DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Looking in the Mirror
By Joodiff
It's early afternoon on a bright, sunny weekday in London, and Grace Foley is making the most of her last few days on leave. She's just had lunch with an old friend at Camden Lock, and now she is walking alone beside the canal, enjoying the warm sun. Her plan is to walk by the water for a while before heading south to Camden Town tube station. From there, she can take the Northern Line home. She's feeling good – two weeks of peace and quiet have rejuvenated her. Soon, though, she will be back at work, but the thought doesn't make her spirits drop. Smiling slightly to herself, she imagines being back with the colleagues that have become like a second family to her – albeit a strange and dysfunctional one.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, she barely notices the small group of teenagers ahead of her. Why should she? There are six or seven of them, maybe more, a couple of girls and the rest boys. They are unexceptional in every way, dressed in a mix of jeans and cheap sports clothing. Several are smoking, and one of the girls has a bottle of cheap white wine. They are simply hanging around by the bridge, talking and laughing and taking time to enjoy the sun, just as Grace is.
Many years living in London have taught Grace to be circumspect. It does not occur to her to speak to them, to wish them good afternoon, or ask them what they are up to. Maybe she unconsciously tightens her grip a little on her bag, but there is no fear in her as she approaches them. One of the boys, tall, dark-haired and good-looking, glances disinterestedly in her direction, and instinctively steps back to allow her to pass. Grace holds her course, neither speeds up nor slows, just keeps walking. Snatches of their conversation filter through to her. Teenage bravado, sex, music… perfectly ordinary.
Another of the boys steps back unexpectedly. It is not his fault, he has not noticed Grace at all. She veers to avoid colliding with him, and accidentally jostles the girl with the wine bottle.
The response is immediate and aggressive, a snarl of anger that takes the form of, "Watch where you're going, you fucking stupid old bag!"
Grace is a psychologist. Grace perceives immediately that she is now being regarded with real hostility, that she is suddenly at the centre of a potentially explosive situation. Still, she is not afraid – but she understands the wisdom of attempting to defuse the situation. She says, "I'm sorry… I was miles away. My fault."
It is not enough. The day is long and sunny, and the teenagers are bored. There is testosterone in the air, generated no doubt by the presence of the girls.
She girl with the bottle gives Grace a hard shove, says, "Stupid bitch."
Grace staggers slightly, but that's all. She regains her balance, and although she is a little shocked, she remains as non-confrontational as possible, and she starts to walk. It is the other girl, not one of the boys, who instantly blocks her path. The girl says, "She make you spill your drink, Em?"
Em smirks and deliberately tips the bottle, allowing a little of the contents to spill, "Fucking clumsy old cow."
And at that moment, and from nowhere, Grace is suddenly afraid. More afraid than she has ever been when dealing with some of the most dangerous and disturbed individuals in the country. And the fact that she realises she's afraid makes her even more frightened, even more vulnerable. Suddenly, all her strength and optimism are gone, and she feels old, alone and defenceless. She hopes, more than anything, she will suddenly see one of her colleagues running to her rescue – but that is, of course, a fantasy. They are all at least a couple of miles away, hard at work and utterly oblivious to her plight.
"Hey, old lady," one of the boys – the dark, handsome one – says. "You got no manners, or what?"
Someone else laughs. Possibly, they don't actually mean any real harm, possibly they are just enjoying a moment of cruel sport. But as another of them deliberately jostles her, Grace is genuinely frightened, and that's when the whole world changes for her.
-oOo-
Grace knows when she doesn't answer the persistent telephone calls that there will eventually be a sharp knock on her front door. It comes on the Friday evening, three days after the incident by the canal. She doesn't want to answer the brusque summons, but she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that her visitor won't give up. There is nothing she can do except face him and attempt to ride out the storm.
"Boyd," she says in greeting as she opens the door.
He doesn't look happy. Far from it. Unnecessarily loudly, he demands, "Do you want to tell me what the fuck's going on?"
"You've had my letter, then," Grace says calmly. She steps back, "Come in. I'm not discussing this on the doorstep."
