And So Things Go, 1/34
Title - And So Things Go (1/34)
Author -
jlrpuck
Rating - T
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes - This is the formal sequel to The Way of Things; it would help to have read that (or at least the last ten chapters of it) before following along with this, although if you know Peter and Rose are dating that should be enough to get you going. This is very much Peter’s story-although Rose does appear here and there ;)
I really can’t overemphasize how invaluable both
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 have been as I’ve written this story over the past several months. Both of them have acted as my beta’s, letting me know not only what worked, but what could be tweaked and must be outright corrected. Both of them provided excellent suggestions through-and-through, and you’ll find more than a few of their words and sentences worked into the story. Thank you, so very much, to both of you.
Chapters will be posted Mondays and Thursdays. Chapter lengths will vary-some are as short as four pages, and some are over ten. It’s just how the pacing worked ;)
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
“Carlisle,” Detective Inspector Peter Carlisle growled into the phone, not bothering to hide his impatience. He was halfway through writing the final report of his latest case, and he was on a roll; he was in no mood to be bothered with such a trifling thing as a call.
“Inspector. Get in here. Now.” As usual, the voice of Detective Chief Inspector Alec Williams held scorn and impatience.
Peter glanced down at the phone, surprised-Williams usually wandered into the squad room and bellowed when he was in the mood to yell at his most disliked DI. With a hasty “Aye,” Peter set the phone down and pushed back from his desk. “I’ll be back in a tick, Penny. If I go missing, check the usual place, eh?”
Detective Constable Charles Penington glanced up from his monitor, giving Peter a half-smile before returning to writing his part of the report. Peter wasn’t sure his partner had even heard him, but he didn’t have time to drive the point home. When Williams was of a mood-which, with Peter, seemed to be always-it was best to just go in, get yelled at, and say as little as possible. He paused only long enough to dig a lolly from his desk drawer, before weaving his way through the bodies and desks in the squad room, reaching the door to the DCI’s office a scant minute after being summoned.
“Door closed,” the DCI barked, not bothering to look at Peter. Peter turned, pushing the door closed with a bit more force than necessary, feeling a small flash of satisfaction as the DCI jumped when the door slammed shut. “Sit down.”
Peter sat, slowly unwrapping the sweet and putting it in his mouth. Williams loved to jerk him around-to summon him and make him wait, to dance around topics and make Peter guess what was wrong, why he was being yelled at. He was only ever invited into the hallowed space to be dressed down; the one time he’d been heaped with praise-by the Detective Chief Superintendent, not the DCI-it had been in one of the interrogation rooms, surrounded by documents and evidence bags from the McGreevy investigation, both he and Penny half-crazed from sleep deprivation as they worked to put the final touches on the case before it went to prosecution. Peter sometimes wondered if he’d been so sleep deprived as to have imagined it.
The DCI ignored him for a few minutes more; Peter slowly turned the lolly over in his mouth, gazing for what seemed like the thousandth time at the plaques and pictures and letters decorating the DCI’s walls. The blinds covering the window were open, and he spent several moments watching a PC argue with a yob, fighting down a chuckle when the yob stormed towards the entrance to the station, the PC trailing behind.
“Is your case finished?” Williams barked the question, pulling Peter’s attention away from the window and back to the desk.
“The burglary? Yes.”
“The reports?”
“Almost.”
“Good. You’re being seconded.”
Peter couldn’t hide his surprise. Since Blackpool, he’d been kept under close watch, Williams keeping him in Kendal, monitoring what it was he was doing, looking for an opportunity to finally be rid of his pesky DI permanently. Things hadn’t improved since he’d lucked into the Torchwood case; if anything, they had been worse, Williams resenting him for his success months before. “Where to, sir, and when?”
“Immediately, and to the Met.”
“The Met.” He had to be imagining things. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep on his desk, the nights spent staking out their main suspect in his latest case finally catching up with him. It was the only explanation-Williams would never deliberately send him to London.
“To the Met. Don’t think this is your chance to go chasing your piece of skirt, either--you’re to meet your point of contact in Glasgow.”
“What?” Now he knew he was dreaming. There was no reason for the Met to have anybody in the Scottish capital. Then again, Williams referring to Rose so cavalierly was so true to form, so in keeping with the snide asides he’d offer wandering by Peter’s desk, that Peter decided he was, indeed, quite wide awake.
“Don’t ask me. The Greater Glasgow Constabulary is overwhelmed and can’t spare a body to babysit the DI from London; we’re the closest force with an available body. You’re it. You’re due up there in-“ Williams paused to glance at his watch. “Four hours. Meet your man at the Glasgow air field.”
