Lewis fic: Act of Contrition 2/2
Story: Act of Contrition
Author: wendymr
Characters: Robbie Lewis, James Hathaway, Jean Innocent
Rated: PG (gen)
Summary: After lying to his Inspector, James feels the need to pay penance.
Post-ep what-if to LIfe Born of Fire. With thanks, as always, to the stellar lindenharp for BRing.
Chapter 1: Apology
Chapter 2: Restitution
There’s a new case the following day - well, it’s more like the middle of the night when Robbie’s woken by Dispatch. A body’s been found at the bottom of the steps behind Martyrs’ Memorial. It doesn’t take long to figure out that the victim was dumped there after he was murdered - and that, despite uniforms’ best efforts, nobody saw anything.
“It’s right across the road from the bloody Randolph!” Robbie complains when the door-to-door report comes in.
“Doorman says he saw nothing, sir. We’re talking to the taxi companies in case any of their drivers were in the area, but it was Wednesday night. Not a lot of business around at two in the morning.”
This is where he really needs Hathaway. Robbie’s already got one of the DCs reviewing CCTV, but the cameras near St Giles are focused on the traffic lights, not the memorial. There was another time recently where camera evidence could have been crucial and CCTV was no help; Hathaway started spouting about Google Maps and webcams, and a few hours later had a photo that gave them a lead.
Blast the man for being so sodding stubborn anyway. Though, Robbie reminds himself, Hathaway would have been on sick leave today. He’d still have been in work tomorrow and could’ve got onto his Google stuff then if they still had no leads.
It’s late in the afternoon when the idea occurs to him. He’s had the PM report from Laura: their old friend the blunt instrument to the back of the head. There were splinters of wood in the victim’s hair and skull, and she’s speculating, on the basis of it being plywood with a glaze applied, that it could have been something like a chair-leg. Fairly cheap mass-produced furniture, at any event, so that’s not much of a lead. And further canvassing of the area, and interviews with the victim’s family and friends, haven’t yielded anything either.
Robbie gathers up his file on the case and heads for his car. Fifteen minutes later, he’s pulling up outside Hathaway’s flat. Time to see if his sergeant’s sense of curiosity and love of showing off to his boss will win over his stubborn self-sacrifice.
Hathaway, as casually dressed as yesterday, looks surprised to see him, but steps back immediately to let him in. “If this visit is prompted by concern about my welfare, sir, I assure you that I have been eating. And staying warm.”
The flat does feel considerably warmer than it did yesterday. “Glad to hear it, though that’s not why I’m here.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again. Not after yesterday.” Hathaway’s gone to the kitchen, and he starts to fill the kettle. “I haven’t changed my mind, sir. Though I may be presuming by making the assumption that you still want me to.”
“Again, not why I’m here.” Hathaway’s getting out mugs and tea-bags, so Robbie goes to the fridge for milk. It’s reasonably well-stocked, he’s pleased to see - in fact, compared to his fridge, Hathaway could open his own supermarket.
“I can’t imagine it’s a social call, sir.” This time Hathaway’s tone is dry, though he doesn’t falter in making the tea.
Robbie waits until they’re seated before explaining. “You’re intending to resign, an’ that’s your choice. But until you do, you’re still my sergeant, and I need that know-it-all brain of yours.”
Hathaway goes very still. After a pause, he says, “I am on sick leave, sir. And, according to Innocent, off-duty until next Tuesday.”
Robbie doesn’t say a word, but his expression’s designed to remind Hathaway of the direction of the authority structure in their relationship. When he judges that it’s had long enough to sink in, he opens the file.
“Body found here early this morning.” He points to the crime-scene photos. “No CCTV, no witnesses, canvass of the area turned up nothing. No-one knows where the victim was last night. He lives alone, and we haven’t yet found out where he went after leaving work at around seven. At some point, most likely between 1:30 and 2:30 this morning, his body was dumped where you see it.”
“Sir.” James sounds pained. “I really would prefer not to-”
“Sergeant.” Robbie waits until Hathaway subsides. “It’s not too much to ask for you to do your job, I hope?”
He drains his tea, then stands, gathering everything in the file except for the photos and a photocopy of the timeline as currently known. He’s pushed as far as he can; Hathaway is completely entitled to refuse and could complain to Innocent or HR about being put under pressure to work while on sick leave. Bullying, Innocent would probably call it.
“Thanks for the tea. I’ll let meself out.”
***
When Robbie opens his email the following morning, there’s a message from Hathaway’s personal account. The subject-line is Could be useful, and there are attachments.
Robbie wants to cheer, but it’s hardly the most suitable environment - and besides, one email does not a change of heart make.
He clicks on it. Sent at 23:12, he notes, and the attachments are photos.
Sir,
These two photographs may be of benefit in tracking down, if not the murderer, at least the person or persons who dumped the victim’s body. They’ll need to be enhanced to get any significant information. Since I don’t have access to that software here, I’ve also emailed the photos to Lyons in the tech division. You’ll need to follow up with him.
I’ve also given him my source for the photos so that he can duplicate access, since that will be needed for evidence purposes if this proves to be a lead.
JH
Two steps forward, one step back, Robbie muses; Hathaway has just effectively told him that he won’t be doing his job and contributing to the chain of evidence.
Still, he never imagined that he’d get the result he wanted on the first try, did he? Hathaway may imagine that he’s stubborn, but he’s yet to meet the force of nature that’s Robbie Lewis when he’s determined on getting his own way.
Right, then. Robbie reaches for his phone and calls Lyons in Tech.
***
It’s after six when Robbie pulls up outside Hathaway’s flat again, takeaway curry and a four-pack of beer with him.
Hathaway opens the door and stands, arms folded. Robbie notes that the cut on his face is less livid today, though still evident. “Sir, do you need me to give you directions to your home?”
Robbie has to smother a grin. If Hathaway’s being a smartarse, then he’s definitely getting over his guilt complex. “No, ta. Know me way home. Thought you might be interested in an update on the case, that’s all. Oh, and I was hungry.” He holds up the takeaway bag.
“I apologise if my hospitality has been somewhat lacking.” Hathaway’s gaze slides away, Robbie notes without comment. Clearly his initial reaction was more bravado than recovery. So, still some way to go.
