The Way of Things, Chapter 43
In the end, finding Swinson was the easiest part of the entire endeavour-if driving in circles, playing hot and cold, for several hours as the evening turned into night could be called ‘easy.’
They had spent fruitless hours driving in and around Kendal, chasing down red herrings and old traces, dutifully calling to check in every hour. The time with James and Susan was enjoyable, the three of them relaxing in each others’ presence as the search wore on, and he once again found himself envying Rose and the fact that she seemed to work with genuinely competent people. In talking with them-after they’d taken the hint that what was going on between he and Rose was not an acceptable topic of conversation-he learned that both had been recruited by Torchwood outright: It seemed people didn’t come to Torchwood looking for work, Torchwood came looking for them. He mused that that at least answered the question he’d always had about recruitment. As the night wore on, he’d not missed the byplay between James and Susan, and wondered exactly when James would give up-or Susan would give in. He’d have to ask Rose to give him updates, when she went back to London.
He tried to fight the sinking feeling in his stomach as he thought of Rose leaving. Because, ultimately, if they were successful that night she would be leaving, and soon.
Rose’s voice grew wearier every time they spoke; but when he suggested she take a break for an hour or two while he and his group searched, she’d retorted that he was the one who needed the sleep, not her. He’d made a mental note to tread carefully around Rose when she was tired and/or frustrated, and had replied that perhaps they should meet for coffee if they had had no luck at the next check-in. He had a feeling she’d driven her team hard-well, harder, given what he’d learned about Rose and her work ethic-after that, intent on finding Swinson, if not the technology Torchwood wanted, so she could be “done with the damned man and his damn technology.”
It had been Rose and her team who had finally locked in on Swinson’s location, shortly after one. When Penington relayed where they were, Peter was shocked at how very close to town it was-only a few miles north on the road to Shap. They’d backed off once they were certain Swinson was there, and had rung Mickey and Jake to set things in motion for capturing Swinson. Peter couldn’t help but feel put out that he was the last person called, in spite of knowing professionally that it was the right decision, the right order to things. He couldn’t help the surge of fear for Rose that had gone through him, as well, at the implication of what it had taken for them to ascertain that Swinson was present. Rose was safe-and he, Susan, and James would be there in plenty of time to get in on the action.
They arrived to find Rose, Penington, and Frank sitting some ways away from where Swinson was purported to be, the van dark but each of them awake and alert. They opened the door for him, and he happily took the empty seat next to Rose. She scooted closer to him, even as Frank watched with interest, and he fought down a laugh as Rose gave the burly man a challenging stare, daring him to say a word.
That was the most exciting part of the night, sitting in the van with Rose; he’d been surprised to learn that the Torchwood team would be quite happy to rely on a specialty team from the constabulary to make entry and detain Swinson. When the firarms team finally assembled shortly after two, he participated in the pre-entry brief, the men looking sceptically at them as Rose said that Swinson might have the resources to make a very quick escape, and to please be as silent as humanly possible. He’d nodded in concurrence when the various officers looked to him for confirmation, and had lent his voice to supporting the need for absolute silence and stealth.
He’d out and out breathed a sigh of relief when the firearms team made entry without incident, as he, Penington, and the group from Torchwood stood in the wood near the house, the front door visible through the trees. Swinson had been asleep in the back room, and didn’t put up a fight; the team leader had reported that he seemed resigned to capture, and had willingly allowed himself to be restrained. He was checked to make sure he wasn’t hiding anything on his person, and was bundled out to the prisoner transport under the watchful eye of six well-armed men, who then joined him in the back of the vehicle. He’d have to be a fool, or suicidal, to try anything on them, and Peter felt a weight he hadn’t known existed lift when the van with the prisoner rolled away towards the station. He heard Rose ring Mickey to let him know Swinson was en route, and he fought down a grin as he heard her say Swinson wasn’t to be interrogated, by anyone, until both Torchwood and the locals could be in the room together.
The six of them were given access to the house once it was cleared by the firearms team. It was remarkably humdrum, but showed evidence that its occupant hadn’t been out in a while. Rubbish was piled in a room, empty tins littered the kitchen, and the entire house had the musty smell of a place that hadn’t been properly aired in quite some time. He was curious to know if the property owners were aware someone had been living in their house-or if they’d find yet another buried accomplice to the whole debacle.
The tech was sitting innocuously in the dining room, on the table, and was surrounded by tools and note-covered bits of paper-the evidence of some serious tinkering. The group had stood in the doorway to the room, waiting for some surprise to catch them off guard in spite of the room having been cleared, and had finally crept cautiously towards it when it became apparent that nothing was going to happen by entering. Frank was the one who’d taken the initiative to actually pick it up, and he didn’t miss the relief that spread through the group as nothing untoward happened. Looking around the table, notes and tools and pens scattered across the surface, he wondered if Swinson had been trying to copy it, to make yet another of the infernal things to sell to a different high-bidder. From what he’d seen of people who played the kinds of games Swinson played, it would be well within his character to do so.
Peter noted that Rose let Frank and Susan take charge of securing the tech as well as packaging the evidence surrounding it. Meanwhile, Ian’s team was already working in the bedroom where they’d found Swinson, collecting evidence from not just the room but the house for use in prosecuting the man. He had no doubt they’d not be done with the house for days-there was simply too much to process. At least they had the murder weapon-he didn’t like to think of how on edge he’d have been otherwise, waiting for evidence to come back from this particular scene.
The six of them returned to the station in their separate vehicles shortly after three; as he walked into the brightly-lit building, Peter could feel his sleep deprivation beginning to catch up with him. He needed to wake up, to make sure he was as alert as possible; they still had an interrogation to conduct, during which he desperately hoped he’d find the answers to the remaining questions. He ruefully considered that he’d been working normal hours for far too long, if the thought of questioning someone of the middle of the night was striking him as an imposition instead of a matter of course.
He stopped by his desk on his way through the station, bending over to riffle through the bottom drawer. He had a stash of high-quality dark roast coffee tucked under a few large files, and he stood, triumphantly, with it in hand. Rose was standing next to him, and she gave him a short round of applause.
“I trust you’ll share?” she asked, stepping towards him. He hoped she wouldn’t be in the room as he talked with Swinson-he’d never hope to be able to concentrate. It was going to be bad enough knowing she was on the other side of the glass.
“So long as you’re a good girl, yes.”
“I can be, if it’ll get me some of that.” She gestured vaguely in his direction.
He took a quick look around, before bending down to place a quick kiss on her lips. “Consider some of it yours, then.” He led the way to the lounge, Rose following behind; she sat heavily at the small table as he rinsed out the coffee pot and set to measuring a generous amount of the rich-smelling roast into the filter.
When he turned around, the coffee starting to brew, Rose was dozing. She had her head propped on her hand and he paused, once more marvelling at how lovely she was, even exhausted and a bit dirty from clambering through fields and hedges throughout the evening. He loved her, so fiercely it made his chest hurt; and he hoped they’d be able to find a way to make what they had more permanent. He didn’t want to lose her; would find a way to be able to continue seeing her, no matter what the cost.
