PART THREE

It's almost two o'clock in the morning, but Grace can't sleep. She lies alone staring up into the dark, her thoughts never straying far from what's happening less than ten miles away at the City of London Cemetery. By now, she imagines, the screens will be up, the generator will be running and the powerful floodlights will be on. Perhaps the cemetery workers will have already broken ground with their mini-digger. Probably, Boyd, Spencer and Eve will be taking shelter where they can from the steady drizzle that set in mid-evening and has yet to stop. Further away from Străjescu's grave, Kat will be working with the handful of uniformed officers ensuring that no member of the public, a late-night dog-walker, maybe, or a tired but curious shift worker, strays too close to the unfolding grisly scene.

Only once in her entire forensic career has Grace attended an official exhumation. And once, she has always maintained, was quite enough. Recovering human remains from crime scenes and disposal sites is one thing, removing them from the consecrated ground of their final – or not so final – resting places is another. Boyd didn't ask her to attend, and she didn't volunteer. She's worried, of course, about just how traumatic the night's work might prove to be for him, but the whole matter has become such a dangerous and volatile subject that staying away seemed the best solution. For both of them. However bad it is, Boyd won't crack, not in front of the people he commands, and that grim obstinacy will get him through the night. She's sure of it.

If she's wrong, though…

She's not wrong. She knows she's not. If he didn't break down in front of any of them when Luke died, he's not going to do it for a man he may or may not be related to; one he never knew.

He's Străjescu's son. There's really no doubt about it. The photographic proof is compelling, and the results of Eve's tests will only confirm what all of them have come to accept.

She wonders what it will do to his relationship with James. With Audrey.

With her.

There's no reason for such a thing to change anything between them, Grace tells herself sternly, fidgeting herself into a more comfortable position. The bed feels big and cold and empty without him. Ludicrous, really, since they don't manage to spend every night together anyway, but tonight she feels his absence keenly. It's strange just how fast she managed to get used to their idiosyncratic status quo, after years of living – very happily – alone. Even stranger how well they fit into each other's lives, given how different they are in so many ways.

If he's Străjescu's son, then Carol's daughter Louise is his sister. Half-sister. His biological kin, anyway. And if Grace knows him at all, which she does, that will mean something to him. He'll want to get to know her, want to include her in his life. Exactly the way Michael Allen wanted to. Before he so suddenly disappeared…

-oOo-

"It was pretty unpleasant," Eve admits, "I won't lie. Middle of the night; rain, mud, and a cheap coffin that had been underground for over a decade. You get the picture."

"Just hearing it described as 'unpleasant' by you, of all people, tells me everything I need to know," Grace replies, pulling a face. They are sitting on the far side of the lab well away from the main door, drinking mid-morning coffee together. It's unusually quiet, their colleagues all being congregated in the squad room for some mandatory training briefing, and it affords them the rare chance to talk undisturbed. Putting down her mug for a moment, Grace asks, "How was Boyd?"

"Pretty subdued, actually," Eve tells her. "I wouldn't say he looked like he was having second thoughts, exactly, but… Well, it's over and done now."

She nods, asks, "How long until you get the results?"

"Give me a chance, Grace."

"Sorry… But…?"

Eve heaves a pointed sigh. "It's a straightforward paternity test – Y DNA STR – so sometime tomorrow, I imagine."

"Boyd, Chapman, and Allen?"

"Yes."

"And Carol's daughter, Louise…?"

"If we had a sample, I could do an autosomal DNA test, I suppose. Don't go giving him ideas, Grace, please."

Grace shakes her head. "I don't intend to. The quicker we can wrap all of this up and move on to something else, the better. For everyone."

Eve sips her coffee for a moment, then asks, "And if Străjescu was his father…? I mean, even if we do find out exactly what happened to Michael and close the case, if that's what the results show tomorrow, none of it's ever really going to go away, is it? Not for Boyd."

Picking up her own mug again, Grace nods. "I know. Believe me, I know."

Eve's gaze is steady and incisive, but there's sympathy in her tone as she says, "Problems on the home front? It's nothing to do with me, of course, but if you need someone to talk to…"

Grace swallows a mouthful of tepid coffee, considering her reply. Not only is Eve a good friend, kind and dependable, but she does, after all, know considerably more than the rest of the team about the true nature of Grace's relationship with Boyd. Has quite literally seen the evidence with her own eyes. At length, she says, "Strange as it may seem, usually we rub along perfectly well together. Outside of work, I mean. At home he's less…."

