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Retaliation
Due to the recently filled coffee mugs and the packet of chocolate biscuits liberated from a certain secret stash none of them are supposed to know about, it's relatively quiet and momentarily rather peaceful down in the squad room. Boyd is out, presumably still grinding his teeth and trying his level best not to shout at whomever it was that summoned him to New Scotland Yard first thing this morning, and in his absence Spencer, Kat and Eve are thoroughly enjoying the calm, tranquil moments of their midafternoon break. On the whole, it's been an unusually relaxed sort of day.
Until, that is, they hear the unmistakable sound of a door slamming echo down the corridor and they trade quick, longsuffering glances, resigned to the oncoming storm. Eve slides off the desk she was perched on and into a chair, picks up a pen and pretends to explain to Kat what the latest lab report means for their current working theory, Spence nudges the biscuits carefully out of sight behind a stack of files and all three of them tuck their heads down, appearing studiously engaged in whatever it is they should be doing.
Moments later one of the office double doors flies open with such ferocity that it bangs heavily into the wall and bounces back. Fortunately for the operator, they have already moved clear as it swings rapidly back in the direction it came. So rapidly, in fact, that the second door rattles and swings on its hinges, startled into sudden motion.
They thoroughly expect him to start bellowing orders the moment he strides through the door, and as such are bracing themselves for the tirade. It doesn't come. Three pairs of eyes look up, and three mouths promptly drop open in astonished disbelief, for it is not Boyd who is so angrily and forcefully storming back into the basement.
Grace stalks passed the stunned trio and marches straight into her office, and it seems her desire to vent her feelings hasn't yet faded away, because her own unfortunate, inoffensive door becomes the next victim. It slams shut with such ferocity that the glass rattles and wavers, and for a moment Eve thinks it is surely going to shatter under the strain. Incredibly though, it doesn't, and she lets out a slow breath as Grace hurls her bag onto her desk and sinks down heavily into her chair, head falling to rest in her hands.
The stunned trio are on their feet in an instant as the echoing crash subsides and a dazed silence takes over. They stare at each other, frozen and faltering in uncertain hesitation as they try and decide what to do next; this is entirely new territory for all of them. It is Eve who finally makes a move, Eve who pushes the tiny prickle of fear she feels, the heavy dose of confusion and the more than slight amount of amusement aside, in favour of allaying her concern, which is certainly the most pressing emotion running through her at that moment. She taps gently on the glass and tentatively opens the door, slipping quietly inside.
That Grace is absolutely, unreservedly enraged, Eve is immediately certain of. She is physically trembling with fury; her shoulders are shaking, her lips are pressed tightly together to rein in the furious tirade that is threatening to erupt and her hands are clenched so tightly Eve can see the stark white outline of bone under the skin.
"Grace?" she asks quietly, standing just over the threshold, uneasy and unsure what to do. There is no answer; Grace simply shakes her head, unable to speak, incapable of expressing what it is that has so spectacularly upset her.
Understanding, Eve changes tactics and gently asks, "Can I do anything to help?"
Grace shakes her head again, gives the closest thing she can to an apologetic expression and waves her hands in a silent request for space. Eve nods in acceptance, "You know where I am if you want to talk about it," she offers, and Grace nods, managing a half smile of thanks. "Ok then," Eve says, feeling awkward, out of place and just a touch disconnected from reality. She finds it a most uncomfortable sensation, and, not knowing what else to say or do, she slips back out of the office, quietly closing the door behind her.
In the open space of the main room once again, Eve shrugs helplessly at her colleagues as she drifts back over to them. They are both wearing expressions that suggest something similar to the unfamiliar, confused mixture of upended reality she herself is currently experiencing. She's still wondering what to say, when - with the most unbelievable timing, and a rather self-satisfied smirk etched on his face - Boyd choses exactly that moment to saunter nonchalantly back into their lair with considerably more finesse than Grace did a few minutes ago.
Three pairs of eyes glare reproachfully at him, as each of them unfailingly wonders what he has done to piss her off this time, and how he seems to have managed it quite so successfully.
He stops dead in his tracks and stares at all of them in turn. His eyes narrow and his shoulders slide back just a fraction as he stands a little taller, already heading for defensive with his irritable, "What?"
There is a moment of indecision, because even though they are each equally certain he is the guilty party, not one of them wants to risk the wrath that is sure to descend upon them if they dare to make that accusation.
"What?" he asks again, this time with both more volume, and insistence. They all glance in the direction of Grace's office, and Boyd turns, his gaze following theirs. Grace is pacing now, hands clenched into fists again as she moves.
