DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Bad Blood

by Joodiff

"Sângele apã nu se face..." – blood is thicker than water.

PART ONE

A quiet tap on her open office door brings Grace out of her momentary reverie, and she looks up from her desk to see Eve standing in the doorway, a slim cardboard folder in her hands and a slight smile on her face. Grace smiles back without thinking, but it's no hardship at all – she's very fond of the younger woman. "Eve."

"Happy thoughts?" her colleague inquires, the merest suspicion of a twinkle in her eye. As befits her job, Eve is both observant and analytical, and Grace has no doubt that she not only notices far more than most, but is also pretty damn accurate in the silent conclusions she draws from what she sees. It's unsettling. Interesting, too.

"Mm," she says noncommittally, far too wily to give anything away easily. She's as sure as she can be that Eve is both discreet and trustworthy, but... Dismissing the thought, she sits up a little straighter. "Something I can help you with?"

Eve gestures towards the empty office next door. "Actually, I'm looking for Boyd. Have you seen him?"

"In court all afternoon," Grace reminds her. "The Anderson case. Spence is around somewhere if that helps."

"Not really, to be honest," Eve admits with a grimace. She hesitates, then adds, "Though, if you're not too busy…"

The slight edge to the other woman's tone suggests it's not altogether an idle codicil. Intrigued, Grace pushes away the long overdue report she's been struggling to complete for the last hour or more. "I'd be grateful for the distraction, believe me."

"Thanks," Eve says, stepping forward. She glances back towards the empty squad room and adds, "Would you mind if I shut the door?"

"Not at all," Grace assures her, but she's a little surprised. Wonders what on earth could require such a precaution against accidental eavesdropping. She watches and waits while Eve closes the door then pulls up a spare chair and settles down. "What's on your mind?"

"This came through earlier from CID at Canning Town," Eve says, putting the thin official folder onto the desk between them. "Fifty-one year-old homeless guy found dead near Thames Wharf a few days ago. Post mortem suggests he was stabbed late Monday night."

"Not one for us, then," Grace comments.

Eve shakes her head. "Definitely not, but since they couldn't identify him straight away they ran his DNA against the database, and not only did they come up with a name… they got a flag against one of our cases."

The information is interesting, but not astonishing. Grace raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Oh…?"

"Hippie Dude," Eve supplies in return. "Skeletal remains found in Epping Forest five years ago…?"

Trawling her memory, Grace comes up with, "The guy buried with his bong and his flute?"

"The guy buried with his bong and his flute," Eve confirms with a nod. "I ran his DNA at the time – no match."

"We couldn't get anywhere with it, and in the end Boyd told us to archive it," Grace recalls. Sadly, not all the cases brought to the CCU's attention have successful outcomes. "So Hippie Dude and this homeless guy – "

"Gavin Chapman."

" – are linked? How?"

"Familial DNA," Eve says. Her expression is closed, lacking the usual excitement and satisfaction of discovery. "They're definitely closely related. With further testing I could probably tell you how. There's something else."

Grace eyes her, well-aware of the telling undertone in Eve's voice. "Yes…?"

A moment's hesitation is followed by a deep, heavy sigh. "I really don't know if I should discuss this with you, Grace."

More bemused than offended, she says, "I see."

"Look, everything I've told you so far is already logged and recorded, but…" Eve's voice trails for a moment, but then she seems to come to a decision. "Off the record? Strictly between you and me – at least for now?"

"All right," Grace agrees, perplexed. "Assuming, of course, that you're going to talk to Boyd about whatever it is?"

Eve nods. "Oh, I'm definitely going to talk to Boyd. I don't have a choice."

Not sure what to make of the statement, Grace prompts, "So?"

"Well, firstly you need to understand that our lab handles incoming data from other sources in a completely different manner to data we acquire ourselves, here. When we take our own samples we usually already know at least some of what we can safely exclude, so we don't often bother wasting extra time and money running unnecessary additional comparisons."

"And the relevance of that would be…?" Grace inquires.

"Unfortunately, we can't be anything like as confident with data from external sources, so unless there's a compelling reason not to, we usually run it against everything we have," Eve explains. "Chapman didn't just score a hit against Hippie Dude. He scored a direct hit against our internal staff database – the one we maintain for elimination purposes in case of cross-contamination."

Startled, Grace frowns. "What?"

Eve makes a vague gesture. She doesn't look happy. Very far from it, in fact. "Familial hit again."

"Wait, you're saying they're both related to someone here? Someone in the unit?"

"I don't know for certain about Hippie Dude yet," Eve admits. "But Chapman definitely is. Boyd."

Grace stares at her, trying to process the information. "Boyd…?"

Clearly troubled, Eve nods.

-oOo-

"It might be improbable," Grace says, a short while later, as they sit drinking coffee, her office door once again closed. "But it's certainly not impossible."

Cradling her mug in both hands, Eve looks sceptical. "I thought his brother was a solicitor?"

Grace nods, thinking of the short, jovial man in question. "He is. And their late father was, too. A very respectable middle-class family altogether."

"But…?" Eve inquires, her gaze shrewd and steady. "Come on, Grace, this is still all between you, me and the gatepost, remember?"

For a moment she doesn't respond, mulling over the wisdom of sharing what she knows. Then she sighs and says, "They're both adopted. James and Peter. Audrey and Douglas weren't able to have kids of their own. Boyd isn't biologically related to his brother; they were adopted separately."

Eve is silent for several long moments, evidently considering the implications. Finally, she says, "This could potentially be a very big and dangerous minefield, Grace. For all of us."

"Mm."

"Does Boyd know anything about his biological parents?"

Sipping her coffee, Grace shrugs. "To be honest, we've never really talked about it. Mel… was adopted. That's how I first found out about Boyd's… situation. When she died, he went to see her parents. The Silvers, I mean; her adoptive parents. The whole thing hit everyone hard, but especially Boyd. He felt so responsible for her – and he empathised with her."

