DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

April 2018 - Happy birthday to Got Tea and missDuncan. xx


Swift

by Joodiff


Twenty-three Orchard Street. Victorian. Maybe Edwardian. Eve's no expert. Halfway along a solid terrace of tall, three-storey houses not far from Highgate Cemetery with, she assumes, a broken view of Parliament Hill from the top floor. Sold to the current owners just eight months ago for an undisclosed sum which she suspects would make her eyes water. Yellowish London brick darkened by age and pollution. Bay windows. Recently-painted spiked iron railings, and wide stone steps up to a glossy black front door. Nothing significant to distinguish it from its neighbours. Solid middle-class affluence, neither gaudy nor pretentious.

It's nine months since she left London. Twelve since… Well, twelve since everything changed almost overnight for all of them. Nine months since she packed up her entire life and moved two hundred miles north to begin a brand new adventure. She doesn't regret it. There are regrets, of course, but none of them are to do with matters she had any direct control over. Switching off the idling engine, Eve checks her watch. Almost four o'clock. She's made good time, is a little ahead of schedule. It won't matter.

Releasing her seatbelt, she gets out of the car. Standing alone in the weak afternoon sunshine, she stretches, easing muscles beginning to cramp from the journey. Forty-five years old, and starting to feel every damn year of it, despite making a conscious effort to maintain a reasonable level of fitness. Fumbling in the pockets of her dark jacket, she locates her cigarettes and lighter. She hasn't been told as much, but she knows there will be a complete embargo on smoking inside the house. It's not a problem, but she's not going to pass on a decent chance to top-up her falling nicotine levels. A few moments later, she's leaning back against the car's front wing, drawing smoke into her lungs. It's a bad habit, and as a fully-trained medical doctor she's well-aware of it, but…

Nine months, she thinks again. She was gone before the summer riots that rocked the city and fed the papers for days; gone before the Met's new Commissioner was appointed. Before… they… bought the house in front of her.

It didn't altogether surprise her, the purchase. No more than it really surprised her when suddenly there was a 'they'. A public and unapologetic 'them'. Should've happened sooner, in her private and so-far unvoiced opinion, but she couldn't fault them for their dedicated professionalism when she worked with them, and she still can't, looking back. She doubts anyone will ever know the full truth of how things really were between them then, but they're certainly not hiding the way things are now.

Becoming aware of a moving vehicle on the edge of her peripheral vision, Eve turns her head. Mid-range anonymous blue hatchback, several years old, slowing down as it approaches. Some things, it seems, haven't changed. Grace's car being one of them. Caught with a cigarette halfway to her lips, there doesn't seem to be any point in quickly throwing it down and grinding it out underfoot. Instead, she treats herself to a long, steady inhalation, watching the car manoeuvre into a tight parking space at the kerb as she does so. Quietly competent, that's how she'd describe the other woman's driving style. Not too confident and not too cautious.

As the hatchback's engine dies away, Eve finally extinguishes her cigarette. Crossing the road, she's already smiling as Grace alights from her car. "Grace."

The reply is warm, and it comes with a radiant answering smile. "Eve. You're early."

"The traffic was nowhere near as bad as I expected," she explains as they embrace. The brief, tight hug tells her that her former colleague has gained a little weight since their last meeting. Good. Probably, she's still lighter than she should be, but –

"Careful," Grace warns with an unexpected wince, "I took a bit of a tumble in the garden at the weekend, and I'm still a bit battered and bruised round the edges."

Releasing her hold, Eve frowns in genuine concern. "Have you seen a doctor?"

Amused exasperation is clear in the immediate reply. "Oh, don't you start. I'm perfectly fine. Where's your luggage?"

Deciding not to pursue the matter, she nods towards her vehicle. "Still in the car."

"Can I help?"

"No," Eve assures her, locating her car keys again. "It's just a briefcase, a suit carrier, and an overnight bag. I'm experimenting with travelling light."

Apparently satisfied, Grace nods. "All right. Well, you go and get your things while I open the front door."

"Okay. Grace?"

Already moving away, Grace looks back at her. "Yes?"

Smiling again, she says, "It's great to see you again."

