PART FIVE

Peter, Grace writes on the edge of the morning paper, and follows the name with four more: Gavin, Alison, Michael, Louise. Străjescu's five children. Five children, but only two of them with the same woman. Into the easy silence of a quiet Saturday morning, she calls, "It's strange, isn't it?"

From the next room comes the expected reply: "What is?"

"Mihail's… promiscuity." The word sounds prim and old-fashioned, but she can't think of a better alternative. "Everything I've read suggests that the Kalderash have some of the strongest and most deep-rooted traditions of any gypsy culture, particularly surrounding marriage and sexual behaviour, and yet…"

An unshaven, slightly unkempt Boyd appears in the connecting doorway, hands thrust deep into the hip pockets of jeans that might once have been black, but are now a worn and unremarkable grey. "He was perfectly happy to screw around?"

"Quite," she says, not bothering to chastise him for his bluntness. The jeans are paired with a casual shirt that sports an expensive designer label and fits him well enough for Grace to notice and keep noticing. It's a notable bright spot in an otherwise depressing morning.

"He was still a kid when he moved to this country," he reminds her, apparently unaware of her close scrutiny. "No reason for him to adopt traditional views and beliefs. Plenty of reasons to ditch them, in fact, I'd say."

"To give himself greater sexual freedom?" Grace guesses.

Boyd shrugs. "Maybe. Who knows? During the war everyone was shagging every chance they got just in case they didn't make it, and after the war – "

" – everyone was just so pleased to still be alive that they shagged whenever they could just for the hell of it?" she finishes for him. "To use your charming terminology."

Straight-faced, he says, "I'm sure history hasn't recorded it quite like that, but essentially, yeah. It was just all a bit more discreet in those days, wasn't it?"

"Nice girls didn't," she says, equally deadpan, "even though everyone knows that they did."

The grin he gives her is knowing. Engaging, too. "Exactly. One of those polite fictions that post-war British society would have fought to the death to maintain."

"He must have been quite a charmer. Mihail."

"Aren't we all?"

Snorting, Grace drums her fingers idly on the smooth surface of the breakfast bar, not really aware of doing so. "Do you have the feeling we're missing something? Something we haven't considered that should be blindingly obvious?"

"Regarding the case, you mean? Well, if we are, Christ knows what it is. Anyway, as of yesterday, isn't Carol our prime suspect?"

"It seems a bit too… tidy. Don't you think?"

"Deranged mother offs late partner's son to protect her daughter?"

"Yes," Grace agrees, adding, "and, by the way, there's no empirical evidence that Carol is, or ever was, deranged."

Boyd grunts, wanders towards her with the kind of nonchalance that immediately makes her suspicious. Changing the subject, he says, "Fancy a trip to Neasden?"

"Today?" she asks, surprised. When he nods, she asks, "What's at Neasden?"

"Not what," he tells her, "who."

-oOo-

"I've known that boy since he was just a babe in arms," Solomon says, as the 'boy' in question heads out of the room on what they all know is a fool's errand, a simple ploy to get him out of the way. He gives Grace a long, thoughtful look, one she returns with perfect composure. Apparently satisfied by what he sees, he continues, "His father was a good friend to me and my family for many years."

Suspecting that she is being thoroughly appraised, Grace nods. "I know, he told me."

"We were alone and destitute when we arrived in England," the old man tells her, "and frightened, too. Men like Douglas gave us back our faith in the basic goodness of human nature."

Looking at him, she wonders what secrets are hidden behind the mask of amiable eccentricity. What horrors he saw all those decades ago. More to further the conversation than anything else, she says, "You were born in Bucharest, I gather?"

"I was, like my father before me, and his father before him." He gives her another long, contemplative look. "And you, Doctor Grace? Where are you from? Yours is not a London accent, this I know."

"Lancashire, not far from Wigan, but I've lived here for almost thirty years now," she explains. Soloman nods, but doesn't comment on the information. Silence falls between them, not tense, but a little uncomfortable.

"Go ahead and ask your questions," he says quite suddenly, nodding towards the door, "while you've got the chance."

Amused, Grace asks, "Am I really that transparent?"

His gaze is sharp, intelligent. "My dear, if you had no questions to ask, I would wonder if you were the right sort of woman for him."

Not knowing how to react, she settles for saying, "I see."

"You don't want to know what he was like as a child?" Soloman inquires.

"Of course I do."

"But you are English, and therefore not sure that it's quite polite to ask?" he guesses.

"Possibly," Grace admits. He's right, of course.

"He was shy," Soloman says, surprising her. "Shy, quiet, and kind. A clever, thoughtful boy who loved his family and was loved by them in return. But there was another side to him. A darker side. He was obstinate, easily riled. Quick to get into fights with other boys. Difficult to punish, too. Defiant, you understand? Strong-willed. Not like James. James was just as mischievous, sometimes even more so, but he didn't have the wild streak that Peter did. But none of this is really news to you, is it? The boy grew into a man, but he didn't change very much, hm?"

