The first thing that Lewis was aware of was the deep, throbbing pain in his head. He managed a low groan. His whole body felt wracked with pain. He tried to move his head, but that sent a stab of agony through his neck and skull, almost making him pass out again.
His left hand was burning horribly, so, moving just his right hand slowly, he managed to curl and uncurl his fingers, trying to force himself to wake up and remember what had happened. He was, he realised, lying on the carpeted floor of his living room. He remembered being at the pub, but he didn't recall having drunk enough to cause him to pass out like this…
He became aware of the pain again, and wondered if he had lost consciousness for a while. He managed to roll onto his front, and moved one hand shakily to the back of his head. He flinched and hissed when his fingers encountered a raw, bloody lump, and came away tacky with his own blood. He could feel a deep, searing agony in his right-hand side; it felt like damage to his ribs. He was also having problems with his eyesight, but that could easily have been due to the concussion.
He tried to force himself to his knees, but that made his vision waver even more, as nausea washed over him. Breathing deeply to quell the sensation, he saw his mobile phone lying on the floor, not too far away…
It took only a few minutes for Lewis to drag himself over to the phone, but it felt like hours. With one shaking hand, he reached out, slid the phone open, and dialled the emergency switchboard number.
"This is Inspector Lewis," he rasped, pulling the phone closer to him so that the operator might hear him, as he quoted his badge number, "my flat… get a response car to my flat…"
Whatever the operator's response was, Lewis didn't hear it, as the pain redoubled, and, with a groan, he surrendered to unconsciousness.
Hathaway was jolted out of a deep sleep by the ringing of his phone. He groaned at it wordlessly, wondering, not for the first time, why he always kept it switched on, and why he charged it overnight on his bedside table. His head was already aching with a mild hangover, and there was a thick, gluey taste in his mouth. A quick glance at the clock told him it had only been an hour and a half since he had made it home from the pub. He snatched up the insistent phone, took a deep breath, and answered it with a croaked; "Hathaway."
He listened, and then sat bolt upright in bed; hangover forgotten in an instant, "What…? Really? Yes, of course, ma'am – I'll be there in ten minutes."
Flinging on some jeans and a sweater, he dashed out of his flat, snatching up his keys, glad that he had been given a lift to work that morning so his car was outside his house. Hathaway leapt into it and gunned the engine, not giving a thought to whether he was sober enough yet to be driving.
By stretching some of the speed limits slightly, he made it to Lewis's home in less than the promised ten minutes. There was a patrol car outside, with the lights on, and an ambulance parked up on the drive. Hathaway parked haphazardly, and leapt out of the car.
"Jim! Over here…"
Hathaway turned, and saw Lewis sitting on the tail-gate of the ambulance. There was a red fleece blanket draped over his shoulders against the chill of the night, and a paramedic was tending to a wound on the back of his head. The Inspector also had a livid red mark around his right eye that promised to be a fantastic bruise come morning.
"You really need to get this seen to properly," the medic was saying.
"Just patch it up and give me the disclaimer to sign, will you?" Lewis replied, wincing as the man pressed a piece of gauze to the back of his head.
"Hello again, sir," Hathaway called, as he approached, "I didn't think you were that drunk… did you fall over the doorstep?"
"Very funny," Lewis replied, jerking his right hand towards the open front door, "You can talk – you're probably still over the limit. I've been burgled."
"Shit," Hathaway said, matter-of-factly, "did they take anything?"
"My pride," Lewis snorted, and then flinched in pain, a hand going to his side instinctively, "Ah, I've no idea if anything's missing – they've made a hell of a mess. It's going to take me a few days to sort it all out – I think I interrupted them before they finished."
He indicated his head, and Hathaway winced in sympathy as the paramedic removed a piece of blood-soaked gauze and applied a fresh one. It looked like the Inspector had taken a bit of a beating in addition to the knock on the head.
"If I can't get the bleeding to stop in the next few minutes, we'll have to take you to hospital for stitches," he said, warningly.
Lewis ignored him, focussing instead on Hathaway; "Before you ask, I didn't see anything – he hit me from behind."
"I'd already worked that one out, sir," Hathaway responded, dryly, "just bad bloody luck, this, sir. How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Lewis replied, shortly, "do me a favour, will you? Get in there and keep an eye on things?"