"It's always hard," Eve says, and Grace has no doubt that they are both thinking about Stella. So young, so full of life and promise…

"Anyway," Grace says, attempting to dispel the sudden gloom, "as I said, it's improbable, yes, but not at all impossible. There are bound to be biological relatives out there. The question is…"

"How we handle it?" Eve supplies. "Chapman's death is being investigated by CID, but if Hippie Dude – "

Wincing, Grace says, "We should probably think of a better name for him. Under the circumstances."

"He's got a name," Eve points out. "Unidentified Male Six Two Seven Slash Three Slash Zero Five."

"Catchy."

"Yeah. What I was going to say is that if it turns out that Hippie Dude is also related to Boyd in some way – "

"Wouldn't that have shown up when you did the original tests?" Grace asks, frowning.

"That's what I was trying to tell you before," Eve says, putting her now-empty mug down on the desk. "Boyd was away at a conference the whole time the… remains… were actually here in the lab. I didn't need to worry about eliminating his DNA, so…" She shrugs.

"I see. So Hippie Dude could be related to both Chapman and Boyd?"

"Exactly. And if he is…"

"There's a clear conflict of interest should Boyd ever decide to re-open the case," Grace finishes for her.

Eve is silent for a moment. They regard each other, neither offering anything more. In the end, it's Eve who breaks the short silence. "Grace…"

"You want me to talk to him," she guesses.

A slow nod. "It might be easier."

"All right," Grace agrees, though she's far from happy about the idea. "Leave me the folder and I'll deal with it. But, Eve…?"

"Keep it to myself for now?" Eve says. "No problem. Thanks, Grace."

-oOo-

The balance of the long afternoon seems to crawl by, the hands on the clock taking an age to reach four o'clock and then five o'clock. It's a slow, largely uneventful sort of day in the CCU's dingy basement headquarters, and by the time Boyd finally reappears, a significant number of people, Spencer and Kat included, have already quietly vanished for the night. Grace isn't altogether disappointed – the conversation she needs to have with him is going to be difficult enough without worrying about being overheard. The speed and exuberance of his arrival is promising, though; evidently, his afternoon has gone well. So well, it would seem, that he stops in her office doorway to grin at her. He says, "Tell me I'm smarter than the average police officer."

She raises her eyebrows at him, amused and affectionate despite the worries prickling at her. "Someone's had a good afternoon, then."

"Indeed someone has. Defence barrister tied herself up in bloody knots and eventually fell flat on her face. Tenner says it's all over bar the shouting. Damn, I'm such a credible witness."

His boisterous good-humour is infectious, and Grace can't help smiling despite the intimidating presence of Eve's brown folder on her desk. She says, "And so unbelievably modest."

The engaging grin doesn't abate. "Absolutely. Everyone's buggered off home early, have they?"

"Eve's still around, as far as I know."

"That's a 'yes', then is it? You're so diplomatic, Grace. Dinner?"

"Lovely," she says with a nod. "But there's something I need to talk to you about first, Boyd, and I can't guarantee you'll still be in the mood afterwards."

He gives her an askance look. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"Because you're smarter than the average police officer?" Grace suggests with a half-smile. She nods at the chair Eve was sitting on earlier. "I think you should come in and sit down."

"That bad?"

"I don't know," she tells him truthfully. "Eve came to see me this afternoon and…"

-oOo-

She's not sure how she expects Boyd to react, not really, but the strange wall of apparent imperturbability she encounters is certainly atypical. Grace watches as he leafs in silence through the few printed pages, and eventually hears herself say, "All we really know about Gavin Chapman at this stage is that he was born in Stratford in 'fifty-seven, and had a record as long as your arm for minor offences in his younger days. Theft, mainly, though he spent eighteen months in the Scrubs in the late 'seventies for beating up his first wife after catching her in flagrante with one of the neighbours. After that, nothing until he was arrested last year for a minor public order offence related to vagrancy."

"And he's definitely related to the guy found in Epping Forest?" Boyd asks, still scanning pages.

"Unquestionably, according to Eve. And also – "

" – to me," he says, not looking up. "Familial DNA…?"

Grace nods. "He could be a biological cousin, apparently. To either or both of you. Further tests could narrow the exact relationship down."

Boyd closes the folder and drops it back onto her desk. His expression gives nothing away. "Well?"

Puzzled, Grace blinks at him. "What?"

An impatient sigh is followed by, "Come on, Grace. Out with it. Whatever it is you're so desperate to say."

He didn't reach the lofty rank of Detective Superintendent without demonstrating considerable ferocious acuity, she knows. Whatever else he is or isn't, he's not a stupid man. Choosing her words with care, she says, "We need to know exactly what the genetic link is between the two dead men simply to see if it provides any more evidence for our case."

He nods. "Agreed."

"And it would be… prudent… to clarify your position."

"I assume mean genetically?" There's a sudden edge to his voice.

"Of course," she says, holding his intent gaze. "Boyd, if it turns out that you're also related to the man from Epping Forest and there's ever any new evidence… well, the CCU couldn't re-open the investigation. It would be a clear conflict of interests."

He frowns. His reply is an irritable, "I disagree. Spencer could take on the role of OIC."

She almost snorts. "And you'd be happy with that, would you?"

"You know me better, Grace. Happy? No. But that wouldn't stop me doing my duty and stepping aside."

Somehow, Grace believes him. For all his many faults, Peter Boyd is a man of integrity. Still careful, she adds, "There are also… personal… implications to consider, too."

Boyd leans back in his borrowed chair, his deep dark eyes regarding her with steady calm. "My father was a solicitor from Edinburgh, Grace. My mother's family are from Chiswick. Jamie would tell you exactly the same."