"Grace is…" begins Spencer, before trailing off, searching for the most appropriate description, one that will be least likely to invite an angry and indignant reply.
"A little upset about something," Eve concludes, warily. They wait in tense silence as Boyd stares through the glass at Grace, frowning heavily.
"Why?" he demands impatiently, his eyebrows drawing together in a heavy frown.
"We don't know," Kat ventures. "We thought perhaps you might." Spence and Eve turn, glaring at her with real hostility, but Boyd is too preoccupied to notice or to bother castigating them for the insinuation.
"No idea," he dismisses, his expression darkening as he watches the jerky movements behind the glass – Grace is still pacing and very much looks like she desperately wants to throw something but is managing, just barely, to restrain herself. "But I will find out," he mutters darkly, and strides assertively toward the closed office.
He shuts the door behind him, but the three of them retreat behind the central desks anyway, fairly certain they know what is coming. They're right, and within a minute Grace and Boyd are roaring at each other with all the furious intensity they have ever thrown at each other, and this time, it seems, Grace is not going to be the one to back down first or simply walk away. Trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible without actually leaving the room, they see quite clearly the way Boyd eventually holds up his hands in surrender, how he shifts his body language to that of the calming peacemaker. How he attempts to, anyway.
It's a lost cause. She's still far, far too angry to calm down yet.
Moments later, Grace stalks back out of her office, mercifully choosing not to inflict any more unnecessary punishment on her door and leaving it ajar in her wake. Boyd follows, looking like he's firmly caught between righteous anger that someone, somewhere, has dared to upset her, and high amusement by her entirely uncharacteristic reaction. She's struggling to hold on to her bag and yank on her coat as she walks, evidently intent on leaving as quickly as possible, but Boyd moves to stand neatly in her way, forcing Grace to stop. She does, but not without glaring furiously up at him.
"What?" she snaps. He remains calm, but unmoving.
"Keys!" he says. Quietly, but firmly. Grace gapes at him, indignant and absolutely intent on refusing. He folds his arms, shifts his stance slightly. Immovable, but entirely composed as he slowly holds out his hand. Grace goes to step around him, but he stays firmly in her way. She bristles and opens her mouth, determined to give him a piece of her mind but he beats her to it.
"Grace, I've been a police officer for a very long time. There is absolutely no way I'm letting you get behind the wheel when you're this angry. You can shout at me as much as you like, or you can leave and cool off - it's entirely your choice. But give me your keys first."
She stares at him for a long moment, categorically incensed, but something passes silently between the two of them, something the other three can't fail to notice, but cannot name. Whatever it is, it works in Boyd's favour, because Grace reaches into her bag, extracts her car keys and drops them unceremoniously into Boyd's waiting hand. He smiles.
"Thank you," he tells her, absolutely polite. Grace holds his gaze for a moment more, and then stalks out without another word, still struggling into her coat as she vanishes loudly through the squad room doors.
The silence left behind is very telling; Boyd casts a long, pointed glare over all three of them, demands bluntly, "Yes?" and abruptly sweeps into his own office, shutting the door firmly behind him when they shake their heads, indicating they – rather wisely – have nothing to say on the matter.
…
Grace walks for a long time, brisk and determined. The exercise has a soothing effect on the furious thoughts still tumbling rapidly through her mind; it helps her achieve not quite a sense of inner peace and balance, but something close. At some point in her journey, the underground makes an appearance, making a significant dent in the worst part of her trip, but before long she is walking again with the same purposeful, hurried stride.
When she eventually arrives home, she is tired, hot, sweaty and thirsty, but much, much calmer. Heading for the kitchen, she fills a glass of water and stands staring out of the window into the late afternoon light while she drinks it. Her fingers tap gently against the glass as she lets a river of thoughts flow through her mind. Among them is the vague hint of embarrassment at her somewhat excessive over-reaction. She dwells on that only for a moment or two though, before her thoughts are drawn in another direction entirely; mainly, how to get her own back on the unfortunate soul that crossed her. Retaliation is, of course, a given – it has been since that first insult, that first sweeping wave of fury – but it's how to go about it that needs careful consideration, and it's too bad for her foe that she's now calm enough and patient enough to give the matter all the careful deliberation it deserves.
Weighing her options, she lets her gaze roam the rather functional lawn and bordering flowerbeds that constitute her garden. With a sigh of resignation as she spies the encroaching weeds, she concludes that spring has well and truly arrived and she is going to have to do something about the mess very soon. It's not an enjoyable thought – gardening is not now, nor has it ever been, one of her hobbies. Despite the very best efforts of her father to convince her otherwise.
