Lewis fic: Love Knows Not Its Own Depth 1/5?
Story: Love Knows Not Its Own Depth
Author: wendymr
Characters: DI Robbie Lewis, DS James Hathaway, DCS Jean Innocent, Dr Laura Hobson, other canon and OC police officers etc
Rated: PG
Spoilers: Up to end of S5 (The Gift of Promise). No S6 spoilers
Summary: Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation (Kahlil Gibran)
With thanks to lindenharp for beta-reading. Warning: Work in progress, for those who prefer to wait until a story is finished.
Love Knows Not Its Own Depth
Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
- Kahlil Gibran 1883-1931
Chapter 1: Missing Person
Robbie pushes open the door to his shared office, already shaking his head in mock-exasperation. “Did you even go home last night?”
The office is empty. A glance at James’s desk shows him his sergeant’s computer is turned off, and the desk’s tidied as well, as it usually is when James leaves.
But James’s car is outside, parked in the same place as it was yesterday evening when Robbie left at around half-six - further away from the door than James usually prefers, but it was the only available space when they’d got back from interviewing a witness. Bit much of a coincidence that he’d have chosen to park there again, surely?
Nah. He’s obviously just gone out for breakfast after working all night, which means he’ll be back any minute. At which point Robbie will send him off home to sleep, after giving him a bollocking for staying overnight again - after all, they’ve got nothing on right now to justify that kind of effort and he can do without his sergeant wearing himself out for no reason.
Robbie shakes his head and goes in search of a coffee - yet another reason to be pissed off at James, since he isn’t around to get it for him.
***
Forty-five minutes later, there’s still no sign of James, and no messages on Robbie’s mobile - either voicemail or text. He’s called the duty sergeant and Dispatch: nothing. He’s keeping it low-key, though; no point letting Innocent know anything she doesn’t need to, after all.
This isn’t at all like Hathaway, and Robbie’s finding it difficult to concentrate on work, though he’s got enough of it on his desk. Case reports, cold cases Innocent wants the two of them to take a look at, performance reviews for his team, requests for information from other detectives and other forces - plenty to keep him busy and plenty that he’d normally be handing off to his sergeant, if said sergeant were actually where he should be.
Where the hell is he?
Robbie’s called James’s mobile several times now, and left messages the first couple of times. It’s just ringing out, though, and that’s unusual too. He tried the bloke’s home phone, in case James had decided he was too tired to drive whenever it was he left last night and left his car here. No answer there either.
By ten to ten, he’s given up pretending to work and has sent a uniform car to Hathaway’s flat, and he paces his office until the PC reports in. No sign of Hathaway, and a neighbour reports not having seen him since yesterday morning. The same neighbour apparently is used to hearing sounds in the evening - music, general movement around the flat (clearly either she has very acute hearing or the walls are paper-thin) but heard nothing at all last night or this morning.
Sod it. Robbie calls IT and puts a trace on James’s phone.
Two minutes later, Innocent appears in his office doorway. “When exactly were you going to tell me that Sergeant Hathaway is missing?”
“I can’t be certain that he’s missing, Ma’am,” he points out, but he’s frowning and rubbing his face.
“But he hasn’t turned up for work, isn’t answering his phone and there’s no sign of him at his flat. Correct?”
Robbie raises an eyebrow. “You’re very well-informed, Ma’am.”
Innocent just stops short of an impatient eye-roll, though her tone is tart as she responds. “It’s my job to be, especially where one of my officers is concerned. Now, what else have you done besides running a trace on his mobile?”
He exhales loudly. After all this time, doesn’t she trust him? James is his partner. Doesn’t she realise that he’ll be doing everything possible to find him? At the same time, he can’t over-react. “Nothing yet. Was waiting to see what turned up on his phone. If that’s a dead end too, I’ll put out an alert to all officers.”
Innocent nods. “Fine. Let me know if you hear anything, all right?” This time, he can hear the genuine concern in her voice, and he responds to it, letting his defensiveness drop.
“Will do, Ma’am.” Robbie’s phone starts ringing, and he’s already reaching for it. “Thanks.”
“We both know James,” she says, stalling Robbie as he’s about to answer. “This isn’t like him.”
“No, it’s not.” Which is why he’s so willing to treat this as a missing person case this soon. He picks up the phone. “Lewis.”
