The stack of manila files, with their tattered edges and stretched rubber bands holding them together, looked no less depressing here as they had in the office, Robbie thought as he slumped into the sofa and eyed them dispiritedly. Having spent the previous day trying to come up with a systematic approach to the task, the only thing he'd concluded was that sitting in an airless police station surrounded by complaining constables and sweaty sergeants was not conducive to progress. Laura had been kind enough not to comment as he'd staggered in with them the previous evening and he considered that he'd gotten off rather lightly when she'd had only raised an eyebrow when he'd dumped them unceremoniously on the coffee table. He'd assured her they weren't going to stay there but as she'd headed off to work that morning her kiss goodbye, with its heady mix of soft lips against his cheek and the scent of freshly washed hair, had been accompanied with a look that made it very clear as to what he needed to do. However any enthusiasm he'd woken up with had waned quickly, and he was fast reaching the point at which another cup of coffee no longer served as an adequate reason not just to crack on.
Buying himself another few minutes, he rested back against the cushions and ran his hand through his hair, sighing heavily as he took in the room around him. The mess he'd created aside it was as it ever was, clean, tidy, tastefully decorated, just as Laura wanted, in a style that seemed to exude calm and one he was coming to appreciate. He wasn't particularly materialistic, there hadn't been much chance to be with money being as scarce as it was growing up and the furniture had mostly been well loved pieces passed on to his parents by various relatives. He could still remember the heavy oak sideboard that his mother kept their best china in, itself only brought out for Christmas and even then with a stark warning that it was precious and should be treated as such. There'd not been a lot of spare cash either when he and Val had set up together either but it hadn't bothered them much, being together and then making sure the kids were taken care of had been their main focus. His bachelor pad, as James had taken to calling it, had been nothing special, but this, his current surroundings, were as he thought they should be, the product of Laura's hard earned wage and her desire to be comfortable, to counter stark white walls and metal surfaces with warm colours and comfy seating. It was only his home because she was there but right now he saw its appeal, how the ease of the surroundings lessen his worry somehow. And he was worried, and without really understanding why. He was reasonably sure there was nothing that would cause him any particular trouble hidden in the dusty pile in front of him, but Laura had hit fairly close to the mark last night when she'd suggested Morse. He'd been a fine copper and mentor, but he hadn't been without fault. And whilst he couldn't give two hoots about Johnson's reputation, the idea of being the one that might sully the reputation of his that of his friend wasn't something he thought he could stomach.
He sighed again and, instructing himself to get on with it, stood and gathered up some of the files in his arms and made his way to the snug space Laura referred to as the study. She wouldn't be delighted at the prospect of him taking it over but it was only temporary and he thought she'd probably prefer it over the living room although, he mused as he negotiated the route, it would be a close call. Stacking this first batch on the floor, using the wall as support to stop them from toppling, he headed back for more. The key to it, he thought as he ferried them to and fro, was to put them into chronological order and simply start at the beginning. Fuelled by yet more caffeine and a packet of custard creams, he'd likely be able to make a decent amount of progress which was, he admitted, the only way to abate the growing sense of fear.
The day began to stretch out, the now all too familiar heat building as the sun made its way around the front of the house to begin its job of cooking the small room from the inside out. By lunchtime he had everything in some kind of order, the paperwork that surrounded him weighted down against the flittering effects of the desk fan whirring at full speed. The one paperweight Laura owned had not proved sufficient and so he'd instead resorted to using a cacophony of objects he'd found scattered around the study; the stethoscope which he knew had been Laura's when she was at medical school, a misshapen lump of clay given to her by her niece with the claim it was a snowman and, his particular favourite, a large and perfectly formed shell, the kind that were more commonly drawn in books than actually found on the shore. He childishly held up to his ear to listen for the sound of the sea and smiled at hearing it, knowing full well the ticking off he'd get for believing that was what it could be rather than what it was. It had been kept for the memory it evoked and one he'd contentedly indulged in before employing its spiralling shape to prevent notes about an awkward case from the late eighties from blowing about.