"Of course… would you like me to come and pick you up from the hospital?"
"No need – I'm not going," Lewis told him, confidently, "I'll be in shortly. Oh, and Jim…?"
"Sir?"
"Thanks for coming out."
Hathaway smirked, unable to resist telling his boss; "Chief Superintendent Innocent rang me. She said that if she had to be woken up in the early hours because you probably left a window open, she saw no reason why I should be allowed to sleep in either."
"Charming," Lewis sighed, winced again, and glanced across at the house. Hathaway took pity on him.
"I'll go and see what's happening," he promised, "I'll be back soon."
Lewis eventually extricated himself from the fussy paramedic, and sent the ambulance on its way. Seeing a few curtains twitching in the street, he got the uniform in the patrol car to turn off the flashing lights, before he staggered inside the house. He paused just inside the hall, leaning against the wall as his head spun in a sickening surge. The paramedic had patched him up as best as could be without stitches, but the bandage already felt wet on the back of his head. He knew it was a deep wound with a concussion to boot, but he also had a feeling he had a couple of cracked ribs, and the middle finger of his left hand felt as if it might be broken. Furthermore, his right eye was already swelling shut from the kicking the bastard had given him while he was down…
"Sir," Hathaway's voice cut into his thoughts, causing him to look up with a slight wince, "Scene of Crimes are on their way over. They're asking if you've touched anything."
"It's my home – I've touched bloody everything," Lewis told him, leaning heavily on the wall, "Ah…sorry. When I came in, I touched the door, the light, and the kitchen worktop."
"And the floor."
"Sorry?"
"I assume that's your blood on the carpet, sir."
"Oh, aye," Lewis closed his eyes, briefly, and pushed himself off the wall, "yes. Um… I reported it on my mobile, and, um…"
The steadying hand on his elbow that prevented him from falling sideways belonged to Hathaway, who guided him back outside; "Come on, sir. I've got a very comfortable settee I can sleep on, and there's ice in the freezer for that black eye – you can stay at my place tonight."
Lewis tried to protest, but Hathaway was already leading him to the car. Lewis sighed, climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, and leaned back tiredly, head spinning, aching all over. Hathaway got into the driver's seat and glanced across as his boss. There was dried blood on the collar of his shirt, and Hathaway could see more of it seeping through the bandage.
"You should have gone to the hospital."
"I hate hospitals."
Hathaway sighed, and then glanced back at the house. The least he could do was grab his boss a clean shirt to wear.
"I'll be back in a minute, sir," Hathaway disappeared, and returned minutes later with a hastily-packed overnight bag. Lewis was already struggling to stay awake in the passenger seat. Hathaway waved to the arriving forensics officers, and, making an effort to drive as smoothly as possible, started the car and drove off into the night.
The next morning, Lewis awoke slowly. For a long time, he did not move; his head was throbbing painfully, as was his bruised face, hand and damaged ribs. Very carefully, he raised his right hand to his forehead – sure enough, there was a bandage wrapped around his head, holding a thick pad of gauze in pace at the base of his skull. His right eye was swollen virtually shut, and his exploring fingers found a hot, swollen bruise that made him hiss with pain when he probed it gently.
Looking around slowly, Lewis realised he had no idea where he was. However, the bed was comfortable, and he was propped up on a number of very soft pillows, wrapped in a warm blanket. It was clearly not his bedroom, or a hospital – by process of elimination, he realised that this must be Hathaway's flat. Reluctantly, he threw off the blanket, and carefully eased himself out of bed. He recognised his own overnight bag by the door, but ignored it in favour of the smell of coffee that was wafting into the bedroom.
Still wearing his suit trousers and shirt from the previous evening, he stood slowly, waiting in vain for the dizziness to subside. Opening the door slowly, he leaned against the door-frame to steady himself as his head whirled. Suddenly, there was a strong hand at his elbow, guiding him to sit in an armchair, and as his vision cleared, Lewis finally managed to blink Hathaway into focus as the younger man pressed a mug of hot, black coffee into his hands, sitting down on the coffee table opposite to Lewis, staring at him with a wide-eyed, worried expression. He gasped in pain when he tried to wrap his left hand around the mug, and settled for holding it one-handed as his left hand throbbed mercilessly.
"Morning sir," Hathaway greeted him, giving him an assessing look, "How are you feeling?"