Rudely interrupting her concentration, there is a sudden loud and impatient cheep from beside her, drawing her gaze to her temporary, unwanted and very much uninvited house guest. Tesla is a three year old blue budgerigar in possession of a serious attitude problem, a tendency to make an unholy racket at the most unfortunate of hours and a near obsession with flicking his food out of the cage and onto the floor. He belongs to Eliza, an engineer, friend and roommate from Grace's university years who last week called in a panic, begging Grace to take him for a few days while she departed the country for a conference.
As she directs her attention at him, Tesla glares at her out of a single beady eye, and slowly flicks seed through the bars. Grace scowls back at him – she hasn't forgiven him for waking her at two am the last three mornings and for nipping her fingers with his surprisingly sharp little beak last night. "You've got plenty of food," she informs him tartly. "Stopping kicking it out, and you'd have even more."
She returns her study to the garden, contemplating the ragged grass and the hedge that seems to have bounced back from winter with entirely too much enthusiasm and is now making a valiant attempt to engulf her small shed; she really is going to have to do something about it. Not an appealing prospect. Not at all. Lifting her glass, she's just about to take a sip when something small flies through the air and drops, with staggering accuracy, into the water. Closer inspection reveals a chunk of shell is now floating on the surface.
Eyes narrowed, she turns back to the irritating bird, about to give him a long lecture on manners when a flash of inspiration strikes and suddenly she knows exactly what she's going to do to get her revenge. Putting the glass down, she murmurs an absent, "Thank you," to Tesla, and wanders out of the kitchen, thinking hard.
…
She's dozing peacefully in the soothing, encompassing heat of the water when the front door opens, heralding his arrival and accordingly she doesn't hear him call out to her, doesn't notice as he moves around downstairs, shedding coat, keys and laptop case.
"Grace?" He's in the bedroom next door when she finally stirs, opening her eyes sleepily.
"In here," she calls out, yawning and sinking lower into the warm bubbles. He appears in the doorway, stopping and leaning against the frame as he appraises her. He's abandoned his suit jacket somewhere, and his shoes, and the resulting look is relaxed and very appealing. Especially the way his arms are crossed, pulling the material of his impeccably tailored shirt tight across his shoulders and biceps.
"Have you calmed down yet?" he asks bluntly.
"Yes," she assures him, her gaze still wandering idly over his shoulders. So powerful. So muscular. So delightfully enticing.
"Are you going to tell me now?" he asks, tilting his head a little, considering her intently.
"No," she grins, knowing it will frustrate him immeasurably.
His eyes narrow slightly as he gazes at her. "Grace!" He moves away from the doorframe and takes a step toward her, his tone suggesting he is not in the mood to argue.
"Peter," she parrots, and she rests her head back against the bath, closing her eyes. Not looking at him will make it so much easier to hold her ground.
He moves closer, utterly determined. "Just tell me who upset you so much," he pushes, a slight frown beginning to mar his features.
Sensing his oncoming presence, Grace slides even lower into the water and sighs. "So you can go and berate them? I think not," she replies easily. She knows him, knows all about his overly protective streak. Especially where she is concerned. "Believe it or not, I can take care of myself."
"I know that, but I still want to know who it was." He's insistent and persistent, she has to give him that.
Unfortunately, so is she. "No!"
"What if I promise not to say anything? Not to go near whoever it was, hmm?" He's closer now, she can feel it. She opens one eye, finds him perched on the edge of the bath beside her, staring intently down at her. His gaze is so focused on her, so committed and absorbed that she feels her resolve begin to crumble.
She gives him a pointed look, "Like that's ever going to happen!"
Boyd sighs in exasperation. "Grace! I promise, alright? Now please, for my sanity, just tell me!"
There's sincerity in his eyes, enough that she believes his word on the matter. "Take a wild guess," she finally suggests and he grimaces, but quickly supplies a name.
"Lawson."
"Correct," she nods, now staring up at him just as attentively as he is staring down at her. Her eyes pick out several interesting details as she studies him, including the missing cufflinks and the way his sleeves are rolled up to mid forearm. She smiles slightly as her gaze wanders over the buttons of the elegant pale grey shirt, lingering on the top few which are rather fascinatingly undone.
Clearly his mind is still on other things though, because he scowls and grumbles, "That sniveling, self-righteous prick!" Grace can easily imagine the way the conversation could go from here, and so she holds up a hand, stopping him before he can really get started. Her eyes fall on the grip he has on the edge of the bath, and she reaches for him, delicately tracing the ridges of his knuckles with her fingertips.
