Chapter Fifteen— Sympathies Unexpressed

DS James Hathaway leaned back against the brick wall of the building behind him. He'd gone outside for a little while, having already questioned nearly everyone at the reception hall. His efforts had proved largely ineffectual, as he'd uncovered no real suspects in the case, excepting Harvey Malcolm, who had attached himself to Innocent's side like the pesky, vicious mosquito that he'd already proven himself numerous times.

Although Malcolm's presence was the main reason Hathaway had left the reception for the time being, it wasn't the only reason. The idea of being trapped in a room of near-strangers and being forced to make small talk was almost as terrifying as being held at gunpoint by deranged suspect.

It was one thing to conduct conversations in his professional capacity. In those instances, he'd always known exactly what questions to ask and when to ask them. What was more, most people tended to dislike being questioned by the police so they'd answer the questions (while perhaps complaining that all of this was " an unnecessary waste of time") and then they'd leave—just as relieved that they didn't have to answer any more questions as Hathaway was that he didn't have to ask them. Questioning suspects may not have been Hathaway's favourite part of the job, but it was part of the job nonetheless.

This, however, was something totally different. It was totally obvious that questions alone weren't what these people were expecting from him. They wanted sympathy, understanding, and most of all, they wanted answers to their own questions: how and why this horrible thing had happened? And James couldn't give them any of these things they so craved, regardless of how much he wanted to.

John Innocent had been a complete stranger to him—a person whom Hathaway had known only through the occasional comment from the man's wife. But to these people, Mr. Innocent hadn't existed only in words. He'd touched each and every one of these people's lives in one way or another.

"No sooner had he arrived in Barcelona than I phoned him and mentioned that I'd caught the flu strain that was going around the city at the time. And you know what he did then? He went right back to the airport and bought a ticket for the next flight to England so that he could take care of his little old sick mother!"

" I remember, one time, when I was between jobs, he loaned me 250 pounds. I told them that I wasn't sure when or even if I could repay him. He said that he knew, and that he didn't care whether or not I paid him back. And when I got back on my feet again, he refused to take the money."

After relating these anecdotes, the storytellers would then pressure Hathaway to share a story of his own—something he'd been unable to do. He'd had to explain to them that he was only here to give Jean moral support—or at least he was here because he wanted to give Jean moral support, though he had yet to do so.

For one thing, talking to Innocent meant facing Harvey Malcolm as well. And for another thing, James still wasn't sure exactly what to say and how to say it.

" I hear your husband was a wonderful man." Yes, he'd heard this; he hadn't seen it for himself. He was in no position to talk.

"I'm sorry." It wasn't his fault. There wasn't anything Hathaway could have done to stop this.

" You'll be in my prayers." He wasn't even sure Jean was in any way religious.

" You're in my thoughts." That was quite possibly the worst thing he'd thought of yet. Chances were about 50/50 that she'd interpret it as he'd meant it and not as " I can't stop thinking about the fact that you taste of cherry lip balm."

The real trouble was that he knew exactly what he wished he could say to her. He wanted to tell her that he'd found out who'd murdered her husband. He wanted to hand her an enormous pile of undeniable evidence that would ensure that the killer forever remained behind bars. But he couldn't do that just yet. He wasn't even sure that he could promise her that he'd find the culprit at all. Cases went cold all the time—particularly cases like this one, consisting of lacks of suspects and of physical evidence. All he could promise her was to keep trying—to keep searching.

James sighed and started instinctively fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette before he remembered that there were none as he was trying to give up smoking.

The sergeant let out a particularly volatile torrent of curse words, knowing that the cigarette was merely the excuse he put to it. He needed to release some of his pent-up anger, frustration, and anxiety. He could continue to bemoan his lack of progress on the case, to fantasize about giving Harvey Malcolm a hard kick in nether regions, to carefully monitor his speech around Jean so as to avoid misinterpretation. It would be easier to continue acting in this manner, but he knew that doing so would hinder his progress on the case. He needed to get his head screwed on straight again.

" I'm sorry, James. I didn't mean to intrude." Hathaway turned his head slightly toward the sound of the voice. " It's…it's just…I needed a bit of fresh air," Innocent said quietly.

As he took a few steps toward her, he noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes. " I…er…have you been getting enough rest?"

She shook her head. " I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in over a week. I was having a bit of an insomnia problem even before…before…all this, and as you can imagine, it's only gotten worse. Last night, I couldn't even manage two hours worth of sleep."

