And So Things Go, 2/34
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue
Peter rubbed his eyes blearily, staring at the desk in front of him, allowing the noise of the foreign squad room to wash over him as he finished unwinding from the time spent at the crime scene. The GGC had provided them with space in one of the local stations, and McCoy and he had driven straight there from the scene. Most of the station staff were shutting down for the evening; it looked as though he and McCoy were just about to get started.
“Here. This’ll help.” A mug of coffee was set onto the desk in front of him, and he grunted his thanks before taking a mouthful of the hot beverage. Laced with powdered milk and a load of sugar, it was hot, weak, and sweet-but it was better than nothing at all.
“Thank you.” Peter looked across his temporary desk at his temporary partner.
McCoy’s lips twitched. “You’re welcome.” He sat down, loosening his tie before kicking back in his chair. “So. Tell me what you saw out there.”
What Peter had seen was the body of one Martin Shields, deceased. He’d been found several metres from the platform of the Hillington West rail station, face down, an arm tucked under his head as though he were sleeping prone. The scene had been littered with rubbish, and they’d spent their survey accompanied by the occasional rattle of passing trains carrying passengers into and out of Glasgow. He’d tried very hard not to think of his brother, of the fact that Martin Carlisle could, quite conceivably, be knocking about the industrial estate he could see across the road, working whatever grand idea he had that week, hopefully not out dealing again; Peter had learned long ago to consider simply “using” to be a victory, where Martin was concerned. He’d finally forced himself to concentrate on cataloguing everything he saw-every piece of rubbish, every blade of the scant grass and weeds, the weave of the jumper on Martin Shields’s cold torso, the way the dead man’s lank blonde hair had fallen across the back of his skull. Peter had taken copious notes as he walked around the scene, going anti-clockwise as McCoy worked clockwise, and had noticed a few things that caused him to ‘hmm’ speculatively.
Peter told McCoy much of this-excluding any thoughts of or reference to his brother-holding some observations in reserve, waiting to see what direction his temporary partner would take on this temporary assignment, not completely trusting the man across from him in spite of the coffee he’d provided. When Peter finished, he drained the last of his now-cold coffee, leaning back in his chair and watching the dark-haired man across from him.
“I think we caught most of the same things,” McCoy finally said, dropping his feet from his (temporary) desk and leaning forward. “Let’s get a preliminary set of observations written and then go someplace where we might discuss everything else.”
Peter arched an eyebrow, unsure of what exactly McCoy meant by ‘everything else’, but feeling a bit too tired to really worry about it. “Right. Lead on, fearless leader.”
McCoy pulled a binder over, flipping through a few pages before responding. “Partners, Peter. You do sections ‘F’ through ‘K’, I’ll do ‘A’ through ‘E’.” He pulled some forms from the binder, and handed them across the desk. “We’ll have one of the Constables type them up overnight; you look knackered.”
Peter blinked, surprised into a sincere “Thank you” as he accepted the papers. He sighed, wishing he was at his desk, with a lolly stash readily at hand. Resigned to his current sweet-free fate, he dug in his pockets for a pen, pulled his small notepad from his pocket and flipped through it, finding his notes from the scene, and began to write.
~-~
To be fair, McCoy didn’t seem so bad; he certainly appeared to be a perfectly nice man, keen on working together, on solving the case of who murdered the Met informant. Odd place to have an informant, really, so far from London-Peter wondered what he wasn’t being told, and what pitfalls may lay in wait.
Still, McCoy had been as good as his word, waiting for Peter to finish writing his section of the report before adding it to his own pile of papers and handing it off to a waiting Constable.
“When’s the last time you ate?” McCoy asked as they walked out to the car, giving Peter pause. He’d had a quick bite when he and Penny were working on their reports that morning-it seemed days ago-and Louise had forced a half-sandwich on him when he met up with Penny at her café…
It occurred to Peter that he’d not even thought to snack since then.
“Hours ago?” he finally offered.
“And when’d you last sleep?”
His partner sounded like Rose. The thought caused his lips to quirk, and a note of amusement to enter his voice. “A while ago. We’d been running surveillance, there, at the end.”
“Ah.” McCoy nodded to himself before sliding into the car. “D’you often make a habit of fasting on cases?”
“My girlfriend would say so, yes.” Penny probably would, as well, but it was Rose who was always vocal about it, asking with every phone call, every letter, whether he was eating properly, if he had been sleeping.
“Hmm. The hotel is on-” McCoy dug around, flipping through the papers he’d brought with him. “Lorend. You know how to get there?”
Sassenach, he thought reflexively. “Lonend? That I can.”
Elias replied with a curve of his lips; Peter pursed his, and turned to drive into the centre of town.
They’d been booked into a hotel in the heart of Paisley, a posh establishment occupying a former flour mill. Peter had passed it dozens of times in his life, but had never had cause to step inside; he wondered if any of his former, pre-Uni circle of friends had. He hoped none of them worked there-he was in no mood to deal with his past.
None of them appeared to work at reception, at any rate, and he was soon in possession of a large, ornate room key, along with a map of the hotel. McCoy was staying on a different floor, and the two of them parted in the lobby after agreeing to meet again in the hotel bar after a reasonable amount of time.
