PART FOUR
"Playing by the rules sucks, huh?" the quiet, American-accented voice says in his ear. "So what happens now?"
Staring out at the unmown stretch of lawn that forms his back garden, Boyd hunches one shoulder, says, "I sit and wait to be told that either I can resume my normal duties at the CCU, or that due to the ongoing nature of the investigation I'm being temporarily assigned elsewhere. Look, Sarah, I'm sorry. I don't know why I called you."
"I'm glad you did," the woman far away on the other side of the Atlantic says. "So tell me what you know about Străjescu."
"It's precious little," he admits. He's not even sure he wants to share the little he does know. Not with her, not with anyone. Not yet. Bad blood. The words keep repeating themselves in his head. Bad blood.
"So?" Sarah says. "Fresh pair of eyes."
"Ears."
"Smart-ass."
Dropping down into the nearest chair, Boyd gives in and does as he's told, eventually finishing with, "Strange thing is, I can almost understand Clare's point of view."
"That's because you're an entitled, straight, white middle-class British guy."
"Thanks," he complains. "Don't pull any bloody punches, will you?"
"Don't worry," Sarah's warm, amused voice says, "you're still my favourite entitled, straight, white middle-class British guy."
He snorts. "Yeah, well… apparently I'm actually a member of a historically persecuted ethnic minority."
"Or as we call them over here, gypsies." A quiet chuckle, followed by, a more serious, "If you want to get away from it all for a bit, you could come to New York for a few days."
"For old times' sake?" he asks, several still-potent memories stirring. That night in New York when she –
"Why not?"
"Can't," Boyd tells her honestly, glad to have his wandering thoughts interrupted. "I have other… commitments."
"Ah." Her tone is knowing and not at all hostile. "How is Grace, by the way?"
Startled, he says, "You know about that?"
"I didn't," is her cheerful reply, "but I do now. Thanks for confirming my suspicions."
"Fuck's sake," Boyd grumbles. She's too damn sharp for her own good. Then, wasn't that part of the attraction? He's self-aware enough to know that he repeatedly falls for the same type of woman – sharp, funny, and feisty. Challenging, intelligent women who make him work for what he wants. Women who like him, but don't need him. Independent, spirited women. He wonders what that says about his own psyche.
"I'm going to email you some stuff you might find interesting," Sarah says. "I have a friend who has access to the Yad Vashem archive in Jerusalem."
"Of course you do," he says. "Nothing to do with Mossad at all."
She seems to choose to ignore the sarcasm. "Up to half a million gypsies died during the Holocaust. Twenty-five thousand were deported from Romania alone. I know you've thought about it."
"How do you know I have?" he demands.
"Because I know you, Peter," she says simply, "and I know that you can't turn your back on an injustice. If your father's family were still nomadic, as your niece claims, rather than settled, then they were amongst the very first to be rounded up by Antonescu's regime."
"I don't – "
"Look," she says, "I'll send you the stuff, okay? It's up to you what you do with it."
"Fine," he mutters, recognising when he's beaten.
"I have to go. Take care of yourself," she says, "and pass on my regards to Grace."
"I will," Boyd says, but he won't. He thinks Sarah knows it, too. "Well, goodbye, then."
-oOo-
Boyd's known DI Charlie Moore for more than twenty-five years. They played on the same Borough soccer team in their long-forgotten days as fresh-faced young constables, and they've worked together several times since. They've never been close friends, but their relationship, such as it is, has always been smooth and cordial. Charlie, in Boyd's view, is the kind of man he can do business with. Tough and tenacious, he's a loyal family man with two grown-up daughters and a cheerful, no-nonsense wife who's stuck with him through all the good and bad times that come with a long, eventful career. A decent, ordinary sort of man, and a damn good copper.
They meet as arranged in the saloon bar of the White Hart, not too far from Billingsgate Market. It's Charlie who says, "I'm assuming this is about Chapman?"
"It is," Boyd admits as they settle at a small corner table. "What have you heard about the Allen case?"
"I take it you mean unofficially?"
"Mm."
Charlie shrugs. "Very little. Surprised me, really. We were told to liaise with your lot, which we did, but the moment we nicked Craddock it all went very quiet at your end."
"There are… additional factors," Boyd says, knowing Charlie won't push for more detail. "So? Did he do it?"
"Craddock? Well, I didn't bloody fit him up, did I? We all stopped doing that back in the 'seventies, didn't we?" Charlie picks up his pint glass, looks at him and says, "Yeah, he did it. Nasty piece of work. Not just your average junkie. Er… no offence, mate. I was really sorry to hear about your boy."
"Thanks," Boyd says, the response so ingrained, so automatic that he doesn't have to think about it. The dull pain that never quite goes away flickers for a moment, but he distracts himself with, "I'm not running the investigation, my DI is."
"Yeah, I gathered," Charlie says with a nod. "So? What's this all about?"
Watching a group of rowdy young men who might be porters from the market gathering by the bar, Boyd asks, "Did you manage to trace Chapman's next-of-kin?"
Charlie nods. "Took a bit of doing, but yeah, eventually. An elderly mother."
"Ruby Chapman?"
"Yeah, that's her. She's in a council-run nursing home in Dagenham. I sent my DS, Finch, over there to break the news. Old girl's starting to lose her marbles, but she took the news reasonably well, apparently."
"Give me the address, Charlie, and I'll owe you one."
"You already owe me several," Charlie points out.
Boyd spares him a brief grin. "One more won't hurt, then, will it?"
"Question…?"
Picking up his glass, Boyd tilts his head a fraction. "Yes?"
