Fic: Dulce et Decorum (1/?)
Title: Dulce et Decorum (1/?)
Author: laeglass
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, violence and sexual content
Pairing: VM/OB
Warning(s): violence, language, dead bodies, mentions of prostitution, mentions of sexual kinks (S&M)
Archive: Mirrormere, adultfanfiction.net, my lj. All others please ask.
Disclaimer: It’s all made-up lies. No monies made.
Beta: lovely tularia, who makes me look good.
Prologue
Monday
6:02 am
“Bessie!”
The golden retriever ignored her owner’s voice and kept pulling her leash, trying to get him to move into the direction of the bushes on the left, near the upper end of the Bird Cage Walk. The man resisted, frowning at his dog, calling her name impatiently.
“Bessie! What has gotten into you, old girl?” He was already panting; the dog had been very bouncy this morning, impatient and eager to go for a walk. The man hadn’t been as keen to go out into the crispy autumn morning, but he knew what Bessie wanted and that exercise was good for them both. Their usual path was two miles long, and more often than not the man enjoyed the sights and the rare sense of feeling close to nature in greater London.
St. James’ Park, located at the very heart of London, provided visitors with endless sources of fascination from outdoor concerts to guided walks; it was skirted by three royal palaces, and bounded by three roads, and a bridge across the small lake afforded views of Buckingham Palace. The St. James’ Park Lake had two islands, Duck Island and West Island, of which the former hosted a large collection of waterbirds. The man was just glad that his old Bessie wasn’t interested in the ducks, swans and pelicans, though; she tended to get a bit carried away at times and he didn’t want to test which one of them was stronger in a leash-pulling contest.
Now, however, when old Bessie was acting oddly, the old man thought that he should maybe get someone to walk Bessie for him. Maybe the young lad from the neighbour, Billy. Billy was black but they had been living on the next door for quite some time, and the lad was always courteous, and always wanted to pat Bessie when they came from their walks, whether it was morning or evening. The man judged him to be trustworthy.
Yes, definitely, he would ask the boy to take Bessie out in the evening; surely Billy would have use for some pocket money. Bessie pulled on her leash so sharply and so suddenly that his grip faltered and the leash came loose. The retriever immediately left the path and headed to the area that had a lot of undergrowth, diving into the bushes without second thought. The man looked at her in bewilderment and then hastened his steps to follow her.
There could be something dangerous, some broken bottles or maybe used needles left by the youngsters that attended the concerts in summer time, and he was worried that his silly old dog would hurt herself. “Bessie, get out of there. Here girl, come on!” She didn’t listen to him, but she let out a low woof, and the man could see her tail wagging slowly. “What have you got there that’s so interesting, huh? Mole hills and cigarette butts, eh? Come now, girl. Let’s go home.”
He had reached the bushes the dog was so eagerly sniffing at, and bent to take the leash when something caught his eye. A sense of foreboding clutched his stomach and his breakfast, bacon and eggs threatened to come up when he moved some branches a little and saw what had caught Bessie’s interest. ”Oh Jesus Lord,” he managed to choke out before he emptied his stomach all over himself.
Beneath the bushes, in the ground littered with used condoms, candy wrappers and glass shards lay a young blonde-haired man, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.
* * *
Chapter One
6:40 am
Superintendent Rhys-Davies wrapped a thick woollen scarf around his neck and breathed deeply as he stepped out of his Fiat. Why he drove an old Fiat instead of a fancier vehicle, no-one knew; he could have afforded a car more suitable for a man like him ten times over, but he was used to his old car and wasn’t likely to be parted from it in the near future.
Rhys-Davies had received a call from the Yard twenty minutes earlier - “two dead bodies have been found” - so he had done the thing that was expected from a person of his position. He had gotten up from his comfortable bed trying not to wake up his wife, dressed in his usual work clothing and grabbed an apple from the kitchen before getting into his Fiat.
Rhys-Davies scrunched up his nose as he neared the scene; he could smell human vomit along with the decaying smell of other garbage. Constable Karl Urban was talking with an elderly man who was clutching tightly at a dog leash, the golden retriever on the other end of the leash pulling on it, trying to get into where other police officers were working. Rhys-Davies nodded at the crime scene examiners Wenham and Blanchett, noting how pale Cate looked with her blue overcoat tight around her rounded stomach.
Constable Urban saw him approach and gestured at him. “Good morning, Superintendent,” he said almost apologetically. Everyone knew that Rhys-Davies wasn’t a morning person, and no-one wanted to be the first one to talk to him in the mornings. “I assume you have been informed about the situation here; two young men found killed. This is Mr. Holm who found the bodies, and this is his dog, Bessie.”
Rhys-Davies nodded shortly and knelt to pat the golden retriever. “Morning morning. This fine lady here was the one who found the bodies, right? She looks like she has a sharp nose.”
The old man nodded, still looking a bit sick, and the superintendent guessed that it was Mr. Holm’s vomit he had smelled earlier. “Yes, Bessie kept pulling on her leash and when she got free she took a mad dash at the bushes right there. I saw the other body when I went to pull her back. I thought that she would hurt herself in the garbage. I think I vomited then, it was quite a shocking sight,” Mr. Holm said, embarrassed. “I hope I didn’t ruin any evidence.”
Urban said kindly, “I’m sure you didn’t. Our crime scene examiners are very capable. Mr. Holm, did you see anyone else here in the park this morning? Some lonely joggers, or people with their dogs?”
The question in itself was quite absurd; St. James’ Park was very popular among early morning joggers and people with dogs, and Mr. Holm could have seen any number of people who had nothing to do with the killings. Constable Urban had to ask, though; it was his job and Karl was nothing if not thorough.
The old man shook his head slowly. The world still seemed a bit unstable and he didn’t want to risk upsetting his stomach again. “Nobody, just me and my Bessie. Oh wait; I did see a couple, a boy and a girl riding bikes half a mile from here. Is that important for the investigation?” He looked at both Urban and Rhys-Davies hopefully.
“Could be,” Rhys-Davies said shortly, even if he thought that it probably wasn’t, and nodded at the Constable. “Urban, get a full statement from Mr. Holm. I’m going to see the bodies and find out if Wenham and Blanchett can tell me anything.”
Urban nodded and took a legal pad and a pen from the front pocket of his coat, preparing to do his work. “Yes, Superintendent.”
* * *
Crime scene examiner Cate Blanchett yawned a little and glanced at her colleague Wenham. Darn that man for looking so fresh and ready to work hours and hours on end on this blasted crime scene. The man was already taking photographs of the bodies at different angles stepping carefully between them, trying not to accidentally crush anything that could be of evidential value under his shoes.
Blanchett knew that she should start taking the small pieces of garbage and cigarette butts and start putting them in bags to take them to the lab for analyzing but she lacked the strength to do so. The sight of the two bodies and the amount of blood - God, it was everywhere - disgusted her for the first time in her career and she knew she looked pale and out of place. The though annoyed her to no end.
