SIX - Guilty
"John Reid," the doctor says, introducing himself with a professional smile as he ushers her into the small, windowless room, "Forensic Medical Examiner. Well, you certainly look as if you've been in the wars."
"It's nothing," Grace mutters, though her painful arm has stiffened up to the point where she can barely move it. Her throat is sore, and there's a throbbing pain in her lower leg from the cut she received while being forced through the broken cottage window, but she's still not convinced she really needs medical attention. Still, she seats herself on the plastic chair indicated and prepares for the inevitable. "Will this take long?"
"Probably not," he reassures her, "but let me take a look at you first, eh?"
Someone has tried to make the room look at least a little festive, stringing silver tinsel around the curtain rail between the examination bed and the rest of the room. It's far from successful. Grace stares at the posters on the wall as Reid examines her. One suggests that domestic violence should never go unreported, another that hepatitis B and C must always be taken seriously. The FME is gentle but thorough, asking her quiet questions as he prods and pokes and makes noncommittal noises. Eventually he concludes, "I don't think there's any fracture, Doctor Foley, but you'll need to have your arm x-rayed just to make sure. That cut on your leg will require stitching. Have you had a tetanus jab recently?"
"Two or three years ago," she tells him, stifling a raspy cough.
"Smoke inhalation," he says. "The smoke has irritated your lungs and throat. The hospital will also do a chest x-ray and take some blood just to make sure there's no lasting damage."
"The hospital?" Grace echoes.
"I'm afraid so." He gives her another small smile. "For what it's worth, I don't think there's anything to worry about, but smoke inhalation can be tricky. Patients can sometimes deteriorate very quickly. If it makes you feel any better, I'll be telling the Detective Superintendent exactly the same thing when I finally get hold of him."
"I'm sure he'll be delighted," she mutters. They were separated almost on arrival at the small police station with its scruffy, old-fashioned exterior, and she quickly lost sight of him in the chaos.
"I'll deal with your leg," Reid says. "That should save you some time in A and E."
"Butterfly stitches?" she asks hopefully.
He shakes his head. "The real deal, I'm afraid. Don't worry, I'll use plenty of local anaesthetic. You won't feel a thing."
-oOo-
"Thirteen stitches," she grumbles to DS Spicer, as he leads her along a corridor painted a pale, sickly green. "Why won't you tell me what's happening?"
"In here," he says, not answering her question as he knocks on a door and opens it. "Doctor Foley, sir."
A solemn-looking DCI Marshall is sitting behind a borrowed desk, and Boyd is sitting at ninety degrees to it. Both men start to rise as she enters the room, but as Spicer retreats she waves the courtesy away, looks from one to the other and demands, "What's happened?"
"The man who stabbed PC Finch has been found," Marshall informs her. "He's dead."
"Dead?" Grace stares at him, incredulous. "So Zoe did manage to wound him, then?"
It is Boyd who shakes his head. "No. No sign of a gunshot wound. Post mortem will have to confirm it, of course, but it looks as if he died from massive blood loss. He was found in the woods, about half a mile from the cottage. Someone cut his throat."
"What?" Again, she looks from one man to the other. "Could it have been self-inflicted?"
"Eve's on her way," Boyd tells her, "but the initial opinion of the attending pathologist is almost certainly not. Added to which, the knife used to stab Finch has yet to be recovered."
Marshall's portentous voice is loud. "If you'll pardon the language, Doctor, this whole thing is turning into a complete bloody balls-up. We've got a dead chief suspect, Essex are screaming because they've lost an officer, and I've got the DAC on my back."
"Poor you," Grace mutters without a hint of sincerity. To Boyd, she says, "Dennis Bailey?"
"That's our current theory," Marshall answers before Boyd can say a word. "He's absent from his address in New Cross. I've got officers trawling all his usual haunts, but so far, no sign of him."
"I take it the man we think killed Zoe hasn't been identified yet?"
The big man shakes his head. "Not yet, but his DNA's been taken, and his prints are being run as we speak. I think it's safe to say it's only a matter of time. A man who's killed three people on someone else's say-so is unlikely not to have a record."