Charlie looks pensive as he asks, "Is this to do with the Allen case? Your victim and mine were half-brothers."
"They were, and no, it's not. It's… a personal matter."
Charlie is silent for several seconds before he says. "Rumour has it that you're suddenly on garden leave."
Boyd isn't surprised the news has already travelled so far. "The Met's jungle drums are working to their usual high standard, I see."
"Disciplinary matter?" Charlie inquires, blunt as ever.
"Would you believe me if I said no?"
The other man's gaze is steady, trusting. "I would, yeah."
"Then, no, it's not."
"A personal matter, then," Charlie surmises. His gaze is shrewd as he asks, "The same personal matter?"
Boyd doesn't want to discuss it. He shrugs, the movement languid, dismissive. "Maybe."
Charlies eyes narrow, but there's no ire in his tone as he says, "You're a canny bugger, Peter. Then again, you always were. Is this going to come back to bite me?"
"No," Boyd assures him.
Charlie seems to think for a moment before saying, "All right. But if anyone ever asks…"
"…I didn't get the address from you. I know. Thanks, Charlie."
A derisive snort. "Better buy me another pint, then, hadn't you? It's the very least you can bloody do."
Reaching for his wallet, Boyd says, "One more thing…"
Charlie sighs. "What?"
"Has the Coroner released Chapman's body yet?"
-oOo-
Grace does not seem pleased to see him. Not bothering to knock, given that he has a key, Boyd walks into her house just before eight, heads straight for the small kitchen at the rear, and finds himself greeted with a tetchy, "Why are you here?"
"Good evening to you, too," he says, advancing on the stove where she's stirring the contents of a large saucepan. "Enough for two?"
"I can't talk to you," she warns him. "You know that."
"In general, or about the Allen case?"
"Oh, God, you're in one of those moods…"
"Pasta," Boyd tuts, peering into the saucepan. "If I'd known, I'd have stopped at the late night deli on Sutton Road."
"Were you actually invited?" she demands. "No? Well keep your complaints to yourself, then."
"Bad day?" he inquires, knowing his mild tone will irritate her further.
Grace glowers at him. "What do you bloody think?"
Deciding that further flippancy is an unwise choice, Boyd says, "It's not been a great day for me, either."
The dark glower abates a fraction. "Oh, I know. It's just been so difficult this afternoon. Spence is doing a good job, but…"
"But…?" he prompts.
"I think everyone's just a bit unsettled and on edge," she admits. "No-one's running around shouting and making unreasonable demands. It's very strange."
He grins at her. "Nice to know I'm missed."
"I wouldn't go quite that far."
He changes the subject with, "Did you talk to Anna?"
"Boyd…"
"Oh, come on," he says, resting himself up against the counter next to the stove. "You can take confidentiality too bloody far, you know, Grace. I haven't been sacked, I'm not under investigation for anything, and I'm still in charge of the unit."
"And you'd blow a fuse if the situation was reversed and I was trying to get information out of you."
"Not necessarily," he contradicts, but he knows she's right. They both do.
"Rubbish."
Thinking of Anna again, he says, "I could always go and get it straight from the horse's mouth, you know."
Grace glances at him. "Not even you would be that stupid, surely?"
The sting in her tone is not feigned, and it makes Boyd survey her with renewed curiosity. She's not just tired and stressed, he decides. Something else is bothering her. Something she's not going to talk about unless or until he asks the right questions. Women. They're such damned hard work. Resisting the urge to sigh, he asks, "What's the matter with you tonight?"
"Nothing."
Boyd hasn't been married and divorced and got to his current age without learning to dread that particular word when it's delivered by an irate female determinedly pretending that everything is just fine, thank-you-very-much. "Well, now I know for certain that I'm in the bloody doghouse for something. I just can't work out what."
"That really doesn't surprise me."
He decides to make an educated guess. "I did what you wanted me to do all along, I took a step back."
"That's not the problem."
"Ah ha," he says, not bothering to conceal his triumph, "so there is a problem. Well? Out with it."
Grace continues to stir the contents of the saucepan with unnecessary vigour. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," he says, plucking the wooden spoon from her hand and throwing it into the sink in a lazy arc. It's probably not the best tactic, but it gets her attention.
The look she gives him is icy. "You really can't see it, can you, Boyd? How destructive this whole thing with Străjescu is? How much it's affecting you?"
"Not this again," he grumbles. "Grace – "
"Have you forgotten how wound up you were last night?" she demands. "Or how bad-tempered you were this morning? Has it crossed your mind to wonder what it's like for me, watching you stumble further and further along a road that can't possibly lead you to anywhere good?"
He holds up a hand. "Wait, is this supposed to be about me, or about you? Because, you know, from my perspective a bit of support and understanding really wouldn't go amiss."
"Seriously? Oh, that's it," she snarls, turning on her heel and stalking away towards the door to the hall. "Now I really have heard it all…"
-oOo-
"I'm sorry, all right?" Boyd says, for what feels like the hundredth time. He glares at the locked bedroom door and has to fight hard against the renewed temptation to lash out at it with his fists. "Grace, come on. Don't fucking do this."
"Go away," her angry voice retorts, only a little muffled by the door between them. "I don't want to talk to you. In fact, right now I don't want to have anything to do with you at all."
It's a clear rejection, and it hurts. Hurts more than Boyd's willing to admit, even to himself. Old memories stir, memories of a once happy marriage that buckled and eventually collapsed completely under the crippling weight of stress, fear, and accusation. Memories that increase his spiky, defensive annoyance, and lead him to aim a hard, spontaneous kick at the door's lower panel. "Grace."
