TWO

Despite being a little late, Grace expects Boyd to greet her with sheepish courtesy when she arrives for work the next morning. It's one of his usual tactics once he's had time to calm down and think things through for himself. A Boydian version of the traditional olive branch, one that sometimes comes with an unrequested cup of coffee in place of a verbal apology. Maybe he might have done exactly that if she hadn't walked into the squad room to find a maelstrom of activity taking place around him. From the new scribbles on the evidence board and the way Boyd is barking rapid orders at Stella and Spencer, Grace gathers that some kind of breakthrough has been made on the stalled multiple-murder case that has been thwarting the team's best efforts for days. Instead of a tacit apology, her greeting from him is little more than a hand half-raised in acknowledgement as he continues to harangue Stella who seems to be making quick phone call after quick phone call. It's hardly ideal, but at least it allows Grace to retreat to her office without a cold sense of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. By the time he's got a moment to think about more than the investigation Boyd will either have completely forgotten the preceding night's stinging exchange of words or he'll be too preoccupied with something else to revisit it. She won't get her apology, but at least the tension between them will dissipate harmlessly.

"Grace…?" Spencer appears in the doorway of her office, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Spence." She looks up at him expectantly. "You've made some progress?"

He nods. "Boyd found something in the files at stupid o'clock this morning. Looks like Fenton had a cousin who was handed down some serious time for a series of armed robberies back in the 'nineties. Gun used to kill a security guard was never recovered."

Grace stares at him in astonishment, not knowing how such an obvious link could have remained hidden for so long. "You're kidding? Why didn't we know this before?"

Spencer half-shrugs. "Guy died in prison six years ago and apparently it didn't occur to Stella to cross-reference Fenton with the Home Office's record of deceased prisoners."

"Ah," she says, beginning to understand, "hence all the aggrieved shouting."

"In one," he confirms, his brief answering smile wry. "Grace, I hate to ask, but have you got five minutes to take this stuff up to Eve? She's flat out up there and…"

She takes pity on him and takes the proffered pages. It's no hardship, and she suspects the atmosphere in the lab is considerably calmer than the current one in the squad room. Escaping the tendrils of Boyd's frenetic energy before he decides to come barrelling into her office to expound his latest theories doesn't seem like a bad idea at all.

-oOo-

"Is it still kicking off down there?" is Eve's opening gambit after a brief exchange of pleasantries.

Grace nods and settles herself on the nearest lab stool, resting her elbows on the workbench. "Judging by the volume and the amount of chaos, I'd say Fenton's going to be getting a knock on the door sooner rather than later."

"He's a happy man, then."

"Fenton?"

"Boyd."

She grimaces. "I wouldn't go quite that far."

Perhaps something in her voice betrays her because Eve's answering look is sharp and speculative. "Oh…?"

She sighs, glad to be able to share at least something of her concerns. "I think it's going to be a long time before we can safely say he's a happy man, Eve."

The younger woman moves across to the vent above the workbench, produces a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her lab coat and proceeds to light one. Exhaling, she says, "All right, I'll bite. What's on your mind, Grace?"

Perspicacity. Not just scholarly intellect, but a focused sort of intuition, too. Grace admires that about her colleague. It's one of the many reasons they've become good friends in the last couple of years. Careful not to say too much, she responds, "Have you noticed anything… odd… about him just recently?"

Eve snorts. "How could anyone tell? Odder than usual, you mean?"

Restraining a smile, Grace nods. "Exactly that."

"Not really. I mean, he's been a bit moody, but I just assumed it was to do with… you know."

"Luke."

A shrug, far more uncomfortable than dismissive. "Yeah. Parents aren't supposed to have to bury their kids, are they? I can't imagine what it would be like, having to go through that."

"Plenty do. It's a hard world, Eve."

"You won't hear any argument from me on that score." Eve continues to gaze at her with unwavering intensity. "So, come on, Grace, what's this all about? Have you had words or something?"

Grace almost sighs. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not to the casual observer." A deep inhalation is followed by a blissful exhalation. The resulting smoke curls lazily towards the vent and then is whisked briskly away. "I thought things were a lot better between you two?"

"They are," Grace confirms. It's true, and one difference of opinion, no matter how sensitive the underlying issue, won't fundamentally change things, she knows that. They've been through too much together, she and Boyd. The foundations of their friendship are solid. Aren't they?

