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Chapter Text

Prologue

The hollow tree in Dunstan woods had been there as long as anybody could remember. Longer than local memory, longer than recorded memory. It was a sapling when the Romans came, watched Wessex rise and England form, and was already ancient by the Conquest.  

The hollow was a home for animals, birds, and insects, a secret space for children roaming the woods. The nooks and crannies hid food and treasure, stored or forgotten. A hair ribbon. A toy soldier. A penknife with faded initials scratched on the handle. It was a place of shelter, of sanctuary, of memory.

Memory is more than encoded neural ensembles. It’s an experience, singular or shared, a knowledge woven through our subconscious, an instinct bred over millennia, or sometimes just a lifetime. And it can take us back to a place of shelter, of sanctuary, of safety.

~~~

Detective Sergeant Jamie Winter arrived at the Causton police station ten minutes before his shift was due to start. His boss, Detective Chief Inspector John Barnaby, was a stickler for punctuality, and Jamie always made sure he was ready to start on time. The day never boded well if it began with Barnaby annoyed.

Barnaby was already at his desk, going over staffing schedules for the next week. He was a solidly built man in his mid-fifties, his brown hair lightening to grey, but still strong and fit, even if he did make Jamie do all the chasing after suspects. A fair boss and a brilliant investigator, if sometimes impatient with those not quite as brilliant as himself. But as a senior partner, he was ideal. Jamie had learned more in the last three years working with Barnaby than he had in all his previous postings combined. 

It had been quiet on the crime front recently, no new major incidents reported across Midsomer county, so they had spent the past few days chipping away at the never-ending pile of paperwork. Normally Jamie wasn’t a fan of paperwork, but a quiet week meant getting home at a reasonable hour and a good chance of a free weekend. Sometimes boredom was a good thing.

But just after ten, Barnaby’s landline rang, and Jamie feared his dreams of a free weekend were about to be crushed. He tried not to pay attention to Barnaby’s conversation, but a sudden intake of breath made him look up. 

“Are you sure?” Barnaby said, his voice sounding odd, almost as if he were struggling to breathe. “Right. Okay. I’m on my way.”

He hung up the phone, but looked down at his desk, hands clenched into fists. 

“Is everything all right, sir?” Jamie asked. Barnaby was a private man, but now he looked closed off to the point of catatonia. 

Barnaby still didn’t look up. “That was the desk sergeant over in Badger’s Drift,” he said, his voice flat. “A body’s been found off the ring road.”

So much for an easy Friday. A dead body almost certainly meant working through the weekend. Maybe they would get lucky and even Barnaby would admit that it was, at worst, an accidental death. Unfortunately, in Midsomer, even accidents were usually by design.

But Barnaby didn’t have the look of a man who was about to check out an easy case. “Jones.” He cleared his throat. “It’s Ben Jones.”

Jamie stared at him, feeling as though all the air had been sucked from the room. Ben Jones was Barnaby’s former sergeant, a DI in Brighton now. He’d met Jones a couple of years back, when Jones was working undercover in Lower Pampling, and Jamie was a wet-behind-the-ears sergeant and new to Midsomer. 

He and Jones had started off on the wrong foot - Jamie could still remember the cool challenge in Melanie Henderson’s kitchen, and the embarrassment he’d felt when he realized his chief suspect was an undercover detective. But Jones had quickly put him at ease, and they’d found common ground in the unique challenges of working for John Barnaby. They’d met a few times since, when Jones had come back to Causton for a visit, most recently Betty Barnaby’s fifth birthday party.

He’d liked Ben Jones; everyone he’d talked to had, even some of the regulars in the cells. He’d been a local boy, which went a long way in Midsomer. It was unthinkable that he was dead. “Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe you misheard.”

Barnaby stared at him and then stood up and walked out of the office. 

Jamie grabbed his jacket and hurried after him. “I’ll drive.”

Barnaby didn’t say anything, but when they got to his car, he threw Jamie the keys and got in the passenger side. He stared out the window as Jamie turned down the road to Badger’s Drift.

“Our first case was in Badger’s Drift,” Barnaby murmured, and Jamie knew he was thinking that their last case would be there. “We were at my cousin Tom’s birthday party. He announced he was retiring. Hadn’t warned Jones, or me, for that matter. And then a call came in about a body, and Tom said I should take it. We should take it. That’s how it started.”

Jamie glanced over at him. He was still staring out the window, and he looked suddenly old and tired. “He was a good cop,” Jamie said to fill the silence. “A good partner.”

Barnaby snorted. “We didn’t get on at first. Nothing unprofessional,” he added, when it was Jamie’s turn to fall into a stunned silence. “Jones wanted the promotion, and he might have had a chance to carve out a team leader position if Tom had given him some warning. So he didn’t much like me parachuting in. And he really didn’t like my psychology degree. Threw it in my face every chance he got. And Sarah was finishing the school term in Brighton, and I didn’t like being on my own, so I took it out on him. Made fun of his country ways. Called him a donkey to a witness.”

Jamie winced. Barnaby had been alternately aloof and sarcastic when Jamie first started, but he’d clearly mellowed with age. 

“He just laughed it off, though, and eventually it turned into an inside joke. He bought me a stuffed donkey for Christmas that year. Betty still has it.” Which meant he’d kept it for years before Betty was born, out of affection or amusement.

Barnaby covered his face with his hands. “What am I going to tell them?”

There was no answer for that. Jones, he remembered, was Betty Barnaby’s godfather. Whatever the relationship had been at the beginning, Jones was family now.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Jamie kept his eyes on the road to give Barnaby some privacy.  Half a mile before the ring road, they turned off onto a side road before the Dunstan bypass. A few hundred metres further, they saw a police cruiser parked behind a black sedan. 

