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

Peter glanced at his watch, trying not to be frustrated that Elias wasn’t downstairs at seven-thirty sharp. If Rose had been there, Peter knew he’d not have been anywhere near punctual, and he tried not to begrudge his partner a night spent with his wife.

‘Tried’ being the operative word. He’d slept terribly, odd dreams flitting before his eyes, waking periodically to find himself tangled in the covers, or to find the covers on the floor entirely, leaving him shivering in the darkness.

He hated days like this – days that started out with a dark cloud and invariably only went downhill from there.

At seven-thirty-three, Elias finally sauntered up to him, a ridiculous grin plastered across his face.

“Someone had a good night,” Peter sniped.

“And how.” Elias gave him a sidelong glance. “And someone, clearly, did not.”

“Sod off,” Peter muttered.

“Are you going to be prat all day? Or does this usually wear off later in the morning?”

Peter stalked away, digging in his pockets for his keys, expecting Elias to follow. He shoved the lobby door open, wanting nothing more than to turn around, to go back to bed and hope for some kind of soothing catnap, or perhaps a call from Rose. Even a call from Annie would be good enough to get him out of his black mood. Talking with Elias, however, would only exacerbate it, given his ridiculous good humour.

He unlocked his car, sliding in, starting the engine…and waited for his bloody partner.

And waited.

And waited some more.

He sighed, refusing to get out of the car, to give Elias even the tiny victory of out-stubborning him. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes and figuring he may as well nap.

He dozed, his thoughts drifting, as they so often did, to Rose. Was she on her way back? Should he call Jake and ask after her? Should he call Jake anyway, asking what kind of information he could find on Wilson and tetrodotoxin? Would Rose have any time off when she got back? Would he be done with the case? Where could they go…

“Wake up, ye sod.” Ruby’s voice pulled him from his semi-lucid state, and he raised his head blearily to see her slide into the car. When had she opened the door? “Have some coffee.”

He took the cup, glancing down at it dumbly. He really was exhausted.

“You’re a right pillock, you are.” The words had a smile to them, and Peter glanced up at Ruby to find her grinning.

“Bastard’s usually the word,” he finally replied, taking a sip of coffee.

“Elias used some other ones, actually. I think ‘toddler’ might be the closest to the truth.”

“He called me a toddler?” Peter awoke fully.

“Just now, in the lobby. Explain to me again how you pulled Rose Tyler?”

“I charmed her with poetry in the rain,” he replied, drily. As expected, Ruby didn’t believe him.

“You must be one hell of a shag, that’s what I think.”

“…what?”

“’s the only explanation for a woman like her to stick with a man like you.”

Peter found himself staring at Ruby, absolutely speechless. It was one thing to read it in the papers, to have ridiculous theories bandied about like the people involved were mere characters in a play; but to have it said to his face, and by a relative stranger? His head swam.

“You alright, Peter?”

“You…I can’t believe you said that,” he stammered.

“Until I see proof that you can be a charmer who reads poetry, I’ll stick with that the trusty rags tell me. Now, you goin’ to sulk in your car all day? ‘cause Elias got a call, wants you back inside.”

“What about…are you…” Peter paused, gathering his scattered thoughts. “Can you safely go back to the flat?”

“Oh, probably not.” Ruby’s voice held the sort of cheer that only a true adrenaline junkie would demonstrate in the face of a potentially life-threatening situation. She loved this kind of work, he was sure of it.

“Will you be safe?”

“Never am. Drives Elias spare, that does.” She leaned over, patting his knee. “Don’t worry about me, Carlisle; worry about your own bony arse.”

She slid from the car, slamming the door shut behind her. He blinked, glancing at the steaming cup of coffee in his hand – his only evidence that he’d not imagined the entire thing.

He took another sip, reaching down to shut off the car. Civil. Quiet. He needed to be both of those things, to keep his ears and eyes open so he could help finish this sodding case and go back to Kendal. And, hopefully, see Rose.

Elias was nowhere to be seen when he walked into the lobby; Peter was craning his neck, trying to find all of the nooks and corners, before he caught a glimpse of Ruby down one of the halls. Elias was still on the phone when he reached the small seating area, nodding, listening intently, jotting notes on the corner of a newspaper periodically. Peter sat with a whump on the spare armchair, setting his half-consumed cup of coffee on the small side table; he grew alert as he saw a crease form between Elias’s eyebrows. He’d seen enough of his partner now to know that particular reaction meant Elias was hearing something very, very interesting indeed.

“Right,” Elias finally said, capping his pen and setting it down. Peter had noticed Elias used the same fountain pen every time – a simple silver instrument, the plating worn off around the grip. “Thank you.”

