Deeper and Deeper

The boy was so excited Greg could feel him vibrating by his side as they waited for the turnstiles to open and the tickets to be scanned. The sun was shining and the crowd was looking good. Since he usually bought half-season tickets, Greg didn't actually need to queue up this early, but Jack clutched a single match ticket and should have the full experience at least once. Greg grinned again as the boy hopped around, bouncing on his toes as if it was Christmas Eve and his birthday all rolled into one. He wore his wine-coloured West Ham scarf to a live match for the first time and was very proud of the fact.

"Your lad's looking fit to burst," the man standing behind them observed, grinning. "You don't usually see such enthusiasm for home games these days."

About to clarify their relationship, Greg shrugged mentally. He was only doing what Jack's father would have done were he still around.

"He's been looking forward to this match for a very long time," Greg smiled back. "At his age, everything's exciting."

"Let's hope he gets a good game, then," the other man said. "Can't disappoint the young'uns."

There was movement at the front of the queue as people surged forward. Because they carried no bags, Greg and Jack were waved through the security check and on into the flood of people, mostly men and other boys. Concerned about Jack wandering off, Greg leaned over and snagged the hood of the boy's jacket, tugging him closer.

"What's the matter?" Jack protested as he was pulled to Greg's side.

"If I let you get lost, your mum'll have my hide," Greg said. "It's either this or you'll have to hold my hand until we get clear of the crowd. Up to you."

"Oh. Okay, then," Jack acknowledged as his small fingers crept up to hold the man's much larger ones.

Unused to such complete and absolute trust, a sudden tightness filled Greg's chest at the child's innocence. How did Joanna manage to cope with this feeling every day, every week? How could she even bear to let any of them out of her sight? He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

"Right," he said. "There's a tradition at matches that everyone grabs something to eat before the kick-off," he said, turning the boy until he could see all the different food-stall signs. "This is men's food," he grinned. "What do you fancy? A hot dog? Burger?" Judging by Jack's wide-eyed pleasure, the treat was very special.

"Can I really have whatever I like?" he asked.

"Well, you're a bit young for beer, but you can have anything else," Greg smiled again at Jack's obvious delight.

His gaze taking in all the different possibilities, Jack couldn't decide. "What are you going to have?"

While not feeling particularly hungry, Greg was prepared to fake it for the boy's sake. "I shall have ..." he pondered. "I shall have a pie. A chicken pie."

"Can I have a pie too?" The hopeful note in Jack's voice made Greg's chest tighten all over again.

"Yes, of course you can, if you want," Greg guided the child over to the nearest hot food vendor. "Come over here and decide what kind you'd like."

With a steaming savoury pastry in one hand and a large Coke in the other, Jack led the way down to seats very close to the half-way line and even closer to the barriers around the pitch. Greg normally preferred to sit higher up in order to get a better look at the entire field and observe the wider strategic movements of attack and defence. But this was Jack's match and so they claimed seats almost at the very edge of the turf. The crowd roared as the two teams ran out, Jack's shriek of excitement piercing enough to make Greg wince and lean away with a hopeless grin on his face. The national anthem sung, the coin tossed and the game was on.

Rescuing Jack's drink the first time Declan Rice ran by close enough to see the sweat on the young player's brow, Greg laughed at the child's uninhibited howl. His enthusiasm so spontaneous that Greg laughed again, his pleasure as much as the boy's beside him.

###

"And it was all so loud," Jack exclaimed, walking around the confines of the Foy's small front room. Still wearing his scarf, Joanna was treated to a superlative-filled, blow-by-blow account of the afternoon's events. "Really, really loud. It was brilliant, Mum. Absolutely fantastic!"

"Was it fantastic?" Joanna met Greg's gaze, her eyes asking a slightly different question.

"Yup, fantastic," Greg agreed cheerfully. "Best match I've been to in ages." He winked at Jack over his mother's shoulder. "If Jack's good and does all his homework and school stuff, can he come out to play again on the fifteenth of next month? It's West Ham versus Everton and they always have a good scrap."

"Scrap?" Joanna kept her face straight.

"Strategic encounter," Greg corrected himself. "Highly educational."

"So this would be an educational outing then?" Joanna's eyes danced.