"I've had a bitch of a day, and I don't appreciate not having my calls returned," Boyd starts, genuine anger quite evident in both his tone and his stride. He stops, looks at her properly in the unforgiving glare of the hall light, "Christ, Grace, what the hell's happened? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Grace tells him shortly. "Just a couple of minor cuts and bruises. I fell."
The intensity of his gaze doesn't lessen. His tone is sceptical as he says, "You fell? How? How exactly did you fall?"
"I was out walking and I fell. It happens, Boyd. Do you want a drink?"
"No," he says. "No, I don't want a fucking drink, I want to know what's going on. One minute I'm expecting you back at work on Monday, the next I'm opening a letter informing me that you're going to write to the Home Office to ask them to terminate your contract with the Met. And then you answer the door looking like you've gone ten rounds with Joe Calzaghe."
"Well, I'm having a drink, even if you're not," Grace informs him, walking past him to the living room door.
Pouring herself another glass of wine, she watches him pace into the room after her. She's sure it's some kind of optical illusion, but somehow he always manages to look even bigger than he really is in the small, cosy room. She settles herself into her favourite chair, says, "Are you going to sit down?"
He ignores her, and she watches him run his fingers through his hair, watches him make a visible and concerted effort to calm down. After a moment or two, he finally says, "Will you just tell me what the hell's going on?"
Carefully, Grace says, "I've just had some time to think about things, that's all."
"And…?" Boyd asks, finally seating himself on the very edge of the sofa.
"Sometimes things… change."
"Of course they change, that's the nature of life," he says, sounding brusque. There's a long pause. He says, "Come on, Grace, talk me through whatever crazy idea it is that's got into your head."
Grace studies the red wine in her glass. She says, "If I asked you, as a friend, not as a colleague, to just accept my decision without asking questions, would you?"
"That's not fair, Grace, and you know it."
"But would you? For my sake?"
Boyd studies her for several long moments. He sighs, says, "Perhaps, but I'd have to ask myself, as a friend, why you felt you couldn't discuss it with me. Right now I'm tired, concerned and very confused. I have no fucking clue what I've supposed to have done to upset you. This time."
Grace genuinely feels sorry for him. Quietly, she says, "You haven't done anything."
"Well, obviously I have, otherwise we wouldn't be having this idiotic conversation. I just can't work out what it is."
"Not everything's about you, Boyd," Grace tells him, a little too sharply.
He stands up abruptly, and for a second she's certain he's going to walk out. He doesn't. Instead, he takes off his long coat and hangs it over the nearest chair. His suit jacket follows. Without a word, he pours himself a drink and sits back down in his shirtsleeves. He says, "I may be tired, but I can wait all night, if necessary."
"You don't want to do this," Grace warns him.
Deep, dark eyes regard her steadily, "You're right, I don't. But I will. And you know I will. Start talking, Grace."
Grace shakes her head, "You really don't want to hear it."
"Try me."
"Boyd, I know you. You won't sit there and listen quietly, you'll get angry and we'll both end up feeling terrible."
Boyd doesn't say anything, just sits and watches her. Grace glares back, but she knows he will win eventually. He doesn't have her equable patience, but he is far, far more stubborn than she is. Finally, she says, "All right, have it your own way. But don't blame me when you end up ranting and raving. And I'm only telling you this as a friend, not as a colleague – and I want you to respect that..."
-oOo-
Bizarrely, it's the fact that he remains abnormally calm and quiet that unsettles Grace the most. She can see the increasing tightness of his jaw, the immense tension building in his shoulders, but the predicted explosion doesn't come. In fact, she begins to wonder if he's going to say anything at all. In the end, she finishes, "I think it was the wake-up call I needed. I've been kidding myself for far too long that I still have something valuable to contribute, that I'm not just filling in time as I plod my way wearily towards retirement."
Silence. Deafening, absolute silence.
Grace sighs. She says, "Boyd – "
"Is that what you really think?" Boyd interrupts, and there's a clear note of anger in his deep voice. "For God's sake, Grace, you're the best criminal profiler I know of. You're telling me that after all these years, after everything you've achieved and everything you've seen and done, you're really going to let a chance encounter with a bunch of rowdy kids shatter your confidence?"