"Woozy," Lewis admitted, taking a careful sip of the coffee and leaning back on the sofa with exaggerated care, "What happened last night?"
"Ah, well, sir," a sparkle of mischief crept into Hathaway's blue-eyed gaze, "We were in the public house, you see, and a rogue of disreputable intent made a move on a fair maiden of our acquaintance, a delicate flower by the name of Inspector Hogan…"
Lewis, in spite of himself, laughed, and immediately regretted it as pain lanced though his head and right-side ribs. He gasped, blinking quickly, as his vision swam slightly.
"Sorry," Hathaway mumbled, guiltily, "do you remember much, sir?"
Lewis was about to shake his head, and thought better of it. "No," he replied, instead, with a heavy sigh, "I remember walking in, and seeing the mess, and then… well, nothing, really. I vaguely remember calling for help… the ambulance… no idea how I got here, though. What time is it?"
"Just after seven," Hathaway responded, flicking a glance at his watch, "I wasn't expecting you to wake up so soon. You're welcome to spend the day here while forensics go over your house…"
"No, I'd better get to the office," Lewis replied, taking a sip of the coffee, and wincing as he moved, "at the very least I can sign off some paperwork, or something…"
Hathaway eyed him doubtfully, but did not protest. Instead, he glanced at the bandages; "At least let me put a clean dressing on that – perhaps something more subtle than the full-frontal lobotomy patient look you've got going on there."
Lewis gave a tired snort of a laugh, and allowed Hathaway to peel off the bandages. He tried to ignore the hissing noise the younger man made when he carefully removed the gauze.
"Good grief… surely you should have had this stitched?"
"It's not still bleeding, is it?"
"No, but… it looks like there are two separate wounds."
"Aye. I think he hit me twice. Might have been with that stone paperweight our Lynn gave us last time she visited…"
Hathaway fetched a bowl of water and a first aid kit from the kitchen, and did his best to clean off some of the dried, matted blood, before applying a fresh dressing, which he taped in place as best he could. Lewis held still, and, when Hathaway had finished, he slowly got to his feet, suppressing a groan.
"I'm going to get changed," he murmured, "mind if I use your shower?"
"Go ahead," Hathaway replied, "best not get the dressing wet, though, sir… I packed you a few bits last night; I hope it's the right stuff."
"It'll be fine, thanks, Jim," Lewis replied, with a small, grateful smile, "look, thanks for all this… I appreciate it."
"Oh, no worries, sir, I'm sure you'd do the same for me."
"Aye. Just warn me if you think you're going to get burgled and clocked on the head – I'd need to go out and buy a first aid kit…"
Lewis emerged from the bathroom a short while later, dressed in a casual rugby shirt and jeans. Hathaway, on the phone, caught his look, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand to explain.
"Sorry, sir – wasn't sure if you'd make it into the office today…"
Breaking off, Hathaway listened to the person on the other end of the call. From the look on the Sergeant's face, and from what Lewis could hear, it was Chief Superintendent Innocent – and she did not sound happy.
"I understand, ma'am," Hathaway was saying, "yes, ma'am, I do realise that… yes, but he was violently assaulted last night, ma'am… yes, ma'am… yes… yes… yes, ma'am, I'll bring him in as soon as he's ready. Yes, of course, ma'am, straight to your office. Ma'am."
Hanging up with a relieved sigh, Hathaway gave Lewis an apologetic look.
"Don't tell me, I can guess," Lewis sighed, leaning heavily against the door-frame, "she wants to see us, right away…"
"I think it's got something to do with the late night disturbance," Hathaway offered, "am I allowed to comment that our superior officer gets a bit ratty when she hasn't had her beauty sleep?"
Lewis smiled, resisting the urge to slide to the floor. He had never noticed how much hard work went into standing up before now.
"It's a fair comment," he replied, "I dare you to say it to her face."
"Better a live coward than a dead legend," Hathaway paraphrased, "if you're sure you're alright, sir…?"
"Yes," Lewis said, trying to put some strength into his voice, "come on then, James; we'd better go and face the music."
As the new day started over Oxford, the student seminars continued. Professor Woodman leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes briefly, listening to Annabelle and Ayesha discussing pattern behaviour in serial killing. She suppressed a smile; the debate amused her slightly.
