Chapter 8

"So I'm who?" the newly-awakened Grady rubbed his hand over his face and hair as he tried to assimilate what Reid had just told him.

"You're Bob Jackson. We worked together as bouncers in London when I got out of the service. I've tried to keep it as ordinary and anonymous as I can without sounding totally fictitious. Think you can manage to remember it? I seriously doubt whether anyone will actually question you, but it should be easy enough to say, 'Tel and I used to crack heads together at a nightclub in London' - OK?"

Grady nodded, still absorbing this information. "I'll be fine, Terry. I really do appreciate you going to all this trouble..."

"Oh, don't get all mushy on me, Russ, let's just get the next few days out of the way. I'll go back to work, you'll move on, and hopefully there won't be any awkward questions for either of us." Reid paused as if considering his next words, then asked, "I don't suppose you've thought about handing yourself in?"

Grady's face closed over. "I knew you'd say that eventually. You mustn't ask me to do that, Tel." He grabbed a can of Fanta and guzzled it down, then in search of further comfort reached for the last Kit Kat.

Reid leaned casually against the window-sill and employed his best soft interrogation skills. "You still haven't told me why you went AWOL. What happened? It must have been really bad for you to go on the run."

Grady began to get agitated. "I don't want to talk about it." He busied himself tidying up the detritus from his snacks, throwing papers and cans into the waste-basket in the corner of the bedroom.

"I know, but if I'm going to be sheltering a runner, I think I have..."

"Don't tell me you think you've got the right to know, Terry, please." To Reid's dismay and embarrassment, Grady started to look tearful, and left the room. The sound of running water from the bathroom told Reid that he had better back off for now. He reckoned that Grady would tell him what had gone on, if and when he chose to – and if he didn't, well, it wouldn't be the end of the world. Reid had to confess to himself that it was his copper's instinct kicking in that had made him curious about his friend's reasons for absconding.

oooOOOooo

The moment they had been anticipating and dreading came, in the shape of Superintendent Gardiner, the following afternoon. Unheralded, his green Shogun drew up outside, and Reid went quickly upstairs to warn Grady.

"Right, that's my super here. Don't skulk about, just flush the toilet and come downstairs - be sociable, offer him tea and stuff, and make yourself busy in the kitchen so he can chat to me. He's not here to see you, just remember that." He patted Grady reassuringly on the arm, then went downstairs to answer the doorbell.

"Terry, how are you?" The super smiled, wiped his feet on the doormat and crossed the threshold, cap tucked underneath his arm.

"A lot better, sir, thanks." He invited Gardiner to take a seat in the living room, and, right on cue, the upstairs toilet could be heard flushing.

Gardiner raised quizzical eyebrows at Reid. "Oh, that's an old mate of mine, Bob Jackson. He's come to stay for a few days till I get on me feet again. Bob," as Grady entered the room, "this is my guv'nor, Superintendent Gardiner."

Grady extended a hand and Gardiner shook it warmly. "Nice to meet you, Bob."

"You too," responded Grady, pleasantly. "How about I make some tea while you and Terry have a chat?"

"That'd be great, Bob, thanks," Reid answered, almost slipping up and calling him Russ. You idiot, be careful! he berated himself, but Grady played his part to perfection, bringing tea and biscuits, then retiring discreetly to the kitchen, where he could be heard re-doing the washing-up that Reid had finished only ten minutes before.

"This is ideal, Terry," said the super, munching on a chocolate finger. "I wish you'd told me you had somebody who could come and keep an eye on you, I'd have worried less." It was said more as a statement of fact than as a reproof, but Reid took it as such.

"I'm sorry, sir, I should have let you know..."

"No, don't apologise! You've suffered a serious head injury, you can't be expected to think of everything. At least Bob's here to make sure you don't overtax yourself – I'm sure he's been invaluable."

"He has, sir, he's been a star at nipping down the shops and generally helping me out," Reid lied.

