An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 36
An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 36
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Co-Captain of this Ship: WhosInTheAttic, but all errors are mine alone.
First Mate: The lovely serenityslady has officially joined the crew. Thanks for the support and suggestions!
Rating: PG for Plot Galore and A for Angst
Word Count: 4,405
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25 | Part 30 | Part 35.1
Wednesday, June 27, 2012 10:00 AM
“You look like death warmed up, mate,” DS Ian Keating drawled over his cup, wincing in sympathy when he heard his partner’s neck crack as the DI stretched wearily. Peter Carlisle rolled his eyes and gave a wry nod of agreement but said nothing, grimacing as he sipped a tepid coffee before turning a bleary eye on his surroundings. The sidewalk cafe had been given a hasty slap of paint in a vain attempt to appear cheery for the throngs of tourists anticipated for the opening ceremonies of the upcoming Olympics. All of London, it seemed, was under renovation and the ubiquitous pink signs meant to direct visitors and Londoners alike to various venues had been in place for weeks. The complaining during the buildup to the event had been something of a national pastime for the better part of the last year, but Londoners’ infamous world-weary cynicism had begun to show signs of fading in the face of earnest enthusiasm as the games approached.
Peter, for one, would be glad to see the end of it all so that life could return to normal. The Olympic torch had already begun it’s long journey from Greece to Central London and would arrive in barely under a month’s time. Just that morning, an official statement had been released- ‘The police service is committed to ensuring the Games are safe and secure from all threats yet are policed in a proportionate manner, preserving the spirit of the occasion.’
The calm statement was intended to convey an attitude of complete confidence and utter competence, but the truth was the police were stretched nearly to the breaking point, expected to control a crowd of unimaginable size whilst thwarting any terrorist threats simultaneously. Oh, and it was being stressed that these two divergent missions would be carried out efficiently whilst always appearing polite and responsive to the public, regardless of how unreasonable the visitors from literally every corner of the globe might prove to be. A facade of calm competence and control must be maintained, their DCI had solemnly intoned, especially in the face of utter chaos. Even he and Ian were under tremendous pressure to put Morgan's unsolved murder case to rest before the tourists began to arrive.
"Seriously, Peter, you look terrible," Ian continued, eyeing his friend with concern, his words dragging Peter away from his thoughts and back to reality. "Are you feeling alright?” Ian looked away from searching the streets to study him properly. Peter’s relaxed demeanour effectively camouflaged an alert mind, but he’d been a tad bit more subdued than usual of late- a fact Ian put down to the probability of Peter spending more time in bed but less of it asleep in recent weeks. In the last three days, however, the man had looked positively exhausted.
Peter took another sip of tepid coffee with a grimace and continued to scan the passers-by from his seat before the sidewalk cafe. "It’s Donna,” Peter finally admitted, abandoning his cup on the rickety table. “She's no sleeping’ well. She's had nightmares, ever since that man accosted her in S&G. She hardly ever makes a sound. I just feel her tremblin’ beside me in the night.” Peter drug his hands down his face and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Every now and then, she’ll mumble somethin' and I might make out a snatch of a phrase or a word, but usually, she’s silent. In the light of day, she says she doesnae remember her dreams, but I’m no sure if she really doesnae recall or if she doesnae want me to know.” He shrugged sadly.
"She’s still staying with you, then?” Ian asked with a raised eyebrow. “It’s been, what? Two weeks now?” He smirked knowingly when Peter all but blushed in response.
“Yeah,” he admitted with some reluctance. "It was just gonna be until the wiring for the new alarm system was completed, but now that she’s out of the way, her architect was keen to finally go through with havin’ the second level in her flat finished out. She wouldnae hear of it at first, but I convinced her, told her she might as well. She willnae tell me what they've planned - for some reason, it’s all a big surprise - but whenever she gets off the phone with him, she’s like herself again.” He smiled wistfully in remembrance before adding, “She’s exactly like the cat who got the cream.”
“And there’s been no change in her condition?” Ian persisted.
“If by that you mean has she remembered anythin’ about what happened in S&G, the answer is no,” he confided with a shrug, "and that’s the crux of the issue.” Peter lifted his head and scanned the crowd once more as he spoke, still not finding what they were waiting for.
"She still cannae remember what happened: no one thing after she sent me those photos. And I’m absolutely positive that’s what’s done it. It’s made her terrified. She cannae remember, so she’s certain that she’s about to forget again." He turned back to his partner with a sigh. “I cannae imagine what it must be like. To lose all the things that make you feel like yourself once, and then to be afraid that it’s happening again?”
"You studied psychology, didn’t you? What’s the best treatment in a situation like this?” Ian said hopefully, earning himself a snort of derision for his pains.
"Criminal psychology, Ian,” Peter replied with a shake of his head. "There’s a world of difference. But I’m beginnin’ to think that whatever it was that happened to her, maybe it’s a good thing she cannae remember. Maybe she’s…” he shook his head ruefully before continuing with a shrug. “It may well be that she's repressed those memories for a reason. It’s part of why I agreed to stop with my investigation into her past."
"So you’re just giving up?” Ian said incredulously.
"At her request, and only on the specifics of her past,” Peter clarified. "I never said a word about giving up on Torchwood or Tippet’s probable involvement.” He cocked his jaw to the side and sucked thoughtfully on his back teeth, wishing he had a sweet to calm his jangled nerves.
"You still think the man in the shop was Tippet’s muscle?" Ian mused, scratching his chin. "It seems out of character. He seems to be more of one for a personal laying on of hands.”