"But most serial killers do fall into a pattern," Annabelle pointed out, "either their modus operandi is always the same, or else something like the type of victim, their location, their motive, their behaviour after the act – they all have some kind of ritual, some calling card or marker. It's this above all else that allows the police to track them down and catch them."
"You make it sound too easy," Ayesha protested, "I agree there can be patterns, but what if the pattern is not immediately obvious? What if it is something that the killer does that only he or she knows about – some private ritual afterwards? The kills might be so violently different that it becomes impossible to connect them. I believe most serial killers – the cleverer ones, I mean – are only caught when they make a mistake."
"I think ritual links into motive," Annabelle replied, "there must be something that marks them out as different."
"Have you ever met a serial killer?" Woodman interrupted, quietly, "I have. I made a great study of them, before my… well, that's beside the point. I had a great many conversations with Oxford's own infamous serial killer, Jeremy Jackson. He was an unusual case, I must say. But did you know that killers are often described by their friends and neighbours as 'normal' or 'average', 'a friendly sort', 'charming', 'charismatic', and so on? Ted Bundy actually said that 'we are your sons, we are your husbands, and we grew up in regular families'. Now, obviously, as we've discussed, that is not true for all serial killers. You fail to grasp that some people kill simply because they enjoy it, and there may not be any immediately obvious physical or psychological reasoning as to why."
"Have you spoken to many serial killers, Professor?" Andrew asked, with interest.
"I travelled widely before my accident," Woodman replied, with a nod, "to a great many jails and penitentiaries, here and around the world."
"Didn't any of them scare you?" Zoë asked, a little nervously, as if she were afraid to hear the answer.
"Only a very few," Woodman answered, a distant look in her eyes, "barely half-a-dozen of them. They were the ones who were the hardest to catch, and should never be released. The ones who chose their victims randomly but planned the murders meticulously, and then killed without compunction or regret. They were the hunters… anyway, I think that's enough for today. Next week, I'd like you to come equipped with some ideas on other applications for the study of criminal psychology. We will come back to serial killers later in the course."
The students saw themselves out, mumbling their thanks, already discussing their thoughts and ideas. Only Andrew hung back, and Woodman smiled. Andrew was one of her favourite pupils, though she knew she should treat them all equally. He was quiet but confident, thoughtful, gentle, curious, and always wanting to know more.
"Was there something else you wanted to discuss, Andrew?" she asked him, reaching down to a lever in the side of the chair, reclining it slightly, "I'm not too tired yet, if you wish to stay."
Andrew smiled, quickly; "Actually, I was hoping I could come by this afternoon for a discussion of my thesis – would five o'clock be okay?"
Woodman smiled; "Check my diary. If there's nothing in it, write it in…"
"Five it is," Andrew said, "See you later, Professor!"
Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent sighed, leaned her elbow on her desk, and rested her jaw in her cupped hand as she surveyed the two officers before her. Hathaway was as immaculately presented as ever, in a sharp black suit and a pale blue tie. Lewis, on the other hand, looked like the sole survivor of a disaster; Innocent could tell immediately from the way he stood that he was in pain. One eye was swollen shut and badly bruised, and he looked pale and shaky.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said, closing her eyes, and shaking her head, "at ease, both of you. Lewis, for Christ's sake; sit down before you fall down."
Hathaway obligingly pushed a chair over toward Lewis, who took it and sat down carefully, disguising a wince as he did so. Hathaway perched on the table behind him, casting a significant glance at the back of the Inspector's head. Innocent wondered at the extent of the damage; but decided that it couldn't have been that bad, if he hadn't had to go to hospital.
"Would you like to tell me what happened?" Innocent asked, eventually, glancing at each of them in turn.
"It's simple enough, ma'am," Lewis replied, tiredly, "I got home from the pub last night to find my flat had been broken into. I obviously disturbed the burglar – he hit me from behind, and escaped."
"You're sure it was a burglary?" Innocent said, sharply, "Not a personal attack?"
"I don't know," Lewis touched his eye and winced slightly, "I haven't been back yet to see what was taken, if anything."
"This could be serious, Lewis – and I do take attacks on my officers very seriously."
"It's bad for the budget, all that sick pay," Hathaway commented, dryly.
