong. I'll go to Australia and I'll talk to Liam and I'll fix it and the band will be a success and you'll just see how wrong you are!"
Rory fought the urge to take hold of Charlie and shake him until he saw sense. Only the memory of that disastrous fight two years before stayed his hand. Instead, he took a deep breath, pushing against the discomfort. He had to talk sense into his lover, had to stop him flying halfway around the world to talk to the one person who had always made everything worse, who was the centre of everything that had ever gone bad for Charlie. He had to stop Charlie going to Sydney -- it was absolutely imperative that he stopped Charlie from leaving. He knew -- somehow he just knew -- that he'd lose Charlie forever if he left now.
He had to stop Charlie ... but the sense of weight in his chest was getting worse, it was pain now, and he felt as if he couldn't breathe, like there was something around his chest, stopping him. It hurt, it really hurt, and he couldn't concentrate on what Charlie was saying.
"What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "It's nothing. Indigestion." He pressed his hand to his sternum, but it didn't help. He felt as if one deep breath would ease it, but he couldn't take that breath. The constriction in his chest was getting tighter and tighter, and the pain was starting to moving up into his neck.
"It's more than indigestion. You look grey." Charlie sounded concerned, then his voice rose almost to a screech. "Oh my god, you're having a heart attack!"
Rory shook his head. It couldn't be a heart attack. He was only 32, for fuck's sake. No one had a heart attack that young, did they?
On the other hand ... things were going rather wobbly.
Chapter 12.5
This entry was originally posted at http://alassenya.dreamwidth.org/102450.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
For introduction and warnings go here
12.4 Between Scylla and Charybdis
Monday 23rd August 2004 1:30 am
Rory sat up, sweaty and feeling sick. He hadn't woken Charlie this time though, that was something.
Another nightmare. What the fuck was wrong with him, that he should start having nightmares all of a sudden? He never had nightmares, not since he'd left Glasgow, but he'd had several in the past few weeks -- ever since Charlie had told him about the offer from the record company. It had to be connected, even if the nightmares weren't always about Charlie.
This one ... of all the nightmares, this had been the worst. Charlie had been trapped in a room that was filling with water. He was drowning, and looking out of a tiny window. Rory had shouted and shouted, but Charlie couldn't hear him -- he'd just looked sad, as if he were saying goodbye.
Rory was scared and he was frightened, no matter how hard it was to admit, even to himself. He couldn't just dismiss it as a coincidence; it all had to be connected. There was something very bad about this proposed record deal with the band, something that boded ill for all of them, but especially for Charlie. He couldn't let it happen -- he couldn't stand by and let Charlie sacrifice everything he'd worked for over the last couple of years.
He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to ease the discomfort there. Indigestion again. He'd had a lot of it over the last couple of weeks; it seemed to have started at the same time as the nightmares. He hoped it wasn't anything more than indigestion. He refused to think that it might be anything else. He was only 32, for heaven's sake; it couldn't possibly be a heart attack.
He got up and went to the toilet. Relieving the pressure on his bladder seemed to help, and so did going downstairs for a small glass of whisky. He sat in the dark and looked out of the living room window into the night as he drank a second glass. It wasn't really dark out there at all, with all the lights around the apartment block and on the streets, and the clouds reflecting a dull, sickly orange back to the ground. It was more gloomy than romantic; more ominous than beautiful.
It didn't take long for his thoughts to return to the factor that had been disturbing him for the last few days. He was worried about Charlie. More specifically, he was worried that Charlie was again actively pushing for a band reunion. The disappointment of the initial offer had faded, and now Charlie seemed to be focussing on the insubstantial positives that Jason Sanderson had been pushing -- money, publicity and fame. The canny bastard had even offered support for their solo projects, once he'd learned of them. That was the hook that had pulled Sinjin in, and Pat and Charlie had followed.
