DISCLAIMER: I own nothing


Two Steps Forward

by Joodiff


ONE

There are definitely far better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, even a cold, wet November Sunday afternoon, but Grace has never been one to shy away from her obligations. A promise is a promise. Besides, there are a couple of fringe benefits on offer, including the solemn pledge of a home-cooked dinner later, and she's well-aware that given the right incentive, Peter Boyd is a more than competent chef. Then of course he would be, she reflects, being the sort of man who simply can't bear to be considered merely average at anything. She is, however, beginning to query the merit of the other significant fringe benefit – the questionable pleasure of his company. His mood has steadily deteriorated over the course of the last few hours as their painstaking scrutiny of document after document has consistently failed to provide any of the clues they were both hoping to find.

"I think we're on a hiding to nothing," she says eventually, taking off her reading glasses and rubbing her tired eyes for a moment. "There's nothing here that even remotely links Fenton to any of the dead girls, or to any of the disposal sites."

"Mm," Boyd mutters, not looking up. "There's got to be something. I'm not ready to give up yet."

"You never are," Grace points out, staring at the top of his head. The short silver hair is ruffled from the number of times he's impatiently run his fingers through it in the last couple of hours. She ignores the tiny part of her mind that wonders what it would feel like to stroke it back into order. When it's obvious he's not going to reply she adds, "You do know I'm only doing this incredibly thirsty work out of the sheer goodness of my heart, don't you?"

Boyd does look up at that, expression somewhere between indulgent and irritated. "Is that a polite euphemism for 'go and put the bloody kettle on'?"

"What a good idea," she says sweetly. Massaging her temples, she continues, "Coffee, please – and I don't suppose you've got a couple of aspirin to go with it…?"

"Bathroom cabinet upstairs," Boyd informs her, selecting another slim folder from the slowly-diminishing pile.

"Upstairs?" she echoes, somewhat disconcerted by the alien concept.

He shoots her a faintly amused look. "Don't worry, I've deactivated the minefield and the armed guards don't work weekends. You'll be fine."

"You're so funny," is her sour reply as she gets to her feet. "Go and put the kettle on. Where upstairs?"

"Second on the left. If you find the torture chamber, you've gone too far."

She pats him on the shoulder in passing. "What you choose to get up to in the privacy of your own home, Boyd…"

Ascending the stairs does feel a little strange, however. A sporadic visitor to the house for more years than she cares to think about, Grace knows the downstairs layout well, but the steep, thickly-carpeted staircase has always represented a line very definitely never crossed. A palpable barrier between the part of Boyd's life that is readily accessible to her and the part that still remains firmly off-limits even after such a long acquaintanceship. Still, strange or not, she can't help inquisitively taking note of her surroundings as she heads further into his domain than she's ever dared trespass before. It's all disappointingly ordinary, of course, very much like the lower floor. A large, solidly middle-class family home that no longer has a family. She idly wonders which of the closed doors leads into his bedroom, but wisely has no intention of actually finding out.

The property's principal bathroom is no great surprise, either. It's clean and tidy and some serious money's been spent on renovating it at some point in the not too distant past but she immediately feels it could only ever really be described as elegantly unremarkable. In a way, the bland, easily-forgettable image Grace forms of the room is definitely for the best, though as she reaches for the promised bathroom cabinet's mirrored door, she is momentarily distracted by the wide array of masculine toiletries and shaving accoutrements neatly lined up on the narrow glass shelf beneath it. Pulling a face at her shameless curiosity, she determinedly returns her attention to the task in hand. Not as easy as she might have predicted, it appears. The inside of the cabinet is not as tidily ordered as expected, and she suspects that one wrong move will result in a minor avalanche of only haphazardly-stowed bits and pieces. Some of which she feels she definitely doesn't want or need to know about.