Peter glanced up from his contemplation of the fountain pen, to find Elias holding the now-shut phone on his lap, gazing steadily at Peter. Peter returned the gaze, focusing on relaxing his face, on not giving anything away.

“You done, then?” Elias finally asked, his voice calm.

“I think so, yes.”

“Good. We’ve work to do.” Elias stood, pocketing his pen and folding the newsprint into a small square.

Peter blinked, looking up at him, surprised. That was it? No yelling? No lecture? Nothing?

“Blimey, Peter, did you have any coffee today?”

Peter paused, taken aback. “A pot, actually, before Ruby brought me some,” he replied, standing slowly. He’d not realized his exhaustion was making him sluggish enough for Elias to notice; the coffee he’d ingested hadn’t done a thing for him.

“Just how badly did you sleep last night, then?”

“Terribly.” Peter slid his hands into his pockets. He took a breath to speak, pausing only a second before rushing out, “Thank you.”

Elias gave him a short nod, before offering a hand to his wife and helping her to stand. “Right. Let’s get in the car and talk, now, shall we?”

Ruby joined them, folding herself into the tiny back seat of his car. Peter started the vehicle once more, glancing quickly at the petrol gauge before turning to Elias. “Let’s talk, then.”

The phone call had been from the counsellor at the shelter they’d visited; residents had started to go missing, and he was growing concerned. Certainly residents went missing periodically, having moved on to other shelters or Cities, or simply dying from too long living with drugs and a poor diet, but this was different. Five of the residents now had gone missing – including, Elias added, the three they already knew about – and all in the past week.

“You’re sure Judy’s safe?” Peter interrupted.

“Quite. Spoke with our man this morning.”

Peter nodded, and Elias continued. The counsellor had asked around, trying to find where the residents might have gone; he’d not got any answers to that question, but he had learned they all had one thing in common. “They each got methadone from the clinic we visited last week.”

Peter cursed. The methadone clinic. Where Martin probably got his morning dose. Oh, shit.

“What is it?” Elias had seen Peter’s reaction – it no doubt would have been hard to miss.

“That clinic? It’s where my brother goes, I think.” Peter mentally kicked himself – hard – for not thinking to actually ask Martin where he went for his dose.

“Have you heard from him since you last talked?”

He hadn’t. Peter felt adrenaline pump through him, fear that his brother might have been pulled deeper into this case, might somehow be involved or – worse – been an innocent bystander somehow targeted by their bad guy because Peter had interviewed him. Peter dug for his phone, pulling it out and dialling the house number.

No answer. Ten rings, twenty rings, thirty rings – nothing. Peter closed the phone, tossing it aside before engaging the clutch and peeling out of the parking lot.

Elias and Ruby said nothing, quietly belting in and holding on for the ride. Twenty minutes – and several cursed traffic lights – later, Peter pulled up in front of his childhood home, glancing at it with trepidation. He really hoped he’d walk in to find Martin passed out from intoxication, or even a drugs binge. Just so long as he walked in to find Martin alive.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his keychain, finding the key to the front door. He paused to knock briefly, waiting only a few scant seconds before sliding the key into the lock and turning it.

“Martin!” He shouted into down the hallway.

No response.

Peter was only vaguely conscious of Elias and Ruby behind him, following him in, moving into the small parlour off the hall.

“Martin! Where in bloody hell are you?” Peter heard his voice rise, panic seeping through even as he fought to remain focused. He glanced into the empty parlour before walking through the dining room, the kitchen, the small sitting room. Martin had been there, without question, but wasn’t there now.

He moved to the stairs – they’d seemed steep and long when he was a child, but that perception was nothing to how they seemed now. Interminable and ominous, the stairs stretched before Peter as he made his way up to the first floor, as he tried to prepare himself for whatever might await him upstairs.

He glanced first into his old room, abandoned years before and yet still unchanged but for the dust. No one was in there, and he moved down the hall to the master bedroom – the room where Martin had habitually slept since taking over ownership of the house.

Again, nothing. The bed had been made, and Peter marvelled briefly over the fact before continuing to the final room on the floor.

Martin’s childhood bedroom. Peter paused at the door, his breath fleeing from his chest as he saw his brother on the bed, his body curled into the foetal position, his eyes closed.

Oh, bloody hell.

Peter squared his shoulders, crossing the small distance to where his brother lay, hoping against hope that he wasn’t dead from poison, that he’d simply passed out after a bender.

“Martin?” Peter leaned down, gently shaking his brother’s shoulder. He could feel Martin’s body heat through the t-shirt his brother wore, could see the rise and fall of his chest now, and Peter almost sobbed with relief.