Four hours? Blasted Williams-he’d not have any time at all to catch some sleep before driving north.
“What of Penington?”
“Your DC will remain here, Inspector-which means you’ll have to actually do some work.” Williams was clearly trying to provoke him. Peter held his tongue, letting the practicalities involved become his focus. He’d have to finish his report, fast. Go home, find clean clothes, pack. Stop by the café and ask Louise to keep an eye on things, and the zanzare out of the shrubbery. Not that he expected them to be in the shrubbery-but in the months since the news broke that he and Rose Tyler were dating, he’d learned to expect the unexpected.
Rose. She was still out of touch, off on a mission to “a place I can’t tell you about, but which is terribly warm”; he’d no idea when she was expected back, only knew she’d left earlier in the week for wherever warm spot she was. He missed her-missed knowing that she’d be up at the weekend, or that he’d be down to London for a few days. He’d be working with the Met, even if it was in Glasgow-perhaps he’d have to be down in London for work for a while?
Peter remained sat, holding the DCI’s gaze, watching the man shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny as he waited to be dismissed. “That’s all then, sir?” he finally asked, itching to be gone, not wanting to give Williams yet another reason to yell at him by standing up and leaving without dismissal.
“That’s all. Keep your nose clean for once.” Williams returned his attention to the paper in front of him, ignoring Peter as he stood, as he pulled the door open.
Peter didn’t bother to keep the door from slamming as he walked back to the squad room.
~-~
It was a near thing, but he pulled into the car park of the Glasgow airfield a scant four hours later. A ship was drifting lazily at its mooring, the afternoon sun painting it with stark shadows, and he rolled the windows down to catch the breeze before turning the engine off. It was a lovely day, and he relaxed a bit as the breeze began to waft through the car.
He’d been grateful to Penny when the DC had offered to gather up the travel info for his secondment while Peter went home to shower and change. Penny wasn’t a best friend, but he was far more than a mere acquaintance; Peter had found that he genuinely enjoyed working with the DC, that he trusted the younger man.
Freshly showered and ready to go up to Glasgow for the foreseeable future, Peter had met his partner at Louise’s. He gratefully took the paper with the relevant information on it-including the case details, something he’d not even thought to ask in the whirlwind of activity-before wishing Penny luck in his absence. Penny had laughed outright, observing that Peter would most likely have the worst of it, and wishing him luck in return. Louise had sent him off with a thermos of coffee, which he promptly consumed on the drive north, and that was that.
Sitting at the airfield in Glasgow, waiting for his contact to arrive, Peter glanced down at the slip of paper on the passenger seat, double-checking the information it contained. His temporary partner would be arriving on a London Metropolitan Police force zeppelin-a small one, he presumed-in five minutes, if he was on time. Penington’s scribble noted that his partner’s name was Elias McCoy, that he was an Inspector, and not much else.
He was distracted from reading the case details by the sound of a horn sounding-the signal to the ground crew to start preparing for the next arriving airship. He scanned the sky, finally seeing the outline of an approaching zeppelin. As it neared, sliding gracefully through the air, he was able to make out the seal of the Met. The deep blue and scarlet of the seal, picked out on the fins, contrasted with the bright white of the airship, and left no one in doubt of the ship’s provenance. He remained in his car, watching as the ground crew purposefully walked about the grassy field, bringing the airship in for docking. It wasn’t until the gangway was moved into place that he decided to emerge from his car, slowly making his way the short distance to the debarkation point.
There was only one person who exited the craft, a man of middling height and indeterminate age with a carryall in his hand, and he felt a brief flash of apprehension. What kind of case was this, if the Met were sending someone to Glasgow-and needed to do it quickly enough that they used an entire ship simply for one person?
“Detective Inspector Carlisle?” Oh, joy. A man who used titles, not names.
“Aye. Detective Inspector McCoy?”
“The very one. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His new partner was dressed in a smart brown suit, a crisp crème shirt and a patterned brown tie completing the outfit. A natty dresser-just what he looked for in a partner, he thought sarcastically.
“And you.” Peter took the proffered hand, shaking it firmly before returning his hands to his pockets. He’d taken to dressing a wee bit better since the zanzare had started snapping pictures of him at all hours and in any location--but he’d never be able to match the man next to him. Ah, well-he wasn’t in the business to be a centrefold; he wanted to work this case, solve it, and go home.
