Thank you Emma and Kate for your comments! Happy New Year to you all!

Bruce Malcolm had been denied bail and was to be remanded in custody until the trial, a date for which had not yet been slated. Smithy stared at the board before reluctantly taking down all of the evidence. He still couldn't shake the feeling that it was a little too easy. She'd refused to give him what he wanted, whether that was materially or sexually, so he killed her? It wasn't completely out of the question, but something still didn't feel right to him, though everyone else seemed satisfied. He'd been in the court that day as Bruce Malcolm shouted blue murder, insisting he was innocent and hadn't – wouldn't – lay a finger on Andrea. He'd been dragged from the dock, still protesting his innocence, with the judge shouting over him that he'd hold him in contempt of court if he didn't calm himself down. Graham had been there too, his dark eyes glaring at the man in fury as he clenched his fists. Smithy had been sure that it was taking all of his willpower not to leap into the dock and beat the whereabouts of Andrea out of him. Problem was, Smithy wasn't sure he actually did know, something just felt off and he couldn't put his finger on what.

He took the photograph of Andrea down last and stared at it sadly. She smiled back at him from it. Would he ever see that smile again, smell the coconut-sweetness of her hair, feel the touch of that warm skin? That he wouldn't ever didn't bear thinking about. He placed it last into the box and put the lid on. That was it. Case closed. Or that's how everyone else saw it. He wasn't so sure. He had the feeling Graham felt the same, for he was staying in Sun Hill rather than returning to New Zealand. At least that was one good thing to come out of it; he'd been intrigued by Graham based on Andrea's vague disclosure about him and that curiosity had only grown, but he liked him a lot. Andrea's parents on the other hand…his teeth clenched. Gina had told them that they suspected that their only daughter was likely dead and they couldn't even grace themselves to turn up at the court hearing. They couldn't care less. He wished he'd known that. Not that it really would have changed anything, but he just wished he'd known anyway.

Gabriel thought his blood had only just stopped boiling as he watched Ann Bentley being led to a cell. He'd known it. He'd known from the moment he'd seen little Gemma Bentley barely able to walk on her bloodied leg that something was amiss at her house. And he'd been right. That night, when he'd found Gemma locked in that dark, damp basement by that woman…she was lucky Sheelagh had been there or he would have thrown her bodily down those stairs. Keeping a scared child locked up in a basement just because she could, then having the nerve to justify it by…he caught sight of his face in the locker mirror and felt the urge to smash the glass to smithereens. His hand was halfway to his baton before he stopped. He closed his eyes and breathed out. It was utterly different. Gemma was an innocent child. Andrea wasn't that innocent. She'd betrayed everyone. She'd ruin his life. He was doing what he had to do to protect what little he had left. He'd had too much taken from him already to let her do that. He just had to bide his time, wait until Malcolm's trial was out of the way then he could…well, could what? It wasn't like he could let her go after all this. There was really only way it could go. But he couldn't quite bring himself to do it yet. He didn't know why. What was it Sheelagh had said earlier? He was mellowing out? Being almost reasonable? Fire, he'd said. Until then, nobody had forced him to face what he'd done. What he was. Nobody had wanted to help him until Andrea had tried reaching out. Maybe that was why he couldn't bring himself to do it yet. He'd found himself opening up to her. Sometimes, she just listened without saying a word. Sometimes she'd talk, even if he didn't like what she'd say. Sometimes she pointed things out that he wouldn't have even considered. Even he couldn't get over the irony that they got along better now than they ever did.

He'd seen himself in little Gemma. Craving love but not getting it. The last thing he'd wanted was her going the same way as him. At least her dad was wising up to the evil stepmother's ways. With any luck, she'd be spared. He watched her clutching her dad's hand in hospital, relieved her ordeal was over. Except Ann Bentley was still denying everything. She wouldn't be if he was left on his own with her for five minutes. That wouldn't ever happen though. Morrel would see to that. Sheelagh had come to find him at the hospital. He was more than a bit bemused by her interest in him, it wasn't as if they'd had any time for each other before. Yet they'd kissed there, in the lift. Now he wasn't sure what to make of it and shuddered at the thought of seeing her again. The women who'd showed interest in him before never stayed around for long. June, Kerry; who's to say Sheelagh wouldn't too? He shut his locker and departed the station hurriedly, determined not to talk to anyone unless he had to.

Andrea stretched out, getting to her feet. The ceiling was so low, she could nearly reach it if she stretched high enough. The chain cut into her middle and she twisted, trying to adjust it, then jumped as the basement door opened. She hadn't even heard him come in. she sank onto the mattress as he came down the stairs. For once, he said nothing and handed her the food and drink he'd bought. She watched as she gulped down water as he turned back on her, shoulders rigid.

