Stopping to retrieve another cup of coffee from the main office, Barnaby eventually ended up in the small room he shared with DS Jones, eyeing the aforementioned man as he lay with his forehead against his desk. Overcome with the urge to do something, he placed the mug next to the sleeping man before tapping his shoulder hesitantly.
"Jones," he muttered before raising his voice, "I hope you went home like I asked." The sergeant sat up straight in his chair with a vicious series of blinks and nodded his head, all the whilst flattening his hair between both hands.
"I got in early," he replied with a yawn, "It all caught up with me, I guess. Anyway, sir, I added Marjorie Friar's photo and information to the board and began to look for a connection between her and the previous victims, you know, just in case they are linked." Barnaby nodded, satisfied with the progress and only casting a wayward glance towards their pin board to ensure Jones hadn't been dreaming before he turned back to him with a hint of frustration in his voice.
"I really do think you'd benefit from some time off," he mused to himself, ignoring the look of devastation he received in reply, "Your work ethic recently has been admirable, Jones, but you're a dead man walking." The younger officer sighed to himself and turned back to his work, beginning to work through a small pile of paperwork as Barnaby continued to watch him from his own chair.
"Sarah wanted to invite you for tea," he mentioned offhandedly, noticing the slightly tighter grip on the DS's pen as he turned his head slightly in the direction of the inspector.
"I'm rather busy at the moment," came the reply, and for the first time, Barnaby did not find himself uncharacteristically surprised. It did, however, take a lot not to stand up and shake the man in front of him; ask him what he could possibly be doing that was so much more important than eating, sleeping and looking after both the house and himself.
"I didn't even set a date," he said with a flat sense of amusement, "At least drop me off or follow me home tonight and let her see you. Sarah gets like this about all of my sergeants, Jones, she likes to know what's going on." Again, a white lie although not far from the truth - she would not go spare if she didn't see Ben for a few more days but it would set Barnaby's mind at rest to get another opinion.
"Very well," Ben's response was more stern this time, a warning behind his words that the inspector was tempted to pay attention to, although the secrecy behind every phone call and odd behaviour irritated him; he could not focus on their real crime all the whilst he was being followed by a problem of his own. He stood up to close the door more firmly and sat back down, his actions finally causing the sergeant to turn in his seat to face the older man.
"There's an easy way and a hard way, Jones," he said, using a more gentle tone than he might usually, "I don't think all is well with you and I want to remind you that there are people here who can help you if you ask." Ben looked away for a moment, wringing his hands together in his lap before staring back with another wall in place behind his eyes.
"Like who?" he asked stubbornly, his narrowed pupils challenging the usually reserved inspector silently. Barnaby did not reply for a moment, quickly realising this was a mistake as the hazel eyes in front of him frosted over and hardened painfully.
"You know who," he settled on with a firm emphasis, "And those of us who do care shouldn't need to remind you that we do. Something is bothering you, Jones." Again, a poor choice of words: the sergeant stood up suddenly, a hand combing through his hair furiously before he rounded on the inspector for a second time, his eyes burning in a way that was not familiar to Barnaby. He detached from the situation, trying to remember a time he had seen Jones so angry, and failing.
"It's personal," Ben spat out forcefully, his welsh accent unusually prominent as an unfamiliar pain forced Barnaby to stand up to his height and step forward. The sergeant mirrored his movements with a step backwards of his own, legs coming to meet the desk behind him. Barnaby stared at him for a moment, thinking he could see fear, before burning his psychology degree in his head, merely for the way he was handling such a delicate situation.
"I hope you know you can come to me about personal issues," he replied levelly, reaching out an arm before retracting it himself, unwilling to see another deer in the headlights look from his sergeant who was shaking his head with a tightly pressed grimace blossoming on his tired face.
"I can't," he rebuked forcefully, voice cracking almost unnoticeably on the final syllable. He swallowed firmly and turned away again, "You wouldn't understand, sir, and I don't think our professional relationship should include casual conversations about our own private issues."
