THREE - Tweedledum and Tweedledee

The kitchen is far too small. That's Grace's considered opinion as she turns away from the stove and once again collides with her self-appointed sous-chef. The kitchen is too small, and he is far too large. Exasperated, she says, "Do you have to lurk? I am capable of cooking pasta, you know."

"I'm not lurking."

"Well, what else would you call it?"

"Being helpful?" he suggests, hands in pockets.

Grace gives him a scathing look. "To be helpful, Boyd, you have to do more than lounge about offering pointless advice."

"I'm not… Oh, have it your own way. Christ, I pity any poor bloke who ever decides to take you on."

"Because, of course, you're such a good catch yourself?"

His reply is smug. "It may surprise you to know that there are at least a couple of women out there who seem to think so."

"Including whatever-her-name-is from last night?" Grace asks, deliberately ingenuous.

"Zahra," he supplies, and adds, "she's a solicitor. From Nairobi."

"Really?" She's not sure why the information startles her.

"Really. Don't look so bloody surprised, they do have solicitors in Kenya, you know."

"That," Grace tells him, turning back to the stove, "wasn't the surprise. I just thought you'd sworn off solicitors and barristers for life after that little contretemps with – "

Boyd doesn't let her finish. "She specialises in conveyancing, not in criminal law."

That, at least, makes sense. Deliberately casual, she inquires, "It's serious, then, is it?"

She doesn't see him shrug, but she's certain he does as he replies, "Not really."

It's a less brutal way of saying 'not at all', she guesses. Just another fleeting dalliance, another half-hearted attempt to find something – or someone – to distract him, to briefly keep at bay all the pain and anger he has no idea how to deal with. Switching off the gas, she says, "This is ready. Find some clean plates, will you?"

They eat sitting together on the sofa, the television talking to itself in the corner. Four channels of early-evening banality, nothing worth watching. DS Spicer rings to update them but has no useful news to impart. The Bailey brothers have been interviewed and have both denied having any knowledge of who might have killed Gail Hillier and Paul Woodward. Gail's badly-burned partner is still alive, but only just, and Paul's wife is still far too shocked and traumatised to be properly interviewed. It's a depressing summary of a situation that hasn't changed very much at all in the last twelve hours. Neither of them reacts much to the concise briefing, preferring to dwell silently on their own thoughts. For the rest of the evening conversation is sparse; choked, perhaps, by the unmentioned sense of despondency hanging over the room. Boyd disappears downstairs briefly and returns sullen and tight-lipped, leading Grace to suspect that he has once again been denied permission to leave the building for even a few minutes. She wonders if their protectors would use force to stop him if necessary but doesn't dare pose the question aloud.

They yawn their way through the late news, argue briefly over the rights and wrongs of the latest political scandal, and then lapse into a neutral silence that stretches until Grace finally inquires, "Do you need the bathroom? I fancy having a bath before bed."

Looking up from the book he's been flicking through with measured disinterest, her companion shrugs. "No. Go right ahead."

She does so, collecting the things she needs before retreating to the bathroom. She can't decide whether to bolt the door behind her. Considering the ridiculous quandary, Grace wonders why she's suddenly incapable of making such a trivial, automatic decision. Can only be the stress of the situation, she decides. Her mind attempting to seize hold of what little control she has. It's interesting. Frustrating, but interesting. Settling into warm, foamy water, she makes a mental note to do some research into the psychological effects of unexpected confinement at some point. Idly counting the number of ceramic tiles on the wall facing her, she makes a concerted, conscious effort to relax. It seems to work, because she soon starts to doze, sliding gently in and out of awareness with no real grasp of the passage of time.

A peremptory rap on the door startles her fully awake. It's followed by a peeved voice demanding, "How much longer are you going to be? You've been in there for well over a bloody hour, for God's sake."

Riled by the accusing tone, she retorts, "I wasn't aware that bathroom privileges were being rationed."

"I need a pee," Boyd announces, no discernible trace of embarrassment in his voice.

Sixteen years, she reflects, and it's the first time she's ever heard him admit to such an ordinary human weakness. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't have had that third cup of tea, then."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be hogging the only bathroom. C'mon, woman, I'm really starting to suffer out here. Either you get out of the damned bath, or I'm going to resort to using the kitchen sink."