"Shouty?" An undisguised glint of amusement is clear in Eve's dark eyes.

"I was going to say focused," Grace corrects her, amused herself, "but all right, I'll let you have 'shouty'. You might not be able to picture it, but he's normally pretty good at keeping his personal life completely separate from his working life."

"But not this time?" Eve guesses.

"Maybe because this time the two have collided head-on outside of his control." Grace sighs, thinks for a moment and then continues, "I really shouldn't be saying any of this, Eve, but the thing you need to understand about Boyd is that he's not as oblivious to his faults as most people think. He questions himself all the time, and he feels terribly guilty about so many of the things that have happened in his life."

"Don't we all?" Eve murmurs.

"Of course," Grace agrees, continuing, "but with Boyd… it's deeper, somehow. More profound. As if he's always looking for reasons for why he's not as good a man as he thinks he should be."

The other woman seems to understand. "Ah ha. And since he has no valid reason to blame his shortcomings on his upbringing or his adoptive parents…"

Grace nods. "It's a bit more complicated than that, but essentially… yes, I think so. Hence the ever-increasing need to know if Străjescu really was his father."

"And again, if it turns out that he was…?"

"I don't know," she admits, "and that frightens me a bit."

"In what way?" Eve asks, sounding both concerned and curious.

"I suppose I'm more than a little worried that he might embark on some kind of..." Unable to think of a suitable word, Grace stops. Resumes with, "That he might go in search of answers that just aren't there."

"Figuratively or literally?"

"Both." She grimaces. "Even James – his brother – thinks he should leave well alone."

Finishing her coffee, Eve gets up from her lab stool. "Wanting to know where we come from is human nature, Grace, you know that."

"But Boyd… doesn't ever do things by halves, does he?"

"You're worried it won't stop at knowing for sure about Străjescu?"

Grace nods. "Exactly. And if he decides to go off tilting at windmills – "

" – where does that leave you?" Eve finishes for her. "Or the rest of us, come to that."

-oOo-

There's a small urban park near the unlovely concrete building that houses their headquarters. In truth, it's not much more than a simple enclosed rectangle of mown grass edged with mature London plane trees and bisected by an asphalt path, but it's somewhere to sit and eat a lunchtime sandwich when the weather's fine; somewhere neutral away from sharp ears and prying eyes. Somewhere Grace can relax and gather her thoughts, sometimes alone, sometimes not. Today she is alone, but waiting for her prospective lunchtime companion to join her. Not, by any means, a clandestine meeting, and a very, very long way from a lovers' tryst. Still, she feels a brief surge of happiness as she spots the tall, distinguished figure just passing through the park's southern gates. It's her own private folly, the quiet joy of watching him, one that's doubly entertaining when he's in motion. His head is held high, his shoulders are back, and his long, powerful stride is measured and confident. Handsome and well-dressed, he still manages to look tough and assertive, she thinks, like a man whose youth may well be just a faded memory but whose ability to handle himself certainly isn't in question.

As he starts to close in on her, she smiles and offers, "Cheese sandwich?"

Boyd looks perplexed by the banality, but settles next to her with, "Yeah, go on, then."

Sometimes it's the ordinary, everyday moments that draw them back together, smoothing over the inevitable cracks caused by the daily friction of working together in such a high-stress environment. As they eat, Grace asks, "Have you read Carol Kemp's statement?"

Boyd is demolishing his sandwich with the kind of concentrated, ferocious dedication that tells her that he's skipped more than one meal in the last twenty-four hours. Brushing crumbs off his expensive suit trousers, he mumbles a simple, "Yeah."

Grace waits for him to swallow. "And…? What do you think?"

"Didn't like it."

"God," she says, both infuriated and amused, "it's like trying to get blood out of a stone, talking to you today."

"I'm tired," he admits. He looks it. Tired, drawn, and beleaguered.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"An hour, maybe. We didn't leave the cemetery until gone five." A pause. "Aren't you going to ask me all sorts of irritating psychologist-type questions about how I feel?"

"About the exhumation?" Grace asks. It goes against her nature to continue, "No. What would be the point?"

