Chapter 51: Miles To Go
Click. Click. Click. High up the dingy wall in the squad room, the clock hands snapped past each second, those seconds adding up to minutes crawling by as the evening grew later. His pile of reports now lay scattered across his desk, his own scrawled notes mixed with a collection of reservations from the trains. Troy tried to hold back a yawn, flicking his eyes up to the clock. Half eight in an empty office—not the first day this week he had found himself one of the last officers remaining.
The past week had worn on him, even without the mess at Devington School. Monday had brought a call for a body in Midsomer Worthy, though it was hardly a case, at least of the caliber he and Barnaby were accustomed to seeing. A domestic, really, nothing beyond a woman bashing her boyfriend over the head with a frying pan.* Almost funny enough for Midsomer, he'd thought then.
But that wasn't what was troubling him now over another mug of CID's finest brew, well scorched from the hot plate. Whether out of curiosity or frustration with the whole ordeal, Barnaby had handed him the lead on their ongoing burglary investigation. "As you will, Troy," the chief inspector had said the past Monday morning as Troy had muttered again about his own theory, their burglar simply vanishing from the area whenever the cases dwindled to nothing. He respected Barnaby's rank, experience, and intelligence—now more than ever—but he couldn't see any other path forward.
It was a question they had discussed at length over the years for many cases, including this one. Not why did a murderer or sexual predator or thief start again, but why did he stop at all? Almost always, it was a simple answer: prison, occasionally death. And then that one case a couple years back, the hotel owner living in the shadow of his pious mother. "Hope I don't see one of those again," Troy muttered, pulling the train reservation lists closer. So, what other answer could there be? The man—or woman, he had to admit—wasn't in prison; the fingerprints weren't on record. As for death...unlikely; the burglaries started anew every few weeks, the intervals inconsistent, but unmistakable. A pause, then a new spate of break-ins during the night, scattered from one edge of the county to the other. And before they really had a moment to grasp the new parameters of each case...another murder, Midsomer's favorite pastime.
He took another drag of coffee, shuddering against the bitter oily film on the surface. At the base of his spine, an ache shot through his back. As each year passed, Troy felt the hours spent leaning over his desk more and more. He pressed his back against the slats of his chair, listening to a gentle pop between the vertebrae. More to look forward to.
Reaching for a highlighter, he spread the lists apart, his eyes falling on the first three. Dated from the earliest weeks of June, they listed the train reservations for the days just before and after each of their break-in clusters. He hadn't bothered to pull the lists from...March, was it? (The small spree of cases then was nothing compared to what they had seen over this summer and autumn, and if he found anything, it would be an easy task to glance at them then.) As an exercise, it was probably pointless, hoping to find a common name across the rolls; it only took a glance to see how much smaller the lists from the middle of the week were, and how expansive the weekend's. And what if their burglar just drove? "Be a smarter twat, wouldn't he?" But what else was there to pursue?
At the top of the earliest lists—the cluster of A surnames—his gaze flicked back and forth, searching for anything in common...nothing. The B section was the same, though the Cs offered Cunningham, Nate on two. He traced the name with his yellow marker on each page, then continued on, blinking against the harsh lamplight. Three more identical names appeared, again marked with his highlighter, then Troy shifted to the next two reservation lists.
By the time Troy had reached the halfway point of his pile of reservations, one single name was marked yellow across almost every one: Huhes, Iain. At the weekend events, if his name was not on a list for a train arriving from London, it was written on one leaving for London. No longer searching for other names, he scanned through the remaining pages. The man's name appeared every weekend they had recorded a burglary.
Coincidence was not out of the question, Troy had to allow for that as he capped his highlighter, tapping it against what was really the only man in common. I still don't like it, he thought. With just a name as a starting point...well, it was at least something rather than nothing. Troy scratched at his chin, struggling against the urge to close his eyes for a second. A couple of moments, that would be enough…
A few footsteps broke the silence. Troy's neck cracked as he looked up—and immediately wished he hadn't, scowling at the interruption. Inspector Ralph Wellings**, with his thin sallow face and dark eyes sunken in their sockets, always brought bile to the back of his throat. He had the gait of a man skulking in the darkness, waiting and watching with shifty eyes beneath his greasy blond hair—looking for a feckless word or deed to remember. "Still working on your case, Gav?" he asked, walking closer to Troy's desk, the thin golden-red beard at the bottom of his jaw gleaming in the lamp light.