She nods. "I accept that. I just want you to be aware – "

"Grace," he interrupts her, his deep, smooth voice quiet. "If I'd ever had the remotest interest in finding out about my biological parents, don't you think I'd have looked into it years ago, given all the tools at my disposal?"

"That would have been a conscious choice," she points out. "What we're talking about here is obtaining information almost by default. Information you may not be prepared for."

"I'm a big boy," he says, his tone still mild. "My parents – by which I mean Audrey and Douglas – were good people. I was six months old when they adopted me, and thanks to them, I had a very happy and very normal childhood. I don't have any… issues… about my biological parents for you to fret over, Grace. I was born in Shoreditch, my birth mother was a seventeen year-old girl called June Clarke, and I don't have a fucking clue who my father was. End of story."

"That's what I'm trying to say," Grace says. "You have no idea what you might learn from all this and – "

"Yeah, well," Boyd interrupts, getting to his feet, "the way I see it, Pandora's Box is already well and truly fucking open and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm going to see Eve, and then, unless you really fancy sitting there on your own all bloody night, we're going out in search of dinner. I'm starving."

-oOo-

Aside from confirming that he has authorised further DNA tests, Boyd refuses to be drawn on the subject again until much later when dinner is merely a pleasant memory and they are settled together on the big, comfortable sofa in his living room debating whether it's too late for her to drive home. Predictably, he maintains that it is – far, far too late. Grace smirks and curls into him a little more before asking, "Are you sure you're all right? About all this DNA business, I mean?"

"I'm fine," he says, and there's nothing in his tone or his expression that indicates he's lying to her. As if sensing she needs further reassurance, he adds, "Grace, Jamie and I always knew we were adopted. It was never a secret, at home or anywhere else. We were two very ordinary, generally very happy little boys. No-one's childhood is completely perfect, is it? But our parents did their best for the pair of us, gave us all kinds of opportunities we probably would never have had otherwise. Neither of us has ever been interested in finding out about our biological roots. You're looking for something that just isn't there."

It's difficult for her to comprehend. Can't imagine knowing nothing about her ancestry, and not wanting to. Then, she was born into a large and close Catholic family, one where everyone routinely gossiped about everyone else and very few secrets were safe. Head resting on his shoulder she asks, "Aren't you even the tiniest bit curious? Now that this has happened?"

"Curious?" Boyd echoes. "Of course. Bothered? No. Not in the way you mean."

"One or both of those men could be your brother," she insists.

A touch of irritability creeping into his voice, he says, "My brother lives in Highgate, Grace, and he's married to a bad-tempered harpy called Eileen."

Thinking of the woman in question, Grace has to chuckle. As her long and complicated relationship with him has matured and evolved into something far more intimate than she could ever have expected, she's had cause to encounter Eileen on several brief occasions – and she really can't disagree with his harsh analysis of the woman. James is fair, stocky, and amiable, and his wife is slim, dark, sharp-edged and brittle. Not the sort of woman Grace could ever imagine warming to. She glances at her watch and sighs. "I really should be going."

Boyd tightens his grip on her waist a fraction. "Oh, I don't think so."

He's far too strong for her to escape easily. A very good excuse for not even bothering to try. "The alternative is getting up at the crack of dawn. Either that, or being late for work, and my boss is an absolute tyrant."

"Is that so?" he inquires, shifting position enough to nuzzle her neck.

She murmurs in pleasure, manages, "Mm hmm."

He moves to her throat. "Your boss is a pussycat, Grace, and you know it."

Which, of course, she does. She surrenders to the inevitable with a sly, "Only when it suits him."

-oOo-

In fact, thanks to relatively light traffic, Grace isn't that much later arriving for work than has become usual over the last six months or more. No-one comments on her tardiness, least of all Boyd, who's far more aware than anyone else in the building just how tired she still gets despite every test and scan that's proved beyond reasonable doubt that the grim spectre of cancer hasn't just retreated but has apparently fled the battleground altogether. Waving a vague greeting to her junior colleagues, Grace takes the time to hang up her coat and bag before slipping uninvited into Boyd's office. He's deep into his usual morning routine, shuffling papers and throwing everything he deems of no importance aside for someone else to deal with later, whilst simultaneously drinking coffee and checking his email. Male or not, there's no question that he has multi-tasking down to a fine art, at least on the administrative front.

"Good morning," Grace says brightly, deliberately overlooking the fact that it's rather less than two hours since she last saw him and that at the time he was still curled up sleepily under the bedcovers, reminding her of a grumpy and somewhat tousled dormouse. The incongruous analogy amused her no end. Still does. Studying the top of his head, she prompts, "Mary Trent?"

Boyd looks up at her, expression blank. "Mary Trent…?"

"The Knightsbridge robbery…?" she offers, then rolls her eyes at his continuing incomprehension. "Oh, I told you all about this yesterday, Boyd. She's coming in this morning to talk to me about the men who held her and the other shop assistant at knifepoint. You said you wanted to be there."

"Cancel it."

She frowns at the unexpected instruction. "What?"

"Cancel it, postpone it, whatever. We've got an appointment with Eve, and then we're going to Newham."

Bewildered, she asks, "Newham? Why?"

"Because if Eve's right," Boyd tells her, still flicking through the papers on his desk, "the remains from Epping Forest belong to one Michael Anthony Allen, formerly of Burchell Road, Newham. Born in 'sixty two, reported missing by his girlfriend in 'ninety seven."

Something pertinent strikes Grace immediately. "That's not a million miles from Thames Wharf where Chapman was found dead."

"Could be something, could be nothing," he says, his attention returning to the remaining paperwork spread across his desk. "Tell Spence we'll be out all morning, then meet me in the lab in half-an-hour. Oh, and on second thoughts, get Kat to talk to the Trent woman."

"Anything else?" Grace demands, but either Boyd doesn't detect her peeved sarcasm or he's pointedly ignoring it.