She still suffered from morning sickness after five months into pregnancy and the early awakening didn’t help matters a bit. Blanchett threw a glare at Constable Urban, both annoyed and pleased at the fact that the man wasn’t staring at her with pleading eyes as he often did. You fucked it up, wanker; deal with it, she thought and noted that Rhys-Davies had arrived at the scene and was coming their way.
Bloody hell, Cate thought and wrapped her coat tighter around her body. She fought to quell the uneasiness in her stomach; the stench of the old man’s vomit had invaded her nose the moment she arrived on the scene. Old grumpy something-crawled-up-my-arse-and-died Rhys-Davies.
“What do we have here?” the superintendent asked. He didn’t miss the expression on Blanchett’s face as he approached, nor the glare she sent Urban’s way. “Blanchett, snap out of it. Tell me what we have.”
Blanchett nodded and spoke with a monotone voice. “Two young Caucasian males, aged approximately between nineteen and twenty-five. The blond has been stabbed on his chest several times; the dark-haired one has obviously been hit on his head with some heavy object. They haven’t been here long, maybe only this night. There’s no sight of possible murder weapons as of yet, but we’ll keep looking.”
Rhys-Davies dismissed her with a nod and watched as she took a couple of plastic bags and started going through the trash with determination. He thought she was a good crime scene examiner in general but it was also obvious to him that her pregnancy made it harder for her to perform on her job.
Why cannot women just stay at home once they start making babies, he thought to himself as he went to have a look at the body that had been stabbed. Wenham was taking photographs of the brunette boy that lay on his stomach, his figure relatively short and slight, and whose back of the head seemed to have suffered a great blow or two; it was a bloody mess and Rhys-Davies looked away, disgusted. Lord knows it’s hard enough for them to work like men even under normal circumstances.
He looked at the dead body of the blond youth, paying attention to his expensive looking clothing and his well-groomed hair. This wasn’t some homeless punk, he noted, and frowned as he saw a rainbow necklace that the boy was wearing, peeking from under his sweater and partially covered with blood. “I’ll be damned,” he said as warning bells started going off inside his head.
No, not this. We so don’t need this.
Wenham raised an eyebrow at him, lowering his camera; Rhys-Davies wasn’t prone to making any off-handed comments on crime scenes and Wenham wanted to hear what had made the superintendent to lose his composure thusly. “Seems that this boy was homosexual,” Rhys-Davies said, and shook his head wearily.
Fuck if McKellen isn’t going to have a fit.
* * *
New Scotland Yard headquarters
7:30 am
Viggo ran his fingers through his hair, wishing that he had had the time to take a shower before leaving his apartment as he exited the elevator in the third floor where McKellen’s office was located. McKellen had sounded clipped and stressed on the phone, and Detective Chief Inspector Mortensen could only imagine what could shake the Assistant Commissioner so badly. Sir Ian McKellen was renowned for his composure and cold-bloodedness and DCI Mortensen dreaded this meeting. For some reason McKellen always made him feel like a naughty school boy who got caught with his hands inside some girl’s blouse.
The blonde secretary of Assistant Commissioner McKellen, Joanna, raised her eyes from her computer screen as he saw the American approach. “Good morning DCI Mortensen, he is already waiting, you can go straight in.”
Mortensen nodded at her thoughtfully and then smiled as he took in the woman’s appearance. “Joanna, you do look lovely this morning. A new haircut?”
The woman melted like butter in the sun. “How kind of you to notice,” she said and fluttered her eyelashes. She then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I have to warn you, though: Assistant Commissioner isn’t in a good mood this morning. Rhys-Davies just left and I don’t think he had any good news. He almost bit my head off when I asked if he wanted his usual morning tea.”
DCI Mortensen made a small noise in the back of his throat and then straightened his shoulders. “Thank you for the warning,” he said and smiled again. “I guess I’ll just go in then and hear what he has to say.”
Joanna watched as Viggo walked in and closed the door behind him. That man was just too good to be true: always courteous, always kind, intelligent as all hell and oh-so handsome. Joanna wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone but she had a little crush on the Detective Chief Inspector and his lovely accent. The soft drawl of his voice made her knees turn into Jell-O and always managed to bring a smile on her face. To her regret he never did anything but flirted a little and exchanged a few words with her whereas she would have loved to exchange something of a completely different nature with the handsome American. She shrugged her shoulders a little and turned back to her computer screen.
“Mortensen, I’m glad you could come so quickly,” McKellen said and stood up from his stuffed chair. The white-haired man’s face was lined with creases and this morning he didn’t look very good. He nodded at the younger man to take a seat and Mortensen did as his superior asked. “Now, tell me about the Queensbury murders. I heard that last night you made a few arrests.”
Mortensen nodded and pulled on his earlobe a little. He was tired after having been caught up in paperwork half the night; one wouldn’t believe how many forms you had to fill and how many reports you had to turn in after you arrested someone. “Yes. We raided Williams’ house at around ten pm and arrested both Mr. and Mrs. Williams. They’re both now in custody and will be charged with the murders of Sheena Cummings and Matthew Leech.”
“Good, good,” McKellen said thoughtfully. “How was Monaghan?”
“I have to say that Constable Monaghan performed really well on this case. I’m very impressed with his work,” Viggo said truthfully. “The boy shows real talent, Commissioner.” After saying that he mentally cringed; he really shouldn’t call Dominic a boy; it sounded so condescending. Monaghan had proved to be a professional and as cool as snow when on duty, and should be shown the due respect.
“Good,” the Assistant Commissioner said again and leaned on the table. He studied Mortensen for a while, almost like he was looking for something, before he nodded and stood up again. “Two bodies were found this morning in St. James’ Park; two young men. Tell me, Mortensen, how much do you know about the government’s new hate crime programme?”
DCI Mortensen shrugged and straightened on the chair. “Not much, I have to admit. Only that they’re struggling to decrease the number of hate crimes in the greater London area. I’ve seen the posters and whatnot that have been spread throughout the city. Seems that this is the government’s number one agenda at the moment; along with cleaning the streets of prostitutes, of course.”
“Indeed,” McKellen ventured. “One of the victims found this morning is believed to be homosexual. He had some kind of rainbow necklace when he - they - were found. Superintendent Rhys-Davies stopped by earlier and said that this looks like two gay boys attacked while having a meeting at the park. As you probably know that park is a well-known meeting place for gay men. Anyway, the boy with the necklace had been stabbed seven times; looks like whoever killed him had a lot against him. The other boy had his skull crushed with some kind of heavy object. The murder weapons haven’t been found yet.”
“If this was a hate crime…” Mortensen started, only to be interrupted by the Assistant Commissioner.
“We are already being pressured by the government. The number of crimes against homosexuals and other minorities has been on the rise for years now and they’ve decided to do something about it. The gay club bombing two months ago was the last straw. They don’t think we’re doing our share and assume that we’re not taking the hate crime programme seriously; obviously they think the Yard is full of homophobic arses who don’t give a toss if some queer kids get bashed. When they hear that there’s been two gay men murdered practically on our backyard they will have our heads. My head,” McKellen said and sighed.
