Unnatural Selection

By Ann Somerville

Four years ago, Nick Guthrie nearly died from a brain tumour until he received an experimental treatment that saved his life, even though the treatment brought bizarre and permanent side effects. Now he drinks fake blood to live, and has had to have his new long canines capped, but it's a small price to pay to keep doing the job he loves. He's a cop, part of a London Met Police Murder Investigation team.

His current case involves trying to find the person ritualistically killing gay 'vees'. With no witnesses and no clues, the police are stymied, but Nick won't give up until their killer is found.

Complicating his life is Dr Anton Marber, an attractive, gay minor celebrity Nick saves from being kicked to death one night. Nick doesn't expect to see Anton again, but Anton is amazingly stubborn when it comes to things that are important to him, like Nick's case, Nick's diet and Nick's determination never to fall in love again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Somerville
• Release date: Sep 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465734884

Ann Somerville

Ann Somerville is white, Australian, heterosexual, cisgendered. She/her.

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Unnatural Selection

Ann Somerville

‘Unnatural Selection’ Copyright © 2011 by Ann Somerville

Cover image © Comugnero Silvana - Fotolia.com. Additional cover design by Kiri Moth

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

For more information please visit my website at http://logophilos.net

Smashwords Edition 1, September 2011

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Published by Ann Somerville

Chapter 1

What was left of my stomach told me I was due for a ‘meal’, but I still stared distrustfully at the carton of Elviva in my hand. Laughing children tossing oranges in the air didn’t belong on a HRF container. If it hadn’t been a free sample from the chemist, I’d never have touched the stuff, no matter how hungry I was.

Still, waste not, want not, as my Granny would have said. The manufacturers recommend warming haem replacement fluid for thirty seconds in the microwave, but warm fake blood tastes mankier than cold fake blood. Anything that adds extra flavour only makes it worse. I stuck the straw in and sucked manfully, trying to get as much of it down my throat as possible while avoiding my taste buds.

Yuck. Foul as ordinary Elviva tasted, the orange-flavoured stuff was a hundred times worse. I forced myself to finish it, crushed the carton and threw it away with satisfying force, then cleaned my teeth for two minutes. Peppermint mouthwash helped shift the taste away a little more, though every time I burped, I tasted the crap all over again. I wish the makers would stop mucking around with HRF. It would be perfect if they could make it taste like water, but pretending that something that laden with chemicals is somehow remotely connected to fruit or sunshine or chirpy rugrats adds insult to the injury of needing to drink the damn stuff in the first place.

I picked up the latest New Scientist and headed to the pub. A pint of good bitter was what I really needed to take the taste out of my mouth. The smell of wood smoke filled the cold air as I headed for the high street, a clean welcoming scent after a day looking at week-old corpses and visiting council flats that stank of urine and shit. Don’t get me wrong. My friend Charlotte’s flat is lovely and tasteful, and her potpourri does a nice job of making the place pleasant. But outside, on the job, smoke cuts through stinks real and remembered, obliterating them, which is why so many detectives smoke. I’d given up after I was first diagnosed with the tumour—the sort of bargain with the powers that be that was as illogical as it was useless. I could pick it up again now and not even worry about the big C, but I didn’t like the smell any more. A daily pint of bitter is supposed to give you cancer too, but that’s one habit I have no intention of stopping.

The White Hart was largely empty, and my favourite spot at the back of the pub was free. Jim was on duty. Evening, Nick. The usual?

Thanks. Quiet tonight? It was eight o’clock on a Tuesday. Not exactly late.

He concentrated on the delicate task of pumping the bitter without making too much head. Had a rush earlier for food but there’s no football on. Quiet your end?

Pretty much. Two stabbings, both drug-related, with suspects in custody within an hour of the deaths and charged within twenty-four hours, and a suspected murder which turned out to be death from natural causes. Cheers. I took my beer and headed to the sofa by the fireplace.

Some of the regulars knew me well enough to nod in greeting. Only Jim and the owner, another Jim, knew my full name and occupation, because six months ago, just after I’d moved into Charlotte’s new flat, I’d given them a hand with a group of rowdies, using my ID to add weight to the Jims’ not inconsiderable combined muscle. A copper as a customer was always a bonus for landlords, though it wasn’t the kind of pub to normally attract trouble. That, the fireplace, and the well-kept bitter were the reasons I’d chosen this pub over the multitude of choices in Battersea. A man needed a place to relax and read, or at least I did. Opening New Scientist at work invited crap from my mates. Here, no one gave a toss.

Two hours and a pint and a half of bitter later, I stretched and put the magazine into my coat pocket. ‘Night, I said to Jim on the way out. He nodded, and I stepped out into the briskly cold air.

