A/N: Sorry, bit of a longer chapter today but I couldn't find a good place to cut it up! Thanks for all the reviews and kind words, it warms my heart to know you're enjoying this! Happy weekend!

Gingham xx

Previously: Jack and Phryne met a reporter, and found a new lead.

Chapter 10

Phryne climbed back into the car and slammed the door with a loud bang that did nothing to relieve her feelings.

The address for Ezra Hill had been empty; long abandoned by the looks of it.

"I suppose we couldn't expect for him to stick around at home when all of this started," Phryne said, trying to bring some reason to the proceedings. Jack had slumped horribly when they had found the house empty, and was now leaning dejectedly against the door frame of the empty living room as two Constables searched the rest of house.

"He'll have a hideout somewhere, a hidden lair," Phryne continued. "We just have to find it."

Jack shook his head impatiently, looking at his watch. "Most killers don't have 'lairs', Phryne." His voice was dull.

Phryne found herself unusually irritated by his fatalistic tone. "Foyle did." It was almost a snap.

Jack's eyes met her and she saw him relive those awful moments in that basement. How close everything had come to being so different. "Yes." He said quietly. "He did." He sighed and looked at his watch again.

"What is it?"

"It's four thirty," he said. When she looked puzzled, he went on: "24 hours since she went missing. The other two bodies were found within 24 hours. We may already be too late."

"Or maybe it's a good sign. Maybe whoever took her didn't realise she was a policeman's daughter, and they panicked. Maybe they're keeping her alive somewhere."

Jack looked at her. How long had it taken Phryne to accept her sister's murder, he wondered? Did she say the same things to herself, to her parents? Was it only when they found her that she accepted the truth? Or was it the war that made her realise the finality of death? He should have asked her, he thought. He couldn't now.

But she was, essentially, an optimist. He, unfortunately, was the opposite.

"I think she's dead, Phryne. We just haven't found her yet."

She was about to take his arm, tell him it was too early to think like that, raise him up so he could continue to fight. But suddenly, and to her horror, she found that she didn't have the energy. All she could think about was…

"I'm going to have another look at that letter," she said, and left without waiting for a reply.

Back in the car, she paused for a moment before opening the glove compartment. Why did he have to make everything so bleak? Even as she thought it, she chided herself, knowing it wasn't true. The last six months had opened up a whole new world of Jack; moments of happy, giddy silliness that she would never have thought possible. And whenever he had found things difficult before she had always been willing – keen! – to help. But just now… she sighed. Maybe it was inevitable they would become short tempered with each other. This case was deeply personal for both of them, stirring up unpleasant memories and almost paralysing them with the desperation to not repeat past mistakes. It was natural that their ability to support each other would be affected; impossible for it not to be, really. But she didn't like it. She took a deep breath, resolving to try harder.

Refocusing her mind, she opened the glove compartment and pulled out the letter she had placed there.

She'd heard part of the name before, she realised that now. She read the letter again, her heart beating faster. It wasn't just the name that was familiar, either…

She was distracted by the driver's side door opening, and looked up as Jack climbed in.

"Nothing to show Ezra Hill ever lived there," he reported, looking despondent. "The place has been cleared out."

"Maybe he never did," Phryne said, still clutching the letter.

Jack looked at her, recognising the fire of a new lead in her eyes. He began to feel unaccountably better, and he didn't even know what she was going to say.

"You don't think Ezra Hill exists?"

"Oh, he exists," Phryne retorted. "Someone wrote this letter. And we agree it must be the killer, don't we?"

"Yes," Jack said, thinking back over their conversation on the way to the address. "The information about the deposition sites was never in the papers. And it's the one thing this killer appears not to know. His depositions have been clumsy, obvious. That's why we've found the girls so quickly."

"Agreed. I just don't think his name is Ezra Hill."

"You think he chose it deliberately?"

