traces, part three.
Title: Traces
Part: 3 of 10
Characters: David Beckham, Martín Cáceres, Fabio Cannavaro, Iker Casillas, Royston Drenthe, Julien Faubert, Fernando Gago, Raúl González, Pep Guardiola, Thierry Henry, Guti Hernández, Xavi Hernández, Gonzalo Higuaín, Andrés Iniesta, Bojan Krkić, Lionel Messi, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Gerard Piqué, Carles Puyol, Sergio Ramos, Rubén de la Red, Michel Salgado, Miguel Torres. Not all characters appear in every chapter or in equal measure. Some characters' ages have been altered for the sake of coherence.
Genre: AU; murder mystery.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, drug use, and possibly distressing themes.
Summary: When corruption no longer shocks, drugs no longer numb, and darkness no longer soothes, men become desperate, reckless extremes of themselves. The secrets behind one man's life falling into another man's hands are revealed, exploited, and overlapped, and it falls to DCI Raúl González to trace the threads.
Disclaimer: One hundred percent fiction.
Notes: Endless thanks to everyone who's reading this. ♥
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism and questions are very welcome.
| Part 1 | Part 2 |
Part Three
After he tosses his coffee cup in a trash can, Guti unbuttons his grey suit jacket and wraps the lapels tighter over each other, folding his arms firmly to keep them in place, shielding his torso against the sharp wind. His sunglasses remain in his pocket though the sun begins to peek out from behind white clouds; he expects to be indoors soon.
Almost half an hour after his store's expressed opening time, Royston Drenthe emerges from a side-street. He whistles as he pulls a crowded keychain out from his pocket, the very picture of a sanguine spirit. Guti watches through the glass windows from across the street as Royston lays his bulging backpack on the counter, switches on fluorescent lights and disappears for a few seconds before realising that he's forgotten to flip the sign on the door to 'OPEN'.
When Raúl arrives, he looks as sharp as usual, but more alert, his glance at Guti pointed, his eyebrows furrowed. Guti, who has been leaning against a rare patch of clean wall, stands up straight and greets his superior.
"Hi," Raúl responds, his voice low. He turns his head, his eyes searching Royston's store as he speaks. "We have two people we absolutely need to speak to today. Miguel Torres finally sent through the details of Beckham's will."
Guti raises his eyebrows. "He's done double-checking the financial details or whatever he was doing?"
"Evidently," Raúl replies, irritation creeping into his voice already.
"Well? Who are we dealing with?"
"Two beneficiaries."
"Only?"
Raúl blinks heavily to affirm. "Besides his Foundation, that is."
"So there are three beneficiaries."
"The boy can add!" Raúl exclaims, feigning shock. "Oxley College - the private boys' school - gets one-third, and the rest goes to Iker Casillas." He continues staring through at Royston, who is now re-tagging the prices on a shelf of paper products.
"Casillas? The owner of the Tribune?"
"Oh, thank God. Yesterday, in Torres' office, I thought you hadn't even heard of him, and I was so close to asking for a new sergeant. You know, one who doesn't live under a rock." He ignores Guti, who frowns, offended, though somewhat relieved to see that what has evidently been a bad night's sleep hasn't completely rid his senior of his humour. "I'll speak to him. You go to the school," Raúl continues saying, moving toward the curb. Though Guti feels his pulse speed up just slightly at the news, Raúl's voice remains soft, slow, and measured as ever. He turns back to look at Guti with a slight smile as he crosses the road. "Chilly breeze today, fuck."
"Yeah, who would've known it was spring? Gotta say, I miss the beach."
"Your tan doesn't," Raúl says as Guti grins behind him. "Hey, where's my coffee, by the way? I saw you throw your cup away. It's generally considered good work etiquette to grab one for your boss if you -"
"You're not my boss," Guti argues lightheartedly, before slyly trying his luck with, "You were watching me?"
"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Raúl grumbles, pushing open the shop's door. "I was admiring the ill fit of your suit."
Willing himself not to look down to check his suit's cut, Guti follows him into the store, a farrago of white-painted steel shelving systems on wheels, the gorgeous deep woods of brushes and palettes, clean, dull grey walls and colourfully stained floor tiles. Royston has abandoned the sweater he'd been wearing on the street and it threatens to slide off the surface of the counter on which he leans, leafing through the week's television guide which is sold every Thursday morning and is probably the reason why he was late.
He hears the door open; closes the newspaper pull-out; stands straight, his body taut beneath the tight black long-sleeve that complements his cocoa skin. The easy cheer that characterises his face abandons him when he looks up and sees Guti and Raúl enter. Guti supposes that their attire declares their total lack of association with anything artistic. He smiles, hoping to come across a little less austere, but the fact that Raúl remains stern-faced sees Royston's hesitation linger.
"Can I help you?"
To Guti's relief, Raúl is friendly, by his standards. "Hi, I'm DCI Raúl González, this is Sergeant Guti Hernández. We're investigating the death of David Beckham?" Royston nods. "We just need to know a couple of things: were you working here on Monday evening?"
"Yes." He pauses. "Why?"
"What's your name?"
"Royston. Drenthe, Royston Drenthe."
"We have word, Mr. Drenthe, from one Sergio Ramos that he was here at that time, with someone else, buying - something - from you."
Royston frowns. "Well, I don't know about this Ramos, but we had a fair few people in that night, yeah. We're closed weekends, you see, so I guess all the people who needed to buy stuff but had work all day figured they'd pop in -"
"Yes, thank you," Raúl interrupts, his voice smooth. "Those 'fair few people' - do you know any of them by name?"
"Well, there's an old fellow who's constantly buying brushes. What he does with so many, I'll never know. Name's Mendes. There was a blonde woman, very chatty, named - Alice? Alyssa? Something like that. A couple of guys after - 'the cheapest and oldest paints' I have, that's what they asked for specifically. One of them named Fernando. Not sure what the other -"
"Fernando?" Raúl's eyebrows shoot up. "Got a last name?"
"No clue, sorry," Royston frowns at Raúl's urgency. "I know he goes to Oxley. He's, uhm, got long hair. So did the guy he was with, matter of fact -"
"They both had long hair? And one of them was an Oxley student named Fernando?"
