Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue

McCoy was at his desk, staring intently at a printout when Peter returned to the station. Whatever was on the piece of paper was engrossing, holding his attention completely; it wasn’t until Peter actually tapped him on the shoulder that McCoy realized he had company.

“Oh. How’d things go?”

“Better than expected, and worse. You?”

McCoy handed the paper to Peter. “The same, actually.”

Peter looked at the printout, glancing at the title before scanning the text. It was the lab report from London—and it listed Shields’ cause of death as ‘tetrodotoxin poisoning’.

“Poison?” Peter glanced up at McCoy, who was leaning back in his chair.

“Not just any poison—this one’s extremely hard to find. I’ve only ever heard of it twice, in fact—and both in Met investigations.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Was there any—”

“Yes. Let’s go for a walk.”

Peter followed McCoy out of the station, around the corner of the building and out of the way of foot traffic. “Tetrodotoxin is highly controlled,” began McCoy, “and is used solely for research. It has to be imported from Yamato, in fact, and every legal shipment is registered with the Health Ministry. There’s a black market for it, even though misuse can kill you quicker than thought.”

“Is it like arsenic, this stuff?”

“Not quite. It causes your central nervous system to shut down, almost immediately. And it takes very little to do it.”

“Why on earth is there a black market for it, outside of murder?”

“Pain. Terminal cancer patients love it—as do heroin addicts going through withdrawal.”

Peter felt dizzy. Martin was clean—but heroin was one of the drugs he’d used. What if...

“Peter?” McCoy’s voice broke through the haze.

“My brother, he...he’s in rehab...”

“What was he able to tell you?”

Peter shared the information Martin had provided; McCoy nodded thoughtfully as each bit of information was relayed. “He said Shields was known for being able to get anything,” he concluded.

“He was. That’s why we had the tetrodotoxin.”

“Is that how you turned him?”

McCoy gave him an inscrutable look. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Right.” Peter rubbed his eyes, deciding not to argue the point. “So. You have some at the Met.”

“It was being stored in the lab; our man back in London’s going to go check it out.”

“Well...if it’s gone, that makes our investigation a bit easier.” Peter’s voice was wry.

“Thanks for that.” McCoy shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Your brother’s in rehab. For heroin, I take it?”

“He had to leave so he could get his dose of methadone.”

“Ah. I don’t suppose you poked around his flat?”

Peter glared at McCoy. “I was there to talk to him, not accuse him of anything.”

“Would you, if it came down to it?”

Peter set his jaw, glaring at his partner. “I would do what the law required of me.” He held McCoy’s gaze, daring the man to contradict him. “If you doubt that, you don’t know me at all.” Peter turned on his heel, jamming his own hands into his pockets.

“I’ve known you for barely a week, Carlisle.” Amusement was evident in McCoy’s voice. “Torchwood clearly trusted you...I suppose I can take you at your word, as well.”

Peter turned to face McCoy, his hands still in his pockets. McCoy continued, his voice cold. “However, if you prove them wrong—if you don’t do what needs to be done...”

“It won’t be an issue.”

McCoy nodded his head. “Right. Time, then, to see who was in the market for a bit of deadly painkiller.”

They spent the rest of their morning driving between interviews, starting with a visit to the large methadone clinic in the area. The doctor in charge, a patrician looking man by the name of Bruce Phillips, agreed to meet with them briefly. He sat with them in one of the many small rooms in the building, answering their questions in between glancing at his watch repeatedly. Yes, he had heard of the poison; no, he had never heard of someone actually using it. He was a very busy man, with a long list of people waiting to see him; his supercilious air suggested that he was far more important than two DI’s working a murder case, and Peter had a hard time refraining from offering any number of acid opinions on the man’s perception of his self-importance. In a tone of graciousness, Doctor Phillips suggested they visit the local Samaritans to see if they’d ever had a caller talk about it.

“Charmer,” McCoy commented as they walked out of the clinic.

“Not the term I’d have used,” Peter replied, sliding into the car for the drive to the nearest Samaritans.

Seeing the sign, walking in the door, Peter couldn’t help but be reminded of Blackpool, of the day he met Natalie, and he wondered if ghosts were going to dog his every step on this case. The man in charge, an optimistic young spark named Reggie Jones, was very helpful, if apologetic—he wasn’t aware of any callers who’d mentioned it, but there was a shelter several blocks down that dealt with serious drug users. Reggie was more than willing to share what he knew, and at the end of the interview apologetically suggested they’d probably have better luck talking with people who couldn’t admit they had a problem just yet.

The shelter had been a dark, gloomy place, despair riddling every nook, every cranny. Peter felt oppressed just walking in the door, and once again thanked his lucky stars—and his gran—that he’d not gone down that path in life, that the drug-fuelled life hadn’t been for him. His gran had trained him too well as a boy, had instilled in him a desire for more from life; and what his gran hadn’t given him, he’d learned from his own experience, watching a boy Martin’s age die on the dance floor at a club one night years before, seizing and vomiting as the poor kid’s body had struggled for life.

Martin hadn’t seen it, but Peter had—and it had changed his entire life.

None of the residents at the shelter were willing or able to help, but one of the counsellors had heard of the poison—had heard whispers, a week or so before, that someone had some, that it was available on the street and that it was a magical cure.

“I’m sure it was priced through the bloody roof—a group of men were talking about what they could sell to get some—plasma, hair, clothes, anything and everything.” The sad-eyed counsellor, an older man by the name of Vince Lonano, looked at them, his shoulders hunched.