"Forget him," she says. "Let it go. I intend to!" Boyd looks like he's about to protest, and given just how angry she was earlier, and her entirely uncharacteristic display of fury, she really can't blame him, but there are much more pleasant things she would rather discuss now they are no longer at the office. To that effect, Grace deliberately shifts slightly in the bath and as the water moves in response and the bubbles drift across the surface, Boyd's attention is - just as she intended - redistributed.
"Are you going to join me?" she asks lazily, stretching slowly and smiling speculatively as a host of wickedly delightful thoughts drift through her mind.
He's still watching her, and she sees the way the intrigued temptation flits through his eyes before he shakes his head slowly, uttering a soft, but regretfully decisive, "No." She can see instantly he's made up his mind, and it's with great reluctance that she acquiesces to his decision, because she knows – only too well – that there is absolutely no chance of getting him to change it. It seems he can sense her disappointment though – either that or he's a tad unhappy with his choice too – because it doesn't stop him from leaning down and brushing his lips across hers.
It's slow and tender; an affirmation of his love and affection, but nothing more. It's nice – it's very nice – but it's not what she wants right now. The rush of her raging anger has faded, a certain tranquility comfortably taking its place, but a sense of the intensity of the emotional upheaval of the last few hours is still lingering in her, and now it is twisting, changing into something else entirely. Something she doesn't intend to let pass unattended to.
She sits up slightly, enough to twine her arms around his neck and bring her damp skin flush against the fabric of his shirt. It's a wonderfully fascinating sensation. She can feel the slight grumble of displeasure deep in his chest as water and bubbles soak into his clothing, but rather than commenting, or giving him a chance to, she simply kisses him again. Her fingers slide slowly but firmly though the hair at the back of his neck, luxuriating in the texture, the thick softness as she unleashes all of that lingering intensity on him.
He is momentarily startled, but recovers almost immediately, and then he is responding with exactly the same enthusiasm, the same fiery passion. His fingers are moving, running across her shoulder and down over her back, drawing shapes and spirals in the bubbles lingering on her skin. His touch is electrifying, and she can feel that intensity rising, feeling it flooding back through her exactly the way she wanted it to.
He pulls back, and it's with what she thinks is probably entirely too much smug satisfaction that she takes in the indecision on his face; the foxy, covetous desire that is gleaming in his eyes. His shirt is very damp now, and stuck firmly to his chest, molding seamlessly to each and every contour and she takes her time examining it very diligently before kissing him again; hotly, deeply and far too briefly. He groans deep in the back of his throat when her lips suddenly leave his and she sinks back into the water.
She grins impishly up at him and it's quite possibly far from proper, that grin, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care at all. "Are you quite sure you don't want to get in?" she asks, with a last, lingering trace of hopefulness.
"Positive," he growls back at her. "Not after the last time. Give it up Grace – the bath is just too small for both of us." He's right, and regrettably she knows he is. With a sigh, she sits up and pulls the plug. "Don't get out on my account," he tells her, moving to the door as he unfastens his remaining shirt buttons before sliding his arms out of the fabric and tossing it into the laundry bin. And as good as the wet shirt view was, she thinks, the shirtless one is even better.
"Well, if Mohammed won't go to the mountain, then the mountain must go to Mohammed," she murmurs softly, a wicked glint gleaming in her eyes as she stands and steps slowly and carefully out of the bath. "Have you seen my towel?" she inquires, artlessly.
…
Detective Superintendent Nicholas Lawson has been a perpetual thorn in the CCU's collective side for more years than Grace cares to remember. A resident of the upper floors of the building, he has a corner office filled with actual daylight from large windows on two walls, and the responsibility of managing a staff far greater than that of Boyd's basement dwelling team. He also possesses an unfortunate fondness for needling Boyd about these inconsequential facts as often as possible.
He is, as Boyd so succinctly put it, a self-satisfied, arrogant arsehole, one with something of a nasty streak when it suits him, and the type of misogynistic attitude that puts up the hackles of even the most hardened senior female officers who are far too used to such behaviour. Unsurprisingly, he has never married. Nor, fortunately, had he managed to produce any offspring.