"Absolutely." Reaching out to grab the boy's arm, Greg pulled him close to his side, placing a hand on Jack's head. "And Jack needs all the education he can get, don't you Jack?" His head being moved up and down in a jerky nod, Jack giggled.

"And he promises to do all his school work first, don't you Jack?" A second mechanical nod had the boy laughing, leaning into Greg's side.

"As long as he behaves himself and the two of you don't get into any trouble," Joanna smiled as Greg went for a third nod, leaving her son on the floor in a fit of giggles.

"All right. Off you go and get changed Jack; dinner's ready in about half-an-hour. You will stay for dinner, won't you?" she said, looking at Greg. It was more of a statement than a question. "It's Moussaka, if you like Greek food."

"I love Greek food," Greg followed Joanna out into the kitchen. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Can you make a salad?" Joanna pointed to a pile of tomatoes, a cucumber and some fresh parsley and mint on the table.

"I can cut things up and put them in a bowl if that's any good?"

"That will be fine. Wash your hands please."

"Yes, Mum." Greg narrowly dodged the tea towel flicked his way.

Contentedly chopping the vegetables and herbs into a saladish creation, Greg sniffed appreciatively as Joanna brought a big deep dish out of the oven, allowing the delicious aroma of lamb and garlic and cheese to fill the small room.

"You good at cooking as well as being a brilliant potter?" Greg asked casually.

"Not really, no." Joanna set the Moussaka on a trivet on the table to let it stand for a few minutes. "I only know how to do a few things like this. I have neither the time nor the inclination to be a better cook, to be honest," she added, placing a basket of hot bread rolls on the table. "You finished over there?"

Placing his handiwork on the table next to the bread, Greg gazed down at the meal. "Looks pretty good to me," he said, smiling happily. "Though you'll have to let me help you out a bit with some money; I can't have you feeding me as well as all your lot."

"There's plenty for everyone here," Joanna shook her head, pleased at his consideration. "I may not be the world's greatest chef, but this kind of thing is meant for sharing. I only have time to do this at the weekend though. During the week it's more usually pasta and home-made sauces, or fresh fish and chips and salads, that kind of thing."

"Sounds like proper grub to me," Greg helped set the table. "I know I don't usually eat that well."

"Dinner," Joanna summoned her brood and began dishing out the food while everyone was treated to yet another run-through of Jack's first live football match.

###

Joanna wiped the clean plates as he washed, the kitchen empty now but for them.

"Fancy a coffee?" she asked, taking a large glass cafetiere from a shelf, spooning in aromatic ground coffee as she waited for the kettle to boil.

"Love one, thanks," Greg rinsed out the sink with the last of the soapy water before drying his hands. "Here, let me," he said, pouring the near boiling water in the glass pot and stirring the coffee slowly, the dark fragrance filling the air around them.

Bringing down an old round tin from an upper cupboard, Joanna took the lid off for him to see. "Like a piece of fruitcake?"

As he sat at the kitchen table, the room still scented with the memory of lamb and aubergine and garlic, sipping a decent coffee and munching a slab of fruitcake, Greg realised he hadn't felt this relaxed and comfortable with his life for a very long time. "This is nice," he said, nibbling on a piece of cake.

"An old recipe of my mother's." Joanna nodded. "They knew how to make proper cakes back in those days."

"No, you dafty, not the cake, this," Greg smiled and waved his hands in the air. "This is nice."

Thoughtful for a moment, Joanna nodded. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is. I'd forgotten what it's like to have another adult around to help take care of things. Jack would never have got what he wanted if you hadn't been around to help him," she sighed and sipped her coffee. "There's always so many things to do and never enough time to do them, especially now that we've got the website up and running."

"And how is the pottery business these days?" Greg asked, interested. It had been just over a month since they'd set the thing in motion.

"You don't know? You haven't spoken with Beth yet?" Joanna arched her eyebrows, grinning. "Wait there one second," she said, leaving the kitchen and returning moments later with the ASUS laptop. In seconds, she had the thing opened and booting up, entering her security password to access the website and all its details. Greg said nothing but noted how deft and practiced her actions had become compared to only a few weeks previous. It was amazing what a bit of self-confidence and support could accomplish.