Boyd gives her a baffled look. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Funny," she says, wiping her fingers. "So? Carol Kemp?"

"Oh." He shakes his head. "There's definitely something she's not saying."

"Spence thinks so, too," she says, glad that for once they are all in agreement. Her mind conjures up a picture of the excessively neat flat, of the tight-lipped, glacial politeness of its owner. Nice clothes, perfect hair and make-up. Sea grey eyes that betray nothing.

"Are you going to interview the daughter?" Boyd asks, interrupting her brief reverie.

"Yes. She's due back tomorrow from a residential training course in Cardiff. We haven't told Carol it's on the cards."

Boyd nods his approval. "Smart move."

Sometimes it's almost a surprise to remember how much things between them have changed. The thought strikes her as she recalls just how often over the years they've sat in the same place discussing work-related issues. She has a notion that perhaps the steady changing of the seasons in the park has marked the gradual evolution of their relationship. Colleagues to friends, friends to lovers. She wonders what the people walking past them think. If, indeed, they even bother to spare them a glance, let alone a thought. A married couple who meet for lunch every day? Workmates who prefer each other's company to eating alone? It doesn't matter, she decides.

"It's weird," she says at length, watching a pair of scraggy pigeons fighting over scraps on the path, "we've been over and over everything we've got, and – Carol aside – there's not a decent potential suspect in sight. Everyone who knew Michael seemed to like him. He seems to have free-wheeled through life just about getting by without ever running up any major debts or making any real enemies."

Boyd glances at her. "Myself, I'd call that deeply suspicious."

Grace can't help chuckling. "That's because you're deeply cynical about the entire human race, Boyd. It is possible for someone to be completely inoffensive, you know."

Screwing up his sandwich wrapper, he says, "Completely inoffensive people rarely end up buried in shallow graves deep in the woods, Grace."

"Well, that's not strictly true, is it?"

He shrugs. "All right, completely inoffensive men rarely end up buried in shallow graves deep in the woods."

"Point taken." She hands him a bottle of water, opens her own. "He's doing a good job, you know. Spencer."

"I know. I wouldn't have let him have it if I hadn't thought he could handle it." Turning his head to look at her, he says, "I was going to suggest we went out for dinner tonight, but I'm just about done in."

"Can't take the pace anymore?" she teases.

Boyd doesn't rise to the bait. "Something like that."

Grace knows an olive branch when she sees one, however, and duly suggests, "How about we get a takeaway instead – on the way home to your place?"

The reply is a cautious, "My place?"

"You can sleep in for a bit longer in the morning," she points out, "and if I'm a tad late for work, I'm sure you'll somehow manage to overlook it."

Boyd tries, and fails, to look disapproving. "That would be blatant favouritism, Grace."

She grins at him. "It would, wouldn't it?"

-oOo-

"Go and answer the door," Grace orders. To reinforce her point, she gives his shoulder a pointless shove that only makes him growl in displeasure. She empathises; it's getting late, they've both had a few glasses of wine, and the big, comfortable sofa was just becoming a very exciting and interesting place to be. Shaking her head at him, she repeats, "Go and answer the door."

"Stop doing that," Boyd grumbles as she pushes him again. "Christ, who the fuck goes round hammering on people's front doors at this time of night?"

"You'll find out in a moment, won't you?"

He growls again and levers himself upright. Mysteriously, several of his shirt buttons appear to have become unfastened. Grace smirks to herself and doesn't enlighten him. Still complaining, he pads away barefoot towards the hall, the determined set of his shoulders making it quite clear how unimpressed he is by the unwanted disturbance. She hopes whoever's outside on the doorstep has a very good reason for being there. If not, they're highly likely to find themselves bouncing all the way back down the steep stone steps that lead up to his front door.

Casually refilling her glass and then his, she listens to the sound of the door opening and waits for the angry barking that's sure to follow. To her surprise, it doesn't. She can hear Boyd's voice – a low rumble – but not what he's saying. His is immediately followed by a much lighter voice – unquestionably female. Frowning, Grace makes a little more effort to hear what's being said, but the acoustics aren't good and she really can't decipher the words. Any moment, she thinks, he will slam the door and march back into the room grumbling. He doesn't. She hears the front door close again, but the voices continue. Whoever the visitor is, it seems she's been invited in.