-oOo-

Eve's not sure what she expected to find beyond the front door, but whatever it was, the strange, eclectic fusion of two very different styles isn't quite it. The house has been thoroughly renovated at some point in the last decade or so, no question, but has retained most of its original period features. They jostle now with an idiosyncratic mix of furnishings and decorations that really shouldn't work together, but somehow seem to. The analogy isn't lost on Eve. Boyd and Grace, poles apart in so many ways, and yet a perfect fit. Or as close to perfect as two stubborn, highly individualistic people are ever likely to be.

Lots of books everywhere, she notices with interest, looking around as she's ushered through the open door from the hall into the big double-aspect living room with its polished wooden floor and soft-coloured walls. Not just Grace's, either, if the intriguing mix of titles is anything to go by. Psychology and military history jumbled up with sociology and sports. Encyclopaedias, dictionaries. Biographies and autobiographies of eminent public figures, both living and dead. Specialist tomes on a whole range of subjects, from geography and travel to anthropology and architecture. A smattering of literary fiction. It's a fascinating collection.

"Coffee, Eve?" Grace inquires. "Before we do anything else?"

"Lovely," she says her attention momentarily caught by the complicated and expensive-looking music system on display in the corner of the room. Slimline, high-tech speakers. An audiophile's delight. Almost certainly nothing to do with Grace. She ignores an unworthy stab of envy.

"Kitchen's downstairs," her hostess says, leading the way to a doorway towards the rear of the room.

Modern. That's Eve's first thought about the semi-basement kitchen and dining area. Lots of shining chrome and sleek, clear surfaces. Reminds her just a little of the erstwhile CCU's lab, except that the late afternoon sun is streaming in through the rear windows and the frosted glass panel in the back door to illuminate all but the very rear of the space. Lots of high-end gadgets that she can't picture Grace buying, let alone ever using. In addition to the full-size dining table, there's a small two-place breakfast bar that looks straight out onto a smooth rectangle of well-tended grass, and she settles there as Grace sets about making coffee. A large calendar on the wall near the imposing fridge catches her attention for a moment. She's too far away to read any of the many notes written there, but she can see clear evidence of neat, meticulous colour-coding. No doubt who's responsible for that. Smirking to herself, she inquires, "So how's he doing, stuck out at Hendon?"

"Oh, you know Boyd," Grace replies, glancing over her shoulder. "He's playing the long game, manoeuvring himself into exactly the right position to get what he wants. Machiavelli had nothing on him."

Still hiding a smile, she asks, "What's he plotting?"

"Let's just say, our old friend DCS Phil Granger's retiring in June."

The news is a surprise. Like Boyd, Granger is a stubborn old warhorse, absolutely dedicated to his job. Letting her eyebrows lift, Eve says, "And Boyd wants command of SC10? Really?"

Grace frowns. "Why not? He's got a few years left to go before compulsory retirement, you know."

"Yes, but… SC10? That's a tough gig, Grace. For anyone, let alone someone of his…" At the baleful look she receives, Eve lets the sentence trail away. Boyd is younger than Grace by several years, something she tends to forget. She tries a more tactful, "Well, no-one can say he doesn't like a challenge."

"It's his last throw of the dice," Grace explains, pouring water from the kettle into large, plain mugs. "Agreeing to go to Hendon after all was just a means to a possible end. I'm certain he won't stay there past the summer, whatever happens. He's bored and frustrated, Eve, and if he doesn't get SC10, I'm sure he'll quit the Force altogether. Take early retirement and turn his back on it all."

She can't imagine it. "And do what?"

Grace shrugs, her manner fatalistic. "God only knows. He's a copper through-and-through, you know that as well as I do. Never done anything else, never wanted to do anything else."

"Mm," Eve murmurs. It's time to change the subject. Or at least to divert it. "And what about you? Still happy hauling out to Whiteheath every day?"

"It has its moments," Grace tells her with a brief smile. "I cut my teeth working in secure units. In some ways it feels… a bit like going home."

"You're still consulting for the Met, though?"

A nod. "When I'm asked to. Which is far more often than he… I'd like."