"I'm astonished Beth didn't insist on telling you all about this," Joanna turned the laptop so the screen faced him. "Though she's been writing a song with some of her friends most of the afternoon."

Greg scanned the River Pots webpage noting that the slowly revolving images now numbered nine, with prices ranging from just over the hundred, to one particularly spiffy vase set at nearly four times as much. Clearly Beth had been at work on her mother's pricing strategy. There was also some gentle background music which sounded very much like the track he'd given Joanna's eldest, though it had obviously been through a filter of some kind. Whatever, it really suited the mood of the website. The background colours seemed somehow richer and darker too, setting off everything else with an air of luxury and refinement.

There was a photo of Joanna in the top right corner in her floaty dress with a brief biographical note beside it. As he scrolled down, Greg realised that, when he moused over any of the spinning pots, a window of text opened, giving the measurements, dimensions and colours of each one, along with a short description and the background and influence of their creation.

His eyes widened in real surprise when he clocked the visitor's box at the bottom of the page showing that the number of hits to River Pots had rolled over a thousand.

"Holy moly," he met Joanna's eyes before turning back to the screen. "This is incredible traffic for a small, unknown site. Have you sold many pots?"

Joanna's grin verged on the smug. "Eleven," she said. "We've sold eleven in four weeks and my bank balance has never looked so healthy. This was a real brainwave of yours and I will never doubt you again."

Nodding, gratified, Greg leaned forward on the table. "How's Beth taking it all?"

"She's officially my business manager now and loving every minute of it," Joanna laughed. "I'm paying her a five percent commission on sales, so she's getting to understand how a business works but quite honestly, she's a natural at all this. She's even been mentioned in the school's magazine as one of Bermondsey's young entrepreneurs." Shaking her head, Joanna shrugged. "What can I say? River Pots is actually working."

"Knew it would," it was Greg's turn to sound smug.

"Beth's very fond of you, you know," Joanna looked down at her coffee. "So's Jack, obviously and I'm sure Max thinks you're the bee's knees. Thank you for doing everything you've done for them. The difference in them these past few weeks has been truly marvellous."

"I like them all too," Greg inhaled slowly. "In a way, I guess I ... I'm a bit envious," he said. "I've felt much more myself these last few weeks too. Sort of more ... sprightly, if that's not a daft word to use." He glanced across to check she didn't think his words foolish. "And I have to say that it's all been because I was able to help you and yours," he smiled. "Maybe this is the reason the cleaning fairy came to my flat, although," he paused, grinning. "It really could just have been to clean the place; it was a bit of a tip, to be honest."

"I'm sure you have a very pleasant home," Joanna laughed. "Want another coffee?"

"Ah, better not or I'll be up all night, thanks."

"It's Saturday night. Do you need to be up early tomorrow morning?" Joanna looked at him curiously. "It's the one night a week I allow myself a late evening, though I know some people like to stick to a fairly rigid bedtime throughout the week to maintain a good sleeping habit. Is that why you do it?"

It was a reasonable question. Why did he go to bed so early? When had he begun hitting the sack before ten most nights? Thinking back, Greg shrugged.

"I reckon I started going to sleep earlier because it was one way of getting through the grey days," he said, rubbing his chin in thought. "Now it's just a habit, really. Not because I need the sleep. In fact sometimes I wake up really early and simply go into work to have something to occupy my time."

"So you can have another coffee then?" Joanna stood, reaching for his mug. "If there's no rush for you to go, that is."

"Next you'll be telling me there's an old Clint Eastwood western on the telly later," he laughed. "It would be a nice ending to the day."

Giving him the oddest look, Joanna picked up the Radio Times sitting on the sideboard and handed it over, tapping the ITV4 eight o'clock slot with a fingertip. Two Mules for Sister Sara.

"Classic!" Greg laughed again. "Anyone would think this was meant to be, Jo. Hey, got any of that wine left?"

Turning with his mug in hand, Joanna paused, her face suddenly stilled.

"What's the matter? You okay?" The change in her expression was so profound, Greg wondered if she'd spilled hot coffee on herself.

