Chapter Text
‘Twas two nights before Christmas and all was quiet in Causton. Even the murderous citizens of Midsomer county were behaving themselves, so Detective Chief Inspector John Barnaby had felt comfortable letting his sergeant, Jamie Winter, visit family for the holidays.
His Christmas shopping done – and an obscene amount of presents for his daughter stored at the station for Santa to deliver - John was looking forward to an uneventful Christmas spent with just his nearest and dearest.
He was dividing his attention between the Sunday Times crossword and Escape to the Chateau, (mostly the latter), when he noticed his wife Sarah staring out the window.
“Do you have a stalker?” she asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” John replied, following her gaze. A black hatchback was parked by the driveway. Nothing unusual about that, nothing to cause alarm. “Probably someone visiting the neighbours.”
“The driver is still in the car and the engine is on,” Sarah retorted. “They’ve been sitting there for nearly half an hour.”
“I’m sure I’ve sat in the car waiting for you to leave a party for more than half an hour.” But he stood up and peered out the window. He could see a figure in the driver’s seat, but couldn’t make out the features. “Maybe they’re lost. Google Maps is as mystified by Midsomer as I am. I’ll see if they need help.”
He opened the front door and let Paddy out with him. A small attack dog was better than none. But Paddy started spinning with excitement, as soon as he got within scent of the car. John’s senses were less acute, and he was nearly at the car before he recognized the occupant. Frowning, he rapped on the window.
Ben Jones, his former sergeant, now an inspector in Brighton, looked up and flinched, but rolled down the window.
“Staking out the neighbourhood?” John asked. Even in the dim light reflecting off the dashboard, Jones looked terrible. Dark semi-circles smudged under his eyes, beard untrimmed, lank hair hanging in his eyes. John tried to remember the last time they’d talked. Jones had mentioned an undercover operation, apologized for not being able to come to Betty’s reception class concert. That had been two weeks ago. Jones looked like he hadn’t slept since then.
Jones swallowed and looked down at his hands, but didn’t say anything.
“Are you all right?” John tried again, but Jones just shrugged and refused to look at him.
John leaned in, turned off the engine and took the keys. “Come on,” he said. “Sarah’s getting worried.” Sarah was in fact standing at the front door, looking more curious than concerned, but it was enough to get Jones out of the car.
When she realized who it was, however, she broke into a delighted smile, which froze when she saw his face. Without a word, she stepped forward and pulled Jones into a hug. He dropped his head on her shoulder and seemed to crumble into her embrace.
John reached out and put his hand on Jones’s back, startled to discover that he was trembling. He looked at Sarah, who looked back at him with an expression of worry and fear, and tightened her arms.
“It’s so good to see you, Ben,” she murmured, not pushing or asking anything, just giving him shelter. They stood in a silent tableau, even Paddy quietly sitting and looking up at Jones, until John realized that one of the reasons Jones was likely trembling was because he only had a thin shirt on.
“Come on,” he said again. “It’s December, for god’s sake. Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.”
Jones took a deep, shuddering breath, but straightened up and nodded. Sarah shifted her arm to his waist and led him into the house.
Once inside, he seemed to come to himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at the floor. “I started driving and I just ended up here.”
It was a two-hour drive from Brighton at the best of times, a long way to go on a whim. “You know you’re welcome any time, Ben,” Sarah said, seeming reluctant to let go of him.
“You must be tired,” John said, thinking that was an understatement. In full light, Jones looked even worse, almost grey with exhaustion. “When was the last time you ate?”
Jones shrugged. “Not sure. This morning?”
“I’ll heat up some leftovers,” Sarah said and hurried into the kitchen.
John waited until she was out of earshot. “What happened? Are you still undercover?”
Jones shook his head. “It’s over,” he said. “It’s all over.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, and John could see that his knuckles were bruised and raw.
“Why don’t you take a shower while Sarah gets the food ready. You’ll feel better. I think you left a t-shirt behind last visit, and I can lend you some joggers.”
“Are you saying that I smell?” Jones asked with a ghost of a smile.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” John replied, but he couldn’t quite manage to smile back. He looked closer. “There’s blood on your shirt,” he added in alarm.
Jones looked down. “It’s not mine.” He looked like he was about to say something more, but then clenched his fists and hurried upstairs.
John waited until he could hear the shower running, then grabbed his mobile off the hall stand. He found the number for Brighton CID’s division commander and dialed.
The call picked up on the second ring. “John. I was going to call you when I got a chance. Have you developed psychic powers now or have you cultivated new sources in my division?” Detective Chief Superintendent Keith Hicks sounded harried, but not concerned, which reassured John slightly.
“Neither. I’m checking my source right now to find out what happened to Ben Jones.”
