The four of them are clustered around the central desks of the squadroom, mapping likely places Higgins might have taken Philippa Baker since the surveillance unit trailing him reported him missing and the discovery of another snatched girl became known. Esther's team is already out in the city, scouring his home, work and other known locations.
Despite the urgency, there is calm amongst them. They know, all too well, that anything but will not help them work faster.
Eve has trace evidence from his clothing, which she uses to shade in various areas of their map, outlining his movements. Spence and Stella have lists of possible locations, which they plot with red pens, before drawing a circle around them all, containing Higgins most likely radius. It still leaves a lot of ground where Philippa could be hidden.
The phone rings and Boyd picks it up without thinking, his attention still firmly on the map.
"His home and work are clear," he tells the others as he replaces the receiver with a scowl. Eve is rifling through files on Higgins.
"What about all these buildings connected to his arrest?" she asks Spence.
"Some of them are under different ownership now, and some of them are disused," he shrugs, but they plot the locations anyway, using blue pens this time.
Stella can feel a headache steadily developing behind her eyes as she studies another file, and she stands and moves to the coffee pot, hoping a drink will help to refresh them all. She automatically moves through the chore, and it isn't until she goes to hand the last mug to Grace that she realises what time it is. Her eyes flicker uneasily over the clock before she looks at Boyd.
"Sir," she calls out, feeling a sense of vague unease begin to spread through her body.
"What Stella?" Boyd asks absently, still lost in his thoughts as he tries to make the connections.
"Sir, you said Grace would be here in half an hour. That was more than ninety minutes ago."
He turns to stare at her, his attention thoroughly captured.
"Are you sure?" How has he not noticed? Stella nods, and he can see Eve is starting to look faintly apprehensive too. If Grace said half an hour, she meant half an hour.
He reaches into his pocket for his mobile, and realises it's sitting on his desk where he left it earlier. She called him back, over an hour ago according to the missed call timestamp. He dials her number, but the call doesn't connect and he tries again, with the same result.
"Spence," he's back in the squadroom in just a few quick paces. His right-hand man looks up from the map, sees the concern on Boyd's face.
"What?"
"Can you trace Grace's phone?" The three of them stare back at him, and he reaches for the desk phone, pressing the speaker button and dialling the number again. The same response echoes in the silent basement.
"Where was she when you spoke to her?" asks Eve.
"I don't know," replies Boyd, wishing he'd asked her where she was going today.
"And she definitely said she'd be here in thirty minutes?" Stella looks worried now.
"Yes," he's impatient, and more than a little worried. "She called me back, not long after I spoke to her. Look." He pulls the call history up on his phone and hands it to Stella.
"You didn't answer," she remarks, pressing keys.
"I didn't hear it ring; I was out here," he's frustrated now, and verging on shouting his displeasure.
"It went to voicemail," Stella points out, and she hands the phone back to him. She's right, the missed call message obscured the voicemail message when he first picked it up. He presses buttons, and holds the phone up to his ear, but has no idea what he's hearing.
Holding the phone out to Eve, he tells Stella,
"Get someone round to her house, look for her car." He turns. "Spence?" the younger man shakes his head.
"Nothing. I can't find her mobile. Either she's switched it off, or it's been disabled."
They troop quickly to the lab, their steps a staccato beat on the concrete floor. Within minutes Eve has the message downloaded from the phone and is trying to enhance it. Dialogue is the first thing to become clear, though it is heavily muffled.
"plan revenge too,"
"I had nothing to do with your conviction,"
"Oh, I know that… but Boyd did."
"How?"
Eve fiddles with the software, and plays the recording again. Stella pales, Spence clenches the table edge in his fists and Boyd presses a hand over his eyes, clutching desperately at his control. This is not happening. Surely it isn't.
"That's Higgins voice," Spence finally says, and Boyd and Stella nod in agreement.
"Why is it so muffled?" asks Stella, thinking aloud. "Is the phone in her pocket maybe?"