"It's nothing," she smiled slowly, setting his mug down on the table. "It's only that ... nobody's called me Jo like that since Steven ... it caught me by surprise a little," she smiled again, heading to the fridge to fish out the two-thirds full bottle of wine.

"Sorry," Greg kicked himself mentally. "It felt like a natural thing to say but I won't if you'd prefer not."

"No, honestly, it's not a problem," Joanna placed the bottle on the table and two stemmed glasses. "I rather like it, actually." Holding up the Shiraz, she judged the level of the contents. "There's about two glasses each in here. Will you be all right to drive if you have this much?"

"After that wonderful dinner and this coffee, I could probably sink a whole bottle and it wouldn't affect me, so a couple of glasses will be perfect," Greg relaxed again, glad he hadn't ruined the mood with his unintentional gaffe.

"Well then, shall we go and let Jack tell us about the great football experience one more time before I put the boys to bed? Then that film's on and we can polish off the wine, if that suits you?"

Greg smiled as he stood, clutching his coffee. It suited him very well indeed.

###

He'd spent what little quiet time he had at work between meetings and phone calls adding shape to the mysterious Charmed Cleaning organisation and to the 'visits' he and Jo had received. Even though they'd agreed not to actively investigate the strange situation, he reckoned he'd sussed out a more-or-less logical explanation of sorts.

If was obvious that these experiences couldn't happen to everyone all the time or it'd be all over the papers and the six o'clock news, with people screaming about aliens or the occult or fairies or something equally idiotic. Therefore, these unique ... interventions, for want of a better word, were somehow dependent upon locating a suitable recipient and identifying what help or assistance they needed the most. This then argued that someone who knew each of the recipients really well was involved in each occasion. He hadn't worked out how or to what extent these strange women from the cleaning company ended up participating in the, well, the makeover, or even how all the things that were done actually got done, but those were operational details and could be tackled later.

Nor was he sure what kind of organisation went around helping people like this, with some very concrete and physical assistance. Possibly it was some kind of private London charity, or some reclusive philanthropist. Maybe, and it was a fairly big maybe, it was even something to do with the Freemasons. They were a secretive bunch who moved in mysterious ways at the best of times. Either way, there was someone or a group of someones involved who had both money and clout and a willingness to distribute both. It had to be a charitable foundation of some sort. There was no other sensible, rational explanation.

It was plausible he'd been selected because of the state he'd let himself get into; there were any number of people who could attest to the fact he'd probably been one disciplinary meeting shy of leaving the force. Joanna ... well, she had been doing things tough with the kids for some time and there were likely to be an equally large number of people who knew she had been struggling. If, for whatever reason, he and Jo had been deliberately brought together by the silver-haired Rowan Good, then there had to be some kind of rationale, and he thought he'd worked that part out as well.

He had needed to buck his ideas up and the amazing changes to his flat had helped with that, so that was his need taken care of. Obviously, Joanna had needed to get her schtick together and put her pottery on the market but it wasn't until he came along and gave her a bit of a nudge that anything happened. So that was Jo's 'need', though how anyone imagined he'd be the one to motivate her was a question he preferred to leave for later. Beth's need had pretty clearly been help with her school situation, just as Jack needed someone who understood football enough to stand in for his missing father. He hadn't the faintest idea what a tacker like Max might be lacking, but if everyone involved in these situations got what they most needed, then there had to be something. Greg made a mental note to keep both eyes on the lad, just in case. Once Max's problem, whatever it might be, was resolved, then their situation, his and Jo's, would have been sorted, just like the Linesmith's and Jo's friend at Guy's hospital.

The only way this could possibly have happened was that someone who knew them really well individually had to have been involved. That they both happened to work for the Met suggested it might even be someone who knew them through a work relationship. Greg pursed his mouth, wondering what or who the common denominator might be.

He was thinking vaguely of how anyone could possibly know such details about any of them when his phone buzzed with an unexpected text.

Mum's being an idiot. You have to talk to her.

Unsure why anyone might send him such a message, all was revealed the second he saw who the sender was. Given the number of times he'd simply handed Beth his phone for one reason or another, it was inevitable she would have his number by now. Strange though; it wasn't like her to make a fuss over nothing. He texted a reply.

Don't call your mother an idiot and why do I have to speak to her?

