~ GF ~
Shouts of, "Get out of the car" batter her ears as the door beside her is yanked open. Grace has spent so many years working with and around police officers that she simply lifts her hands so that they are readily on display in front of her, unthreatening and visible.
She makes eye contact with the nearest of the two strapping traffic officers that are crowding against her door. "Okay," she agrees, tone neutral, agreeable. She knows all too well that these lads are likely to be buzzing with adrenaline from the chase and catch. Behind her, Boyd is complying as well, getting out without a fight.
Grace offers a hand towards the nearest officer, who has startlingly green eyes under a mop of scruffy brown curls. "Can you give me a hand? I have a bad hip."
It's a deliberate tactic, designed to change the dynamic of the charged moment. Green Eyes blinks, and then nods. Offers a courteous hand, which she takes and lets him ease her out of the seat. Upright, and leaning back against the car, she smiles engagingly at the pair of them. "That's better, thank you."
"What's your name?" asks the other officer, pocketbook in hand now that he's seen there's no threat of danger.
"Grace. Doctor Grace Foley, from the Home Office."
"The Home Office?"
She nods. Smiles again. "That's right. I'm a Home Office psychologist, currently working for the Metropolitan Police's Cold Case Unit."
Green Eyes studies her, a shrewd expression on his face. "The Met, hm?"
"That's right."
Pocketbook nods his head towards the vehicle behind them, to where Boyd is talking to the other officers. "Who's he then?"
"My colleague, Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd. He's head of the unit."
Both men stare at her. "What are you doing up here, then?" Green Eyes eventually asks.
"We've been in Northumberland for a few days, speaking to a witness in a case we're looking into."
"I see," says Pocketbook, though he's clearly not quite happy.
Grace gestures to her handbag, and Green Eyes nods, watches steadily, alertly, as she reaches into the car and then tugs her official ID from the inside pocket where she keeps it for easy access. She holds it up for inspection and Green Eyes squints, then nods, apparently satisfied.
Pocketbook takes the ID, studying it carefully. Makes notes with his pen. "Who does the car belong to?"
"The Met."
Green Eyes, who is clearly the more easy-going to the pair, is studying the car. "She's telling the truth, Dan," he says, turning to look at his colleague. "It's an unmarked. Look, it's got lights and everything, just weird ones compared to ours."
"So," Grace says, smiling at the pair of them again, "are you going to tell my why you stopped us in such an exciting fashion?"
Pocketbook – or Dan – has stepped back a little and is talking into his radio, no doubt conducting checks. Green Eyes, who finally introduces himself as Will, laughs and tells her they've been looking for a vehicle linked to an organised crime group committing a series of high-end burglaries.
"But how does that relate to us?" asks Grace, one eye on Boyd who is still speaking to the other traffic officers, his shoulders clearly set with tension. "This car is registered to the Met."
"Well, the group we're looking for clone vehicles. They steal, or make duplicate number plates, and stick them on matching vehicles. We knew the original of this vehicle is based in London, but our ANPR research shows that that one doesn't leave London except for the odd trip into the surrounding counties. The fake vehicle makes regular trips up and down the M1 during the week, and that's what we've been looking for. We almost had it last week, but then we got stood down to assist with a big incident elsewhere."
"I see. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you."
Will shrugs. He tucks his hands into his stab vest and rocks back on his heels. "It'll come around. They have a habit of keeping the same plates on for a while, this group."
"That seems… ill advised," muses Grace.
"They pick their target vehicles carefully."
"What sort of burglaries are they?"
Will studies her, his brows knitting in something a little like discomfort at her question. "Why the curiosity," he asks at last.
Grace shrugs, smiles lightly. Shifts her posture slightly to give an even more relaxed impression. "I'm a psychologist," she reminds him. "And I dabble in criminal profiling. I find this sort of thing interesting."
There's a snort from behind her. Boyd has walked over to join them. "She does more than 'dabble'," he informs Will bluntly. "She's one of the most respected profilers in the country."
Dan, back from his checks, looks unimpressed. Will looks thoughtful. "How does it work?" he asks. "Profiling, I mean. What you do."
It's a question she's been asked many, many times now. So many, in fact, that Grace has several answers in her pocket depending on her audience. One of them is for officers like Will, who have never really heard of her skill set, nor seen how it can be beneficial. They begin talking, and within seconds Grace can see that he really is interested.
The questions come at her thick and fast, and beside her she can feel Boyd begin to grow impatient. Whether it's with yet another delay, the monopolisation of her time, or simply the interest shown in what she does, she doesn't know, but neither does she care. This young man is curious, and from the way he's speaking to her, he seems to think her knowledge could help his team. Grace is certain it could, but that's not likely to happen, she knows.
Boyd is proprietal. He does not like to share, and that includes the members of his team. He will no more allow her the time nor the chance to assist these officers with capturing their organised crime group than he would allow CID to exploit her time with one of their murders. Doubly so because this involves a different force.
It's frustrating, to say the least.
Perhaps, though, she doesn't have to tell him?
