Chapter Text
Kent stared at his computer screen and the form he was supposed to be filling out and tried not to let his eyes wander to the frosted glass of Chandler’s office door. The atmosphere in the incident room was…tense. Miles was hunched over a stack of papers that looked uncomfortably like some of the ones Wingfield had given to them. Riley answered the phone in a near whisper, and he could swear that Mansell had practically tiptoed across the room to refill his coffee.
To say that the last week had been bad would have been putting it mildly. The stress of the case, the momentary triumph of capturing the entire Abrahamian cult, only to have them all killed in that freak collision—“Go easy on the boss for a bit,” Miles had said, and none of them had even needed to see Chandler’s pale, strained face to know they should comply with that order.
There was something more going on with their DI that Kent couldn’t figure out. Something beyond having the criminals always die before they could be put to justice. If he thought Miles would tell him, he would have asked, but Miles had been angry with him ever since the business with Mansell had degenerated into a fistfight.
The memory still made Kent squirm with shame. To have his spite, his jealousy all messily laid out in front of Chandler, who valued order and professionalism above everything—it had been awful. And to have to hear the coldness in Chandler’s voice as he ordered him to put some ice on his face, that had been just as bad. So often Chandler was distant and closed-off or else agitated and frustrated, but sometimes a genuine warmth bled into his voice, and his whole demeanor softened. Kent lived to have that softness and warmth directed towards him.
He knew that Chandler had forgiven him his behavior, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent that quiet “Well done” Kent’s way after he had discovered Josie’s body in the crypt. But still, Kent never wanted it to happen again. He couldn’t let himself get so…so twisted up in his own head. Mansell and he were partners, and he had let it get so bad that Mansell was ready to try and off himself.
Maybe other people’s happiness reminds you of what you’re missing.
It was true, what Mansell had said to him. Every day, what he wanted but couldn’t have was standing right in front of him, and at the end of every day, he had to go back to his flat alone.
That night, when Chandler had congratulated him on a job well done, Kent had vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let it continue. He couldn’t keep on like this, tormented by desire and jealousy. He needed to screw up his courage and see if there was any possibility that Chandler might return his feelings. If not—well, he would deal with that when it happened.
And so he had asked Chandler to come with him for a drink, promptly losing his nerve and changing the “me” to an “us.” But he felt like Chandler had understood, had noticed his slip (of course he had, no detective would ever miss something like that), and had still said yes. More than that, he had said “I’d love to.”
But then everything had gone to hell, and here Kent was, two days later, in exactly the same place he had been before this whole mess had started.
He knew what he needed to do. He needed to ask Chandler again—properly this time, no backing out at the last minute. But Chandler had been in such a bad state ever since the crash, and he knew that even at the best of times, Chandler wasn’t particularly comfortable when it came to potential relationships. In the past, he’d taken a somewhat bitter gladness in that fact because it meant that even if he couldn’t have him, no one else could either.
Fuck it, he was a coward, that’s what it came down to. It had taken everything he had to ask the last time. To do it again…
Miles’s phone rang, and everyone startled. Kent almost knocked over his cup of tea.
“DS Miles,” Skip said into the receiver. “Yes. Yes, all right.” He hung up, paused to gather some files, and then strode into Chandler’s office.
“Bearding the lion in his den,” Mansell muttered.
“Shut it,” Kent returned out of reflex. In truth, he rather agreed with Mansell, especially once raised voices filtered through the closed door. A few minutes passed, Skip and their DI really getting into it, and then Miles reappeared, almost slamming the door, but catching himself at the last minute and shutting it more gently, although it still made an angry click as the handle snapped into position.
“Listen up,” Miles said and held up a photograph. “Do you remember this woman?”
“Louise Iver,” Riley said. “That nasty old woman who sabotaged our pipes and—and said such horrible things.” Kent thought she might have been about to say something else but had caught herself at the last minute.
