To Find Him and Love Him Again (Volume 3)

By Harper Fox

This is Volume Three of Three in this tenth Tyack & Frayne story.

In a nightmare city, against all the odds, Gideon and Lee have found each other again. In this place and time they are strangers to each other, and their meeting has astounded them both with the shock of recognition and shared memories.

But Alice Rawle’s curse is in full play, and this reunion is the last thing she wants. When Lee vanishes, it’s up to Gideon to rescue him from Alice’s twisted timeline and help him return to their own beloved world.

Old friends and strange new enemies, mysterious figures from the wild landscapes of ancient Cornwall – all have come to accompany Gideon and Lee on their journey. Only by trust and love can each one of them escape from the web of Alice’s dream, and only by the renewal of a passion as ancient as the rocks and moorlands of Dark can Lee and Gideon find their way home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harper Fox
• Release date: May 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781910224519

Harper Fox

Harper Fox is the author of many critically acclaimed M/M Romance novels, including Stonewall Book Award-nominated Scrap Metal and Brothers Of The Wild North Sea, Publishers Weekly Best Book 2013. Her novels and novellas are powerfully sensual, with a dynamic of strongly developed characters finding love and a forever future – after an appropriate degree of turmoil. She loves to show the romance implicit in everyday life, and she writes a sharp action scene too.

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To Find Him and Love Him Again (Book Three)

Book Ten (3) in the Tyack & Frayne Mystery Series

Copyright © April 2021 by Harper Fox

ISBN 978-1-910224-51-9

Cover art by Harper Fox

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from FoxTales.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

To Find Him and Love Him Again (Book Three)

Harper Fox

Dedication:

To Jane, my editor, proof-reader,

and loving and endlessly supportive Mrs H.

None of this could have happened

without her.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter One

A Meeting

Evening light rippled on the wall of a redbrick house. Salt, pitch and ozone briefly filled Gideon’s head, and Falmouth harbour sprang up out of the London streets around him. In Falmouth, sea-light sometimes painted the walls. Cobbled alleys branched with ancient vigour from the main thoroughfare, snakes that would lead you to safety if you dared follow their dance. Safety, darkness, rain drifting in on a sea wind. Vast goggle-eyed figureheads stripped from their ships and left to stare sightlessly into the night, guardians of the haunted upper floor of a warehouse or chandlery, where...

Where what? Gideon laid a hand to the nearest gatepost. Checking his mobile was a good charade at times like these. Then, if his head was still spinning, he could go down on one knee and pretend to refasten a shoelace. He’d had lots of practice at these techniques. He always felt much better on the day after full moon, but the madness that passed through him had no manners, and left the door open behind it, and images came through.

Falmouth, the alley and figureheads, the chandlery with lights in the upper-floor window, as if someone lived there. Bodmin, specifically his own home village of Dark, but strange bits of it: the street that led between Sarah Kemp’s terrace and the main road, nothing but a barren stretch. The doorstep of the nice old manse building, converted into flats, a place he’d sometimes imagined moving into if ever he could unmire himself from the bad memories and damp of his father’s house...

His vision cleared. He was down on one knee outside the rusted gates of the redbrick. A fat border collie was regarding him through the bars. The ozone had been a dash of vinegar from the chippy over the road, the sea-lights reflecting off a concrete-lined pond in the garden. Twenty yards away, a workman was wearily tamping down hot asphalt into a hole in the road. The dog set her head on one side and cocked her ears.

Gideon liked dogs. For the most part they liked him. Here, girl, he said experimentally. He would have liked, in the midst of all his bloodstained city troubles, to ruffle the creature’s fur. To feel a warm, uncomplicated life beneath his hands.

The dog’s eyes widened to the whites. She raised her upper lip in a silent snarl. Then she whipped around, tucked her tail between her legs and dashed for the cover of the privet bush lining the garden.

Gideon’s second social failure of the evening. He levered himself upright. His date hadn’t turned up. So what? The empty bar stool beside his in the Turnstile had been such an ordinary sight on a quiet weekday evening, and yet it had seemed so wrong. The weirdness of it had brought him out here into the streets, counting down house numbers in search of Lee Tyack’s address.

Which made him a bit of an arsehole, by his own standards. A guy who couldn’t take the silent no of a missed date for an answer. What next—stalking, like that nutter he’d heard of in one of the Bodmin villages who’d taken to lying in wait under a rug on the back seat of his ex-girlfriends’ cars? Men like that should be ripped apart and left to feed the foxes on the moor, in Gideon’s opinion. His thoughts weren’t always so brief, so bloodthirsty. For a couple of days around the full moon, though, his ideas certainly changed. He’d probably bring back hanging. What else, Gid, a gentle, amused voice asked him, familiar as sunlight in his head. Public floggings? The stocks?

