She surfaced in the pre-dawn darkness to an awareness that today she had reasons to be cheerful. She'd been woken by her phone, an early call out, which was not unusual. She knew today was his return to duty. He was back. Exciting. She showered, she dressed, she picked up her briefcase, slipped on her shoes and left the house with a fond glance back. She loved her home and garden. She loved Oxford too and drove to the scene listening to Radio 4 and enjoying the wide roads devoid of traffic at this early hour.
En route thoughts turned to Robbie. Laura knew him from her early days working in the city. She'd witnessed Morse's right hand man find himself once his boss died on the job. Some felt Morse mistreated Robbie, but he brought out in him a natural learning curve, filled with respect and bordering on love at the end. He learned from his intelligent, analytical approach; he learned how to conduct the painstaking unravelling of a case, even when it went against the advice of Strange and Robbie blossomed into the most respected man in the Oxford CID. OK Morse had his faults: he had an eye for women and was regularly sidetracked and distracted, but that's when Robbie came into his own and was able to give his boss a nudge, a shove even, in the direction of the killer. He learned his craft, he felt, from a master. He had the advantage of a genial manner: a trait rarely seen in Morse who was all too frequently unsympathetic. He showed kindness to strangers and wasn't easily fooled. He'd sift and shift the clues until he got it.
All that was before Val was killed. The extent to which his world was rocked by her untimely death came as no surprise to Laura. He'd always given the impression he was a loving husband and family man. The hit and run caused Robbie to flee, to escape the hell that Oxford became in its aftermath. He couldn't bear to be in the house; he couldn't bear to be out of it. He was off work for months on compassionate grounds. Wrecked, he packed up their home and sold it. Morse had left him a substantial inheritance which meant he could take time out and if he ever wanted to return to the south, which was home to him in a way that Newcastle wasn't any more, he had the means to do so.
Laura thought often of her history with Robbie. They were friends, she knew that. He turned to her too and saw in her a fellow minded professional who could give her all to the job in hand. She sought to amuse him by adding levity to the frequently gruesome evidence. You'd go under if you didn't. Morse was no bundle of fun and his bagman liked a laugh and a joke. She took pleasure in sparring with Morse and exuded silent sympathy for Robbie whenever he became whipping boy. Morse didn't always treat Laura well either and she was often on the receiving end of his lack of finesse with women unless he had an eye for them. Then he could and would bend the rules, compromise his principles and police procedure and seek out a date, a drinking partner, even a dance. Morse respected Laura Hobson though - valued her judgement and soon realised she was far more up to date than Max had been - but to him she was wallpaper, he barely saw the woman. At first Laura tried to win him over with flirting and inviting him for drinks, but once she got the measure of him she gave up - not her type at all - and made a connection with his sergeant instead. They bore the brunt of his acerbic tongue together and joined forces when they found themselves in the line of fire. They teased each other but she readily gave him her expert opinion and he valued her. Thus Laura, younger, sparky and attractive, found a mate in Robbie Lewis and all this came flooding back as she drove to the scene.
Then, Robbie had been in control of himself and his life. He was happy, amiable, outgoing, not easily provoked. He liked a beer but didn't overdo it. He could be angry when it was justified but could keep the lid on things too. Moderation in all things was the name of his game. That was then. Val's death set in motion an understandable decline in which he could barely contain his anger and frustration and in the days before his secondment to the BVI he started drinking too much. Late, late nights in which it was not unusual for him to down a bottle of whisky. He couldn't bear to let go of the day. Hated bed and sleep and the bad dreams which filled the brief hours until morning and another empty day rolled round once more. At his lowest ebb he realised how futile his life has become. Robbie knew this spiral of despair could ruin any future so he opted for time out, a couple of years away as a last resort. If that didn't work, and he didn't have any confidence that it would, he would drink himself to death. He would give up the job, take early retirement which was the norm for police in their fifties and leave the world as he knew it behind. He loved his kids but they were neither dependent or a regular feature of his life. And then fate stepped in.
The BVI helped. With lovely weather for most of the year, warm seas to swim in and sport which ratcheted up the endorphins in him, Robbie was forced to forget, albeit briefly, the terrible depression, lethargy and anger that came hand in hand with grief. Not least in this process was pleasant, undemanding company. To start with he felt an overwhelming apathy. He sought no social life throughout the first year, but where the need arose he went out. He was polite. He always left early. Gradually things began to change. He bought a small boat and made friends, probably acquaintances is more accurate, at the yacht club. The men were all married. He didn't meet a woman he thought twice about. As time passed, home and Oxford, and increasingly, and to his surprise, Laura, played in the back of his mind. He wrote a few times and she responded. Weekends away, playing or watching cricket, sailing, swimming, snorkelling, golfing all helped him forget. He might have gone through the motions at first but life wasn't all bad and slowly the clouds lifted. Though he feared he would never return to normal spirits again, imperceptibly chinks appeared in his grief-stricken persona.
Robbie did well. He worked long hours but if the truth be told he found it easier than at home. He was never out of his depth. A smaller island, fewer people, somehow a less devious community than Oxford academics. Murderers yes, but nothing that stretched him too much. The scale of his bitterness and resentment became less consuming. The BVI had surreptitiously worked its magic on him until one day even paradise palled and Robbie felt it was time to go home. More than that he wanted to go home, to be a DI, to try to find a meaningful life in Oxford again. Home meant Oxford. He knew that. He was partially healed and would face whatever lay ahead. He'd come a long way in more ways than one.