“Right, well, the uniforms haven’t been able to pick her up. Can’t find an address, haven’t spotted her anywhere, nothing.” Miles glanced back at Chandler’s office and then went to the whiteboard and tacked up the photo. “The boss has given the go ahead to start searching for her. So I want you lot to put aside whatever you’re doing and put all your attention into this. I want to know who she is, where she comes from, and what the hell she’s doing in Whitechapel.”
“Everyone on deck just because of some leaky pipes?” Kent said, exchanging a glance of surprise with Mansell. “I’ll grant that she’s obviously troubled, sir, but being angry at the police isn’t exactly unusual.”
“No, she’s not angry with us,” Miles said. He stared at the photo, his eyes hard. “She’s toying with us. Toying with people’s lives. And I want it to end.”
“You might as well tell them.” It was Ed, emerging suddenly from the basement to hover in the doorway. “Unless you have rejected that particular…theory.” He said it as though he was being quite charitable in calling it a theory as opposed to a crackpot idea.
Miles glared at him. “All right; I will.” He went back to his desk and pulled out another photo that he pinned up on the board. “The Krays in the 1950s. Look who’s standing right behind them.”
Kent peered at the grainy photo. It was an older woman, hair pulled back—
“Are you saying that’s Iver?” Mansell exclaimed. “Come on, Skip, you’re joking, right?”
Miles met their incredulous stares. “Why Whitechapel? Why all the horrible murders? We’ve all been asking those questions. Well I say that she’s responsible.” He stabbed his finger at Louise Iver. “She’s Wingfield’s provocateur.”
“But you can’t really tell from this photo,” Riley protested. She had left her desk and gone to the board for a closer look. “It’s not very good quality. And it’s impossible, for her to look the same in the 1950s as she does today.”
“That’s what I said,” Ed agreed, smiling at Meg. And wasn’t that a change of pace, to have Ed on the rational side for once and Skip throwing around wild notions.
“It’s her,” Miles insisted. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but it is.”
Kent frowned. The women in the photos did look awfully similar, but… “What does the boss think about this?”
Miles turned his glare to Kent. “He gave the go ahead to investigate, didn’t he?”
After a long argument, which implied that Chandler had no confidence at all in Miles’s theory. Kent decided not to say this, however, his self-preservation instincts overriding his desire to be on Chandler’s side in any argument.
“Suppose it can’t hurt,” Mansell said, leaning back in his chair and getting his jacket even more rumpled than it had been already. “If she does turn out to be just some crazy old lady, though, we’ll know you’re going round the bend, Skip.”
“Believe me, I’d almost prefer that option,” Miles returned grimly. “Unless something more pressing comes up, I want you to pursue any leads related to Louise Iver.”
“Yes, Skip,” Kent replied, hearing the others echo him. He turned back to his computer. Well, at least this would be better than the mind-numbing formalities of bureaucracy. He clicked the form closed and pulled up one of their databases instead. The uniforms would have run all the usual searches, but Chandler had impressed upon them the importance of being thorough and double-checking everything.
*
Three hours later, and no one had a solid lead. Kent leaned over Riley’s desk, watching as she scrolled through marriage licenses on the off chance that “Iver” was the woman’s married name.
“But we don’t even know if it’s her real name,” Kent said, voicing what all of them had been thinking. “She could have told Ed anything.”
Mansell stood up and came over to join them, munching on some crisps. “You know it’s funny, but I almost feel like I’ve heard her name somewhere before. Before Skip brought it up the other day, I mean.”
Kent nodded. “I sort of thought the same thing, but I can’t figure where. Not at Ed’s book launch. I wasn’t paying attention to who he was signing copies for.”
“Well so far, I’m afraid Skip’s paranoia is proving justified,” Riley put in, giving up on the licenses and rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. “If she is just a regular old lady, why isn’t there any trace of her in the databases?”
“It must be a false name,” Kent said, “or else Ed remembered it wrong.”
Chandler chose that moment to emerge from his office. Kent hastily crossed back over to his desk, Mansell hot on his heels. He sat down and picked up a piece of paper, not wanting it to look like he had been chatting and idling instead of working. He couldn’t help watching, though, as Chandler gave the whiteboard a contemptuous glance and then walked quickly past their desks, not paying attention to any of them.