His gut’s churning by the time he replaces the receiver, though he manages to thank the tech before doing so. “Damnit!” he exclaims as his fist connects with the wall.
“Robbie?”
“They found his phone - in a bin.”
“Where?” Innocent’s tone is sharp.
“On the street, not ten yards from this place.” Right on their own doorstep. And if that’s not deliberate he’ll eat the mortarboard Hathaway no doubt has somewhere in his flat. “The ringer was muted.”
“Someone’s been clever.” Innocent’s worried too now. Damn! If only he’d done this sooner... But, no, they’ve got no idea what time Hathaway disappeared, so an hour or so probably wouldn’t have made any difference. “All right. I’ll raise the alarm with all units across the city - and the county, too. Robbie, get the CCTV checked and phone around the hospitals. Oh, and if you can supply a description of what James was wearing yesterday, that might help.”
“Right, Ma’am. Though we’ll get that off CCTV from earlier yesterday.” As another thought occurs to him, he adds, “I’ll get back onto IT, too; find out what time he logged off last night.”
Innocent nods. “Get onto it. And keep me updated. Find him, Robbie.”
***
An hour later, they’re little further forward. Robbie’s coordinating from his office, even though every instinct he possesses wants to be out hunting James down. He’s of most use here, he knows that.
SOCO’s been all over the bin where James’s phone was found, and they’re still waiting for a forensic report. IT recorded that James logged off his computer at 10:34 yesterday evening - not an all-nighter, but still considerably later than he should have been - and CCTV showed him leaving the station five minutes later. He stopped outside for a cigarette, and it looks as if he might have spoken to someone in the car park - and then the recording shows him moving to the left and off-camera. So far, there’s been no other sighting of him on CCTV anywhere in the city, though officers are still reviewing tape.
Descriptions and photos, as well as his warrant card number, have been distributed throughout the county, and Innocent’s getting ready to contact neighbouring forces as well. There’s no evidence so far of foul play, but the way the phone appears to have been dumped doesn’t suggest that Hathaway’s disappearance is his own doing. Still a faint possibility that it could be. He might have dropped it, Robbie reasons. He might have muted the ringer by accident, or deliberately switched it to vibrate if he was somewhere that a ringing phone wouldn’t have been appreciated - it’s not as if they never have to do that.
This doesn’t have to be a crime, or a suspicious disappearance. Not everything out of the ordinary is automatically cause for concern. Precautions are all well and good, but it’s still true that James could come strolling into the station any minute, wondering what all the fuss is about. Or so he’s trying to tell himself. But he knows he’s clutching at straws.
Robbie’s had one of the constables check all the hospitals, which has yielded one bit of relief: nothing. No-one brought in answering James’s description. Though right now part of him would be ecstatic if James were recovering in hospital: at least he’d know where his sergeant is. Not like this uncertainty - this growing fear that James might have been kidnapped, might be being held captive by someone with a grudge against him, or even just against the police.
And now he’s having to restrain himself from shouting at everyone within hearing distance, asking how one grown man - and a trained police detective at that - could just disappear without a trace in a day and age where communication is instantaneous and practically everything’s covered by CCTV. Instead, he counts to ten and then stands in the door of his office, looking out at the busy incident room.
“Hasn’t anyone got anything on the CCTV yet?”
He knows he’s being unfair - there are hours of footage to go through from all over the city. Night-time footage, too, and it has to be viewed frame by frame to ensure that there’s no chance of missing anything. But time’s ticking away, and in any missing person case time is of the essence. If this is an abduction, and there’s been no message, no demand, then whoever’s taken James is probably not looking to negotiate. Which means they need to find him before...
No.
Not before he’s badly hurt. Because Robbie, and the whole of Oxfordshire Police, won’t let that happen.
“Still looking, sir.” Julie’s the only DC brave enough to make eye contact, and he acknowledges her courage by nodding at her.
“Thanks, Julie. Keep working, all of you.”
He goes back to his desk and watches the tape of James smoking outside the station again, wishing he had Hathaway’s skills with the video software so he could slow it down, zoom in on parts of the picture and somehow manage to find those tiny clues that James so often pulls out of this kind of film. But if there’d been anything there to find, he reminds himself, the techs who’ve already been over this would have found it already.
He pauses the film and sits, focused on the image of his sergeant with the ubiquitous cigarette held to his lips. “James, lad, where are you?”
***
A tap on his door makes him look up. It’s Hooper, and Lewis already knows what he’s going to say by the look on his face.