"I have to agree," Grace says. She looks at Boyd, wondering why he is contributing so little to the conversation. He looks a mess, she thinks. Still dishevelled from sleep, and haggard, unshaven and dirty. There's blood and soot on his face, his hands and his tee-shirt, and his jeans are mud-spattered and torn. She doubts she looks much better.
Almost as if reading her mind, Boyd stirs in his chair. "Marshall, I'd like to speak to my associate. Alone."
The DCI glowers, but it seems he knows he has no choice but to capitulate because he gets reluctantly to his feet. "I'll need to speak to both of you again in a few minutes. I'll go and see if they've had any progress finding Bailey."
Waiting until he's out of the room, Grace looks at Boyd again. "What are you thinking?"
His response is slow, considered. "Primarily, I'm thinking… how did he – the man who stabbed Finch – find us, and how did he know that Donaldson was temporarily out of the picture?"
"Well, as far as the second question goes, he must have been watching the cottage."
"Mm."
"You don't think so?" Grace inquires, watching him closely.
Boyd shakes his head. "No, no, I do think so. No other obvious explanation, is there? Except…"
"Except?" she prompts.
"I don't know," Boyd admits with a slight shrug. "Just a feeling I've got."
They've worked together for long enough for Grace to trust his instincts. Usually, when Boyd thinks something isn't quite right, it… isn't quite right. Rubbing at a stubborn smear of dirt on the back of her hand she says, "If it was Dennis who killed him…"
"…then it was probably also Dennis who found us and tipped him off. Yeah, I'd got that far on my own, Grace. Still doesn't quite add up, though, does it?"
"Doesn't it?"
He shrugs again. "Something about the whole thing feels… off. You okay?"
The lightning change of direction startles her. Refusing to think about anything than her physical condition, she says, "Oh. Yes. Few cuts and bruises, nothing serious."
"Sorry."
"Don't be," she says, "you saved my life."
His reply is a dismissive, "Hardly."
"You did," Grace insists. "If you hadn't shoved me through that window…"
Boyd winces. "I didn't exactly 'shove you through a window', Grace."
"Actually, that's exactly what you did – and I'm very grateful for it." She pauses, then dares to ask, "What about you? Are you okay?"
He holds up his left hand, palm outwards, and for the first time she sees the long, bloody laceration there. Crusted and oozing, it looks deep. Expressionless, he says, "'Few cuts and bruises, nothing serious'."
Another victim of the shattered glass, Grace thinks. Choosing her words with care, she says, "I was actually talking about… Zoe."
His expression doesn't change, remains fixed. "I know."
Further conversation is forestalled by a quiet knock on the door. It opens to reveal Spicer again. "Detective Superintendent? Two of your team are here."
Eve, Grace assumes, from what Boyd said earlier, and – presumably – Spencer.
Boyd sounds weary as he retorts, "Well, send them in, then, man, for God's sake."
"Sir."
"They must have driven on blues the whole way," Grace muses aloud, as Spicer withdraws for a moment.
He reappears, saying to whoever's behind him, "In here."
Eve leads the way, her calf-length leather coat swinging as she strides in. Spencer is right behind her, his features set into the perpetually grumpy mask that Grace knows means absolutely nothing. Getting to her feet, she's almost surprised to find herself being tightly hugged by the other woman. It doesn't help her physical aches and pains, but it does quite a lot to soothe the considerable emotional battering she's received. Stepping back, Eve says, "My God, look at the state of you… both of you."
Boyd is on his feet, too, but he has edged back, placing his chair between himself and the newcomers, as if to prevent any further outbreak of unsolicited hugging. His tone is dry as he says, "And hello to you, too."
Spencer looks him up and down. "You look like shit. Sir."
"Thanks, Spence."
Eagle-eyed, Eve asks him, "What have you done to your hand?"
"Oh." Boyd holds it up again. "Slight altercation with a broken window."
"The police doctor is waiting to see him," Grace puts in. "Apparently we've both got to go to hospital for chest x-rays and all that sort of thing."
As Boyd gives her a sharp look, Spencer shakes his head and addresses Eve. "What did I say? We let them out of our sight for a couple of bloody days, and all hell breaks loose."