His room was gorgeous-a large airy space filled with reproduction antiques in dark wood-although it would have been prettier without the tartan fabric upholstering everything-and he hastily unpacked his carryall. He’d not brought much-a few shirts, a few pairs of trousers, some jumpers, all which he hung with care in the wardrobe. He placed his toilet kit in the en suite, gently removing his shaving kit. Rose had bought it for him when she learned that he used a mug and brush, not canned shaving crème; she’d been fascinated by the process, and had presented him with the kit-a soft container holding a travel brush and small wooden covered bowl for the soap, with room for his razor-with a shy smile shortly after he’d told her he loved her. He ran his fingers gently over the curved wooden lid of the bowl, before closing the kit and returning to the room.
He glanced around before sinking with relief upon the double bed, exhaustion washing through him as he finally had time to rest. He pulled his phone from his pocket, glancing at it-tempted to call Rose in spite of knowing she couldn’t answer, simply wanting to hear her voice on her message. He set the gadget down with a sigh; he had to meet McCoy downstairs within the next five minutes, and he’d need far more time than that if he heard Rose’s voice.
McCoy was waiting for him in the bar of the hotel, changed now into jeans and a sweatshirt. The Londoner looked older, somehow, now that he was out of his suit, and infinitely more human. Peter felt himself relax, and slid onto the stool next to his colleague. He motioned the barman over, ordering a local ale before turning to McCoy.
“What’ve I not been told about this?” he asked without preamble.
McCoy took a sip of his whiskey; the heathen had ruined it with ice. “What do you mean?”
The barman delivered Peter’s ale before discreetly wandering off again. Peter pulled the drink towards him, gazing down at the foam as he turned the glass. “I mean, you lot don’t keep snitches up here unless there’s a very good reason. And while I don’t much care about the reason, I do care very much about not walking into a hornets’ nest.” He looked up, holding McCoy’s steady gaze.
The man didn’t answer, instead shifting, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a ten-pound note. He waved the barman over, ensuring the note would cover the bill, before standing. “Let’s chat.” He picked up his glass, turning, waiting for Peter to follow.
Peter sighed, picking up his pint and taking a long sip before moving to follow McCoy across to a corner table. The bar was nearly empty, the sound of the football match on the telly filling the space around them, and they settled in to-Peter hoped-talk.
Peter slowly drank his ale, watching McCoy as he sorted out what to share and what to keep back. It occurred to him that he could always call in a favour, could ask Jake to run some information on McCoy, or on Shields, if what McCoy was about to share didn’t add up. Jake was still in Greenwich, anchoring whatever it was Rose and the team were doing-she’d made a point of telling Peter to go through Jake if he needed to talk to her urgently-and it would be as simple as making the call. He gazed once more at his ale, wondering if that would be an abuse of the relationship he’d built with Rose, asking one of her friends to do that.
“You’re right. It’s not usual to have someone up here.”
Peter glanced up, startled. He’d forgotten, for a moment, about the man sitting to his left.
“I can’t tell you much-not yet, not without getting approval to-but I can tell you that you’re not being set up. I hope not, because if you are, so am I. I can tell you that Shields was critical to an investigation we had going on, based out of London, a case which we were close to finishing. And I can tell you that his death caused a lot of shouting in the offices this morning.”
“Ah.” Peter took a thoughtful sip from his rapidly emptying glass. He weighed a question in his mind, before deciding to take the plunge and ask it. “What kind of clearance will I need to know the full story?”
“Clearance?”
“Clearance. You know, to share secrets. I assume this is a controlled case, if he was so critical and yet you can’t tell me why.”
McCoy blinked, surprised. “I…”
“Let me know what you need; I’ve been through this before,” he said mildly. He nonchalantly took another sip of ale, watching McCoy out of the corner of his eye and noting the rigidity with which he sat, how he was clearly working through some question.
“I will do,” McCoy finally replied, taking a sip of whiskey.
“Knowing that you can’t tell me much, why don’t you share the rest of what you can? And then why don’t we work out what it is that I can do to help you solve this thing?” Peter was startled by the offer even as he made it-he must be exhausted, to be so trusting of someone so quickly.
“Right. Good plan.” McCoy set his no doubt horribly watered-down beverage aside, and leaned forward. “Here are the basics…”
The basics were that the body had been found earlier that day, towards the end of the morning commute. One of the station cleaners had been waved down by a teenager who’d been scrounging for scrap metal along the verge. He’d walked the woman over to the general vicinity before scampering off; and she’d dialed 999 as soon as she saw the form of the dead man on the ground. The GGC had cordoned off the perimeter, had interviewed the witnesses; Martin Shields was well-known to them, and the body had been identified at the scene by one of the PCs. The Met had been alerted shortly thereafter, resulting in the shouting McCoy had already referenced.
“The only good thing, I think, was that GGC is so short-staffed currently. It provided a nice chance to send someone up to help,” McCoy said, picking up his glass and swirling the contents around.
“And did no one question why the Met would be the ones sending someone, and not Ayrshire or somewhere nearby?”
“If someone offered you help when you desperately needed it, would you question the motivation?”
Well, yes-he would. Peter drained his glass, opting to hold his tongue. McCoy continued.
“We asked for someone from GGC to partner with us, naturally. They got back to us right before I left, saying we’d get you instead. No offense.”
“None taken.” And the truth was, he wasn’t offended. He’d worked out, long ago, that he worked for a small force in a backwater of the country. He was very good at his job-better than the majority of his co-workers, without question-but he knew his bona fides were less than impressive on paper.
“How long have you worked in North Lakes?”
