"Oh, James lad," Lewis whispered to himself as he entered the office and looked down at the sleeping form of his sergeant. James was leaning back in his chair, fast asleep, feet propped up on the desk and his jacket draped across him, covering his shoulders and torso. His right arm peeked out from behind the jacket, the shirt sleeve rolled up past the bent elbow, his hand supporting a cold compress against the side of his head.
Lewis shook his head, astounded that Hathaway could not only fall asleep in that position, but maintain it as he slept. He walked aroundthe side of the desk and crouched beside the sleeping man, trying to see what damage had been done without disturbing him.
It was the duty sergeants'phone call less than twenty minutes ago that had him speeding through the streets of the city, thankfully free of traffic at such an early hour of the morning.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," the duty sergeant said after Lewis' less than friendly greeting on the phone. "Thought you would like to know that Sergeant Hathaway is at the station, sir. He's taken a bit of a beating."
Lewis had gone cold at the words, snapping out that he was on his way. A bit of a beating... On the drive to the station he had wondered if they were the duty sergeants'words or Hathaway's. How many times had Hathaway used that expression "a bit"? Did a bit of rowing, knew a bit about this, a bit about that, which usually translated into Hathaway having an encyclopaedic knowledge of the subject, a bit of a beatinghad filled Lewis with dread.
Lewis tried to peer round the compress; Hathaway's right eye was bruised and swollen, and there were long narrow bruises on his forearm. Lewis had seen the like before; they came from fingers, wrapped around in a strong brutal grip, meaning that the lad fought off two attackers. One trying to hold him, while the other beat him Lewis deduced, the lad may look like a long strip of nothing, but he was quick and strong and fully capable of defending himself, far beyond what was taught at Sulhamstead.
Lewis reached out and reluctantly shook Hathaway's shoulder. "James, lad," he said softly, he needed to ascertain the younger man's injuries and get him to the hospital for a check over. It was obvious he'd taken a punch or two to the head and Lewis was pretty sure sleeping and potential concussions weren't a good mix.
"James," he repeated louder, shaking the shoulder marginally harder. "Up you pop." He said smiling as Hathaway opened his eyes slowly, well, the left one at least, a frown appearing as he blinked in confusion, trying to work out what had woken him. Hathaway shifted his head slightly and blinked at him, Lewis smiled as the lad's undamagedeye suddenly widened and he struggled to sit up.
"Easy, lad," Lewis cautioned, "take it slowly", he added as he helped Hathaway tosit up.
"Sorry, sir," Hathaway croaked out, "I meant to phone you," he pulled the jacket from his body. "I've..."
"Bloody hell, James!" Lewis bellowed, standing up in shock.
"Sir," Hathaway blurted out in bewilderment, looking around the room for the cause of the inspectors ire as he began to rise and was promptly pushed back down by Lewis.
"Your arm, lad," Lewis pointed out, waving a hand at Hathaway's plaster encased left forearm, letting out a disapproving sigh at the lack of a sling. Hathaway looked down at the arm and then back up at Lewis.
"It's broke, sir," he replied, frowning down again at the pristine white cast.
"Well, I can see that, you daft bugger, "Lewis said in exasperation. "Look at you," he commented, crouching down once again and examining Hathaway's battered face. "At least you went to the hospital, that's something I guess. Can you see out of that eye?" he asked, as he gently took Hathaway's chin between thumb and forefinger and examined the damage more closely.
"I'm fine, sir," Hathaway stated as he freed himself from Lewis' hand, "Just some bruising, arm's the worst of it." Lewis nodded, picking up the discarded cold pack from where it had fallen on the floor and passed it to the younger man as he stood up and perched himself on the edge of Hathaway's desk.
"Come on, then," Lewis demanded softly "out with it."
Hathaway blew out a heavy sigh and leaned back into his chair, bringing the cold compress back to his face. "Anna Ivakina, sir," he stated sadly.
