Dulce et Decorum

Title: Dulce et Decorum (2/?)
Author: laeglass
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, violence and sexual content
Pairing: VM/OB
Warning(s): violence, language, mentions of prostitution, mentions of sexual kinks (S&M)
Archive: Mirrormere, adult-fanfiction.org, my lj. All others please ask.
Disclaimer: It’s all made-up lies. No monies made.
Beta by tularia.


Chapter Two

New Scotland Yard headquarters
Monday, 2:30 pm

DCI Mortensen strode confidently into his office with DC Monaghan hot on his tail. Viggo’s office was almost a sanctuary to him; it was here that he let his brain cells take over and solve whichever case he was working on; sitting on his comfy chair, his back turned to the room, looking out of his window on the ever-busy Victoria Street. Everything he needed was always in the evidence, provided by the forensics and interviews, right under his nose; his job was merely connecting related and seemingly unrelated facts to unearth the wrong-doers and bring them to justice.

Viggo snorted softly. It all sounded so noble and poetic; in truth, it was tiring, frustrating and gruesome, and the workload never lessened. A murder case put a special kind of pressure on the investigators. It came with them to their homes, to their beds and to their relationships, infusing their dreams with endless chases and the knowledge that time was running out, that they needed more information to be able to draw any conclusions; and all the time the City lived around them, never sleeping, always awake, bringing new bodies and new suspects day after day.

The chase never ended; it was only the chasee that changed.

In the midst of all this, Viggo’s work room was a welcome safe haven. In the corner, on a flimsy small table was his own coffee maker, his faithful Moccamaster he had dragged from the States all those years ago; he used it dutifully every day to spark his brain. In the small space between the table and the window were cramped two old but comfy stuffed chairs, in which he and Bean had spent several evenings discussing and conversing whatever came to mind; this had increased in the past six months when Sean and Abigail’s marriage started to fall apart, but had been an integral part of them becoming friends and confidants over the years.

Generally it was frowned upon to bring personal possessions to the workplace at the Yard, but no-one ever questioned the abstract painting the Detective Chief Inspector had hung on the wall next to his desk. ‘Unknown artist perhaps,’ everyone said when looking at the painting, ‘but look at those colours, and the passion. Whoever painted it had a lot of love in their hearts when they painted this.’

The DCI never told anyone that it was an old painting of his, painted long ago in Denmark, when he still held his yearly vacations and journeyed to Scandinavia to lose himself in the midnight sun and the green wilderness.

Nor did anyone object to the big piles of books that threatened to overtake the room, occupying all available surfaces and even some floor space. Poetry, tomes of criminology and criminal psychology and even a book or two on gardening; even though the only plant in DCI Mortensen’s work office was the withering ficus benjamina he always forgot to water. Sometimes he guiltily emptied the remnants of his water bottle into the pot and hoped for the best. So far the plant persevered, making a rather heavy-handed point to Viggo that mostly life was just about hanging in there and waiting for those moments when it stopped kicking you in the gut and gave a pat on the head instead.

Viggo shucked his woollen coat as soon as he reached his desk, throwing it carelessly onto a chair, and strode to his desk. He saw that Urban had been as effective as always: on his desk lay a neatly printed report, the statement by Mr. Ian Holm. All documents were of course entered into the database, but Viggo didn’t trust his computer skills and always asked for paper versions. Work followed him home every night, and many a revelation had came to him when he was in bed waiting for sleep to come.

Viggo’s stomach growled noisily, reminding him of the fact that the lunch hour had passed several hours ago and he had gone all day with the slice of toast he had wolfed down on his way to work. This was how it always was, though, and Viggo pushed the feeling of hunger out of his mind determinedly. As soon as the killer was caught he’d get all the rest and all the food he could ever wish for, but right now he lived only for one thing:

To catch the fucking bastard who killed those boys.

“Bless Urban,” Viggo muttered as he picked the papers and sat on his chair, starting to scan the text with his eyes. He raised his eyes as he realised that Monaghan was still hovering by the door. “Yes?”