"Yes. He's taunting us. There was no Ezra Hill on that library course. It's a false name. 'Ezra' because it's an unusual name, bound to catch Verity Shawcross's attention. And Hill, because of the connection to the case!"

Jack looked puzzled for a second until his brow cleared. "Myrtle Hill?" he asked, referencing the girl who had escaped Foyle's clutches all those years ago. He tilted his head, thinking. "It's not an uncommon name."

Phryne frowned. "You think it's a coincidence?"

Jack shrugged, but didn't get a chance to answer before Phryne interjected. "There's something else. This letter, Jack… it sounds like Foyle." She did her best to ignore his shocked expression. "Remember that letter of his I burnt?"

Jack nodded.

"It's exactly like that. His use of words, phrases – "day of resurrection" – it's exactly like Foyle. Even the handwriting is the same!" Her voice was rising in pitch and as she looked at him, she saw a look of concern cross his face.

"Phryne, are you saying…"

Despite her earlier promise to herself, she felt a wave of irritation hit her. "I'm not saying I think it is him, Jack."

His eyes widened. "Phryne –" he hastened to interrupt but she continued, anger building at him.

She was almost shouting. "Please don't lets have this conversation again, just listen to what I'm saying – !"

"Phryne!" This time, his voice was loud enough to stop her. She took a breath, realising she might have got carried away. He turned in his seat to face her. "I am listening to you," he said calmly. "You're saying you think this person might have known Foyle, or corresponded with him when he was in prison."

"Oh." Phryne reddened slightly at the realisation that she had misjudged him. "Sorry. Yes. It's just you looked rather disturbed. I thought you might have thought I'd gone a bit mad."

Jack looked as if he was thinking about arguing with her, but when he opened his mouth, a laugh fell out. He looked momentarily embarrassed, but then pressed his fingers to his eyes and let himself succumb, his shoulders shaking in mirth.

Phryne tried to garner some annoyance, but couldn't stop herself smiling. It was such a beautiful, welcome sound: Jack laughing.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice also tinged with amusement.

He took a moment to gather himself and then looked at her with an expression Phryne could only characterise as 'fond resignation'. "I looked 'rather disturbed'?" he quoted incredulously. "Is there anything about this that isn't disturbing? I can't believe we both haven't gone mad yet."

He was still laughing, but there was a tragic sort of truth behind his words that made Phryne wistful. She reached across and took his hand. "Maybe we have…" she said softly, only half joking.

He stopped laughing, but his expression was calm and open. He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them gently. "We're alright," he said softly. "Aren't we?"

Phryne felt herself melt instantly. "I think so," she whispered back. In all honesty, she wasn't at all sure, but this moment, right here, was enough.

He smiled, and there was a hint of laughter left in the air as he cleared his throat. "So what's our next move? See if the prison has kept any records of prisoner correspondence?"

"Yes," Phryne said. "And we should contact Myrtle Hill."

"Really?"

"Yes. There must be some link. Some contact that he's made with her… we should at least check she's alright."

Jack nodded. He had initially been surprised that she wanted to drag Myrtle back into this, but what she said made sense.

"I'll call Collins when we get back to the station. He can go and speak to her."

()

A message was relayed to Collins at City South and duly acted upon. When he called back at around 9 o'clock that evening, Phryne snatched up the phone impatiently. The last few hours had been nervy. D.I. March had returned from his enforced rest, and his reaction to the news that no headway had been made in search for Maisie had been distinctly unpleasant. Phryne felt sorry for him; she did. He'd probably never had to deal with anything like this before, and to have it happen to one of his own men was unthinkable.

But all day, she had felt that Jack and she were teetering on a knife edge, both perilously close to somewhere they had been before and did not wish to visit again. And this black hole, this abyss that they were both studiously trying to ignore; it wasn't a one-ticket-only situation. If one went down, the other went too. They knew that, and trying to keep one another upright; a prod here, a kiss there, an insane moment of laughter in a car elsewhere - it had become the only way they could carry on.