"What's wrong?"

"What?"

"You're upset."

He was too weary to bother asking how she did that; picked up on his feelings without him having to say a single word. He turned suddenly and she jumped backwards.

"Who says I'm upset?" he said aggressively.

She shrugged and looked down, rubbing her fingers up and down the mattress.

"You just didn't seem yourself."

She pulled the tuna salad to her, more out of want for something to do. He watched as she ate, her eyes on the food.

"We found a girl yesterday," he said abruptly and she raised her eyes to his face. "Me and Sheelagh. Gemma. Just a kid. She was injured. Her stepmother claimed school bullying but I didn't believe her. I thought there was more to it." He turned his back, unwilling to look at her as he told her the rest. "I suspected her. Tonight, we found her locked in the basement of her home by that woman."

Andrea could think of nothing else to say other than; "oh. Right."

There was a pause as his head dropped.

"Is Gemma okay?"

"Physically. Who knows mentally?"

He slid down the wall opposite her and stared as she lifted and dropped the food with the flimsy plastic fork. Her hand was noticeably shaking.

"It's different," he said harshly. "She's a kid. She can't destroy people."

"Yeah. Course."

There was a flat bitterness to her voice. She sniffed, then sneezed quietly, covering her mouth with her sleeve.

"You should eat," he said shortly, then looked around the basement. Ann Bentley had at least given Gemma a blanket, even if it was a flimsy, thin, pathetic excuse for a blanket. It really was freezing down here. Probably why she was shaking. She sneezed again, wiping her nose with the cuff. "It's cold down here. I'll bring you a blanket or something. You want anything else?"

She shook her head and put the food on the floor.

"Sorry. I'm just not very hungry. Maybe later."

She lay down, her arms wrapped around her body. She wasn't in the chatty mood, which made a change but that was all right. Nor was he. He put his things back into his rucksack and got up.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

She gave the tiniest shrug of acknowledgement and he left. She waited until she heard the locking of the door before she clenched her fist. Who the hell did he think he was? It was all right for him to lock her down here, but nobody could do it to anyone else? Sure, he had a point, Gemma was a kid, and she had actively pursued her suspicions against him despite him warning her to back off but what was he going to do when someone else cared to look into suspicions? How much longer would he get away with it for? Or would she soon have other cellmates to share this claustrophobic space with? If he tried to use her as a bargaining tool if he was ever backed into a corner, she doubted anyone would care. Why would they? Maybe out of a sense of duty but certainly not loyalty. Graham was her only hope. That was the thing about fathers like Graham – they never gave up on you.

Smithy sighed, his shoulders slumped and not for the first time, wondered exactly what it was he was doing and what exactly he thought he'd find on these nocturnal searches. Was he expecting to find Andrea when he peered into the shadows of an alleyway or behind the bushes in the park? Would a killer really have left her just in plain sight? Well Malcolm had apparently left everything else in plain sight, why not Andrea too if he really had something to do with her disappearance? He clenched his teeth. Until he saw the cold, hard proof of her body, she was still alive, out there waiting for him to find her. And find her he would. Well. He'd better get home to bed unless he wanted to be sleeping on the job tomorrow. He walked down Victoria Road, which would take him past Graystone Crescent, Andrea's street. He glanced down out of habit and stopped. A light was on in the house. Graham must still be awake. Unless he left a light on for Andrea, in case she was able to find her way back to him? But no, even as the thought crossed his mind, the unmistakably bulky figure of Graham passed by the window, presumably on the way to make another strong coffee. His feet moved before his mind could command them to stop. He found himself at the door, knocking. Graham opened it, apparently not in the slightest bit surprised.

"Sorry," said Smithy. "I know it's late."

"It's all right. I couldn't sleep anyway."

He turned and led the way into the house. Smithy closed the door behind him and watched as Graham took down another mug.

"You just get off, lad?"

"No," Smithy said, shuffling his feet, then burst out with it, Graham being the only person who he was sure wouldn't think him a fool. "Ages ago. But…I've been walking. Searching."

Graham looked at him and Smithy tensed. He hadn't told anyone else that he'd spent nights and nights searching at night, for he knew that despite obvious worry, the other officers didn't really care. They were still angry. Andrea played with fire and she paid a price, albeit a high price, but she brought it on herself. They'd think him stupid, ridiculous, pathetic. He hadn't thought he'd get that from Graham, but the older man sighed and gestured at his heavy overcoat, draped on a dining chair.

"I've not been in long myself," he said, getting the milk from the fridge. "I thought I was the only one."

Filled with relief, Smithy sank into a seat at the table.

"So did I."

"I don't even know what I thought I'd find," said Graham. "A body, in plain sight? Her just running to me on the street? Hearing her call for me? Well. I heard it in my dream."