-oOo-
Wrapped in a large, scratchy white towel, Grace is sitting on one of the locker room's benches examining the waterproof dressing on her leg. It seems to have survived the long, hot shower, as promised. A knock on the outer door makes her look up. Eve's voice inquires, "Safe to come in?"
"Of course," she confirms. She may not be looking altogether her best, she decides, but at least she is now clean.
Eve appears from the corridor carrying an armful of folded clothes. She says, "The desk sergeant is a large, terrifying but actually very nice Glaswegian lady. She organised this lot for you from somewhere. Not sure how – I only understood about one word in ten."
"Oh."
Putting down her burden, Eve also sits down on the bench. "So, how are you, Grace? Really?"
"Shaky," she admits. She takes a deep breath, hoping it will help. In explanation, she adds, "The fire… and Zoe… poor Zoe."
Eve looks momentarily confused. "Zoe? Oh, the officer who died?"
Grace nods, struggling with too-recent memories. "They tried so hard to save her – Boyd and Donaldson – but…"
"Nothing they could do," Eve says, almost brusque. Gentler, she continues, "From what I've been told by the duty pathologist, if she didn't suffer a massive haemothorax caused by a traumatic aortic rupture, I'd be very surprised."
"It's my fault." Grace rasps. The words seem to force themselves out of her, as if they refuse to be contained any longer. "It's all my fault, Eve."
Her colleague looks both surprised and sceptical. "How on earth could any of this possibly be your fault, Grace?"
"She's dead because of me," Grace insists. "I was the one who persuaded Donaldson to leave his post and go into the village. We needed milk. Oh Christ, Eve… a young woman is dead because we needed milk." Her throat feels as if it's closing, as if even minimal breathing will soon become a complete impossibility. "The killer must have been watching the cottage, must have been waiting for an opportunity to… to…"
As the guttural sobs start to wrack her, she's dimly aware of slim arms going around her, of being drawn against the sudden comforting warmth of a living, breathing body. Unable to do anything else, Grace buries her head into Eve's shoulder and cries. It's shock and grief, it's the accumulated stress of every uncertain hour since the whole nightmare began. It's Zoe lying dead on the gravel; it's the shining shards of glass, the dark, serpentine smoke and the flames that gave life to it. It's everything that's happened since that very first night.
How long she cries for, Grace isn't sure, but as the emotional storm starts to pass, she becomes vaguely aware that the front of Eve's dark grey blouse is thoroughly soaked, that she's twisted into an uncomfortable position that's sending little stabs of pain through her back, and that someone – Eve – is murmuring soft reassurances almost straight into her ear. Desperate sobs turn to melancholy snuffles, and eventually she's able to raise her head, to exert enough force for the enveloping arms to release allowing her to straighten up again. Miserable and mortified, she mutters, "I'm sorry."
Eve's voice is thick with emotion. "Oh, Grace… don't be silly."
Not able yet to look at the younger woman, she mumbles, "I don't seem to have a hankie…"
An apparently clean but very crumpled tissue appears in her field of vision. "Here."
It helps. Less congested, Grace manages, "What a terrible, terrible mess…"
"It is," Eve confirms, "but it's not your mess, Grace. Boyd's absolutely spitting feathers over Donaldson disobeying orders. Last I saw, he was bawling out a very embarrassed-looking Chief Inspector."
"Oh, God…" Scrunching the now-damp tissue into an ever-tighter ball, Grace shakes her head. "I'd better go and – "
"No," Eve interrupts, ever-pragmatic. "What you need to do is get dressed and sort yourself out. Let Boyd do whatever it is he needs to do. That Sergeant – Spicer? – he said it was Boyd who got you and Zoe out of the fire."
Grace nods. "He did. I don't remember the last time I was that frightened. The flames, Eve, and the smoke…"
"You're lucky," is the quiet, sober reply. "If the place had been torched while you were asleep…"
"Oh, I know." Again, Grace thinks of Gail. Something else occurs to her, something that suddenly seems terribly important. "Your suitcase… it was in the bedroom… Oh, Eve, I'm sorry…"
Eve couldn't look more incredulous. "You're worried about that…? Seriously?"
