THREE – Police Bail

She is in the car, driving steadily home, but although the connection is very bad, she immediately recognises the cultured voice of Boyd's solicitor when it crackles in her ear. "Doctor Foley?"

There is nowhere immediately available to stop and the call is important to her, so Grace grimly ignores both her common sense and her principles and carries on negotiating the early-evening traffic one-handed. "Mr Tomlinson. Is there any news?"

His response is quick and calm. "There is. It may not be altogether as good as you hoped for, however. Mr Boyd has been released on police bail pending further enquiries."

An instantaneous and strong sense of relief rises within her, but it is quickly tempered by circumspection. Tomlinson is right – the news could be far better. Being released on police bail is very far from being exonerated. It doesn't mean Grant believes Boyd is innocent, only that there is not yet a strong enough case to charge him. Trying not to sound too despondent, she says, "I see. Have any particular bail conditions been imposed?"

"Nothing unexpected. He's not allowed anywhere near the CCU's headquarters, of course – though I understand he's now been officially suspended until further notice."

"He has." The terse edict brought back from New Scotland Yard by Spencer had been incredibly clear on several fundamental points, including Boyd's suspension from duty and the impending appointment of an interim unit commander. Boyd may not – yet – have been charged with any offence, but it seems his superiors aren't prepared to wait any longer to be seen to be taking some sort of decisive action.

"Standard procedure," Tomlinson's voice says crisply in her ear. "You should also be aware that everything that can possibly be done to keep the media away from this is being done – but sooner or later…"

Grace nods, well-aware that he can't see her. "I know."

"These things do tend to leak eventually, I'm afraid." There's a slight rustling sound as if he is shuffling papers. "He has to report to Greenwich police station daily, and he will be formally interviewed by DI Grant's team again at the end of the week, if not before. I would expect them to charge or release him at that point."

Finally locating a safe place to stop the car, Grace does so and then transfers her phone to the other ear. "Do you know if he's gone home? I need to talk to him as soon as possible."

"I really wouldn't advise you to," Tomlinson informs her gravely. "It could… muddy the waters. Should there be a trial."

She can't think about that. Can't bring herself to imagine Boyd standing in the dock as a defendant. As the traffic continues to stream past her stationary car, she frowns in the semi-darkness. "Why? I'm not a police officer."

His reply is patient and faintly condescending. "I'm aware of that, Doctor. But you are a colleague in an investigative unit that could conceivably be accused of illegitimately obtaining access to privileged information, and you did give a statement to Grant's team."

"All I could tell them was exactly what I told you – I picked Boyd up from Haverstock Hill at eight o'clock that morning."

"I think it's highly likely they'll want to interview you again in more detail at some point," he replies. "Of course, I can't prevent you from contacting him, but at this stage I really don't think it would be in anyone's best interests for you to attempt do so."

Angrily, Grace grinds out, "Peter Boyd isn't a rapist, Mr Tomlinson, and he certainly doesn't have it in him to strangle a defenceless young woman to death."

"I'm quite sure you're right," he says in a tone that suggests he is wearily humouring her, "but my job is to provide the best possible legal advice to my client – and subsequently to those associated with him. Therefore I would strongly suggest that you give serious thought to the possible ramifications of trying to contact him."

"Rest assured, I will do exactly that," she tells him, not quite able to keep the bitter edge out of her tone. "Thank you for calling me, Mr Tomlinson."

The unsatisfactory conversation at an end, Grace sits unmoving in her seat, dozens of interconnected thoughts and fears tumbling restlessly through her mind. There is no part of her, personal or professional, that believes that her old friend and colleague could be in any way involved in Erin Jackson's murder but it's impossible not to grudgingly agree with Spencer – things don't look good for Boyd. Not at all. If there is no DNA evidence to support the presence of a third potential suspect in Erin's flat that night, then there are only two possible conclusions that she can reluctantly draw from all the mounting evidence – Fuller's alibi is false or she is entirely wrong in her grim assertion that Boyd cannot be guilty.

He couldn't have killed Erin. He just couldn't. Yes, he's a notoriously temperamental man and yes, he definitely hasn't been himself since his son's tragic death, but he has a stubborn personal integrity that Grace has always admired; a strongly-ingrained sense of what is right and what is wrong. A police officer isn't just what Boyd is, it's who he is. So many times she's gritted her teeth and looked the other way when his methods have been questionable, not because she's been afraid to challenge him but because although she has disapproved of the how, the why has been understandable. Boyd believes in far more than the law – he believes in justice. And maybe that's why she so often deliberately chooses to ignore the less attractive facets of his personality in favour of… admiring… the great good heart of the man.

Her phone starts to ring again. A mobile number she doesn't recognise appears on the display. She answers hesitantly with a simple, "Hello?"