The Detective Constable looked from Viggo to the legal pad he was still holding and rapped on it with his knuckles. “Is it common that a mother should care so little of her son being dead?” he asked. He tried very hard to sound unaffected, but the DCI saw right through him.

Viggo put down the papers. “Monaghan,” he said kindly. “I know you’re not a rookie and I’m not going to treat you as one. Here on Homicide you’ll get to meet an awful of lot of very different people, and not everyone is going to react the same when given bad news, or even as you would expect them to.”

“So this is normal?” Monaghan sounded incredulous. “She said he deserved it. Her only son, for Christ’s sake.”

“It really shouldn’t matter to us what she said,” Viggo replied. “The only bit that really interests me right now is the fact that Jude worked as a prostitute, and that he was living with someone.” Dominic was still looking discontent so the DCI relented a little. “Do I like hearing a mother say that of her son? No. It makes me sick to my stomach to hear people talking with such blind hate, but there isn’t anything either of us can do to change that, and frankly, it’s not our business to go about telling people how they should feel and what they should say.”

The DC bit his lip and nodded. “Okay. I better go type this down,” he said and turned to leave. “Are you going with Bean to meet the flatmate?”

“What’s it with you and Bean?” Viggo queried. There had been a bit of a strain between the Detective Sergeant and the Detective Constable for some time, and the DCI couldn’t afford to let it affect the investigation. “There’s always this little bickering between you two.”

“He thinks I ogled his wife a little too much at last year’s Christmas party,” Monaghan said reluctantly, looking a bit embarrassed. “He’s a bit of an alpha male, seems like.”

“Give it a rest, will you,” Viggo said softly, picking up the report again. How on God’s good Earth could Urban get an eight page long statement was beyond him, but he appreciated it and knew he’d be reading and re-reading the report that night. “Bean’s having it rough right now, so no talking about Abi, all right? And yes, I’m going with Bean.” He looked at Monaghan seriously, continuing before the Scot could come up with a counter argument. “There are some things I want you to do while we’re away, but let’s talk about that after Bean comes back.”

“Yes, boss,” the DC said and waved with his legal pad again. “I’ll go take care of this.”

Viggo nodded in satisfaction as Monaghan closed the door behind him and he could eye the report. “Let’s see,” he muttered to himself.

Viggo frowned thoughtfully as he read the text. Mr. Holm had arrived at the scene very soon after six, and after promptly throwing up all over himself (the DCI winced in sympathy) he had somehow managed to call the police. Mr. Holm stated that he had seen only one body, leaving the discovery of the second victim to the police; there was no mention of Elijah on the report. Viggo wondered if the fact that Jude had been more on a display than Elijah was of importance; something inside him told him that it was. He glanced at the clock and wondered if the Forensics had any new information to offer.

“Forensics, Wenham,” a male voice answered on third call. Viggo could hear some scurrying and talking in the background; apparently he had called at a busy hour, but then again, the Forensics Department never lacked evidence that needed investigating or samples that needed to be examined.

“Mortensen here,” Viggo greeted. “Did I call at a bad time?”

The crime scene examiner quickly denied. “I just came back from the scene. Looks like it’s going to rain tonight so all the photos must be taken before that. What’s in your mind?”

“I actually called to ask about the bodies,” the DCI started, playing with the pencil he’d picked from the table. He stared at the pages thoughtfully, wondering why it felt so important for him to know how the boys were found. It was always important, of course, but something felt out of place in this whole scenario; something that he felt he was missing.

“I was told that the post-mortems will take place tomorrow morning, starting at eight o’clock,” Wenham supplied to fill the silence. “Are you thinking of attending?”

“Mm-hm,” the DCI mumbled as he scribbled the note on his calendar. “Who will it be?”

Wenham hesitated. “Noble,” he finally said. “I know you butted heads with him over the Parker case,” he added awkwardly, not knowing if it was a sensitive subject. Everyone knew that Noble had an ego the size of a small planet and barely tolerated the presence of other authorities in his post-mortems, as well as Viggo’s insistence of being a part of everything that was related to the investigations.