“That’s his car,” Barnaby said, his voice bleak. Any hope that it had been a mistake was gone now. 

Jamie pulled up short of the cruiser to keep the scene clear. He got out and stretched, but Barnaby didn’t move. “Just give me a minute,” he said.

“Of course, sir,” Jamie murmured. He walked over to get an update from the PC on the scene. When he glanced back, Barnaby had his head bowed, as if praying, even though Jamie knew he wasn’t a religious man.

The body was about thirty meters off the road, in a small clearing. Jamie needed a minute as well, so he walked along the verge, looking for tire tracks. He could see impressions that looked fresh, signs that a car had peeled away at speed. If they could narrow down the timeline, there were CCTV cameras that could be checked. 

He stopped to consider the position of Jones’s car. It was facing south, back towards the ring road, away from Causton. Surely Barnaby would have mentioned if Jones had been up for a visit, or in town on police business. After the C10 case, he was certain Jones would not have come to Midsomer without at least calling to say hello. It was more likely that he had come up for the weekend, maybe planned to drop by the station as a surprise. 

He walked back towards the ring road, and then jogged towards the cars, looking towards the verge as he passed the clearing. It was visible from the road and an idea started to form in his head. When he reached the cars, Barnaby had got out and was watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, and Jamie thought he was probably looking for an excuse to delay walking into the clearing just a bit longer.

“The car is pointed in the wrong direction,” he said, and Barnaby nodded, as if he’d already noted that. “If he was coming to Causton, and stopped because of car trouble, or to take a leak in the bushes, he’d be heading from the ring road.” He closed his eyes and tried to picture it. “But if he were coming from Brighton, and he happened to glance into the clearing and saw something suspicious…”

“Maybe it didn’t register immediately,” Barnaby continued.

“So he turns around and pulls over. The clearing isn’t visible from the car, but there are tire marks suggesting another car might have been in the area.”

“And he goes to investigate.” Barnaby stared at the clearing. Police tape cordoned off the area, and SOCO was scouring the scene, but Barnaby’s eyes were fixed on the body just visible through the movement. He took a deep breath that caught at the end, then walked towards the clearing.

Jamie grabbed his arm. “Please, sir, let me do this. I know Inspector Jones. I can make the identification.”

“No.” Barnaby shook his head and his arm free. “I have to do this for him.”

Jamie trailed after him, ducking under the crime scene tape. He didn’t have as many years of experience as Barnaby, but this was still one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, as a policeman, as a man; just standing by and watching his boss’s heart being broken.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the young PC who had been first on the scene said to Barnaby. “We ran the plates of the car to be sure, but we found this in the clearing.” He handed Barnaby a black wallet. Jamie looked over his shoulder and when Barnaby flipped it open, he saw Jones’s familiar face look out at him from a warrant card.

Barnaby walked up to the body and took a deep breath before kneeling down. SOCO had covered the face with a sheet out of respect, but it just made everything more final, more real. There was a body under the sheet, and that body was a colleague, a friend. Jamie watched as Barnaby closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself before he pulled the sheet back. 

Barnaby stared down, his face almost as pale as the sheet, then rocked back on his heels and stood up abruptly. “It’s not him.” He took another deep breath, and backed away. “Winter?”

Jamie stepped towards the body, knowing Barnaby needed him to confirm. The age was right, and the general build, but that was where the resemblance ended. The dead man had darker and significantly less hair than Jones, his face was rounder, and he was clean shaven. Jones could, of course, have shaved his beard and dyed his hair for an undercover assignment, but he couldn’t disguise the cleft in his chin without surgery, or receded his hairline. “It’s not him,” he agreed. 

Barnaby made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. “Then where is he?” he said. “That’s his car. His warrant card.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. A moment later they could hear ringing from Jones’s car.

Jamie jogged over and found the mobile in the side pocket, plugged into a charger. He tapped on the screen to see if any recent notifications came up. Three missed calls: two from unknown numbers and one from Barnaby just now. The earliest was more than two hours ago, but if Jones had been driving, he wouldn’t have answered.

“Do you know his passcode?” he asked, handing Barnaby the phone.

Barnaby shook his head, but tried a couple of different numbers. “Not his birthday or his badge number.” He tried again and this time the phone unlocked. “Betty’s birthday,” he said quietly. He cleared his throat and stared down at the phone. “Last outgoing call to his sergeant, Elyssa Warnock, at 8:05. The body was found just after 10. He must have called from the road “

“Or he was already here.”

“He would have had to leave Brighton before six to make it here by then.” That didn’t sound likely from the tone of Barnaby’s voice. “Unless he made good time on the motorway.”

“Nobody makes good time on the motorway on a Friday morning,” Jamie said. “I’ll see if tech can track where that call was made.”

“There’s a cafe outside of Crawley that he likes,” Barnaby said. “The timing for the call is right if he left Brighton around 7:30.”

“Did he say anything about coming up this weekend?” Barnaby hadn’t mentioned anything, but he rarely did about his private life.

“No. But he might have planned something with Sarah.” He opened up the text messages. “There’s a text to her yesterday. ‘Still hoping to get away tomorrow morning. Criminal class being cooperative.’” He frowned, then made the connection. “Betty’s year-end concert,” he said. “It’s this afternoon. He was coming up for that.” He slammed his fist on the roof of the car.

Jamie stepped forward, prepared to stop another blow, but Barnaby took a deep breath and turned around. “The concert is at four. That gives us just over five hours to find him. Neither of us are missing that concert.”