The mundane realities of the situation are beginning to assert themselves, sliding into her mind in the gaps between the visceral horrors of the day. "I suppose everything's gone… my purse, my house keys… everything."
"All those things can be replaced – you can't," Eve tells her. "You and Boyd, you got out alive, that's what matters."
"Zoe didn't. She wanted to join the CCU. She said she'd had enough of witness protection. She was going to ask Boyd if he'd take her if she transferred to the Met. I told her…" Grace hears her voice wobble, "I told her to talk to him. And then… then she was dead."
"Come on," Eve says, standing up, "let's get you dressed, and then let's find you a cup of hot, sweet tea."
Staring, she asks, "How will that help?"
The reply is a slight shrug and, "I don't know, Grace… but it can't do any harm, can it?"
-oOo-
There's a small, grim canteen on the second floor of the building that reminds Grace of times long past. Once, proper meals might have been served over a proper counter. Now, a couple of vending machines are positioned in one corner, and a very basic kitchen area fills another. A cheap fridge, kettle and microwave seem to be the main amenities, and they all look well-used. Five or six uniformed Essex officers are seated around a table at the far end of the room, and beyond them there is a sorry-looking Christmas tree with drooping branches and an over-abundance of sparkly plastic ornaments. Their conversation is hushed, and they keep their heads well down. Grace understands. They have lost one of their own.
"Tea," Eve says, handing her a disposable cup, and then leading the way to another table, one a good distance away from the subdued knot of local officers. Sitting down, she says, "So, today aside, how has it been?"
"Difficult," Grace admits, slipping into an adjacent chair and adjusting the neck of her borrowed ribbed sweater. It's tight, a little too uncomfortable, but it is clean and warm. "Lots of stressful moments interspersed with long periods of mind-numbing boredom."
A sympathetic nod. "And His Lordship? Predictably grumpy?"
"Not all the time." Honesty makes her add, "I think most of the time he was making a genuine effort to be as bearable as possible."
"Well, that's good, then."
"Yes." Sipping her tea, which is, indeed, hot and sweet, Grace finally adds, "I have a bone to pick with you."
A picture of bemused innocence, Eve inquires, "You do?"
"I do," she confirms, putting down her cup.
"Shall I just guess, or…?"
"Oh, I think you can guess," Grace says, fixing her with an inimical glare. "A certain item of… night attire… that inexplicably found its way into the bottom of the suitcase?"
Eve's bland expression doesn't change. "Ah. That."
"That," Grace confirms, remembering her surprise when she reached the bottom of the suitcase and found the article in question. "What on earth were you thinking?"
Eve shrugs and smirks. "Well, it was just lying there in the drawer doing nothing…"
"With good reason!"
The smirk only increases. "Did he like it?"
The image of Boyd's startled face flits through her mind. It's followed by other, more… intimate… memories. Ones best not dwelt upon at that particular moment. As disdainful as possible, Grace replies, "I never wore it."
Eve looks reproachful. "That's not an answer, Grace. Or rather, it is, but it's not the answer."
"It's the only one you're going to get. And don't think you can infer anything from that." Her gaze strays again to the officers near the Christmas tree, and any vague notion of humour evaporates in an instant. A bright, ambitious young woman is dead, and she and Eve are…
"Grace?"
"It's nothing," she lies, not wanting to be told again that none of it is her fault. Of course it's her fault – partially, at least.
The canteen door opens, drawing her attention. Boyd followed by Spencer. The former, it seems, has also had a shower and been provided with clean clothes. Uniform, even. Black trousers, crisp white shirt augmented by dark epaulettes with a superintendent's silver and red crowns attached, no tie. Spencer gives them a thin smile of greeting and goes straight to the vending machines while Boyd heads past them to go and speak to his fellow officers. The table is too far away for any of the subsequent conversation to be audible, but his body language suggests to Grace that he is offering his condolences. Solidarity, she thinks. There may be intense rivalry between individual forces, but when a police officer is killed in the line of duty…
Spencer places two more cups on the table and sits down next to Eve. He says, "The dead guy was one Derek Butler, record as long as your arm dating right back to the 'eighties. He was fancied for the murder of an East End publican in the late 'nineties, but all the evidence was circumstantial and then someone else coughed for it. Care to guess who?"