It was a balancing act that was taking all their skill, patience and balance to pull off. It would be so easy to give into tiredness or fear and let a sharp word slip out; easy too, to retreat into well-worn paths of self-destruction, forsaking the sanity of one for the wilful self-destruction of the other. Phryne was proud, not just of him, but of them; they were living up to it, their greatest fear. They were doing it.

So what they emphatically did not need was D.I. March storming in and doing his best to knock them off kilter. She knew it wasn't deliberate; she knew he was afraid. But afraid or not, he shouldn't accuse Jack. He shouldn't accuse her. It was an insult that wasn't just going to slip away: water off a ducks back. Not this time. Not today. Today it could knock them right into the abyss.

His litany of accusations covered all the highlights from "Just because you don't personally know the people affected…" all the way to "What the hell have you been doing? I should never have left this in your hands!" His face was purple, literally purple. Jack had braced himself. It was desperately unfortunate that March should have sought an update from Constable Sharp. Off course his stammering report was going to make it sound like nothing had been achieved. On any other day, March would have known that.

"Inspector, sit down and I'll tell you!" Jack had been outraged. This was no way for a senior officer to behave on duty, no matter what his state of mind.

Jack had proceeded to give him a thorough report, and March seemed to relax a little. But Jack could see it was still there, the fear that had been borne from the promise he had made to Tom Green; the promise he feared he couldn't keep. It was disappointing, dispiriting; more than that, to realise he was already looking for someone to take the blame.

Jack had tersely suggested March go to debrief the search teams, and he grudgingly complied, leaving a relieved Phryne and a tense Jack in the office when the phone rang.

"Hugh!" Phryne could never have told him how glad she was to hear his voice, not just because she was keen to hear his news but because just to listen to his soft tones through the telephone was to be somehow more closely connected to home; to Dot and all the people and places who now seemed so far away. It was unthinkable that it had only been a few days. It felt like months.

"Miss Fisher, I went to find Miss Hill."

"And…?"

"She wasn't in." Phryne slumped, and mouthed the message to Jack. She saw her disappointment mirrored in his face.

"I've left a message with her landlord and I'll go again tomorrow."

"Good. We just need to know if she's had any correspondence from anyone interested in the case. Particularly anyone by the name of Ezra Hill."

"Yes, Miss. I have it all written down here."

"If she wants to speak to the Inspector or myself directly, bring her to the station and telephone us here."

"I will, Miss."

"How's Dot, Hugh?" Dot was eight months pregnant, and blooming, the last time Phryne had seen her, but it had been a few days.

"She's keeping well, thank you, Miss."

"Give her my love, please."

"Of course. I'll telephone when I've spoken to Miss Hill."

"Thank you, Hugh."

"Goodbye, Miss."

"Goodbye."

A Constable had brought in a message for Jack when Phryne had been on the telephone, and she looked at him enquiringly.

"The City Jail in Melbourne. They say they don't keep any record of the correspondence of deceased prisoners."

"Damn. I suppose that would have been too easy. What's next?"

"I have officers checking up on everyone who took that course. Other than that, we need to wait and hear from Miss Hill."

Phryne exhaled loudly and sank back in her chair. "I'm not good at waiting." She hated the thought that Myrtle might be in danger, after all those years being free of Foyle.

Jack looked at his watch. His stomach was still in knots knowing that Maisie was out there, but there really wasn't anything more they could do before morning. And he could tell that today, with all its Foyle flavoured leads, had taken its toll on Phryne. "It's late. We didn't have lunch. Should we go back to the hotel?"

Phryne looked at him moodily. "I wish…"

"What?"

She bit her lip, feeling unaccountably emotional. Speaking to Hugh had reminded her of everything that she was missing back in Melbourne.

"I wish we could just go home."