Up until this moment, he’s not allowed himself to dwell on that possibility. Abducted, yes; held hostage, perhaps; beaten up and dumped somewhere in revenge for something or as a warning to the police, quite possibly. He’s run through every one of those scenarios in his head over and over. Not good, none of them, but just about bearable as long as they can find him.
Here and there over the past half-hour, he’s been trying to focus on the best-case scenario - clutching at shreds of evidence that might make it halfway credible. James could be chasing a lead, maybe, and just lost track of time. Though that doesn’t explain Hathaway’s car still outside, even if losing his phone was accidental - which he’s already concluded is unlikely. Met some friends, went for a few drinks, still sleeping it off on someone’s couch, maybe - except he doesn’t really seem to have friends. Spent the night with a woman and still in bed? But he doesn’t do that, either. The only times he has, though, it’s ended up in trouble. Trouble or not, that’s what Robbie’s been hoping for.
Not this.
“No,” he whispers, even as he gestures to Hooper to get on with it.
“A uniformed patrol just called in, sir.” Hooper’s voice is only barely steady. “They say they’ve found Sergeant Hathaway’s body.”
For a moment, he struggles to breathe. Something exerting the pressure of a vice is pressing against his chest. “Where?” he manages at last, getting to his feet.
“Canalside, out near Binsey. There’s a track and a clump of trees near the boathouse. They were out there looking for a stolen car - there was a report that there might’ve been a vehicle abandoned down the lane. They nearly didn’t see him at first ‘cause of the trees.”
Robbie’s already pushing past Hooper. “SOCO on the way?”
“They’re still at another incident, and so’s the pathologist, sir.” Hooper’s jogging along behind him. “They’ll be there soon as they can.”
Robbie glances back. He’s going to need someone to tag along. “Right, you’re with me. Get a move on.”
He runs down the stairs, shoving past anyone who has the temerity to get in his way, not stopping even as Innocent appears at the banister and calls his name. He barely waits for Hooper to close the car door before starting the engine.
“By the canal?” he questions, hands clenched around the steering-wheel. “How the hell did that happen?”
“They thought it might’ve been an accident, sir. Fell and hit his head.”
Doesn’t make sense. What the hell would Hathaway have been doing out at Binsey? Without his car? Though maybe he was with some other people. There’s the Trout along the towpath near there, though not by the sound of it all that close to where James was found. Maybe they were at the Perch? It’s not right on the canal, but it’s within walking distance. Close to a boathouse, too, if it’s the same boathouse Hooper mentioned.
God. He’s always known, in this job - they all do - that something like this could happen at any time, but why now? Why James? Damn it, first Morse, then Val, and now...
Concentrate on the job. He’s on the Botley Road now, just past the railway station. He floors the Insignia’s accelerator, flicking on the siren.
He’ll have to notify James’s family.
Wait. What family? James never talks about family, except one time when he mentioned an aunt, but she died, didn’t she? Motor neurone disease, that’s right. Sounded like it was a long time ago, too. The only time James did mention his parents was a couple of years back when they were on the Crevecoeur investigation, and it was very clear that he’d have preferred not to explain his connection to the estate. Beyond saying that his father was the estate manager, he’d said nothing else. And didn’t he say something about miserable childhoods that same day? He’d been talking about Zelinsky, but the implication was clear. His own hadn’t been a picnic. And ever since finding out the truth about that marquess Robbie has wondered...
Are James’s parents dead? If not dead, then estranged. After all, that time he ended up in hospital the admissions clerk had commented on the lack of next of kin in his health records.
If his parents are dead, then who is there?
There’s him. That’s about it, isn’t it? Hell. It’s gonna be like Morse all over again; by the time Morse died, his half-sister and her family’d moved halfway around the world, trying to escape their grief over the daughter who overdosed. There’d been only him and DCS Strange to see to the arrangements. No funeral then, at Morse’s express wishes, but only two years after that he’d had to arrange Val’s.
And now, assuming no next of kin can be found for Hathaway, he’s going to have to arrange another funeral. A Catholic one, at that, and what does he know about Catholics? Only what James has told him, or implied: about confessions and sin and guilt and, he thinks, James’s estrangement from the faith.
Better him than some stranger, or someone James wasn’t close to, though. ‘Cause if he never mentioned family, if he never took time off to see relations, never had family Christmases or anything like that, there had to be a reason for it, didn’t there?
