DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

Happy 2018 Christmas/Festive Season to all! :) xx

If Sparks Fly

by Joodiff

ONE - Hare's List

Yawning as she watches the end of the late news, Grace glances at the clock on the nearby bookshelf. Not quite half past ten, and she's more than ready for bed. Mid-week tiredness catching up with her, for although she and her colleagues are not currently working on an active investigation, she's nevertheless been busy at work, tying up multiple loose ends and trying to get at least somewhere close to the bottom of her in-tray before the looming Christmas break. An extended break for her, too, this year, due to her stubborn insistence on booking holiday for the entire festive period. Despite Boyd's grumbling infuriation she has no intention of returning to the CCU's gloomy bunker before early January once her last working December day is complete. He can spend time in his office between Christmas and New Year if he wants to, but she's not going to keep him company. Not this year.

The newsreader has finished her nightly soliloquy of doom, and now the weather forecaster, an enthusiastic young man with an earnest expression is gesturing at his map. A cold front is heading across the Atlantic, bringing the chance of heavy snow to at least some parts of the country. If there's more than a sprinkle in London, Grace will be very surprised, but there are still grim predictions of potential traffic chaos over the next few days. It's certainly cold enough for snow already, she reflects, prying herself up from the sofa, picking up her empty mug and carrying it through to the kitchen at the rear of the house. Not a night to be anywhere but at home in the warm. Rinsing the mug and leaving it on the draining board, she moves to check that the back door is locked. Part of her nightly ritual for as long as she can remember.

As she's switching off the kitchen light, the house phone in the living room starts to ring. Late calls are not unheard of given the nature of her job, but her colleagues, who are the main culprits, almost always call her mobile. Boyd certainly does, so she is more circumspect than usual when she answers, offering an almost hesitant, "Hello?"

"Doctor Foley?" a weary-sounding and vaguely familiar male voice says in reply. "Thomas Etheridge at the Home Office."

Etheridge. Fifty-something, balding, conspicuously unremarkable. Frowning to herself, she responds, "Mr Etheridge. What can I do for you?" …at this hour.

"I'm sorry it's so late, Doctor," he tells her, as if she had spoken the second part of the sentence aloud, and a moment's chaotic background noise makes her suspect that he is calling from home, "but I'm afraid it's extremely important."

Words that never bode well in her considerable experience. Perching on the arm of the sofa, she says, "Go on."

"It's bad news, I'm afraid. Regarding Richard Hare."

A name Grace hasn't heard for many years. An involuntary cold prickle runs down her spine as dark, half-forgotten memories stir. Keeping her tone even, she asks, "What about him?"

The reply is prompt. "I don't know if you were aware, but he was recently transferred from Belmarsh to Wakefield."

Her heart starts to beat faster. "I wasn't aware of that, no."

"Let me reassure you immediately that he is still incarcerated."

The comforting news is incredibly welcome, but the continued sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach is still very physical and very real. Swallowing hard, she asks, "But…?"

"I'm authorised to tell you that during a recent routine search his former cellmate at Belmarsh was found to be in possession of what turned out to be a coded list of names," Etheridge informs her. "On further investigation, it was identified as a list of five of the people who were closely involved in Hare's arrest."

"I see," Grace says, the sick feeling of creeping dread intensifying again, "and am I to assume that mine was one of those names?"

"I'm afraid so," he admits, continuing, "and as you may have gathered from the lateness of this call, the matter has… taken on a certain urgency."

"Mr Etheridge," Grace says, striving to keep her tone calm and level, "I really would appreciate it if you'd get to the point."

She can picture him nodding as he responds, "Of course. Sorry. I'm afraid that following, um, recent developments, it's been decided that the best course of action in the short-term is for you to be removed to a safe house."

Grace blinks, struggling to process the unexpected news. "A safe house…?"

"A temporary measure only," he stresses. "Armed MPS protection officers are on their way to you right now. I can assure you that this is not a decision that's been taken lightly, Doctor. Your full cooperation would be appreciated – "

" – but is not, in fact, necessary," she guesses, knowing exactly how such situations are managed.

