SEVEN - Camden Lock
It's over. It's really over. Grace knows it's the truth when she is given formal permission to return to her own home, to pick up her life again as if none of it ever happened. Spencer drives her there, hovers long enough for her to retrieve the spare key from its hiding place and to ask her if she needs anything, then disappears into the early-evening sleet that has taken hold. Left with a huge sense of anti-climax, Grace picks her way through the familiar downstairs rooms of the house, ignoring the strings of Christmas cards, the glitter of tinsel and the terrible empty feeling inside her. There are questions – so many questions – that still need to be answered, but it looks likely that Carl Spicer will be officially charged with Butler's murder, and everything else… everything else seems to be being treated like mere formalities by all the people who didn't live minute-by-minute through the nightmare themselves.
The milk in the fridge has turned into a stinking, lumpy substance somewhere between yoghurt and cheese. She pours it away, crying almost silently for Zoe Finch. Mark Donaldson is facing a disciplinary hearing at the very least, one that could end his career, and to her that feels every bit as unfair as Zoe dying because there was no milk left for breakfast.
Spencer thinks Spicer also killed Jack Bailey. Grace isn't so sure. The evidence collected from Butler's flat is being carefully examined by a Metropolitan Police CSI team, but whether it will provide any definitive answers…
The phone – the house phone – starts to ring as she's trying to decide whether eat or to simply give up on the evening and go to bed. She answers its strident summons with weary caution. "Hello?"
"Hi." Baritone. Quiet. Subdued. "You okay?"
"I have no idea," she answers truthfully. "You?"
"I'm in the bath," he says, which is not at all an answer to her question. He seems to rally. "Thought I'd give you a call, see how you are. Some fucker's broken into my garden shed and had it away with the croquet set. Can you believe that?"
The deliberate deflection into the absurd is so characteristic that it's almost reassuring. Grace shakes her head. "That you own – used to own – a croquet set, Boyd? No, not for a moment."
"It was Mary's," he tells her.
"Of course it was," she soothes. It's not quite up to their usual standard of banter, but she thinks they can be forgiven for that. Under the circumstances. Moving to her favourite armchair, she asks, "Does that explain the attempted break-in, then?"
"I'm inclined to think so. Completely unconnected." A faint sound of splashing is followed by, "What day is it?"
She frowns, trying to recall. "Saturday. I think."
"Thank Christ for that. I really wasn't looking forward to getting up for work tomorrow."
Staring at the lifeless television set in the corner of the room, Grace hears herself say, "We should talk."
His reply is too quick. "We are talking."
She sighs, intending him to hear it. "You know what I mean, Boyd."
"Yeah," he concedes, the near-exhaustion heavy in his voice, "I do; and you're right, we should."
"Not tonight," she tells him before he can think about suggesting it. They're both far too tired to undertake such a sensitive and potentially hazardous conversation. "Tomorrow?"
"Lunch?" he proposes. "We could go to that little place in Camden?"
Grace thinks she knows the place he means. A small, surprisingly affordable Italian restaurant not far from Camden Market. An accidental discovery they made together several months ago and have yet to return to. "Franco's? All right. How about I meet you at Camden Lock at say, half-twelve?"
"Fine," Boyd agrees. She hears him yawn. "At least I can have a bit of a lie-in."
"You and me both. I didn't get much sleep last ni…" Grace breaks off as she realises just how ambiguous the innocently-intended words sound. The fierce heat of his body, the intoxicating smoothness of his skin…
The amused snort in her ear makes it clear that she's far too late to save herself. "That's your own bloody fault for insisting on – "
"Stop," she tells him. "I'm not up to enduring your smutty schoolboy sense of humour, not at the moment."
"Suit yourself." Grace can almost hear the loose shrug that she can't see. "Grace?"
She sighs again. "What?"
"Nothing."
Ridiculous, infuriating man. She doesn't roll her eyes, but she comes dangerously close to it. "Goodnight, Boyd."
-oOo-
Despite still being several days away, Christmas is in full swing in Camden Lock and its associated streets. Hundreds of twinkling lights have been strung between the lamp-posts and along the span of the iconic bridge with its huge green and yellow sign, and more festive decorations than it's possible to comprehend make the clustered market stalls look even more busy and distracting than usual. For Grace, who has loved the place since her very first visit to London in her far-off student days, the effect is magical. Not even the loud, jostling crowds of shoppers and sight-seers take the edge off her simple delight. There's still a heaviness in her heart that she knows won't pass easily, but for the first time in days she finds herself thinking about happier, much more seasonal things. Maybe tonight she will call her sister-in-law and arrange to go north for Christmas after all. Her favourite nephew and his young children will be there, and the thought makes her smile as she manoeuvres through the endless throng of people.