He remained standing, his hands braced on the edge of the counter as he leaned back against it, drinking her in as the coffee slowly brewed behind him. Did she know how he felt about her? He’d come so close to just saying it last night, wanting to shout it from the treetops once he had realized it. He loved her, and he’d find a way to show her how much every chance he got.
The quiet scene was interrupted by the arrival of Mickey; Peter shifted his gaze to the man standing in the door, and felt himself once more being weighed. He seemed to measure up this time, as Mickey smiled briefly before gesturing that they were waiting for him. He nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to get some mugs lined up.
Rose was still dozing as he turned with two coffee-filled mugs in his hand a few minutes later. He moved to the table, and set one in front of her before gently whispering, “Rose.”
She jumped back, startled, and he smiled at her. “Your coffee awaits, milady. I’ve got to go do my thing, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him, smiling gently, before reaching up to cup his cheek. “Good luck.” She pulled him down to her for a soft kiss, before releasing him. “I’ll be along in a tick.”
He grinned, grabbing another of the mugs from the counter; whoever was going to be working with him would no doubt need some of the brew as well. He remembered his conversation with Jake over the weekend, and found himself hoping he’d be the Torchwood representative; he had no doubt Jake would make even the toughest nut crack.
Penington as well as the entire Torchwood team from that evening, excepting Rose, was waiting for him in the interrogation room, and six heads swivelled in his direction as he walked in. “Sorry. Coffee emergency,” he apologised as he walked across the room. He carefully set the mugs in front of him before sitting down.
“Swinson’s all set up in the main interrogation room. He’s been read in already, courtesy of his escorts,” Penington said, gazing at Peter’s spare cup of coffee.
Peter pulled it towards him protectively. “More of that in the break room, if you want some. You might want to make sure Rose is still awake, as well.” He turned to James. “Who from you lot is in on this?”
“Ah...” James looked around the room; clearly, they’d not thought about it. Interesting.
“Might I make a request?” He tried to be deferential as he asked the question.
“Certainly,” James replied, clearly surprised.
“Could I have the loan of Jake?”
He hid his smile in his coffee as he watched James and Mickey turn towards Jake. Jake was watching him, and Peter arched his eyebrow as he set the mug down and returned the man’s steady gaze.
“I did say I thought you would be far more effective in questioning suspects than I ever could be.”
Jake started, surprised at the reference, before grinning. “So you did, Inspector.”
Peter leaned towards him and handed the coffee over. “You’ll need this, no matter how good you are. Unless you’re a nocturnal creature, that is, in which case I’d happily drink it myself.”
Jake took the coffee and smiled. “Oh, I’ll need that.”
They sat down and began to brainstorm how the interrogation would go, working out who would ask what questions, in what order, and how. Penington had gone for coffee and returned with Rose, each of them carrying several mugs; he smiled gratefully as Rose handed him a second mug before returning to the task at hand.
After a good half-hour of discussion, he and Jake were confident they’d worked out a decent plan of attack. They knew they could pin the murder on Swinson, and only wanted clarification on the particulars behind the technology and the business partnership that had existed between him, Philippa, and McGreevy. Peter considered that if they got answers to half their questions, they’d be having a very good night indeed.
“Right. A quick break is in order, I think, before we set to speaking with Mister Swinson. Five minutes?” He looked to Jake, who nodded.
He paused briefly to visit the loo, before stopping by his desk to remove a lollipop. He topped off his coffee in the kitchen, and met up with Jake in the hallway outside the room. “Ready, then?” he asked the other man.
“Ready. Let’s go.”
Peter led the way into the room, adopting the aloof facade he’d found most often worked. He needed to channel all of his energy into this, couldn’t spare a single though for anyone outside of the room at that moment; and he stared at the man seated in front of him. Peter moved to the table, set the recording device down, and pressed ‘start’.
“This is Detective Inspector Peter Carlisle, North Lakes Constabulary, and Agent Jake Simmonds, Torchwood Institute, conducting the interrogation. It’s-“ He paused, looking down at his watch. “It’s four oh five in the morning on Friday, the twenty-second of June, and this commences the interrogation of Jerald Swinson.”
Peter turned to the suspect.
“Jerald Swinson?”
The man-heavyset, balding, and sweating profusely-looked at him. “Yes.”
“Have you been advised of your rights?”
“I have.”
“And have you requested counsel?”
“N-no.”
“Would you like to request counsel?”
The man looked down at his manacled hands. “I’d like to get this over with.”
“Is that a ‘no’, then, sir?”
“That’s a no. I’m prepared to tell you what you want to know.”
Peter pulled a chair over to the table, and sat down across from Swinson. Jake-as he had done when they’d interviewed Swinson the week previous, and as they agreed he’d do to start in their strategy session-stood leaning against the wall.
“And what d’you think that is?”
And so Swinson began to slowly answer their questions. In the end, Jake’s menacing presence was enough to ensure the man spoke continuously; Jake never had to ask a single thing, and Peter had hardly to ask any pressing questions at all. It was a far cry from the interrogation with Philippa. He was grateful, actually-Swinson’s willingness to talk, without counsel, would make it harder to appeal the evidence he shared out.
Swinson had been asked several times if he wanted someone there, and each time he offered up a new nugget of information Peter repeated the question. Peter conservatively estimated that by the end of the interrogation, Swinson had been asked twenty times whether he wanted counsel present-and each time, he’d refused.
Peter remained sat in the room, lost in thought, as Swinson was escorted out in chains. He leaned back, rubbing his eyes wearily, cognizant that he had now been up for a day solid, and didn’t look to be getting any sleep any time soon. The suspect might be captured, the interrogation had been done-but he now had the privilege of writing report after report, all based off of Swinson’s information and confessions. At least they had their questions answered.
It had been a love triangle, after all-a boring, run of the mill love triangle which had gone sour. McGreevy had killed Philippa the night he’d found out she was still sleeping with Swinson; funny that it was her romantic betrayal that had pushed him over the edge, and not the fact that he was being screwed out of money.
McGreevy’s doom had been challenging Swinson about the money. They’d originally met at Swinson’s, had argued; at some point, McGreevy had grown deadly calm and suggested that they do a final exchange-Swinson would pay half a million pounds, in precious metals and gems, in exchange for the tech, and they’d then be done with each other. They’d agreed to meet at the warehouse, and Swinson had come prepared. As soon as he’d had the tech in hand, he’d handed over the bag full of gems; as McGreevy looked through it Swinson had stabbed him; as McGreevy lay bleeding to death, Swinson had doused him in petrol. He’d not batted an eye as he’d told of lighting the trail of fuel leading into the warehouse, of driving away from the scene without a backwards glance.
Swinson had failed to anticipate the cleverness of the scientist, though, when he killed him-the tech was locked, keyed to a code that only McGreevy had known. Peter had almost laughed at that-the investigative team had spent the entire time worried about being picked off, one by one, like a mystery novel-he’d worried, in his darker moments, about Rose being snatched, of having terrible things happen to her-and it had been for naught. Instead, Swinson had spent the past week holed up in a co-workers house-the co-worker being on holiday-doing everything he could think of to get the piece of equipment to function so he could sell it off and leave the country.