James takes the bag and heads inside, allowing Robbie to enter. “ ‘S all right. You can make up for it now.” Robbie follows him into the kitchen. “Plates?”
“Up there.” Hathaway nods towards a wall cabinet, then busies himself getting serving spoons.
While they eat, Robbie deliberately doesn’t mention the case, or work at all, instead asking Hathaway how he’s feeling and satisfying himself that the bloke’s experiencing no troubling after-effects from almost burning to death. Eventually, as he’s been hoping, James breaks first.
“Did the photos help at all, sir?”
Robbie deliberately finishes chewing his food. “They did. The techs managed to get a number-plate as well as a make and model. Interviewed the owner this afternoon.”
“And?”
“Swears blind he was home asleep at the time his car was photographed at the scene.”
“Witnesses?” Hathaway asks. “Any chance the car was stolen?”
“He was alone. He’s apparently ‘between relationships’. And, since he was still in possession of it, no, it wasn’t stolen.”
Hathaway takes a sip of beer. “Didn’t even have the common sense to dump it, then.”
“No,” Robbie agrees.
“Relationship to the victim? Did he know him?”
“Oh, he knew him all right.” Robbie takes a drink of his own beer. “Worked together until a few months ago - and, according to an ex-colleague, the suspect blamed the victim for getting him sacked.” He’s deliberately not mentioning names; Hathaway may still be on the force and bound by all the laws and regulations governing confidentiality, but he’s not on this case. Better safe than sorry, and all that.
Hathaway’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “Sounds like a plausible motive.”
“It does.” Robbie nods. “Shame of it is, though, I don’t think he did it.”
“Oh?” Hathaway leans back in his chair. “Gut instinct?”
“Yep. He’s not a killer. Don’t think you’d think he is either. I think he lent someone his car last night, either willingly or under duress, and now he’s too scared to say anything.”
“You have applied the thumbscrews, sir, haven’t you?” Hathaway raises an eyebrow - yet, despite the trademark humour, he’s still not meeting Robbie’s gaze.
“For some strange reason, they’re more effective when you’re sitting behind me glowering,” Robbie comments with a quirk of his eyebrows.
But Hathaway doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he stands and starts to clear the dishes. “Sorry to rush you, sir, but I have rehearsal tonight. Need to get going.”
Robbie allows himself to be ushered out of the flat without protest, pretending not to notice Hathaway’s relieved expression. If his sergeant thinks this is over, then he’s in for a grave disappointment. Robbie still has three more days, and he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve yet.
As long as one of them works, that’s all that matters.
***
He interviews the owner of the car again the next day - since it was clearly his car that was used to dump the victim’s body, they’ve got enough to hold him in custody for twenty-four hours. He leans on the bloke a bit, talking about accessory before and after the fact, the firing that he is known to have blamed the victim for, and the lack of alibi that’ll make a jury definitely suspicious.
“I didn’t kill him!” Watson shouts at last, tears of frustration on his face. “Look, I couldn’t stand the bloke, but I never would’ve... I didn’t!”
“Yeah, but you know who might have, don’t you?” Robbie counters, his own tone calm, in complete contrast to Watson.
“They’ll kill me.” Watson’s voice has fallen to a whisper.
“Not if we get to them first.” Robbie gestures to the uniformed constable in the room, who goes out and beckons in DC Anna Henderson, whom he’s had listening in from behind the glass. It’s the breakthrough they’ve been waiting for. Watson spills all, Henderson takes detailed notes, and the two of them go to interview the new suspects.
It only takes four hours until two men - both of whom also worked with Watson and Fellowes, the victim - are charged with murder. Watson was a reluctant accomplice only in the sense that he knew the other two were going to “teach Fellowes a lesson”, but he claims to have had no idea that they’d kill him. He says that he only loaned them his car because they said Fellowes would recognise theirs, and because he was afraid of them.
Robbie arrests him anyway, for withholding evidence and being an accessory to murder. The jury can decide whether or not they believe him.
He’s actually able to pack up for the day before six, with his initial report on the case emailed to Innocent. Henderson, who’s working the rest of the weekend, can take care of the rest of the paperwork; he’ll review it when he’s back on Tuesday. Two days off, and he’s looking forward to every minute of it.
It’s straight home tonight to watch the footy on telly - the qualifying rounds of the UEFA Cup. He doesn’t go to Hathaway’s. It’s the next phase in his strategy: staying away from the lad. He’ll see how long it takes for that to have an impact.
***
Robbie’s in Sainsbury’s at almost four the following afternoon when his work mobile buzzes, indicating a text. He sets his basket down and checks the phone, then allows himself a triumphant smile.
James’s text reads: Did you apply the thumbscrews again and get a confession?
made an arrest, he types back. you want the details, youre gonna have to come over to mine. i fancy chinese
The reply comes about four times as fast as Robbie could have typed it. Maybe I don’t want the details.
Robbie snorts, attracting some odd glances from other shoppers. He ignores them. you wouldnt have asked if you werent interested. my place at 6
He doesn’t wait for a response, just puts his phone away and gets on with his shopping, making sure to get some more of that local bitter Hathaway seems to like. Catch more flies with honey and all that...
***
By ten to six, Robbie’s on tenterhooks. For all his confidence earlier, he’s not at all sure that Hathaway’s going to take the bait. Yes, the bloke was curious enough about the case to text - an excellent sign - but he’s been bloody bound and determined on resigning, and although his innate good manners and deference to his boss won’t let him slam the door in Robbie’s face, it’s clear Robbie’s visits weren’t especially welcome.
Not that Robbie cares about that. It’s all part of wearing Hathaway down.
But this is different. This time, he’s asked Mohammed to come to the mountain, and even obedience to his boss might not be enough to achieve that objective.
At five to six, a car pulls up outside, in the rear parking area. A quick glance through the curtains shows that it is James’s Vectra - and he’ll have to return that, of course, if he resigns.
He waits for the knock before going to the door; he is not going to let Hathaway know that he was watching out for him.
