EIGHT – Fugitive

It's far too obvious, but with no real alternative, she heads for Shooters Hill Road and Greenwich Cemetery. Normally, Boyd would unquestionably be far too wary and wily to retreat to somewhere so recently, publicly and painfully linked to him, but as far as Grace is aware there's simply nowhere else that would draw him more powerfully; despite everything, she thinks there's a faint chance that that he's not thinking clearly enough to resist the gloomy siren song of the place. On arrival, however, she hopes that he is. He needs to voluntarily hand himself over to Grant, not be hunted down and detained, and there are two uniformed police officers standing together not far from the main gate. Although they look thoroughly bored and disenchanted with their current assignment, she suspects they're quite alert enough to spot Boyd should he risk making an appearance. They pay her no heed, though, and she is very quickly advancing along the upper path that cuts neatly through the massed ranks of headstones. As she walks she sees at least one more uniform, and a couple of keen-eyed young men in sober suits who somehow just aren't quite managing to look like anything but police officers.

Locating Luke Boyd's grave is not quite as easy as she expects, despite her enduring memory of his quiet, solemn burial. Several plots that were empty then have been filled now, but eventually Grace finds the too-recently erected stone. It stands out boldly once she spots it, not in form but in its unweathered, pristine sharpness. Beloved Son, reads the simple epitaph, and she knows without question that he was. Troubled, maybe, and rebellious, and wild, but loved far more than he apparently ever fully-comprehended in his short, turbulent life. By both his grieving parents, whatever their personal differences.

The light is fading. It won't be fully dark for a while yet, but the evening and the long night beyond it are relentlessly drawing in. With a last look at the simple headstone, Grace firmly turns her back, finds her phone and once again redials the now-familiar number. It doesn't surprise her at all that eventually it's the automated answering service that responds, a bland, anonymous female voice politely instructing her to leave a recorded message – and this time she does. She says, "I'm standing beside Luke's grave. Call me back, Boyd, please. For his sake, if not your own."

It's a cheap trick, bitterly unfair, and Grace knows it, but it might just work. She hasn't worked alongside Boyd for years without learning his Achilles' Heel. Oh, he certainly has other pressure points that can be successfully prodded and pried, but it's his lost son and all the complicated and contradictory emotions surrounding not only the manner of his death but the grim nature of the last few years of his life that are by far the weakest chinks in Boyd's formidable defensive armour. Grace is not proud of exploiting them, but she's so genuinely afraid for him now that she determinedly tells herself that at least on this occasion the ends certainly justify the means.

It takes several long and tense minutes of waiting but eventually her phone dutifully rings. She answers with, "Both of the Fullers have been taken in for questioning."

But Boyd is not listening. His words are a bitter, angry snarl: "Don't you dare use my boy to try to manipulate me, Grace."

"Then listen to me," she all-but shouts back at him, fear and frustration fuelling her temper. "If you don't hand yourself over to Grant's team, and soon, by the morning your face will be plastered all over the papers. It won't matter if they go on to charge Fuller, you'll always be the copper who was arrested for rape and murder and then jumped bail. Is that really what you want?"

"I'm not risking going to prison for something I didn't do," he growls back, but there's just the tiniest hint of hesitancy in his voice, as if her words have actually struck home.

"You have to trust us," she implores, trying to press home her advantage before it's too late. "Please, Boyd – you have to trust me."

The reply is silence. Silence that is eventually broken by an altogether less assertive, "I just… I don't know what to do, Grace. Nothing about this makes any bloody sense anymore."

She takes a calming breath. It's possible she's finally getting through to him, possible that he is actually prepared to start listening to her. But she's aware that the moment is a fragile one, easily thrown away. Even at the best of times he is temperamental and highly-strung, unpredictable in his reactions to things. Cautiously finding her way around the raw edges of his temper she asks as gently as she can, "Where are you, Peter?"

But there's a renewed note of conviction in his voice as he responds, "I can't tell you that."

Grace is not the sort of woman who gives in easily. Ever. If she was, she wouldn't have remained at the CCU for so many years. There are many considerably easier career opportunities available for a psychologist of her skill and experience, even at her age. "Please. Let me come and talk to you, face-to-face."

"So you can call the cavalry and tell them where to find me?" Boyd mocks harshly, the moment of indecisiveness now apparently lost for good. "No, I don't think so."

Her heart starts to pound angrily at the cruel injustice of the accusation. How dare he… "Is that what you really think? Do you actually believe I'd do something like that? How long have we known each other, Boyd? How often have I loyally stood by you regardless of my personal views on whatever it was you'd done – or been accused of doing?"

"Grace – "

"No," she snaps angrily. Maybe Eve is right, maybe Boyd is nowhere near as emotionally fragile as she sometimes likes to think. Though… perhaps he currently is. Perhaps for once he really is frighteningly lost and vulnerable and it is fear more than anger making him lash out at her. It doesn't stop her furiously challenging, "Either you trust me or you don't. Which is it?"

