Thank you for the reviews of Chapter 1, they are much appreciated. For those of you who were amused by hungover Hathaway in the first instalment, you will be unsurprised to discover his moaning continues in chapter two. What can I say? I'm a sucker for suffering Hathway, even if it is self-induced!

Chapter Two

The body that Laura Hobson was crouched over on Lewis's arrival was that of eighty six year old widow. Mary Blackwell. She lay in her open plan living room, beside a smashed cup of tea with a faint look of surprise on her face and a pool of congealing blood beneath her soft white curls of hair. The window looking out over a neatly kept back garden was smashed, and certain objects such as the television were conspicuous by their absence.

"Suspicious then?" Lewis commented, rhetorically, glancing between the shattered glass and the frail, nightgown clad, corpse.

Hobson rocked back on her heels and rose to meet him, smiling slightly as she did so. As she moved her blonde hair settled forward onto her shoulders in a way that Lewis couldn't help but find attractive.

"Certainly looks that way," she confirmed, banishing her wayward hair with an unconscious shrug, "she appears to have been hit over the head by that old favourite of ours, the blunt instrument," she looked around for a moment, a frown of puzzlement on her face, "No dashing Sergeant today?"

Lewis rolled his eyes.

"No," he agreed, "But my reprobate, slightly worse-for-wear Sergeant is suffering outside," he moved towards the front of the room and gestured out of the window to where Hathaway stood talking to the uniformed officers outside, arms folded sternly and a hangdog expression on his face.

"Ah yes," Laura grinned, "He seemed to be having a great time when I left last night."

Lewis recalled that when he had left at the relatively tame hour of midnight, Laura had still been present, punctuating whatever story she had been telling with dramatic shakes of her glass of Bailey's.

"What time did you leave?" he asked, curiously.

She paused in thought for a moment, as though trying to pull together hazy details. "Must have been about one," she mused after a moment, "It was just as James there was finishing his rendition of "Fairytale of New York" with Matthew Jones from the lab." She laughed openly at the surprised expression on the Inspector's face, "I did hear that they rounded it off with a stunning version of "All I Want For Christmas Is You" though sadly I'd left by that point and disappointingly as far as I can tell the rumour of video is unfounded." She shook her head sympathetically, "No wonder he's suffering."

Lewis stifled a smile of affection. Although he would unmercifully tease Hathaway for his hangover, he found himself secretly pleased that the younger officer had, for once, relaxed. Brilliant though he was, the Inspector often found himself worrying that his Sergeant was too prone to taking his work home and brooding over it, particularly since the Zelinsky case. It would do the team no harm either, to see that the usually dour officer was actually aware of the concept of fun, for although Lewis was all too familiar with James wit and sharp tongue, it passed many of the others by. So, just this once he'd forgive him his hangover, and its accompanying grumpy demeanour; not that he would tell Hathaway that.

The object of their interest looked up at that point, and on noting their attention cast a half-hearted smile in the Doctor's direction as he crossed the lawn towards the front door. A moment later he reappeared, unconsciously dropping his head to avoid a collision with the doorframe. He surveyed the room dispassionately, at the sight of the corpse on the floor he swallowed slightly and his lips tightened, in sorrow or frustration, it was impossible to tell, but otherwise his expression remained emotionless.

"Alright, James?" Hobson asked brightly, with an accompanying mischievous grin.

"The good Doctor's just been filling me in on what I missed last night, Jim," Lewis commented, with what could only be described as an evil smirk. "I thought world music with a combination of jazz and medieval madrigals was more your thing?"

Hathaway flushed, and flicked a sharp, accusatory look at Hobson. He made no acknowledgement of the comment and started to deliver his report in a flat monotone. A faint flush of guilt crossed Hobson's face, and Lewis quirked a quick reassuring smile at her. Hathaway would see the funny side he was sure, once he was no longer feeling as though he had been trampled by a herd of cows.

"Postman made his usual rounds at nine, had a parcel that wouldn't fit through the letterbox. Rang the doorbell and knocked a couple of times, no response. Says he got a bit concerned because he sees her pottering about most days at this time so came over to have a look through the front window and saw Mrs Turnball there. All the doors were locked, and he has a bad back so couldn't climb through the window to help her. Called the police and here we are.

Uniform have started a door to door, no luck yet, Mrs Smith at number 24 left to spend Christmas with her daughter three days ago according to Mrs Banford at 22 and the gentleman at number 28 is as deaf as a post so heard nothing and was in bed until nine this morning so hasn't seen anyone strange. One of the houses opposite is empty and up for sale and Mr Hopkins in the other house has carers come to get him up, they arrived at about eight fifteen and he's been in his front room since about half past, he's seen no one but the postman.

Apparently she has one daughter, divorced, lives over in Summertown with her two children. She's been informed and will be coming in to the station later on to make a formal identification."

Lewis nodded, Hathaway's ruthless efficiency went a long way towards minimising their time spent waiting at crime scenes for information and the inspector was often amazed by the sheer amount of detail he could provide after one short conversation with the attending uniformed officers.

"Good work, Hathaway." He commented, and was pleased to see a softening of the younger man's expression. Ah, that was it, Lewis realised, Hathaway didn't like to feel he was anything less than perfect at his job, and coming in with a hangover did not fit in with that. Especially when he didn't have the suicide of old friend's as an excuse.

"What have you got for us?" he asked the patiently waiting pathologist at his side.

"Much as I've already told you, hit over the head with a blunt instrument, frail lady like this... probably very quick," she paused for a moment, "time of death, I'd say early this morning – between five and eight perhaps, though instinct tells me it's earlier in that margin."

The two officers nodded.

"Makes sense," Lewis agreed, "There do appear to be a few things missing, and if this is a robbery gone wrong then it most likely happened while it was dark."

"Sunrise was around eight fifteen this morning, sir," Hathaway told him after a brief glance at his phone, "though obviously there would have been some light before that."

"Alright, we're going to need a list of what's missing," Lewis concluded, "Hathaway can you bring the daughter over after she's identified the body and get a list? Then we can start to look for the re-sales."

James nodded, and looked again around the room, jotting a few notes in his ever present notebook.

"In the meantime," Lewis continued, "We'll head back to the station, see if we've had any recent similar thefts, or any of our regulars have been released recently, while we wait for the daughter to come in. Doctor, it's been a pleasure as always, come on Jim, let's get you a coffee, eh lad?"

With a grateful smile at his boss, and an apologetic one at Hobson, Hathaway followed Lewis back out into the cold.