Still, it’s not right. Not right at all that a lovely bloke like him had no-one at all to care about him. Well, no-one except the people who worked with him...
There’s the turnoff, the track leading past the Perch and on to the canal. And, at the end, a parked squad car and two uniforms standing next to it, looking nervous.
He pauses only long enough to find out exactly where Hathaway is, leaving Hooper to question them. He follows the trail away from the boathouse and towards the stand of trees indicated by the uniformed constable. This is definitely not a simple accident, not judging by the pressure-patterns in the grass and the broken branches. There was more than one person here recently, probably in the last few hours. Unless, of course...
“You didn’t disturb anything here?” He glances back, glaring at the two constables and gesturing at the grass.
“No, sir,” they both say, falling over themselves to reassure him. Though of course they’re lying. They practically stumbled over James’s body, or so Hooper told him, so of course they walked along this way.
He just nods. Then, past the next tree, he halts. Fabric - the light grey suit Hathaway was wearing yesterday. He’s there, crumpled on the ground, mostly on his side, with blood pooled under his ear. His blond hair’s matted and dirty with blood, a stark contrast to James’s normal fastidious neatness. There’s also bruising around his neck - strangulation, on top of the head injury. James’s face, in death, is even paler than usual, and he looks wretched, the anguish of struggling for breath, fighting for his life but recognising the inevitability of death, written all over his expression and in the defensive state of his fingers.
Robbie has to pause for a moment. His breathing’s all wrong.
The expression on James’s face... God, it reminds him. Just a couple of weeks ago, wasn’t it? It was that case involving MI5 and Zoe Suskin, and James was sick with arsenic poisoning, and he kept needling the lad. Telling him he was too intelligent, going on at him about being brainy and a child prodigy, as if there were something wrong with it. As if James could help it. And that’s how he looked. Hurt but resigned at the same time, as though he knew he couldn’t expect anything better.
James, do you never think you could be too clever for your own good?
Why’d he have to be so mean to the bloke? It was just... unnecessary. Cruel. It’s not as if he doesn’t know that James gets it - got it - from some of the rest of the team, including Hooper, but he’s never been like that himself. Never told the others off for it either, though, other than Hooper that once. And there he made himself just as bad as them. Worse, because James had a right to expect better from him.
Too late to make up for it now. Too late, too bloody...
James’s face has gone out of focus. Blurry, for some reason. Must’ve got something in his eye.
Robbie closes his eyes for a moment, then he makes himself crouch down and examine his partner’s body, taking care not to touch James or to disturb any potential evidence on or near the body. It’s only then he realises he’s not wearing a scene suit. Laura’ll have his head for this. But he’s not going back to the car for one now.
Cuts and bruises to the face - not from vegetation, that’s obvious. The necklace-style bruising around his neck, clearly from some sort of knobbly ligature. His wrist’s at an unnatural angle: broken, obviously, in the struggle. And then there’s the blood.
This wasn’t an accident. And Hathaway wasn’t on his own here. This is a murder investigation.
“Who killed you, lad?” he murmurs, his voice sounding unfamiliar to him. “What were you doin’ all the way out here? Why didn’t you tell me-?” He breaks off; there’s an obstruction in his throat. “Ah, James, why’d you have to go and get yourself-?”
Taking a shuddering breath, Robbie reaches into his pocket for his gloves. This is a crime scene, and he has a job to do - no matter that this is his sergeant, the man who’s become his best mate over the past few years. He’s going to do his job, and it’ll be the best damn investigation of his life. He’ll find out who killed James and put them away - and then that’ll be it for him. He’ll do as Lyn wants and retire.
If you go, I go.
Hathaway had it right. He won’t be carrying on with this job, not without James. How could he possibly work with anyone else?
And Laura was right, too, wasn’t she? Can’t expect people to know how you feel unless you tell them - and he never did. James did, though. He took that risk. The least Robbie could have done was reciprocate, instead of just staring at the bloke and then changing the subject.
Too late now.
Story of his life. He was too late to tell Morse what working with him had meant to him. Too late to tell Val he loved her that last time. And now too late...
Get on with it, Robbie. He swallows, pulling on the gloves mechanically.
Once they’re on, he reaches out and lays a couple of sheathed fingertips against James’s cheek - a momentary indulgence, a gesture of affectionate farewell before going about the business of solving a murder.