Rather nightmares, Smithy thought, for he'd been having them too. Graham brought the mugs to the table.

"I needed to let off some steam," he said. "I was searching through her things. Just trying to find something, anything."

He got up and went to the cabinet, pulling out an envelope which he handed to Smithy.

"I found that."

Smithy pulled a card out of the envelope, a generic birthday card, judging by the pattern, meant for a man. He opened it and read the short passage inside in the familiar writing.

I remember your back as you drove away,
leaving me there in your past.
I travelled miles and miles to see you,
I begged you to want me, but you didn't want to

But piece by piece, he collected me up
off the ground, where you abandoned me.
Piece by piece he filled the wounds
that you burned in meat six years old
He'll never walk away, he'll never break my heart
He takes care of me, He loves me
Piece by piece, he restored my faith
That a man can be kind and a father could stay

It hadn't escaped his notice that the words were smudged, as if by tears. He felt a lump in his own throat and swallowed back tears as he calmly laid the card on the table.

"Her dad's birthday was the end of January," Graham said. "I guess she just decided not to send it. I would, but I doubt it'd thaw his heart of ice. Maybe that's why she didn't bother."

"She thinks very highly of you," Smithy said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Graham half shrugged.

"I know. Maybe I didn't know how much until I read that. But…it just makes me so darn mad, you know? If she'd been a boy, they would have been all over her."

"My old man was like that," Smithy said. "Mum told me when me and my brother were born, he flew into a rage because he wanted daughters. All he got were sons. Not that he would have been any better a father to a girl."

Graham studied him carefully and Smithy cringed.

"I'm sorry. You don't need to hear about my dysfunctional family."

"Sounds like you might have understood better than she thought," said Graham. "If she'd let you."

"Yeah well, for all my wondering why she didn't tell me about her, I didn't exactly tell her about me either. So I guess we're even."

"Well, you're not the only ones who keep secrets."

Smithy gave Graham a curious look but it was obvious he wasn't going to share any more information.

"So, that's it then? With Malcolm? He's just jailed until the trial?"

Smithy nodded.

"He's not going to be bailed. No chance. Not when he's suspected of…"

"Murder?" Graham said harshly, then softened his tone. "Sorry. I never like thinking about it either. I tried, you know. I tried to teach her how to, well, not fight, but defend herself at the very least. She never likes using violence. I did teach her how to shoot."

"Really? She's the very last person I can imagine using a gun."

"Right? She has one though, that I gave to her. It's probably somewhere in the attic. When we lived in Scotland, we used to go target shooting. Not for game or anything. I used to have a lot more guns. But they all had to be given in after Dunblane."

"The school shooting? You guys were living there then?"

"Not in Dunblane. Inverness. It's not very far away. We moved away not too long afterwards. But stuff like that, it stays with you."

"It…was a primary school, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. They never knew why the guy did what he did. I expect we'll never know as he took the coward's way out. Do…you really think Malcolm killed her because she rejected him?"

Smithy shrugged.

"Some people will kill for a lot less. A few years ago, girls turned up dead. They were dubbed the River Murders, cos they were all found on the banks of the Thames. One of them was one of the officers. Cass. We arrested a guy who had a connection with all of them, a journalist called Simon Kitson."

"He killed them all because he was rejected?"

"No. He didn't kill any of them. His sister did. She killed them because she was jealous. Because she wanted him for herself, if you get my drift."

Graham's mouth twisted in disgust.

"She's one sick, twisted bitch. She came to Cass' funeral you know. Offered her sympathies to her mother."

"Malcolm left Andrea messages." Graham's eyes narrowed as he surveyed Smithy. "You're not sure he really did it, are you?"

"Let's just say I have my doubts."

"That guy, the one you mentioned. Kent."

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…?"

"No," Smithy said firmly.

Graham surveyed him and lifted his mouth in a half smile.

"You're a terrible liar. Loyal, maybe, but you're a terrible liar."

"All right. It's crossed my mind. But how could he have? He was at the station with everyone else that night. For hours after the fire. He's not the one who was found with her phone and keys or with hundreds of pictures of her."

Graham's face clouded. He'd seen some of the pictures during the hearing and Smithy could tell it had utterly angered him.

"Still. I want to meet him. Kent. I want to see him for myself."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Graham."

"Well I'll stake out the station if you'd rather."

He eyed Graham and Graham stared right back, a challenge in his eye and Smithy had to admit it; even though they weren't related by blood, he and Andrea shared some very similar traits. And if Andrea was anything to go by, he was sure Graham meant it.

"We've arranged some drinks," he said finally. "Friday. Why don't you come along to that? Meet everyone? It'll make it less obvious."

"Everyone wants to meet the journalist's dad?"