“Oh, well nigh on a decade, now.”
McCoy raised his eyebrows, but took a sip of his drink instead of commenting.
“And how long have you been in London, then?” asked Peter.
“The same.” Ice rattled in the glass as McCoy set his drink down. “What say we get dinner?” He pushed back, standing, indicating that it wasn’t a question, and Peter slowly followed.
The restaurant at the hotel was a bit more posh than either of them were in the mood for, and they opted for dinner at one of the local pubs instead. The food was excellent, and exactly what Peter needed, and by the end of the meal he found he didn’t much mind being seconded to a place filled with so many personal ghosts. Rose, he thought, would be proud.
He felt a pang at the thought of her. He missed her. He’d grown used to having her at the other end of the line when he needed or just wanted her, available to offer support or insight, and most importantly her love. He’d not realized just how much he relied on it-how much he depended on it.
“So you’ve a girlfriend, then?” McCoy asked conversationally as the meal ended. They’d made small talk throughout, McCoy talking about football, about the weather, and about a thousand other small topics safe for discussion between strangers thrown together. Peter had managed to avoid talking much at all about his personal life, content instead to let McCoy rattle on, to carry the conversation; whenever McCoy had asked Peter something that neared the personal, he’d dodged the questions as best he could. This one, though, he couldn’t dodge-not since he’d already told McCoy he did.
“I do. And you?”
“Married these eight years now.”
“Ah.”
“Is your girlfriend in Kendal?”
“No, although I met her there.” Peter heard the tension in his voice, a reflex borne of protecting Rose-and their relationship-from public scrutiny. “Have you any children?”
McCoy laughed. “Mercy, no. The wife is in the force as well-it’d be a bloody nightmare to try to juggle our schedules to care for a small one. Maybe one of these days.”
By the end of the meal, Peter knew more about McCoy than he did about the majority of people with whom he worked on a daily basis. The man certainly was talkative-and he continued to talk as they walked back to the hotel, chatting now about a previous trip through Scotland, years before. “Edinburgh was nothing like I’d expected-hard to believe it was once the capitol.”
“Glasgow’s the far better city.”
“You’re from here.”
“Aye.”
“And your family are still here?”
“My parents are dead,” Peter replied bluntly, hoping it would be enough to keep McCoy from continuing that line of questioning, that he’d not ask if he had any siblings.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a while.” They’d reached the hotel, and he jerked the heavy glass door open. “I’ve lived in Kendal for nigh on half my life now.”
McCoy followed him into the lobby, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “But you come back. To Glasgow.”
Peter looked at him, silent, waiting to see where he was going.
“You don’t drive like someone who’s not been back for years.”
“Indeed. What time shall we start tomorrow?” Peter looked down at his watch, hoping he looked as exhausted as he felt. He really didn’t want to get into his past-not tonight, and certainly not with a complete stranger who he only marginally trusted.
“Care to meet for breakfast?”
“Coffee, certainly.”
“Half seven, then.”
Peter nodded his head, turning to slowly climb the stairs.
“Good night, Peter.”
Peter froze-Rose was the only person who’d ever said that to him, outside of his immediate family. “See you tomorrow,” he answered, finally, before continuing up to his room.
~-~
The alarm pulled him out of a very odd dream, and Peter groaned as he rolled over, hand flailing in search of the snooze button. The room was still dark and cold, and he groaned as he finally silenced the annoying shriek of the alarm. He stretched, finding the switch for the lamp, eventually sitting up and trying to come awake.
He’d managed to set the clock and take off his shoes the night previous, and had crawled into bed mostly-clothed. He was still exhausted, though, and wondered if he’d ever be able to catch up on sleep.
He showered quickly, took a few minutes to brush his teeth and swipe a razor over the stubble which seemed to grow with alarming speed, and finally wandered back out into the main room. He glanced at the clothes he’d slept in, now piled at the foot of the bed, and stifled a sigh; he’d have to send them out for cleaning today. It took a few minutes to find the form and the bag for cleaning-what idiot had decided the desk was the best place for those things-and he wound up having to get dressed quickly in order to meet McCoy for breakfast. Dark trousers were pulled on, followed by one of his interchangeable white shirts; a dark blue jumper completed the outfit, along with dark socks and his comfortable black shoes. He had a feeling he’d be spending quite a lot of time interviewing people in the next few days-he may as well look presentable.
His phone chirped as he was reaching for his coat; he moved to the bedside table, grabbing for the small object, hoping it would be Rose. It was-just a short text from her, but more than he’d had in days.
“Busy still. Miss you. Love, Rose. PS-Be sure to eat.”
He grinned, his fingers flying over the keys as he typed a short reply; as he hit send, he glanced up, noting that he was precariously close to running late. He slid the phone into his pocket, snatched his wallet and notepad from the desk, and checked that he had his key before moving out into the hallway.
McCoy was already waiting for him, seated at a table in the corner of the small breakfast room. Peter draped his coat over the back of his chair, noting that there was already a cup of steaming coffee at his place; he glanced at McCoy, uttering a slightly surprised “Thank you” as he sat.
“You’re welcome. I can’t live without coffee in the morning, thought you might be the same.”
Peter poured milk into the cup, added a healthy spoonful of sugar; he gave the contents a quick stir before scooping the cup up and taking a slow sip. Perfect.
“I see you are,” McCoy offered drily, before returning his attention to the paper.