“And why would you be asking that?” Now Hicks sounded suspicious. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but there’s no need to worry, he’s fine.”
“Is he?” John replied evenly. “Because he drove two hours just to sit in his car outside our house. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. There’s blood on his shirt, and he’s clearly been in a fight. I’ve sent him off to get cleaned up, and Sarah will feed him up, but I need to know what I’m dealing with here.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line and then Hicks exhaled heavily. “There was a raid this morning. Drugs. Jones was on the inside. He got word to us that there was a shipment coming in, a big one.”
“Was his cover blown?”
“No. He was supposed to call in and find a way to get out before the raid went down, but the local dealers insisted he be at the exchange. And it’s a good thing he was, because he was able to get word that they had guns.”
Which meant armed response and Ben Jones caught in the middle of a firefight. John’s stomach twisted. “Casualties?” he asked, dreading the answer. Jones was too rattled for things to have gone well.
“One dead drug dealer, three more injured. Two police officers shot. Both expected to make a full recovery. Another stabbed. Could have been worse if Jones hadn’t been there to intervene.”
That explained the knuckles. Trust Jones to bring his fists to a knife fight. He would have to check that Jones wasn’t downplaying any other injuries when he brought him a change of clothes. “He’s always had a habit of diving into danger,” he said. “But that doesn’t explain the state he’s in.”
Hicks paused, then cleared his throat. “The officer who was stabbed was one of his constables. He shouldn’t have been there, but when they found out Jones was still inside, his team insisted on going in so he wouldn’t get hit by friendly fire.”
John had met Jones’s team the last time he was in Brighton, two constables and a sergeant, who treated their inspector with a mixture of affection, exasperation, and fierce loyalty. “Which one?”
“Debenham.”
Michael Debenham was the younger of the constables, only a few years out of university and just six months in CID. He’d reminded John of a cocker spaniel, following Jones around with exhausting enthusiasm. “Is he going to be alright?”
“Treated and already released. Turned out to be more blood than damage, thank god, but the team was pretty shaken.”
“And Jones is blaming himself.” John didn’t need Hicks’s hummed confirmation.
“He stayed with Debenham at the hospital until he was released and then spent most of the day in meetings and interviews wrapping things up. I sent him home around six. Should I be concerned about where he thinks that is?”
“Midsomer will always be his home,” John retorted. “And we’ll always be here if he needs us.”
Another long pause. “Good,” Hicks said decisively. “This was big, John. Ten kilos off the street, a supply chain broken. Whatever else happened, lives were saved.”
“I’ll make sure he remembers that,” John promised. “Let me know if there are any developments.”
“Just look after him and then send him back. He can have until the 27th.”
John disconnected and looked upstairs thoughtfully. It was too soon for Jones to be gunning for a promotion, and he had no plans to step up a grade for more paperwork and less legwork anyway. But in a few years, if he managed things right, he could bring Jones back where he belonged.
He heard the shower shut off, so hurried upstairs to find the change of clothes. The t-shirt was in the spare room dresser, as well as fresh socks and pants. There was also a jumper and a pair of trousers that John thought had been given away months before. He wondered if he should be concerned that his wife was nesting for his former sergeant, then decided he was glad.
He knocked on the bathroom door. “There’s a change of clothes in the bedroom. Come downstairs whenever you’re ready.”
Sarah looked up from stirring some soup on the stove when he came into the kitchen. “What did Keith Hicks say?”
John didn’t bother trying to deny that he’d called Jones’s commander. “There was a raid. Jones was involved. Did you hear anything on the news?”
Sarah frowned. “I heard something on the radio about a drug bust in Brighton, but I didn’t think anything of it. Ben’s in Major Crimes, not Drugs.”
“If it was as big as Hicks says, it would have been a multi-department operation. Ben was on the inside. It’s why he missed Betty’s concert.”
“I thought you said he was on duty.”
“He was, just not in the station. I didn’t want to worry you.” John worried enough for both of them and, it seemed, for good reason.
“Well, I’m worried now. I thought he wasn’t going undercover anymore.”
John had thought so too. Jones had built a good investigative team, and it seemed odd to pull him away when CID was chronically understaffed, but illegal drugs were a contributing factor to most major crimes in the area, so resources were often shared. And John knew better than most what a good resource Jones could be.
“He’s safe, and he’s here, and anything else is a worry for another day.”
“How long can he stay?” she asked. “At least through Christmas, surely.”
John hesitated. Sarah and Betty would love nothing better than to have Jones stay, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to give up his quiet family Christmas.
Sarah read his expression. “This is his first Christmas without his gran, John,” she chided in a low voice. “And Kate is in Boston on sabbatical. We’re the closest thing he has to family.”