Her voice was quiet, childlike, and heart-breaking. Jack knew she didn't really mean it. She had to see this out, for her own sake as well as for Maisie Green and Myrtle Hill and who knew who else was affected by this. But just in this moment; tired, hungry and vulnerable, there was a small part of her that wanted to pretend all of this never happened and to go back to the people they were just two weeks ago.

He understood. He felt exactly the same way.

He sat on the desk in front of her and put his hand at the back of her neck, massaging the tension he found there. He drew her forward, placing a kiss on her forehead. "I know."

They stayed still for a few moments before he stood up, drawing her with him. "Come on. I know neither of us got much sleep last night. Let's leave March in charge for a few hours and get some rest."

She smiled softly. "I thought it was my job to persuade you of that?"

He tilted his head. "We can share it, can't we?"

"Alright." Her eyelids were very heavy. "Let's share it."

He wrapped an arm around her, leading her out of the office. "See? Perfect match," he murmured.

Phryne knew he was referring to her words yesterday, when they had both simultaneously worried about each other's wellbeing at the morgue. It had made sense then. It had always made sense.

But now, she looked anxiously into the face of the man who had persuaded her to go home, the way she had persuaded him yesterday. Was it really a perfect match? It hadn't always felt perfect today. Two people, with that much baggage? Too much ballast for lift off, she had told Lyle Compton once. How much more they had collected since then. How much more likely that they would crash and burn…

But she pushed the thought out of her mind, annoyed at herself for even considering it. Who wouldn't have found the past few days difficult, after all?

She let Jack help her into the police car, and tried to relax into the hard passenger seat. She shut her eyes, imagining a hot bath at the Regency, room service, and then… she smiled dreamily. Then she'd prove to herself just how perfectly matched she and Jack were.

()

"Phryne?"

His deep voice penetrated her light doze easily, and she awoke with a start, noting with embarrassment that she had drooled slightly.

She tried to wipe her chin surreptitiously, but Jack fixed her with a smirk before getting out of the car and going around to open her door.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty." He extended a hand, and she willingly grasped it and let him lead her into the hotel.

"I think you might have been right about my needing that rest…"

"Well, don't worry. You're right much more often than me, and I won't hold it against you."

They got into the elevator and leant back against the walls, Phryne yawning loudly.

"Straight to bed for you," Jack said, looking at her fondly.

Phryne smiled sleepily, reaching out to run her fingers down his tie. "Is that a promise?"

Laughing, Jack shook his head. "You're incorrigible."

The elevator arrived at their floor and they walked hand in hand down the corridor towards their suite.

Suddenly, Jack stopped and pulled Phryne's hand back sharply.

"What is it?" Phryne said, alarmed.

Jack's body was tense, and he was looking sharply towards the door of their suite. Phryne followed his eyes and saw the door was ajar.

A movement next to her, and she realised he was already pulling his gun out of his waistband; she hadn't even realised he'd been carrying it. She opened her bag quietly, extracting her own gold-plated pistol.

Jack nodded to her, and moving in unison they took up positions at either side of the door. With his gun held out in his right hand, Jack used his left to push the door open and entered the room, Phryne covering him at his back.

Jack scanned the room for intruders, and finding none, went to check the other rooms. Phryne kept a tight hold on her gun, but as she did a careful circuit of the room she stopped short in front of a large painting. The blood drained from her face, and the hand holding the gun dropped, her arms sagging by her side. She was dimly aware of Jack calling through that the rest of the suite was clear, but remained silent, staring in shock at the wall in front of her.

When Jack returned, he found her transfixed, stood stock still.

"Phryne?"

He followed her gaze to the wall and took a sharp intake of breath.

What had been a rather innocuous but probably expensive landscape painting was now adorned with a picture he recognised all too well. It was the police sketch of Janey. It was held to the painting by means of a large kitchen knife, which protruded from the forehead of the paper and ink girl.

But, as shocking as that sight was, it was nothing compared to the words below the picture, daubed crudely in red paint.

I WON'T MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE.