Bad Blood Chapter 2: Part 2, a waking the dead fanfic

PART TWO

In its heyday, Moorcroft House must have been a large and prosperous family home, Boyd thinks, looking at the solid, double-fronted façade. It's set back a little from the road behind a high, straggly hedge, and although several of the windows are boarded-up, and several more are broken, enough of its faded Edwardian splendour remains to hint strongly at its past glory. Looking at the amount of debris and cheap children's toys strewn across the unkempt lawn and the cracked concrete drive, he can only guess what the neighbours must think of the current state of the place… and of its occupants. Hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, Boyd carefully picks his way towards the shabby front door, not entirely sure he's ready to see what lies beyond it. He doesn't need to knock – as he approaches, the door swings open to reveal a girl of about six or seven, one who regards him in solemn silence.

It often surprises people who don't know him well, but Boyd has something of a way with children. He smiles down at the little girl and says, "Hello. Who are you, then?"

"Magda," the child tells him without hesitation.

Magda Kinney, his memory supplies, one of seven not-all-related children known to be resident at the address. All of them nominally under the watchful eye of Social Services. Instinct and observation tell him what he already knows from the official reports: the child may look a little feral, but she is clean and well-nourished, and her eyes are bright and friendly. As a long-serving police officer, he's seen plenty of children from wealthy, middle-class suburban families that have concerned him far more. Belatedly, he crouches down. "Hello, Magda. My name's Peter. I've come to see Anna."

"I'm Anna," a quiet, wary voice says, and he looks up to see a slim, auburn-haired woman in her late forties. She's eying him with a sullen wariness that hints at deep suspicion. She's not dressed as outlandishly as he expected, but her clothing is still somewhat… unconventional. Lots of coarse natural fibres in clashing bright colours combined with a plethora of mismatched ethnic accessories and homemade jewellery.

Boyd straightens up and extends a hand, not really caring if she takes it or not. "Peter Boyd. We spoke briefly on the phone…?"

"Oh." She hesitates, piercing grey eyes searching his face, and then she grasps his hand for just a second before adding a grudging, "Well, you'd better come in, then."

Inside, the big house is everything Boyd expects. Mould and peeling wallpaper. Evidence of dry rot. Not-very-good murals painted directly onto the damp walls. Clutter, and makeshift furniture; the heavy, sickly smell of cheap incense that doesn't quite cover the pervasive, deeply impregnated smell of marijuana. Crystals and carvings, and faux Middle Eastern rugs; children's toys and at least three small, inquisitive dogs. He's fairly sure that he could make any number of arrests for various theft, drug-related and vagrancy offences, but that's not what he's here for and he chooses not to notice all the things that he's supposed to. Leading him into a big, surprisingly light room at the rear of the house, Anna waves him to a long, threadbare couch draped in a motley array of fabrics and says, "You look like him. Mike, I mean."

Boyd has seen the pictures. He nods. "A little."

"A lot," she contradicts. Settling on a sturdy wooden chair by the open door to the untidy back garden, she lights a hand-rolled cigarette. "So you're a copper, then?"

Making himself a fraction more comfortable on the worn old couch, Boyd asks, "Are you going to hold that against me?"

"Not if you behave yourself," she says, giving him a slight, reluctant smile. "The black guy who came to see us a few days ago – DI Jordan? – we've already told him everything we know."

"I'm here because it seems that Michael was my half-brother," Boyd says, looking her straight in the eye, "not because I'm a police officer."

She snorts. "Why do you think you're not still standing outside on the doorstep?"

Boyd lets his gaze wander the large room for a moment. He doesn't look at Anna as he asks, "What was he like?"

"Gentle," she reflects, her voice fond. "Quiet, a bit of a dreamer. Wouldn't hurt a fly. I think I always knew something terrible had happened to him – he wasn't the sort to just walk out and disappear without a word. We were very happy. Does that surprise you?"

Boyd shakes his head. "No."

"He'd have laughed his head off, if he'd found out that he had a brother who was Old Bill."

"I'm sure," he says. It might be Saturday, he might be off duty and casually dressed, but he still feels awkward and uncomfortable, and too aware of the weight and responsibility of the warrant card in his back pocket. He needs to get to the point, to find out what he can and get out of this place. Accordingly, he says, "Spe… DI Jordan told me you knew Străjescu?"

Anna nods, and Boyd does not miss the way her expression hardens. "A little. We met a few times."

"And…?"

"And what?"

Impatience prickles down Boyd's spine. He forces calm into his tone. "I need to know. I don't know if you can understand that, but I need to know."

She's silent for a moment, then she says, "You said on the phone you were adopted."

"That's right."

"Good people," she guesses. "Nice, middle-class family? Decent school, good education?"

"If you like," he agrees. Her perceptive assessment is very close to the truth.

"You were lucky."

"I was," Boyd admits. It's the truth, and he knows it. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Look, Anna, you may not like what I do, you may not like whatever it is you think I stand for, but take away the warrant card and I'm just an ordinary guy who drinks a bit too much, works too hard, and screws up far too often."

"Are you married?"

"Divorced," he tells her, realising as he does so that he doesn't remember the last time he spared Mary a conscious thought. He should call her, maybe. Check she's still coping with…

"Kids?"

His reply is gruff. "A son."

"And is he going to follow in his father's footsteps and become a copper?" Anna asks.

Despite the too-familiar stab of pain, Boyd doesn't flinch. He says, "He died. Almost two years ago, now. Overdose."

The look of shocked surprise on her face isn't feigned. "God, I'm sorry."

"He ran away from home, and he was living rough on the streets for years," Boyd tells her, quiet and deliberate. "While I was doing everything possible to find him, he was getting the money for his next fix however he could. Theft. Prostitution. The usual story. Then he made the mistake of trusting the wrong person, and he died. Tell me again how lucky I am."

Anna gazes steadily at him. "Point taken. Never judge a book by its cover."

"Look," he says after a long, awkward pause, "I don't know you, you don't know me, but I'm guessing neither of us are bad people. Shall we start again?"

She nods. "Sounds like a good idea to me."

"Tell me about Străjescu."

Anna shrugs as she grinds out her cigarette in a misshapen pottery ashtray. "I didn't know him well. I told you, we only met a few times. After Mike's mother died he tracked Mihail down. They met up, and Mike wanted to get to know him better, but it never really worked out. Then the old man died, and that was pretty much the end of that."

"'Pretty much'?"

"Mihail had a girlfriend."

"Ruby?" he guesses, thinking of Gavin Chapman.

She shakes her head. "Carol. Younger than him by far."

Not Chapman's mother, then, Boyd thinks. "Children?"

"A girl, Louise," Anna tells him. "She was about nineteen when Mihail died. A few years older than my daughter. I think Mike felt a bit responsible for her after that. Half-sister, and all that."

"Did you meet her?"

"Only once." A brief pause, then, "Carol… well, she didn't approve of our lifestyle. Mike wasn't bothered about it, but I was. I wasn't prepared to put up with her rude, spiteful remarks."

"And then Michael disappeared and there was no point in keeping in touch?" Boyd guesses.

"Something like that."

Digesting the new information, he asks, "Why didn't you tell DI Jordan any of this?"

Another shrug. "He didn't ask."

"Oh, come on…"

"No, I mean it," Anna says, sharp and defensive. "He was asking about Mike, not Mihail. How was I supposed to know what the hell was relevant and what wasn't?"

She has a point, Boyd concedes. Instead of pursuing the matter further, he asks, "Does Carol have a surname?"

"Kemp."

"And where can I find Carol Kemp?"

"Edmonton," Anna tells him without hesitation. "Fairfield Road somewhere. I don't remember the number. If she's still living there."

It's both less and more information than Boyd had hoped for when he first telephoned her. "Thank you."

She tilts her head a fraction to one side and says, "Your DI Jordan… he said there was another son? Apart from you and Mike, I mean."

Gavin. Every bit as dead as Michael. Boyd nods. "So it seems."

Anna pulls a face. "Four kids by four different women, eh?"

"And counting," is his dry response. He looks around the room again, too many thoughts and questions whirling through his head.

"Whatever it is you're looking for in your life," she says, watching him, "you won't find it in Mihail's grave, you know."

Frowning, he returns his attention to her. "You're sure about that, are you?"

"No," Anna admits with a heavy sigh. "Look, Peter, you seem like a decent sort of guy, so my advice to you is to leave it alone. All of it. The old man's been dead and buried for over a decade… what's the point of chasing ghosts?"

Aware of the irony, he says, "That's what I do. I chase ghosts and I make them tell their stories."

She looks puzzled. "Why?"

"For the living," Boyd tells her. It seems important to make her understand. "My team will find out what happened to Michael, why he never came home that day. He had a daughter."

"Summer," Anna murmurs.

"She deserves to know what happened to her father."

"I told you – we've already given Jordan all the information we have."

Boyd shakes his head. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about what a friend of mine would call… closure."

The sharp grey eyes study him with a startling intensity. "And that's what you're looking for, is it? Closure?"

"I don't know what I'm looking for," he admits, resisting the strong impulse to sigh. "A couple of weeks ago I had no bloody idea who my biological father was, and no interest in finding out. But…"

"Things change?" Anna suggests. She gestures at the large, shabby room. "Look around you. Look at this place. Michael never lived here, but this is who he was. He wasn't interested in an ordinary nine-to-five existence – none of us were. I expect there's some politically-correct way to describe the way people like us live, isn't there?"

"'Alternative lifestyle'," Boyd tells her, deadpan. "It covers a multitude of sins in official reports."

"I bet. You're not allowed to call us squatters or drug-taking hippies?"

"Not anymore, I'm afraid."

Her answering smile is quick and sympathetic. She says, "You're one of the good guys, aren't you, Peter?"

"I like to think so."

Anna is silent for a few moments. She stares out of the window, her expression empty. Lost. Eventually, she looks at him again and says, "Mihail was Kalderash. Mike became fascinated by the whole Roma thing. He saw it as his… birth-right… if you like."

"Kalderash…?" Boyd questions. The word is vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place it.

"Căldărari," she says with a shrug. "Romanian gypsies. Doesn't matter what you want to call them. If you really want to know about Mihail Străjescu, maybe that's where you should start."

-oOo-

He's not known for his patience, of course, but Boyd is, surprisingly, very good at this kind of painstaking background research. It's not something he spends much time doing nowadays – he has a whole team of people he can delegate such mundane tasks to after all – but he's still eminently capable of it, particularly when the basement is empty and quiet, when there's no-one to disturb him with questions about this and requests for that. When his head starts to ache because it's bursting with facts and figures, he leaves his office and wanders the silent squad room, eventually settling on the edge of Spencer's desk to stare thoughtfully at the big Perspex evidence board, a third of which is now dedicated to the investigation into Michael Allen's death. The juxtaposition of the smiling photograph of the live, smiling Michael and the official laboratory photographs of his skeletal remains bothers Boyd rather more than he might have expected.

There is unquestionably a familial resemblance between himself and the dead man, but the relationship between them still feels abstract, intangible. Brother-by-blood, not brother-by-experience, that's the only way Boyd can describe it. Two totally different men who never met, who were never even aware of each other's existence, sons of the same father. Boyd's thoughts stray briefly to Chapman, the third member of the accidental triumvirate. The CID investigation is still ongoing, but no-one's going to be surprised if it turns out Chapman died as the result of a drunken squabble with another of the big city's homeless population. And now it seems that Străjescu had a daughter, too.

Brutal as it may seem, however, Boyd's interest is focused less on any of his potential half-siblings than on their father.

He's still deep in thought gazing at the evidence board when the phone in his pocket starts to ring. A brief glimpse of the caller identification on the display only confirms what he suspects. He answers with a quiet, "Grace."

"Where on earth are you?"

Her waspish tone suggests she's both worried and irked, and he frowns in response. "Headquarters."

"You do realise that it's gone eight o'clock?"

He hadn't. Surprised, Boyd glances at his watch. She's right. "Christ, how did it get that late?"

"I'm guessing," she says, her tone resigned, "that you'd forgotten all about James? He's just arrived."

He winces. That tone, one of exaggerated quiet and calm, does not bode well. His… brother… might shrug off his tardiness, dismiss it as nothing, just 'Pete being Pete', but Grace won't be so easy to pacify. He wonders how fast he can get home if he risks blues and twos. Not fast enough. "Fuck. Look, tell him that I'm sorry and I'll be there as quickly as I can."

He listens as the message is relayed, hears a muffled reply. A second later Grace's voice says, "He says Eileen's at her sister's so don't break your neck getting here."

Frosty, Boyd thinks. Definitely frosty. He's already heading back to his office. "I won't be long."

"Good," she says, and the line goes dead.

It's going to be a long night, he thinks, shrugging into his jacket.

-oOo-

"Pete was the rebellious one," James says, grinning across the room at Grace, "not me. I was the goody-goody who never got into any trouble."

"He was," Boyd confirms, not fazed by the conversation. "What he's not telling you, though, is that he was just a hell of a lot better at not getting caught than I was."

"That's also true," James agrees with a chuckle, "but he was the one who always came up with the hare-brained schemes in the first place."

Now seated closer to Boyd than she was earlier in the evening before the frost lifted, Grace laughs, clearly delighted by the revelation. "Oh, I can imagine. It's a good thing your parents adored the pair of you."

James's response is characteristically mild. He sips his whiskey and nods. "It is, rather. When Pete was expelled from St. George's I really thought dad was going to have a stroke, but no, the old boy just packed him off down to Devon to spend the summer working on a friend's dairy farm. Two months of getting up at four in the morning every day, and he was practically begging to go back to school. Any school."

"You would've been, too," Boyd accuses without malice. Decades on, he still remembers that long, hard summer. Vividly. Sunburn and blisters, and those hard, never-ending early mornings. With an entirely affected glower, he continues, "Don't let him fool you, Grace – he was a cunning little bastard who got away with murder just because everyone always thought everything was my bloody fault."

James chuckles again, raises his half-empty tumbler in salute. "Good times."

"They were," Boyd agrees, for a moment not seeing the short, stocky, middle-aged solicitor with the receding hairline, but the robust, cheerful fair-haired boy who always did his absolute best to follow him everywhere, whether he liked it or not.

"You want some advice from your annoying kid brother?" James inquires, setting his glass aside.

Not at all surprised, Boyd shrugs. "Go on, then."

"Grace is right – family is about far more than blood. Forget about DNA, Străjescu, or whatever his damn name was, wasn't your father. Douglas was."

Patient as he can be, Boyd nods. "I know that."

"So why risk stirring up a hornets' nest?" his brother demands.

"Wouldn't you, if you were in my position?"

James shrugs his shoulders. "I honestly don't know. Finding out… it's never interested me."

"Nor me," Boyd points out, "until now."

"The two dead men – "

"Allen and Chapman."

" – they deserve justice, no question, but beyond that…" James shakes his head, then continues, "Pete, we grew up together. You've always been my big brother, the one who stole my toys, got off with the girls I fancied, and always, always looked out for me even when I was being a complete idiot. It's never mattered that there's no biological link between us."

"It still doesn't," Boyd insists, and he means it. He can't remember a single day when James wasn't some part of his life. Children, teenagers, adults… they've always been close, even if not always living in each other's pockets. It was James who was best man at his wedding, James who offered him shelter when the marriage subsequently collapsed. James who helped him carry Luke's coffin…

"Well, I agree with Grace," the man himself says, "no good is going to come of delving into the past."

"Why do people always say that?" Boyd wonders aloud.

"Because it's usually true," Grace answers. "Boyd… Peter, you have no idea where this could lead. How much heartache it could cause. And not just for you."

"There's another reason you should think very seriously about pursuing this," James says, before he can respond. "If this woman Anna is right and Străjescu really was a Romanian gypsy… Well, you know as well as I do how unpopular they are nowadays in just about every major city in Europe. Do you really want some of that stigma rubbing off on you?"

Incredulous, Boyd says, "Oh, come on…"

"I'm serious," James insists. "I'm not saying they're all thieves and beggars – "

"Good."

