Twenty Four
Morse groaned as he slowly, reluctantly, regained consciousness.
Well that was a disaster.
Around him, there was only silence, and he thanked whatever deity out there that Gull was no longer in the room.
He'd waited with his meagre glass weapon as planned, and when Gull had returned, he taunted him to bring him closer. It had resulted in more than a few slaps and threats, but eventually it had worked, and he'd lunged at man, taking him by surprise and knocking them both to the floor. They rolled and hit and kicked each other, struggling for the upper hand, and Morse had only just managed to send the sharp shard through his upper leg before Gull got a firm grip on his gun and-
Well.
There was a reason his leg was aching.
Morse blinked, the single light bulb above flickering and casting strange shadows against the wall.
His head ached, and there was a sticky tackiness matting his hair and coating the side of his face. His arms felt scratched and were tied behind him again, this time with zip ties, the handcuffs still dangling loosely off of his right wrist. The metal chair was as cold and unforgiving as ever, the chair opposite was empty and blood stained, which probably accounted for his pounding head. The glass shards had been cleared up.
There was a faint ringing in his ears, and he found it difficult to concentrate on anything for too long. He was also cold, colder than before, and he shivered almost constantly. Slowly looking down, he found pale skin also bruised and blood stained, thought whether that was from the head injury or something else, he wasn't sure. His shirt was now haphazardly wrapped around dust covered black trousers, half way between knee and hip, with a steadily increasing red blotch in the middle of what was once white fabric.
Huh.
Morse blinked again, eyes refusing to focus on what they were seeing.
He'd been shot.
Gull had shot him.
He was…
He was bleeding.
A wave of nausea crashed over him, and he half choked and forced himself to look away, to focus on the plain concrete walls and weird shadows instead.
He'd been shot.
That was… okay.
That was fine. It was all fine. Everything was-
It wasn't the first time, after all.
Same leg, too.
This was- This was okay.
He tried to rationalise his spinning thoughts, and distantly wondered if he was concussed.
Because that would explain a lot.
Either way, he was definitely injured, and definitely trapped, and definitely- definitely hopeless.
No. Not hopeless. Hopeless was- That was- It- It was too strong a word.
He had Peter looking for him, after all, and Thursday and Strange and probably Bright, too. And Abby was being looking after, and Monica would fully recover, and Mrs Laskey was almost on her feet again.
So, no. He wasn't hopeless, he was just… waiting.
Waiting for rescue or waiting for death, it didn't matter.
Abby was safe and soon he'd be too, or else he'd be somewhere else where things like that didn't matter.
Morse frowned.
He was almost positive that Housman had some sort of quote for this...
Max would know.
He'd have to ask, next time he saw him.
From outside, came a bang of a metal door and then heavy footsteps.
He distantly wondered what time it was.
The footsteps got closer and closer, before pausing outside his concrete cell. Then there was a clanging of keys, the scrape of one being forcibly shoved into a lock, and the inevitable swearing as their holder realised it didn't fit. Morse clanging, more scraping, and then a screech of metal.
The door was shoved open, and Morse just barely caught a glimpse of more concrete and old water pipes in the corridor outside, before it was slammed shut again.
Gull stood there, red faced, panting, strangely cheery looking.
Then again, he thought, there isn't must difference between ecstasy and insanity.
His gaze drifted over the older man, pleased to see evidence of cuts and scratches that his own hands had made before he'd lost the battle.
But not the war. Not yet.
On Gull's right thigh, the threadbare trousers had been ripped, and he could see bandages and medical tape covering the skin inside.
At least his broken glass had caused some damage.
"Noticed it, have you?"
He blinked and looked back up at the murderer.
Gull grinned, almost triumphantly, and gestured at both their bleeding legs.
"We match".
Shuffling over, with an obvious limp, he sat down in the chair across from him. The gun wasn't anywhere in site.
"You know, Morse" He began, "I have to say, I'm actually glad you rebelled when you did".
Rebelled.
Like he was a teenager caught swapping vodka for water.
"Because it showed me something, you know? It showed me that you were telling the truth, earlier, when you said you wanted to kill me. That you would kill me. And you know what that means?"
"You're goin' to die soon?"