When Boyd's phone rings and he returns to the car to collect it, Grace takes a moment to quietly give Will her email address. "Send me any questions you have," she tells him quietly. "I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
"Thank you," the traffic officer says, a smile in his eyes and on his lips. Boyd still hasn't returned, so their conversation continues, discussing the gang and what the unit know of their behaviours.
It's interesting, and a diversion away from the sort of work she routinely does with the CCU. In fact, Grace can't quite remember the last time she was involved in a job where a gang was at the centre. Who asks more questions, she's not sure, but suddenly Boyd is back beside her, tall and looming in his annoyance.
"We need to get going," he pushes in, bluntly. "We're hours behind schedule, and that was Spence, he's going to need help with the audit tomorrow."
Grace smiles wryly at Will. Feels genuinely sorry that their meeting is over.
He says, "Thank you for the discussion, it was interesting."
"You're welcome," she replies.
Will holds up the paper she wrote her contact details down on. "I'll be sure to message you with any questions." He thanks her again, and then somehow they are all back in their respective cars and Boyd is muttering sullenly to himself under his breath as he puts the Audi into gear and accelerates, building up speed on the hard shoulder before pulling out into live traffic.
Almost immediately, the muttering ceases and becomes heavy silence, though only for a minute whilst he negotiates his way back over to the fast lane.
"You needn't think you're going to be wasting time on their problems," he informs her darkly, "you have enough of your own work to be getting on with."
"Have I ever slacked in my work for the unit?" she asks, deliberately keeping her tone as mild as she can. It's an effort.
"You know what I mean," is the snappy response.
He's a child in a suit. She's thought it often enough before. "No, actually, I don't think I do."
He says nothing, just as she thought he wouldn't. There's no argument for him to make.
The silence falls again, but now she is too annoyed to let it linger.
Grace is well aware that it will rile him magnificently, but she speaks her mind anyway. "I don't work for you, Boyd. I work for the Home Office. And if I receive a request for work from them, I am duty bound to complete it."
His head swivels round towards her as if he were an owl. "The Home Office?" She can almost smell the fury in him. "If you told that scruffy oik of a PC to submit an official request for assistance through the Home Office, Grace, I swear I'll…"
"You'll what?"
He says nothing. A small black Corsa with a defective brake light cuts him up, leading to a loud, explicit invective.
"I'm waiting," she pushes, because after the last few days, giving in to or even ignoring his churlish behaviour is an intolerable thought. "You'll what, Boyd? Lock me in my office? Refuse to let me leave the building? Have someone filter my emails and weed out the ones you deem too time consuming?"
His knuckles are turning steadily whiter where he is gripping the steering wheel with a force that it surely doesn't deserve.
Not her fault.
Not really.
Maybe a little bit.
"As if," he snaps. "But I'm becoming seriously concerned that you're forgetting what it is you're currently employed to do."
It's a red rag to a bull.
She knows it, and she still reacts to it.
Distantly, Grace knows that if she weren't so tired and frustrated, she could rise above it. Could calm the situation and him. But she is tired and frustrated. And thoroughly sick of him acting like a petulant child.
"Excuse me?"
"What are you taking that tone for?"
Is he really that oblivious?
"How dare you question my loyalty." It's a snarl, but she doesn't care. His accusation hurts. A lot. More so after the stress of the last few days and hours.
"Really? So I imagined you cosying up to those black rats back there, did I? Wanting to drop everything and help them with their investigation?"
Any remaining hold on her temper evaporates. She's not proud of it, but Grace roars back just as fiercely as he does. "Cosying up? I was merely answering his questions and having a pleasant conversation, which you might have noticed if you weren't so busy puffing your chest up and acting the imposing superintendent."
"Detective superintendent." It's an automatic rejoinder, and in a small, dark corner of her mind not actively involved in this bitter argument, she is mightily amused that he could think, even for a second, that she might have forgotten that. "And I was not puffing up my chest."
She sniffs in disdain. Makes no attempt to hide it.
"Bunch of incompetent twats. I should report them to their superiors," he threatens.
"For what? Doing their job?"
"Not knowing the difference between the genuine car and the cloned one," he retorts.
"Don't be so nasty, you said it yourself back there, they weren't to know the original was going to take the same trip as the clone."
There's not a lot he can say to that. "And anyway, back to my original point; when have I ever failed to go above and beyond to help you and the CCU?"
It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but Boyd is Boyd, she rues, as he continues on.
"Shall I make a list? How about when – "
Tuning him out, Grace turns to gaze out of the window. She's run out of the desire to keep arguing now. It's just not worth it anymore.
Glancing at the rapidly approaching road sign, she tries to calculate just how much longer they are going to be trapped in this claustrophobic, moving hell-hole for. Two hours, three? Probably three, given the thickening of the traffic as rush hour looms.
Her head falls back against the chair, all the remaining fight draining from her. She's tired, in a more than just a few days away from home kind of way.
Travelling with Boyd is… hard.
Too hard.
She really hopes none of those Traffic lads took offence to his bluntness, to the rapid end to their meeting.
He's still holding forth beside her, his voice a near bellow and he unburdens himself. It's all stress and tension, she knowns, manifesting itself in aggression aimed at her because she is a safe target.
He trusts her. Always has.