"I think so," agrees Eve, a frown nestled in her brows as she listens again, and makes another alteration. "Listen, you can hear almost nothing while they're speaking, and then the ambient sound changes for a couple of seconds right before the message ends."
Eve plays the clip again and again.
"I think the clatter at the very end is the phone falling to the ground," she observes, and isolates the seconds right before, trying to pick apart the background noise once the phone is in the open air.
"Is that a bird?" asks Spence, listening intently.
"Sounds like it," nods Eve, as Boyd agrees.
"So they're outside," notes Stella. There is nothing else they can discern, not without spending a great deal of time that they don't have analysing further, and Eve moves back to the very end of the clip, trying to separate out what she thinks is two distinct sounds while the others talk.
"So are we assuming that Higgins has either abducted, or attacked Grace?" asks Spencer.
"Yes," replies Boyd, trying not to imagine the hundreds of awful scenarios that omission causes. "Grace wouldn't approach him on her own, especially not when she isn't working."
"Did she tell you anything at all about why she wanted the day off?" Stella asks Boyd.
"Personal reasons," he replies firmly. "She said nothing about where she was going, or what she was doing." He racks his brain for places she might have gone, and asks himself where he would go in her shoes. He has a few ideas, but nothing concrete and they don't have time to go traipsing across half the city. Spence and Stella are discussing the bird again, but it's getting them nowhere, just as his thoughts aren't either. The minutes are ticking steadily by, and every single one of them is becoming visibly more and more anxious.
"There's a faint sound of traffic in the background." Eve tells them abruptly, pulling off the headphones she has been using. "It's not close by, but it's pretty heavy. I think it's a major road. Also, there's this. Right at the end when she drops the phone." Eve plays the last few seconds, and then repeats it, removing the noise from the phone. All of them hear the enhanced gasp of pain that leaves them cold with fear. They stand in stunned silence, the situation suddenly much more real and terrifying.
Stella's phone ringing makes every single one of them jump as it squeals gratingly in the deafening stillness. She in uncharacteristically short with whomever is on the other end of the line, hanging up abruptly.
"She's not at home, her car isn't there, and there's no sign of a struggle. Her neighbours haven't seen her all day."
One hand buried in his hair, Boyd recounts what they know so far, desperate to make a connection.
"Outside. Quiet. A bird, faint traffic noise," he lists off.
"Wide open space," adds Eve. "There's no echoing or discernible reflected sound."
"A park?" suggests Stella, dreading the thought. There are far too many parks in London to search quickly.
"No," Eve shakes her head slowly. "There are no other people."
"A big space with no people and only distant traffic, in London?" questions Spence, a disbelieving scowl on his face. "Is that a riddle?"
"She's in a cemetery," says Boyd, absolutely certain he is right, and he's charging out of the room before any of them can ask questions.
…
Hannah Jacobs. The one where he made a mistake. That's the connection they are looking for. Almost eighteen months before the creation of the CCU, Boyd and his partner at the time were leaving an interview in Greenwich when they caught a man in the process of twoc'ing their police issue vehicle. On the suspect's part, it was just bad luck that he picked an officer's car, and that in his desperation, he chose to take it at the exact moment Boyd and his DS were returning to it. He was summarily arrested, charged and bailed with an invitation to appear in the magistrate's court. Not a particularly noteworthy offense, but an offence none the less.
And as such things go, records were kept, records which, barely a year later, matched Higgins fingerprints and named him as an accomplice in an extremely expansive and well established organized crime ring and thus saw him discharged from the army and taken off the streets for eight long years. Eight years away from capturing, torturing and killing young girls. Eight years to plot his revenge on Boyd for arresting him that first time and dirtying his otherwise pristine, untouched slate.
Hannah Jacobs was the fifth of the eleven dead girls, and the only one in any way remarkably different from the others. In the midst of her captivity she suffered an allergic reaction to an insect bite and Higgins left to find antihistamines for her. A simple twist of fate put him on a collision course with Boyd when, after discovering his own vehicle had a flat tyre, he then attempted, in his hurry, to steal the next available car he could find.