"It might be better not to look at it that way," Etheridge suggests. "My advice would be to go and pack a bag as quickly as possible, and to be prepared to spend at least a couple of nights away from home. It goes without saying that at this stage you shouldn't attempt to discuss the matter with anyone."

-oOo-

"DS Carl Spicer," the oldest and slightest of the three men standing at her door announces, holding up his warrant card for inspection. Unlike his two uniformed and visibly armed colleagues, he's dressed in a grey business suit that's mostly hidden beneath a black gabardine overcoat. Sharp-faced and pale-eyed, he has an incongruously deep voice. "I believe you've been informed of the situation, Doctor?"

"Come in," Grace instructs, opening the front door wide enough to admit her visitors. "If by 'informed of the situation' you mean 'had a brief call from the Home Office', then yes, I've been informed. What on earth is going on?"

The three police officers traipse into the narrow hallway, one after the other, the younger two silent and vigilant. Spicer gives her a slight, apologetic smile. "I've only just been briefed myself, I have to admit. You're with DSI Boyd's cold case outfit?"

She nods. "The CCU, yes."

"CID have passed the matter over to us," Spicer tells her. "My boss is trying to get hold of your boss as we speak."

After three failed attempts at reaching Boyd, Grace is not feeling particularly charitable towards the man in question. She snorts. "Good luck with that."

"You don't happen to know where he is, do you?"

Struggling not to sound as irritable as she feels, she retorts, "I'm not his keeper, Sergeant. If he's not at home and not in his office, I have absolutely no idea where he might be."

"Friends? Family?" Spicer pushes. "Girlfriends?"

"He has a sister, Catherine, but she's often abroad," she informs him, and adds a grudging, "as for the rest, I'm afraid he's notoriously circumspect. He was seeing someone a while ago, but I doubt she would be able to help you."

Spicer consults the notebook he extracts from an inside pocket. "Sarah Eisen?"

"Yes," Grace agrees, hiding her surprise. Clearly whoever Spicer and his as-yet unidentified superior are, they are well-informed. By whom, she's not sure. "American. Lives in New York."

"Yes, we've spoken to her. As you say, she wasn't able to help us." A shrug of slim shoulders. "Anyway, that's by the by. My chief concern at the moment is you, Doctor. Were you told to pack a bag?"

"I was, and I have, but before I consent to go anywhere, I'd like at least some idea of what the hell's happening."

He nods, asks, "How much do you know?"

"Just that my name was found on some list connected to Richard Hare."

"Right, yes," he nods again, in agreement this time. "Hare's cellmate – former cellmate – is connected to organised crime. Long-time enforcer for one of the major south London firms. He's currently doing a whole life stretch for double murder."

"And…?" she prompts.

"The list," Spicer says. "The first name on it was former DC Gail Hillier. She died last week, Doctor. House fire. The investigation is still ongoing, but the presence of an accelerant – petrol – has been confirmed."

Grace remembers Gail Hillier well. Bright, funny; very experienced. Wanted to buy a small cafe somewhere on the Sussex coast when she finally retired from policing. She frowns. "Well, that's terrible news, Sergeant, but it doesn't necessarily – "

"There's more," he interrupts. "The next name, PC James Arnold, was struck through. Arnold died in France – natural causes – at the end of last year. Next on the list was DS Paul – "

"Woodard," Grace says, an image of the big, genial man in question flitting through her mind. Always helpful, always cheerful. Two young children. Probably away at university or working themselves by now.

"Indeed," is the sober reply. "He was attacked on the doorstep of his own home late this afternoon. He died at the scene, I'm afraid."

The cold chill is back. "This afternoon?"

"I'm sorry." Quiet and apparently sincere. "Doctor, there's no easy way to say this, but – "

Her mouth is dry. "My name is next."

Spicer nods. "Yes. The final name is – "

"Peter Boyd," she finishes for him. "DI Boyd, as he was then."

"Correct." Putting away his notebook, he says, "Our current theory is that Proctor – the cellmate – somehow ended up owing Hare a big favour. You know how things are in prison. We're guessing he's passed Hare's list onto one of his contacts on the outside."