Of course Jones was family: family by choice and design, like Sarah and Betty and Paddy, even if Kam and Winter had manipulated him about that. He liked to pretend that Sarah had manipulated him into choosing Jones as Betty’s godfather as well, but even Betty knew it was a pretense.
“December 27. But I’m making plans for a longer-term solution.”
“Am I going to be consulted on those plans?”
John cursed the lack of creaky floorboards in the house. Somehow Jones had managed to sneak into the kitchen without them noticing. He looked a bit more human after the shower. His hair was toweled dry and finger combed, but he looked awake and alert.
“Still formulating, Jones. But in the short-term, Sarah and I would be very happy if you could stay for Christmas. And Betty would be over the moon.”
Jones looked startled. “What day is it?” he asked.
“December 23rd.” John frowned. “How long have you been under?”
“Early November.” Jones replied. “I lost track. I didn’t realize…” His voice trailed off, the tips of his ears growing red. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to interrupt your holidays.” He stared down at his socked feet, as if wishing shoes would magically appear on them.
“It’s the best interruption we could have asked for,” Sarah said firmly. “Now sit down. I heated up some soup and made you a sandwich. If you’re good, you can have Christmas cookies for dessert.”
Jones’s stomach rumbled, betraying him, and he sat at the kitchen table without further protest.
John rooted in the fridge and pulled out a growler of ale. He poured three glasses, and left the growler on the counter. He had a feeling this was going to be a multi-glass conversation. He waited, though, until Jones had finished half the sandwich.
“What happened?” he asked finally.
“What did DCS Hicks tell you?” Jones countered. “Don’t pretend you didn’t call him the second I was out of earshot.”
John mused that he was not nearly as circumspect as he would like. He wondered if Jones knew exactly how often he’d called Keith Hicks to check up on him. He hoped not. “Drugs bust. Ten kilos off the street. That’s bigger than anything during my days.”
Jones nodded. “A kilo of it was fentanyl,” he said. “It’s been cropping up in the northeast since 2016, but now it’s reached Brighton in a big way. Half a dozen ODs in the last two months. Mostly street kids, but the last one was the teenage son of a councillor, so someone finally decided to take notice.”
“We haven’t seen it here yet,” John said. He’d read the reports though. An opioid 100 times more powerful than morphine. Gave heroin a killer kick, literally.
“I knew one of the kids,” Jones continued. “Met him at an outreach centre. He was doing really well. Off heroin, got himself an apprenticeship. But it’s not just heroin they’re cutting any more. Cocaine. Meth. I was already looking for the source, so they brought me on the task force.”
“That’s the operation you told me about?”
Jones nodded. “We got a break. One of the other kids at the centre got scared, brought me some meth he bought off the same dealer. Tests confirmed it was cut with fentanyl. Would have killed him if he’d taken it.”
“Seems like a poor business model - killing your customers.”
Jones grimaced. “I don’t think they’re looking at long-term customer retention. Anyway, it scared the kid enough that he was willing to help us work our way up the supply chain. The drug squad set me up as a new dealer in town looking to be part of the bigger picture. It took a few weeks, but eventually I got an intro to the bigwigs.” He managed a tight grin. “It turns out that years of managing chief inspectors is a transferable skill in the crime world.”
“Cheeky bugger,” John scolded, but Jones had always made sure he had what he needed, oftentimes before he even knew he needed it. “I’m glad you choose to use your powers for good.”
“I don’t know about that,” Jones muttered. “Though at least it meant that I was in a position to learn about a shipment coming in from the continent. I got word to the task force, but I couldn’t disappear or it would have been suspicious.”
“And you were able to warn them that they were armed,” John added. “That saved lives.”
Jones glanced at him. “Then you know what happened.”
“It’s not your fault Debenham was hurt. DCS Hicks said it would have been worse if you hadn’t been there.”
“He shouldn’t have been there,” Jones retorted. “None of them should have.”
“And if the roles were reversed? Would you have stayed out if Debenham, or Warnock, or Macavee was the one inside?” He held Jones’s gaze. “I seem to recall you never had any hesitation in being the first through the door.”
“That’s different. I’ve been trained. I doubt Debs has even held a gun outside the range.” He covered his face with his hands. “I had to drive him to his parents’ place tonight. I could easily have been going there for a much worse reason.”
John glanced at Sarah, who leaned over and pulled Jones into a hug.
“But he’s safe with the ones who love him, and so are you,” she said, and stroked his hair as he cried quietly onto her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting up and wiping his eyes. “That’s embarrassing.”
John didn’t say anything, his own throat tight with emotion, but topped up Jones’s beer.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben,” Sarah replied. “You wouldn’t believe the state John was in when Grady Felton tried to kill you. Or this summer when Jamie was nearly shot with a crossbow.”
