Two days crawled passed, and what few leads they had slowly dried up. Maria did not return to work at the hospital, and it was virtually a given that she had killed Anita Rogers. If it had not been for the assault on Lewis, Hathaway might have been tempted to simply issue the warrant for her arrest and move on to the next matter. As it was, Innocent had taken him off all other cases indefinitely…

Hathaway glanced at his watch. Normally, he would have had time to go to home, change, maybe meet for a prayer meeting and band practice, go for a quick pint – just the one – and then head home to unwind. Instead, he went to his car, and drove over to the hospital and wound his way through the corridors that were becoming increasingly familiar. He slipped passed the nurse's station, and they conveniently ignored the out-of-hours visits, as he quietly entered the side room. He had fallen into this routine with surprising ease, carrying a newspaper and a cup of tea. He set down the tea, sat down beside the bed, and glanced down at Lewis. It seemed that there was no change, yet the nurses assured him that he was making a good recovery.

Hathaway picked up the paper, shook it out, and absorbed himself in the headlines. The crossword, he was disappointed to note, only took him fourteen and a half minutes. He preferred a challenge… he was mentally re-writing the clues to make them more challenging when a something distracted him momentarily. He glanced up at the door instinctively, but there was no-one there. There was a low groan, and Hathaway shot to his feet, leaning over the bed, hesitantly.

"Sir?"

Another slight groan, and a cough. Hathaway crossed to the door, and leaned out.

"Nurse! I think he's waking up…"

The duty nurse jogged down the corridor to join him, and leaned over the bed, checking some of the monitors.

"Mr Lewis?" she said, clearly, "Mr Lewis, can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand, please? Good, that's good…"

Hathaway hovered in the background, uncertain as to what to do. Lewis whispered something to the nurse, and she looked up at Hathaway.

"You've only got a couple of minutes if you want to talk to him," she said, quickly, "make it fast – he really should be kept sedated."

Hathaway nodded as the nurse stepped back, but did not leave the room. He approached the bed, and sat down.

"I'm here – it's me, Hathaway…James," he said, feeling awkward, "sir… do you remember who did this to you?"

"…Aye…" the word was whispered, hoarse, but the affirmation made Hathaway's heart leap,

Lewis tried to move his head, but gasped in pain, and Hathaway winced in empathy.

"A name, sir," the sergeant said, his voice low and urgent, "please, give me a name…"

"Maria…"

"Maria Brookville? We know it was her – but who is she?"

"Yes…and no…"

"Explain, sir, please."

Hathaway leaned in, his voice urgent. On the bed, Lewis turned to look at him, grey-green eyes filled with pain. The name he uttered filled Hathaway with a sudden, cold dread.

"Marion Brooks."

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"Oh God, I've heard of her," Innocent shook her head, worried, "What do you know about her, sergeant?"

"It's an old case, ma'am," Hathaway replied, calmly, "As I recall, it was one that Chief Inspector Morse solved. Marion Brooks was the partner of professional con-man Hugo du Vries. Inspector Lewis told me about the case once. He said du Vries would have kill Morse if he got the chance."

"And now his girlfriend is trying to kill Lewis?" Innocent sounded confused.

"Marion Brooks was imprisoned as a result of her assistance to du Vries," Hathaway explained, gesturing to the old file he had pulled from the archives, "Inspector Lewis – sorry, the then Sergeant Lewis – was heavily involved in her arrest, and it was his testimony in Court that sealed her sentence. Inspector Morse was not called to give evidence because he had been, quote, 'emotionally involved with the accused', end quote."

"She was Morse's girlfriend?" Innocent said, horrified.

"Not exactly, ma'am," Hathaway shook his head, albeit uncertainly, "but she was the accessory in the murder of his girlfriend – a murder Inspector Morse himself was framed for by du Vries."

"Give me the file," Innocent held her hand out authoritatively, "I'd better do some reading! When was Brooks released from prison?"

"Eight months ago," Hathaway replied, handing over the file, "the computer finally made the association between Maria – Marion – and Anita Rogers. Anita was one of du Vries's victims. He cheated her out of her life's savings and left her in abject poverty. She must have recognised Marion, so Marion killed her."