"Who's now working his – presumably – way through the list of people Hare has a grudge against."

Spicer grunts. His extraordinary pale grey eyes study her intently. "Does that sound possible to you, Doctor? Professionally speaking?"

"More than possible," Grace confirms, thinking about her encounters with the man. "Hare's largely incapable of accepting responsibility for his own actions. When he was arrested, he claimed his victims died simply because they drove him to kill them."

A heavy frown. "Weren't his victims all teenage girls?"

Nodding, she says, "Almost all. We identified seven, but it was always believed he killed at least three more, including one girl who was just eleven years old. That he'd want revenge on the people he feels were responsible for putting him in prison… doesn't surprise me at all."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Spicer says, "but wasn't the Hare case, what, fifteen years ago?"

"Sixteen," Grace tells him without hesitation, remembering the long, wet summer concerned. "'Ninety-two. We arrested him at the beginning of September. The trial was the following April."

"And he's really waited this long to…?"

"The length of time isn't important to someone like Richard Hare. The end result is all that matters to him. For that sort of personality, waiting for circumstances to arise that offer the very best chance of success is no hardship at all."

"Jesus," Spicer mutters. He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his long coat. "Well, if you're ready, Doctor, I think it's about time we got you out of here."

-oOo-

Grace has lived in London for long enough to know that the dilapidated, unprepossessing house they take her to is somewhere in Manor Park, an area of Newham not far from Wanstead Flats, but that's as far as her knowledge extends, and after being driven through multiple residential streets that all look broadly the same under harsh artificial lighting, she knows she wouldn't be able to accurately describe the route from her home. Once they are parked, Spicer gets out and opens the unmarked police car's rear passenger door for her, and she reluctantly struggles out into a December night that's turned bitterly cold, clutching the strap of her shoulder bag with numb fingers as one of the armed officers wordlessly retrieves her small suitcase from the vehicle's boot.

There are lights showing behind curtains and blinds in some of the street's houses, and one or two are displaying a twinkling string or two of fairy lights, reminding her just how close to Christmas it is, but there's little other sign of life. No passing cars, no pedestrians. The sound of a train thundering along its tracks not too far away reminds her that despite appearances they are still in one of the world's largest cities. Spicer leads the way across the empty concreted parking space at the front of the house that once would have been a small garden, and as they approach a battered-looking blue front door, he says, "Place is divided into two flats, both currently empty. You can move around as you please upstairs, Doctor; these guys," he gestures at the armed officers, "will be occupying the flat below you. Anyone wanting to go upstairs will have to go through them first."

"How reassuring," Grace mutters, following him into a small, dark hallway. There's a stout door to her left, and another straight ahead, both newer and much more substantial than the main front door. She watches as Spicer unlocks the one in front of them. He opens it to reveal a steep, narrow staircase.

"You won't need a key," he tells her, taking her suitcase from his colleague before switching on the stairway's light and leading the way upwards. "All the internal doors can be bolted, and there's an additional security chain on the main door."

"I'm assuming," she says, following him up into a square, unlovely room that features two mis-matched armchairs, a cheap grey sofa and a small television best described as recently obsolete amongst other unexceptional furnishings, "that I'm to consider myself more-or-less under house arrest?"

"You're not under arrest, Doctor," Spicer informs her, setting her case down and switching on more lights, "but attempting to leave the property at this stage would be… inadvisable."

She snorts, recognising the weary note authority in his voice. "'Inadvisable', eh? I've worked with the police on-and-off for thirty odd years, Sergeant; I think I know by now how this sort of thing goes."

"Bathroom," he says, ignoring her scorn as he opens doors in turn, "kitchen, bedroom. Second bedroom. Make yourself comfortable. If there's anything you need, ask one of the protection guys."

"I will," she agrees, a despondent sense of futility beginning to settle over her. The reality of her unexpected, rather surreal situation is becoming more and more difficult to ignore with every passing moment.

Spicer asks, "Do you have your mobile phone with you?"

Narrow-eyed, she nods. "I do."

"It's okay," is his hurried reply, as if he is anticipating immediate hostility, "you can keep hold of it. I have to remind you, though, to be extremely mindful of what you say to anyone you call – or who may call you."