“I’m Elias, by the way.”
Peter blinked in surprise before nodding his head in acknowledgement, turning to walk towards his car. “I’m just parked over here, if you’ve everything,” he offered, awkwardly. He hated small talk, hated the awkwardness of being trapped with someone he didn’t know. Rose loved to tease him about it, and as he and Elias walked to his car he could hear her voice whispering, I know you can be perfectly chatty, Peter. He inwardly winced, thinking maybe he was supposed to have responded with ‘I’m Peter’ when McCoy had said he was Elias. He opened his mouth to say just that-and, perhaps, to at least try to make the dreaded small talk--when McCoy spoke up.
“I thought you were from North Lakes Constabulary.”
“I am,” he offered tersely.
“Ah. They send you up here because you’re a local, then?”
“I couldn’t say.” Peter opened the boot, jerking sharply upwards on the liftgate.
McCoy slung his bag carelessly into the small space. “Thanks.” He shut the liftgate, turning to Peter. “We’re meant to go to the scene directly. The GGC should be holding it for us.” McCoy used the abbreviation for the Greater Glasgow Constabulary, a far faster way of saying the local force’s name.
“Just tell me where.” Peter ground the words out before turning to walk to the driver’s door. His brief impulse to make small talk had run its course, and he suddenly felt every bit of his exhaustion. He was no longer in the mood to be sociable or chatty or even working a case in Scotland. He hoped it would be an easy one, and that he’d be rid of the Londoner before the end of the week.
He settled into the car, hastily snatching the paper from the passenger seat before McCoy sat down, stuffing it into the holder in his door as he started the engine. He glanced over at McCoy, awaiting direction; McCoy took his time belting in before turning to Peter.
“Generally speaking, we’re going towards Paisley.” He had a map on his lap, and was gazing at it intently. “Catch the M8.”
Paisley-Martin’s stomping grounds. Bloody hell. If this had anything to do with Martin he was…well, he was tempted to think he’d quit. But if he quit, Williams would win; perhaps Williams had known all along where the investigation would be, that it would touch on his brother. After all, Martin’s presence and activities were no secret, at least not in Peter’s personnel file. Then again, if Martin were in any trouble, he’d have known it already. Every other time he’d had even the remotest brush with the law, he’d called Peter even before his solicitor.
“Paisley it is.” He engaged the clutch, and began the short drive. They fell into silence, the hum of the engine the dominant noise in the car, changing pitch only when Peter shifted.
“Hillington Road.” McCoy’s voice broke the silence suddenly, and Peter rapidly downshifted.
He finally couldn’t stand it, his curiosity demanding to be satisfied as they pulled off the motorway. “What is the case?” He stopped at the light at the top of the ramp, adding, “North or south?”
McCoy glanced at the map. “South.” He paused, before turning to look at Peter curiously. “Did no one brief you?”
“I’m afraid not-I was notified as I concluded my case this morning.” Sarcasm flooded his words as he circumnavigated the roundabout.
“Ah. One of our informants was murdered sometime overnight-a bloke by the name of Martin Shields.” Peter felt his stomach drop briefly as the dead man’s first name was said, felt the blood rush to his head as he heard the man’s surname. “Should be just along here-“ McCoy glanced at the map in his hands. “President Churchill Avenue, to the right. Just by the rail station.”
Peter saw the sign for the road, and made the turn fast enough that the tires squealed in protest. In front of him were several police cars, and crime scene tape was strung along a fence to their left. “If I were a betting man, I’d say we found it,” he observed.
McCoy looked at him. “Nice to see your powers of observation are fully functional.”
Peter didn’t know if he was irritated by the sarcasm or grudgingly appreciative of it. He thought it might possibly be both. He parked the car in one of the few available gaps to the side of the road, placing the gear in neutral before engaging the hand brake and tossing a police services placard on the dash. “How’s this going to work, then?”
“We’re partners-but as it’s a Met case, as far as the GGC are concerned I’m lead. Just let me know what you see up here, and we’ll talk after.”
Peter bristled automatically at being given orders so casually, swallowing his retort as he unbuckled his lap belt. He just had to get through this, and he’d schedule some time off. Rose would surely be back by then, and the two of them could escape to Croy-so close, given where he currently was-and just be together. Sleeping in, snuggling by the fire…it was far too cold to swim, but they could certainly walk along the shore…
“Carlisle?” McCoy had already opened his door and stood, and was peering down at him impatiently.
“Right.” Peter shut the car off, hastily exiting the car and following his new partner.