She sees Boyd long before he sees her. Standing at the railings above the lock itself, apparently lost in thought as he contemplates the canal, he is somehow both striking and completely inconspicuous. Hands buried deep in the pockets of his long winter coat, he is a tall, solitary figure amongst the natural ebb and flow of people. Approaching at an oblique angle, Grace can't help emitting a soft snort of amusement at how well-groomed he looks. The thick rough stubble has gone, his goatee beard is neatly-trimmed, and there's absolutely no doubt in her mind that the arresting shock of spiky silver hair has been coaxed into retaining its current perfect order with some kind of expensive male hair-styling product. Vanity, thy name truly is Peter Boyd.
He turns before she can catch him by surprise, his thoughtful expression becoming more animated as he sees her. "Grace."
"Delays on the Northern Line," she tells him, though in truth she isn't late. Not quite. She's startled when he steps forward, grasps her lightly by the elbows and kisses her gently but decisively on the cheek. From him, it's an unprecedented form of greeting, and she wonders if she looks as disconcerted by it as she feels. Then, he's renowned for being the sort of man who's not afraid to take any bull firmly by the horns, so perhaps it's not really that surprising that he should –
"Spicer's made a full confession," he tells her, releasing his grip. "Marshall called me first thing this morning. Not only has he admitted killing Butler, he's admitted he told Jacky Bailey where we were."
"But not that he killed him, too?"
Boyd shakes his head. "He's insisting that honour goes to Butler. Self-defence, allegedly. Seems Jacky was far from happy with him for the trouble he was causing. Apparently he was gunning for Butler the night he died."
"Makes sense, I suppose," Grace says, moving to lean back against the rail. "And the reason Spicer killed Butler instead of simply arresting him…?"
"Dennis informed him that Butler knew who it was who told Jacky where we were." Boyd pauses, then continues, "He decided he had to make sure Butler never parted with that information, and when he couldn't find him, he started watching the cottage. He swears he intended to stop Butler before he got to us, but when it came to it, he was just too far away to do anything."
Grace snorts. "Well, of course he does."
"That, at least, might be true," Boyd replies with a shrug. "Not even bent copper like cop-killers, Grace."
"And presumably," she muses, "he planned to make sure that Dennis then became the chief suspect."
Boyd nods. "That would be my best guess. He knew what Marshall thought of the Baileys, knew it wouldn't be difficult to plant the idea in his head that Dennis took Butler out. With no hard evidence to the contrary, who wouldn't be strongly tempted to believe he was killed in revenge for Jacky's murder?"
"And Spicer would have just got on with his life," Grace says, not able to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
"Better, he would have got on with his life without ever having to dance to the Baileys' tune again."
Shaking her head, Grace says, "Do you know what really makes me angry? The man responsible for all of it is sitting smugly in a cell knowing that he at least partially achieved his goal."
"Richard Hare?"
"Who else?"
"Yeah, well… prison officers don't like cop-killers, either, Grace."
She knows what he's implying. A door that should be locked accidentally left unsecured for a few strategic moments, or an officer briefly called away to deal with something else leaving Hare to look after himself. Hare, who, despite never being charged with the offence, everyone knows has always been strongly suspected of the rape and murder of at least one pre-pubescent girl. Prison justice is merciless. For once she ignores her strongly-held principles and says, "Good."
"Marshall thinks Spicer will take the easy way out if he gets the chance," Boyd says, putting his hands back in his coat pockets. "I tend to agree with him, too. If he gets sent down, he'll spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder as a vulnerable prisoner."
"I wish I could say I gave a damn," Grace says, thinking of Zoe, "but right now…"
"Yeah," he agrees. He watches her in silence for a moment, then says, "Lunch?"
"Would you mind if we didn't?" she asks, surprising herself. Boyd frowns and she continues, "At least, not immediately. It's so nice to be outside and… free."
He looks at the crowds of people, his expression sceptical. Then he shrugs. "Whatever you like."
"We can walk and talk," she encourages. "It is possible, you know. Even your poor male brain should be able to handle that negligible amount of multi-tasking."
He gives her a sideways look. "Someone's obviously feeling much more like her old self today."
"I'm getting there," Grace admits, though she suspects it will be a long, long time before she even starts to come to terms with Zoe's death. "Well?"
"God's sake," Boyd mutters, but straightens up and offers her an arm. The look that goes with it suggests more than mild challenge.