She spies the promised aspirin on the upper shelf, a generic supermarket-brand packet carelessly tucked between a couple of small unassuming cardboard boxes bearing the kind of adhesive printed labels produced by dispensing pharmacies. Unremarkable. Unfinished courses of antibiotics, maybe, or the forgotten legacy of one or other of the injuries Boyd has picked up in the line of duty during the time she's known him. Natural curiosity is one thing, wilful invasion of his privacy quite another. Grace reaches only for the aspirin, but perhaps it's not altogether surprising that the domestic disorder conspires against her and she manages to dislodge one of the unidentified packets from its place. It falls into the sink with a gentle clatter, foil-backed strips within crackling faintly as it lands. Pursing her lips in annoyance, Grace rescues the errant cardboard box. It's entirely natural to glance at the label and as she does so she momentarily freezes. Seroxat.

Paroxetine.

She stares at the packet in her hand, her mind suddenly racing. As a psychologist she is not, unlike a psychiatrist, qualified to prescribe medication, psychiatric or otherwise, but she does have an entirely necessary working knowledge of all the drugs commonly-used used throughout her field, and she knows exactly what she's looking at. A powerful modern antidepressant commonly used to treat anxiety and stress disorders, amongst other things. There's no mistaking the name and date of birth meticulously recorded on the pharmacist's label, either. Despite herself, Grace fumbles the packet open, and yes, the number of missing pills corresponds exactly with the printed date of supply.

There are a hundred questions racing through her mind, the most painful of which are how could she – an experienced mental health professional – not have suspected that… and just when did things become so bad for Boyd that he…?

"Grace?" his voice calls loudly and impatiently from the floor below. "What the bloody hell are you doing up there…?"

-oOo-

The food's good, but she picks at it listlessly and barely notices Boyd's disapproving glower as half of it remains untouched on her plate. What had the potential to be an enjoyable reward for nobly sacrificing her Sunday afternoon has become a quiet, strained purgatory as Grace silently asks herself some extremely unwelcome questions and struggles with the unpleasant notion that she has somehow failed him. In the worst possible way.

"Wine not good enough quality for you?" Boyd asks, his tone abrupt and pointed.

Grace looks up, suddenly guiltily aware of her shortcomings as a guest. He is watching her from the other side of the dining table, a touch peevish, a touch concerned. Intense dark eyes study her with intelligent ferocity and she shakes her head rapidly. "No. No, the wine's excellent. So's the food. I'm just… not quite as hungry as I thought I was."

He offers a derisive snort. "Come on, Grace… Do I look as if I was born yesterday?"

He doesn't. Late fifties, and though still a strikingly handsome man in a world-weary sort of way, now looks every single year of it. Stress, time and circumstance have aged him, no doubt about that. Grace holds his interrogative gaze for a moment then returns to toying with her food. She says, "You were saying…? About Stella…?"

"I was telling you that she's thinking about studying for her sergeant's exams," Boyd replies, "but I'm fairly certain I could have said she was seriously considering applying for the Commissioner's job and you wouldn't have raised an eyebrow. What on earth's the matter with you tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Bollocks."

Grace can't help quirking a faint smile in response to his characteristic brusqueness. Looking up again, she dares to ask, "Are you all right, Boyd? Really all right, I mean?"

He leans back in his chair and fixes her with a contemplative but guarded stare. "Any reason why I wouldn't be?"

Perhaps because it hasn't been six months yet since your only child died from a heroin overdose? Grace thinks, but instead of voicing the words she shrugs. "You just… don't seem to have been quite yourself recently, that's all."

Boyd sighs loudly and deliberately. He's never had much time for polite obfuscation. "Just spit it out, will you? If you've got something to say, just say it."

Bluntness is his specialty, not hers, but after a long pause Grace says, "All right. How long have you been taking anti-depressants?"

His expression hardens instantly, becomes closed and stubborn. "I wondered what was taking you so long upstairs. Have a good poke around, did you?"

The harsh accusation stings, but her reply is calm. "You know me better than that. How long, Boyd? Weeks? Months?"

"It's none of your damned business."

"Does the DAC know?" Grace pushes him. "Look, if you're having trouble coping – "

"I am not having trouble coping. With anything."

They glare at each other across the table, angry tension suddenly spiking between them. Genuine concern easily outweighs the urge to criticise him for his obstinacy. She tries, "I'm your friend, remember? I care about you – though sometimes I'm not exactly sure why. Why on earth didn't you talk to me?"