Food had been laid out on the sideboard, and Peter helped himself to eggs and some dry-looking toast, ignoring the tragically overcooked bacon. He paused to collect a glass of syrupy juice, and rejoined McCoy at their table.
They ate in silence, Peter scoffing the eggs and toast, draining the juice. He made short work of the coffee as well, and finally raised his eyes to note McCoy watching him with open amusement.
“What?”
“Nothing.” McCoy bent his head, slowly sawing at the bacon on his plate. Peter bristled at being a source of open amusement, reaching for the coffee press sitting in front of him and pouring a second cup.
More milk, more sugar; he nursed this cup, finally coming fully awake. He twisted, trying to read the paper upside-down, and finally gave in. “May I look at that?” He gestured towards the broadsheet, the cup of coffee still in his hand.
“Please do.” McCoy set his fork down, handing the paper over to Peter. “You’d be most interested, I imagine, in page five, top left.”
Peter set his coffee down, flipping through the paper to page five.
His heart sank-it was the gossip column. “Tyler tosses dour Detective!” was printed in bold, above a picture of Rose and him, both looking grim. Judging by the clothes the picture had been taken a few weeks before, when they’d gone out for dinner in Kendal. The restaurant had been a disaster, the food undercooked, the service terrible, and they’d both been a touch grumpy when they left to return to his house.
Bloody zanzare. And now he had a partner-a stranger, really-seated across from him, who knew exactly who his girlfriend was.
McCoy was looking steadily at him when he glanced up; Peter glared at him challengingly as he folded the paper and returned it to the table.
“You’re dating Rose Tyler.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, uttered quietly.
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
“I’d not pegged you as the type for the gossip columns,” Peter offered acidly, picking up his coffee and taking a sip.
“I’m not-I find the people I interact with to be far more entertaining.” McCoy’s voice was so carefully neutral, Peter got the impression he’d just been mocked. “My wife told me, last night, when I mentioned your name. I’ve never heard her so excited.”
“Ah.”
McCoy calmly buttered his toast-it had to be stone cold by now, surely-before continuing. “Do they follow you everywhere?”
“Who?”
“The media. The photographers.”
“I should hope not. Not of late, anyway.”
“Not here?”
Peter shuddered. “They’d best not.”
“Have they ever interfered in an investigation?”
“No.” And if they ever did he was quite certain he’d be suspended, because he’d physically harm the zanzare who interfered with him doing his job.
“Do you get recognized in the streets?”
“Only in Kendal, or only with…her.”
“Not here?”
“No.” Not yet, at any rate. He had the sneaking suspicion that if he was recognized in Glasgow, it would be because he’d grown up there, not because of the gossip columns. “Is this a problem, Inspector?”
McCoy glanced at him, surprised. “No-at least, it oughtn’t be. I was curious.”
Peter hmmed, unconvinced by the answer. He glanced at the nearly-empty coffee pot, and began to cast around for someone to provide more of the heavenly brew. One of the staff passed through and he flagged her down, extracting a promise of another pot of coffee in a few minutes.
“My wife had a litany of questions about it, you know,” McCoy finally said, his tone wry. “I told her tough.”
“That’s a relief.”
McCoy glanced down at his empty coffee cup, before meeting Peter’s eye. “Just how many partners have you been through in your career?”
“Enough.”
“I’m astonished, what with your sunny personality.”
“I’m not in this to make friends. I’m in it to do a good job.”
“And with that attitude, I can’t say I’m surprised either.” McCoy leaned forward. “Peter, I’m in this to do a good job, too. It’ll be easier for both of us if we can trust each other.”
Peter flashed back to his first weeks working with Rose-to their eventual truce several weeks in. Would the investigation have gone any differently if they’d not argued for those weeks?
“I’ve heard about North Lakes, you know.” McCoy leaned back, making room for the fresh pot of coffee which was placed on their table.
“I wasn’t aware there was anything to hear.”
“Work in London long enough, get enough fresh blood through, you’re bound to hear about just about anywhere. We had a transplant from up there, oh, five years ago? Said it was a right miserable place to work.”
“That’s delightful to hear, thank you.”
“More to the point, he said it was incredibly dysfunctional, and that there was no level of trust.”
Peter reached for the French Press, pushing the plunger down before pouring a fresh cup. He reached over, pouring a cup for McCoy as well, before setting the pot down and answering. “I couldn’t speak for working somewhere else. It is what it is.”
“I’m not condemning it, Carlisle. I’m just saying I come from a place where we try to get along with our colleagues.”
Peter set his spoon down with a clang, glaring at McCoy. “And so clearly I don’t. Lovely.” He took a sip of coffee, setting the cup down hard. “What’s the plan today?”
McCoy sighed. “Interview witnesses, see what has cropped up overnight.”
“Right. I’ll do my best to help solve this case, McCoy. I can’t make promises about anything else, coming as I do from a dysfunctional workplace where no one gets along and there’s no level of trust.” Peter glanced at the fresh pot of coffee, deciding not even it was enough to keep him at the table any longer. “Are we ready to go, then?”
Elias nodded slowly.
“Then let’s get to work.” Peter took a long sip from his coffee cup as he stood. Setting the half-full cup back on the table, he turned and stalked towards the door without a backwards glance.
______________
Chapter 3
End Note--Before you leap to correct me regarding the capital of Scotland (Edinburgh is truly a lovely city), the Glasgow-as-capital thing is quite deliberate.