"Shut up," Innocent told him, bluntly, "Lewis, take the rest of the day off – you've no major active files at the moment. Go and oversee what's happening at your flat, but leave the investigation to uniform, okay?"
"Understood, ma'am," Lewis replied, quietly.
"And take the boy wonder with you," she added, jerking her head towards Hathaway, "he can chauffer you around."
"Thank you very much, ma'am," Hathaway said, deadpan, hopping off the table, as Lewis got to his feet.
Innocent gave him a pointed look, and then flicked her gaze to Lewis's back, and mouthed a silent order; 'Keep an eye on him.'
Hathaway nodded back with a very clear; 'I will.'
As Lewis and Hathaway were heading towards the exit of the station, they met Inspector Hogan coming from the other way.
"Lewis!" she exclaimed, "I was just coming to find you. I heard what happened – are you alright?"
"Fine," Lewis told her, unconvincingly.
Hogan peered at him; "You don't look fine. I hope Jean gave you the day off."
"Only to tidy my flat and find out what's missing," Lewis sighed, dreading the task, "I'm to stay out of the way of the investigation and forensics, though."
"That's good," Hogan grinned, "I've already taken it over."
"What?" Lewis stared at her, blankly, "You've done what?"
"Switched a file with the investigating officer so that matter comes under my remit," she replied, airily, "uniform will do all the leg-work, but they'll report to me, and if I want to throw some of my team at it, I can. Oh, and I can put the word out amongst a few of my contacts."
"How does a common burglary come under the remit of the Vice squad?" Lewis called after her, as Hogan turned on her heel and walked towards the exit.
"Because; whoever it was, they made the singular mistake of attacking a friend of mine," Hogan called back, over her shoulder, "Are you two coming or what? I want to check out my crime scene!"
Lewis and Hathaway exchanged a look; Lewis was dazed, and Hathaway was trying not to laugh.
"Don't say it," Lewis warned him.
"I won't, sir," Hathaway responded, "but… she is a bloody marvel."
"Aye… you're telling me."
They followed Hogan outside, and the two of them got into Hathaway's car. Lewis's still stood in his parking space from the night before – he suddenly realised it was probably going to be a while before he was capable of driving again. Hogan climbed into her distinctive Mitsubishi Shogun, following Hathaway as he pulled out of the car park.
They crawled through the mid-morning traffic until they were clear of the city centre, and an uneventful drive had them outside Lewis's ground-floor maisonette within a very short space of time. Hathaway turned off the engine, and for a few moments, Lewis stared sadly at the crime scene tape across the open front door. A SOCO emerged from beneath the tape, carrying an evidence bag, which he took over to the van parked in the driveway.
Lewis got out of the car, shutting the door, and leaning back against the vehicle. He was reluctant to go inside again; the devastation he had seen last night could only have been made worse by the forensics people pawing through his personal belongings. Hogan came up beside him, even as Hathaway walked around the other side of the car to join them.
"SOCOs have put a rush on it," Hogan reported, quietly, resting a hand on Lewis's shoulder "uniform have asked that you send them a list of anything that you find missing when you get back, but they think the burglar took your TV, DVD player and your record player."
"Oh, not the record player," Lewis groaned, "That was a present from… damn."
Hathaway glanced away, knowing who the record player must have come from, and cleared his throat. Hogan winced with sympathy, and withdrew her hand, realising how raw Lewis was feeling.
"Come on," she said, "I'll chivvy them along a bit, and then we can start doing some clearing up. It won't take long between the three of us."
She went inside, and Lewis followed a few steps behind. Hogan ripped the crime scene tape from the door, balling it up and shoving it in her pocket.
"Right, you lot! If you've got everything you need, pack up and get out," she ordered, "give us some space, will you?"
"Just ten more minutes, ma'am," said one of the men, in a bored tone, as he picked up samples of broken glass from the floor, "you'll have to wait."
Hathaway's gaze fell on an evidence bag on the worktop containing the sharp-edged grey slate paperweight Lewis had referred to as a gift from his daughter. There were traces of blood on one edge, and Hathaway winced, looking away again quickly. Hogan knelt down, flicking her leather trench-coat behind her as she did so, so that she was on eye-level with the SOCO.
"You've got five minutes," she told him, in a low voice, "and if you speak to me in that tone of voice again, I'll nail you to the wall of your choosing, got it? And don't you dare call me 'ma'am'."