He smiled. God, it had been nice, even for a few brief hours in his bunker, to be with someone who didn’t take him grimly, desperately seriously! A man who’d believed him when he’d unpacked the details of his temporary fucking insanity, or whatever ailment it was that racked him each month, who’d taken care of him, who’d had the balls to stay—and yet still, when the urge to shed his skin had blazed through Gideon most strongly, had only pinned him down between strong thighs, told him to drop the drama and bestial threats, get on the phone to his former inspector in Cornwall and deal with Joe Kemp like a sensible, workaday copper.

Which Gideon was, most working days, and he’d done it. Stupidly, he’d been looking forward to telling Lee Tyack about the conversation. Kinver had taken him far more seriously than Gideon had thought his recent track record would warrant. Well, the Kemp girl was a sore spot for Kinver too, a raw hole rubbed in the fabric of the safe world he and Gideon had tried to create. A place where a child had fallen through.

Plenty of holes here too. Automatically Gideon scanned the street. The usual selection of unmarked vans, garage doors at half mast, drivers rolling by with lazy elbows propped on open windows and an air of looking out for the main chance. All as usual, but with one enormous difference: not a kid to be seen. The holes could gape and the predators prowl as they wished. The ill wind scouring London had blown at least this much good to Gideon’s streets: parents who gave a shit, and in a neighbourhood like this most of them did, were curfewing their children after six.

The redbrick was number fifteen. Beyond it lay three others just like it, and then an older three-storey terrace, handsome in the evening light, ivy clambering over its facade. The neighbourhood was nothing special after all. Gideon didn’t know why he felt better here, safer and lighter at heart, than he had in the network of near-identical streets all around. Tyack’s address was number seven, flat three. He lived on the top floor of the terrace. Of course you do, Gideon thought. Of course.

The front door to number seven looked unused, a bit self-conscious with brass knocker and a new coat of paint. Gideon too felt suddenly awkward on his approach, and brushed off the knees of his jeans. Not much he could do about his hair, which was in its usual short thick crop and did its own thing even when clamped down by his cap. He’d turned out smartly for tonight, the jeans new and a nice fit, his best leather jacket and a white shirt. He didn’t suit anything fancy, unlike that ragamuffin Tyack, who’d come into the station last night looking just about ready for a pole dance in Flora Waite’s terrible pub. Gideon shook his head, remembering. In a minute he’d laugh, and that would be no good. He was doing something stupid here, stupid and wrong.

He didn’t raise his hand to the knocker, or the numbered bell on the doorpost beside it. People didn’t, when they came to see Lee. They followed the well-worn path around the side of the building.

Dusty lilacs abounded in the lane. Like all the city’s trees and civic greenery, they absorbed traffic noise, took the edge off heat with a mute, inexhaustible forgiveness Gideon couldn’t remember deserving. The building’s long frontage blocked sound too, and cast a cool shade of its own. Number seven had a yard, the door to it from the alley standing wide. Beyond the doorway, a fire-escape stairway gave access to the flats.

Burglar’s paradise, of course. Beginning the climb, Gideon cast a jaded copper’s eye over the fragile back doors, the windows left propped trustingly open within easy reach of the platforms on the stairs. The rail beneath his hand was rusted, though. A glance into the kitchens showed spartan spaces, no valuables on display. Maybe if you owned nothing more than you needed and had no beast to contain, it was okay to live in a place like this, windows open on a sunny day.

Better than a bloody bunker, anyway. Gideon took the last turn in the stairs. Windows and doors, all wide open, including the rear entrance to the flat on the third floor. From here he could see into Lee Tyack’s home, all the way from the kitchen through to the tall sash windows in the front. A nice place, but stripped oddly bare: empty bookshelves, and only the ghost-shapes of pictures on the walls.

Maybe the prospect of a date with the beast of Brighouse Lane had been so terrifying that Tyack had packed up his gear and left town. Now Gideon did laugh. When had he become the bogeyman? Villains and thugs had begun to recoil from him, and occasionally his colleagues at the station too. Friendly family dogs. Did he smell somehow different these days?

If he did, it hadn’t been enough to scare Tyack away from his home. The light shifted. There he was, back turned to the wide-open kitchen door.

Nothing weird had happened in the pub, then. The empty stool beside Gideon’s told nothing but the plainest of tales. An attractive man, kindly but impulsive, had spent the night with him. Had even picked up on Gideon’s absurd teenage manoeuvre, the mobile number stuffed with last-minute haste into a jacket pocket, and had texted him to suggest a meet. All that was consistent with Gideon’s scant knowledge of the guy. He’d try not to humiliate anyone. He’d want to return the jacket. Then he’d most likely realised the implications of the pub, the shared evening, and he’d taken some time to cool off. He’d never set out to the Turnstile. Instead he was here, locked in abstraction and motionless, for some reason wearing a long, unseasonably thick winter coat.