"Uh, yeah. Long, darkish hair, on both of them. Untidy looking - like most of us, I suppose," he smiles sheepishly. "Hispanic, I'd guess. The other guy was taller," he adds.
Raúl sighs before shooting Royston a tight, grateful smile. "Thank you, you've been very helpful."
Guti nods his goodbye, and drags his finger across one of the shelves as he follows Raúl out, watching him purse his lips in thought and throw his hands into the warmth of his pockets. "Well, I guess that's Sergio's story checking out," he says as Raúl checks his watch.
"To be expected, really. He's hardly a prime suspect." Guti eyes him intently, and he looks up and inhales deeply. "Alright. You go up to the school now. Speak to the principal; apparently he knew Beckham personally. Goes by the name of Josep Guardiola."
He turns to head back to his car, before looking across at Guti again.
"Oh, and - Hernández? You should seriously consider finding a new tailor."
* * * * *
Fernando is fascinated by the way Sergio tightens and tenses, his jaw and eyes stiffening, and fingers curling into fists, when someone gets too close. He saw it, to a lesser extent, the previous morning when the police visited. But now, as he pounds himself into him, Sergio's entire being takes on a defensive hardness, preparing itself for the worst, or the best, with all the strength it can muster and none of the consequence.
Between sharp breaths, Fernando's eyes dart to Sergio's fingers, at one moment raking at the sheets beneath him; at another, pulling at Fernando's back, willing him closer, deeper. He pulls Fernando in, a machine, unable to fight his own function as receiver, as inviting volition. His eyes flutter open with the small jolts that Fernando courses through him, his stare rigid and wired with pain and shame and pleasure all at once. He grits his teeth together, and his mouth widens in a grimace as beads of sweat threaten to crawl inside.
Hot and slick to the point where he no feels the separation of his body from Sergio's, Fernando distractedly observes, as if from between them, his pushing and Sergio's thrashing turn into a unified, irregular pulsation. Their skin sticks and unsticks; their breath is heavy, thick and wet. They move faster and faster and slower and stop.
What follows has quickly become custom. The silence would be uncomfortable but for their mutual rapture slowing their senses and depressing their guards. Sergio mumbles something that Fernando is too self-congratulatory to listen to, and disappears into the bathroom. Fernando's hands slide up from the stickiness in the warm sheets, and he props himself up, sitting with bent knees and his back resting against the coolness of the headboard. He will wait until Sergio has recovered, and then he'll join him in the shower. Sergio will stiffen in the steaming wet, though he expects him, and will patiently tolerate Fernando's fingers creeping around to his front, until those fingers go too far. And Sergio will turn off the water, and they will go again. Sergio will leave, followed by Fernando a few minutes later. Fernando will go home, change, and delve into a state of restless inaction until Sergio phones him hours later.
As Fernando waits in the bed, still able to see his heartbeat shaking his ribcage when he looks down, there is a knock, and the door opens. He jumps a little. "You're up? Not infirm anymore? What, was there an earthquake or something?"
Rubén frowns. "You guys woke me up."
"You heard us all the way from your room, huh?" Fernando's teeth suck up his lower lip as his eyes glint.
"When are you leaving?"
"I don't know." Fernando shrugs; Rubén huffs. "What?" He grins. "You weren't having another dream about Mrs. Veysi again, were you? We didn't interrupt you just as you -?"
"Fuck you," Rubén retorts wearily. "Just - keep it down next time. For fuck's sake." He pauses for a moment. "He's just using you. You know that, right?" he adds, his voice lower, a warning tangled between the irritation and sleepiness in his expression.
Fernando's smirk softens. "Go back to bed, man. I'm leaving soon."
* * * * *
Hesitation, coupled with self-service, draws plans of each of Iker's responses. The second's pause before he speaks, each time, elicits impatience from Fabio, who fires his questions and retorts with all the passion and urgency that Iker would never allow of himself.
"You can't tell me you have a good reason; an actual reason." Fabio looks helpless - but not hopeless, never hopeless. He finds threads of possibility which he grabs and of which he refuses to let go until Iker cuts them off, one by one.
We were never going to work anyway. "It probably wouldn't have worked anyway."
"Of course it would have worked! This is - this is everything I've been building up to; I'm not going to let some little -"
Some little murder? "It's not some little thing. You know that."
"I know... I know. But - there's no reason for me to change my plans, they're totally unrelated issues! You know my re-election rests on this; hell, you said it yourself! A peak in the cycle is coming, you can see that. I'll be in the spotlight and people will be expecting something big, especially since Salgado's campaign is spiralling out of control. Can't you see that now is the perfect time? There's never been less of a chance of backlash!"
I have to protect myself. "I'm just saying this to protect you," Iker almost pleads. "I don't know how long it'll be before the cops show up at that door - and I don't want you going down with me."
"Why would you 'go down'? You have no reason, none at all, to sit there worrying about anything more than a couple of questions - which, you know, you're more than capable of answering. You have nothing to hide. From the police, from the public." Fabio grabs Iker's reluctant hand and clasps it within his own. "Iker... Please. You can't be having second thoughts now. I mean - why? Why now? Give me one reason that I can't squash in an instant."
They'll find us out, they'll find us out. "My gun is gone. I have a motive - or the police will say I do, anyway. You know that when they're writing up their list of suspects -"
"They don't publicise their theories, Iker!" Fabio throws Iker's hand back down onto his knee in frustration. "They're not going to have a press conference, going 'We think so-and-so did it, we're just letting you all know so that he's on his guard and we can look like idiots when he turns out to be innocent'. You just - you just don't want this, do you?" His animation fades, making way for a desperate sort of resignation. "You never wanted it."
No, I never wanted it. "You don't need me to do this. What difference is my face next to yours going to make? If anything, it'll make it harder. They'll start pinning you to my - my business, and people will start to talk. About money. About influence."
"You think I haven't thought about that?"
No, actually, you probably only ever think about the money. "I said I would keep funding you. What more do you need? Your coming out has nothing to do with me. Are you telling me you wouldn't do this if you were single?"
Fabio stares. "Don't turn this into a money thing. Don't."
