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“Cheers, Hathaway.”
“Cheers, sir.” James makes the traditional gesture with his glass of orange juice, then watches his new governor knock back close to a quarter of his pint. He drinks it like a man who’s been denied the pleasure for a very long time – but then, Lewis has just come back from two years in the Caribbean. Not a lot of English bitter there, James supposes. Plenty of rum, though, assuming Lewis likes rum.
That will be one of his first tasks, actually – finding out what Lewis does and doesn’t like, in every aspect of their working lives and even off-duty.
Of course, he already knows some of the man’s dislikes: religion tops the list, and close behind it are self-important tossers, whether Town, Gown or police, who think the rules don’t apply to them. James doesn’t have a problem with the second one; it’s been amusing to watch the way Lewis has steamrollered over university bigwigs, among others, over the past few days. Even Innocent’s disapprobation hasn’t stopped him; Lewis is his own man and expects others to take him as they find him.
Certainly, the man’s a legend around the nick, mainly linked with that other and even more revered legend, the late Chief Inspector Morse. There’ve been a few who’ve suggested that Lewis built his reputation on Morse’s coat-tails, and they whisper about incompetence and unfitness for duty in the months before Lewis disappeared on his attachment – but James knows better. Any less than stellar performance is easily explained by what James now knows about Lewis’s wife, and even jet-lagged and struggling to fit back into a nick that’s changed radically while his back was turned, the Inspector has more than proven that his reputation is very much deserved.
He won’t get away with much where DI Lewis is concerned – but what he will get, James is already confident, is respect and some bloody good training, which is a lot more than he’s had in his past two years in the Force.
“So, a frivolous fish pie, eh?” Lewis eyes him in a manner that makes clear he knows James is spinning him a line – but also lets him know that Lewis will let him get away with it. For now, anyway.
“Absolutely. Not that it prevented Father Chisholm from having second helpings. Frivolity is apparently not to be tolerated, but it’s perfectly okay to enjoy it when you think no-one’s looking.”
“Good to know that, whatever else might change in Oxford, hypocrisy lives on.” Lewis smiles crookedly and takes a drink, and then his demeanour changes. “You did good work on this case, Hathaway. If you ask me, you’re a better detective than you would’ve been a priest.”
He’s tempted to point out that Lewis’s antipathy to organised religion doesn’t make him an impartial observer, but refrains; it’s not the best way to begin a working relationship with a new governor and, in any case, he finds he likes Lewis having a good opinion of him. “Thank you, sir. Actually, I think I would’ve made a pretty appalling priest.”
“Well, as I’m sure you’ve learned, the three top skills you need in this job are keen observation, attention to detail – and anticipating your governor’s needs.” Lewis quirks an eyebrow as he drains his pint. “Course, that last one’s the most important.”
“Naturally, sir. I shall endeavour to apply myself to that especially.”
Lewis smirks. “You’re already falling behind, sergeant.” He holds up his empty pint glass. “It’s your round.”
“No end to your talents, is there, Hathaway? From knowin’ the boys in the band to recognising a USB thimgummy attached to a junky necklace.”
“That was art, sir! Can you really imagine Professor Walters wearing anything less?”
“Won’t have a chance to now, will she?” Lewis sips his pint, a satisfied grin hovering around his lips. “Don’t tend to see much arty jewellery in prison.”
“Well, she could always tear a T-shirt into strips and plait it,” James suggests with a smirk.
“Assumin’ she knows how to plait. Nell Buckley made that other necklace. Though she’ll have plenty of time to learn.”
“Mmm.” James takes a drag on his cigarette, then gives his boss a sly smile. “This case has helped me work out your secret, though, sir. Well, confirmed what I’ve suspected for a while.”
“Oh? What’s that, then?”
“You encourage people to underestimate you. You play the dull Northerner–”
“Nah, let’s get it right. The thick Geordie. An’ you think it’s an act, do you?”
James waves the hand holding his cigarette dismissively. “Of course it is, sir. You lure them into believing it, so they let down their guard around you and give themselves away. It’s really very clever.”
Lewis’s lips twitch. “Were you fooled, Sergeant?”
He has to be honest. “Maybe for all of about fifteen minutes of that first case.”
Lewis sips at his pint, his smile enigmatic. Then, after a while, he says, “It was Morse’s doing, really. He behaved sometimes as if I was a stupid, wet-behind-the-ears ignoramus. Course, he treated everyone that way, but one day I heard another DCI say something about Morse’s thick Geordie of a sergeant – an’ then Morse said, ‘Fooled you too, has he? He’s far cleverer than you imagine.’ Once I recovered from the shock, I realised that, if it was true, I could use it to my advantage.”