***
tbc in chapter 2, Next of Kin.
Author: wendymr
Characters: DI Robbie Lewis, DS James Hathaway, DCS Jean Innocent, Dr Laura Hobson, other canon and OC police officers etc
Rated: PG
Spoilers: Up to end of S5 (The Gift of Promise). No S6 spoilers
Summary: Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation (Kahlil Gibran)
With thanks to lindenharp for beta-reading. Warning: Work in progress, for those who prefer to wait until a story is finished.
Love Knows Not Its Own Depth
Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
- Kahlil Gibran 1883-1931
Chapter 1: Missing Person
Robbie pushes open the door to his shared office, already shaking his head in mock-exasperation. “Did you even go home last night?”
The office is empty. A glance at James’s desk shows him his sergeant’s computer is turned off, and the desk’s tidied as well, as it usually is when James leaves.
But James’s car is outside, parked in the same place as it was yesterday evening when Robbie left at around half-six - further away from the door than James usually prefers, but it was the only available space when they’d got back from interviewing a witness. Bit much of a coincidence that he’d have chosen to park there again, surely?
Nah. He’s obviously just gone out for breakfast after working all night, which means he’ll be back any minute. At which point Robbie will send him off home to sleep, after giving him a bollocking for staying overnight again - after all, they’ve got nothing on right now to justify that kind of effort and he can do without his sergeant wearing himself out for no reason.
Robbie shakes his head and goes in search of a coffee - yet another reason to be pissed off at James, since he isn’t around to get it for him.
***
Forty-five minutes later, there’s still no sign of James, and no messages on Robbie’s mobile - either voicemail or text. He’s called the duty sergeant and Dispatch: nothing. He’s keeping it low-key, though; no point letting Innocent know anything she doesn’t need to, after all.
This isn’t at all like Hathaway, and Robbie’s finding it difficult to concentrate on work, though he’s got enough of it on his desk. Case reports, cold cases Innocent wants the two of them to take a look at, performance reviews for his team, requests for information from other detectives and other forces - plenty to keep him busy and plenty that he’d normally be handing off to his sergeant, if said sergeant were actually where he should be.
Where the hell is he?
Robbie’s called James’s mobile several times now, and left messages the first couple of times. It’s just ringing out, though, and that’s unusual too. He tried the bloke’s home phone, in case James had decided he was too tired to drive whenever it was he left last night and left his car here. No answer there either.
By ten to ten, he’s given up pretending to work and has sent a uniform car to Hathaway’s flat, and he paces his office until the PC reports in. No sign of Hathaway, and a neighbour reports not having seen him since yesterday morning. The same neighbour apparently is used to hearing sounds in the evening - music, general movement around the flat (clearly either she has very acute hearing or the walls are paper-thin) but heard nothing at all last night or this morning.
Sod it. Robbie calls IT and puts a trace on James’s phone.
Two minutes later, Innocent appears in his office doorway. “When exactly were you going to tell me that Sergeant Hathaway is missing?”
“I can’t be certain that he’s missing, Ma’am,” he points out, but he’s frowning and rubbing his face.
“But he hasn’t turned up for work, isn’t answering his phone and there’s no sign of him at his flat. Correct?”
Robbie raises an eyebrow. “You’re very well-informed, Ma’am.”
Innocent just stops short of an impatient eye-roll, though her tone is tart as she responds. “It’s my job to be, especially where one of my officers is concerned. Now, what else have you done besides running a trace on his mobile?”
He exhales loudly. After all this time, doesn’t she trust him? James is his partner. Doesn’t she realise that he’ll be doing everything possible to find him? At the same time, he can’t over-react. “Nothing yet. Was waiting to see what turned up on his phone. If that’s a dead end too, I’ll put out an alert to all officers.”
Innocent nods. “Fine. Let me know if you hear anything, all right?” This time, he can hear the genuine concern in her voice, and he responds to it, letting his defensiveness drop.
“Will do, Ma’am.” Robbie’s phone starts ringing, and he’s already reaching for it. “Thanks.”
“We both know James,” she says, stalling Robbie as he’s about to answer. “This isn’t like him.”
“No, it’s not.” Which is why he’s so willing to treat this as a missing person case this soon. He picks up the phone. “Lewis.”
His gut’s churning by the time he replaces the receiver, though he manages to thank the tech before doing so. “Damnit!” he exclaims as his fist connects with the wall.