They’d spent an hour listening to Swinson talk; Peter thought it might have been one of the easiest interrogations of his career. He wondered at it, at what was making the man so talkative-especially when he clearly was a cold-blooded bastard who felt no regret about what he had done. What did he know that he hadn’t shared...What was up his sleeve?
He leapt up, hurrying down the hall to the detention area; he had a sinking feeling that Swinson would top himself, given half a chance; he’d explained his actions, and didn’t seem the sort to stick around for a trial and a sentence. The PC on duty looked up inquisitively as Peter practically ran up to the desk, and he paused. “You’ve been keeping an eye on Mr. Swinson?”
“Yes, sir. Right here, on the screen.” The PC pointed to the small monitor, which showed Swinson pacing agitatedly around his cell.
“Continue to watch him, like a hawk. He’s got something planned.”
“Yes, sir.” The PC looked at him, bewildered.
Peter hurried back to the room they were using as their base of operations. Everyone was still there, as he had hoped. “Did you lot do a search or a scan-or whatever it is you do to your prisoners-on Swinson?”
There was an awkward pause. “Ah...no,” Rose finally answered.
“Given how very talkative Swinson was just now, I think perhaps you might want to.”
The Torchwood group looked at him blankly.
“No one spills like they’re at bloody confession without having something else planned. There’s something else going on here. I want to make sure he doesn’t conveniently end up unable to stand trial, not after what he’s done.
“I don’t trust him. I don’t trust his motives for telling us everything, for so consistently refusing counsel. He’s got another plan.”
James stood, turning to Frank. “Did you bring anything else in your bag of tricks?”
Frank looked at him. “No, not really. But I know the team Jacques sent up the other day did.”
It was short work to call the team leader from Jacque’s forensics team. After apologising for dragging him out of bed so soon after he’d been told he could go to sleep, Frank convinced the specialist-Paul-to drive over to the station for “a potentially emergent situation.”
The eight of them sat in the small interrogation room, staring blankly at each other. It had been a long day, was quickly approaching five-thirty in the morning; he wondered if Rose had suggested any of them head back to the hotel for a quick kip.
Rose was sitting across from him in her usual chair, drooping with exhaustion. He wanted to take her back to his house; to lay next to her, fall asleep with her comforting warmth next to him. As if sensing his gaze on her, she looked up at him; she smiled gently, and he once again felt the world fall away.
He’d never get tired of seeing her, no matter where or when it was.
He smiled back at her, wishing they were alone, that he could move around the table and cuddle her to his chest, could kiss her. She flushed under his steady gaze, dropping her eyes to the table in front of her.
He really needed to focus on the job, and said the first work-related thing that came to mind. “So...any thoughts on what McGreevy might have done to the tech?” His voice was a bit high pitched, and he watched Rose’s gaze fly to his, her lips pursed in a smirk.
“Well...Swinson said it was a eight digit code of some sort. He’d tried just about anything he could think of, with no luck,” Jake said to the room in general.
“Not a telephone number, then?” Mickey offered.
“He tried the numbers he knew McGreevy had,” Peter answered tiredly. “And Philippa.”
“Nor a postcode...”
“Nor an identity number...”
The group tossed out suggestions, each of them something McGreevy said he had tried. Peter sighed in frustration. “Will your lads be able to crack it?”
“Oh, eventually,” Rose offered wearily.
“We’ll be sending it down to London at some point today, I reckon,” James added.
A mobile rang; everyone checked their pockets, and Frank answered his phone. The conversation was brief, and he stood. “Paul’s here, he’s got what we wanted. Let’s go make sure the DI’s hunch isn’t correct.”
They met the forensic specialist at the entrance to the station. Introductions were made around, and the group walked back to the cell block, where the PC was still watching the screen intently. Peter had to give the man credit: the constable had taken his direction to heart. As he peered at the screen, he noted Swinson was seated on the cot, staring at the wall in front of him. Peter would have sworn he wasn’t awake if not for the periodic glances to his side.
The PC removed the keys from the wall and led Peter and the short, dark man from Torchwood down the line of holding cells. They were mostly empty, it being the middle of the week, and it was an eerily quiet walk down the narrow white hallway. Peter had been through many jails in his career, and he found himself wondering, as he did each time, why it was they all smelled alike. It wasn’t the cleaning supplies; it was something more pervasive than that: the stale smell of bodies held in confinement, coupled with that of concrete and painted steel; it was a completely unique scent, and one that always made him alert and on edge.
Swinson was still seated as they approached his cell; he didn’t acknowledge them as the key turned in the lock, and Peter felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. This wasn’t right. This was, in fact, very wrong. If not for the fact that he was certain the teleport didn’t work, he’d worry that some odd switch had been perpetrated, using something he couldn’t comprehend.
He turned to the PC as he passed. “Get a medic down here, will you?”
“But, sir-“
“Do it. Lock us in if you have to,” he growled at the man. He was aware of the turn of the key in the lock as he moved to stand next to Paul, facing Swinson, and heard the sound of running feet.
The device Paul had was about the size of a small book, with a screen taking up one entire side. Paul turned it on, glanced briefly at it, and began to slowly move it across Swinson’s body, crouching in front of the seated man. The object of their scrutiny remained stock still, staring off into space. Peter watched Swinson closely, curious as to what exactly was going on with him.
There was a loud ping from the device, and Paul stood grimly. “He’s ingested quite a lot of Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.”
Peter paused, surprised. “He’s taken bliss?”
“More than he should have done, yes.”
Peter had to admit that, as a means of topping oneself it wasn’t half bad; the PC would have seen him go to sleep, and that would have been that. The real question was how it had gone undetected on his person; it would have taken a significant quantity to effect Swinson they way it did. He hadn’t time to tease that particular answer out-not yet.
“How long ago?”
Paul looked at the small machine in his hand. “Past forty-five minutes?”
“Shit,” Peter muttered. The PC had best hurry up with the medic-they didn’t have much time. He walked over to the cell doors, banged on them as he shouted down the hall, “Medic! Get the hell down here!”
He heard the sound of feet running in his direction, saw the PC skid to a halt in front of him. There was a brief moment of fumbling with the keys, and then the door was open. “Sir, the medic is en route.”
“Is the ambulance en route, as well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Don’t leave these two unattended. If you need something, shout.” He looked at Paul, who gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement, and left the cell.
He ran down the hallway, was hardly surprised to see Rose and Jake waiting for him. They looked at him anxiously, and he paused long enough to share, “Overdose,” before pelting out to the front doors. The ambulance services were only a short distance away, and he hoped desperately that they weren’t already out on a run that morning. He was in luck-he saw the flashing of the lights over the council building in front of the station, then the ambulance itself round the corner and pull to a stop at the foot of the front stairs. The medics were familiar faces from years of working scenes together, and he provided them the basic overview of what was known about the patient as he escorted them back to the cell, the cot rolling behind them.
Swinson was still conscious, although catatonic, and it took little effort for the medics to move him to the cot, to strap him in before moving him back out to the ambulance. Peter clambered into the back, his attention focused on the man in front of him; he was only barely aware of Penington shouting his name, pressing his mobile into his hand before the doors to the back of the ambulance were closed.
