Twenty years later…

Robbie hadn't known a summer like it, at least not in Oxford. It reminded him of his time overseas, the haze-inducing heat that forced everyone into the shade for most of the afternoon, tempered only by the winds off the Atlantic. Hours sitting in front of desk fans that did little other than push the warm air around was only marginally preferable to the alternative, walking the streets or going door-to-door in search of answers. He'd become used to it after a while, jumping seemingly at random from one case to another, a reality necessitated by the nature of the team that was, at best, small although experienced but also transitionally. It had been a tough gig, in a way that the colleagues he'd left behind wouldn't have quite believed, and he'd been relieved to come home, despite the memories he'd been forced to finally confront. But now, after four weeks of scorching English sun and half of CID either on leave or taken out by a strain of summer flu, he felt an odd longing for the crystal blue of the Caribbean sea and a bowl of freshly prepared chowder.

He pulled at his collar, trying to encourage a bit of air to circulate around his neck, huffing loudly to himself as he realised the futility of it and yanked his tie off and loosed his top button.

"Mustn't let standards slip," came a voice from the doorway, "The weather's no excuse."

"Oh, give over, man," he protested, looking up to cast his eye over the perfectly turned out figure of his former Sergeant, "Anyway, consultants don't have a dress code."

James conceded the point as he stepped into the office that he'd begrudgingly surrendered half of and sat down, sighing at the tottering piles of manila files in front of him.

"Is it me or are these multiplying on their own accord?" he asked.

Robbie offered only a grunt in reply and reached for a thick folder precariously balanced on top of the stack closest to him. He opened the front cover and grimaced.

"This one's from 1988," he remarked then adding with increasing alarm, "Surely he can't mean me to be able to remember anything that happened back then! It's been, what, 30 years?"

"Well, 28 anyway," came the even tone of Chief Superintendent Moody as he too entered the room, "And yes, he does."

"It's a bit ambitious, Sir," Robbie argued, frowning as he began to flick through the case notes

"Maybe," Moody shrugged, "But you're the best chance I've got so I'm rolling with it."

James sat quietly and feigned interest in his own paperwork as he listened to the two men rehash the plan. Robbie and Laura hadn't been back from New Zealand for more than a few weeks before Moody had been sounding him out about bringing Lewis back. He'd been wary to get involved, fearful of Laura's reaction to the idea more than that of his old running mate, but eventually he'd had no choice and, over a pint one evening, had decided to test the water. The response he'd gotten had surprised him.

"I'm not sure, Jim," Robbie had said after a brief silence, appearing to be weighing up as he scratched the back of his neck, "I know I was worried about there being nothing for me when I got back but it's different now."

"Different how?" James had asked.

"Just different," he'd replied, "I guess I didn't miss it as much as I thought I would."

But in the end he'd acquiesced. Between Laura returning to work and a fair amount of pressure from Moody, he'd agreed to negotiate, the upshot being that three days a week he could be found somewhere in the vicinity of the station, either coaching younger members of the team or advising on unfolding investigations. His presence over the last month had, in the end, proved fortuitous, and not just because they were so short staffed but because of the arrival of a bigger problem.

"I know these all should have been digitised," Moody was halfway through saying as James tuned back in, "But they weren't, and with the retirement of DCS Johnson and the subsequent investigation, we can't be too careful."

"I suppose not," Robbie admitted reluctantly, "I just can't see what me going through all of this will achieve."

"You worked with Johnson," Moody explained, "Knew his ways, how he liked to do things. So if anyone can spot anything untoward in this lot, it'll be you."

Short of refusing, which would have tantamount to ripping up his contract, there was little Robbie could do, and as their conversation wound up James couldn't help but feel for his friend. Whichever way you looked at it, reading dusty files looking for ways in which a senior officer might have ballsed up was not a pleasant way to spend time.


As the sun dipped low in the sky and broad shadows were cast across the lawn, Laura sat back in one of the garden chairs. There was still no breeze to speak of but the promising darkness would at least take the temperature down a notch, not that she was in any position to complain. It was rare that the morgue proved itself to be a popular place to hang out but today it had finally achieved that goal, with somewhat unnecessary visits by half of the Oxfordshire Constabulary it seemed. James' first visit of the day had been justifiable, the second tenuous, and by the time his head had popped around her door for the third time she'd been at pains to point out the negative correlation between a spot of sunny weather and people's appetite for murder. This has only resulted in his speculation that it was only time before the insatiable heat drove them all on a killing spree of some kind, battle lines drawn in the supermarket aisles over the last remaining ice creams and BBQ coals. The seriousness with which this theory was espoused had her laughing out loud, but his expression had remained fixed and worryingly so. He'd lightened up of late, or at least she'd thought he had, but this was the return of the James of old and it concerned her, so much so that she'd invited him over for dinner, an invitation he'd readily accepted.

Dividing the tasks of host and hostess along sensible lines, she'd cooked and Robbie had entertained, keeping all their glasses topped up. She could hear him now, somewhere behind her in the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher and generally tidying up, leaving her alone with the lanky figure that stretched out awkwardly in the seat across from her, cigarette wedged between his elegant fingers.

"You alright, James?" she asked lightly.

"Sure," he replied automatically, smirking as he amended his answer, "Not really."

He didn't elaborate and she didn't immediately probe for anything more. It was enough that she'd asked, now it was a case of waiting for the opening she knew he'd offer her. A few sips of her ice-heavy G&T later and he was ready to talk.

"Did Robbie tell you what Moody has him working on?"

Laura frowned, "The girl found down by the canal, wasn't it. Although didn't DS Chambers have a breakthrough on that? Something to do with the uncle?"