"Boyd."

"I'm serious," he warns.

Glaring at the tiled wall, she decides to call his bluff. If it proves to be a mistake, she is, after all, still cocooned in a decent amount of foam. "Door's not locked."

There's a short, pointed silence, one that's eventually broken by a bad-tempered, "I'll go and try my luck downstairs. I won't forget this, Grace. You just wait until the next time we're on a long drive and you want me to stop at the next bloody services…"

Smirking, Grace listens to the sound of him stamping away, then sits up and reaches for the bar of soap resting on the side of the bath. Sometimes small victories can be every bit as sweet as large ones.

-oOo-

"Grace." An urgent voice in the dark. "Grace, come on, wake up."

Heart pounding as she slams awake, Grace reaches blindly for the old-fashioned bedside lamp. A moment's fumbling for the switch is rewarded by a sickly yellow glow that illuminates the man crouching by her bed and not much else beyond. Boyd. Boyd, unkempt and shirtless, his expression tight. Struggling to make sense of the situation, she manages, "Wha…?"

"We're leaving," he tells her. "There's a car waiting."

That, at least, she understands. Sitting up, she says, "They've found the killer? Oh, thank God."

But Boyd shakes his head. "No. There's no time to explain. Get dressed and pack your stuff up. Quick as you can, Grace. No dawdling about or stopping to put your face on."

She may not always know when he's joking, but she knows when he's serious. Knows when to accept whatever he says without argument or complaint. Whatever's happened, it's bad enough to send him barrelling into her room in the middle of the night without a single thought about propriety or professional boundaries. He seems to uncoil rather than straighten up, rising quickly to his full height as she struggles to kick the covers away from her bare legs. His chest is smooth and broad, the lamplight picking out the shadowed lines of his ribcage.

"Tell me," she says.

"Jack Bailey's dead. Stabbed, just like Paul."

"What? But – "

"No time," Boyd says again, heading for the door. "You've got five minutes, Grace."

As he leaves the room, she picks up her watch and peers at the tiny Roman numerals. It's just past three-thirty.

-oOo-

"Proctor's life is worth shit now," Carl Spicer says from the front passenger seat as the unmarked police car sweeps through the near-deserted streets. "Bringing trouble to the door is one thing, but this…"

Cold, disorientated and, yes, genuinely frightened, Grace clings tightly to the worn leather strap of her shoulder bag. "I still don't understand why it affects us."

"Because Dennis is a nutjob," Boyd tells her, "and don't bother chewing me out for calling him that, Grace. He's a complete fucking psycho. Jacky's the only reason he's never gone down for murder."

"He's right," Spicer chips in, leaning round in his seat to look back at them. His striking pale eyes appear almost silver in the low light levels. "If it had been the other way around, you'd have been quite safe, Doctor, but Dennis doesn't stop and think the way Jack does… did. Dennis will only see that his brother's dead because of us."

"And if anyone's got the means to find out where we've been safely tucked away, it's the bloody Baileys," Boyd says.

Frowning, Grace argues, "But that makes absolutely no sense – blaming us for what happened to Jack."

"I told you," is the irascible reply, "Dennis is playing with at least a dozen cards short of a full deck."

She winces at the blunt description. "Do you really have to, Boyd? I mean, really?"

"There's a time and place for political-bloody-correctness, Grace, and this isn't it. Dennis is a complete nutter. A nutter with a forty-year history of violence and intimidation to his name. He makes his brother look like a fucking choirboy in comparison."

"And if Dennis starts looking for you," Spicer adds, "he won't be subtle about it. If you'd stayed at the flat, half the villains in London would have known where you were within a couple of hours – including whoever killed Hillier, Woodard, and Jack."

Grace opens her mouth to protest, then closes it again, her answering words left unspoken. Organised crime is not her field of expertise, has never interested her. The little she does know has been acquired only by necessity. There's no point in arguing with two very experienced police officers who know much more about such things than she does. Noticing that the road signs they are passing have started to bear blue motorway legends, she asks, "Where are we going?"

"Place near Sheering," Spicer tells her. "We have a reciprocal arrangement with Essex. You should be safe there."