“Villains really don’t stand a chance around you, sir.”
“You’ll learn your own trick one of these days, Hathaway. Bore them into confession by quoting obscure Shakespeare at them, no doubt.”
“Oh, there are far better authors than Shakespeare if you really want to bore someone. Chekov, Melville, Henry James...” James quirks an eyebrow at Lewis. “Shall I give you a few examples?”
“Just drink your pint, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lewis sets two pints on the table, then drops a packet of McCoys in the centre. It’s sour cream and chive flavour, which is James’s favourite. Lewis doesn’t care for that flavour as a rule, so James immediately knows his boss is either looking for a favour – or it’s an apology.
Not hard to work out what for, of course, not that it’s necessary. He didn’t exercise the best of judgement himself today, after all. It’s no wonder Lewis reacted badly.
Lewis takes a long drink, then says, “Never even thanked you, James, did I?”
He taps his cigarette on the edge of the table. “Not necessary, sir.”
“Course it’s necessary. I know the amount of time and effort you put into proving Monkford did it – stayin’ up till all hours to call the Mounties, for god’s sake – an’ all I could do when you told me was shout at you.” Lewis shakes his head, mouth turned downwards. “I’d lost hope that the Met was ever gonna find the bastard who killed her – five years and they had nothing. And then you...” Lewis shakes his head.
“It really was just luck,” James protests. “Pure coincidence that Monkford ran his pathetic little con at the Randolph in the first place, and then that his sister said what she did.”
At Lewis’s “Oh?”, he details the conversation that started it all. Lewis looks even more impressed. “Don’t think many coppers would even have put two an’ two together at all, let alone followed up on it.”
“It was a long shot, definitely. Which is why I didn’t want to say anything at all until I was certain.”
Lewis nods. “You were right. If you’d told me before you had proof...” His boss shakes his head. “Anyway, I don’t think anyone’s ever done anything like that for me before, an’ I’m grateful. Sorry I...” He gestures vaguely with a hand.
“No problem.” James takes a sip of his pint to hide the pink he knows is climbing up his face.
“Yeah, well. You gonna eat those crisps?” Lewis waves at the bag. “An’ I’ll get the menus.”
Dinner will be on his governor tonight, James knows, without Lewis even having to say it. And he’ll let Lewis pay, if only because he knows what it’s like to feel both grateful and ashamed at the same time, and not to be able – or allowed – to make his apologies fully.
Though those crisps are bloody good. James tears open the packet and starts to munch.
James buys the pints and crisps tonight, but the pints are orange juice thanks to both of them on prescribed painkillers, and it’s Lewis who carries them to the table. With one arm out of action thanks to Paul Hopkiss, James is not much of a beast of burden at present.
He’s not aware that he’s hesitating until Lewis says, impatient, “Come on, man, What are you waiting for? Sit down before you fall down!” As James lowers himself carefully onto the bench in the cramped nook of the busy pub, making sure that he doesn’t bump his arm, Lewis frowns. “You sure you shouldn’t be at home resting? You’re looking a bit peaky.”
Immediately, he protests, “I’m fine. Thank you, sir,” he adds quickly. Being at home’s the last thing he wants. Too many memories, both recent and ancient history, to flood his mind and fill it with regrets and remembered fears. Guilt, too, over what he could and should have done, both then and now. Lewis might say he’s not to blame, but James isn’t at all sure he believes it.
And there’s another regret, on top of everything else. Lewis himself.
Awkwardly, given his useless left arm, James fumbles for his cigarettes, trying to take one out of the packet. Lewis tuts. “You’re really not at your best tonight, are you? We’re inside, man. No smoking.” Bugger. He knew that, of course. Shows how much the smoking’s linked to stress, doesn’t it? “Get that drink inside you, then I’m takin’ you home.”
“You’re the one with the head injury, sir,” he points out. “Are you all right?”
“Skull like an anvil, me. Doesn’t even hurt now.” James refrains from pointing out that the painkillers are responsible for that. Instead, he fiddles with his lighter, turning it around and around in his hand.
“Oi.” Lewis nudges him with his foot. “Come on, out with it.” James’s head jerks up and he stares at his boss, heart thumping. “I know there’s something on your mind. The longer you leave it, the harder it’ll be.”