He is, however, very good at what he does. He knows it too, and consequently he carries with him a hint of superiority that has an ugly tendency to manifest itself at the most inopportune moments. More than twenty years ago now, his favourite niece, daughter of his older brother, was brutally gunned down when she accidentally wandered into a turf war between two rival drug gangs. She was only eleven at the time, and since then Lawson has tackled drug crime with the kind of enthusiastic crusading obsession that borders on fanaticism, both on and off the job, where he fronts a charity campaign against drugs on city streets and in surrounding neighbourhoods. His zeal and perseverance for the cause is the stuff of infamy, as is his uncooperative, aggressive and angry attitude.
For the most part, Grace ignores him and does her best to avoid him whenever possible; it's not worth the hassle of being stopped in the corridors to be insulted or to have her professional reputation and work demeaned. Yesterday though, she unwittingly almost literally walked right into him as he stood outside supervising the delivery of half a dozen large stone planters at the same time as she was returning from an errand. Just as she rounded the corner on her way from her car to the building's main entrance, she stumbled over a stack of bagged compost left sitting right in the middle of the pathway and had to cling hard to the quickly offered arm to keep from tumbling to the ground. The subsequent teasing about Lawson not being her preferred white-knight as he caught her and settled her back on her feet wasn't quite enough to push her over the edge, but the following diatribe about taking better care of herself, not letting Boyd push her too hard and the unsubtle insinuations about the more gentle, compromised nature of her age and gender was, particularly in light of recent months.
She shouldn't have risen to it, shouldn't have allowed herself to get quite so angry, quite so wound-up as quickly and easily as she did, but these days there is something in her that she sometimes finds engaging in a fierce battle with her normally calm, composed disposition. Maybe it's a last remaining trace of illness – her health is, after all, only relatively recently regained – or maybe it's just experience and that old streak of willful defiance she's always had and that tends to rear its head every now and then. Maybe it's lingering fury over all the times she's heard snide comments muttered about Luke behind Boyd's back, or the unsubtle insinuations about the nature of her relationship with Boyd, which is absolutely private, and entirely speculation on anyone else's part. Whatever it is, it flared up yesterday – and it did so in spectacular style. Mercifully not until she had left Lawson far behind though, and the fact that he has absolutely no clue about just how furiously enraged by him she was is going to work wonderfully in her favour; no-one will ever suspect that she might be behind whatever trouble may be about to unfold. Sometimes it pays handsomely to be one of the quiet ones.
…
One of the very best life lessons Grace ever learned – sadly a long, long time ago now – is the value of maintaining plausibility when endeavouring to cause trouble. If you're going to be caught somewhere you shouldn't be, have a valid reason for being there. If you're going to lie, be specific and keep it simple. Boyd would be impressed, she thinks idly, as she waits for the printer to produce the document she has just requested. She also thinks he would thoroughly approve of her chosen course of action, but he's going to have to wait to find out. There's another hard earned lesson there; the fewer people who know about intended mischief and subterfuge, the better. It's not that she doesn't trust him, because she absolutely does, with her life, her heart and everything else that could ever matter, but until the issue at hand is done and dusted, she will be keeping it all firmly to herself.
Pages in hand, she glances around to make sure her colleagues are all suitably occupied, and then simply strides across the squad room and makes her way upstairs. Complete confidence in her actions, that's the key. Act like she has absolute freedom and right to be doing what it is she is doing, regardless of actual legitimacy. In this case though, legitimacy is on her side, and in a wonderful twist of fate, that is all Lawson's fault too.
Weeks ago now, DI Jenna Webb, a former martial arts instructor with a skin thicker than rhinoceros hide and a complete and very admirable imperviousness to Lawson's character flaws, came to see Grace, asking for help on a particular line of enquiry. Boyd agreed to it, but only, Grace suspected at the time, so that he would be able to hold the favour over Lawson's head at any necessary point in the future. Now though, she's grateful, because it gives her a completely authentic reason to venture upstairs into the daylight.
Jenna shares an office with DS Ivy Adams on the ground level, at the opposite end of the building, just off a large open area filled with desks, white boards, filing cabinets and other office paraphernalia; it looks rather suspiciously like the squad room Grace is so accustomed to, albeit without the gloom and the bare concrete. At the moment though, the desks are empty, the computers are all in screensaver mode and there is a heavy silence broken only by the hum of machinery and the faint, distant sounds of humanity in other areas of the building.
Friday afternoon staff meeting, thinks Grace, with an internal smile of satisfaction. Lawson is just so predictable. In so many ways. His obsession with regular staff meetings is just one of them. His offloading of anything messy and chaotic is another, she muses as she quickly scans the room, searching for what she knows from dutiful and thorough eavesdropping is here somewhere. That's another principle of subterfuge that was so indelibly etched into her many years ago; always take the time to research, to understand everything about the mission at hand. Failure is usually the result of bad planning, not poor execution.