-oOo-

"Y chromosome analysis," Eve explains, tapping the printed pages spread out in front of them with her pen. "I can tell you with a high degree of probability that all three individuals share the same father – or possibly the same grandfather. However, mitochondrial DNA conclusively proves that all three had different mothers."

"Genetic half-brothers," Grace says, taking off her reading glasses.

Eve nods. "That would be my best guess."

Grace glances at Boyd, but he's staring at the results in steady silence. Deciding he's not about to say anything, she asks, "How did you manage to identify Michael Allen?"

"Hippie Dude…?" Eve starts, then bites down, evidently deciding that the epithet is perhaps a little tactless given the situation. "A moment of inspiration and a lot of sheer blind luck. Remember the Leytonstone arson attack we investigated last year? It occurred to me in the middle of the night that we've still got the dental records I requested at the time for all the mispers who could be possible victims."

"And?" Grace asks.

"I broke them down into a number of sub-categories when they first arrived," Eve continues, "and when I came in this morning I immediately checked the skull x-rays of the Epping Forest skeleton against the Leytonstone case records. Specifically against the five thirty-something missing males listed who'd had all four wisdom teeth extracted… and there he was. Michael Anthony Allen. Perfect match."

Boyd finally stirs, looking up at both of them. "So we need to re-open the Epping Forest case."

Eve's response is immediate. "Or pass it over to CID."

He shakes his head. "Cold cases are our remit."

"Boyd, if these DNA results are right – and they are – both Allen and Chapman are directly related to you. We can't investigate this any further."

"Eve," Grace says, a deliberate warning note in her voice.

She's too late. Boyd is already bristling. "It's not up to you to decide which cases the CCU chooses to investigate, Doctor Lockhart."

"Oh, for God's sake, Boyd, that's not – "

"Email me those results," he raps back at her, cutting her short. "Grace. With me."

Mouthing a silent apology to Eve, Grace hurries after him as he sweeps out of the lab, pausing only to throw his white lab coat in the general direction of the rail. Following him down the corridor, she says, "We talked about this last night, Boyd. You can't – "

"Don't presume to tell me what I can and can't do, Grace," he growls over his shoulder.

"Will you just stop a minute?"

"No," he says, not breaking his stride. "Team meeting in half an hour. Give Spence a quick rundown."

"What about Newham? What about Mary Trent?" Grace demands, still pursuing him.

It's obvious, however, that Boyd isn't listening.

-oOo-

The atmosphere in the squad room is volatile, certainly more volatile than it's been at any point since the Linda Cummings debacle, and Grace rightly suspects it won't take much to trigger a major argument between Spencer and Boyd, both of whom are on their feet and both of whom are glowering. Mid-forties, late-fifties, it doesn't seem to matter – there's already a potent, uneasy mix of conflict and testosterone in the air, and both of them are tough, obstinate, bull-headed men who don't easily back down from a fight. It's Kat who plaintively says, "Shouldn't we talk to CID at Canning Town, if there's a genetic link between Allen and Chapman?"

Both men ignore her. Spencer challenges, "Aren't we in enough shit as it is, without making things worse? We can't re-open this case, Boyd."

"I decide which cases this unit undertakes," Boyd barks at him. Taller than Spencer by a few inches, there's no doubt he's attempting to make the most of his clear height advantage as they glare at each other from barely two feet apart. "My unit, my authority. We'll do exactly what we always do – we'll pull everything out of the archive, dust it down and make a preliminary evaluation before deciding whether or not to proceed. I'm happy to let it run alongside our existing cases. You will act as OIC."

"Me?" Spencer retorts, clearly surprised.

"Are you suffering from a problem with your hearing, Detective Inspector?"

Spencer shakes his head, and his answer is a sullen, "No, sir."

"Good. I expect to be kept updated, and I want your initial findings on my desk by six o'clock tonight. Clear?"

The reply is grudging. "Clear."

Grace is more than aware of the silent, accusing look that Eve shoots her, but she isn't sure what else she can do. Boyd is the most senior police officer in the building, higher-ranking than the station's nominal commander, Chief Inspector Shaw, and even if she and Eve are both civilian consultants who aren't bound by the duties and obligations of police rank, Boyd is still the head of the unit they work for, and they both answer directly to him. The CCU, like all police units, is not a democracy. Take away the team meetings and the group discussions and the bottom line is that Boyd gives the orders, and the rest of them are obliged to follow them.

A confused-looking Kat asks, "So am I interviewing Mary Trent, or not?"

The exasperated look Boyd casts in her direction is baleful. "Have I told you otherwise?"

"No, sir."

"Then I suggest you get on with doing whatever it is you need to do before she gets here. Grace, a word in my office."

Again, Grace follows him, but this time she doesn't bother to conceal her annoyance as she closes the door behind her with unnecessary force, cutting out the sound of muttered complaints from the squad room. Not giving him a chance to get the first word in, she demands, "What on earth was all that about?"

"What?"

"All that ridiculous posturing."

Boyd scowls and drops into his chair. "Oh, don't start on me, Grace. I'm not in the mood."

"Obviously," she sniffs, but she doesn't push him any further. It's not difficult to guess what's unsettling him, what's responsible for his abrupt high-handedness. Instead, she says, "They understand this is a sensitive issue for you, Boyd… but you're not helping yourself by shouting them down every time they try to express an opinion."

"When I want their opinion, I'll ask for it," he growls. "Who's in charge of this unit?"

Summoning patience, she says, "You are."

"And we're quite clear about that, are we?"

Grace sighs, a little irritated, a little resigned. "Quite clear, thank you, Detective Superintendent."

He stares at her for a moment longer before saying, "So talk to me about Chapman. Do we think these two deaths are in any way linked?"

"I can't possibly tell you that at this stage," she replies, unwilling to further provoke his formidable temper by appearing uncooperative, but not prepared to dissemble.