~ - ~
Chapter 2
Author -
jlrpuck
Rating - T
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes - This is the formal sequel to The Way of Things; it would help to have read that (or at least the last ten chapters of it) before following along with this, although if you know Peter and Rose are dating that should be enough to get you going. This is very much Peter’s story-although Rose does appear here and there ;)
I really can’t overemphasize how invaluable both
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 have been as I’ve written this story over the past several months. Both of them have acted as my beta’s, letting me know not only what worked, but what could be tweaked and must be outright corrected. Both of them provided excellent suggestions through-and-through, and you’ll find more than a few of their words and sentences worked into the story. Thank you, so very much, to both of you.
Chapters will be posted Mondays and Thursdays. Chapter lengths will vary-some are as short as four pages, and some are over ten. It’s just how the pacing worked ;)
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
“Carlisle,” Detective Inspector Peter Carlisle growled into the phone, not bothering to hide his impatience. He was halfway through writing the final report of his latest case, and he was on a roll; he was in no mood to be bothered with such a trifling thing as a call.
“Inspector. Get in here. Now.” As usual, the voice of Detective Chief Inspector Alec Williams held scorn and impatience.
Peter glanced down at the phone, surprised-Williams usually wandered into the squad room and bellowed when he was in the mood to yell at his most disliked DI. With a hasty “Aye,” Peter set the phone down and pushed back from his desk. “I’ll be back in a tick, Penny. If I go missing, check the usual place, eh?”
Detective Constable Charles Penington glanced up from his monitor, giving Peter a half-smile before returning to writing his part of the report. Peter wasn’t sure his partner had even heard him, but he didn’t have time to drive the point home. When Williams was of a mood-which, with Peter, seemed to be always-it was best to just go in, get yelled at, and say as little as possible. He paused only long enough to dig a lolly from his desk drawer, before weaving his way through the bodies and desks in the squad room, reaching the door to the DCI’s office a scant minute after being summoned.
“Door closed,” the DCI barked, not bothering to look at Peter. Peter turned, pushing the door closed with a bit more force than necessary, feeling a small flash of satisfaction as the DCI jumped when the door slammed shut. “Sit down.”
Peter sat, slowly unwrapping the sweet and putting it in his mouth. Williams loved to jerk him around-to summon him and make him wait, to dance around topics and make Peter guess what was wrong, why he was being yelled at. He was only ever invited into the hallowed space to be dressed down; the one time he’d been heaped with praise-by the Detective Chief Superintendent, not the DCI-it had been in one of the interrogation rooms, surrounded by documents and evidence bags from the McGreevy investigation, both he and Penny half-crazed from sleep deprivation as they worked to put the final touches on the case before it went to prosecution. Peter sometimes wondered if he’d been so sleep deprived as to have imagined it.
The DCI ignored him for a few minutes more; Peter slowly turned the lolly over in his mouth, gazing for what seemed like the thousandth time at the plaques and pictures and letters decorating the DCI’s walls. The blinds covering the window were open, and he spent several moments watching a PC argue with a yob, fighting down a chuckle when the yob stormed towards the entrance to the station, the PC trailing behind.
“Is your case finished?” Williams barked the question, pulling Peter’s attention away from the window and back to the desk.
“The burglary? Yes.”
“The reports?”
“Almost.”
“Good. You’re being seconded.”
Peter couldn’t hide his surprise. Since Blackpool, he’d been kept under close watch, Williams keeping him in Kendal, monitoring what it was he was doing, looking for an opportunity to finally be rid of his pesky DI permanently. Things hadn’t improved since he’d lucked into the Torchwood case; if anything, they had been worse, Williams resenting him for his success months before. “Where to, sir, and when?”
“Immediately, and to the Met.”
“The Met.” He had to be imagining things. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep on his desk, the nights spent staking out their main suspect in his latest case finally catching up with him. It was the only explanation-Williams would never deliberately send him to London.
“To the Met. Don’t think this is your chance to go chasing your piece of skirt, either--you’re to meet your point of contact in Glasgow.”
“What?” Now he knew he was dreaming. There was no reason for the Met to have anybody in the Scottish capital. Then again, Williams referring to Rose so cavalierly was so true to form, so in keeping with the snide asides he’d offer wandering by Peter’s desk, that Peter decided he was, indeed, quite wide awake.
“Don’t ask me. The Greater Glasgow Constabulary is overwhelmed and can’t spare a body to babysit the DI from London; we’re the closest force with an available body. You’re it. You’re due up there in-“ Williams paused to glance at his watch. “Four hours. Meet your man at the Glasgow air field.”