Arrest. Record. Flagged in the system. No longer a nobody; no longer an invisible man able to carry on with his dark, disturbing pastime in quite so much peace and relative safety. And certainly not able to skate under the radar when his part in that cross continental smuggling operation imploded quite so spectacularly. Damn Peter Boyd and his stupid police issue car.
…
Boyd's heart is thudding painfully in his chest as he drives with astonishing speed across London, lights and sirens deployed as he mentally recalculates the quickest route every time congestion appears in his path. Behind him, Spencer and Stella are armed and ready, but sitting silently, still taking it all in. On his left, Eve is quiet as well, but her mind is ticking away, analysing possible scenarios and sifting through anything and everything that they know, looking for something that might possibly help them.
He doesn't remember the last time he felt this sick with worry, with fear of what might have happened. He loves her. He really does. Absolutely and unreservedly. And the thought that something may have, probably has, happened to her…
Not helping.
He clenches his teeth and forces himself to concentrate on what he knows, not what he doesn't. Grace is missing. Higgins is missing. And Philippa Baker is still missing too. And from the moment he picked up his phone and the four of them listened to that message they have been operating under the assumption that if they find Grace, they will hopefully find Higgins, and then Philippa. If the state of his own heart is anything to judge by, then the girl's parents must be going out of their minds right about now.
Again, not a helpful thought. He focuses on the cemetery layout; he's only been there once before, months ago now, and he's struggling to place the location of the grave. They entered through a side gate, but he has no idea which streets to take with the night sky obscuring the landmarks so much more easily recognisable in the daytime and so he heads for the main entrance, switching off the harsh blue lights and wailing siren as they make the final approach, the car screaming up the drive.
The place is vast, many acres spread out around them, and he makes an educated guess, following the fork in the road to the right. The car zips past an imposing winged statue and he slams on the brakes. Last time he was here, they walked past that statue, and he made her laugh with a comment about its misshapen head. Grace's laughter. What wouldn't he give to hear that sound right now?
They tumble out of the car, Spence and Stella with their guns already drawn, and all four of them brandishing torches. There is a decent amount of moonlight, but it's not enough, not even remotely enough, to light the way through rows and rows of silent, shadowed gravestones. Boyd waves a hand in the best guess of direction he can give, already moving as quickly as he can, weaving through the tangle of graves, flowers and mementos left in memory of loved ones.
They spread out, moving quickly, quietly and methodically. The area is deserted, and the air is eerily still; underfoot leaves that have fallen recently as autumn creeps in rustle as they are disturbed, creating a crunching audio counterpart to the crackling tension. It's bitterly cold out, and despite the adrenalin of the situation and the thick winter coat wrapped around his body, Boyd is shivering. It's been over three hours now since he spoke to Grace, asked her to come in and help them out, and he's fervently hoping she hasn't been out here all that time.
He's sure he's heading in the right direction, and when an enormous oak comes into view he breaks out into a full sprint, desperation fully taking hold. Eve is off to his left somewhere; he can still hear her, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the beam of her torch moving in his direction. Spence and Stella he's not so sure about, hasn't seen them in a few minutes now.
He's getting nearer, can see the imposing hundred year old family tomb that's a few rows in front of the solitary headstone he's seeking, and then his torch light falls on a very familiar pair of boots and panic begins to rise in his chest. Grace is slumped across the grave, face down, unmoving and unresponsive when he calls her name. He's on his knees beside her in seconds, his fingers fumbling for her pulse and finding nothing.
"Eve," he roars, his enraged desperation flooding thunderously out over the desolate landscape. She's right behind him, sliding unceremoniously to a stop and pushing his hand aside, experienced, trained fingers gently probing the carotid artery in Grace's neck.
"She's not dead," there is heavy relief glimmering in Eve's eyes as she sweeps her torch over Grace's body, looking for clues, signs of damage, but she emits a soft gasp as the edge of the beam lights up the perimeter of the grass under them.
"Boyd, look," she says, her tone laced with a wild mixture of fear, disbelief and horror. He looks, and immediately feels like he's going to vomit. There is blood everywhere; Grace is lying in it, they are kneeling in it and the deathly pale hand resting among the leaves and flower petals is covered in it.