"Stop that," she barks immediately. "I realise it's difficult for you to behave like a reasonable adult, Boyd, but – "
He kicks the door again, much harder, the noise of the impact drowning her out. The wood reverberates in a highly satisfying manner, soothing his temper for an all-too brief moment. "You want me to break it down?" he growls. "Because I bloody will, you know."
"I don't doubt it for a moment," she says, and he hears the lock turn just a second before the door opens a fraction and she glares out at him. "Go away, Boyd."
"No," he says, obstinate to the last. "Not until you tell me what the fuck this is all about. One minute you're fine – "
"Fine…" Grace echoes with a snort.
" – the next you're storming off and behaving like a bloody lunatic." Boyd shakes his head as she pulls the door open further. Oblivious to the danger, he continues, "Jesus, if you were younger, I'd say this was a typical case of monthly female – "
He doesn't see the slap coming. Has no chance to mitigate the force with which it hits him. Grace is not a big woman, but there's enough anger in the open-handed blow to snap his head round when it lands. His immediate instinct, driven by his infamous temper, and thankfully suppressed in an instant, is to strike back at her. Instead, one cheek blazing, he slowly and silently turns his head back so that he can stare straight at her. She looks almost more shocked than he feels. Shocked, but not, he notes, altogether repentant.
"Happy now?" he asks, not bothering to hide his contempt.
"No," she snaps back, unshed tears suddenly glittering in her blue eyes. "Why do you – "
"Don't you dare try to blame me," Boyd interrupts, too aware of the unpleasant way his pulse is racing. It takes a huge effort of will to keep the surging aggression and adrenaline from overwhelming him. "You hit me, Grace, not the other way around."
"I'm sorry," she whispers, part contrite and part defiant. Then, with more intensity, "I really, really am. There's absolutely no excuse for behaving like that. Are… are you okay?"
"Of course I'm okay," he growls at her, his fury ebbing fast in the face of the sincerity of her apology. "You hit like a girl."
"I am a girl," Grace points out. "Well, a female, at least."
"And don't I bloody know it."
Her eyes flash a renewed warning at him. "Meaning…?"
Boyd takes a deep, steadying breath. Exhales slowly and steadily, forcing equilibrium. "Nothing. Look, Grace, can we please just rewind this conversation and start again from the bit where I've realised there's a problem, but I'm desperately struggling to work out what the hell it is?"
"Sarah," she announces, startling him.
He stares at her. "Sarah?"
"Tall, attractive brunette…? Lives in New York…?"
"I know who you mean," Boyd tells her, fighting for patience, "but I'm not making the connection."
"Funnily enough."
"You're annoyed with me because I called Sarah?"
"Oh, so you did call her." It doesn't sound like a question. Not even a rhetorical one.
"This afternoon," he confirms. "Wait… how did you know?"
Her lip curls up in a sneer. "My assumption was based purely on the sudden deluge of emails poor Spence was left trying to field this afternoon."
"Emails?" he asks, confused.
"Yad Vashem?" Grace prompts. "The World Holocaust Remembrance Center?"
Things begin to make a little more sense. "Oh, those emails."
"Those emails," she confirms.
Something else occurs to Boyd. "Hang on, why the fuck was Spencer reading my emails?"
"Because when you're away everything sent to the CCU's catch-all address is automatically redirected to him." Grace shakes her head. "You should have told her to use your address instead of the generic CCU one, idiot."
"Oh." Still bemused, he says, "And that's why you're angry? Because I spoke to Sarah?"
"Yes," she says. "No. Oh, I don't know. I didn't realise you were still in touch."
Boyd shrugs. "We're not. Well, not really. The occasional phone call or email now and again, that's all."
"I see."
He knows that tone. Less than perceptive when it comes to the subtle nuances of female moods and behaviour, he is, nevertheless, nowhere near stupid enough to miss such an obvious clue as to what's really going on. Deciding that now is not the time for smug preening, he opts for incredulity. "Oh, come on… please don't tell me all this is down to some kind of ridiculous, misplaced touch of jealousy? Grace?"
"Well, how would you feel?" she snaps at him. "If I was having some… issues… in my private life, and I chose to discuss them with an ex rather than with you?"
Torn between genuine anger and simple exasperation, he replies, "You're not bloody serious? The foundations my entire life's been built on are collapsing under me, and you're worried about a ten minute telephone conversation I had with a woman I haven't set eyes on for over two fucking years?"
"What I'm worried about," she retorts, not giving ground, "is you. Yad Vashem? Really?"
"That wasn't my idea. Sarah just thought…" He lets the defensive words trail away as her expression hardens. Shaking his head, he tries, "Grace, do you have any idea what it's like to discover that everything you assumed you could count on about who and what you are is completely wrong?"
"No," Grace says. "Not at all, and I won't pretend otherwise, but – "
"Not again," he warns her. "The very last thing I need to hear right now is 'I told you so'."
She's silent for a few seconds. Then, her voice soft and quiet, she says, "Do you trust me?"
"What?"
"It's straightforward question, Boyd. Do you trust me?"
-oOo-
The imposing façade of Alexandra Palace behind them, they sit side by side on one of the wooden park benches gazing out at the striking stretch of night-time London laid out before them. Eyes on the jagged city skyline, Boyd breaks the long silence with, "Why here?"
"Neutral territory?" Grace suggests. "Nowhere to run?"
Refocusing his gaze, he surveys the wide, murky stretch of grass and trees immediately in front of them. "Apart from the two hundred acres of park, obviously."
"You'd do that, would you? Walk off and leave me here, on my own in the dark?"
