Fic: Love Knows Not Its Own Depth 6/8
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.
Chapter 1: Missing Person ^ Chapter 2: Next of Kin ^ Chapter 3: Frustrations ^ Chapter 4: Progress ^ Chapter 5: Separated
Chapter 6: Avoidance
At the station, James thanks him so politely that Robbie wants to strangle him, then jogs up the additional flight of stairs towards his new office. “I’ll come for you around six,” Robbie calls after him.
James pauses at the half-landing. “No need to come up. Just text me when you’re ready to leave.”
“Okay,” he agrees, but James has already disappeared around the corner.
He stands for a moment staring at the empty space where his former sergeant was just a moment ago, then takes a deep breath and makes his way to his office.
Bennett’s not there yet, and he frowns before reminding himself that he did give her that report to read last night. Just because James is a workaholic doesn’t mean he has a right to expect that Chris will be as well - and of course she shouldn’t be. Anyway, she’s got two young kiddies, and a husband who’s also a copper. Bound to be a bit difficult getting off to work sometimes.
He calls Forensics to check on the DNA report on that cricket bat - both on the blood found on the blade and any prints that might be on the handle and shoulder. Not yet, he’s told, but maybe later today.
Bennett rushes in then, all apologies for being late, which he brushes aside, asking instead if there was anything of interest in the SOCO report. Her face falls. “I’m really sorry, sir. Mikey - my youngest - was sick last night and I didn’t get it finished.”
It’s a battle to squash down his irritation. Damn it, he wanted that report analysed, but it’s not as if he doesn’t know what kids can be like when they’re sick. All the same, when Morse sent him home with stuff to read when he was a sergeant he always got it done, sick kids or neglected wife regardless, even if it meant staying up late when everyone else was in bed. And no matter how much work he piled on James...
Ah, he has to stop thinking like that. Stop being a stick-in-the-mud, as Lyn’s always telling him, and if he can’t embrace change he just needs to learn to live with it.
***
There is something in the SOCO report. Stuck inside one of the books piled on Winters’ desk - which Bennett did check, and she’s so embarrassed about missing it that he can’t say more than a tart reminder to be more careful next time - was a letter from a Fellow of Lonsdale, accusing Winters of trying to destroy his reputation via a whispering campaign in the Senior Common Room. It’s dated a little less than a month ago.
“We need to-” Robbie begins, but Bennett’s already on the phone, getting contact information for the Fellow, Professor Paul Thompson.
Thompson’s one of those wouldn’t hurt a fly types, the sort of bloke it’s hard to imagine even raising his voice. Fifty-something, tall and extremely thin, with wispy grey hair and a studious air. He admits writing the letter, but insists that he regretted it soon after, and that he tried to talk the matter through with Winters a few days later.
“You mean you were wrong?” Robbie asks.
“No.” Mild-mannered he might be, but he doesn’t blow with the winds. “I believe that I was absolutely correct. I simply have an extreme distaste for conflict.”
Robbie nods, glancing at Bennett as her cue to ask a question. She meets his gaze, her own calm, waiting. Damn. He’s forgotten what it’s like to work with someone who hasn’t known him long enough to be attuned to his moods and signals. He turns back to Thompson. “Do you play cricket, sir?”
He seems surprised by the change of subject. “Not for some time, though, yes, I used to.”
“Have your own bat?”
“Yes, I do.” Thompson’s still puzzled; Robbie’s watching him carefully and can’t see any sign of stress or alarm.
“Mind showing it to us?” That’s Bennett. Good.
“Of course not, but why?” Thompson starts to move towards the study door.
“Just out of interest.” Robbie keeps his voice casual. “We’re pursuing a number of lines of enquiry.
“It’s under the stairs,” Thompson says, walking down the hall. He opens the door, pokes his head inside, and then back out again, frowning. “That’s odd.”
“What is?”
“It should be hanging from a hook on the back wall, but it’s not there.”
“Let me see, sir.” Bennett steps forward, looks inside, then steps into the cupboard. A few second later, she emerges and looks straight at Robbie. “Definitely not there, sir.”
Robbie looks back at her with a meaningful nod. She doesn’t respond. With an inward sigh, he mimes using a phone. Turning to Thompson, he says, “I’m going to have to get a team over here to search your house and grounds, sir, and in the meantime we’re going to need you to come down to the station and wait.”
Bennett gets it then; she makes the call and arranges the search.
***
“What d’you think?” he asks her twenty minutes later, after a squad car’s driven Thompson off, still protesting that he has no idea why he’s being taken in.
“Looks like we’ve got a prime suspect, sir, doesn’t it? If Forensics show his prints on the bat, we’ve got him for murder.”
He pulls a face. “Doesn’t it all seem a bit... convenient?”