"So?" Eve prompts. "What aren't you telling me?"

She can't risk telling Eve the truth, however heavily it's weighing on her. The potential consequences for Boyd if the rumour mill grinds into action to ruthlessly distort truth and half-truth are simply too great. It's not in Grace's nature to be evasive, but she replies, "It's nothing. Probably just me being silly."

Eve looks sceptical. "Yeah, right. Now I know I should be worried. What's he done?"

…this time. Grace hears the unspoken codicil quite clearly. Sometimes that much-admired perspicacity can be… awkward. Certainly when she finds herself on the receiving end of it. Eve just seems to have an uncanny ability to see straight through all her defences to the place where all the hidden things she doesn't dare openly admit even to herself lurk. "I just think," she says carefully, "that we shouldn't fall into the trap of underestimating the profound impact that Luke's death has had on him."

"Thank you, Doctor Foley," Boyd's loud voice says from the doorway, making both of them jump. "Your concern is duly noted."

Damned automatic laboratory doors. Sometimes they work flawlessly, sometimes they don't. She should have checked that they closed properly behind her and then he wouldn't have been able to suddenly appear behind them without any prior warning. As Eve hastily grinds out her half-smoked cigarette, Grace turns guiltily on her lab stool. "Boyd – "

The haughty look he gives her, cold and closed, freezes the words in her throat. He stalks towards them, everything about his posture suggesting he is not in the mood to listen to anything either of them might have to say unless it directly concerns Alex Fenton. He addresses Eve. "I need the ballistics, and I need them yesterday."

"I'm working on it," is the calm reply. "All I can tell you at the moment is that I can't exclude the possibility that the same weapon was used in both the armed robberies and the murders."

"Gut instinct?" he presses.

"I can't exclude the possibility that the same weapon was used," Eve repeats.

Boyd's glare expands to encompass both women. "That evil little bastard abducted, raped, tortured and shot all four of those poor bloody women, and we all know it. We've all known it for days. All I need is reasonable grounds and I can go and put his door in today without pissing about trying to get a warrant."

"I can't magic results out of thin air just to please you," Eve retorts, but she pushes a printed piece of paper towards him. "The bullets recovered from the scenes of the armed robberies were all nine millimetre Parabellum FMJs, just like the bullets used in the Southwark murders. It'll take time to establish if they were all fired from the same gun."

"But they could have been?"

"They could, but that's not saying much."

Boyd grunts and turns on his heel. He is already striding towards the door when he looks over his shoulder and growls, "Grace. A word."

-oOo-

There's not much space between them, hardly surprising given the restricted width of the gloomy corridor, and it infuriates Grace that she's forced to look up at him as he castigates her. The unfairness of his sharp rebuke is not as wounding as his apparent belief that she would so easily betray him. When Boyd pauses for breath she hits back with, "And you really think I'd tell Eve about the anti-depressants, do you? Thanks, Boyd. Thanks a lot."

She sees the words impact on him, sees the slight frown that suggests he's suddenly not quite so sure of himself. Angry though she is, something about his expression, weary and a little lost, makes Grace wish she could simply put her arms around him and whisper gentle reassurances into his ear. The dichotomy of their entire relationship laid bare – antagonism and affection, both pulling in opposite directions with no clear victor in sight to bring an end the perpetual struggle. Boyd clears his throat, a rough and loud noise in the narrow space. "Yeah, well… Maybe I jumped to the wrong conclusion…"

The admission is uncharacteristic – very much so – but Grace is too angry with him to pay much attention. "'Maybe'? Oh, you're priceless sometimes, you really are. Don't you think if I was going to tell anyone it would have been the DAC himself?"

His attitude changes, hardens again. "Do you know what would happen if you did? They'd haul me into a meeting at the Yard and at the very least they'd put me on bloody gardening leave. Is that what you want, Grace?"

"Of course not." Trying to defuse the situation Grace continues, "Boyd, I'm worried about you, that's all. For God's sake, anti-depressants? You? The man who thinks all psychiatrists are witch doctors and that psychotherapy is nothing more than voodoo? How can I not be worried sick when I find out you're taking something like paroxetine?"

"I'm not."

Confused, she asks, "What?"

"I'm not. Taking paroxetine. Threw the whole damn lot away last night. So now you don't have to worry, do you?"