Lewis is right about that, just as he was about almost everything on the case. James takes a deep breath. “Sir. I owe you an apology. More than one, in fact.” Reflexively, his fists clench, and pain shoots up his left arm. Damn it.
His governor is shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. You think I don’t know what the last few days have been like for you? It’s past. Forget it.”
“No. I can’t.” James leans forward. “Sir, I lied to you – again – and I insulted you.” He doesn’t need to remind Lewis of what he said; the man’s got a memory like an elephant, and besides, James knows the words would have wounded. They were intended to.
“I’m not sure I want to wake up in twenty years’ time old, and with nothing to show than a life spent picking through other people’s misery.”
“I’m sorry, sir. There are many things I regret about the past few days, but those most of all.”
Lewis doesn’t answer him, just watches him keenly, and James finds himself almost squirming under that keen gaze. Maybe now he understands something of what a guilty suspect feels when being questioned by Lewis.
Then, finally, his boss speaks. “I accept your apology – on two conditions.”
Warily, James asks, “What conditions?”
“One, don’t lie to me again. Ever.” Lewis’s expression is suddenly implacable. “You know how I feel about that. Second–” Abruptly, that kind look that’s so familiar to James, and that he knows he doesn’t at all deserve at the moment, is back. “–forgive yourself. All right?”
James exhales, long and hard. Both conditions are more than fair, from Lewis’s perspective, but they’re both bloody difficult to accept. Lying to hide truths about himself has been second nature to him for so long that he honestly doesn’t know how to do anything different. And hand in hand with that’s the guilt, the continual self-recrimination, that’s been part of his make-up since... oh, as far back as he can remember. Catholic guilt or simply James Hathaway guilt, he has no idea. It’s just the way he is.
But Lewis is waiting for an answer, and there’s only one answer he can give. “All right. I’ll try.”
He gets a single nod of acceptance. “That’s a start. Now, drink up, an’ come back to mine. We’ll pick up a takeaway – something you can eat with one hand.” Lewis drains his glass.
James follows suit, his mouth curving into a crooked smile. “I’m surprised you’re not offering to liquidise it for me.”
Lewis snorts. “It’s your arm that’s out of action, not your gob. Unfortunately.”
As they walk out to the car, Lewis’s hand rests between his shoulders, and his heart’s lighter than it’s been for days.
“Ben tornato.” James tilts his glass to tap it against Lewis’s. The two weeks away seem to have done his boss the world of good; he’s looking nothing like as careworn as he did before setting off for Italy. With any luck, all talk of retirement will disappear as well.
“Thanks, man. And for meetin’ us at the airport.”
“It was no trouble.” Less than an hour’s drive, and far better than leaving his boss to mess around with taxis or the Greyhound service. It also meant that he could drop Lyn at the Oxford station, so she wouldn’t have to battle the commuter traffic into London for her train to Manchester. “You look well, sir, and so does Lyn.”
Lewis’s craggy face lights up. “Aye, she does, at that. It’s a cliché, but I’ll say it anyway: she’s blooming. Just like her mam that way.”
“And the proud granddad is too.” James smirks; he intends to get a lot of mileage out of his governor’s impending change of family circumstances.
Unlike the first time he’d called Lewis granddad – in Italian, that time – his boss just smiles happily. “Lyn meant it, y’ know. You’ll have to come up with me some time after the bairn’s born. Get you used to changing nappies. Never know when that’ll come in handy, do you?”
James frowns. “I hardly think nappy-changing falls under the job description of a detective sergeant, sir.”
Lewis smirks. “Falls under the any other duties category, that one.”
“I believe that’s actually other reasonable duties, sir.”
A snort’s the immediate response to that. “You tell me how changing a baby’s any less reasonable than some of the stuff we’ve had to do over the years.”
He has to laugh. “True. The lake of crap springs to mind.”
“Oh, yeah, believe me, it will.” Lewis’s smile as he drinks his pint suggests that he’s enjoying himself far too much.
By his calculations, James has around five months to invent some kind of rare ailment that’ll make it impossible for him to get closer than a couple of feet to Lyn’s baby. Except Lewis will tell Dr Hobson, who’ll let the cat out of the bag.
He drains his pint and gets up to fetch another round, mentally girding himself for a future full of more nappies and baby photos than he ever wished to encounter. On the positive side, it is going to contain a continued working relationship with his governor, so on balance, James decides, life is good.
“You know, you don’t need to babysit me, sir. I really am fine.”