It was a long ride to the hospital, an even longer wait as the doctors worked to counter the effects of the drug; he stood to the side of the small A&E, watching as everything possible was done to revive Swinson-or to at least keep him from dying.
The nurses finally stepped away, and Peter watched them carefully. They seemed pleased, which he took to be a good sign, and finally allowed himself to relax when the lead nurse walked over to him, let him know that things looked good for Swinson. “He’ll not be awake yet for a few hours, but he should wake up.”
He thanked her, thanked her team, and walked out into the waiting room. Penington had sent a PC along; after confirming that she was who she said, and that his partner had in fact sent her, he set the young woman to standing guard on Swinson as he recuperated.
“Nothing goes in there-nothing-and no one without prior approval. I’ll introduce you to the head nurse-it’s her approval that’s the magic ticket. Got it?”
The young woman said yes, she did; after making sure she was set, he wandered wearily down to the waiting room. He sighed, rubbing his eyes-he didn’t have a ride back to the station, he needed a shower and a nap, he had to talk to Williams at some point, he needed coffee...
“Sir?” The woman behind the triage desk interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes.”
“These were left for you a little while ago.” She held out a set of keys. “They said you’d want them?”
He looked at the keys in her hand, and almost giggled. Someone-Rose-had left his car for him.
He took them from the woman, smiling as he said quietly, “Thank you.”
His car was parked in the small lot, under the lamp, and he collapsed into the driver’s seat with a heavy sigh. He knocked his knees against the steering column, suppressed a curse as he realized Rose had shifted the seat forward that morning. He reached down, and moved the seat back as far as it would go.
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes briefly-was it only yesterday that he’d been called away from her sleeping form, that she’d driven his car to work and brought him coffee? It felt like years ago. And he still had many, many hours to go before he’d have a crack at picking up where he’d left things; he still had a report to file, an interrogation to transcribe-and a proper summary of what had happened with Swinson to draft. At some point, he’d no doubt be yelled at by Williams for allowing Swinson to nearly kill himself. He’d be lucky to be done by lunchtime.
He straightened, opening his eyes and turning the key in the ignition. Best get moving on it-napping in his car wasn’t going to make things go any faster. He glanced at the clock; it had just gone seven, which meant he at least would be able to stop for his morning coffee.
His mind wandered as he drove, turning over the mystery of the locked tech. McGreevy had been a slippery bastard, had certainly learned not to trust any of the fine folks he associated with. But he had been meticulous. He’d not have kept that code strictly to himself-he’d have put it somewhere, just in case he needed to get it to someone else. But where?
Peter mulled the mystery as he drove across town, thinking of what he knew of McGreevy, of his habits-and of where Swinson had said he’d looked, and what he said he’d tried. And yet, McGreevy appeared to lack imagination. So it had to be someplace obvious...
He stopped in front of the small café, saw Louise peering out through the window as he double parked and turned on his hazard lights. He hurried in, and was greeted with a grin. “No ladyfriend this morning, then, Inspector?”
Peter paused, momentarily thrown by the comment, then remembered Rose sharing her story about Louise the day before. He blushed. “No, not today,” he managed, trying to sound neutral and business-like. “Eight coffees, please.”
Louise raised her brows before bustling over to the espresso machine. As she pulled shots, adding hot water to each, she continued to chatter. “Long night, then, I suppose. But eight? When’s the last time you bought for the whole station? Never, I’d warrant.” She passed Peter his cup of coffee, complete with sugar and cream added. Peter stayed silent, deciding it would do him no favours to answer that question; suspected the answer was, well, yes, never.
Louise continued blithely on. “That’d be Rose Tyler as was in here yesterday, wouldn’t it? She seemed a lovely woman, not at all what the papers would say.”
The papers? thought Peter, blankly. And then, abruptly, it kicked into place that Rose Tyler was a Tyler. People, and the press in particular, tended to pay attention to what it was she and her family did. He hadn’t thought of that in…He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of that; during her time in Kendal, during their time together, he’d come to think of her as simply Rose. He briefly wondered how it was the papers hadn’t realized what it was she did for a living; was it due to Torchwood’s interference?
He was brought back to Kendal and the present as Louise set a small box on the counter in front of him, placing cups of piping hot coffee into it as she finished the drinks. “Seems a right grounded young woman. And you should have seen her blush! Like a right virgin, that one.”
Peter choked on his coffee.
Louise looked at him appraisingly. “She’ll be good for you. Glad to see you’ve finally found someone, Peter.” She shifted the tray of coffee over towards him, and reverted to business. Peter paid her, thanking her profusely even as he still coughed his lungs clear, and hurried back out to his waiting car.
He walked into the station at what would be his usual time on any other day; it was quiet in the main room, and he was able to walk through the station room unaccosted, tray of coffee in hand. He moved down the hall, pushed the door open with his hip, and was only mildly surprised to find the core Torchwood team seated around the table, writing furiously.
“Welcome back,” James offered, glancing up.
“Thank you,” he replied; he crossed the room, setting the coffee down on the table. “For everyone-figured we’d need some proper caffeine at this point.” His eyes settled on Rose, studiously writing; only the tension in her shoulders gave her away.
“How’s Swinson?” James asked, tossing his pen down.
“He’ll live.” He continued to watch Rose. “Thank you for the lift.”
He watched the flush creep over Rose’s neck, and saw Jake grin.
“You’re quite welcome. Rose figured you might need one-and as she had your car keys for some reason...”
Peter ignored the comment. “I did need a lift.” He walked over to her, and leaned down. “Thank you,” he whispered.
She turned to him, embarrassed. “You’re welcome.”
He walked to his chair, settled in it as he placed his mug in front of him. “Homework?”
“Just a bit. We’re pulling a few things together to send back with the tech.” Rose paused in her writing, looking up at him. She was able to hold his gaze, now that the table was between them.
“Ah, lucky you.” He shifted the pile of papers in front of him, looking for a pad and a pen.
The room fell into silence, the only sound that of various members of the team sighing, or pens covering paper. Peter thought it would be incredibly tempting to just pause for a few moments, to take a rest, and he felt his eyes drift shut.
He was aware of the group moving about, of papers being stacked; his mind drifted, thinking of where he’d like to take Rose once the case was officially closed. Would she be interested in a mini-break? Somewhere nice...maybe one of the Great Houses that had been converted into a B&B...
He heard a chair scrape, heard the sound of someone moving. Mickey began to whisper; he heard Rose reply with a question.
“These pages...Do we still need them?” Mickey’s voice was a touch louder as he clarified his question.
“What’re they from again?” Rose’s whisper was soft, but he was so attuned to her voice, it took little effort at all to hear it.
“Those journals we found in the room under the lab.”
“The ones in gibberish?”
“Well, yeah, ‘cept they found a way to translate them.”
Rose sighed. “Keep them, I guess. Maybe we’ll get our own secret decoder ring.”
Peter’s eyes shot open. “The journals.”
Rose stared at him blankly.
“The journals. I bet you...oh, sod it, I bet whatever you like, that the answer is in the journals.”
“There was nothing in there that said ‘the code to the teleport is...’” Mickey replied.