Considering her words with care, Grace says, "He thinks it's Străjescu's fault. That the… less pleasant… side of his character is… some kind of unfortunate genetic inheritance."

"Maybe it is," Soloman says, watching her. "Who can tell? The question should be, does it matter? The measure of a man is how he lives, not how he's born. Douglas was frightened he'd become a delinquent. Instead, he became a police officer. We should have predicted that? Any of us? Ask your question, Grace; the one you really want to ask."

She doesn't remember the last time she was on the receiving end of such forthright perspicacity. It's strange, intimidating, and just a little bit intriguing. She thinks she could grow to like Soloman very much. "All right… how do I help him through this?"

He gives her a gentle smile. "You don't know the answer to that?"

"I… don't know."

"You give him what he needs. What he's needed his whole life. Love. Stability. A place to belong."

Bemused by the simplicity of his reply, she says, "Oh."

"But I think," Soloman says, still studying her with perceptive calm, "that you give him all those things already. Listen to an old man, Grace – you can't save him from himself. Only Petrică can do that."

"Petrică… Peter?" she guesses, struck by the sudden urge to laugh.

"A personal folly," he confides with what is very nearly a wink. As they both hear the sound of approaching footsteps outside the room, he gives her another long, thoughtful look and says, "Remember, bubeleh: the sins of the father are not always to be laid upon the children."

"Shakespeare," Grace says, distant memories of her schooldays stirring. "The Merchant of Venice."

"A misquote," Soloman admits, "but apposite, don't you think…?"

-oOo-

"Petrică," she says again, just to annoy him.

His attention on the road ahead, Boyd doesn't look at her. "Shut up, Grace."

"I like it. It's very…"

"I'm warning you."

Chuckling, she murmurs, "Petrică."

"It's not that bloody funny," he growls, slowing the car as they approach a busy junction. "And don't think I didn't notice the crafty old devil giving you a sneaky kiss goodbye."

Smug, Grace says, "I think he liked me."

He spares her a sideways look. "Well, of course he bloody did. As far as Solly's concerned, a man without a woman to boss him around is a shmendrik."

Grace doesn't ask him to clarify, decides context is enough. Instead, she asks, "Where are we going?"

"Epping."

Not the answer she was expecting. Sit up a little straighter, she asks, "What? Why?"

Boyd keeps his eyes on the road ahead. "Because I want to see for myself where they found him."

-oOo-

There's something about Epping Forest that Grace has never liked. Visually, it's no different to any other large stretch of broad-leafed woodland of its type. Nearly six thousand acres of trees and woodland plants, paths and clearings. A handful of ponds, too, and the stream that winds through it, forking east and west. Picturesque and tranquil, she still finds it an unsettling place to be, possibly due to its somewhat unfair reputation over the years as a premier deposition site for some of the most notorious London-based criminals. Even though it's a bright, clear afternoon, she makes sure she keeps up with Boyd's long-legged stride as they head north towards the approximate area where Michael Allen's remains were discovered by the inquisitive canine companion of an unwary walker. It's a foolish, superstitious unease, maybe, but it doesn't ebb at all as they move further and further from the road.

"Do we assume," she asks, wondering if they currently are the only people walking this particular section of path, "that there's at least some truth in what Summer said? That Michael was here voluntarily, looking for mushrooms? I mean, if his body was brought here in a vehicle, why go to all the effort – and risk – of carrying it all this way from the car park just to bury it a couple of hundred yards from the path?"

"I'm assuming nothing," Boyd tells her as he starts to gain ground, "but if you're asking me if I think that part of her story is plausible, then I'd have to say yes, all things considered."

"Fly agaric is poisonous," Grace ruminates, struggling to stay level with him.

"It is," he agrees, pausing to look around, as if getting his bearings.

"Though deaths from ingesting it are rare," she adds, following as he starts into motion again.

"You've been talking to Eve," he accuses, not looking round at her.

"Mm," Grace says, avoiding a low branch as they leave the footpath to veer west. "She thinks that if that's what he was doing, he was collecting them to take home to dry. Mushroom tea."

This time Boyd does glance back at her, eyebrows raised. "It worries me, the type of conversations you two seem to have whenever my back's turned."

Smirking at the possible implications, Grace continues, "Anyway… my point is, it's extremely unlikely he was out here simply eating them raw as he found them – "

"If he found them."

" – so it's also extremely unlikely that he died from some misfortune connected to the equivalent of a bad acid trip."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know, Grace," Boyd grumbles over his shoulder, "or haven't already been able to work out for myself."

