A/N: Just to prevent any confusion, this story is complete in itself (you should have 2 chapters),
but forms the first part of a trilogy set in S4. Enjoy! :)
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Three Crimes Trilogy
One – Burglary
By Joodiff
"Please, I've had enough," Grace finally announces, holding her hands up in mock-surrender.
"All right, all right," Boyd says, just a little gruffly. "Give it a rest, all of you. Grace has had enough. No more nail jokes."
"Sorry, Grace," Mel and Frankie say simultaneously, but they're both still grinning.
Spencer Jordan puts his just-emptied pint glass down and says, "Yeah, sorry, Grace. We're just letting off steam… Celebrating nailing another case."
"Stop it," Grace says in a firm voice. Leaning down, she picks up her handbag and announces, "Right, I'm off. I've got a whole weekend of quiet, soothing research planned, so if you could all avoid stumbling across anything which needs urgent investigation, I'd really appreciate it."
"Suits me," Spencer says with a wide grin. "I've got some serious partying to do."
"That's just sad, Spence," Mel says, elbowing him in the ribs. "At your age."
"Now then, children," Grace says as she stands up. She pulls her coat on, glances at her watch and says, "Have a great weekend, everyone. See you bright and early Monday morning. 'Night."
A chorus of goodnights follows her as she walks across the saloon bar of the Black Dog, heading for the door. A moment later, she's gone. Boyd finishes his drink, stands up himself, "I'm going to make a move, too."
"Hey, it's your round," Spencer complains.
Boyd ignores him, says, "Frankie, you want a lift?"
She nods, finishes her own drink, "Great, thanks."
Mel rolls her eyes, "And then there were two. You want to go down to the Redmond for an hour or two, Spence?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Just make sure you both make it as far as the office on Monday morning," Boyd warns them. "C'mon, Frankie, let's go."
"Give me a chance," Frankie complains, struggling into her coat. She pulls a face at her colleagues.
-oOo-
The rain is getting heavier as they drive south across Tower Bridge and Frankie is not impressed. She and Boyd both live south of the river, she near Southwark Park, he in Greenwich, and although it's hardly a daily occurrence, it's not unheard of for her to grab the occasional lift from him. Ordinarily, however, he drops her off on the main road and she walks the rest of the short distance home. Tonight, though, she realises, she's going to get soaked in the deluge. It genuinely doesn't occur to her to ask him to drive out of his way just to save her from the indignity, so she sits in silence, sulkily contemplating the sheer volume of water falling from the sky and splashing up from the road.
When he flips the indicator on and makes a smooth right turn, she glances at him, genuinely startled. Succinctly, he says, "You'll drown out there."
Frankie relaxes, says, "Thanks, Boyd."
"No problem."
Only a few minutes later, they're in her street, and Frankie can see the outline of the big, Victorian building – long converted into flats – where she's lived for the past six years. For a moment the familiarity of the view deceives her, but then she freezes in her seat and says quietly, "Boyd…"
He glances at her, "What?"
Frankie nods at the building ahead of them and says, "The lights in my flat are on. And before you ask, no, they weren't on when I left this morning, and no, no-one has a spare key."
Boyd doesn't answer immediately, simply slows the car and noses it gently into the side of the road. Switching off the ignition, he says, "Fair enough. Let's go and take a look, shall we?"
-oOo-
The moment they step onto the landing, Frankie can see that her front door is standing ajar. Her first instinct is to rush towards it, ready to challenge any intruder, but without saying a word, Boyd blocks her with a quick side-step, placing her firmly behind him. Even as distracted as she is, Frankie is fascinated by the change in him. The wryly affable, off-duty colleague sharing a few drinks at the end of the working week is gone, replaced by the tough, experienced police officer she knows only too well. His shoulders are set square as he moves silently but decisively towards the door.
Keeping behind him, she watches as Boyd cautiously pushes the door further open. There's no movement, no sound from within the flat, and after a second or two he steps through the doorway into the large, open-plan room beyond. Frankie follows him, taking in the chaos in silence. The room looks as if it has been hit by a small tornado, furniture and possessions strewn everywhere. Silently, Boyd points towards the door on the far side of the room. Frankie mouths 'bedroom'; he nods and prowls towards it. Reasoning that if she walks straight into trouble Boyd is close by, Frankie checks the bathroom herself. No intruder. The chaos isn't as great, but the room has certainly been searched.
Boyd's voice makes her jump as he calls, "There's no-one here."
Frankie joins him back in the main room, putting her hands on her hips as she slowly surveys the mess. She says, "Well, this is just a great start to the bloody weekend."
"Anything obvious missing?"
"Not that I can see, but given the state of the place… Oh, wait," Frankie says, carefully stepping through the carnage without disturbing anything. She sighs, "Looks like my laptop's gone."
Boyd shoots her a look, "What was on it?"
"Mostly personal, but some stuff I'd brought home on a USB key. The BIOS is password protected, though, so it's not as easy as simply guessing the log-in."