The answer is a silence, a sigh and then a quiet, defeated, "I trust you."

The Pyrrhic victory gives Grace absolutely no satisfaction. "Then tell me where you are."

-oOo-

The iron park gates are securely locked against the darkness. Not uncommon in an urban area like this one where personal safety is generally deemed to be a public concern rather than a private matter of straightforward common-sense. Beyond the park to the west is the gloomy decayed majesty of Highgate Cemetery, to the east, just a short walk away… Grace doesn't want to think about that. She knows this area of London well enough for her stomach to have lurched involuntarily when Boyd grudgingly agreed to meet her at Waterlow Park. Standing uselessly by the locked gates, she looks up and down the deceptively quiet tree-lined stretch of road. No sign of him. She can hear the traffic out on Highgate Hill and beyond, but there's little immediate local noise and movement, just the occasional car and cyclist.

A good Catholic girl would be praying, she thinks suddenly. But she is not a girl – very far from it – and as for the rest… well, it's been years since Grace gave too much serious thought to the faith of her childhood. No, prayer is not the answer. Though as the minutes tick slowly past and she grows more and more restless, the idea stubbornly starts to take root in the back of her mind. Thoughts of St Jude, patron saint of desperation and lost causes, start to creep up on her and though she irritably shakes them off as just foolish superstition, something inside her that is deeper and stronger than political indoctrination, scientific uncertainty or fashionable scepticism continues to nag insistently at her.

Boyd abruptly comes into view, walking quickly and determinedly with his head well down. The surge of relief Grace feels is indescribable. She starts towards him, speeding the increasing narrowing of the gap separating them, and he lifts his head immediately, as if somehow sensing rather than seeing or hearing her presence. They gaze cautiously at each other as they both continue to advance and then they halt instinctively, simultaneously, maybe only three or four feet of space between them. Pointlessly, she gestures to her left and says, "The park's locked."

He grunts noncommittally. "Where's your car?"

"Further down the road." Grace studies him quickly, intensely, trying to judge his mood, trying to predict exactly what he intends to do next. Superficially he doesn't look any more or less unkempt than he was the last time she saw him, but the shadows in his eyes seem much deeper and his expression is visibly more haunted. She is struck by a strong, inappropriate urge to simply put her arms round him and hold onto him as tightly and protectively as she can until all his hurt and confusion fades. But she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. Carefully, she asks, "Why? Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"No." His shoulders are hunched, his head held low again. "You wanted to talk, so talk."

She starts with her unofficial meeting with Grant and ends with her rapid departure from the CCU's headquarters, telling him everything as quickly and briefly as she can. She tells him about Jess Worrall, about the statement from the girl in the newsagents; she tells him about Gary Fuller who lives just two streets away from his brother in Dagenham, and she tells him how Grant's men picked up both brothers only twenty minutes after their boss received an urgent telephone call from Spencer Jordan. As Grace speaks she watches the way he listens to her words – the disinterested, melancholy manner in which he absorbs everything she says. It's not encouraging. Finally she offers, "Maybe Gary didn't even know what he was agreeing to when Mark asked him to tell him exactly where he'd been and what he'd done that morning. Maybe he was a completely unsuspecting alibi until it was too late."

"Maybe."

"Covering up for murder isn't like helping your brother to beat a parking fine, is it?" she presses, not liking his apparent indifference, his uncharacteristic lack of interest.

"No. No, it's not." Boyd looks straight at her. He shrugs. "But, as they say, blood is thicker than water. Unless Gary cracks and tells the truth – or Mark confesses – all you've actually got between you is just a not-quite-impossible but nevertheless highly unlikely theory."

Not for the first time, his hard-headed obstinacy frustrates and infuriates her. She doesn't understand why he can't seem to see that for the first time there is real hope that they will be able to exonerate him. More aggressively than she intends, she asks, "Come on, Boyd – where's your fighting spirit?"

"It's been thoroughly knocked out of me," he says, and to her surprise he smiles slightly. It's not a happy smile. Far from it. It's the defeated but oddly gentle smile of a man who has finally been pushed just a little too far. "Don't think I don't appreciate everything you – and everyone else – has tried to do, Grace. I'm immensely grateful, really, I am, but…"

There's something in his eyes… something that is wistful and resigned, and terribly, terribly calm. Something that has seen beyond all the tangled threads of his current predicament, beyond all the pain and regret that's been torturing him for months; something that has looked over the edge of the frightening precipice and seen unexpected peace. She can see it in him quite clearly – and it petrifies her. Grace takes a single step towards him. She knows. It's more than just the carefully-chosen location, more than intuition or mere experience. She just knows. And she is prepared to dig in and fight to the bitter end if that's what it takes to stop him. She stares straight at him and says evenly, "Forget it. I'm not going to let you jump off Hornsey Lane Bridge, Boyd."