“Sorry, sir?” Clearly she doesn’t.
“We find the bat. Then we find the letter. And now the letter-writer’s cricket bat is missing. Oh, and I fully expect to find Thompson’s prints on the bat - I’m absolutely convinced our missing bat is the murder weapon. What I’m not convinced about is that Thompson’s our murderer.”
He knows James would agree. It just doesn’t feel right, and it wasn’t feeling right even before he met Thompson and concluded that the bloke’s not a murderer. Even pushed to his limit, the most this bloke would do is write futile letters. He’d never kill.
Bennett’s shaking her head. “I don’t see why he can’t be, sir. If the evidence all stacks up...”
The evidence does stack up; the forensic report shows Thompson’s prints on the handle and shoulder and Winters’ blood on the blade, as well as some fibres identified as worn leather - not too unusual, as some amateur batsmen do wear gloves. He’s worn them himself on occasion. But Robbie’s still not convinced, and after she watches the interview Innocent agrees with him. “Someone trying to set him up, you think?” she asks.
“Looks like it. Now we’ve got to figure out who and why.”
***
They’re no further forward by knocking-off time, at which point he ignores James’s instruction and jogs upstairs to Peterson’s office. “Ready to go, James?”
For a brief instant, there’s an expression of sheer relief on James’s face, before his impassive mask is back in place. “If that’s okay with you, sir?” he says, looking to Peterson.
“Course, James, you go on.” Christ, it must be tiring listening to that hearty enthusiasm all day long. “Robbie,” Peterson adds as he’s about to leave, “I can give James a lift back and forth as long as he needs it. No need to trouble yourself any further.”
“It’s not any-” he’s beginning, but James cuts across him.
“Thank you, sir. If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”
“None at all. I’ll be around for you at eight sharp tomorrow.”
James doesn’t say a word as they walk downstairs. Outside, he takes a long, deep breath, then moves to lean back against the station wall, head tipped back, eyes closed. After a moment, he gropes for his cigarettes and, eyes still closed, brings one to his lips before reaching for his lighter. He does open his eyes at that point, much to Robbie’s relief; he drops the hand he was reaching out to take the lighter from James.
Robbie leans against the wall next to him. “You look like you needed that.”
James turns his head, and his lips quirk in a twisted smile. “Good deduction, sir.”
“I’ll be generous, then,” Robbie concedes. “Give you five minutes to smoke it, then we’re leaving.”
In the car, Robbie drives out of the car park before asking, “How’s the head today?”
“Fine. Really. No pain at all.” James touches the back of his head, where the small bandage still stands out, stark white against his fair hair. “And before you ask, I’ve kept the sling on and not used my left hand at all. All right?”
“Good.” He concentrates on negotiating the rush-hour traffic for a minute or so, then glances back at James. “I’m still not happy about you going back to yours. It’s no trouble for you to stay at my place for a bit longer.”
“That’s not necessary. Really.” James stares straight ahead.
“It’d make me feel better.” Maybe that’ll work. But James shakes his head again.
“I’d prefer to be at home. I need to get at least some part of my life back to normal.”
Right. And since their working lives have been turned upside down, Robbie supposes it makes sense that James is trying to regain control over the aspects left to him.
“If you insist, I suppose.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Pint? We’re not that far from the Coachman’s.”
“Can’t. Got homework to do.”
“Homework?”
James reaches into his jacket pocket and holds up a small USB drive. “OSPRE preparation. I have a test tomorrow, apparently.” His tone is dry enough to make Robbie need that pint.
Robbie frowns. “What sort of test?”
“Nothing formal, just... DI Peterson wants me ready to answer questions on the first section in the morning.”
He’s never heard anything so ridiculous. “What’s he think he’s doing? You’re recovering from a head injury, man!”
James shrugs. “Told you, I’m fine.”
He can’t interfere, Robbie tells himself, much as he wants to go straight back to the station and tell Peterson what he thinks of this nonsense. Apart from ignoring the fact that James shouldn’t be back at work at all, Peterson’s treating him like a kid. Homework! And testing him? James is a grown man, not a teenager who doesn’t want to study for his GCSEs.
He says the only thing he can suggest. “Want me to help? We could go through it together. Know it helped me to have - someone ask me questions.” He almost said my lad, but managed to stop himself in time. It’s not been difficult, over the years, to realise that James can be sensitive about the age-gap between them. The one time Robbie mentioned, right back in the early months of their partnership, that his daughter was close to James’s age, the bloke went into one of his distant moods, with bloody short answers to questions and the occasional pointed aside about youth, and once a sarcastic remark about realising that Robbie might be old enough to be his father, but that didn’t mean James didn’t have opinions worth considering.
James shakes his head. “I’ve always been better studying on my own. I remember things best by reading them.”