Rory was very afraid that Liam, now the last hold-out, would change his mind, and then the whole wretched business would start again. Concerts, recordings, photo sessions and promotional appearances: all of them would combine to take Charlie away from him. How long would it take before they were all back on drugs again? Liam was clean now, as far as he knew, but Sinjin was still using, and Rory had no confidence at all in either Charlie or Liam remaining drug-free once the circus started again, as he'd told Charlie several times.
He sat and brooded for nearly an hour before dragging himself to his feet. The pain in his chest had eased and he didn't want to fall asleep down here when he could be next to Charlie. It was going to be a difficult week as it was, and he needed to feel his lover close to him.
He went back upstairs and slid softly into bed. Charlie mumbled something indistinct as the bed moved, but didn't wake. Rory lay on his side and watched his lover sleeping, until sleep overtook him in turn.
~~~~~
When the alarm went off at seven he groaned, and nearly pulled the sheet over his head. He really didn't feel like going to work today; he hadn't slept much at all and felt distinctly weary. He had to get up though -- Charlie needed his methadone, and work needed supervising and clients needed to have money collected from them or his da would be on his back again.
Later, as he made his way up from the garage to his office, he gave serious consideration to chucking in the whole loan-sharking business and telling his father to go fuck himself. It was getting ridiculous, all that menace and bluster to get money out of people who were on the skids anyway ... so much effort for a tenner here or twenty quid there. It was tiresome and irritating and he had lost any thrill he got out of bullying people a long, long time ago. He got far more satisfaction from talking a company into accepting a contract that would give him a clear twenty or thirty percent profit, measured in hundreds or thousands of pounds. He had coasted for a week on the thrill of restructuring so that he'd halved their tax liability. With every year that passed, he found the fat cats of industry and government were far more worthy opponents than the poor and oppressed. And it didn't mean he was losing his edge, he was just picking better targets. Where was the glory in bullying some worn-out loser in an anorak when he could get the better of someone in a bespoke suit?
He was fairly sure that Chris felt the same way, too, although they had never discussed it. Ken was the only one who really enjoyed the strong-arm stuff, but Rory knew better than to let Ken out unsupervised -- the idiot would lean too hard on someone and bring the fuzz down on them like hounds on a fox.
He opened the office door to find Chris there already. That wasn't much of a surprise, since Chris was there before Rory most days, even before Charlie had started his methadone programme. What was somewhat surprising was Chris's expression, which was darker and more menacing that Rory had seen in a long time.
"What's up?" he asked as he closed the door behind him.
"That eejit Hanley."
Rory closed his eyes. This, he did not need, not today. "Don't tell me he hasn't finished the tender yet?"
"Oh, he's finished it, all right. He put it in the post at seven yesterday evening."
"What?" He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "The fucking cretin! Didn't you tell him it was due today?"
"I did. And I told him last week he'd have to courier it to us."
"Fuck. Did he at least keep a copy?"
"Aye, he says he has it all on his computer."
"Right. Take Ken, go to his office, and stand over him while he prints it out again. I also want a disc with all the files. Get back here as soon as you can, I need to read it through before we drop it in."
"It's going to be tight, boss. And we need three copies, bound."
"I know. Fuck." He took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest. Maybe he was getting an ulcer -- he'd read somewhere that ulcers could give you chest pain. "Get back here as soon as you can. Once I've checked them over we can get them bound at Staples."
"Aye."
"What have I got this morning?"
"Nothing much. I'll cancel the meeting with Walter this afternoon - it was nothing urgent, anyway."
"Good."
Rory strode into his office and sat down, opening up the laptop and logging in automatically. There was nothing in his email that needed attention, for which he was grateful. His mind was still churning. He wanted that contract, dammit.
The contract was for a three-year cleaning and maintenance contract for the Territorial Army Centre. It was an attractive opportunity, not least because it would replace a school cleaning contract that was due to expire soon. All his cleaners hated working the schools, and he'd had steadily increasing problems with complaints and absenteeism over the preceding months. The army centre would bring its own problems, of course, but the relative absence of chewing gum was seen as a major bonus.