Peter rubbed his eyes blearily, staring at the desk in front of him, allowing the noise of the foreign squad room to wash over him as he finished unwinding from the time spent at the crime scene. The GGC had provided them with space in one of the local stations, and McCoy and he had driven straight there from the scene. Most of the station staff were shutting down for the evening; it looked as though he and McCoy were just about to get started.
“Here. This’ll help.” A mug of coffee was set onto the desk in front of him, and he grunted his thanks before taking a mouthful of the hot beverage. Laced with powdered milk and a load of sugar, it was hot, weak, and sweet-but it was better than nothing at all.
“Thank you.” Peter looked across his temporary desk at his temporary partner.
McCoy’s lips twitched. “You’re welcome.” He sat down, loosening his tie before kicking back in his chair. “So. Tell me what you saw out there.”
What Peter had seen was the body of one Martin Shields, deceased. He’d been found several metres from the platform of the Hillington West rail station, face down, an arm tucked under his head as though he were sleeping prone. The scene had been littered with rubbish, and they’d spent their survey accompanied by the occasional rattle of passing trains carrying passengers into and out of Glasgow. He’d tried very hard not to think of his brother, of the fact that Martin Carlisle could, quite conceivably, be knocking about the industrial estate he could see across the road, working whatever grand idea he had that week, hopefully not out dealing again; Peter had learned long ago to consider simply “using” to be a victory, where Martin was concerned. He’d finally forced himself to concentrate on cataloguing everything he saw-every piece of rubbish, every blade of the scant grass and weeds, the weave of the jumper on Martin Shields’s cold torso, the way the dead man’s lank blonde hair had fallen across the back of his skull. Peter had taken copious notes as he walked around the scene, going anti-clockwise as McCoy worked clockwise, and had noticed a few things that caused him to ‘hmm’ speculatively.
Peter told McCoy much of this-excluding any thoughts of or reference to his brother-holding some observations in reserve, waiting to see what direction his temporary partner would take on this temporary assignment, not completely trusting the man across from him in spite of the coffee he’d provided. When Peter finished, he drained the last of his now-cold coffee, leaning back in his chair and watching the dark-haired man across from him.
“I think we caught most of the same things,” McCoy finally said, dropping his feet from his (temporary) desk and leaning forward. “Let’s get a preliminary set of observations written and then go someplace where we might discuss everything else.”
Peter arched an eyebrow, unsure of what exactly McCoy meant by ‘everything else’, but feeling a bit too tired to really worry about it. “Right. Lead on, fearless leader.”
McCoy pulled a binder over, flipping through a few pages before responding. “Partners, Peter. You do sections ‘F’ through ‘K’, I’ll do ‘A’ through ‘E’.” He pulled some forms from the binder, and handed them across the desk. “We’ll have one of the Constables type them up overnight; you look knackered.”
Peter blinked, surprised into a sincere “Thank you” as he accepted the papers. He sighed, wishing he was at his desk, with a lolly stash readily at hand. Resigned to his current sweet-free fate, he dug in his pockets for a pen, pulled his small notepad from his pocket and flipped through it, finding his notes from the scene, and began to write.
~-~
To be fair, McCoy didn’t seem so bad; he certainly appeared to be a perfectly nice man, keen on working together, on solving the case of who murdered the Met informant. Odd place to have an informant, really, so far from London-Peter wondered what he wasn’t being told, and what pitfalls may lay in wait.
Still, McCoy had been as good as his word, waiting for Peter to finish writing his section of the report before adding it to his own pile of papers and handing it off to a waiting Constable.
“When’s the last time you ate?” McCoy asked as they walked out to the car, giving Peter pause. He’d had a quick bite when he and Penny were working on their reports that morning-it seemed days ago-and Louise had forced a half-sandwich on him when he met up with Penny at her café…
It occurred to Peter that he’d not even thought to snack since then.
“Hours ago?” he finally offered.
“And when’d you last sleep?”
His partner sounded like Rose. The thought caused his lips to quirk, and a note of amusement to enter his voice. “A while ago. We’d been running surveillance, there, at the end.”
“Ah.” McCoy nodded to himself before sliding into the car. “D’you often make a habit of fasting on cases?”
“My girlfriend would say so, yes.” Penny probably would, as well, but it was Rose who was always vocal about it, asking with every phone call, every letter, whether he was eating properly, if he had been sleeping.
“Hmm. The hotel is on-” McCoy dug around, flipping through the papers he’d brought with him. “Lorend. You know how to get there?”
Sassenach, he thought reflexively. “Lonend? That I can.”
Elias replied with a curve of his lips; Peter pursed his, and turned to drive into the centre of town.
They’d been booked into a hotel in the heart of Paisley, a posh establishment occupying a former flour mill. Peter had passed it dozens of times in his life, but had never had cause to step inside; he wondered if any of his former, pre-Uni circle of friends had. He hoped none of them worked there-he was in no mood to deal with his past.
None of them appeared to work at reception, at any rate, and he was soon in possession of a large, ornate room key, along with a map of the hotel. McCoy was staying on a different floor, and the two of them parted in the lobby after agreeing to meet again in the hotel bar after a reasonable amount of time.