"Gut instinct?"

"Gut instinct at this moment… no. Complete coincidence."

"Hm. We've got too many complete coincidences here for my liking, Grace. Far too bloody many."

"We've seen it before," she points out. "Things that initially appear to be highly improbable, but turn out to be exactly the way they seem. Occam's Razor, Boyd."

"The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Yeah, I know."

"Look," Grace says, sitting down opposite him, "I know what you said last night, but all this is bound to unsettle you. You may have no emotional tie to either of these men, but learning that they're genetically linked to you... it's profound. It's going to raise all sorts of questions, stir up all kind of emotions, whether you want it to, or not."

"I'm not having this conversation with you," Boyd says, but although his tone is firm, much of his former ire seems to have bled away. "Go and get your stuff. We're going to Newham."

"Boyd…"

He shrugs. "Background research, that's all."

Grace grimaces and shakes her head. "You're going to march straight into trouble, aren't you? Despite everyone's advice? Spencer's right, you know, we're still not exactly flavour of the month at the Yard. We don't need to stir up any more controversy."

Boyd is on his feet again. "Are you coming with me, or…?"

-oOo-

There's nothing memorable or unusual about Burchell Road. It's typical of the area, small terraced houses hunched up along both sides of the street, some very shabby, some recently renovated, but all of them anonymous and unremarkable. Lots of parked cars, most of them several years old; dozens of satellite dishes. A very ordinary East London street not far from the A13, and almost equidistant between Plaistow Park and Brampton Park. There's no doubt that they, and Boyd's dark Audi, look very out of place, but if they're being observed, it's discreetly from behind blinds or net curtains. Looking up and down the street, Grace comments, "No-man's land."

Boyd glances at her. "Purgatory."

He's got a point. There's a lot of population movement in the area, a lot of temporary and short-term accommodation. People come and they go on streets like this one. Only a very few are thoroughly rooted. It's not an ideal place to look for information about a man last domiciled there more than a decade ago. Grace points towards one of the more salubrious-looking houses, one with a bright red front door. "Forty-three."

There's no answer at forty-three. Grace knocks again while Boyd attempts to peer in through the bay-window. An elderly man appears from the house next door, his expression simultaneously hostile and curious. Grace smiles a friendly greeting at him and asks, "Do you know the people who live here?"

He glowers towards Boyd. "Police."

It's a statement, not a question. Grace nods. "He is, I'm not. Doctor Foley."

"Young couple," the man says, his thin arms now folded across his skinny chest. There are old, faded tattoos on the backs of both of his hands. "Not long married. Both work at the hospital. In trouble are they?"

"No," Boyd says, joining them. He extends his warrant card for inspection. "Detective Superintendent Boyd."

"McMahon," the old man says, not sparing the proffered identification more than a brief, disdainful glance.

"Have you lived here long, Mr McMahon?" Grace inquires.

"Forty odd years," he informs her, unfolding his arms.

Boyd says, "We're looking for information about a man who lived here around ten years ago. Michael Allen."

"Squatters," McMahon replies, searching through his pockets and finally producing a crumpled cigarette packet and an equally battered-looking box of matches.

Before Boyd can voice his inevitable impatience at the man's laconic manner, Grace asks, "This was a squat ten years ago?"

McMahon lights a cigarette. "Empty for years, then the damned hippies moved in. Took forever to get them out. Bloody nuisance, they were. People coming and going at all hours, loud music, drink, drugs. Who knows what else? Council got 'em out in the end."

Grace glances at Boyd, but his expression is unreadable. She tries, "Do you know where they went?"

"Don't know, don't care. Just glad to see the back of 'em."

Striving for patience, she asks, "Would anybody around here know, do you think?"

"Try the community centre on Barking Road, maybe."

"Thank you," Boyd says, already turning away. His sarcasm doesn't lessen with the additional, "You've been a great help, Mr McMahon."

McMahon doesn't stir. He simply inhales smoke deep into his lungs and mutters, "Arrogant fucker."

Grace is extremely glad that Boyd seems to have chosen precisely that moment to exercise his notoriously selective hearing. He carries on walking without hesitation, and with a final amused nod to McMahon, Grace follows him.

-oOo-

"Please," she says, watching him as he stares straight ahead. They are parked on Brampton Road, right beside the park, and for the last ten minutes their conversation has gone round and round in frustrating circles leaving both of them irritable and exasperated. Now, Grace has changed tactics. When Boyd says nothing, she says, "When have I ever tried to use our… personal… relationship to influence our professional one?"

His reply is gruff. "That's hardly the point."

"Maybe not," she persists, "but surely it tells you something about how important it is that you actually listen to me this time? Don't do this. Let Spencer deal with it, and if he eventually decides it should be referred to the DAC's office, don't stand in his way."

Boyd frowns, but still doesn't look at her. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just sitting in the damned car listening to you going on and on at me."

There are times when she wonders what it is she sees in him. Why she puts up with his antagonistic rudeness, his short temper. Trying hard not to let him provoke her further, Grace says, "You know what I mean. For God's sake, Boyd, this is not the time to hand the Yard another stick to beat you with."

His head snaps round and he glares at her. "Just how naïve do you think I am?"

She doesn't quail. Instead, she replies, "I don't think you're at all naïve, but I know how stupidly stubborn you can be when you think you're right. Don't do this."

"I told you, I'm not doing anything."

"Good," she snaps, struggling to control the increasing urge to reach out and shake him. "Then can we please just go back to the office and pass what we've learned on to Spence?"

Boyd doesn't answer. He simply continues to stare into the mid-distance, hardly blinking. It's a very long time before he says, "Do you think it's nature or nurture that makes us what we are, Grace?"

From him, it's a very unusual question. One that deserves more than a flippant reply. She considers her answer for a few seconds before sighing. "That's a huge question, Boyd. One with no definitive answer."

