6: The Line Broken

In their own way, they make a very attractive couple. Grace isn't given to vanity, has always been far too self-aware to imagine she's something she's clearly not, but she grudgingly sees the truth in shop window reflections as they wander idly; sees it in the brief glances of the people that pass them by. It's slightly uncomfortable, doesn't sit well with her quiet disdain for anyone who is superficial enough to judge anything on looks alone, but nevertheless it's good for her; helps boost an ego that has been thoroughly battered throughout the extensive rigours of illness and treatment. Just as it is good for her to adjust slowly and cautiously into the terrifying, wonderful idea that the tall, good-looking man pacing loyally beside her is no longer simply on temporary loan. Grace has become quite used to viewing him as far more than just a colleague, has become used to counting on his presence as a personal friend and occasional convenient escort, but this… this is very different. In the space of just a few hours Boyd has tacitly and quite intentionally granted her the kind of territorial rights she never expected to possess, and she unselfconsciously delights in exercising them. Look at him, she wants to say to the whole city as she firmly holds onto his arm, look at this astonishing, extraordinary man who chooses to belong to me…

After some mild debate they settle on a light lunch at a modest little bistro with tables arranged out on the pavement. Naturally they duly bicker over who subsequently pays the bill, but the pointed words they exchange over the matter are quickly forgotten when they remember how and why this day is so different from each and every other day they've shared over the years. There's a strong sense that while wandering aimlessly they are warily trying to find the edges of each other, that they are carefully laying an entirely new foundation to their long relationship, one on which they can build afresh. Still, Grace is captivated by every tiny shared experience, no matter how trivial or how mundane, and when Boyd kisses her and her heart instantly races she wryly mocks herself for all of it. Age and experience, it seems, are no defence at all against the first heady, foolhardy moments of a brand new love affair. There's something unusually quiet, self-deprecatory and deeply wry in him, too, as if he silently recognises exactly the same folly in himself, and that utterly charms her, too.

Boyd's phone rings periodically as the gently surreal day draws on, and he takes every call immediately, effortlessly switching roles to become whatever is needed of him. Watching the way he does it Grace begins to understand better than ever before how he consciously lives his life in neatly constructed and regimented compartments. It's not a bad thing, she realises. In fact, it may very well prove to be a good thing, particularly if she can learn to at least partially emulate him in the efficient way he seems to be able to isolate each different part of his life from all the others as necessary. It's not her way, but she starts to realise how well it serves him. He's unquestionably hers as they amble together, an amenable companion entirely at her disposal, but he holds a warrant card which could change that in an instant – and it doesn't occur to her to imagine things could ever be otherwise.

The final call comes at a little after four o'clock in the afternoon, just as they are walking beside the Serpentine, and Grace knows just from the sudden intensity of his expression that Boyd is leaving even before he curtly tells the caller that he's on his way. It doesn't sting, doesn't even grate. It's just the way things are, the way she knows they have to be. Penalty of the job they do. The job they both love.

"Where?" Grace asks him simply as he puts his phone away.

"Dalston. Unidentified human remains."

"Cold case?"

Boyd nods, his eyes intently searching hers as he says, "Apparently so."

He needs some sign of acquiescence from her, she realises; not submission, but acceptance. Something to reassure him that they are not making a terrible mistake; something to help convince him that somehow they can find a way to successfully co-exist in two completely different worlds – the personal and the professional. Something in him has changed, she realises. The nonchalance and the self-effacing charm have disappeared, replaced by a tense, impatient keenness far more indicative of the tough, successful man she's worked alongside for years. Calmly, she asks, "Want me to come with you?"

It seems to be sufficient as a signal that she understands because Boyd offers a slightly rueful smile and shakes his head. "Waste of time at this stage. Eve's already on her way to the scene. I need to go and pick my car up from the office. I'll walk you back to the hotel and take a cab from there."

-oOo-

Throughout the years Grace has visited his house dozens of times. She knows the smooth stone steps up to the big front door. Knows the long, wide hallway and the unnaturally clean and tidy kitchen just as well as she knows the comfortable sofa and the big windows in the living room. But this is the first time she's been in possession of the keys to Peter Boyd's castle; the first time she's been responsible for entering the alarm code that renders the house harmless to invaders. It's also the first time she's been so intensely aware of the stillness, of the hollow quiet. This is a family house without a family, and for a moment she fancies she can feel the mournful ghosts of the past standing with her. She wonders if they – the lost family – used to light a fire in the now-empty fireplace at Christmas. She wonders whether they used to eat meals together at the big dining table, laughing and joking like any other ordinary family. She wonders if the house remembers a happy, laughing child who grew into a sullen, rebellious teenager.

