20 February 1991

"Jim, you don't happen to know where Christina's dad stays, do you?"

Jim looked up from his desk, a frown deepening his forehead and Frank instantly realised that the casual way he had intended to ask the question had clearly not been successful. "He lives in Brighton, Guv."

"Yes, I know that. I meant specifically, like an address."

Jim frowned again, "No idea, Guv, sorry. Why?"

"No reason." He turned back to his office, cursing himself for asking in the first place and yet somewhat impressed that he had managed to last a whole week without doing so. Since he had last seen her, he had spent what felt like every waking minute thinking about her, watching the phone, willing her to call. So far, all he had had from her was radio silence and it was making him anxious. Every day apart was a day more where she might feel that what she had suggested in the hospital was the correct course of action and he couldn't have that. He couldn't lose her, not now. Sitting back down at his desk he mulled the matter over in his mind, watching as Jim's head once more bent over his own work. As far as he could tell, the only people in CID who knew there had been something between him and Christina were Ted, Tosh and the DCI. Others might have suspected, but none of them knew for sure. As for uniform, well, God only knew what Quinnan and Loxton had thought when they had arrived on the scene to find him there with her, especially after what Stewart had said to them. Anyway, a large part of him didn't really care who knew, not now.

He knew he should have been working, the paperwork on his desk having reached an all time high, yet he couldn't concentrate on anything else and knew he wouldn't be able to until such time as he had clarity in his own mind as to what was going to happen. A thought suddenly struck him, and he reached into his pocket for his address book, his fingers thumbing through until he found the right number, irritated that he hadn't considered it before.

The phone rang out almost six times before it was answered, just when he was about to give up, and he was relieved when he realised who it was on the other end. "Hello Colin, long time no speak."

"Oh, hello Frank," the man at the other end replied. "You could say that, yeah, though I'd recognise your dulcet tones anywhere. How's life in the Met?"

"As fast paced as ever, Colin, I don't mind telling you. I'm up to my ears with high-level crime. What about you? How's life in the Seaside Squad."

Colin laughed, "Yeah, very funny. We do get the odd crime committed down here you know. It's not all sand and ice-cream."

"I bet it's not, not with weather like this anyway."

"At least we don't get snow."

"True…" he paused. "Listen Colin, I was hoping you might be able to do me a favour."

"Oh yeah? Depends on what it is, Frank."

"I'm trying to track someone down. He used to be active on my ground, but he moved down your way a good few years ago now and, well, I was just wondering if you might know him in an official capacity."

"What's the name?"

"Lewis. William Lewis. Must be about, oh, late fifties now?"

"Rings a vague bell…" Colin mused. "Not someone who's current though, I don't think. If you give me fifteen minutes or so, I can check with our collator and let you know."

"I'd appreciate that Colin, thank you." Putting down the phone, he felt a renewed sense of purpose and, getting to his feet, made his way to Kim's office, knocking sharply on her door and barely waiting for her call to enter. "Ma'am, I was hoping you'd authorise me some annual leave."

Kim looked up from the papers she was studying. "Annual leave?"

"Yes, this weekend in fact," he said. "I haven't taken any this quarter yet and, well, I reckon I'm due a break, don't you? Once I've caught up with all the paperwork that's on my desk of course."

"Report on local burglaries?"

"Almost done."

"And the figures on the racial cases?"

"In progress," he replied, his mind rolling back over the last few weeks and trying to recall when she had even asked him to complete something like that. Never mind, he knew he could pull it out of the bag when required. "So, would that be all right?"

Kim leaned back in her chair and regarded him carefully. "Well of course I'm not going to deny you annual leave…have you anywhere particular in mind?"

"Not really," he lied, hoping that she wouldn't probe further or jump to any conclusions. "I might just sit around the house doing nothing for a change. They do say relaxation is the key to a happy and fulfilled life."

"Yes, well…all right, fill in the form and leave it on my desk. I'll sign it off as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Ma'am," he replied, before making his way back to his desk and automatically starting to tackle the paperwork, unwilling to give her any reason to rescind her agreement. He was just contemplating how to even begin the paper on the racial figures, when the phone rang again loudly, startling him. "Burnside."

"It's Colin. I looked up that name for you."