Swatting at an unwelcome influx of small black flies, she says, "Just thinking aloud."

"Well don't," he orders, suddenly brusque as he quickens his pace even more. "Stating the bloody obvious every five minutes isn't going to help anyone."

Peeved by his tetchy response, Grace glowers at the back of his head and demands, "Do have to be quite so obnoxious? What on earth's the matter with you now?"

Boyd stops so suddenly that she almost collides with him. He surveys the small clearing they've reached, then turns, and his expression darkens as he says, "Take a wild guess. Come on, Grace, you're supposed to be the expert on human behaviour – what could possibly be the matter with me at this exact moment in time?"

Realising that their surroundings look at least vaguely familiar, she starts, "Boyd – "

"No," he snaps at her, stepping away. "Take a look around you. Notice anything familiar? That half-dead oak tree, for example? Or those two big beeches over there?"

"All right, all right," she says, trying to placate him. "It was a tactless thing to say, I'm sorry."

But it seems Boyd isn't in the mood to be mollified. "I take it you have actually bothered to look at the crime scene photographs, have you? You do know exactly where we are and what we're looking at, do you?"

"I'm sorry," Grace says again, striving for patience and calm. "Look – "

"This is where they found him," he barks at her, his voice getting louder and harsher with every word. "Right here in the middle of bloody nowhere. Buried under just eighteen inches of soil, the flesh rotted off his bones… My brother, Grace. My fucking brother."

It can only be her imagination, but just for a second Grace fancies she can feel every iota of his anger and agony. It seems to buffet her like an almost physical force, and it makes her take an involuntary step backwards. Again, she tries, "Boyd…"

"No," he roars, bleak with fury. "I don't want to hear it. No platitudes, no homilies, and no fucking psycho-babble."

The sheer amount of rage and frustration behind the bitter words frightens her, and it's that alien, unwelcome fear that makes Grace savage in defence as she hits back with, "Fine. Go ahead and enjoy wallowing in your guilt and self-pity, then. It's what you're best at, after all, isn't it?"

The frozen look on his face reminds her of another time, another bitter argument. Reminds her that for all his occasional rudeness and abrasive insensitivity, Boyd has never managed to wound her quite as spectacularly as she's wounded him in the past. He is impatient and intolerant, and he far too often speaks without thinking, especially when he's riled, but he doesn't have her sharp inclination and unrivalled ability to form such a brutal barb and drive it home with such surgical precision. Thoughtless and inconsiderate, yes; deliberately, wantonly cruel, never.

"Boyd…" she says again, contrite and ashamed, but also furious with him for pushing her to it, and furious with herself for not having the self-control to turn her back and walk away from his brittle antagonism.

"Get the hell away from me," he growls at her, suddenly taut, ominously quiet, and over-controlled. "Go on. Fuck off and leave me alone."

It's too easy, Grace realises, to fall into the trap of accepting his fierce temper and his wild unpredictability as mere eccentricities, albeit disagreeable rather than endearing ones. Too easy to embrace the gentler, kinder side of his nature and either wilfully ignore the more dangerous extremes of his temperament, or treat them as unpleasant foibles to which she is somehow miraculously immune. Too easy, in fact, to become complacent in his company, to forget that so much of his professional success and personal tragedy has been built on a ruthless, formidable refusal to behave in the manner expected of him.

Too easy, in short, to forget that the amiable friend, the gentle lover, has a much darker side, just as Soloman stated.

"Or…?" she challenges, her innate defiance pushing her through the unpleasant frisson of fear.

Boyd's hands are still at his sides, but his fists are tightly balled. "Go."

"No," Grace says, holding her ground even though her heart is now thumping wildly in her chest. Experience and training tell her to do everything she can to de-escalate the situation. Instinct tells her to meet him head on, to let him rage at her if that's what he needs to be able to let go of some of the conflicted tension inside him that's been building for days. Instinct wins. "Go on, then," she instructs, cold and calm, "have a tantrum. Kick something. Shout at me. Hit me. Go ahead – do whatever it is you're going to do, Boyd. Let's see what that 'bad blood' you're so convinced you've inherited is really capable of."

Provoking him is a dangerous strategy, and she knows it. Boyd doesn't speak, doesn't move, but although he's a good six feet away from her, Grace is certain he's shaking. Shaking with rage, or shaking with the sheer effort of controlling himself, she doesn't know. It's both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing on a big open plain in the middle of a thunderstorm, waiting for the lightning that must surely strike her.

When she's absolutely sure the most dangerous moment has passed and he's not going to move, she risks speaking again, her tone much, much softer, "See? You can't do it, can you? When it comes down to it, you're incapable of crossing that final line. Because you're a good man, Peter. Your own man. Not Străjescu's son or Douglas's. You're just you."