“Mortensen, I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to catch the killer, or killers for that matter, as soon as possible. Which is why I want you to take on this case. You work well with Bean, right? And you just said how impressed you are with young Monaghan. This case is now yours, Mortensen; call Bean and Monaghan and start the investigations. I will expect results from you soon.” The AC went to sit down on his chair behind his large desk and picked up his reading glasses from the table. “You’re dismissed.”
* * *
8:10 am
“So let me get this straight, pun intended,” Bean said. “They think this so called hate crime is of such importance that they need to put us to investigate it? Since when do we investigate gay bashing cases? A bashing taken a bit too far, I admit, but a bashing nonetheless?”
Detective Sergeant Bean was among the very few who knew about Viggo’s homosexuality in the Yard; not even McKellen, who was Viggo’s superior as well as openly gay, knew. Sean and Viggo had been paired up over ten years ago when Viggo first joined the forces, and the American had seen no reason to lie to his partner when Bean asked if he had a wife or a girlfriend; Viggo had honestly told him that he and his male lover had separated three months earlier, and that was that.
Sean had been furious at first at being paired up with a queer, but as soon as he realised Viggo’s worth and talent, as well as how hard-working and relentless the man was, he also realised how insignificant it was what the American got up to in his own bedroom on his own time. By the time they met Sean had just divorced from his first wife. Now his third marriage was on rocks and Bean was finding it hard to come back home to an empty apartment; his insomnia had come back with a vengeance and work seemed just like yet another duty on the long list. Sometimes he found Viggo’s ability to take it all in a stride a bit disconcerting and this was one of those moments.
“I don’t have the authority to ask such questions, Bean, you know that,” Viggo said mildly. “You know as well as I do that when McKellen tells you to jump the only thing you’ll say is ‘how high’. You know how the political climate is right now. The government is already furious with our seeming incapability to solve these kinds of crimes. Hell, we still haven’t discovered the gay club bomber. It’s McKellen that’s on the line, sir or not. And when the shit hits the fan we’ll be on the line, too.”
“Fine, fine,” Detective Sergeant Bean mumbled and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I want tea. Why haven’t I got any tea yet? And where’s Monaghan? I thought he’d partake in our little meeting as well.”
Viggo was just about to tell him that he had phoned Monaghan right after Bean when the Constable walked in with two steaming mugs. “DCI, DS,” he acknowledged with a grin and thrust one mug straight into Bean’s hands and the other into Viggo’s. “I know you can’t think before you’ve had your fix of caffeine so there you go. Sorry I’m late, the traffic was just crazy this morning and the train was packed. I noticed there was some kind of hassle in the St. James’ Park on my way over. I could have sworn I saw Blanchett and Wenham.” He looked at Viggo with a curious expression.
Viggo and Sean nodded at the same time. “That’s our next case,” Viggo supplied as he stirred his coffee, “by the order of McKellen himself.” He quickly filled the Constable in about what McKellen had said and how much they knew at this point.
Monaghan stared at them both and then grinned again. “Right. So where do we start, boss?”
* * *
11:45 am
Forensic Services
“Neither victim had their ID with them, but the bodies have now been identified,” the pale and sickly looking woman, Blanchett, said. She took a rubber band from her lab coat’s pocket and pulled her hair back from her face into a tight ponytail. “The first one, the one who’d been stabbed was named…” she took a paper sheet from the table and quickly located the name, “Jude Law. The other was a bit harder to identify since his dental records weren’t in the database but we were finally able to figure it out. His name is Elijah Wood, and he’s an American.” Her eyes briefly darted up to meet Viggo’s, like it would be hard for him to hear that one of the victims was of the same nationality as him. Viggo just nodded.
“We recovered tons of stuff from the scene,” Blanchett said and gestured to the many plastic bags that were placed on a big table and were yet unopened. “I’m afraid it’s going to take some time to go through all that.”
Viggo nodded at the direction of two smaller bags that were placed on the other end of the table. “Are those recovered from the victims?”
“Yes,” Cate said and took one of the bags, showing the DCI the contents. “Oddly, no wallets, but as you can see the blond had a stash of condoms in his jeans pocket, a small pack of lube, a few coins and a cell phone. The other, the American had only a set of keys on him.”
“Jude didn’t have any keys?” Viggo confirmed as he took the bag from Blanchett and peered inside. Extra strong condoms - suitable for anal sex, Viggo’s mind supplied - and a Nokia cell. He made a mental note to ask after the phone after the forensics people had looked for fingerprints and other evidence. “That’s interesting,” he mumbled and put the bag away as Wenham cleared his throat behind him.
“And then there’s still the question about the weapons,” Wenham said and grimaced. “We didn’t find anything on the scene. The stab wounds could have been done with any knife, well almost. I’m thinking about a hunting knife, perhaps, or some other kind of knife that has a blade of about five inches. Those wounds are very deep; there was a lot of strength behind them, and a lot of anger. Whoever did this to this poor man really had something against him.”
“What about the other one, Wood?” Viggo asked, looking at the photographs Wenham handed him. They were black and white and you could see that there was blood all over the body.
Blanchett shrugged. “Impossible to say at this point. The object was heavy, obviously, and probably round. Hell, that sounds like a bowling ball,” she said and blushed at the short giggle that left her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was unnecessary,” she apologized and straightened the collar of her coat a bit awkwardly.
“The Homicide boys’ humour is really much more crude, trust me,” Viggo supplied and smiled. “So no need to apologize to me. Can you say anything about the time of death?”
Wenham said, “I think we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure. I would prefer not to make any guesses.”
Viggo thanked them both. Now that they had names to go with the bodies, they would need the victims’ home addresses; their families needed to be informed, and the Homicide and Forensics would have to go through their apartments. It might look like a regular bashing case, but it was the Yard’s policy to leave nothing to chance and that suited the DCI to the boot. Viggo flipped out his cell phone and called Bean, leaving it to the DS to consult HOLMES.
* * *
1:50 pm
Constable Monaghan could only keep quiet until they were in Viggo’s Audi and they had blended into the traffic, heading west. As soon as Monaghan was certain that Viggo could concentrate also on other things than driving he opened his mouth, positively vibrating on the front seat. “So, we’ll be meeting Mrs. Otto-Law,” he said. “How will this happen?”
“I do the talking and you take the notes, as usual,” Viggo said. “In case Jude still lived home and had a room of his own, and the lady gives her consent, feel free to have a look around; I know you’re itching to do so.”
Dominic was a Greenwich boy, having lived all his life in the same apartment in South East London, and had had very little business to the poshier areas of the City, such as Notting Hill and Wimbledon, not to mention Chelsea, professionally - most murders and assaults took place in the dodgier suburbs of greater London, after all - and even fewer reasons to do so outside of work.
Monaghan grinned, not the least bit embarrassed. Someone else would probably have found the DCI’s words insulting, but Dominic knew Viggo well enough to tell that he meant absolutely no offence. “Seriously, boss, how often do we get to go to Chelsea? This is rare treat, mate, I’m telling you.”