Unfortunately, drafting the tender had proved a little more difficult than he had anticipated. Ministry of Defence tenders had to be organised and formatted in a specific way, one that Rory and Chris hadn't been familiar with. Hanley's accounting firm had handled a lot of local MOD contracts and Hanley had assured Rory that they could take his figures and put them into the correct format much faster than he could, saving them time and money. Rory had had some misgivings -- he hated providing any information to an outsider -- but time had been short and he had judged it worth the risk. Now, however, he was bitterly regretting that decision.
And Hanley was going to be bitterly regretting his mistake just as soon as Rory had lodged that tender.
Chris returned with the files just after ten -- a two-inch pile of papers and a CD. Rory loaded the disc files into his laptop while Chris arranged the papers on the desk, and then they set to work while Ken manned the phone from the front office. It took them over three hours to go through, line by line, checking for errors and misprints. After the first hour Rory decided that he could live with minor typographical errors.
Finally, sometime after two, they finished. Chris took the files to print the final copy and Rory stood up and stretched. Luckily for Hanley's continued health, his team hadn't made any serious errors in the cost estimates, and Rory was happy that they could provide the contracted services and still make a reasonable profit. There was still the issue of his incompetence in delivering the tender, but Rory would deal with that tomorrow.
Right now he had to stretch his legs and walk off some of the irritation. Maybe he could get something to eat -- Ken had brought them both a sandwich for lunch, but it hadn't done much to alleviate the churning in his gut that had persisted all morning.
He left the office, telling Chris he'd be back in half an hour or so, and headed to the delicatessen down the road. He took his time, absently wondering if Charlie was going to be cooking that night. Maybe he could pick up a couple of pork pies to take home ... or maybe not, since the last time he'd had cold pork pie he'd had nightmares.
Mentally shaking himself, he ordered his roll and returned to the office, where Chris was giving Ken his final instructions. Rory nodded at them and settled back into his office, catching up on the work he'd had to abandon for the tender.
It was maybe an hour later when Chris called him.
"Mr McManus?" That got his attention -- Chris generally called him "Boss" unless something serious was going on.
"Aye," he replied, somewhat warily, and waited for the bad news.
"I have two polis here from London, they want to talk to you."
Rory swore to himself. Police. As if he needed anything else to make his day worse.
His heart sank even further as he registered that they were from London. He'd had the occasional interview from local cops over the years, but police coming up all the way from London could mean only one thing -- Tuomi Saastimoinen. Fuck! Of all the days they had to choose ... six fucking months they'd faffed about and they had to pick today of all days to question him?
"Send them in, then." He sighed and flipped the laptop shut, pushing it to one side. He took a deep breath, feeling a bit of tightness in his chest, but not wanting to think about it.
The door opened and Chris ushered in two police in plain clothes. The older one was average height, with a thin pale face and greying hair, looking a bit like a very intelligent rat. The younger one was taller, darker and less alert. Neither of them seemed particularly hostile, though, which was a better start than he'd hoped for.
The elder one spoke first. "I'm Detective Inspector Pointer and this is Detective Constable Williamson. We're from the Metropolitan CID. You are Francis Ruaraidh McManus?"
"I am, though I go by Rory. Francis is my father." He gestured for them to sit down, asking, "What can I do for you?"
"We have a few questions for you."
"What about?"
"We're investigating the murder of a Finnish national, Tuomi Saastimoinen, in London. I believe you may have been acquainted with him."
His first instinct was to deny any knowledge of the man, but Charlie had already been questioned, back in April, and no one would believe that he was completely unaware of what had happened. "I never met him," he said. "My ... my partner did, though, a couple of times last year." And fuck that, he'd just come out to the police, not that they hadn't known anyway, but still ... at this rate it wasn't going to be long before everyone in the entire country knew he was gay.
"That would be Charles Pace, musician, currently residing with you in Whitefield?"
"Charlie, yes."
"Our colleagues here took a statement from Mr Pace in April concerning his acquaintance with Mr Saastimoinen. Are you aware of that?"