"Fucking psychologists." The anger's gone from his voice. Instead, he sounds shaky, lost. Almost – though it can't possibly be the case – on the verge of tears.

"It's okay," Grace soothes, taking a tentative step towards him. "Let go of it. They're dead. The past is dead. It's just you now, and whatever you want to be."

"I've spent my entire life fighting, Grace," he declares, seeming to rally. "Fighting for recognition, fighting for justice, fighting for a place in the bloody world. And if there was ever a moment when there was nothing to fight, I'd look and keep looking until I found something."

"I know." Another careful step towards him. "But it's pointless. You're never going to win, because the enemy you're fighting – the thing that makes you so angry – isn't injustice, or prejudice, or other people, it's fear. The overwhelming, crippling fear that lives inside you. You're afraid, Peter. Afraid of yourself. Afraid of all the things about yourself that you don't understand, and of all the things that you do."

Without warning, his body slumps. He remains standing, but his shoulders are dropped and his head is low. He doesn't look at her as he says, "Don't, Grace."

"Do you know why I decided to study psychology?" she asks, and when there's no response, she continues, "I'll tell you, shall I? Initially it wasn't because I thought I wanted to help people, or because I thought I could perhaps empathise with them. It was simply because I'd become fascinated by the extraordinary complexity of human behaviour. Being able to explain why people do what they do, being able to predict what they're likely to do… it intrigued me."

Boyd does not look up as he grinds out, "Get to the damned point."

"As a psychologist, I look at people," Grace tells him, "and first I ask myself, 'what are they doing?' and 'why are they doing it?'"

"Grace…"

"Then I ask myself, 'what would they do if…?'" she continues. "And finally, at least in a clinical setting, 'what could be done to help modify their behaviour?'." Shrugging, she finishes, "That's what psychology is, Boyd. Not some mystical dark art to be feared and avoided at all costs."

"You're not my therapist."

"So you've told me. Often." She sighs, quiet and weary. "You're one of the most unpredictable people I know, which frequently makes answering the third question difficult. And as for the fourth… Look, in the end it's as simple as this: do you want to stop fighting? Or, at least, be able to pick and choose your battles? If the answer's yes, then the first step is to learn to recognise how your… inner conflict… informs your behaviour."

"Fuck's sake," Boyd mutters, finally looking at her, but he sounds thoroughly defeated, as if he simply doesn't have a single scrap of energy left for confrontation. "I don't need to see a shrink, okay?"

"Then accept yourself for what you are," she orders. "It's the only way you're ever going to find any peace."

"I don't know what I am, that's the bloody problem," he growls, his genuine frustration quite clear. "Eldest son of a respectable middle-class solicitor, or illegitimate fucking gypsy kid from the East End?"

"Neither," Grace tells him, closing what's left of the gap between them and daring to put her arms around him, "and both."

-oOo-

"Mind the bus," a tetchy Boyd orders from the passenger seat of his beloved little classic sports car. "Christ, Grace, be bloody careful, will you?"

"I was miles away from it," she claims, which they both know is a gross exaggeration. "Stop heckling, for heaven's sake. I'm perfectly capable of getting us safely home without a running commentary from you, thank you."

He makes a disparaging noise, but lapses into sullen silence, leaving Grace to wonder if insisting on taking the wheel was really as good idea as it had seemed when they'd finally returned to the woodland car park. Like its owner, the little roadster may look good, but has its own unique quirks and isn't particularly easy to handle. That Boyd actually handed over the keys on request speaks volumes about his current state of mind. Or maybe, she thinks, he was simply too tired to argue. Either way, she's now – literally – in the driving seat, and is thoroughly enjoying the novelty. If only he was a better passenger…

His phone starts to ring, and she half expects him to order her to stop the car. He doesn't. Instead, he answers its summons with a terse, "Boyd."

Get him home, get some food into him, and make him relax, that's her plan. It's gone six o'clock now, and lunch was a quick and meagre affair, after all. Feed him, relax him. Yes.

"Yeah," Boyd says into his phone. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know, Spence."

She risks a quick, interrogative frown in his direction, but he shakes his head as he continues to listen to whatever it is he's being told. Grace doesn't miss the fractional tightening of his jaw, the way he takes on the familiar brooding expression that never, ever bodes well. Concentrating on the road and the traffic, she shoots him the occasional worried glance, trying to work out what's going on from his mainly monosyllabic side of the conversation. When he says a curt farewell to his subordinate and returns his phone to his pocket, she asks, "Well? What's happened?"

"Carol Kemp's dead," he tells her, staring straight ahead. "Cardiac arrest."

Shocked, Grace slows the car. "What? When?"

"This afternoon at the hospital," he says. "They did everything they could, but…"

"Louise…?"