Don't ask me to turn it into anything else. "I told you. I want to protect you as much as I can. I -" Iker picks up Fabio's hand now, and holds it, willing himself to calm, so that Fabio can in turn. "I will always give you what you need. I am. Every day. But -"
"It's not about having the - the wherewithal to win this thing. It's about doing it the right way, too."
Well, we've been doing it the wrong way all this time - why change now? "I'm using you."
Fabio freezes. "What?"
Damn it, Iker. "You can't tell me the word 'rebound' never crossed your mind."
"No. No, it didn't." Fabio stares at Iker, hard. "And you're not going to convince me that that's all I am. I know it's - I know -"
"I'm using you," he repeats.
"I don't care." Fabio inhales deeply, closing his eyes to steady himself. "Alright." He breathes again. "Alright. You say you want to protect me. By leaving me, on my own, with a half-assed publicity stunt that nobody's going to respect if I don't have you by my side. Because I am telling you, Iker, nobody will fucking believe me. The mayor, up for re-election on a campaign of gay marriage and women's rights and environmental protection, suddenly coming out, just as the campaign cycle heats up? I'll be an anything-but-straight bandwagon-jumper like fucking Lindsay Lohan - nobody will believe me, it's just too convenient, pandering to the gay demographic and - when things start to get a bit desperate - saying 'Oh, hey, just so you know, I'm one of you'. I need you there, on that platform, behind that lectern, to show them that it's not just a stunt, that it's my life, my reality. You say it's for my own good, for the good of us, if you walk away?"
Don't, Iker, don't. "Yes."
"Why? Why do you need to protect me like that?"
Don't.
"Why?"
Before he speaks, Iker vaguely notices, through the window over Fabio's shoulder, the clouds moving to shield the sun and sink only the dullest daylight over his lover's shoulders. "You heard what Thierry said, about what happened to David. We can't give the police any reason to link us to each other - just in case -" He pauses. "We have to be so careful. And..." Iker lets go of Fabio, as though he thinks it'll numb the sting of severance. "And I'm worried that you killed him."
* * * * *
The small glass windows marking each door sail past Guti as he walks quickly through the corridor, and he doesn't look at them. He doesn't look at the plaques lining the walls - the wooden history books of school captains and vice-principals and debating tournament champions. He doesn't watch where he steps, or start when the lunch bell rings loudly around him, or take the first set of stairs when he knows that the staircase at the far end will get him where he wants to go faster, avoiding the imminent rush of hungry students toward their lockers. He merely breathes in the familiar mustiness and blinks away the memories that flicker around him.
He flashes his badge at the secretary, who nods and points him to the right as he already starts heading there. He knocks at the wood, and walks in.
Pep looks up over his glasses, and freezes, his hand in mid-air holding a letter that he has been scrutinising.
"Oh. Hello, Guti."
"Hi."
"You're - here," Pep says, his eyes flicking to the carpeted floor as if to indicate his office.
"And you are both handsome and observant."
"How's the investigation going?"
Guti smiles as he sits down in the leather chair opposite the desk. "We're pursuing all possible leads."
* * * * *
It takes less than two minutes in his company for Raúl to decide that he likes Iker Casillas, and want to believe that he has nothing to do with the murder. His handshake is warm but tired, as though he's bogged down by work and stress and a million tiny preoccupations, and really doesn't have the time for this, but is nonetheless relieved to finally have a chance to explain himself. He merely nods his thanks with a small smile when Julien walks in holding two mugs of coffee, and Raúl appreciates both the caffeine and Iker's silent consideration of the officer's needs.
Raúl recognises something in him, in the fatigued stubble which disguises his sharp features and the skin sinking beneath jutting cheekbones, and the world-weary hardness in the eyes that never linger on anything for too long. Iker leans back in his chair - comfortable, and making Raúl comfortable - and makes a lone three-word comment about the turn in the weather ("Cold out, huh?") before bringing up the case himself.
"I don't have an alibi, you know."
"I didn't know."
"And, I guess as far as the lore goes, I have a pretty strong motive."
"That's why I'm here."
As Iker polishes off his first cup of coffee, Julien returns and asks him if he wants another, as if on cue. Raúl looks at him with a slight question in his expression.
"I need it more than the common man," Iker explains.
"I can believe that." He freezes his small smile, wary of getting too friendly with a man who's already getting on his good side faster than he generally allows. "Listen. I want to cut to the chase. Why did Beckham leave you so much money?"
Iker shrugs, almost instinctively, as though he has a practice of feigned ignorance when demanded anything more than an obvious answer. "I... He and I went to school together, and university. And we worked together. I gave him some well-needed publicity for his organisation."
"Through the Tribune?"
Iker nods. "We're the city's premier broadsheet newspaper. Nobody's more reputed. People clamour for our advertising space."
"And what did he give you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"In return. For helping him out. What did you get?"
Another shrug, before a mischievous, triumphant smile that doesn't suit him. "Why, the pure satisfaction of contributing to a worthy charity in a priceless fashion."
Raúl doesn't smile back, but he doesn't press. "You say you have no alibi. Where were you?"
"Here."
"And nobody can vouch for that? Not your secretary?"
"Contrary to popular belief, I do actually let my staff leave in the evenings." He smiles again. "I was alone."
"What do you plan to do with the money you've now inherited?" Raúl asks, not missing a beat.
Shrug. "Let it wallow in a South American bank account, like the rest of my money. I've got no use for it."
"Is that so?" Raúl believes him, though. He can imagine that, if he were to visit Iker where he retired in the late nights, he wouldn't find holiday snaps in expensive gold frames, or high-tech stereo systems, or the fussy antiquities that characterised Beckham's house. Iker doesn't carry an air of ostentation. He strikes him as a man of classic but simple suits, a hundred replaceable ballpoint pens, days off with DVD box sets of television dramas instead of flights to white beaches.
"Listen, officer," Iker says in a quiet voice, without sounding peremptory. "I assure you, I have, and had, no need for David's money. I understand that money would have been a huge reason to kill him, but it doesn't motivate me as it does others. I have all I need. Now, if his life was guarding the key to eternal peace, or - better still - the meaning behind Lost, because goodness knows I have no clue what's going on there, maybe I would have killed him." He smiles. "But as you've got it, Mr González, I didn't have cause to blow his brains out."
