Chapter Text
Hathaway took “personal days” every three months, and was off for a week. Robbie knew that, like he knew most other things about his sergeant, but it was starting to drive him mental that he didn’t know why.
He’d tried asking James, but the lad was skilled in answering a question without actually saying anything; all he really knew was that it was for James’ health, and that could mean anything. He did at least trust that James would tell him if it was cancer or a life-threatening illness, and there was nothing on his file to suggest possible leads. Not that Robbie wanted to go prying round in James’ private life – he’d like James to tell him himself, but it didn’t look like that would be happening any time soon, and when he wanted to, James kept his secrets like it was his job. According to both his file and James himself, there was nothing to hide: he was James Hathaway, police sergeant, male beta, Cambridge rower, Theology first, failed priest. Unless it was some sort of Catholic retreat – and Robbie had considered it, but his inexpert internet searches hadn’t picked anything up which tallied or would be convenient for James – there was no reasonable explanation for these disappearances.
James came back to work within the week, the usual pristine Sergeant Hathaway, entirely correct and composedly formal, nary a hint of wrong-doing and less than a flicker of an explanation. His performance at work never suffered, but during that week, he couldn’t even be dragged back into work by a murder, and it was doing Robbie’s head in; he hated having to deal with a case without James.
“You’re gonna be off next week, then?” he directed at his sergeant, glancing down at next Monday in his calendar – ringed in red to indicate a Hathaway-Free Week.
James nodded without looking up. “Yes, sir,” he said simply, still focused on his report.
“Every three months, like clockwork, Sergeant Hathaway takes leave,” Robbie said, leaning back with a sigh.
James glanced up, frowning. “Yes, sir,” he said slowly. “How did you know?”
“Give over, lad,” Robbie frowned at him, “I’m not daft. Like I said, you’re as regular as clockwork, and I’m a copper, I see patterns when they’re there. And this one’s been hanging around ever since you’ve been working with me.”
“Must’ve taken you at least six months to work it out,” James said, looking back at his computer with the glimmer of a smile.
“That’s not the point,” Robbie told him, drawing his sergeant’s glance again.
“What is the point then, sir?” James returned, meeting his boss’s eyes for a bare second before looking back to his screen. “I’m off next week. I put in my application for leave, Innocent approved it, you knew about it. I don’t see a problem.”
“No problem,” Robbie covered himself, though it sounded weak even to him. “Just – interested, s’all. Got anything nice planned?”
“Taking care of a few things,” James said absently, leafing through some hand-written sheets next to him for the next part of his report. “A friend’s coming round.”
First Robbie had heard of any friend. “Oh?” he said, trying to match James’s casual tone and failing dismally. “In town long?”
“Just the week,” James nodded.
“Not from round here, then,” Robbie said, satisfied to have got at least that much out of his enigmatic sergeant.
“Lives in London, sir,” James said, and it didn’t escape Robbie’s attention that James avoided telling him either how long the friend was staying, or what gender the friend was. Was that what was behind all this? A lover? But why draw attention to it by taking this time off, so regularly? It didn’t make sense.
Then again, not much about this made sense, Robbie thought, sighing and turning back to his computer, the cursor blinking at him accusingly on his own half finished report.
“It’s your business, lad, but whatever it is, I’d be less obvious about it if I were you,” he said simply, and James nodded.
“I’ll do my best, sir,” he said, and that was that.
**
That was that until they got a call early Saturday morning – a body had been found out in the woods by Harcourt Hill, and Lewis and Hathaway had been assigned.
“Ma’am,” Robbie said, dragging a hand over his face and valiantly trying to wake himself up, “you know you’ll need to assign someone else as me sergeant. Hathaway’s got this coming week off.”
“His leave doesn’t start until Monday,” Innocent said briskly, her voice a little muffled by whatever was going on the other end. “He can help you out until Monday morning, you know you two both do your best work together. You can bounce ideas off each other until then, and you can go from there with Balfort from then on.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll call Hathaway and we’ll be there.”
He rang off and heaved himself out of bed with a sheer effort of will, keying Hathaway’s number in as he headed to the kitchen to turn the kettle on. If he had to be up at four on a Saturday morning, there was going to have to be tea. “James?” he said, the minute the line connected to a sleepy, puzzled half-beat of silence, before James’ befuddled greeting. “There’s a body.”