"And when Lewis realised we didn't have a statement from the cleaner and went back to get one, he saw Marion and recognised her immediately," Innocent finished, nodding as she spoke, "she took off, he gave chase, and she ran him down with her car."

"There was no need!" Hathaway's anger flared suddenly, as his voice rose, "She could have just driven away and we'd still be no closer to finding her or knowing who she was!"

Innocent let the outburst pass with little more than a raised eyebrow, as Hathaway took a deep, steadying breath.

"We've got the all ports bulletin out on her," she told him, reassuringly, after he had composed himself and mumbled an apology, "I've put a guard on the door to Lewis's room at the hospital. We'll get her. I've brought in some back up. I'm assigning you to a new Inspector to take the lead on this case."

"But…"

"No 'buts', sergeant," Innocent interrupted his protest bluntly, "you will work with Inspector Hogan on this case. There will be no arguments."

Hathaway drew in a deep breath, and nodded.

"Good boy," Innocent said, with a half-smile, "you're dismissed."

"Yes ma'am. I think I might call at the hospital on my way home…"

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Hathaway stayed far later than he had done over the previous few days. He had read the prison file, which told him very little, and then the computer files, which told him even less. Marion Brooks had spent a short few months on parole, and had then been released completely to do as she pleased. It seemed that she had wrangled herself a job as a cleaner with a slight change of name and some fake references…

"You look like you could use a beer," said a quiet, hoarse voice.

Hathaway started, dropping the file, and glanced down at the bed.

"I thought you were asleep, sir," he commented, gruffly, with a half-smile.

"Damn leg," Lewis murmured, wearily, "wish I was at home…"

"Maybe in a few days," Hathaway replied, tossing the file to one side, "Sir, we can't find her. Marion Brooks. We don't know where she is."

"She'll have gone to ground," Lewis muttered, covering his eyes with the hand of his good arm, "she learned a lot from that bastard du Vries."

"Can you remember anything else, sir?"

Lewis tried to shake his head, flinched, and raised his left hand from his eyes to touch the bandages around his head. The sling was gone from his right arm, but Hathaway could see the older man was still in a lot of pain.

"It was a blue ford," Lewis said, his voice rasping as he spoke, "a blue ford… Alpha Nine Seven…Alpha…Alpha Nine…"

Lewis stopped, pressing his hands over his eyes. Hathaway half-rose, worried.

"Sir?"

"Sorry," came the reply, through gritted teeth, "head hurts… can't remember…"

"Don't worry about it, sir," Hathaway told him, sitting back down, "you need to rest – get some sleep."

"Damn leg…" Lewis murmured, semi-consciously, "Marion Brooks – might be after you – look out for her…"

"I will, sir," Hathaway said, softly, reaching out and gently resting his hand on his boss's arm, "please – get some rest."

"Aye…"

Hathaway waited until he was sure that Lewis was fast asleep, and then he silently lowered his head and prayed for a few minutes, before left the room. He was late for an appointment… he had been summoned to the pub by his new boss, this Hogan character. Privately, Hathaway wondered if drinking ability was one of the assessment criteria for promotion to Inspector…

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Marion Brooks watched as the Sergeant left the hospital and headed towards his car. She had laughed to read of Morse's death while in prison, but once that initial elation had passed, she felt cheated that she had not been able to take revenge. Hugo had made such plans to make Morse suffer for putting him in prison! Now her only recourse was against the sergeant – now the Inspector – who had put her in prison and prevented her from taking revenge. She remembered how her beloved Hugo had put the gun to her head – she had seen the love in his eyes that stopped him pulling the trigger – and then he had turned the gun on himself to avoid the return to prison… and then she had learned the hard way why he had been so keen to avoid the place. Oh yes. She would make Lewis pay – and if his sergeant and others had to suffer as well, then she could cope with that.

She turned, and climbed into her car – it was now a grey metro, a clunky old thing, but she could not risk her old car being identified – that was now a burned out hulk in a quiet lay-by out near the woods, and it would no doubt simply be towed away by the police and crushed. She was almost glad that that she had allowed Hathaway to pass unscathed – she had a feeling he might come in useful at some point.