"Aye, I know. And I know what he said." He couldn't quite keep the growl out of his voice, but then the police wouldn't expect him to be happy about it.
"Quite." There was a bit of an awkward pause during which all three men tried not to squirm at the thought of being raped and beaten.
"Have you had any contact with Mr Saastimoinen yourself?"
"No." It was a flat-out lie, but he was good at lying.
"Have you been to London recently?"
"No."
"When was the last time you were in London?"
Rory had to think about that. "Och, it would be a couple of years at least ... 2002 maybe? Aye, June 2002. The DriveShaft concert in London, the end of their European tour. There was a big party afterwards and Charlie invited me." It had been their last big concert, in fact, because Rhythm Records had been bought out just three weeks later, but he doubted the police were interested in that small detail.
"You didn't by any chance go there in February or March this year?"
"No, why?"
"What about your colleagues?" The inspector gestured to the outer office.
"I don't think so. We've been pretty busy this year." He hoped they weren't going to question Chris or Ken. Stupid, he thought, of course they'd question Chris and Ken -- they were known to be his enforcers. He'd just have to hope that neither of them slipped up, Ken especially.
"We'll verify that, of course."
"Of course."
The inspector consulted his notebook and then asked, "Have you ever met a Peter Penrose?"
This time Rory didn't have to feign a puzzled expression. He'd never heard the name before and said so.
The inspector let it pass, and moved on. "It must have been very distressing for you to learn what had happened to your partner," he said, and either he was as good an actor as Rory or he was genuinely sympathetic.
"Not as distressing as it was for him to go through it.'
"Did you advise him to go to the police?"
Rory shook his head. "He didn't want to. It was his word against that bastard's and he was frightened."
"There might have been evidence."
"I doubt it. It was weeks before he told me, and all the bruises had faded by then."
"There could still have been traces of his presence in Mr Saastimoinen's flat, though."
Aye, and a lot more besides, thought Rory, but he wasn't going to be caught out that easily. "What would it prove except that Charlie was there? It would still be his word against the Finn's. He was a known heroin addict, homeless, criminal record." He looked Pointer in the eye and said, "You know how it is. You know what they'd have put him through. Better to let it go and concentrate on getting over it."
"Did you ever think about taking some sort of revenge yourself?"
"Aye, I thought about it," he growled. It wouldn't hurt to admit that -- he'd be less than human if he hadn't thought about it, and thinking wasn't a crime.
"And?"
Rory shrugged. "I couldn't leave Charlie. He was sick, really sick -- he had pneumonia and he wasn't stabilised on the methadone yet. He was also frightened that Tuomi would follow him to Manchester. Aye, I'll confess if he had, there might have been murder done. But he didn't, and I had to stay close to Charlie. By the time he was better, it wasn't quite so urgent. I figured I'd have plenty of time to work out what to do." He shrugged again. "Then the police questioned him and told him Tuomi was dead."
"How did you feel about that?"
"Happy he was dead, angry I couldn't make him pay for what he did to Charlie."
"You called him Tuomi?" asked the sergeant, his voice carefully uncurious. "I thought you said you'd never met."
Rory remained calm. "Charlie called him Tuomi. I didn't know his surname until long after."
"So you are quite sure that you never travelled to London in February, and you never met Mr Saastimoinen?"
"Quite sure."
The inspector smiled, and it had a predatory note in it, like a very polite shark. "No doubt it would surprise you to know that we have a witness who describes three men -- men who bear a striking resemblance to you and your two colleagues -- with Mr Saastimoinen in his flat in London in February, on the same day that he disappeared."
Witness? That floored Rory for a moment -- what witness?. They hadn't seen so much as a curtain twitch either coming or going, and they'd been careful to keep their heads down as they entered and left the flat. There was no way anyone could have given the police an adequate description -- certainly nothing detailed enough for anyone to make the connection to Rory.
Then, with a sinking heart, he remembered the boy they'd found in the flat, terrified and tethered to the wall: another one of Tuomi's victims. Ken had cautioned him against letting the boy go, but Rory had considered it a small enough risk. The kid had been a junkie, already into withdrawal, stuttering and twitching and as anxious to leave as they'd been to see him go.