“Martin!” Peter shook him, harder, wanting his brother to wake up, to let Peter know he was ok.

Martin groaned, rolling onto his back and nearly off the small twin bed.

“Wake up, Martin!” Peter heard footsteps, someone moving down the stairs; he glanced behind him to see Elias standing against the door. Peter turned back to his brother. “Bloody hell, Martin, wake up!”

“I am awake!” his brother slurred after a few moments. “Don’t shout.”

He heard footsteps on the stairs once more, turned to see Ruby coming into the room with a glass of water. He smiled his thanks before shifting, sliding a hand under his brother’s shoulders. “Water. Drink it.”

He held the glass to Martin’s lips, and felt the last of his fear slip away as his brother reached for the glass, greedily gulping down the liquid.

“What happened to you?” Peter asked as his brother finished, taking the glass from him and setting it aside.

“Mariah.”

Peter wracked his brain, trying to place the name and drawing a blank. “Mariah?”

“Nurse.”

“Ah. The nurse you’ve been seeing.”

“Been seein’ someone else.”

Peter almost laughed with relief. His brother had gone on a bender because his girlfriend had been cheating on him, which really wasn’t funny. But given the alternatives which his imagination had been conjuring just five minutes before, it was almost a blessed relief.

“What’d you take?” he asked gently.

“Nothin’. Drank.”

Peter winced. “Ruby, there should be some legal drugs in the loo – just down the hall. Would you mind terribly?”

“Sure thing.” She leaned down, picking up the glass before going to find whatever Martin had in his medicine cabinet.

“When’s your methadone appointment, Martin?”

“Ten.”

Peter glanced at his watch – it was eight-thirty. Plenty of time to get Martin into decent enough shape to get his medicine. At the clinic.

He’d really be glad when this entire thing was over, when he could stop dealing with his family being somehow tied into this interminable case.

“Here y’are. They’re months expired, but should be fine.” Ruby handed him the small packet of paracetamol and the re-filled glass of water.

“You take anything at all, Martin?” Peter’s voice was firm.

“No!”

“Nothing at all.”

“Whisky. Some vodka. Something else I found in the back of the drinks cabinet.”

Peter arched an eyebrow, sucking his cheeks in. It was a miracle his brother hadn’t poisoned himself; the stuff in the back of the cabinet was probably as old as he was.

“Take these then. Then let’s get you a shower.”

“Thanks, mum.”

Peter tensed, desperate not to flinch; he’d been called that, mockingly, whenever he’d pleaded with his brother to give up the drugs. He pretended to ignore the comment, standing and walking over to the wardrobe.

“They’ll not give you your dose if you’re a wreck, Martin,” Peter said, trying to remember Martin no doubt had a pounding headache, and ostensibly a broken heart on top of that.

Elias and Ruby had discreetly disappeared by the time Martin dragged himself out of bed. Peter sighed, glancing down at his watch – it was nearing nine, and now that he was sure his brother was alive and relatively well, he really needed to get to work.

“Martin, I’ve got to go. You’re going to make it to the clinic?”

“Yes, I can make it to the clinic. Made it there on my own these past six months, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you have.” Peter walked to the doorway, turning to ask, “Which clinic, Martin?”

“God, Peter! Have some bloody faith!”

“It’s not to check on you, Martin,” Peter replied, voice weary.

“Prove it.”

“Is it the Hillsborough clinic?”

“No, too far away.”

“Good. Make sure it isn’t, and don’t mention it to anyone.”

Martin red-rimmed eyes held Peter’s gaze steadily. “Right.”

“I’m serious, Martin, Please.”

“I’ll avoid it, and not mention it, Peter.”

“K. We’ll have to talk about Mariah at some point – I know a thing or two about women having affairs on me.” He winked at his brother, trying to dispel some of the tension between them before walking out of the room and down the stairs.

“He alright?” Elias asked as Peter walked into the parlour. Ruby was gazing at the small bookshelf in the corner – peering, no doubt, at the very few pictures from Peter’s childhood.

“He will be. He doesn’t use our clinic, though.”

“Ready to go, then?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Elias moved to join him at the doorway.

“Thanks again.”

Ruby turned to them, a smile pulling at her lips. “Nice pictures, Peter.”

He hated those pictures of him, all arms and elbows and knees. He dreaded the day Rose found them.

“Let’s forget we ever saw those, shall we?” he turned, walking to the front door, holding it open for Elias and Ruby.

“Only if you behave yourself.” Ruby replied as she walked past.

He sighed, following them outside, turning to lock the door before walking to the car. With Martin taken care of, maybe it was finally time to put the case to bed.

~ - ~

Chapter 12