What’s got into the bloke all of a sudden? Has Robbie suddenly become a pariah? Accepting Peterson’s offer of a lift, refusing a pint and now saying no to Robbie coming over?
Let it drop, he tells himself. Instead, he brings James up to date on the case, telling him about the letter, the missing bat and the matched prints, but mentioning nothing about his opinion of Thompson. “You think he didn’t do it,” is James’s immediate response.
“What makes you say that?”
“I know you. If you thought Thompson was guilty, you’d have told me you’d made an arrest, and I’d hear satisfaction in your voice. You’re clearly not satisfied, ergo you think someone’s stitched him up.”
“I do. I just don’t have any idea who or why.”
“You’ll get there.” James sounds completely confident. “You always do.”
But, he almost says, I’ve always had you with me before.
He can’t say it. It’s not fair to Bennett, who’s trying hard, and it’s certainly not fair to James.
Instead, he swings the car into the small parking area outside James’s flat. “Home. I’ll bring your stuff in, then leave you to it.”
***
He doesn’t see or hear from James for the next couple of days. Two or three times, he’s picked up his phone and his finger’s hovered over Hathaway on his speed-dial, but each time something’s prevented him from completing the call. There’s an excuse each time, but he knows what’s really stopping him: the conviction that James would prefer that he didn’t call.
Nothing’s been said, of course, but there’ve been enough signs - those he noticed the other day, plus the fact that James hasn’t been in touch at all. And this is the bloke who can text as fast one-handed as with the full use of both hands.
James might be alive, but it looks as though Stringer and Walters succeeded: he’s lost his friend anyway.
And it doesn’t make sense. Whatever about the rubbish James spouted the morning after about being drunk, he meant what he’d said about their working relationship meaning so much to him - and what that implied about their friendship as well. Now James is just turning his back on it - on him. Why? It doesn’t make sense, and for once Robbie’s detective skills aren’t getting him anywhere.
The case isn’t going any better, with no new leads. They’ve had to keep Thompson in custody - even though neither he nor Innocent believe the man’s guilty, the forensic evidence means they don’t have a choice. It doesn’t help that the date and time of death can’t be pinpointed any narrower than a twenty-four hour period, so it’s not as if Thompson can even come up with a valid alibi. Bennett keeps trying to come up with scenarios in which the academic could just have snapped, and none of them are credible, to Robbie’s mind. In the end, he sends her off to interview everyone at Lonsdale again.
On the third day after they brought Thompson in, Robbie comes into the office as usual - no new callout, which he’s thankful for - and boots his computer. First on his daily routine is email, a quick scan for anything important.
His eyes widen at one email, sent at around one in the morning. From James.
The subject-line is Thought this might interest you. There’s an attachment.
He clicks on the email. The text is brief. If you’re still looking for Winters’ murderer, these might be enlightening. It’s just signed J.
The attachments are offline copies of web pages - pages from the online version of the last four or five editions of The Review of English Studies. James has organised them by date. Robbie skims the first page: looks like a book review by their murder victim, Professor Winters. A couple of sentences have been highlighted - a scathing reference to some book or other by someone called Murdoch.
Robbie’s mouth turns down at the corners. Bloody academics, got nothing better to do with their time than squabble among themselves. He closes that page and clicks on the next attachment. Another book review. He glances at the bottom of the page to see who it’s by. Charles Murdoch. He frowns: the same Murdoch that Winters was criticising? Again, there are a couple of sentences highlighted. Yes, it’s the same Murdoch. Now he’s slagging off Winter. Oh, it’s all high-minded language and that, but it’s definitely slagging off.
The rest of the pages are the same - tit-for-tat insults through the medium of book reviews. The final one of the five is written by Winter again, and he’s referring to Murdoch’s work as sloppy, inadequately researched and unworthy of publication, let alone of being discussed in a serious community of scholars.
Robbie lets out a low whistle. There it is: their motive. And, if his gut’s not wrong, their murderer.
Best of all, it looks like he was wrong about James. He’s not walking away from their friendship.
He needs to phone Bennett and get her to find an address for Dr Charles Murdoch, and then the two of them need to go and interview the bloke. But first...
He picks up his Blackberry and presses James’s speed-dial. It’s answered within two rings. “Inspector. Good morning.”
“Good morning to you too, cleverclogs. That was a bloody good bit of detection - for a case you’re not even working on.”
“I was curious. Had an idea and decided to check it out.” Robbie’s not fooled; he can hear the abashed pleasure in James’s voice.
“Still got to interview this Murdoch bloke, but I wanted to let you know that I’m buyin’ you a pint tonight. Tell Peterson you don’t need a lift home.”