"Ah," Robbie acknowledged.
Anna Ivakina, their latest case. An 18 year old Russian national, studying Academic English at one of Oxford's many language schools, found murdered in Gillian's Park east of the city in the suburb of Blackbird Leys. By all accounts a beautiful young woman, inside and out. Kind, generous, friendly, popular, her fellow classmates and host family having nothing but praise.
From the time she left the house she was staying at in Blackbird Leys with the husband of the host family who dropped her at Cowley Centre, to the moment she stepped off the late night estate bus, she had never been alone. Witness statements corroborating that she had been in no arguments or altercations before her brutal murder, she had been by all accounts a happy, carefree, young adult, enjoying her studies and her first trip abroad.
The only discrepancy was her late night visit to Gillian's Park. She'd got off the last bus to the estate, two stops before the host family's home, alighting at Windale Avenue and walking into the newer estate of Greater Leys. The CCTV cameras outside the local Spar shop and next door medical centre timed her walk to the park at 2.37am. She wasn't followed, her body language relaxed, unhurried. She was found dead by an early morning dog walker just before 6am, her naked, battered body dumped in the litter strewn brook that marked the boundary of the park.
Lewis frowned as Hathaway placed the cold compress on the desk winching as he stretched his arm out to pick up a file. Hathaway had taken the case to heart, every once in awhile one got under your skin, one you couldn't let go of, couldn't admit defeat to, the one that haunted you for the rest of your life. A policeman's lot is not a happy one, popped into Lewis' mind.
"I spent the evening going through all the witness statements and the timeline," Hathaway said, the file still clenched in his hand. "I thought I would do another check of the bars and clubs she went to," he added, "show her picture again." Hathaway shook his head looking dejected as he looked up at Lewis, "nobody remembered anything new, sir."
"Aye, lad," Lewis replied, not faulting the younger man for trying to shake something loose, no matter how many times they had been over the same ground before. "Then you went on to the park," Lewis ventured, earning a startled admission of "Sir" from Hathaway, Lewis smiled. "Well, you didn't get into it outside a pub down the Cowley Road or the city centre. Uniformed lot would have been involved and I'd have known a damn sight sooner," he stated.
"Got an informant keeping an eye on me then, sir?" James asked, the tone was light, but Lewis heard the bite of hurt disappointment under it.
Robbie smiled as he leant forward and squeezed Hathaway's shoulder. "For someone so clever, you can't half be a bit thick sometimes, you silly sod," he laughed.
"Sir," Hathaway bit out, a look hurt indignation on his face.
Robbie shook his head in amusement. "An informant? You have no idea, do you lad?" he questioned, the indignation left Hathaway's face to be placed with confusion. Robbie patted his shoulder." We've had our disagreements and you know how I feel about you doing all-nighters," Robbie explained. "But I'd never stoop so low as to have others report your every move to me," it was Robbie's turn to look indignant, the expression quickly replaced with a smile.
"You're a good copper, James. If you believe it or not, you're also a popular one too, amongst the constables and the other sergeants," Robbie continued, letting out a huff of laughter at the look of total disbelief that crossed Hathaway's face. "Aye, it's true. Been stopped a time or two because they've been worried about you…"
"More likely trying to stitch me up," Hathaway mumbled sourly.
"Or respectfully telling me to stop running you ragged," Robbie finished. "That's how I know you've been pulling god knows how many late nights and on practically every investigation too," Robbie's tone taking on a disapproving timbre. "And that you drink too much caffeine and smoke too many ciggies and I should make you eat at least one sensible meal a day," Robbie added with amusement.
"Who told you all that then, sir?" Hathaway asked with a heavy dose of scepticism.
"Innocent told me the last one, got a right earful," Robbie countered, "was a couple of weeks back, when you had that right stinker of a cold. She took me to task over not looking after me sergeant better," Robbie chuckled at the memory.