"And?"

"We do have a William Lewis on our books as it happens. He's got a bit of previous for thieving, but nothing in the last five years. I've got an address, but God only knows if it's still current."

"You're a diamond, Colin," he replied, scribbling it down. "I owe you one."

"Yeah, you've been saying that since 1984 but I've yet to see it. Make sure you pay us a visit if you're passing through."

"I will, thanks," he replied, before replacing the receiver and looking at the address on the page in front of him.

Brighton nick wasn't exactly his destination of choice.

22 February

She hadn't been sure if she would like Brighton. She'd only ever visited it once before in the past and had a vague memory of thinking it rather and tacky and run down. This time however, she felt as though she was seeing it in a whole different light. Clearly, she was there out of season, so there wasn't the array of stalls and funfairs that might spring up during the summer months, but it made her appreciate the landscape more, not to mention the relentless thundering of the sea. She had spent most of her time in the last ten days or so simply walking along the seafront, buying a coffee from a particular shop she had come to like and sitting watching as the tide rolled in and out again. Her father never questioned what she did with her days, and he hadn't pushed her to talk about her situation any further, only listening when she had felt like unburdening her feelings, occasions which were few and far between. There had really only been one night, when she had bought a bottle of wine on her way back to the flat and then consumed it greedily, when she had said more than she might otherwise have. She could vaguely remember crying and tell her father that she loved Frank more than she'd ever loved anyone before or would again. He had said little and, the following morning, when she had awoken with a storming hangover, he had simply made her coffee and told her that everyone needed to let off steam now and again.

She had hoped that the change of scene, the separation, would give her clarity on her decision and yet, it had done everything but. As the days passed, she only missed him more and more. Despite her father's veiled prompt, she hadn't called Frank, not that she hadn't been tempted. His reaction in the hospital had told her everything she needed to know, namely that he wouldn't give her up without a fight. It should have made her feel flattered, but instead it only made her feel imprisoned. She hadn't left Stewart to be on her own, to be single. She had left him, in large part, because of Frank. Replaced one man with another and whilst there had been moments where she had thought that marriage and babies with Frank was what she wanted, she couldn't help the niggling feeling inside that perhaps, despite how much she loved him, what she really needed, was time on her own.

In the space of eight months, her life had turned on its head. Stewart had been shot, taken to the bottle, lost his job, she had started an affair with Frank, left her husband then been attacked by him. It almost made her laugh, as though it couldn't possibly be anyone's reality. As though it belonged more in Albert Square or Weatherfield. And yet, here she was, living the soap opera for real.

She had told Kim the relationship would end. She had told Frank she didn't love him. There was no other way forward than to push on, she knew that. If they were both to remain at Sun Hill, if they were both to keep somewhat unblemished records, then she needed to be resolute, even in the face of her own emotions. There was no other way to make it work than to be brutal. There could be no half measures. She knew she had taken the cowards way out when Frank had confronted her though, promising him that she wouldn't make a hasty decision when she knew, deep down, she had already made it.

When she got back to London, she would have to tell him straight, make him see that this was how it had to be, and then she had to close herself off from him emotionally and just try to do her job as he did his.

There was no other option.

XXXX

It had been a ridiculous idea, leaving London to travel to Brighton on a Friday. Despite the fact it wasn't that far away, the weekend traffic had already started to build up on the M25 and he'd barely been on the road for half an hour before the rage kicked in, tempered only by the thought of seeing her. He'd managed to get a room at a seafront hotel, the place being quiet due to the time of year. It was one of the nicest they had, or so the receptionist had said when he'd called, and he picked it, just on the off chance, that Christina might decide to spend some time in it with him. He certainly didn't relish the prospect of making love to her in her dad's flat like some randy teenager.

As he sat in yet another long queue of traffic, he thought again about what he would say when he saw her. Telling her he missed her was an obvious opening line, followed by reminding her that he loved her. Clearly, he was hoping she would reciprocate, but he knew he had to tread carefully in case she didn't, especially as he knew he would be taking her by surprise.

He'd told no-one where he was going, not even Ted. He didn't want anyone at the nick knowing he was making this trip, preferring for them to believe that he was simply taking a few days off and hoping by the time he got back that he felt better than he currently did.