"You've met Jamie. We're very different."

A statement she can't disagree with. Physically and temperamentally they are poles apart. One dark, tall and intense, the other fair, short and easygoing. Grace shrugs. "So? Even biological siblings brought up together can be very different in all sorts of ways. We're all individuals with our own particular characters."

"Mm."

She reaches out a tentative hand to him, and when he doesn't shy away she allows herself the brief indulgence of stroking his silvery hair for a moment. It's soft and dense, and under other circumstances she'd be tempted to bury her fingers deep into it and kiss him until both of their moods improved. Instead, she says, "You're a good man, Peter. Yes, you make mistakes, but that's all part of being human. You only fall so far because you try to reach so much higher than most."

Boyd snorts. "Oh, please… Which bloody awful self-improvement book did you get that one from?"

She pulls a face in return. "Okay, admittedly it's a bit trite. True, though, isn't it? You're still in the doghouse because of the Linda Cummings inquiry – but what would have happened if you hadn't made any attempt to stop her jumping? Absolutely nothing, that's what. The Coroner would've recorded a straightforward suicide verdict and that would have been the end of it. The unit's where it is now simply because you did the right thing and tried to save her."

"A decision I'm living to regret."

"My point entirely. Do what's best for everyone, Boyd. Play it by the book and let Spence do his job."

He looks at her again. "You're an incredibly annoying woman, you know that, don't you?"

Grace almost smiles. "If I wasn't, you wouldn't be remotely interested."

"You think that, do you?"

Not sure what to make of the sudden, enigmatic look in his brown eyes, she says, "Just start the car, and let's get out of here."

-oOo-

"Chapman's father, according to his birth certificate," Eve says, handing Grace a scrap of paper on which a single name has been carefully printed. "Mihail Străjescu. Deceased."

"Străjescu…?" Grace says, stumbling over the pronunciation.

Eve nods. "Romanian. The name, at least."

"Mihail... as in Michael?"

"Yeah."

"So Michael Allen was named after his father?" Grace speculates, putting the piece of paper in the top drawer of her desk.

"Could well be," Eve agrees. She hesitates before asking, "How's Boyd?"

Grace waves a hand in response. "Boyd… is Boyd. Has Spence managed to get any other information on Străjescu?"

"Only that he died in Haringey in 'ninety-six aged sixty-eight," Eve says. "Natural causes, you'll be pleased to know. Heart disease."

Doing a quick mental calculation, Grace muses aloud, "So he was born, what, in the late 'twenties?"

"Guess so." A shrug, followed by, "Grace, is Boyd really going to have us investigate Allen's death?"

"I honestly don't know, Eve," she says, not knowing how else to answer. "I think he intends to read through whatever Spence puts on his desk later and then make a decision. Don't be too hard on him… he knows he's skating on thin ice."

Eve doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure? Because if this blows up in our faces…"

Grace sighs. It's not the first time she's felt caught between Boyd and the rest of the team, and she doubts it will be the last. She says, "All I can say… is that he's well-aware of his position – and ours."

"I hope you're right," Eve mutters, turning to leave. She pauses, looks back. "Grace… I know it's none of my business, but if you've got the sort of relationship with him that I think you have…"

"You're right," Grace says, brisk but not unkind, "it's none of your business."

Eve nods slowly and retreats without a further word. For a second Grace is tempted to call her back, to apologise for what could definitely be considered unnecessary brusqueness, but in the end she decides against it. Their friendship is warm enough and close enough not to be affected by the occasional sting. Eve is astute both by nature and by training, and she was never far away during the gruelling months of Grace's illness and treatment – it's a safe bet she knows exactly what's been going on well away from curious eyes… and that she won't ever gossip about it.

Grace isn't keen to duplicate anyone's work, but she doubts Spencer will waste any more of his limited time uncovering further details about Mihail Străjescu. With Boyd out of the building for at least the next couple of hours, she finally takes it upon herself to log onto the Met's intranet and start digging, and when that avenue is exhausted, she accesses several Home Office databases, too. It doesn't take her long to build a sketchy biography of the man, to discover that he was born near the Romanian city of Turnu Măgurele, that as a child he came to England with his father, Nicolae, and that he subsequently spent the rest of his life living in London, much of it working in and around the docks. Nor does it take Grace long to discover that although he never officially married, he spent at least fifteen years living in Muswell Hill with Gavin Chapman's mother, Ruby.

Boyd's natural father? When she discovers a picture of a bearded, solemn-looking Străjescu, apparently taken at some point in the early 'seventies, Grace is absolutely sure of it. The deep eyes and aquiline nose are exactly the same. The father is dark and wiry, and nowhere near as tall and broad-shouldered as the potential son, and as she studies his photograph Grace wonders briefly about Roma blood. She quickly dismisses the thoughts as a flight of fancy. Stick to the facts, that's what all the years working alongside pragmatic police colleagues has taught her, and so she does just that, dutifully transcribing those meagre facts onto a blank sheet of paper. She wonders what Boyd will make of the information. Wonders, too, about his earlier comment about nature versus nurture, wonders whether his possible genetic heritage could help explain some of his wilder extremes of temperament. Maybe that's just fanciful nonsense, too.

"Grace…?" Spencer's voice says.

She looks up to find him standing in her office doorway. "Spence?"

"This guy McMahon that you spoke to, can you give me a rundown…?"

-oOo-

"Romanian…?"

Grace nods, secretly amused by just how bemused Boyd sounds. "Yes."

He drops down onto the couch that's been a permanent feature of his office for almost as long as she can remember and says, "Didn't see that one coming. Străjescu…? Christ, I can't even bloody pronounce it."

"Assuming Chapman's birth certificate is correct," she says, "it's likely that Mihail is your father."

"I got that bit, thanks."