“It doesn’t matter,” DCI Mortensen interrupted. “I think his ego and I will manage to fit in one room. Actually I called to ask you one specific thing. Tell me how the bodies were situated.”

“Wait a minute,” Wenham said, and Viggo heard some more scuffling before Dave spoke again. “I just had to get the photos to give you a precise answer. The ground slopes away from the path, southward. You haven’t yet visited the crime scene?” At the DCI’s negative answer he continued.

“In the slope there starts a line of undergrowth that extends from there to all the way to the Horse Guards Road,” Dave started, and the DCI started taking notes as the crime scene examiner explained how Jude’s body had been found beneath the first group of bushes, about twenty yards from the path, whereas Elijah was found in the close vicinity, but more to the left. “It is a bit on the side and that route isn’t apparently in much use anyway; I would say it’s a perfect place to hide a body,” Dave concluded.

“Were there any signs of Elijah’s body being moved after death?” Viggo asked, tapping his nose with his pencil. Something didn’t add up here. “Maybe the murderer wanted to hide him.”

“Yes,” Wenham said with emphasis. “The soil is hard and there wasn’t much in the form of footprints or other evidence, but there were some deep lines on the ground that do suggest that Elijah’s body had been dragged from sight. More than that, it was obvious from the way his body and arms was twisted that he had been moved after death.”

DCI Mortensen made a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat. What Wenham just told him was not only intriguing; it also challenged the way he had been thinking. The typical case would be a bunch of teenagers attacking a lone guy after having a few pints too many with their fists and perhaps a few knives as their weapons; and here they had two bodies killed with different weapons, one hidden body and a remote location. Jude had been stabbed, that was true, but Viggo had his doubts. He circled the question he had written on the left marginal of the paper; why was Elijah’s body hidden, but not Jude’s?

A knock on the door and the door opening immediately after let him know that Bean had returned from his unthankful mission to speak with Elijah Wood’s parents. Viggo nodded at the Brit and watched as Sean slumped down on the nearest chair, rubbing his eyes and looking worse for wear.

Wenham promised to keep him updated, and Viggo ended the call with his own promise to stop by the next day after attending the post-mortems.

“Sometimes I just hate this job. I really do,” the Detective Sergeant said as soon as the DCI’s attention was on him. “The mother got hysterical. She wouldn’t believe that her child is dead. Viggo,” he said darkly, “promise me that we will find whoever did this. I don’t care what it takes.”

“You know it, Sean,” Mortensen said softly. “What have you got?”

Sean perked at the question and handed him the folder he had been holding. “Boy lived at home, and with the mother’s permission I took a look on his room. There’s one thing you should know, Viggo,” Bean said. “Elijah wasn’t gay.”

* * *

2:50 pm

“Wait a minute,” Joanna said as the DCI and the DS appeared before her. “He’s having a teleconference with the Home Secretary. Please wait.”

She had phoned the DCI in his office, telling that the Assistant Commissioner asked him and the DS to drop by as soon as they could spare a moment. Viggo and Sean had translated it into a direct order to come and hear the latest demands.

Sean looked at Viggo as the other man turned to lean on the wall. “This isn’t what it looks like, is it?” he asked, not really needing the answer. The way the DCI had listened to his accounting of what he had seen in Elijah’s room and what Elijah’s mother had said proved to him that Viggo had a few ideas of his own of what was going on, and that wasn’t necessarily what McKellen thought or wanted Viggo to think. “Spill,” Sean said quietly.

“You know me too well,” Viggo said, smiling a little. “But let’s talk about it later,” he added as the door was wrenched open and the Assistant Commissioner barked a ‘come on in, then’ to the waiting men.

The DCI and the DS exchanged a look as McKellen slammed the door closed behind them.