"You know your trouble, Grace?" he growls. "You're too bloody clever. Go on, then. Let's get it over with."
"It's not a penance, Boyd," she says, rearranging her scarf around her neck.
"I'm not staying out here all night," he tells her, "so if you really insist on doing this…"
"All right," she says. When she speaks again, there's a discernible change to way she delivers her words. Calmer, cooler. Much more professional. "When did you first find out you were adopted?"
He knows they've talked about the matter before. Knows she already knows the answer. Tempted as he is to point the fact out to her, he grudgingly shakes his head. "I didn't 'find out'. I always knew. Both of us did."
"It felt perfectly normal to you, growing up?"
"Well, of course it bloody did, Grace. I didn't know any different, did I?"
"Do you remember ever being teased about it?" she asks. "At school, say?"
"No," he answers immediately, but quickly modifies his response. "Well, not really. Once or twice, a bit, maybe. Just kids' stuff."
"Did it hurt?"
Caught by half-forgotten memories that are decades old, Boyd avoids answering directly. "Well, everyone gets tormented about something occasionally at that age, don't they?"
"That's an interesting word to use," she says. "'Tormented'."
He's conducted enough interviews alongside her to know how good she is at picking up on key words. Too good, in this instance. "Figure of speech, Grace. Look, I wasn't bullied about it, if that's what you're asking, and nor was Jamie."
She lets a few seconds pass before she says, "You told me once that your relationship with your father – with Douglas – was problematic."
Boyd favours her with a quick sideways look before returning his gaze to the city lights in front of them. "It could be. From time to time. Probably far more my fault than his, in hindsight. He was a good man. A good father, too. Fair."
"Kind?"
"Yes," he agrees without hesitation.
"Loving?"
Just about managing to prevent himself from wincing, Boyd says, "C'mon, Grace, I grew up in the 'fifties and 'sixties. Things were different in those days. Less…"
"'Touchy feely'?" she suggests. "To coin a phrase."
"Yeah, if you like. I was packed off to bloody boarding school, not mollycoddled like… kids are today."
Grace seizes on his momentary hesitation. "Like kids are today, or like James was?"
Stung by her accuracy, Boyd refuses to look at her. He knows he sounds defensive as he says, "That was different. When we were kids, Jamie's epilepsy wasn't controlled the way it is now. Back then he could have a fit at any time. Sometimes when it was really bad he could have several a day."
"Seizure," Grace corrects him.
"Fit, seizure, it's all the damn same," he grumbles. "Don't preach political correctness to me, Grace. And don't tell me I subconsciously resented him for the attention he got from our parents because of it, or some other such bollocks, because it's simply not true."
"If you say so. But if you had… it would have been perfectly understandable."
"Look," he says, with as much patience as he can muster, "I agreed to talk about… stuff… but can we please just get to the bloody point?"
There's a long moment of silence. It's followed by, "You felt like an outsider, didn't you?"
This time Boyd does wince. He brought the blunt question on himself, he knows. Folding his arms across his chest, he continues to stare straight ahead. "I did, yes."
"Because…?"
Damned woman's not going to leave him alone, he knows. Not now she's hit her stride. There's no point in attempting to prevaricate. "I was different. From Jamie. From Douglas and Audrey. Not just in looks. In so many ways."
"But did they make you feel different?" she presses. "Intentionally, I mean?"
"No, of course not," he snaps irritably. "I keep telling you, they were good people. It was me, Grace, not them. There was just something different in me… Still is, I suppose."
"And you think Străjescu is the key." It's a statement, not a question.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Bad blood," she murmurs, echoing his earlier thoughts.
"Yeah," he mutters, just as quiet.
"You know that's complete rubbish, don't you? It was just something Carol used to say."
Boyd grunts, pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his long coat against the increasing chill of the night. "Maybe she's right."
"She's not."
"Whatever. You going round there tomorrow?"
"I can't tell you that," she counters, "and don't try to change the subject, Boyd. What about your mother? Your birth mother, I mean."
He wishes she'd stop. Wishes he'd never agreed to this… torment. But she won't, and he did. "What about her?"
"Have you ever tried to find her?" Grace asks.
That, at least, he can answer simply. "No point."
"Why?"
"Because she died in 'fifty seven. Asian 'flu." Without thinking about it Boyd focuses his attention on the cluster of towers on the skyline that mark Canary Wharf and lets his gaze track west of them to what he guesses is Shoreditch. "You know what the East End was like back in the 'fifties. Or maybe you don't. It was grim, Grace. Poverty, squalor. Everything still in ruins from the war. People living on top of each other in appalling conditions. She was dead and buried years before I even knew her name."
"Tragic," she says. He appreciates her brevity.
"Can't have been much of a life, can it?" he muses, surprising himself. "Growing up in the East End during the Blitz. Pregnant at sixteen, unmarried mother at seventeen. Things were very different back then."
"They were," Grace agrees, solemn and quiet.
Something he's often pondered forces itself into the open. "I wonder if she had a choice."
"About…?"
"The baby… me. Whether it was her decision to…" Boyd can't say the words.
Grace can, it seems. "Give you away? Probably not. Don't forget, it wasn't until the 'seventies that the age of majority was dropped to eighteen. And even then…"
"…it wouldn't have been an easy ride. Yeah, I know."
"It was probably the hardest thing she ever had to do."
"You can't possibly know that, Grace."
She doesn't reply, and not for the first time Boyd wonders if she is keeping more secrets from the world than even he knows. At length she says, "You've never been tempted to track down her family? You could have uncles and aunts. Cousins. Half-brothers and sisters, even."