~~~

John Barnaby had always prided himself on his ability to keep his head in a crisis. More times than he wanted to admit, the only thing standing between him and a painful death was composure and confidence.

He wasn’t immune to panic, though. When he thought he would miss the birth of his child, he had been in a frenzy. And there had been other triggers: the thwack of a crossbow; a shotgun blast in a derelict cabin; a phone ringing, ringing, ringing.

But when he got the call telling him that Ben Jones had been killed, he hadn’t panicked. He had carried on with his duties, gone to the scene, prepared to make the identification. He hadn’t raged or collapsed or even grieved. He had been frozen. Because when he lifted the sheet and saw a stranger, the melting ice had threatened to wash him away.

He was still drowning when a car pulled up and the pathologist, Fleur Perkins, got out and hurried over to him.

“I got here as soon as I could,” she said. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know him well, but Inspector Jones was a good man.”

John shook his head. “It’s not him.” Saying the words again helped steady him, gave him a life ring to hold on to. “It’s his car, it’s his warrant card, but it’s not his body.”

Perkins frowned and went over to the body to see for herself. “Well, that’s a cock up,” she said, and John almost smiled. She bent down to examine the body closer. “Gunshot wound to the upper chest. Close range. He wouldn’t have survived long. But not dead long either.”

“Jones last used his phone at 8:05 and the body was discovered just after 10. That gives you a window to start.” John turned to Winter. “Have tech check that call and see if they can pinpoint when Jones arrived at this location.”

“I hate to ask the obvious,” Perkins said, with uncharacteristic gentleness, “but if that’s Jones’s car, where is Jones? Should we be looking for a second body?”

He flinched and saw Winter give Perkins a quick shake of his head. “Don’t coddle me,” he snapped. “I know how this looks.” He could think of several scenarios that would explain Jones’s absence; none of them were good. 

“What if Jones met the victim here? Something happened, maybe the victim threatened him with the gun. They struggle, Jones shoots him and takes off in the victim’s car.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Winter said. “Why would he leave his own car to connect him to the body? He’s not stupid.”

“He’s not a killer either,” John retorted. “And yet there’s a dead body next to his warrant card.”

Winter frowned. “What if he witnessed the murder and the actual killer took him hostage?”

“Why take a witness hostage, but leave the body to be found?” 

“To create confusion or buy time? We haven’t identified the victim. It could be that the killer’s identity will be obvious once we do.”

But it wasn’t likely that the killer would leave a living witness. “What if…” But he couldn’t think of an ending to that sentence that didn’t make him want to scream. 

Perkins came to his rescue. “What if he ran? Came upon something he couldn’t handle, couldn’t go for the car, he’d be a sitting duck. Instead, he heads into the woods.” She pointed to a break in the underbrush. “He’s a local boy, isn’t he? He’d know the places to hide.”

John beckoned the local PC over. “Where does that trail go?” he asked. After nine years he had a good grasp of the general geography of Midsomer county, but the specifics still eluded him.

“Cuts through to Dunstan, and then on to Midsomer Parva,” the constable replied.

“Dunstan.” John was fairly sure that Jones had grown up in Dunstan. And his gran had lived in Midsomer Parva. Jones would know these woods, must have tramped through them when he was young. If there was a chance of escape, it would be somewhere in there. “Get the map from the car,” he told Winter. 

He had a plan now, something he could do. And he had hope. It was a powerful motivator.