“No, I’m sure there wasn’t. But surely there was something in there that not even Jacques’ team could figure out. Something that was eight characters long.”
They had spent fruitless hours driving in and around Kendal, chasing down red herrings and old traces, dutifully calling to check in every hour. The time with James and Susan was enjoyable, the three of them relaxing in each others’ presence as the search wore on, and he once again found himself envying Rose and the fact that she seemed to work with genuinely competent people. In talking with them-after they’d taken the hint that what was going on between he and Rose was not an acceptable topic of conversation-he learned that both had been recruited by Torchwood outright: It seemed people didn’t come to Torchwood looking for work, Torchwood came looking for them. He mused that that at least answered the question he’d always had about recruitment. As the night wore on, he’d not missed the byplay between James and Susan, and wondered exactly when James would give up-or Susan would give in. He’d have to ask Rose to give him updates, when she went back to London.
He tried to fight the sinking feeling in his stomach as he thought of Rose leaving. Because, ultimately, if they were successful that night she would be leaving, and soon.
Rose’s voice grew wearier every time they spoke; but when he suggested she take a break for an hour or two while he and his group searched, she’d retorted that he was the one who needed the sleep, not her. He’d made a mental note to tread carefully around Rose when she was tired and/or frustrated, and had replied that perhaps they should meet for coffee if they had had no luck at the next check-in. He had a feeling she’d driven her team hard-well, harder, given what he’d learned about Rose and her work ethic-after that, intent on finding Swinson, if not the technology Torchwood wanted, so she could be “done with the damned man and his damn technology.”
It had been Rose and her team who had finally locked in on Swinson’s location, shortly after one. When Penington relayed where they were, Peter was shocked at how very close to town it was-only a few miles north on the road to Shap. They’d backed off once they were certain Swinson was there, and had rung Mickey and Jake to set things in motion for capturing Swinson. Peter couldn’t help but feel put out that he was the last person called, in spite of knowing professionally that it was the right decision, the right order to things. He couldn’t help the surge of fear for Rose that had gone through him, as well, at the implication of what it had taken for them to ascertain that Swinson was present. Rose was safe-and he, Susan, and James would be there in plenty of time to get in on the action.
They arrived to find Rose, Penington, and Frank sitting some ways away from where Swinson was purported to be, the van dark but each of them awake and alert. They opened the door for him, and he happily took the empty seat next to Rose. She scooted closer to him, even as Frank watched with interest, and he fought down a laugh as Rose gave the burly man a challenging stare, daring him to say a word.
That was the most exciting part of the night, sitting in the van with Rose; he’d been surprised to learn that the Torchwood team would be quite happy to rely on a specialty team from the constabulary to make entry and detain Swinson. When the firarms team finally assembled shortly after two, he participated in the pre-entry brief, the men looking sceptically at them as Rose said that Swinson might have the resources to make a very quick escape, and to please be as silent as humanly possible. He’d nodded in concurrence when the various officers looked to him for confirmation, and had lent his voice to supporting the need for absolute silence and stealth.
He’d out and out breathed a sigh of relief when the firearms team made entry without incident, as he, Penington, and the group from Torchwood stood in the wood near the house, the front door visible through the trees. Swinson had been asleep in the back room, and didn’t put up a fight; the team leader had reported that he seemed resigned to capture, and had willingly allowed himself to be restrained. He was checked to make sure he wasn’t hiding anything on his person, and was bundled out to the prisoner transport under the watchful eye of six well-armed men, who then joined him in the back of the vehicle. He’d have to be a fool, or suicidal, to try anything on them, and Peter felt a weight he hadn’t known existed lift when the van with the prisoner rolled away towards the station. He heard Rose ring Mickey to let him know Swinson was en route, and he fought down a grin as he heard her say Swinson wasn’t to be interrogated, by anyone, until both Torchwood and the locals could be in the room together.
The six of them were given access to the house once it was cleared by the firearms team. It was remarkably humdrum, but showed evidence that its occupant hadn’t been out in a while. Rubbish was piled in a room, empty tins littered the kitchen, and the entire house had the musty smell of a place that hadn’t been properly aired in quite some time. He was curious to know if the property owners were aware someone had been living in their house-or if they’d find yet another buried accomplice to the whole debacle.
The tech was sitting innocuously in the dining room, on the table, and was surrounded by tools and note-covered bits of paper-the evidence of some serious tinkering. The group had stood in the doorway to the room, waiting for some surprise to catch them off guard in spite of the room having been cleared, and had finally crept cautiously towards it when it became apparent that nothing was going to happen by entering. Frank was the one who’d taken the initiative to actually pick it up, and he didn’t miss the relief that spread through the group as nothing untoward happened. Looking around the table, notes and tools and pens scattered across the surface, he wondered if Swinson had been trying to copy it, to make yet another of the infernal things to sell to a different high-bidder. From what he’d seen of people who played the kinds of games Swinson played, it would be well within his character to do so.
Peter noted that Rose let Frank and Susan take charge of securing the tech as well as packaging the evidence surrounding it. Meanwhile, Ian’s team was already working in the bedroom where they’d found Swinson, collecting evidence from not just the room but the house for use in prosecuting the man. He had no doubt they’d not be done with the house for days-there was simply too much to process. At least they had the murder weapon-he didn’t like to think of how on edge he’d have been otherwise, waiting for evidence to come back from this particular scene.
The six of them returned to the station in their separate vehicles shortly after three; as he walked into the brightly-lit building, Peter could feel his sleep deprivation beginning to catch up with him. He needed to wake up, to make sure he was as alert as possible; they still had an interrogation to conduct, during which he desperately hoped he’d find the answers to the remaining questions. He ruefully considered that he’d been working normal hours for far too long, if the thought of questioning someone of the middle of the night was striking him as an imposition instead of a matter of course.
He stopped by his desk on his way through the station, bending over to riffle through the bottom drawer. He had a stash of high-quality dark roast coffee tucked under a few large files, and he stood, triumphantly, with it in hand. Rose was standing next to him, and she gave him a short round of applause.
“I trust you’ll share?” she asked, stepping towards him. He hoped she wouldn’t be in the room as he talked with Swinson-he’d never hope to be able to concentrate. It was going to be bad enough knowing she was on the other side of the glass.
“So long as you’re a good girl, yes.”
“I can be, if it’ll get me some of that.” She gestured vaguely in his direction.
He took a quick look around, before bending down to place a quick kiss on her lips. “Consider some of it yours, then.” He led the way to the lounge, Rose following behind; she sat heavily at the small table as he rinsed out the coffee pot and set to measuring a generous amount of the rich-smelling roast into the filter.
When he turned around, the coffee starting to brew, Rose was dozing. She had her head propped on her hand and he paused, once more marvelling at how lovely she was, even exhausted and a bit dirty from clambering through fields and hedges throughout the evening. He loved her, so fiercely it made his chest hurt; and he hoped they’d be able to find a way to make what they had more permanent. He didn’t want to lose her; would find a way to be able to continue seeing her, no matter what the cost.
He remained standing, his hands braced on the edge of the counter as he leaned back against it, drinking her in as the coffee slowly brewed behind him. Did she know how he felt about her? He’d come so close to just saying it last night, wanting to shout it from the treetops once he had realized it. He loved her, and he’d find a way to show her how much every chance he got.
