The first 5 chapters of this story run through Guardian Angel, If you want only brand new story lines then skip to chapter 6, but I hope you enjpoy the exploration of the story and how it builds into future stories
When Harry heard the words I don't want to see you die either, her black despair flipped to the brilliance of pure hope. But it became a more like the white flash of an explosion as all her hopes were shattered by Dempsey's next words 'no one likes to see any one die' and 'what was this all about?'
Well Lieutenant James Dempsey it was about us she thought but as the words 'was' and 'us' bounced around her mind duplicating themselves and reaching an ever increasing crescendo of 'was' and 'us' she suddenly had to get away, escape to anywhere.
Dempsey walked after her, then shrugged his shoulders; she would come around, she always did and he reflected she hadn't been off on one for sometime. He started his search for his informant.
Harry could hardly breath, she drove off looking for air and some half an hour later found herself sitting hemmed in by the window frame at home. She had no recollection of getting there and as the hours passed no idea of time or that it was passing at all. Rather like the shock experienced by those she had delivered news of murder to she now echoed their experiences.
Her mind frequently filled with the same image of Dempsey lying there with a bullet in his temple. In an attempted to dislodge the torture she would remind herself that he was alive and kicking and not about to take the boat to safety. The trouble was the proof that Lieutenant Dempsey was alive brought with it an even greater torture and grief than not only split her heart but crushed it as well.
Over the past few months Harry had lived a delusion - at least that was what she was currently contemplating. She thought of the times her and Dempsey had shared: nights out, nights in, times of fun, times of comfort and support. She had clung on to Simone's belief that he cared very much about her and there had certainly been times when she had been able to persuade herself that was true. Now she was forced to admit that the other times, the times when she thought there was nothing there were more accurate. She certainly cared about him, her mourning was an unspoken testimony to that and unfortunately, or may be fortunately, she had been unaware of just how strong her feelings were until the sound of the gunshot rang out through the Mausoleum.
If she had realised sooner would it have made any difference she questioned herself. She couldn't know but she persuaded herself that as Dempsey had had plenty of opportunities to express something of his feelings and since he had not there was obviously nothing for him to express.
She remembered back to their first meeting, to him putting a fiver on the tray, at least he hadn't put it down her bra. She thought of sitting waiting for the explosion to kill them both, his words to her "I'm sorry", how intimate it was to die with someone, it was a different sort of losing ones virginity she thought. Just a few hours ago it was Dempsey who was dead. She shook her head; no he's not actually dead.
Dempsey was a loyal partner and she knew he always would be but what on earth would she do if he was killed right in front of her? Could she keep working in an arena of unrequited love? How was she going to protect herself from such turmoil?
She wanted to cry, but she couldn't; she told herself to get a grip there was no death to grieve over. But there was, it was a different death, death of a relationship hers and Dempsey's; hers and the police. It would have to end. Suddenly she knew what the solution had to be, she moved to her desk, took out pen and paper and wrote.
She sealed the envelope straight away and then made a phone call.
'What!' The recipient couldn't believe his ears, but being an elderly professor he had acquired a lot of wisdom and he deftly put this into practice. He offered his very able ex student a project to take on. His reasoning, which he kept to himself, was that it was important to keep someone going through a crisis occupied. He also knew that there was very little point in arguing or going in for long conversations about the crisis; time, not advice, was by far the best gift in these situations. This was practice he had used many many times with his students, he did wonder what the crisis Harriet Winfield was going through was caused by. He could recollect her choice of the police force and his disappointment that she wouldn't be using her great mind and passion for history. There had been quite a lot of persuasion and heated advice back then trying to persuade her against the police career, all of which had been premise wasted and he had been glad he'd kept out of it all and just advised her to follow her heart.
As Dempsey was drinking with Dan and celebrating he was totally unaware of the torment Harry was still feeling as she tried to concentrate on reading the brief and design if the exhibition she was to start putting together tomorrow morning. She just kept digging deeper into her resolve and turning the pages making notes, just as she did when reading a case report.
Across London Spikings had read the letter three times, his mood darkening more with each reading. "Where the hell is Dempsey?" he asked Chas, who had no idea and was forced to confirm for the fourth time within one hour that there was no response to the RT.
Spikings sat back in his office, the others had all left. He read yet again the neat handwriting of Sergeant Makepeace, searching to no avail for clues as to why the letter was in his hand. It gave no details, just that from immediate effect she tendered her resignation. He was forced to speculate if it had anything to do with Dempsey, or the shooting that morning. She certainly had been very distracted and preoccupied, he was aware that if Dempsey had known the reason he wouldn't have told him when asked and as much as one small part of him wanted to blame Dempsey he wasn't so convinced that it really was Dempsey's fault per say. He filed the letter away deciding that tomorrow was another day and that he would address the issue again then when a drunken Dempsey staggered into the office.
Lying in bed, failing to sleep Spikings was still none the wiser. He was obliged to admit that Dempsey was as shocked and at a loss to explain anything as himself. It was one way to induce instant soberness he reflected. He had seen a deep hurt cut into Dempsey's eyes and had dropped the silent, shell shocked partner home before making his own way back to Mrs Spikings. He had made one decision, he'd tell everyone that Harry was off sick and ask HQ for cover whilst this job was a goer.
The news had punched Dempsey hard in the gut and pulled him into a state of alertness but once home he kicked everything in sight that he could: the door, the sofa, the kitchen cupboards, the bath, the bed. He punched the pillows and then threw them across the room. He started to undress using his belt again to vent his anger, he lashed the bed then tossed it to one side, he lay flat on his back on the bed, not bothering to retrieve the pillows and shouted at the ceiling "you couldn't even tell me! Damn you Harry why did you do that? … Harry why not tell me? Harry, Harry" He cried silent tears that he failed to form or fall. He woke cold and aching in the morning and drank double strength black coffee and resolving to confront his confusion drove over to 187 Camberwell Grove.