"I agree, but the man in the photos? He was the one I glimpsed across the street; he saw me with Donna,” Peter said, frowning in frustration. “And the shop girl, she heard him call her Mrs. Carlisle just before she collapsed. It seems logical he was Tippet’s man,” he persisted. “If it was Torchwood, why call her by my name? If they’re tryin’ to cover their tracks, why have they no simply made her disappear?”
Peter shook his head and looked away, his jaw clenched tight. He'd been so insistent in the beginning about keeping Donna's name out of the public record, but due to his temper, he'd failed her. Since being with him, she’d been stalked, not once, he reflected morosely, but twice, by two intruders with two different styles of surveillance. Was this the result of one organisation intensifying their efforts, he pondered, or should he consider these as two different incursions? Even the methodologies used were totally divergent, and he couldn't reconcile the stylistic differences. The first invasions- the ones perpetrated by the floppy-haired scarecrow-man- were completely tech-dependent. He’d danced around in the security footage, waving his magic wand about and POOF! Just like that, evidence had disappeared.
In sharp contrast, the more recent intrusions by the too-pretty, high-maintenance Metrosexual were entirely old-fashioned and eyes-on-the-ground. But in the end, what did it matter? Peter though ruefully, as ultimately, he was sure they were all his fault entirely.
He had never been one to let sleeping dogs lie, but this time, Peter almost wished he had. He’d put Donna in danger from the day he’d met her. Whether by stirring up the hornets' nest of her past with his investigations or simply by being with her, he was unsure, but he was certain her troubles were all down to him. In his darker moments, he had begun to think that perhaps she'd have been better off if she'd never found her way into his heart, but he could scarcely imagine his life now without her.
The puzzle of it all burned in his brain and he fairly itched with impatience. He wanted this done. He wanted a definitive conclusion to the erratic situation in which they found themselves. He wanted closure on the past so they could move on together towards their future. Well, today, Peter thought grimly as he looked away into the distance, today, the uncertainty would end. If nothing else, today, he’d get some answers.
Lost in thought, Peter averted his face and Ian regarded his usually unflappable partner for a long moment. He had seen Peter in sticky situations on several occasions and had only known him to be cool and calm in a crisis. Like any good detective, Peter was skilled at remaining detached and aloof, keeping his intellect harnessed in pursuit of the truth and a suspect, but this situation was different. This situation struck too close to home and to heart and Ian felt a keen pang of sympathy for his friend.
"Enough of me and my issues,” Peter announced unexpectedly, catching Ian off guard. “Maddie?” he asked with an exaggerated grin, one eyebrow raised in challenge, but as Ian opened his mouth to reply, he knew the opportunity was lost to circumstance.
A slim boy wearing dark glasses and a hoodie over a black satin baseball cap sauntered by, flipping open his jacket casually to reveal a t-shirt stencilled with the familiar image of a stormtrooper, a daisy incongruously tucked into the barrel of his laser rifle. The boy gave Ian a casual glance before turning on the heel of his cherry red DMs and heading across the street for an abandoned tramway station. "That’s him,” Ian said tightly, standing and pulling out his mobile after the boy passed. He punched in a number and, looking at Peter, said solemnly, "This is it.”
**********
Wednesday, June 27, 2012 10:45 AM
“I’m through piddlin’ about with you lot,” Peter heard Tippet growl as he advanced on their guide into the underworld. He pushed the boy roughly to the wall before he leaned in close, arms braced on either side of the boy’s head, bracketing him in and cutting off his escape. “It’s high time you reached a decision about your future. Like if you’re even gonna have one after today.”
“Oi!” the boy spat back, his voice pitched high, despite his bravado. “I ain’t afraid of you.”
“Have it your own way, then,” Tippet mused almost nonchalantly as he reached beneath his coat. His face twisted in an ugly leer, he pulled a long, thin blade free, holding it high and twisting it so that it glinted evilly in the gloom. “I guess you all didn’t get the message that I mean business. Your peers seem to be in need of another example of what happens to them what gets in my way. I reckon you’ll serve."
Peter glanced over to his partner and with a nod, they both stepped from the shadows. “Reginald Tippet, I am arresting you for the murder of Alun Morgan,” Peter announced, smiling cynically as DS Cave and Detective Dexter, along with two armed officers, emerged from their hiding places and made their presence known. "You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence.” Peter, Ian and the two uniformed officers stepped forward as one, advancing on Tippett.
In one impossibly fluid movement, Tippet swung the boy he’d been threatening around in front of him and pressed himself back to the wall. The stiletto flashed menacingly in his grasp, just before his hostage's throat. “I don’t think so, Cop,” Tippet said calmly. “I think my friend here and I will just be walking out together,” he said as he clutched the boy tightly to his chest, all the while edging deeper into the tunnel. The boy was strangely quiet and from where he stood, Ian saw his hands twitch by his sides. "Am I right?” Tippet snarled, glancing right and taking another step towards the deep gloom behind him.
“Just let the boy go,” Ian said placating as the armed officers advanced beside him. “This will go much easier on you if you do.”Tippet opened his mouth to sneer a reply, when, without warning, the boy twisted and dropped lithely from Tippet’s grasp, kicking out with a heavy boot at his captor’s knee as he scuttled away to safety. Tippet tottered for a moment before righting himself and, seeing his advantage lost, he turned to run at surprising speed away and into the dark. As one, Ian and Peter lunged towards their quarry and began to give chase when a sharp, quick whistle from behind caught Peter's attention.
"This way," hissed the young man they’d followed with an impatient gesture as he turned and sprinted back towards the tunnel entrance. Peter glanced at the two armed officers advancing down the tunnel with his partner closely behind before turning and following the boy at a dead run.