" Why don't you try napping in your office? You do have that rather comfortable chair you could curl up in."

" Somehow, I don't the chief constable would like that very much."

" Who says he has to know? I won't tell if you won't."

Innocent smiled weakly. " Still, it's not exactly professional behavior, and in any case, that chair isn't nearly as comfortable as it looks."

" We can't have that now—can we ma'am? We'll have to get you a replacement."

" You know just as well as I that there's no room in the current budget for unnecessary expenditures."

" Yeah, I do. But this isn't an unnecessary expenditure. It's crucial to your physical and psychological well-being. How can you be an effective chief superintendent if you don't have a chair befitting your position?"

" I doubt I'd be an effective chief superintendent even if I did have a better chair," Jean muttered, half-to herself.

" Pardon?"

" It's…it's nothing." She changed the subject before he could press her further on the matter. "So, er… in any case, while you're here, I wanted to tell you something. My sister Nicole… I believe you met her today… she came to town for the…the…funeral." Hathaway could see the immense impact that the simple word had on Innocent from the chief superintendent's slightly trembling lip. " Anyway, Nicole's insisted taking me out tonight; she says I need a distraction. I expect she's right about that, though my sister's idea of a distraction is a bit more…adventurous than mine."

" Thank you for telling me. What time to you think you'll be getting in? I plan to stay up until at least 1:30 so that I can get some work done, but if you think you'll be getting back later, I can leave the front door unlocked."

Innocent shuffled her foot uncomfortably. " Er…actually… I…I won't be coming back to the house tonight. Nicole's invited me to come back to her hotel room with her. Although she originally reserved a single room, something went wrong with her order and the hotel staff upgraded her to a suite with two very nice bedrooms."

" Ah." Try though he might, Hathaway still couldn't shake off the thought that this had less to do with Nicole Hampton's hotel room being upgraded and more to do with the fact that Innocent didn't want to be in the same house with James—more to with the fact that she didn't trust him anymore. Was she afraid he'd walk in on her as she was changing? That he'd steal her towel as she was showering? That he'd creep into the bedroom late at night to watch her sleep?

Kiss or no kiss, he was still the same James Hathaway he'd always been, and James Hathaway was far too honourable to even think of attempting things like that—even with women in whom he was seriously interested. And he wasn't seriously interested in Jean. He wasn't even remotely interested. Wasn't he?

" And…well, I just figured this would be more convenient for everyone. Nicole and I will get to spend a little more time together before she leaves tomorrow morning. And you'll get some time to yourself."

Still not entirely convinced, Hathaway responded. " It's no inconvenience, but if that's what you'd prefer…"

" It is," Innocent replied curtly. "I plan to stop by your place briefly after work so that I can pick up a few things I'll need for the night."

" Okay then."

" Good. Well, I'd better go back inside now." She moved to leave, and he was left alone with his disappointment that she'd left before he'd had a chance to say one word of sympathy toward her.

Several Hours Later

A tall man in a dark hooded sweatshirt sat in a car outside the pub, having waited there for over two hours. Half of him wanted to leave now and come back some other time, but he knew that if he just kept waiting a little bit longer…

At last!

Most men's eyes would have been instantly drawn to the younger of the two women who had just exited the building, but this man was an exception. He had no use for the tall, thin woman—as pretty as she was; he had eyes only for her companion.

And there she was, mere feet away! If he was quiet enough, he could hear the clickety-clack sound of her footsteps on the sidewalk. He watched his quarry place a steadying arm around her swaying comrade's waist; it was clear that the younger woman had had too much to drink.

He debated changing his original course of action. He could take her now; it was dark and quiet, and she was alone, save for the other woman who'd be useless if it came to a fight. He then remembered that he'd forgotten to take the chloroform with him. For a moment, he let himself believe that this didn't matter. He was certainly strong enough to overpower two defenseless women, and he'd even be able to hear her scream, a sound that would be almost musical to his ears.

But so would everyone else. People would come running out of their shops and their flats. Even if they were unable to stop him before he'd got away, they'd surely alert the police; someone might even manage to jot down the plate number of the car.

No, it was best to stick to his original plan. Besides, there'd be plenty of time to listen to her screams later.

For now, he just wanted to scare her a little more, to put her on edge.

He started the car and began driving.