" – but there's no doubt that's how they're perceived by the general public. The police, too. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Words fail me, they really do. Fuck's sake, Jamie…"

His brother doesn't back down. "I still do a lot of pro bono work, Pete. Do you know how much time I spend dealing with transient Eastern Europeans who've been charged with petty theft, vagrancy and other such offences?"

Temper rising, Boyd replies, "I'm not denying there's a problem, I'm simply objecting to – "

"I think," Grace cuts in, her timing impeccable, as ever, "that you're both getting side-tracked away from the main issue. It doesn't matter what nationality or race Străjescu was, or what culture he came from, what matters is who his children are or were."

"She's right," James says after a moment. "If you need to know for sure whether or not he was your father, well, I'll support you in that any way I can, Peter… but once you know, I'd strongly advise you to leave it at that."

"Noted," he growls.

"Is there any way you can get hold of a DNA sample?" James inquires.

Boyd shakes his head. "Not without an exhumation."

A thoughtful, considering look comes his way. "That wouldn't be too difficult to arrange, presumably, given that you have two men who've died in suspicious circumstances who are both allegedly related to him."

"It could be done," Boyd agrees, but his mind baulks at the thought.

"Seems to me that's your answer, then," James says, picking up his glass again. "Dig him up and test his DNA."

"Jesus Christ…"

James gives him another thoughtful look. "Not like you to be so squeamish, big brother."

"You've seen the bloody photograph – he's my damn father."

"No," his brother states, "he's not. Your father – and mine – was a Scottish solicitor named Douglas Boyd."

-oOo-

The bath water is beginning to drop below a comfortable temperature, but it's not yet cool enough to encourage Boyd to leave his quiet, relaxing temporary haven. Instead of moving, he lounges still and silent beneath the slowly disappearing foam and studies the smooth white ceiling above him. Without the bathroom's harsh main light switched on, it doesn't look white. Maybe a sort of light honey colour. There's an incipient spider's web in the corner that his formidable, sharp-eyed twice-weekly cleaner will sweep away the moment she spots it. No sign of the web's eight-legged occupant. The absence doesn't bother him. Boyd is not afraid of spiders. He's not keen on snakes, and as for rats… but he's not at all bothered by spiders.

A quiet tap on the bathroom door makes him stir enough to cause a few lazy ripples. "It's not locked."

Grace, dressed in the long blue silky housecoat thing that inexplicably materialised in his bedroom a couple of months ago, appears on the peripheral edge of his vision. He turns his head, watches as she settles on the edge of the bathtub and hands him a glass containing what appears to be a pleasingly liberal measure of Scotch. As he murmurs his thanks, she says, "You'll catch a chill if you lie there all night."

He smirks. "Careful, Grace, your frustrated maternal instinct is showing."

"I know." She sighs. "It's so much harder to keep suppressed when you're behaving like a child."

"It's nothing," he assures her, realising that what feels perfectly normal to him might seem a genuine cause for concern to her. "Christ, you should have heard us arguing when we kids. We'd go at it hammer and tongs for hours. He's an obstinate little fucker, my brother."

"And you're not?" she inquires, eyebrows raised.

"Ah, but I have right of seniority."

She snorts, but doesn't comment further. Instead, she asks, "So what was she like? Anna Dawson?"

"Pretty much what you'd expect," he says, thinking of the ethnic jewellery and the bright colours. "Great legs, though."

"Not that you were looking, of course."

He grins at her. "You know me, Grace."

"I do, indeed," she says, the eye-roll implicit. She sounds more amused than vexed as she inquires, "Did you flirt with her?"

"No," he tells her, not needing to lie. "I was on my very best behaviour."

"If you say so." Grace tilts her head a fraction. "Tell me you're not going to go and see Carol Kemp without consulting Spence first?"

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"Liar," she accuses. "So? Gut instinct?"

"Gut instinct…" Boyd echoes, thinking about it, "is that maybe it wasn't just Louise Michael wanted to stay in contact with after Străjescu died."

Grace frowns. "Carol?"

"Maybe. Anna said she was considerably younger than Mihail."

"Well, if you're right, that could have made things… complicated."

He nods, says, "And in my experience, things getting too complicated can be a very good motive for murder."

"Yes," Grace agrees, "but in a case like this, without further evidence or a good suspect the motive remains entirely hypothetical."

"I knew you were going to say that," he tells her, stretching his legs as he watches her watching him.

Something changes in her expression. It's very subtle, but he notices. She says, "Get out of the bath and come to bed, Boyd."

He gives her his most disarming smile. "Want to wash my back for me first…?"

-oOo-

"Carol Kemp," Spencer announces, writing the name on the evidence board in bold yellow letters. "Still very much alive, and living in Edmonton."

"Got around a bit, didn't he?" Kat says. "Străjescu, I mean. Four kids by four women – that we know of."

Almost word for word what Anna said, Boyd thinks, seated in his customary chair, Eve on one side of him, Grace on the other. It's the latter who says, "Potentially."

"Grace is right," he says, before anyone else can comment. He doesn't look at Kat. "Let's separate what we know from what we think we know. Facts not assumptions."

"Three otherwise apparently unconnected men, all with the same father," is Eve's immediate response. "Same grandfather and related fathers – brothers or half-brothers – is also possible, genetically-speaking, but much more unlikely under the circumstances."

"And the link to Străjescu?" Boyd prompts, watching Spencer drawing connecting lines and multi-directional arrows on the board. It's… odd… to say the least, to see his own name written up there. Unsettling, too. Peter Boyd, born Nicholas Clarke, Shoreditch; father unknown.

"Chapman's birth certificate," Grace supplies.