After a short pause - as though he's been waiting outside the door for Iker to finish speaking - Julien walks in with Iker's second coffee, and Raúl takes the opportunity to verify that Iker was still at the office three nights prior.
"Well, I wasn't here myself," Julien says with a slight trace of hesitation, and he throws a vaguely apologetic smile toward Iker, who remains expressionless. "But he does usually stay back, yes. And - oh!" He smiles wider. "The security cameras would confirm that he was here!"
Raúl turns to Iker, who doesn't return Julien's smile. "Alright. Look into getting the tapes to Mr. González, then, Julien. Thank you."
"Absolutely. I can probably drop them off at the police station after work? It's just - I have a lot of typing to do -"
"That'll be fine," Raúl cuts him off with a tight smile. "Thank you." He turns back to Iker as Julien leaves again. "You've got a dedicated secretary there."
"Mm," Iker agrees absently. "I often wonder whether he doesn't have much of a life outside of this building. Ah, well," he shrugs. "It's hard to find good help these days."
Raúl looks at him searchingly for the briefest of instants. "So I've heard." He is dragged from his distracted memory by his phone, and he picks it up with a mumbled apology to Iker, who shrugs yet again.
"Just leaving the school now," Guti's voice crackles over the line, through background whirs of traffic and wind. "Pep has no alibi. He apparently drove home - said this long spiel about how the sun was so low, it was getting in his eyes as he was driving - and then he stayed home until school the next morning."
"Anything else?" Raúl glances up, seeing Iker looking back at him.
"He seemed - I don't know - genuinely sad. Another long spiel about how much Beckham meant to the school and vice versa, how he was a great guy, how he's lost not only a colleague but a friend, yada yada. How about you? Seen Casillas yet?"
Raúl doesn't bother to answer, and simply hangs up.
* * * * *
Royston walks in and sees Lionel suppress a sigh - badly - as their eyes meet.
"Nice to see you too, Leo," Royston grins, sliding onto a stool while Lionel continues wiping down the bar. "Busy night as usual, I see," he adds ironically. "Great."
Lionel tosses the dishrag in a trash can near his feet and stretches his fingers as he turns to look at Royston. "I'm sorry. I just - I don't want to deal with people right now."
"You're in the right job, then. And for once, I'm not being sarcastic."
Lionel tosses him a dark look before pouring him his customary beer on the house. "Cannavaro's minions were in here before. I made them order something before I'd talk to them, of course. Tossers, the lot of them. Asking questions. Making threats. Being annoying. "
"Sky is blue, Ricky Martin is gay, and so on," Royston says before taking a huge gulp of amber. "Well, I'll leave you alone. I'm on in - oh, shit, minus two minutes."
"I don't think anyone cares that you're late, Roy," Lionel replies dully. He sighs again. "The usual clientele have been avoiding this place like the plague."
"Just minions?" Royston asks sympathetically.
"If I'm lucky. Or so to speak."
Royston begins unzipping his guitar case and adopts a mockingly casual tone. "I'm surprised the police haven't been by. They've been doing their rounds. Even had time to visit lowlife nobodies like myself."
Lionel stares. "What did you tell them?"
"Oh, you know. Everything that Cannavaro's minions don't want them to know about Beckham. Uhm, they asked about the school, so of course I obliged. And I figured it was best that I mention Bojan, just in case."
Lionel rolls his eyes as Royston lifts his guitar out of its case. "Finish your beer. I don't think you're talking enough shit yet; it might help you come up with some more."
"They seemed to be after Fernando," Royston says musingly. "I don't know why.... They did mention Ramos."
Lionel shrugs. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, just backed him up. He was at the store when it happened," Royston explains in response to Lionel's raised eyebrows. "When the murder happened, Leo, get with it."
"Huh," Lionel grunts. "I hope you didn't go out of your way, backing him up."
"Oh, look who's a bitter Betty!" Lionel glares at Royston, who smirks. "Fernando's an idiot, but he's not a self-serving one. He just can't keep his dick in his pants. Not a crime."
"I'm just saying, don't go out of your way to protect him." Royston rolls his eyes as Lionel speaks, and takes another long swig of his beer. "Based on his - alliances - I wouldn't say he's exactly on our side of the fence."
"Yeah, yeah. Hey, say the cops have found out about Ramos. Does that -?"
"Nah, doubt it," Lionel answers dismissively, swiping Royston's glass after he empties it. "How would they possibly know?"
"Everyone knows, though. To an extent, anyway. They know something's - going on." Lionel says nothing in reply, threatening to delve into a pensive reverie. "Old folk are coming back. Beckham's secrets are spilling out. People are disappearing. I mean, when was the last time you saw Rubén?" Lionel remains silent. "And - let's be honest - if we know all about it, it shouldn't be long before the cops begin asking really difficult questions."
"See, I preferred to think that we know because we're undeniably clever and stealthy," Lionel says, at last cracking a small smile.
"Ay, he's got a sense of humour after all!" Royston says, grinning. "Let's make a bet, hey? Fifty bucks if -"
"Pretty sure I made a vow never to gamble with you again. My mother's still asking me where her bracelet went."
Royston smiles sheepishly. "Seriously, though. They've got to know. And if they don't, I'll bet you they'll be crawling around here soon enough, trying to find out."
"Well, we'll tell them what they need to know, then, and none of what they don't. You should set up, by the way, if you want to make any money tonight. These guys look like they're going to fall over soon," Lionel says, nodding in the direction of the pub's only patrons.
"Excellent. Especially drunk, therefore especially generous. I am lucky to have you, oh partner-in-crime."
"Don't go saying that too loud, now," Lionel smiles.
Royston at last peels himself away from the bar and weaves his way through empty seats and tables to the dusty corner of the pub. He grabs a tall stool and sits behind the microphone which perches unfailingly on its old stand, and casts an eye over the disinterested room when the coldness drifting in from the doorway is suddenly blocked for a second or two.