”I will get straight to the point, gentlemen,” he said, looking at Sean and Viggo from behind his reading glasses. “I just received an irate call from the Home Secretary himself. We are making them look ridiculous; another hate crime practically committed on their doorstep!” He took his glasses and put them on the table. “What I said this morning is still valid, Mortensen. Only, you’ll report to me on a daily basis on your succession, and I, in turn, keep the Home Office updated. This case will be made a stellar example of how we will not tolerate these kinds of crimes.”

The DCI glanced at Bean before speaking. “The government’s getting involved to that extent?” he asked disbelievingly. That was very bad news; it meant that the press would get interested, and there would be press conferences held at every opportunity (after all, politicians loved nothing more than the sound of their own voice), and microphones pushed at his face whenever they got the whiff of his whereabouts. Viggo hated nothing as much as publicity, and the British press was nothing if not blood-thirsty and disrespectful of anyone’s privacy. They also held very little love for the Yard.

It also meant that everything would end up in newspapers and gossip rags, which would give an unfair advantage to the killer.

“Yes,” McKellen said with emphasis. “And you’re going to play along.” He looked very pointedly from Viggo to Bean. “Give interviews when asked, play nice with the press, and don’t do anything that could in any way compromise our reputation or this investigation. Am I being clear?”

Bean nodded. “Clear enough. But here’s the thing. We’ve come across some things that point us away from the whole hate crime aspect,” he started.

McKellen leaned his palms on the table and silenced the DS with a look. “Do you have any idea whose head will be on the proverbial platter if you cock this up?” he asked. “Not yours, Bean. Mine. They won’t be too sad to see me gone. So prepare to get down and dirty; I don’t care what you’ll have to do to catch the killer, as long as you do it and don’t make us look bad in the process.”

Bean bit his lip to suppress the words that came unbidden to his mind. Fucking McKellen and his constant worry of his public image. Sean didn’t care about PR or looking good or being in the government’s favour; all he wanted was to avenge Elijah and Jude. Mostly Elijah. Anyone who killed a lad who still had a stuffed teddy bear in his bed didn’t deserve to walk the streets.

Viggo, in turn, wondered when exactly had looking good become the Assistant Commissioner’s main concern at the expense of solving crimes and keeping the City safe.

“Of course,” the DCI said. “May we leave? We have yet to visit the other victim’s apartment.”

* * *

Sean spoke again as they entered the elevator. “You know that McKellen is going to take all the credit and steal the spotlight. Seriously, Viggo, I don’t know how you put up with that, and him.”

“And don’t forget that I’ll get all of the blame if no one gets arrested,” the DCI said, but he sounded unconcerned. “It’s nothing personal, Sean. McKellen has to play it this way. Or do you think he’s gotten to where he is by always playing fair?”

“Suppose not,” the DS shrugged with a gesture that suggested that he’d accept it, but that he wasn’t going to like it. “So, tell me about Jude.” His eyebrows rose as Viggo told him what they had learned of Jude from his mother and he let out a surprised snort.

“A whore,” he said softly. “Viggo, this is getting crazier by the second. Are we really supposed to believe that Elijah was hooking up with a male prostitute in St. James in the middle of the night? The boy wasn’t even gay. You should have seen the porn mags the boy had in his room; there wasn’t one single dick in sight.”

Viggo scratched his head thoughtfully. “Maybe they aren’t related at all,” the DCI suggested. “Perhaps they both just happened to have a stroll at the park and someone just took a shine on them and wanted to check if the boys had any cash on them. The wallets were missing, mind.”

“And Jude’s keys. I’m pretty hard pressed to believe that anyone would leave their house without their keys,” Bean said. He frowned in frustration. “I don’t know. I have this funny feeling in my gut that there’s something we’re not noticing.” Viggo’s look told him that the he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

By now they had arrived back to the DCI’s office, and Viggo picked up the folder Bean had brought earlier from his desk.

“So, what’s this?” Viggo asked, showing the folder.

“Yeah, that,” the DS said. “Have you heard of Csokas Ltd.? Owner’s Marton Csokas, a New Zealand immigrant. Imports luxury stuff from the Far East.”