She only just manages not to sigh. "I get the picture."

"I have to go," he says, sounding vaguely apologetic, "there are a lot of front doors that need knocking on overnight. Someone – either me or my boss – will be back to see you in the morning. You might hear the next shift arriving downstairs at around six; don't be alarmed if you do."

"I won't," Grace tells him. "Well, I suppose it's good night, then."

He offers her a slight, tentative smile. "Good night, Doctor. Please try not to worry too much. You're in safe hands."

It's nothing like as reassuring to hear as he intends, she's sure.

-oOo-

It's past midnight and exploration of her temporary quarters takes under five minutes, so all Grace can really do is switch off all the lights and retreat to the larger of the two bedrooms. The linen on the bed is clean and fresh, but the mattress is hard and lumpy, and she really isn't in the mood to relax, let alone to sleep, so she fidgets and frets, and startles at every little noise, real or imaginary. She tries to read the book she impulsively threw into her shoulder-bag at the last minute but finds herself reading the same couple of lines over and over again until they become completely meaningless. She gives up, glares at her silent phone, sets it aside, switches off the bedside lamp and tries again to settle.

She isn't aware of it, but she must start to doze, because when her phone does start to ring, it causes her to sit bolt upright in bed, frightened and disorientated. Fumbling in the dark, she seizes the instrument and jabs at its tiny buttons. Her voice sounds thin and high as she says, "Hello…?"

"Doctor Foley?" a confident female voice replies. "DC Julia Carter. I'm downstairs. Could you come down, please?"

Too sleep-befuddled to ask questions, Grace staggers out of bed, pulls on the light dressing gown she's glad she had the forethought to pack, and heads out of the bedroom for the stairs. There's a spyhole in the robust door at their foot, and she peers through its fish-eye lens into the hallway beyond. The light is on and she can see a young dark-haired woman dressed in a thick padded winter jacket standing waiting. Behind her…

Boyd.

More relieved than she'd ever willingly admit to, Grace draws back the bolts and slips off the security chain. Opening the door, she can see that one of her armed escort from earlier is also present, standing beside an uncomfortable-looking dining chair that has appeared in the hall. Her gaze passes over him and settles on Boyd. He's bundled up in his long, dark woollen coat, the collar turned up, and he looks every bit as disgruntled as she feels, but before she can speak, he holds up a hand, "Don't ask, Grace. Just don't bloody ask."

"DCI Marshall will call you, sir," the dark-haired woman says to him, "in the meantime, if you could…?"

The look Boyd gives the junior officer is withering, but to Grace's surprise, he does not bark at her. Instead, he simply shoulders his way past, a leather holdall dangling from his left hand. Giving ground to let him through, Grace raises her eyebrows at DC Carter. "I wasn't told to expect company."

"Sorry, ma'am," is the stoic reply, "I'm just – "

" – following orders," Grace finishes for her without any irony. "Yes, I know."

"Is there anything you need?" the woman inquires.

"Nothing that I can think of at this stage," Grace tells her. Hearing Boyd reach the top of the stairs behind her, she adds, "I do hope he wasn't too obnoxious?"

Nothing in the other woman's expression changes. "All part of the job, ma'am."

Bidding the two officers good night, Grace closes and secures the door, then heads back up the stairs. She finds Boyd standing in the middle of the main room, surveying his surroundings with visible distaste. Eschewing a more conventional opening gambit, she wades in with an irritable, "Where the hell have you been? Why weren't you answering your phone?"

His answering glare is baleful. "Cinema. That all right with you, is it?"

It's not the answer she was expecting. Not at all. "Cinema? You?!"

"What's wrong with that?" he demands. "Contrary to popular opinion, I do have a life outside of work."

"Obviously," she says, as he starts to unbutton his coat. It still seems an utterly incongruous notion, Boyd settled in the dark with the popcorn-munching hoi polloi. Not quite as incongruous as the jeans and sweater that are revealed as he shrugs out of the coat and throws it over the back of the sofa. Just another bewildering thing in a night of bewildering things. She sits on the arm of the nearest armchair and asks, "So what's going on?"