"Excellent." Gardiner helped himself to a fourth biscuit. "Now in case you were wondering, I'm not here about work. I just wanted to check you were all right. Hope you didn't mind me calling in unannounced."

What Reid was wondering was if the chocolate fingers would survive the afternoon, and he knew that Grady would have counted them onto the plate and be stewing over how many the super was consuming. "More tea, sir?" he offered, in a bid to slow down the rate of disappearing biscuits.

"No, no, I must be going, actually, I've a meeting with the DAC in..." he looked at his watch... "twenty-five minutes, so I'd better get a move on. Very glad to see you're on the mend, Terry. Give me a call when you've seen the doctor and let me know how it goes." He scooped up a handful of Jaffa cakes, then replaced his cap on his head as he walked towards the front door, and called out, "'Bye, Bob, it was nice meeting you."

"Bob" emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a dish towel for effect (Reid rolled his eyes behind Gardiner's back at this pantomime), and replied, "Thanks, and you," as the super left. Reid closed the door absurdly carefully, then collapsed against it, letting out an enormous sigh of relief.

"Bloody Norah! I thought he'd never stop eatin' them biscuits!" exclaimed Grady in high dudgeon, earning himself a good-natured slap round the head from Reid.

oooOOOooo

The rest of the day passed without further incident. Reid had been fretting about the food stocks running low, since he could barely walk the length of the garden path without feeling like death warmed up. As Grady was confined to quarters, he proposed they order some groceries online, much to Reid's amazement - "Blimey, Russ, being in the army's actually taught you something useful" - and these were delivered that evening.

Reid sat at the kitchen table and supervised the putting-away of the purchases. He had managed to get the message across to his new lodger that alcohol was most definitely not on the shopping list any more, and after some limited sulking Grady had agreed, albeit reluctantly, not to order any. This didn't stop him getting a dig in as he unpacked the frozen food, milk, bread, and other comestibles.

"Thirsty work, this...I'll just get a drink of water..."

"Yes, Russ, I get the point. You could always go down the pub, there's one just at the end of the street," Reid suggested cuttingly.

Grady looked pained. "The first place they'd look for me in any town," he retorted, "would be the boozer."

"That explains your keenness to buy some in," was the reply. "You should follow my shining example and chuck it. Best thing I ever did."

"Yeah...I noticed you're not smoking, either," observed Grady, his admiration tempered by scepticism.

Reid scowled. "That's more of a recent development," he said, realising with surprise that he hadn't had a cigarette for a couple of days. "No patches, though – it has to be cold turkey with me, or it doesn't work." His methadone addiction and the precursor to it were not a part of his life that he was willing to reveal to Grady. He very much believed in the principle that once you'd conquered something - a habit, an appetite, a compulsion – you needed to put it behind you and never refer to it unless absolutely necessary. Not to deny it had ever been a problem, for that would have been self-delusion, but in order for him to move on, it was essential that he not continue to mentally beat himself up over it. That way he gained strength from what had once been a weakness, because he was able to prove to himself that he could overcome these things.

"Right, that's everything away," announced Grady, as he straightened up from stocking the fridge. "Are we having this steak and kidney pie tonight?"

"Sounds good to me," Reid replied. "I'll get that on if you peel the spuds."

"OK," Grady assented. "Oh, I meant to ask, Tel – would you mind if I got some washing done while I'm here? Only, I don't have much in the way of changes of clothes with me..."

Reid wrinkled up his nose at the very thought. "Enough said, help yourself. Washing powder's under the sink."

Grady went upstairs to retrieve his laundry and Reid set about preparing dinner. He was quite enjoying domesticity, no work to worry about, no phones ringing off the hook...suddenly he realised that since the attack, he hadn't had a call or a text on his mobile. Dammit, the battery'll have died, and I bet Sheila's been calling and texting to find out what's going on. She's probably heard on the grapevine; in fact, it's a miracle she's not been round before now... the thought of a possible visit from Sheila made him sprint through to the living room, find his phone, and coax it into life with the help of the charger. Sure enough, several brief but increasingly panicked messages from Sheila showed up, as well as some missed calls. Sighing, he dialled her number on his landline and braced himself.