They’re back at Lewis’s flat after a couple of pints and a pub meal, and James has already deduced that Lewis intends him to stay the night. Not that he has anything against the idea in principle; it’d hardly be the first time he’s slept on his boss’s sofa, not by a long way. He’d just prefer that it wasn’t because Lewis thinks he’s not fit to be left on his own.
It’s not as if he hasn’t been at the wrong end of a gun before today. He’s had guns pointed at him in the past, though admittedly not by a man who, during his terrorist past, was responsible for many deaths and would have little hesitation about pulling the trigger. For a couple of minutes there, James hadn’t been sure at all that any of them would survive, even after Lewis had arrived and distracted Doheny, splitting his attention between three instead of two.
Lewis doesn’t acknowledge his statement, which isn’t surprising. What he says instead is.
“Did I ever tell you about the time Morse saved my life?”
James blinks. “No, you didn’t.”
“Fifteen, sixteen years ago, it was. Not long after one of our biggest arguments, in fact. I’d called him a... well, never mind, an’ told him I was leaving to work with another senior officer who appreciated me. And he told me it was just as well.” Lewis shakes his head, as James tries to absorb what he’s just heard about Oxfordshire Police’s legendary and apparently most successful partnership ever. Lewis, he’s always been told, had been the most loyal bagman in existence, letting Morse’s moods and rudeness wash over him like water off a duck’s back. But then, it’s not as if he doesn’t know his governor has a temper; it’s just that Lewis doesn’t tend to lose it all that often.
“Well, clearly you didn’t,” he says after a moment or two. “Or, at least, that’s not how the stories go.”
Lewis smiles, obviously mildly embarrassed. “One day you’ll have to tell me how the stories go. But, no, I didn’t, for more than one reason, but it’s the second reason I’m gonna tell you about.” He launches into the summary of a complex murder case, where officers went up one blind alley after another, until Lewis stumbled onto the truth completely by accident and found himself facing the business end of a shotgun being wielded by an unstable woman who’d already killed three times –the most recent being her own husband, right in front of Lewis.
“Really thought that was it, that I was gonna die. An’ I tried to remember all the stuff they tell us in training – keep her talking, get her to see me as a person with a family, try to get her on side by showing empathy and so on – but all I could think of was Val and the kids and that I’d never see them again. And then Morse appeared out of bloody nowhere an’ distracted her, making her aim at him instead.”
James catches his breath. He’s got so many questions, but he knows his boss needs to tell the story in his own way.
“Anyway, ‘cause she wasn’t looking at me, I was able to run at her an’ Morse tried to get the gun from her. She ended up shooting herself.”
He can’t feel much regret, though Lewis clearly does – but then, it sounds as if the murderer was as much a victim herself. “But you were all right? You and Morse?”
Lewis shrugs. “We weren’t hurt. But of course that doesn’t necessarily mean we were all right.” He stands, walks to the kitchen, and returns with a couple of bottles of Bridge, passing one to James before resuming his seat. “Back then – that was more than twenty years ago – you didn’t have all the mandatory counselling and psychological assessment and such after things like that. You just picked yourself up an’ got on with it. Seemed like you weren’t up to the job if you couldn’t. So... well, Morse an’ me went for a pint an’ talked about anything but what’d happened, and then I went home to Val. Back to work in the morning.”
“Right,” James murmurs, unsure where this is going.
“Couldn’t tell Val, o’ course. Couldn’t tell her most of what I did on the job anyway, so nothing unusual there. Not that she wasn’t able to guess that something bad had happened. Had bad dreams for a few nights after that, and there wasn’t a single night I wasn’t glad to have her there with me. Just... reassuring me that I was safe, y’ know?”
Ah. The point becomes clear. “I appreciate the analogy, sir, but – as I said – I really don’t need babysitting. And whether or not I have bad dreams isn’t your problem.”
Lewis shakes his head, his expression – from what James can tell – fondly exasperated. “Don’t be daft, man. It’s hardly babysitting, and I don’t consider it a problem. I just know what it’s like to go through what happened to you today, an’ since I can’t see you taking Innocent’s mandatory counselling seriously, I’m not leaving you on your own tonight.”
Or, James suspects, for a few evenings to come. Maybe nights as well. And, while the part of him that hates being found inadequate in any way isn’t altogether comfortable with the idea, the James Hathaway who barely remembers the last time anyone showed real concern for his well-being is touched. So he capitulates, touching his bottle to Lewis’s. “Thank you, sir.”
Lewis responds with a grunt and a nod, before reaching for the remote control and turning on the TV.
Later, as James is clearing up and Lewis has just returned with the spare bedding, James asks, “Morse really risked his life to save you?”