If her sister had been in her right mind, Jean Innocent was sure that Nicole Hampton would have found nothing remotely funny about hydrangeas. However, Nicole was so totally out-of-it right now that she couldn't stop giggling. And because Nicole's laugh was so infectious, Jean herself couldn't help but smile, though she doubted she would have gotten the joke even she had been as drunk as her sister currently was.

" Lesch have anofer, shall we, Jeanie my queen," Nicole slurred before giving a slight belch. " Oh, 'scuse me," she said before erupting in another round of giggles.

" I don't think so, Nicky. You don't need anymore to drink. Besides, we have to get you back to your hotel room. You need your beauty sleep; you're going home in the morning, remember?"

" Right. Er…Jeanie, where is home again?"

" Your home is in London."

" Thatsch your home too—right?"

" No, my home is…"she stopped. For the past few hours, she'd almost forgotten exactly what had brought Nicole to Oxford.

Jean thought of her miserably vacant house that hadn't been home for four days and would never be home again. For the past twelve years, "Home" had always been where John was.

Where was "home" now?

Her house wasn't home; she knew that much—not with the foyer carpet stained with so much blood that washing was a pointless, unnecessary expense.

No, that horrible place was just somewhere she'd once lived. But if that wasn't home, what was?

The place where she'd grown up? Hardly. Her parents were both long dead, and the house itself had been sold to a contractor who's preceded to turn it into a car park.

School, the place where she'd thrived intellectually and had made lifelong friends? Yeah, "friends" who'd seduced and then murdered their foster sons.

Scotland Yard? Not a bloody chance. There'd been only two people who'd really liked her there, and as of right now, she only liked one of them.

Here? Oxford itself? Her first instinct was an emphatic " no," but the more she thought about the more she realized that it wasn't totally inconceivable. Here, unlike as it was in London, she was trusted and respected by her colleagues (apart from the occasional cheeky comment from a certain Geordie inspector or his Cambridge-educated sergeant, and those comments were harmless). What was more, the respect seemed sincere.

She'd been very popular while she was at school, but Jean suspected that many of her so-called "friends" only liked to hang around her, because she was attractive and clever, and because her parents were well off. Ginny had been one of the few exceptions, one of the few people who seemed to genuinely like Jean for herself, but Ginny had turned out to be a nutcase—hadn't she?

She couldn't exactly call any of her current business associates " friend." That wasn't a very professional attitude as they were her subordinates. But while her colleagues weren't exactly friends, they were nevertheless valued companions and trusted allies— particularly Lewis and Hathaway, though she'd never admit it even to herself. She wasn't supposed to have favourites.

Not that they were her favourites, of course, though James—cheeky blighter that he was—had made the occasional joke to that effect.

Or at least, he'd used to make those sorts of jokes before he'd become a near stranger to her. Although she had rolled her eyes at these comments in the past, she found now that she missed them desperately now. Even the most impertinent remarks would have been preferable to the awkwardness that had characterized their interaction as of late. At least, Lewis had remained largely unchanged. He was just as hard working and compassionate as ever.

Innocent thought some more about the pair that had caused her so much grief and yet so much satisfaction over the years. At different times, they'd triggered laughter and migraines, stress and relief, worry and reassurance, pride and disappointment. And they certainly kept things interesting to say the least!

" Where's your home, Jeanie?" Nicole asked again as the two of them made to cross the street.

Innocent found it difficult to reply, as she still wasn't totally sure of the answer herself. Mentally composing a diplomatic response, she turned her head toward her sister and out of the corner of her eye, caught sight of the dark black car that was barreling straight for them. " Nicky, look out!" Jean shouted to her sister as she immediately began sprinting across the road.

Nicole ran as well, but her current state of intoxication made her much slower, and much less steady on her feet. She was able to make it to the shoulder of the road, but the car mimicked her movements, pulling over to the shoulder at nearly the same time Nicole did. As Nicole stepped onto the curb of the sidewalk in an attempt to avoid the car, the vehicle collided with her shoulder sharply and she lost her balance, her head hitting the asphalt of the road with a loud thud. The driver of the black car sped off before Jean could so much as catch the plate number of his car.

Mentally cursing both her slowness and her inability to protect her little sister, Innocent returned her attention to the more immediate and urgent problem: Nicole, who was lying in the road motionless and unconscious—a bloody gash staining the back of her head.

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