“Yes, thank you for sharing all my secrets,” John protested, though he hoped Jones already knew. Before he could say anything else, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was a Brighton exchange, so he excused himself to take the call.
“Barnaby.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Chief Inspector Barnaby,” a female voice replied. “It’s Detective Sergeant Elissa Warnock. I don’t know if you remember me, but I work with DI Jones.”
John remembered her very well. She had transferred to CID just before he transferred to Midsomer, though their paths had only crossed infrequently. But he’d been glad when Jones picked her as his sergeant, as she was smart and supremely efficient, and a tempering force on Jones’s more reckless instincts. “Of course. What can I do for you, Sergeant Warnock?”
“DCS Hicks said Inspector Jones was with you. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. He’s not answering his phone and Debs said the Inspector didn’t seem himself when he dropped him off.”
But Jones hadn’t been himself for more than a month. “He’ll be fine,” he reassured his former sergeant’s sergeant. “I’ll let you talk to him yourself. Jones,” he called out, walking back into the kitchen. “You need to charge your phone.”
Jones blinked, spoon stilled halfway to his mouth, his expression what John fondly thought of as his village idiot look. The beard masked it a bit, but it was still there to see for those who knew it well.
“Someone has been trying to call you,” he said, handing the phone to Jones.
“Jones speaking,” Jones said cautiously, then smiled. “Sorry, Lis, I left my phone in the car.” He paused and listened, his expression turning abashed.
It was John’s favourite thing about Ben Jones, watching the endless play of emotions animate his face. It was even more entertaining now, when he didn’t have to worry about his sergeant giving away his entire thought process to a suspect.
“No, I’m okay. I just kind of went on autopilot and ended up here. No, I know you could have, but it had to be me.” He turned away and lowered his voice. “I didn’t realize it was Christmas Eve tomorrow. Are you still going to Ed’s parents? Can you...?” His shoulders relaxed and a smile broke across his face. “I can meet you so you don’t have to detour… No, of course not… I’ll see you then… Lis? Thank you.” He listened again and ducked his head. “Yeah, me too.”
He passed the phone back to John. “She wants to talk to you again. I’ll go get my phone.”
John waited until he was out of the room. “Thank you for looking out for him.”
Warnock took a sharp breath. “It was only supposed to be me going in, but the lads wouldn’t let me leave them behind. He left me in charge of the team, and I let him down.”
“You most certainly did not.” He was sure Jones would tell her the same thing once he’d had a good night’s sleep and shaken off the day’s trauma. “The only person he’s blaming is himself. He feels terrible about Debenham.”
Warnock snorted. “Are you kidding? Debs is thrilled with every stitch he got. He already idolizes the boss, but having him swoop in to save his life? Now he’s going to be unbearable.”
“That won’t last past the next time Jones calls him in when he’s on a date.” But John had his own experiences of Jones swooping in to save his life, and he still hadn’t gotten over it. He saw Sarah frantically gesture at him and knew she’d interpreted the hushed conversation the same way he had. “Are you visiting family for Christmas?” he asked, just to confirm.
“I’m heading to the in-laws in Oxford tomorrow.”
“Well, if you don’t mind the detour, I hope you can break up your journey with some festive cheer at ours. I believe you have the address.”
He heard Warnock laugh. “Ben’s right. Nothing gets past you. I’m sure we can stop for a quick visit.”
“Excellent. Happy holidays, Sergeant Warnock.”
“Happy holidays, Chief Inspector Barnaby.”
John hung up, pleased with himself for circumventing Jones’s plans, and more than a little chuffed that Jones talked about him to his team. His pleasure faded after a few minutes when he realized Jones hadn’t returned yet. Suddenly convinced that Jones had taken the opportunity to slip away out of embarrassment or propriety, he stood up and hurried to the door.
But Jones was coming inside as he opened it, his phone in one hand and a kit bag in the other. “Forgot this was in the boot,” he said with a grin. “Don’t have as much need for a change of clothes now that I have 20-something constables to do the dirty work.” He noticed the expression on John’s face. “What? Did you think I did a runner? I just had to return a couple of calls.”
He was shivering, though, and John had to suppress the urge to shake some sense into him. “Well get inside. You’ll catch your death.”
“You don’t catch a cold from the cold,” Jones protested.
“No, but your immune system is weakened from lack of sleep, poor diet, stress. What’s so funny?” he demanded, when Jones snickered.
“That sounds like the entire time I worked for you,” Jones replied. “Fatherhood has made you soft. I hear you even gave Winter the holidays off.”
“I couldn’t bear the whining about missing his parents. Besides, you’re here, and you have a change of clothes, so I have someone to do the dirty work if a Midsomer citizen snaps over the Christmas pudding.”
“Of course,” Jones said, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Just like old times.” He put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank you for having me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” John replied, and realized that he absolutely meant it.