For a moment, Grace feels an unworthy twinge of something territorial before swiftly castigating herself for it. This isn't her house and she has no right at all to question who Boyd chooses to admit. The thought of an unknown female encroaching on their intimate evening makes her hackles rise, however, and attempting to tell herself she's being stupid doesn't help at all. He's an attractive and charismatic man, no question, and he's never had to do very much to invite female attention. It used to amuse her. Not anymore. The conversation in the hall is continuing and she's tempted to get up and investigate. Boyd won't thank her for interfering, she knows that, so she remains where she is, grimly suppressing the urge to satisfy her curiosity.

The decibel level in the hall is rising. She's not terribly surprised, but it does enable her to finally hear snatches of the exchange. Boyd's voice is all too clear as he raps out, "Calm down."

The reply is a loud, clear and very accusatory, "Don't tell me to calm down! This is all your fault!"

It's the spur Grace needs to ignore her common sense. She's on her feet, straightening her clothes and heading towards the hall door almost before she has a chance to think about it. Reaching it, she gets her first glimpse of Boyd's visitor. Tall, slim, and attractive. Late forties or very early fifties, and more than a little unconventional in her mode of dress. She looks vaguely familiar, but Grace is quite certain they've never met. Quietly, she says, "Boyd…?"

Two pairs of eyes settle on her, neither in a particularly friendly manner. The woman speaks first, demanding, "Who's she?"

Grace bristles, but manages to deploy a calm, cool smile. She's about to introduce herself, but Boyd beats her to it with, "My partner, Grace Foley. It's okay – she works for the CCU. In fact, she's working with DI Jordan on the investigation into Michael's death."

"Oh," the woman says. Her eyes, Grace notices, are a light and piercing grey. Sharp, restless eyes that flicker around the long hallway, noting details.

Boyd says, "Grace, this is Anna Dawson. Michael's…"

"…partner," the woman finishes for him, putting an ironic stress on the word.

That's why she looks familiar, Grace realises. Older than in any of the few pictures she's seen, but yes, unquestionably the same woman. She extends her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Anna ignores her, turns on Boyd again. "Well? What are you going to do?"

"There's nothing I can do," he says, "she's a grown woman, Anna. She's not a vulnerable adult, there's no reason to fear for her safety, and she's only been gone for twenty-four hours."

"What's happened?" Grace inquires, more to try to defuse the situation than anything else.

"My daughter, Summer," Anna snaps, a discernible wobble in her voice. "Mike's daughter. She went out last night, and I haven't seen her since…"

And then she bursts into tears.

-oOo-

"She's nearly thirty, Grace," Boyd mutters to her, his back to the woman sitting forlornly at the sleek breakfast bar that juts out into the long, narrow kitchen. "What do you expect me to do? She's probably staying over at a boyfriend's place, or something."

Waiting for the kettle to boil, she counters with, "According to Anna she doesn't have a boyfriend."

A quiet snort. "Oh, and you always told your parents about everything that was going on in your life, did you?"

"Well, no, but…"

"But nothing," he says. "You think I don't feel for the poor bloody woman, Grace? Me, of all people?"

Luke, Grace thinks. So much is always about Luke, in the end. Trying a different approach, she says, "She's your niece, Boyd. You may not yet have conclusive proof that Străjescu was your father – but you've seen the DNA results Eve does have and Michael was definitely your brother."

"Half-brother." She hears him inhale, slow and deep, then exhale just as carefully. "Look, Grace, if I thought I could justify doing something to help, then I would. You know that. But the sad truth is that adults go missing every day in this country, and a good number of them either turn up alive and well after a few days with no idea what all the fuss has been about, or are eventually found living somewhere else with their own good reasons for why they did a sudden disappearing act. It's a question of prioritising police resources. If she doesn't show up in a few days…"

"What about," Grace says, an idea forming in her mind, "if she was a person of interest in an active investigation?"

"'A person of interest'? When did we cross the Atlantic?"

"Semantics, Boyd," she growls, annoyed by his pickiness. "You know what I mean. If she was someone we wanted to interview regarding what happened to her father, then…"

Boyd folds his arms across his broad chest. "You know that thin ice you keep warning me about, Grace? Well, it's getting thinner by the bloody second."

