DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Content Warning: this story includes occasional brief, non-graphic references to rape.

Dedication: for everyone who still enjoys reading stories in this fandom.


Fragments of Murder

by Joodiff


ONE – The Morning After

Thankfully, Boyd is already waiting when she pulls her car irritably into the kerb, and when he opens the passenger door and awkwardly folds himself into the passenger seat next to her, Grace gives him the full force of the most disapproving scowl she can manage. Pithily, she says, "Look at the state of you, Boyd. You're a mess."

It's no word of a lie, either. His elegant designer suit is crumpled, yesterday's crisp white shirt is now limp and irrevocably creased and he looks weary and thoroughly dishevelled. He's a man in urgent need of a shave and a shower if ever she saw one, and she strongly suspects he also needs several hours of uninterrupted sleep at the very least. Putting his seatbelt on, he mutters, "Oh, God… Can we save the lecture until I'm feeling at least vaguely human?"

"Self-inflicted injury," Grace tells him waspishly, "don't expect any sympathy from me."

Unexpectedly, his response is a deep, slightly wry chuckle followed by, "I can live without the sympathy as long as you help me find the damned car."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Grace says, not entirely sure he's joking, "just how much did you have to drink after I left last night?"

Boyd shakes his head. "Honestly? I have no bloody idea. Don't ever make the mistake of sitting up drinking into the small hours with lawyers or law-students, Grace – it never ends well."

Putting the car back into gear, Grace says pointedly, "Please tell me that whatever-her-name-was wasn't a student?"

"Erin," he supplies. "Nope. Barrister's clerk."

"From the brief glimpse I got, she didn't look old enough," Grace retorts, deliberately caustic.

He glowers at her. "Ouch, Grace. She's thirty-six."

"Which is still at least twenty years too young for you."

Boyd shrugs insouciantly. "What can I say? Women like me."

"Entirely the wrong women like you, Boyd," Grace tells him as she irritably accelerates away from the kerb. The unworthy and entirely unwanted surge of jealousy that prickles through her doesn't improve her mood. "Did you get any sleep?"

He runs a hand slowly through his ruffled hair and yawns. Quite intentionally, she's sure. "Not much."

"Oh, God."

Slumping further down in his seat, Boyd shoots her a faintly amused sideways look. "You asked."

"You didn't have to give me an answer," Grace complains in response. It's more than obvious how he's spent at least part of the night – if nothing else in the warm confined space it's impossible not to detect the underlying note of unfamiliar female perfume, an incongruously floral scent tightly intermingled with a lingering mix of alcohol, stale sweat and male musk. He most definitely needs a shower. It's bad enough vividly imagining exactly what he's been up to, she thinks sourly, without having to endure the physical evidence.

Apparently oblivious to her mounting displeasure, Boyd counters, "A shining example of female logic at its very best. Turn right into Adelaide Road up ahead, or we'll get stuck in Camden High Street. The traffic's always bloody awful along there at this time in the morning."

She glares fiercely at him. "Who's driving?"

His reply is disingenuously meek. "You are, Grace."

"Shut up and let me drive, then."

-oOo-

Despite her annoyance and her dignified display of tart disapproval, Grace can't really find it in her heart to condemn him too harshly for his recent erratic behaviour. Life has been incredibly hard for Peter Boyd over the last few months and she's inclined to take the fact that he actually attended the unofficial celebration surrounding the successful prosecution and conviction of Roland Pearce as something of a good omen. She doesn't doubt the continuing depth and savagery of his pain and grief, but he does seem to be slowly finding his way back to himself a little and she's intensely grateful for that. True, he's usually a little more circumspect, a little more wary about allowing his… recreational activities… to be scrutinised by his colleagues, but Grace knows as well as anyone that he isn't averse to indulging in occasional brief, exciting liaisons with young women who catch his eye. Still, it's the first time in all the years she's known him that he's ever made her complicit in such a thing, and she wonders a little about that. Perhaps she's simply reading too much into it; Boyd is not renowned for his tact and sensitivity and it's entirely possible that on waking it genuinely did strike him as a perfectly good and reasonable idea to call on her for early-morning rescue instead of simply summoning a taxi.

How he's managed the radical transformation, she's not quite sure, but by the time the CCU's core team are assembled in the squad room for their customary morning meeting he's in his office not only showered, shaved, immaculately dressed and ruthlessly well-groomed but alert, energetic and apparently surprisingly good-humoured. Sometimes even Grace is tempted to believe the prevailing rumour that there's actually no reason for him to go home on a regular basis – when he needs to he does seem perfectly able to live solely out of his locker and his desk drawers for days on end. A considerable advantage during the tense, concluding days of difficult cases, no doubt, but evidently equally useful when returning to work directly from someone else's bed. She isn't surprised to discover that she doesn't particularly want to spend too much time considering that sort of scenario.

By the time she appropriates the empty chair next to Stella, however, a certain amount of inevitable gossip and ribaldry is already afoot. Spencer – naturally enough – is providing much of the commentary. "…though from what I hear, it's more like thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six."

It seems, though, that Eve at least is wise to him, because her only comment is simply a caustic, "Jealous much, Spence?"

Although he's still sequestered in his office, Boyd can hear every word, Grace is quite sure of that, but it seems he's intentionally not rising to the provocation. He has his faults, but he understands the importance of morale-raising chatter and banter in such a tight-knit group of colleagues, and everyone knows he has developed incredibly selective hearing over the years. Provided no-one oversteps the mark, she's fairly sure he'll continue to completely fail to overhear the bawdy squad room conversation about the preceding night. A hard-headed tyrant Peter Boyd may very well be, but in many ways he allows his subordinates a lot more leeway than most other senior commanders – one reason, Grace knows, why those who finally decide to run the risk of joining the CCU rarely choose to leave it voluntarily.

Eventually, however, he steps out of his office and the banter falls gently away. They may grumble about him, they may make off-colour jokes about him behind his back, but they thoroughly respect him, all of them.

Grace waits for him to automatically take the chair next to hers, and of course he does, settling with a vague murmur of acknowledgement. Now, thankfully, he merely smells of soap and aftershave, all lingering traces of the night before vigorously scrubbed away. It's a considerable improvement as far as she is concerned. The mood in the room has changed, become altogether more solemn and professional, and within minutes they are all gravely discussing the minutiae of several active cases and lines of investigation. They are a disciplined and practised unit, a good team, and despite various minor differences of opinion the meeting progresses smoothly, unexceptionally.

All of them look round when the double-doors unexpectedly open to admit two uniformed constables and a tall, fair-haired man dressed in a sombre dark grey suit. It is the besuited man who holds up a warrant card and says soberly, "DI Kevin Grant, Camden CID. I'm looking for Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd…?"

Boyd gets to his feet, and the belligerent set of his shoulders immediately tells Grace that things will not go well for DI Grant if he doesn't have a very good reason indeed for boldly daring to walk into the CCU's offices unannounced. Yet Boyd's tone is also deceptively quiet as he says, "How can I help you, Detective Inspector?"

Grant takes a single step forward. He doesn't look remotely daunted as he announces, "Peter Timothy Boyd, I am arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Erin Jackson. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if…"

-oOo-