Recipe for Disaster

by i-must-go-first

The problem is that she wrote the rule book, and Gerry has never been very fond of rules. He knows that with Sandra, though, the trick will be to bend, not to break. The not-so-long-awaited sequel to Same Time, Next Week.

5. Fortune Cookies III

Chapter Five: Fortune Cookies III (of III)

Week Four

Someone else's onion may be your water lily.

1.

Sunday dinner is in progress – Gery feels like it's never going to end – when there's a knock at the door. Stamping down a momentary flicker of hope – she wouldn't come here – he opens the door and finds himself admitting both Brian and his bicycle.

"Sorry to interrupt," his friend says, peering into the dining area. "Ay-up, what's for dinner?"

"Spaghetti bolognese. Come in the kitchen and I'll get you some."

Brian props up his bike and trails after Gerry, removing his helmet as he walks. "The gov doesn't know I'm here," he says, "so keep stum, will you?"

Gerry snorts. "I don't think you have to worry, mate. We're not exactly on speaking terms these days. But keep your voice down; the girls don't know." He scoops pasta into a bowl, ladles on the thick sauce, and hands it to the other man, who begins to gobble it down immediately. "Did you get forensics back on the postcard?" Gerry demands impatiently. "I've been going crazy here with bugger-all to do."

"Not yet," Brian replies around an impressive mouthful. "I'm here about Susan Collins." Gerry has no choice but to wait while Brian swallows. "On the surface, her background checks out. Unremarkable school record, spotty employment history – waitress, bartender, working in a salon – until 1981, when she inherits over a million pounds from a Brian C. Kendall, quits work, and builds her current home in Acton. The same year she begins to pay the school tuition of her niece, Penelope Dalkin, at a fancy boarding school in Switzerland." Brian reaches into one of his coat's many voluminous pockets, fumbles for a few seconds, and holds up a photocopied school photo.

"Yes!" Gerry exclaims, pumping his fist in the air. "Marissa Bracknell!"

"Don't get too excited," Brian cautions. "There's no record of Penelope Dalkin after leaving school, and so far nothing to tie Susan's 'inheritance' to the bank robbery."

Gerry considers for a moment, feeling slightly buoyant for the first time in quite a while. "1981," he repeats. "What do you think the odds are that she also applied for a passport that year and decided she fancied a holiday abroad – Spain, say?"

Brian's eyes light up and he chuckles rather horribly. "Good man!" he exclaims, whacking his friend on the back. "She goes to Spain, sees Claudia – and probably the daughter as well – and comes back a wealthy woman. I can't get air travel records from thirty years back, but I can check passport applications!" Brian drops his empty bowl into the sink. "I'll let you know the minute I turn anything up," he promises, "and we should have the lab results tomorrow. Chin up, mate, and soldier bravely on!"

2.

Jack strides into the office with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Susan Collins inherited over a million quid from Brian C. Kendall upon his death in the summer of 1981, did she?" he asks rhetorically. "That's very interesting, since Kendall – Collins's uncle and only living relative at the time – was a retired metal worker living on the dole until four months before he died." He smacks the papers down on his desk and smiles, grimly triumphant.

"I don't suppose he won the lottery," Brian comments, peering around his computer screen.

"I'll tell you what else is interesting," Sandra calls, and emerges from her office holding a manila folder. "The forensic analysis of Carole's postcard." Out of habit she crosses over to stand by the dry-erase board. "The postcard is Spanish, as is the stamp – the postmark, however, is fake." She allows herself a small smile. "According to our graphologist, the handwriting is a perfect match to a sample on file from Claudia Bracknell; DNA from the stamp is not, nor is it from a near relative of Claudia's."

"I gather we don't have Susan Collins's DNA on file," Jack murmurs.

"Unfortunately not, although she was brought in for soliciting in 1975. Charges were later dropped." Sandra sits, resting her elbows on her knees, and considers. "Jack, can you trace Brian Kendall's sudden good fortune?"

