THREE

Last time it was Spencer. That's one of the intrusive thoughts that keep crowding in on Grace as she paces up and down the wide, brightly-lit corridor. Different hospital, of course, but last time it was Spencer in the hands of the doctors and Boyd waiting with her, dried traces of the younger man's blood still visible in the creases of his knuckles and around his fingernails. She remembers – very clearly – that instead of withdrawing into taciturn silence he could barely stop talking, Stella's betrayal and all it entailed followed by the double-shock of killing one man and saving another making him unusually loquacious. She remembers the way he sagged heavily against the wall when a smiling female doctor eventually arrived with good news; the way that when they finally abandoned their vigil they went straight to the nearest pub, a smoke-filled dive, and drank brandy sitting at a shabby corner table; the way they ignored the inquisitive stares of bemused patrons who quite plainly couldn't work out who or what the hell they were.

This time it is not Spencer. Spencer is the one making the necessary phone calls and badgering for news and Boyd is the one who –

She can't think about it. Needing the distraction, Grace sits down next to an unmoving Stella who's clutching an empty disposable coffee cup and staring down at the floor beneath her feet. It might not be the best time to start asking difficult questions, but the need to know exactly what happened on the floor above her in those terrifyingly significant moments is becoming far too intense. Grace hesitates just long enough to be certain her voice will sound calm and level before asking, "Where was Fenton?"

"In the bathroom," Stella replies, her soft French accent not disguising the notes of stress and worry layered through the words. She doesn't raise her gaze. "We were in the front bedroom when he made a break for the stairs, but when he saw I had a gun he ran into the other bedroom instead."

That explains the door Grace heard slamming, at least. "Boyd was behind you?"

Stella nods. "Yeah, of course. He wasn't armed."

He never is, a distant voice in Grace's mind comments. It's laudable in its own way, she supposes, but it's something she's never really understood, Boyd's complete lack of enthusiasm for carrying a firearm. He has the necessary and specified police training, and every year he dutifully puts in the requisite number of hours at the range to maintain his certification, but he never draws a weapon from the armoury, even when he authorises one or more of his similarly-trained subordinates to do so. He doesn't wear body armour, either. She's always suspected that's just his vanity, but maybe there's something more to it than that. Good old-fashioned copper with good old-fashioned ideas about the way things should be done, perhaps.

"It was weird, though, Grace." Stella finally looks up at her, expression intense. "Fenton slammed the door shut behind him – maybe he needed time to grab his gun – so Boyd went in front to kick the door in..."

"Standard procedure." Open the door, by force if necessary, and immediately drop back against the wall, allowing the armed officer behind a clear field of fire.

"Yeah… but he didn't get out of the way," Stella says. She seems to be searching Grace's face for something as she continues, "He walked straight into the room shouting, and straight into Fenton's line of fire. It was, I don't know… as if… well, as if he just didn't care if Fenton was armed, and whether or not he might start shooting if he was."

'… straight into Fenton's line of fire…' The ominous words echo in Grace's mind, the implications making her heart pound.

"DI Jordan?" a brusque male voice calls. A young man in green surgical scrubs has stepped out into the corridor and he is now looking around expectantly. At Spencer's rapid affirmation, he says, "I'm Doctor Russell. It looks as if your colleague's been remarkably lucky, Inspector. The bullet's still in his abdomen, but it's missed all his vital organs."

The immediate and strong sense of relief in the corridor is almost palpable. Spencer asks, "Is he conscious? Can we talk to him?"

"We've sedated him," Russell replies with a firm shake of his head. He looks tired and not particularly interested in having a protracted conversation. Maybe he's almost at the end of a very long and arduous shift. "As soon as we've finished patching him up we'll send him to the high dependency unit, and then all being well he'll probably be moved up onto one of the general wards in the morning."

Surprised, Grace is frowning as she queries, "You're not going to operate to take the bullet out?"

The doctor shakes his head a second time. "We can see it quite clearly on the x-rays. It's not lodged in a dangerous position and it doesn't appear to have fragmented. Given the nature of the injury, surgical intervention would not only be unnecessary, it would be extremely unwise. Far better for Mr Boyd in the long-run if we leave well alone. He'll be on antibiotics for a couple of weeks, and the wound will be closely monitored as it heals. He'll be very sore for a while, but given time he should be fine. As I said, he's been remarkably lucky."

Although she dutifully nods in response, Grace is not convinced Boyd will see the matter in the same light.

'…as if he just didn't care…' Stella's voice whispers in her head, but the ghost of her own is far louder. Her voice angrily declaring, 'Do whatever you want, Boyd, I don't care anymore...'

And suddenly there's a deep and guilty chill inside her, one that lingers long after she and her companions have left the hospital.

-oOo-

A dull but persistent headache follows a difficult and restless night, and by the time Grace has finished making a statement to the unfamiliar police officers assigned to investigate the previous day's events she is less than enthusiastic about settling behind her desk for the duration of the morning. The news from the hospital is good, Boyd is conscious and will be leaving the high dependency unit as soon as a bed can be found for him elsewhere, but with all the other thoughts and fears crowding her mind she doesn't find the news anywhere near as reassuring as she knows she should. Though they say very little, her colleagues seem surprised that she isn't already at the hospital with him, and not for the first time Grace finds herself wondering what silent conclusions they have drawn over the years about the nature of her off-duty relationship with their commanding officer. She's heard all of the most common rumours, even some of the more scurrilous ones, but she doubts even she could accurately explain exactly what has successfully maintained the curious bond between them through even the worst of times.