His fingers tightened on his highlighter, pulling the cap off once more and crushing the angled tip against the paper before him. He couldn't stand to hear that name, especially from a man who fancied himself some sort of investigative mastermind even after sitting the exam a second time. "At least one of us is working," he said quietly, his gaze moving to his next list, searching the H surnames. There it was again, the black letters askew on the quick photocopy: Huhes, Iain.
"Audrey** and I have cleared our cases." Reaching down for one of the reservation lists, Wellings wrinkled his nose. "This is really what you're chasing after?"
"If you're all done, why are you here this late?"
"Waiting for her to finish up some paperwork, that's all." Wellings tossed the page back onto his desk, and Troy shuffled it back into order. Even after finally passing the inspector's exam, the other man was notorious for losing his notes and reports, often relying on his partner—Sergeant Brierley—to keep her own copies. "If she needs anything."
"Wouldn't think she'd be asking you for help with that."
"Just because that's how she feels about you—"
"So why don't you go help her with that?" That same name appeared again. Flicking back to the first list, he skimmed ahead for any more constant names...One popped up again, another twice more, but only Huhes was printed across almost every one. Got it.
"Bit touchy these days, aren't you?"
He shook his head as he reached for his notebook and a pen, a few new ideas coursing through his mind. "What's it to you, Ralph?" Flipping to a fresh page, he scratched out some quick notes, a clot of black ink smearing with the first few characters:
· Check cautions for Huhes, Iain
· Confirm no other similar names
· Inquire about family
"Well, it's a change of pace for you—"
Bzzt. Troy clenched his eyes against the noise, his mobile's ringing a distant shrieking echo in his ears. Bzzt. Who would be calling this late? Blinking heavily, he glanced at the clock again, past Wellings' curious face. Almost nine. Bzzt. Twisting around, he tugged at his suit jacket slung across the back of his chair, fumbling for the pocket. Bzzt. As he pulled it out, it rang again. Bzz— And stopped. He groaned as he finally saw the screen, the missed caller printed in cold blue letters: Cully. Not now, with this idiot hovering above him.
Over the last week, Troy had made a point of calling her each evening—apart from the nights she did so first when his mind was trapped in work and his mobile's ring jolted him out of his thoughts. It was a pleasant end to the day, sometimes a few minutes—once almost an hour—discussing everything and nothing at all. He had to admit to a twinge of jealousy, the night she recounted a chance meeting a friend from secondary school and university, visiting family and returning a couple books for her grandmother. That friendship sounded so much easier than their relationship now. Simpler and cleaner. "Do you mind?" he asked quietly.
A grin curled over the inspector's thin lips. "That important?"
"Please."
"Now that is interesting—"
"Please!" Troy said again, louder as he flipped his phone open to the keypad.
Wellings' eyes narrowed in the harsh light of the squad room. "Very interesting," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned, slowly striding away. The footsteps fading into the silent dimness of the hallway on the scratched linoleum, Troy finally let out a breath.
No matter what Barnaby said last Friday, Troy could not shake a lingering wariness: a gaze trailing him, a shiver as he contemplated turning his face over his shoulder to see if someone was watching. The chief inspector's words had sounded like that like reluctant gratitude melded together with a warning. "Don't be late again." Someone watching indeed, he thought.
Troy shook his head. But that wasn't Cully's concern, was it, just Barnaby's. Dialing through his last missed call—hers—he pressed his phone to his cheek. He missed her face and her touch, missed her voice—her teasing—even the way she laughed at his thoughts about work. Fair? he wondered. After all, he sometimes had his own opinions about her work—like worrying over an imaginary girl's wishes. After a couple of sharp rings, the line connected.
"I thought you'd forgotten," she said quietly.
He tucked one arm behind his neck, leaning back in his chair again. "No, I just lost track of the time."
"Things are that interesting, eh?"
He wished she had used another word. "Well, I found something, Cully."
"I don't doubt it."
"It's been three months, this round," he grumbled, scratching at his hairline.
"Really? That long?"
"Yes, almost since—" Almost since we met again this summer, Troy thought. What had it been, a week after? Two? That long at all? As the days whiled away—between multiple murder, an accidental death or two, these intermittent burglaries, and Barnaby's muttered comments—he had almost forgotten the passage of the weeks and months. Some days, he forgot the time they had spent apart before that afternoon on the street. The memories of their other moments together, before thoughts and feelings and things fell apart, somehow seemed a part of this moment if he allowed his mind to wander. All those arguments faded, swept away by a gentle breeze like a fresh breath of life, and...
"Gavin?"
Troy shook his head, and his arm fell back to his side. "But—how was your day?"
She laughed quietly. "They're all about the same, Gavin."
"Aren't people inside reading more books in October?"