In the morning, he'd been unsurprised to see Guti back in town, after more than five years. He is even less surprised to see him walk into the pub now and take a seat at the bar. Should've forced that bet, he thinks to himself as he hears the officer say Lionel's name.
| Part 4 |
Part: 3 of 10
Characters: David Beckham, Martín Cáceres, Fabio Cannavaro, Iker Casillas, Royston Drenthe, Julien Faubert, Fernando Gago, Raúl González, Pep Guardiola, Thierry Henry, Guti Hernández, Xavi Hernández, Gonzalo Higuaín, Andrés Iniesta, Bojan Krkić, Lionel Messi, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Gerard Piqué, Carles Puyol, Sergio Ramos, Rubén de la Red, Michel Salgado, Miguel Torres. Not all characters appear in every chapter or in equal measure. Some characters' ages have been altered for the sake of coherence.
Genre: AU; murder mystery.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, drug use, and possibly distressing themes.
Summary: When corruption no longer shocks, drugs no longer numb, and darkness no longer soothes, men become desperate, reckless extremes of themselves. The secrets behind one man's life falling into another man's hands are revealed, exploited, and overlapped, and it falls to DCI Raúl González to trace the threads.
Disclaimer: One hundred percent fiction.
Notes: Endless thanks to everyone who's reading this. ♥
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism and questions are very welcome.
| Part 1 | Part 2 |
Part Three
After he tosses his coffee cup in a trash can, Guti unbuttons his grey suit jacket and wraps the lapels tighter over each other, folding his arms firmly to keep them in place, shielding his torso against the sharp wind. His sunglasses remain in his pocket though the sun begins to peek out from behind white clouds; he expects to be indoors soon.
Almost half an hour after his store's expressed opening time, Royston Drenthe emerges from a side-street. He whistles as he pulls a crowded keychain out from his pocket, the very picture of a sanguine spirit. Guti watches through the glass windows from across the street as Royston lays his bulging backpack on the counter, switches on fluorescent lights and disappears for a few seconds before realising that he's forgotten to flip the sign on the door to 'OPEN'.
When Raúl arrives, he looks as sharp as usual, but more alert, his glance at Guti pointed, his eyebrows furrowed. Guti, who has been leaning against a rare patch of clean wall, stands up straight and greets his superior.
"Hi," Raúl responds, his voice low. He turns his head, his eyes searching Royston's store as he speaks. "We have two people we absolutely need to speak to today. Miguel Torres finally sent through the details of Beckham's will."
Guti raises his eyebrows. "He's done double-checking the financial details or whatever he was doing?"
"Evidently," Raúl replies, irritation creeping into his voice already.
"Well? Who are we dealing with?"
"Two beneficiaries."
"Only?"
Raúl blinks heavily to affirm. "Besides his Foundation, that is."
"So there are three beneficiaries."
"The boy can add!" Raúl exclaims, feigning shock. "Oxley College - the private boys' school - gets one-third, and the rest goes to Iker Casillas." He continues staring through at Royston, who is now re-tagging the prices on a shelf of paper products.
"Casillas? The owner of the Tribune?"
"Oh, thank God. Yesterday, in Torres' office, I thought you hadn't even heard of him, and I was so close to asking for a new sergeant. You know, one who doesn't live under a rock." He ignores Guti, who frowns, offended, though somewhat relieved to see that what has evidently been a bad night's sleep hasn't completely rid his senior of his humour. "I'll speak to him. You go to the school," Raúl continues saying, moving toward the curb. Though Guti feels his pulse speed up just slightly at the news, Raúl's voice remains soft, slow, and measured as ever. He turns back to look at Guti with a slight smile as he crosses the road. "Chilly breeze today, fuck."
"Yeah, who would've known it was spring? Gotta say, I miss the beach."
"Your tan doesn't," Raúl says as Guti grins behind him. "Hey, where's my coffee, by the way? I saw you throw your cup away. It's generally considered good work etiquette to grab one for your boss if you -"
"You're not my boss," Guti argues lightheartedly, before slyly trying his luck with, "You were watching me?"
"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Raúl grumbles, pushing open the shop's door. "I was admiring the ill fit of your suit."
Willing himself not to look down to check his suit's cut, Guti follows him into the store, a farrago of white-painted steel shelving systems on wheels, the gorgeous deep woods of brushes and palettes, clean, dull grey walls and colourfully stained floor tiles. Royston has abandoned the sweater he'd been wearing on the street and it threatens to slide off the surface of the counter on which he leans, leafing through the week's television guide which is sold every Thursday morning and is probably the reason why he was late.
He hears the door open; closes the newspaper pull-out; stands straight, his body taut beneath the tight black long-sleeve that complements his cocoa skin. The easy cheer that characterises his face abandons him when he looks up and sees Guti and Raúl enter. Guti supposes that their attire declares their total lack of association with anything artistic. He smiles, hoping to come across a little less austere, but the fact that Raúl remains stern-faced sees Royston's hesitation linger.
"Can I help you?"
To Guti's relief, Raúl is friendly, by his standards. "Hi, I'm DCI Raúl González, this is Sergeant Guti Hernández. We're investigating the death of David Beckham?" Royston nods. "We just need to know a couple of things: were you working here on Monday evening?"
"Yes." He pauses. "Why?"
"What's your name?"
"Royston. Drenthe, Royston Drenthe."
"We have word, Mr. Drenthe, from one Sergio Ramos that he was here at that time, with someone else, buying - something - from you."
Royston frowns. "Well, I don't know about this Ramos, but we had a fair few people in that night, yeah. We're closed weekends, you see, so I guess all the people who needed to buy stuff but had work all day figured they'd pop in -"
"Yes, thank you," Raúl interrupts, his voice smooth. "Those 'fair few people' - do you know any of them by name?"
"Well, there's an old fellow who's constantly buying brushes. What he does with so many, I'll never know. Name's Mendes. There was a blonde woman, very chatty, named - Alice? Alyssa? Something like that. A couple of guys after - 'the cheapest and oldest paints' I have, that's what they asked for specifically. One of them named Fernando. Not sure what the other -"
"Fernando?" Raúl's eyebrows shoot up. "Got a last name?"
"No clue, sorry," Royston frowns at Raúl's urgency. "I know he goes to Oxley. He's, uhm, got long hair. So did the guy he was with, matter of fact -"
"They both had long hair? And one of them was an Oxley student named Fernando?"