Eventually, the traffic gave way, and he was able to pick up speed, only for it to begin to crawl again as he neared his destination. Fortunately, the hotel had designated parking and he was luckily able to find a spot, checking in just before three o'clock. The weather was dry, but the wind was cold, whipped as it was from the sea. The receptionist had been right about the room, the view extending down to the shore and though things like that never really bothered him, he was pleased that he'd made such a wise choice. Women always loved that sort of thing.

Christina's father's address was in his pocket and, armed with a local map, he began to make his way there, stopping off at a local shop to buy her some flowers. He swithered over red roses, then decided that it might seem too full on, despite what he was there to tell her, so he settled for a mixture of pink and white roses and carnations instead.

The sun was starting to set by the time he reached the right road, and he quickly located the block of flats, his eyes flitting through the row of security buzzers before finding the one marked Lewis. Taking a deep breath, he pressed it.

"Hello?" a male voice came crackling through the intercom. "Who is it?"

"It's Frank," he said, then suddenly realised that, if this was the right place, she might not have told her father who he was. "Frank Burnside. I'm a friend of Christina's." He held his breath for a few seconds as the man appeared to be considering what to do, then the door clicked, and he pulled it open. Slowly, he made his way up the stairs until he reached the third floor and was faced with the main door. At that moment, his stomach started to churn frantically, but before he could knock, the door suddenly opened, and he found himself face to face with a man that looked uncommonly like the person he had come to see. "Mr Lewis, I presume?"

The man looked him up and down, his gaze resting on the flowers. "That's right. They for me?"

"Oh…uh, no," he replied, suddenly somewhat embarrassed. "No, they're for Christina. Is she here?"

"No, she's not," the man stepped back. "But you can come in and wait." He followed him inside, through a hallway into the living and dining area where the man turned to face him again. "I'm her dad, Bill Lewis."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Lewis." He extended his hand, and, to his relief, the other man shook it.

"Call me Bill."

"Bill."

"You come down from London?"

"Yes," he replied. "Last minute decision, you know?"

"I see…" Bill nodded slowly. "Do you want me to put those in some water for you?"

"Oh…thanks…" he handed the bouquet over and Bill moved into the kitchen, giving him the chance to glance around. The place looked respectable enough, but he wasn't daft enough to forget that he was in the home of a man who had done time inside before, even if he was Christina's dad. "You lived here long?"

"Five or six years now."

"What made you come down here?"

"Change of scene after my wife died," Bill replied, coming back out of the kitchen. "Slower pace of life and all that." He regarded him carefully. "You her boss?"

The question caught him momentarily off guard and he hesitated before replying, "Yeah, I'm her DI."

"Ah, the third party."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. What brings you all the way out here then?"

"Well…I came to see how she was, that's all."

"Mmmm…. you want a cuppa?"

"Only if you're making one," he replied. "Do you think she'll be long?"

"No idea," Bill replied. "I don't keep tabs on her. Milk and sugar?"

"Yeah, three please." He turned to look out of the window, the gulls crying and swooping in the distance. "So, how is she?" There was no reply, and, after a moment, he turned back to see the other man coming towards him holding out a cup. "Thanks. Christina, I mean, how is she?"

"I'm not sure that's for me to say."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

Bill sat down at the table, regarding him carefully, and he felt compelled to do the same. "I know who you are. You're the one she's been fooling around with, the one she left that prat of a husband of hers for."

He chose to ignore the somewhat casual way Bill referred to their relationship and honed in on what he had said about Stewart instead. "You don't like him then, Stewart?"

"After what he did to her, you can bet your life I don't. But, even before that, I never really liked him. Oh, I was always grateful to his family for taking her in but, I never warmed to him. But then, he was Old Bill, just like you."

"Just like Christina."

"Yeah, well, that's different. She's blood." Bill paused. "Took a bit of time, but she told me about you, eventually."

He wanted to ask what she had said, was desperate to know how she had described him to her father, whether she had given any clue as to how she might have felt, but quickly realised that none of that mattered. All that he needed to hear was what she would say to him, to his face. "I love your daughter, Mr Lewis."

"I know." Bill put his cup down. "This time of day you'll probably find her along the seafront, making her way back here. You're welcome, of course, to wait until she gets back."