Kent tried to ignore the little sliver of disappointment that lodged in his chest. He hadn’t expected Chandler to remember about the drinks, not with what had happened, but part of him, some stupid, ridiculous part of him had still hoped. Just ask him again, he told himself, but an hour later, when their shift had ended, he turned off his light, went round the desks with the bin, cast a longing look at the light still shining under Chandler’s door, and then shrugged on his coat and left the station. Just like he always did.
*
Erica called him just when he’d opened his takeaway carton and was emptying the chana masala onto a plate. Stifling a sigh, he answered his mobile. Otherwise she would just keep calling and leaving annoying messages.
“What is it?”
“Hello to you, too, Emerson.” He could hear the faint sounds of the telly in the background. “Finlay says you stayed late at work again.”
“Tell him to stop telling you everything that I do at work. It’s creepy. And I didn’t stay late—I left a few minutes after he did.”
Lillian appeared in the doorway, dressed in her robe and slippers, wet hair tucked into a towel. Kent waved his fork at her, but Lillian nicked a piece of his chicken anyway. She did fetch him a beer, though, so he forgave her.
“If you ever told me anything, I wouldn’t have to ask Finlay to,” Erica retorted. “And when are you going to introduce me to this DI of yours?”
“He’s Finlay’s DI, too.”
“Yes, but Finlay isn’t harboring a massive crush on him.”
Oh, God. Why, out of every man in London, had Erica decided to get together with Mansell? More proof that despite being twins, they really did not have much in common. “It’s not fair that Finlay tells you this stuff,” he protested.
“Now don’t start in on him again,” Erica warned. “All Finlay told me was the object of your infatuation. I’ve known something was up since before I moved back to London. Not one date, Em, not for ever so long.”
Of course, he’d hardly been going on lots of dates at any point in his life. But Erica always assumed her life was the normal one, and she’d dated all sorts of blokes. Until Finlay came along. Fuck, why did it have to be him?
“My dinner’s getting cold, Erica.”
“I know he’s handsome,” Erica mused, ignoring him. “I saw him at that author thing at that bookstore. But who wears black tie to something like that? Unless he’d been at some fancy dinner and only dropped in—ooh, is he rich, Em? Finlay, is your DI rich?”
There was a pause as Mansell shouted something. Kent felt the beginnings of headache stir behind his eyes.
“Finlay says his family has money.”
“It doesn’t matter if he has money. He doesn’t care about stuff like that.” Kent sighed. “Look, Erica, I really have to go. I’m tired.”
“Fine, but ring Mum, won’t you? Every time I call her she asks about when you’re planning to talk to her or if you’ve forgotten she exists.”
“Yes, I will ring Mum.” Anything to get Erica to hang up.
“And Emerson?”
“Yes?”
“Grow a pair and ask the guy out, would you?”
The dial tone sounded, and Kent chucked his mobile down on the table. The worst part was that she had only said aloud what he had been thinking.
*
Riley tapped her pen on the desk. “Louise Iver doesn’t show up in the census records.”
“Again, we don’t know if it’s her real name,” Kent returned. They had spent another fruitless morning scouring records and databases and were now gathered around two large pizzas set out on Mansell’s desk. Kent had very carefully wiped the grease off his fingers and then knocked on Chandler’s door to ask if he wanted any.
Chandler had jerked his head up, surprised, and blinked at him. Then he had looked down at his watch where it lay on his desk in its proper place. “It’s lunchtime,” he had said quietly.
“Yes, sir. Are you hungry?”
“I’m getting as bad as Ed,” Chandler had murmured and then looked at Kent again. “Pizza, you said? No, thank you.”
And what about a drink after work?
“All right, sir.” Kent had hesitated a moment and then departed. Chandler had already let his eyes drop back to the papers on his desk, although Kent suspected his mind was elsewhere, dwelling on whatever had been bothering him since the Abrahamian case.
It was the thought of that case, the grisly memories of the bodies in the sewer, that made him remember. He dropped his half-eaten slice and swirled his chair around to face his own desk. “I’ve got it—I’ve remembered where I saw Louise Iver’s name before.”