Revving the engine, she pulled out of the car park. She had been greatly annoyed to have tracked down the Inspector's home address, only to find that his wife had died and his children lived far from home. At least she had the address. She had learned patience from Hugo – if needs be, she could wait months, and extract her revenge slowly, over time.

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Hathaway walked towards the bar that this Inspector Hogan had chosen. He knew it to be a bit rough, but it served decent enough ale – Hogan had, at least, some taste. He slipped inside, and found the place to be virtually deserted. He crossed to the bar and ordered a pint – what the hell, he was off duty, and if this Hogan bloke wanted to meet him in a pub, at the very least he could have a drink…an empty pint glass landed with a thud on the bar top next to him.

"I've got these," said a friendly voice, "name's Hogan. I'm going to take a guess at yours, Hathaway."

"Correct," he confirmed, and turned, to find himself facing a woman wearing a long black leather coat.

Hogan gave him a grin. She was about 6 feet tall and looked to be in her late forties, with dark hair that was streaked with grey. She had grey-green eyes, and beneath the coat she wore dark jeans and a black roll-neck sweater. The barman served their pints, and Hogan led him out into the beer garden, where she dropped into a chair, lit up a cigarette, and offered him one.

"Thanks," he said, as she lit it for him, "what's the catch? I normally end up paying for the drinks."

Hogan gave a snort of a laugh; "I'll remember that for next time."

They smoked in silence for a few moments as each gave the other surreptitious, appraising looks. Finally, Hogan spoke.

"I've read the files on du Vries and Brooks," she said, leaning forward to take a drink from her pint, "I've also read the psych reports on Brooks from prison. She seemed completely rehabilitated and her grudge was against this Morse character, not your Lewis. We figure she flipped out and killed this old lady because she recognised her, but why have a go at your Lewis?"

"We think it brought back old memories," Hathaway replied, taking a contemplative drag on his cigarette and blowing the smoke to one side, "she'd landed herself a menial job at a hospital, but then even that was taken away the minute the Inspector recognised her. Even if she hadn't committed the murder she'd have been suspect number one and the hospital would have replaced her in a snap."

"Transferred malice?" Hogan suggested, "she can't get Morse so she'll go for Lewis?"

"An appropriate phrase incorrectly applied," Hathaway commented, "transferred malice indicates a case where a killer intends to kill one victim and accidentally kills another. Inspector Lewis isn't dead."

Hogan laughed; "let's hope we can keep him that way."

"Agreed," Hathaway said, taking a drink, "have you reported to CSI Innocent?"

"Helen can wait," Hogan said, dismissively, "I'm more interested in hearing what's been going on from you."

Hathaway noted the use of the Chief's first name, and marked it as a point of interest for further conversation at a later date.

"Inspector Lewis remembers next to nothing about the incident," he reported, succinctly, "save that he clearly identified Marion Brooks. We checked CCTV footage and although there isn't a clear shot of the car, we have a clear picture of her leaving the hospital. Her identity is confirmed. She has changed her appearance a little – some cosmetic surgery, longer hair, and so on. We have an APB out on her but no-one has seen her since the attack. It's as if she disappeared into thin air."

"A scientific impossibility," Hogan replied, bluntly, "a clever man like you would know that, sergeant. Five will get you ten she's changed her appearance again – dyed her hair, or taken up a disguise. I believe du Vries was an expert in that, and I bet you he taught her a few tricks."

"It's not so easy to disguise the female face," Hathaway responded, "you couldn't grow a beard or a moustache."

"You'd be amazed the difference a haircut or a wig can make," Hogan grinned, "what's the size of our team?"

"Thee and me, at the moment," Hathaway said, a little glumly, "we've had no leads over the past week – our chief sees no reason to expend valuable resources by having people sitting around the office drinking coffee all day."

Hogan gave a grunt of a laugh, and finished the last of her pint.

"We'll see about that," she said, cryptically, "sergeant… I believe it's your round."