Grace feels her own temper start to rise as she lashes back with, "I was frightened, Boyd. Really, really frightened. Maybe you don't know how that feels, but the rest of us don't have that luxury."
"I know exactly what it's like to be frightened," he says tersely. And maybe he does, at that. "Okay, Grace. Let me tell you exactly what's going to happen now. I'm going to call Albany nick, and they're going to go through every piece of CCTV that covers the canal. I'm going to personally see to it that the little bastards get exactly what's coming to them, and you – "
"Boyd," Grace snaps at him. "Why do you never, ever listen? I'm not reporting a crime; I'm telling a friend – under duress, I may add – the reasons for a decision I've made. That's all. I don't want to make a statement, I don't want a manhunt for a few boisterous teenagers, I don't want anything to do with any of it. I just want you to accept that I've made up my mind."
"Jesus Christ, Grace – " Boyd says, his voice raising.
Too tired to care, Grace says irritably, "Oh, that's right. Throw all your toys out of your pram – that's what you do best, isn't it, Boyd?"
They glare at each other across the few feet of space separating them.
"And that's your last word, is it?" Boyd finally demands, standing up quickly. "You get roughed up by a couple of kids, and suddenly it's the end of the world as we know it? It doesn't matter that you're incredibly good at your job, or that there's a whole fucking team of people counting on you? No, because, hey, you're feeling old and tired and sorry for yourself, and that's obviously the perfect justification for jacking it all in!"
"Get out," Grace tells him as a strange sort of calm descends on her. "This is my house, not your office, and that means I really don't have to put up with you being a selfish, immature bastard."
"Not any more you don't," he says, snatching up his coat and jacket.
Grace watches him stride angrily from the room. The front door slams loudly, and a few moments later there's a snarl of engine noise and a brief squeal of tyres out in the street.
Well, that went well, an independent, ironic voice in her head says.
-oOo-
"I really don't care what DSI Boyd said," Grace tells the young police officer who arrives at her front door less than an hour later. He has a harried look about him that suggests he is not having the best evening of his life and that he really doesn't want to hear that she's unwilling to cooperate with him. Ignoring the temptation to feel sorry for him, she says, "Look, I'm sorry you've had to waste your time coming here, but I have no intention of talking to you or anyone else about any alleged assault."
"But DSI Boyd – "
"I will speak to DSI Boyd myself," Grace tells the young man. "This won't reflect on you in any way. There's just been a misunderstanding, that's all. Good night, officer."
"But, Doctor Foley – "
"Good night," she repeats and closes the front door. She waits, and after a moment she hears his retreating footsteps. She can only imagine the firestorm that will engulf him when he reports his lack of success to his own DCI, who will then have to deal directly with Boyd. She doesn't doubt that there will be serious repercussions.
Tired and more than a little depressed, Grace retreats to bed. It seems the best option.
-oOo-
Saturday morning brings a Detective Inspector Clive Todd to her door, accompanied by a very young and wary-looking female DC who hardly says a word throughout the brief conversation Grace holds with them in her hallway. Todd doesn't seem to be the kind of man who's easily intimidated by anyone, and it soon becomes clear that he's very well aware of Peter Boyd's renowned temper, but is apparently unfazed by it. He listens to her, and then he goes away, taking his DC with him. Grace waits expectantly, but the hours slowly pass and no further police officers appear on her doorstep. She half expects Boyd to send Spencer or even Stella to attempt to extract a statement from her, but no-one comes. Grace is glad… and ever so slightly hurt. She waits for the telephone to ring, but when it does it's only a call centre offering to sell her cheap replacement windows. Clearly, Boyd hasn't shared the details of their previous night's encounter with anyone from the CCU.
Eventually, she calls the main switchboard number for the unit, ready to supply a plausible excuse should anyone think to ask exactly why she's calling on a Saturday. A sharp click on the line tells her that her call has been diverted, and a few seconds later Spencer's voice says, "CCU, DI Jordan."
"Spence," Grace says in surprise. "What are you doing there?"
"Trying to get on top of my in-tray," he says, a grin evident in his voice. "How are you, Grace?"