The inspector had mentioned a Peter Penrose a few minutes back -- it was probably the boy's name. He had to be the witness, he was the only one who knew they'd been in Tuomi's flat. But if it was him, why wait until now to tell the police? It was almost six months since Tuomi's death, and he couldn't believe the police would have taken that long to make the connection. Fuck, this was going to require some serious tap-dancing.
Rory gave his own shark smile, one which trumped the inspector's in every way. "I'd be very surprised indeed. Incredulous, even. But then, there are millions of men in the UK -- an awful lot of them will resemble me and my colleagues. It's probably just a coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidence," said the inspector. "I think it might be a very significant finding."
"You're entitled to think whatever you want, it's still a free country."
"You won't mind if we question your colleagues?"
Yes, he fucking well would, but he had more sense than to say it, or even to hint at it. "Not at all. I doubt they'll be able to add anything, though."
The inspector nodded, and they both rose and went up to the outer office. Rory could hear them talking to Chris, but he had no worries there. Chris was as solid as a rock. Ken, now, Ken was more of a worry. He was tough, but he wasn't all that bright, and Rory feared that the police might trip him up with some fancy questioning. Luckily Ken was still out delivering the tender that had consumed so much of his day, and Rory hoped he'd stay out until the police had gone and he could give him a refresher on the official story.
He sighed. How the fuck had the police got hold of the boy? And what had he told them, the ungrateful bastard? A description was bad enough, but what else had he told them? Maybe Ken had been right, maybe he ought to have topped the boy ... but no, he couldn't have killed him in cold blood. Mind you, if he met him anytime soon he'd give him a crash course in manners, one which he wouldn't forget in a hurry.
He sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating -- he hoped the police hadn't picked up on it too much, or had ascribed it to the humidity. That indigestion was back again, too, fuck it, he was going to have to go and see the doctor if it continued. But not today. Today he had too much to consider and plan, he had to talk to Chris and Ken, and he had to evaluate the risk of them talking to Charlie again -- who might just remember being dumped on his parents for a day back in February and come to some fairly distressing conclusions. In the meantime he reached for the roll of antacid tablets he'd put in his desk the week before, and swallowed a couple. They tasted like chalk, but they did seem to ease the pain a little.
Damn the police for turning up like that. He thought he'd handled it reasonably well, considering that he'd had no warning at all. It was clear that they had some circumstantial evidence, but not much, not yet -- not enough to bring him in for questioning and a DNA test, let alone enough for an arrest. He had no doubt that they would try their hardest to get a sample from him, and there was always a small risk that he -- or Chris or Ken -- had left some traces in Tuomi's flat. But they hadn't been there for long, and from what the police had told Charlie back in the spring, it had been almost four weeks before they'd found Tuomi's body, so things had undoubtedly got a bit muddled. He could only pray that they stayed muddled.
The police obviously got very little out of Chris, because it was barely ten minutes later that the door opened and Chris leaned in. They looked at each other.
"I'll get hold of Ken before he comes back and take him for a drink," said Chris in a low voice. He understood the risks.
"Thanks, Chris."
There wasn't much else to say, so he simply nodded and opened up the laptop again. It was hard to concentrate, though -- that pressure in his chest hadn't really eased with the tablets. He grimaced. He was going to have to ring Dr McKenzie soon and get himself checked out, it was getting beyond a joke.
He looked at the clock -- a couple of minutes after four. Oh, what the hell, he was going to leave early for once.
He shoved the laptop into his briefcase and picked up his jacket. "I'm away home now," he said to Chris as he came out of his office. "I'll be back in the morning,"
"I'll lock up. And I'll get hold of Ken before the police find him."
He nodded and left, heading down the stairs to the garage. The roads were much less busy than in peak hour, for which he was grateful, since he was having difficulty concentrating properly with all the tension and the discomfort.