"I think I've suddenly got quite enough of those, don't you?" he tells her. "And in answer to your question, no, I've never even given it a thought."
"So what makes Străjescu different?" Grace inquires.
"I didn't go looking for him. He was… foisted upon me."
They gaze out across the parkland together, both of them silent and thoughtful until she asks, "Do you remember the day we went to Newham? The day we spoke to McMahon? You asked me if it was nature or nurture that makes us what we are."
He remembers. It feels like such a long time ago. Testament, he supposes, to just how much has happened in the interim. He nods. "And you said there was no conclusive answer to that."
"Something I still strongly believe," Grace confirms. "What we are, Boyd, is the sum total of our genetics, our environment, experience… any number of things. Just because you got those brooding good looks from him – "
Not sure if he's flattered or disgusted by the words, he groans. "Oh, please."
She smirks and carries straight on: " – doesn't mean you necessarily inherited anything else from him. You're you, Peter, not some pre-destined duplicate of your father. If you want to find out more about Străjescu and his family and culture, that's entirely up to you, but don't expect to find any answers to the sort of questions you have about yourself."
Bad blood. Again and again, the words come back to him. Trying to shake off their long shadow, Boyd questions, "Are you saying… temperament… isn't hereditary?"
Grace shakes her head. "On the contrary, plenty of studies have proved that it is. Or can be. But experience and environment also matter. They matter a lot."
"Linda saw it in me." He doesn't know where the unwise words come from, regrets them the moment she turns her head sharply to stare at him. "What was it she said to me when we nicked her for killing Reading and the others? 'I've met enough killers to know one when I see one'."
"You're not a killer, Boyd." A flat, closed statement.
A different deep, uneasy sense of guilt that he's spent a lot of time battling surfaces as he says, "Except that I am, aren't I?"
Grace is staring out at the city again. "You refused to kill Penny Cain, and Linda's death wasn't – "
"I'm not talking about Linda," Boyd tells her. When she frowns at him in bewilderment, he continues, "I'm talking about McQueen."
Her surprise intensifies. "Tom McQueen…? But that was years ago…"
She's right, but in his occasional vivid nightmares, it still feels like yesterday. He looks up at the polluted night sky. It's easier than holding her gaze. "So? It doesn't make any bloody difference. I shot him, Grace. Shot him and killed him."
"He was trying to kill Spencer," she retorts, "and he did kill Drake – and you would've been next. It was pure self-defence, Boyd. The official inquiry never once questioned that."
"I'm still a killer," he insists. It's almost a relief to say the words aloud, finally. "Linda was right. She saw it in me, and she was right."
-oOo-
He's twelve again, and marching towards the Stannard brothers, his chin tucked in and his fists clenched. Home from school for the long summer break, he's seen just how frightened of the pair of much bigger boys his vulnerable younger brother is, has heard the insults and the catcalls, and now he's going to do something about it. Alex Stannard is about his own age and build, but Simon… Simon is much bigger and heavier, and is at least three years older. Two against one, the odds are not in Boyd's favour. His blood's up, though, and the wild fury is roaring in his ears. He doesn't care how bad it's going to be. Doesn't even bother to think about it. He just keeps walking, quick and sure, bearing down on the two boys standing on the street corner as he gets ready to –
"Peter." The voice is quiet, female and insistent. It's definitely not James's desperate, fearful voice. "Peter."
Grace.
Fighting against a thick haze of sleepy disorientation, he manages to open his eyes enough to ascertain that it is morning, he's in her bed, and that she is awake, dressed, and perched on the edge of the mattress looking down at him with some concern. It's a new and rather strange experience. "…Time is it?" he manages.
"Gone half-past seven," she informs him. "I'm about to leave for work. How are you? You were very restless in the night."
"Work…" he mutters, and sits bolt upright. "Fuck. Why didn't you wake me up, I'm – "
"Peter," she says again, calm and amused, "you're on leave, remember? No gloomy, claustrophobic basement for you today."
He remembers. Remembers, groans and collapses back against the pillows. "Fuck."
"Yes, you've said that."
Still sleep-befuddled, he's struggling to make sense of anything. "What day is it?"
"Friday." Grace surveys him for a moment, then says, "Go back to sleep for a bit. Catch up on some rest. I'll see you tonight."
Ignoring the suggestion, Boyd asks, "Are you – "
"I can't tell you," she interrupts before he can get the words out.
Narrow-eyed, he demands, "How do you know what I was going to say?"
"I just do. Have some faith in our ability to do our jobs properly, hm?"
Boyd growls without bothering to form words. Rubs idly at his beard. It needs trimming, he thinks, and he could definitely do with a shave. Time enough for such things later. Thinking about Carol Kemp again, he starts, "Tell Spence – "
"No," Grace says, standing up. "I'm going to work now. Be a good boy, and do try to stay out of trouble."
He waits until she's almost at the door before saying, "Grace?"
She sighs. "What?"
"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye…?"
-oOo-
The Elms Nursing Home in Dagenham isn't large or prepossessing, but nor is it difficult to find. Parking his car in the lee of an ancient, overgrown box hedge, Boyd wonders if he's really doing the right thing. If he should have discussed the matter with Grace before impulsively making up his mind. Too late now – he's not going to get back in the car and drive away now he's here. Walking up to what seems to be the main front door, he locates the intercom, and after a brief exchange of words with a disembodied female voice, is admitted to the building. Inside, the décor is predictably shabby and depressing, but the place seems clean enough, and some small effort has been put into trying the cheer up the long entrance hall with houseplants and vases of flowers.