Winter hurried back with the map. “Tech says the call at 8:05 was made from Crawley. It’s about another hour and a quarter from there to here, so we’re looking at less than an hour window now. I’ll get a team to look into CCTV footage in the area from nine to ten this morning. See if we can get a glimpse of the other car.”

John took the map and unfolded it. He didn’t waste time trying to orient himself. “Show me,” he said to the constable. “Where does it go and where does it come out?”

The young man traced a line from their location along a thin line through the forest that skirted past Dunstan to the outskirts of Midsomer Parva.

“How long would it take to get to Dunstan?” John asked.

The constable frowned. “Half an hour, forty-five minutes tops.”

Jones would have been running, though. He was fit and fast, and he knew the territory. It was nearly eleven. Jones should have reached Dunstan and called for help by now. Unless there was a reason he wasn’t fit or fast. 

John examined the trailhead, cautiously stepping a few feet in. He wasn’t an expert, even if he sometimes pretended to be, but he could tell that someone or something had moved through the area quickly and without caution, recently.

“Sir?” Winter’s voice was hesitant, and John knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

He turned back and looked where Winter was pointing. There were dark droplets on the ground about ten feet from the trail. “Blood?” he asked.

Winter nodded. “And SOCO has found three shell casings. Two near the body, the other away from it.”

“Or towards it,” John said, grasping at straws. He knew that scenario didn’t explain the blood. He looked for other reasons for hope. “The physical evidence suggests that someone went into the woods. Someone else drove away. We need to find them both.” 

There was nothing to be done about the car, not until they had a report back from SOCO on the tire tracks, or the CCTV sweep picked something up. But they could search the woods. They could do something other than wait. 

“We’ll search the trail from either end,” he stated. “Winter and I will start from here.” He turned to the local constable. “You know the area better than us. Take a team to Dunstan and work back from there. And then send another team along the path to Midsomer Parva. Look for possible hiding spots, proceed with caution. There could be someone out there with a gun who’s already killed one person. I don’t want any more casualties.”

Jones was out there somewhere; he was sure of it. He would find him alive. He had to find him alive.

Chapter Text

At first, there was nothing. Then from nothing came pain. And then nothing but pain. No awareness of place or time or even of being. Just pain. Sharp and burning and relentless. Then other sensations seeped in. Damp. Cold. Rough. Darkness without and growing within. And then nothing again.

Time passed. A minute, an hour, a lifetime.

This time, when the nothingness receded, the pain was still there, but it wasn’t all consuming. Other sensations took form and meaning. Earth. Bark. A tree. A hollow tree. Sanctuary.

Slowly he came back to full awareness. Knees pulled up to his chest, back pressed against the trunk. Curled away. Hiding.

He was awake and that was good. But he had been sleeping, hidden in a hollow tree and that was not good. He touched his cheek, felt something damp and tacky. His fingers came away stained red.

Not sleeping, unconscious and bleeding. That was definitely not good. And he had no idea where he was or how he got there. That was worse.

He stretched out carefully, knees cracking, then pulled himself upright. His left hand touched something hard in a nook in the trunk, and his fingers curled instinctively around it. He looked at the object, but his vision blurred and he closed his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness. Standing didn’t seem like a good idea any more, but sitting might mean never moving again.

He slipped the object in his pocket and found a handkerchief. He pressed it to the side of his head, where the pain seemed to live. It spiked, and he gasped and leaned against the tree trunk to keep from sliding to the ground.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. At last the pain receded, from paralyzing to blinding; he could move again, straighten up, but his vision was blurry and when he tried to focus, bile rose in his throat and he quickly closed his eyes.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He didn’t know how long he just stood there, but when he opened his eyes again, the world was a little clearer and his stomach no longer lurched. Cautiously, he stepped out of the hollow and looked around.

He was in a clearing surrounded by woods. They felt familiar, though he couldn’t name or place them. But he knew he had been here before, and he knew that the path in front of him would lead him to a village, to help. Still, he hesitated, caught between the security of the hollow tree and what might be lurking in the woods.

Despite his hesitation, something drove him forward, instincts warring against each other. He was scared and he couldn’t think clearly, but he wasn’t going to hide away and wait to die. But he’d barely stumbled a dozen feet into the woods when someone crashed onto the path from a side trail. They both froze, then the other man hurried towards him.

“Oh, thank god, we’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He backed away, but the man kept walking towards him. He couldn’t see a weapon, but the man was young and fit and could surely take him down with or without a weapon. He couldn’t let him get close enough to try. “Stay back,” he warned. He had to keep out of arm's reach.

But the man pressed forward, one hand outstretched, a gesture that was probably meant to look nonthreatening, but which set his heart racing from adrenaline and fear.

The man was speaking again, but he couldn’t understand the words through the blood pounding in his head.