Hathaway holds up the takeaway bag as Robbie opens the door. “I hope you wanted either Szechuan chicken or beef in ginger, sir, because you didn’t specify and that’s what I’ve got.”
“Either’s fine.” He takes the bag from Hathaway, and doesn’t tell him that he wouldn’t have cared if the bloke had brought cardboard. What matters is that he came.
He starts relating the story of Watson’s confession and their arrest of the murderers as they set out the food together - Hathaway did as he was asked, so Robbie’s not going to make him wait. During the telling, Hathaway asks several insightful questions, thus not only proving yet again his skill as a copper, but also that - whatever he might pretend - he’s still interested in his job.
Dinner finished, they clear away together and then, before Hathaway can make his escape - which Robbie suspects he’s hoping to do - Robbie gets another couple of bottles from the fridge and takes the caps off. Hathaway accepts one with a murmur of thanks, and his wry expression shows that he’s well aware of what Robbie was up to.
They’ve only just sat down on the sofa when Hathaway speaks.
“I know you don’t want me to resign, sir. What I still don’t understand is why. After what I did - lying to you, betraying your trust - why would you want me back?”
Robbie studies him for a moment. This isn’t the same Hathaway he confronted in the lad’s flat the day after the fire. He’s not beating his chest or being a martyr. He’s sober and rational, and asking what to him is a genuine question about something he sincerely doesn’t understand.
And he has to acknowledge - to himself, at any rate - that he’s proud of the lad for actually being the one to take the initiative.
“Told you that the other day, didn’t I? It’s not a resigning matter.”
“I know, sir.” James takes a deep breath and stands, pacing to the other side of the room. “It’s between you and me, you said. I understand that. It’s how it should be. What I don’t understand is why you want me back - as your sergeant, I mean. I get why you think I shouldn’t resign from the force, but why wouldn’t you want me transferred to another inspector? Another station, even?”
“Yeah, I could do that,” Robbie agrees. Before James can answer, he adds. “Is that what you want? Would you come back to the force if you didn’t have to work with me?” Could that be it? Is the lad too ashamed of what he’s done to work with him again?
James’s gaze falls to the floor, and it’s several moments before he speaks. “No.” His voice is firm and confident, however, and he looks up again, meeting Robbie’s gaze. “If that were the alternative, I definitely wouldn’t want to return to the force. If I can’t be your sergeant, I don’t want to be a copper.”
“Then what’s the problem, man?” Robbie demands. “I’ve said I want you back. There’s no question of bein’ transferred.” He frowns. “You think I can’t forgive what you did, is that it?” How can the bloke know him so little? Yes, he was angry, and it’ll take some time for James to earn his full trust again - but he’s completely sincere about giving him a second chance. No grudges.
But then something about the way James winces makes him realise. “No, wait. That’s not it. You can’t let yourself accept my forgiveness, can you?”
Again, James doesn’t attempt to avoid his gaze. “I don’t deserve it, sir.”
“Oh, for-” Robbie begins, then breaks off. Getting irritated’s not going to help. It occurs to him that there’s a lot in religion about sins and forgiveness, but he’s not going to get into an argument with James about religious philosophy.
Instead, he says, “All right, let’s hear it. What makes you think that? An’ don’t tell me it’s obvious.”
Hathaway runs an agitated hand over his head. “You were right the other day, sir, when you accused me of being a coward. I didn’t want to face what I’d done to Will. That, and the consequences, is something I have to learn to live with. But what’s equally difficult to come to terms with is that I let you down.” He swallows. “I know it must be hard to believe after the last week, but I admire and respect you more than anyone I’ve ever known, and to have betrayed your trust like that...” He shakes his head.
“You can’t forgive yourself, so whether or not I forgive you doesn’t matter,” Robbie concludes aloud. “Stupid sod.” He shakes his head. How on earth is he going to get it through the thick idiot’s head that the best way to make up for a mistake is to learn from it and do better next time?
And then he realises. It’s such an obvious parallel that he has no idea why it didn’t occur to him before. “Did I ever tell you about the time Morse saved my life?”
As he expects, Hathaway’s immediately intrigued. “You didn’t, sir. What happened?”
Robbie smiles faintly. “Long story, so you’d best sit down.” He waits until Hathaway’s seated at the far end of the couch, long legs sprawled in front of him. “It all started when a bloke called Stephen Parnell was killed in prison. He was inside for murdering five people, so some might say he got what was coming to him - but that’s not the point. I’d put him away the previous year, me an’ another DCI, Johnson. Got assigned to him while Morse was away. Anyway, Parnell’s dying words were that he didn’t kill one of the victims, Karen Anderson.”
Robbie pauses to have a drink. “Morse and I were sent to the prison, which is how we got involved. Now, what you need to know is that Morse never believed that Parnell murdered Karen Anderson in the first place. But typical bloody Morse, he never could approach that sort of thing in any kind of reasonable manner. He was all You can’t see what really happened because you’re all idiots.”
Hathaway’s lips twitch very faintly. “I had heard that he wasn’t exactly the most diplomatic in his dealings with colleagues.”
“Putting it mildly, that. Anyway, he was his usual self, trampling all over Johnson’s and my conclusions and making clear what he thought about our detective skills. Strange let him run the case at first, but then he started upsetting people and - apparently - not really getting anywhere, so he put Johnson back in charge and assigned me to work with him again. Morse an’ Johnson - hated each other, they did, though I didn’t realise how much at the time. Anyway, cut a long story short, Morse an’ I had a huge row. I accused him of bein’ too much of an arrogant bastard to admit that I’d proved meself a decent detective. Told him that Johnson was bein’ promoted and had offered me an inspector’s job if I moved with him, an’ that I’d said yes.”
That’s got Hathaway staring at him, eyes wide. “I... um... can’t imagine you saying anything of the kind, sir.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” Robbie retorts. “You felt the sharp end of my tongue last week. Anyway-” He gets back on topic. though it’s not that easy. Even though that row with Morse was more than ten years ago now, he still feels shame whenever he remembers the angry, cruel words he’d flung at his boss. Especially since he knew, even at the time, that he was one of the few people who hadn’t generally been dismissive and disrespectful of Morse on a personal level, and that Morse - despite outward appearances - was frequently hurt by what others said about him. “I thought Morse was holding me back in my career - which was what Johnson wanted me to think. What I didn’t know at the time was that for a few years by then Morse had been trying to get Strange to find a DI position within CID for me. He didn’t want to lose me, but he thought it was the right thing to do. But that day - well, we both said some things, but I was the one who really lashed out. And of course Morse was right all along - not only about Parnell but about Johnson.”