Once again, Boyd seems strangely unruffled, as if they are merely discussing something as trivial and ordinary as the weather, and in the light of the argument following their earlier trip to Newham, his lack of reaction surprises her. He seems to have completely regained the calm equilibrium of the preceding night. Closing his office door to afford them some measure of privacy, Grace asks, "What's got into you? This morning you were champing at the bit, now you don't seem interested."

Boyd looks up at her, and for a split second she thinks she sees a pensive look in his eyes. He sounds composed, though, as he says, "Perspective, Grace. It's all a matter of perspective."

She holds up her hands. "Please don't tell me you're in one of your profound moods – it's been a long day and I really don't think I can cope with it. Where have you been all afternoon, anyway? Not in Newham?"

"Not in Newham. Highgate."

"Ah," Grace says, beginning to understand. "You've been talking to brother James."

"I have," he agrees.

"And…?"

"And… it's all a matter of perspective."

"I'm going back to my office now before I give in to the overwhelming urge to strangle you," Grace says, handing him the large plain envelope that contains all the information she's managed to compile on Străjescu. "Here. Everything I could find on Mihail. Read it, or don't read it. It's entirely up to you."

-oOo-

There's no doubt that everyone in the squad room perfectly understands the old cliché about the calm before the storm. As soon as Spencer takes his preliminary report in to Boyd and returns to his desk to await a decision, they all start to fidget and snap at each other. No-one's happy, least of all Grace. Ever-tactless, Kat says, "Vlad the Impaler was from Romania, wasn't he?"

"Wallachia," Spencer supplies, not looking up from whatever it is he's typing.

"Same thing. More or less."

"For God's sake don't give him any ideas," Eve comments from the edge of the room. "If he starts impaling suspects we're in serious trouble."

Grace understands the reason behind the dark humour, knows how worried they all are that Boyd will – once again – overstep the mark and further endanger the long-term future of the unit. She wants to reassure them, wants to tell them that they are wrong, that he knows where to draw the line… but she can't. There's every chance that he'll do what he so often does and let his heart rule his head, that he will lead them even deeper into the mire of confrontation and controversy, despite everything she's repeatedly tried to tell him. If he does…

Boyd's office door flies open, and it isn't just Grace who jumps. He strides towards them, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, reading glasses dangling in one hand, Spencer's report grasped in the other. His voice is very quiet. "I'm authorising the re-opening of the Epping Forest case."

Grace feels her heart sink. Everyone seems to be looking at everyone else, each of them willing someone else to make the challenge.

Ignoring the rising tension in the room, Boyd continues, "I will be apprising the DAC's office of the situation in the morning, and I will also be informing them that DI Jordan will be acting as the investigation's Officer in Charge. Questions?"

The complete silence is telling. Spencer shakes his head, "No, sir."

"You will keep me informed of all progress," Boyd tells him, "and all requests for additional staff or resources will be approved by me. Understand?"

"Sir."

"Better get on with it, then, hadn't you?" Boyd says before turning on his heel and walking back into his office. The door closes not with a slam but with a gentle rattle.

"Wow," Kat says, looking from Spencer to Grace and back. "Did I just hear that right…?"

-oOo-

"I'm proud of you," Grace says, minutes later, and she means it. "You've done the right thing."

Boyd's answer lacks enthusiasm. "Terrific."

Ignoring his bad-tempered petulance, she asks, "Do you think the DAC will let Spence keep it?"

A dismissive shrug. "Don't see why not. It's not him they're gunning for is it? And there's no-one else out there who's going to be happy to take on a pile of old bones."

"And you're happy to let him liaise directly with Canning Town CID?"

Boyd gives her a look that is so weary it's almost haunted. "Do we really have to keep talking about this?"

Relenting, Grace shakes her head. "No. Did you read the stuff on Străjescu?"

He groans. "I'm not having the best day of my life here, Grace. Enough questions, eh?"

"You look tired," she says after a moment, watching as he runs his fingers slowly through his hair.

"I wonder why." Their eyes briefly lock, the moment of silence heavy with meaning – one that has nothing to do with work, and everything to do with sensual midnight memories. Boyd's voice is unnecessarily gruff when he eventually growls, "Go away; I've got work to do."

"It's gone seven o'clock," Grace points out, ignoring the order.

"Yeah, and the way I'm going it'll be gone midnight before I'm done here," he retorts. "Go away, go home, I really don't care. Just go."

"So diplomatic," she snipes.

"Out."

Grace rolls her eyes. "Why do I put up with you? No, on second thoughts, don't answer that. Well, assuming I can be bothered to get up on time, I'll see you tomorrow."

He allows her a slight, tired grin. "'Night, Grace."

In truth, she's not altogether sorry to be summarily dismissed from Boyd's presence. He's not the only one who's tired, and as she pulls on her coat and gathers her things, Grace finds herself looking forward to a long, comfortable, and enjoyably boring evening on her own. After so many years as more-or-less a single woman, re-embracing both the concept and the reality of being half of a steady couple hasn't been easy. Exciting and entertaining, yes, easy, no. Both of them are used to the selfish freedom to do exactly what they want when they want, and working hard to find the necessary compromises is often frustrating and exhausting. No, on balance, she's not sad to be heading home alone.

-oOo-

It's good to have some quiet solitary time, and Grace is perfectly happy to settle on her sofa with a glass of wine, the radio, and a book she's been meaning to finish reading for weeks, but there's also something comforting about the stray tangible traces of someone else that are now evident throughout the house. The masculine razor and shaving foam on the windowsill in the bathroom, the crumpled shirts that have somehow found their way into her ironing pile, the abandoned gold cufflinks on the mantelpiece – all the tiny, inconsequential everyday things that make her smile when she notices them. The soft strains of something light and classical fill the silence and she's calm and content.