“Just what I like to hear at – four am,” James muttered. “Why doesn’t anyone get murdered at midday?” Robbie had to laugh.
“If you weren’t half-asleep, you could give me the answer to that. With references. It’s out by Harcourt Hill, I’m being sent the coordinates to me phone. Shall I pick you up on the way?”
“Sir...” James trailed off. “Don’t – I mean, I know – I’m on leave.”
“Not till Monday you’re not, Sergeant,” Robbie said, inexplicably irritated. “If your ‘friend’s’ arrived, he’ll have to wait for your company till then.”
“I- yes, sir. If you could pick me up-”
“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” Robbie said, and hung up. He’d been too brusque, he knew – the boy had every right to want his leave, whatever his reasons were, but he had to have known this was one of their on-call weekends. Didn’t he?
He thought about it for a minute, then could have kicked himself – of course James hadn’t known. It’d been a last minute swap with Peterson, and James had left by the time the switch was made – Robbie had been going to text him the bad news, but between one thing and another, had never managed to do it. Damn.
**
James was as correct as ever, though, when Robbie appeared on his doorstep, armed with an apologetic expression and instant coffee in a thermos. The apologetic expression, though, disappeared as Robbie caught James’ scent; there was definitely something off there, under James’ normal mix of run-of-the-mill beta and shower gel. Something almost – “bloody hell, James, is your friend an omega>?!” Robbie asked, which was not how he’d meant to start this conversation.
James shifted a little, a flush rising to his cheeks. His voice, however, was even when he spoke. “No, sir,” he said calmly. “Some poor kid went into her first heat in the pub, and I’m in the same clothes. You know how the smell lingers.”
“Can’t say I do, lad. Never came up against many omegas, in the flesh, like. Only in the line of duty, and even then, it’s rare,” Robbie said, and remembered his initial errand as they headed to the car. “Look, I’m sorry – I should’ve told you we were on call – we had to swap last-minute, Peterson’s mate went into labour last night.”
“I didn’t know Peterson was mated,” James said, accepting the coffee and the apology with a rare smile.
“Nice lass,” Lewis said, reversing out of his space, more than half of his attention on the road. “Used to work at the station. They keep it quiet cos it turned out she’s an omega, and you know how people lose their heads over ‘em.”
“Yeah,” James agreed quietly, taking a sip of coffee.
“Even the most normal bloke just goes arse over tit whenever they come across the poor beggars, keeping ’em cooped up and cosseted, like you read about. Them millionaires and their omega partners, kept away from everything that makes life worth living, eh?” He was hardly concentrating on what he was saying, more focused on driving than James’ reactions, but even out of the corner of his eye, he could see James close his.
“Seems like it, sir,” James agreed quietly.
Lewis glanced at him. “But I really am sorry, I should have texted you at the time. Shouldn’t have gone off on you on the phone earlier, you didn’t know.”
“Oh, I know people think I’m shirking my duty, taking leave so often,” James said, eyes fixed on his coffee. “You’ve always been good about it, sir. And if I wanted this weekend off too, I should have said. But – you know how it is.”
“Not really, lad,” Robbie said easily. “You’ve never said, and I don’t want to pry.”
He’d thought James might open up a little at that, but all he got in reply was a nod, and a muttered, “thank you.”
They finished the drive to Harcourt Hill in silence.
**
The body was twenty-four year old Elizabeth Malden, alpha, secondary school teacher. According to Hobson, she’d been dead for six hours, and her body had been moved – likely cause of death, a blow to the back of the head, with something sharp.
“Anything more, Laura?” Robbie asked, and she shook her head.
“Not until I can examine her more closely, and in better light,” she said. “But she had her handbag with her, and there was money in her purse, so you can probably be sure she wasn’t killed in a mugging gone bad.”
“A mugger wouldn’t have bothered to move the body either,” Robbie said thoughtfully, staring at poor Elizabeth as she was finally moved from where she’d been found and loaded into the back of an ambulance. “James, any ideas?”
“She’s dressed for a night out,” James pointed out. “Night of fun gone bad?”
Laura was looking at him, a little askance. “Taken to hanging out with omegas, James?” she said, making a show of scenting the air, and James smiled, that same flush appearing again.
“Only inadvertently, doctor,” he said, and Robbie took over, keen to get the conversation back on track.
“We’ll get back to the station, pull her records, see where she’s living and who with, if anyone,” he said, and Laura nodded.