“Where?” Mansell demanded, and Riley perked up, looking intrigued. If Miles had been in the room, Kent was sure he would have pounced like a bloodhound on the scent.
It took him a moment to go through the files—luckily, they hadn’t been sent to storage yet. “Here it is. Anne Ayers—the second victim—would take hot meals to the elderly. On the night of her murder, she was in Whitechapel, and she was delivering a meal to Louise Iver.”
“Does it give an address?” Riley asked, and Kent nodded.
“Yes, right here. Apartment 66b, just off Wentworth Street.”
Mansell shut the pizza box. “Let’s tell Sarge.”
Kent glanced towards Chandler’s door. He could go announce it to their DI, but the last time he’d circumvented Miles, he’d almost had his head bitten off. Swallowing the need for Chandler’s approval, he sat down to wait for Miles. He pulled out his mobile and thumbed through a few texts from Lillian, apologizing about forgetting to leave money for rent and promising to have it that night. She had moved in a few months ago and wasn’t the worst flatmate he’d endured. She worked for a catering business and did her share of the cleaning and only had friends over once or twice a week.
There was also a text from Erica: CALL MUM.
Followed by: And come have dinner this weekend. I’ll make sure Finlay behaves.
Grimacing, Kent shoved the phone back in his pocket. He didn’t have the best relationship with his mother. She had never quite accepted that he was gay, treating it like some sort of phase that he would grow out of eventually, and his stepfather wasn’t much better. His dad was more supportive, but he’d moved to Berlin years ago and rarely made it back to London for visits. And Erica had been gone for so long, first with a postdoc fellowship and then living in the States. It was odd having her around again.
Popping his pen cap on and off, he contemplated the prospect of a dinner with her and Finlay. There would be all her art, strewn over her flat. He was proud of her, but he didn’t understand it, all the fibers and colors and strange shapes. But he’d be expected to come up with something to say about it. They would have to sit around, drinking and chatting. Erica and Finlay would tease each other—and him, no matter what Erica promised—and Erica would tell him that he worked too hard, wasn’t he ever going to get a life outside the station, for God’s sake?
It always hurt, when people said that. Maybe he didn’t go in for lots of parties or have many hobbies, but he didn’t want them. And he did good work here. But people just dismissed it because he didn’t have a husband or kids or any desire for them.
Chandler wouldn’t want kids. He wouldn’t care about buying a house or getting smashed on Friday nights. He wouldn’t mind the notebooks Kent kept, filled with all his observations about things. He would be all right with just holding hands occasionally and not snogging at every available opportunity. (That was another thing he’d have to put up with at Erica’s—her and Finlay groping each other and kissing every other minute.) He wouldn’t be angry about all the time Kent spent at work, not when he put in just as much if not more time.
Or at least, so Kent imagined. He blinked and realized he’d been staring at Chandler’s door for the past five minutes. Flushing, he looked away, checking to see if Riley or Mansell had noticed. Mansell was smirking at him.
“Don’t you have something you’re supposed to be doing?” he muttered.
“You’re the one’s been staring at the boss’s door,” Mansell retorted.
He was trying to think of a response that didn’t involve an outright lie that Mansell would see through in a second when Miles entered the room, Ed a step behind him, both of them bickering about something. Kent jumped up to intercept them. “I’ve got an address for Louise Iver.”
“Let’s hear it then,” Miles said, and Ed listened in as Kent explained. Miles clapped his hands together when he was finished. “Right. Take Mansell and go check it out.”
Kent stretched an arm towards his chair, groping for his jacket. “Yes, Skip. But what about—”
“The boss isn’t too keen on this line of inquiry,” Miles said, cutting him off. “Let’s see if there’s something worth raising a fuss over first.”
*
Apartment 66b huddled on one side of a yard full of rubbish. The paint on the door was faded and peeling, and the windows were too dirty to be able to see inside. They both looked at the numbers, nailed to the wall.