A young woman in a light grey uniform appears from one of the side rooms, her expression friendly as she says, "Hello. Can I help you?"
The deliberately charming smile he gives her in return would certainly make Grace roll her eyes, he knows. "Ruby Chapman…?"
"Are you a relative?" she asks, smiling back.
Pretty, Boyd muses. Very pretty. And about thirty years too young for him. "No. Well… sort of. It's… complicated."
"She's in the dayroom," the woman says, unflustered by his reply. "Give me a moment, and I'll show you the way."
She's as good as her word, and a few minutes later he finds himself in a big, well-lit room at the rear of the building. Chairs pushed against every wall, a big, half-finished jigsaw on the central table; the smell of disinfectant and old age. There are three elderly women and an even older-looking man present in the room. None of them are talking, none of them even spare him a glance. It makes him dread the years ahead. He's taken to a fragile-looking white-haired old woman seated alone by the window. She's staring out at an ancient bird table set in the middle of a tiny square of scrappy lawn, either lost in thought, or simply… lost.
"Ruby?" his guide says. "Ruby, there's a gentleman here to see you."
"Peter," he supplies in answer to the unasked question. "Hello, Ruby."
Faded blue-grey eyes refocus their gaze and settle on him. The lined, aged-spotted features twist into an indecipherable expression, and a tired, scratchy voice says, "Mick…?"
"Peter," the uniformed woman corrects gently.
…But Boyd understands.
-oOo-
"June's boy?" Ruby asks again.
Boyd nods, grimly hanging on to the very last shreds of his patience. "Yes."
"Nicholas?"
"Peter," he repeats, suspecting it's pointless. "My adoptive parents renamed me Peter."
"Mick's bastard." A brief flicker of animation shows on her face. "One of Mick's bastards."
Bastard. That word. The one he uses so casually and frequently for all manner of things without thinking now, but that never failed to cut him right to the quick back then. The word that literally cost him blood, sweat, and tears in his formative years as he continually fought its bitter sting with his fists. He feels his jaw tighten, and it's an effort to grind out, "If you like."
The faded eyes are hazy with confusion. "June… Clarke? From Aberdeen Street?"
"Yes," he agrees, though he has no idea if it's the correct address. Mustering what fortitude he has left, Boyd continues, "Ruby, I'm sorry if this is bringing back bad memories, but…"
"You want to know about your father?" she guesses, her sudden cold, sharp perception startling him. "Well, that's your right, I suppose. You look like him."
His response is dry. "So I gather."
"Right down to the beard." Her thoughts seem to start to wander again. "June's boy, Nicholas?"
It was a mistake, Boyd thinks. Coming here was a mistake. He forces himself to repeat, "Yes."
"Mick wanted her to call you Nicolae after your grandfather, but her parents wouldn't hear of it. And then they made her give you away." The old woman sniffs. "No better than she ought to have been, that one. Making eyes at other people's menfolk." She gives him what he can only think of as a beady-eyed look, "You married, boy?"
"Divorced," he admits.
"Caught you cheating, did she?"
"No," he says. It's the absolute truth, whether Ruby believes it, or not. "I didn't cheat, and neither did Mary, as far as I'm aware. It wasn't like that. Things happened and our relationship just gradually… broke down."
She seems to accept the simplified explanation. "Children?"
"A son, Luke." Boyd doesn't know why he tells her, not really. "Ruby – "
"Hello?" a polite but faintly quizzical voice says, just behind him. "Can I help you?"
Boyd turns in his seat, finds himself looking at a woman a few years younger than himself. Average height and build, not conventionally pretty, but not at all unattractive. The eyes, though… those dark, intelligent eyes… He stands up, holds out a hand, "Peter Boyd."
"Alison Price," she says, shaking the extended hand in a half-hearted manner. "Are you mum's new social worker?"
"No, I'm…" Boyd shrugs, not sure what to say.
"He's another of your father's bastard children," Ruby informs her daughter. "If your brother was here…"
Alison shakes her head. "Mum…"
"I'm tired," the old woman grumbles. "Tell him to go away."
-oOo-
"I am so sorry," Alison says, and she sounds as if she means it. "Mum… well, she can be a bit… forthright. She's getting more and more forgetful, and more and more inclined to just… well, say things."
They are standing out in the small garden, far enough away from the open French windows not to be overheard, close enough to still be able to see Ruby dozing in her chair. Boyd shakes his head. "You really don't need to apologise, Mrs Price."
"Alison," she corrects. The small smile she gives him is wry. "Seems a little more appropriate, under the circumstances, don't you think?"
"Alison," he repeats. It's odd, seeing glimpses of himself in a complete stranger. Something pushes him to make amends that probably aren't necessary. "Look, it's entirely my fault for just turning up out of the blue. Besides, I can't argue with the accuracy of her description."
"Actually," Alison says with another smile, rueful this time, "neither can I. My parents weren't ever legally married, though everyone assumed they were. I think the term used to be 'common-law marriage', didn't it?"
"It did," Boyd agrees. He puts his hands in his trouser pockets. "I'm sorry about your brother."
She grimaces. "So am I. Sorry, and heart-broken, but not at all surprised. Gavin was always a bit… unpredictable, and he completely went to pieces after his second wife left him. Started gambling and drinking too much, and… well, you can guess the rest. I tried, I really did, but nothing seemed to stop him sliding further and faster down the slippery slope. I knew he'd been kicked out of his flat, but I didn't realise he was actually homeless. We hadn't spoken for, oh, two or three years, at least."