Eve has dropped her torch, and her hands are moving over Grace, checking, hunting and searching; desperate to find the source of the damage they both know has to be there. She finds nothing, and orders Boyd to help her roll Grace, shows him where to put his hands and counts to three before they slowly, and with incredible gentleness, manoeuver her onto her back.
"Oh my God," whispers Eve, horrified. Boyd turns quickly, bending double and heaving into the grass and leaves, the earlier coffee bitterly working its way up and coating his throat with the acidic taste of rage and despair.
When he turns back, Eve has decisively slammed the door on her emotions and is firmly locked into her calm, detached professional manner, concentrating intensely on everything she can do to help. He wishes he could do the same, but it's Grace lying there in front of him, soaked in her own blood. His Grace with the angry, inflamed marks of attempted strangulation around her neck, and three precise, almost clinical stab wounds to her chest.
Spence and Stella arrive simultaneously as Eve is using the stunned and silent Boyd's hands to direct the light where she wants it.
"Call an ambulance," she barks at the two of them, and orders Spencer back to the road to guide the paramedics to their location. Grace has the classic presentation of advancing hypovolemic shock; a weak, rapid pulse, hypothermia and cold, clammy skin, as well as quick, shallow breathing.
The three of them strip off their coats and use them as blankets, trying to protect Grace from the biting cold. Two of the three wounds are merely oozing a slight amount of blood, and Eve gets Stella to apply pressure to the third, which is concerning her the most.
"Her lips are blue," murmurs Stella, who is staring at Grace's face even as she does as Eve has instructed. Slow and silent tears are dripping steadily down her face, but she doesn't know it, she's too caught up in the sheer distress of the moment.
"It's because she's not getting enough oxygen," explains Eve, moving to breathe for her in long, steady, practiced breaths. Frustration is clawing at her, but she thrusts it away with an iron will; there is very little she can do without the necessary medical equipment, but she'll be damned if she's going to let Grace die on her watch. Keeping a steady count in her head, she exhales more air into lungs that are no longer functioning independently at any useful capacity. Concentrating grimly on her work, out of the corner of her eye she can just see the way Boyd has Grace's blood covered hand clutched tightly in his.
…
The ambulance arrives and the paramedics take over; they are far better enabled to help Grace, but Eve is seriously starting to doubt that it will be enough. She thinks they may have arrived just too late to make the difference and, knowing he will see it in her expression, she resolutely refuses to look at Boyd as he climbs into the back of the vehicle that is preparing to depart.
And then they are both gone, Grace and Boyd, and Eve is left standing on a grave in the middle of a deserted cemetery, Spence and Stella flanking her in dazed uncertainty.
It is Spencer who finally breaks the silence.
"Will she be ok?" his voice is tight and strained, and Eve is all too aware of the devastation that will encompass the entire team if Grace doesn't make it. She is their glue, binding them all firmly together. She's about to give him an honest answer, when she catches sight of the expression on Stella's face and her resolve crumbles.
"I hope so," she murmurs instead, watching the now distant flashing lights fade away into the night sky. They move away from the road and back to the grave that has become a crime scene; none of them know what to say and the silence that stretches between them is fraught with emotion.
Stella is sweeping her torch over the ground around them, searching for clues in a vain effort to stop thinking and just work. Keep herself preoccupied.
"What was she doing here anyway?" she finally asks, her question directed at no one in particular. With Grace no longer lying there, the extent of the disaster that has unfolded is much more visible. The blood pool, in its sheer size alone, is enough to make Eve feel cold, tired and defeated, even without all the additional knowledge her medical training has provided in the last few minutes. Hope feels like something far, far too far out of reach, and now that she is no longer functioning as a lifeline, her wall of detachment is well and truly crumbling.
Her own torch finds the remnants of fresh flowers; broken stems and strewn petals. Trampled into the earth are the fragments of a broken phone, also shattered beyond repair. Spence crouches by the headstone, and when the steady beam illuminates the words there, Eve knows the hunch she has been pondering for most of the day is right.