He lashed out, felt his fist strike a glancing blow, enough to stagger the other man backwards, enough to give him time and space to run. The tree. He could hide in the tree. Instinct drove him back to the clearing, to safety, to sanctuary.

~~~

They had been searching the trail for half an hour, but the only signs of either Jones or the gunman were a few droplets of blood and some broken branches. And then nothing. They backtracked to the last place they’d seen any signs of passage. If Jones had been trying to escape, he wouldn’t have stayed on the main trail. It left a lot of ground to cover.

“We’ll spread out, but don’t get too far away,” John said. “Voice contact at all times.” The undergrowth was thinner in this area, narrow trails thinning away from the main route. Jones could have broken off at any one of them.

Within minutes he’d lost his bearings, so he stuck to a larger side trail, watching for signs of passage on the narrow tracks that branched away.

He could hear Winter calling out Jones’s name every few seconds, and he joined in. The odds were the gunman had got in his car and kept on driving, but he could also have driven to the other end of the trail in the hopes of intercepting his eyewitness. In that case, the sound of searchers might keep him at bay.

“Hey!” he heard Winter shout, a mixture of pain and surprise. Or maybe it would draw him to them.

He ran towards the sound of Winter’s voice. Breaking through some foliage, he came to a clearing surrounding the largest yew tree he’d ever seen.

A few years back, he and Sarah had visited a churchyard in Surrey that had an ancient hollow yew, thought to be the oldest in Britain. It was 30 feet around, large enough to hold parish meetings and had a charming door fixed inside. This one was hollow, too, and looked like it could shelter a family of foxes, a child’s secret society meeting, or a man on the run.

Winter ran into the clearing, looking chagrined, but unharmed. But it was a second man, staggering towards the tree, halfway across the clearing, that he couldn’t take his eyes off.

“Jones!” he called out, hurrying towards him, just as Winter reached his side.

Jones turned, stumbled, and backed towards the tree, as if seeking refuge. He looked terrible, his face streaked with blood, skin ashen, weaving as if he could barely stay upright. He was the most wonderful thing John had ever seen.

“He hit me,” Winter exclaimed, rubbing his cheek.

Jones didn’t look as though he could swat a fly, but he had always been able to surprise John. “That’s what happens when you startle a man fearing for his life,” John replied, smirking at Jones.

But Jones kept backing away, fists clenched, and for a moment, John thought he would take a swing at him as well. John frowned. Something was wrong, beyond the blood. Jones’s eyes were unfocused, and there was fear, not relief in his expression. He held his arm out to keep Winter back.

“It’s all right. You’re safe,” he said, watching Jones’s reaction.

Jones shook his head, and then pressed a hand against his temple, wincing in pain. “Get away from me.”

“I can’t do that. You’ve been hurt, you need help.” He took a step forward, but Jones backed away.

“Not from you.”

John frowned, wondering what Jones was seeing when he looked at him. He obviously had a head injury, which was concerning, given his history with concussions. “Do you know who we are?”

A grimace and another, less violent, shake of the head.

John sucked in a deep breath; his suspicions confirmed. “We’re police officers. Causton CID. Can you tell me who you are?”

The expression of fear turned to panic, as Jones shook his head again. He swayed and John had to stop himself from reaching out to steady him, afraid he would try to run again.

“That’s okay. We’ll get you to hospital. Everything will be fine. You’ll be fine.” He held up both hands when Jones started to back away again. “Please. Let me help you.”

Winter would have no problem subduing Jones in his current state, but there was too great a risk of making the head injury worse. John had to find another way to calm him down and get him to safety. But if Jones didn’t know who he was, he also didn’t know he could trust him. The only way was by showing him.

He turned to Winter. “Go get the first aid kit from the car and call for an ambulance. See if Fleur is still at the scene.” They would have to test for gunpowder residue on Jones’s hands, rule him out as the shooter, especially if Jones wasn’t in any position to rule himself out.

“Are you sure, sir?”

John was pretty sure he should be insulted that Winter would think he couldn’t handle someone who could barely stand. “I’m sure he needs first aid. We’ll be fine. Won’t we?”

Jones just stared at him, but he didn’t make any further move to get away.

John prided himself on being able to talk his way out of most situations, but words had never really worked with Jones, the references too obscure, the banter too barbed. But they had nearly ten years of shared history and that had to be worth something.

“Can I show you something?” He reached slowly into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. Thankfully, he had enough photos of Jones that his pictures app had created a folder. He quickly found one that Sarah had taken after Betty’s birthday party a few weeks back. Betty was sitting next to Jones at the kitchen table, John on her other side, the three of them grinning at the camera. He tapped it full screen, held it out, and hoped for the best.

~~~

It was hard to think. The pain in his head thrummed with every heartbeat and made it almost impossible to understand what the man in front of him was saying. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus, trying to make sense of what was happening to him.

A policeman. That should have been a good thing, but every instinct in his body was telling him to flee. He wasn’t just hurt; someone had hurt him. He didn’t know how or why, where he was, or even who he was, and that meant he couldn’t trust anybody. That much he knew.

And yet, when the man held out his phone, it felt like a lifeline.