Grace shakes the imaginary phantoms away, focuses firmly on the present, on the briefcase sitting on that self-same dining table, on the untidy piles of official paperwork covering the coffee table; on the long dark top coat carelessly thrown over the arm of the sofa. There are unopened utility bills on the mantelpiece, weighted down by a mug of cold coffee that will never be finished. This is Boyd's lair, an eerie window into the solitary everyday life he lives beyond work and beyond her, and it's terribly tempting to explore it further – but Grace already knows she won't. It would be an unconscionable invasion of his privacy. So she leaves their luggage, such as it is, in the hallway and waits for him only in the familiar spaces where she feels comfortable. The staircase remains an unbroken boundary she won't cross on her own. She makes coffee for herself, flicks through the previous day's newspaper and watches the shadows in the unkempt back garden lengthen.

Sooner than she expects she hears a car slowing outside in the quiet residential street. She reaches the front window just as the dark Audi rolls sedately onto the drive and she watches Boyd all the way to the foot of the steps. He looks a little preoccupied, but otherwise little different from the man she unexpectedly shared breakfast with so many hours before. He obviously has a spare key, because he's through the front door before Grace reaches the hall. The potentially awkward moment disappears instantly as he simply smiles in greeting and asks, "Okay?"

"Fine," she tells him. "So, do we have a new case?"

A slight shrug. "Maybe. I'll make up my mind once we get the forensics and the Coroner's report. Eve thinks the bones belong to more than one individual, but her gut instinct is that we're looking at medieval remains. There was a big leper hospital in Dalston, apparently. The way things are at the moment, I'm hesitant to go ahead and commit the unit to something that might very well turn out to be just an unfortunate legacy of the Dark Ages."

"That's a little harsh," Grace comments.

Boyd shoots her an appraising sort of look. "Next time you're bored, remind me to introduce you to the harsh fiscal realities of my budget. Do you know how much a single CCU investigation costs on average?"

"No, but I know how much you hate signing my expenses at the end of every month."

"You cost me more than all the others put together, you know that, don't you? I break out in a cold sweat every time I see one of those neatly-annotated expense sheets turn up in my in-tray. You should write fiction instead of those damned psychology books of yours."

She smirks. "I don't need to fiddle my expenses. One simply has to pay for quality, Boyd; it's an immutable fact of life. Besides, it's not coming out of your pocket, is it?"

He catches hold of her waist, draws her against him and looks down at her to complain, "I didn't have a single grey hair until I met you, you know."

"You're such an outrageous liar," she tells him and she isn't at all surprised that his answer is to kiss her. She decides she approves of his newly-devised strategy for silencing her, particularly since it still seems to allow her to have the very last word.

It's easy, the pattern they fall so naturally into. Wonderfully easy, because there's nothing at all awkward in the way that the friendly, civilised evening meal that they somehow manage to create between them slowly but inexorably becomes something so deeply flirtatious that it's edging relentlessly towards the blatantly erotic. It's closely followed by wine and shadows, and gentle, risqué banter; by teasing kisses, and long-forbidden touches that linger. Maybe the first hint of moonlight through the big windows changes them both into something altogether more predatory, because it's soon obvious that neither of them is afraid to challenge for leadership of the sensual, inevitable dance.

That they're good together becomes very clear very quickly. Boyd is far more intuitive than Grace expects, and she can see just from the startled delight in his eyes that she's far bolder than he expects. Together they have a wealth of wisdom and experience, and it blends effortlessly into the more primitive, instinctive desire that's abruptly driving them both. Grace doesn't think they'll make it to the bedroom, and they don't. It's far from a fairy-tale, that first reckless encounter, because there's the inevitable clumsiness of new lovers, and there's age, impetuosity and imperfection. But it doesn't matter at all because there's also heat, sensuality and passion; intense mutual attraction. It's natural, unrehearsed and real, and when Boyd, the breaking sweat on his chest and shoulders gleaming dully in the moonlight, instinctively throws his head back as he fights for control, Grace doesn't think she's ever seen anything quite so glorious.

He breaks, she breaks, and the last vestige of any line between them breaks. And everything is suddenly the way it should always have been.

-oOo-

cont...