“You obviously apologised,” Hathaway says, his voice low, and it’s clear that he’s seeing the parallel.
“Haven’t told you how he saved me life yet.” He goes on to relate the rest of it - Morse, while still angry, giving him an important lead; he following it up and stumbling upon a deeply-disturbed Karen Anderson, a survivor of multiple rapes who’d murdered several men, and then being forced to dig what would have been his own grave. In the meantime, Morse realising that Anderson was alive and very likely a killer, and that he’d gone out to Wytham Woods alone and could be in danger.
“I was sure I was gonna die,” he continues, his own voice low now. “Was thinking of all the things I’d wanted to do - with Val, with the kids - and knowing I’d never get to say goodbye to them. I knew as soon as I stopped digging that’d be it. Then Morse arrived out of nowhere and drew Anderson’s attention to him instead of me. He could’ve been killed, an’ all for me.”
He pauses; just for a moment, it’s difficult to continue.
“What happened?” Hathaway asks after a bit.
“While Morse was challenging her to kill him, I managed to distract her, which gave Morse a chance to go for the shotgun. In the struggle, it went off and killed her.”
“Ah.” There’s a world of meaning behind that one word, but Robbie knows Hathaway will never voice what he’s thinking.
“He risked his own life for mine, after everything I said to him. An’ you know what? He wouldn’t let me apologise. Wouldn’t hear a word from me. He never breathed a word to Strange either, even though he could’ve had me disciplined for insubordination. I never understood how he was able to let it go - not until this week.”
This time, Hathaway’s intake of breath is sharp. His mouth opens a couple of times, but no words come out.
Robbie gets up and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on - they both need a minute or two, he thinks. Well, he does anyway. The memory of the two of them standing by the body of Karen Anderson, half her head blown away, his own shirt covered in Anderson’s husband’s blood, and his head full of the knowledge of how close he’d come to dying - it’s too vivid, even now. He can smell the gunpowder, the freshly-turned earth, the blood, and he can see the horror on Morse’s face, reflecting what he knows was on his own.
He survived, and Morse was generous enough to forgive him - and it’s a lesson for Hathaway, he hopes. It’s worth dredging up the memories for that.
***
“But it’s different for you, sir,” Hathaway says as he hands the lad a mug of tea. “You’re liked and respected. There’s not a DS in Oxford CID who wouldn’t be begging to work for you. You could have your pick.”
“Not so different as you think,” Robbie points out as he sits next to his sergeant. “People might not have liked Morse, but they liked his results. I had plenty of DSes and DCs asking me to give them advance notice if I ever decided to move on. Morse didn’t want anyone else - I used to think it was because I was the only one who’d put up with him. I only realised after he died that it wasn’t that at all.” Because Morse liked him - no, more than that, saw him as one of his few friends. But he’ll let Hathaway work that out for himself. “And I don’t want anyone else either.”
Hathaway wraps both hands around his mug, clearly trying to stop himself from fidgeting. Probably needing a smoke - it’s a miracle the lad’s managed to hold out for so long. “I... still don’t know why that is, sir,” he manages after a pause, a mixture of wonder and contrition in his voice as he stares down into his tea. “But I’m grateful - no, honoured that you think so highly of me despite my lies.”
“I keep tellin’ you, James. You’re a good copper. Better than good. Course I don’t want anyone else.” He takes a sip of tea. “Anyway, I’ve said my piece. It’s up to you now. You come in the day after tomorrow ready to get back to work, we’ll say no more about it. But if you still want to resign, I won’t try to talk you out of it.”
Hathaway nods, and this time he looks at Robbie again. “That’s very generous of you.” He drains his tea, then stands. “Thank you for telling me about you and Morse, sir. It was... helpful. Goodnight.”
He’s done all he can, Robbie acknowledges, washing the mugs after Hathaway’s gone. It’s over to James now - and he can only hope the bloke makes the right decision.
***
James’s car is in the station car park when Robbie drives in on Tuesday morning.
Not that that means anything. If he’s resigning, he’ll have to return it anyway. Still, it doesn’t stop Robbie from hoping that his efforts worked.
He jogs up the stairs, then deliberately slows to his usual stroll to walk through the squad-room and towards his office.
Through the window, he glimpses a blond head. James is sitting at his computer, apparently focused on the monitor.
Quietly, Robbie approaches, then stands in the doorway for a moment. James is typing now, occasionally pausing to check something on his desk. A large takeaway coffee, from that posh café on the Broad that the lad likes, is beside him. Robbie glances past James to his own desk - yes, another cardboard cup sits on his desk.
“Morning, Hathaway,” he announces casually, walking in and past James to his workstation.
James twists around to look at him. “Good morning, sir.” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “The final forensic report on the vehicle used in the Fellowes murder is in. I think you’ll find it confirms the identity of the suspects you arrested last week.”
“Glad to hear it,” Robbie replies, barely holding back a grin. Sergeant Hathaway’s back on the job, and a bloody good thing too. “Good decision, by the way,” he adds, dropping into his chair.
“Sir?” James looks as if he’d like to disappear under his desk.
“The coffee.” Robbie holds up his cup. “Stuff in the canteen’s been terrible the last few days.”
James’s lips turn up faintly at the corners. “I am relieved that I can rescue you from the horrors of bad coffee, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah. You can save me from the horrors of CPS form-filling, too.” He grabs a stack of folders from his desk, gets up and dumps them on James’s desk. “Make a start on these, an’ if you make enough progress by lunchtime I’ll even consider buyin’ you a pint.”
“I will endeavour not to disappoint, sir,” James replies, tone deadpan - but his gaze meets Robbie’s and the gratitude in his eyes is clear.
Robbie pats his sergeant’s shoulder and heads out of the office to update Innocent that all’s right with the world once more.