Grace stares at him. "You…? What on earth did you do that for? You can't just suddenly stop taking that sort of drug, Boyd. You have to reduce the dose gradually to prevent all sorts of withdrawal problems."

"I feel fine."

Her irritation is mounting again. "Of course you do – at the moment. The half-life…" She breaks off, pauses, then starts again. "Look, if you want to stop taking them, let me ask a friend of mine what sort of gradual reduction he'd recommend and – "

Boyd's chin lifts a fraction. "It's done, Grace. Finished. So you don't need to go running to the DAC's office to tell tales."

"Why do you think I'd do that? To you, of all people?"

Again, he looks uncertain, as if he's not quite sure whether or not to trust what his instincts tell him. "Grace – "

"No," she interrupts, a strong swell of anger flowing through her. "I'm sick and tired of this. All the bickering and the not-quite accusations. Do whatever you want, Boyd, I don't care anymore."

It's a long way from the truth, of course, but Boyd looks as if she's just slapped him. Not angry, just coldly shocked, as if he can't quite process her words. It takes him a moment, but before Grace can say anything else, he grinds out, "Fine. Well, at least that's settled. Now, do you want to flounce off home in a sulk, or do you want to talk about that murdering bastard Fenton?"

-oOo-

Years of bitter experience, and she still doesn't know why Boyd gets further and faster under her skin than anyone else. None of the obvious reasons seem to explain the phenomenon quite well enough. Yes, he can be – is – an unusually aggravating man, and yes, part of the reason he infuriates her so much is undoubtedly tied to her unfortunate and only half-acknowledged attraction to him, but –

A sudden surge of noise and activity beyond her closed office door interrupts Grace's dark reverie. She turns just in time to see Boyd heading at speed past the glazed partition that affords her a limited view of the squad room. He's already wearing his long topcoat and it gives his departing figure a dramatic silhouette as he disappears from sight. Stella is following him at a fast trot, calling something back to Spencer as she goes. It's the sort of thing Grace has witnessed dozens of times before – the Met's Cold Case Unit suddenly on the move to take down a promising suspect – but it still causes a flood of adrenaline to rush through her. She's on her feet and at the door before she knows it, opening it just in time to step out in front of Spencer who is also heading for the flight of stone steps that leads up to the rest of the building.

"What's happening?" Grace demands.

"Fenton," is the terse reply. "We're going to pick him up."

"Mob-handed?"

"If he's got a gun in the house…"

"Point taken. Wait, just let me get my coat."

Spencer moves to push past her. "Sorry, Grace, your name wasn't on the guest list."

"It's just been added," she tells him.

-oOo-

Boyd's big silver Audi is several cars ahead of them, weaving haphazardly through the midday London traffic, and when the normally concealed blue strobes are suddenly switched on Grace can only imagine how close he is to losing his temper with the drivers around him. Next to her, Spencer curses under his breath and follows Boyd's example, switching on his own car's lights. It doesn't seem to help much – blue lights and sirens are no novelty in the big busy city. Gripping the passenger door handle hard, she says, "Keep an eye on Boyd, Spence. I don't think he's in the best frame of mind to be dealing with Fenton."

He doesn't take his eyes off the road ahead. "Man's guilty as sin, Grace. I'm not going to lose any sleep if Boyd roughs him up a little for resisting arrest."

"I just don't want things to get out of hand. You know what he's like. If things go too far…"

This time Spencer spares her a quick glance. "Oh, don't worry; I won't let the bad-tempered old bugger beat the living shit out of him."

"And don't let him catch you calling him that, Spence, or it won't be just Fenton catching it."

He grins. "Last time Boyd actually clipped me round the ear I was still a DC, Grace, and the CCU wasn't even a twinkle in Ralph Christie's eye."

She chuckles despite herself. "I bet you deserved it, though."

"Probably, but I was – " Spencer breaks off. "Jesus. Where the fuck's he going?"

"Shortcut?" Grace guesses as the silver car ahead suddenly veers down a side street and disappears from view. "Put your foot down."

She's right, because less than five minutes later they come to a smooth halt behind Boyd's car, artfully parked behind a large high-sided delivery van that she guesses will prevent it from being seen from the grimy windows of the shabby house at the end of the run-down old Victorian terrace. Releasing her seatbelt, Grace is out of the car before Boyd spots her. He does not look pleased when he does, glaring at Spencer to ask, "What the hell's she doing here?"