"That just means it's more of the same."
"Helps the day go faster."
"Sometimes." Cully fell silent, and not for the first time in these late evening conversations over the course of the last week, Troy wondered where she was, what she was doing? And like so many of those evenings, when his mind rushed forward into his memories, he had to draw a deep breath against the heat suddenly burning beneath his skin. "So, what did you find?" she asked.
"A name," Troy said, reaching for the last of his reservation lists. Across all of those documenting the weekend trains, only one name was constant. "Some bloke coming or going, every weekend we had break-ins reported."
"That's all?"
"It's the first thing apart from a fingerprint or two that we can't identify and some scratches on windowsills." At times, Troy had to remind himself that despite her father's rank of chief inspector, Cully did not look at these questions like he did, searching for an answer—a suspect—any evidence at all...just as he did not see a poem or a play through her eyes, peeling back the layers for reasons and motivations. "We'll take anything at this point."
"I know you and Dad have been struggling with it, Gavin."
"Truth will out."
"But—how was your day, aside from that?"
"Not much to say, really." Well and truly, what else was there? Apart from finishing some paperwork on the domestic in Midsomer Worthy, he'd done little more than pour over these lists and the other evidence he and Barnaby had already reviewed a hundred times in the past three or so months. And through those quiet times, as his mind drifted..."I miss you." The words tumbled off his tongue before he had a chance to bite them back.
"Me too."
His eyes jumped to the clock again, just ticking past nine. Almost every other plainclothes officer had vanished—Wellings and Audrey Brierley aside—abandoning the uniformed constables and duty officers to the silence and loneliness of the overnight shift. And deep in his belly, a growl of hunger rose. "Hey, I'm about to leave," he said, shuffling his papers together. "Can I call you when I get home?"
"You're still at the office?"
"Lost track of the time," Troy said as he stood, sharper than he meant.
"Sure." She fell silent for a second. "I only meant—you're never there so late. You're..." Her voice trailed away, but she didn't have to finish her thought.
"I know, I'm not like your father." He reached for his jacket, sliding one arm into a sleeve then switching his mobile to his right hand. "Look, Cully, I'll call you then."
"I'll just call you again if you don't."
"I know." Settling his jacket onto his shoulders, Troy wondered if she was smiling. "Talk in a bit." He snapped his mobile closed, slipping it back into his pocket. Wait...Troy reached for his reservation lists once more, flipping through the papers. With the dates so clearly laid out, the yellow marked names revealed the pattern beyond coming and going...It shouldn't be this weekend, but either the middle of the following week or the following weekend. Enough time to pull reservations from today, check the man's name for any minor cautions, uncover friends or family...Maybe enough time to cross him off the list, too, Troy thought, tugging the chain on his lamp and plunging his desk into shadows.
His keys jangled in his pocket as he reached the corridor, light from a few desks in the offices off to the side melding with the rough glow from the fluorescent bulbs in the boxy lamps above, shining on the cracked flooring. He'd pick up a Chinese on the drive home, or just something quick to sate the hunger—and he almost missed the footsteps following him from the corner. "I guess you really do have something else on your mind, Gav," Wellings said quietly, quickening his pace to walk by his side.
He's just searching for a rise out of you, Troy thought, swallowing a sigh of irritation. Just let it be. "I don't—"
"She really does have an unusual name."
Troy turned towards the other man, Wellings' thin dark lips curling up in the corners and disappearing into his pale cheeks. "What?"
Wellings crossed his arms across his chest, tucking his fingers into the crooks of his elbows. "Well, what does he think about it?"
The corridor ran the length of CID, offices branching off here and there, the larger squad rooms clustered at the far end. And as Troy headed for the other end—toward the lobby, manned by the current duty officer, that opened onto the car park split between personal and marked vehicles—Wellings followed. "Look, just let it alone." Another pair of clicking footsteps joined theirs from behind: Sergeant Brierley, Troy saw, her blond hair bouncing around her shoulders as she hurried to catch them, her purse almost falling from her shoulder to the bend of her elbow.
"Sorry, Gavin," she began, but Wellings waved one hand at her face, silencing her.
"No, really, what does Barnaby think?"
"Ralph—"
"About what?" Troy asked, his strides lengthening. He wasn't sure this was what he had thought might happen, but it was already transforming into a nightmare.
"About what?" Wellings laughed.
"Ralph—"
"Of all people, Audrey," the inspector continued, glancing back at her, "you should be interested."
"It isn't any of our concern—"
"Well, she's kept his mind off you, hasn't she?"