"I'll call DCI O'Donnell at Rotherhithe nick," Boyd says, producing his phone. "Get their SOCOs over."
"I can – "
He shakes his head, "No, Frankie, you can't. This isn't our jurisdiction, and even if it was – "
"Oh, I know," Frankie says irritably. She looks around again, taking in not just the disorder but the damage. With heartfelt venom, she says, "Fuck."
-oOo-
"Chances are, it's just a straightforward burglary," Andrew O'Donnell says. "We've had a spate of them in this area over the last fortnight. But since you work for the Home Office, Doctor Wharton, we're going to need time to conduct a thorough examination of the whole flat to be certain that's the case."
"Yeah, I know," Frankie says unhappily. She's standing on the landing with O'Donnell and Boyd. Several of her neighbours have already been questioned by O'Donnell's DS, a tall, slim young man with fiercely red hair. And given the lateness of the hour, those neighbours are far from pleased at the level of activity currently going on just outside their doors. She sighs for what feels like the millionth time and says, "You're sealing my flat?"
"I'm afraid so," O'Donnell says, sounding apologetic.
"You know the drill, Frankie," Boyd says quietly.
"Yeah. Okay, well, I'd better get on with trying to find somewhere to sleep tonight, then, hadn't I? You'll call me if there are any developments?"
"Of course, Doctor Wharton," O'Donnell assures her.
Turning her back on her front door, Frankie walks determinedly towards the stairs. There's nothing else she can do. She looks at her watch. Past midnight on a wet Friday night in London. Starting the descent of the stairs, she contents herself with a litany of muttered curses. She hears Boyd's feet on the stairs behind her and glances over her shoulder, "Know any good hotels?"
He says, "Do you want to makes some calls? I can give you a lift somewhere."
Frankie shrugs and carries on descending, "No point. My sister's out of town and I don't want start ringing round anyone else at this time of night. I'll find a hotel."
There's a short silence from behind her, then a gruff, rather awkward, "Well, if it comes to that, my spare room's empty."
Frankie processes the words carefully, trying to decide on an appropriate response. On the one hand, it's certainly a good offer, and on the other… not so good. Refusing to look round at him, she says, "Thanks, Boyd, but I can hear you mentally kicking yourself for that one from here."
"I was actually serious," he says, still sounding rather gruff. "Fuck's sake, Frankie, it's raining, it's the middle of the bloody night and I'm not about to let you go walking round London on your own looking for somewhere to stay, so you might just as well come home with me and save me all the driving around."
They reach the bottom of the stairs. Even with the street door closed, Frankie can hear the wind and the rain. She says, "I don't know, Boyd…"
He gives her a look, says, "Christ, what on earth do you think's going to happen to you? I'm a respectable, middle-aged police officer, for God's sake."
"In your dreams, Boyd. Well, the respectable bit, anyway," Frankie says, opening the street door. If anything, the rain is even heavier and even though it's a summer storm, the temperature has dropped considerably. She weighs up her options for a moment. Common sense tells her to start calling hotels. She says, "I'll never live it down."
"Just get in the damned car, Frankie."
-oOo-
"Woah," Frankie says as he pulls the car onto the drive. "Nice place. They obviously pay you way too much, Boyd."
"Nice place, big mortgage," Boyd says, unbuckling his seatbelt. He gets out, opens the rear door and starts rummaging around on the back seat. By the time Frankie's out of the car, he's juggling briefcase, laptop, a clutch of manila folders and his keys. She decides offering to help probably isn't a good idea and simply follows him up the steps to the imposing front door.
Watching him go to work on the locks, she says, "Fortress Boyd, eh?"
"For some reason there seem to be a lot of people around who don't like me. Wait there while I turn the alarm off."
Frankie isn't altogether sure what to expect, but once inside she realises the house is disappointingly normal. Neutral colours, good quality furniture, period features. The kind of place any estate agent would love. And it seems that its occupant lives a pretty mundane life, too – daily paper and empty coffee mug still on the coffee table next to a pile of unopened bills; a stack of paperwork on the dining table, a small pile of CDs dumped on one of the speakers of a very expensive music system. Lamentably ordinary, in fact.
"What?" Boyd says, sounding a touch defensive.
Realising he's noticed her detailed scrutiny of the room, Frankie says quickly, "Nothing. Just curious, that's all."
"Contrary to popular belief," he says with dignity, "I do have a life outside my office. You want a drink?"
"Actually, that would be good. This has not been the best evening of my life."
"Scotch or brandy? Or there may still be a beer in the fridge."
Frankie flashes a grin at him, "You own a fridge, Boyd? Bloody hell."
"Hilarious, Frankie," he says dryly.
-oOo-
It's a while and several drinks later.