His grin fell.
"No, detective. Quite the opposite, in fact".
Leaning forwards, he placed both elbows on his knees.
"It means that you actually are capable of killing. Which is good. Which is so, so good, Endeavour, because that means that we're more alike that you realise. More alike than even I had realised. You can kill".
"You. I can kill you".
"You can kill anyone" He snapped, "Either you're capable of murder or you're not, Morse. And you very much are. It's just up to me to… well… get you there, I suppose".
Leaning back, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a switch blade. Flipping it open, he tilted the knife until the metal caught the light and shone.
Gull smirked, and turned back to him.
"I have no doubt now, that we were meant to be. I've killed people, Morse, more people than you will ever know. And now that I know you can, as well, I'm going to train you. Make you perfect. Almost as perfect as we'll be together, eventually".
Morse opened his mouth to retaliate, to them him no, you're crazy, I'll never kill in cold blood, but before he could speak, that short but sharp blade was jerked forward to rest perilously against his throat.
"Ah, ah, ah" Gull warned, "There's no time for protesting, not anymore. Not when I know what you're capable of… Richard just wanted to rule England, after all. So, don't you think it's about time that I ruled you?"
The blade dug into his neck as he swallowed.
"You just need a little… discipline, I think. Like training a dog. If you disobey me, you get hurt. But if you do what I tell you to, you'll get a reward. Eventually you'll come around to my way of thinking. And then Richard will win, and England will win, and we'll all live happily ever after".
Gull slowly, methodically, dragged the point of the knife down his chest, leaving a thin line of blood from neck to waist.
"I mean, if we're going to change the story, Endeavour, we might as well make it a good one".
Dinner with the Thursday's was a quiet affair.
Both detectives were lost in their own head thinking about the case, Win and Joan were too busy worrying about Morse, and Abby was half asleep even as she slowly raised a forkful of mashed potatoes to her mouth.
Afterwards, Win brought tea and biscuits into the living room, and Thursday and Jakes sat on the couch, Abby curling up in the latter's lap. It didn't take long for the Inspector to write up her side of the story, because as upset as remembering made her, it was more upsetting thinking of leaving her dad alone with that maniac. Once everything was down on paper and Thursday called it into the station, they called it a night, knowing full well that they wouldn't be able to find the missing detective on two days of no sleep.
Jakes spent the night in Sam's old room, Abby curled up against him and whimpering in her sleep, and his own thoughts drifting just as dark places.
The pillow still smelt of Morse, from when he'd last stayed over.
Jakes doubted that Morse had the luxury of such a basic thing now.
Eventually he drifted off, early morning and almost exactly twelve hours since his partner had gone missing.
It wasn't a peaceful night's sleep.
The next day brought its own troubles, as Abby was adamant that she had to go to the station with them to catch 'the bad man'. It took almost an hour of persuasions and bribes before she left Jakes' go, and although he was just as reluctant to leave her behind, he knew that Win would keep her happy and safe.
The arrived at the station an hour later than usual, and immediately were accosted by Strange and half a dozen Uniform who all had nothing important to report but had to report it anyway.
They poured over the statement Abby had given, and tried to narrow down the house she'd been kept in.
It was small, she'd said, and stood by itself. There was a garden and a back garden and a gate that was locked but had yellow paper stuck to it. She didn't know how long she'd been running before she reached the payphone, but it'd definitely been at least half an hour. She hadn't passed anything else along the way, or if she had, she'd paid no attention to it, and there were no distinguishing landmarks or features that she could remember.
It wasn't exactly a helpful account, but it was certainly better than nothing.
"And CID have turned up nothing? Uniform too?" Bright asked, as the three men sat in Thursday's office.
"Nothing, sir" He replied, "Abby doesn't know which direction she came from, so it's useless sending out officers canvasing when we don't have the slightest idea of where to look".
"Surely, she couldn't have run more than ten miles?"
He shrugged, "Even so, sir, a ten-mile radius around this village would require more manpower than what we've got".
Bright huffed, and Thursday couldn't help but nod in agreement.
Jakes turned back to Abby's report, hoping, praying, knowing that there had to be something in it that could help.