"It would be a valid reason to look for her," Grace insists, getting a mug out of the cupboard above the kettle. She busies herself making tea for Anna, avoiding his intent, if impassive gaze.

He shakes his head. "Out of my hands, Grace. You can run it past Spence, see what he says, but I doubt he'll tell you anything different."

Stirring vigorously, she says, "This isn't like you. Not at all. What happened to act first and worry about the consequences later?"

Boyd's heavy, irritable sigh is audible. "This really isn't the time for any of us to be stepping out of line, Grace; trust me. We're on a bloody knife edge as it is. Now that the Smith woman's been promoted, you can bet the Commissioner will be constantly drip-fed snide comments about how costly the CCU is to maintain, how dangerous allowing us so much autonomy is, and heaven knows what else."

"What is it with you and Maureen?" Grace demands, then holds up a firm hand. "No, actually, I really don't want to know. Forget about the rulebook for a moment – what does instinct tell you to do?"

"You have to ask?" Boyd questions, the look he gives her more than pointed. Then he's suddenly in motion, pacing towards Anna, his voice taking on smooth, professional neutrality as he asks, "Anna, what exactly did Summer say to you, just before she left?"

"I told you," Anna retorts. "That she thought getting my hopes up about finding out what really happened to Mike was a really bad idea. That the past was better left alone. It wasn't an argument; we didn't fight."

"Why is Summer still living with you? You said she's got qualifications, a decent job…"

"…so why the hell is she living in a hippie squat?" Anna challenges.

"Here," Grace says, joining them and handing over a steaming mug of heavily sweetened tea. "I think what he actually means is why is she still living at home at her age?"

The striking pale grey eyes settle on her. "She moved back in with us about eighteen months ago. Before that, she was living with her long-term boyfriend, Paul. When they split… well, it was his flat. And no, I checked – he hasn't seen her for months."

"What about her other friends?" Boyd inquires, leaning on the breakfast bar.

"Do you really think," Anna demands, "that I would've gone to all the effort of finding out where you lived – which was no mean bloody feat – and then trekked halfway across the damn city to talk to you face-to-face if I hadn't tried everything else first? No-one's seen her, Peter. She's just… vanished."

-oOo-

"Will you please just relax," Grace almost pleads. They've been in bed for almost half-an-hour, but Boyd, who earlier looked on the verge of passing out from sheer exhaustion, has done nothing but talk and fidget since lying down. It's a pattern she recognises, a natural adrenaline-fueled hyperactivity that takes over when he should be too tired to function, but needs to stay focused on whatever task is at hand. "There's nothing more you can do tonight, so – "

"What if something has happened to her?" he interrupts. "What if – "

"Stop," she commands. "Peter, stop. Take a deep breath. Relax. Look at me. Look at me."

He does, his dark eyes reflecting the light from the bedside lamp. "Grace…"

"This not your fault," she tells him, grasping one of his hands in both of hers and squeezing. "None of this is your fault. Don't do this to yourself."

His expression is fixed, bleak. "When it was my child who didn't come home, I moved heaven and earth to try and find him. How can I – "

"Luke was young; troubled. Summer is a grown woman. Educated, employed… No, we can't completely discount the possibility that something may have happened to her, but you said it yourself – the chances are she'll turn up in a day or two and wonder what on earth all the fuss was about." Boyd opens his mouth to speak but Grace presses on with, "You and Anna – you both know what it's like to go through the trauma of a loved one disappearing. You both know what it's like to spend years wondering if they're alive or dead. Harsh as it may sound, it's what you've both been through before that's making you react like this."

He scowls in response. "Jesus Christ, Grace, now is not the time to be giving me the bloody psychologist's view."

"I'm not," she says, snagging his arm as he tries to roll away from her. "I'm simply trying to tell you why – "

"Well, don't," Boyd interrupts, shaking off her grasp. His body flexes as he swings his legs out of bed and sits up. "I'm going to call Spence."

Grace snatches hold of his wrist, locking her grip as tightly and stubbornly as she can. She's nowhere near strong enough to prevent him from getting up, but she hopes she can at least discourage him. "No, Boyd. No."