"Why not?" Barnaby replied eventually, closing his eyes and hearing only the ragged breathing of his companion, wishing this conversation could have taken place at his house, or else outside somewhere if only to hide it from the prying ears of the station. Jones finally turned around for a final time, retrieving his suit jacket from the back of his chair and stretching his back uncomfortably, a twinge of pain registering on his face.
"Calling me by my first name when we're not at work would be a start," he closed the matter with a final scathing comment and placed a hand on the doorknob, "I arranged a meeting with the pathologist at half past." He did not suggest they shared a car, as they usually did to discuss theories on the case. He did not look back to see if Barnaby followed and, he didn't, standing in a shocked although not entirely surprised silence for some time. And Jones was not waiting outside the station, his trademark look of disagreement paired with a reluctant smile. Barnaby was left to drive in silence, missing the incessant questioning of every theory he had for the first time.
If Mark Allen, the acting pathologist sensed a tension in his office, he was clearly well versed in brushing over fellow colleagues' conflicts as he made no comments. Ben stood to one side in the way he usually did when he was interested in hearing every detail but more focused on keeping any food he had eaten in the last twenty four hours firmly in his stomach. Barnaby still found it perplexing that he had that reaction to such a peaceful death, noting the ashen shade of pale his skin had taken on with a look of dejection sent straight to the tiled floor.
"From the preliminary check-up I would narrow it down to two possible causes," Mark explained, consulting the clipboard in his hands, "Either, Ms. Friar overdosed on ibuprofen, Advil to be exact, or she suffered heart failure. It may be a combination of the two-"He broke off as Jones' phone rang from his pocket. The younger man stared at the screen for a moment and then looked to Barnaby for the first time before nodding his head towards the door and answering the phone.
"You were saying," Barnaby prompted with a troubled look on his face, "The ibuprofen is known to trigger heart failure, is it?"
"Correct," Mark muttered to himself, comparing his notes one last time, "People with congenital heart disease are told to steer clear of such medication though, inspector. I can almost assure you that this was no mistake. Either Marjorie herself knew what she was doing or, someone wanted her dead."
Outside, Barnaby saw Jones talking into his phone anxiously, unable to keep still as he paced some distance from the cars before turning around to return to them and repeating the process. When he eventually hung up, he did not see the inspector for some time, running a hand through his already tousled hair and shaking his head with a heavy weight sinking into his shoulders. He returned to the car at the same time as Barnaby and nodded stiffly, unable to wipe the pain from his face in time.
"Anything important? To the case, I mean," Barnaby asked casually, clarifying his intention clearly as he watched Ben closely, unable to gauge his reaction entirely.
"No, sir," he replied softly, his voice a ghost of its usual self until he coughed firmly, "There was a mistake in something; I just had to correct it." Barnaby dropped the matter, far from happy but unwilling to push him any further.
"We need to get onto the pharmacists in the local area in case someone has been buying ibuprofen in large doses recently," he instructed thoughtfully, "It will be far from conclusive but I can't think of another way to identify our mystery figure with so little evidence."
"You shouldn't take Advil with a heart disease like that," Ben repeated what the pathologist had said after he left carefully, "It aggravates the condition." Barnaby gave him a calculated look and then nodded.
"Doing some background reading, Jones," he inferred, "Good to see you taking initiative." The sergeant nodded stiffly and then returned to his car, phone still held between unsteady fingers. He seemed to wince again as he clambered into the driving seat but inhaled deeply as the look cleared.
"I'll get onto the main chemists in the area," he suggested, as if looking for a distraction, "I'll let you know if I find anything." Barnaby nodded, stopping the car door as he moved to close it.
"Get yourself some lunch whilst your doing your enquiries, Jones, it's getting late and we may have to go and do interviews this afternoon," he reminded before shutting the door and getting into the driver's seat of his own car with a sigh; at least the sergeant still wanted to keep busy.