"Grace." The gruff male voice is painfully familiar but it's heavily laced with an intense stress and anxiety that is not. He doesn't waste time on pleasantries, he just bluntly proclaims, "It wasn't me. I didn't kill her."

As her fingers instinctively tighten around her own phone, Grace closes her eyes. "I know."

-oOo-

They meet on a deserted stretch of the Thames Path not far from Cable Street and Shadwell Basin. It's not a particularly salubrious area, especially at night, but perhaps that's for the best. It's not a place anyone would immediately think to look for either of them. Boyd, Grace instantly realises, is still wearing the suit he was arrested in, but he looks significantly less dapper than he did the last time she saw him. In the harsh, unflattering light of the street lamps he looks pale, drawn and much, much older. Unsure how to greet him as he approaches, she settles for an inane, "Boyd. Are you okay?"

He grimaces. "Yeah, I guess. Physically, at least."

"Your solicitor strongly advised me against talking to you."

Boyd doesn't look surprised. "I'm sure he did. But…?"

She raises her chin an unconscious, defiant fraction. "But I'm simply not prepared to stand by and watch them put a noose around your neck."

"I hope to God you're talking figuratively, Grace."

"It's cold," she says after a moment, not knowing how else to drive the awkward conversation forward. "Shall we walk?"

Boyd shrugs, but he automatically falls into step with her. They have only walked a few feet when he admits, "I keep thinking this is some God-awful nightmare and that sooner or later I'm going to wake up."

Head down, Grace says quietly, "So, are you going to tell me your side of it?"

"Not much to tell that you don't already know," he replies brusquely. However, he almost immediately continues, "We got a taxi back to her place, had a few more drinks, fooled around a bit. You know how it goes. When I left in the morning she was very much alive."

She stops under one of the street lamps to look at him keenly. "That's not exactly a detailed account, Boyd."

"Christ, how detailed do you expect me to be under these sort of circumstances?" he demands, growling belligerence clearly masking a very atypical discomfiture.

"It's a bit late to be worrying about sparing anyone's blushes," Grace tells him rather more sharply than she intends. She searches for a way to make it quite clear to him that there is no point in attempting to conceal anything about that night from her, no matter how difficult and embarrassing the resulting conversation might be for them both, and finally settles on a curt, "Look, Eve managed to get a look at the forensics and the crime scene report, okay?"

Boyd is silent for several long moments, presumably absorbing the unwelcome implication of her words. They both know exactly what sort of information such reports routinely contain. Eventually he clears his throat roughly. "After we got back to her place we had a couple of drinks and a quick fumble on the sofa, but to be honest we were both pretty loaded so we decided just to go to bed. I think we both more-or-less passed out." There's a brief pause before he continues, "It must have been a little after five when she woke me by getting up to use the bathroom. Still dark outside, anyway. We had sex. Consensual sex, Grace. Afterwards, Erin went back to sleep but I didn't. Oh, I tried to, but I just couldn't relax enough. In the end I had so many things continuously going round and round in my head that I decided to get up and leave. I didn't want to wake her up, so I got dressed, I wrote my number and a brief note on a scrap of paper by the bed and I left."

The tersely-delivered account certainly has a clear ring of truth about it. The latter information also helps to explain how and why he so quickly became a suspect. The story doesn't end there, she's sure. Grace looks at him expectantly. "And then you called me?"

But Boyd shakes his head. "No, then I walked around the streets and along the canal for a bit, trying to clear my head. I was absolutely knackered, Grace, not to mention atrociously hung-over."

"So what time did you actually leave Erin's flat?"

He frowns as if he is surprised by the tenacity with which she's pursuing the details. He rubs his beard reflectively and shrugs. "Around six-thirty."

"You didn't call me until seven-thirty," Grace points out.

"I told you," he says defensively, "I was just wandering about thinking and feeling sorry for myself. In the end I bought one of those bloody awful energy drinks at a little newsagents near Camden Market and I went back and stood on the towpath for a while. Then I called you."

She doesn't press him for more information. There's no point in antagonising him further. Instead she says, "Erin's downstairs neighbours heard a loud disturbance in her flat at around seven."

There's a stubborn note in Boyd's voice as he says, "Yeah, well I'd left well before then – and when I did she was sound asleep."

"You're sure?" It's a stupid question, but one Grace feels compelled to ask.

He stares at her incredulously. "That I left before then, or that she was asleep? Fuck's sake, Grace, I didn't accidentally strangle her in the throes of passion and then leave her for dead thinking she was just having a bit of a snooze, did I? What sort of man do you take me for? She was alive and asleep when I left."

"The boyfriend – "

"Whose existence, by the way, I was blissfully unaware of until after I was arrested."

" – was seen in Dagenham at seven and again at eight. Grant told Spence that there's time-stamped CCTV footage in addition to reliable eye-witnesses."

"So someone else killed her," he says obstinately.

Grace shakes her head despondently. "There was no-one else, Boyd."

-oOo-