Friday

At some point in the night she'd rolled away from him. The duvet tucked right up under her chin and clasped tightly in her hand somewhere underneath. The clock on the side table had a distractingly loud tick he discovered as he lay awake, contemplating quite where he found himself and how he'd gotten there. The room was as considerately decorated as all the others, neutral tones with splashes of sage green and teal rendering it the perfect guest bedroom. It lacked anything too personal of hers and he could well imagine that was deliberate, not wanting those staying over to see more of her than she wanted them to. How she managed to save so much of herself and still let people in was a puzzle, one he'd never been able to resolve for himself.

He watched the second hand tick around, ever closer to the time when he knew her alarm would be set for. She'd sleep soundly until it went off and then would be up and out of bed quickly. At least he supposed she would based on previous occasions but perhaps he'd misjudged quite how much they knew about one another. Maybe that was where he'd gone wrong. Glancing over to her, he considered waking her with a stolen kiss, hopeful that the worst of the misunderstandings and miscommunications of the week were behind them but, afraid to make another misstep, he opted for a different approach.

Robbie padded down the stairs and to the kitchen, regretting the lack of anything suitable to cover up with as the cool air of the downstairs caused goosebumps to appear on his arms. Switching the kettle on, he gave them a rub, hoping to generate enough best to last until he could be back under the bed covers. The squirrel he'd seen the previous weekend was back but not for long, the bird table disappointingly devoid of scraps for him to forage, and he quickly scurried away over the wall. Turning his attention back to the task at hand he lifted down two mugs, his hand hovering over the jars on the side, eventually opting for coffee. If she was on call, tea wasn't going to be enough, years of bringing her hot drinks had taught him that much at least. That she preferred the first cup of the day milky was a tiny piece of information that he felt privileged to know.

By the time he made it back upstairs, the alarm in her room had begun its assault and he detoured to stop it, before making his way, two steaming mugs in hand, back to the spare room.

"Laura," he said softly, a gentle shake to her shoulder, "Laura, it's morning."

Seeing her stir and her eyelids flicker open, he nodded at the drink he'd placed next to her and made his way round to his side to climb back in, rearranging the pillows so he could sit up. She did the same before rolling her head towards him, an odd expression on her face.

"I've never slept in here," she commented.

"No, well," he chuckled lightly, "Nor have I."

That brought a tiny knowing smile to her lips as she reached round for her mug and settled it in her hands, pursing her lips to blow on it before taking a sip.

"Thanks for the coffee," she said,

"You're welcome," he offered lightly. "Thanks for letting me stay."

She smiled again, it extending this time to her eyes, "You're welcome."

She let her hand fall down on top of the duvet, landing in a way that he couldn't help but read as an invitation to take it in his. His thumb dared to move in tiny circles across the back of it and he was lost deep in thought as they lay comfortably alongside one another. After a while he became aware that she'd shifted slightly and caught her eye as she glanced towards the clock and sighed.

"I have to get up," she said, a note of regret just audible in the tone. She moved, removing her hand from his and turned to face him full on. "No more missed dinner dates, ok? Come here later, after work. I'll cook something and we'll talk."

He nodded at her earnest proposal but with a mixture of relief and worried anticipation. Later was a long time to wait when you were desperate to be passed something.

"Red or white?" he asked, risking a nervous grin.

"You decide," she replied as she pushed the covers back, pausing before leaning back, adding emphatically, "Just don't be late!"

"What do you mean you've arrested a suspect?" she asked incredulously. "Where's Lewis?"

Jean didn't pretend to understand DS Hathaway, his motivation for being a police officer, the internal struggles he clearly faced, but he was a good cop and that was enough for her. But on occasion he cared too deeply, much like his Inspector, and that usually led to problems. She'd consider splitting up their partnership more than once but apart from being brilliant together they usually managed to balance one another out.

"I'm here, Ma'am," Lewis said, announcing his arrival. "What's going on?"

He looked at his boss and then to his Sergeant, back to his boss again as neither said a word.

"Well, Hathaway?" she demanded, "Explain."

Robbie frowned, "Explain what?"

James cleared his throat before he began, moving towards the board where their investigation so far was laid out. He recapped their progress so far, the wooden fence panel as a possible weapon, the idea that Sandra Smith had gone to the pub with a man that she knew.