Eve hears the slip of the tongue. Hears it but doesn't comment. Accepting the steaming mug that's handed to her, she says, "Carl Swift was transferred to Whiteheath from Broadmoor six months ago, wasn't he?"

"Indeed. Interesting man."

Grimacing, she says, "Interesting man who stalked, strangled and decapitated five young women, Grace."

"Oh, don't think I ever forget that. Not for a moment." Grace settles next to her at the breakfast bar, placing her drink down on the pristine surface. "I loved every year I spent with the CCU, don't get me wrong, but there's something very satisfying about having more than a few brief, high-stress interactions with people."

"By people, you mean dangerous criminals."

"I mean people," Grace reproaches her. "We're all just people, Eve."

There's a moment of silence. Not exactly uncomfortable but telling. They're both experts in their respective forensic fields, but those fields are a long, long way apart. Looking round the room again, Eve comments, "Nice house."

Grace seems pleased. "Thank you. We think so."

Emboldened, she tries a humorous, "So, go on, then, spill the beans. I bet he's a complete bloody nightmare to live with, isn't he?"

To her relief, Grace chuckles. "It can be… challenging. Though I expect he'd say exactly the same about living with me."

Not sure if she's joking or not, Eve queries, "But on the whole, you're enjoying driving each other mad day and night?"

Again, there's a gentle hint of reproach in the answer. "I don't expect you to understand, Eve."

"I'm not criticising," she says quickly. It seems important to make that clear. "Not in any way. It obviously works for you – for both of you – and that's all that matters."

"But," Grace says, as perceptive as ever, "deep down, you still have some concerns?"

Truth wins out over diplomacy. "I just care about you, Grace. That's all."

"And so does he." A pause. "It's not always easy, I'll grant you that, but then nothing that's worth anything ever is, is it?"

-oOo-

Situated next to a much bigger, squarer room that seems to be being used as a study, the spare bedroom at the back of the house isn't large, but it's bright and comfortably furnished, and Eve finds there's something both calming and uplifting about the leafy view from the window. She could have booked into a hotel for the three nights she'll be in London, of course, but as soon as Grace heard about the conference she was planning to attend, there was little chance of being allowed to do such a thing. The invitation to stay with her erstwhile colleagues in Highgate was extended with the kind of deceptive, cordial steel Grace has always been renowned for. It would have taken a much braver woman than Eve Lockhart to decline. What Boyd may or may not think about her presence in his domain hasn't been communicated to her, but when she hears the front door being slammed downstairs, she assumes she's about to find out.

Sauntering down the stairs, she meets him in the hall just as he's hanging up his coat. The plain white shirt he's wearing has epaulette loops on the shoulders. It's as close to police uniform as she's ever seen him wear. Offering a neutral smile, she greets him with, "Boyd. Good to see you."

The grey hair is shorter, and the close-trimmed full beard she remembers from her early days with the CCU is back. Otherwise he doesn't seem to have changed very much. He surveys her without any discernible emotion. "Eve. Good journey down?"

Small-talk. Pointless, but necessary. She nods. "Better than expected. Made it into London well before rush-hour, thank goodness."

Boyd gives a non-committal grunt then asks, "Where's Grace?"

"Kitchen. She said something about cooking a special meal."

"Did she." He looks even less enthusiastic than he sounds. Then, she supposes, he probably has more experience than most of Grace's eccentric, experimental style of cooking. "Okay. Tell her I'm going upstairs to get changed, will you?"

Bewildered, Eve nods. "Oh. All right. Sure."

He heads away up the stairs leaving her to frown to herself. He's not, and never has been, a demonstrative man, but as she makes her way back to the kitchen she's perplexed by his cool aloofness. Is it resentment about her visit, she wonders, or are things between him and Grace not working out quite as well as expected? The thought nags at her and isn't mitigated by the sight of Grace standing at the stove staring away into the mid-distance as she listlessly stirs the glutinous contents of a saucepan.

"Boyd's home," Eve announces, suspecting the news is redundant. If she heard the front door slam, then presumably so did Grace. "He said to tell you he was going to get changed."

There's a world of unexpected caution in the blue eyes that focus on her. "How was he?"

"Very… Boyd-like," she says, unable to think of a better description.