As they pounded across the pavement at street level, Peter threw a hurried look around, trying to process the rapidly-evolving situation. "Where - ?" Peter huffed before the boy cut him off.
"I know where he's going, where he always goes," the boy cried breathlessly as he ran headlong into a crowd of tourists who scattered at his approach. "If he gets ahead of the others and manages to give them the slip, there's a dozen ways he could go. He'll just disappear again and we’ll both be back where we began, but not if we can cut him off.”
With Peter hot on his trail, the boy darted between two automobiles stopped at a zebra crossing, then dodged a girl on a moped before plunging into the mouth of the next tramway station, just as Tippet blundered out directly into Peter’s path. Tippet's eyes widened in angry surprise as the boy hurtled past and he thrashed about convulsively with the stiletto he still carried before him and Peter stepped back, just out of reach.
“You ain’t got me yet, Blue,” Tippett scowled, facing Peter and pressing his back to the wall. He cast a furtive glance into the dark tunnel, looking after the graffiti artist he’d threatened earlier. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Peter eased his hand into his pocket and pressed the call button on his mobile, activating the prearranged signal he and Ian had worked out after the apprehension of Bence. He heard the call connect and withdrew his hand again.
“Let’s just stay calm,” Peter said slowly and distinctly. “The other officers are right behind ye: there’s no possibility of escape from this station. Just put down the knife and-”
“I don’t think so,” the man snarled with savage glee. “At least not 'fore I’ve finished with that bitch of yours,” he sneered, nodding his head back towards the tunnel. He locked eyes with Peter and favoured him with a predatory grin, edging along the wall towards the beckoning freedom beyond.
Anger flared white-hot behind Peter's eyes, momentarily obscuring his vision before clearing just as quickly, leaving a sense of deadly calm in its wake. "Ye leave her out of this, I’m warnin’ ye," he said bluntly and seemingly without emotion. "She’s no yer concern; yer problem is with me, no her."
Without warning, Tippet lunged forward with the same deadly grace that must have laid Alun Morgan dead in a Chiswick alleyway. Outside himself, Peter saw Tippet move as if he were watching and rewatching a video, scrubbing back and forth, looking for a particular frame frozen in time. He saw the blade flash out away from Tippet, a bright sliver of silver, and he was puzzled when it return to it’s position before the man's chest now stained a sticky, toffee-apple red. When time once again resumed its normal flow, Peter heard an ugly laugh of triumph at the same time he registered a searing pain just below his left shoulder. His right hand automatically reached up to touch his arm and Peter was surprised when it came back covered in his own blood.
Tippet raised his eyebrows and in a near-whisper, he taunted, “I’ll just be goin’ now, but you tell that bitch this ain't done between us; we’re not through.” He looked back down the tunnel once more before whipping his head back to face Peter. "That fuckin’ slag’ll beg for it,‘fore I'm finished with her.”
In a blind fury, Peter dove forward, slamming Tippet violently back into the tunnel and knocking the blade from his hand. The force of the blow caused the stiletto to skitter away across the concrete as Peter pinned his assailant to the wall, his injured arm tight across the man's neck while he fumbled for his mobile in the pocket of his coat with his free hand. He jerked it free and brought the display up before Tippet’s face, his voice rising in tandem with his indignation. "Who is this man? Why did ye send him after Donna? Why are ye after her?” Tippet sputtered incoherently and Peter roared, "Tell me now!”
Startled and fighting for breath, Tippet answered without thinking. "Piss off, Blue!” he wheezed. “I ain’t set no one on nobody! I’ve never seen him before: he’s none of mine."
Supremely unconvinced, Peter leaned against him harder, throwing his full weight into the arm across Tippet’s neck. “Look again,” Peter hissed, thumbing to the picture of the man in S&G with Donna in the foreground. “Why are ye harassin' this woman?”
“You’re barkin’, Blue,” Tippet croaked, turning his head and trying to fill his starving lungs. “I ain’t never laid eyes on that ging cow.” A slow smile crept across his face as realisation dawned. "And here’s me, thinking you,were a big jessie,” he taunted as Peter eased back slightly. Peter looked at his arm, now drenched with blood, pressed against the man’s neck. He glanced at his mobile and terminated the call before dropping the device back into his coat pocket and reaching down for the handcuffs in his belt pouch.
“It’s over,” Peter grunted, spinning his gloating captive around and pressing him against the wall again as he clapped a cuff on one wrist. “Yer done.”
Sensing an opportunity, Tippet thrashed his free arm around and continued. "Who's she to you? Your wife or your piece on the side? Your ginger charva? Tell me, Blue,” Tippet said, wrenching himself partially from the detective's grasp and turning to watch Peter’s reaction, his voice dropping to conspiratorial levels. "Is it true what they say about a fire crotch?"
Peter’s eyes went wide and before he knew it, he’d drawn back his fist and punched Tippet squarely in the face.
Falling back against the wall, Tippet howled “Police brutality!” victoriously as Peter snarled and cocked his fist again. Before he could deliver a second blow, however, he was rammed violently by an inky shape hurling itself at him from the mouth of the tunnel.
Stunned momentarily, Peter reeled back away from Tippet as he lost his footing and landed on his injured shoulder with a suppressed gasp of pain. He rolled over quickly, scrabbling to his feet just in time to see the dark silhouette of the forgotten graffiti artist kick Tippet viciously in the knee. The battered criminal went down hard, cursing and curling himself into a defensive ball, but not before the boy got off one solid kick to Tippet's face. Peter winced in spite of himself as the bright red boot landed with a sickening thud and he leapt forward to pull the boy off the prone man just as he heard someone approach from behind.