He took the phone and stared at the screen. There was a picture of two men and a little girl. One of the men was standing in front of him. The other, he knew instinctively, was himself, even though he had no idea how he knew that. He stared at the little girl. She was blonde and pretty and something tugged at his heart, if not in his brain. He touched her face cautiously, used his fingers to enlarge the image of her. “Betty,” he said, the name floating in and settling in his muddled mind.

“That’s right. She’s my daughter.”

He swiped through more photos. They were all of him, sometimes laughing, sometimes looking exasperated. Some were with the little girl, from baby to toddler, some with the girl’s father or a woman he thought must be her mother.

He gave the phone back and closed his eyes, pushing the heels of his hands against them at the sudden swirl of fragmented memories. He still couldn’t make sense of them, but they were there, just out of reach, but almost close enough to grasp. “Betty,” he whispered again, holding on to the one thing he knew. “Betty…Barnaby.” He opened his eyes and looked at the man standing patiently in front of him. “Barnaby,” he said, willing the next part to come. “Inspector. Chief Inspector.” There was a first name, but it kept slipping away.

“Good,” Barnaby said, and his expression lightened. “Can you remember your name?”

He tried again, matching the picture on the phone with the pictures in his mind, but no words came. He shook his head and clenched his fists in frustration.

“It’s okay. Don’t try to force it. It’s there, it’ll come to you.” Barnaby reached out slowly and took him by the arm. “Let’s sit down before you fall down.”

His instinct, still, was to run, but the man - Barnaby - seemed to be his friend, so he let him guide him over to a fallen log.

“Good. You’re alright. You’re safe now. Just close your eyes and listen to my voice.”

He did as asked, starting slightly when Barnaby sat down next to him.

“The last time I saw you was Betty’s birthday. You stayed for the weekend and we went to the spring fair at Midsomer Worthy. You took her on all the children’s rides, and won a stuffed dog at the arcade, and sugared her up on candy floss and ice slushies. It was her best day ever.” Barnaby’s voice was soothing and the pain in his head started to subside. “She’s been asking for a baby brother. Do you remember the name you suggested for a boy?”

“Ben.” The name slipped out without thinking. He opened his eyes and stared at Barnaby. “That’s my name. Ben.” He laughed in relief, amazed at how something so simple could so thoroughly ground him. “Ben Jones. Detective Sergeant. No, Inspector. We work - worked - together.”

Barnaby - John, he remembered now - clapped him on the back. “Not for a few years now. You got too big for your britches and moved to Brighton.”

Ben let out a deep breath. Things were still jumbled, but he knew who he was, and he knew that Barnaby would sort the rest out.

The younger man ran up, carrying a first aid kit and a bottle of water. Winter. The latest DS. He couldn’t retrieve the first name, but something about that made him smile.

“You’re back. Good.” Winter said, smiling back. “Too many head injuries.” He handed Ben the bottle of water. “Ambulance is on its way. Should be here in about fifteen minutes, if you think you can make it to the road.”

“I can make it,” he said, but when he tried to stand up, his legs wouldn’t hold his weight, and he dropped back on the log. His head spun, and his vision shot through with black and white streaks.

“Don’t move,” Barnaby chided. “God knows how you managed to make it this far. Or how you thought you’d be able to outrun us.”

“Knew I couldn’t outfight you.”

“You gave it a good shot,” Winter replied, rubbing his cheekbone.

Barnaby smirked at him. “That will make for an interesting report.” He gestured to the first aid kit. “Are you going to use that or is it just a new accessory?”

“Yes, sir.” Winter crouched down. “I’m going to check your head, Jones. I’ll try not to hurt you.”

Ben closed his eyes as fingers gently parted the hair above his left ear. Even the lightest touch reawakened the pain, and he couldn’t hold back a whimper. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the log, then found a warm hand that squeezed and let him squeeze back.

“Sir,” Winter murmured. “Take a look.”

“Is that...?” Barnaby bit off the rest of the sentence and the grip on his hand tightened.

“What? What’s wrong?” He could feel his heart rate increase, panic starting to set in. He opened his eyes and jerked away from Winter’s touch.

Barnaby was looking at him with concern. “It looks like a bullet crease. Do you remember anything about what happened to you, Jones?”

“I was shot in the head?” He reached up to touch the side of his head, but Barnaby grabbed his hand and held it down.

“A crease,” Barnaby repeated. “But it’s no wonder your brain is scrambled. More than usual.”

It was a weak joke, but Ben was too busy panicking to care. “Somebody shot me?”

Barnaby gripped him by the shoulders. “Ben. Look at me, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

Everything seemed wrong about the sentence, most of all because he had no idea what was wrong. “Why are you calling me Ben? Am I dying?”

Winter snickered, but Barnaby just looked stricken. “You are not dying.”

“You only call me Ben when you’re worried,” he insisted. He didn’t know how he knew that, but it felt true.