"'Should be'?" Grace echoes.

"Will be," Spicer assures her, his voice firm. "This is all just a precaution, Doctor. We don't know for sure that Dennis is going to think past whoever actually stuck the knife in Jack. Even he may draw the line at going head-to-head with armed police. We're arranging to keep an eye on him, of course, but…"

"…that might not be enough?" she guesses. Shivering, Grace tries to draw her coat tighter around herself. Not easy in the confined space with the seatbelt limiting her movements.

Boyd notices. To the two men in the front, he growls, "Turn the bloody heating up, will you? It's fucking December."

"Sir," the driver says, reaching out to do so.

It doesn't make any immediate difference. Grace is surprised and not a little grateful when Boyd shifts position next to her, bringing their bodies into closer contact. Even through his coat and hers, the reassuring warmth of his body is palpable. She murmurs her gratitude, goes back to staring out of the window as they join the almost empty motorway. The car's internal temperature starts to rise, but there's a cold knot in the pit of her stomach that just won't go away.

-oOo-

The 'place near Sheering' is an isolated cottage halfway along a rural lane more than ten minutes' drive from the village itself. Set back from the lane behind a tall, wild hedge, it's an anonymous silhouette against the dawn sky. A better sort of place to be than the Manor Park flat, Grace decides as the low growl of the car's engine dies away and Spicer gets out. Behind them, the unmarked police car that's followed them all the way from the flat also draws to a halt, but she's distracted by a sharp inrush of freezing cold air that makes her shiver again. She doesn't have time to dwell on it as Boyd hustles her out into the bitter early morning chill and shepherds her in Spicer's wake. Quite when he decided to appoint himself as her chief protector, she's not sure, but for once she's not inclined to argue with him over it. As exasperating as Peter Boyd so often is, there's a dependable toughness about him that she's always found incredibly reassuring in moments of real danger.

"The accommodation's a bit more limited I'm afraid," Spicer tells them, producing a key and unlocking the old-fashioned front door. Nodding his head towards the officers from the other car, he continues, "I'm sure they'll do their best to keep out of your way, but – "

"Yeah," Boyd interrupts, "we get the picture. Open the door, man, I'm freezing my balls off here."

"Sir."

It's concern for her, Grace is sure, rather than the claimed discomfort. Just Boyd's gruff way of doing things. He waves her ahead of him and she follows Spicer into the cottage. As the lights are switched on, she can see that it's a traditional two-up, two-down construction. Possibly Edwardian, maybe a little older. Might once have been a farm labourer's cottage. It's better furnished than the flat, and not as run-down, but there's still an air of chilly desertion that suggests it doesn't see much use. Spicer says, "I believe they had a bathroom put in upstairs a few years back."

"Shame," Boyd mutters behind her, "I was so looking forward to going out to the privy at the end of the garden in the middle of the night."

Grace doesn't tell him that when she was a child, her family shared an outside toilet with their neighbours on both sides. Seems almost unbelievable now in the age of computers and mobile telephones.

"Kitchen," Spicer says, opening the only interior door. "Back door looks pretty secure."

The two other officers move past her, and she's certain she catches an easily-recognisable whiff of gun oil as they do. Might just be her imagination. The taller of the two goes into the kitchen, the other places a large black holdall on a dark wooden occasional table pushed well back into the far corner of the room. She doesn't need to ask what the bag contains. Looking round, she says, "I suppose we could just pretend that this is one of those quaint, over-priced weekend-break sort of places."

Boyd snorts. "I don't know about you, Grace, but when I go away for the weekend, I expect my accommodation to come with stars attached. Five of them, preferably."

"You're such a snob," she accuses, but she knows he's not, not really. He works exceptionally hard to earn the money that allows him to enjoy the better things in life, and although eternally amused by his foibles she's never begrudged him anything from his expensive designer suits to his luxury Swiss wristwatch.

"Your luggage," their uniformed driver announces, appearing with her suitcase and Boyd's bag. He doesn't offer to carry them upstairs, simply places them down and then retreats to the car at a brief nod from Spicer.

"I'll arrange for the next shift to bring in some supplies," Spicer tells them. "With luck you won't be here long enough to need very much."

