Title: Synchronisation

Rating: General

Content: Foyle, Kiefer, friendship. Follows after the episode S.6 Ep. 2, Broken Souls.

Disclaimer: The characters in Foyle's War were created by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.

A/N: first posted on the 'Nothing Fancy' Foyle's War Discussion Forum, July 29, 2007.

Assistant Commissioner Parkins,
I have suggested to you that maintaining the law in a time of war is all but impossible. I have now reached the conclusion that I am no longer up to the task, and it would seem, therefore, that there can be no useful purpose in me remaining in my position. I am therefore offering you my resignation, effective as of now.
I remain, sir, your obedient servant,
Christopher Foyle

Foyle had had a difficult fortnight at home – in the first few surreal days after leaving the station he found he couldn't settle to anything, and his uneasiness was often interrupted by unannounced visits or phone calls from various former colleagues and higher-ranking officers either pleading with him to reconsider or haranguing him for pointless pigheadedness. He had, at one very low point, briefly raised his voice to the Commissioner himself.

In his undisturbed hours, he was overtaken by a distinct and disquieting feeling that he ought to be somewhere else… and yet at the same time retained a clear conviction that he would not be going back there.

And then Lydia and James had returned; despite his sincere efforts to influence the lad and – Foyle gave her credit for this – Lydia's new determination to be truthful with her son, Foyle found himself really appalled at the boy's behaviour, and relations in the house were strained. Lydia agreed that what she needed was the routine and stability of a job, and that James needed to be in school. Through a friend Foyle was able to find her a situation that suited her, and in not too many days she had found lodgings nearer to her work and Jimmie's school.

After their departure, his restless dissatisfaction re-asserted itself and he sought distraction in a number of neglected home and garden tasks and in other physical activity. One afternoon at the end of the fortnight, he had returned from a long walk and was steeling himself to face the oppressive emptiness of the evening when the telephone rang. Assuming it was Andrew, he steeled himself - instead - to a resumption of their continuing, rather heated discussion of his resignation and future plans.

He picked up the telephone and spoke in a determined tone,
"Foyle here."

"Christopher! John Kieffer. I'm on leave in Hastings; I thought I'd look you up."

"John – How are you?" His spirits rose with relief to hear a friendly, disinterested voice.

"Well, I've got a year's worth of grey hairs in the three months since my last leave, but otherwise okay. How are you?" His emphasis indicated some knowledge of Foyle's situation.

"Fine, thanks."

"…That's great. Can I talk you into joining me for a warm beer?"

"Yes, with very little difficulty."

"Which's your local?"

"Don't really have one… er, the Ashburnham Arms would do."

"Seven o'clock?"

"Yep."

At the pub, the two friends sat in a quiet corner with a clear view of the room. The American finished his news, and then leaned forward on the table.

"Well, that's my story. How about you? How are things?"

"Oh, same as ever."

"Is that so?" Kieffer eyed him intently.

Foyle made a slight movement of his head in assent.

His friend waited out a long pause, then began slowly,
"…Look, I know it's none of my business, but –."

Foyle interrupted,
"Americans say that a lot, I find."

Kieffer gave a slight wry smile.
"Right; that famous English reserve."

Both men took a swallow of beer. Kieffer remarked neutrally,
"Your name's still on the door."

"Not for long."

Kieffer studied his companion with concern, noted a vein throbbing in his temple that he hadn't seen before, and made a decision,
"I think this calls for something stronger."

He got to his feet, crossed the room to order at the bar, and returned with two whiskies.

"Doubles."

Foyle cocked an eyebrow at him, then picked up the glass,
"To career changes."

Kieffer took up the other glass,
"To a career… on your terms."

"Yeah, well…"

They both drank, the American taking a sip while the Englishman took a mouthful.

"Your sergeant's a good man."

"Yes, he is."

"He's got his hands full."

"He's very capable."

Finally, Kieffer couldn't hold back, saying in an urgent undertone,
"Jesus, Christopher, back in the States, a policeman of your rank only resigns when there's incriminating photographic evidence…!"

Foyle gave him a withering look.

"Sorry, bad joke. But, gosh, the men at the station – they're all in shock – even I could see that."

Foyle turned away, stared towards the blacked out window momentarily, and when he turned back to reply, Kieffer heard the tension and fatigue in his low, quiet words,

"Well, I've had enough. Police procedure, British law, have become irrelevant: well-respected, highly educated people are lying to the police, are virtually condoning murder –. Some of them… commit murder, and other offences, for their own ends, and are permitted by highly placed people to remain at large. I won't continue in a job where I'm expected to turn a blind eye to criminal acts because the perpetrator happens to be doing work important to the war effort."
He met the other man's eyes,
"How is that different to what the Nazis are doing?"

The American met his friend's level look,
"With the Nazis, it's official government policy."

Foyle slowly exhaled.

Kieffer continued,
"They say the first casualty of war is truth. I'd add that, for the average citizen, the second casualty is personal autonomy: freedom. And with that loss, some people… lose their perspective on personal responsibility along with it: 'it's the war'."

Foyle shook his head in general disgust with the world,
"And in my position I'm meant to tolerate that?"

"No; hell, no."

He paused and changed tack,
"What's the word from the top brass?"

"Well apparently we don't see things from the same 'perspective.'" He said quickly and downed half the whisky in his glass.