Something she's always known and held dear.
They've been friends for so long, though good and bad.
This latest complication though…
Fields and cars and buildings stream past the window as she continues to gaze out and Boyd shouts himself into silence. She doesn't need to look at him to know that the outburst, as long and loud and vicious as it has been, has bled a significant amount of tension out of him.
She needs a distraction.
Sheep.
Far to her left are a heard of peacefully grazing sheep. They appear to be without a care in the world. Calm, fluffy white blobs simply meandering around.
Makeup.
A woman drifting alarmingly in the lane beside them is aiming her attention at the small mirror in the sun visor, applying mascara with determined precision. Her tiny Renault is perilously close to leaving the road.
Horn.
The van behind has noticed the woman swerving. A loud, angry summons for attention also berates her carelessness as it continues on long after would have been sufficient.
Squeal.
A lorry brakes hard, having failed to notice the queueing traffic in the lane ahead of it. A lad on a motorcycle shoots across two lanes and brakes hard before accelerating again, zigzagging in and out of traffic, both undertaking and overtaking at silly speed.
When, wonders Grace wearily, did people become so bad at driving? So impatient and wrapped up in their own lives that they can't divert enough attention to do the task at hand properly?
Immediately she thinks of her own argument with the man beside her, who is also driving.
Is it her fault?
She thinks about last night. About the bottle of wine that was never opened. About the shouting and the anger. The fuming that followed her door slamming shut. The rage that led her to punch her pillow, and the shame that followed when she'd realised her loss of control.
Sorrow.
That is the overwhelming feeling that runs through her as her thoughts pick through the mess of her relationship with the thorny, angry man beside her for the umpteenth time. Tired of it all, she presses a finger to the heated seat switch and closes her eyes, focusing instead on the warmth that begins to seep into her muscles.
She listens to the sound of the engine and the wind against the car, letting it lull her into a state that is something other than frustrated dismay.
…
Darkness has well and truly fallen when the car comes to a stop, the motion making her open her eyes again. They are queueing on a slip road, one she recognises. Home is half an hour away, if traffic behaves. There has been silence in the car since that last argument, the fight well and truly burned out of both of them.
Quietly, Grace watches as familiar landmarks appear and then fall behind them. The thought of her house, her own food and shower and bed, is a tantalising one.
Patience rewards her, and finally the car is slowing beside her driveway, blocking in the car already parked there. The handbrake is applied, and both of them let out simultaneous, long, long sighs of relief.
She glances right, Boyd glances left. They grin at one another.
"What a day," murmurs Grace, unfastening her seatbelt.
"Mm."
By the time she reaches the boot, he's there, helping lift her tote bag and her case out. "Just go and get the door," he says, jerking his head towards the garden path.
Fumbling in her handbag, Grace tries to remember which inner pocket she tucked her housekeys into for safekeeping as they left. It takes a minute or two to locate them but, surprisingly, her companion says nothing. Waits silently as she coaxes the tricky lock to surrender, then follows her inside into the darkness.
She fumbles for the switch, grumbles when the bulb fails. Finds the hall table lamp instead. Hangs her bag on the newel post.
Turning, she comes face to face with him. Wonders what to say. If there even is anything to say after the journey they've had. Sees that he seems to be having a similar sort of internal debate.
Probably best to leave it, she decides, and reaches for the tote that's still in his hand.
Boyd blinks, looks momentarily confused, then tries to hand it over. Somehow, though and she can't quite see how, his hand is weirdly caught in the strap and when he tries to release it into her care and she pulls it towards her, his hand remains trapped. Frowning, she untwists and then tugs the strap, pulls it away from his skin.
Winces internally when her fingers make contact with his warm, smooth flesh. He flinches. Visibly flinches at the contact.
What is she supposed to make of that?
Nothing, Grace, she orders herself, internal voice stern.
"Thank you for the help," she simply says, offering him a pleasant smile, nothing more.
He's tall. Inside, in a much smaller building than the B&B, he's very tall.
So much taller than she is. And so close, too.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she says firmly.
His lips, when they hit hers, are every bit as soft as she remembers. His hands are just as agile, his strength just as pronounced as he pushes her back against the banister. He's kissing her with a kind of wild passion that has her heart hammering in her chest within seconds. Kissing her and groping her and pressing himself flush against her.
And, God help her, she's kissing him back. She's pulling his shirt from his waistband, and she's hunting for skin. She's wantonly seeking the heat of him, the hardness she can feel beneath his trousers.
The first brush of his tongue against hers makes her moan, makes her press tighter against him, soliciting more. Desperate for more.
Despite everything, she wants this more than anything.
So, it seems, does he.
Outside a car door slams and a child yells, another answering just as loudly. Her neighbour's raucous young sons, home from whatever evening activity Lorna has dragged them to in an effort to curb their ceaseless energy. Boyd wrenches backwards, his eyes flicking to the still open front door, and then back to her face.
He looks wild, terrified.
Grace watches, words failing her as he snatches himself away from her. As he backs up and disappears out into the night, the door slamming behind him.
The urge to scream in anger is fierce.
So too is the urge to sob in frustration.
She does neither.