McCoy reached for his wallet, pulling a card from it. “If you hear anything else—anything at all—please call. Any hour, any day—please.” He wrote his mobile number on the back, and handed it to the counsellor. “Thank you for your time.”

“Would Ruby have heard anything?” Peter asked once they were back in the car.

“I rang her when I got the results—she hadn’t.”

“How’s she doing?” Peter asked, genuinely curious.

“Well enough. I hope she’ll be done soon. That we’ll be done soon.”

Peter’s mobile trilled, and he shifted, scrambling to pull it from his pocket. A text message—from Rose? he hoped.

He opened it, blinked, stared. Call me. Martin.

“It’s my brother,” he said without looking away from the small screen.

“And?”

“And I’m meant to call him.”

“So do.”

Peter looked over at McCoy. “My brother hasn’t texted me...ever. And I do mean ever. This...this can’t be good.”

“Call him and find out, instead of tying yourself into knots.”

Peter scrolled through the message, finding the number; his hand was shaking as he selected “call number” on the small screen.

“Carlisle,” Martin’s voice was flat.

“It’s Peter.”

“Where are you?”

“Ah...currently? Just south of the river. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Peter, I don’t suppose you’d be able to chat?”

“I thought we were.”

“In person.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Where are you? I’ll head there right now.”

Ten minutes later, Peter and McCoy were at a small storefront, home to a shipping company. Elias tactfully offered to stay in the car—“In case Ruby calls,” he said, a small smile pulling at his lips—and Peter tentatively walked through the front door bearing the name of Martin’s employer. The office was unremarkable, housing a paper-cluttered desk, a two-way radio, and a phone which looked as though it had been in service since Lindbergh landed his zeppelin at Cleggan. Three doors opened off of the office—one led to a hallway, visible from the front door, and the other two led to what appeared to be offices.

Martin was behind the desk, working the radio, dispatching lorries to pick-ups and deliveries in the area.

“Martin.” Peter stopped at the desk, leaning his elbows on the top of the cleanest part of the surface.

“Ah, Peter.” Martin stood, walking over to one of the open office doors, yelling into it. “Bernie—I need five!”

“Whatfer?” bellowed a voice of indeterminate gender.

“My brother’s come a-callin’.”

“Oh, be quick about it then.” Bernie—Bernadette, Peter supposed--wandered out, a woman in her late fifties who clearly had done a lot of living in her day. Peter gave her his most charming smile, before turning to follow his brother outside.

“Nice office,” Peter offered awkwardly once they were a decent distance from the door.

“My counsellor helped me to find it. It’s not as posh as yours, but it pays the bills.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know, I know.” Martin shifted uncomfortably. “I heard something at the clinic this morning, thought you might want to know about it.”

“Oh?”

“Shields had been dabbling in something new, for a high payer.”

Peter fought to keep his expression neutral. “Any idea what it was?”

“No. But it was supposed to work miracles. One of the blokes in line behind me was talking about it, said it’s supposed to stop the pain from withdrawal.”

“And Shields had it?”

“That’s the rumour.”

Peter gazed at Martin, noting his clear brown eyes, the restrained eagerness in his expression. He swallowed. “Was the name tetrodotoxin? Of the drug?”

Martin mulled the question. “Maybe. It was something I’d never heard of.”

“Thank you.”

“It was of some help, then? What I could tell you?”

“It might just be. If...if you hear anything else about it, let me know, will you?”

“Sure.” Martin shrugged.

“Just...be careful of yourself.”

Martin’s gaze sharpened. “Is there a reason why you’re so keen to remind me to be so?”

“It’s a murder investigation, Martin. Murderers don’t tend to be happy when we’re looking for them.”

“Well. I’ll not put my life on the line for your case. Just so we’re clear.”

“Crystal.” Peter glanced over to the car, where McCoy was waiting. “Call if you hear anything and it won’t get you killed.”

“That I can do.” Martin turned, walking back to his job. Peter sighed, moving to the car, opening the door and sitting heavily.

“That good, then?”

“He heard Shields had been dabbling in something new for a high-paying customer.” Peter reached over to the glove box, jerking it open before slamming it shut in disappointment.

“Lost something, Carlisle?” McCoy’s voice was full of humour.

“We need to stop by a market. I’d kill for a lolly.” Peter started the car.

“You’re the one driving.”

“I know,” Peter replied drolly. “Martin’s going to keep an ear out for anything—but, as he warned me, not at the expense of his life.” Peter drove towards the market closest to Martin’s house, certain he’d find some sweets there.

“At least he knows his limitations.”

“Aye.”

“You two look nothing alike, you know.”

“I know.” His father had loved to point it out—how Martin looked like a Carlisle, whilst Peter looked like his mother’s people. His gran had assured him that it wasn’t an insult, but Peter had always taken it as a personal failing.

They grabbed sarnies from the market when Peter stopped for sweets—“A whole bag? How many of those do you go through a day?” McCoy had asked—and the two of them sat at their desks for their meal, once more trying to work out who had the actual means to commit the murder.

The afternoon was spent chasing down what scant leads they had and trying to narrow down who had the means to murder Shields since so many people apparently had a motive and potentially the opportunity. They’d not been able to work out where Shields had been murdered—not yet, at least—but McCoy was convinced the London lab would come up with something before the first week of the case was up.

Dinner was in the hotel again that night, both of them wanting to stay in, to bandy about more ideas, more potential plot points for the case; as Peter slowly ate his dessert, his partner drinking coffee, it occurred to Peter that he and McCoy had fallen into a rhythm; that in less than a week, he and the man from London had developed a working relationship that was as easy as he and Penny had.

Rose, he decided, would be proud.

~ - ~

Chapter 7