"Nothing to talk about," Boyd tells her, the flatness of his tone not quite concealing the obvious edge of warning. "Don't try to build this up into something it's not, Grace. I went for my annual check-up and the doctor just thought it might be a good idea for a while."

He's lying. No doubt about it. If she knows anything about Boyd at all, it's that he never volunteers personal information easily. He wouldn't make such an admission unless the unvarnished truth was even harder for him to admit. Deciding the direct approach is best, Grace sets down her knife and fork and says, "Paroxetine has all sorts of unpleasant side effects, and it's absolutely notorious for the severity of its withdrawal symptoms. No-one prescribes it on a whim, Boyd."

The glowering on the other side of the table intensifies. "And what, exactly, makes it anything to do with you?"

Ignoring the belligerent question, she asks again, "Does the DAC know?"

"Fuck off, Grace." The answer is sullen rather than irate.

"I'll take that as a no, then." Grace shakes her head. "For God's sake, Boyd – do you really need to give the Yard another stick to beat you with?"

"It's no-one's damned business but mine."

"Which might be true if you weren't in charge of – "

"Just drop it, will you?" he interrupts. The knuckles of the clenched fist resting on the table are bone white. "Jesus Christ, Grace, I'd have thought you'd be pleased, if anything. Aren't you always endlessly banging on about people making an effort to look after their mental health?"

Patience, Grace tells herself. He's pushing back to cause a fight that will deflect her attention away from the issue. Now is not the time to take the bait. She asks, "Did he offer you anything else? Counselling? Talking therapies?"

"She. And that's none of your business, either."

Probably they were offered but summarily declined. Or he agreed with no intention of attending whatever appointments were made for him. It's difficult not to sigh. "Anti-depressants aren't the answer, Boyd. Not on their own. What you've been through – "

"Don't," he raps out. His voice is hard, brittle. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Grace. Keep your pointless psycho-babble to yourself. And while you're at it, keep your damn mouth shut about the pills, too."

She understands his mounting aggression, recognises it for what it is – instinctive defence – but she's still wounded by it. His sudden vehemence reminds her of the worst of the difficult days when they could hardly bear to be in the same room together, when everything, no matter how inconsequential, seemed to lead to acrimonious words and bitter quarrels that could drag on for days. Tiring, hostile times that Grace thought they'd left behind them. Times she doesn't want to remember, times when his rudeness and insensitivity made her unnaturally spiteful in direct retaliation. They've always been able to bring out the best and worst in each other. Striving hard to remain equable, she says, "I thought we had an understanding, Boyd. You promised you wouldn't shut me out, remember?"

"Leave it, Grace," he tells her, a hollower note now colouring his voice. "I know you think you're helping, but…"

Silence intervenes and they stare at each other. The ticking from the big clock on the wall suddenly seems very loud, a stark metronome marking the spiky rhythm of their antagonism. Grace pushes her unfinished plate of food away, the scrape of china against wood discordant. "Nothing ever really changes, does it? We're supposed to be friends, but when push comes to shove, you just have to be stubborn and attempt to go it alone, don't you?"

"And you simply can't resist the temptation to attempt interfere, can you?"

Grace stands up faster than she intends, as if jerked to her feet by invisible strings. "Why do I bother trying to help you? You always throw it straight back in my face."

Boyd is on his feet, too. The table separates them, but there's still something intimidating about the height advantage he has over her. "Maybe you just need to learn a thing or two about professional boundaries, Doctor."

"Oh, that's good. Bloody hilarious, in fact, coming from you."

His expression has become thunderous, eyes glittering with barely-suppressed fury. "I won't be lectured in my own damn house, Grace. Not by anyone, and certainly not by you."

"Fine. I'm not even sure why I agreed to be here today."

"Leave then."

The note of challenge is clear in his voice. Even if it wasn't, Grace is a long way past the point of attempting to placate him. Her voice tight, she snaps back, "Oh, don't worry, Boyd; I'm going."

-oOo-

continued...