"I'm sure you said something like that once before," Grace tells him, mentally counting the hours and adding, "about thirty-six hours ago."

He clears his throat. "Well… um…"

"I'm joking," she clarifies, suppressing the urge to sigh. "None of this is your fault, Sergeant. Thank you for everything you've done for us."

"He's just doing his bloody job, Grace," Boyd complains, but it's a half-hearted grumble at best. To the man who's now checking over the weapons from the bag on the occasional table, he says, "Name?"

"Lawson, sir."

"And your oppo?"

"Webber."

"Good. Right, then, Lawson, we're going upstairs to get some much-needed sleep. I don't want to hear a peep out of either of you unless we're in imminent danger, clear?"

"As crystal, sir."

"Pass that on to your relief when they arrive. Grace."

"Mm?"

Boyd nods towards the stairs that rise straight from the small living room. "Up you go. Looks like you get the pick of the rooms again."

"Lucky me," she says, sparing Spicer a tired wink as she moves to pick up her suitcase. Boyd beats her to it, and the look he gives her indicates that it's not the time to make strident protests about equality and female emancipation. Besides, as the old saying goes, why keep a dog and bark yourself? Let him carry everything if he really wants to.

-oOo-

The double bed is a definite upgrade. When she'd first crawled into it the sheets had been cold in a not-quite damp way that had suggested that although clean they'd been on the bed for a while. Still, the mattress had been soft and comfortable, and as the sun had started to rise properly in the winter sky Grace had curled up under the covers and fallen into a sound asleep. Now, several hours later, awake, washed, dressed and at least partially refreshed, she heads down the stairs into the small, latticed-windowed living room. There's a quiet murmur of voices from the kitchen, and she goes to investigate, fully expecting Boyd to be seated at the tiny kitchen table, drinking coffee and making his continued displeasure with the whole situation very clear.

She's wrong. The muted voices belong to the two protection officers who have replaced the duo that followed them from Manor Park, and of Boyd there is absolutely no sign. This pair, she can't help but notice, are not wearing uniform, and do not appear to be armed with the small but powerful submachine guns the previous officers had. One of the two is a slim, attractive blonde who doesn't appear to be a day over thirty, and the other is a tall man perhaps ten years older who's distinguished by a bristling dark crewcut and eyes that are so blue and so piercing that they make Grace look twice. She offers them a hesitant smile and a quiet, "Good morning."

"Ma'am," both officers say in unison, the one voice significantly deeper and gruffer than the other.

Wondering what the etiquette for such a situation is, she supplies, "I'm Grace. Grace Foley. From the CCU."

"PC Donaldson," the man says, producing and holding up his warrant card for her inspection before nodding at his younger colleague, "and PC Finch. Essex WPU."

Witness Protection Unit, her mind automatically supplies. Surprised, she says, "Not SO1?"

"No, ma'am," Donaldson confirms, but he offers no explanation for the change.

The female officer stands up, her attitude friendlier and much more open. She extends a hesitant hand and says, "Zoe Finch."

Why it should be even a slight surprise to her that one of their armed protectors is female, Grace isn't sure. Eyebrows raised as they shake hands, she asks, "Witness Protection?"

Zoe nods and admits, "I think we're a bit of a stop-gap, Doctor."

Well-aware that she didn't introduce herself by her professional title, Grace says, "'Doctor'?"

"Zoe's a bit of a fan," Donaldson replies without any hint of mockery. He shrugs, adds, "She's desperate to move to CID, first chance she gets. Fancies becoming a detective."

Straight-faced, Grace says, "I won't hold that against her. Some of them very nearly qualify as human beings."

"Maybe in the Met," Donaldson says darkly. Moving across the small kitchen, he adds "Coffee, ma'am?"

"Grace," she tells them both, "or 'Doctor' if you really insist on formality. Coffee would be lovely, thank you. Any sign of Boyd yet?"

"No, ma... Doctor," Zoe says. "We were told not to disturb either of you unless it was an emergency."

"And were the words 'bear with a sore head', or something very similar also used, perchance?"

"Erm…"

Chuckling as she sits down, Grace says, "It's all right, you don't have to answer that. I'm perfectly capable of using my imagination. Don't worry too much about Boyd – his bark is almost always worse than his bite. Perhaps you," she looks towards Donaldson, "should make an extra cup of coffee. Strong, only the tiniest suspicion of milk, and a couple of sugars. Do you have another name?"