"Has been informed. Jesus, just when you think things can't get any fucking worse…"

Spying a safe place to pull the little car into the kerb and stop, Grace does so. For a moment neither of them says anything. Looking down at the steering wheel with its distinctive central lightning bolt, she wrestles with a powerful and unpleasant surge of guilt. She says, "If Spence and I hadn't gone back to interview her a second time…"

Boyd turns his head to look at her. "It's not your fault."

"Why do I feel so guilty, then?" she demands.

He doesn't offer an answer, just says, "Louise has asked to make a statement. Spence says DCI Llewellyn's mob have been told to do it. Orders from on high."

"Fuck," Grace says, startling herself. It's been a long, difficult afternoon… and now this. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Boyd regards her with quiet, impassive calm. "Want me to drive?"

-oOo-

The little cared-for rectangle of lawn at the rear of Boyd's house isn't much of a garden. No flowerbeds, no character. A tree or two, and a few hardy shrubs on the boundaries by the gently listing fence panels, a garden shed full of the usual clutter, and the forlorn, long-abandoned garden soccer goal that she suspects he will never have the heart to dismantle. The tubular metal posts are rusting, and the net is dirty and fraying, but it's still there, still exactly where it was placed and staked down the very last time father and son set it up heaven knows how many years ago. A mournful reminder that the house and its garden was once an ordinary, happy family home. Sitting on the stone steps that lead down to the unmown grass, Grace lets her melancholy thoughts wander where they will, not bothering to fight them. The sky is still darkening, and the temperature is still dropping, but she barely notices. Too much to think about.

She doesn't hear the back door open, and she jumps when Boyd appears next to her and settles on the same step. Without a word, he hands her a mug that contains an indeterminate brown liquid that's giving off gentle wisps of steam. Coffee, she realises from the distinctive aroma. Giving him a wan smile of thanks, she sips it cautiously. Not too hot, not too sweet. Decaffeinated, no doubt, given the hour. Sighing, she says, "All the successes we've had over the years, and in the end it's only the failures that ever really stay with us, isn't it?"

"Failure might be overstating the case a little at this point," Boyd says. Consciously or not, he puts a heavy, reassuring arm around her shoulders. She doesn't know if he's offering warmth or comfort, or both. "Grace, you couldn't possibly have predicted that Carol would do what she did. You said yourself that she seemed very normal, that she had no history of mental health problems."

"We guessed something wasn't quite right, though, didn't we?"

"You're still not to blame," he insists.

"So if Spence and I hadn't interviewed her about Michael, she'd still have taken an overdose, would she?"

"You did your job, Grace. That's all. If there was some deep-hidden secret that she felt she couldn't live with if it came out into the open… well, that's not your fault, is it?"

He's trying to be kind, she knows, and the rational part of her mind knows that he's right – but it doesn't help much. Looking down into her mug, she says, "And Louise? This statement she wants to make?"

She feels Boyd shrug. "Who knows? Maybe Summer was telling the truth after all, and Carol did kill Michael."

"In which case…"

He groans. "Don't say it, Grace."

"If we'd believed her and arrested Carol – "

" – there's still no guarantee that she'd be alive now," he finishes for her. "This is all pure speculation. All we can do is wait."

"Oh, I know. I just feel so… helpless."

"It's frustrating, I know," Boyd agrees, "but for now it's completely out of our hands, so the best thing we can do is try not to dwell on it. Any of it."

"When did you turn into the reasonable, sensible one?" Grace asks, raising her eyebrows at him.

A soft snort and, "About five hours ago, when someone not too far away gave me a long and irate lecture about needing to learn how to accept things and move on."

"I wasn't irate," she argues. "Not by that point."

"If you say so." Boyd gets to his feet, holds out a hand to her. "Come on, it's getting cold out here, and I, for one, am looking forward to an early night."

The idea has considerable appeal, but… "Would you be terribly offended if I said I really wasn't in the mood for – "

"God's sake," he interrupts, disgust clear in his tone. "What sort of man do you take me for?"

"I think we both know the answer to that," Grace says, letting him help her upright.

"Be that as it may," he grumbles, "I'm not in the bloody mood, either. Nothing about today has been conducive to thoughts of that nature. You can stay up all night brooding if you want to, Grace, but I'm going to bed. To sleep."

-oOo-

"It's quite romantic when you think about it," she says into the quiet darkness. Trying not to think about Carol or Louise Kemp has taken her mind along a new and meandering path. When there's no response from her supine companion, she clarifies, "Gypsy ancestry. It's quite romantic."

"Oh, God." A loud, irritable sigh. "Will you please stop wittering and go to sleep?"

"Well it is."

"Shut up, Grace."

"But – "

"Not an appropriate subject for flippancy, okay?" Boyd tells her. "Not at the moment. Maybe not ever."