"If, then," Eve murmurs. Boyd glances at her, and she adds, "Conditionals. If Chapman's birth certificate is accurate, then Mihail fathered all three of you."

"I think we all worked that out for ourselves, Eve," he says, "but thanks for your input."

She grins at him. "Anytime."

"Do we have any reason to doubt Chapman's birth certificate?" Kat inquires, looking round at the room. Boyd gazes at her without saying a word as she continues, "I mean, there's a strong family resemblance between all of them, isn't there?"

"That sort of reasoning wouldn't ever stand up in court," Spencer tells her, "and you know it."

"Does it matter, anyway?" Eve asks. She shrugs and clarifies, "As far as the investigation into how Michael Allen died goes, I mean."

Boyd spares her a brief glance. "Maybe, maybe not."

"We need to interview Carol," Spencer says, seeming to make up his mind. "Grace, will you come with me to do that?"

Boyd isn't surprised that she doesn't look at him before answering, "Of course, if you want me to."

Apparently satisfied, Spencer nods. "Good. Well, I think that's about it for now."

"Let's talk about Mary Trent and the Knightsbridge robbery," Boyd says, before his subordinate has a chance to send everyone about their appointed tasks. "Kat, the floor is yours…"

-oOo-

"Sit down, Spence," Boyd instructs, just a few hours later, indicating the empty chair on the other side of his desk. "So, the Allen case…"

Spencer sits with the mechanical stiffness of a man who suspects he's not going to enjoy the conversation ahead. Not bothering to prevaricate, he says, "Is this about Carol Kemp?"

"No," Boyd assures him. "Go and interview her, I'm not going to interfere."

"Good. So…?"

"Străjescu," he says. He takes a deep breath, but for his own benefit, not Spencer's. Still not sure he's doing the right thing, he continues, "I want you to apply for an exhumation licence."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Spencer looks incredulous. "You're not serious?"

"Can you think of another way to conclusively prove he was Allen's father?" Boyd asks, trying to ignore the nagging tug of guilt and unease that doesn't seem to want to leave him alone.

"And yours?" A sharp, bitter riposte.

Too perceptive. Boyd regards the younger man with the kind of steady calm that is hard-won. "I need to know, Spence. Surely you can understand that."

Spencer's expression is frozen somewhere between astonished and appalled. "But exhumation… Christ."

Boyd understands the reluctance, the repugnance. Still feels both himself. And more. Gazing across the width of his desk, he says, "It… would not be beyond the scope of the current investigation."

Spencer shakes his head. "I'm trying to find out how the man came to be buried in a shallow grave in Epping Forest, not who his damn father was. Sir."

"Minimum interference," Boyd presses. "Străjescu died in hospital from heart disease, no suspicious circumstances. We don't need to remove the… remains… for examination. Do it overnight; open the grave, get Eve to take a few samples, and leave it at that. All very dignified and low key."

"No," Spencer says, hard and obstinate. "I can't justify it."

Boyd keeps his tone as quiet and level as he can. "It's not a request, Spence."

"With all due respect, sir, this is my investigation."

"I'm well aware of that." Boyd shakes his head, battling his impatience. Decides to try another approach. Steepling his fingers, he hesitates before asking, "How long have we known each other now?"

A stray muscle in Spencer's cheek twitches, betraying rising stress. He grinds out, "Is this where you give me the 'if it wasn't for me you'd still be stuck somewhere in the arse end of South London investigating vehicle crime' speech?"

"All this time," Boyd says, "and you still haven't quite managed to get rid of that chip on your shoulder, have you, Spence? Making DS wasn't enough to make you believe that people respected you, so you set your sights on DI… but even then nothing really changed, did it? You're still every bit as angry and defensive today as you were when MacFarlane kicked you out of his bloody team all those years ago."

"Sir." It's surly, and not an acknowledgement of the truth, not really.

"Don't 'sir' me," Boyd barks at him, the very last threads of his patience starting to fray, "and don't even think of accusing me of trying to manipulate you into doing me some kind of a favour. I'm not asking you to arrange for an exhumation, I'm telling you to, as your superior officer and as head of this unit."

"And if I refuse?" Spencer demands, getting to his feet.

"To obey a lawful order?" Boyd asks. "You already know the answer to that, Detective Inspector."

There's a short, strained silence. It's broken by a harsh, "Will you be informing the DAC of your decision to insist on an exhumation, sir?"

"For fuck's sake, Spence…" Boyd draws another long, deep breath. Tries to control his rapidly rising temper. "Just do it, man. If you're running the investigation properly, there should be enough decent paper trails to cover your arse against any eventuality, up to and including questions from the bloody Commissioner himself."

"Or the IPCC?"

Right on cue, Grace appears in the office doorway. "What on earth's going on? We can hear the two of you on the other side of the squad room."

"Ask him," Boyd growls, standing up. "I'm going out for a couple of hours."

-oOo-

Despite his advanced age, Solomon Moscovici's large hazel eyes are still bright and intense, and there's no hint of frailty in the gently-accented voice that says, "Turnu Măgurele?"

Seated on a wooden chair that is a little more comfortable than it looks, and ignoring the continual background sound of chatter outside in the corridor beyond the old man's room, Boyd nods. "Yes. Close to the Danube."

"I know where it is, boy," is the immediate and tetchy reply. "Not many gypsies there. Not anymore. Not many Jews, either, come to that."

"C'mon, Solly," Boyd says, gazing at the wizened old man resting comfortably by the single large window with its enviable view of the private care home's big, well-tended rear garden. "You're the only person I know who might be able to answer some of my questions. Have a heart, eh?"