"Uh, yeah. Long, darkish hair, on both of them. Untidy looking - like most of us, I suppose," he smiles sheepishly. "Hispanic, I'd guess. The other guy was taller," he adds.
Raúl sighs before shooting Royston a tight, grateful smile. "Thank you, you've been very helpful."
Guti nods his goodbye, and drags his finger across one of the shelves as he follows Raúl out, watching him purse his lips in thought and throw his hands into the warmth of his pockets. "Well, I guess that's Sergio's story checking out," he says as Raúl checks his watch.
"To be expected, really. He's hardly a prime suspect." Guti eyes him intently, and he looks up and inhales deeply. "Alright. You go up to the school now. Speak to the principal; apparently he knew Beckham personally. Goes by the name of Josep Guardiola."
He turns to head back to his car, before looking across at Guti again.
"Oh, and - Hernández? You should seriously consider finding a new tailor."
* * * * *
Fernando is fascinated by the way Sergio tightens and tenses, his jaw and eyes stiffening, and fingers curling into fists, when someone gets too close. He saw it, to a lesser extent, the previous morning when the police visited. But now, as he pounds himself into him, Sergio's entire being takes on a defensive hardness, preparing itself for the worst, or the best, with all the strength it can muster and none of the consequence.
Between sharp breaths, Fernando's eyes dart to Sergio's fingers, at one moment raking at the sheets beneath him; at another, pulling at Fernando's back, willing him closer, deeper. He pulls Fernando in, a machine, unable to fight his own function as receiver, as inviting volition. His eyes flutter open with the small jolts that Fernando courses through him, his stare rigid and wired with pain and shame and pleasure all at once. He grits his teeth together, and his mouth widens in a grimace as beads of sweat threaten to crawl inside.
Hot and slick to the point where he no feels the separation of his body from Sergio's, Fernando distractedly observes, as if from between them, his pushing and Sergio's thrashing turn into a unified, irregular pulsation. Their skin sticks and unsticks; their breath is heavy, thick and wet. They move faster and faster and slower and stop.
What follows has quickly become custom. The silence would be uncomfortable but for their mutual rapture slowing their senses and depressing their guards. Sergio mumbles something that Fernando is too self-congratulatory to listen to, and disappears into the bathroom. Fernando's hands slide up from the stickiness in the warm sheets, and he props himself up, sitting with bent knees and his back resting against the coolness of the headboard. He will wait until Sergio has recovered, and then he'll join him in the shower. Sergio will stiffen in the steaming wet, though he expects him, and will patiently tolerate Fernando's fingers creeping around to his front, until those fingers go too far. And Sergio will turn off the water, and they will go again. Sergio will leave, followed by Fernando a few minutes later. Fernando will go home, change, and delve into a state of restless inaction until Sergio phones him hours later.
As Fernando waits in the bed, still able to see his heartbeat shaking his ribcage when he looks down, there is a knock, and the door opens. He jumps a little. "You're up? Not infirm anymore? What, was there an earthquake or something?"
Rubén frowns. "You guys woke me up."
"You heard us all the way from your room, huh?" Fernando's teeth suck up his lower lip as his eyes glint.
"When are you leaving?"
"I don't know." Fernando shrugs; Rubén huffs. "What?" He grins. "You weren't having another dream about Mrs. Veysi again, were you? We didn't interrupt you just as you -?"
"Fuck you," Rubén retorts wearily. "Just - keep it down next time. For fuck's sake." He pauses for a moment. "He's just using you. You know that, right?" he adds, his voice lower, a warning tangled between the irritation and sleepiness in his expression.
Fernando's smirk softens. "Go back to bed, man. I'm leaving soon."
* * * * *
Hesitation, coupled with self-service, draws plans of each of Iker's responses. The second's pause before he speaks, each time, elicits impatience from Fabio, who fires his questions and retorts with all the passion and urgency that Iker would never allow of himself.
"You can't tell me you have a good reason; an actual reason." Fabio looks helpless - but not hopeless, never hopeless. He finds threads of possibility which he grabs and of which he refuses to let go until Iker cuts them off, one by one.
We were never going to work anyway. "It probably wouldn't have worked anyway."
"Of course it would have worked! This is - this is everything I've been building up to; I'm not going to let some little -"
Some little murder? "It's not some little thing. You know that."
"I know... I know. But - there's no reason for me to change my plans, they're totally unrelated issues! You know my re-election rests on this; hell, you said it yourself! A peak in the cycle is coming, you can see that. I'll be in the spotlight and people will be expecting something big, especially since Salgado's campaign is spiralling out of control. Can't you see that now is the perfect time? There's never been less of a chance of backlash!"
I have to protect myself. "I'm just saying this to protect you," Iker almost pleads. "I don't know how long it'll be before the cops show up at that door - and I don't want you going down with me."
"Why would you 'go down'? You have no reason, none at all, to sit there worrying about anything more than a couple of questions - which, you know, you're more than capable of answering. You have nothing to hide. From the police, from the public." Fabio grabs Iker's reluctant hand and clasps it within his own. "Iker... Please. You can't be having second thoughts now. I mean - why? Why now? Give me one reason that I can't squash in an instant."
They'll find us out, they'll find us out. "My gun is gone. I have a motive - or the police will say I do, anyway. You know that when they're writing up their list of suspects -"
"They don't publicise their theories, Iker!" Fabio throws Iker's hand back down onto his knee in frustration. "They're not going to have a press conference, going 'We think so-and-so did it, we're just letting you all know so that he's on his guard and we can look like idiots when he turns out to be innocent'. You just - you just don't want this, do you?" His animation fades, making way for a desperate sort of resignation. "You never wanted it."
No, I never wanted it. "You don't need me to do this. What difference is my face next to yours going to make? If anything, it'll make it harder. They'll start pinning you to my - my business, and people will start to talk. About money. About influence."
"You think I haven't thought about that?"
No, actually, you probably only ever think about the money. "I said I would keep funding you. What more do you need? Your coming out has nothing to do with me. Are you telling me you wouldn't do this if you were single?"
Fabio stares. "Don't turn this into a money thing. Don't."