"Straight back to a numbered Swiss account, but no further."

"Shit, shit, shit," she swears. "We're so close, but we don't have a shred of proof tying anyone but Lloyd Munroe to the robbery, and no evidence relating to the murder." Sandra sighs deeply. "Right. What are we thinking? Eddie Bracknell plans the robbery, person or persons unknown top him, perhaps Munroe, who gets the entire take, leaving the other two in the lurch; he subsequently splits the proceeds with Claudia Bracknell, who has already fled the country with her daughter. Two years pass, Munroe dies of cancer, and Claudia gives almost her entire share to her friend Susan Collins, who also assumes financial responsibility for her daughter." As she finishes, Sandra is already shaking her head.

"The fact that Claudia and Marissa disappeared before the robbery means that Claudia must have known about it in advance and planned to leave the country. Hence the chat with Carole," says Brian. "But did she plan to disappear with her husband, or did she already know that he'd be disappearing permanently?"

"Munroe gave half the dosh to Claudia almost immediately," Sandra reflects. "So I reckon there are two possibilities: he killed Eddie and Claudia knew about it, so he was afraid she'd grass him up; or they were in it together."

"Maybe he was in love with her," Jack suggests. "The tried and true motives are often the best ones, and she was gorgeous."

All three of them look at the thirty-year-old photo clipped to the board. It isn't hard to see why Gerry was drawn to the stunning brunette.

"So we're saying she was havin' it off with all three of them – her husband, Gerry, and Munroe?" Brian clarifies. "That must've kept her busy."

"And then why pass her entire share on to Susan Collins?" Sandra wonders.

"But only after Munroe was already dead," Jack points out.

Sandra realizes that she's waiting for a fourth voice to chime in. "You lot keep digging," she says, and retreats to her office, closing the door firmly behind her.

Gerry answers his mobile before it has even fully rung one time. "Susan Collins," Sandra says briskly. "I'm having her brought in, so you'd best come too."

"I'm on my way, gov."

3.

The interview room is uncomfortably cool, and Susan Collins/Hampton shivers as she looks from Gerry to Sandra and back.

"Staying silent isn't going to help you now, Susan," Sandra says, "and it isn't going to help Claudia or Marissa."

Susan stares back, frightened but defiant.

"Here's what we know, Susan." Sandra reaches into her bag and produces the envelope containing the postcard, which she removes and places on the table right in front of the other woman. Susan starts slightly and Sandra smiles a predatory smile. "Familiar, isn't it? I bet it brings back a lot of memories. That's Claudia's handwriting – but the DNA on the stamp is yours."

Sandra doesn't bat an eyelash as she tells the lie, which the other woman swallows whole, because her response is a defiant, "So mailing a postcard's illegal, is it?"

"No, of course not," Gerry replies with aplomb. "But you didn't mail it. You probably forgot, yeah? So you faked the postmark – not a bad job, by the way – and hand-delivered it to my ex-wife."

"I didn't," Susan says, having recovered some of her composure since she doesn't realize she's already admitted as much, "but so what if I did?"

"So that makes you the only person who knows where the prime suspect in Eddie Bracknell's murder is," Sandra replies evenly, almost smiling.

The other woman gasps out a laugh. "You think Claudia killed Eddie? She loved the son of a bitch."

"Loved him so much she was having it off with two other men?" Sandra returns evenly.

"Two? No, there was only one, and Eddie knew all about that. He wasn't opposed to 'er keepin' the filth busy, was he?" She cuts her eyes at Gerry. "The years 'aven't been kind, Gerry."

"To you either," Gerry responds cheerily. "But then, you've got all that lovely money to keep you comfortable, haven't you, SuSu?"

"Why don't you tell us about that, if you don't want to talk about Claudia and Eddie?" Sandra suggests. "How you inherited a fortune from your uncle who was on the dole."

Susan doesn't have a ready answer for that.