Hathaway stared at him in horror. "Tom on the front desk phoned me tonight, thought I would be interested you'd taken a beating," Robbie's tone turned serious again, "he was right."
"I'm sorry, sir, I truly meant to phone you, but with one thing and another," Hathaway waved the file he was holding; Robbie reached out and took it from him.
"No apologies necessary, would have found out soon enough, won't I," he said with a raised eyebrow, opened the file and flipped through the contents. "These the ones?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Tyson Peterson, did four years for possession with intent to supply," Robbie looked at the photograph and information on Peterson that was in the file, a short thin white man, in and out of drug rehab programmes since his first arrest at the age of sixteen, graduating to jail when he started to deal drugs at twenty-five. "Let out on licence six months ago," Hathaway summed up, as Robbie moved onto the other two charge sheets.
"Then there's Gary and Stefan Wilkes," Hathaway continued.
"Cousins?" Robbie queried, as he looked down at the two contrasting photographs. They were young, twenty-one and nineteen and although they shared some similar features, and were both tall and well-muscled, Gary Wilkes was white and Stefan was mixed raced, white/black Caribbean Robbie guessed.
"Brothers," Hathaway corrected, "different dads," he added. "Both have records for criminal damage, burglary, ABH, joy riding and the like. Gary got 8 weeks inside for his ABH conviction, served four. Stefan's still working his way through community service and ASBO's," Hathaway reeled off, leaning his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes, probing his swollen eye with fingers that trembled. Robbie leaned forward and gently grasped Hathaway's wrist, pulling it away.
"Leave it alone," Robbie ordered, letting go of the wrist as Hathaway tried to glare at him, the effect ruined by the nearly swollen shut eye. "What did the doctor say about your eye?" he asked as he picked up the cold compress and handed it back to James with a pointed look. With a heavy sigh James put it back up against his eye, the pack having lost much of its coldness.
"It's fine, sir," he replied wearily.
"Not what I asked, James," Robbie said, a hard edge to his tone.
James sat up straighter, trying without success to cover a wince as he jostled his broken arm. "It was just a couple of punches, sir. Have an appointment at the eye hospital next week, just to make sure everything's okay, when the swelling's gone down," Hathaway explained.
"And your arm?" Robbie asked.
"Sir?" Hathaway replied, clearly puzzled at the question.
"Where's your bloody sling, man?" Robbie ground out in frustration.
"Oh," Hathaway looked round the office. "I did have one, sir. I'm not sure where I put it," he replied with a frown as he visually inspected the room again. Robbie looked up the ceiling, blowing out an exasperated breath.
"Excuse me, Sarge, oh, morning, sir," Constable Peter Rawlings greeted as he walked into the room, he was a young lad, a police officer for only three or four years, but with a good head on his shoulders, if still a little excitable Robbie mused as he nodded a greeting. "Hooper asked me to pop up, Sarge," Rawlings continued brightly, a bit too brightly for such an early hour. "They've just brought the Wilkes brother's in. You were right; they scarpered back to their mum's. Sergeant Shepherd's booking them in now," Rawlings added smiling with excitement.
Robbie looked over at Hathaway who smirked and started to shrug but suddenly stilled, a pain-filled grimace marring his features.
"James?" Robbie queried as he moved towards the younger man, squatting down beside him.
"I'm fine, sir," Hathaway reassured, his voice hoarse with pain clearly making a lie of his words.
"Should I fetch the police surgeon, sir?" Rawlings chimed in anxiously. "He's downstairs seeing to the Wilkes brothers. The Sarge," he added with a gleeful nod towards Hathaway, "broke one of their noses, the doc says the other's going be singing soprano for a while, if you catch my drift. Old Hooper was right gobsmacked when he saw the state of them, couldn't believe the Sarge could …." Rawlings trailed off as he finally noticed Robbie's glare, "I'll just get back..to...the...erm…" Rawlings rambled as he left the room walking backwards, seemingly afraid to take his eyes of the inspector until he was clear of the doorway.