Troy's stomach twisted as he walked even faster, trying to stop his mind from drifting. Now, it wasn't just that he disliked Wellings, he hated that the man was right. During Audrey's first years as a WPC...Troy didn't enjoy visiting those memories: the not so subtle hints, the improper insinuations, and dozens of words and minutes he'd rather forget, especially now that...He shook his head. "That doesn't—"
"—and—Ralph—it's still not something—"
"—but I can't imagine him liking it at all—"
"—and I can't imagine why anything matters to you," Troy finally finished, finding his keys in his pocket, the teeth on the edge of one scraping against his thumb.
"He can't keep his nose out of anyone else's business, Gavin. You know that."
"I've never forgotten," he muttered. Sometimes, Midsomer CID was one of the county villages in miniature: bored men and women, chittering behind their hands with the new gossip of personal troubles and follies. And Wellings, all the years Troy had unfortunately known him, took a special pleasure pouring salt into life's scrapes and rubbing it against the raw wounds.
"Even if he can't handle other people knowing about failing the exam to make DI first time round"
"Details, Audrey," Wellings said. "But really—Barnaby can't like the idea of you dating her."
Wellings was the last person Troy wanted to know about his relationship with Cully. And as for discussing it? Troy shivered. Barnaby's words might have softened—and his own dropped their guard in the slightest—but the thought of Wellings' sneering words bubbling beneath the usually placid surface of the rumor mill, breaking higher and higher…"I don't know what—"
"Let alone fucking her."
He stopped, his heart pounding for a few seconds as he glanced back at the man, his eyes narrowing. "I mean," Wellings whispered—loudly enough for Audrey to hear—leaning towards him and clapping a hand on one of Troy's shoulders, "you are, aren't you? It's well clear you want to."
Years and years ago—in the street, staring at a neighbor boy he couldn't bear the sight of—Troy remembered this feeling, not wanting to wait to hit him around the head. His father had stood behind him that day, watching—waiting—wondering if he would remember what he had been told. "No reason to wait," his father had said, probably from when he was about to enter primary, folding his hand into a fist for him. "Don't wait to hit him back."*** He curled his fingers around his keys, just feeling the bite of the metal against his palm.
Audrey shook her head, taking a couple steps closer. "Ralph, I don't think this is the place—"
"Look at him, Aud!" Wellings jutted out his index finger at Troy. "Even his ears are going pink."
"Yours might too if you were listening to an idiot," Troy mumbled, pushing Wellings' hand off his shoulder, wanting to dust off the grime lingering in its stead.
"I'm just bearing the bad news." Wellings thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, glancing back at his partner. "I'd say Barnaby more than just doesn't like it."
"Tell me something I don't know," Troy whispered.
Wellings cocked his head. "Didn't catch that, Gav."
"I don't think he was talking to you," Audrey said, catching Wellings' elbow with a hand, pulling him a few steps back.
"No, I wasn't."
"But she was who you were talking to, back there?" Wellings asked, not shaking her hand away.
"Just leave it—"
"Oh? Not going well, is it?"
Troy finally tugged his keys from his pocket. "What?"
"He really won't like that—"
"Ralph." Audrey's voice was louder, bouncing off the smooth white plastered corridor walls.
"Not that he would even if it was going well—"
"Ralph!"
"Fine, Audrey, fine." He yanked his elbow free from her grasp, loosening his tie at the base of his throat. "You do like to keep the peace."
"I think she has to around you," Troy muttered, scratching at the back of his neck. Why was that prickling refusing to go away, the wariness of being under observation—surveillance—by someone unknown? The hallway was empty but for the three of them, just the night constables toiling at their desks and the duty officer stationed on the other side of that door, waiting for his phone to ring or a panicked city dweller to stumble in from the street. But in the gloom lurking in the far corners...Troy stifled the need to peek over his shoulder. There couldn't be anyone there, buried in the darkness.
"Well, good luck, Gav." Wellings brushed a tuft of hair away from his forehead, wearing a small smirk. "This could turn fun." With a few quick steps, he shoved open the door to CID's lobby, slamming it closed after he cleared its reach.
"Thank you, Audrey," Troy said quietly. With that idiot gone, he chanced a quick, silly glance into the shadows—and despite its emptiness, the weight of some gaze still lingered.
"He doesn't know when to let up." She pushed her purse's shoulder strap higher up on her shoulder. "But he's probably right, about the chief inspector."
He let out a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second. "Not you, too."
"Sometimes you need to think about the way things are—not the way you'd like them to be."
"Why do you think I'm not?"
"Because you don't—" She stopped, shaking her head. "Never mind. I'll see you next week."