"Yes, ma… sir?"
"Good lad."
That afternoon found Professor Woodman alone in her study on the Lonsdale campus. There was a convenient settee along one wall upon which she lay when feeling particularly tired or in pain. It was in this position in a light doze that Andrew, the student who had arranged a meeting with her, found her, just after five o'clock. He knocked gently on the door, and Woodman snapped awake with a gasp.
"Oh! Of course; Andrew… I'm terribly sorry, do come in…" Woodman beckoned him inside, sitting up as quickly as she could, reaching for her cane, "Take a seat, and I'll make us some tea."
They were soon ensconced in two of the most comfortable armchairs, and Woodman made sure to pull a blanket over her legs, embarrassed by her own frailty.
"Now," she said, at last, meeting Andrew's gaze, "I understand that you wanted to talk to me about your thesis."
"Yes," Andrew nodded, quickly, setting down his back-pack and pulling out a folder full of notes, "I decided that I wanted to focus on the various motivations behind the act of murder from a psychological perspective, with a particular study on the depravities of the serial killer."
"A very interesting topic," Woodman inclined her head, with a slight smile, "and no doubt there is a wealth of information available in the library and the Internet. What seems to be the problem?"
Andrew hesitated, waving one hand vaguely; "The information I've found is either entirely academic or it's… grotesque. A kind of sensationalised homage to the actions of these people. I wondered if you might give me some… well, some real life insights."
"I'm not going to write your thesis for you," Woodman smiled, "but yes, I can give you a few pointers. You will never suppress media interest in the serial killer – barely a month goes by when I don't have a newspaper editor calling me about an ongoing case, a cold case from years back, a feature they are running or some anniversary of a crime or the death of the killer. People are fascinated by serial killers, perhaps because the motives can be so hard to comprehend. Besides, all humans seem to share a morbid fascination for the macabre… but that is a subject for a whole other thesis!"
She paused to drink her tea, as Andrew took out a notepad, pen poised.
"Here's your starter for ten," Woodman said, "According to Dr. J. Reid Meloy, the psychopath is only capable of sadomasochistic relationships based on power, not attachment. Psychopaths identify with the aggressive role model, such as an abusive parent, and attack the weaker, more vulnerable self by projecting it onto others."
"Their victims?"
"Of course. But not all killers are psychopaths – indeed, the defence of insanity, while frequently raised, is rarely successful. But that is beside the point. In many cases, killers – whether serial or not – decide that their victims do not deserve to live, because they are weak, or they have cause great offence in some way – for example, the murderers who have targeted prostitutes sometimes claim to have done so because their victims were unclean in some way, and had to die."
"But there are other motivations…" Andrew prompted her.
"Oh yes," Woodman nodded, "A great many more than your thesis word limit would allow you to write about…"
The forensics team cleared Lewis's home well within Hogan's five minute deadline. Surveying the wreckage of his kitchen and living room, Lewis despaired of ever having the place habitable again. A glazier had been sent out and the broken window had been fixed very quickly, but there were still shards of glass trodden into the carpet, papers and personal belongings strewn everywhere, and Lewis winced in particular at the sight of his own blood still marring the carpet.
However, after only a couple of hours' work, Hogan had the kitchen immaculate, and Hathaway had cleared most of the living room. Lewis assisted as much as possible, but spent most of the time relegated to the settee to 'take it easy'. His head spun every time he tried to move, and between his hand, his ribs and his black eye, he felt utterly beaten.
Around mid-afternoon, thoroughly exhausted and aching all over, Lewis sat down heavily on the sofa, awkwardly holding in his right hand a sheaf of papers and the black box-file that he thought they had come out of.
"Lewis! Where the bloody hell do you keep your beer?" Hogan called out, from the kitchen.
"Real ales are in the cupboard by the window, and the lagers are in the salad drawer in the fridge," he replied, wincing, placing the papers on his lap and gingerly touching the back of his head, "ah… just water for me, please."
Hogan reappeared with three open bottles of ale; "Sorry? I didn't quite catch that last bit," she said, handing a bottle over.
"Thanks," Lewis sighed, accepting it, "come on, Hathaway, let's give it a rest for now…"
The three of them took seats, Hogan and Lewis on the settee, Hathaway in the armchair. A tired silence fell over them all, as Lewis stared sadly at the spot where his record player had been. It was quite an old one, with record, CD and tape decks, but it had been an expensive one, a gift from Val that he would have been loathe to replace. Now, it seemed, he had no choice.