"I'm sorry," Boyd says again. "If you want me to just go…"
She shakes her head, nods towards a small, cheap wooden bench at the edge of the lawn. "Why don't we sit down?"
Once they're seated, Boyd says, "Your father's… indiscretions… weren't exactly a secret, then?"
"Mum knew," she replies, her voice quiet. "Mum always knew. He was never any good at hiding things from her. We – me and Gavin – didn't find out until… later."
He seizes on the telling pause. "'Later'?"
Alison fiddles with the strap of her handbag, says, "Let's just say you're not the first person to come looking for answers."
"Michael Allen?" he guesses.
She looks startled. "Yes. You know about Michael?"
"Some."
"Um… did you know…"
"…that he's dead?" Boyd says, feeling the need to help her out. "Yes. Look, Alison, there are some things you should know. About me, I mean. About who I am, and why I'm really here."
She doesn't look alarmed. "Oh? Sounds intriguing. Do tell."
So he does.
-oOo-
The story takes longer to recount than he expects, but Alison proves to be an attentive listener, and when Boyd finally reaches the end, she says, "Well, I've never met Carol, but Michael took Louise to visit mum once when I was there. Quiet girl, very… intense. We thought… well, I won't tell you what we thought."
"Why not?" Boyd inquires, sensing a sudden underlying tension.
Alison hesitates, then asks, "Are you talking to me as a police officer, or as the half-brother I didn't know I had when I woke up this morning?"
"Either," he says with a shrug. "Both. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
"That's what I was afraid of."
It's not an unusual reaction. Stretching out his long legs in a subconscious effort to appear less formal, Boyd says, "I told you, I'm not part of the investigation into Michael's death."
"But your staff are," Alison points out.
"If you know anything that could help, then keeping quiet about it… would not be the right choice. Morally and legally speaking."
"Don't get me wrong, Peter," she says, earnest and quiet, "I consider myself to be a thoroughly law-abiding citizen. I have three children and two grandchildren, all of who have been brought up to respect authority. I've never even had a speeding ticket."
"But…?" he prompts, guessing there's more.
"I don't know anything," Alison maintains. "I really don't, and nor does mum. It's just… oh, I don't know how to describe it. Do you ever get a weird gut feeling about something? A feeling that something's… not quite right."
"All the time," Boyd assures her. "Copper's instinct."
"What do you do about it?"
He shrugs. "Investigate further."
"And if you don't find anything?"
"I investigate even further. It may sound like bragging, but my instincts are rarely wrong." Boyd watches her, waits for her to speak again. When she doesn't, he says, "We don't have any solid proof that Michael was actually murdered. It's a safe bet, however, that he didn't bury himself in a shallow grave. Someone else did that. Someone who either killed him, or was with him when he died and knows what happened."
"When I saw Michael and Louise together," she says after a long, long pause, "I didn't altogether get the feeling that they were siblings. Just siblings, I mean."
Frowning, Boyd says, "And Ruby…?"
"Thought the same thing," Alison confirms. "I wasn't going to say anything, I really thought I was imagining it, but mum… the moment they left she said she thought that there was something going on between them."
"'Going on'?"
She looks at the ground, clearly uncomfortable. "Use your imagination."
"You got the impression that perhaps there was some kind of… sexual… element to their relationship?"
"It's completely ridiculous, I know," she says, blushing, "especially because she was so much younger than him, but I just had this weird feeling, watching them together."
"It's not exactly unheard of, you know," Boyd tells her. "There's even a name for it…"
-oOo-
"Genetic Sexual Attraction," Grace's voice says as he paces the small car park, phone pressed to his ear. "It's really not my field, but you're right. It's a controversial theory, to say the least, and there are a lot of different hypotheses about it, but there are plenty of documented cases of, for example, siblings who didn't grow up together who later met in adulthood and found themselves – "
"So," Boyd interrupts, "that could be the reason why Carol was so keen on trying to convince you that Străjescu wasn't Louise's father?"
"It could be. And it could further explain why she didn't want Louise having anything more to do with Michael." A moment of heavy silence. "Boyd, you do realise I'm going to have to tell Spence all this, and immediately?"
He nods, aware that she can't see him. "Yeah, I know."
"Where are you now?" she asks.
"Still at the nursing home."
"And Alison…?"
"Gone to pick her grandson up from nursery. I have her address and phone number."
"What else did she tell you?" Grace inquires. "In general, I mean."
He turns his back on the building, subconsciously lowers his voice a fraction. "That Străjescu was a drunk and an inveterate womaniser, but that it was Ruby who ruled the roost at home. She knew all about his affairs, and she eventually kicked him out when she found herself another bloke."
"Good for her."
"I thought you'd say that." Boyd kicks at a loose stone, sending it bouncing towards the road. "Apparently he was also well-known for being a bit handy with his fists – plenty of scraps outside the pub on a Friday night – but Alison said he never once raised a hand to her or her brother. Or to Ruby, come to that."
"The complete opposite of 'street angel, house devil', eh? Sounds exactly like someone else I know."
"I have no idea who you could possibly be referring to, Grace."
"Of course you don't. What are you going to do now?"
Boyd shrugs to himself. "Head home, I guess. No point in me trying to talk to the old girl again. She's got a few marbles left, but my patience has already been just about tested to destruction."
"I'll talk to Spencer," Grace's voice says in his ear. "Oh, and in case you're still wondering, yes, we did."
"Talk to Carol?"
"No comment."
He looks up at the cloudy sky and grins. "There are times when I really like you, Doctor Foley."
"Enough to cook me dinner later…?"