Grace does not look happy. "Oh."

Guessing that it's not the right time to pry, Eve asks, "Anything I can do to help with dinner?"

-oOo-

They eat at the dining table at the windowless end of the room. It's cosier than Eve expected, and she finds herself relaxing as she tells them all about the new chapter in her life, about Mike's solid support, about the more amusing of Oggy's many foibles. Tells them, too, about Hale, watching for Boyd's reaction as she describes the tough, no-nonsense DI who has, in some ways, taken his place.

"You like him," Grace says, glass of wine in hand. It's not a question.

"I'm beginning to," Eve admits, and at the speculative twitch of an elegant eyebrow adds, "not in that way, Grace. Police officers don't do it for me, I'm afraid. Never have. No offence, Boyd."

"None taken." He looks across the table at her. "Good man by all accounts. Hale. Gets results."

"Someone's done their homework," she comments, not sure if she's surprised or not.

"Proprietorial interest," Grace explains, not quelled by the chilly glare shot in her direction. "So, it really is a farm? Your new body farm?"

"Used to be," Eve confirms, picturing the place in her mind. "Lots of barns and out-buildings, plenty of space. We've had a lot of funding from the University of Manchester, which has helped us expand. Some from the Home Office, too, of course."

"Well, maybe next time I'm up that way visiting relatives you'll give me a guided tour?"

Despite having lived in London for decades, Grace is still very much a Lancashire girl at heart, Eve knows. She nods. "You're always welcome. Both of you."

"I can think of a few trainees who could do with seeing the sharp end of what you do," Boyd says in the kind of dry tone that says a lot more than he probably intends about what he really thinks of his current job.

It's too good an opportunity to miss. Refilling her glass from the second bottle they've opened since sitting down to eat, Eve says, "I know it's not your thing, Boyd, but there must be something vaguely satisfying about having a hand in moulding the detectives of the future, surely?"

Again, the intense dark eyes settle on her. This time the gaze is contemplative. "Most of 'em are still so wet behind the bloody ears that I'd be genuinely frightened to let them go anywhere near a real crime scene. That's what happens when you fast-track high-fliers with very little practical policing experience."

"Don't be so reactionary," Grace tells him. To Eve, she says, "The successful trainees on the new course are hand-picked from the small pool of applicants left after a particularly rigorous selection process. They're the Met's absolute brightest and best. Nowadays not everyone believes you have to spend years out on the beat before even thinking about becoming a detective."

"No, they don't," Boyd retorts, before Eve can comment, "and there are still plenty of us who think that's a mistake. Not everything can be taught in a classroom, Grace."

She sniffs, and Eve has a strong suspicion that it's a controversial topic that has been much-argued at the very table around which they are currently ranged. Swallowing a mouthful of wine, she asks, "It's your turn, Grace. So, what about Whiteheath?"

Boyd snorts, but Grace ignores him and says, "As I said before, I'm enjoying it. It's challenging, but I'm part of an excellent team."

"What she won't tell you," Boyd cuts in, "is that no matter how good her team is, nowadays the place is both dangerously mis-managed and chronically underfunded."

Grace sighs. "Boyd…"

"No," he says, a sudden hint of his infamous temper showing. "You can defend the bloody place all you like, Grace, but you won't stop me telling anyone how it really is. It's a fucking miracle it's still running. If the media got a whiff of half of what's really going on over there, there would be a public outcry. Serious lapses in security, inmates – "

"Patients."

" – able to do whatever the hell they like, whenever the hell they like. Financial irregularities, improper staffing levels, you name it, it's probably happening at Whiteheath, and she," he glowers at Grace, "wonders why I'm not happy about her stubborn insistence on staying there."

Ah ha. For the first time, Eve thinks she understands the palpable touch of friction between the two. Boyd has his faults – many of them – but he's fiercely protective towards family, friends, and colleagues alike. Let alone towards someone who occupies the place in his life that Grace now does. If he's worried about her safety, his testy edginess makes perfect sense. Looking from one to the other, she says, "Surely it's not that bad?"

"There are some problems," Grace confesses, "I'm not denying that, but he's blowing the situation out of all proportion."