The elderly man grunts. "How's your father? Crafty old zhulik still owes me money."

Boyd doesn't mistake craftiness for confusion. "Still as dead as the proverbial. Well?"

Soloman chuckles, a rasping, wheezing sound that seems to rattle through the small room. "And your beautiful mother?"

"Considering taking a round-the-world cruise with her latest well-heeled gentleman friend."

"How delightful."

"She's eighty-four, Solly," Boyd says, not sure if it's a complaint or not. "I live in mortal terror of going round there to tidy the damned garden and finding them in a highly compromising position – both as dead as bloody doornails."

Again, the graveyard chuckle, louder and more enthusiastic this time. "The righteous indignation of the young."

"Hardly," Boyd says with a grimace. He can't remember the last time he thought of himself as young. At least two decades ago, probably. He returns to the point of his visit. "Would there be any records left from that time, do you think?"

Soloman's thin shoulders hunch in a shrug. "With gypsy families, who knows? If the family were deported to Transnistria after 'forty-two, they should be on the official lists. Now you tell me something, Little Peter – why does a London policeman want to know of such things, hm?"

Age hasn't dulled his father's old friend's mental acuity, Boyd reflects. He chooses his words with care. "My unit is looking into the unexplained death of a man whose alleged father came to England with his father just before the war."

"Roma?"

He nods. "So we believe."

"And that matters?" Soloman asks, his gaze sharp and considering.

Boyd understands. Born a Romanian Jew in the 'thirties, the old man understands too well the insidious nature of persecution; how it starts, and where it can lead. He says, "Everything matters until proven otherwise, Solly."

A slight smile. "There speaks the son of a lawyer."

"Solicitor," he corrects. "The old man was very particular."

Soloman nods. "Yes he was. And I – and my family – have never forgotten his many kindnesses. Escaping the Nazis was not the last challenge we had to face."

Boyd nods again. Soloman's been part of his life for as long as he can remember, and there's never been a time when he didn't know at least something about the terrible tragedies the old man has faced. "I know."

Eyes nowhere near as dark as his own study him with thoughtful curiosity. "What aren't you telling me, boy? I've known you since you were a fierce little scrap who wasn't content to crawl when he thought he might possibly be able to walk. I know when you're hiding something."

Boyd doesn't doubt it. Since childhood, Soloman Moscovici has been a wise, steady presence on the peripheral edges of his family. The good friend who was treated as a surrogate uncle, the one who gave advice without criticism or judgement, and who was always welcome at the dinner table. There's no point in lying to him. "The father – Străjescu. We have DNA that…" He stops, starts again with, "We have evidence – "

"I know what DNA is," Soloman snaps at him. "I was a GP here in London for forty years, in case you've forgotten."

"Sorry." Boyd meets the disgruntled gaze coming his way and continues, "I think… I think that he might be my father, Solly. My biological father."

"I see."

Deflated, he grumbles, "That's all you've got to say? 'I see'?"

"What should I say?" the old man asks, gesturing at nothing. "You're a grown man, Petrică; you know your own mind. If you want to search for such things, I should tell you otherwise?"

A continuing nagging edge of guilt makes Boyd say, "I've never been interested in searching. Neither has Jamie. But this… it just fell into my lap."

"There were Roma families in and around Turnu Măgurele," Soloman announces after a moment of considered silence. "Settled and nomadic. Some drifted away across the river from time to time, even before the war. From Bulgaria onto Greece, maybe, and from there with the right papers, who knows? The streets of London are paved with gold."

"If only that were true, eh?"

Soloman is watching him with expressionless calm. "Sângele apã nu se face."

A bright, inquisitive boy with a good ear for such things, Boyd picked up enough small scraps of Soloman's native language in his childhood to get the gist of far more that was said than the adults around him probably realised, but he can't accurately translate the unfamiliar phrase. "What?"

"'Blood's thicker than water'," the old man supplies. "That's what they say, isn't it? But then so's a fine Single Malt, in my opinion."

"Meaning?" Boyd inquires.

"Your father loved you, and he was incredibly proud of you, but I don't think he ever really understood you. Your temper, your stubbornness, your independent streak. James was always calmer, much more tractable… far easier to understand." A heavy, troubled sigh. "That's why you've always secretly felt like an outsider, Little Peter. Not because you were adopted, or because your parents didn't pamper you the way they did your brother. Because you were different. Strong-willed, wild."

He recognises that there's at least some truth in Soloman's unexpected words. Trying not to sound sullen, he says, "I always tried to be what he wanted, Solly, you know that."

"You can force a round peg into a square hole, but it will never fit properly. Best leave it to be what it is. Your father knew that."

"Maybe," Boyd admits, thinking of the number of times his rebellious antics as a teenager drew little more than a gentle, sorrowful shake of the head from the man in question. Punishments were fair and proportional, and never given without careful explanation, he remembers. Censure, when it came, was always firm and patient, never cruel or belittling. It's a painful, humbling thought, but perhaps if he'd been more like Douglas in his dealings with his own son…

"You think you might have found an answer to the question you've been asking yourself your entire life, don't you?" Soloman guesses, his voice quiet and gentle. "'Why am I different?'"

"I…" Boyd closes his mouth again, not able to mount a coherent defence.

"Petrică," Soloman says gently, "Little Peter, you are what you are. Your parents loved you. It's enough. Your life is your own – it makes no difference whether your grandparents came from Edinburgh or Bucharest."