"Well, I think they're intrigued," Smithy said. "I know I was."

He went to drink from his mug and found it empty. He frowned. Graham smiled and held out his hand for it.

"Maybe I should…"

"Come on lad. I'm stuck here with one cat who licks walls and one who hisses at me. I'll go mad for a bit of adult company."

Smithy smiled faintly.

"All right."

Andrea curled in in a foetal position on the mattress, desperately trying to get some warmth into her body. She wrapped her arms around her body and shivered, rubbing at her chest. Hadn't he said he was bringing her a blanket? What day was that? What day even was it? Either way, she wished she had it now. These thin clothes he'd given her just weren't doing it in this cold, draughty basement. She closed her eyes and drifted.

She was running up to her daddy, her five-year-old legs running as first as she could, proudly brandishing her painting at him. He'd been on the phone, talking in fast Italian and took what she held out, barely glancing at it. Then, he barely glanced at her before discarding it in the sink and turning his back on her. She'd walked away. There didn't seem to be any point trying again. Her au pair, Kirsten, a pretty Norwegian woman had come looking for her and it had taken her only one look at her young charge's face to know she was upset. She'd taken her outside to play in the snow and told her stories about Tromsø, where she was from. It was Kirsten who'd first got her interested in the phenomenal northern lights. She'd loved Kirsten, but she'd never seen her again after she went to Forest Green. She doubted her parents cared about the pain it caused to be separated from someone she'd grown to love. She loved them, even though they'd done nothing but abandon her all of her life, even though they'd never loved her, or that was how it felt. They'd bought her a car when she'd graduated. The flat when she'd moved to London. Numerous expensive gifts over the years and each time she was stupid enough to hope it was because they cared. In all honesty, that was why she never talked about her parents, though people had asked. They might be too polite to say what they really thought to her face, but sometimes saying nothing at all said more than saying anything.

The only person who might have had an inkling of how she felt, ironically enough, was the very man holding her in this arctic basement but she didn't much trust his reality. His truth, after all, was not necessarily the truth. She wondered then what his brother was like. The real Gabriel. Immigrated to America, so she'd been told. What if he were ever to come back? Would he end up down here too? With his whole family? He had kids. Two or three. Would they end up down here too? Despite his outrage at what happened to Gemma, she would bet her own freedom that he wouldn't hesitate to throw them down here too if it saved his own skin.

There was a blast of icy air through the gaps in the bricks and she curled up tighter, her mind drifting again to Graham. She was eleven or so and he'd put to her the idea of him fostering her. To his surprise, she'd turned away.

"It's kind of you," she'd said, going back to digging with her trowel as best she could with one arm broken. "But you don't have to do that. You don't owe me anything."

"I want to," he'd said. "Andrea, I…"

"You want to. Right," she'd said, her voice full of the quiet bitterness she hated, digging the trowel ferociously into the soil. "Then what? What happens when you get bored? What'll I be doing? I'll be stuck in my room, waiting and waiting for you!"

"No, I'd never do that!"

"Why not? Everyone else does."

Tears had blurred her vision and she threw it into the soil.

"Why don't they want me, Graham?"

Graham's arm crept around her and he held a crisp hanky out. She took it, muttering thanks.

"I promise," he said. "I'll turn my back on myself before I ever turn my back on you. Can we give it a shot? You and me?"

She'd always got the impression he was desperate for a child. He was such a good father, it was a shame he'd never really had any of his own. He'd said it didn't matter to him, but it must have done; being there for a child's birth, watching as they took their first steps, comforting them as they cried over sore gums. All the stressful things but precious memories all the same. He took to it though. He attended every doctor's appointment, every parent's evening, paid for trips and outings without asking for the funds from her parents. It couldn't have been easy, throwing yourself straight into parenting a pre-teen girl. Not that she'd ever been a particularly troublesome child. Maybe that was because he'd effectively been her friend since she was a child. So in a way, he had watched her grow and rarely had he said so much as an angry word to her. Sometimes, he got melancholy though, weirdly it always seemed to happen around late autumn. Then, he'd shut himself away after making sure she had all she needed, just telling her it was nothing she'd done, he just needed some time alone. He always made a huge fuss of her on her birthday on Christmas Eve. When she wasn't working, usually he'd take her away somewhere. Together, they'd travelled to some of the most beautiful places in the world. Her favourite was Lapland though, even though she'd been way too old by then to get excited about snow, but that was before he'd hit her with a large snowball with a mischievous grin and said you were never too old to love snow. Graham. Anything she wanted, it'd never been too much to ask from him.

She thought about Smithy then. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, not entirely sure if she were conscious or dreaming, she could feel his arms around her, feel the softness of his skin against hers.

Credit to Kelly Clarkson for the inspiration of her song, Piece by Piece