“Bit suggestive, isn’t it?” Mansell commented. He lifted the knocker and banged it down. No answer.
“We could look for the landlord,” Kent offered, casting a dubious glance at the surrounding flats. All of them bore similar signs of disrepair and neglect. Whoever did own them certainly wasn’t doing a good job with upkeep.
“Or, we can jimmy the lock and save ourselves the trouble,” Mansell said, testing the knob.
“We can’t just break into someone’s flat!”
Mansell crouched down to examine the lock. “Why not?”
“Because she’s not a suspect in a case, and we’ve no proof that she’s connected to anything.” Kent grabbed his arm and hauled him back. “All we have is a grainy photo from a camera Miles stuck up on a pipe.”
“You,” Mansell said, “are no fun.”
“Yeah, I think you’ve made that point before.” The yard was still empty, only a few pigeons and the sound of cars on the nearby road breaking the silence.
“’Course if we go back, we’ll have to tell Sarge—and the boss—that we found nothing. That we didn’t even get in the door.”
Kent knew what Mansell was trying to do, but the thought still made him pause. He looked back at the rusty nails holding the numbers in place. “Can you…?”
Mansell grinned. “Are you kidding? My last partner and I used to have a running bet on who could pick a lock the quickest.” He bent down again.
Kent turned back around to keep watch. “She could come back any time, so hurry it up.” God, if they got caught, and Chandler found out…Kent felt a little sick, just thinking about his reaction.
But when Mansell sprung the lock, and they stepped cautiously into the hall, it quickly became apparent there had been no cause for worry.
“No one’s been in here in ages,” Mansell said. “Smells like mold and dust and mice.” He held his sleeve over his nose.
Kent coughed. It was a strong odor. He turned on his torch and shined it into the first room they passed. There were a few bits of furniture, all covered in dust. “Ayers can’t have been here. Maybe the agency got the address wrong.”
“Could be,” Mansell agreed, opening a narrow door that turned out to be the bathroom. “Ugh. This is where the mold is spreading from.”
Kent peeked over his shoulder and grimaced. Good thing Chandler hadn’t come along.
The kitchen was also empty. The last door in the hallway led to the bedroom. Kent stepped inside, flicking the light over a bedframe, a chest of drawers, and a small doorway to a box room. He was about to leave when he noticed something, a bright glimmer amid all the dust. “That’s funny.” He walked over closer to it. “The knob on the door here—it’s clean. No dust or anything.”
Mansell came up behind him and sneezed. “Sorry.” He peered at it. “You’re right.”
They shined their torches down onto the floor, but there weren’t any footprints besides their own in the accumulated grit and dust.
Kent tugged on his gloves, just in case there might be useable fingerprints, and carefully twisted the knob. The door swung inward, into a smaller bedroom, and they both moved forward, following it. He had a brief impression of a strange symbol scrawled on the wall, and then—then it was like the darkness overflowed, spilling out and over them, drowning their lights and sweeping everything away in a sickly, black tide.
It was hot, as though they’d stumbled into a jungle. A cloying scent surrounded him. He felt disoriented, dizzy, like the moment in an elevator or an airplane when you hung suspended for a split-second and your stomach tried to climb up into your throat.
And then the darkness passed, and he was left hanging onto the wall, panting, Mansell clutching the edge of the door beside him.
“What the fuck was that?” Mansell gasped, sounding as shaken as Kent had ever heard him.
“You felt it too, then?” he managed. His skin was prickling with sudden fear, sure that someone was here with them—but when he whirled around, the room was still empty. Swallowing and trying to get his hand to stop shaking, he shined his torch back into the box room, moving a little further inside.
The symbol he had noticed before jumped into bold relief, black paint standing out against the incongruously floral patterned wallpaper. It was a spiral, circling hypnotically into a small point. Two lines, each topped with an upside down triangle, were on either side of it. Below the symbol was a table and what could only be called an altar. Half-melted candles stood upon it, along with a mirror, a silver bowl, and a lump of wood that looked vaguely like a man, hunched over and grotesque. A man or a monster.