Viggo smiled a little and then sobered again. “This is going to be hard on her; Bean said that Jude was her only son. Dom, you need to mind your manners and your words now.”
The traffic quieted as soon as they left the most Central London; A302 wasn’t the most used of roads at this time of the day, but as soon as they turned to A4 they noticed that the road was packed. Viggo cursed colourfully as someone cut in front in the queue, and tooted the horn.
“Bastard,” was Monaghan’s opinion. “This is why I won’t ever get a car of me own. It’s so much easier to just hop in a train or a tube,” the Constable conversed and his boss nodded distractedly. He turned to A3220 and breathed out a sigh of relief; he hated driving in the City, it seemed that all roads were full of some lunatics whose only purpose in life was to run you over and wreck your car. However, they were now in Chelsea; now it was only the question of finding the right street and house.
“I think this is it,” Viggo finally said as he parked the car on the side the street, checking the address - was it Bramert Street? - and then looking at the stone-built two-story house that proudly stood where it had stood for at least a hundred years, judging by the look of it. Mrs. Otto-Law isn’t a poor woman, he thought and filed this information somewhere in his mind. “Yep, this is the right house,” he confirmed aloud and turned the key in the ignition, getting out of the car.
Monaghan was speechless with awe, and Viggo could very well understand his reaction. The house really was very impressive with its smallish but well-tended garden and massive exterior with an elegant staircase and wrought iron railings. The men ascended the stairs that lead to the front door. Viggo cringed a little at the sharp buzz of the door bell.
They didn’t have to wait long. A beautiful blonde woman in her early forties opened the door. “Yes?” she asked.
* * *
DCI Mortensen could barely remember a situation as uncomfortable as the one in which he found himself and his loyal Constable now. He was perched to sit on the edge of a dainty chair with a frail cup of tea in his hand and a plateful of scones in the other. He couldn’t bear to look at Monaghan who was sipping the Darjeeling tea, struggling not to burn his tongue, and wolfing down the small cakes between sips. Mrs. Otto-Law was sitting on a small sofa facing him, her eyes never leaving Viggo’s face.
Viggo shook his head negative as the lady of the house offered him more tea. He couldn’t help thinking that Mrs. Otto-Law’s behaviour was intriguing to say at least; she had taken one look at them and immediately paled. When Viggo told her they were from New Scotland Yard she ushered them in, not even asking for any identification or why they were standing at her doorstep. As soon as she had the two men standing in her living room she gave them another nervous look and then disappeared to the kitchen, only to appear a few minutes later with a laden tray.
It fell to Viggo to tell her of her son’s death.
“My son. Dead,” Mrs. Otto-Law said. Her hands were folded on her lap and they were so tightly knotted together that her knuckles had paled. The Constable noted that she wasn’t wearing a wedding band; her hands were bare except for a small golden bracelet on her left wrist. The woman’s blue eyes looked straight at Viggo. “I will be honest with you, Inspector. This news doesn’t come as a surprise to me. I have been waiting for this for five years now.”
She rose from her seat and walked to stand by a window that gave to the front yard; if she was aware of how complimentary her stance and the light that fell on her figure was, she didn’t let it show. However, she ruined the effect by turning a little and sending the DCI a speculative look that hardened her features and brought out the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The cross that clung on her neck on a thin necklace gleamed in the soft light.
Monaghan lifted his eyes from his legal pad to look at Miranda Otto-Law; he had finally drunk his tea, put away the Villeroy & Boch china and was ready to do his job. Viggo’s eyes narrowed a little at the woman’s words. “Why do you say that?” he asked politely, realising that for some reason the woman was playing with him. Viggo was willing to play along. For now.
“My son led a life of sin,” she said emotionlessly. “I knew God would punish him one day for his abhorrent behaviour. Now the day has come.”
Constable Monaghan and Chief Inspector Mortensen shared a look. Viggo spoke first. “You did not approve of his lifestyle?” he asked. The woman just looked at him blankly.
“You mean to ask if I disapproved of my son being a sodomite?” she said cruelly. “No, I most definitely did not. A homosexual is an abomination in the eyes of God. That’s said in the good book.”
“I see,” Inspector Mortensen said calmly. He’d met religious fundamentalists before, and nothing Mrs. Otto-Law said hadn’t been said to him before. It didn’t move him. “Was there more to your disapproval than only Jude being homosexual?”
It occurred to him then that the woman hadn’t once used her son’s name. That was interesting.
“My son offered sexual favours to men for money,” Mrs. Otto-Law said. “Obviously I couldn’t tolerate such behaviour from my son. I have no idea what he has been doing these past six years, and to be frank I don’t care.”
The Constable scribbled furiously on his legal pad.
“Does the name Elijah Wood sound familiar to you?” Viggo asked.
Miranda Otto-Law shook her head. “As I said, I know nothing of my son’s friends or acquaintances. He hasn’t been a part of my life for a long time. I can tell you nothing.” Her voice insinuated that even if she knew anything she would keep it to herself.
“Mrs. Otto,” the Chief Inspector said, struggling to keep impatience out of his voice; this woman had lost her son and he had no right to get annoyed at her, he reminded himself. “There is a murderer out there who killed not only your son Jude, but also another young man. Any information you can give us will lead us closer to finding the killer.”
The woman stood up abruptly. Viggo noticed that her hands were tight fists, clenching and unclenching. “I have nothing to say. My son left my life at the age of seventeen. I haven’t heard from him since. I see you’re thinking I should be mourning for him, but I’m not. No ill deed goes unpunished, that is the word of the Lord, and He knows how much my son deserved what he got.”
Monaghan kept his eyes tightly on his pen that wrote on his pad. Only the small tightening of the corners of his mouth showed his shock at Mrs. Otto-Law’s seeming indifference. Viggo masked his own feelings even better. “I thank you, madam, for all the information you have given us. Allow us to offer you our sincere condolences over your loss,” he said, and with a simple glance to the Constable he roused Monaghan from his comfortable stuffed chair.
“I lost him a long time ago,” the lady of the house said in a hoarse voice. She blinked a few times rapidly and then, as if having come to a decision, she disappeared to the kitchen and came back with a postcard. “Take this. My son sent it to me a year ago when he moved into a new apartment. His address is on it.” She thrust the card into Viggo’s hands. “He shares, shared, it with another whore.”
Her words were cold and unforgiving, but as the Constable and the DCI turned to leave Viggo saw how she closed her eyes tightly, as if she was in great pain, and clutched her fists to her breast; and he knew that the woman was beginning to understand that by denying her son her love and acceptance she had denied herself everything. For that he felt deep pity for her.
In the car Viggo thought about how the young man had died certain that his mother didn’t love him. He thought of how much regret there was now in Mrs. Otto-Law’s life; she could say or do nothing that would ever bring her son back to her. He thought of how every gay boy yearns for his mother’s approval above everything else, and how cruelly and coldly Jude had been deprived of it.
Monaghan respected the DCI’s wish to keep quiet, and so the men drove in silence all the way back to the headquarters.