Viggo frowned as he took a few papers from the folder. “I think I’ve heard of a Csokas; didn’t The Economist make an article of him last year? What does he have to do with anything?”

“Elijah worked for him,” Bean said and nodded as Viggo took a paper that looked like some kind of document. “Mother said he was one of Csokas’ secretaries. Look at this,” Sean said as he fished another A4 from the pile, “and look at that paper you’re holding. That’s some kind of shipping document, but it only says the date and the name of the shipper. And this one,” he waved his own paper, “here’s a list of shipments they’ve received from Bangladesh during the past three months. Elijah’s circled a few dates here, one of which is the same as that one on yours.”

The DCI took both papers and laid them on the table, asking Bean where he had got them. “And what do you think these mean?”

Clearly Sean had deemed them important enough if he took them as evidence. DCI Mortensen had learned to trust DS Bean’s instincts over the years; Sean’s gut feeling was rarely wrong. Viggo had to admit that there was something in these documents that deserved some investigating; he wasn’t exactly an expert in import trade, but even he knew that shipping documents should also include the name of the seller, what had been sold and at what price.

“On his desk; apparently kid brought work home. And honestly, I have no idea. Probably nothing, but I wanted to be sure,” Sean said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “What a bleeding bollocksing day. I’ve a headache from hell.”

“You do look awful,” Viggo said and smiled his crooked trademark smile as Bean flipped him a bird. “Maybe you should call it a day and go home. I can take Monaghan to check out Jude’s apartment.”

Bean perked at the mention of Monaghan. “No way, Vig,” he said. “Let the lad call Csokas. I think a visit is in order, don’t you think?”

DCI Mortensen looked up from the shipping document and nodded. “Definitely.”

* * *

3:20 pm

“He was living with another boy?” Bean asked, glancing at the DCI from the corner of his eye, his hands steady on the steering wheel. He had insisted on driving, and Viggo had been perfectly content to let Sean drive; he was much more used to the crazy traffic, after all. “A boyfriend maybe?”

Viggo shrugged. “It’s possible, certainly. According to Mrs. Otto-Law, Jude’s friend solicits too, so maybe it’s just a living arrangement. But we’ll see soon enough.”

“Are you sure she gave you the right address?” At the DCI’s questioning look the DS elaborated. “Kensington’s a rather fancy area for two streetwalkers to have a house in, that’s all I’m saying.” He let out a bemused chuckle. “Makes you wonder if you chose the right profession, doesn’t it? Maybe I should leave this criminal chasing to you and Monaghan and start entertaining ladies for a living.”

“You’d be a big hit,” Viggo deadpanned. “But mostly among men, I would say.”

Bean groaned. “You surely know how to ruin my fantasies,” he grumbled. “Besides, you shouldn’t be hitting on me at work,” he said, but he was smiling, and Viggo couldn’t help thinking how far they’d come since the beginning of their acquaintance. Bean used to get pissed and annoyed even at the most innocent of remarks, and now he was making jokes and playing with innuendo.

“Sorry, you’re not my type,” the DCI quipped and earned an amused chuckle from Sean. He had to admit that Kensington really was an extremely posh area, even more so than Chelsea, and this in turn steered his thoughts to Jude and his mother. Why had Jude sent that postcard? He could hardly have expected his mother to see the error of her ways and come for a visit after years of hostility; had the boy wanted to get back at his mother by letting her know how well he was doing in life, living in an affluent area and earning his money by solicitation and thus, committing a deadly sin in his mother’s eyes? After all, as the old saying went, the best revenge was to live well.

It appeared that Jude had got his revenge, but hadn’t lived long to celebrate it.

“Upper Phillimore,” Bean said as he parked his car on the side of the road. “I’m jealous, I’ll admit.”

“Hmh,” was all Viggo could come up with as he pondered how much exactly did one have to pay for rent when living in such a ludicrously luxurious building that was four stories high and made of ivory coloured stone. It was an old building, obviously, but it was in excellent condition and the location couldn’t have been any better.

Viggo rang the buzzer and after a little while a boyish voice was heard through the intercom.