"Claudia and Lloyd planned the robbery," Gerry continues conversationally, "and they planned to run away together, yeah? Or at least that was Lloyd's plan."

"But when no suspicion fell on Munroe, he realized he should stay in London until things cooled down. Unfortunately for him, he died in the meantime," Sandra picks up. "Upon which Claudia gave all her money to your terminally ill uncle, with the understanding that you would assume custody of her twelve-year-old daughter. Those are the facts. Now why don't you interpret them for us?"

"We're the bill, you know," Gerry puts in. "So we're fairly dim."

"Where did Claudia go after she killed her husband?"

Susan's nostrils flare. "Claudia never hurt anyone" she snaps. "And she didn't have anything to do with that robbery."

There's a tap at the door, and then Jack appears. "You need to hear this."

Sandra glances at the clock. "Interview suspended at 12:42." She presses a button and stops the tape.

Carole Standing is sitting on the edge of their sofa with a cup of tea and a muffin. She automatically looks toward the doorway when Sandra and Gerry enter.

"Thank you so much for coming in," Sandra says. "Gerry thinks you may be able to give us some helpful information about Susan Collins."

"I'm glad to tell you anything I know," Carole replies anxiously, toying with the muffin wrapper.

"Carole, did Susan go out much when you were at school?"

Gerry's question obviously comes as a surprise. "You mean to parties and clubs and things? She was a bit wild."

"With blokes," Gerry clarifies.

Carole frowns. "Not really, I suppose. She never had a fella or anything like that. Really she spent all her time with Claudia. Wherever Claudia went, there you'd find SuSu."

Sandra and Gerry exchange a glance. "Fiver," he says, standing up again.

"Shut up, Gerry."

"Welsher."

"Just because she wasn't the school slag, it doesn't make her a lesbian," Sandra mutters as they walk back down the hall.

"A wild child in the sixties who partied all the time but didn't bother with the blokes? Yeah, you're right: I'm making a totally unfounded assumption."

They resume their interviewing positions. Sandra leans forward slightly. "You know, Susan, I believe you. Claudia didn't kill her husband – because she did love him, even if she was getting a bit on the side." She tilts her head slightly, her expression sympathetic. "But there was no love lost between you and Eddie, was there?"

Susan defensively folds her arms across her chest. "He was a villain," she replies, irritated to point out the obvious. "Not exactly known for their genteel ways, are they?"

"He wasn't even a proper villain, was he?" Gerry asks rhetorically.

Susan blinks. "How d'you mean?"

"Too good to dirty his lily-white hands. He made everyone around him do it for him – especially Claudia." Gerry shrugs. "Did she love Munroe, or was he just business too?"

"They weren't at it, them two. He loved her, like."

"So is that why he planned the robbery?" Sandra asks coolly.

"He was going to get the money and take Claudia away."

"How did he convince Claudia to go along with that, if she loved her husband?"

"He didn't, did he?" Gerry interjects. "He was Eddie's right hand. So when Munroe told Claudia to get herself and her little girl ready to go abroad, she never knew the plan wasn't Eddie's. I bet she never knew half the dodges he got up to."

"She didn't want to know," Susan admits. "But she never would've left him. Never."

Gerry levels an appraising look at her. "But you knew what Munroe was planning. He needed your help."

"And you gave it willingly, because you wanted Claudia away from Eddie too," Sandra picks up seamlessly. She and Gerry are a good team, at least in an interview. "So which one of you pulled the trigger?"

"No one shot him," Susan shoots back immediately. "Eddie was suffocated."

The predatory smile returns. "Gold star," Sandra compliments. "Of course, no one knew that except the murderer and his or her accomplice, so at the very least you've just admitted to being an accessory." The Detective Superintendent watches the last vestiges of colour drain from the other woman's face. "Unless, of course, you tell us that Claudia gave you that information."

Susan takes a tremulous breath. "No," she says firmly. "She only went to Spain because she thought Eddie was going to join her, and when Lloyd opened a bank account for her and deposited half the money, she never spent a penny. She was working as a waitress to get enough so she and Marissa could live."