- end
Author: wendymr
Characters: Robbie Lewis, James Hathaway, Jean Innocent
Rated: PG (gen)
Summary: After lying to his Inspector, James feels the need to pay penance.
Post-ep what-if to LIfe Born of Fire. With thanks, as always, to the stellar lindenharp for BRing.
Chapter 1: Apology
Chapter 2: Restitution
There’s a new case the following day - well, it’s more like the middle of the night when Robbie’s woken by Dispatch. A body’s been found at the bottom of the steps behind Martyrs’ Memorial. It doesn’t take long to figure out that the victim was dumped there after he was murdered - and that, despite uniforms’ best efforts, nobody saw anything.
“It’s right across the road from the bloody Randolph!” Robbie complains when the door-to-door report comes in.
“Doorman says he saw nothing, sir. We’re talking to the taxi companies in case any of their drivers were in the area, but it was Wednesday night. Not a lot of business around at two in the morning.”
This is where he really needs Hathaway. Robbie’s already got one of the DCs reviewing CCTV, but the cameras near St Giles are focused on the traffic lights, not the memorial. There was another time recently where camera evidence could have been crucial and CCTV was no help; Hathaway started spouting about Google Maps and webcams, and a few hours later had a photo that gave them a lead.
Blast the man for being so sodding stubborn anyway. Though, Robbie reminds himself, Hathaway would have been on sick leave today. He’d still have been in work tomorrow and could’ve got onto his Google stuff then if they still had no leads.
It’s late in the afternoon when the idea occurs to him. He’s had the PM report from Laura: their old friend the blunt instrument to the back of the head. There were splinters of wood in the victim’s hair and skull, and she’s speculating, on the basis of it being plywood with a glaze applied, that it could have been something like a chair-leg. Fairly cheap mass-produced furniture, at any event, so that’s not much of a lead. And further canvassing of the area, and interviews with the victim’s family and friends, haven’t yielded anything either.
Robbie gathers up his file on the case and heads for his car. Fifteen minutes later, he’s pulling up outside Hathaway’s flat. Time to see if his sergeant’s sense of curiosity and love of showing off to his boss will win over his stubborn self-sacrifice.
Hathaway, as casually dressed as yesterday, looks surprised to see him, but steps back immediately to let him in. “If this visit is prompted by concern about my welfare, sir, I assure you that I have been eating. And staying warm.”
The flat does feel considerably warmer than it did yesterday. “Glad to hear it, though that’s not why I’m here.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again. Not after yesterday.” Hathaway’s gone to the kitchen, and he starts to fill the kettle. “I haven’t changed my mind, sir. Though I may be presuming by making the assumption that you still want me to.”
“Again, not why I’m here.” Hathaway’s getting out mugs and tea-bags, so Robbie goes to the fridge for milk. It’s reasonably well-stocked, he’s pleased to see - in fact, compared to his fridge, Hathaway could open his own supermarket.
“I can’t imagine it’s a social call, sir.” This time Hathaway’s tone is dry, though he doesn’t falter in making the tea.
Robbie waits until they’re seated before explaining. “You’re intending to resign, an’ that’s your choice. But until you do, you’re still my sergeant, and I need that know-it-all brain of yours.”
Hathaway goes very still. After a pause, he says, “I am on sick leave, sir. And, according to Innocent, off-duty until next Tuesday.”
Robbie doesn’t say a word, but his expression’s designed to remind Hathaway of the direction of the authority structure in their relationship. When he judges that it’s had long enough to sink in, he opens the file.
“Body found here early this morning.” He points to the crime-scene photos. “No CCTV, no witnesses, canvass of the area turned up nothing. No-one knows where the victim was last night. He lives alone, and we haven’t yet found out where he went after leaving work at around seven. At some point, most likely between 1:30 and 2:30 this morning, his body was dumped where you see it.”
“Sir.” James sounds pained. “I really would prefer not to-”
“Sergeant.” Robbie waits until Hathaway subsides. “It’s not too much to ask for you to do your job, I hope?”
He drains his tea, then stands, gathering everything in the file except for the photos and a photocopy of the timeline as currently known. He’s pushed as far as he can; Hathaway is completely entitled to refuse and could complain to Innocent or HR about being put under pressure to work while on sick leave. Bullying, Innocent would probably call it.
“Thanks for the tea. I’ll let meself out.”
***
When Robbie opens his email the following morning, there’s a message from Hathaway’s personal account. The subject-line is Could be useful, and there are attachments.
Robbie wants to cheer, but it’s hardly the most suitable environment - and besides, one email does not a change of heart make.
He clicks on it. Sent at 23:12, he notes, and the attachments are photos.
Sir,
These two photographs may be of benefit in tracking down, if not the murderer, at least the person or persons who dumped the victim’s body. They’ll need to be enhanced to get any significant information. Since I don’t have access to that software here, I’ve also emailed the photos to Lyons in the tech division. You’ll need to follow up with him.
I’ve also given him my source for the photos so that he can duplicate access, since that will be needed for evidence purposes if this proves to be a lead.
JH
Two steps forward, one step back, Robbie muses; Hathaway has just effectively told him that he won’t be doing his job and contributing to the chain of evidence.
Still, he never imagined that he’d get the result he wanted on the first try, did he? Hathaway may imagine that he’s stubborn, but he’s yet to meet the force of nature that’s Robbie Lewis when he’s determined on getting his own way.
Right, then. Robbie reaches for his phone and calls Lyons in Tech.
***
It’s after six when Robbie pulls up outside Hathaway’s flat again, takeaway curry and a four-pack of beer with him.
Hathaway opens the door and stands, arms folded. Robbie notes that the cut on his face is less livid today, though still evident. “Sir, do you need me to give you directions to your home?”
Robbie has to smother a grin. If Hathaway’s being a smartarse, then he’s definitely getting over his guilt complex. “No, ta. Know me way home. Thought you might be interested in an update on the case, that’s all. Oh, and I was hungry.” He holds up the takeaway bag.
“I apologise if my hospitality has been somewhat lacking.” Hathaway’s gaze slides away, Robbie notes without comment. Clearly his initial reaction was more bravado than recovery. So, still some way to go.