Four hours? Blasted Williams-he’d not have any time at all to catch some sleep before driving north.
“What of Penington?”
“Your DC will remain here, Inspector-which means you’ll have to actually do some work.” Williams was clearly trying to provoke him. Peter held his tongue, letting the practicalities involved become his focus. He’d have to finish his report, fast. Go home, find clean clothes, pack. Stop by the café and ask Louise to keep an eye on things, and the zanzare out of the shrubbery. Not that he expected them to be in the shrubbery-but in the months since the news broke that he and Rose Tyler were dating, he’d learned to expect the unexpected.
Rose. She was still out of touch, off on a mission to “a place I can’t tell you about, but which is terribly warm”; he’d no idea when she was expected back, only knew she’d left earlier in the week for wherever warm spot she was. He missed her-missed knowing that she’d be up at the weekend, or that he’d be down to London for a few days. He’d be working with the Met, even if it was in Glasgow-perhaps he’d have to be down in London for work for a while?
Peter remained sat, holding the DCI’s gaze, watching the man shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny as he waited to be dismissed. “That’s all then, sir?” he finally asked, itching to be gone, not wanting to give Williams yet another reason to yell at him by standing up and leaving without dismissal.
“That’s all. Keep your nose clean for once.” Williams returned his attention to the paper in front of him, ignoring Peter as he stood, as he pulled the door open.
Peter didn’t bother to keep the door from slamming as he walked back to the squad room.
~-~
It was a near thing, but he pulled into the car park of the Glasgow airfield a scant four hours later. A ship was drifting lazily at its mooring, the afternoon sun painting it with stark shadows, and he rolled the windows down to catch the breeze before turning the engine off. It was a lovely day, and he relaxed a bit as the breeze began to waft through the car.
He’d been grateful to Penny when the DC had offered to gather up the travel info for his secondment while Peter went home to shower and change. Penny wasn’t a best friend, but he was far more than a mere acquaintance; Peter had found that he genuinely enjoyed working with the DC, that he trusted the younger man.
Freshly showered and ready to go up to Glasgow for the foreseeable future, Peter had met his partner at Louise’s. He gratefully took the paper with the relevant information on it-including the case details, something he’d not even thought to ask in the whirlwind of activity-before wishing Penny luck in his absence. Penny had laughed outright, observing that Peter would most likely have the worst of it, and wishing him luck in return. Louise had sent him off with a thermos of coffee, which he promptly consumed on the drive north, and that was that.
Sitting at the airfield in Glasgow, waiting for his contact to arrive, Peter glanced down at the slip of paper on the passenger seat, double-checking the information it contained. His temporary partner would be arriving on a London Metropolitan Police force zeppelin-a small one, he presumed-in five minutes, if he was on time. Penington’s scribble noted that his partner’s name was Elias McCoy, that he was an Inspector, and not much else.
He was distracted from reading the case details by the sound of a horn sounding-the signal to the ground crew to start preparing for the next arriving airship. He scanned the sky, finally seeing the outline of an approaching zeppelin. As it neared, sliding gracefully through the air, he was able to make out the seal of the Met. The deep blue and scarlet of the seal, picked out on the fins, contrasted with the bright white of the airship, and left no one in doubt of the ship’s provenance. He remained in his car, watching as the ground crew purposefully walked about the grassy field, bringing the airship in for docking. It wasn’t until the gangway was moved into place that he decided to emerge from his car, slowly making his way the short distance to the debarkation point.
There was only one person who exited the craft, a man of middling height and indeterminate age with a carryall in his hand, and he felt a brief flash of apprehension. What kind of case was this, if the Met were sending someone to Glasgow-and needed to do it quickly enough that they used an entire ship simply for one person?
“Detective Inspector Carlisle?” Oh, joy. A man who used titles, not names.
“Aye. Detective Inspector McCoy?”
“The very one. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His new partner was dressed in a smart brown suit, a crisp crème shirt and a patterned brown tie completing the outfit. A natty dresser-just what he looked for in a partner, he thought sarcastically.
“And you.” Peter took the proffered hand, shaking it firmly before returning his hands to his pockets. He’d taken to dressing a wee bit better since the zanzare had started snapping pictures of him at all hours and in any location--but he’d never be able to match the man next to him. Ah, well-he wasn’t in the business to be a centrefold; he wanted to work this case, solve it, and go home.
“I’m Elias, by the way.”