He rounds on her then, his temper flaring, and she attempts to weather the storm as best she can, trying to muster stoicism in the face of his angry frustration, his combined guilt, confusion and despair. She knows it's not her he's lashing out at, not really; knows that the strongest emotion driving him is not anger but grief, and that makes his sudden loss of control just that little bit more heart-breaking to watch. As the storm finally begins to ebb, she puts her arms around him, presses herself against him, tries to ground him, to bring him back to the quiet reality of the here and now. As he runs out of words, it seems to have some effect, the wire tension in his body turning to slowly decreasing shudders as he lowers his head to rest it on her shoulder.

"It's all right," she whispers, close to his ear. "I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

It's a tenuous reassurance at best, Grace knows, but what else can she say?

Boyd lifts his head, and they stare at each other for a moment. It's not clear who moves to kiss whom first, and it doesn't matter anyway. It's a desperate thing, on both sides. An urgent search for something, anything, that will soothe them, bind them together in the moment. Rough, impatient kisses that deepen, hearts that beat faster, shared body heat that quickly intensifies; all of it rapidly claiming them as they try their best to forget everything except each other and the bed covers that tangle around them as the urgent mutual desire rises and nature takes its course.

-oOo-

When Grace walks into the squad room the next morning, just a few minutes later than she would normally arrive, she finds the place – and the team – in uproar. There's a lot of movement and shouting, not all from Boyd, and as she stares at the chaotic scene it is Kat who sidles up to her and mutters, "Anna Dawson's daughter, Summer…"

A feeling of cold dread blooms in her stomach. "Oh, no… she's not…?"

Kat looks confused, shakes her head. "What? No. No, she walked into Stratford nick at seven o'clock this morning claiming to know who killed her father."

Astounded, Grace manages, "What?"

"It gets better," Kat informs her, "she's pointing the finger at – "

"Grace," a deep, impatient male voice thunders, interrupting the revelation. "What the hell sort of time do you call this?"

"About ten past nine," she retorts, not in any mood to be lectured. "Why what time do you call it?"

Boyd's answering glare is a long, long way from friendly. "Fucking hilarious. I'm surrounded by fucking comedians. In-my-fucking-office-right-now."

"I'm sure you could've squeezed a couple more 'fuckings' in there if you'd tried a bit harder, Boyd," she snipes, earning herself another dark look. One she ignores. She looks towards Spencer, "What's going on?"

"Best talk to him, Grace," Spencer tells her, nodding in the direction of the tall figure just disappearing into the nearest of the two semi-glazed offices.

Shaking her head at the situation, she stalks after Boyd, more than ready to teach him a lesson or two in manners if he doesn't immediately explain himself. It's not a matter of preferential treatment, it's one of common courtesy. Being ordered to close the door after her doesn't help, and she scowls at him as she snaps, "Well?"

"Summer Allen."

"Kat was just trying to tell me when you started shouting your head off. Honestly, Boyd, it's – "

"She says Carol Kemp killed Michael," he says, cutting across her as he settles behind his desk. "Claims to have seen her at Loughton tube station the day he disappeared."

The information changes her focus. "Loughton…? That's close to the end of the Central Line, isn't it?"

Boyd nods. "Correct. Loughton, Debden, Theydon Bois… and Epping."

"Michael's body was found between Loughton Brook and Earl's Path," Grace reflects, her annoyance forgotten. "We were concentrating on the car park opposite the pond…"

"Perfectly reasonable, given the relative proximity to Michael's remains."

"What was Summer doing at Loughton tube?" she asks. "She was only just sixteen when her father disappeared, and supposedly still at school in Newham."

"Kids will be kids, Grace," Boyd says with a shrug. "Wouldn't be the first teenager to skive off lessons because she was bored, would she?"

Changing the subject before it can lead them into dangerous territory, she asks, "So where is she now?"

Reaching for a folder on his desk, Boyd says, "On her way here, courtesy of one Detective Sergeant Emma Wright, who had the gumption to call Spence as soon as she found out the Allen case was an active investigation again."

"Well, hurrah for Detective Sergeant Emma Wright, then." Grace watches as he starts to leaf through printed pages, unease starting to nag at her. "Please tell me you're not intending to do something stupid?"

He looks up, peering over the top of his reading glasses at her. "Such as?"

"Interviewing Summer yourself?"

"Credit me with some bloody intelligence," Boyd growls. He closes the folder and skims it across the desk towards her. "You're going to do it."