She spots her target against the far wall; piled haphazardly and extremely conveniently between the tiny kitchenette and the hallway that leads straight to the ladies toilets. Light on her feet, she moves across the room, eyes scanning the piles of gardening tools assembled for Lawson's Saturday morning foray. A small plastic bag wedged beside a watering can proves to contain exactly what she's looking for and, with a quick glance at her watch to check that her timing is still in order, she liberates the small object of her attention from its place of storage and ducks quickly and quietly into the loos. Locked in a cubicle, it takes her less than five minutes to complete her task, before carefully returning the bag and sauntering over to Jenna Webb's office door, settling herself neatly on the bench seat just outside it. Only a couple of minutes later the sound of voices heralds the arrival of the missing team, all of whom appear to be fraught, exasperated and thoroughly bored with Lawson's latest show of gratuitously overbearing leadership.
"Doctor Foley," DS Adams smiles, striding toward her. She's a petite young woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes that remind Grace strongly of Mel Silver, and from the limited amount of time she has spent in Ivy's company, she's formed a strong suspicion that the two women would have been good friends, had they had the chance. "Are you waiting for DI Webb? She'll be along in a minute," Ivy promises. "She's just, ah, discussing operational matters with DSI Lawson."
Grace smiles, absolutely serene. "That's fine, I'm not in a hurry."
…
DSI Lawson has always had a penchant for projects and initiatives that allow him to bask in the limelight of the carefully constructed persona of community servant he has spent years developing. Those who know and work with him are well aware it's nothing more than political bullshit, and a strategy designed firmly to cover the gaping holes in his personality that might otherwise have hindered his rise up the ranks; a good copper he may very well be, but he possesses – at a stretch – only the bare minimum of character traits requisite for those employed in advanced leadership roles.
Grace feels, as she makes her way down to the Bunker early the following Monday morning, that she ought to congratulate him on his latest scheme. True to his nature, Lawson has really played this one out as far as he can. There's even an article in the local newspaper – local drug-fighting police officer using his own money to brighten up the outside of the station in an effort to promote community relations and hopefully make the task of reporting crime a less intimidating prospect – complete with a colour photograph of Lawson in jeans and a mucky sweater, cheerfully brandishing a watering can over one of the stone planters. It's all so perfect.
She's still holding the paper in her hand and grinning cheerfully to herself when she walks through the double doors and finds Spence, Kat and Eve hunched over another copy of the same paper, identical masks of appalled disgust on their faces.
"Morning," she calls, sunnily.
Eve looks up and grimaces, jerking her head at the paper. "Have you seen this?" she asks, as Kat just shakes her head and Spencer's scowl deepens.
Grace nods, still smiling. "I may have glanced at it," she replies, cool and dismissive, "but I have a lot to do this morning, so…" she trails off and shrugs, apparently disinterested. Spencer mutters something under his breath, something Grace suspects it's probably a good thing she can't hear, given the way he is still glowering at the newspaper. "You really shouldn't let him get to you Spence," she says, superbly casual as she makes her way through to her desk, expertly hiding any trace of smug satisfaction that may be threatening to show on her face. Her colleagues don't know that it was Lawson who upset her so magnificently, after all, and she fully intends to keep it that way.
…
A few weeks later, early on yet another very ordinary Monday morning, Grace is quietly and calmly sequestered away behind her desk when the uproar starts. She's still smiling over the extremely enjoyable events of the weekend; an impromptu trip to the coast, a delightfully quirky little hotel and two days of glorious sunshine. All Boyd's idea, sprung on her at the very last minute on Friday afternoon because the long, hard and exceptionally busy week had left them both exhausted and desperate for some peace and quiet.
As she sifts through her inbox, picking out the items of most importance, she allows her mind to drift back to the very enjoyably arresting sight of early morning sunshine drifting into their room and falling gently across the angles and plains of her sleepy and rather tousled but much-loved partner. Her smile widens as she recalls the events that followed; the slow, sensual exploration of soft, smooth skin, the infinitely passionate and thorough tangle of lazy, unhurried kisses, the –
She's jolted out of her thoughts by a raised voice calling her name and a rush of hurried footsteps. "Grace!" Eve calls across the squad room, waving to her. "Grace, quick! You've got to come and see this…" There's a grin a mile wide on Eve's face, and she looks like she's desperately struggling to rein in her laughter as Grace leaves her office and follows her younger colleague and friend out of the basement and up the stairs.