Peter looked over his shoulder to find DS Cave emerging from the tunnel with a stunned expression, panting heavily. He stood, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand while mutely surveying the scene until a sound behind him announced the arrival of the armed officers, with Ian appearing a moment after. Peter stumbled against the boy he was restraining, wincing as the last of his adrenaline burst burned off and his arm began to throb. He grimly smiled his thanks when DS Cave stepped forward and took Tippet in hand.
“Sir, you’ve been injured!” Cave blurted out in alarm, looking between the dark, wet stain spreading across the shoulder of his superior officer and the blood flowing freely from the broken nose of the prisoner on the ground. Ian closed the distance between them in two quick strides, putting a hand on Peter’s uninjured shoulder.
“It’s naught but a scratch,” Peter replied to his partner's unasked question, suddenly tired beyond words.
“You ought to have that tended to right away,” Ian retorted as he eased the boy from his grasp, but Peter waved his concerns away. He promptly ruined his dismissive gesture when he slumped with his back against the wall for support.
DS Cave stared at the DI for a long, hard moment before he hoisted Tippet to his feet and snapped the dangling cuff on the suspect's free hand. “Tilt your head back or you’ll drown,” he said in exasperation to the injured man, muttering "Gormless prat,” to himself as he bundled him away.
“Police brutality,” Tippet croaked, pointing at Peter. "He’s mad, that one. He’s done his nut! I know my rights: I want my solicitor!” He whirled back to Peter, his face a mask of rage. "I’ll be out on bail before the hour, Jock,” Tippet scoffed contemptuously, blood and spittle flying, as Caveman led him away. DI Carlisle watched him go with a clenched jaw, grinding his teeth as his lip curled in disgust.
Peter waited until Cave disappeared with Tippet into the waiting police vehicle and Ian stepped away to speak with the armed officers before he roused himself and rounding on the boy in disbelief. “And you!” he hissed under his breath, "Just what in the hell were ye thinking’, attackin’ a police officer?”
"We're even now, DI. You saved me, and I returned the favour,” the artist said meaningfully, with a nod to the camera at the mouth of the tunnel. Peter looked around for the first time and realised he recognised the location. Looking over his shoulder and then back to the tunnel mouth, Peter mentally compared his surroundings to what he had seen on CCTV footage and he understood. His assault of Tippet had been off-camera, while the boy’s attack would have been clearly visible. He looked back at the artist in confusion as he extended his wrists to Peter.
"Take me in. I’ll tell the truth. We ran straight into that bloody arsehole here and you scuffled with him. He swung the knife, injuring you more seriously than you were aware,” the artist said, gesturing at the bloodstained sleeve of the DI's coat with a shrug. Focused as he was on Peter, he didn’t notice when Ian returned to listen quietly a few feet away. “Tippet had made threats of bodily harm against me and I was certain I’d be next, so I took advantage when you knocked him down. I just made sure he’d stay down,” he said mirthlessly.
He unzipped his hoodie and removed his baseball cap to let shoulder-length blonde hair fall free. Watching the transformation that was unfolding before him, Peter’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “DI, Tippet only screamed police brutality to cover up the fact,” the artist continued with a satisfied,smirk, “that he got taken out by a little girl.” The young woman removed her dark glasses and ran her fingers through her hair. "Your girlfriend went out of her way to help my lover," she said gratefully. Her voice dropped and she concluded smugly, “You know what they say: payback’s a bitch."
“So the tip came from you,” Ian asked from where he stood. The young woman’s head jerked around and she visibly relaxed when she recognised him. Ian favoured her with an appreciative nod and stepped closer. “If you could just make a formal statement of the facts, Miss…?”
“Elsa,” the girl supplied and Ian nodded again.
"We’ll have you make a statement, Elsa,” he continued smoothly, "and then you’ll be on your way with our thanks.”
Elsa regarded him shrewdly, looking back and forth between the two detectives before she smiled slightly and nodded her own agreement. Peter met her eyes and they shared a tired smile of relief. She looked down at her boots with a frown as Ian motioned to one of the Uniforms who had arrived on the scene. Seeing her distress, Peter fished in his pocket and handed her his handkerchief without a word. She grinned over her shoulder at him as the uniformed officer escorted her away to a waiting car.
After the girl was gone, Peter leaned back against the wall, surveying the scene around him as SOCOs swarmed about cataloguing evidence. He was battered and beaten, Ian reflected silently, but unbowed. “That’s it, then,” Ian said quietly. “It’s done.”
“Aye,” Peter exhaled slowly, “it’s done.”
“You’ll tell me the rest later?” Ian asked, eyebrows raised. When Peter closed his eyes and nodded, Ian’s lips quirked in concern. “You really should have that arm looked at.”
Peter opened his eye a crack to stare balefully at his friend before relenting and shrugging in resignation. He winced at the motion, then suddenly straightened up in obvious alarm.
“Fuck!”, Peter spat angrily as he peeled back his bloody coat sleeve to reveal an ugly gash across his left biceps. “This was a new shirt!” He turned in time to see Ian’s concerned expression morph into disbelief. "Donna’s gonna kill me."
**********
End Note: In researching a bit of slang, I came across a term I absolutely fell in love with, the Ladies from Hades… http://slangterms.tumblr.com/post/32393289010/ladies-from-hell.
I know exactly who is going to say that, to whom and under what circumstances.