"No idea," Eve says, "but I assume you're dying to tell us, Spence, so…"
"Alex Proctor," he announces.
Eve still looks blank. "Who is…?"
"Right at the centre of all of this," Grace tells her. "So that's the link? Proctor – "
" – took the rap," Spencer confirms with a nod. "Odds are, someone he really couldn't say no to told him to."
Boyd joins them, settling next to Grace with a barely a grunt of greeting. Reaching for the remaining cup with a hand that's conspicuously bandaged he says, "Spence has told you?"
Grace nods. "Yes. Derek Butler."
"Wife-beater, amateur housebreaker and professional thug-for-hire," he says with clear distaste. "In and out of prison since he was nineteen. Nasty piece of work, by anyone's standards."
"Including Jack Bailey's?" she asks.
Boyd nods. "Seems so, doesn't it? Butler rented a flat in Shoreditch. Marshall's lot are turning it over as we speak."
"He was a firebug, too," Spencer puts in. "Two of his convictions were for arson. Unofficially, the sleeves of the jacket he was wearing when he died show clear traces of petrol."
"So that's that, then," Grace says, staring into the half-empty depths of her cup. "He killed both Gail Hillier and Paul Woodward, then Bailey."
"Then stabbed Finch and set fire to the cottage," Spencer adds. He snorts. "At least the taxpayer won't have to foot the bill for a trial."
"I don't like it," Boyd says. All three of them look at him. He shakes his head. "It's too neat and tidy."
"Well, sometimes these sorts of things are," Eve says. "Oh, come on, Boyd, we've all been involved in cases that turn out to be a lot simpler than they first appear, haven't we?"
"I'm buying that he's the killer," he says, fiddling with the rim of his cup, "and I'm even buying why he's the killer, but something about the rest… just doesn't ring true."
Once again, the canteen door opens. This time it's DS Spicer, followed by the FME, Reid, who walk into the room. The latter advances with a firm, no-nonsense smile. "Ah; Detective Superintendent, Doctor Foley, there you are. There's a car waiting to take you to Colchester General. There's an x-ray machine there with both your names on."
"Just what we need," Boyd mutters, "a police doctor who thinks he's a fucking comedian."
-oOo-
It's mid-afternoon by the time they find themselves in the x-ray department waiting on hard plastic chairs, and around them the hospital is growing busier with every passing minute. Seated side-by-side, they don't talk much. It's too open a public space to freely discuss the day's events, and Grace, for one, is far too weary to make herself think too deeply about any of it. It's only in a determined effort to keep her mind from continually straying back to Zoe that she finally says, "Do you think they'll manage to salvage any of our stuff from the cottage?"
Boyd is busy examining a nasty-looking graze on his unbandaged hand. He casts her only the briefest of glances. "Doubt it. You saw how far the fire had spread by the time the fire brigade turned up."
"I suppose I'd better report my credit cards as lost," she says. Inane. Better than thinking about all the things that really matter.
Boyd grunts. A moment later, he says in a much lower voice, "About last night…"
Avoiding the inquisitive gaze of an elderly lady in a hospital wheelchair who arrived just after they did, Grace stares at the wall opposite. White, featureless. "It's fine, Boyd. We don't need to talk about it."
"Oh." A long, uncomfortable pause. He clears his throat. "Well, good. Okay, then."
It feels as if it all happened a whole lifetime ago, yet just twelve hours ago they were squeezed together in that ridiculously small bed, languishing gently in a sleepy post-coital stupor. Doesn't seem possible. Lowering her gaze to the floor, Grace wonders how long it will take for her to banish the most uncomfortable of the too-recent memories trying to crowd in on her. How long it will be before she can't feel the ghostly impression of his hands on her skin, can't smell him, taste him; before she can't –
"Actually," he says, the word loud and abrupt enough to draw the rapt attention of the wheelchair-bound old woman waiting on the other side of the corridor, "no. It's not okay. Grace…"
It takes a lot of nerve and quite a lot of physical effort to turn her head to gaze at him. "What?"