Don't ask me to turn it into anything else. "I told you. I want to protect you as much as I can. I -" Iker picks up Fabio's hand now, and holds it, willing himself to calm, so that Fabio can in turn. "I will always give you what you need. I am. Every day. But -"
"It's not about having the - the wherewithal to win this thing. It's about doing it the right way, too."
Well, we've been doing it the wrong way all this time - why change now? "I'm using you."
Fabio freezes. "What?"
Damn it, Iker. "You can't tell me the word 'rebound' never crossed your mind."
"No. No, it didn't." Fabio stares at Iker, hard. "And you're not going to convince me that that's all I am. I know it's - I know -"
"I'm using you," he repeats.
"I don't care." Fabio inhales deeply, closing his eyes to steady himself. "Alright." He breathes again. "Alright. You say you want to protect me. By leaving me, on my own, with a half-assed publicity stunt that nobody's going to respect if I don't have you by my side. Because I am telling you, Iker, nobody will fucking believe me. The mayor, up for re-election on a campaign of gay marriage and women's rights and environmental protection, suddenly coming out, just as the campaign cycle heats up? I'll be an anything-but-straight bandwagon-jumper like fucking Lindsay Lohan - nobody will believe me, it's just too convenient, pandering to the gay demographic and - when things start to get a bit desperate - saying 'Oh, hey, just so you know, I'm one of you'. I need you there, on that platform, behind that lectern, to show them that it's not just a stunt, that it's my life, my reality. You say it's for my own good, for the good of us, if you walk away?"
Don't, Iker, don't. "Yes."
"Why? Why do you need to protect me like that?"
Don't.
"Why?"
Before he speaks, Iker vaguely notices, through the window over Fabio's shoulder, the clouds moving to shield the sun and sink only the dullest daylight over his lover's shoulders. "You heard what Thierry said, about what happened to David. We can't give the police any reason to link us to each other - just in case -" He pauses. "We have to be so careful. And..." Iker lets go of Fabio, as though he thinks it'll numb the sting of severance. "And I'm worried that you killed him."
* * * * *
The small glass windows marking each door sail past Guti as he walks quickly through the corridor, and he doesn't look at them. He doesn't look at the plaques lining the walls - the wooden history books of school captains and vice-principals and debating tournament champions. He doesn't watch where he steps, or start when the lunch bell rings loudly around him, or take the first set of stairs when he knows that the staircase at the far end will get him where he wants to go faster, avoiding the imminent rush of hungry students toward their lockers. He merely breathes in the familiar mustiness and blinks away the memories that flicker around him.
He flashes his badge at the secretary, who nods and points him to the right as he already starts heading there. He knocks at the wood, and walks in.
Pep looks up over his glasses, and freezes, his hand in mid-air holding a letter that he has been scrutinising.
"Oh. Hello, Guti."
"Hi."
"You're - here," Pep says, his eyes flicking to the carpeted floor as if to indicate his office.
"And you are both handsome and observant."
"How's the investigation going?"
Guti smiles as he sits down in the leather chair opposite the desk. "We're pursuing all possible leads."
* * * * *
It takes less than two minutes in his company for Raúl to decide that he likes Iker Casillas, and want to believe that he has nothing to do with the murder. His handshake is warm but tired, as though he's bogged down by work and stress and a million tiny preoccupations, and really doesn't have the time for this, but is nonetheless relieved to finally have a chance to explain himself. He merely nods his thanks with a small smile when Julien walks in holding two mugs of coffee, and Raúl appreciates both the caffeine and Iker's silent consideration of the officer's needs.
Raúl recognises something in him, in the fatigued stubble which disguises his sharp features and the skin sinking beneath jutting cheekbones, and the world-weary hardness in the eyes that never linger on anything for too long. Iker leans back in his chair - comfortable, and making Raúl comfortable - and makes a lone three-word comment about the turn in the weather ("Cold out, huh?") before bringing up the case himself.
"I don't have an alibi, you know."
"I didn't know."
"And, I guess as far as the lore goes, I have a pretty strong motive."
"That's why I'm here."
As Iker polishes off his first cup of coffee, Julien returns and asks him if he wants another, as if on cue. Raúl looks at him with a slight question in his expression.
"I need it more than the common man," Iker explains.
"I can believe that." He freezes his small smile, wary of getting too friendly with a man who's already getting on his good side faster than he generally allows. "Listen. I want to cut to the chase. Why did Beckham leave you so much money?"
Iker shrugs, almost instinctively, as though he has a practice of feigned ignorance when demanded anything more than an obvious answer. "I... He and I went to school together, and university. And we worked together. I gave him some well-needed publicity for his organisation."
"Through the Tribune?"
Iker nods. "We're the city's premier broadsheet newspaper. Nobody's more reputed. People clamour for our advertising space."
"And what did he give you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"In return. For helping him out. What did you get?"
Another shrug, before a mischievous, triumphant smile that doesn't suit him. "Why, the pure satisfaction of contributing to a worthy charity in a priceless fashion."
Raúl doesn't smile back, but he doesn't press. "You say you have no alibi. Where were you?"
"Here."
"And nobody can vouch for that? Not your secretary?"
"Contrary to popular belief, I do actually let my staff leave in the evenings." He smiles again. "I was alone."
"What do you plan to do with the money you've now inherited?" Raúl asks, not missing a beat.
Shrug. "Let it wallow in a South American bank account, like the rest of my money. I've got no use for it."
"Is that so?" Raúl believes him, though. He can imagine that, if he were to visit Iker where he retired in the late nights, he wouldn't find holiday snaps in expensive gold frames, or high-tech stereo systems, or the fussy antiquities that characterised Beckham's house. Iker doesn't carry an air of ostentation. He strikes him as a man of classic but simple suits, a hundred replaceable ballpoint pens, days off with DVD box sets of television dramas instead of flights to white beaches.
"Listen, officer," Iker says in a quiet voice, without sounding peremptory. "I assure you, I have, and had, no need for David's money. I understand that money would have been a huge reason to kill him, but it doesn't motivate me as it does others. I have all I need. Now, if his life was guarding the key to eternal peace, or - better still - the meaning behind Lost, because goodness knows I have no clue what's going on there, maybe I would have killed him." He smiles. "But as you've got it, Mr González, I didn't have cause to blow his brains out."