"What's going on?" Grace asks, as they hurry along the gloomy corridor.
The reply is enigmatic, but delivered with an undeniable smirk. "You'll see!"
It's wonderfully warm as they emerge outside, the air carrying the scent of fresh cut grass and that dry hint that spring is finally turning into summer. The car park is crowded with what looks like the entire population of the building, all jostling and talking in excited voices as they crane their necks to get a glimpse of what all the fuss is about. It's impossible to see anything, and when Eve grasps her by the hand and tugs her down the steps, between a row of cars and over to a better vantage point, Grace doesn't resist. She merely follows as quickly and carefully as she can, while maintaining an innocently curious expression.
They stop in a gap between the fence and a large, rather untidily parked police surveillance van, and with blatantly undisguised glee, Eve points to the nearest of Lawson's prized stone planters; the ones he has religiously been tending to for the last however many weeks now. And as she surveys the elegant, expensive and doubtlessly well-intentioned rather recent decorative additions, Grace truly can't suppress the feeling of fierce vengeance that surges through her. She really had no idea her plan would work quite so well.
Evidently she has rather a lot more than just her wonderful weekend to thank the relatively exceptional weather of the last few days for. And quite plainly, she thinks, as she and Eve continue to stare at the spectacle before them, her timing couldn't have been any better if she had tried. Because there, nestled among the pretty reds, pinks, yellows, blues and greens that are the just flowered evidence of Lawson's efforts, are a host of very healthy, rampantly growing, and instantly recognisable cannabis plants.
A swift glance around the car park tells Grace that each of the containers has produced equally spectacular results, and as she takes it all in, the urge to smirk just as inappropriately as Eve is doing takes hold, and it's an urge to which Grace readily capitulates. Particularly when the car that has just arrived at the gates is revealed to contain not only Boyd and Lawson, freshly returned from yet another early morning meeting at New Scotland Yard, but also Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fisher, a longtime friend of Boyd's and adversary of Lawson's, and, for what reasons Grace can't even begin to fathom but is, regardless, thoroughly inclined to enjoy, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Maureen Smith.
The chaos that ensues is gloriously, superbly gratifying. It's a wholly improper feeling of course, but that doesn't stop Grace from enjoying every last moment of it. Immeasurably.
…
No-one in the building accomplishes much in the following hours. Over the course of the day, officers from all across the city – particularly those who have had the misfortune to work with or under Nicholas Lawson over the years – turn up in droves to watch the spectacle unfold.
It's better than Grace ever imagined. Far better, because Lawson can't simply uproot the plants and get rid of them, quickly and efficiently banishing the evidence from sight. No, instead he has to wait for a specialist drugs disposal team to come and do the job for him. And every single one of them has worked for him too.
By days end, his reputation as a hard-hitting drugs warrior is in tatters, the news has spread across almost all of London with the most astonishing speed and he is the laughing stock of the entire Met. And that's without the tip-off someone sent to the very same local paper that covered the project when it started. Anyone and everyone he has ever pissed off is feeling gloriously vindicated, and absolutely, intensely, uproariously amused. It's all really rather wonderful.
…
She's been home barely half an hour when the front door flies open and just as quickly bangs shut again, indicating his hurry. It's hardly surprising really, given that she hasn't seen much of him today at all, and she certainly hasn't had a chance to talk to him.
The impatient, "Grace? Grace!" he all but shouts as he drops his keys and phone with a loud clatter on the hall table before striding towards the kitchen is just as indicative.
"Yes?' she inquires mildly, as he appears quite abruptly in the doorway. He stops and stares at her, his expression a mixture of awed admiration and stunned disbelief.
"It was you, wasn't it?" he declares. It's not a question, and she knows it, so she doesn't bother answering. She merely smiles enigmatically up at him as he prowls toward the spot where she is leaning casually against the counter. "You're a bloody genius, Grace," he grins, coming to a stop right in front of her and immediately reaching for her, tugging her into a heady, wildly intense kiss that sends shivers of anticipation up her spine.
When he pulls back, his hands are on her waist and he lifts her easily, effortlessly sitting her on the work surface. "How on earth did you think of it?" he demands, gazing right into her eyes, which are now just about level with his.
She just grins and reaches out, linking her hands behind his neck. "I have my secrets," she informs him, eyes full of sparkling mischief.
His gaze narrows at her refusal, and he leans closer, the fingers of one hand sliding beneath the hem of her top, purposefully searching. "Tell me," he presses, grinning when he finds that ticklish spot just below her ribs that will make her breathlessly inarticulate if he so much as brushes his fingertips across it. She shakes her head, and he gives a sad, defeated sort of sigh before running his finger over her warm, inviting skin. The effect is instantaneous; she gasps and swears, writhing and twisting in his grip as she tries to get away from him.