Quieter, but no less intense, he says, "I can't just leave it… not like this, and I don't believe you can, either."
"I told you," Grace says, surprised by how calm and mechanical her voice sounds, "if it was just last night, that's all right."
"But what if it's not?" Boyd demands, startling her with his vehemence. "What if it could be more?"
A woman in a pale blue uniform appears from one of the side rooms. "Grace Foley…?"
"Here," she says, getting to her feet.
The woman smiles at her. "The radiographer's ready for you."
-oOo-
When she returns to the corridor, Boyd has vanished. She glances up and down, but there is no sign of him. The elderly woman sitting in the hospital wheelchair asks, "Looking for the nice policeman, are you, dear?"
It's a… unique description. Not one Grace would generally associate with him. Nodding cautiously, she says, "Yes."
The woman in the wheelchair points to a closed door. "Took him in there a couple of minutes ago. He asked me to tell you to wait for him. Husband, is it?"
"Colleague," Grace says, a little too forcefully. That's what he is. A colleague. A friend, too, when they are not at each other's throats over some petty difference of opinion, but nothing more. One foolish night means absolutely nothing, whatever he might be trying to ill-advisedly convince himself.
"Oh." A considering look. "Sure?"
"Quite sure," Grace tells her. "I think I would have remembered if we'd ever been married."
The old lady cackles in delight. "I should say you would. Handsome brute. If I were twenty years younger…"
How on earth, she asks herself, returning to the hard seats, does he do it? For a man who can be so prickly, so downright rude…
"Esme Dalton," the woman introduces herself, "Mrs."
"Oh. Grace. Grace Foley."
A suspicious frown and, "Irish?"
"My grandparents were," she confirms, wondering how long she's going to have to wait for Boyd.
"Thought so. Got that look about you." Esme tilts her head, stares intently. A few seconds later she says, "The very worst things always work themselves out in the end, you know, dear. Whatever it is, however bad it is, it will pass. In time."
Wondering if the old lady is a mind-reader, Grace says, "Sometimes it's difficult to believe that."
"I know." A small, sage nod. "I was watching the two of you. Before. He cares more than you know. If you forget about whatever it is that's stopping you and just let him look after you, I'm sure you won't regret it."
Only half-joking, Grace asks, "Do you read tea-leaves, too?"
The way Esme immediately scowls makes it quite clear that she has caused offence. "One day you'll be as old as me, and when you are, you'll be glad if there's someone left who gives a damn whether you're alive or dead."
"I'm sorry," Grace says, and she means it. She sighs. "It's been a very difficult day. I didn't mean to be rude."
"Hm."
"Someone died," she adds, not knowing why she feels the need to share. "A young police officer. She could have been my daughter. Such a waste of life."
"Terrible times we live in," Esme says after a pause, and from her it doesn't sound trite. Red-rimmed grey eyes regard Grace with intelligent curiosity. "You don't look like a policewoman."
"I'm not. I'm a… well, I work with the police."
"My house was burgled," Esme announces. "Last month. I got back from my son's house, and the place had been ransacked. I said to my friend Margery…"
Grace only half-listens to the barrage of complaints. She murmurs appropriate noises in the right places and thinks about Boyd, about whatever it was he might have gone on to say had she not been called for her x-rays. There hasn't been the time or opportunity for them to talk about the events of the previous night, and equally little time to even think about them, and she's still not sure if that's a good or bad thing.
"…and then the man at the community centre had the cheek to say…"
It was so wrong, but it had felt… so right. So many things about the circumstances surrounding it had been wrong, but kissing him, being kissed by him, making love with him and lying in his arms afterwards… that had felt right. Incredibly, perfectly right. It couldn't possibly work between them, though, even if they wanted it to. Could it?
"Your policeman's back," Esme remarks.