“Robbie?”
“They found his phone - in a bin.”
“Where?” Innocent’s tone is sharp.
“On the street, not ten yards from this place.” Right on their own doorstep. And if that’s not deliberate he’ll eat the mortarboard Hathaway no doubt has somewhere in his flat. “The ringer was muted.”
“Someone’s been clever.” Innocent’s worried too now. Damn! If only he’d done this sooner... But, no, they’ve got no idea what time Hathaway disappeared, so an hour or so probably wouldn’t have made any difference. “All right. I’ll raise the alarm with all units across the city - and the county, too. Robbie, get the CCTV checked and phone around the hospitals. Oh, and if you can supply a description of what James was wearing yesterday, that might help.”
“Right, Ma’am. Though we’ll get that off CCTV from earlier yesterday.” As another thought occurs to him, he adds, “I’ll get back onto IT, too; find out what time he logged off last night.”
Innocent nods. “Get onto it. And keep me updated. Find him, Robbie.”
***
An hour later, they’re little further forward. Robbie’s coordinating from his office, even though every instinct he possesses wants to be out hunting James down. He’s of most use here, he knows that.
SOCO’s been all over the bin where James’s phone was found, and they’re still waiting for a forensic report. IT recorded that James logged off his computer at 10:34 yesterday evening - not an all-nighter, but still considerably later than he should have been - and CCTV showed him leaving the station five minutes later. He stopped outside for a cigarette, and it looks as if he might have spoken to someone in the car park - and then the recording shows him moving to the left and off-camera. So far, there’s been no other sighting of him on CCTV anywhere in the city, though officers are still reviewing tape.
Descriptions and photos, as well as his warrant card number, have been distributed throughout the county, and Innocent’s getting ready to contact neighbouring forces as well. There’s no evidence so far of foul play, but the way the phone appears to have been dumped doesn’t suggest that Hathaway’s disappearance is his own doing. Still a faint possibility that it could be. He might have dropped it, Robbie reasons. He might have muted the ringer by accident, or deliberately switched it to vibrate if he was somewhere that a ringing phone wouldn’t have been appreciated - it’s not as if they never have to do that.
This doesn’t have to be a crime, or a suspicious disappearance. Not everything out of the ordinary is automatically cause for concern. Precautions are all well and good, but it’s still true that James could come strolling into the station any minute, wondering what all the fuss is about. Or so he’s trying to tell himself. But he knows he’s clutching at straws.
Robbie’s had one of the constables check all the hospitals, which has yielded one bit of relief: nothing. No-one brought in answering James’s description. Though right now part of him would be ecstatic if James were recovering in hospital: at least he’d know where his sergeant is. Not like this uncertainty - this growing fear that James might have been kidnapped, might be being held captive by someone with a grudge against him, or even just against the police.
And now he’s having to restrain himself from shouting at everyone within hearing distance, asking how one grown man - and a trained police detective at that - could just disappear without a trace in a day and age where communication is instantaneous and practically everything’s covered by CCTV. Instead, he counts to ten and then stands in the door of his office, looking out at the busy incident room.
“Hasn’t anyone got anything on the CCTV yet?”
He knows he’s being unfair - there are hours of footage to go through from all over the city. Night-time footage, too, and it has to be viewed frame by frame to ensure that there’s no chance of missing anything. But time’s ticking away, and in any missing person case time is of the essence. If this is an abduction, and there’s been no message, no demand, then whoever’s taken James is probably not looking to negotiate. Which means they need to find him before...
No.
Not before he’s badly hurt. Because Robbie, and the whole of Oxfordshire Police, won’t let that happen.
“Still looking, sir.” Julie’s the only DC brave enough to make eye contact, and he acknowledges her courage by nodding at her.
“Thanks, Julie. Keep working, all of you.”
He goes back to his desk and watches the tape of James smoking outside the station again, wishing he had Hathaway’s skills with the video software so he could slow it down, zoom in on parts of the picture and somehow manage to find those tiny clues that James so often pulls out of this kind of film. But if there’d been anything there to find, he reminds himself, the techs who’ve already been over this would have found it already.
He pauses the film and sits, focused on the image of his sergeant with the ubiquitous cigarette held to his lips. “James, lad, where are you?”
***
A tap on his door makes him look up. It’s Hooper, and Lewis already knows what he’s going to say by the look on his face.