"The hell I am," Boyd growls. "Fuck's sake, Grace, you told me yourself that last week when your session with Swift ended, there was no-one outside the door to take him back to his cell. You'd been left all on your bloody own with him. Who knows what could have happened?"

"Nothing was going to happen," Grace chides. "Carl wouldn't hurt me. And they're called rooms, Peter, not cells."

"Fucking Carl." An angry snarl that doesn't sit well in such a domestic setting. "Will you listen to her, Eve. The man's a complete nut-job, and yet she's convinced he's just deeply misunderstood."

"I'm sure – " Eve starts, but she doesn't get far.

Grace's eyes are narrowed. Glaring at Boyd, she says, "If you could stop thinking like a – "

"Christ," he snaps back, "what planet are you on, Grace? Wake up. The man's thing was cutting off his victims' heads and taking their fucking eyeballs as souvenirs, and you seriously can't understand why I don't want you going anywhere near him?"

"It's my job," she throws at him, "and I seem to remember quite a few occasions in the past when it suited you very well to let me talk one-to-one with – "

"Irrelevant," Boyd overrules. "Completely fucking irrelevant. For one thing, you were never – "

"Murray?" Grace interrupts, the contentious name a hard challenge.

It's a low blow. Even Eve thinks so. There's a brief and very hostile silence. Not sure whether to attempt to intercede or not, she's spared the choice by Boyd getting abruptly to his feet. Not looking at Grace, he says, "If you'll excuse me, Eve, I have some paperwork to do."

"Sure," she murmurs, not knowing what else to say.

As he stalks away towards the staircase, Grace shakes her head and sighs. She says, "I'm sorry. I had hoped we could have a nice meal and a quiet, friendly evening without any histrionics."

-oOo-

Assured that her hosts have their own en suite bathroom, Eve succumbs to the tempting idea of having a long, hot bath before bed. It's a luxury she doesn't often waste time on, preferring to take quick, energising showers instead. Then, her current flat doesn't have a large, inviting roll-top bath, or the space to install one. The wine and the travelling combined with the warm water and the scent of expensive bath oils are soporific, and though she doesn't quite doze, she's relaxed and day-dreaming when the sound of raised voices in the next room – the master bedroom – jerks her back to full alertness.

Boyd's unmistakable tones: "For fuck's sake, Grace…"

A rapid, shrewish return. "One evening, Peter. One civil evening, that's all you had to manage. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" Clear outrage. "Well, for a bloody start, I didn't invite her."

"Keep your voice down," Grace's far from quiet voice orders. "She's in the bath."

"So? This is my house and if I want to – "

"Our house, a fact that you seem to forget rather too easily."

"Oh, for…"

The volume of both voices reduces, the exchange becoming an unintelligible rumble of background sound. More than embarrassed, Eve reaches for the soap. It's time to complete her ablutions and retreat to the safety of the spare room where – hopefully – she won't be able to hear them arguing. She wonders how frequent and how serious their altercations are. Whether they are living to regret their decision to sell their respective houses and move in together. Perhaps, she muses, it was too easy for them to believe that their differences were immaterial, that their notorious bickering wouldn't escalate if they were living under the same roof.

"Heaven forbid that I should have an opinion," Boyd's loud voice barks, making Eve jump, "much less dare to express it."

Grace's reply is inaudible, but Eve times it by the loud slam of a door that follows several seconds later. Which of them is responsible, she doesn't know, but her heart sinks at the noise.

-oOo-

Woken by the insistent sound of the alarm she set on her phone, Eve descends to the half-subterranean kitchen some twenty minutes later. The world outside the house is grey and uninviting, the big city blinking its way into the crisp April morning. Coffee, toast, and nicotine, that's her plan, then finish getting ready for the day ahead before venturing out to her car.

She's not the first one to rise, she discovers. A tousled, incongruously-dressed Boyd is seated at the breakfast bar, reading glasses on, coffee and paperwork before him. Dark-striped jersey pyjama trousers and a rumpled grey tee-shirt. Not a sight she could ever have imagined before. He looks round at the sound of her footsteps and offers, "Morning. Sleep okay?"