His room was gorgeous-a large airy space filled with reproduction antiques in dark wood-although it would have been prettier without the tartan fabric upholstering everything-and he hastily unpacked his carryall. He’d not brought much-a few shirts, a few pairs of trousers, some jumpers, all which he hung with care in the wardrobe. He placed his toilet kit in the en suite, gently removing his shaving kit. Rose had bought it for him when she learned that he used a mug and brush, not canned shaving crème; she’d been fascinated by the process, and had presented him with the kit-a soft container holding a travel brush and small wooden covered bowl for the soap, with room for his razor-with a shy smile shortly after he’d told her he loved her. He ran his fingers gently over the curved wooden lid of the bowl, before closing the kit and returning to the room.
He glanced around before sinking with relief upon the double bed, exhaustion washing through him as he finally had time to rest. He pulled his phone from his pocket, glancing at it-tempted to call Rose in spite of knowing she couldn’t answer, simply wanting to hear her voice on her message. He set the gadget down with a sigh; he had to meet McCoy downstairs within the next five minutes, and he’d need far more time than that if he heard Rose’s voice.
McCoy was waiting for him in the bar of the hotel, changed now into jeans and a sweatshirt. The Londoner looked older, somehow, now that he was out of his suit, and infinitely more human. Peter felt himself relax, and slid onto the stool next to his colleague. He motioned the barman over, ordering a local ale before turning to McCoy.
“What’ve I not been told about this?” he asked without preamble.
McCoy took a sip of his whiskey; the heathen had ruined it with ice. “What do you mean?”
The barman delivered Peter’s ale before discreetly wandering off again. Peter pulled the drink towards him, gazing down at the foam as he turned the glass. “I mean, you lot don’t keep snitches up here unless there’s a very good reason. And while I don’t much care about the reason, I do care very much about not walking into a hornets’ nest.” He looked up, holding McCoy’s steady gaze.
The man didn’t answer, instead shifting, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a ten-pound note. He waved the barman over, ensuring the note would cover the bill, before standing. “Let’s chat.” He picked up his glass, turning, waiting for Peter to follow.
Peter sighed, picking up his pint and taking a long sip before moving to follow McCoy across to a corner table. The bar was nearly empty, the sound of the football match on the telly filling the space around them, and they settled in to-Peter hoped-talk.
Peter slowly drank his ale, watching McCoy as he sorted out what to share and what to keep back. It occurred to him that he could always call in a favour, could ask Jake to run some information on McCoy, or on Shields, if what McCoy was about to share didn’t add up. Jake was still in Greenwich, anchoring whatever it was Rose and the team were doing-she’d made a point of telling Peter to go through Jake if he needed to talk to her urgently-and it would be as simple as making the call. He gazed once more at his ale, wondering if that would be an abuse of the relationship he’d built with Rose, asking one of her friends to do that.
“You’re right. It’s not usual to have someone up here.”
Peter glanced up, startled. He’d forgotten, for a moment, about the man sitting to his left.
“I can’t tell you much-not yet, not without getting approval to-but I can tell you that you’re not being set up. I hope not, because if you are, so am I. I can tell you that Shields was critical to an investigation we had going on, based out of London, a case which we were close to finishing. And I can tell you that his death caused a lot of shouting in the offices this morning.”
“Ah.” Peter took a thoughtful sip from his rapidly emptying glass. He weighed a question in his mind, before deciding to take the plunge and ask it. “What kind of clearance will I need to know the full story?”
“Clearance?”
“Clearance. You know, to share secrets. I assume this is a controlled case, if he was so critical and yet you can’t tell me why.”
McCoy blinked, surprised. “I…”
“Let me know what you need; I’ve been through this before,” he said mildly. He nonchalantly took another sip of ale, watching McCoy out of the corner of his eye and noting the rigidity with which he sat, how he was clearly working through some question.
“I will do,” McCoy finally replied, taking a sip of whiskey.
“Knowing that you can’t tell me much, why don’t you share the rest of what you can? And then why don’t we work out what it is that I can do to help you solve this thing?” Peter was startled by the offer even as he made it-he must be exhausted, to be so trusting of someone so quickly.
“Right. Good plan.” McCoy set his no doubt horribly watered-down beverage aside, and leaned forward. “Here are the basics…”
The basics were that the body had been found earlier that day, towards the end of the morning commute. One of the station cleaners had been waved down by a teenager who’d been scrounging for scrap metal along the verge. He’d walked the woman over to the general vicinity before scampering off; and she’d dialed 999 as soon as she saw the form of the dead man on the ground. The GGC had cordoned off the perimeter, had interviewed the witnesses; Martin Shields was well-known to them, and the body had been identified at the scene by one of the PCs. The Met had been alerted shortly thereafter, resulting in the shouting McCoy had already referenced.
“The only good thing, I think, was that GGC is so short-staffed currently. It provided a nice chance to send someone up to help,” McCoy said, picking up his glass and swirling the contents around.
“And did no one question why the Met would be the ones sending someone, and not Ayrshire or somewhere nearby?”
“If someone offered you help when you desperately needed it, would you question the motivation?”
Well, yes-he would. Peter drained his glass, opting to hold his tongue. McCoy continued.
“We asked for someone from GGC to partner with us, naturally. They got back to us right before I left, saying we’d get you instead. No offense.”
“None taken.” And the truth was, he wasn’t offended. He’d worked out, long ago, that he worked for a small force in a backwater of the country. He was very good at his job-better than the majority of his co-workers, without question-but he knew his bona fides were less than impressive on paper.
“How long have you worked in North Lakes?”