"And she knew Thomas Franklin," James said dramatically. "And he has no alibi for the time when we know Vanessa Mantle was killed."

Robbie frowned. "Look Jim, I know he hurt your friend but that's not enough," the look of daggers from James enough to stop him in his tracks. He held up his hands, "Fine. Find me something more than a coincidence and then we'll talk to him."

"Clock's ticking, Sergeant," Jean added, her eyebrow raised pointedly.

James nodded and headed into the office to begin reviewing the case files yet again.

"Is he alright?" Jean asked.

"I think so, Ma'am. This one's got under his skin," Lewis replied.

"And yours," she added.

"Ma'am?" he asked, quizzically.

He'd admit that he'd been unsettled by the Barnes/Mantle mix up but beyond that he thought he was doing alright. They were making progress, slow obviously, but thanks largely to James he was feeling increasingly confident. Before she could explain they were interrupted by a polite cough behind them, turning to see Laura clutching a file which she held out to him.

"Genetic metabolic disorder affecting the ALDH2 enzyme," she said, a smile forming as they both frowned back at her. Sometimes she just enjoyed torturing them for a minute before she took pity on them and explained. "Sandra Smith had an intolerance to alcohol."

"So, she was drunk?" Robbie asked.

Laura shook her head, "No, not drunk. She'd only had a couple of glasses of wine, but she would have felt unwell. Her body wouldn't have been able to process the alcohol making her woozy and nauseous. Possibly a headache or rapid heartbeat." She let her words sink in. "Poorly enough that she might not have been paying attention, more susceptible to being led away by someone she trusted perhaps."

"Wouldn't she have known that though?" Jean enquired, "That she'd be affected like that and avoided drinking?"

"Possibly not. She might have restricted her intake generally if she knew made her ill but she might not have known she had a specific condition. It's not unusual for it not to be diagnosed," Laura concluded.

"Right, thanks," Robbie said, giving her a smile as he headed towards James to update him, leaving the two women to stand awkwardly with one another.

Laura looked down, shoving her hands in her pockets, deciding whether to say anything or just flee from her lingering embarrassment of the previous day. She went to speak, to offer some kind of further explanation but Jean got there first.

"You guys ok?" she asked, her eyes flicking towards Robbie and back to Laura.

"Better," Laura breathed. "Not quite out of the woods."

"Well, that a start then," Jean offered encouragingly, a gentle pat on Laura's arm as she moved towards her office, leaving Laura to linger for a moment before she too turned and hurried away.

It was mid-afternoon by the time James had the evidence his boss had demanded of him. Several hours of trawling through everyone the victim had ever met, follow up phone calls with the husband and neighbour, even a call to Spain to speak with Vanessa Barnes, until finally he had it, a theory that they could test. And now, he and Robbie sat in interview room three, opposite Thomas Franklin, who'd so far been unfazed by their questions. The decidedly smug look on his face was starting to grate on them both, only made worse by the casual stance that had been adopted by the suspect, his forearms on the table in front of him, his fingers occasionally scratching at his palm.

"You don't deny knowing Sandra Smith then? Or that she fancied you?" James asked.

Franklin smirked, "I don't deny knowing her, but whether or not she liked me I couldn't say."

"So it wasn't you she was seen with in the pub before she died?" he asked.

Franklin's solicitor leant in to whisper something quietly in his ear before he replied, "I've been advised not to answer that, DS Hathaway."

"Alright, let's try this then. Do you recall knowing a Deborah Mantle?" James asked and getting another smirk of indifference added, "You worked together. Flirted a lot with one another according to your colleagues."

"It's not a crime, is it? A cheeky office liaison." Franklin remarked. "Not that I admit we had such a relationship, you understand."

James sighed. They were getting nowhere.

"Mr Franklin," Robbie interceded. "You seem to think that this is some kind of game but I assure you it isn't. We have two murdered women, both of whom we can connect to you. You can't seem to provide an alibi for the time when either was killed. You also seem to have a history of violence against those who upset you." He paused to let his words take effect. "Now if you can't provide us with a reason not to then I am going to charge you with both murders."

Robbie's eye caught that of the solicitor and seeing no argument being offered in return added, "In that case, Sir, I will leave you with my Sergeant," the sound of the charges being read out as he left the room.