After a short pause - as though he's been waiting outside the door for Iker to finish speaking - Julien walks in with Iker's second coffee, and Raúl takes the opportunity to verify that Iker was still at the office three nights prior.
"Well, I wasn't here myself," Julien says with a slight trace of hesitation, and he throws a vaguely apologetic smile toward Iker, who remains expressionless. "But he does usually stay back, yes. And - oh!" He smiles wider. "The security cameras would confirm that he was here!"
Raúl turns to Iker, who doesn't return Julien's smile. "Alright. Look into getting the tapes to Mr. González, then, Julien. Thank you."
"Absolutely. I can probably drop them off at the police station after work? It's just - I have a lot of typing to do -"
"That'll be fine," Raúl cuts him off with a tight smile. "Thank you." He turns back to Iker as Julien leaves again. "You've got a dedicated secretary there."
"Mm," Iker agrees absently. "I often wonder whether he doesn't have much of a life outside of this building. Ah, well," he shrugs. "It's hard to find good help these days."
Raúl looks at him searchingly for the briefest of instants. "So I've heard." He is dragged from his distracted memory by his phone, and he picks it up with a mumbled apology to Iker, who shrugs yet again.
"Just leaving the school now," Guti's voice crackles over the line, through background whirs of traffic and wind. "Pep has no alibi. He apparently drove home - said this long spiel about how the sun was so low, it was getting in his eyes as he was driving - and then he stayed home until school the next morning."
"Anything else?" Raúl glances up, seeing Iker looking back at him.
"He seemed - I don't know - genuinely sad. Another long spiel about how much Beckham meant to the school and vice versa, how he was a great guy, how he's lost not only a colleague but a friend, yada yada. How about you? Seen Casillas yet?"
Raúl doesn't bother to answer, and simply hangs up.
* * * * *
Royston walks in and sees Lionel suppress a sigh - badly - as their eyes meet.
"Nice to see you too, Leo," Royston grins, sliding onto a stool while Lionel continues wiping down the bar. "Busy night as usual, I see," he adds ironically. "Great."
Lionel tosses the dishrag in a trash can near his feet and stretches his fingers as he turns to look at Royston. "I'm sorry. I just - I don't want to deal with people right now."
"You're in the right job, then. And for once, I'm not being sarcastic."
Lionel tosses him a dark look before pouring him his customary beer on the house. "Cannavaro's minions were in here before. I made them order something before I'd talk to them, of course. Tossers, the lot of them. Asking questions. Making threats. Being annoying. "
"Sky is blue, Ricky Martin is gay, and so on," Royston says before taking a huge gulp of amber. "Well, I'll leave you alone. I'm on in - oh, shit, minus two minutes."
"I don't think anyone cares that you're late, Roy," Lionel replies dully. He sighs again. "The usual clientele have been avoiding this place like the plague."
"Just minions?" Royston asks sympathetically.
"If I'm lucky. Or so to speak."
Royston begins unzipping his guitar case and adopts a mockingly casual tone. "I'm surprised the police haven't been by. They've been doing their rounds. Even had time to visit lowlife nobodies like myself."
Lionel stares. "What did you tell them?"
"Oh, you know. Everything that Cannavaro's minions don't want them to know about Beckham. Uhm, they asked about the school, so of course I obliged. And I figured it was best that I mention Bojan, just in case."
Lionel rolls his eyes as Royston lifts his guitar out of its case. "Finish your beer. I don't think you're talking enough shit yet; it might help you come up with some more."
"They seemed to be after Fernando," Royston says musingly. "I don't know why.... They did mention Ramos."
Lionel shrugs. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, just backed him up. He was at the store when it happened," Royston explains in response to Lionel's raised eyebrows. "When the murder happened, Leo, get with it."
"Huh," Lionel grunts. "I hope you didn't go out of your way, backing him up."
"Oh, look who's a bitter Betty!" Lionel glares at Royston, who smirks. "Fernando's an idiot, but he's not a self-serving one. He just can't keep his dick in his pants. Not a crime."
"I'm just saying, don't go out of your way to protect him." Royston rolls his eyes as Lionel speaks, and takes another long swig of his beer. "Based on his - alliances - I wouldn't say he's exactly on our side of the fence."
"Yeah, yeah. Hey, say the cops have found out about Ramos. Does that -?"
"Nah, doubt it," Lionel answers dismissively, swiping Royston's glass after he empties it. "How would they possibly know?"
"Everyone knows, though. To an extent, anyway. They know something's - going on." Lionel says nothing in reply, threatening to delve into a pensive reverie. "Old folk are coming back. Beckham's secrets are spilling out. People are disappearing. I mean, when was the last time you saw Rubén?" Lionel remains silent. "And - let's be honest - if we know all about it, it shouldn't be long before the cops begin asking really difficult questions."
"See, I preferred to think that we know because we're undeniably clever and stealthy," Lionel says, at last cracking a small smile.
"Ay, he's got a sense of humour after all!" Royston says, grinning. "Let's make a bet, hey? Fifty bucks if -"
"Pretty sure I made a vow never to gamble with you again. My mother's still asking me where her bracelet went."
Royston smiles sheepishly. "Seriously, though. They've got to know. And if they don't, I'll bet you they'll be crawling around here soon enough, trying to find out."
"Well, we'll tell them what they need to know, then, and none of what they don't. You should set up, by the way, if you want to make any money tonight. These guys look like they're going to fall over soon," Lionel says, nodding in the direction of the pub's only patrons.
"Excellent. Especially drunk, therefore especially generous. I am lucky to have you, oh partner-in-crime."
"Don't go saying that too loud, now," Lionel smiles.
Royston at last peels himself away from the bar and weaves his way through empty seats and tables to the dusty corner of the pub. He grabs a tall stool and sits behind the microphone which perches unfailingly on its old stand, and casts an eye over the disinterested room when the coldness drifting in from the doorway is suddenly blocked for a second or two.
In the morning, he'd been unsurprised to see Guti back in town, after more than five years. He is even less surprised to see him walk into the pub now and take a seat at the bar. Should've forced that bet, he thinks to himself as he hears the officer say Lionel's name.
| Part 4 |