“I should have the report to you in the next few hours,” she said, looking over at the ambulance. “Apparently I have nothing better to do with my Saturday nights.”
“Thanks, Laura,” he said after her, as she made her way back to her car. “James, can you find out who found her?”
“Already done, sir,” James said, ever the consummate professional. “A couple of kids, out in the woods for, if I’ve read it right, some fun before they went to home.”
“Both overage, I hope?” Robbie said, sincere in his hope. The last thing he wanted to have to do, on top of an already shitty night, was give two kids a talk about safe sex.
“Overage for the sex I’m willing to bet they were planning on having,” James said, flushing again – daft sod, getting embarrassed about teenagers being randy little buggers. “Not for the lagers they’d brought with ’em. We let them off with a mild caution, considering they had enough of a sense of civic duty to call the police rather than run off. Uniform took them back to the station, and they’ll have given their statements by the time we get back.”
“No chance they did it and are covering their tracks? They weren’t at her school, or anything like that?”
“Haven’t had the chance to check, sir, and I didn’t meet them. All I can say is, I hope not.”
“You and me both, lad,” Robbie sighed, and turned on his heel. “We’d best be getting back to the station, there’s nothing more we can do here.”
**
They spend the rest of the early morning briefing themselves on the details of Elizabeth Malden’s life, including checking her facebook account. The two kids who found her are, mercifully, clear – they go to a different school and are mostly traumatised at having found a body. They clearly had never met Elizabeth Malden, and have alibis up to an hour or so before they found her, when they sneaked away from the party they’d been at to the woods, which means there’s no way they killed Elizabeth Malden six hours before they “found” her.
That’s the only good news. Elizabeth was mated to a beta woman, had been for the last year and a half, and judging by her facebook wall, is close to her brother and sister too. Telling the family is the worst bit, and Robbie’s not willing to face it alone, particularly since this family seems so close.
Her parents live in London, but her sister lives on Norham Road, which makes Robbie raise his eyebrows. “She’s done well for herself,” he commented lightly, and James nodded, but his expression was a little tense.
“Omega,” he said bluntly, pointing at her records.
“Ah,” Robbie said meaninglessly, thinking furiously. Omegas married up – it was just what happened. They commanded the attention of the wealthy and the powerful effortlessly; barely five percent of the population of Britain were omegas – which was, globally, a surprisingly high number – and there were few alphas or betas who got a look in when their better-off counterparts started sniffing around. A lot of omegas didn’t buy into it, of course – Elizabeth Malden’s sister, Rebecca, was positively wasting herself on an alpha or beta who couldn’t keep her in a much more luxurious place than Norham Road, and Peterson wasn’t going to be keeping his mate in the lap of luxury any time soon – but it was still largely true that to the wealthy went the spoils.
So Elizabeth Malden’s sister had married up because she was an omega, but kept in close contact with her science-teacher sister. Could Elizabeth have got in the way of someone after her sister? If they were close, and regularly spent time together, there was a chance that Elizabeth might have been trying to protect her sister when she was killed. Not everyone took the fact that an omega was mated to be the end of the line, and some alphas and betas were just plain desperate – there was a reason that Peterson’s mating had been kept quiet, after all, and why his mate had hidden it from the majority of the Force. And like he said to James – some people just went nutty over omegas.
Speaking of James, the lad was squirming in his seat, a flush riding high on his cheekbones. “You alright there, Sergeant?” he asked, a little concerned.
“Fine, thank you,” James said, correct as ever but strained. “I think something I ate disagreed with me. Excuse me?”
Robbie nodded, staring after his sergeant as the boy headed for the loos. The omega smell – which should have dissipated the longer Hathaway wore his clothes and interacted with other people –didn’t seem to be fading away. But his sergeant, his James? Never in a million years. If James Hathaway had been an omega, it would have been on his file, and even if Innocent had agreed to cover it up, she’d have told Lewis.
Then again, maybe Innocent didn’t know. The force wasn’t keen on taking omegas – equality laws said they had to, but no one wanted the headlines that would inevitably come if an omega was injured or killed in the line of duty. Maybe James had hidden it since – well, since before joining the force?
Robbie gave himself a good shake, and focused on Elizabeth Malden’s records again. James Hathaway wasn’t an omega. If he had been, that smart and that pretty, he’d have been snapped up years ago. He wouldn’t have made it to the Force at all.