"And where are you going?" Robbie asked sharply as James struggled to get up from his chair, the now useless compress falling to the fall.
"I need to get their statements, sir and then get my report finished, so that…" Hathaway stopped as Robbie stood up and placed a hand on each of the arms of the chair and invaded his personal space.
"James," he stated resignedly, "you can't take their statements, they assaulted you," he pointed out, "you can't have anything to do with them, you know that, lad," Robbie said softly.
"But sir, they may have information regarding Anna, I….." Hathaway defended, cut off as Robbie interrupted.
"No, James," Robbie added firmly. "I'll take their statements, and I'll take yours and I'll get everyone out looking for Peterson… what?" Robbie asked as he stood up straight taking his hands from the arms of the chair and folding them across his chest as James reddened.
"Peterson's already in custody, sir," he replied, having a sudden fascination with his cast.
"You went after him? After you got into with the Wilkes? After they broke your arm? Bloody hell, Hathaway," Robbie exclaimed angrily. "You and I are going to have a serious chat, James. You can't keep pushing yourself like this," Robbie warned. "Right, come on. You're going home and you're going to bloody stay there til I say different." Robbie picked up Hathaway's discard jacket and draped it over his arm as he held out the other to Hathaway and helped him out of the chair, taking a firm grip of his elbow as Hathaway swayed for a moment.
"Sir, the charges won't stick," James continued to argue, cradling his broken arm against his body supported by his good one. "The assault charges, I mean, it's their word against mine. They can say I started it, the CPS won't touch it, but we might be able to get them to give something up about the night Anna was murdered. Bit of clever interviewing sir, turn them on each other…"
"James, lad," Robbie said gently, "you're going home. I'm going to stay with you for a bit, but you're not going anywhere near Peterson or the Wilkes."
"But, sir," Hathaway protested.
"That's an order, Sergeant," Robbie stated firmly. "James, you've been up working all night. You've run yourself ragged on this case, you're hurt and frankly you're worrying the hell of me."
Maybe worry wasn't the right word Robbie thought as he looked at the younger man. Perhaps someone other than Robbie wouldn't have noticed, but after so many years working with the stoic man Robbie considered himself fairly good at reading the lad and right now pain radiated from Hathaway in waves, physically and emotionally and it made Robbie uneasy, apprehension curling heavy in his gut. Since standing up Hathaway had paled considerably, the bruising on his face standing out in stark contrast, his good eye becoming glassy and unfocused. No, worry wasn't the right word; it was fear, fear for his sergeant's wellbeing and fear that Robbie had let him down.
Hathaway was a good detective, able to look at all their cases with a sense of detachment, and not get emotionally involved, unless old friends and acquaintances were tangled up in it, Robbie amended ruefully. But Robbie had known that James has lost his objectivity on this case, and although he had kept his professionalism when dealing with his colleagues, James had pushed himself hard and Robbie hadn't reined him in.
Anna had been quickly identified, her host family already having reported her missing. The autopsy confirmed Laura Hobson's preliminary on-site examination, that Anna had been beaten and raped. The cause of death due to strangulation sometime between three and four thirty am. Very little evidence was found on her body, having been submerged in water.
A fingertip search had turned up nothing, no clothes, handbag, or phone. A door to door of the houses surrounding the park had proven fruitless. They had turned up no viable reason why Anna would have gone to the park that night. A week on and the case had ground to a halt and they were left waiting for the forensics results in the small hope that it might spark more leads. Anna Ivakina was destined to become an unsolved case and as the investigation had run out of steam, James had become more desperate, frantically trying to find an answer as to why just a young, promising life had been so brutally cut short and to allow Anna to rest in peace, knowing justice had been served.
"Come on, James," Robbie said gently, "let's get you home. We'll have a chat once you've had some rest, eh?"
James conceded with a weary nod.