James takes the bag and heads inside, allowing Robbie to enter. “ ‘S all right. You can make up for it now.” Robbie follows him into the kitchen. “Plates?”
“Up there.” Hathaway nods towards a wall cabinet, then busies himself getting serving spoons.
While they eat, Robbie deliberately doesn’t mention the case, or work at all, instead asking Hathaway how he’s feeling and satisfying himself that the bloke’s experiencing no troubling after-effects from almost burning to death. Eventually, as he’s been hoping, James breaks first.
“Did the photos help at all, sir?”
Robbie deliberately finishes chewing his food. “They did. The techs managed to get a number-plate as well as a make and model. Interviewed the owner this afternoon.”
“And?”
“Swears blind he was home asleep at the time his car was photographed at the scene.”
“Witnesses?” Hathaway asks. “Any chance the car was stolen?”
“He was alone. He’s apparently ‘between relationships’. And, since he was still in possession of it, no, it wasn’t stolen.”
Hathaway takes a sip of beer. “Didn’t even have the common sense to dump it, then.”
“No,” Robbie agrees.
“Relationship to the victim? Did he know him?”
“Oh, he knew him all right.” Robbie takes a drink of his own beer. “Worked together until a few months ago - and, according to an ex-colleague, the suspect blamed the victim for getting him sacked.” He’s deliberately not mentioning names; Hathaway may still be on the force and bound by all the laws and regulations governing confidentiality, but he’s not on this case. Better safe than sorry, and all that.
Hathaway’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “Sounds like a plausible motive.”
“It does.” Robbie nods. “Shame of it is, though, I don’t think he did it.”
“Oh?” Hathaway leans back in his chair. “Gut instinct?”
“Yep. He’s not a killer. Don’t think you’d think he is either. I think he lent someone his car last night, either willingly or under duress, and now he’s too scared to say anything.”
“You have applied the thumbscrews, sir, haven’t you?” Hathaway raises an eyebrow - yet, despite the trademark humour, he’s still not meeting Robbie’s gaze.
“For some strange reason, they’re more effective when you’re sitting behind me glowering,” Robbie comments with a quirk of his eyebrows.
But Hathaway doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he stands and starts to clear the dishes. “Sorry to rush you, sir, but I have rehearsal tonight. Need to get going.”
Robbie allows himself to be ushered out of the flat without protest, pretending not to notice Hathaway’s relieved expression. If his sergeant thinks this is over, then he’s in for a grave disappointment. Robbie still has three more days, and he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve yet.
As long as one of them works, that’s all that matters.
***
He interviews the owner of the car again the next day - since it was clearly his car that was used to dump the victim’s body, they’ve got enough to hold him in custody for twenty-four hours. He leans on the bloke a bit, talking about accessory before and after the fact, the firing that he is known to have blamed the victim for, and the lack of alibi that’ll make a jury definitely suspicious.
“I didn’t kill him!” Watson shouts at last, tears of frustration on his face. “Look, I couldn’t stand the bloke, but I never would’ve... I didn’t!”
“Yeah, but you know who might have, don’t you?” Robbie counters, his own tone calm, in complete contrast to Watson.
“They’ll kill me.” Watson’s voice has fallen to a whisper.
“Not if we get to them first.” Robbie gestures to the uniformed constable in the room, who goes out and beckons in DC Anna Henderson, whom he’s had listening in from behind the glass. It’s the breakthrough they’ve been waiting for. Watson spills all, Henderson takes detailed notes, and the two of them go to interview the new suspects.
It only takes four hours until two men - both of whom also worked with Watson and Fellowes, the victim - are charged with murder. Watson was a reluctant accomplice only in the sense that he knew the other two were going to “teach Fellowes a lesson”, but he claims to have had no idea that they’d kill him. He says that he only loaned them his car because they said Fellowes would recognise theirs, and because he was afraid of them.
Robbie arrests him anyway, for withholding evidence and being an accessory to murder. The jury can decide whether or not they believe him.
He’s actually able to pack up for the day before six, with his initial report on the case emailed to Innocent. Henderson, who’s working the rest of the weekend, can take care of the rest of the paperwork; he’ll review it when he’s back on Tuesday. Two days off, and he’s looking forward to every minute of it.
It’s straight home tonight to watch the footy on telly - the qualifying rounds of the UEFA Cup. He doesn’t go to Hathaway’s. It’s the next phase in his strategy: staying away from the lad. He’ll see how long it takes for that to have an impact.
***
Robbie’s in Sainsbury’s at almost four the following afternoon when his work mobile buzzes, indicating a text. He sets his basket down and checks the phone, then allows himself a triumphant smile.
James’s text reads: Did you apply the thumbscrews again and get a confession?
made an arrest, he types back. you want the details, youre gonna have to come over to mine. i fancy chinese
The reply comes about four times as fast as Robbie could have typed it. Maybe I don’t want the details.
Robbie snorts, attracting some odd glances from other shoppers. He ignores them. you wouldnt have asked if you werent interested. my place at 6
He doesn’t wait for a response, just puts his phone away and gets on with his shopping, making sure to get some more of that local bitter Hathaway seems to like. Catch more flies with honey and all that...
***
By ten to six, Robbie’s on tenterhooks. For all his confidence earlier, he’s not at all sure that Hathaway’s going to take the bait. Yes, the bloke was curious enough about the case to text - an excellent sign - but he’s been bloody bound and determined on resigning, and although his innate good manners and deference to his boss won’t let him slam the door in Robbie’s face, it’s clear Robbie’s visits weren’t especially welcome.
Not that Robbie cares about that. It’s all part of wearing Hathaway down.
But this is different. This time, he’s asked Mohammed to come to the mountain, and even obedience to his boss might not be enough to achieve that objective.
At five to six, a car pulls up outside, in the rear parking area. A quick glance through the curtains shows that it is James’s Vectra - and he’ll have to return that, of course, if he resigns.
He waits for the knock before going to the door; he is not going to let Hathaway know that he was watching out for him.
Hathaway holds up the takeaway bag as Robbie opens the door. “I hope you wanted either Szechuan chicken or beef in ginger, sir, because you didn’t specify and that’s what I’ve got.”