"Stop, stop!" she chokes, trying to grip his hand. He doesn't stop. "Please," she begs, desperation taking hold, and he simply raises an eyebrow, grins wickedly at her and stills his fingers, waiting impatiently for her to catch her breath. "It was Tesla who gave me the idea," she finally relents, before he can start tickling her again.
His confusion is readily apparent. "Tesla?" he asks. "Who the hell is that?"
"He came to stay a few weeks ago," she reminds him, tilting her head in the direction of the window the cage sat beside.
Memory surfacing, Boyd scowls, "Oh, you mean that damn bird that kept waking us up in the middle of the night!"
"Indeed," she agrees, nodding.
Boyd is gazing at her, understandably perplexed. "How the hell did a budgerigar inspire you to plant cannabis in Lawson's flowerpots?"
Her smile is effortless, innocent. "I didn't plant it," she informs him, "He did that all by himself."
"You're joking?" Boyd's expression is one of absolute glee as he considers the prospect of Lawson quite literally sowing the seeds of his own humiliation.
Grace smirks. "Not at all. I merely added a little something to the seed packets he so carelessly left lying around."
"A little something?" he asks, utterly incredulous. His hands curve around her waist as he stares at her, overwhelmingly impressed with the sheer audacity of her actions.
"Mmm," she nods, distracted by his warm, questing touch; by the way his lips are suddenly grazing very softly along the side of her neck.
He kisses the shell of her ear, the lightest of touches before he straightens again and presses, "Come on Grace, I'm dying of curiosity here.
She casts her mind back, trying to concentrate. It's a difficult task, with him so close. He really is a delightful distraction. "When I was a young girl, there was an old lady who lived next door," she remembers, smiling fondly. "Mrs. Clark. She was lovely – she used to bake me a cake every year for my birthday. She had a budgie, in an old, ornate wooden cage. I can't remember his name, but she used to throw the old seed out of the window whenever she fed him, and consequently she had the biggest cannabis plant you've ever seen, growing right in the middle of her garden."
"Seriously?" he asks, disbelievingly.
"Seriously!" she confirms, laughing softly. "None of us knew what it was – we just thought it was an interesting-looking plant. And back then, no one cared either."
He shakes his head in disbelief. "So, what? You put budgie food in Lawson's seed packets and then waited for him to do the rest?"
"Yep," she nods. "That's about the size of it."
There's a long silence as he digests it all, running the entire scenario through in his mind. She can tell when he gets to the end, because he starts to smirk with all the astonishing enthusiasm she's spent the day working so hard to conceal.
"Unbelievable" he finally mutters, and he's grinning at her so widely that she can't help but laugh. "Remind me never to piss you off," he finally concludes, shaking his head in amazement.
"You piss me off all the time, Boyd," she informs him bluntly and he simply smirks. Until something occurs to him.
"You haven't planted budgie seed in my garden, have you?" he asks, only very slightly concerned.
She smiles and shakes her head. "No. But you have one pretty big advantage over DSI Lawson."
"I do, hmm? What's that then?" he wants to know, fingers tracing gently over her hip.
Grace tilts her head to the side slightly, studying him with affection. "No matter how irritating you can be, I happen to love you," she tells him, and his answering smile is absolutely heartwarming.
"Good to know," he replies, still grinning. "And if I ever piss you off that much, I shall remind you of this conversation," he continues, and their ensuing laughter floods the room, mingling together in a rich, luxuriant harmony and echoing all around them.
Quiet falls again, and he's studying her once more. His eyes give away that there are ticking thoughts behind them, and she runs slow, tender fingers over his brow, along his jaw line. "What are you thinking?"
"I was remembering something, actually," he tells her.
Her smile is soft, irresistible. "Oh?"
"As I recall," he murmurs in her ear, his body crowding against hers, "you told me to let it go, because you were going to do the same thing."
She smiles innocently at him, fingers threading delicately into his hair. "No, what I said was I intended to let it go. And I did – intend it and then let it go – just as soon as I took care of the small matter of retaliation."
The look on his face is priceless, and she savours every second of it. "Naughty girl," he breathes into her ear as his arms slide further around her waist, trapping her flush against him.
"And you like it," she murmurs back, leaning forward to kiss him gently.
He grins at her, feral and delighted. "Oh, I do Grace, I definitely do!"