In the end, it takes them nearly half an hour to get away from the cricket grounds. Jones has to say goodbye to his teammates, most of whom want to know if he'll keep playing with them, insisting that regardless of whether he's Jack Morris or Ben Jones, he's still their captain.
John leaves them dissecting each over, while he checks on SOCO and arranges for a patrolman to take his car to the station. Jones is in no shape to drive, but he won't want to leave the convertible in Lower Pampling.
Which is how John finds himself cruising down the road to Causton, Jones in the passenger seat like the ghost of Midsomer past, present and future, all rolled into one. It's an uncomfortably apt simile, as the adrenaline and sheer grit that kept Jones going through ambush, near death and a championship match, have seeped away, leaving him pale and silent.
But when John tests the convertible's limits on the flat, straight stretch past Midsomer Magna, Jones sits up and grins. "Good thing we're not in Sussex or I'd have to do you for reckless driving.
John can't stop the bubble of laughter that escapes. The vague anxiety he'd felt since "Jack Morris" turned around, that spiked to desperate worry when Jones didn't answer his phone, is gone at last. Jones is safe, both their cases are solved, and the dreaded changing of the guard now seems less an ending than a legacy.
"I'm not the one with the mid-life crisis car." It will be SUVs and sensible sedans for the next dozen years or so, but it's a small sacrifice for a much greater joy.
"Jack's the hot rodder. Ben is boring."
The phrasing is odd, so John looks across at Jones. He's staring out the passenger window, a slight frown on his face. "Jack lived with an old lady and had no visible means of support. I think I'll stick to Ben. He's the one you want in a pinch."
He's rewarded with a quick smile, but it doesn't quite reach Jones's eyes. "You were there in the pinch for me," he says. "Never been so glad to see someone in my life. Except maybe the last time you swooped in at the nick of time."
"Grady Felton," John remembers. Even four years later he can hear Jones crying out in pain inside the powerhouse. Or maybe seeing Jones bound and threatened just brought the memory back too sharply. "Don't ever do that to me again." he says, putting a hand on Jones's shoulder. "My nerves can't take it."
"Understood, sir."
"If you can't call me John, at least drop the sir." Even if he outranks Jones, it's been three years since they worked together. And while he's never encouraged informality in colleagues, he'd like to think they're friends now, even family of a sort.
"I thought it was an order. Sir." This time the smile reaches his eyes.
"Just a sincere hope." Three years in a city where CBOs are handed out like arcade tickets, and it's a quiet country village that is nearly Ben's undoing. Still, at least John could do something about it, not just scan the Sussex Police reports for bad news. It's become a Sunday ritual: read the Times, watch cricket, check for casualty reports in Brighton. He pretends he does it because Sarah would want to know, but he knows it's for his own peace of mind. He'll do the same when Nelson's course is finished and he's reassigned.
That reminds him that he'll need to give his cousin a pre-emptive call. Tom Barnaby doesn't need police reports to keep tabs on the goings-on in Midsomer. He still has an enviable network of informers, not to mention Joyce Barnaby'a wide circle of friends. It's only a matter of time until someone tells him that Ben Jones has come back to Midsomer and nearly been killed on the Johnny-come-Barnaby's watch.
John got the first call only a few weeks after he moved to Midsomer. He and Jones were still at odds, so John had assigned him to a spate of burglaries to give them both a bit of breathing room. And, if he's being honest, to put Jones in his place.
And Jones, needing to prove himself, worked all hours to crack the MO, then staked out the next likely target and caught the burglar in the act. But the arrest led to a knock-down, drag-out fight that left both men battered and bruised, before back-up arrived.
The first John heard of it was when he received a call from Tom.
"Do you know where your sergeant is?" he asked in lieu of a greeting, before informing him that said sergeant was at Causton General.
" Why did he call you?" Worry and annoyance fought for the upper hand. Annoyance won, though he wasn't sure if he were more annoyed at Jones or himself.
"He didn't. Apparently, he hasn't changed his emergency contact number yet," Tom said. "And shouldn't your first question be, 'Is he all right?' He is, by the way. They're just taking x-rays to make sure he didn't crack any ribs."
" Right. Good," John said.
"George says things are a little rocky between you two," Tom said.
"George says, does he?" John replied testily. Things were a little rocky between him and George as well. Nobody wanted Tom Barnaby replaced. "Your Jones can be a chippy little bastard."
"He's your Jones now," Tom said after a long pause. "And respect is earned not bestowed. But I'll tell you one thing. If he's chasing down villains on his own, it's not because he doesn't respect you, it's because he wants you to respect him."
John couldn't answer, knowing Tom was right. He had forced Jones out on his own; he was the reason he'd gotten hurt.
"There are three things you need to know about Ben Jones," Tom said, his voice gentler. "Once his loyalty is earned, it's unconditional. He complains about everything; it's when he stops that you need to worry. And he'll never ask you for help; you have to know when he needs it."
"I don't know how to do that."
"It's an acquired skill. But you can start learning today."
When he got to the hospital, he found Jones in a cubicle waiting for the doctor. He was hunched over cradling his ribs and holding an ice pack to his cheek. John can still remember the mixture of guilt and fierce protectiveness that swept over him at the sight. But what truly hurt was the look of alarm on Jones's face when he saw him.
"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean for you to be disturbed."
"The only thing disturbing me is that you didn't let me know that you'd been hurt."
"I didn't thinkā¦"
"...that it was important or that I would care?" John was almost afraid of the answer.
"That both of us needed to lose sleep. I was going to tell you in the morning." He grinned, wincing when it pulled on his split lip. "I got our burglar."
John was ridiculously relieved that Jones still thought of them as a collective. "It rather looks like he got you."
"He did resist arrest pretty emphatically. Still, a good result."
John tried to listen to what wasn't said. "Better than good," he replied, watching some of the tension ease from Jones's body. "But I'd rather he got away than have you hurt."
John still isn't sure what stung more, the expression of disbelief that flitted across Jones's face or the one of hope that followed it.
"Earth to Barnaby."
John starts and glances over at Jones, who's watching him with a half-smirk on his face. "Sorry," he says. "I was just dreading the inevitable call from Tom, when one of his sources tells him what happened today. He tore a strip off me after Grady Felton."
"That was hardly your fault. I was the one that refused protection."
But John knows that's only partially true. He sent Jones to Binwell on his own. At the very least he should have sent a patrol unit with him. "Believe me, that's not how Tom saw it." Though Tom eventually admitted that Jones was too stubborn for his own good, once he'd vented his fear and helplessness.
"If he gives you a hard time, remind him that he shut the door of an iron maiden on me."
For a moment, John thinks he's talking about the band, and then he remembers this is Midsomer. "What were you doing in an iron maiden?"
"I was curious. Didn't think my boss would slam the door shut on me. Trust me, Germaine Troughton waving a cricket bat in my face is nothing compared to being locked in a medieval torture device." He huffs in exasperation. "Then he had me wandering about the Monks Barton woods at all hours of the night, and climbing trees for evidence. Didn't even notice I fell out, just stood over me babbling about radio signals. That case took a dozen years off my life."
John lets the grumbling wash over him and relaxes, knowing that as long as Jones is complaining, he's all right.