"Bastards," Frankie says with the purposeful solemnity of the more than slightly inebriated. "You know what I'm gonna do if O'Donnell catches them? I'm going to get some of those nine-inch nails and – "
"No, no, no," Boyd says, waving a languid hand in the air. "I'm all done with the nails thing. No, we'll just stick 'em in an interview room alone with Grace for an hour or two. That'll get them screaming for mercy."
Frankie blinks slowly, says, "But Grace is lovely."
"Did I say she wasn't?"
She's curled in a large and exceptionally comfortable easy chair, and she raises her head to stare at him properly. Boyd's sprawled on the sofa, feet up, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, half-empty glass resting on his chest. In the half-light of the table lamp that's providing the room's only illumination, he looks shadowy and more than a little lupine. Mentally deciding to blame it squarely on the amount of Scotch she's consumed, Frankie asks, "So come on, then, Boyd, why aren't you and Grace together?"
Dark eyes fix on her steadily, and just as she's absolutely certain he's not going to favour her with any kind of an answer, he says, "Let's just say that the lady's extremely discerning."
Frankie grins and says, "Ouch."
He sighs with more than a hint of dramatic flair, "She says I have commitment issues."
"Yeah, well she's right, isn't she?"
Boyd glares at her, but the expression is very obviously feigned. "Thanks for that. Kick a man when he's down, why don't you?"
Frankie studies him, noting how relaxed he appears to be on his own territory, how very different from the man he is at work. Maybe it's just the whiskey, maybe not. She says, "You really don't help yourself by flirting with every woman in the building, Boyd."
"Oh, you know I'd never dare flirt seriously with anyone but you, Frankie," he says with a quick grin. It's a distinctly boyish expression, and it momentarily knocks years off him.
"Yeah, right," Frankie says dryly.
They lapse into a companionable silence. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes two o'clock, making Frankie jump. She yawns, sits herself up straight, "Come on, then, where's this spare room of yours?"
"Give me a minute to lock up, and I'll show you."
-oOo-
"This is a really big house for one man," Frankie says, trailing along the landing after him, mentally counting the number of doors. Through the pleasant alcohol haze, she abruptly realises what she's said – she's seen the pictures of Boyd's ex-wife with their missing son prominently displayed downstairs. She winces, says quickly, "Fuck. Sorry, that was unbelievably tactless."
"It was," Boyd agrees, but there's no rancour in his tone. Frankie suspects that he's a little more sober than she is, but the drinks have certainly softened some of his sharper edges. He jerks a thumb towards one of the doors, "Main bathroom. You're quite safe; I have an en suite."
"Okay. Are you going to tell me which is your room so I don't accidentally walk in on you when I get lost trying to find the spare room again?" Frankie asks, in the most ingenuous tone she can muster.
The look he gives her can best be described as enigmatic, she decides. He says, "End door on the right. You won't miss it – it'll be the one that's securely locked from the inside."
"Worried about your virtue, Boyd?" Frankie teases him.
"No," he says smoothly, and something very feral is suddenly glinting in his eyes. "Worried about yours."
Catalytic moment. One that seems to last indefinitely.
There wasn't much space between them anyway, and now there seems to be even less. Worse, Frankie realises that her heart-rate has abruptly increased. Bad idea, an urgent, completely sober voice in her head says quickly. Very bad idea, Frankie…
"We can't do this," she says abruptly, wishing she was more dedicated to the idea.
Boyd doesn't move, just agrees solemnly, "No, we can't."
"We really can't do this," Frankie says, resolutely trying to convince herself.
She wishes, fervently, that Boyd would simply step back, putting a safe distance between them, but he remains absolutely still, not speaking, just watching. It's too much to bear. Impulsively, and before she can think about changing her mind, Frankie says, "God, I want you…"
The speed and ferocity of his response astounds her, and a vague part of her mind wonders why. Peter Boyd is, after all, extremely notorious for being fiery and volatile. It's always fascinated her – his unpredictability, his capacity for exploding into action or fury without any hint of warning.
There are too many sensations. The solid wall pressing against her back, the heat and strength of him as he kisses her, the unambiguous male hardness trapped between them; the smell of him – whiskey and musk, a hint of sweat, a lingering trace of expensive soap. More – the feel of his hair, soft and dense as she buries her fingers in it, the roughness of his beard, the feel of his hand on her breast. All of it cutting deftly through the alcohol and going deep into her blood.
Very, very bad idea, the sober voice in her head says again. Frankie, are you crazy? This man is your boss… you know, the one who's always shouting at you to make the impossible possible, the one who signs your expense claims at the end of the month… The one you have to work with every day…
She doesn't care, and the sudden realisation is liberating. It sets her free from any lingering inhibitions, allows her to drop a hand to his belt buckle, to quickly work it loose. Boyd twists, faster than Frankie thinks possible, breaking the kiss and grasping her wrist firmly, preventing any further ingress. Something very primitive is blazing in the depths of his eyes, something fierce and savage – but there's a clear question there, too.
Frankie answers it with an unintentionally husky, "End door on the right...?"
-oOo-
continued…