Up until this moment, he’s not allowed himself to dwell on that possibility. Abducted, yes; held hostage, perhaps; beaten up and dumped somewhere in revenge for something or as a warning to the police, quite possibly. He’s run through every one of those scenarios in his head over and over. Not good, none of them, but just about bearable as long as they can find him.
Here and there over the past half-hour, he’s been trying to focus on the best-case scenario - clutching at shreds of evidence that might make it halfway credible. James could be chasing a lead, maybe, and just lost track of time. Though that doesn’t explain Hathaway’s car still outside, even if losing his phone was accidental - which he’s already concluded is unlikely. Met some friends, went for a few drinks, still sleeping it off on someone’s couch, maybe - except he doesn’t really seem to have friends. Spent the night with a woman and still in bed? But he doesn’t do that, either. The only times he has, though, it’s ended up in trouble. Trouble or not, that’s what Robbie’s been hoping for.
Not this.
“No,” he whispers, even as he gestures to Hooper to get on with it.
“A uniformed patrol just called in, sir.” Hooper’s voice is only barely steady. “They say they’ve found Sergeant Hathaway’s body.”
For a moment, he struggles to breathe. Something exerting the pressure of a vice is pressing against his chest. “Where?” he manages at last, getting to his feet.
“Canalside, out near Binsey. There’s a track and a clump of trees near the boathouse. They were out there looking for a stolen car - there was a report that there might’ve been a vehicle abandoned down the lane. They nearly didn’t see him at first ‘cause of the trees.”
Robbie’s already pushing past Hooper. “SOCO on the way?”
“They’re still at another incident, and so’s the pathologist, sir.” Hooper’s jogging along behind him. “They’ll be there soon as they can.”
Robbie glances back. He’s going to need someone to tag along. “Right, you’re with me. Get a move on.”
He runs down the stairs, shoving past anyone who has the temerity to get in his way, not stopping even as Innocent appears at the banister and calls his name. He barely waits for Hooper to close the car door before starting the engine.
“By the canal?” he questions, hands clenched around the steering-wheel. “How the hell did that happen?”
“They thought it might’ve been an accident, sir. Fell and hit his head.”
Doesn’t make sense. What the hell would Hathaway have been doing out at Binsey? Without his car? Though maybe he was with some other people. There’s the Trout along the towpath near there, though not by the sound of it all that close to where James was found. Maybe they were at the Perch? It’s not right on the canal, but it’s within walking distance. Close to a boathouse, too, if it’s the same boathouse Hooper mentioned.
God. He’s always known, in this job - they all do - that something like this could happen at any time, but why now? Why James? Damn it, first Morse, then Val, and now...
Concentrate on the job. He’s on the Botley Road now, just past the railway station. He floors the Insignia’s accelerator, flicking on the siren.
He’ll have to notify James’s family.
Wait. What family? James never talks about family, except one time when he mentioned an aunt, but she died, didn’t she? Motor neurone disease, that’s right. Sounded like it was a long time ago, too. The only time James did mention his parents was a couple of years back when they were on the Crevecoeur investigation, and it was very clear that he’d have preferred not to explain his connection to the estate. Beyond saying that his father was the estate manager, he’d said nothing else. And didn’t he say something about miserable childhoods that same day? He’d been talking about Zelinsky, but the implication was clear. His own hadn’t been a picnic. And ever since finding out the truth about that marquess Robbie has wondered...
Are James’s parents dead? If not dead, then estranged. After all, that time he ended up in hospital the admissions clerk had commented on the lack of next of kin in his health records.
If his parents are dead, then who is there?
There’s him. That’s about it, isn’t it? Hell. It’s gonna be like Morse all over again; by the time Morse died, his half-sister and her family’d moved halfway around the world, trying to escape their grief over the daughter who overdosed. There’d been only him and DCS Strange to see to the arrangements. No funeral then, at Morse’s express wishes, but only two years after that he’d had to arrange Val’s.
And now, assuming no next of kin can be found for Hathaway, he’s going to have to arrange another funeral. A Catholic one, at that, and what does he know about Catholics? Only what James has told him, or implied: about confessions and sin and guilt and, he thinks, James’s estrangement from the faith.
Better him than some stranger, or someone James wasn’t close to, though. ‘Cause if he never mentioned family, if he never took time off to see relations, never had family Christmases or anything like that, there had to be a reason for it, didn’t there?