Not at all intimidated by the implicit rebuke, Grace settles deeper under the covers and listens for a moment to the sound of a small-engined motorcycle being noisily revved in the street just outside the house. Boyd's neighbour's teenaged son, she assumes. The tall, lanky one with the cheeky grin and the all-black wardrobe. Thoughts starting to wander again, she asks, "Do you remember the McDonaghs?"

"Well, of course I bloody do," he growls next to her. "And if this conversation's going where I think it's going…"

She ignores the implied warning. "Nana McDonagh read my cards for me, did you know that? The night they burned Davy's caravan."

"One wise old crone to another, sort of thing?" Boyd inquires, the smirk she can't see quite clear in his voice.

Aiming for the nearest bare shin, Grace kicks him hard and without compunction before continuing, "She has a gift."

"Yeah, a gift for parting fools with their money, no doubt," he says, edging away from her. "Did she ask you to cross her palm with silver?"

Rolling over onto her side to peer at what she can see of him in the gloom, Grace shakes her head. "You're so cynical, Boyd. And no, she didn't. She offered to do it as a thank you, and I accepted."

"Let me guess," he challenges, "she told you there was a tall dark handsome stranger in your future?"

"If she had, it wouldn't have been you, would it?" Grace says, not prepared to miss such a good opportunity. With what she considers perfect timing, she adds a reflective, "Though you are quite tall, I suppose, and considerably stranger than a lot of men I know."

Boyd's reply is a model of restraint. "Is there a point to this, or are you just rambling to annoy me?"

Chuckling to herself for a moment, she sobers and says, "Afterwards, Nana said something about you that made no sense at the time. It was just a passing reference, something about – "

"Don't want to hear it," he interrupts, and his tone is suddenly so sharp and so brusque that Grace knows that he means it. Less harsh, he continues, "Just leave it alone and let me deal with things in my own time and in my own way, will you?"

"All right," she allows. "But – "

"No 'buts', Grace. Subject closed, okay?"

"Okay, okay," she murmurs, still thinking about Nana McDonagh and that strange, slightly surreal night. Flames in the woods, the barking of dogs, the smell of campfires and cooking. The eerie, respectful silence as the last burning panels of the caravan collapsed in on themselves. A way of life she doesn't understand, but finds far from repellent. Into the calm silence that has fallen between them she says, "If you wanted to go to Bucharest…"

Boyd's reply is quick, but not aggressive. "I don't."

"At some point in the future, I mean. If you ever wanted to go, I'd go with you. If you wanted me to."

Another silence, not as long as the first, then, "Why?"

"Because I love you," she explains patiently, "and that means I want to support you."

"Oh." More silence, then a gruff, "You were right, you know, Grace. When you said all this… extended family stuff… was going to have a profound effect on me, whether I liked it or not."

"I won't say 'I told you so'."

His reply is immediate. "Good. Now, can we please go to sleep?"

-oOo-

She dreams of Linda. Dreams of that terrible day that's never quite going to leave her. Sometimes, in her dreams, Boyd and Spencer arrive too late to save her, and the very last thing she's aware of as her life is stolen away is the cold, evil beauty of Linda Cummings. Sometimes the end never comes, and she writhes in endless agony as the poison continuously burns through her veins. However the dreams go, she always wakes feeling cold, clammy, and half-suffocated.

Today is no different. The fine details of the horror are already fading as Grace blinks awake, heart-pounding, to find that it's morning and thin slices of sunlight are lancing into the room through narrow gaps in the heavy curtains. The fear retreats rapidly, as it almost always does when exposed to the bright light of reality and normality, leaving just a faint shadow of itself in her mind. Turning her head, her gaze seeks out her companion. Mostly buried, all she can really see of him is ruffled, untidy spikes of silver hair and one mysteriously out-flung arm. It's enough to help soothe her into quiet reflection.

That Boyd has turned some sort of corner in his restless pursuit of the truth about Străjescu, she has no doubt. Perhaps the painful visit to Epping Forest was the catalyst. To stand where the skeletal remains of his brother – half-brother – were found… To stand there, and actually listen to her instead of deliberately evading what she had to say… maybe that was the key moment. The moment when he found some sort of equilibrium, some sort of acceptance. He will process things in his own way, she knows, and if that proves not to be the way she'd recommend, well, at least he will do it.

"Are you awake?" Grace whispers, not wanting to rouse him if he's still deeply asleep.

An muffled noise answers her, followed by a hazy, "Mm."

It's her cue to ease against him, to cuddle up against his broad, warm back and place a gentle kiss on his shoulder. Affectionate rather than sensual. "I think we should get out of the city for the day," she tells him. "Go down to the coast, maybe. Just get completely away for a few hours. Tomorrow is going to be… difficult."

"Mm," Boyd mutters again. He's not a great conversationalist when he's only just awake. Always interested in talking, his reticence frustrates her sometimes.