Shit, thinks Sandra, she's going to cry. I hate it when they cry. "Then why didn't she come back home?"

"Because she knew your lot would've thought exactly what you do think: that she killed Eddie. And then what would've happened to Marissa?"

"What changed in the summer of 1981?" Gerry asks evenly. "Why did Claudia decide to touch the money?"

Susan swallows hard. "Lloyd turned up down the Slaughtered Lamb one day – I was working there, tending bar. He looked like shit." She sniffles. "He was dying, and he was worried about Claudia. He'd been to see her a couple of times, but she didn't want anything to do with him. I… I'd not had any contact with her. But Lloyd told me where she and Marissa were, so I got a passport and I went to Spain."

"And Munroe?"

"By then it was May – sixteenth May – and Lloyd was dead." Susan suddenly breaks down and begins to sob furiously. Sandra suspects it has little to do with the late accountant. Her eyes roll toward the ceiling.

Gerry has a softer touch. "Did Claudia know you were in love with her?"

Susan wipes at her eyes, leaving streaks of mascara and liner smeared over her cheekbones. "That summer she told me she'd always known, like, and she loved me too, even though it wasn't the same way. She forgave me for Eddie because she knew I'd done it for her. That's why she wanted me to have Marissa."

"She was ill," Sandra fills in. "What did she have, Susan?"

"Leukemia. By the time I got over there, she was dying. She let me stay with her until the end – almost four months." Susan's sobs subside and she almost smiles as she remembers what was obviously, in a bittersweet way, a happy time, and then looks from Sandra to Gerry and back again. "I just loved her so much," she says. "I did it all because I loved her."

4.

"So," Sandra says Tuesday morning as she and her three boys lounge around sipping coffee and tea, "it's a result, at least. We can prove that Munroe planned the robbery and framed Eddie Bracknell, and Susan Hampton will go down for murder."

No one is exactly exuberant. Sandra stands, reminding herself that her job is to lead the troops. "This investigation has generated a colossal amount of paperwork, so let's crack on with it."

She has to deal with Gerry, still. The task is not an appealing one. This situation calls for subtlety, and she's feeling as subtle as a sledgehammer today. She wants to shake Gerry and scream at him. She wants to erase the last six weeks and go back to the way things were before her mother's death. She wants to kiss him until he can't breathe.

Shit. She knew this wouldn't always be easy, but did it have to get so complicated so quickly?

She waits until 3:00, then pops her head out of her office. "Let's knock off early, boys, and head to the pub, my shout. This may not be exactly the result we wanted, but you've done amazing work and solved a case that should've been unsolvable. Order me a large one." She squares her shoulders. "Gerry?"

She stands, waiting for him to sit, then props herself against the edge of her desk. "Look," she begins flatly, holding his gaze with hers, "I'm not giving you the sack, all right? And in the last couple of weeks the glamour has worn off shouting at you. So let's just go with, you cocked up once when you decided to screw Claudia Bracknell on the not-so-quiet. You cocked up exponentially when you didn't tell me everything on the first day of this investigation. If you ever, ever do anything remotely suspect again, I'll have your badge and your balls."

Not being an entirely stupid man, Gerry refrains from pointing out that he doesn't actually have a badge.

"Consider this an official reprimand."

He nods.

"Right, then. Pub?" she continues, beginning to gather her things.

Gerry watches her, knowing he should be relieved, but somehow he isn't. He's deeply uneasy. "I'm sorry, Sandra."

"Yeah, I know." She straightens and reaches for her coat – black and grey today. "You might say that to Jack and Brian as well."

"No, I mean I'm really, really sorry." He wants her to look at him and feel that connection they've had for the last few months. This closed-off, walled-away calm is unnerving. Sandra doesn't seem angry; she's resigned. Calm. Disappointed. Gerry has disappointed too many people he cares about. He'd feel much less like a shit heel if she'd just start screaming at him.