“Sir, that’s not-”
“I’m takin’ you for a pint, James. End of story. See you later.” Robbie ends the call before James can argue the toss, then calls Bennett.
***
Almost eight hours later, it’s all done and dusted bar the reports. Murdoch denied everything at first, but a methodical search of his home, office and car eventually revealed a pair of leather gloves. Robbie had them sent to the lab, and fully expects to find that they’re a match for the fibres on the bat. The gloves seemed to be the catalyst for Murdoch: he folds and confesses everything.
The vitriolic exchanges in the journal left him humiliated, he said. It was okay for Winters; he’d already retired and the only reason he’d carried on dabbling in writing - no serious publications any more, just piddling little book reviews - was to gain enjoyment out of stabbing others in the back. Taking petty revenge on people he’d never liked while he was still an active academic. Murdoch had tried to defend himself, and to insert his own little jabs in response, to show Winters he wouldn’t be cowed. But it had been clear that the more Murdoch fought back the more Winters had been determined to carry on.
“So I finally confronted him, after that last disgraceful attack,” Murdoch said, slumped in his wing-backed chair, head in his hands. “And it became clear that it was all just a game for him, nothing more. He humiliated me, made me a laughing-stock, and it was a game.” Murdoch shook his head. “So when I overheard Thompson and Winters arguing in the common room - well, Winters was arguing; Thompson barely said a word - about the letter Thompson had sent him, it all seemed so easy. Acquire an object of Thompson’s to use as a weapon, lure Winters to the cellar - and that was easy, too; all it took was an anonymous note promising him valuable information - and bash him over the head. Then once the body was found all I had to do was make sure the bat was found, and that Thompson’s letter was somewhere it would be easily noticed.”
A confession, yes, but little remorse, Robbie noted. Once he heard all he needed, he walked out of the room without a word to the murderer, ordering the uniformed officers already standing by to take Murdoch in.
He’s now in custody, and Thompson has been released. A good day’s work, and all thanks to James.
James better not let him down over that pint.
He doesn’t. When Robbie texts him, he replies quickly to say he’ll meet Robbie in the car park. Twenty minutes later, they’re at the Trout, pints in front of them, and Robbie’s bringing him up to date on the case.
“Couldn’t have solved it without you. But what on earth got you looking at obscure academic journals, of all things?”
James smirks. “I doubt Professor Winters and Dr Murdoch would call The Review of English Studies obscure. It is the primary refereed journal in its field, after all.”
“Yeah, yeah. An’ your field’s theology, so don’t try to pretend you have a subscription.”
James makes him wait while he sips his pint. “I was trying to think about possible motives. Nothing you’d said hinted at anything, so I tried coming at it from a different angle: what’s the sort of thing an academic might get killed for? Assuming there’s no obvious motive in his personal life, of course. And I thought back to our very first case - Ivor Denniston, remember? - and it occurred to me that in some ways academics are like actors or playwrights. They live or die by reviews. It was a long shot, but I went onto the EBSCO database, since I couldn’t get to the Bodleian-” He indicates his sling. “-and looked up English literature journals. Doing it online had an advantage: I could search for references to Winter. Took about twenty minutes, and three different journals, until I found the reviews I sent you.”
“EBSCO?” Robbie frowns. “That’s not on any of our systems. Sounds more like a university thing.” James nods. “How come you could get onto it?”
“Cambridge graduate.” James gives him a smug smile. “For a fee, I maintain a Cambridge account. I can log in and use any resource I want.”
“Smartarse.” But Robbie’s grinning from ear to ear. “Innocent’s right, you know. You should be an inspector. You’re better than me some of the time now. Just some, mind.”
His smile fades. James has looked away, his face shadowed. Damn. He was hoping things were going to get better, that James would realise he still loves police work even without Robbie as his partner. Though it can’t be easy at the moment, confined to a desk, denied the thrill of the chase, being out and about tracking down clues and examining crime scenes.
He pats James’s shoulder. “I’m gettin’ them in again. I’ll get us the menus while I’m up there.”
The mood’s changed. They stay at the pub for another hour or so, sharing dinner as well as drinks, but James is taciturn and unreceptive to all but the most bland of conversation. By the time Robbie drops him home, he’s almost glad to be parting ways for the evening.
Next time, he’ll know not to say the wrong thing again.
***
There isn’t a next time. Robbie emails a couple of times over the next week or two, and sends a couple of texts, suggesting a drink, but each time James has an excuse. Working, studying, even attending an exhibition on one occasion.
He hasn’t even seen James around the station, apart from one brief glimpse of the back of his head one afternoon, and by the time Robbie’d managed to push his way through the idiots standing around idly chatting instead of getting on with work James had vanished.
There’s only one thing Robbie can conclude: his former sergeant’s avoiding him.