TBC in Chapter Two
Author: laeglass
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, violence and sexual content
Pairing: VM/OB
Warning(s): violence, language, dead bodies, mentions of prostitution, mentions of sexual kinks (S&M)
Archive: Mirrormere, adultfanfiction.net, my lj. All others please ask.
Disclaimer: It’s all made-up lies. No monies made.
Beta: lovely tularia, who makes me look good.
Prologue
Monday
6:02 am
“Bessie!”
The golden retriever ignored her owner’s voice and kept pulling her leash, trying to get him to move into the direction of the bushes on the left, near the upper end of the Bird Cage Walk. The man resisted, frowning at his dog, calling her name impatiently.
“Bessie! What has gotten into you, old girl?” He was already panting; the dog had been very bouncy this morning, impatient and eager to go for a walk. The man hadn’t been as keen to go out into the crispy autumn morning, but he knew what Bessie wanted and that exercise was good for them both. Their usual path was two miles long, and more often than not the man enjoyed the sights and the rare sense of feeling close to nature in greater London.
St. James’ Park, located at the very heart of London, provided visitors with endless sources of fascination from outdoor concerts to guided walks; it was skirted by three royal palaces, and bounded by three roads, and a bridge across the small lake afforded views of Buckingham Palace. The St. James’ Park Lake had two islands, Duck Island and West Island, of which the former hosted a large collection of waterbirds. The man was just glad that his old Bessie wasn’t interested in the ducks, swans and pelicans, though; she tended to get a bit carried away at times and he didn’t want to test which one of them was stronger in a leash-pulling contest.
Now, however, when old Bessie was acting oddly, the old man thought that he should maybe get someone to walk Bessie for him. Maybe the young lad from the neighbour, Billy. Billy was black but they had been living on the next door for quite some time, and the lad was always courteous, and always wanted to pat Bessie when they came from their walks, whether it was morning or evening. The man judged him to be trustworthy.
Yes, definitely, he would ask the boy to take Bessie out in the evening; surely Billy would have use for some pocket money. Bessie pulled on her leash so sharply and so suddenly that his grip faltered and the leash came loose. The retriever immediately left the path and headed to the area that had a lot of undergrowth, diving into the bushes without second thought. The man looked at her in bewilderment and then hastened his steps to follow her.
There could be something dangerous, some broken bottles or maybe used needles left by the youngsters that attended the concerts in summer time, and he was worried that his silly old dog would hurt herself. “Bessie, get out of there. Here girl, come on!” She didn’t listen to him, but she let out a low woof, and the man could see her tail wagging slowly. “What have you got there that’s so interesting, huh? Mole hills and cigarette butts, eh? Come now, girl. Let’s go home.”
He had reached the bushes the dog was so eagerly sniffing at, and bent to take the leash when something caught his eye. A sense of foreboding clutched his stomach and his breakfast, bacon and eggs threatened to come up when he moved some branches a little and saw what had caught Bessie’s interest. ”Oh Jesus Lord,” he managed to choke out before he emptied his stomach all over himself.
Beneath the bushes, in the ground littered with used condoms, candy wrappers and glass shards lay a young blonde-haired man, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.
* * *
Chapter One
6:40 am
Superintendent Rhys-Davies wrapped a thick woollen scarf around his neck and breathed deeply as he stepped out of his Fiat. Why he drove an old Fiat instead of a fancier vehicle, no-one knew; he could have afforded a car more suitable for a man like him ten times over, but he was used to his old car and wasn’t likely to be parted from it in the near future.
Rhys-Davies had received a call from the Yard twenty minutes earlier - “two dead bodies have been found” - so he had done the thing that was expected from a person of his position. He had gotten up from his comfortable bed trying not to wake up his wife, dressed in his usual work clothing and grabbed an apple from the kitchen before getting into his Fiat.
Rhys-Davies scrunched up his nose as he neared the scene; he could smell human vomit along with the decaying smell of other garbage. Constable Karl Urban was talking with an elderly man who was clutching tightly at a dog leash, the golden retriever on the other end of the leash pulling on it, trying to get into where other police officers were working. Rhys-Davies nodded at the crime scene examiners Wenham and Blanchett, noting how pale Cate looked with her blue overcoat tight around her rounded stomach.
Constable Urban saw him approach and gestured at him. “Good morning, Superintendent,” he said almost apologetically. Everyone knew that Rhys-Davies wasn’t a morning person, and no-one wanted to be the first one to talk to him in the mornings. “I assume you have been informed about the situation here; two young men found killed. This is Mr. Holm who found the bodies, and this is his dog, Bessie.”
Rhys-Davies nodded shortly and knelt to pat the golden retriever. “Morning morning. This fine lady here was the one who found the bodies, right? She looks like she has a sharp nose.”
The old man nodded, still looking a bit sick, and the superintendent guessed that it was Mr. Holm’s vomit he had smelled earlier. “Yes, Bessie kept pulling on her leash and when she got free she took a mad dash at the bushes right there. I saw the other body when I went to pull her back. I thought that she would hurt herself in the garbage. I think I vomited then, it was quite a shocking sight,” Mr. Holm said, embarrassed. “I hope I didn’t ruin any evidence.”
Urban said kindly, “I’m sure you didn’t. Our crime scene examiners are very capable. Mr. Holm, did you see anyone else here in the park this morning? Some lonely joggers, or people with their dogs?”
The question in itself was quite absurd; St. James’ Park was very popular among early morning joggers and people with dogs, and Mr. Holm could have seen any number of people who had nothing to do with the killings. Constable Urban had to ask, though; it was his job and Karl was nothing if not thorough.
The old man shook his head slowly. The world still seemed a bit unstable and he didn’t want to risk upsetting his stomach again. “Nobody, just me and my Bessie. Oh wait; I did see a couple, a boy and a girl riding bikes half a mile from here. Is that important for the investigation?” He looked at both Urban and Rhys-Davies hopefully.
“Could be,” Rhys-Davies said shortly, even if he thought that it probably wasn’t, and nodded at the Constable. “Urban, get a full statement from Mr. Holm. I’m going to see the bodies and find out if Wenham and Blanchett can tell me anything.”
Urban nodded and took a legal pad and a pen from the front pocket of his coat, preparing to do his work. “Yes, Superintendent.”
* * *
Crime scene examiner Cate Blanchett yawned a little and glanced at her colleague Wenham. Darn that man for looking so fresh and ready to work hours and hours on end on this blasted crime scene. The man was already taking photographs of the bodies at different angles stepping carefully between them, trying not to accidentally crush anything that could be of evidential value under his shoes.
Blanchett knew that she should start taking the small pieces of garbage and cigarette butts and start putting them in bags to take them to the lab for analyzing but she lacked the strength to do so. The sight of the two bodies and the amount of blood - God, it was everywhere - disgusted her for the first time in her career and she knew she looked pale and out of place. The though annoyed her to no end.