“Hello,” the voice said. “Who’s this?”

“New Scotland Yard,” the DCI replied, after making sure that he had buzzed the right apartment. “Can we come up?”

A brief hesitation, and then a meek yes answered his question, and the door opened to admit them in the building.

* * *

Bean knew that even if they hadn’t identified themselves the boy would have recognized them as what they were; you couldn’t be a whore and not know a police officer when you saw one, or in this case, two. He looked at Viggo and then at himself, and smiled bemusedly at the identical woollen coats they were wearing, which of course was purely accidental, but made them look very much alike and very much like New Scotland Yard.

DCI Mortensen found himself looking into a young, tense face and two deep brown eyes as the owner of the boyish voice opened the door to the apartment. “New Scotland Yard,” he repeated stupidly as for one second his brains were emptied of all thoughts. “I’m DCI Mortensen, and this is DS Bean. May we come in?” he recovered, showing his badge to the boy and nudging Bean to do the same.

The boy’s eyes darted from him to Sean, and then, with a small nod he stepped aside and let them come in. “This is about Jude, isn’t it,” he said fiercely as soon as he shut the door and turned to look at the two men. “I knew something was wrong when he didn’t come back last night. Fucking hell, I always told him not to meet clients outside of home; I’m gonna kick the bastard’s arse.”

He folded his slender arms across his t-shirt covered chest, as if he suddenly realised that he was standing in the smallish hall with two police officers. Viggo tried not to stare at the way his designer jeans hugged his hips and thighs, or the narrow strip of olive-hued skin that was visible between the hem of his pale pink t-shirt and the waist band of said jeans. The boy didn’t look a day older than eighteen, and the DCI was hit with a sudden urge to take off his coat and wrap it around this shivering, beautiful boy.

Because beautiful he was, with hair the colour of dark chocolate and a slightly crooked nose, and lips that were pouting like there was no tomorrow.

Bean felt uncomfortable standing so close to such a ridiculously attractive boy in such a small place, although for very different reasons than his partner, and spoke harsher than he originally intended. “What are you talking about?”

The youth looked at them both. “Well obviously you’ve arrested him, and he’s ratted about me, too. Yeah?” A challenging look was aimed at Viggo.

Viggo shook his head and stepped forward, mindful not to crowd the agitated boy. “That’s not why we’re here. I’m sorry to tell you but we have really bad news of your friend. Jude was found dead this morning.”

The brown eyes widened momentarily in shock, and then narrowed in suspicion. “I saw him last night, and he was fine. He’s not dead, and I’m not stupid, you know.” He then pushed his way past the DCI and walked along the hallway into what Viggo supposed was the living room. A very spacious, sparsely but elegantly decorated living room, he noted, and wondered once again how this boy had come to inhabit such an apartment.

“That’s the truth,” the DC supplied as the boy slumped down on a black leather sofa, looking at them from beneath his lashes and folding his long legs beneath his backside. “I’m sorry.”

“Really?” the boy said softly, and apparently he realised that they weren’t lying to him, as his brown eyes suddenly filled with tears and he angrily turned his head away. “Fucking stupid,” he spat furiously. “How could he be so fucking stupid? I told him, I fucking told him to stay away from drugs and stupid fat-ass johns who think they own you after they’ve paid you. He promised he wouldn’t go with them into their fucking hotel rooms,” he said almost pleadingly.

Viggo grabbed this opening. “So you’re saying that Jude didn’t turn tricks on the streets?”

The youth’s eyes turned to him with a look that spoke of both disbelief and bemusement. “Do you really think that he and I could afford this place by offering ten quid blowjobs and twenty quid fucks? God, what do they tell you in the Yard?” He blinked a few times and cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was back to normal, all agitation gone as if it hadn’t been there to begin with. “No. Absolutely not. He isn’t, sorry, wasn’t a streetwalker.”

Bean had been looking at him with interest while taking notes. “How old are you?” he asked suddenly. The boy on the couch turned to him, his eyebrows rising curiously.