He smiles again, just very briefly, confirming her fear. "Ah, Grace… You always did know me far too well."

She ignores the icy, frightened shivers that are rapidly and repeatedly traversing her spine. "I mean it. It's not an option. It's a ridiculous, pointless and completely bloody selfish idea."

"Don't turn this into high drama," he warns quietly. "Go back to your car. Call Grant and tell him where to find me if you want to; I don't actually care anymore."

Fear drives the blistering anger behind, "So that's it, is it? Peter Boyd's final bloody-minded act of defiance? Screw the world and everyone in it?"

"I'm tired," he says softly. "Don't you understand? I'm tired of fighting, tired of hurting; tired of being lonely and alone. Everything has its time, Grace. I don't have the stomach to face losing yet another battle."

"Oh, I see – this has all been about Luke from the very beginning, hasn't it?" she challenges, desperate to keep him talking.

His expression hardens instantly. "I warned you – don't bring him into this."

But Grace isn't ready to stop. Doesn't think she could stop even if she wanted to. "Why not? It's the truth, after all. Luke's death is the reason you've been drinking too much, the reason you've been recklessly jumping into bed with women you've only just met, the reason – "

"Enough!" Boyd growls at her, his head lifting, and for the first time that evening she sees a true glimpse of the fiery, volatile man she knows so well. In the pale, drawn face the dark eyes are suddenly blazing. "What the hell makes you think you can set yourself up in judgement over me?"

It takes more courage and willpower than Grace thinks she has to stand her ground, to weather his rage and say quietly, "Your son is dead, Boyd, but that's not a reason to destroy yourself. You're not thinking straight. Any psychologist would be able to tell you that you're – "

She's gone too far. He steps towards her, a single quick and angry pace, but instead of the physical blow that she suddenly half-fears, he roars into her face, "Has it ever occurred to you, Doctor, that when I was going through the very worst days of my fucking life that just for once – just for once – I might have desperately needed a bloody friend not a damned psychologist?"

The violent, hurt-filled words tear bloodily through her, leaving her stunned and almost physically breathless. There is an accusatory savagery in him that mercilessly cuts into her, a viciousness that leaves her reeling. So much rage, so much resentment; so much pain. His name is a broken whisper of guilt and defeat on her lips. "Peter…"

And then the night fractures into dramatic splinters of wailing sirens and strobing blue lights.

-oOo-

Grace is not given to profanity by nature, not even after years of working alongside some very tough and streetwise detectives, but there is heartfelt venom in the way she spits, "You bastard."

But Marshall remains totally imperturbable. "You were given enough warnings, Doctor Foley. All of which it seems you chose to completely ignore."

Beyond him, beyond the handful of uniformed officers still milling around, Boyd is no longer fighting. Hands securely cuffed behind his back, he is being forcibly marched towards a marked police car by two burly men, one of whom Grace recognises as Grant's sergeant, David Powell – the man who chatted amiably to her about his children and offered to make her coffee just the day before while she waited to speak to his superior. He doesn't look so amiable now, not with blood caked around his nose and splashes of it staining his white shirt, but to his credit, although he is grim-faced, there doesn't seem to be any unnecessary roughness in the way he and his colleague are firmly manhandling their sullen prisoner.

She glares furiously at Marshall. "You had no right."

"On the contrary," he counters smoothly, "I had every right. I think you'll find it was your work phone that I had traced, a phone that belongs to the Metropolitan Police, and given that you left the building without authority…"

"You bastard," she says again, but more matter-of-factly this time. "And what if you'd been wrong? What if I'd simply gone home early with a headache?"

He regards her coolly from beneath the silver-trimmed peak of his uniform cap. "Rather irrelevant now, don't you think? You should be pleased – you have, after all, been instrumental in the successful detention of an absconded murder suspect."

"When Fuller's brother talks and Boyd is released," she says quietly, "I hope you're the very first person he comes looking for. And I hope he does a damn sight more than simply headbutt you in the face."

"Peter Boyd is an animal," he replies with just a trace of a sneer, "a mad dog who should have been relieved of duty and subsequently removed from the Force years ago. You seem completely unable to comprehend the scale of the carnage and chaos he routinely leaves in his wake, Doctor, and for that reason alone I find I have serious reservations about your suitability to continue in your role as a police consultant."

The urge to slap him is immense. What stops her, she's not quite sure. Instead, Grace shakes her head. "Then it's a bloody good thing for me that nothing about my role has anything to do with you, isn't it?"

"Rest assured," he says portentously, "I will be making appropriate recommendations in my forthcoming report to the DAC regarding the CCU and its personnel."

"Oh, I'm quite sure you will," she mutters. Less than thirty feet away, Boyd is being none-too-gently bundled into the back of the waiting police car. He doesn't look in her direction. Not even once.

-oOo-