***
tbc in Chapter 7
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.
Chapter 1: Missing Person ^ Chapter 2: Next of Kin ^ Chapter 3: Frustrations ^ Chapter 4: Progress ^ Chapter 5: Separated
Chapter 6: Avoidance
At the station, James thanks him so politely that Robbie wants to strangle him, then jogs up the additional flight of stairs towards his new office. “I’ll come for you around six,” Robbie calls after him.
James pauses at the half-landing. “No need to come up. Just text me when you’re ready to leave.”
“Okay,” he agrees, but James has already disappeared around the corner.
He stands for a moment staring at the empty space where his former sergeant was just a moment ago, then takes a deep breath and makes his way to his office.
Bennett’s not there yet, and he frowns before reminding himself that he did give her that report to read last night. Just because James is a workaholic doesn’t mean he has a right to expect that Chris will be as well - and of course she shouldn’t be. Anyway, she’s got two young kiddies, and a husband who’s also a copper. Bound to be a bit difficult getting off to work sometimes.
He calls Forensics to check on the DNA report on that cricket bat - both on the blood found on the blade and any prints that might be on the handle and shoulder. Not yet, he’s told, but maybe later today.
Bennett rushes in then, all apologies for being late, which he brushes aside, asking instead if there was anything of interest in the SOCO report. Her face falls. “I’m really sorry, sir. Mikey - my youngest - was sick last night and I didn’t get it finished.”
It’s a battle to squash down his irritation. Damn it, he wanted that report analysed, but it’s not as if he doesn’t know what kids can be like when they’re sick. All the same, when Morse sent him home with stuff to read when he was a sergeant he always got it done, sick kids or neglected wife regardless, even if it meant staying up late when everyone else was in bed. And no matter how much work he piled on James...
Ah, he has to stop thinking like that. Stop being a stick-in-the-mud, as Lyn’s always telling him, and if he can’t embrace change he just needs to learn to live with it.
***
There is something in the SOCO report. Stuck inside one of the books piled on Winters’ desk - which Bennett did check, and she’s so embarrassed about missing it that he can’t say more than a tart reminder to be more careful next time - was a letter from a Fellow of Lonsdale, accusing Winters of trying to destroy his reputation via a whispering campaign in the Senior Common Room. It’s dated a little less than a month ago.
“We need to-” Robbie begins, but Bennett’s already on the phone, getting contact information for the Fellow, Professor Paul Thompson.
Thompson’s one of those wouldn’t hurt a fly types, the sort of bloke it’s hard to imagine even raising his voice. Fifty-something, tall and extremely thin, with wispy grey hair and a studious air. He admits writing the letter, but insists that he regretted it soon after, and that he tried to talk the matter through with Winters a few days later.
“You mean you were wrong?” Robbie asks.
“No.” Mild-mannered he might be, but he doesn’t blow with the winds. “I believe that I was absolutely correct. I simply have an extreme distaste for conflict.”
Robbie nods, glancing at Bennett as her cue to ask a question. She meets his gaze, her own calm, waiting. Damn. He’s forgotten what it’s like to work with someone who hasn’t known him long enough to be attuned to his moods and signals. He turns back to Thompson. “Do you play cricket, sir?”
He seems surprised by the change of subject. “Not for some time, though, yes, I used to.”
“Have your own bat?”
“Yes, I do.” Thompson’s still puzzled; Robbie’s watching him carefully and can’t see any sign of stress or alarm.
“Mind showing it to us?” That’s Bennett. Good.
“Of course not, but why?” Thompson starts to move towards the study door.
“Just out of interest.” Robbie keeps his voice casual. “We’re pursuing a number of lines of enquiry.
“It’s under the stairs,” Thompson says, walking down the hall. He opens the door, pokes his head inside, and then back out again, frowning. “That’s odd.”
“What is?”
“It should be hanging from a hook on the back wall, but it’s not there.”
“Let me see, sir.” Bennett steps forward, looks inside, then steps into the cupboard. A few second later, she emerges and looks straight at Robbie. “Definitely not there, sir.”
Robbie looks back at her with a meaningful nod. She doesn’t respond. With an inward sigh, he mimes using a phone. Turning to Thompson, he says, “I’m going to have to get a team over here to search your house and grounds, sir, and in the meantime we’re going to need you to come down to the station and wait.”
Bennett gets it then; she makes the call and arranges the search.
***
“What d’you think?” he asks her twenty minutes later, after a squad car’s driven Thompson off, still protesting that he has no idea why he’s being taken in.
“Looks like we’ve got a prime suspect, sir, doesn’t it? If Forensics show his prints on the bat, we’ve got him for murder.”
He pulls a face. “Doesn’t it all seem a bit... convenient?”