Kally Aurora Shaw
7th October 1985 - 3rd September 1992
Beloved daughter- Forever in our hearts
"It would have been her birthday today," muses Stella, as all three of them stare at the inscription.
"Who was she?" Spence wants to know, bullish anger and strident investigative assertiveness taking over as his need to inspect, need to know, takes hold. It's a coping mechanism, probably a good thing. Someone needs to find out what happened here. Eve clears her throat, not sure she wants to voice her thoughts. It seems like a gross invasion of privacy, but she knows that they will find out eventually. SOCO's will be crawling all over the place soon enough, and everything about the situation will be scrutinised.
"Shaw was Grace's married name," she says quietly. "And this was her daughter."
…
The silence that descends in the wake of Eve's declaration is truly deafening, in every sense of the word. Stella is deeply horrified and simultaneously distraught at the thought of such a tragic loss, and Spencer is frozen in his tracks, his fury abruptly wiped clean away as he struggles to comprehend the sheer enormity of the shattering news.
They all love Grace, without reserve. She holds their team together, she is the one who everyone turns to in a crisis or when they are in need of kindness or a calm, listening ear. Mothering instincts. And now they know why. There have been many assumptions over the years, and they all know Grace has always been not necessarily tight-lipped but definitely very quiet about her personal life. They know she lives alone, and somehow over the years it has emerged that she has little family, but never has she spoken of children, or the loss of. She's never even explained the wedding ring on her finger.
An intensely private widow, with a warm heart and a hugely valued and important place in their team, and indeed their lives. That has always been the assumed status quo.
Eve looks at both of them, and despite the crackling tension arcing across the small space where so much chaos and brutality has occurred, perhaps irrevocably damaging their very close knit unit, there is still a steely resolve in all three. They take a moment to find and desperately cling to some sort of equilibrium, and then they try their hardest to keep going.
Stella turns back to the headstone, suppressing tears and concentrating fiercely, searching for something, anything to help. Spence, avoiding the ground that is still saturated with blood, scans the less immediate area, trying very hard not to think about anything too closely, and instead focus strictly on investigating. Eve does the exact opposite; instead of blocking out what has happened, she runs through it in her mind, recreating as much of it as exactly as she can.
It hurts, and her mask of professionalism aside, she flinches in appalled and scandalised distress as she envisions where Grace was standing and how she fell, her thoroughly trained mind providing exactly the details she has never wanted, or ever before had to, apply in a personal situation. Shining her torch on the grass, she picks out the spot where Grace and Higgins were standing. Crouching, she examines the area more carefully. The splintered fragments of what was Grace's mobile are stomped firmly into the ground, broken beyond any hope of repair. The SIM card might just be recoverable though, and inadvertently she wonders if Grace will need it.
She can't think about it. Won't let herself; not while there is still a chance she can help. Not until there is absolutely no reason to keep clinging, however desperately and naïvely, to whatever shreds of hope there still are. She forces her thoughts back to the ground and what she sees.
There's something else there. Altering the angle of her torch, she picks out a plastic key fob, half buried in the grassy dirt by an unknowing foot. Recently too, for the plastic is still clean and neat and in good condition. There's a logo on it, and despite the fact that her hands are still bloody, that she has no forensics tools on her, or even a pair of gloves, and that it goes against all her training and instincts, she gently and carefully eases the scrap of plastic out of the ground for closer examination.
The logo advertises a storage facility. Not a prominent company, or even one she recognises, but she still opens her mouth and yells for Spencer as realisation hits that this may just be the clue they have desperately been searching for. There is a key attached, and as she triumphantly straightens the first wail of the approaching police sirens summoned by her companions is heard.
Spence is on the phone, demanding information as more flashing blue lights appear on the horizon, edging closer. He gets his answer as the approaching vehicles turn into the cemetery main gates, heading their way. Hanging up, he snaps out,
"Let's go," and he and Stella dash away to Boyd's abandoned Audi, leaving Eve momentarily very much alone with the blood and the damage.