“You don’t have to be dying for me to worry about you,” Barnaby snapped. “A minor gunshot wound is more than enough.”

Something in his voice made Ben frown, but Barnaby’s touch grounded him, and he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, but it wasn’t, not really. He had a sense of himself now, and memories flickered in and out like candlelit shadows, but he still had no idea where he was and how he had got there. And why he had a bullet crease to the side of his head.

Winter glanced at Barnaby. “Do you remember seeing a gun anywhere? Was there a gun with you when you regained consciousness?”

Ben stared at him. “Do you think I tried to kill myself?”

“Of course not,” Barnaby replied quickly. “But we need to eliminate all possibilities. SOCO found three shell casings.”

“We can account for two now,” Winter said, looking worried. “We need to check if you have any other injuries, Inspector. I know your head is killing you, but are you in pain anywhere else?”

Ben closed his eyes, taking stock. Everything ached, and he flashed on a memory of falling. A deep breath produced a stitch in his side, and he felt there cautiously. There didn’t seem to be any blood, but it stung to the touch.

“Let me take a look,” Winter murmured. He pushed up his shirt carefully. “Looks like just a scrape. Your elbow’s raw as well. You must have fallen.”

Ben closed his eyes again, trying to find something that would explain what happened. His legs twitched, muscle memory returning first. “Something was wrong,” he said, “Somebody was in danger. I had to get there before…” His entire body jerked backwards, and he cried out. The world tilted and the black and white streaks turned into a supernova.

The last thing he heard before the darkness reclaimed him was Barnaby shouting angrily. “You idiot. You were running towards the gun.”

Chapter Text

Barnaby was ranting, pacing a few feet away, when Jones slumped against Jamie’s side. Jamie was only just able to grab his shoulders to keep him from sliding off the log. “Sir!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arm around Jones to keep him steady.

“I thought having your own team would make you more careful, but you’ll never learn.”

Barnaby sounded furious, but Jamie had heard that same tone after he’d nearly gotten himself shot by a crossbow. “Sir!” he said louder, knowing Barnaby would be mortified if he were allowed to carry on any longer.

Barnaby spun around, ready to turn his temper on Jamie, then froze when he realized Jones was unconscious.

Jamie wasn’t sure what he expected. Barnaby to rush over, take charge, maybe even beg Jones to wake up - though that might have made him pass out from shock himself. What he didn’t expect was that Barnaby would just stand there, grey-faced and silent. Jamie had never seen John Barnaby at a loss for words, not even when confronted with a carful of clowns.

Then Barnaby turned around again and strode back into the woods.

“Sir!” Jamie repeated, as if calling three times would make him appear like Beetlejuice. “Where are you going?” But there was no response. Not from Barnaby, and not from Jones, who was still a dead weight against his side.

“You better be all right,” Jamie said, easing Jones onto the ground. “I’ve never seen the old man like this.” And he never wanted to see him like that again.

He used his jacket as a pillow and wished he had a blanket to cover Jones. At least the ambulance should be arriving soon. He hoped that’s where Barnaby had gone. The idea that his steadfast boss had simply run away was impossible to process.

He heard something crashing through the underbrush, and for a moment feared that the killer might have tracked them and come to finish off Jones. He stood up, putting himself between Jones and the woods, then sagged with relief when the medics broke into the clearing, carrying a stretcher. Jamie was even more relieved to see Barnaby following.

He stepped aside to let them tend to Jones. “Caucasian male, mid-forties,” he said. “Gunshot wound to the head, non-penetrating. Unconscious now, but he was awake and talking earlier. Some memory impairment.” That was probably an understatement, but he didn’t want to think that the memory loss might be permanent.

Jones moaned as the medics cleaned and bandaged the head wound, his eyes fluttering open and closed. That was a good sign, Jamie thought, a visible response to stimuli, and he looked over at Barnaby, wanting to give him an encouraging nod. But Barnaby was staring at the ground, and his body language screamed “stay away”.

“He’s stable,” one of the medics said. “Vitals are good, but let’s get him out of here.” The medics shifted Jones onto the stretcher and strapped him in. “Give us a hand carrying him out.”

Jamie reached for one of the handles. After another long pause, Barnaby grabbed another. It was slow progress back to the road, as no one wanted to risk stumbling over a root or stone. It was silent too, the only sound their footsteps and an occasional gasp from Jones. Barnaby flinched each time it happened, but otherwise stared straight ahead, not looking at Jones at all.

When they got to the clearing, Barnaby helped load Jones into the ambulance, then stepped back quickly. “Check his pockets for his car keys. You can drive it to the hospital, then set up a guard for him.” He held his hand out for his own car keys.

“Aren’t you going with him?” Jamie asked. When he’d sprained his ankle badly on a chase, Barnaby had taken him to A & E himself, then stayed until the x-rays came back, and Jamie was sent home with a prescription and crutches. He’d only been in Causton for a few weeks then, had barely gotten to know Barnaby, much less been as close to him as Jones was.