She is not at all surprised when Eve appears in her office and quietly closes the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the team. Sitting down uninvited, she asks, "How's Boyd?"

"Apparently indestructible," Grace replies with an unprompted grimace.

"He was bloody lucky."

"So the doctor at the hospital said."

"Ballistics," is Eve's enigmatic response. Grace raises her eyebrows in question and an answering shrug is followed by, "Fenton's Zastava was loaded with FMJs – full metal jackets – exactly the same as the bullets recovered from the armed robberies and the Southwark murders. If he'd had the sense to get hold of some hollow points… well, at that range I think you can safely assume it would almost certainly have been Goodnight Vienna."

Grace shudders. "It doesn't bear thinking about."

"I'm waiting for CO19's official report, but I'm not expecting any earth-shattering surprises. If it wasn't the weapon that fired all the bullets I've got, I'll hang up my lab coat for good." A short but telling pause. "Stella says Boyd walked straight into the line of fire."

The chill is back, a heavy and unwelcome presence deep in the pit of Grace's stomach. "Seemingly so."

Eve's gaze is steady and incisive. "Has this got anything to do with what you were talking about yesterday?"

Yesterday. It seems like such a long time ago. A whole lifetime ago. It never ceases to amaze Grace how quickly things can change. One minute everything is normal, the next… Anxiety and guilt gnaw at her. Her voice is very quiet as she reluctantly admits, "He's been taking anti-depressants, Eve. I only found out on Sunday."

"Ah ha."

Not the response she was expecting. Grace frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Eve folds her arms, leans back a little in her chair. "Boyd's been taking anti-depressants, so even though you have absolutely no reason to, you feel guilty because you didn't realise."

Succinct and horribly accurate. Grace looks down at the cluttered surface of her desk. It's difficult for her to say, "I'm a psychologist, for God's sake, and I've known him for years. How could I have missed all the signs that he just wasn't coping?"

Eve's reply is steady. "But he has been coping, hasn't he? Okay, maybe he hasn't been exactly the life and soul of the party, but he's hardly fallen to pieces, has he? He's been turning up for work, getting on with things – so what if his GP's been giving him a little chemical help along the way? Millions of people take anti-depressants every single day, Grace; you know that better than anyone."

Fear. Anger. Confusion. Dozens of conflicting emotions are fighting for supremacy inside her. "This is Boyd we're talking about. Imagine how bad things must have been for him to give in and discuss the situation with his doctor."

"Point taken."

"I think it was my fault, Eve." The words feel like they are torn from her, leaving tracks of scarlet pain in their wake.

The younger woman looks perplexed. "What?"

"Yesterday," Grace clarifies. "I think it was my fault. We had an argument after we left the lab. I lost my temper and told him I didn't care what he did."

Eve's expression clears. She sits forward, unfolding her arms, and her reply is quiet. "Grace, with all due respect, that's hardly headline news. You and Boyd are always arguing and saying things you don't really mean. You're like an old…" She stops mid-sentence, the words trailing away.

"'…married couple'?" Grace finishes for her. She pulls a face. "It has been said."

"Well, you are." An exasperated gesture. "And whatever the hell Boyd thought he was doing at Fenton's place yesterday, it was nothing to do with anything you said or did."

"I wish I could be so sure." Seeing her colleague's sceptical look, Grace continues, "I think it really got to him. He's nowhere near as tough and insensitive as he pretends to be, Eve."

A loud and derisive snort precedes, "You think there's anyone on the team who doesn't know that? Boyd's really a pussycat, and you're in the running for bloody sainthood – but strip away all the clichés and neither of you are exactly bulletproof… Sorry, bad metaphor."

"Very bad, under the circumstances."

Eve sighs. "All I'm trying to say is… Oh, I don't know. You two… it's painful to watch sometimes."

"Come on, we don't fight that much," Grace protests, barely aware that she is deliberately choosing to take the words at face value.

"That's not what I meant."

Reluctant comprehension stirs somewhere deep in Grace's skull. Eve is incredibly perceptive and it's more than possible that she long ago put two and two together and came up with four. More than possible that she watched and contemplated, and ultimately reached some very accurate conclusions. Grace takes a steadying breath. "I don't – "

But Eve hasn't finished. "Stop hiding away down here and go and see him, Grace. Sort it out. Not just whatever was going on in that thick skull of his to make him act so recklessly, but whatever it is between you that's been slowly driving the pair of you crazy for as long as I can remember. Kiss him, slap him, whatever it takes – just please sort it out. Before it's too late for one or both of you."

Grace can't help staring at the younger woman, more surprised by her boldness than by the actual words. "Eve – "

"Boyd needs you," Eve says, getting to her feet. "You know it, I know it – everyone knows it. And you know what? I think you need him, too."

Now firmly on the defensive, she responds with a terse, "I think you're overstating the case."

"Really? I don't. Go and see him, Grace."

-oOo-

continued...