-oOo-

"I used to bunk off school and go busking with my dad," Summer tells them, her voice quiet and calm. "Not every day, but now and again. He used to get on the Central Line with his flute and move between stations. When I was old enough, I used to grab a guitar and go with him. Weekends and holidays, at first. It was our big secret."

"Your mother didn't know?" Grace inquires, studying the young woman sitting on the other side of the interview room's solid table. She certainly has a look of her father, Michael Allen, about her, but if asked, Grace would certainly say she much more closely resembles her mother. Except, of course, for those eerily familiar dark eyes.

"No," Summer says with a firm shake of her head. "She would've put a stop to it straightaway if she'd ever found out. She didn't like dad doing it, let alone me. Said there were better ways to make money than begging. Dad didn't see it like that, though. He said that he just enjoyed playing, and if people wanted to show their appreciation with a few coins, well, that was cool."

"I see."

"My dad," Summer continues, a hint of real affection appearing in her voice, "absolutely hated confrontation. With anyone. He was the quiet, creative type. Thoughtful. A bit of a dreamer who never had any great ambitions. He was at Art School when he met my mum, but then they met a group of people living in a squat in Newham and he dropped out to go and live with them."

"So, the day he disappeared," Spencer says, getting back to the point, "you skipped school and… did what?"

Summer gazes sedately at them both. "I met him at Stratford tube station at about ten. We tried our luck at Leytonstone and Snaresbrook, then at Woodford. It was a slow day."

"Surely it would have been better to go west?" Grace says. "Tottenham Court Road, Oxford Circus? Somewhere with more tourists?"

A simple shrug. "Dad wanted to go to Epping Forest."

"Why?" Spencer asks.

"Same reason as always. Amanita muscaria," she says. "Fly agaric. It was mid-September. He wanted to look for mushrooms."

"Magic mushrooms," Spencer guesses.

Summer's bland, calm expression doesn't change. "If you like."

"You didn't go with him?" Grace asks.

"No." Summer shakes her head. "It was the afternoon by then, and I wanted to go shopping with some friends when they finished school for the day. We said goodbye at Loughton and I got on the next tube train heading back to Stratford. That's when I saw Carol. When I was changing platforms."

"Miss Allen," Spencer says, "you do realise the seriousness of the allegation you've made against Miss Kemp?"

"I'm not stupid."

"No-one's suggesting that you are," Grace assures her. Studying her across the width of the interview room table, she asks, "What makes you think Carol had anything to do with what happened to your father?"

"She hated him," Summer says, sudden intensity edging her voice. "Hated all of us, come to that, but especially dad. Didn't want her precious daughter having anything to do with any of us."

Spencer asks, "Because…?"

Summer's reply is prompt and bitter. "She didn't like 'our sort'. That's what she used to say. But it was more than that. She didn't want anyone reminding Louise about what her father – my grandfather – was. She was pathological about it. Bad blood, that's what Carol used to say."

"Are you referring to your grandfather's… culture?" Grace asks, not sure how else to frame the question.

A thoughtful, steady look and, "That he was a proper gypsy, you mean? Yes. Dad was fascinated by it, but Carol… Carol used to make up ridiculous stories about how the old man was descended from some noble line of boyars. Complete rubbish. My grandfather was Roma. Kalderash. His family were blacksmiths and metalworkers, had been for generations."

"And that's why you think Carol killed your father?" Spencer asks, his tone sceptical at best. "Because she didn't want him encouraging Louise to embrace her… heritage… the way he wanted to?"

"Yes."

A crackle in Grace's left ear precedes a tinny approximation of Kat's voice saying through the earpiece, "She's lying. I've just been sent copies of the school's records for 'ninety-seven. Some of them should have been shredded long since, but luckily for us they were all still in the archive. The day Michael disappeared, Summer was on a subsidised school trip to Hastings Castle in East Sussex."

-oOo-

"What's the most obvious reason to lie?" Boyd muses, standing in front of the squad room's evidence board, his back to the rest of the team.

"Protection," Grace replies immediately. "We lie to protect ourselves, or someone else."

He doesn't look round at her. "And, if we ignore the fact that she was apparently fifty miles away on the day it happened, do we think that Summer, at just sixteen, had the means, motive and opportunity to kill her father?"

"No, absolutely not."