“I’m older than sixteen, if that’s what you’re asking,” he finally answered as it became obvious that the DC’s question was a serious one. “What about you?”

Viggo had to suppress a smile at the surprised look that came on Bean’s face at the unexpected question. Bean adopted a stern look. “I’m not asking this for fun,” he said. “I’m pretty certain you know that solicitation isn’t exactly legal, boy. I just wanted to know if you’re underage as well.”

“Name’s Orlando,” the youth said quickly. “And who said I was a prostitute?”

“That’s not what we’re interested in here,” Viggo said soothingly, wanting to steer the conversation back to Jude. “You said the last time you saw him was last night. What time was it when he left?” he asked, and that was where they got back on the track.

Jude had left the apartment at approximately ten o’clock, Orlando said. No, he didn’t know where Jude had intended to go and what he had intended to do, but, Orlando said very pointedly, he wasn’t going to see a customer. No, he never questioned Jude about his comings and goings, so he hadn’t asked where he was going. No, he had never heard the name Elijah Wood before. No, they weren’t boyfriends or lovers; this was where the boy’s cheeks coloured a little, but he looked Viggo straight in the eye.

“Where was he found?” Orlando asked quietly. “What did they do to him?” His pleading eyes were locked on Viggo’s, and again the Detective Chief Inspector was overwhelmed with the long-buried feelings of protectiveness the boy evoked in him. Madness, he scolded himself.

Bean told him with very carefully chosen words what the boy wanted to know, and Viggo was surprised at the depth of gratitude he felt for the DC’s consideration of Orlando’s feelings. Orlando nodded slowly as he absorbed the information. Then he looked up again. “You’ll probably want to see his room,” he said questioningly, and stood up as the two men nodded. “Come on, then.”

The door to Jude’s room was locked, but Orlando picked a key ring from his pocket and selected a key that he fitted on the lock. Noticing the DCI’s raised eyebrows he explained that they had keys made to one another rooms, just in case something went awry and the john got violent.

“Has that ever happened?” Viggo found himself asking, and his eyes quickly scanned the boys face and body for any signs of damage before he caught himself and forced his attention back to Orlando’s eyes. The boy was looking at him intently and smiled bemusedly as he tapped the bridge of his nose.

“Just once. Fucker broke my nose,” he said flippantly as he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. “So, there you go.”

* * *

4:30 pm

“He wasn’t exactly speaking the truth, you know,” Bean said. “At least not all the time.”

Viggo didn’t answer. His mind was fully occupied in re-playing what had happened at Orlando’s place; they had taken a look on Jude’s room, seeing nothing suspicious, if you didn’t take the over-the-top cleanness (he’s a cleaning freak, the youth had explained, if he doesn’t need it, he’ll throw it away) and a locked wardrobe into account, and with Orlando’s permission, which had come in the form of an indifferent shrug, Viggo had taken a peek on the spacious bathroom.

A bathtub made of the finest pink porcelain, large enough to accommodate three people (Viggo’s mind supplied an unwelcome image of the two boys entertaining a well-paying customer), lined with various bottles of differently scented bath oils and bath foams was the eyecatcher of the room. A cursory glance in the bathroom cabinet revealed tubes after tubes of lube, water-based as well as silicone-based, as well as condoms of all possible brands, flavours and sizes.

A pile of fluffy towels on a shelf near the door looked freshly laundered and inviting.

Orlando had made a flimsy remark of some johns wanting to play in the tub, and Viggo had closed the cabinet door feeling like he had intruded on Orlando’s privacy. After giving Orlando instructions not to take anything from or move anything in Jude’s room, they had locked the door again and prepared to leave with a promise to send their team for a proper investigation the following day. Orlando had nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking so lost and sad that it didn’t leave either of the other two men unmoved.