She still suffered from morning sickness after five months into pregnancy and the early awakening didn’t help matters a bit. Blanchett threw a glare at Constable Urban, both annoyed and pleased at the fact that the man wasn’t staring at her with pleading eyes as he often did. You fucked it up, wanker; deal with it, she thought and noted that Rhys-Davies had arrived at the scene and was coming their way.
Bloody hell, Cate thought and wrapped her coat tighter around her body. She fought to quell the uneasiness in her stomach; the stench of the old man’s vomit had invaded her nose the moment she arrived on the scene. Old grumpy something-crawled-up-my-arse-and-died Rhys-Davies.
“What do we have here?” the superintendent asked. He didn’t miss the expression on Blanchett’s face as he approached, nor the glare she sent Urban’s way. “Blanchett, snap out of it. Tell me what we have.”
Blanchett nodded and spoke with a monotone voice. “Two young Caucasian males, aged approximately between nineteen and twenty-five. The blond has been stabbed on his chest several times; the dark-haired one has obviously been hit on his head with some heavy object. They haven’t been here long, maybe only this night. There’s no sight of possible murder weapons as of yet, but we’ll keep looking.”
Rhys-Davies dismissed her with a nod and watched as she took a couple of plastic bags and started going through the trash with determination. He thought she was a good crime scene examiner in general but it was also obvious to him that her pregnancy made it harder for her to perform on her job.
Why cannot women just stay at home once they start making babies, he thought to himself as he went to have a look at the body that had been stabbed. Wenham was taking photographs of the brunette boy that lay on his stomach, his figure relatively short and slight, and whose back of the head seemed to have suffered a great blow or two; it was a bloody mess and Rhys-Davies looked away, disgusted. Lord knows it’s hard enough for them to work like men even under normal circumstances.
He looked at the dead body of the blond youth, paying attention to his expensive looking clothing and his well-groomed hair. This wasn’t some homeless punk, he noted, and frowned as he saw a rainbow necklace that the boy was wearing, peeking from under his sweater and partially covered with blood. “I’ll be damned,” he said as warning bells started going off inside his head.
No, not this. We so don’t need this.
Wenham raised an eyebrow at him, lowering his camera; Rhys-Davies wasn’t prone to making any off-handed comments on crime scenes and Wenham wanted to hear what had made the superintendent to lose his composure thusly. “Seems that this boy was homosexual,” Rhys-Davies said, and shook his head wearily.
Fuck if McKellen isn’t going to have a fit.
* * *
New Scotland Yard headquarters
7:30 am
Viggo ran his fingers through his hair, wishing that he had had the time to take a shower before leaving his apartment as he exited the elevator in the third floor where McKellen’s office was located. McKellen had sounded clipped and stressed on the phone, and Detective Chief Inspector Mortensen could only imagine what could shake the Assistant Commissioner so badly. Sir Ian McKellen was renowned for his composure and cold-bloodedness and DCI Mortensen dreaded this meeting. For some reason McKellen always made him feel like a naughty school boy who got caught with his hands inside some girl’s blouse.
The blonde secretary of Assistant Commissioner McKellen, Joanna, raised her eyes from her computer screen as he saw the American approach. “Good morning DCI Mortensen, he is already waiting, you can go straight in.”
Mortensen nodded at her thoughtfully and then smiled as he took in the woman’s appearance. “Joanna, you do look lovely this morning. A new haircut?”
The woman melted like butter in the sun. “How kind of you to notice,” she said and fluttered her eyelashes. She then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I have to warn you, though: Assistant Commissioner isn’t in a good mood this morning. Rhys-Davies just left and I don’t think he had any good news. He almost bit my head off when I asked if he wanted his usual morning tea.”
DCI Mortensen made a small noise in the back of his throat and then straightened his shoulders. “Thank you for the warning,” he said and smiled again. “I guess I’ll just go in then and hear what he has to say.”
Joanna watched as Viggo walked in and closed the door behind him. That man was just too good to be true: always courteous, always kind, intelligent as all hell and oh-so handsome. Joanna wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone but she had a little crush on the Detective Chief Inspector and his lovely accent. The soft drawl of his voice made her knees turn into Jell-O and always managed to bring a smile on her face. To her regret he never did anything but flirted a little and exchanged a few words with her whereas she would have loved to exchange something of a completely different nature with the handsome American. She shrugged her shoulders a little and turned back to her computer screen.
“Mortensen, I’m glad you could come so quickly,” McKellen said and stood up from his stuffed chair. The white-haired man’s face was lined with creases and this morning he didn’t look very good. He nodded at the younger man to take a seat and Mortensen did as his superior asked. “Now, tell me about the Queensbury murders. I heard that last night you made a few arrests.”
Mortensen nodded and pulled on his earlobe a little. He was tired after having been caught up in paperwork half the night; one wouldn’t believe how many forms you had to fill and how many reports you had to turn in after you arrested someone. “Yes. We raided Williams’ house at around ten pm and arrested both Mr. and Mrs. Williams. They’re both now in custody and will be charged with the murders of Sheena Cummings and Matthew Leech.”
“Good, good,” McKellen said thoughtfully. “How was Monaghan?”
“I have to say that Constable Monaghan performed really well on this case. I’m very impressed with his work,” Viggo said truthfully. “The boy shows real talent, Commissioner.” After saying that he mentally cringed; he really shouldn’t call Dominic a boy; it sounded so condescending. Monaghan had proved to be a professional and as cool as snow when on duty, and should be shown the due respect.
“Good,” the Assistant Commissioner said again and leaned on the table. He studied Mortensen for a while, almost like he was looking for something, before he nodded and stood up again. “Two bodies were found this morning in St. James’ Park; two young men. Tell me, Mortensen, how much do you know about the government’s new hate crime programme?”
DCI Mortensen shrugged and straightened on the chair. “Not much, I have to admit. Only that they’re struggling to decrease the number of hate crimes in the greater London area. I’ve seen the posters and whatnot that have been spread throughout the city. Seems that this is the government’s number one agenda at the moment; along with cleaning the streets of prostitutes, of course.”
“Indeed,” McKellen ventured. “One of the victims found this morning is believed to be homosexual. He had some kind of rainbow necklace when he - they - were found. Superintendent Rhys-Davies stopped by earlier and said that this looks like two gay boys attacked while having a meeting at the park. As you probably know that park is a well-known meeting place for gay men. Anyway, the boy with the necklace had been stabbed seven times; looks like whoever killed him had a lot against him. The other boy had his skull crushed with some kind of heavy object. The murder weapons haven’t been found yet.”
“If this was a hate crime…” Mortensen started, only to be interrupted by the Assistant Commissioner.
“We are already being pressured by the government. The number of crimes against homosexuals and other minorities has been on the rise for years now and they’ve decided to do something about it. The gay club bombing two months ago was the last straw. They don’t think we’re doing our share and assume that we’re not taking the hate crime programme seriously; obviously they think the Yard is full of homophobic arses who don’t give a toss if some queer kids get bashed. When they hear that there’s been two gay men murdered practically on our backyard they will have our heads. My head,” McKellen said and sighed.