The quiet scene was interrupted by the arrival of Mickey; Peter shifted his gaze to the man standing in the door, and felt himself once more being weighed. He seemed to measure up this time, as Mickey smiled briefly before gesturing that they were waiting for him. He nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to get some mugs lined up.
Rose was still dozing as he turned with two coffee-filled mugs in his hand a few minutes later. He moved to the table, and set one in front of her before gently whispering, “Rose.”
She jumped back, startled, and he smiled at her. “Your coffee awaits, milady. I’ve got to go do my thing, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him, smiling gently, before reaching up to cup his cheek. “Good luck.” She pulled him down to her for a soft kiss, before releasing him. “I’ll be along in a tick.”
He grinned, grabbing another of the mugs from the counter; whoever was going to be working with him would no doubt need some of the brew as well. He remembered his conversation with Jake over the weekend, and found himself hoping he’d be the Torchwood representative; he had no doubt Jake would make even the toughest nut crack.
Penington as well as the entire Torchwood team from that evening, excepting Rose, was waiting for him in the interrogation room, and six heads swivelled in his direction as he walked in. “Sorry. Coffee emergency,” he apologised as he walked across the room. He carefully set the mugs in front of him before sitting down.
“Swinson’s all set up in the main interrogation room. He’s been read in already, courtesy of his escorts,” Penington said, gazing at Peter’s spare cup of coffee.
Peter pulled it towards him protectively. “More of that in the break room, if you want some. You might want to make sure Rose is still awake, as well.” He turned to James. “Who from you lot is in on this?”
“Ah...” James looked around the room; clearly, they’d not thought about it. Interesting.
“Might I make a request?” He tried to be deferential as he asked the question.
“Certainly,” James replied, clearly surprised.
“Could I have the loan of Jake?”
He hid his smile in his coffee as he watched James and Mickey turn towards Jake. Jake was watching him, and Peter arched his eyebrow as he set the mug down and returned the man’s steady gaze.
“I did say I thought you would be far more effective in questioning suspects than I ever could be.”
Jake started, surprised at the reference, before grinning. “So you did, Inspector.”
Peter leaned towards him and handed the coffee over. “You’ll need this, no matter how good you are. Unless you’re a nocturnal creature, that is, in which case I’d happily drink it myself.”
Jake took the coffee and smiled. “Oh, I’ll need that.”
They sat down and began to brainstorm how the interrogation would go, working out who would ask what questions, in what order, and how. Penington had gone for coffee and returned with Rose, each of them carrying several mugs; he smiled gratefully as Rose handed him a second mug before returning to the task at hand.
After a good half-hour of discussion, he and Jake were confident they’d worked out a decent plan of attack. They knew they could pin the murder on Swinson, and only wanted clarification on the particulars behind the technology and the business partnership that had existed between him, Philippa, and McGreevy. Peter considered that if they got answers to half their questions, they’d be having a very good night indeed.
“Right. A quick break is in order, I think, before we set to speaking with Mister Swinson. Five minutes?” He looked to Jake, who nodded.
He paused briefly to visit the loo, before stopping by his desk to remove a lollipop. He topped off his coffee in the kitchen, and met up with Jake in the hallway outside the room. “Ready, then?” he asked the other man.
“Ready. Let’s go.”
Peter led the way into the room, adopting the aloof facade he’d found most often worked. He needed to channel all of his energy into this, couldn’t spare a single though for anyone outside of the room at that moment; and he stared at the man seated in front of him. Peter moved to the table, set the recording device down, and pressed ‘start’.
“This is Detective Inspector Peter Carlisle, North Lakes Constabulary, and Agent Jake Simmonds, Torchwood Institute, conducting the interrogation. It’s-“ He paused, looking down at his watch. “It’s four oh five in the morning on Friday, the twenty-second of June, and this commences the interrogation of Jerald Swinson.”
Peter turned to the suspect.
“Jerald Swinson?”
The man-heavyset, balding, and sweating profusely-looked at him. “Yes.”
“Have you been advised of your rights?”
“I have.”
“And have you requested counsel?”
“N-no.”
“Would you like to request counsel?”
The man looked down at his manacled hands. “I’d like to get this over with.”
“Is that a ‘no’, then, sir?”
“That’s a no. I’m prepared to tell you what you want to know.”
Peter pulled a chair over to the table, and sat down across from Swinson. Jake-as he had done when they’d interviewed Swinson the week previous, and as they agreed he’d do to start in their strategy session-stood leaning against the wall.
“And what d’you think that is?”
And so Swinson began to slowly answer their questions. In the end, Jake’s menacing presence was enough to ensure the man spoke continuously; Jake never had to ask a single thing, and Peter had hardly to ask any pressing questions at all. It was a far cry from the interrogation with Philippa. He was grateful, actually-Swinson’s willingness to talk, without counsel, would make it harder to appeal the evidence he shared out.
Swinson had been asked several times if he wanted someone there, and each time he offered up a new nugget of information Peter repeated the question. Peter conservatively estimated that by the end of the interrogation, Swinson had been asked twenty times whether he wanted counsel present-and each time, he’d refused.
Peter remained sat in the room, lost in thought, as Swinson was escorted out in chains. He leaned back, rubbing his eyes wearily, cognizant that he had now been up for a day solid, and didn’t look to be getting any sleep any time soon. The suspect might be captured, the interrogation had been done-but he now had the privilege of writing report after report, all based off of Swinson’s information and confessions. At least they had their questions answered.
It had been a love triangle, after all-a boring, run of the mill love triangle which had gone sour. McGreevy had killed Philippa the night he’d found out she was still sleeping with Swinson; funny that it was her romantic betrayal that had pushed him over the edge, and not the fact that he was being screwed out of money.
McGreevy’s doom had been challenging Swinson about the money. They’d originally met at Swinson’s, had argued; at some point, McGreevy had grown deadly calm and suggested that they do a final exchange-Swinson would pay half a million pounds, in precious metals and gems, in exchange for the tech, and they’d then be done with each other. They’d agreed to meet at the warehouse, and Swinson had come prepared. As soon as he’d had the tech in hand, he’d handed over the bag full of gems; as McGreevy looked through it Swinson had stabbed him; as McGreevy lay bleeding to death, Swinson had doused him in petrol. He’d not batted an eye as he’d told of lighting the trail of fuel leading into the warehouse, of driving away from the scene without a backwards glance.
Swinson had failed to anticipate the cleverness of the scientist, though, when he killed him-the tech was locked, keyed to a code that only McGreevy had known. Peter had almost laughed at that-the investigative team had spent the entire time worried about being picked off, one by one, like a mystery novel-he’d worried, in his darker moments, about Rose being snatched, of having terrible things happen to her-and it had been for naught. Instead, Swinson had spent the past week holed up in a co-workers house-the co-worker being on holiday-doing everything he could think of to get the piece of equipment to function so he could sell it off and leave the country.