“More than that. Actually told her to shoot him instead of me. Meant it, too.”
James’s eyes widen. “That’s... well, it’s admirable, of course, but also surprising. From everything I’ve heard, he treated you like a dogsbody.”
“Oh, he did that all right. But that’s just how he was. Didn’t mean he wasn’t one of the most... well, loyal, I suppose, blokes I’ve known.”
James isn’t so sure; although he never knew Morse, in his opinion the very best example of that description is the man standing in front of him right now. And he has absolutely no doubt that, had it come to it, Lewis would have laid down his own life to save Mary Keane and himself.
He knows better than to say that, though. Instead, he takes the pillows from Lewis and lays his hand on his governor’s shoulder, squeezing briefly. “Goodnight, sir. Sleep well.”
Lewis’s hand grips his for a moment before he removes it. “And you, James.”
“Enjoying your meal, sir?”
James doesn’t hold back on the smirk one bit. In his opinion, he has every right to take the Michael out of his governor this evening, and for several days yet.
“Yeah, yeah.” Lewis scowls at him. “Bloody cleverclogs.”
“It wasn’t just me, sir. If you recall, Dr Hobson also tried very hard to get you into the hands of a dentist. I just happened to have rather more success.”
“You just happen to be a sneaky, interfering sod who conveniently forgets who’s the boss in this relationship.”
“Hardly the point, sir. As I see it, the point is that there is no longer a dodgy tooth chez your gob, and you are able to eat normally again. I call that a victory for common sense and modern dentistry.” James slices into his steak and chews with satisfaction.
“Yeah, all right,” Lewis grumbles. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Be thankful it’s me and not Dr Hobson. She’d not only be rubbing it in, but she’d be making you pay for the privilege as well.”
“If that’s a hint that I should’ve bought you dinner to say thanks for being forced under a mediaeval torture device...”
“You do know I know you’re exaggerating, sir? My dentist told me you assured her you didn’t feel a thing. As for dinner, I accept. I’m free tomorrow, as it happens...” He allows himself a sly grin.
“What, not got a good book to finish? Fine. Folly Bridge Inn tomorrow after work. That match last night ended in a draw – there’s a rematch startin’ at seven. There’ll just be time for a pie an’ a pint beforehand.”
James groans and drops his head into his hands.
“I need a favour,” Robbie says as he sets a pint in front of James.
James stubs his cigarette out and smiles at his former governor. Retirement’s been suiting Robbie; the two months since they both left the Force have taken years off him. It’s done the same for James, he thinks – and both Robbie and Laura have commented as much.
Robbie divides his time between his allotment and volunteering at a shelter for at-risk youth, while James is working part-time as a research assistant for Joanne Pinnock and putting together his application for a funded MPhil – which he hopes will turn into a PhD – in philosophy. At weekends, he joins Robbie on the allotment, and then follows him back to Laura’s house, where Robbie now lives, for dinner; he usually ends up staying the night. And they meet for drinks and sometimes dinner during the week whenever Laura’s working late. All things considered, it’s not a bad life. There’s no dinghy in the picture yet, but they’re talking about getting one next summer and James has already been researching options.
“Of course,” he says now. “You know you only need to ask.”
“Asked Laura to marry me this morning.”
James’s eyes widen, and he beams at Robbie. “Congratulations! You know I’m delighted for you both.”
Robbie huffs. “You didn’t ask if she said yes.”
James raises an eyebrow. “She’s not stupid, Robbie. Of course she said yes.”
Robbie’s smile is bashful. “Yeah. Anyway, the wedding’s gonna be quiet – registry office next month, just close friends and family.”
“And you wondered if I’d be able to overlook the fact that you’re not having a church wedding and come anyway.”
A snort from Robbie this time, but then he sobers and looks straight at James. “Actually, wanted to ask if you’d be me best man.”
“I’d be honoured. But are you sure there’s no-one else you’d rather...?”
“What do you think? You’re me best mate, aren’t you? Why would I want anyone else?” Robbie snorts. “Closer than most of me family, you are.”
It’s nothing he hasn’t suspected, but Robbie’s never actually said anything like it before, and James has to swallow the lump that’s suddenly appeared in his throat. “Well, since you put it like that... you are my family,” he confesses, suddenly finding his pint-glass fascinating. “You, and Laura now.”
Robbie’s face creases into one of the happiest smiles James has ever seen from him. “Good,” is all he says, however. “Now, drink up, man – it’s your round!”