The afternoon reaped no new information except that working for so long after waking at 5 o'clock was not pleasant. Jones slumped further into his chair as time wore on, the two detectives confined to their desks as the witnesses they wanted to speak to were not available. Barnaby spent the afternoon firmly ignoring the urge to close their office door again and try another heart to heart. He had only managed to come up with a weak plan as the two men stood up exhaustedly and retrieved their coats, heading out into the still howling, icy winter wind.
"I don't suppose I could trouble you for a lift home," he asked, tapping on the window of Ben's car having made a halfhearted attempt to pretend to turn the ignition key in his own vehicle, "The old car's given up." Although reluctant to do so, Jones nodded and opened the door with one hand, rubbing the other against his sleeve in an effort to warm up.
The drive was quiet, unsettlingly so. Jones' eyes remained fixed on the road and focused, perhaps because he was avoiding the inspector, but most likely because both men were so close to sleeping that he did not want to do anything too reckless. He squinted in the darkness, only humming in agreement when Barnaby commented on the state of the weather and his dislike of winter. Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing permeated through the pocket of Jones' coat, tucked on the backseat. Hands stiffening on the steering wheel ever so slightly, Jones appeared close to pulling over but instead shook his head.
"Won't be important," he commented aloud, the longest sentence he had spoken for the duration of the afternoon. Barnaby begged to differ, as, a few minutes later the ringing began again, only prompting Jones to frown more deeply. The inspector reached back, deaf to Ben's complaints and retrieved the phone, glancing at the caller and not recognising the name. It didn't sound welsh, so he had partially ruled out family before Ben pulled over and took the phone gently but insistently from his hand. It had started to rain so he stayed in the car, uncomfortably listening to the voice on the other end as he stared out of the rain soaked glass distractedly.
"Hi... oh... I can't right now... I see..." he paused for a longer time, before muttering to himself in a similarly strained tone, "Today of all days." Barnaby furrowed his brow softly, trying to hear the incoherent reply on the other end of the phone, only able to detect the fits and bursts the other person spoke in. The voice sounded feminine but he couldn't place it within his circle of shared acquaintances and soon gave up, staring out of the window as drops of water streaked down the glass and listening to the slightly wavering voice of his sergeant.
"I'm sorry," Ben suddenly mumbled under his breath, repeating it a few times, "Tonight, okay? I'll be there when I can... I promise." He hung up and stayed still as if he was still listening to the ownerless voice. Barnaby's voice replayed the final earnest syllables over and over; 'I promise.'
Later, they arrived at Barnaby's house, both men seemingly afraid to mention the phone call had ever happened. John felt as if he was treading on eggshells with his mere presence in the car and had been close to offering to walk in the horizontal rain. Ben wouldn't have let him, he expected, although, with the mess the sergeant was in, he couldn't be certain. The front door opened, lighting the porch with a warm glow from inside, calming Jones considerably as he sat with his hands still pressed firmly against the wheel. Barnaby gestured for a moment at the door and Sarah invitingly.
"From the sounds of things you have somewhere to be," he began kindly, "But you're always welcome to come in." Jones hesitated for a minute before patting the pocket that now held his phone apologetically. In the dark, it was hard to see his eyes although they seemed red at the edges and slightly crinkled.
"I can't," he replied, barely speaking louder than a whisper and, as it had done before at the utterance of the same phrase, his voice cracked softly and he cleared his throat. Barnaby nodded, not willing to push him and climbed out of the car, leaning down for a minute in the rain.
"Take care in this weather, Jones," he said, registering the same look of disappointment that crossed the sergeant's face. He straightened for a moment before ducking his head into the car for the final time.
"Goodnight, Ben."
"Night, sir," he heard the reply and the tender, if not reluctant smile that followed. Ben Jones was not happy but Barnaby could live with a smile, however small.