"Hell's teeth, Terry!" Sheila's voice was a familiar mixture of exasperation and concern. "What's going on up there? The rumour mill's got you a vegetable, or dead, or in intensive care clinging on by a thread, and I couldn't raise you on your mobile, and there was no answer from your landline..."

"Hold on!" Reid broke in, stemming the flow before Sheila really hit her stride. "The bit about the baseball bat's true; the rest of it's cobblers." He delivered her a swift account of the events in the pub and the subsequent incident in the car-park.

"So you've got two suspects but no way of pinning it on anyone?" Sheila asked.

"I don't think it was Billy Duke," mused Reid aloud. "He's been a total prat, but I don't see him as the type to whack another copper with a blunt instrument."

"Well, whoever it was, I'm glad you're OK. When's it convenient for me to come up? I've got a couple of days leave owing, and I could..."

"It's fine, really." Reid was using his most reassuring voice. "I'm pottering around at home on sick-leave, and I've got an old army mate staying with me. He's been abroad, and he was house-hunting in this area; we'd arranged for him to stay with me while he looked round, so it was quite lucky."

There was a little silence and then Sheila said: "Why is it you don't want me up there? What are you up to?"

Bollocks, thought Reid. He should've known that Sheila would be harder to fob off than Gardiner. She knew him too well. Levelling with her – as far as he could – was going to be the only way. "Look, Sheila... this is one of those 'what you don't know can't hurt you' things. I'm doing a favour for an old mate, and I'm pretty sure I can get it all sorted without any aggro, but it's a bit dodgy and I don't want you involved when you don't need to be, okay?"

"Not really, but I suppose you're going to do it anyway whatever I say. How sure are you that you can get it sorted?"

"About... ninety percent?" Reid offered hopefully.

Sheila made a non-committal sound and then said, almost pleadingly: "Just promise me one thing – it's not anything to do with drugs, is it?"

"Oh for God's sake!" Reid regretted his involuntarily heated answer the instant it was out of his mouth, and the sharp jab of pain that ran across his forehead when he raised his voice was by far the secondary consideration.

"Well, pardon me for giving a monkey's," came the slightly frosty reply.

Reid resisted the desire to smash the receiver against the wall and instead pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache. He bloody hated phones for important conversations; being unable to see someone's face made it so much harder to judge their mood and anticipate their reactions. "Look, I'm sorry, Sheila. Please believe me when I say you never met a bloke who looked less like a junkie than the geezer currently sorting through his smalls in my spare room. A pisshead, for sure, but a drug-user he ain't."

Sheila sighed. "I shouldn't have asked you that, but I've been going a bit frantic down here. Just promise me you won't do anything stupid."

"I solemnly swear to be a model of mature adulthood," Reid grinned. "And as soon as I've got this feller sorted and I'm back on my feet I'll be in touch. Do me a favour?"

"If I can."

"Don't let anyone contact Louise and the kids. I had to cancel this weekend because of the Lindsay Allan murder anyway, and I don't want Lou hearing I got my head bashed in for the second time. She'll just have the ab-dabs and scare the kids."

"No problem." Sheila's robust common-sense was always reassuring. "Your little escapade hasn't made the news down here, so as long as I warn the troops not to go waffling about it in public we'll be OK. Look, I'd better scarper – I've just had the world's longest coffee-break. Take care of yourself."

Reid promised, and rang off feeling he'd got away with it all fairly lightly, considering. Turning his attention back to the mobile he began to delete the texts from Sheila to free up his inbox a bit. As he worked his way down the list he suddenly frowned in confusion. He was looking at a text that consisted of just two words: Eric Hayden.