Disclaimer as in chapter one. Thanks, as ever for the reviews.

I hope this proves to be worth the wait…

BLAME

Frank knew he had captured Doctor Kempton's full attention when she began walking slowly away from the cubicle she had previously paused besides.

She had clearly thought that she knew everything she needed to about Joe's case: a kidnap victim – malnourished and dehydrated – but needing nothing more than a few tests and then some very standard care.

Talks of suicide had forced her to change her mind very quickly.

"Mr Hardy…" she began.

"Frank. Please call me Frank." He shook his head bemusedly. "When you call me 'Mr Hardy' I keep looking around to see where my dad is."

"Alright, Frank." Kempton's response was spoken with the distraction of a person under immense pressure. But she was still prepared to spare him a few more seconds: "I worked in New York and Washington before I transferred here." She paused – and halted them in their tracks. "I have dealt with kidnap victims before."

"But the man who took my brother – he does this to people. He breaks them. He makes them want to kill themselves." Frank – belatedly realising that the doctor had expertly walked him back towards the waiting area – spoke the words in a rush; almost panicked. "I have to be with him."

"No, Frank. You don't." There was definite compassion in her voice – but there was also an absolute resolve. "Joe will be unconscious for some time. And there are those two cops…" she tried to remind him. "They've broken every hospital rule, so far. I won't have anyone else…"

"Let me talk to them!" Frank leapt on the reminder of his other reason for being there. "Let me…"

"No." Doctor Kempton's reply wasn't unsympathetic – but it was final. "You have to trust me when I say that Joe will be looked after. And, Frank?" She looked at him, appraisingly: "When was the last time you slept? Or ate for that matter?" Then she looked pointedly towards where Gertrude sat: "And isn't there someone else you should be looking out for?"

No-one but my brother. That thought was cemented into his brain.

Then, prompted by the Doctor, he found his gaze alighting on his Aunt. Gertrude had discarded her magazine and her eyes were flitting anxiously around the waiting room. She half-rose and then sat back down again.

Frank watched her do that three times before hurriedly excusing himself from Doctor Kempton and walking back over to her. He sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

"The Doctor will let us know just as soon as we can see him," he said – feeling that she was trembling and trying to reassure her. "In the meantime, how about a cup of coffee?"

"It's about time you got here!" Even with his hands cuffed in front of him, Houghton somehow managed to come across as being relaxed, at ease and – almost scarily – in complete control. The grin he aimed at Fenton was arrogant and mocking.

"You said that you'd only talk to me." Fenton spoke through gritted teeth; determined not to be drawn into the man's twisted games: "So talk."

"I'll talk to you." Houghton leant forwards and clasped his hands together. "I'll talk till I'm blue in the face. I'll talk till you beg me to shut up. Till you beg for me to stop!"

"Where is Carl Stafford?" Fenton tried to ignore the goading – and started with the most straightforward of questions; one that would calm his pounding heart and not give him cause to lose his temper, should it not be answered. He was emotional, but was also well schooled in interview techniques.

"Carl? I don't know. We had a deal and I let him escape. Maybe he's dead. I don't know. I don't care. Maybe he fell off a cliff." Houghton shrugged languidly and grinned again. "How about young Joseph? Is he dead yet?"

Fenton stiffened and almost choked at the mere mention of his son's name. He clenched his hands into fists and visibly fought the urge to leap over the table and attack the man who tormented him so.

And Houghton knew he had won the first point when Collig stepped in: "We ask the questions," the Chief intervened. "Not you."

Fenton shook his head then, recognising the mistake he'd just made. Barely a minute into the interview and already he was on the back foot. It was a rookie mistake – letting personal feelings get in the way – and he was no rookie.

It wasn't a mistake he was about to repeat.

"Joe's fine." Fenton steeled himself as he stepped back into the fray. He hid his blatant lie behind his utter conviction of belief. Joe would be alright. "In fact, he'll be home in just a couple of days."

"Then he'll be dead by the weekend!" Houghton was unphased – and laughed out loud at the defiance his own nemesis was trying so hard to demonstrate. "He killed his own mom! How do you expect to get your boy over that?"

"He did nothing wrong." Fenton slammed his palms down onto the table that separated him from Houghton. Then he leant in close – so that he and the felon were almost nose to nose. "You killed Laura."

"And you've still got to convince your boy it wasn't him!" Houghton's smug grin never wavered. "Let me know how you get on with that."