Spencer gets to his feet, moves to stand next to his superior officer. "So if she's not protecting herself…"

"…who is she protecting?" Boyd finishes for him.

"Her mother?" Kat offers. "Got to be."

"It was Anna who originally reported Michael missing," Grace points out.

"Smokescreen?" Kat suggests with a shrug.

"Could be, but I don't think so. Boyd?"

This time he does spare her a quick glance. "What?"

Only just refraining from sighing, Grace says, "Care to share whatever it is you're thinking with the rest of the class?"

He perches on the edge of the nearest desk, his gaze still focused on the evidence board. "I'm thinking… that she didn't go home last night. Summer."

"And…?"

"And… that this morning she turns up with some cock and bull story that's got so many holes in it you could use it for a bloody colander."

"Nice analogy," Spencer says

"Thanks."

Kat looks from one man to the other. "So… what…? She walks around all night trying to come up with something vaguely plausible, forgetting that the very first thing anyone's going to ask is why the hell didn't she say any of this years ago?"

Boyd shrugs. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, Kat."

"How desperate do you have to be to believe something like that could work?" Grace wonders aloud.

"If you're not completely naïve? Pretty damn desperate, I'd say."

Spencer glares at the photographs lined up on the evidence board. "Which takes us right back to the identity of the person she's trying to protect."

"Kat's right," Boyd says. "It's got to be Anna Dawson."

Grace stares at him in disbelief. "You don't seriously believe Anna killed Michael?"

"No," he says, "I don't. But what if Summer does?"

-oOo-

"Well?" Boyd says when Grace returns to the squad room. He's alone, sitting at Spencer's desk, reading through one of the many folders stacked there. She thinks he looks very much like a man who is deliberately loitering.

Tired and frustrated, Grace shakes her head. "She's refusing point blank to change her story. Says the school records must be wrong. Which we can't prove one way or the other after so long, of course. Unless we can track down some of the other kids who were on the same trip."

"Spence on that?"

"Kat is," she assures him. "What are you up to?"

"Waiting for you," he says, flipping the folder closed and pushing it away. "While you were talking to Summer again, Eve called me to the lab."

The DNA test results. Somehow, she'd almost forgotten. Grace feels her stomach lurch, an unexpected and unpleasant sensation. Pulse quickening, she stares at Boyd, but he's impassive, unreadable. Swallowing against a suddenly tight throat, she says, "Go on."

His voice is flat. "He was my father. Străjescu."

It's hardly a great shock, of course, but Grace still feels herself momentarily reel at the news. Recovering fast, she hears herself say, "Well, at least you know."

"At least I know," Boyd echoes, a hollowness to his voice that matches the dullness of his usually expressive eyes. They gaze at each other for a few long, silent and highly-charged seconds, and then he adds, "I'm waiting for the DAC's office to call me back."

Nonplussed, she says, "The DAC's office? Why?"

He sighs, rubs at his beard. "Because none of us can pretend this is a hypothetical situation anymore, Grace. I've proposed two different courses of action to the Yard."

"Which are?" she asks, not sure she really wants to hear the answer.

"We hand the Allen case over to someone else immediately – today – or," Boyd shrugs, "I take garden leave for the duration."

"You? On garden leave?" she says, stunned. "Boyd…"

"What else can I do, Grace? Seriously, what else can I do?"

He looks defeated, she thinks. Like a man who's finally given in and surrendered to the inevitable without bothering with a final fight. It tears into her, seeing him so quiet, so resigned. It's so uncharacteristic that for a moment it feels as if he's a complete stranger, a man she doesn't know at all. She swallows again, mouth and throat still dry. "But…"

The phone on Spencer's desk starts to ring, and Boyd picks up the handset, his gaze locked to hers as he says, "DSI Boyd, Cold Case Unit."

She watches him, waits for the tiniest clue as to the caller's identity, or the nature of the call.

He says, "Yes, sir. Yes, I understand." A pause. "Yes, of course. I'll inform DI Jordan immediately. Thank you. Goodbye."

"Well?" Grace demands as he replaces the handset, but the way Boyd gets so slowly and quietly to his feet answers her question well enough. Appalled, she simply stares at him.

He holds her gaze only long enough to say, "Tell Spence I want to see him in my office in twenty minutes, would you?"

-oOo-

cont...