She's not doing something she really needs to do but she'll listen to you.

What is it she needs to do?

There's a fancy dinner coming up to do with her job and she has to go but she won't.

Then that's her decision and none of my business.

It's really really important she goes to the dinner. You have to convince her to go. She's won an award but won't go and collect it. Please talk to her.

OK. I'll give her a shout but it's your mum's choice, right?

Wondering if there might be something else that was worrying Beth, Greg sent a brief email to Joanna's work address.

'Beth is worried about you not doing something. Is she OK? Cheers, Greg.'

He had to wait nearly twenty minutes for a response.

'I'm so very sorry. I'll tell her not to bother you at work. Beth has a bee in her bonnet about this but I'll not have her dragging you in for moral support. Apologies. Regards, Jo.'

Greg's curiosity was roused. Beth wouldn't ask for his help unless there was just cause. The child must be pretty anxious to contact him like this. He replied to Joanna's email.

'Beth said you've won an award but you aren't going to go and collect it. Is there a problem I can help with? Cheers, Greg.'

The response this time was almost immediate.

'There's an annual dinner for the BACP, the British Association of Psychotherapists. Yes. I have won an award. It's not important, but thanks for offering. Regards, Jo.'

Now he was genuinely puzzled. To be given an award by the national body through which your held your professional accreditation was a fairly big deal in his book. Chewing his lip for a few seconds, he made a decision and picked up his mobile, ringing Joanna's phone. He fancied he heard the faintest of sighs.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry Beth is bothering you about this, Greg. I'll make sure she stops doing it immediately."

"It's not a problem, seriously, Jo. I know Beth wouldn't contact me unless she was very concerned and that her concern was genuine, so what's the deal? You won an award? That's fantastic." Leaning back in his chair, he searched the ceiling in his office for any potential clues as to Joanna's problem.

"Thank you, and it's very thoughtful of you to offer to help, but it's really not that important for me to go and collect it."

"Beth said there was a dinner you needed to attend." This time, the sigh was front and centre.

"It's an annual thing. There's a dinner and dance and a small award ceremony. Yes, I've won an award but no, I have no plans to attend the event. I haven't attended for several years now. They'll send me the award in the post, I expect."

It was the several years comment that finally switched the light on in his stultifying dense brain. Greg screwed his eyes tight shut and called himself ten kinds of a fool for not working it out before. What with everything else going on, it simply hadn't seemed important. Of course Joanna wouldn't want to go by herself when she had probably attended before with Steven. And besides, who went to one of these gigs alone? If he was right ... there was only one way to find out.

"Is it because you don't want to go by yourself?" he asked softly. "Your private life is absolutely none of my business but in all the time I've known you, not once have you mentioned that you're seeing someone."

"There hasn't been anyone ... since Steven ..." Joanna spoke as softly as he. "What with the children and simply trying to manage everything ..."

It was official. He was a complete prat. How he'd ever managed to end up as a detective ...

"Right then," he said, injecting a note of practicality into a moment that threatened to become impossibly sad. "You know how much you liked my previous brainwaves, well, here's another one. Of course, everything is entirely up to you, but what I suggest is this. You go out and buy yourself a posh frock with some of your ill-gotten gains, and organise a proper babysitter and I'll stick on a suit and be your plus one for the evening," he said. "I'll sit where you tell me, applaud when I'm supposed to and generally be your no-strings-attached escort for the evening. How does that sound? I scrub up reasonably well and if the only reason you're not going to collect that award is because you don't have anyone at your back for moral support, then you don't have that as an excuse anymore," he added. "Unless you're telling me there's a different reason and I've got it all wrong despite my thirty years on the force and being a very h'experienced h'officer."

There was empty silence at the other end of the line and Greg wondered if he really had screwed the pooch this time. He waited, hardly breathing.

"You're quite mad, you know," Joanna wasn't laughing but on the other hand, she wasn't laughing either.

"Mad good or mad scary?" Greg went back to searching his ceiling.

"Insane." He could almost hear her head shaking.

"Is that good insane or ..."

"Stop! Alright! Yes, I accept! I'll go to this bloody thing or between you and Beth, I'll never hear the end of it, will I?"

Greg couldn't help the smile that curved his mouth.