It's the kindest, wisest, and most soothing thing Boyd has heard since he first learned about his genetic connection to Michael Allen. He nods. "Thank you."

The old man grunts. "You want I should tell you otherwise?"

"No." Boyd stands up and glances around the comfortable little room one last time before saying, "Try not to die any time soon, Solly. There's someone I want you to meet before you do."

Soloman sits up a little straighter. "A woman?"

"A woman," Boyd agrees, hiding his amusement at the sudden hint of excitement. "Grace."

"Mazel tov. Well, don't leave it too long, boy, or you'll be bringing her to my funeral."

-oOo-

Grace. Standing right in front of him, her blue eyes sparking with barely contained fury as she bites out, "If you can't see that this time you've gone way too far, Boyd…"

He's glad the door to her refurbished office is closed, and even more glad that the squad room beyond is empty. On the defensive and not liking it, he growls, "It's a perfectly legitimate decision."

"Rubbish," she snaps. "Nothing we've discovered up to this point indicates that Michael's parentage has anything to do with how or why he died. This proposed exhumation," the disgusted way she stresses the word not lost on him, "is nothing to do with the investigation and everything to do with you."

He bridles at her tone. "I disagree. Two murdered men, apparently related? How is formally establishing the nature of that relationship beyond the scope of the investigation?"

"That would be a much more compelling argument if you didn't have such a strong vested interest in the results," Grace says, shaking her head. "For God's sake, Boyd… Opening up the man's grave just to satisfy your curiosity? Why can't you see how wrong that is?"

Stung, he retorts, "Why can't you see that confirming that Străjescu was the father of both Allen and Chapman could open up dozens of new possible leads?"

"But that's not why you're doing it, is it?" she counters. "You're doing it because you want to know if he was your father, too."

"Grace – "

"You're becoming unhealthily obsessed with him," she interrupts before he can attempt to defend himself. "Can't you see that? So what happens if you go ahead with this… travesty… and you find out that yes, you're his son, too? What actually changes? What do you do next, Boyd? Go charging off to Bucharest looking for an extended family that has no clue who you are, or even that you exist?"

"Don't be bloody ridiculous," he snarls over his shoulder as he starts to prowl the room. "Besides, even if I did, it's not likely to get me very far, is it? Do you know what happened to Romania's gypsy population during the war?"

"I can guess," she replies, quieter now. "But what concerns me right now is you, Boyd. You're not behaving rationally."

"In your opinion. Which, I may say, counts for – "

"Stop it," Grace all-but shouts at him. "Turning on me won't help."

Boyd is about to roar back at her when something, a painful flash of memory, perhaps, stops him. She's right. Everyday differences of opinion are one thing, but the kind of brutal, bitter arguments that have wounded them both so badly in the past are quite another. He doesn't have the stomach for it anymore. Holding up his hands in a gesture of appeasement rather than unconditional surrender, he says, "All right, all right. I'm sorry."

It seems to help defuse the situation a little. She shakes her head at him. "I warned you, didn't I? I warned you what all this could do to you."

His temper starts to rise again. "So now you're saying 'I told you so'?"

"No," Grace contradicts. "Boyd… Peter… I'm worried about you, that's all."

Petrică, Soloman's voice says in his head, Little Peter, you are what you are…

He takes a steadying breath, fights for a measure of calm he doesn't feel. "Tell me about Carol Kemp. That's what I came in here for, not to be torn off a strip."

Grace stares at him for a second, and then sits down behind her desk. "She claims that Louise is not Străjescu's."

"'Claims'?" Boyd says, picking up on her intonation. He settles himself on one of the chairs backed against the glazed partition between the office and the squad room, not quite ready to fully relax.

"Pictures of the girl would strongly suggest otherwise."

"And Allen?" he asks. "What did she say about him?"

"That he was a complete waste of space who was a bad influence on her daughter. I'm paraphrasing."

"And…?"

Grace leans forward a fraction, elbows on her desk. "She admits he was a semi-regular visitor for a while. According to her, after Mihail died she eventually told him to leave them both alone and let Louise get on with her studies, and they never saw him again."

"That sounds a little…"

"…far-fetched?" she suggests. "That's what Spence and I thought."

"So?"

"She's coming in tomorrow to give a formal statement."

"Shake her up a bit and see what falls out?" Boyd suggests, suddenly struck by the strong urge to yawn. He's tired, he realises. Tired, hungry, and more than ready to turn his back on work for the day.

"If you like."

"And Străjescu?" he inquires, wary of returning to the subject, but needing to know. "What did she have to say about him?"

Sorting papers, Grace doesn't look up at him. "They met at work – some cheap wholesale place Deptford way. She didn't skate around the fact that he was nearly thirty years her senior. I got the strong impression that it was something of an alliance of convenience. She was on her own and struggling to make ends meet, and he was in the course of splitting up with Chapman's mother. They moved in together in 'seventy seven, the same year Louise was born."

"But…?" he asks, detecting something telling in her tone.

"She claims she was already pregnant when they met."

"But you don't believe her?" Boyd guesses.

Her head lifts, and she meets his gaze with steady calm. "Not for a moment. However, she maintains that Mihail never asked any questions, so she simply put him down on the birth certificate as the father."

"Plausible, I suppose, but…"

"Yes?" Grace prompts.

Boyd shrugs. "Why make such a point of bringing it to our attention?"

"Good question."