"Out like a light the moment I switched off the light," she admits. It's almost true. Surveying the closed back door, she asks, "Is it all right if I…?"

"Oh. Yeah." He nods. "Key's on the shelf over there. It's raining."

"Great," she mutters, more to herself than him.

"Just open it and stand in the doorway," he instructs, "don't get wet."

"Are you sure? I mean, I could wait…"

He snorts. "Of course you could. Just do it, Eve."

According to Grace, who's apparently in a position to know, throughout the 'eighties Boyd was at least a twenty-a-day man. The smug moral high ground he now affects in the presence of smokers nothing more than a deliberate annoyance. Unlocking and opening the door, Eve looks out at the morning. he's right – a heavy, depressing drizzle has started. Looks set-in, too, if the dark clouds scudding overhead are anything to judge by.

"London," she muses, lighting a cigarette. "There's nowhere quite like it."

An ostentatious cough from the breakfast bar makes her lean a little further out into the rain. He says, "Grace thinks I should apologise to you for last night."

"No need," Eve replies, not looking at him. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm intruding. I would have booked a hotel, but…"

"…Grace can be difficult to say no to. Yes, I know."

The dry note of resignation in his tone makes her shift position enough to be able to gaze at him. He looks tired, she thinks. Looks a lot like an exhausted, disillusioned man wearily plodding his way towards an unknown destination. Deciding to risk the possible firestorm, she says, "Getting used to living with someone else is only easy in cheap romance novels, Boyd."

He puts down his pen, folds his arms across his broad chest. "She's not being honest with you."

Not the response Eve expected. Not at all. Startled and puzzled, she asks, "About?"

"Whiteheath. Swift. Take your pick."

Boyd is renowned for his reticence. If he's prepared to volunteer such information, then the situation must be more serious than she imagined. Exhaling smoke from her lungs, she says, "Is it really that bad over there?"

"Yes." Laconic.

"And Swift…?"

"Is a nutter. An incredibly dangerous nutter."

Eve doesn't doubt it. Still, they both know how experienced Grace is, how good at her job she is. "She's dealt with plenty of people who fall into that category before."

"I know." He scratches at his beard, a definite and telling sign of unease. "Swift's different."

Curiosity piqued, she inquires, "How?"

The answer is considered but immediate. "He's highly intelligent, for a start. Intelligent and well-read. A good conversationalist. Comes across as very… plausible."

There's something he's not telling her, Eve's sure of it. Frowning, she asks, "What are you actually saying?"

His fingers have started to drum a nervous rhythm on the breakfast bar. "Talk to her, Eve. I'll be late home tonight – review meetings. Ask her about Swift. Listen to her answer. Really listen."

"I'm still not sure what you're almost-but-not-quite saying, Boyd."

Deep brown eyes bore into her. "Just talk to her. Please."

The final word is more than enough to set loud alarm bells ringing in her head. She nods. "All right."

-oOo-

The day is a busy but satisfying whirl of lectures, panels and networking, and it passes so fast that Eve's surprised when it's time to say her farewells and return to the Highgate house where Grace is waiting for her. They cook dinner together, talking and laughing like the old friends that they are, and some of Eve's nagging concerns are temporarily allayed by the good-humoured atmosphere that hangs over the kitchen as they eat and drink and put the world to rights. It takes a while for the conversation to turn to Boyd, but when it does, there's nothing but wry affection in the way Grace talks about him. It's reassuring, leads Eve to smirk and ask, "So you're not thinking of leaving him anytime soon, then?"

"More trouble than it's worth," Grace tells her, the hint of knowing mischief in her gaze reminding Eve of other days, other times. "He has his faults, but at least he's house-trained and moderately useful."

It's a unique description of their fiery former commander, Eve has to admit. Aloud, she offers, "Beats having to stand on a chair to get things down from high shelves, I suppose."

"Exactly. He even knows approximately where the vacuum cleaner lives."

"Now that's a vision I never expected find myself trying to conjur up," she says, unable to quite picture the man in question performing mundane household chores.

Grace chuckles. "If I were you, I'd keep it strictly to yourself, Eve. He wouldn't thank you for sharing."