A little after nine, the unexpected sound of a knock on the front door startles her. Frowning, she gets to her feet and goes out into the hall. Whoever her late-evening caller is, it's not Boyd. Boyd does not knock; Boyd has a key and he always walks straight in with the nonchalant self-assurance of a man who expects to be welcomed without reserve. If it didn't amuse her quite so much, Grace might well be infuriated by his careless impudence. No, it's not Boyd at her door, she confirms as she opens it. It's Eve.

Hiding her considerable surprise, Grace offers a tentative smile of greeting. "Eve."

"Hi, Grace," the younger woman says, hesitantly returning the smile. "I hope you don't mind… I was on my way home and I thought… Well, to be frank, I thought I should apologise."

Bewildered, she says, "Apologise? What on earth for? Come in; don't stand on the doorstep…"

They drink coffee and they talk, and they both say sorry for things that aren't really their fault. They talk, they laugh, they gossip just a little, and they ignore the clock on the wall that tells them it's getting later and later. It's a long while before Grace finally says, "You've spent quite a lot of time in the Balkans, haven't you?"

Eve nods. "Yes. I'm hoping to go out there again for a few weeks this summer."

"War graves?" Grace guesses, pulling a face.

"You know me too well," Eve tells her with a slight grin. She shrugs, her expression becoming more sombre. "I can't explain it… it just feels like something I need to do."

"I think I can understand that."

"So. The Balkans? This is about Străjescu, I assume?"

"To be honest, it's simply idle curiosity," Grace admits. "You've been to Romania?"

Nodding, Eve says, "Yeah, a couple of times. Bucharest, mainly. Interesting country, interesting people. Wouldn't want to live there, though – lots of serious socio-economic problems, and that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"What do you – " Grace starts, but she's interrupted by the quiet but distinctive sound of the front door being unlocked. She knows who her new visitor is, and from the look of her colleague's face, Eve knows, too. They look at each other, both of them apparently not sure what to say. "Eve…"

"Grace?" Boyd's distinctive voice calls from the hallway.

Eve winces, mumbles an embarrassed, "Sorry."

With no other option, Grace shakes her head in response. "Don't be silly."

He appears in the doorway, shrugging out of his long topcoat and for a second he freezes as his gaze falls on Eve. He recovers quickly, however, manages a gruff, "Eve."

"Boyd."

It's a ridiculous situation, Grace decides. She looks heavenward and gives a deliberate loud sigh. "Busted."

It breaks the awkward tension building in the room. Eve chuckles. "Categorically."

Boyd regards them both with a baffled expression. He gestures towards the hall behind him. "How about I leave quickly and quietly, and you both pretend I was never here…?"

-oOo-

"But you couldn't establish a cause of death for Allen, could you?" Boyd asks, cradling a heavy glass tumbler that still holds a fair amount of whiskey.

Eve shakes her head. "No. We're talking about skeletal remains, after all. I couldn't find anything at all to indicate how he died."

It's a surreal situation, Grace decides. Here they are, the three of them, sitting in her cosy living room as the evening wears on, talking about death and decay as if it's the most natural topic of conversation in the world. Against all the odds Boyd's arm is stretched out along the back of the sofa behind her, his posture unconsciously intimate and ever-so slightly territorial despite the lack of actual physical contact. She's aware of it, and she can see that Eve is, too, but Boyd… Boyd is apparently oblivious. Maybe.

"Exhumation?" he suggests.

"Don't see the point," Eve responds with a shake of the head. "You can apply for a licence if you want, but I'm certain I won't find anything new."

"We'll hold that in reserve, then."

"Spence can hold that in reserve," Grace corrects.

"Christ, do we really have to split hairs?"

"I should go," Eve says, putting her mug down on the little table next to her chair. "I need to get some sleep, and if you two are going to have a marital…"

Boyd scowls. Grace smirks and pats him on the shoulder. "Rise above it, Peter."

He mutters and raises a hand in a half-hearted farewell gesture to Eve as Grace gets up and walks out into the hall with her. Pulling on her coat, Eve nods towards the living-room and murmurs, "He'll be all right about this, won't he?"

"He'll be fine," Grace assures her. "It's not as if he was already here and you caught us… misbehaving."

"I really don't want to think about that," Eve says with an over-emphasised shudder. An uncomfortable hesitation, then, "I kind of knew anyway."

Grace nods. "I guessed as much. It's okay."

"I'm happy for you, Grace. Really. Just… do what you can to look after him, hm? I think this business with the Allen case is going to take it out of him. Can't be easy, can it?"

She shakes her head. "Not at all… maybe you could remind the others about that from time to time?"

"I'll do my best," the younger woman assures her. "'Night, Grace."

"'Night, Eve," Grace responds with a small smile. She watches the younger woman retreat out into the street before closing the front door and returning to the living room.

Still lounging on the sofa, Boyd eyes her with overt suspicion. "Do I want to know what all the whispering in the hall was about?"

"We weren't whispering," Grace tells him, "and no, probably not."

"Hm." A pause. "No clear cause of death's going to be a bit problematic."

Deftly, Grace plucks his now-empty glass out of his hand. "Boyd, it's heading towards midnight, I'm dog tired, and this isn't your case. Come to bed."

He snags her wrist before she can move away, pulls her down next to him on the sofa. "And talking of problems…"

It's not difficult to guess what he's thinking. "Eve, you mean? It'll be fine. She's not the sort to rock the boat, you know that."

"I can do without any more shit from Scotland Yard," Boyd says. "Getting caught knocking off one of my consultants would not go down well."

"So delicately put," Grace complains, before becoming slightly mesmerised by the way he's watching her. Thoughts and questions flit through her mind, but she wisely decides to remain silent. She stares back at him, wondering what it is he sees that seems to hold his attention. Instinct makes her lean towards him. Instinct and attraction, and as their lips meet she forgets about Mihail Străjescu, about Michael Allen and Gavin Chapman, about all of it.

-oOo-

cont...