-oOo-

Boyd is startled awake by sudden sharp, unexpected movement and a low whimpering noise that slowly subsides as he battles against the darkness and disorientation. Grace, he realises, the fog clouding his mind clearing. Grace, and Grace's house. She whimpers again, and he knows without having to check that she is asleep and dreaming. Bad dreams. Nightmares, even. She always claims not to properly recall their content when she wakes clammy and frightened, but he's not so sure. Something about the haunted expression that lingers for far longer than a moment or two tells him otherwise. He doesn't push her on the subject, and he won't this time as he moves carefully to draw her against him. Sometimes the contact seems to be enough and she settles without waking, leaving him holding her as he wonders what subconscious fears surface when she's asleep and vulnerable.

This time, it is not enough. She trembles against him, lets out a low moan, and he deliberately tightens his grip enough to cause her to stir. He feels her tense, her body going momentarily rigid, then marginally relax as she mumbles, "Boyd…?"

Always Boyd, never Peter in such moments. As if her confused mind fixes on what it knows best. He kisses her temple, a gentle reassurance, and murmurs back, "I'm here."

More of the tension in her dissipates, but she's still not herself as she shivers and presses close against him. The action does nothing to soothe all Boyd's fierce, protective instincts, and he completely forgets the very last of his lingering irritation with her. Shifting position, he nestles them both into a more comfortable position under the covers, and waits for her to speak. She will, he knows, when she's ready.

She does. "Sorry. For waking you up."

"Doesn't matter. You okay?"

"Yeah… bad dream, that's all."

Linda, Boyd guesses. Linda Cummings and that petrifying abduction from the one place Grace should have been able to feel safe. It still gives him the occasional nightmare, and he wasn't the one gagged, bound, and terrorised. The more tired and unsettled Grace is, the more likely it seems to be that she will have nightmares. Tonight, the fact only adds to Boyd's growing feeling of guilt. She's made it clear how worried she is about him, and he's done precious little to ease her fears. Not knowing what else to say or do, he murmurs, "Relax. Go back to sleep. You're safe."

"What time is it?" she whispers against his shoulder.

"No idea," he admits. He lifts his head to squint at the small illuminated figures on the clock on her side of the bed. It annoys him that they appear a little blurry. "Nearly four, I think."

A quiet but heartfelt groan is the only answer. He sympathises. Another couple of hours and he will be getting up to drive home in search of a shave, a shower, and a change of clothes. It's a game for the young, he decides, dashing between houses at all hours instead of deciding to have done with it all and simply moving in together. One day. Maybe.

"Do you think Carol killed Michael?"

The unexpected question catches him by complete surprise. Frowning in the dark, he says, "I don't know… I've not met her, have I? You think it might be a possibility?"

"I'm not sure."

"Something made you ask the question," he points out, suddenly very awake. "Instinct?"

"Maybe," Grace acknowledges. She puts a hand on his chest, fingers moving slowly and gently against his bare skin. "She seems to be a very… normal… woman. Superficially, at least. No brushes with the law, no documented history of mental health problems. Doesn't immediately come across as odd in any way, shape, or form, but…"

"'But'?"

"I don't know," she admits, sighing. "You should talk to Spence."

"I was intending to," Boyd says. A mild itch on his thigh distracts him for a moment, and then he sighs, too. "Grace?"

"Yes?"

He kisses her shoulder. "Why are we talking about this at four in the damned morning?"

"Sorry." She eases away from him, just a fraction, explaining, "Too hot."

He snorts. "Says the woman who's always complaining about being freezing bloody cold. Poisoning?"

"What?"

"Carol Kemp," he says, rolling onto his back and putting his hands behind his head. "Michael's body was skeletonised by the time it was found. Eve said she couldn't find anything at all to indicate cause of death, remember?"

"True. Care to postulate a motive, Detective Superintendent?"

"Something to do with the daughter?" he guesses.

"Mm. Possible, I suppose." A short pause. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Why are we talking about this at four in the morning?"

-oOo-

"Didn't buy it," Spencer says, removing a photograph from the folder he's holding and dropping it onto Boyd's desk. "Louise Kemp, three years ago. Picture's from her driving licence, so it's not the best, but…"

Looking at the enlarged photograph, Boyd swallows his mouthful of coffee faster than he intended. By sheer effort of will he avoids spluttering as he says, "Fuck."

Again, the family resemblance is striking. The eyes that stare up at him are dark and penetrating, and they give nothing away. Same eyes, same cheekbones. Softer on Louise than on any of her potential half-brothers, but instantly recognisable nonetheless. Spencer says, "See what I mean?"

Shocked, he blurts out, "Christ, she could be my bloody daughter."

"That's exactly what Grace said."

Boyd pushes the photograph away. "So what does Carol have to gain by lying? It doesn't make sense."

"I'll tell you what makes even less sense," Spencer says. "She brought the subject up, not us. We were talking about Allen and the last time she saw him, and out of nowhere she suddenly starts talking about how Louise's father was some drunken one night stand, not Străjescu."

Boyd grimaces. "Well, that's not suspicious at all, is it?"

"She's a bit… twinset and pearls," Spencer ventures. "Reads the Daily Mail, and spends her free time arranging fundraisers for suitably middle class charities."

"And this is the same woman who happily shacked up with a man well over twice her age back in the 'seventies...?"

Spencer nods. "Yeah."

A quiet knock on the door makes Boyd look round. Kat, hovering on the other side of the glass. He waves her into his office, and she steps in with, "Sir? Thought you should know – Canning Town CID have just charged a nineteen-year-old homeless guy with Gavin Chapman's murder."

-oOo-

cont...