“Sorry, sir?” Clearly she doesn’t.
“We find the bat. Then we find the letter. And now the letter-writer’s cricket bat is missing. Oh, and I fully expect to find Thompson’s prints on the bat - I’m absolutely convinced our missing bat is the murder weapon. What I’m not convinced about is that Thompson’s our murderer.”
He knows James would agree. It just doesn’t feel right, and it wasn’t feeling right even before he met Thompson and concluded that the bloke’s not a murderer. Even pushed to his limit, the most this bloke would do is write futile letters. He’d never kill.
Bennett’s shaking her head. “I don’t see why he can’t be, sir. If the evidence all stacks up...”
The evidence does stack up; the forensic report shows Thompson’s prints on the handle and shoulder and Winters’ blood on the blade, as well as some fibres identified as worn leather - not too unusual, as some amateur batsmen do wear gloves. He’s worn them himself on occasion. But Robbie’s still not convinced, and after she watches the interview Innocent agrees with him. “Someone trying to set him up, you think?” she asks.
“Looks like it. Now we’ve got to figure out who and why.”
***
They’re no further forward by knocking-off time, at which point he ignores James’s instruction and jogs upstairs to Peterson’s office. “Ready to go, James?”
For a brief instant, there’s an expression of sheer relief on James’s face, before his impassive mask is back in place. “If that’s okay with you, sir?” he says, looking to Peterson.
“Course, James, you go on.” Christ, it must be tiring listening to that hearty enthusiasm all day long. “Robbie,” Peterson adds as he’s about to leave, “I can give James a lift back and forth as long as he needs it. No need to trouble yourself any further.”
“It’s not any-” he’s beginning, but James cuts across him.
“Thank you, sir. If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”
“None at all. I’ll be around for you at eight sharp tomorrow.”
James doesn’t say a word as they walk downstairs. Outside, he takes a long, deep breath, then moves to lean back against the station wall, head tipped back, eyes closed. After a moment, he gropes for his cigarettes and, eyes still closed, brings one to his lips before reaching for his lighter. He does open his eyes at that point, much to Robbie’s relief; he drops the hand he was reaching out to take the lighter from James.
Robbie leans against the wall next to him. “You look like you needed that.”
James turns his head, and his lips quirk in a twisted smile. “Good deduction, sir.”
“I’ll be generous, then,” Robbie concedes. “Give you five minutes to smoke it, then we’re leaving.”
In the car, Robbie drives out of the car park before asking, “How’s the head today?”
“Fine. Really. No pain at all.” James touches the back of his head, where the small bandage still stands out, stark white against his fair hair. “And before you ask, I’ve kept the sling on and not used my left hand at all. All right?”
“Good.” He concentrates on negotiating the rush-hour traffic for a minute or so, then glances back at James. “I’m still not happy about you going back to yours. It’s no trouble for you to stay at my place for a bit longer.”
“That’s not necessary. Really.” James stares straight ahead.
“It’d make me feel better.” Maybe that’ll work. But James shakes his head again.
“I’d prefer to be at home. I need to get at least some part of my life back to normal.”
Right. And since their working lives have been turned upside down, Robbie supposes it makes sense that James is trying to regain control over the aspects left to him.
“If you insist, I suppose.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Pint? We’re not that far from the Coachman’s.”
“Can’t. Got homework to do.”
“Homework?”
James reaches into his jacket pocket and holds up a small USB drive. “OSPRE preparation. I have a test tomorrow, apparently.” His tone is dry enough to make Robbie need that pint.
Robbie frowns. “What sort of test?”
“Nothing formal, just... DI Peterson wants me ready to answer questions on the first section in the morning.”
He’s never heard anything so ridiculous. “What’s he think he’s doing? You’re recovering from a head injury, man!”
James shrugs. “Told you, I’m fine.”
He can’t interfere, Robbie tells himself, much as he wants to go straight back to the station and tell Peterson what he thinks of this nonsense. Apart from ignoring the fact that James shouldn’t be back at work at all, Peterson’s treating him like a kid. Homework! And testing him? James is a grown man, not a teenager who doesn’t want to study for his GCSEs.
He says the only thing he can suggest. “Want me to help? We could go through it together. Know it helped me to have - someone ask me questions.” He almost said my lad, but managed to stop himself in time. It’s not been difficult, over the years, to realise that James can be sensitive about the age-gap between them. The one time Robbie mentioned, right back in the early months of their partnership, that his daughter was close to James’s age, the bloke went into one of his distant moods, with bloody short answers to questions and the occasional pointed aside about youth, and once a sarcastic remark about realising that Robbie might be old enough to be his father, but that didn’t mean James didn’t have opinions worth considering.
James shakes his head. “I’ve always been better studying on my own. I remember things best by reading them.”