Still, it’s not right. Not right at all that a lovely bloke like him had no-one at all to care about him. Well, no-one except the people who worked with him...
There’s the turnoff, the track leading past the Perch and on to the canal. And, at the end, a parked squad car and two uniforms standing next to it, looking nervous.
He pauses only long enough to find out exactly where Hathaway is, leaving Hooper to question them. He follows the trail away from the boathouse and towards the stand of trees indicated by the uniformed constable. This is definitely not a simple accident, not judging by the pressure-patterns in the grass and the broken branches. There was more than one person here recently, probably in the last few hours. Unless, of course...
“You didn’t disturb anything here?” He glances back, glaring at the two constables and gesturing at the grass.
“No, sir,” they both say, falling over themselves to reassure him. Though of course they’re lying. They practically stumbled over James’s body, or so Hooper told him, so of course they walked along this way.
He just nods. Then, past the next tree, he halts. Fabric - the light grey suit Hathaway was wearing yesterday. He’s there, crumpled on the ground, mostly on his side, with blood pooled under his ear. His blond hair’s matted and dirty with blood, a stark contrast to James’s normal fastidious neatness. There’s also bruising around his neck - strangulation, on top of the head injury. James’s face, in death, is even paler than usual, and he looks wretched, the anguish of struggling for breath, fighting for his life but recognising the inevitability of death, written all over his expression and in the defensive state of his fingers.
Robbie has to pause for a moment. His breathing’s all wrong.
The expression on James’s face... God, it reminds him. Just a couple of weeks ago, wasn’t it? It was that case involving MI5 and Zoe Suskin, and James was sick with arsenic poisoning, and he kept needling the lad. Telling him he was too intelligent, going on at him about being brainy and a child prodigy, as if there were something wrong with it. As if James could help it. And that’s how he looked. Hurt but resigned at the same time, as though he knew he couldn’t expect anything better.
James, do you never think you could be too clever for your own good?
Why’d he have to be so mean to the bloke? It was just... unnecessary. Cruel. It’s not as if he doesn’t know that James gets it - got it - from some of the rest of the team, including Hooper, but he’s never been like that himself. Never told the others off for it either, though, other than Hooper that once. And there he made himself just as bad as them. Worse, because James had a right to expect better from him.
Too late to make up for it now. Too late, too bloody...
James’s face has gone out of focus. Blurry, for some reason. Must’ve got something in his eye.
Robbie closes his eyes for a moment, then he makes himself crouch down and examine his partner’s body, taking care not to touch James or to disturb any potential evidence on or near the body. It’s only then he realises he’s not wearing a scene suit. Laura’ll have his head for this. But he’s not going back to the car for one now.
Cuts and bruises to the face - not from vegetation, that’s obvious. The necklace-style bruising around his neck, clearly from some sort of knobbly ligature. His wrist’s at an unnatural angle: broken, obviously, in the struggle. And then there’s the blood.
This wasn’t an accident. And Hathaway wasn’t on his own here. This is a murder investigation.
“Who killed you, lad?” he murmurs, his voice sounding unfamiliar to him. “What were you doin’ all the way out here? Why didn’t you tell me-?” He breaks off; there’s an obstruction in his throat. “Ah, James, why’d you have to go and get yourself-?”
Taking a shuddering breath, Robbie reaches into his pocket for his gloves. This is a crime scene, and he has a job to do - no matter that this is his sergeant, the man who’s become his best mate over the past few years. He’s going to do his job, and it’ll be the best damn investigation of his life. He’ll find out who killed James and put them away - and then that’ll be it for him. He’ll do as Lyn wants and retire.
If you go, I go.
Hathaway had it right. He won’t be carrying on with this job, not without James. How could he possibly work with anyone else?
And Laura was right, too, wasn’t she? Can’t expect people to know how you feel unless you tell them - and he never did. James did, though. He took that risk. The least Robbie could have done was reciprocate, instead of just staring at the bloke and then changing the subject.
Too late now.
Story of his life. He was too late to tell Morse what working with him had meant to him. Too late to tell Val he loved her that last time. And now too late...
Get on with it, Robbie. He swallows, pulling on the gloves mechanically.
Once they’re on, he reaches out and lays a couple of sheathed fingertips against James’s cheek - a momentary indulgence, a gesture of affectionate farewell before going about the business of solving a murder.
***
tbc in chapter 2, Next of Kin.