He owed it to Elizabeth to focus on her death, in any case, not on the way his sergeant smelt of some strange omega. He’d have to get in touch with New Scotland Yard and get someone to inform Mr and Mrs Malden of their youngest daughter’s death. He was glad to be escaping that, at least – but he still had to inform Mrs – he checked – Mrs McCauley of her sister’s death. The eldest, the boy, was in the Navy, a beta, Captain Thomas Malden; he’d have to be informed too, but that, thankfully, would not be Lewis’ job.
When James returned, though, informing the sister was going to be both of their job. At least he’d have James with him, and at least there was family living in the city; they wouldn’t have to go trawling round for friends to get information, particularly if the sisters were close.
It was a reasonably enough hour, by now – they could call on Mrs. McCauley and break the news.
**
And when James came back, a few minutes later, Robbie’s suspicion on one count was put to rest, at least – James’ normal beta scent was starting to reassert itself. The omega smell was there still, faintly, but not overly in evidence, and it suddenly hit him – all that bollocks about ‘bumping into’ an omega, James’ regular-as-clock-work leave: James wasn’t an omega, but he had a partner who was.
Despite the job facing them, Robbie smiled slightly. It was nice to solve at least one mystery.
“Everything alright, sir?” James asked, one eyebrow ever so slightly raised, and Robbie nodded.
“Aye, but we’ve got to inform this poor girl of her sister’s death, so I doubt it’ll stay that way. C’mon, let’s get to it.”
**
Rebecca McCauley, née Malden, was a pretty, petite young woman whose scent was enough to drive any alpha or beta distracted, even though it was heavily mingled with a mate-scent. Robbie’s job had long since taught him to be immune to that, though, so instead of panting over the poor woman like a rare steak, he took a deep breath and said quietly, “Mrs. McCauley, I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you. May we come in?”
Inside, the large, detached house was beautiful, expertly renovated, and in Robbie’s inexpert opinion, more than a little unwelcoming. The kitchen was a different matter – bright and airy and homey. Rebecca sat them down at the table – still in her pyjamas and dressing gown, bless her – and offered them tea or coffee, which they both declined.
“What is it?” she asked, large eyes glancing between them fearfully. “It’s not Tom, is it?”
“No, ma’am,” Lewis said gently. “I’m afraid it’s your sister, Elizabeth. She died last night.”
“Died?” Rebecca almost stuttered over the word. “Was – I mean. Was she – killed?”
“We’ve reason to believe so, yes,” Robbie said, ignoring Hathaway, who was, again, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “Believe me, ma’am, we’re very sorry for your loss, but I have to ask: is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt your sister?”
“Hurt Lizzie? No,” Rebecca shook her head to emphasise her point. “No, she was – I mean, she was so sweet. All the children at her school liked her, and Maria – her partner – they adored each other. Lizzie loved taking care of people, and she was so good at it, I – are you sure she was killed?”
“Pretty sure, I’m afraid to say.” Lewis paused, and glanced at Hathaway once. “I don’t suppose you’ve been in any danger recently? You’ve not noticed anyone hanging around your house, or following you anywhere?”
“No?” Rebecca said slowly, frowning in confusion. “No, nothing like that. Why? Do you think Lizzie was killed protecting me?” Something that looks a little like heartbreak fills her big blue eyes.
“It’s a routine question, ma’am, when the deceased has omega relatives,” Lewis said and Hathaway took over, having apparently got control of whatever was wrong with him.
“I suppose Maria would be the first person she’d tell, but did Elizabeth mention having any trouble at work? No rows or anything going on?”
“She rang me on Thursday in a bit of a state,” Rebecca said, biting her lip. “She and Maria had had a fight. But I told her, couples have these rows, it doesn’t matter how much you love someone, or how well you fit, sometimes you have fights, they just had to get through it. But Maria wouldn’t have killed her, not over a little spat.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Robbie agreed soothingly. “And they were still practically newly-weds, eh? Bound to have dust-ups now and then.” He smiled at Rebecca, doing his best to exude paternal experience, and Rebecca relaxed a little. So, to his surprise, did Hathaway. “You look like you’ve been married a little while, Mrs. McCauley.”