“Mortensen, I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to catch the killer, or killers for that matter, as soon as possible. Which is why I want you to take on this case. You work well with Bean, right? And you just said how impressed you are with young Monaghan. This case is now yours, Mortensen; call Bean and Monaghan and start the investigations. I will expect results from you soon.” The AC went to sit down on his chair behind his large desk and picked up his reading glasses from the table. “You’re dismissed.”
* * *
8:10 am
“So let me get this straight, pun intended,” Bean said. “They think this so called hate crime is of such importance that they need to put us to investigate it? Since when do we investigate gay bashing cases? A bashing taken a bit too far, I admit, but a bashing nonetheless?”
Detective Sergeant Bean was among the very few who knew about Viggo’s homosexuality in the Yard; not even McKellen, who was Viggo’s superior as well as openly gay, knew. Sean and Viggo had been paired up over ten years ago when Viggo first joined the forces, and the American had seen no reason to lie to his partner when Bean asked if he had a wife or a girlfriend; Viggo had honestly told him that he and his male lover had separated three months earlier, and that was that.
Sean had been furious at first at being paired up with a queer, but as soon as he realised Viggo’s worth and talent, as well as how hard-working and relentless the man was, he also realised how insignificant it was what the American got up to in his own bedroom on his own time. By the time they met Sean had just divorced from his first wife. Now his third marriage was on rocks and Bean was finding it hard to come back home to an empty apartment; his insomnia had come back with a vengeance and work seemed just like yet another duty on the long list. Sometimes he found Viggo’s ability to take it all in a stride a bit disconcerting and this was one of those moments.
“I don’t have the authority to ask such questions, Bean, you know that,” Viggo said mildly. “You know as well as I do that when McKellen tells you to jump the only thing you’ll say is ‘how high’. You know how the political climate is right now. The government is already furious with our seeming incapability to solve these kinds of crimes. Hell, we still haven’t discovered the gay club bomber. It’s McKellen that’s on the line, sir or not. And when the shit hits the fan we’ll be on the line, too.”
“Fine, fine,” Detective Sergeant Bean mumbled and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I want tea. Why haven’t I got any tea yet? And where’s Monaghan? I thought he’d partake in our little meeting as well.”
Viggo was just about to tell him that he had phoned Monaghan right after Bean when the Constable walked in with two steaming mugs. “DCI, DS,” he acknowledged with a grin and thrust one mug straight into Bean’s hands and the other into Viggo’s. “I know you can’t think before you’ve had your fix of caffeine so there you go. Sorry I’m late, the traffic was just crazy this morning and the train was packed. I noticed there was some kind of hassle in the St. James’ Park on my way over. I could have sworn I saw Blanchett and Wenham.” He looked at Viggo with a curious expression.
Viggo and Sean nodded at the same time. “That’s our next case,” Viggo supplied as he stirred his coffee, “by the order of McKellen himself.” He quickly filled the Constable in about what McKellen had said and how much they knew at this point.
Monaghan stared at them both and then grinned again. “Right. So where do we start, boss?”
* * *
11:45 am
Forensic Services
“Neither victim had their ID with them, but the bodies have now been identified,” the pale and sickly looking woman, Blanchett, said. She took a rubber band from her lab coat’s pocket and pulled her hair back from her face into a tight ponytail. “The first one, the one who’d been stabbed was named…” she took a paper sheet from the table and quickly located the name, “Jude Law. The other was a bit harder to identify since his dental records weren’t in the database but we were finally able to figure it out. His name is Elijah Wood, and he’s an American.” Her eyes briefly darted up to meet Viggo’s, like it would be hard for him to hear that one of the victims was of the same nationality as him. Viggo just nodded.
“We recovered tons of stuff from the scene,” Blanchett said and gestured to the many plastic bags that were placed on a big table and were yet unopened. “I’m afraid it’s going to take some time to go through all that.”
Viggo nodded at the direction of two smaller bags that were placed on the other end of the table. “Are those recovered from the victims?”
“Yes,” Cate said and took one of the bags, showing the DCI the contents. “Oddly, no wallets, but as you can see the blond had a stash of condoms in his jeans pocket, a small pack of lube, a few coins and a cell phone. The other, the American had only a set of keys on him.”
“Jude didn’t have any keys?” Viggo confirmed as he took the bag from Blanchett and peered inside. Extra strong condoms - suitable for anal sex, Viggo’s mind supplied - and a Nokia cell. He made a mental note to ask after the phone after the forensics people had looked for fingerprints and other evidence. “That’s interesting,” he mumbled and put the bag away as Wenham cleared his throat behind him.
“And then there’s still the question about the weapons,” Wenham said and grimaced. “We didn’t find anything on the scene. The stab wounds could have been done with any knife, well almost. I’m thinking about a hunting knife, perhaps, or some other kind of knife that has a blade of about five inches. Those wounds are very deep; there was a lot of strength behind them, and a lot of anger. Whoever did this to this poor man really had something against him.”
“What about the other one, Wood?” Viggo asked, looking at the photographs Wenham handed him. They were black and white and you could see that there was blood all over the body.
Blanchett shrugged. “Impossible to say at this point. The object was heavy, obviously, and probably round. Hell, that sounds like a bowling ball,” she said and blushed at the short giggle that left her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was unnecessary,” she apologized and straightened the collar of her coat a bit awkwardly.
“The Homicide boys’ humour is really much more crude, trust me,” Viggo supplied and smiled. “So no need to apologize to me. Can you say anything about the time of death?”
Wenham said, “I think we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure. I would prefer not to make any guesses.”
Viggo thanked them both. Now that they had names to go with the bodies, they would need the victims’ home addresses; their families needed to be informed, and the Homicide and Forensics would have to go through their apartments. It might look like a regular bashing case, but it was the Yard’s policy to leave nothing to chance and that suited the DCI to the boot. Viggo flipped out his cell phone and called Bean, leaving it to the DS to consult HOLMES.
* * *
1:50 pm
Constable Monaghan could only keep quiet until they were in Viggo’s Audi and they had blended into the traffic, heading west. As soon as Monaghan was certain that Viggo could concentrate also on other things than driving he opened his mouth, positively vibrating on the front seat. “So, we’ll be meeting Mrs. Otto-Law,” he said. “How will this happen?”
“I do the talking and you take the notes, as usual,” Viggo said. “In case Jude still lived home and had a room of his own, and the lady gives her consent, feel free to have a look around; I know you’re itching to do so.”
Dominic was a Greenwich boy, having lived all his life in the same apartment in South East London, and had had very little business to the poshier areas of the City, such as Notting Hill and Wimbledon, not to mention Chelsea, professionally - most murders and assaults took place in the dodgier suburbs of greater London, after all - and even fewer reasons to do so outside of work.
Monaghan grinned, not the least bit embarrassed. Someone else would probably have found the DCI’s words insulting, but Dominic knew Viggo well enough to tell that he meant absolutely no offence. “Seriously, boss, how often do we get to go to Chelsea? This is rare treat, mate, I’m telling you.”