"I'm fine," she lies. "Spence, I was just wondering, is Boyd there?"
"Nope, and don't bother trying him at home, because he's on a shout in Woolwich with Felix – bunch of council guys turned up some human bones that could be connected to the Wrightson case. I offered to go, but he was nearer, apparently."
"Okay, thanks, Spence."
"Anything I can help with?"
Grace shakes her head, aware that he can't see the motion, "No, it wasn't important. It'll keep."
Sounding cheerful, Spencer says, "No worries. See you Monday."
Feeling more than a little guilty, she ends the call.
-oOo-
That Boyd will appear at her door again is as inevitable as night following day. Grace has known him for more than long enough to predict his behaviour perfectly. He gets angry, he loses control, he calms down. Sometimes he apologises. There is no doubt in her mind that he will arrive, sooner or later. The waiting, though, is stressful. She debates going out and leaving him to pound on the door of an empty house, but the truth is he's right – the events of that sunny afternoon have badly shaken her confidence, and she doesn't relish facing the dark streets alone.
It's far later than she actually expects when her telephone finally rings. Eying it warily, she picks up with, "Hello?"
"I'm outside in the car," Boyd's voice announces. "I'm about to come and knock on your door."
"And you're telling me this because…?"
"If you don't answer it, I'm coming through it, and that will seriously piss both of us off."
Grace knows he isn't bluffing, and she knows he's more than capable of physically shouldering his way in – she's seen him do it in the line of duty often enough. Although, admittedly only when there's no-one else around to be delegated into providing the necessary muscle. On principle, however, she says, "Go away, Boyd."
"I'm only knocking once," he says, and the line goes dead.
There's something faintly admirable about Boyd's obstinacy, however frustrating it can often be. Sometimes she wishes she has far greater immunity to his good points. Sighing in annoyance, Grace gets up and goes out into the hall, catching sight of herself in the mirror as she goes. She looks, she thinks, even worse than she feels. Bruised, old, and very definitely haggard. It's not at all good for her self-esteem. There's a sharp rap on the door. A distinctive police officer's knock, conveying a very clear, time-honoured message.
Grace opens the door and looks out at him, "Well?"
"We need to talk, Grace."
"We did talk. And, as always, it ended up with you shouting."
He tilts his head slightly, "And being a being 'a selfish, immature bastard', yes, I got that bit. Are you going to let me in?"
Grace doesn't move, just asks, "Are you going to at least attempt to listen to me?"
He gives her a faint, rueful sort of grin and says, "I'm going to try."
Grudgingly, "Come in, then."
Boyd doesn't look much better than she does, Grace realises as he steps into the light. He looks tired and irritable, and under the ever-present topcoat he's dressed in a casual shirt and old jeans. Grace finds the sight faintly incongruous. It must be weekend uniform, she thinks. Definitely. Bearded, and with his hair slightly tousled by the evening breeze, he manages to look positively… unkempt. The complete antithesis of his usual, dapper, well-groomed appearance. Pointedly, she asks, "Have you decided that dressing down for crime scenes is now de rigueur, Boyd?"
Boyd looks faintly bewildered, "Crime scenes…? Oh, you mean Woolwich? Give me a break, Grace, I was shopping."
She raises her eyebrows at him, "Shopping? You?"
He gives her a look, "Apparently it's this thing normal people do at the weekend. You know – the thing which guarantees there's always a beer in the fridge when you need one."
"I know what shopping is, I'm just amazed that you do," Grace says. She points him in the direction of the living room and asks, "Would you like to tell me why I've had a succession of nervous police officers at my door over the last twenty-four hours?"
"I told you I was calling it in."
"And I told you I didn't want you to."
Boyd holds his hands up in a placatory gesture, "I didn't come here to get into another fight with you, Grace."
Biting back a suitably sarcastic reply, she moves past him and takes position once again in her favourite chair. It doesn't escape her notice that his takes his coat off automatically, nor that he returns to the same spot on the sofa he had occupied just the night before. Ignoring the sense of déjà vu, Grace begins to talk.
-oOo-
Continued…