A few stragglers, pub regulars like me, made their slow way up the high street. No one misbehaving, fortunately. I really hate having to deal with drunks on my time off—or ever. It would have been quicker for me to turn onto Vicarage Crescent, but I love the river at night, so I cut left into Church Road and took the path alongside the Norman Foster apartments.

Then I was beside the river, facing the bridge. Here, the water is never dark, and never still. Boat lights, reflected traffic, the sound of buses heading over the bridge, mean the river always seems alive, exciting. The Thames always feels a little special to me, and the cold weather only made the bright lights and the bridge more glamorous. Of course, when I’m called to see a body pulled out of the water at two in the morning, it isn’t particularly glamorous, but I tried not to think about that.

A yell of pain and a grunt pulled my attention back to my path. Up ahead. Two men standing, another on the ground. The one on the ground was getting a right kicking.

I ran at them. Oy! Stop! Police! The two thugs took off without even stopping to look in my direction. But their victim was still down.

Gritting my teeth at having to let the bastards go, I dropped to my knees by the man. He was conscious, just, but bleeding from face and scalp cuts, with vicious bruises blooming on his face. Sir, I’m a police officer. Can you hear me?

The man looked up at me through slitted eyes, but I didn’t think he registered what I said. I pulled out my mobile and called 999. DC Nick Guthrie. I have an injured assault victim. I need assistance and paramedics. I gave my location and quick details of the injuries, the attackers and where they were headed. Both about five seven, blond cropped hair, early twenties. Both wearing tracksuit pants. One wearing a red Man United jacket, the other wearing a padded blue bomber jacket. The attack had been right under a street lamp. I’d had a good, if brief, look at the two of them. Hopefully it would be enough to catch them.

With backup on its way, I turned my attention back to the victim. He was about my age, with collar-length black hair, brown eyes. He was holding his stomach, but making no noise. I didn’t think he was fully conscious, though he winced when I shouted to get his attention. I pulled my coat off and put it under his head. Hold on, sir. Paramedics coming.

His hand reached for mine, so I held it. It was icy cold and shook like the rest of him. Try and stay awake for me. I’m Nick. What’s your name?

His lips moved, but he winced again. No sound came out. I patted his arm.

Too sore? It’s all right.

I heard police and ambulance sirens. There was no car access directly to the river walk, so the uniforms had to come on foot. One of them reached me, blowing plumes of breath into the frigid air. DC Guthrie? I’m Constable Stevens.

I pulled out my ID and showed it to him. Yes, I’m Nick Guthrie. The crims went off that way. I witnessed them assaulting this gentleman.

The paramedics were just behind them, so I stood and gave them room. I had to detach our man’s hand from mine. You’ll be all right, sir. They’ve got you.

His eyes opened a little wider and I thought he understood. I nodded and did my best to look cheerful and encouraging.

Did you get a name from him? Stevens murmured discreetly.

No. Have you got anyone looking for those two?

Stevens’ colleague knelt down beside the victim and began carefully patting pockets for ID.

Units looking in the area now, Stevens said, but it’s a maze of council estates on that side of the bridge road. Tell me what you saw?

By the time I’d finished telling him, and he’d written it all down in his notebook, the paramedics had the victim on their gurney. We’ll take him to Chelsea and Westminster A&E, the male paramedic said.

We’ll follow you in, the constable kneeling on the ground said. His radio squawked. Another unit had two youths in custody. Did I have time to go to the station for an ID?

Sure. Can you drop me off before you go to the hospital?

That was no problem, so I walked with them and the paramedics back to the vehicles. The victim looked pale and unwell against the red blanket, but as I came abreast of the gurney, he reached for my hand again. I held his all the way to the ambulance. As the paramedics prepared to load him in the back, I went to set his hand free. He whispered something.

Sorry? I leaned in. What is it, sir?

Anton. Me.

I squeezed his fingers. Nice to meet you, Anton. I’m Nick. You’ll be fine.

Sir? We have to go, the female paramedic murmured.

I stepped back from the gurney. Got to let you go now, Anton. Good luck.

Anton Marber, Constable Stevens said. Local. Lives back there, he added, thumbing towards the terraced cottages behind us. He was less than a minute from safety, I reckon.

Poor sod. Right, shall we?

It was only a short deviation to Battersea police station. Stevens’ colleague dropped us off and headed back over to Chelsea to deal with our assault victim, while Stevens came with me into the station. He offered me some coffee while we waited for the suspects to be brought in for me to identify. I refused. I can drink coffee so long as there’s no milk or lactose-containing product in it, but I no longer care for it much. Just one more thing for my fellow officers to take the mickey over. A non-coffee-drinking, non-smoking detective is weird enough without adding in the whole needing to drink blood to survive thing.

By the time I’d positively ID’ed the two guys picked up by the local officers, and waited for my statement to be typed up for me to sign, it was after one in the morning. Stevens kindly gave me