"She," Grace says before their colleague can answer, "is doing her job, which, in this case, is to advise the officers she works with on the likely behaviour of a suspect."

Boyd does not look impressed. "Well, don't for one minute think you're coming into the bloody house with us."

-oOo-

Despite the noise made by their forcible entry, the poky house with its tired and old-fashioned décor is dark and quiet. At least, it is on the ground floor where Grace and Spencer are. The windows are small and dirty and mostly obscured by equally filthy curtains, and she can't help thinking that it's a perfect stereotype of what the general public imagine a serial killer's house looks like. If Norman Bates had turned his back on the motel business and decided to emigrate to London before that spot of trouble with Marion Crane, Grace thinks, this would be exactly the sort of place he'd have ended up living. Except that Norman belongs firmly on celluloid and Alex Fenton is all-too real. Wherever he is.

Keeping the proscribed distance back from Spencer she nearly jumps when he stops and looks round at her to announce in a low voice, "Not down here – unless he's in the cellar."

"Why is there always a cellar?" she mutters back. Black humour, a stock-in-trade of the unit's for as long as she can remember.

He grins. "No self-respecting nutjob should be without a cellar, Grace."

"Spence," she complains, but without much conviction.

Heavy Glock pistol still in hand, he gestures for her to step back into the hall. "Stay there. I'll check."

It's an unnerving experience, standing alone in the dark hallway listening to the distant noise of traffic outside in the real world and to the stealthy creak of floorboards overhead as Boyd and Stella search the upper storey. The house itself might not be a crime scene – as far as they know – but she still finds it an eerie, inimical place. Grace is not a superstitious woman and she's not scared, exactly, but she'll be far from disappointed when they all step back out into the cold November air, with or without Fenton.

The sound of a door slamming upstairs does make her jump. Her heart increases its fast rhythm and she finds herself looking up at the water-stained ceiling. Boyd's raised voice, absolutely unmistakable, is ordering someone to remain still. She doesn't know if she's relieved or not that something seems to be happening. Another voice, also male, but more muffled, makes an almost instant reply, one that is immediately followed by a clear warning from Stella. Now Grace is in no doubt that Fenton has been located.

Spencer appears at her shoulder, oddly light on his feet for a man of his stocky build, and he doesn't need to say a word as he heads straight past her towards the stairs. Grace knows the routine. She stays back until either the situation is clearer or she is called forward by one of her colleagues. She follows him to the foot of the stairs and halts there, watching as he heads upwards, one hand on the bannister rail, the other holding his gun aloft. Like Stella, Spencer is wearing standard issue body armour, and the bold word 'police' across the back stands out stark and clear in the gloom.

The first shot is loud and unexpected. In the confined space it sounds more like a canon firing than a hand gun, and even on the lower floor Grace's ears ring from it. It doesn't stop her from hearing Stella's urgent cry of, "Man down!"

As Grace's stomach lurches, Spencer hurls himself up the last few stairs and vanishes. Another shot follows almost instantly, and then a third. Impossible to tell what's happening, who has fired, who hasn't. She knows one thing, though – Stella wouldn't have given that traditional loud heads up for Fenton. It can only be Boyd who's down, and that's what drives Grace to follow Spencer up the stairs against all instinct and training.

Bursting into the room at the rear of the house, it's clear to her that Fenton is dead. His body, sprawled halfway across the dirty and dishevelled double bed, is the very first thing Grace sees. His eyes are open, but he's staring past her at nothing, and a large crimson flower is blossoming across the stained sheets beneath him. There's a gun on the dusty floor, inches from his trailing right hand, a heavy-looking automatic pistol of some kind – Grace is no expert in such things. She doesn't bother to waste her time studying the scene any longer. Her attention is all on Spencer and the prone figure he is kneeling next to, yet she somehow doesn't notice the way the long black coat is dramatically billowed out on the floor or the intricate patterns the fresh spatters of blood make on the threadbare carpet. Beyond the two men, Stella is standing by the window, handgun still in one hand, phone clenched in the other, her face pale and her expression tight. Grace knows this routine, too. Call an ambulance and send for CO19.

Her mouth is dry. She rasps, "Boyd…?"

"Alive," is Spencer's short response. He doesn't look round as he barks, "Stella, tell the paramedics to get a fucking move on..."

-oOo-

continued...