There were dozens of cottages and farmhouses outside Oxford, after all, if not hundreds, and they needed to find something that would narrow it down.
Gardens were common, as were flowers and hedges. There was no surprise that the house had been locked, when it likely that Gull had broken in. There were normal windows and doors, a half falling down fence, and a gate. All of that was commonplace, so-
He stopped.
The gate.
Quickly flicking back through the statement, he found the part where she'd described it.
White, non-descript, no defining features… but it had a piece of yellow paper stuck to it.
A long narrow strip of yellow paper, Abby had said, the same colour as her coat.
But paper didn't just stick to wood, not unless it had been nailed in place. But she'd sworn that it hadn't been, that it was just stuck there. She's stared at it as they'd passed because it was such a pretty colour and there was no nail or staple or anything, it was just stuck.
But what if it wasn't paper?
What if it was stuck because it was sticky?
What if it was… tape?
"Jakes?"
He blinked and looked up.
Both Bright and Thursday were staring at him, and based on their frowns, he guessed that they'd been calling him for a while.
"Do you have something?"
He glanced back down at the report.
"… Maybe".
"Police tape?" Bright asked, somewhat disbelievingly, and he nodded, "Yes sir. It's long, it's yellow, it would have stuck to the gate no problem".
"You believe that Mason Gull is stupid enough to bring them to a crime scene?"
"Not stupid enough, necessarily… But arrogant enough? Brazen enough? Insane enough? Yes. I do".
Thursday leant back in his chair, lighting a pipe with practiced fingers.
"Police tape" He muttered, "If this is right, then we can narrow it down to no more than a dozen buildings. And even fewer that outside Oxford".
"Do any of them have a connection with Gull?" Bright asked, "He does enjoy connections, after all".
"None that I know of" Jakes admitted, "A few robberies, burglary, one or two domestics and assault, nothing that has his name on it… But like you said, sir, there needs to be a connection. Everything has a reason, for Gull, everything can be traced back to Richard III, to his game. So there has to be a connection".
The older man gave a wry smile.
"Careful, Sergeant, you're beginning to sound like Morse".
Thursday smothered a laugh by coughing, and Jakes willed his expression to stay blank.
"Collect a few photos" Bright continued, completely oblivious, "Show them to Abigail, see if she recognises them. If she does… report back, and we'll move in".
It didn't escape their notice how he ignored the possibility that she wouldn't.
Gathering the various crime scene images, Jakes stacked them on his desk in a neat pile before stretching in his chair as he waited for Thursday.
They had no few than fourteen active cases at the moment, ranging from petty theft to attempted murder, and he hoped that Abby wouldn't ask too many questions about the images.
Yawning, he turned and stared at Morse's empty desk.
It was weird, him not being there.
He kept expecting that polished accent to speak at any moment, to call out something obvious that they'd been missing, to make some dry quip or quick remark that kept them on their toes, to even just sigh loudly or thud his head against his desk in despair when nothing was linking up.
He didn't like this silence.
Standing, Jakes forced himself to look past the desk, and walked over to the evidence board instead.
Careful, Sergeant, you're beginning to sound like Morse.
There was something they were missing, there always was, until Morse pointed it out. But this time, the tawny haired detective wasn't here, so it was up to Jakes to fill in both their roles.
Careful, Sergeant, you're beginning to sound like Morse.
If he were Morse, what would he see?
Jakes trailed his fingertips over the photographs of each of the nine victims. Vickery, Allen, Bannon, Rigsby, and Bradson. The two princes came next, Eddie and Richie. Then, Elizabeth Laskey. And finally, Abigail.
The last four had survived with minimal injuries, and he could only hope that Morse would soon join them.
Careful, Sergeant, you're beginning to sound like Morse.
Okay. Let's see.
Victim number ten.
Morse.
The England to Gull's Richard.
If I were a deranged serial killing psychopath with a taste for revenge and Shakespeare, where would I go?
He looked at the photos from Bannon's flat, the dead man's body lying in bed, then at Allen's trampled rose garden, and the shallow hole they'd found him in beyond. Vickery had still lived with her parents, as did the two children, and Laskey and Bradson were moot points, Abby too. Which just left…
He stared at Sean Rigsby's cottage.