Gideon didn’t want to scare him. He stopped his instinctive professional prowl and allowed the sole of one shoe to scrape on the stairs. The figure in the kitchen whipped round.

Oh, and how well Gideon knew that movement of hope. He’d seen it a dozen times in Sarah Kemp’s house, if she hadn’t heard him come in and he’d surprised her. It’s you. Oh God. Is there news? Over and over again, until the reaction had worn itself out in her and she’d only greeted his arrivals with a blank, arid stare.

This man’s reflex was new. His face—like Tyack’s in its gentleness, transmuted to strangeness by pain—retained the flash of greeting and relief for long enough that Gideon wished he’d done something to deserve it. There were worse fates, he was sure, than being the target of that smile. I’m sorry, he said, then shook his head at the stupidity of apologising for his own existence. I, er... I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you Mr Tyack?

That’s right. Some of the lights remained in the shadowed face, as if he’d make the best of any new arrival, especially if they shared common interest in his son. I’m Lee’s father. Are you one of his friends?

Hardly. Gideon couldn’t claim the privilege. I arrested him, fucked him, turned him out of doors without his breakfast. Now I’m stalking him, looks like. Casting around for anything that would make any of this look better to his victim’s dad, Gideon remembered his career. I’m a police officer, a sergeant with...

Oh! Again, that warm flash. Oh, that’s good. I did call—not the emergency number, because I know you can’t report an adult missing until forty eight hours have gone by. The 101. And that’s what they told me. It was good of them to send someone around so soon.

Gideon had to tell the truth about this straight away. If anything was worse than lying to this man—who was mortally ill, Lee had said, heart beating on borrowed time—it was trading on his assumptions. Belatedly he caught up with what Mr Tyack had said. Missing? he echoed. What makes you say that?

Tyack shrugged. This will sound very naive. Because he’s not here. He said he would be, and he hasn’t texted or called me. There’s no note.

It did sound naive. Men of Lee’s age vanished all the time, for all kinds of reasons, not all of them acceptable to doting, dying fathers. Gideon set his jaw. It was his duty to unfold some of these reasons to Tyack right now, to gauge his reactions. Christine Lawrence would have been listing them pre-emptively as she came through the door, just for the hellish fun of it. Is he in debt? Any trouble with drugs, boyfriends? HIV? Oh, what’s wrong, Mr Tyack—didn’t you know he was queer?

But Gideon wasn’t on duty. He was snooping, and all he could do to redeem that was try to help. It is early days to assume a missing person, he said cautiously, stepping over the threshold at Tyack’s welcoming nod. Automatically he began to look around for signs of violence or disturbance. Could he have something to do somewhere else, something he wouldn’t want you to know about?

He doesn’t lie, if that’s what you mean. Tyack shook his head, found a pale smile and corrected himself. Sorry. Of course he does, if the truth would do more harm than good. What I mean is, he doesn’t lie to me. Not about things like that.

All right. Is this his usual place of residence?

Yes. He still has a home with us down in Cornwall, but he can hardly ever afford to visit. Why do you ask?

Because everything looks very tidy and bare. Doesn’t he like books and paintings?

Tyack chuckled. He’d live in a library if he could. Or an art gallery. I don’t know if you’re aware of his work, Sergeant, what he does for a living.

Why would I know that?

Well, he was arrested last night. He’s a clairvoyant, and sometimes his visions take the form of monsters wearing masks. He thought he saw something bad happening in the pub where he works, and he got into a fight. I wondered if that had come up when I gave his name on the 101 number.

Not as far as I know. Bare shelves, bare walls, a sense of utter wrongness in the home of a man who loved stories and images. What does that have to do with his books? I can see crates in the bedroom through there, and pictures stacked behind that armchair. Are you sure he wasn’t planning to move out?

Quite sure. He called me yesterday. The monsters he sees were beginning to find their way to him through the things he keeps here, things that make him an individual. They were getting a foothold, or... Tyack paused, surveyed Gideon with a new acuity, as if there might be more than one clairvoyant in the family. Or a claw-hold. I told him to put his books away, and take the paintings down.

Some of the craziest, most deadly people Gideon had encountered in his time with the Met had made the most apparent sense. Could string one mad idea to another with hypnotic power. Still, a moment of shuddering empathy passed through him. And did that help?

He told me it did. But maybe it wasn’t true. I’m... Well, he doesn’t like to worry me.

Gideon didn’t want to understand why. Didn’t want the painful tug in his chest when he thought about Lee’s reasons for wanting to protect this man. He pushed the intrusive thoughts away, tried for the tone he might take with any fond but deluded relative. Might these monsters of his have chased him away, then? Have you checked to see if his clothes are still in his wardrobe?

No. I only just arrived before you did.