Kieffer nodded, unwilling to press his friend any further,
"Well, it's a hell of a thing. I'm real sorry, Christopher."

As they were talking, a boisterous group of young soldiers and young women had entered the pub, and the atmosphere had become rather more celebratory than either man felt at the moment. Kieffer took up his glass, surveyed the crowd for a few moments, and remarked,
"I've had enough noise lately; you wanna scram?"

Foyle raised an eyebrow,
"If that means 'leave in a hurry', then yeah."

They finished their drinks, and out on the street Foyle offered,
"I got a bottle of Glenlivet at home – you ever try it?"

"Ya know, I was about to, up in London, but the Air Raid siren went off, and I never even got a taste of it."

"Well, that's a shame. Here's your chance."

"You're on."

As they climbed into Kieffer's staff car, he asked pleasantly,
"Will I also get a chance to meet Mrs. Foyle?"

"Er, no. My wife died some years ago."

The American winced self-reproachfully and shifted the car into gear,
"I didn't know. Sorry."

They drove up the hill to 31 Steep Lane. As Foyle put his latchkey to the door, his friend took a closer look at the object serving as a key fob.

"You an automobile enthusiast, Christopher?"

Foyle was momentarily puzzled, then held up the bunch of keys,
"Oh, er-. No, not in the least."

They divested themselves of coats and hats and proceeded to the sitting room. Foyle handed his keys to his friend to allow him to examine the toothed metal ring, and, as he poured two glasses of scotch, asked,
"D'you know what that is?"

"Sure I do. As a kid I spent a couple of years keeping a 1913 Little Six on the road. My Dad wanted me to understand the engine and running gear inside and out. Later he offered me his '29 Cadillac on the condition that I strip it down to its parts and build it up again."

With their drinks in hand they sat down in the chairs at either side of the hearth. Kieffer went on,
"It had one of the first synchromesh gear transmissions – three forward and one reverse. This is a ring gear out of a synchromesh transmission."

"So I'm told."

"Well, I'm curious, why do you keep it – if you're not particularly interested in cars?"

Foyle gave a faint smile, scratched his temple thoughtfully, then eyed his guest,
"In strictest confidence?"

Kieffer frowned in surprise,
"Yeah; yes, certainly."

" D'y'know who invented that?"

"Guy named… uh, Paige."

"Well, he holds the patent on it. You know anything else about him?"

Kieffer considered for a moment, took a sip of the Glenlivet and made an appreciative face.

"He's a very prominent, respected citizen; rich; came through the Depression okay. Seems to me he was involved in some pretty high level negotiations between our two countries; one of the few voices against the isolationists, before Pearl Harbour. Did he give this to you?"

"Not exactly. No, the, em… inventor of the synchromesh gear system… left it behind."

"'Left it behind…?'"

Kieffer contemplated the heavy ring and then passed it back to Foyle.
"I can't say that I've ever heard or read of another name associated with this…"

The policeman held up the object between his thumb and forefinger,
"There never was. But this belonged to the man who should've held, or at least shared the patent. His name was Richard Hunter. Howard Paige knew him at Oxford in the '20s; Paige took Hunter's idea and all the technical drawings back with him to America, patented it, and made a fortune."

"He stole the idea? What happened to the other man?"

"Well, he was shattered. And well on his way to drinking himself to death, at the cost of his marriage and his son's respect, when Paige returned to England as a secret representative of your government in September, 1940. Hunter met with Paige and asked for reparations."

"And?"

"He was found dead the next morning, of a single bullet to the brain."

Kieffer slowly straightened up in his seat, staring at his companion.
"You had evidence?"

"I had a witness. Two witnesses." Foyle sipped his drink.

"Yet Paige is free, in America; he's in Washington. How's that possible?"

"Whitehall intervened. Paige's political influence was valuable… and more important than justice for a man who, to all appearances, was nothing more than a failed engineer and a drunkard."

"But, the witnesses?"

"Well, the first witness, unfortunately, was a German spy landing a small boat on the beach where Paige shot Hunter. He was duly executed. The second man, a local news photographer, was 'removed' before I could get a statement from him."

Kieffer shook his head slowly as he absorbed the information,
"I'm beginning to see why you handed in your resignation, Christopher." Then after a pause,
"But you still keep that. You want justice for this guy Hunter."

Foyle noticed he still held the metal ring firmly in his hand.
"…At first it served to remind me that, despite the obstacles I was faced with in my job because of the war, the evidence would wait, that justice would eventually be served. But now…"
He set it on the table beside his chair.
"Well, as I said, I've had enough."

Kieffer frowned unhappily,
"I can understand your frustration, but…"

He looked across at his friend's set features,
"If I were in your position, Christopher, I think I'd have done the same thing."

Foyle gave only a slight nod, yet Kieffer sensed his gratitude for closing the subject. He paused, and then gave him a challenging look,
"Well, it seems we're both off duty. Is the river still there?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Foyle's face,
"As far as I know, it's still there."

"Good. I had an idea."

"What's that?"

"My Reuben Leonard with one of your flies."

"Humh. An Anglo/American plan of attack?"

"What'd'ya think?"

"Worth a try. …Only the trout will tell."

The two friends sipped their drinks, and each smiled down into his glass.

END