"Mark," Donaldson supplies, looking faintly bemused as he locates another mug. "How do you…?"

"Lots of milk," she tells him, "and no sugar. Don't worry, I'll beard the lion in his den for you."

Less than ten minutes later, she is standing on the claustrophobic, windowless landing at the top of the stairs, knocking on the bedroom door next to hers. There's a soft creak that sounds as if it's someone turning over in bed and an incoherent mumble that she takes as proof that Boyd is at least partially awake. Knocking again, she inquires, "Are you decent?"

Another creak is followed by an irritable, "What sort of a bloody question is that?"

"A perfectly reasonable one, under the circumstances," Grace informs him. "It's gone eleven. I've brought you coffee."

"Are you expecting me to come and get it, or something?"

"Are you expecting me to wait on you hand and foot while you lounge around in bed all day?"

Predictably, his patience gives out long before hers does. "Oh, just come in, will you?"

Compared to hers, his room is tiny. There's a narrow single bed placed lengthways under the window, a small dark wood wardrobe set at right-angles to the end of it, a low three-legged stool on which his clothes are piled, and a cheap bedside table with a solitary drawer. Nothing else. The part-closed curtains are green and decorated with large, garish yellow sunflowers, and they clash fiercely with the old-fashioned striped wallpaper and the blue and red duvet cover beneath which a sleepy, grumpy-looking Detective Superintendent is sprawled. Only his head and shoulders are visible, and that's fine by Grace. Even for her, it's not much more than three steps from the door to the bedside table where she deposits his coffee mug next to his phone.

"There are two witness protection officers downstairs," she tells him, glancing across the bed to look out of the window. She can't see very much. A stretch of grey sky and the tops of some leafless trees. "I think we're becoming a bit of an administrative nightmare."

"Good," is the surly reply. Boyd's bare arms emerge, and he puts his hands behind his head, causing a noticeable bulge of bicep that she tries not to dwell on. "A day without being a pain in the arse to somebody in the higher echelons is a day wasted. Heard from Spicer?"

Grace shakes her head. "No. You?"

"No idea. I was blissfully asleep until someone started banging on the bloody door." He gives her a thoughtful, appraising look. "Are you just going to stand there, or…?"

The low stool is occupied and there's no chair in the room and no room for one. "Or. Definitely or."

"Oh, for… Here." Movement under the duvet suggests he is moving his legs out of the way for her. Not knowing what else to do, Grace perches on the end of the bed. Boyd studies her for a moment, then asks, "You all right?"

"Tired," she admits, "and not altogether sure we're being told the whole story, but, yes, I'm okay. You?"

"Pretty much the same. What are Tweedledum and Tweedledee up to, then?"

"Tweedledum is a thirtyish blonde called Zoe," she tells him, "so naturally you'll like her."

He ignores the gentle dig. "And Tweedledee?"

"Is most definitely not your type." Grace frowns as she realises she is still being minutely studied. "What?"

"You look… different." He makes it sound almost like an accusation.

Nonplussed, she opts for a simple, "Oh."

"Sort of… I don't know… different."

"You said that," she points out, not sure if she should be flattered or offended. "Well, so do you."

"I do?"

"Yes." Grace nods, then lands the killer blow. "Scruffier. Most definitely."

One hand leaves the back of his head, rubs thoughtfully over the rough stubble that's beginning to compete with his usually neat goatee beard. "Yeah, well, I didn't bother bringing a razor."

"Clearly. When did you last have a shave?"

The other hand moves from the back of his head and he shrugs. "I don't know. What day is it?"

It takes her a moment to decide. "Friday, I think."

"Wednesday morning, then, before work."

"This time next week," Grace says, calculating the days, "it will be Boxing Day."

Boyd scowls. "Fuck, really?"

"Really. Ah, let me guess," she smirks at him, "someone hasn't even started his Christmas shopping."