And called us because he wasn’t exactly where he said he’d be at that particular moment? Gideon allowed himself a touch of irritation. Honestly, Mr Tyack. He’s a grown man.

You don’t know him.

Fine, but he’ll probably walk in through that door any minute.

Okay. Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I’m sorry—I’m going to have to sit down.

Gideon grabbed a chair. He took hold of Tyack’s shoulders and guided him into it. The coat fabric gave beneath his hands. You wear this so Lee won’t have to see how frail you are, he realised. You think it bulks you out a bit. My dad’s built like a stone barn, but his soul left him when his Alzheimer’s began, and you’re like a fire in a paper house. Do you need me to call someone? I can get you a doctor or an ambulance.

Let’s not worry about the stable doors.

I’m sorry?

Not now that the horse has gone. Tyack braced his elbows on the kitchen table, took and released a couple of deep breaths. I’ll be all right in a minute.

Gideon put the kettle on. Like most coppers who’d spent time on a community beat, he’d learned to rustle up quick cuppas in unfamiliar kitchens. Fridge here, mugs in this cupboard, teabags there. Biscuits, if it was that kind of house and your poor shellshocked punter needed a shot of sugar to help absorb bad news. Lee had Jaffa cakes, set out on a plate in the same cupboard as the mugs.

That was stupid: Jaffas went soft and unpalatable unless you transferred them from the packet to a tin. Still, they’d do. Gideon squeezed a teabag against the side of a blue pottery mug he liked the look of. That one had been at the front of the cupboard, beside the Jaffas, as if pushed there in haste. There were a few plates in the drying rack by the sink, all shining and neatly aligned. Another mug there too, much less pretty, something generic with a trade logo on the side. Quickly rinsed and dumped, the angle awkward. The kitchen was beautifully tidy, the washing machine stopped but not switched off.

Gideon shook his head, dismissing speculation. That kind of thing was for the CID lads, and he, despite a forcibly expanded role that had put a gun into his hands, was still just a uniformed bobby. It was meaningless anyway, just random domestic detail. DI Kinver liked him, but hadn’t hesitated to tell him he’d never make detective. Get your nose out of the kitchen sink, Frayne. Not everything happens around your own village green. Gideon, who rather thought most things did, even in a village the size of London, took the mug and the plate over to Tyack, who was watching him attentively. Jaffa cakes, Tyack said. He doesn’t really like those. He gets them in for me.

True filial devotion. Gideon swallowed the sarcasm, stepped back and folded his arms. Fresh enough, are they?

I don’t really feel like eating.

Try, though. You look as if you could use something.

Abstractedly Tyack dunked a biscuit into his tea. Yes, they’re fine. Will you join me, Sergeant?

No, thanks. Is it okay if I have a look around?

You’re a policeman. You don’t have to ask my permission, do you?

I don’t have a search warrant yet, so I’m minding my manners.

Tyack grinned, and looked suddenly just like his son. He’d regained a little colour, perhaps just at the pleasure of having his favourite biscuits remembered and laid in for the occasion of his visit. I’d be grateful if you’d look. Locryn may have secrets, but I don’t think they’re arrestable ones.

I’m sorry. Who?

Oh. I forgot. I usually remember to call him Lee, unless he’s at home in Cornwall. Locryn’s the name his mother and I gave him, but he prefers Lee now he’s grown up. I think he felt conspicuous enough.

Well, there was one secret right there. Not arrestable, no: just lovely. Gideon turned the sound of it around in his mind. Locryn. Like round stones being washed against a Cornish shore, back and forth in the grip of the tide. You sit there and drink your tea, he said. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.

If Lee Tyack—Locryn—had skipped town, he’d done it with a minimum of resources. He was the type of guy to leave passport and an emergency credit card trustingly in a dressing-table drawer, Gideon reckoned, and when he eased the first one out to look, there they were. He rolled his eyes: maybe some people just liked having their identities nicked and a nice online gambling bill racked up on their plastic. The window was notched open too, for God’s sake.

Well, why not, on a warm afternoon, if the householder didn’t expect to be leaving his premises for long, or at all? A chill pricked the back of Gideon’s neck. The bed was unmade in a particular way that spoke of daytime sleep, although how that was distinct from the night-time kind, he’d have been hard-pressed to explain. Too much domestic detail, Frayne. Useful, of course, but a CID man learns to see the big picture.

There were so many smaller ones to be examined en route. The wardrobe door was standing open. Gideon saw, in brief little pictures, how Lee had got out of the bed after a nap, grabbed some clothes, tidied himself up and gone to get ready for a visit from his dad. He must have been worn out by his misadventures in the Nostalgie and at Brighouse Lane after that. By his long night in Gideon’s bunker, tying chains of common sense, devious good humour and sheer erotic distraction around the beast.

Gideon touched his throat, the place where Lee had laid the silver chain. Heat passed through him, all the memories he’d pushed