Glancing at the other two, he noticed that Hathaway was flicking absently though an old photo album, smirking to himself, no doubt at the clothing styles and haircuts. Hogan was rapidly demolishing the bottle of beer she had purloined from the cupboard. Glancing down at the papers on his lap, Lewis frowned slightly, put his beer down, and then began to paw through the papers with a growing sense of loss. Hogan caught the look on his face, and raised an eyebrow.
"What is it?" she asked, setting down the beer, "What's missing?"
"Our Val's passport," Lewis said, a note of confusion creeping into his voice, "Mine's here – so's the marriage certificate. I kept everything together, but her passport… it's gone…"
"Passport are quite valuable for fake IDs and the like," Hathaway commented.
"Yes, but why take hers and leave mine? It doesn't make sense."
"Maybe the burglar just missed yours amongst the paperwork," Hogan replied, "try not to worry about it, Robbie – we'll get it back for you. My informants don't know why, but they know I really want the person who did this. And they know it will be worth their while if they're the one who gives him to me."
Lewis gave her a grateful look, tossed the papers haphazardly into the box file, and dropped it onto the floor beside him. He leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes briefly against the pain. Suddenly aware of a movement at his elbow, he opened his good eye to find Hathaway, proffering a glass of water and a box of painkillers. Lewis raised a pained smile, and held out his hand as Hathaway dropped two of the pills into his palm. Lewis quickly swallowed them, and then accepted the water with a mumble of thanks.
"Have you got any ice?" Hogan asked, glancing across at him.
"There's some in the freezer," Lewis replied, his voice a hoarse whisper as he leaned back and closed his eyes, "Whiskey and Gin are in the drinks cabinet…"
"No, not for that," she laughed, "I meant for your eye – to try to take some of the swelling down. You look awful... you're never going to pull looking like that."
Lewis shot her a baleful glare, even as Hathaway snickered to himself and disappeared into the kitchen again, returning a few minutes later with some ice cubes, wrapped up in cling-film and a tea-towel. He very carefully applied it to the swollen eye, and Lewis whispered his thanks, holding it in place with his right hand, leaning his head back on the settee, flinching slightly as the wound on the back of his head came into contact with the cushions. He suppressed an audible groan at the wonderful coldness.
"Dear God," Hogan said, glancing down at his left hand, as she carefully sat down next to him on the sofa, "What happened to your hand?"
She took his wrist and gently lifted his hand into hers, examining the swelling and bruising around his fingers.
"The bastard stood on it," Lewis muttered, by way of explanation, not bothering to open his eyes.
"You really need to get that looked at, sir," Hathaway observed, exchanging a worried glance with Hogan.
Lewis was trying to form a coherent objection, when the opening chords of Guns N Roses 'Sweet Child O' Mine' suddenly sounded, very loudly. Hogan pulled her phone from her pocket and answered it, cutting off the music; "Hogan."
Lewis, leaning back on the settee, with his eyes closed, holding the ice-pack in place, did not see the colour drain from Hogan's face. Hathaway did, and he gently nudged Lewis's arm. The Inspector glanced up, and frowned; Hogan had gone as white as a sheet as she listened to voice on the other end of the line, staring fixedly at the wall.
"Give me the location," she said, "no, I haven't got a pen – send the GPS co-ordinates to my phone. And keep a lid on this – I do not want to hear this as the hot topic around the station over lunchtime tomorrow!"
She snapped the phone shut, dropped it into her pocket, and snatched up her coat from where she had thrown it over the back of a chair earlier.
"Am I allowed to ask what's going on, Ally?"
Hogan hesitated, and then flung her coat on, standing a little straighter.
"That was Dennis, my Sergeant," she explained, "we have to go, now. Jean wants us on a scene."
"I thought I'd got the day off," Lewis groaned, not wanting to leave the comfort of the sofa.
"It's just been cancelled," Hogan said, bluntly, "Robbie, it's Simon Monkford – he's been murdered."
A/N: Ooh, look - there's finally been a murder! Simon Monkford was the hit-and-run driver responsible for the death of Val Lewis; has someone decided to even the score...?