Garden, flower, hedges, fence, gate.
He leant closer to the faded photo and narrowed his eyes.
The gate.
It was shown, just at the edge of the image, a part of it cut off completely. But there, on the part he could see, was… police tape.
An entire hour later, and they were suited up and ready to storm the place.
Thursday was in front of him, hat still in place and revolver in his hand, while Uniform surrounded the cottage in full tactical gear.
Jakes counted down silently in his head.
One… Two… Three…
"Go! Go! Go!"
Bursting in, he headed straight for the kitchen, knowing that Abby said that's where her dad had found her and where she'd left him before she ran.
He kicked open the door with perhaps a bit more force that necessary, sounds of "Clear!" echoing around him from the rest of the house.
The room was empty.
Jakes kept his guard up and quickly spun around to check behind the door, gun raised and body tense.
Nothing.
He walked the perimeter of the room, opening any cupboard big enough to fit a man, and even checked underneath the table before slowly, almost painfully, lowering his weapon.
Turning to face the window, he took a deep breath and willed himself to remain calm.
So Morse wasn't here, so neither was Gull, so what? They would find him, of course they'd find him, they had to. If not for himself, then at least for Abby. Jakes wouldn't care if Morse hated him after this, so long as he could bring home her dad.
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and he jumped, spinning around with the gun half raised to-
Thursday looked back at him, face drawn and eyes grim.
The sudden sight of his world-weary guvnor brought traitorous tears to his eyes and he quickly turned back around so the older man wouldn't see.
"Jakes-"
"It's fine".
"… Peter".
He took another calming breath before turning back.
Fred Thursday looked old.
"We'll find him" He said, "I swear to you, Peter, we'll find him".
He didn't know if he was trying to convince the sergeant or himself.
"Sir!"
Both men turned as a young constable burst in.
In his hands, he was holding a small plastic bag.
And in the plastic bag, was a mud-covered button.
"I found it, out by the gate" He explained, "You said there should've been a little girl here and… well, it looks like it's from a little girl's coat, that's all".
Jakes turned to subtly wipe his eyes before clearing his throat and marching over.
"Good work, constable".
The man nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and left.
He held the bag up to the light, noting the bright yellow that matched Abby's coat. The same coat she'd been wearing when they'd found her in that phone box.
"Is it hers?"
"… Yea".
"Good".
Jakes frowned, and looked over at him.
Thursday gave a sort of sad half-smile.
"If it's Abigail's, then now we know for definite that they were here. I know Morse isn't, and that… that nothing will make up for that. But now we have a crime scene. A definite crime scene. And that, at least, is something".
Jakes put the bag and the button inside his coat pocket and turned to face the rest of the kitchen.
A crime scene.
Was that what this was?
Just another nameless place where a nameless victim was-
He shook his head, and forced himself to look past all that, to focus on the room like it was a crime scene, like it was just another place, a place where a kidnapping had taken place and anything, anything at all, that he could find would be helpful.
He'd already glanced in the cabinets, and nothing had stood out. Behind the door had been empty as well. All six chairs were accounted for at the table, and the table itself had abandoned plates half-filled with rotting food.
He distantly remembered Morse saying something about a feast…
But asides from that, the kitchen was a as derelict as the rest of the cottage. The walls were bare, the ceiling just had the one dim light, and the floor was-
Jakes frowned.
The floor was… different colours?
"Sir, look at this".
Walking over, he crouched down between the table and the door, noticing where a patch of rusty brown stained the dark linoleum.
Thursday knelt down next to him and pulled out a flashlight.
The brown turned red.
Jakes swallowed thickly.
"… From Rigsby?"
"It's too far from the table for that".
"… Morse?"
The inspector reached out with a barely perceptibly shaking hand and gently tapped the lino before shining the torch on his fingers.
They were bright red.
"It's fresh".
"Morse, then" He confirmed, distant sounding compared to the rushing in his ears.
Thursday slowly stood.
"… I'll call Doctor DeBryn, get him out here. We won't know for definite until… Well. Maybe he'll find something".
Jakes leant back on his heels and watched him leave.
What the hell was he going to tell Abby?