It was inevitable that, just as everyone got used to the heat and how to live with it, the British weather switched on the city and dropped a month's worth of rain on them in a few short days. After weeks without any moisture, the parched ground simply wasn't able to cope and the resulting flash floods and overwhelmed drains created an unnecessary sense of drama, TV reporters focusing on the inadequacy of the sewer system instead of melting tarmac. Robbie and Laura had woken up one morning to a scene of devastation in the garden, the deluge overnight so torrential that had flattened half the rose bushes and drowned out the veg patch. Laura took it with her usual stoicism, rolling up her sleeves to clear the debris and rescue what she could, but Robbie knew how upset she was at months of work being destroyed in a matter of hours. But any sense of loss quickly dissipated when the news came in of a young family caught out by the strength and depth of flood water on the bypass, a snap decision not to turn back leaving the youngest child in a critical condition after the car had become submerged. It made for grime reading over a late breakfast of scrambled egg and streaky bacon.
"What are her chances?" he asked, his eyes not lifting from the article in the Oxford Mail that was spread out in front of him.
"Depends on how you look at it," Laura offered, tutting as she shifted the papers towards him so that she had space to join him at the table. "She's still alive so that's a good sign. They'll be worried about pneumonia and her lungs generally, plus there's the risk of brain damage."
"Puts things into perspective," he sighed.
Laura tilted her head and considered him for a moment, toying with whether or not to reply. The subject of Martin Johnson hadn't been mentioned since the evening he'd met her from work and even then it had been fleeting. She could have easily explained how he'd come to be calling but he didn't ask and she couldn't see what would be gained by offering a reason if he didn't need to hear it. Instead he'd been pouring over old cases, none of the stacks in the study getting any smaller as far as she could tell. It hadn't been worth mentioning, given it came with the territory, and whilst she drew the line at them reading them in bed it wasn't unusual for one of them to be at it. But it was odd that he'd not mentioned any of them specifically, not used her as a sounding board or asked questions when the forensics got tricky. And then last night it occurred to her that whilst she couldn't be certain it was actually only one file he was reading, and one he hurriedly closed when she came into the room. It was time to force the issue.
"You know," she began, her knife sawing into the rasher on her plate, "I'm up for a bit of mystery as much as the next girl but I'd rather you just got it off your chest, whatever it is."
"Eh?" he said with surprise, looking up. "What do you mean?"
Her eyebrows arched skyward and she maintained her gaze at him, fork hovering halfway to her mouth. He sighed again and leant back in his chair, hands making their way behind his head.
"Oh, that," he grumbled. "I think I found something."
Laura chewed thoughtfully, waiting to see if he'd elaborate and, when he didn't, asked, "Something bad?"
"Not sure yet. Could be. An inconsistency that might be nothing, except..."
"Except it probably isn't," she finished for him.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, his first coming down hard on the table, his face apologetic before the sound of it had faded. "Sorry, love. It's just I didn't want to find anything and I was sure I wouldn't but I have, well, probably have."
She reached for his hand that rested on the table between them and squeezed it gently, "You're just doing your job."
He shifted awkwardly and stared at where they were now joined. "I just don't see why it always has to involve us," he said glumly.
"You and Morse?" she asked gently, her thumb beginning to stroke the back of his hand in tiny circles, and when he didn't reply offered grandly, "The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there."
"Blake," he huffed.
"Hartley," she corrected, "The Go-Between."
His eyebrows briefly rose in acknowledgement at her attempt to goad him into railing against the Classics but he wasn't in the mood.
"For once it's not Morse," he said at last and with some hesitancy. His eyes slowly shifted to meet hers which were wide and wholly focused on encouraging him on, which only made the words he heard himself uttering even more cruel.
"It's you," his face wincing as he said it. "I'm sorry, love, really sorry."
James wasn't certain why he'd been awake so early or how he'd come to find himself in the trendy new brunch place at the end of his street but there it was. The complete absence of fried food had forced him into choosing a sourdough bagel topped with smashed avocado and poached egg. Several bites in he'd go so far as to say it was tasty but simultaneously made a mental note to never tell Robbie he'd tried such a place, let alone enjoyed it. Not that he seemed to have the chance of late, his friend and mentor seemingly having gone AWOL. It was a sad fact that between that, his Sergeant proving herself adept at tracking down leads single handedly and Becky, the girl from HR he'd been seeing, struggling to get through a sudden increase in work, he'd found himself spending an increasing amount of time on his own. In all, it added up to giving him a disproportionate amount of time to think and, from bitter experience, that rarely worked out well.
"Yeah, back in town mate, just for a bit..." a man's voice piped up from the table over but one, its Cockney twang gratingly loud as he seemed to all but shout into this mobile, "Storm in a teacup..."