I love it when a plan comes together.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25 | Part 30 | Part 35.1
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Co-Captain of this Ship: WhosInTheAttic, but all errors are mine alone.
First Mate: The lovely serenityslady has officially joined the crew. Thanks for the support and suggestions!
Rating: PG for Plot Galore and A for Angst
Word Count: 4,405
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25 | Part 30 | Part 35.1
Wednesday, June 27, 2012 10:00 AM
“You look like death warmed up, mate,” DS Ian Keating drawled over his cup, wincing in sympathy when he heard his partner’s neck crack as the DI stretched wearily. Peter Carlisle rolled his eyes and gave a wry nod of agreement but said nothing, grimacing as he sipped a tepid coffee before turning a bleary eye on his surroundings. The sidewalk cafe had been given a hasty slap of paint in a vain attempt to appear cheery for the throngs of tourists anticipated for the opening ceremonies of the upcoming Olympics. All of London, it seemed, was under renovation and the ubiquitous pink signs meant to direct visitors and Londoners alike to various venues had been in place for weeks. The complaining during the buildup to the event had been something of a national pastime for the better part of the last year, but Londoners’ infamous world-weary cynicism had begun to show signs of fading in the face of earnest enthusiasm as the games approached.
Peter, for one, would be glad to see the end of it all so that life could return to normal. The Olympic torch had already begun it’s long journey from Greece to Central London and would arrive in barely under a month’s time. Just that morning, an official statement had been released- ‘The police service is committed to ensuring the Games are safe and secure from all threats yet are policed in a proportionate manner, preserving the spirit of the occasion.’
The calm statement was intended to convey an attitude of complete confidence and utter competence, but the truth was the police were stretched nearly to the breaking point, expected to control a crowd of unimaginable size whilst thwarting any terrorist threats simultaneously. Oh, and it was being stressed that these two divergent missions would be carried out efficiently whilst always appearing polite and responsive to the public, regardless of how unreasonable the visitors from literally every corner of the globe might prove to be. A facade of calm competence and control must be maintained, their DCI had solemnly intoned, especially in the face of utter chaos. Even he and Ian were under tremendous pressure to put Morgan's unsolved murder case to rest before the tourists began to arrive.
"Seriously, Peter, you look terrible," Ian continued, eyeing his friend with concern, his words dragging Peter away from his thoughts and back to reality. "Are you feeling alright?” Ian looked away from searching the streets to study him properly. Peter’s relaxed demeanour effectively camouflaged an alert mind, but he’d been a tad bit more subdued than usual of late- a fact Ian put down to the probability of Peter spending more time in bed but less of it asleep in recent weeks. In the last three days, however, the man had looked positively exhausted.
Peter took another sip of tepid coffee with a grimace and continued to scan the passers-by from his seat before the sidewalk cafe. "It’s Donna,” Peter finally admitted, abandoning his cup on the rickety table. “She's no sleeping’ well. She's had nightmares, ever since that man accosted her in S&G. She hardly ever makes a sound. I just feel her tremblin’ beside me in the night.” Peter drug his hands down his face and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Every now and then, she’ll mumble somethin' and I might make out a snatch of a phrase or a word, but usually, she’s silent. In the light of day, she says she doesnae remember her dreams, but I’m no sure if she really doesnae recall or if she doesnae want me to know.” He shrugged sadly.
"She’s still staying with you, then?” Ian asked with a raised eyebrow. “It’s been, what? Two weeks now?” He smirked knowingly when Peter all but blushed in response.
“Yeah,” he admitted with some reluctance. "It was just gonna be until the wiring for the new alarm system was completed, but now that she’s out of the way, her architect was keen to finally go through with havin’ the second level in her flat finished out. She wouldnae hear of it at first, but I convinced her, told her she might as well. She willnae tell me what they've planned - for some reason, it’s all a big surprise - but whenever she gets off the phone with him, she’s like herself again.” He smiled wistfully in remembrance before adding, “She’s exactly like the cat who got the cream.”
“And there’s been no change in her condition?” Ian persisted.
“If by that you mean has she remembered anythin’ about what happened in S&G, the answer is no,” he confided with a shrug, "and that’s the crux of the issue.” Peter lifted his head and scanned the crowd once more as he spoke, still not finding what they were waiting for.
"She still cannae remember what happened: no one thing after she sent me those photos. And I’m absolutely positive that’s what’s done it. It’s made her terrified. She cannae remember, so she’s certain that she’s about to forget again." He turned back to his partner with a sigh. “I cannae imagine what it must be like. To lose all the things that make you feel like yourself once, and then to be afraid that it’s happening again?”
"You studied psychology, didn’t you? What’s the best treatment in a situation like this?” Ian said hopefully, earning himself a snort of derision for his pains.
"Criminal psychology, Ian,” Peter replied with a shake of his head. "There’s a world of difference. But I’m beginnin’ to think that whatever it was that happened to her, maybe it’s a good thing she cannae remember. Maybe she’s…” he shook his head ruefully before continuing with a shrug. “It may well be that she's repressed those memories for a reason. It’s part of why I agreed to stop with my investigation into her past."
"So you’re just giving up?” Ian said incredulously.
"At her request, and only on the specifics of her past,” Peter clarified. "I never said a word about giving up on Torchwood or Tippet’s probable involvement.” He cocked his jaw to the side and sucked thoughtfully on his back teeth, wishing he had a sweet to calm his jangled nerves.
"You still think the man in the shop was Tippet’s muscle?" Ian mused, scratching his chin. "It seems out of character. He seems to be more of one for a personal laying on of hands.”