~~~~~
He'd imagined surprising Charlie at some domestic task, or playing his guitar, or reading.
What he found was Charlie was on the internet, halfway through booking a flight to Sydney the next day.
Rory stood there, briefcase in hand, mouth open, transfixed in shock. "What the fuck are you doing?" he exclaimed, as soon as he'd recovered enough to breathe.
Charlie looked a little shame-faced, caught out in his deceit. "I have to go and see Liam. I have to talk to him in person."
"I thought we'd agreed you weren't going to go." He took a deep breath, then dropped his briefcase on the sofa and took off his jacket. "I thought we'd agreed that it was a waste of time."
Charlie frowned. "Jason rang this morning. He said he'd got formal approval to support one solo album for each of us in addition to the DriveShaft albums. And they've increased the offer by another ten per cent advance payments and two per cent royalty. That adds up to a fair amount over three years."
"I still can't believe Liam would be interested."
"I talked to him, this morning. He was coming around, I know he was. He just didn't want to admit it. He was just acting like a prick, like he always does."
Rory shut his eyes for a second. That weight in his chest was getting worse every minute. "I still don't see why you have to go there. If Liam's being a prick on the phone he's not going to be any nicer in person."
"I have to talk to him. I have to try to make him see that it's the right time for DriveShaft to re-form, to make a new album."
"Charlie, don't do this. Please." He hated pleading, but it scared him and Charlie was being an idiot and there was something terribly wrong with the world today.
"I have to try. The record company wants the band, not just me."
"They want the money. I've told you that. Why are you so bloody oblivious?"
"I'm not."
"Then why are you trying to re-create a situation that caused nothing but trouble?"
"Because I want to. I want to be a success again."
"You will be, but not on these terms. Bide your time, and get a better deal in a couple of years."
"You just don't want me to leave. You want me to stay here and be dependent on you."
"No! That's not true."
"Jason says you are."
"Jason? You're taking fucking relationship advice from an accountant now?"
"No! But he's right, you're trying to keep me from being a success."
"I'm not!"
"Then why are you trying to stop me doing this?"
"Because it's the wrong thing to do. It's not the right deal. I keep on telling you that and you just don't fucking listen."
"Because you refuse to accept that this is our only chance to revive the band!"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Rory exploded, as much in fear as anger. "You're so fixated on that bloody band you can't see anything else! DriveShaft is dead. Let it rest. Get on with your life."
"It's not dead!"
"It fucking is, and if you can't see that then you're even more stupid than I thought you were."
"You think I'm stupid? I'm not. I'll prove you all wrong. I'll go to Australia and I'll talk to Liam and I'll fix it and the band will be a success and you'll just see how wrong you are!"
Rory fought the urge to take hold of Charlie and shake him until he saw sense. Only the memory of that disastrous fight two years before stayed his hand. Instead, he took a deep breath, pushing against the discomfort. He had to talk sense into his lover, had to stop him flying halfway around the world to talk to the one person who had always made everything worse, who was the centre of everything that had ever gone bad for Charlie. He had to stop Charlie going to Sydney -- it was absolutely imperative that he stopped Charlie from leaving. He knew -- somehow he just knew -- that he'd lose Charlie forever if he left now.
He had to stop Charlie ... but the sense of weight in his chest was getting worse, it was pain now, and he felt as if he couldn't breathe, like there was something around his chest, stopping him. It hurt, it really hurt, and he couldn't concentrate on what Charlie was saying.
"What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "It's nothing. Indigestion." He pressed his hand to his sternum, but it didn't help. He felt as if one deep breath would ease it, but he couldn't take that breath. The constriction in his chest was getting tighter and tighter, and the pain was starting to moving up into his neck.
"It's more than indigestion. You look grey." Charlie sounded concerned, then his voice rose almost to a screech. "Oh my god, you're having a heart attack!"
Rory shook his head. It couldn't be a heart attack. He was only 32, for fuck's sake. No one had a heart attack that young, did they?
On the other hand ... things were going rather wobbly.
Chapter 12.5
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