So be it. She takes the proffered arm and asks, "So…? Where on earth do we start?"
They start to walk, no particular destination in mind, and he says, "Christmas."
Grace frowns. "Christmas?"
"Christmas," he confirms, not looking at her. "Christmas is as good a place as any. Come to Hampshire with me. I've spoken to Joyce, and as far as she's concerned, the more the merrier."
"You've…?" she echoes, trying to process the words.
Boyd nods, then says, "Don't glare at me like that – I haven't committed you to anything. I just asked if she'd be happy for me to bring a… friend… with me. She was. Is."
"But…" It's a weak protest, mired in confusion.
"Yes?" Again, there is challenge in the way Boyd looks at her. "Way I see it, Grace, we can talk ourselves round in endless circles from now until bloody Doomsday without getting anywhere, or we can just… well, do something."
"'Do something'?" she says, wondering where her long, complicated pre-planned conversation has disappeared to. It seems to have foundered on the rocks of Peter Boyd's brash impulsivity. "Do… what, exactly?"
"Don't be exasperating," he tells her, but his tone is almost… genial. "You and me, a decent bottle of red wine and an open fire. Fancy it?"
"It's not unappealing," she admits, still struggling with the unexpected direction things are going in, "but I think we should – "
"No, we shouldn't," Boyd interrupts, typically and predictably impatient. "At least, not in the way you mean. Too much talk, Grace. That's always been your bloody problem."
"In the same way that too little has always been yours?" she snipes back. She knows where she is when they are bickering, and that can only be a good thing. Can't it?
"Touché," he says. The dark eyes survey her for a long, loaded moment. "Do know what my biggest regret from the night-before-last is?"
That night… A coldness starts to form in her chest. Perhaps she's somehow misunderstood the last few minutes? Trying to keep any trace of apprehension out of her voice, Grace says, "No, what?"
Those mesmerising eyes are sparkling now with the reflection of so many twinkling Christmas lights. "That I never got to see you in that little blue satin number."
It's been years since such a strong flush rose in her cheeks. Incapable of anything else, she mutters, "Oh."
"Come to Joyce's with me," he urges, indefatigable. "Christmas in the New Forest. You'll love it, Grace."
Sceptical, she inquires, "A romantic break… in your step-mother's house?"
"It's a very big house." Boyd stops, forcing her to stop with him. A harassed-looking couple trying to cope with two small, fractious children glare at them as they are obliged to suddenly change direction to avoid a collision. Boyd treats them to the long, well-practised, coolly appraising look he usually reserves for truculent suspects and they move on without a word. He looks down at her. "Well? What have you got to lose?"
Everything, a quiet voice whispers in her head. "Do you really want me to answer that, Boyd?"
"Possibly not." Edging back from the main thoroughfare and drawing her with him, he says, "You asked me if it was worth the risk, remember?"
"And you said the stakes were too high," she accuses.
"No," Boyd contradicts, shaking his head, "I said the stakes were high – and they are – but I never said they were too high. Come to Hampshire, Grace. It's an ideal opportunity for us to spend some time together. Away from work, I mean. If it works, it works. If it doesn't… well, at least we'll know."
"That actually makes rather a lot of sense," she admits, the temptation to simply give in and agree growing ever-stronger, "but – "
"No 'buts'," he interrupts, characteristically autocratic. "A straight yes or no is what I'm looking for at this point. We try, or we don't. Well?"
The feel of his body against hers, skin against skin, the hungry, intense look in his eyes when he… when they... Grace swallows hard, pins him with a defiant stare and demands, "Kiss me."
His eyebrows rise. "Here? Now?" A baffled pause. "Why?"
Making the most of regaining the upper hand, she shrugs. "It's more fun than tossing a coin."
A puzzled frown. "You've lost me."
"Just kiss me, Boyd," Grace orders, "and if sparks fly, the answer's yes."
He tilts his head a fraction. "And if they don't?"
It's her turn to raise an eyebrow. "You need to ask?"
Once again, Boyd shakes his head, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and complete bewilderment, and then he obeys. Right in front of a multi-coloured shopfront, a stone's throw from the canal, with dozens upon dozens of Christmas shoppers walking past in both directions, and it is, without any doubt at all, one of the gentlest, most thorough and sensual kisses Grace has ever shared with anyone. At first.
Sparks are ephemeral things that blaze brightly for an instant and then die away leaving no trace of their existence. Flames are hotter and fiercer, and they burn for much, much longer.
- the end -
Happy Christmas/Festive Season 2018.
Thank you so much for reading.
- J xx