Grace looks up. Boyd is bearing down on them, his brows drawn together in thought, his stride long and purposeful. She looks at him, and she knows he's found the missing piece of the puzzle that has been eluding him. As he draws to a stop, he answers her silent question with a single word: "Spicer."
-oOo-
Huddled in a borrowed corner of the open-plan space assigned to the station's handful of CID officers, all four of them stare at the database information displayed on the screen of Eve's laptop. Spencer jabs a blunt forefinger at the screen and says, "Deptford."
"Between 'ninety-two and 'ninety-six," Eve adds. To Boyd, who has paused in his laborious two-fingered typing, she says, "It doesn't prove anything."
"I spent over six years at Deptford," he says, the fingers of his left hand now drumming a quick, irritable tattoo on the wooden desk, "and I know just how many coppers Jacky Bailey had in his back pocket."
"Oh, come on…"
"Operation Countryman wasn't the end of corruption in the Met," Grace says, "we all know that. Look how recently Tiberius was mounted."
"There's still no proof of anything," Eve argues, and at the withering look Spencer gives her, adds, "I'm not defending anyone, I'm just saying it's a big leap to make without any evidence."
"There's fuck-all evidence for most of what's already been assumed about this case," Boyd tells her. He glares at the laptop's screen and continues, "We know four people have died – five if you count Butler himself – and we know someone burned that cottage to the ground. Everything else is smoke and bloody mirrors."
"There are also serious questions we have absolutely no assumptions for," Grace points out.
"Where's the knife that was used to stab Zoe being the one that really interests me," Eve says.
"And how and why was Spicer on the scene so quickly this morning," Boyd adds. "Marshall didn't send him, and I'm not buying his cock and bull story about coming to check on us because we weren't answering our phones."
"Nor me," Spencer agrees. He folds his arms. "Let's say Butler killed Hillier, Woodward and Finch, and set light to the cottage. What does that leave us with?"
Eve shrugs. "Who killed Jack Bailey, and why, and who killed Butler himself… and why."
"Bailey and Butler are associated killings," Grace tells them. "They're not part of the pattern. The first two killings are directly linked to Richard Hare's need for revenge, as is the arson attack on the cottage that targeted me and Boyd. Poor Zoe was… collateral damage."
"Agreed," Boyd says. "Wrong place, wrong time."
"They knew too much," Spencer suggests, looking at Boyd. "Bailey and Butler. They were killed purely to stop them talking."
"Exactly."
Eve nods slowly. "All right, I'll buy that as a working hypothesis. In which case, who killed Butler?"
Grace glances at Boyd before she says, "Carl Spicer."
-oOo-
A bitter December wind is blowing through the locked compound at the rear of the police station. Huddled in her borrowed coat, Grace stands on the leeward side of Spencer, but she's still shivering as she watches Eve open the boot of Spicer's car. Boyd and Marshall are flanking Spicer himself, their stony silence speaking volumes. Eve, wearing white paper coveralls acquired from Reid, leans into the boot, reaches in with gloved hands to move whatever articles lie within. It doesn't take her long to straighten up, turn, and give a silent nod.
It is Marshall who says, "Carl Spicer, I am arresting you on suspicion of…"
Grace moves forward with Spencer, stopping close enough to be able to crane to see what Eve has found. In the boot of the car there is a black plastic rubbish bag, now partially open, and within that, a set of dark overalls of the type she has often seen used at muddy, outdoor crime scenes. Protruding from folds in the navy cloth is the stag-horn handle and part of the blade of an old-fashioned hunting knife. Grace can see that it's been perfunctorily wiped on something, but enough dark dried blood remains to make her stomach tighten in a mix of nausea and fury. Next to her, Spencer exhales loudly but says nothing.
Turning, she stares straight at Spicer. Between Marshall and Boyd, he looks slight and unimpressive. He looks straight back at her, his strange pale eyes empty, his face devoid of emotion. No anger, no fear, no righteous indignation. Nothing.
Marshall takes hold of Spicer's upper arm. There's no doubt about just how hard his fingers dig into the other man's bicep, but his voice is tight and controlled as he says, "Come on."
Boyd is looking at Eve. Like Spicer, he is expressionless.
-oOo-
Cont…