"Oh, shut up. There's no need to look so bloody smug. Just because you've done it all by the end of November…"

"October," she says, just to annoy him. In truth, she still has a few things to buy and a few Christmas cards to post. It strikes her how banal the thought is, and she looks away suddenly, struggling with the bizarre reality of their situation. Less than a week until Christmas, and they are hiding away under armed guard because somewhere out there –

"Grace?" His voice is unusually soft, and it's edged with concern.

"Sorry," she says, not looking at him. "I just had a bit of a moment, that's all."

"Difficult to process, isn't it?" Boyd says, sitting up. "Whenever I've been in a situation remotely like this before, I've been firmly on the other side. I've been the one doing my best to keep people safe. Not sure how to deal with… well, any of this."

It's an admission Grace never expected to hear him make. Whether he intended it to or not, it helps. Managing a weak smile, she says, "It's just so… so…"

"It is," he agrees, "and it already feels like forever, doesn't it?"

Picking at a non-existent bit of fluff on her soft dark trousers, she says, "How much danger do you think we're really in, Boyd?"

"How honest do you want me to be?"

She knows it's a risk, knows he will give her the absolute truth if she asks for it. Surely, though, knowing can't be as bad as not knowing? Grace looks him straight in the eye. "Completely."

"All right." Boyd is silent for a second or two, and then he says, "The fact that all this is – as far as we're aware – payment of a prison debt is… troubling. You know what that means as well as I do. Prisoners who don't pay off their debts to other prisoners end up getting killed, sooner or later. Proctor knows he's not safe, wherever he is, not until whatever he owes Hare is paid off in full, but offing coppers… that's serious business. No-one on the outside is going to take that on unless – "

" – they owe Proctor a massive debt of their own."

Boyd nods. "Correct. And for a debt to be worth that much… Well, you don't need me to spell it out for you."

She doesn't. Kill or be killed. "I don't."

He's watching her with sombre concern. "Do you need me to tell you that whoever it is who's out there, they'll have to get through me to get to you?"

"No," Grace says. She knows how protective he is, how willing he is to risk his own life to defend someone else's. She's seen enough evidence of it in the past not to know what he will do if it really comes to it. Not wanting to think about it, she asks, "What about Dennis Bailey?"

Boyd grunts, then says, "Dennis is a wild card. My fear is not that he'll come after us, but that he'll bust us wide open blundering about trying to find out who killed Jacky and why."

"'Jacky'," she says, picking up on the diminutive. "You knew him?"

Boyd's expression becomes neutral. "Oh, yes, I knew him."

She wonders what he's not saying. "Well? Are you going to share with the rest of the class?"

A short silence, then, "I said it before. Jacky is… was… old school. Don't get me wrong, he was a thoroughly bad lad. Extortion, prostitution, protection rackets, all the old-fashioned tricks. But like a lot of the old villains he had his own code. Wouldn't have anything to do with drug dealing, wouldn't stand for kiddie-fiddlers, looked after the families of the people who worked for him." Another pause. "Don't look at me like that, Grace. I have… had… no admiration for him. I'm just saying that he played by a certain set of rules. If you nicked him fair and square, he'd put his hands up. No lies, no bullshit."

"You arrested him?"

"Both of them," Boyd confirms with a nod. He draws his knees up under the duvet, rests his bare forearms on them. "More than once. Of the two, I know which one I'd prefer to see alive and kicking."

"Jack. Even if he is a – "

He doesn't let her finish. "If Marshall had done his job properly when he interviewed them, Grace, a lot of this could have been avoided, that's all I'm saying."

"Because Jack would have taken care of the problem."

He shrugs. "If you want to look at it that way."

"That's not moral ambiguity, Boyd, that's – "

"Real life," he cuts in. "I don't condone murder under any circumstances, and you damn well know it, but if Jack had got to whoever killed Gail and Paul before Marshall did, well, I wouldn't have lost any sleep over it."

"And that," Grace says, too weary to be angry, "is exactly why we're so different, you and I."

-oOo-

There's a small, wooden-fenced garden at the back of the cottage, and despite the biting cold it's wonderful to be outside enjoying the weak winter sun as it disappears and reappears behind the chasing clouds. Beyond the fence is a large open field, recently ploughed, and Grace is certain that's the only reason her brief escape from the cottage has been permitted. There's no way for anyone to approach the building from the rear without being seen. If she were to glance over her shoulder, she knows, she would see Donaldson watching her from the kitchen window, and if she were to move to the side of the building out of his line of sight, she has absolutely no doubt that he would follow her immediately. It's a fragile, limited sort of freedom, but it is freedom. She's surprised by how much she's missed it in less than two days.