James grimaced and instructed himself not to listen, deciding instead to concentrate on the thoughts that had been playing on his mind, the events of the evening a few nights ago still bothering him. He didn't like telling tales out of school, feeding Laura information that was Robbie's to share, or not as he saw fit. But it wasn't that had gotten under his skin, but more her reaction to it, or lack of. He had thought it was just her usual measured approach but the more he reflected on it, the more he realised it had been strange. Because actually if there was something you could rely on it was that she reacted. Of course, it could be subtle, a wrinkled brow, a roll of the eyes, even a well-placed question that spoke volumes, but there was always something. He'd never met the man but the name Martin Johnson had become synonymous with risky shortcuts and a casual disregard for double checking the facts, even if his conviction record had propelled him up the ranks. It wasn't someone he'd have expected Laura to think highly of but he'd assumed she'd have an opinion. But apparently not.
"Right you are, half eight tonight at the Kings..." the man on the phone piped up, "Lager with a chaser if you get there first," he guffawed, "Same if you don't."
James rolled his eyes into his two-shot Americano and swallowed half of it down, keen all of a sudden to be somewhere else. If he played his cards right, he might just catch Becky as she left the office. She'd said she was popping in for just a couple of hours to finish a few things off and maybe, just maybe, he might be able to sweet talk her into spending the day with him.. The thought was a cheery one and, not wishing to delay any further, stood up and set off in the direction of the station, his still warm mug abandoned on the table without so much as a backwards glance.
"Me?" Laura asked incredulously. "What do you mean? What are you saying?"
"Nothing. I'm not saying anything," his face showing the strain of knowing they'd have to have this conversation at some point and his annoyance that he'd inadvertently started it now.
When he didn't elaborate, Laura pushed her chair back, the legs scraping across the tiled surface. Reaching across him, she took his empty plate and stacked it on hers, their coffee mugs similarly gathered and carried them to the kitchen, dumping them unceremoniously into the sink and the resulting clatter of ceramic and metal echoed out. She braced herself against the wooden worktop, took a deep breath as she looked out over the garden.
"I'm not accusing you of anything," Robbie said at last. "But there's a case from the last year Johnson was in Oxford. It's odd and not anything I can really put my finger on, but there are gaps, huge gaps, in the notes, in the investigation generally and it could be just that the paperwork is missing..."
"But you don't think so," she concluded on his behalf as he trailed off.
She let herself be distracted for a moment, her focus on the semi-restored border as she made a mental note that, thanks to the intensity of the rain, all of the rose bushes in that bed would now need a hard prune. She heard him moving behind her and felt him come up alongside, his hand covering hers.
"I don't know what I think yet," he said calmly, "But you are listed as the pathologist and so we're involved, one way or another."
"I'm involved," she corrected.
"No," he said, tugging her hand so that she was forced to turn and look up at him, "We're involved."
She held his gaze. Part of her wanted to interrogate him thoroughly, to demand exactly what it was all about. But instead she pushed the instinct aside, deciding that could wait. Robbie's faith in her was unshakable, well almost, and if anything he wasn't going to be the one she'd need to convince. She felt herself nod, almost unconsciously, reassured enough for now and when he dared to inch closer and she didn't resist, her head leaning against his upper arm in a silent truce.
They stood like that for some time, until at last he began to speak. She was only half listening at his attempt to change the topic of conversation, reminding her of the errands they'd needed to get through that day and that he'd not forgotten he'd promised to wash her car. But her thoughts wouldn't be so easily altered.
"So I can drop you into town first if you like," Robbie concluded.
"Mmm?"
He chuckled. "You've not heard a word I've said, have you?
She didn't answer that and instead moved away from him to start the washing up, a healthy squirt of Fairy liquid added to the bowl, cutlery rattling as the water shot out from the tap and she plunged her hands into the growing soap suds, sponge in hand. She barely noticed as Robbie gathered up the pans from the hob and scraped the residue of egg and bacon fat into the bin before passing them to her and she accepted them on auto-pilot.
"You alright, Laura?" he asked, "You look a bit pale."
"Mmm?" she repeated, "Oh, yes, sorry. I was just thinking..."
She lifted the frying pan she'd been scrubbing out of the water and paused, the bubbles dripping down her arms and the pan suspended in mid-air.
"The case? It's not the Beale murder, is it? Member of a drug gang found strangled on the driveway, no evidence either way as to who did it."
Robbie looked surprised. "That's the one. Fancy house in Park Town, although aren't they all," he added jokingly.
But she didn't laugh, her face set in stone as she looked directly at him.
"I wasn't the lead pathologist on that case, Robbie. My name shouldn't be in that file, at least not in that way."
"Then who was?" he frowned.
But she didn't reply and instead headed out of the kitchen, grabbing a tea towel for her hands from the front of the oven as she passed, and disappeared towards the study.