Peter blinked in surprise before nodding his head in acknowledgement, turning to walk towards his car. “I’m just parked over here, if you’ve everything,” he offered, awkwardly. He hated small talk, hated the awkwardness of being trapped with someone he didn’t know. Rose loved to tease him about it, and as he and Elias walked to his car he could hear her voice whispering, I know you can be perfectly chatty, Peter. He inwardly winced, thinking maybe he was supposed to have responded with ‘I’m Peter’ when McCoy had said he was Elias. He opened his mouth to say just that-and, perhaps, to at least try to make the dreaded small talk--when McCoy spoke up.
“I thought you were from North Lakes Constabulary.”
“I am,” he offered tersely.
“Ah. They send you up here because you’re a local, then?”
“I couldn’t say.” Peter opened the boot, jerking sharply upwards on the liftgate.
McCoy slung his bag carelessly into the small space. “Thanks.” He shut the liftgate, turning to Peter. “We’re meant to go to the scene directly. The GGC should be holding it for us.” McCoy used the abbreviation for the Greater Glasgow Constabulary, a far faster way of saying the local force’s name.
“Just tell me where.” Peter ground the words out before turning to walk to the driver’s door. His brief impulse to make small talk had run its course, and he suddenly felt every bit of his exhaustion. He was no longer in the mood to be sociable or chatty or even working a case in Scotland. He hoped it would be an easy one, and that he’d be rid of the Londoner before the end of the week.
He settled into the car, hastily snatching the paper from the passenger seat before McCoy sat down, stuffing it into the holder in his door as he started the engine. He glanced over at McCoy, awaiting direction; McCoy took his time belting in before turning to Peter.
“Generally speaking, we’re going towards Paisley.” He had a map on his lap, and was gazing at it intently. “Catch the M8.”
Paisley-Martin’s stomping grounds. Bloody hell. If this had anything to do with Martin he was…well, he was tempted to think he’d quit. But if he quit, Williams would win; perhaps Williams had known all along where the investigation would be, that it would touch on his brother. After all, Martin’s presence and activities were no secret, at least not in Peter’s personnel file. Then again, if Martin were in any trouble, he’d have known it already. Every other time he’d had even the remotest brush with the law, he’d called Peter even before his solicitor.
“Paisley it is.” He engaged the clutch, and began the short drive. They fell into silence, the hum of the engine the dominant noise in the car, changing pitch only when Peter shifted.
“Hillington Road.” McCoy’s voice broke the silence suddenly, and Peter rapidly downshifted.
He finally couldn’t stand it, his curiosity demanding to be satisfied as they pulled off the motorway. “What is the case?” He stopped at the light at the top of the ramp, adding, “North or south?”
McCoy glanced at the map. “South.” He paused, before turning to look at Peter curiously. “Did no one brief you?”
“I’m afraid not-I was notified as I concluded my case this morning.” Sarcasm flooded his words as he circumnavigated the roundabout.
“Ah. One of our informants was murdered sometime overnight-a bloke by the name of Martin Shields.” Peter felt his stomach drop briefly as the dead man’s first name was said, felt the blood rush to his head as he heard the man’s surname. “Should be just along here-“ McCoy glanced at the map in his hands. “President Churchill Avenue, to the right. Just by the rail station.”
Peter saw the sign for the road, and made the turn fast enough that the tires squealed in protest. In front of him were several police cars, and crime scene tape was strung along a fence to their left. “If I were a betting man, I’d say we found it,” he observed.
McCoy looked at him. “Nice to see your powers of observation are fully functional.”
Peter didn’t know if he was irritated by the sarcasm or grudgingly appreciative of it. He thought it might possibly be both. He parked the car in one of the few available gaps to the side of the road, placing the gear in neutral before engaging the hand brake and tossing a police services placard on the dash. “How’s this going to work, then?”
“We’re partners-but as it’s a Met case, as far as the GGC are concerned I’m lead. Just let me know what you see up here, and we’ll talk after.”
Peter bristled automatically at being given orders so casually, swallowing his retort as he unbuckled his lap belt. He just had to get through this, and he’d schedule some time off. Rose would surely be back by then, and the two of them could escape to Croy-so close, given where he currently was-and just be together. Sleeping in, snuggling by the fire…it was far too cold to swim, but they could certainly walk along the shore…
“Carlisle?” McCoy had already opened his door and stood, and was peering down at him impatiently.
“Right.” Peter shut the car off, hastily exiting the car and following his new partner.
~ - ~
Chapter 2