"I can picture Spencer's face if I told him." She can, too. A horrified mixture of morbid fascination and complete incredulity.

The conversation moves on, makes lazy loops and detours through their lives and those of their friends and former colleagues, but eventually returns to the subject of Boyd when Grace says, "I think that as we get older we're more inclined to make allowances. Companionship is worth a lot."

"Companionship?" Eve queries, filling both their glasses again. She suspects the choice of word is telling. "Not love?"

Clear blue eyes stripped of much of their mystery by the harsh artificial light pinion her with a thoughtful gaze. "Fishing, Eve?"

There's no point in denying it. Grace is far too perceptive for one thing. She shrugs. "Wouldn't you be, if the situation was reversed?"

"I suppose so," Grace concedes. One interrogative eyebrow lifts. "Do you really think I'd have moved in with him, much less bought a house with him, if I didn't love him?"

It's a fair point, but still… "Well, you said it yourself: companionship is worth a lot."

"Not enough to put up with – " Grace breaks off, as if realising she's on the verge of saying too much, and shakes her head. "Ignore me. We're going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment, that's all."

Wondering if it's the right thing to say, Eve risks, "I did sense a bit of an atmosphere."

"It's my fault," Grace says, far too quickly. There's an edge of weary bitterness to the words that hangs between them for a few long seconds. The enigma isn't solved by the addition of, "I annoy him, and he loses his temper."

Distantly outraged, Eve rolls her eyes. "You 'annoy him'? Oh, come on, Grace, that's dangerously close to absolving him of any responsibility."

A heavy sigh accompanies, "Well, it's not as if I didn't know exactly what he was like, is it? What I was letting myself in for. And, believe me, I'm well-aware of my own faults."

"Boyd," Eve states, deciding not to mince her words, "is one of the most intolerant, impatient people I've ever met. You could be a complete saint and if he was in a bad mood he'd still find something to kick off about. That's his problem, not yours."

Another long, thoughtful look. "You really don't think much of him, do you?"

"Oh, I do," Eve contradicts, meaning it. She's seen his better side, has even personally benefitted from it. "Don't think for a moment that I'm blind to his good points. I know he's a decent guy at heart. All I'm saying is – "

"You don't need to say anything," Grace interrupts, her voice firm. "There's nothing you can say about him that I don't already know. I chose this, Eve. No-one put a gun to my head and forced me into it."

"Same goes for Boyd, I assume. I can't see anyone managing to force him into… cohabitation… against his will."

"'Cohabitation'?" Again, the elegant eyebrows rise.

"I don't know quite what else to call it," Eve admits, an unwanted prickle of embarrassment warming her cheeks. "Without being presumptuous, I mean."

"We do have sex, you know," Grace tells her, her tone changing to something between amused and irritable. "Quite a lot of sex, actually."

"Please," Eve says, holding up a hand. Not even a very human touch of prurient curiosity is enough to make her dwell on the subject. Thinking about what Boyd and Grace might possibly have been getting up to behind closed doors was entertaining as abstract speculation when there were long, difficult working days to endure, but now, as an irrefutable fact… "I'd really rather not know."

A flinty glare. "Why, because we're obviously far too old to be fully enjoying a healthy adult relationship?"

"No," she counters with an exaggerated pantomime shudder, "because it's a bit too much like imagining one's parents gleefully going at it."

Grace's features relax into an eloquent half-smile. "Ah, I see. Well, luckily for you, I've never been a great Freudian, so I'll refrain from commenting on what that probably says about your psyche, Eve."

She's grateful. "Thank you."

"Anyway," Grace says after a pause, "we'll get through it. We always do."

Sensing another opportunity, Eve sips her wine for a moment before asking, "Is it Whiteheath?"

A sharp, hard-eyed look comes her way. "What makes you say that?"

Dissembling, she shrugs. "Just… last night's conversation. At dinner, I mean."

"Not the row afterwards?" Grace inquires. "Oh, it's all right, Eve, you don't have to stoically pretend you didn't hear a thing."

"I didn't hear much," she says truthfully, "but it's blindingly obvious he's worried sick about you."