Fenton smiled grimly; determined not to rise to the bait.

Instead he turned defence into offence – and stared Houghton down.

"This will be the first time you've failed," he eventually said; straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back – and then he very deliberately turned his back.

There was the sound of a chair scraping on linoleum behind him – but Fenton didn't deign Houghton with the small victory of him turning around. He knew who else was in the room: two cops – both armed and alert; the Chief of Police – also armed and definitely not afraid to use his weapon, should he need to. And Fenton also knew that Con and Sam were watching from the very next room; plus the fact that Mason and Carr were bound not to be too far away.

There was no need for him to worry about Houghton doing something rash – and the Chief's firm words of: "sit down!" silenced the sounds of movement behind him. He whirled back around to face Houghton:

"You failed," he said, again – trying to sound confident; even if, in his heart, he wasn't entirely sure he believed his own words. But he did deliberately echo the mocking tone Houghton had used: "You haven't beaten me. You could never beat me."

Houghton's gaze turned hard: "So that's why he confessed, is it?"

Though Fenton had been forewarned, it didn't stop the words from punching the air out of him. He gritted his teeth and ground out the same words he had said to Collig: "Anything he might have signed, he signed under duress."

And then, as if Fenton's nerves weren't grated enough, Houghton began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he began to cough; his breath coming in short gasps and his face turning beet red. But nobody moved to help him; nobody offered him even a sip of water.

When he finally regained his composure, Houghton wiped involuntary tears from his eyes and grinned up at Fenton. His cockiness had returned full force.

"You really don't have a clue, do you? 'Anything he might have signed…'" he mocked. "Oh… You haven't seen it, have you? Your boy read those words aloud – and he cried. My God, how he cried. He looked guilty; he sounded guilty. Hardy, he knew he was guilty!"

Fenton had heard the term 'blood boiling' but he had never truly experienced it. But now he did. He felt his blood pressure rising; felt himself grow hot under the collar – and every other cliché or euphemism there ever was for intense anger.

And he clamped down on it, ruthlessly.

"He's not guilty," he retorted, deliberately keeping his distance and glowering at Houghton from the back of the room. "I'll make him understand…"

"Too late!" Houghton seemed to be on the verge of cackling manically. There was clearly a madness about him – albeit a cruel and calculated madness. "He didn't have a clue – and I got to him first."

"What do mean?" Fenton knew that Houghton was immensely assured of his victory – and he was determined to shoot him down in flames. Those previous words had given him a glimmer of hope; so much so that he even held up a placating hand when Collig seemed on the verge of intervening.

"He had no clue – not a glimmer." Houghton was on a roll – relishing the reaction he was provoking. "You have no idea how easy it is to mould a mind that has no memory. It took hours, Hardy. Mere hours to convince your boy that he had killed his mom."

"He had no memory of the accident…" Fenton whispered – unwittingly being drawn back in time: to the memory of Con trying to take Joe's statement; to his own harsh words of 'observation, retention and recollection'.

Sickness welled within him and he tried hard not to dwell on just how much he had played into Houghton's hands.

Then another stray thought stirred within him – vying to push his guilt aside: "He remembered nothing?" he asked, ensuring that he sounded as though he was asking the question only of himself.

"Nothing!" Houghton was so caught up in his own perceived victory that he couldn't have stopped gloating, even if he wanted to. "Nothing except what I put in there. It was too easy, Hardy. Too easy!"

Fenton bit down on his anger, his fear and even his intense hatred of the man. Somehow, he forced a smile – and he injected every ounce of his contempt towards Houghton into that smile.

"What are you grinning at?" Houghton half rose out of his chair, but was instantly restrained by one of the cops who – unnoticed by Fenton – had moved away from the door to stand behind the prisoner. "What have you got to smile about?" Forced back down, he still managed to retain his arrogance.

But Fenton wasn't going to play his games any more. He had gained a victory and wasn't about to have it taken away from him.

Instead, he was going to make it all the more sweeter:

"Thank you," he said. And both his eyes and his tone were mocking. "Thank you for helping me save my son."

Then he turned and opened the door of the Interview Room. The moment he stepped through it, Houghton began to yell: "You've got nothing! Your kid is dead! You haven't beaten me! You..!"

And Fenton slammed the door shut behind him with finality – and with an immense amount of satisfaction.

TBC