"I hope you have a child, and it dies…" Tony Greene
It is dark and gloomy in the interview room, and Grace is tired, hungry and more than a little desperate for a cup of tea. Next to her Boyd is wound so tightly with angry, heavily palpable irritation that she is, quite frankly, stunned that he hasn't simply exploded into a fit of temper yet and resorted to shouting at their thoroughly uncooperative, and very definitely guilty, stubbornly evasive suspect. They've been at this for hours, and still they have achieved nothing but the sly, smug grin on the face of James Higgins that even Grace is now beginning to wish she could knock off his lips with an emphatic and well place slap.
Higgins has narrow, light blue eyes that are too small for the oval face they are set in. Thick, bushy brows in the same reddish blonde as his wildly untamed hair are a disturbing contrast to the sharp, observant gaze. He's not a tall man, five feet and eight inches in boots, but he is heavily built with the kind of muscle that it takes years of dedicated lifting to amass. He looks like a predator, and though Grace knows there is no way to classify someone as such through their physical appearance, this is the impression she has felt since the moment she first laid eyes on his photograph. He looks like a predator, they know very well he is a predator, and there's nothing they can do about it.
They are out of time; it's as simple as that. They are going to have to let him go, and simply pray that he does not find another victim before they can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he is the serial killer they have been so diligently pursuing for weeks now. Eleven dead girls, partially strangled, thoroughly beaten, and eventually fatally stabbed through the heart. Eleven young lives, tragically ended before they were ever really started, and now there might yet be more.
It infuriates her, that sometimes this is how it goes. They all pour their hearts and souls into this job, commit more hours than anyone not blindly dedicated to their cause would even consider, and yet sometimes the circumstances are just so screwed up that not even they, experts at untangling the inordinately complex knots, can make enough of an impact. Where is the justice? Where is the balance of right and wrong they fight so hard for?
She knows the folly of these thoughts; she is, of course, absolutely aware of exactly how cold and calculating life really is, but that doesn't mean that in moments of weakness when she is tired, or frustrated, or simply just fed up with the status quo she doesn't, education and experience be dammed, privately rage against the complete injustice of it all.
Watching, outwardly serene as always, but internally fiercely enraged, as Spence escorts Mr. Higgins out of the room she can't quite suppress the feelings of age, inadequacy and pure disappointment. She knows, full well, that there is nothing else they could have done up until this point that would have enabled them to make that final arrest, but it doesn't stop the bitter, almost blinding animosity and resentment. It is days like today that make her wonder why she still does this job.
The door shuts firmly behind Spence, and Boyd does exactly what Grace feels like doing; he roars in frustration and simply picks up a chair, hurling it furiously across the room before stalking out in a whirlwind of aggrieved energy. Grace follows, much more sedate, but just as tense.
Back in the squadroom the group reconvenes in silent, introspective gloom. It's late, they are all exhausted, and the evidence board is glaring accusingly out over the room; the many pictures, scribbles and connecting lines drawn between are a taunting reminder of their failure. They sit for a while, brainstorming and diligently trying to come up with a solution, but the sad truth is that there is nothing they can do until the missing files are found and returned to them, and the DNA sequencing is complete. Eventually, they give up, dispersing into the night to go home and get some much needed rest.
…
Grace shuts her front door behind her and leans heavily against it with a deep, desperate sigh. He is there in an instant, his strong arms folding around her and clutching her tightly to his body. The sheer frustration of the day makes her bury her head into his chest, her hands clenching tightly into his coat. She is close to breaking, and they both know it. This case, on top of what is always the worst week of her year, is dragging her down and threatening to overwhelm her. Her colleagues would never guess it, but he knows. He knows everything now, and this year, she is so, so grateful to have him there with her, beside her.
She doesn't even realise she is crying, until his arms tighten perceptibly around her and she feels the choking gasping way she struggles to breathe as the tears overwhelm her. He pulls her further into his body, and the way he manages to totally envelop her in his big, strong, muscular frame comforts and calms her, makes her feel loved, protected even. Safe. Home. His chin drops to her shoulder, his head rests against hers, and the quiet simplicity of the moment goes a long way toward helping her restore the balance of her warring and disarrayed heart.
He doesn't tell her she shouldn't take it personally; that she's too involved emotionally. He simply offers comfort and understanding, because he is now intimately all too well acquainted with the same kind of pain.
…
When he wakes in the morning, she is already gone from the bed, and evidently, as the cool sheets tell him, has been for some time. He finds her in the kitchen, staring into space, cold toast untouched on the plate before her, and the kettle long since boiled but not emptied into the waiting teapot. He presses the switch, reheats the water and makes the tea.
She still hasn't said anything to him when he gently pushes the mug into her hands, and he wonders if this is how it will be for him, when that date rolls around year after year. He is still firmly stuck in the year of firsts, and the raw, biting and all-consuming first flush of grief running through him. It hasn't been long enough for his sorrow to settle into the kind of long term but no longer fresh pain she carries with her.
"Grace," he murmurs quietly, and she looks up at him, her eyes dull with the wash of memories. He doesn't have the words, so instead he puts a hand on either side of her face and leans down, pressing his lips slowly and lingeringly to her forehead, letting her know he is there, and if there is anything, anything at all, that he can do to help her, he will. She knows it, and the way she reaches up and wraps a trembling hand around his wrist, he knows she knows. And she is eternally grateful for it.
…
Every year she allows herself one day, the seventh of October, to lose herself in the gut-wrenching, heart-breaking emotion of her loss. Today is that day, and as she leaves the house and drives to her first destination the misery in her heart flares from its normal time tempered low levels to that overwhelming devastation that comes with that first moment of comprehension of the totality of loss.
It never gets any better; it only gets easier to live with. The drive is just over an hour and a half, but she does it on autopilot. The same stretch of beach, early in the morning, every year. She walks for a long, long time. Walks and remembers. Memories flood her senses, threaten to overwhelm her. It is awful, yet at the same time it is wonderful. They were happy here, so, so happy, so many times. And it is a great and terrible thing to remember. It is a privilege, and a horror.
She walks and she remembers and she cries. The tears burn her eyes, and wrack her body. They leave her breathless and gasping, clutching her chest in agony as she continues to walk. But they also sooth her soul and cleanse her spirit. Grief is stunningly painful, but it serves to remind her of just how much she had, what she experienced. And she wouldn't trade it for anything. And in some strange way, on this day every year, when she walks and breaks down in sobs of unreserved anguish, she remembers with enhanced clarity all the tiny details that seem to regress from her memory the more time passes.
The air is cold and heavily scented with brine, the sand is wet and shifting beneath her feet, and the sea stretches infinitely away from her, a churning swelling mass of water that hides so many secrets as she continues to walk beside it, lost in memories and despair. She walks until the tears have subsided, leaving a centred calm behind that is almost liberating. She hasn't forgotten- and she never will- but she has learned how to live with her loss. She had to, and it was a hard lesson she has to remind herself of every time it gets to be too much.
…
"Where's Grace?" Stella asks Boyd as they crowd around the evidence board that morning, suitably refreshed, revived and ready to continue on with the chase. They will get him, of that each and every one of them is certain. There is a steely determination in the air; they are keenly aware of what is at stake here and they are desperate to finally get Higgins. Weeks of combing through the atrocities that are his crimes have shadowed all their hearts, and yesterday's debacle, though not their fault, has left them hungry for justice and perhaps even a hint of revenge.
"Not here," he mumbles absently, trying to focus on a line of thought that is just slightly too far out of his grasp to make sense.
"Sir?" Stella is understandably confused. Grace is missing, and no one but Boyd knows why. Eve is watching him with an unreadable expression on her equally enigmatic features, and if he wasn't so preoccupied, he would wonder if she has possibly guessed where Grace might be. Then again, he knows it is highly unlikely Grace has shared her secret with anyone, even Eve. Close friends the two of them may be, but even he didn't know until a few months ago.
Spence is as openly confused as Stella. And rightly so, really. They are firmly entrenched in the critical point of a messy and brutal case, and a key member of their team is suspiciously absent.
"It's the seventh," Boyd says, still firmly, pensively engrossed in his musings and thus not really paying attention. "Grace doesn't work on the seventh of October."
"What?" Spencer is perplexed, and a little incredulous too. They are, after all, in the middle of a murder enquiry. His tone brings Boyd firmly out of his thoughts, and as he surveys his team and their expressions, he can't help but think he may have just said too much.
"She asked for the day off," he says, bluntly dismissive, and determined to get everyone back on track. "Months ago. Can we get back to work now?"
…
Lunch time has been and gone by the time she returns to her car to start the next phase of her journey. She's still lost in her thoughts, and she drives back toward London in silence, the normally comforting sound of the radio eschewed to make room for her contemplative mood.
It's getting close to three o'clock when she arrives at the cemetery, and though the day is still bright, the air is bitingly cold and crisp, despite the lack of any discernible breeze. She leaves her car in a side street and makes her way not to the main entrance of the hallowed grounds, but to a smaller side gate from where she can quietly and unobtrusively wander through the rows and aisles of headstones, standing in their imposing and gloomy silence, to the one she seeks, the one she could find, after so many years and so many visits, with her eyes closed and the world devoid of light.
It rests beside a tree, the stone she is here to see. It's an oak, hundreds of years old, appropriately enormous and comfortably knowing in its old age. She has always liked the tree, has always been grateful for its location beside the grave. The huge branches cast shadows over the plot in a manner that is comfortingly protective, and in earlier years she spent a lot of time sitting at the base of the tree, sheltered from the outside world as she learned to come to terms with her grief.
She stands silently at the foot of the grave, staring at the deeply etched words carved into the simple, elegant marker. She doesn't need to look- she could close her eyes and picture them with perfect clarity if she chose to do so- but she does anyway. Part of grieving is facing up to the truth, something she knows only too well in a professional sense, but had to learn the hard way that it is much more difficult to accept in a personal capacity.
"Happy birthday," she says quietly, simply. She has no more tears to cry now; the beach, the morning, is for that. For tears and memories and the harsh pervading sense of grief.
Now it is time for quiet reflection, and so she stands there, wrapped tightly in her thick winter coat, gazing calmly and steadily at the words before her, and she reflects.
…
Philippa Baker is fifteen years old. She's tall, athletic and captain of her school's netball team. She's quiet, friendly and a dedicated student. She has type one diabetes, loves animals and wants to be a vet. Her eyes are a light, cheerful brown, just like her hair and she smiles often. She volunteers with the RSPCA on Saturday mornings, and has a loveable, scruffy border terrier she walks every morning and evening. Maggie, the terrier, and Philippa are inseparable, which is why, when the dog makes it home without her mistress, the alarm is raised. Philippa is missing.
…
Boyd doesn't want to call her. He knows how important today is, that this is how she chooses to deal with her loss, and he absolutely, wholeheartedly respects it. And under any other circumstances he wouldn't even dream of interrupting her, but he is desperate.
She answers after the fourth ring and her voice is still raw with emotion, but there is no hint of irritation or distress at being disturbed.
"Are you ok?" he asks gently, and she can feel the genuine concern in his tone.
"Not really," she replies honestly. "But I will be." He can feel his chest tighten as he rests his head in his hand, hating what he is about to ask of her.
"Grace… I'm sorry… I," he begins, and then finds he can't finish the sentence. This is so wrong, on so many levels.
"What's the matter Peter?" she asks quietly, reading his anxious tone easily. She knows him. Understands him. And it's all too obvious to her when something is wrong. She hears him take a deep breath.
"He's got another one." That short, simple statement is enough to punch through the quiet composure she has finally returned to. Her heart aches sharply and her eyes swim with the sudden reappearance of tears she had thought were done for the day. The headstone is suddenly blurry in her obscured vision, and that's when the biting anger of the previous day returns, and with it a swirling, furious determination to bring James Higgins down once and for all.
"I'll be half an hour," she says tightly and hangs up, dropping her phone back into her pocket. She stands a moment more, defiantly forcing away the tears until her vision clears and she can stare, just for a few more seconds, at the details before her. And maybe that's the moment when everything changes. The extra few seconds she waits give opportunity and potential to another person, one whose intentions are far less honourable than hers.
…
Detective Superintendent Esther Cohen started her police career at the same time as Boyd; they graduated from Hendon in the same class and simultaneously worked their way up the ranks with exactly the same grim tenacity and fierce devotion to the job and to justice. For the last several years she has worked for the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, heading her own team specialising in murders, abductions and missing persons. When Philippa Baker disappeared, and the connection was made, she was Boyd's first call. Following Higgins methodology, they have only two days to find the girl, and the more eyes the better he reasoned. With the search for Philippa headed by Esther and her specialist team, the CCU could continue to concentrate on catching Higgins.
Boyd and Esther have been friends since their very first day at police training college, and Eve can see why as she watches the pair of them together. Esther's team swarmed into the CCU's basement lair in a flurry of controlled activity; they sat calmly and listened to the briefing from Boyd and his team, asked all the right questions and politely took the offered files of information. And then they promptly swarmed back out again, heading back to their own operations base. With the exception of Esther, who stayed behind to talk to Boyd.
Watching them, Eve has to suppress a laugh; Esther can't possibly be more than five feet tall, and is equally slender. Physically she's the complete opposite of Boyd, light gray-blue eyes, pale blonde hair and gentle features. She's composed entirely of soft curves and quiet lines. She looks like someone's softly spoken mother or doting aunt. Until she opens her mouth and Eve can see unerringly why the friendship and easy rivalry between the two of them has always been something of a Met legend. For such a tiny woman, Esther bellows with equal ferocity, and swears with equivalent enthusiasm. She even moves from place to place with that same explosive energy, though she is definitely lighter on her feet and a lot more graceful.
The entire exchange is quick and fluid; and Eve can see that Esther's team is just as tightknit and well suited to the task at hand as the CCU is. The similarities in the management style of the two leaders are apparent, and clearly responsible for the way the two groups are immediately able to work together without even the merest hint of friction. Feeling a little as though she has been swept up in a whirlwind and then spat back out again, Eve takes a seat in the squadroom that only an hour ago was suddenly jam-packed full of people and is now just as suddenly empty again. She is reminded strongly of why the mad rush of time sensitive cases has never appealed to her, and why old and very cold investigations that quite often take their time to unfold so calmly and methodically are much more welcome.
Across the room, Esther shouts something into her phone before hanging up decisively and very abruptly on the caller. Boyd laughs at whatever it is she tells him, the scowl on her face an odd contrast to her pretty features and suddenly she grins, gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder and charges off, the doors banging loudly shut behind her. Eve is fervently glad that she wasn't around to witness the two of them training together. Or anything else, that may or may not be true, according to the grapevine.
…
The arm that wraps around her throat is thick, heavy and ripples with muscle under the anonymous black fleece she can feel pressed tightly against her skin. She initially struggles, of course she does- it's only instinct after all- but it does no good. She is held, tight and fast, by someone much heavier and stronger than she. No chance of escape, none whatsoever.
She can't breathe, the single arm is so tightly wrapped around her neck, and she begins to panic. Her vision fogs, and this time it is not from tears, but from lack of oxygen. She can't concentrate on anything; her thought processes are utterly disrupted and that frightens her more than the arm slowly choking the life out of her. She has always relied on her brain and superior intellectual abilities to get her through the many and varied situations she has faced throughout her life and career.
One thought makes it through the haze, one single command. Stop. So she does, whether by instinct, or choice she couldn't say, but she does. She stops struggling and just lets her body fall limp, and, incredibly, the pressure lessens. The barest hint of a breath is greedily sucked in by her starved, aching lungs and when the arm suddenly loosens its grip entirely she pitches forward, her knees give out and she slams to the ground, daggers of pain shooting up her thighs as her knees scream in protest.
A hand grasps the back of her neck, and its grip is brutally strong, so strong that when something, a foot or a knee, she doesn't know which, slams into her back she doesn't topple forward, but is instead yanked backward into the blow. Agony flares, and for a few interminable moments she thinks she is going to pass out, but she doesn't and eventually she is able to focus on the fact that she is being dragged upright.
"Get up Doctor Foley," a deep, masculine voice hisses in her ear. It's Higgins; she recognizes that instantly, though she knew it was him from the first moment his arm wrapped around her throat.
"The girl," she gasps, her throat raw and her lungs burning with the effort of forcing the words out. Her head is spinning with a disorienting mixture of pain, breathlessness and shock, and she feels more than hears him laugh. It's a horribly, disturbingly empty sound that sends a prickle of fear down her spine.
"I'll play with her later," he assures her, and the steady, even tone of his voice, laced with hints of excitement and anticipation revolts her, makes her stomach turn. Some recess of her mind that is not yet overwhelmed by the physical onslaught of the situation reminds her to keep him talking. It's the only thing she can do, after all; she has no hope of escaping him. None at all. He is bigger, younger, faster and infinitely stronger. He has extensive military combat training, and years of experience in restraining and subduing his victims.
He also has the cold, calculating mind of a predator, one Grace is very familiar with, especially after spending hours sequestered away in an interview room with him yesterday. So perhaps there is still a chance of her regaining the upper hand here.
She doesn't ask him why. It's a pointless question they both know the answer to.
"And then what?" she wants to know. Behind her, he shrugs and the hand that has replaced the arm around her throat tightens perceptibly. Not enough to cut off her air supply again, but enough to cause a dull, throbbing pain that spreads upwards, making her head ache fiercely. She blinks, clinging tightly to her thoughts, determined not to succumb.
"Then I find another one," is the indifferent reply.
"It's not enough though, is it?" she probes, determined to keep him going. He's made one big mistake so far; he hasn't restrained both of her hands. Maybe he's over confident, maybe he's just dismissive of her abilities because she's older and seemingly a lot more frail than the healthy, athletic girls in their early teens he favours. Maybe he's forgetting himself because he is no longer following his pattern and it's thrown him off balance. Or maybe this is rushed, and not meticulously planned like the others. Whatever it is, he has made that one critical mistake.
"It's not the same anymore, is it?" she asks him as she slowly slides her hand toward her pocket. "The rush isn't as powerful, doesn't last as long, does it?"
He snarls a reply and his fingers tighten a little more, but he's listening.
"So?" he demands. "Maybe I'm just out of practice." He laughs, and it's a horrible, eerie sound that rolls though the deserted graveyard, fading away between the endless rows of tombstones. Her skin is prickling with fear, but there's a feeling of triumph there as her fingers close around the cold, hard plastic of her mobile.
He has a point; until six weeks ago he was in jail for an unrelated offence. Eight years inside; long enough for the trail to go cold and the eleven dead girls to come to the top of the CCU's pile. It's just a coincidence that at the same time they were starting to delve into his crimes, he was suddenly back on the streets and desperate to start the chase all over again.
"Maybe I'm just in too much of a hurry this time," he continues, savagely twisting the wrist caught in his free hand until she can't stop the gasping groan of pain from bubbling past her lips. He smirks, victorious for just a moment.
"Why's that?" she wants to know, her fingers ghosting over the keypad. "You're meticulous. Methodical. You plan carefully and for a long time. You follow, and you observe, long before you make a move." He's listening, she knows it, and he's considering her question. It's buying her a little time.