Nothing in Grace's expression changes. "He doesn't need to be. I'm a big girl, and I can look after myself. I successfully managed it for years without him."

"The day he doesn't worry about you will be the day he stops breathing, Grace, and you know it."

"True." A short, tense silence. "He thinks… he thinks I'm unhealthily preoccupied with Carl Swift."

Keeping her tone neutral, Eve asks, "And are you?"

"Of course not!" Quick and defensive. "Carl's… a fascinating case study. A high-functioning sociopath who became a highly-organised and extremely forensically aware serial killer. One who was only caught by sheer accident, remember. Unlocking the mind of someone like that… well, the potential benefits of the things we could learn about how exceptionally intelligent, sociopathic killers really think are tremendous."

The hairs are standing up on the back of Eve's neck. Shaking her head, she says, "You almost sound like you admire him, Grace."

"Don't be ridiculous." It's quick and harsh, and not at all characteristic.

Stung by the fierce rebuke, Eve lifts her chin a defiant fraction. "Boyd's right, you know. Swift's an incredibly dangerous man."

The response is ice cold. "Are you accusing me of naïveté, or…?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Grace, let alone naïveté. But I don't think it's unreasonable of Boyd to be worried."

"Worried about what?" Grace demands. "Carl's victims were all very carefully chosen, and they all fitted a very particular profile. The chances of him ever straying outside of that profile unless deliberately provoked are so low as to be non-existent. And, I should add, it's a profile that doesn't remotely fit me."

"Except in one crucial respect – you're a woman."

"He wouldn't hurt me." The statement is flat, obstinate. "He sees me as… well, as an intellectual equal, I suppose."

Eve puts down her glass. "Please don't tell me you're flattered by that, Grace."

"Of course I'm not." A hostile glare is followed by, "I think it's high time we changed the subject, don't you?"

-oOo-

It's later than Eve expects when Boyd returns. He joins them in the kitchen with a palpable air of bewilderment, as if he's genuinely astounded to find them both heading towards more than three sheets to the wind. He's good-natured about it, though, which surprises her rather more than Grace's loud, well-oiled and over-affectionate, "Here he is. My beloved. Where've you been, amore mio?"

"At work," he tells her with admirable patience, allowing himself to be seized and tugged into a clumsy embrace. To a wide-eyed and amused Eve, he says, "Just how much have the pair of you had, for heaven's sake?"

"A lot?" she suggests, eyeing the debris of plates, bottles and glasses spread across the dining table. She nods, satisfied with the answer. "Quite a lot, yes."

"So it would appear."

Slumping back into her chair without releasing her grip on his hand, Grace says, "Don't be cross with us."

Boyd still looks bemused. "I'm not cross with you. Let go of me, woman, you're cutting off the blood supply to my fingers."

Smirking, Eve offers, "As a doctor, I have to tell you that that's highly unlikely."

He regards her with mild interest. "As a police officer with considerable experience of such things, I have to tell you that you're really going to hate yourself in the morning when the hangover hits."

Waving a languid hand at him, she retorts, "You're just no fun, Boyd, has anyone ever told you that?"

"He is," Grace contradicts, still hanging onto him. "Get him in the right mood, and he can be a lot of fun."

Eve's not sure if she's horrified by the idea or not. There's always been something about him, though… Shaking her head, she reaches for her glass. More wine seems to be a good solution to… well, whatever the problem is. "I keep telling you, Grace, I don't want to know. You two can shag each other senseless every bloody night for the rest of your lives for all I care, but, please, please, spare me the gory details."

Boyd's expression is priceless. Scandalised, but with the tiniest underlying dash of male smugness. Freeing himself from Grace's determined grip, he says, "All right, that's enough. I think it's black coffee time."

"You don't sleep if you drink coffee this late," Grace points out.

He snorts. "I didn't mean for me, Grace."

"I need a cigarette," Eve declares, not at all sure that attempting to stand up is a good idea.

Grace frowns at her. "But it's raining. You'll get absolutely soaked out there. Peter, get the poor girl an ashtray, for heaven's sake."

He scowls in response. "I don't – "

"Just do as you're told," his indomitable partner interrupts, "there's a good boy."

-oOo-

Cont.