What’s got into the bloke all of a sudden? Has Robbie suddenly become a pariah? Accepting Peterson’s offer of a lift, refusing a pint and now saying no to Robbie coming over?
Let it drop, he tells himself. Instead, he brings James up to date on the case, telling him about the letter, the missing bat and the matched prints, but mentioning nothing about his opinion of Thompson. “You think he didn’t do it,” is James’s immediate response.
“What makes you say that?”
“I know you. If you thought Thompson was guilty, you’d have told me you’d made an arrest, and I’d hear satisfaction in your voice. You’re clearly not satisfied, ergo you think someone’s stitched him up.”
“I do. I just don’t have any idea who or why.”
“You’ll get there.” James sounds completely confident. “You always do.”
But, he almost says, I’ve always had you with me before.
He can’t say it. It’s not fair to Bennett, who’s trying hard, and it’s certainly not fair to James.
Instead, he swings the car into the small parking area outside James’s flat. “Home. I’ll bring your stuff in, then leave you to it.”
***
He doesn’t see or hear from James for the next couple of days. Two or three times, he’s picked up his phone and his finger’s hovered over Hathaway on his speed-dial, but each time something’s prevented him from completing the call. There’s an excuse each time, but he knows what’s really stopping him: the conviction that James would prefer that he didn’t call.
Nothing’s been said, of course, but there’ve been enough signs - those he noticed the other day, plus the fact that James hasn’t been in touch at all. And this is the bloke who can text as fast one-handed as with the full use of both hands.
James might be alive, but it looks as though Stringer and Walters succeeded: he’s lost his friend anyway.
And it doesn’t make sense. Whatever about the rubbish James spouted the morning after about being drunk, he meant what he’d said about their working relationship meaning so much to him - and what that implied about their friendship as well. Now James is just turning his back on it - on him. Why? It doesn’t make sense, and for once Robbie’s detective skills aren’t getting him anywhere.
The case isn’t going any better, with no new leads. They’ve had to keep Thompson in custody - even though neither he nor Innocent believe the man’s guilty, the forensic evidence means they don’t have a choice. It doesn’t help that the date and time of death can’t be pinpointed any narrower than a twenty-four hour period, so it’s not as if Thompson can even come up with a valid alibi. Bennett keeps trying to come up with scenarios in which the academic could just have snapped, and none of them are credible, to Robbie’s mind. In the end, he sends her off to interview everyone at Lonsdale again.
On the third day after they brought Thompson in, Robbie comes into the office as usual - no new callout, which he’s thankful for - and boots his computer. First on his daily routine is email, a quick scan for anything important.
His eyes widen at one email, sent at around one in the morning. From James.
The subject-line is Thought this might interest you. There’s an attachment.
He clicks on the email. The text is brief. If you’re still looking for Winters’ murderer, these might be enlightening. It’s just signed J.
The attachments are offline copies of web pages - pages from the online version of the last four or five editions of The Review of English Studies. James has organised them by date. Robbie skims the first page: looks like a book review by their murder victim, Professor Winters. A couple of sentences have been highlighted - a scathing reference to some book or other by someone called Murdoch.
Robbie’s mouth turns down at the corners. Bloody academics, got nothing better to do with their time than squabble among themselves. He closes that page and clicks on the next attachment. Another book review. He glances at the bottom of the page to see who it’s by. Charles Murdoch. He frowns: the same Murdoch that Winters was criticising? Again, there are a couple of sentences highlighted. Yes, it’s the same Murdoch. Now he’s slagging off Winter. Oh, it’s all high-minded language and that, but it’s definitely slagging off.
The rest of the pages are the same - tit-for-tat insults through the medium of book reviews. The final one of the five is written by Winter again, and he’s referring to Murdoch’s work as sloppy, inadequately researched and unworthy of publication, let alone of being discussed in a serious community of scholars.
Robbie lets out a low whistle. There it is: their motive. And, if his gut’s not wrong, their murderer.
Best of all, it looks like he was wrong about James. He’s not walking away from their friendship.
He needs to phone Bennett and get her to find an address for Dr Charles Murdoch, and then the two of them need to go and interview the bloke. But first...
He picks up his Blackberry and presses James’s speed-dial. It’s answered within two rings. “Inspector. Good morning.”
“Good morning to you too, cleverclogs. That was a bloody good bit of detection - for a case you’re not even working on.”
“I was curious. Had an idea and decided to check it out.” Robbie’s not fooled; he can hear the abashed pleasure in James’s voice.
“Still got to interview this Murdoch bloke, but I wanted to let you know that I’m buyin’ you a pint tonight. Tell Peterson you don’t need a lift home.”