They’d spent an hour listening to Swinson talk; Peter thought it might have been one of the easiest interrogations of his career. He wondered at it, at what was making the man so talkative-especially when he clearly was a cold-blooded bastard who felt no regret about what he had done. What did he know that he hadn’t shared...What was up his sleeve?
He leapt up, hurrying down the hall to the detention area; he had a sinking feeling that Swinson would top himself, given half a chance; he’d explained his actions, and didn’t seem the sort to stick around for a trial and a sentence. The PC on duty looked up inquisitively as Peter practically ran up to the desk, and he paused. “You’ve been keeping an eye on Mr. Swinson?”
“Yes, sir. Right here, on the screen.” The PC pointed to the small monitor, which showed Swinson pacing agitatedly around his cell.
“Continue to watch him, like a hawk. He’s got something planned.”
“Yes, sir.” The PC looked at him, bewildered.
Peter hurried back to the room they were using as their base of operations. Everyone was still there, as he had hoped. “Did you lot do a search or a scan-or whatever it is you do to your prisoners-on Swinson?”
There was an awkward pause. “Ah...no,” Rose finally answered.
“Given how very talkative Swinson was just now, I think perhaps you might want to.”
The Torchwood group looked at him blankly.
“No one spills like they’re at bloody confession without having something else planned. There’s something else going on here. I want to make sure he doesn’t conveniently end up unable to stand trial, not after what he’s done.
“I don’t trust him. I don’t trust his motives for telling us everything, for so consistently refusing counsel. He’s got another plan.”
James stood, turning to Frank. “Did you bring anything else in your bag of tricks?”
Frank looked at him. “No, not really. But I know the team Jacques sent up the other day did.”
It was short work to call the team leader from Jacque’s forensics team. After apologising for dragging him out of bed so soon after he’d been told he could go to sleep, Frank convinced the specialist-Paul-to drive over to the station for “a potentially emergent situation.”
The eight of them sat in the small interrogation room, staring blankly at each other. It had been a long day, was quickly approaching five-thirty in the morning; he wondered if Rose had suggested any of them head back to the hotel for a quick kip.
Rose was sitting across from him in her usual chair, drooping with exhaustion. He wanted to take her back to his house; to lay next to her, fall asleep with her comforting warmth next to him. As if sensing his gaze on her, she looked up at him; she smiled gently, and he once again felt the world fall away.
He’d never get tired of seeing her, no matter where or when it was.
He smiled back at her, wishing they were alone, that he could move around the table and cuddle her to his chest, could kiss her. She flushed under his steady gaze, dropping her eyes to the table in front of her.
He really needed to focus on the job, and said the first work-related thing that came to mind. “So...any thoughts on what McGreevy might have done to the tech?” His voice was a bit high pitched, and he watched Rose’s gaze fly to his, her lips pursed in a smirk.
“Well...Swinson said it was a eight digit code of some sort. He’d tried just about anything he could think of, with no luck,” Jake said to the room in general.
“Not a telephone number, then?” Mickey offered.
“He tried the numbers he knew McGreevy had,” Peter answered tiredly. “And Philippa.”
“Nor a postcode...”
“Nor an identity number...”
The group tossed out suggestions, each of them something McGreevy said he had tried. Peter sighed in frustration. “Will your lads be able to crack it?”
“Oh, eventually,” Rose offered wearily.
“We’ll be sending it down to London at some point today, I reckon,” James added.
A mobile rang; everyone checked their pockets, and Frank answered his phone. The conversation was brief, and he stood. “Paul’s here, he’s got what we wanted. Let’s go make sure the DI’s hunch isn’t correct.”
They met the forensic specialist at the entrance to the station. Introductions were made around, and the group walked back to the cell block, where the PC was still watching the screen intently. Peter had to give the man credit: the constable had taken his direction to heart. As he peered at the screen, he noted Swinson was seated on the cot, staring at the wall in front of him. Peter would have sworn he wasn’t awake if not for the periodic glances to his side.
The PC removed the keys from the wall and led Peter and the short, dark man from Torchwood down the line of holding cells. They were mostly empty, it being the middle of the week, and it was an eerily quiet walk down the narrow white hallway. Peter had been through many jails in his career, and he found himself wondering, as he did each time, why it was they all smelled alike. It wasn’t the cleaning supplies; it was something more pervasive than that: the stale smell of bodies held in confinement, coupled with that of concrete and painted steel; it was a completely unique scent, and one that always made him alert and on edge.
Swinson was still seated as they approached his cell; he didn’t acknowledge them as the key turned in the lock, and Peter felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. This wasn’t right. This was, in fact, very wrong. If not for the fact that he was certain the teleport didn’t work, he’d worry that some odd switch had been perpetrated, using something he couldn’t comprehend.
He turned to the PC as he passed. “Get a medic down here, will you?”
“But, sir-“
“Do it. Lock us in if you have to,” he growled at the man. He was aware of the turn of the key in the lock as he moved to stand next to Paul, facing Swinson, and heard the sound of running feet.
The device Paul had was about the size of a small book, with a screen taking up one entire side. Paul turned it on, glanced briefly at it, and began to slowly move it across Swinson’s body, crouching in front of the seated man. The object of their scrutiny remained stock still, staring off into space. Peter watched Swinson closely, curious as to what exactly was going on with him.
There was a loud ping from the device, and Paul stood grimly. “He’s ingested quite a lot of Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.”
Peter paused, surprised. “He’s taken bliss?”
“More than he should have done, yes.”
Peter had to admit that, as a means of topping oneself it wasn’t half bad; the PC would have seen him go to sleep, and that would have been that. The real question was how it had gone undetected on his person; it would have taken a significant quantity to effect Swinson they way it did. He hadn’t time to tease that particular answer out-not yet.
“How long ago?”
Paul looked at the small machine in his hand. “Past forty-five minutes?”
“Shit,” Peter muttered. The PC had best hurry up with the medic-they didn’t have much time. He walked over to the cell doors, banged on them as he shouted down the hall, “Medic! Get the hell down here!”
He heard the sound of feet running in his direction, saw the PC skid to a halt in front of him. There was a brief moment of fumbling with the keys, and then the door was open. “Sir, the medic is en route.”
“Is the ambulance en route, as well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Don’t leave these two unattended. If you need something, shout.” He looked at Paul, who gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement, and left the cell.
He ran down the hallway, was hardly surprised to see Rose and Jake waiting for him. They looked at him anxiously, and he paused long enough to share, “Overdose,” before pelting out to the front doors. The ambulance services were only a short distance away, and he hoped desperately that they weren’t already out on a run that morning. He was in luck-he saw the flashing of the lights over the council building in front of the station, then the ambulance itself round the corner and pull to a stop at the foot of the front stairs. The medics were familiar faces from years of working scenes together, and he provided them the basic overview of what was known about the patient as he escorted them back to the cell, the cot rolling behind them.
Swinson was still conscious, although catatonic, and it took little effort for the medics to move him to the cot, to strap him in before moving him back out to the ambulance. Peter clambered into the back, his attention focused on the man in front of him; he was only barely aware of Penington shouting his name, pressing his mobile into his hand before the doors to the back of the ambulance were closed.
It was a long ride to the hospital, an even longer wait as the doctors worked to counter the effects of the drug; he stood to the side of the small A&E, watching as everything possible was done to revive Swinson-or to at least keep him from dying.