"I agree, but the man in the photos? He was the one I glimpsed across the street; he saw me with Donna,” Peter said, frowning in frustration. “And the shop girl, she heard him call her Mrs. Carlisle just before she collapsed. It seems logical he was Tippet’s man,” he persisted. “If it was Torchwood, why call her by my name? If they’re tryin’ to cover their tracks, why have they no simply made her disappear?”
Peter shook his head and looked away, his jaw clenched tight. He'd been so insistent in the beginning about keeping Donna's name out of the public record, but due to his temper, he'd failed her. Since being with him, she’d been stalked, not once, he reflected morosely, but twice, by two intruders with two different styles of surveillance. Was this the result of one organisation intensifying their efforts, he pondered, or should he consider these as two different incursions? Even the methodologies used were totally divergent, and he couldn't reconcile the stylistic differences. The first invasions- the ones perpetrated by the floppy-haired scarecrow-man- were completely tech-dependent. He’d danced around in the security footage, waving his magic wand about and POOF! Just like that, evidence had disappeared.
In sharp contrast, the more recent intrusions by the too-pretty, high-maintenance Metrosexual were entirely old-fashioned and eyes-on-the-ground. But in the end, what did it matter? Peter though ruefully, as ultimately, he was sure they were all his fault entirely.
He had never been one to let sleeping dogs lie, but this time, Peter almost wished he had. He’d put Donna in danger from the day he’d met her. Whether by stirring up the hornets' nest of her past with his investigations or simply by being with her, he was unsure, but he was certain her troubles were all down to him. In his darker moments, he had begun to think that perhaps she'd have been better off if she'd never found her way into his heart, but he could scarcely imagine his life now without her.
The puzzle of it all burned in his brain and he fairly itched with impatience. He wanted this done. He wanted a definitive conclusion to the erratic situation in which they found themselves. He wanted closure on the past so they could move on together towards their future. Well, today, Peter thought grimly as he looked away into the distance, today, the uncertainty would end. If nothing else, today, he’d get some answers.
Lost in thought, Peter averted his face and Ian regarded his usually unflappable partner for a long moment. He had seen Peter in sticky situations on several occasions and had only known him to be cool and calm in a crisis. Like any good detective, Peter was skilled at remaining detached and aloof, keeping his intellect harnessed in pursuit of the truth and a suspect, but this situation was different. This situation struck too close to home and to heart and Ian felt a keen pang of sympathy for his friend.
"Enough of me and my issues,” Peter announced unexpectedly, catching Ian off guard. “Maddie?” he asked with an exaggerated grin, one eyebrow raised in challenge, but as Ian opened his mouth to reply, he knew the opportunity was lost to circumstance.
A slim boy wearing dark glasses and a hoodie over a black satin baseball cap sauntered by, flipping open his jacket casually to reveal a t-shirt stencilled with the familiar image of a stormtrooper, a daisy incongruously tucked into the barrel of his laser rifle. The boy gave Ian a casual glance before turning on the heel of his cherry red DMs and heading across the street for an abandoned tramway station. "That’s him,” Ian said tightly, standing and pulling out his mobile after the boy passed. He punched in a number and, looking at Peter, said solemnly, "This is it.”
**********
Wednesday, June 27, 2012 10:45 AM
“I’m through piddlin’ about with you lot,” Peter heard Tippet growl as he advanced on their guide into the underworld. He pushed the boy roughly to the wall before he leaned in close, arms braced on either side of the boy’s head, bracketing him in and cutting off his escape. “It’s high time you reached a decision about your future. Like if you’re even gonna have one after today.”
“Oi!” the boy spat back, his voice pitched high, despite his bravado. “I ain’t afraid of you.”
“Have it your own way, then,” Tippet mused almost nonchalantly as he reached beneath his coat. His face twisted in an ugly leer, he pulled a long, thin blade free, holding it high and twisting it so that it glinted evilly in the gloom. “I guess you all didn’t get the message that I mean business. Your peers seem to be in need of another example of what happens to them what gets in my way. I reckon you’ll serve."
Peter glanced over to his partner and with a nod, they both stepped from the shadows. “Reginald Tippet, I am arresting you for the murder of Alun Morgan,” Peter announced, smiling cynically as DS Cave and Detective Dexter, along with two armed officers, emerged from their hiding places and made their presence known. "You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence.” Peter, Ian and the two uniformed officers stepped forward as one, advancing on Tippett.
In one impossibly fluid movement, Tippet swung the boy he’d been threatening around in front of him and pressed himself back to the wall. The stiletto flashed menacingly in his grasp, just before his hostage's throat. “I don’t think so, Cop,” Tippet said calmly. “I think my friend here and I will just be walking out together,” he said as he clutched the boy tightly to his chest, all the while edging deeper into the tunnel. The boy was strangely quiet and from where he stood, Ian saw his hands twitch by his sides. "Am I right?” Tippet snarled, glancing right and taking another step towards the deep gloom behind him.
“Just let the boy go,” Ian said placating as the armed officers advanced beside him. “This will go much easier on you if you do.”Tippet opened his mouth to sneer a reply, when, without warning, the boy twisted and dropped lithely from Tippet’s grasp, kicking out with a heavy boot at his captor’s knee as he scuttled away to safety. Tippet tottered for a moment before righting himself and, seeing his advantage lost, he turned to run at surprising speed away and into the dark. As one, Ian and Peter lunged towards their quarry and began to give chase when a sharp, quick whistle from behind caught Peter's attention.
"This way," hissed the young man they’d followed with an impatient gesture as he turned and sprinted back towards the tunnel entrance. Peter glanced at the two armed officers advancing down the tunnel with his partner closely behind before turning and following the boy at a dead run.