“Oh, well nigh on a decade, now.”
McCoy raised his eyebrows, but took a sip of his drink instead of commenting.
“And how long have you been in London, then?” asked Peter.
“The same.” Ice rattled in the glass as McCoy set his drink down. “What say we get dinner?” He pushed back, standing, indicating that it wasn’t a question, and Peter slowly followed.
The restaurant at the hotel was a bit more posh than either of them were in the mood for, and they opted for dinner at one of the local pubs instead. The food was excellent, and exactly what Peter needed, and by the end of the meal he found he didn’t much mind being seconded to a place filled with so many personal ghosts. Rose, he thought, would be proud.
He felt a pang at the thought of her. He missed her. He’d grown used to having her at the other end of the line when he needed or just wanted her, available to offer support or insight, and most importantly her love. He’d not realized just how much he relied on it-how much he depended on it.
“So you’ve a girlfriend, then?” McCoy asked conversationally as the meal ended. They’d made small talk throughout, McCoy talking about football, about the weather, and about a thousand other small topics safe for discussion between strangers thrown together. Peter had managed to avoid talking much at all about his personal life, content instead to let McCoy rattle on, to carry the conversation; whenever McCoy had asked Peter something that neared the personal, he’d dodged the questions as best he could. This one, though, he couldn’t dodge-not since he’d already told McCoy he did.
“I do. And you?”
“Married these eight years now.”
“Ah.”
“Is your girlfriend in Kendal?”
“No, although I met her there.” Peter heard the tension in his voice, a reflex borne of protecting Rose-and their relationship-from public scrutiny. “Have you any children?”
McCoy laughed. “Mercy, no. The wife is in the force as well-it’d be a bloody nightmare to try to juggle our schedules to care for a small one. Maybe one of these days.”
By the end of the meal, Peter knew more about McCoy than he did about the majority of people with whom he worked on a daily basis. The man certainly was talkative-and he continued to talk as they walked back to the hotel, chatting now about a previous trip through Scotland, years before. “Edinburgh was nothing like I’d expected-hard to believe it was once the capitol.”
“Glasgow’s the far better city.”
“You’re from here.”
“Aye.”
“And your family are still here?”
“My parents are dead,” Peter replied bluntly, hoping it would be enough to keep McCoy from continuing that line of questioning, that he’d not ask if he had any siblings.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a while.” They’d reached the hotel, and he jerked the heavy glass door open. “I’ve lived in Kendal for nigh on half my life now.”
McCoy followed him into the lobby, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “But you come back. To Glasgow.”
Peter looked at him, silent, waiting to see where he was going.
“You don’t drive like someone who’s not been back for years.”
“Indeed. What time shall we start tomorrow?” Peter looked down at his watch, hoping he looked as exhausted as he felt. He really didn’t want to get into his past-not tonight, and certainly not with a complete stranger who he only marginally trusted.
“Care to meet for breakfast?”
“Coffee, certainly.”
“Half seven, then.”
Peter nodded his head, turning to slowly climb the stairs.
“Good night, Peter.”
Peter froze-Rose was the only person who’d ever said that to him, outside of his immediate family. “See you tomorrow,” he answered, finally, before continuing up to his room.
~-~
The alarm pulled him out of a very odd dream, and Peter groaned as he rolled over, hand flailing in search of the snooze button. The room was still dark and cold, and he groaned as he finally silenced the annoying shriek of the alarm. He stretched, finding the switch for the lamp, eventually sitting up and trying to come awake.
He’d managed to set the clock and take off his shoes the night previous, and had crawled into bed mostly-clothed. He was still exhausted, though, and wondered if he’d ever be able to catch up on sleep.
He showered quickly, took a few minutes to brush his teeth and swipe a razor over the stubble which seemed to grow with alarming speed, and finally wandered back out into the main room. He glanced at the clothes he’d slept in, now piled at the foot of the bed, and stifled a sigh; he’d have to send them out for cleaning today. It took a few minutes to find the form and the bag for cleaning-what idiot had decided the desk was the best place for those things-and he wound up having to get dressed quickly in order to meet McCoy for breakfast. Dark trousers were pulled on, followed by one of his interchangeable white shirts; a dark blue jumper completed the outfit, along with dark socks and his comfortable black shoes. He had a feeling he’d be spending quite a lot of time interviewing people in the next few days-he may as well look presentable.
His phone chirped as he was reaching for his coat; he moved to the bedside table, grabbing for the small object, hoping it would be Rose. It was-just a short text from her, but more than he’d had in days.
“Busy still. Miss you. Love, Rose. PS-Be sure to eat.”
He grinned, his fingers flying over the keys as he typed a short reply; as he hit send, he glanced up, noting that he was precariously close to running late. He slid the phone into his pocket, snatched his wallet and notepad from the desk, and checked that he had his key before moving out into the hallway.
McCoy was already waiting for him, seated at a table in the corner of the small breakfast room. Peter draped his coat over the back of his chair, noting that there was already a cup of steaming coffee at his place; he glanced at McCoy, uttering a slightly surprised “Thank you” as he sat.
“You’re welcome. I can’t live without coffee in the morning, thought you might be the same.”
Peter poured milk into the cup, added a healthy spoonful of sugar; he gave the contents a quick stir before scooping the cup up and taking a slow sip. Perfect.
“I see you are,” McCoy offered drily, before returning his attention to the paper.