The nurses finally stepped away, and Peter watched them carefully. They seemed pleased, which he took to be a good sign, and finally allowed himself to relax when the lead nurse walked over to him, let him know that things looked good for Swinson. “He’ll not be awake yet for a few hours, but he should wake up.”
He thanked her, thanked her team, and walked out into the waiting room. Penington had sent a PC along; after confirming that she was who she said, and that his partner had in fact sent her, he set the young woman to standing guard on Swinson as he recuperated.
“Nothing goes in there-nothing-and no one without prior approval. I’ll introduce you to the head nurse-it’s her approval that’s the magic ticket. Got it?”
The young woman said yes, she did; after making sure she was set, he wandered wearily down to the waiting room. He sighed, rubbing his eyes-he didn’t have a ride back to the station, he needed a shower and a nap, he had to talk to Williams at some point, he needed coffee...
“Sir?” The woman behind the triage desk interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes.”
“These were left for you a little while ago.” She held out a set of keys. “They said you’d want them?”
He looked at the keys in her hand, and almost giggled. Someone-Rose-had left his car for him.
He took them from the woman, smiling as he said quietly, “Thank you.”
His car was parked in the small lot, under the lamp, and he collapsed into the driver’s seat with a heavy sigh. He knocked his knees against the steering column, suppressed a curse as he realized Rose had shifted the seat forward that morning. He reached down, and moved the seat back as far as it would go.
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes briefly-was it only yesterday that he’d been called away from her sleeping form, that she’d driven his car to work and brought him coffee? It felt like years ago. And he still had many, many hours to go before he’d have a crack at picking up where he’d left things; he still had a report to file, an interrogation to transcribe-and a proper summary of what had happened with Swinson to draft. At some point, he’d no doubt be yelled at by Williams for allowing Swinson to nearly kill himself. He’d be lucky to be done by lunchtime.
He straightened, opening his eyes and turning the key in the ignition. Best get moving on it-napping in his car wasn’t going to make things go any faster. He glanced at the clock; it had just gone seven, which meant he at least would be able to stop for his morning coffee.
His mind wandered as he drove, turning over the mystery of the locked tech. McGreevy had been a slippery bastard, had certainly learned not to trust any of the fine folks he associated with. But he had been meticulous. He’d not have kept that code strictly to himself-he’d have put it somewhere, just in case he needed to get it to someone else. But where?
Peter mulled the mystery as he drove across town, thinking of what he knew of McGreevy, of his habits-and of where Swinson had said he’d looked, and what he said he’d tried. And yet, McGreevy appeared to lack imagination. So it had to be someplace obvious...
He stopped in front of the small café, saw Louise peering out through the window as he double parked and turned on his hazard lights. He hurried in, and was greeted with a grin. “No ladyfriend this morning, then, Inspector?”
Peter paused, momentarily thrown by the comment, then remembered Rose sharing her story about Louise the day before. He blushed. “No, not today,” he managed, trying to sound neutral and business-like. “Eight coffees, please.”
Louise raised her brows before bustling over to the espresso machine. As she pulled shots, adding hot water to each, she continued to chatter. “Long night, then, I suppose. But eight? When’s the last time you bought for the whole station? Never, I’d warrant.” She passed Peter his cup of coffee, complete with sugar and cream added. Peter stayed silent, deciding it would do him no favours to answer that question; suspected the answer was, well, yes, never.
Louise continued blithely on. “That’d be Rose Tyler as was in here yesterday, wouldn’t it? She seemed a lovely woman, not at all what the papers would say.”
The papers? thought Peter, blankly. And then, abruptly, it kicked into place that Rose Tyler was a Tyler. People, and the press in particular, tended to pay attention to what it was she and her family did. He hadn’t thought of that in…He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of that; during her time in Kendal, during their time together, he’d come to think of her as simply Rose. He briefly wondered how it was the papers hadn’t realized what it was she did for a living; was it due to Torchwood’s interference?
He was brought back to Kendal and the present as Louise set a small box on the counter in front of him, placing cups of piping hot coffee into it as she finished the drinks. “Seems a right grounded young woman. And you should have seen her blush! Like a right virgin, that one.”
Peter choked on his coffee.
Louise looked at him appraisingly. “She’ll be good for you. Glad to see you’ve finally found someone, Peter.” She shifted the tray of coffee over towards him, and reverted to business. Peter paid her, thanking her profusely even as he still coughed his lungs clear, and hurried back out to his waiting car.
He walked into the station at what would be his usual time on any other day; it was quiet in the main room, and he was able to walk through the station room unaccosted, tray of coffee in hand. He moved down the hall, pushed the door open with his hip, and was only mildly surprised to find the core Torchwood team seated around the table, writing furiously.
“Welcome back,” James offered, glancing up.
“Thank you,” he replied; he crossed the room, setting the coffee down on the table. “For everyone-figured we’d need some proper caffeine at this point.” His eyes settled on Rose, studiously writing; only the tension in her shoulders gave her away.
“How’s Swinson?” James asked, tossing his pen down.
“He’ll live.” He continued to watch Rose. “Thank you for the lift.”
He watched the flush creep over Rose’s neck, and saw Jake grin.
“You’re quite welcome. Rose figured you might need one-and as she had your car keys for some reason...”
Peter ignored the comment. “I did need a lift.” He walked over to her, and leaned down. “Thank you,” he whispered.
She turned to him, embarrassed. “You’re welcome.”
He walked to his chair, settled in it as he placed his mug in front of him. “Homework?”
“Just a bit. We’re pulling a few things together to send back with the tech.” Rose paused in her writing, looking up at him. She was able to hold his gaze, now that the table was between them.
“Ah, lucky you.” He shifted the pile of papers in front of him, looking for a pad and a pen.
The room fell into silence, the only sound that of various members of the team sighing, or pens covering paper. Peter thought it would be incredibly tempting to just pause for a few moments, to take a rest, and he felt his eyes drift shut.
He was aware of the group moving about, of papers being stacked; his mind drifted, thinking of where he’d like to take Rose once the case was officially closed. Would she be interested in a mini-break? Somewhere nice...maybe one of the Great Houses that had been converted into a B&B...
He heard a chair scrape, heard the sound of someone moving. Mickey began to whisper; he heard Rose reply with a question.
“These pages...Do we still need them?” Mickey’s voice was a touch louder as he clarified his question.
“What’re they from again?” Rose’s whisper was soft, but he was so attuned to her voice, it took little effort at all to hear it.
“Those journals we found in the room under the lab.”
“The ones in gibberish?”
“Well, yeah, ‘cept they found a way to translate them.”
Rose sighed. “Keep them, I guess. Maybe we’ll get our own secret decoder ring.”
Peter’s eyes shot open. “The journals.”
Rose stared at him blankly.
“The journals. I bet you...oh, sod it, I bet whatever you like, that the answer is in the journals.”
“There was nothing in there that said ‘the code to the teleport is...’” Mickey replied.
“No, I’m sure there wasn’t. But surely there was something in there that not even Jacques’ team could figure out. Something that was eight characters long.”