“Either’s fine.” He takes the bag from Hathaway, and doesn’t tell him that he wouldn’t have cared if the bloke had brought cardboard. What matters is that he came.
He starts relating the story of Watson’s confession and their arrest of the murderers as they set out the food together - Hathaway did as he was asked, so Robbie’s not going to make him wait. During the telling, Hathaway asks several insightful questions, thus not only proving yet again his skill as a copper, but also that - whatever he might pretend - he’s still interested in his job.
Dinner finished, they clear away together and then, before Hathaway can make his escape - which Robbie suspects he’s hoping to do - Robbie gets another couple of bottles from the fridge and takes the caps off. Hathaway accepts one with a murmur of thanks, and his wry expression shows that he’s well aware of what Robbie was up to.
They’ve only just sat down on the sofa when Hathaway speaks.
“I know you don’t want me to resign, sir. What I still don’t understand is why. After what I did - lying to you, betraying your trust - why would you want me back?”
Robbie studies him for a moment. This isn’t the same Hathaway he confronted in the lad’s flat the day after the fire. He’s not beating his chest or being a martyr. He’s sober and rational, and asking what to him is a genuine question about something he sincerely doesn’t understand.
And he has to acknowledge - to himself, at any rate - that he’s proud of the lad for actually being the one to take the initiative.
“Told you that the other day, didn’t I? It’s not a resigning matter.”
“I know, sir.” James takes a deep breath and stands, pacing to the other side of the room. “It’s between you and me, you said. I understand that. It’s how it should be. What I don’t understand is why you want me back - as your sergeant, I mean. I get why you think I shouldn’t resign from the force, but why wouldn’t you want me transferred to another inspector? Another station, even?”
“Yeah, I could do that,” Robbie agrees. Before James can answer, he adds. “Is that what you want? Would you come back to the force if you didn’t have to work with me?” Could that be it? Is the lad too ashamed of what he’s done to work with him again?
James’s gaze falls to the floor, and it’s several moments before he speaks. “No.” His voice is firm and confident, however, and he looks up again, meeting Robbie’s gaze. “If that were the alternative, I definitely wouldn’t want to return to the force. If I can’t be your sergeant, I don’t want to be a copper.”
“Then what’s the problem, man?” Robbie demands. “I’ve said I want you back. There’s no question of bein’ transferred.” He frowns. “You think I can’t forgive what you did, is that it?” How can the bloke know him so little? Yes, he was angry, and it’ll take some time for James to earn his full trust again - but he’s completely sincere about giving him a second chance. No grudges.
But then something about the way James winces makes him realise. “No, wait. That’s not it. You can’t let yourself accept my forgiveness, can you?”
Again, James doesn’t attempt to avoid his gaze. “I don’t deserve it, sir.”
“Oh, for-” Robbie begins, then breaks off. Getting irritated’s not going to help. It occurs to him that there’s a lot in religion about sins and forgiveness, but he’s not going to get into an argument with James about religious philosophy.
Instead, he says, “All right, let’s hear it. What makes you think that? An’ don’t tell me it’s obvious.”
Hathaway runs an agitated hand over his head. “You were right the other day, sir, when you accused me of being a coward. I didn’t want to face what I’d done to Will. That, and the consequences, is something I have to learn to live with. But what’s equally difficult to come to terms with is that I let you down.” He swallows. “I know it must be hard to believe after the last week, but I admire and respect you more than anyone I’ve ever known, and to have betrayed your trust like that...” He shakes his head.
“You can’t forgive yourself, so whether or not I forgive you doesn’t matter,” Robbie concludes aloud. “Stupid sod.” He shakes his head. How on earth is he going to get it through the thick idiot’s head that the best way to make up for a mistake is to learn from it and do better next time?
And then he realises. It’s such an obvious parallel that he has no idea why it didn’t occur to him before. “Did I ever tell you about the time Morse saved my life?”
As he expects, Hathaway’s immediately intrigued. “You didn’t, sir. What happened?”
Robbie smiles faintly. “Long story, so you’d best sit down.” He waits until Hathaway’s seated at the far end of the couch, long legs sprawled in front of him. “It all started when a bloke called Stephen Parnell was killed in prison. He was inside for murdering five people, so some might say he got what was coming to him - but that’s not the point. I’d put him away the previous year, me an’ another DCI, Johnson. Got assigned to him while Morse was away. Anyway, Parnell’s dying words were that he didn’t kill one of the victims, Karen Anderson.”
Robbie pauses to have a drink. “Morse and I were sent to the prison, which is how we got involved. Now, what you need to know is that Morse never believed that Parnell murdered Karen Anderson in the first place. But typical bloody Morse, he never could approach that sort of thing in any kind of reasonable manner. He was all You can’t see what really happened because you’re all idiots.”
Hathaway’s lips twitch very faintly. “I had heard that he wasn’t exactly the most diplomatic in his dealings with colleagues.”
“Putting it mildly, that. Anyway, he was his usual self, trampling all over Johnson’s and my conclusions and making clear what he thought about our detective skills. Strange let him run the case at first, but then he started upsetting people and - apparently - not really getting anywhere, so he put Johnson back in charge and assigned me to work with him again. Morse an’ Johnson - hated each other, they did, though I didn’t realise how much at the time. Anyway, cut a long story short, Morse an’ I had a huge row. I accused him of bein’ too much of an arrogant bastard to admit that I’d proved meself a decent detective. Told him that Johnson was bein’ promoted and had offered me an inspector’s job if I moved with him, an’ that I’d said yes.”
That’s got Hathaway staring at him, eyes wide. “I... um... can’t imagine you saying anything of the kind, sir.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” Robbie retorts. “You felt the sharp end of my tongue last week. Anyway-” He gets back on topic. though it’s not that easy. Even though that row with Morse was more than ten years ago now, he still feels shame whenever he remembers the angry, cruel words he’d flung at his boss. Especially since he knew, even at the time, that he was one of the few people who hadn’t generally been dismissive and disrespectful of Morse on a personal level, and that Morse - despite outward appearances - was frequently hurt by what others said about him. “I thought Morse was holding me back in my career - which was what Johnson wanted me to think. What I didn’t know at the time was that for a few years by then Morse had been trying to get Strange to find a DI position within CID for me. He didn’t want to lose me, but he thought it was the right thing to do. But that day - well, we both said some things, but I was the one who really lashed out. And of course Morse was right all along - not only about Parnell but about Johnson.”