Around noon he made himself a quick sandwich, eating as he read, thankful to have found a kind of rhythm at last, the tedium replaced with something akin to interest. It was odd to see his name scrawled in various places recording actions he'd taken but had scant memory of. Stranger still were the places where Morse was mentioned. There'd been no love lost between him and Johnson and generally they hadn't had cause to work together given they were of similar rank, but he did crop up from time to time and, reading between the lines, Robbie thought he could tell where they'd come to blows or disagreed on the path of an investigation. Or maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. After all, it was all such a long time ago.
By mid-afternoon, he'd skimmed through pretty much everything, just one fat file to go and he could call it a day, and the prospect was an appealing one. Laura was due to knock off work about six and, checking his watch, he realised that if he hurried he'd even have time for a quick shower and change before strolling into town to surprise her. He could loiter by the backdoor of the pathology department and wait for her to emerge, suggest they go for a drink by the river, find somewhere shady where he could sup on a warm ale and her an iced G&T and catch up on each other's day. Cheered by the thought he reached for the final collection of documents, these held together unusually by a bit of old string, and flicked over the first page. He quickly read the summary, a 999 call reporting a possible burglary at one of the larger houses out towards Park Town had turned into something far more serious, the discovery of a cannabis factory and the body of a man halfway up the driveway who appeared to have been strangled. Robbie frowned and checked the date on the cover. August 1995. A case such as this he would have remembered, he was sure of it. He and Johnson had worked together that summer, Morse being otherwise engaged, and so why he wasn' listed as the Detective Sergeant he didn't know, other than the obvious reason of course, that he hadn't been assigned to it. He jumped ahead, looking for other names he recognised but found very few. He thought he'd known one of the uniforms who'd responded to the call, a Constable Longford who Robbie recalled had given him a lift home one evening when his car broke down, and possibly DC Amis who could have been the WPC that he seemed to remember had been with them for a short while. About to turn back to the start, to give it the same treatment he had all the others he stopped, something suddenly standing out from the page. He stared at it for a minute, frowning in confusion, unable to reconcile his memories of that time with what was so starkly written on the page.
His mind whirred with a multitude of thoughts as he flicked through pages of the neatly typed reports. The characteristic phasing and the minutiae he'd expect was all there in black and white, and yet it still didn't make any sense. He returned to the first sheet in the file and set about reading it in earnest, deciding that this of all the cases he'd reviewed already didn't sit right. He was only three or so pages in though when the shrill ring of the telephone in the hall halted his progress and he was forced to stop, and managed to step around the piles he'd created to reach it just before it rang off
"Hello?" he said curtly.
"Laura?" asked the voice.
"Sorry, she's not in here right now. Can I take a message?"
"Um, no, that's alright..." the voice, one that Robbie now identified as male, said hesitantly. "I have got the right number, haven't I? Laura? Doctor Laura Hobson?"
Robbie's instinct kicked in and he paused before replying. "Can I ask who's calling?"
The man hesitated again. "Just an old friend. We haven't spoken in a while and I wasn't sure she was still on this number."
Robbie wasn't fooled though. "Would you like to leave a message?"
"Yeah, ok then...may as well," the man conceded, "Just let her know I called and it would be good to catch up, touch base and all that. She can get me on the usual number."
Robbie waited for him to expand, to offer a name, one he could jot down on the notepad that was kept by the phone. There was a moment's silence when neither spoke, what was likely five seconds feeling much longer.
"Oh yes, I nearly forgot," the man almost scoffed at his own error, "It's Martin. Martin Johnson."
Thank you for the encouraging reviews. It's been a while but I'm enjoying being back in the world of Robson. On a side note, do custard creams fall into the same category as the After Rights featured in 'An Oxford Christmas' i.e. weird foodstuffs that only the British eat? If so and you're not in the UK then I'm sad to tell you that you're missing out because they are the best biscuits to dunk in a cup of tea, in my very humble opinion ;-) The 'flake' in the previous chapter might also be similarly categorised…it's a flaky stick of chocolate you might be fortunate to get added to your ice cream cone, if your parents were feeling generous, that is!