-oOo-
It's incredibly frustrating, not knowing what's happening, and not being able to contribute, and when Boyd's third early-evening attempt to contact Grace fails, he knows that if he doesn't find a distraction his already simmering temper will boil over. Prowling the house in search of something to occupy himself, but unable to concentrate on anything, he all-but leaps on his phone when it starts to ring, missing the caller identification in his haste. He answers with a bark of, "Grace? What the hell's going on?"
"Bad moment?" his brother's calm voice replies.
Attempting to contain his frustration, Boyd strives to sound at least civil as he says, "Jamie. Sorry. How are you?"
"I was going to ask you the same question. You've been to see Solly."
It's almost, but not quite, an accusation. Moving to the window to look out at the street beyond, Boyd says, "I have, yes. How do you know that?"
"I just had a call from our mother." This time it is an accusation. No other way to describe it. "She was very upset."
Boyd's heart sinks, but he keeps his voice level as he replies, "Upset? Why?"
"She's been to see him, too," James says.
"Oh."
"'Oh'?" Real anger is audible in the usually smooth, bland voice now. "That's the best you can do?"
"What do you expect me to say?" Boyd demands, watching for any sign of Grace's car appearing on the road outside.
"I'm not sure," James replies. "Something a bit bloody better than 'oh'. For God's sake, Pete, didn't it occur to you that the moment he saw her he'd tell her everything? Now she's convinced that she and dad were the worst parents in the world and – "
"I'll deal with it," he growls to stem the rising tide of outrage, though it's the very last thing he wants to do.
"Good," James snaps back, his harsh tone uncharacteristic. "This is just typical of you, isn't it? Focus everything on what you want, and to hell with the rest of us. You've always been the same. Bloody-minded and completely fucking selfish."
It's an unfair allegation, and Boyd guesses his brother knows it. Knows it, but won't ever apologise for it. In that way, at least, they are very alike. Sarcastic in defence, he says, "Must be genetic."
"Screw genetics," is James's vehement response. "It's just you, Pete. You and your stubborn, single-minded – "
But Boyd isn't listening. He's finally spotted Grace's car, and as it slows to turn onto his drive, he simply moves the phone from his ear and terminates the call. It won't be the end of the matter, he knows, not by a long, long way, but he has much more important things on his mind. He's in motion before the car is stationary, and he meets Grace at the front door with, "I've been trying to call you."
She looks tired. Tired and on edge. "Battery's flat."
He doesn't bother to argue. Asks instead, "Well?"
"Well, what? Take my bag a minute, will you?"
Clinging to the very last shreds of his patience, Boyd does as he's told and waits for her to shed her coat before demanding, "Well… did you talk to Carol again?"
"We would have done," Grace tells him, hanging her coat up and taking back her bag, "if she hadn't been admitted to hospital late this afternoon. Overdose."
He stares at her, trying to take in the unexpected news. "Overdose?"
"Tramadol," she confirms. "Louise found her and called an ambulance."
"Fuck," he says, his mind racing. Belatedly, he adds, "How is she?"
Grace shakes her head. "Not good. She's in intensive care. They'll run some more tests in the morning."
"Why?" Boyd asks, then realises she's likely to misunderstand the question. "Why did she do it, I mean? You saw her earlier today, how was she then?"
"Edgy, but okay. I didn't think there was cause for concern." She takes a deep, audible breath. "It gets worse."
"Worse?" he challenges. "How can it get much fucking worse?"
Her voice is quiet. "Spence has been summoned to a meeting at the Yard first thing on Monday morning. He thinks DAC Larch is going to instruct him to suspend the entire investigation until further notice."
-oOo-
Boyd takes his anger and frustration out on the kitchen door. It's not intentional, but the hinges are old and stiff, the door sticks from time to time as the wood expands and contracts with changes in the weather, and it defies him at entirely the wrong moment. It helps, though, the sudden, wild physical release of so much pent-up emotion, and by the time Grace finally joins him at the breakfast bar where Anna Dawson was sitting only a few days before, Boyd is perched on one of the high, chrome-legged stools examining his sore and bruised knuckles with phlegmatic calm. Expecting to see grim disapproval in her eyes, he glances round at her and says, "Shakespeare's overrated."
"As a tool for anger management?"
"Yeah."
She moves to stand behind him, places her hands on his shoulders and starts to rub the stiff, tight muscles there. There's no condemnation in the way she says, "The whole thing's a mess, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Boyd says again. It's soothing, the way she's kneading his shoulders. Soothing and reassuring. He's not altogether joking as he adds, "Maybe we should just get in the damn car, drive to Heathrow and jump on the first bloody flight with empty seats."
"The way our luck is going at the moment, we'd end up in Bratislava, or something."
"Trust me, Grace, even that has some appeal at the moment." He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. Practicalities, he tells himself. Concentrate on what can be done, not on what can't. "Right. Are you hungry?"
She shakes her head. "Not really – we grabbed a sandwich at the hospital. You?"
"No."
"Drink?" she suggests, the look in her eyes making it clear she's thinking of something much stronger than just tea or coffee.
"Drink," Boyd agrees, getting to his feet and turning to face her. She still looks tired, but some of the tight-lipped stress seems to have left her. Impulsively, he puts his arms around her and draws her against him, gratified when she slips her arms around his waist in return and rests her head against his shoulder. In a quiet murmur, he says, "Thank you."
Grace looks up at him, a puzzled frown forming. "For…?"
He shrugs. "Just… for being you."
To Boyd's surprise, she doesn't tease him for his uncharacteristic sentimentality. Instead, she lowers her head again and says, "Everything will work itself out, you'll see. It always does in the end."
-oOo-
cont...