As they pounded across the pavement at street level, Peter threw a hurried look around, trying to process the rapidly-evolving situation. "Where - ?" Peter huffed before the boy cut him off.
"I know where he's going, where he always goes," the boy cried breathlessly as he ran headlong into a crowd of tourists who scattered at his approach. "If he gets ahead of the others and manages to give them the slip, there's a dozen ways he could go. He'll just disappear again and we’ll both be back where we began, but not if we can cut him off.”
With Peter hot on his trail, the boy darted between two automobiles stopped at a zebra crossing, then dodged a girl on a moped before plunging into the mouth of the next tramway station, just as Tippet blundered out directly into Peter’s path. Tippet's eyes widened in angry surprise as the boy hurtled past and he thrashed about convulsively with the stiletto he still carried before him and Peter stepped back, just out of reach.
“You ain’t got me yet, Blue,” Tippett scowled, facing Peter and pressing his back to the wall. He cast a furtive glance into the dark tunnel, looking after the graffiti artist he’d threatened earlier. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Peter eased his hand into his pocket and pressed the call button on his mobile, activating the prearranged signal he and Ian had worked out after the apprehension of Bence. He heard the call connect and withdrew his hand again.
“Let’s just stay calm,” Peter said slowly and distinctly. “The other officers are right behind ye: there’s no possibility of escape from this station. Just put down the knife and-”
“I don’t think so,” the man snarled with savage glee. “At least not 'fore I’ve finished with that bitch of yours,” he sneered, nodding his head back towards the tunnel. He locked eyes with Peter and favoured him with a predatory grin, edging along the wall towards the beckoning freedom beyond.
Anger flared white-hot behind Peter's eyes, momentarily obscuring his vision before clearing just as quickly, leaving a sense of deadly calm in its wake. "Ye leave her out of this, I’m warnin’ ye," he said bluntly and seemingly without emotion. "She’s no yer concern; yer problem is with me, no her."
Without warning, Tippet lunged forward with the same deadly grace that must have laid Alun Morgan dead in a Chiswick alleyway. Outside himself, Peter saw Tippet move as if he were watching and rewatching a video, scrubbing back and forth, looking for a particular frame frozen in time. He saw the blade flash out away from Tippet, a bright sliver of silver, and he was puzzled when it return to it’s position before the man's chest now stained a sticky, toffee-apple red. When time once again resumed its normal flow, Peter heard an ugly laugh of triumph at the same time he registered a searing pain just below his left shoulder. His right hand automatically reached up to touch his arm and Peter was surprised when it came back covered in his own blood.
Tippet raised his eyebrows and in a near-whisper, he taunted, “I’ll just be goin’ now, but you tell that bitch this ain't done between us; we’re not through.” He looked back down the tunnel once more before whipping his head back to face Peter. "That fuckin’ slag’ll beg for it,‘fore I'm finished with her.”
In a blind fury, Peter dove forward, slamming Tippet violently back into the tunnel and knocking the blade from his hand. The force of the blow caused the stiletto to skitter away across the concrete as Peter pinned his assailant to the wall, his injured arm tight across the man's neck while he fumbled for his mobile in the pocket of his coat with his free hand. He jerked it free and brought the display up before Tippet’s face, his voice rising in tandem with his indignation. "Who is this man? Why did ye send him after Donna? Why are ye after her?” Tippet sputtered incoherently and Peter roared, "Tell me now!”
Startled and fighting for breath, Tippet answered without thinking. "Piss off, Blue!” he wheezed. “I ain’t set no one on nobody! I’ve never seen him before: he’s none of mine."
Supremely unconvinced, Peter leaned against him harder, throwing his full weight into the arm across Tippet’s neck. “Look again,” Peter hissed, thumbing to the picture of the man in S&G with Donna in the foreground. “Why are ye harassin' this woman?”
“You’re barkin’, Blue,” Tippet croaked, turning his head and trying to fill his starving lungs. “I ain’t never laid eyes on that ging cow.” A slow smile crept across his face as realisation dawned. "And here’s me, thinking you,were a big jessie,” he taunted as Peter eased back slightly. Peter looked at his arm, now drenched with blood, pressed against the man’s neck. He glanced at his mobile and terminated the call before dropping the device back into his coat pocket and reaching down for the handcuffs in his belt pouch.
“It’s over,” Peter grunted, spinning his gloating captive around and pressing him against the wall again as he clapped a cuff on one wrist. “Yer done.”
Sensing an opportunity, Tippet thrashed his free arm around and continued. "Who's she to you? Your wife or your piece on the side? Your ginger charva? Tell me, Blue,” Tippet said, wrenching himself partially from the detective's grasp and turning to watch Peter’s reaction, his voice dropping to conspiratorial levels. "Is it true what they say about a fire crotch?"
Peter’s eyes went wide and before he knew it, he’d drawn back his fist and punched Tippet squarely in the face.
Falling back against the wall, Tippet howled “Police brutality!” victoriously as Peter snarled and cocked his fist again. Before he could deliver a second blow, however, he was rammed violently by an inky shape hurling itself at him from the mouth of the tunnel.
Stunned momentarily, Peter reeled back away from Tippet as he lost his footing and landed on his injured shoulder with a suppressed gasp of pain. He rolled over quickly, scrabbling to his feet just in time to see the dark silhouette of the forgotten graffiti artist kick Tippet viciously in the knee. The battered criminal went down hard, cursing and curling himself into a defensive ball, but not before the boy got off one solid kick to Tippet's face. Peter winced in spite of himself as the bright red boot landed with a sickening thud and he leapt forward to pull the boy off the prone man just as he heard someone approach from behind.