“Sir, that’s not-”
“I’m takin’ you for a pint, James. End of story. See you later.” Robbie ends the call before James can argue the toss, then calls Bennett.
***
Almost eight hours later, it’s all done and dusted bar the reports. Murdoch denied everything at first, but a methodical search of his home, office and car eventually revealed a pair of leather gloves. Robbie had them sent to the lab, and fully expects to find that they’re a match for the fibres on the bat. The gloves seemed to be the catalyst for Murdoch: he folds and confesses everything.
The vitriolic exchanges in the journal left him humiliated, he said. It was okay for Winters; he’d already retired and the only reason he’d carried on dabbling in writing - no serious publications any more, just piddling little book reviews - was to gain enjoyment out of stabbing others in the back. Taking petty revenge on people he’d never liked while he was still an active academic. Murdoch had tried to defend himself, and to insert his own little jabs in response, to show Winters he wouldn’t be cowed. But it had been clear that the more Murdoch fought back the more Winters had been determined to carry on.
“So I finally confronted him, after that last disgraceful attack,” Murdoch said, slumped in his wing-backed chair, head in his hands. “And it became clear that it was all just a game for him, nothing more. He humiliated me, made me a laughing-stock, and it was a game.” Murdoch shook his head. “So when I overheard Thompson and Winters arguing in the common room - well, Winters was arguing; Thompson barely said a word - about the letter Thompson had sent him, it all seemed so easy. Acquire an object of Thompson’s to use as a weapon, lure Winters to the cellar - and that was easy, too; all it took was an anonymous note promising him valuable information - and bash him over the head. Then once the body was found all I had to do was make sure the bat was found, and that Thompson’s letter was somewhere it would be easily noticed.”
A confession, yes, but little remorse, Robbie noted. Once he heard all he needed, he walked out of the room without a word to the murderer, ordering the uniformed officers already standing by to take Murdoch in.
He’s now in custody, and Thompson has been released. A good day’s work, and all thanks to James.
James better not let him down over that pint.
He doesn’t. When Robbie texts him, he replies quickly to say he’ll meet Robbie in the car park. Twenty minutes later, they’re at the Trout, pints in front of them, and Robbie’s bringing him up to date on the case.
“Couldn’t have solved it without you. But what on earth got you looking at obscure academic journals, of all things?”
James smirks. “I doubt Professor Winters and Dr Murdoch would call The Review of English Studies obscure. It is the primary refereed journal in its field, after all.”
“Yeah, yeah. An’ your field’s theology, so don’t try to pretend you have a subscription.”
James makes him wait while he sips his pint. “I was trying to think about possible motives. Nothing you’d said hinted at anything, so I tried coming at it from a different angle: what’s the sort of thing an academic might get killed for? Assuming there’s no obvious motive in his personal life, of course. And I thought back to our very first case - Ivor Denniston, remember? - and it occurred to me that in some ways academics are like actors or playwrights. They live or die by reviews. It was a long shot, but I went onto the EBSCO database, since I couldn’t get to the Bodleian-” He indicates his sling. “-and looked up English literature journals. Doing it online had an advantage: I could search for references to Winter. Took about twenty minutes, and three different journals, until I found the reviews I sent you.”
“EBSCO?” Robbie frowns. “That’s not on any of our systems. Sounds more like a university thing.” James nods. “How come you could get onto it?”
“Cambridge graduate.” James gives him a smug smile. “For a fee, I maintain a Cambridge account. I can log in and use any resource I want.”
“Smartarse.” But Robbie’s grinning from ear to ear. “Innocent’s right, you know. You should be an inspector. You’re better than me some of the time now. Just some, mind.”
His smile fades. James has looked away, his face shadowed. Damn. He was hoping things were going to get better, that James would realise he still loves police work even without Robbie as his partner. Though it can’t be easy at the moment, confined to a desk, denied the thrill of the chase, being out and about tracking down clues and examining crime scenes.
He pats James’s shoulder. “I’m gettin’ them in again. I’ll get us the menus while I’m up there.”
The mood’s changed. They stay at the pub for another hour or so, sharing dinner as well as drinks, but James is taciturn and unreceptive to all but the most bland of conversation. By the time Robbie drops him home, he’s almost glad to be parting ways for the evening.
Next time, he’ll know not to say the wrong thing again.
***
There isn’t a next time. Robbie emails a couple of times over the next week or two, and sends a couple of texts, suggesting a drink, but each time James has an excuse. Working, studying, even attending an exhibition on one occasion.
He hasn’t even seen James around the station, apart from one brief glimpse of the back of his head one afternoon, and by the time Robbie’d managed to push his way through the idiots standing around idly chatting instead of getting on with work James had vanished.
There’s only one thing Robbie can conclude: his former sergeant’s avoiding him.
***
tbc in Chapter 7