Viggo smiled a little and then sobered again. “This is going to be hard on her; Bean said that Jude was her only son. Dom, you need to mind your manners and your words now.”
The traffic quieted as soon as they left the most Central London; A302 wasn’t the most used of roads at this time of the day, but as soon as they turned to A4 they noticed that the road was packed. Viggo cursed colourfully as someone cut in front in the queue, and tooted the horn.
“Bastard,” was Monaghan’s opinion. “This is why I won’t ever get a car of me own. It’s so much easier to just hop in a train or a tube,” the Constable conversed and his boss nodded distractedly. He turned to A3220 and breathed out a sigh of relief; he hated driving in the City, it seemed that all roads were full of some lunatics whose only purpose in life was to run you over and wreck your car. However, they were now in Chelsea; now it was only the question of finding the right street and house.
“I think this is it,” Viggo finally said as he parked the car on the side the street, checking the address - was it Bramert Street? - and then looking at the stone-built two-story house that proudly stood where it had stood for at least a hundred years, judging by the look of it. Mrs. Otto-Law isn’t a poor woman, he thought and filed this information somewhere in his mind. “Yep, this is the right house,” he confirmed aloud and turned the key in the ignition, getting out of the car.
Monaghan was speechless with awe, and Viggo could very well understand his reaction. The house really was very impressive with its smallish but well-tended garden and massive exterior with an elegant staircase and wrought iron railings. The men ascended the stairs that lead to the front door. Viggo cringed a little at the sharp buzz of the door bell.
They didn’t have to wait long. A beautiful blonde woman in her early forties opened the door. “Yes?” she asked.
* * *
DCI Mortensen could barely remember a situation as uncomfortable as the one in which he found himself and his loyal Constable now. He was perched to sit on the edge of a dainty chair with a frail cup of tea in his hand and a plateful of scones in the other. He couldn’t bear to look at Monaghan who was sipping the Darjeeling tea, struggling not to burn his tongue, and wolfing down the small cakes between sips. Mrs. Otto-Law was sitting on a small sofa facing him, her eyes never leaving Viggo’s face.
Viggo shook his head negative as the lady of the house offered him more tea. He couldn’t help thinking that Mrs. Otto-Law’s behaviour was intriguing to say at least; she had taken one look at them and immediately paled. When Viggo told her they were from New Scotland Yard she ushered them in, not even asking for any identification or why they were standing at her doorstep. As soon as she had the two men standing in her living room she gave them another nervous look and then disappeared to the kitchen, only to appear a few minutes later with a laden tray.
It fell to Viggo to tell her of her son’s death.
“My son. Dead,” Mrs. Otto-Law said. Her hands were folded on her lap and they were so tightly knotted together that her knuckles had paled. The Constable noted that she wasn’t wearing a wedding band; her hands were bare except for a small golden bracelet on her left wrist. The woman’s blue eyes looked straight at Viggo. “I will be honest with you, Inspector. This news doesn’t come as a surprise to me. I have been waiting for this for five years now.”
She rose from her seat and walked to stand by a window that gave to the front yard; if she was aware of how complimentary her stance and the light that fell on her figure was, she didn’t let it show. However, she ruined the effect by turning a little and sending the DCI a speculative look that hardened her features and brought out the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The cross that clung on her neck on a thin necklace gleamed in the soft light.
Monaghan lifted his eyes from his legal pad to look at Miranda Otto-Law; he had finally drunk his tea, put away the Villeroy & Boch china and was ready to do his job. Viggo’s eyes narrowed a little at the woman’s words. “Why do you say that?” he asked politely, realising that for some reason the woman was playing with him. Viggo was willing to play along. For now.
“My son led a life of sin,” she said emotionlessly. “I knew God would punish him one day for his abhorrent behaviour. Now the day has come.”
Constable Monaghan and Chief Inspector Mortensen shared a look. Viggo spoke first. “You did not approve of his lifestyle?” he asked. The woman just looked at him blankly.
“You mean to ask if I disapproved of my son being a sodomite?” she said cruelly. “No, I most definitely did not. A homosexual is an abomination in the eyes of God. That’s said in the good book.”
“I see,” Inspector Mortensen said calmly. He’d met religious fundamentalists before, and nothing Mrs. Otto-Law said hadn’t been said to him before. It didn’t move him. “Was there more to your disapproval than only Jude being homosexual?”
It occurred to him then that the woman hadn’t once used her son’s name. That was interesting.
“My son offered sexual favours to men for money,” Mrs. Otto-Law said. “Obviously I couldn’t tolerate such behaviour from my son. I have no idea what he has been doing these past six years, and to be frank I don’t care.”
The Constable scribbled furiously on his legal pad.
“Does the name Elijah Wood sound familiar to you?” Viggo asked.
Miranda Otto-Law shook her head. “As I said, I know nothing of my son’s friends or acquaintances. He hasn’t been a part of my life for a long time. I can tell you nothing.” Her voice insinuated that even if she knew anything she would keep it to herself.
“Mrs. Otto,” the Chief Inspector said, struggling to keep impatience out of his voice; this woman had lost her son and he had no right to get annoyed at her, he reminded himself. “There is a murderer out there who killed not only your son Jude, but also another young man. Any information you can give us will lead us closer to finding the killer.”
The woman stood up abruptly. Viggo noticed that her hands were tight fists, clenching and unclenching. “I have nothing to say. My son left my life at the age of seventeen. I haven’t heard from him since. I see you’re thinking I should be mourning for him, but I’m not. No ill deed goes unpunished, that is the word of the Lord, and He knows how much my son deserved what he got.”
Monaghan kept his eyes tightly on his pen that wrote on his pad. Only the small tightening of the corners of his mouth showed his shock at Mrs. Otto-Law’s seeming indifference. Viggo masked his own feelings even better. “I thank you, madam, for all the information you have given us. Allow us to offer you our sincere condolences over your loss,” he said, and with a simple glance to the Constable he roused Monaghan from his comfortable stuffed chair.
“I lost him a long time ago,” the lady of the house said in a hoarse voice. She blinked a few times rapidly and then, as if having come to a decision, she disappeared to the kitchen and came back with a postcard. “Take this. My son sent it to me a year ago when he moved into a new apartment. His address is on it.” She thrust the card into Viggo’s hands. “He shares, shared, it with another whore.”
Her words were cold and unforgiving, but as the Constable and the DCI turned to leave Viggo saw how she closed her eyes tightly, as if she was in great pain, and clutched her fists to her breast; and he knew that the woman was beginning to understand that by denying her son her love and acceptance she had denied herself everything. For that he felt deep pity for her.
In the car Viggo thought about how the young man had died certain that his mother didn’t love him. He thought of how much regret there was now in Mrs. Otto-Law’s life; she could say or do nothing that would ever bring her son back to her. He thought of how every gay boy yearns for his mother’s approval above everything else, and how cruelly and coldly Jude had been deprived of it.
Monaghan respected the DCI’s wish to keep quiet, and so the men drove in silence all the way back to the headquarters.
TBC in Chapter Two