“We’ll do everything within our power to find out who killed your friend,” DCI Mortensen had said to Orlando when they were again in the hall and Bean was already in the stairs. He wished it wasn’t inappropriate to give a comforting hug to the pale, bright-eyed boy and tell Orlando how much he admired his bravery. “Take this,” the DCI said as he handed the youth a piece of paper in which he quickly scribbled his cell phone number. “If anything comes to your mind you think might be important, anything at all, give me a call. It doesn’t matter what time is it. Take it,” he said more softly as Orlando just stared at the paper without doing anything.

“Thank you,” Orlando said politely as he took the note from Viggo, their fingers touching for a second before the boy folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Their eyes met again and the DCI realised how close to one another they were standing. He stepped back and cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Is there anyone who could come to spend the night?” Viggo asked. “It would probably be more comfortable for you to have company than stay here all by yourself.”

“No,” Orlando said and with that his brave face was back. “I’ve someone coming in half an hour, but they’re really not spending the night.” His posture and the defiant expression on his pretty face told DCI Mortensen that he was expecting a client, and Viggo felt slightly affronted.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer, then,” he said and turned to leave. “I would advice you to be careful, though, during the next few days. Jude’s keys are still missing and frankly, it’s a bit risky to be meeting a client without anyone else here.”

“The rent doesn’t pay itself,” Orlando had said as he started to close the door. “Good night, DCI Mortensen.”

“Earth to Viggo,” Bean said patiently and smiled as Viggo blinked and turned to look at him. “Good to have you back. Did you hear what I just said?”

“Something about Orlando not speaking the truth,” the DCI said. “I heard you. Was just wondering why you’d say that.”

“Seriously?” Bean asked, surprised. “For starters, did you notice how he evaded every question you had of his and Jude’s relationship? Not to mention how he claimed he had no idea who Jude’s customers were, or what they did. He isn’t a very decent liar.”

“Which only speaks well of him,” Viggo said quietly. “You’re right, though; he was very evasive in his answers. I’m hoping to speak with him again later. Hopefully he’ll be more talkative, then.”

Bean shook his head disbelievingly, but refrained from making any comment.

* * *

Viggo kicked the door closed behind him and fumbled for the switch to bring some light into the pitch black darkness that was his apartment. As soon as he could see what he was doing he toed his shoes off and shrugged his coat off.

Blissful peace after a hectic day.

Viggo knew that the following day would be at least as busy as today, but he pushed that thought in the back of his mind with fierce determination. These short hours at the end of the day were his own, and he didn’t want to ruin them by dwelling upon thoughts of what tomorrow would bring. The pile of papers which contained Elijah’s papers as well as Urban’s report found its way onto his desk by the window, and was promptly forgotten after that.

There’s nothing quite as lovely as a long, warm shower after a taxing day, and Viggo found himself enjoying the almost scalding hot water that cascaded down his shoulders and drained the tension that had invaded his muscles. Unhurriedly he soaped his body and found to his own surprise that his hands wanted to linger below his stomach; that hadn’t happened in a long time, and Viggo chuckled in bemusement as he felt his cock beginning to harden beneath his fingers. Breathing slowly he took himself in hand, preparing himself for a long and satisfying, thoughtless wank that would cleanse him of today’s exhaustion.

As he stroked himself he imagined a lover’s hand on him, and lover’s lips against his neck, breathing hotly and shallowly against his damp skin, whispering him words of devotion of love. He imagined a mouth against his own, a tongue challenging his own into a duel, and a tightening of the grip on his cock. An image of a kneeling man, looking up at him from beneath long, dark lashes, deep brown eyes staring up at him in admiration and lust as he took Viggo’s hard cock inside his impossibly wet and soft mouth. Viggo’s eyes flew open as he realised what he was doing.

He was picturing Orlando.

With a frustrated growl he let go of his cock and wrenched the showering curtain aside, reaching for his towel. It was madness, no, insanity, to entertain any kind of thoughts about the boy. Not only was he involved in a high-profile case, he was also a prostitute and probably underage, besides.

Sleep came quickly when he finally found his way to bed, and he dreamed of piles of papers that had dates written on them in red, and of Bean who kept handing them to him and asking him what did he think they meant.


TBC in Chapter Three