Hardly above a whisper, he said, "Sure."
As Audrey too disappeared from the corridor, Troy leaned against the wall, knocking the air from his chest. Sorry, Cully, he thought, running his thumb along the teeth of that key in his pocket. So much for trying. Sometimes, her words still echoed in his skull, accusations and frustrations melting out of wants and desires. Like that isn't what I want too, Cully? If he closed his eyes, his mind drifted with ease to last Friday, ready to leave, but…"Stay—just a few more minutes." Simply sitting with her, offering his hand when she reached for it, the warmth like a drop of sun swallowed on the dark, drenched night. His thoughts, so clear for those few minutes, had withered on his tongue as the solitude ceased. And in the end, what were words and thoughts, after…
He swallowed, shoving that growing heat down again. Words were barely enough now, not when so many new memories flooded his mind. Sorry, he thought again, pushing his back from the wall. Words might not entirely be enough, Troy knew, but they were better than silence. A few more quick steps found him through that final door at the end of the corridor, in CID's front lobby, vacant but for the duty officer.
"Evening," the constable said quietly, hiding his mouth behind a yawn as his eyes darted to the small clock by his phone. With only two or three suspects in custody, the older man would pass most of his night peering at the hands on that clock, the seconds ticking by at an agonizing pace. Troy nodded as his only greeting, not slowing as he crossed the lobby, throwing open the door leaving at last.
In the cool breeze of the autumn night, Troy drew a deep breath, the air sharp and crisp. The car park was almost empty, the lamp light overhead hardly breaking into the darkness, happily no sign that Wellings was still lurking. God, the man slithered under his skin with only a few words—just like his cousin. His fingers twitched, searching and searching...
"But really—Barnaby can't like the idea of you dating her."
"I don't know what—"
"Let alone fucking her. I mean, you are, aren't you?"
Wellings hadn't quite let him finish, rushing on to twist the knife. "I don't know what he thinks." And wasn't that the truth? He still wasn't certain what the chief inspector meant a week ago: gratitude, then that gruff reminder to not be late. "Late again?" Troy muttered, his pulse increasing. He was rarely late, certainly better than many of his colleagues. The last time he had been late...well, he hadn't been, except in Barnaby's mind. And what was there to say in his own defense after waking up naked beside Cully with a night of new memories ready to be relived—and so many weeks later, indulged in again and again.
His fingers were still fidgeting, starting to dig deeper into his pocket; there wasn't anything but for his keys and there never would be, not now. Biting down on his lip, he exhaled, his breath bland and clean. He could still taste the burn and smoke and ash, feel the lush warmth spreading into his fingers. God, all he wanted was a fag, a rush of nicotine to chase away the frustration and Wellings' snarky grin.****
* There's a jazz-ish song called "Poor Joe", about a man being hit over the head with a frying pan by his wife every time he tries to raise his hand to her. Domestic violence is bad, but kudos to a woman fighting back. Got to see it live years ago in high school, performed by Jon Faddis. That man made me appreciate the trumpet...and I generally find the trumpet an obnoxious waste of air and sound waves. There's a version of it by Dizzy Gillespie on YouTube, though it sounds much lighter than what I remember in concert. But, that was about twenty years ago. #old Either way, it's a funny song...sort of. I still like it, but it was much funnier when I was fifteen...before, ya know, life completely happened. It's not so funny now. Yikes on trikes...
** Quick reminder: Sergeant Audrey Brierley is a character in the books, originally a constable, later promoted to sergeant and sometimes relied on by Barnaby to be more comforting than either Troy or himself. Referenced looooooooooooooooong ago in this story. Troy's book character is shameless in harassing her. Inspector Ralph Wellings is an OC because I don't mind peripheral OCs that further the plot or reveal things about the canon characters when they don't really exist in canon (Inspector Meredith—once again, a non-sympathetic character in the books—is a little higher up than what is shown in this chapter.)
*** Another quick reminder: Troy's father doesn't feature in the books that make up the first series, but he's mentioned in a fairly bad light, encouraging his son to take his revenge first by trying to get him to punch another boy before getting hit himself...or something very close to that situation. Cheese and rice, can my memory ever purge something?
**** And another reminder: In the books, Troy is an unrepentant smoker. Since we never see him smoke in the program and I'm melding the canons, in this universe, he quit. And cheese and rice, I will not deny an ex-smoker the fantasy of a cigarette.
A/N: I did my absolute best to research UK police procedures, travel reservations and general practices, etc. (more important later), but I guarantee I made some errors. Forgiveness requested!