"Or," she says, knowing how to get his attention, "we could just stay in bed all day and…" Instead of finishing the sentence, Grace kisses his shoulder again, reaches up to run her fingers through his tousled hair. It has the desired effect. He rolls over onto his back, still a little sleep-befuddled, but clearly willing to enter into the spirit of things.

And that, of course, is when his phone starts to ring.

-oOo-

The woman who meets them outside the nursing home strikes Grace as unremarkable. It's not a malicious judgement, not at all, but she's the sort of woman who disappears easily in a crowd. Not exactly mousey, not exactly unattractive. Just… ordinary. She could be a school secretary, a doctor's receptionist, or perhaps the assistant manager of a minor branch of some sprawling retail chain. The only thing about her that really catches Grace's attention is – of course – her deep, dark eyes. Not quite the same shape, but exactly the same colour, and with exactly the same tendency to look more hazel than chocolate brown in direct sunlight. Alison Price, Ruby Chapman's daughter.

"I'm so sorry," she says again, when the greetings and introductions are over. "I feel terrible dragging you both over here on a Sunday morning, but… Well, to be honest, I simply had no idea what else to do."

"It's absolutely fine," Grace assures her, the frustrated annoyance she felt when the call came now long forgotten. "We hadn't made any plans for the day."

The irascible sideways look Boyd gives her tells its own story, but he quickly refocuses his attention and asks, "How is she now?"

"Much calmer," Alison acknowledges, "but if you could have heard her an hour ago…"

"And the description the staff gave you of her unexpected visitor fits Louise Kemp?"

"Perfectly," she confirms. "I mean, it's been years since I actually saw her, but yes. I'm certain it was her, Peter."

"I don't disbelieve you," Boyd says, "but although your mother was clearly very upset by whatever was said to her, there's nothing the police can do about it. No offence has been committed."

"That's why I called you and not the local police station," Alison says. "The things she's saying… I just don't know what to make of them. I mean, yes she rambles sometimes, and she often forgets things, but I've never heard her say anything like this."

Boyd's patience is ebbing, Grace can see. It's confirmed when he demands, "Like what?"

Alison blinks, as if taken aback by his brusqueness. "She's saying… she's saying Gavin was responsible for Michael's death."

"Gavin?" Grace says, casting a startled, questioning look at Boyd. "She actually said that? That your brother killed Michael?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Alison shakes her head, her face a study in quiet misery. "Not exactly. Half of what she's saying doesn't make any sense to me at all. She thought I was her sister, Ivy. Kept asking me where dad was. She's so confused…"

-oOo-

"I suspect," Grace murmurs to Boyd, as the three of them reach the door to the dayroom, "that it's highly likely that she's going to mistake you for Mihail. If she does…"

"Play along," he replies. "Yeah, I know."

Next to him, Alison has stopped. She's looking at the open door, an indecipherable expression on her face. Grace touches her arm. "All right?"

"If you don't mind," Alison says, her voice unnaturally thin and high, "I think I'll go and wait outside. Is that all right?"

"Of course," Grace tells her, before Boyd can say anything. "We'll have a chat with her, then come and find you."

"Thank you." A small, grateful smile. "I hate seeing her like this."

"Perfectly understandable. Don't worry – we'll be as sensitive as we can be."

"Or not," Boyd mutters under his breath, so low that only Grace can hear him. She scowls at him, but doesn't say anything as Alison nods, turns and walks away. When she disappears around the corner of the corridor, he adds at normal volume, "'Sensitive'?"

Grace rolls her eyes. "If we had more time, I'd attempt to explain the concept to you in words of one syllable. As it is… just try not to lose your temper, Boyd. Shouting at a confused old lady won't achieve anything."

"Noted. Come on, then."

The only occupant of the dayroom is a tiny, white-haired old woman who's sitting in front of a large television. The sound is muted, and on the screen two excitable young men seem to be cooking some kind of exotic foreign dish that features something that looks rather too much like squid to be appetising. The elderly woman's stare is fixed and vacant, but her lips move continuously, forming silent words. Grace casts a quick glance at Boyd, and he nods, answering her unspoken question. Ruby Chapman.

They advance together, quiet and slow. It's Boyd who ventures, "Ruby…?"

She looks round, and Grace is immediately struck by her pale blue-grey eyes. They look washed out, as if old age has stolen away most of their colour. A puzzled frown forms on the lined features. "Mick…?"

Boyd's reply is soft. "Hello, Ruby."

"Where've you been?" she demands, suddenly querulous. "I've been waiting for you for hours."

Boyd perches on the edge of the chair next to her. "Sorry. I had things to do."

"Macdonald's looking for you," she declares, absolute conviction in her tone, "so wherever you've been, it wasn't down the docks. You've been with her again, haven't you?"