“You obviously apologised,” Hathaway says, his voice low, and it’s clear that he’s seeing the parallel.
“Haven’t told you how he saved me life yet.” He goes on to relate the rest of it - Morse, while still angry, giving him an important lead; he following it up and stumbling upon a deeply-disturbed Karen Anderson, a survivor of multiple rapes who’d murdered several men, and then being forced to dig what would have been his own grave. In the meantime, Morse realising that Anderson was alive and very likely a killer, and that he’d gone out to Wytham Woods alone and could be in danger.
“I was sure I was gonna die,” he continues, his own voice low now. “Was thinking of all the things I’d wanted to do - with Val, with the kids - and knowing I’d never get to say goodbye to them. I knew as soon as I stopped digging that’d be it. Then Morse arrived out of nowhere and drew Anderson’s attention to him instead of me. He could’ve been killed, an’ all for me.”
He pauses; just for a moment, it’s difficult to continue.
“What happened?” Hathaway asks after a bit.
“While Morse was challenging her to kill him, I managed to distract her, which gave Morse a chance to go for the shotgun. In the struggle, it went off and killed her.”
“Ah.” There’s a world of meaning behind that one word, but Robbie knows Hathaway will never voice what he’s thinking.
“He risked his own life for mine, after everything I said to him. An’ you know what? He wouldn’t let me apologise. Wouldn’t hear a word from me. He never breathed a word to Strange either, even though he could’ve had me disciplined for insubordination. I never understood how he was able to let it go - not until this week.”
This time, Hathaway’s intake of breath is sharp. His mouth opens a couple of times, but no words come out.
Robbie gets up and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on - they both need a minute or two, he thinks. Well, he does anyway. The memory of the two of them standing by the body of Karen Anderson, half her head blown away, his own shirt covered in Anderson’s husband’s blood, and his head full of the knowledge of how close he’d come to dying - it’s too vivid, even now. He can smell the gunpowder, the freshly-turned earth, the blood, and he can see the horror on Morse’s face, reflecting what he knows was on his own.
He survived, and Morse was generous enough to forgive him - and it’s a lesson for Hathaway, he hopes. It’s worth dredging up the memories for that.
***
“But it’s different for you, sir,” Hathaway says as he hands the lad a mug of tea. “You’re liked and respected. There’s not a DS in Oxford CID who wouldn’t be begging to work for you. You could have your pick.”
“Not so different as you think,” Robbie points out as he sits next to his sergeant. “People might not have liked Morse, but they liked his results. I had plenty of DSes and DCs asking me to give them advance notice if I ever decided to move on. Morse didn’t want anyone else - I used to think it was because I was the only one who’d put up with him. I only realised after he died that it wasn’t that at all.” Because Morse liked him - no, more than that, saw him as one of his few friends. But he’ll let Hathaway work that out for himself. “And I don’t want anyone else either.”
Hathaway wraps both hands around his mug, clearly trying to stop himself from fidgeting. Probably needing a smoke - it’s a miracle the lad’s managed to hold out for so long. “I... still don’t know why that is, sir,” he manages after a pause, a mixture of wonder and contrition in his voice as he stares down into his tea. “But I’m grateful - no, honoured that you think so highly of me despite my lies.”
“I keep tellin’ you, James. You’re a good copper. Better than good. Course I don’t want anyone else.” He takes a sip of tea. “Anyway, I’ve said my piece. It’s up to you now. You come in the day after tomorrow ready to get back to work, we’ll say no more about it. But if you still want to resign, I won’t try to talk you out of it.”
Hathaway nods, and this time he looks at Robbie again. “That’s very generous of you.” He drains his tea, then stands. “Thank you for telling me about you and Morse, sir. It was... helpful. Goodnight.”
He’s done all he can, Robbie acknowledges, washing the mugs after Hathaway’s gone. It’s over to James now - and he can only hope the bloke makes the right decision.
***
James’s car is in the station car park when Robbie drives in on Tuesday morning.
Not that that means anything. If he’s resigning, he’ll have to return it anyway. Still, it doesn’t stop Robbie from hoping that his efforts worked.
He jogs up the stairs, then deliberately slows to his usual stroll to walk through the squad-room and towards his office.
Through the window, he glimpses a blond head. James is sitting at his computer, apparently focused on the monitor.
Quietly, Robbie approaches, then stands in the doorway for a moment. James is typing now, occasionally pausing to check something on his desk. A large takeaway coffee, from that posh café on the Broad that the lad likes, is beside him. Robbie glances past James to his own desk - yes, another cardboard cup sits on his desk.
“Morning, Hathaway,” he announces casually, walking in and past James to his workstation.
James twists around to look at him. “Good morning, sir.” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “The final forensic report on the vehicle used in the Fellowes murder is in. I think you’ll find it confirms the identity of the suspects you arrested last week.”
“Glad to hear it,” Robbie replies, barely holding back a grin. Sergeant Hathaway’s back on the job, and a bloody good thing too. “Good decision, by the way,” he adds, dropping into his chair.
“Sir?” James looks as if he’d like to disappear under his desk.
“The coffee.” Robbie holds up his cup. “Stuff in the canteen’s been terrible the last few days.”
James’s lips turn up faintly at the corners. “I am relieved that I can rescue you from the horrors of bad coffee, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah. You can save me from the horrors of CPS form-filling, too.” He grabs a stack of folders from his desk, gets up and dumps them on James’s desk. “Make a start on these, an’ if you make enough progress by lunchtime I’ll even consider buyin’ you a pint.”
“I will endeavour not to disappoint, sir,” James replies, tone deadpan - but his gaze meets Robbie’s and the gratitude in his eyes is clear.
Robbie pats his sergeant’s shoulder and heads out of the office to update Innocent that all’s right with the world once more.
- end