“Five years in September,” she said, but absently and without a smile. Of course, she had just been told her sister was dead – it didn’t mean anything – but Lewis noted it out of force of habit. “I – I mean. I’m sure it’s not – but.” She paused, took a deep breath, and glanced at the kitchen door. “Lizzie and Bill – my husband – didn’t get on very well. Lizzie said he was pompous, always trying to rule the roost. But Bill hasn’t seen Lizzie for ages, three months or so. I try to keep them apart, it’s easier for everyone...” she trailed off, eyes fixed on the scrubbed wood of the tabletop.
“I’m sure you’ve nothing to worry about, Mrs. McCauley. At this stage of the enquiry, we have to ask all the routine questions.” He stood, Hathaway following suit a beat later. “We’ll be in touch. Please don’t leave the country, and tell us if there’s anything you think of which might be of use.”
They expressed the usual courtesies and made their escape, and Robbie could hear her start to cry as the door shut.
“You didn’t ask her where she was last night,” James said, and Robbie shook his head.
“We’ll be checkin’ her movements, there’s plenty of time for that.”
“There’s plenty of time for her to be coming up with a story,” James objected, and Robbie paused, one hand on the car door-handle, looking at James across the car.
“Do you really think she did it?” he asked, and James frowned then shook his head.
“No,” he said finally, sliding into the car. “Not really. But – can you honestly tell me you didn’t ask her because she’s an omega?”
“Ah, give over. You think I don’t know omegas can be murderers too? After eighteen years on the Force? I didn’t ask her because her sister just died, and I don’t think she killed her. If I’m proved wrong, we can ask her later.”
“If we have to ask her later, she’ll say she was at home all night,” James predicted, and Robbie glanced at him, frowning. “I mean, sir, we’ll never know either way. Her husband will lie for her, won’t he? He bagged an omega,” he shifted in his seat, more than a little flushed, “and he’ll do anything to hang onto it.”
“Her, James,” Robbie said, reprovingly, and James bit his lip, turning to look out the window. “What’s up with you, anyway?” If what he suspected was true – and he was damn sure it was – James must have been desperate to get home to his own omega, but it was disturbing that he just referred to another omega as ‘it’. Perhaps a mark of scorn against people who think like that? God only knew Robbie himself hadn’t got any good vibes off Mrs. McCauley’s description of her husband. “Ants in your pants?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” James said stiffly.
“You can’t hardly sit still,” Robbie explained, making no attempt to stifle his grin. “Look, lad, you push off home. I’ll drop you off on my way back to the station and cover for you with Innocent, say you’re coming down with summat. If you can’t concentrate, you’re no help.”
“I’m sorry-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Robbie brushed him off. “God knows you’ve got better things to be doing, I’m not going to hold it against you. Give my regards to your ‘friend’.” He didn’t quite make air quotes around the word, but it was a near-run thing.
“Yes, sir,” James said, but wonder of wonders, there is a smile hovering round the edge of his mouth. “Thank you. You’re a life-saver.”
“It was my idea, Jim-boy, you don’t have to sweet-talk me into it,” Robbie said, but he couldn’t stop himself grinning back.
He watched as Hathaway fumbled his keys in his eagerness to get into his block of flats, and smiled.
He had a murderer to catch, but James had a lover, a companion, maybe even a mate. That was worth a smile.
**
James leant back against his door, taking what felt like the first free breath in hours. He’d had too many near misses, and his skin felt like it was burning. The beta-scent spray fell out of his pocket as he discarded his jacket, but he didn’t care – he’d search for it when his heat was over at the end of this week. Most of the time he barely needed it – between his suppressants and his shower gel, the omega scent rarely got through, but his heats were danger zones for that. He had to wedge the gap under his door shut and make sure to keep his windows shut, or the pheromones leaked out and he found himself the recipient of some seriously unwelcome attention.
And Paul wasn’t arriving until tomorrow afternoon, so he had a day to kill while all he felt like was crawling out of his skin. And this was just the warm-up – he wasn’t desperate to be fucked yet, completely abandoned to the lust that lit a fire under his skin, but that would come in the next ten or twelve hours. For the moment, he could make do with the toys he had in readiness for the times when Paul – his long-time designated heat-buddy – wasn’t free. And thank god he had them – the plug, irritating though it was, half-arousing, half infuriatingly unsatisfactory, had at least served to stop him from ruining a perfectly good pair of suit trousers and alerting everyone else to his gender dynamic.
A beer would take the edge off it, he decided. If everything else failed, he could get himself plastered and try and forget about it until tomorrow, when he’d have someone there to help him through it.
Even if it wasn’t the person he wanted.
**