James grimaced as he acknowledged she was right, simultaneously taking a deep drag and tilting his head upwards to exhale a cloud of smoke.

"He hasn't then," he surmised, his words directed to the dark purple sky above, "In which case I'm not going to say much as I think he needs to tell you himself, but it involves old cases and even older colleagues."

"Morse?" she speculated, her eyes focusing on him intently so that when he did at last look over he baulked slightly.

"Partly," he said, his head dipping, "But mostly Martin Johnson."

He watched for her reaction but saw none. She was good at that, he thought, reacting calmly, letting the words sink in before offering a response.

"It was inevitable," she said at last, "After all, there's not many left who worked with him in Oxford, Robbie might be the last of them." She thought for a moment before asking, "I thought the allegations were from his time at regional though?"

"They are," James nodded, "But Moody wants to be doubly sure that nothing is going to come out of the woodwork at our end and sidetrack his climb to the top."

She murmured her understanding and turned her head to look back towards the house, her lips pursing into a half smile as she saw him reach for a tea towel to wipe down the surfaces, a habit she found intensely irksome when there was a dishcloth allocated for just this purpose. But that was married life for you, or as likely to one as she was going to get, small irritations overlooked for the greater good.

"Let me guess, he's pretending to find it all intensely dull and utterly pointless?" she speculated, her gaze not shifting.

"Spot on as usual, doctor," James confirmed, taking a deep drag, "Spot on."


Robbie wiggled the back door handle, checking for the upteenth time it was locked, a tactic that he doubted she'd fallen for when she told him she was going up to bed, let alone now, some twenty minutes later. He'd done an additional lap of the downstairs, telling himself that you couldn't be too careful, that an open window on a night as warm as this was an invitation. But mostly he was buying time, putting off the inevitable conversation.

He wasn't stupid, he'd seen them talking. Or at least he'd seen James talking and her listening, and then later the subtle looks that were directed towards him. She was good, but not that good, and not after all this time. He knew when she was worried about him, knew when she was biding her time.

"Right then," he said out loud, his tone one of surrender.

It wasn't as if he didn't want to talk about it, he thought as he climbed the stairs, the third step creaking as usual letting her know he was on his way. But really, what was there to say?

His efforts to secure the downstairs had been completely undone by her efforts upstairs, every available window opened in a vain attempt to create a draft. He smiled when he saw her, duvet tossed back onto the floor at the foot of the bed, sheet pulled back and her lithe frame ensconced in the lightest of nightwear, thin cotton shorts and a top to match. She looked up from the book resting on her bent knees, her eyes staring at him over the rim of the glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"All ok down there?" she asked, her wry smile on her lips

"Aye, safe as houses," he breezed as he moved towards her side, leaning over her to fetch his own pyjamas and not resisting the temptation to kiss her lightly on her forehead as he did so.

He crossed to the ensuite, stripping down for a quick wash before reaching for his pyjamas. He considered for them a moment before heading back to the bedroom with them in his hands, her voice calling out, "You'll be too hot in those."

"Is that right?" he asked, smirking as she looked up at him, an eyebrow arching as she clocked his naked form. He felt her eyes on him as he sought out a clean pair of boxers and ignored the slight feeling of self-consciousness. He pottered about for a bit, folded his clothes, adjusted the curtain to let in a bit more air before he finally made his way to his side of the bed.

"I was going to tell you," he said, getting in and settling half popped up on his pillows, his reference to her early conversation with James needing no further introduction.

"I know," she replied, her focus back on the pages of her book, but reaching out a hand to rub gently at his bare thigh. "Want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Not much to say," he said honestly. He shifted to bend his arms at the elbow, his hands resting under his head. "He used to call me Bob, you know," he said, "God, it was annoying."

"I didn't know that," she said with bemusement, closing her book and retiring it to the bedside table along with her glasses. Turning onto her side and settling against him, her head resting on his chest as she said, "Can't really see you as a Bob."

"No, well..." he replied, moving his arm to bring it around her shoulder, to pull her closer. "You know, he wasn't a bad copper, at least not when I knew him," he said at length, acutely aware that others had thought differently. "Morse didn't like him much."

"Morse didn't like a lot of people," she pointed out, letting her fingers brush against the soft hair that was tickling against her cheek.

"That true," he mused, "Still..." he tailed off.

Laura gave him a minute before she moved away so she could look at him properly, to move a hand to smooth out the frown that had etched itself on his brow.

"You'll find what you'll find, Robbie," she said softly, "It was all a long time ago but if there's something there, you'll find it. And if not..." she shrugged, "Then you've done what you've been asked."

He captured her hand with his and lifted her fingers to his lips, enjoying how she looked back at him as he did so.

"I'm not sure I deserve you," he murmured.

"No, I'm not sure you do," she murmured back, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Now, kiss me goodnight," she demanded, "And then don't come near me for the rest of the night. It's far too hot for any of that."

He laughed as he obliged her request, delighting as she squirmed as he endeavoured to extend his kiss as long as he could, her giggling music to his ears as she fought against her instinct to surrender to him. But at last he let her go and, reaching over to switch off the lamp, he settled into his pillow, his eyes closing. He started to silently count to ten but only got as far as seven when he felt her turn back towards him and she nestled into his chest once more.


A/N: We're first introduced to Laura in the Inspector Morse episode 'Way Through the Woods' and what an introduction! There is a wonderful story called 'The Girl From Mars' by midlands-lass (and do read it if you haven't already) that brilliantly fills in the plot hole concerning our lovely doctor. I'm not going to even attempt to do better, only borrow Martin Johnson as he strikes me as a man with skeletons and closets a-plenty!