He paused momentarily, the cold February air hardly the most enticing of prospects, before rationalising that he would rather they had whatever conversation they needed to have in private, rather than with her father earwigging in the corner. He got to his feet. "Thanks."

Bill nodded, "Good luck."

XXXX

It was almost dark by the time she reached the end of the seafront, the streetlights illuminating her path. Few people were as unconcerned as she was by the cold wind and the salty tang it brought with it, so the area itself was quiet. A fleeting thought had crossed her mind on one occasion that perhaps it wasn't safe for her to be there in the dark, but there was something about the place that almost seemed to envelop her in a blanket of safety. It was strange, but it was how she felt.

"Your dad said I'd find you here."

She jumped suddenly at the sound of his voice and, turning quickly, lest she had imagined it, found herself face to face with him. "Sorry," he said, smiling at her. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, the words sticking in her mouth. "How…what…?"

"I came to see you. Finding out your dad's address wasn't difficult. Seems he's already made himself known to the local boys down here."

"What?"

"I mean…" he paused, clearly flustered. "He seems like a nice bloke, your dad."

"You've been to his flat?"

"Yeah, just now. Like I said, he told me I'd find you coming back this way."

A thousand thoughts flooded her brain; pleasure at seeing him, disbelief that he was there and anger that he had clearly used back channels to find her. For all the feelings she might have had towards her father, she couldn't believe what he had done. "You contacted the local force about my dad?"

Clearly, this wasn't the reaction Frank had been hoping she would give him. He moved towards her, obviously hoping to placate her. "I know, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it but…"

"If I'd wanted you to know where I was, I would have given you the address myself."

"Don't be like that, please…I came to see you."

"Why?"

"Why?" he shook his head as though it was a ridiculous question. "Why wouldn't I come? I wanted to see you. I needed to see you…" he made to slide his hands onto her waist, but she stepped back away from him, conscious that if she let him touch her it would be so much more difficult to remain resolute. "I've missed you."

"I've only been gone ten days."

"Ten days too long. I was hoping you might have called me, at least just to let me know you were all right." He paused. "Haven't you been thinking about me, even just a little bit?"

It seemed such a ridiculous question when he had been all she had been thinking about. "I told you before I left how I felt."

"You also told me you wouldn't make any rash decisions."

"So, you decided to make one instead, invade my dad's privacy and come scooting down here like some sort of stalker?"

He stared at her, "Stalker?"

"Well, what would you call it? I told you that I didn't love you, I told you we should just be friends, I told you that we should end it…"

"Yeah, and I don't accept that. I can't accept that, Chris, we've come too far now."

"So, you are stalking me then?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, "Go back to London, Frank."

"No, not until we've had a chance to talk this all through."

"I've said what I needed to say." She made to move past him, but he took hold of her arm, gently but firmly, preventing her from walking away. The warmth of him through the very fabric of her coat reminded her so much of that first night in his office and she slowly raised her eyes to meet his. "Please. You were the one who said I wasn't well and maybe you're right. I'm just trying to get my head around everything that's happened and…" she trailed off, unsure what to say when her body and brain were battling with one another.

"I didn't believe you when you said you didn't love me," he said softly. "I don't believe you."

"Frank…"

"Have dinner with me tonight. I'm staying at the Metropole at the other end of the pier. Please."

She knew what she should say, knew that she should stick to her guns, tell him that it was over, walk away from him…and yet, faced with him at that moment, there was nothing she wanted to do more than just melt into him, let him put his arms around her and shield her from the wind and the world.

One dinner couldn't hurt, could it? It would be in public, and she could tell him again how she felt, how they had to go back to just being friends and colleagues, nothing more. She would be strong, and he would have to accept it.

"Ok," she nodded. "Dinner."

He smiled in obvious relief. "Great. I'll book a table for seven o'clock?"

"Fine."

"Right, well I'll see you there." He paused, and she knew he was waiting for her to make a move, a positive move, one that she knew he was hoping would solidify for him that he was right.

She slid her arm gently out of his grip and stepped back. "Seven." Then she turned and hurried away from him back towards the flat, hoping that she would have the strength to do what needed to be done.