Instead she looks at him solemnly, thoughtful and sad, and he feels sure she understands. She sighs. "Come on," she says.

He shouldn't push, he tells himself repeatedly as they walk the short distance to their local. The heels of her boots clack noisily against the concrete, and to their rhythm he repeats, Don't push, don't push. After all, this is his mantra with Sandra.

Sod it.

Gerry grabs her arm and she stops abruptly, quizzical. Pissed off. Maybe uncomfortable underneath. I'm no good at taking the silent treatment."

"I'm not being particularly silent," she returns. "I just don't have a great deal to say to you right now." Her jaw is set, her gloved hands shoved into her pockets against the raw afternoon.

"Well, I have some things to say to you."

"You should've said them three weeks ago."

"Yeah, well, that's the story of my life, innit? It's always too little, too late, and good ol' Gerry cocks everything up." He is angry, but at himself, not her. This isn't the first time he's thought there might actually be something wrong with him, something missing or misshapen, that makes him do this.

"I've never thought you were bent," she says, and her tone is marginally softer.

"I'm not talking about the job." He hasn't released her arm, and now his half-frozen fingers move over the wool of her sleeve, testing the bone and muscle beneath. "What I want to know is whether or not you trust me."

Sandra's eyes fasten on his, studying intently, but she doesn't answer. "I don't understand why you didn't just tell me."

The truth is very short. "I was ashamed, Sandra. To me, what happened back then is the lowest thing I've ever done."

She glances away. "Gerry, it's no secret that you've always liked a bit on the side. And yes, getting your work mixed up in that was incredibly stupid reckless, destructive, whatever, even for you." She gestures impatiently as if waving it all away. "I thought we were past the lies of omission and futile efforts to cover things up. I do know you. We've worked together for eight bloody years."

"But that's why." He sees her confusion and rushes to clarify. "If I told you I'd offed some poor bugger, that would change your opinion of me, yeah? All right. So I didn't want you looking at me and seeing the dirtiest thing I've ever done." There is still a tiny line between her brows as she frowns. Shit. "You haven't realized," he says, and feels even worse.

Sandra blows a breath out through her nose, impatient for this awkward conversation to be over. "You've cheated on plenty of women. It's hardly one of your best qualities, but I don't see why this –"

"She was pregnant."

For an instant she thinks he means Claudia; then the floodgates open and understanding pours in. "Carole."

"Paula was born May 22nd. So now you know: I'm the sort of bloke who shag's his wife's school friend, who's married to the object of a major investigation, whilst his wife is very pregnant with their first child." Gerry finally releases her arm and half turns away from her to stare sightlessly into the road. He looks so disgusted that for a moment she can't find any words.

"You're right," she says quietly after a few minutes, her low voice almost lost amidst the traffic noise. "That was an incredibly shitty thing to do, and if it were 1979, I wouldn't even want to know you. But Gerald –" She almost smiles. "I've never thought I would've wanted to know you in 1979. And it's not 1979."

His expression turns more miserable, if possible. Can her opinion of him be that low? "You don't care."

Her response is a one-shouldered shrug. "I care more that you're so ashamed of what you did thirty years ago that you were willing to risk your livelihood, your friendships, and your reputation to keep us from knowing about it."

"Not the lads." He shoves his own hands into his pockets now, embarrassed. "You. You're the last bleedin' person in the world I ever wanted to know about Claudia and Carole."

She considers this for a long moment. "I know what you're like," she says. "You go ahead and interpret that."

It could mean a couple of very different things, he decides, and it's best not to analyse it. "Are we all right?"

Sandra's expression is inscrutable. "I don't know, Gerry," she says slowly. "Buy us all a couple of rounds, and then we'll see."

Let me know you're still out there, and maybe I'll come back with something a bit lighter and fluffier for next time. Also, that onion/water lily thing was an actual fortune someone I was eating with once received.