Half-repelled and half-fascinated, Kent’s hand was drifting towards it when Mansell grabbed his wrist. “Don’t touch it!”
“It’s just a piece of wood,” he protested, but he didn’t try to touch it again. There is always a rational explanation, a voice that sounded like Chandler’s said in his head. But the sensation of complete and utter wrongness persisted, weighing down the shadows that clustered beyond the beam of their torches, waiting to rush at them again.
“There’s nothing else here,” Mansell said after a few more agonizing seconds. “Let’s go.”
Kent didn’t argue, not wanting to stay a second longer, either. Mansell led the way, and he followed him, back across the room and down the hall. He had to fight the urge to keep checking behind them, in case someone was following. The flat was empty. There was no one creeping in their footsteps.
Still, he breathed easier once they were outside, and the door was locked again.
“That was…” Mansell trailed off and then tried again. “Fucking spooky is what it was.”
“What do you think that symbol meant?”
“Don’t know. Buchan will probably have some theory.” Mansell jerked his head at the car. “Let’s go.”
Kent glanced around one last time and then followed.
*
“It was a spiral, surrounded by some funny lines,” Kent told Miles for the fifth time. The DS had been grilling them about every detail since they’d got back.
Miles held out a marker. “Draw it on the board.”
Kent exchanged a look with Mansell. “I…I’d rather not, Skip.”
“Why not?” Miles demanded. “This could be important.”
Flushing, Kent looked down at his desk. “What if it means something bad? What if it’s used to…summon things?”
Miles made a disgusted noise.
“You’re the one who thinks Iver is some immortal demon,” Mansell muttered. Surprised at getting his support for once, Kent shot him a grateful look.
“It just felt all wrong,” he tried to explain. “The symbol and the altar and that—that thing on it.”
“We’re going back,” Miles declared, “and we’ll do a proper search. If nothing else, there’s plenty of health and safety violations. Sounds like the place should be condemned.”
Chandler’s voice suddenly rang out, crisp and clear and efficient, “Going back where?”
They all turned to face him. Chandler still looked more tired than usual, but he seemed more in control, more like their usual DI than he had the past few days.
“We might have found a residence for Louise Iver,” Miles said and then explained what had been going on. “I didn’t think it was worth bringing up unless the lads found something, which they certainly did.”
Chandler raised his eyebrows. “A few dusty things forgotten when whoever lived there moved away? Look, Miles, I gave you some leeway with this, but I can’t sanction an investigation of an old abandoned flat. If Iver ever did live there, she obviously left years ago.”
“But the box room,” Kent began, and then wished he hadn’t when Chandler’s cool gaze met his. “Someone had been there recently, sir. The mirror, the bowl—they were all clean, not dusty at all, and the door knob, too.”
“We’ll take Buchan with us,” Miles said, “and he can have a look at those symbols. And if it turns out to be nothing, then I’ll drop it, I promise. But there’s something there; I can feel it.”
A little smile quirked Chandler’s mouth. “Didn’t you say ninety-nine percent of your hunches turned out wrong?”
Miles nodded, but he didn’t smile. “This is the one-percent.”
“All right.” Chandler straightened his cuffs, tugging each one into precise alignment with his jacket. “We’ll go look, but then that will be an end to it. We have real work to do.”
He turned back to his office, and the rest of the team began grabbing jackets and mobiles and keys.
Kent stepped after him. “Sir?”
Chandler turned back around.
He drew a breath, right hand curling into a fist around his phone, the plastic digging into his skin. “We—we never did get to have that drink, sir. Would you like to go to the pub later?”
A long, dreadful pause. Kent couldn’t keep his eyes on Chandler’s, had to keep glancing elsewhere.
“Yes,” Chandler said. “Yes, that would be nice.”
Relief made his hands tremble. “Great,” he managed to say. “Great.”
Chandler didn’t linger and was soon out the door with Miles, and Mansell was yelling at him to hurry up. Kent lurched into motion. He had done it. He had asked, and Chandler had said yes.
It was going to be—well, it was either going to be a disaster or one of the best nights of Kent’s life.