Grace would never claim to be a tech genius, but she has come a long way since the days when computers were a confusing opponent that made the job harder rather than easier. Never one to back down from a challenge, and knowing full well that the world was heading in the direction of ever increasing dependence on technology, she gave in and resigned herself to obtaining the skills and working knowledge sufficient to keep up to date. And that familiarity with technology is a wonderful thing to have, she is now realising as she visualises in her head the layout of her phone and blindly redials the last number to call her.
"Maybe I did my research elsewhere, Doctor Foley. Eight years in jail is a long time to be deprived of a favourite hobby." His description of the murders sends a shiver of fear down her spine, but she says nothing, keeps listening. "It's a long time to plan revenge too," he tells her smoothly.
"I had nothing to do with your conviction," she tells him.
"Oh, I know that," he drawls, almost lazily, as though the connection should be obvious. "But Boyd did."
That makes no sense; Grace knows Boyd had nothing to do with the investigation that sent Higgins down. They went over the details of his arrest when he filtered onto their radar as a possible suspect.
"How?" Grace asks, confused. It's evidently the wrong thing to say though, because Higgins is suddenly furious. Without speaking, he yanks on both of her arms, hauling them behind her back and there isn't time to let go of the phone in her grip before her hand is pulled from her pocket. It clatters to the ground, face down and he grinds it into pieces under his heal.
"Thinking of phoning a friend?" he sneers in her ear, his breath hot and sour against her skin. "Or perhaps someone more… meaningful?"
And she knows, right then and there, that Higgins knows. About her and Boyd. Peter. He's using her to get even with Boyd. And maybe he's spent eight years planning his revenge, but his knowledge of their relationship must be recent, and that's why this has that hint of the unplanned when she compares it with everything else she knows about his previous attacks.
"He's going to regret this for the rest of his life," Higgins whispers to her. "I was going to kill him instead, but then I saw the two of you and I thought of a better way to make him suffer. It was too easy to find out about your little secret here," he mocks, and Grace has to fight every suddenly raging instinct not to lash out, or struggle, or do anything stupid when his booted foot kicks the flowers resting serenely on top of the grave, and they tumble away, petals falling lifelessly from their stems, scattering loosely over the grassy earth.
"You must have hated this case," he taunts her, and she closes her eyes, determined to give him nothing. And while her heart is screaming at the injustice of it all, her calmly logical brain is still defiantly working away, desperately thinking of a way, any possible way, out of this situation.
"So you kill me, and the girl, and then what?" she demands. "What happens after that? What do you do then?"
Not what he expected her to say. She isn't begging him for her life like the rest of them do, and it's confusing. His intent is momentarily side-tracked as he considers her words.
"I find another one," he says, without really thinking about it.
"And you watch Boyd suffer?" she pushes.
"Yes," the reply is decisive, and vindictive. Classic revenge.
"It won't work, you know," she tells him, almost conversational.
"Of course it will. He's going to rue the day he met me, every last lonely day of the rest of his life."
Grace shakes her head a fraction, and Higgins growls in irritation.
"It won't make you feel any better," she continues, and she can feel the hooks of his attention sinking firmly in. Whether he wants to or not, he's becoming firmly interested in what she has to say.
"Why?' he demands at last.
"Because grief is boring," she explains. "And watching someone grieve is even more tedious. You won't get anything out of it, and it certainly won't bring back the time you lost."
She's got his attention, and in the end that's probably the second thing today thing that goes firmly against her. Because when someone, dozens of yards away, suddenly lets the cemetery gates bang shut behind them, Higgins reacts on pure instinct. There's no time to think, and in his panic he falls back on his automatic endgame without conscious consideration.
He moves before Grace can even register what he's doing; all she knows is that one moment her arms are pinned, numb and useless, behind her back, and the next she is tumbling to the ground. She lands among the grass and the petals; there is blood, lots of it, and pain. Unimaginable pain that cuts her breath and obscures her mind. Higgins is gone, and she is alone with the gravestones, the icy evening air and the protective shadow of the ancient oak tree.