Food had been laid out on the sideboard, and Peter helped himself to eggs and some dry-looking toast, ignoring the tragically overcooked bacon. He paused to collect a glass of syrupy juice, and rejoined McCoy at their table.
They ate in silence, Peter scoffing the eggs and toast, draining the juice. He made short work of the coffee as well, and finally raised his eyes to note McCoy watching him with open amusement.
“What?”
“Nothing.” McCoy bent his head, slowly sawing at the bacon on his plate. Peter bristled at being a source of open amusement, reaching for the coffee press sitting in front of him and pouring a second cup.
More milk, more sugar; he nursed this cup, finally coming fully awake. He twisted, trying to read the paper upside-down, and finally gave in. “May I look at that?” He gestured towards the broadsheet, the cup of coffee still in his hand.
“Please do.” McCoy set his fork down, handing the paper over to Peter. “You’d be most interested, I imagine, in page five, top left.”
Peter set his coffee down, flipping through the paper to page five.
His heart sank-it was the gossip column. “Tyler tosses dour Detective!” was printed in bold, above a picture of Rose and him, both looking grim. Judging by the clothes the picture had been taken a few weeks before, when they’d gone out for dinner in Kendal. The restaurant had been a disaster, the food undercooked, the service terrible, and they’d both been a touch grumpy when they left to return to his house.
Bloody zanzare. And now he had a partner-a stranger, really-seated across from him, who knew exactly who his girlfriend was.
McCoy was looking steadily at him when he glanced up; Peter glared at him challengingly as he folded the paper and returned it to the table.
“You’re dating Rose Tyler.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, uttered quietly.
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
“I’d not pegged you as the type for the gossip columns,” Peter offered acidly, picking up his coffee and taking a sip.
“I’m not-I find the people I interact with to be far more entertaining.” McCoy’s voice was so carefully neutral, Peter got the impression he’d just been mocked. “My wife told me, last night, when I mentioned your name. I’ve never heard her so excited.”
“Ah.”
McCoy calmly buttered his toast-it had to be stone cold by now, surely-before continuing. “Do they follow you everywhere?”
“Who?”
“The media. The photographers.”
“I should hope not. Not of late, anyway.”
“Not here?”
Peter shuddered. “They’d best not.”
“Have they ever interfered in an investigation?”
“No.” And if they ever did he was quite certain he’d be suspended, because he’d physically harm the zanzare who interfered with him doing his job.
“Do you get recognized in the streets?”
“Only in Kendal, or only with…her.”
“Not here?”
“No.” Not yet, at any rate. He had the sneaking suspicion that if he was recognized in Glasgow, it would be because he’d grown up there, not because of the gossip columns. “Is this a problem, Inspector?”
McCoy glanced at him, surprised. “No-at least, it oughtn’t be. I was curious.”
Peter hmmed, unconvinced by the answer. He glanced at the nearly-empty coffee pot, and began to cast around for someone to provide more of the heavenly brew. One of the staff passed through and he flagged her down, extracting a promise of another pot of coffee in a few minutes.
“My wife had a litany of questions about it, you know,” McCoy finally said, his tone wry. “I told her tough.”
“That’s a relief.”
McCoy glanced down at his empty coffee cup, before meeting Peter’s eye. “Just how many partners have you been through in your career?”
“Enough.”
“I’m astonished, what with your sunny personality.”
“I’m not in this to make friends. I’m in it to do a good job.”
“And with that attitude, I can’t say I’m surprised either.” McCoy leaned forward. “Peter, I’m in this to do a good job, too. It’ll be easier for both of us if we can trust each other.”
Peter flashed back to his first weeks working with Rose-to their eventual truce several weeks in. Would the investigation have gone any differently if they’d not argued for those weeks?
“I’ve heard about North Lakes, you know.” McCoy leaned back, making room for the fresh pot of coffee which was placed on their table.
“I wasn’t aware there was anything to hear.”
“Work in London long enough, get enough fresh blood through, you’re bound to hear about just about anywhere. We had a transplant from up there, oh, five years ago? Said it was a right miserable place to work.”
“That’s delightful to hear, thank you.”
“More to the point, he said it was incredibly dysfunctional, and that there was no level of trust.”
Peter reached for the French Press, pushing the plunger down before pouring a fresh cup. He reached over, pouring a cup for McCoy as well, before setting the pot down and answering. “I couldn’t speak for working somewhere else. It is what it is.”
“I’m not condemning it, Carlisle. I’m just saying I come from a place where we try to get along with our colleagues.”
Peter set his spoon down with a clang, glaring at McCoy. “And so clearly I don’t. Lovely.” He took a sip of coffee, setting the cup down hard. “What’s the plan today?”
McCoy sighed. “Interview witnesses, see what has cropped up overnight.”
“Right. I’ll do my best to help solve this case, McCoy. I can’t make promises about anything else, coming as I do from a dysfunctional workplace where no one gets along and there’s no level of trust.” Peter glanced at the fresh pot of coffee, deciding not even it was enough to keep him at the table any longer. “Are we ready to go, then?”
Elias nodded slowly.
“Then let’s get to work.” Peter took a long sip from his coffee cup as he stood. Setting the half-full cup back on the table, he turned and stalked towards the door without a backwards glance.
______________
Chapter 3
End Note--Before you leap to correct me regarding the capital of Scotland (Edinburgh is truly a lovely city), the Glasgow-as-capital thing is quite deliberate.