Moving to stand by the gnarled old apple tree close to the rear fence, she fishes her phone out of the depths of her coat pocket. It will need charging soon, she notices, and she can't remember whether she had the foresight to bring its charger. No point in asking Boyd – different phone – but perhaps Zoe or Mark might be able to help. With cold fingers that are already starting to grow numb, she scrolls through the address book until she finds the number she wants and then presses the little green call button. Holding the phone to her ear, she counts the number of rings. On the fourth there is an audible click and Eve's voice says, "Grace. Are you all right?"

"Fine," she says, cheered by the clear note of concern in the other woman's voice. "How are you? How's everyone else?"

The response is bright and immediate. "I'm okay, and so's Stella, but Spence is having a bit of a hard time. On top of all the normal day-to-day shit, DAC Lambert's been in, and there have been a lot of sudden hush-hush meetings and calls. He's beginning to look quite haunted."

Sympathetic but cold, Grace starts to wander the garden to warm herself up as she says, "Poor Spencer."

"Don't tell him I said so, but I think he's missing having someone to hold his hand," Eve says in a tone that's quite obviously intended to be conspiratorial. "Oh, and speaking of Boyd…"

"Yes?"

"It appears he's being somewhat selective in who he's responding to. Spence is using his office and he's been getting increasingly-irate calls and messages from a rather outspoken lady called – "

"Zahra?" Grace guesses.

"That's the one," Eve agrees, adding, "I haven't spoken to her personally, but I gather she's not at all happy. According to Spence she has an excellent grasp of basic Anglo-Saxon. I really wouldn't want to be in Boyd's shoes when she catches up with him."

Resisting the urge to smirk, Grace continues to walk up and down. She's afraid that if she stops moving, she might turn into a solid block of ice. "Oh dear."

"You could try to sound a little more sincere, you know," Eve tells her, not bothering to hide her amusement. "I take it he's all right?"

"Boyd? Perfectly." An uncharacteristic touch of spite makes her add, "He's made a new friend."

"He has?"

Still walking, Grace nods to herself. "Mm. Blonde and extremely pretty; probably born at about the same time he first joined CID."

"It's difficult to tell over the phone, Doctor," Eve drawls, "but do I detect the delicate sound of you flexing your claws, just a little bit?"

They've come to know each other very well since Eve first joined the CCU. They are notably different in age, but that hasn't prevented them from forming a friendship that continues to deepen and evolve. Gazing out over the ploughed field, Grace says, "That rather depends on how good your hearing is."

"Exceptional," Eve informs her. A pause. "Tell him she's young enough to be his daughter."

"That," Grace replies, trying not to sound bitter, "will only make him even more insufferably smug about the way she's fawning all over him."

"Tell him about the angry phone lady in front of her. That should do the trick."

Giving in to the urge to chuckle, Grace says, "You have an evil streak, Eve, did anyone ever tell you that?"

"Not recently," is the cheerful reply, "but thanks for the compliment. So, have you run out of clean clothes yet?"

With a grimace she replies, "Not quite, but if the offer you made yesterday is still open, and you don't mind making a quick trip to Finchley…?"

"Of course." There's a brief scrabbling sound. "Hang on, I'll make a list. What do you need? Is there a spare key somewhere?"

-oOo-

Returning to the comforting warmth of the cottage, she finds Boyd ensconced in the living room. Lounging in the most comfortable chair, his attention is all on Zoe, sitting on the very edge of the small horsehair sofa. Grace walks in just in time to hear, "…and then the bastard jumped into the bloody river."

It's a story she's heard many times. A long, hazardous pursuit that ended with a half-drowned suspect and a much younger Boyd being summarily hauled over the coals by his then notorious DI, the late, great John Hedley-Harper. Usually it gets recounted on those rare team-building social occasions when he's had more than a drink or two too many, and the more alcohol he's imbibed, the funnier the always long, rambling and intentionally solemn recitation is. Maliciously pleased to be able to interrupt, Grace says, "I've just spoken to Eve again."