Boyd is examining the meagre contents of the cheap bookcase listing drunkenly against the wall next to the old television. Mostly well-thumbed fiction of the less than literary type, Grace has already discovered. Turning his back on it, he says, "I doubt I know any more than you do. One minute I was looking forward to a quiet nightcap with a… friend, the next, I've got DAC Lambert on the phone telling me I'm going to be met and escorted home to pack a bloody bag."

A 'friend'. The word swirls through her mind for longer than it should. Frowning, she says, "I got a call from Etheridge at the Home Office. Same sort of thing." She hesitates for a second before adding, "Richard Hare."

Dark eyes abandon further examination of the room and settle on her. "Not a name I've ever looked forward to hearing again."

"Nor me," Grace agrees. Steeling herself for the answer, she asks, "Gail and Paul…?"

"Are both dead," Boyd confirms, his voice devoid of emotion. "Gail's partner is in hospital. Sixty percent burns. He's not expected to make it."

"Tragic," she says, meaning it wholeheartedly. What else is there to say? She takes a steadying breath, continues, "What happened to Paul? All they told me was that he was attacked on his own doorstep."

"Stabbed," Boyd says, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He holds her gaze with resolute calm as he adds, "He was still alive when the paramedics got there, but…"

A heavy, depressive silence falls between them. It makes the small room feel even more claustrophobic. Drawing her dressing gown tighter around herself, Grace says, "And you and I are next."

"If it's not all one huge, fucked-up coincidence."

"We don't believe in coincidence," is her quiet reply.

"No," he agrees, "we don't. Not in a situation like this."

"Sixteen years," she murmurs aloud. At the look Boyd gives her, she adds, "Feels like yesterday sometimes, doesn't it?"

He nods. "It does. You know me, Grace, I'm not easily spooked, but looking into Hare's eyes was like…"

"Looking into the abyss," she says, barely suppressing a shudder. She's never been able to forget some of the dark, gleeful things he told them when he realised that there was too much incontrovertible evidence against him for him to stand any chance of a jury believing any of his strident claims of innocence. "Professionally-speaking, I'm not supposed to entertain the idea that some people can be born evil, but…"

"Yeah," Boyd says, and she knows his thoughts are running in the same direction as hers. He'd been an experienced police officer even then, but there were moments when he'd looked every bit as shaken by Hare's lengthy confessions as she'd been. Moments when they'd looked at each other in stark silence, each knowing that in some way they were both being changed forever by the terrible things they were being told. Back in the present, he regards her for a moment, then turns to look at the two doors on his left. "Bedrooms?"

"Two," she confirms, glad to change the subject, "but I got here first, so…"

"You got to choose, and I'm stuck with whatever's left?"

"To be fair," she points out, "I wasn't told that you'd be joining me."

Boyd grunts. "Fairly sure that wasn't the initial plan, but then someone at the Yard worked out the cost of two lots of armed protection working round the clock and decided we could just damn well rough it together."

"Lucky us."

"Cheer up," he tells her, prowling towards what she knows he's about to discover is the tiny, old-fashioned bathroom, "at least they didn't send us to that shithole in Dagenham. That really would have been too much to have to tolerate."

"Have you spoken to Spence?" Grace asks as he peers into the bathroom and makes a disgruntled noise.

"Briefly. He's been told to sit tight and man the fort pending further instructions from on high. He sends his regards." Shutting the door again, Boyd looks over his shoulder at her. "I'm paraphrasing. What he actually said when he found out we were going to be shacked up together was to pass on his deepest sympathies. Cheeky bastard."

"None of this," she tells him, "in any way constitutes 'shacking up together', Boyd."

He tilts his head a fraction to the side. "No?"

Recalling a time when everything between them was so much easier, Grace feels a distant pang of regret. There's a noticeable… gap… in their friendship nowadays. An awkward, empty space that crept in when they were too busy angrily tearing into each other on a daily basis to notice. She hates it, has no idea what to do about it. She gives him a cool, measured look. "No. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to bed. Alone."

Boyd's answering snort is loud and exaggerated. "Is there any other bloody way?"

-oOo-

Cont...