"No, I was…" Boyd starts, but seems to run out of inspiration.

Grace attempts to rescue him with, "Hello, Ruby."

The faded eyes settle on her without surprise or curiosity. "I told you he'd turn up eventually, didn't I, Ivy? Bad pennies always do."

"I've been talking to Alison," Grace says, sitting down on the chair next to Boyd's. "She said you were a bit upset."

"Alison?"

"Your daughter," she encourages. "She told me you had a visitor this morning."

"One of his bastard children," Ruby agrees, with a vehemence and a clarity that's starling. She glares at Boyd, but doesn't say anything further.

"Louise," Grace says. "Carol's daughter."

The response is immediate and angry. "That little tart! Thinks she's so much better than everyone else. Didn't stop her dropping her knickers for him at the back of the Coach and Horses, did it? Nine months later, and she's not so smug."

It's evident that Ruby's focus is far more on Carol than on Louise. Quiet and patient, Grace says, "Her daughter Louise came to see you today, didn't she? Alison said she said some things that upset you."

"He's not a bad boy," Ruby retorts, looking from Grace to Boyd and back. "My Gavin. Drinks too much like his pathetic excuse for a father, but he's not a bad boy. That wife of his only got what she deserved when he caught her with her fancy man. A lot of fuss over nothing, it was."

Eighteen months in Wormwood Scrubs, Grace thinks. Hardly 'a lot of fuss over nothing'. She says, "Ruby, do you remember Michael?"

"Mihail?" the old woman says, her gaze straying towards Boyd again.

"Michael," he says, which only seems to confuse Ruby even further.

Grace tries, "Michael and Louise?"

A definite glimmer of comprehension appears in the pale eyes. "He denied it. I asked him flat out, and he denied it. Said there must be something wrong with me to think such a terrible thing."

"Michael?" Grace queries. She hopes Boyd will restrain his impatience long enough for her to make some progress.

Ruby nods without hesitation. "I told him no good would come of it, Ivy, and he said I was imagining things. But I saw the way he looked at her. Like father, like son. A pretty young thing in a short skirt, and there's only one thought in their damned heads." Her gaze shifts, moves back to Boyd. She looks puzzled as she asks, "I know you, don't I? June's boy, is it? Nicholas?"

Grace glances at Boyd, but his expression doesn't change, remains impassive as he asks, "What did Louise say to you this morning, Ruby?"

Ruby frowns. "I told her – my Gavin's a good boy. He doesn't mess around with drugs. It wasn't his fault. They shouldn't have got him involved. He's a good boy at heart, everyone knows that."

Deciding to follow a hunch, Grace leans forward a little and says in a quiet, almost conspiratorial way, "But easily led?"

"That Michael with his silly flute and his hippie clothes… I kept telling him to leave my boy alone, but he didn't listen. They were brothers, he said. Brothers, indeed! No bastard child is going to be a brother to my son, that's what I told him." Ruby shakes her head. "No good will come of it, I said, you mark my words. And then there's my Alison to worry about… what if she decides to take up with them? Where's Mick? I need Mick. He'll knock some sense into them."

The wandering narrative isn't getting them anywhere, Grace decides. Still quiet, she says, "Ruby, can you – "

"Mick…?" Ruby says, her attention snapping back to Boyd. "Mick, where have you been?"

Boyd reaction is unexpected. Voice hard, he growls: "Care l-a omorât pe Michael?"

The intonation tells Grace that he's asking a question, and of course she recognises the name, but –

"It was an accident," Ruby blurts out, looking old and tired and frightened. "It was an accident, Mick. Just a terrible, terrible accident…"

-oOo-

"Solly," Boyd says in answer to her question as they stand together in the nursing home's small rear garden, watching the two uniformed officers talking earnestly to Alison. "He was around a lot when we were kids."

"I'm impressed," Grace admits.

He shrugs. "Don't be. Monkey see, monkey do."

"I had no idea you had such a good ear for languages."

"There you go," Boyd tells her. "All this time, and you don't know everything about me."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that," she admits, both dry and conciliatory.

"Besides," he admits after a moment, "I had a little help, thanks to modern technology. Amazing what you can learn using a smartphone while you're impatiently waiting for someone else to get ready."

Grace shakes her head. "Most people just want to ask things like 'where's the nearest restaurant?' in a foreign language, Boyd. Not be able to ask who killed someone."

He regards her with impassive calm. "I'm a copper, Grace."

"Yes," she agrees. "Yes, you are."

Not the son of a Scottish solicitor or a Romanian gypsy, she thinks, but simply Peter Boyd, a tough, hard-working London copper who walked into her life at a crowded crime scene one cold winter morning too long ago to think about, and never really went away.

-oOo-

cont...