Peter looked over his shoulder to find DS Cave emerging from the tunnel with a stunned expression, panting heavily. He stood, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand while mutely surveying the scene until a sound behind him announced the arrival of the armed officers, with Ian appearing a moment after. Peter stumbled against the boy he was restraining, wincing as the last of his adrenaline burst burned off and his arm began to throb. He grimly smiled his thanks when DS Cave stepped forward and took Tippet in hand.
“Sir, you’ve been injured!” Cave blurted out in alarm, looking between the dark, wet stain spreading across the shoulder of his superior officer and the blood flowing freely from the broken nose of the prisoner on the ground. Ian closed the distance between them in two quick strides, putting a hand on Peter’s uninjured shoulder.
“It’s naught but a scratch,” Peter replied to his partner's unasked question, suddenly tired beyond words.
“You ought to have that tended to right away,” Ian retorted as he eased the boy from his grasp, but Peter waved his concerns away. He promptly ruined his dismissive gesture when he slumped with his back against the wall for support.
DS Cave stared at the DI for a long, hard moment before he hoisted Tippet to his feet and snapped the dangling cuff on the suspect's free hand. “Tilt your head back or you’ll drown,” he said in exasperation to the injured man, muttering "Gormless prat,” to himself as he bundled him away.
“Police brutality,” Tippet croaked, pointing at Peter. "He’s mad, that one. He’s done his nut! I know my rights: I want my solicitor!” He whirled back to Peter, his face a mask of rage. "I’ll be out on bail before the hour, Jock,” Tippet scoffed contemptuously, blood and spittle flying, as Caveman led him away. DI Carlisle watched him go with a clenched jaw, grinding his teeth as his lip curled in disgust.
Peter waited until Cave disappeared with Tippet into the waiting police vehicle and Ian stepped away to speak with the armed officers before he roused himself and rounding on the boy in disbelief. “And you!” he hissed under his breath, "Just what in the hell were ye thinking’, attackin’ a police officer?”
"We're even now, DI. You saved me, and I returned the favour,” the artist said meaningfully, with a nod to the camera at the mouth of the tunnel. Peter looked around for the first time and realised he recognised the location. Looking over his shoulder and then back to the tunnel mouth, Peter mentally compared his surroundings to what he had seen on CCTV footage and he understood. His assault of Tippet had been off-camera, while the boy’s attack would have been clearly visible. He looked back at the artist in confusion as he extended his wrists to Peter.
"Take me in. I’ll tell the truth. We ran straight into that bloody arsehole here and you scuffled with him. He swung the knife, injuring you more seriously than you were aware,” the artist said, gesturing at the bloodstained sleeve of the DI's coat with a shrug. Focused as he was on Peter, he didn’t notice when Ian returned to listen quietly a few feet away. “Tippet had made threats of bodily harm against me and I was certain I’d be next, so I took advantage when you knocked him down. I just made sure he’d stay down,” he said mirthlessly.
He unzipped his hoodie and removed his baseball cap to let shoulder-length blonde hair fall free. Watching the transformation that was unfolding before him, Peter’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “DI, Tippet only screamed police brutality to cover up the fact,” the artist continued with a satisfied,smirk, “that he got taken out by a little girl.” The young woman removed her dark glasses and ran her fingers through her hair. "Your girlfriend went out of her way to help my lover," she said gratefully. Her voice dropped and she concluded smugly, “You know what they say: payback’s a bitch."
“So the tip came from you,” Ian asked from where he stood. The young woman’s head jerked around and she visibly relaxed when she recognised him. Ian favoured her with an appreciative nod and stepped closer. “If you could just make a formal statement of the facts, Miss…?”
“Elsa,” the girl supplied and Ian nodded again.
"We’ll have you make a statement, Elsa,” he continued smoothly, "and then you’ll be on your way with our thanks.”
Elsa regarded him shrewdly, looking back and forth between the two detectives before she smiled slightly and nodded her own agreement. Peter met her eyes and they shared a tired smile of relief. She looked down at her boots with a frown as Ian motioned to one of the Uniforms who had arrived on the scene. Seeing her distress, Peter fished in his pocket and handed her his handkerchief without a word. She grinned over her shoulder at him as the uniformed officer escorted her away to a waiting car.
After the girl was gone, Peter leaned back against the wall, surveying the scene around him as SOCOs swarmed about cataloguing evidence. He was battered and beaten, Ian reflected silently, but unbowed. “That’s it, then,” Ian said quietly. “It’s done.”
“Aye,” Peter exhaled slowly, “it’s done.”
“You’ll tell me the rest later?” Ian asked, eyebrows raised. When Peter closed his eyes and nodded, Ian’s lips quirked in concern. “You really should have that arm looked at.”
Peter opened his eye a crack to stare balefully at his friend before relenting and shrugging in resignation. He winced at the motion, then suddenly straightened up in obvious alarm.
“Fuck!”, Peter spat angrily as he peeled back his bloody coat sleeve to reveal an ugly gash across his left biceps. “This was a new shirt!” He turned in time to see Ian’s concerned expression morph into disbelief. "Donna’s gonna kill me."
**********
End Note: In researching a bit of slang, I came across a term I absolutely fell in love with, the Ladies from Hades… http://slangterms.tumblr.com/post/32393289010/ladies-from-hell.
I know exactly who is going to say that, to whom and under what circumstances.
I love it when a plan comes together.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25 | Part 30 | Part 35.1