He turns his head to regard her with exaggerated courtesy. "And…?"

"Everything's fine. She's going to collect some things for me and get Spencer to arrange to have them brought over. You should probably think about doing something similar. Oh," she gives him a knowing look, "and it seems your current lady-friend isn't terribly happy about you ignoring all her determined efforts to contact you. She's been haranguing Spencer."

On reflection, it is perhaps a vindictive thing to do, but it has the desired effect. Zoe clears her throat, gets to her feet and says, "Well, I'd better go and check in with Mark."

"You do that," Boyd says, still gazing at Grace. She stares back at him, eyebrows slightly raised. The sudden pointed silence lasts until Zoe has left the room and closed the kitchen door behind her. "My 'current lady-friend'?"

"Zahra."

He scowls at her. "I know who you bloody mean, Grace."

"Eve says she's not a happy woman," Grace says, settling in the other armchair. "Why are you ignoring her?"

The scowl intensifies. "Don't change the subject."

"I wasn't," is her mild, ingenuous reply. "We're still talking about Zahra, aren't we?"

"You know what I mean," Boyd growls. "'Lady-friend'? For God's sake, could you be any less subtle?"

"'Subtle'? That's an interesting choice of word, Boyd. Unless, of course, you actually were deliberately flirting with – "

"Seriously?" The retort is so quick and so hot that Grace knows she's hit a nerve. Good. Serves him damn well right. "She's young enough to be my bloody daughter, Grace."

She wonders what he would think if he knew how precisely his words echoed Eve's. "Oh, so you did notice that?"

He's up and out of his chair faster than anyone who didn't know him would credit. Immediately starts to prowl in the confined space. "What is your damn problem? Why all these snippy comments about other women all of a sudden? What the hell has any of it got to do with you?"

Displacement, Grace thinks. Classic displacement. The sudden surge of anger has nothing to do with her and anything she might have said, nor does it have anything to do with Zahra, Zoe, or any other woman that happens to be currently catching his attention. He's angry because he's confined and powerless, two states that don't sit well with his edgy, explosive character. Getting to her own feet, she says, "Now you're just being ridiculous, Boyd."

It's the wrong thing to say, and as he rounds on her she takes an automatic step back. It's unnecessary. Quick and fierce as his temper is, she's never had any fear that he might lash out physically at anyone he knows, much less at her. He's bristling, though, and the all tension in his stance transfers itself to the room around him. "I'm being ridiculous? Well, what the hell do you call that little display? Are you jealous, Grace? Is that it?"

That word. That dangerous, taboo word. The one she's consciously pushed away every single time it's crept forward in her mind for examination. The back of her neck flares into sudden heat, the reaction triggered not just by annoyance, but by an unwelcome sting of embarrassment, too. "Jealous?" she flings back at him. "Jealous of what, exactly?"

He's too close. Far too close. "That's what I'd like to know. What is it with you?"

Grace doesn't realise she's been edging backwards until she collides gently with the occasional table in the corner. With nowhere left to go, absolute defiance is her only remaining defence. "Me? It's not me who's drowning in grief, who's obsessively using sex to try to keep the truth at bay, who's so emotionally dysfunctional that..."

Unexpectedly, as her harsh words die in her throat, Boyd freezes. He stares at her, an infinite well of pain clearly visible in his deep, dark eyes. When he speaks, his voice is unnaturally quiet. "Cheap shot, Grace."

"I'm sorry," she tells him, and she is. Endlessly, boundlessly sorry. For all of it. Repentant, she continues, "Boyd, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No," he says, still very quiet, "you shouldn't. But you did."

He's so wounded, so… lost. Grace sees the full extent of it almost for the first time. Pure instinct makes her reach out a hesitant hand to him, and when he doesn't flinch back, she places it softly on his bristly cheek. Still staring at each other, they are locked into a strange tableau, as if for them, at least, time has momentarily stopped.

Boyd turns his head as if intending to kiss her palm, and behind him, right on cue, the kitchen door opens. Donaldson says, "Sir? I've got DCI Marshall on the phone. He's been trying to reach you."

-oOo-

Cont...