But maybe Jamie had misjudged that closeness. Barnaby had said they hadn’t got on at first; maybe they were never more than comfortable colleagues. Jamie knew from his own experience that it was Sarah who pulled people into the Barnaby orbit. Then he looked at Barnaby, saw the fine tremors in the hand that held the car keys, and realized that closeness was the problem after all.

“I’m going to find the person who did this to him,” Barnaby retorted. His voice cracked, and he turned away. “And then I’m going to teach him how to take cover when someone has a gun.”

Jamie watched helplessly as he got into the sedan and drove away, then climbed into the ambulance. “I need to check his pockets,” he said, but the medic was already handing him a bag.

“No wallet or ID,” he said, “but I guess you already know who he is.”

Jamie nodded and fished out the car keys. He wished Jones still had that sweet convertible he’d been using on the match fixing case, but that was a car for someone who wanted to be noticed. Jones was more practical than Jack Morris. He checked the rest of the contents out of habit. A crumpled receipt from the cafe in Crawley. Coffee and a Danish, cash out time 8:17. That narrowed the window another ten minutes.

The only other object was a penknife. It didn’t look like something Jones would normally carry around. It was old and rusty, with traces of dirt and moss in the grooves around the blade. There were initials scratched in the handle, almost too faded to be discerned, but he thought they were a rough B and J.

Jones had tossed his jacket in the back seat of his car, perhaps after he’d left the cafe, and Jamie checked the pockets. He wasn’t surprised to find a Swiss Army knife tucked in the interior pocket, the Fisherman model. He had seen Barnaby buy it a few months back. For a friend’s birthday, he’d said.

The knife was an anomaly that Jamie filed away for further investigation. Where had Jones got it and why was he carrying it around? But that could wait until after Jones was taken to hospital. Jamie would make sure he was cared for and safe, and then he would join Barnaby and find out who had done this to him.

~~~

When Sarah Barnaby saw a message on her phone from Jamie Winter, she couldn’t help being alarmed. She was fond of her husband’s sergeant, but a call from him during the work day rarely brought good news. At best, it meant things were kicking off at work, and John would be missing dinner or a pick-up from daycare. At worst…

She took a deep breath and called him back. The call went straight to voicemail, and Sarah was about to try John, not wanting to wonder another minute, when Jamie called back.

“Sorry,” he said, a little breathlessly. “I was just on another call. Thanks for getting back to me.”

He sounded nervous, which did nothing to ease Sarah’s mind. “Is John all right?”

Jamie paused and her worry spiked. “He’s fine,” he said. “I’m calling about Ben Jones.”

“Ben?” The last she’d heard from him, he was planning on driving up for Betty’s concert in the morning, though he thought he might not be able to get away until after lunch. “Has there been an accident?” Ben was a careful driver, but anything could happen on the motorway.

“Not exactly,” Jamie said, which wasn’t reassuring in the least. “He’s at Causton General, though. I was hoping you could come sit with him for a bit.”

“Of course,” Sarah said automatically. She had an hour for lunch, and she could move her one o’clock meeting. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.” She grabbed her coat and purse.

“Thank you. I have to follow up on a call, and I don’t want him to be alone.”

“Is he…?”

“He’ll be fine,” Jamie replied quickly, but it implied that Ben wasn't fine at the moment. “But he’s a bit disoriented. I can explain when you get here.”

Sarah had been married to a police officer long enough to know that there was more Jamie wasn’t telling her. And that it was serious enough that he wouldn’t tell her over the phone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She stopped by the school secretary’s desk long enough to clear her calendar and then hurried to her car. Fortunately, she and John had taken separate vehicles today. Unfortunately, she knew from personal experience the fastest route to Causton General.

Jamie was waiting for her in the main lobby when she arrived. He was holding a kit bag that Sarah recognized as belonging to Ben. “They’re just moving him to a room,” he said. “We can get a coffee and I’ll fill you in.”

She waited patiently while he got them a coffee and scones from the lobby kiosk. She wondered if he knew how often she had met Ben for coffee or tea and scones over the years. How he had gone from being her husband’s sergeant to becoming her friend and confidante, and then her daughter’s godfather. “Where’s John?” she asked, before Jamie even had a chance to sit down. “Why isn’t he here?”

“He’s at the station,” he said, then sighed. “He was pretty upset by what happened. It was pretty upsetting.” His voice trailed off, and he suddenly looked very young.

“What happened?” Sarah asked gently.

“We got a call that a body had been found just off the main road to Badger’s Drift. It was misidentified at first.”

Sarah didn’t need to be a detective to follow that clue. “They told you it was Ben.”

Jamie nodded. “His car was there; his warrant card was near the body. It wasn’t until we got there, until we saw the body, that we realized it wasn’t Inspector Jones. And that he was missing.” Jamie glanced at his phone. “We’re still trying to identify the body.”

“But you found Ben.”

Jamie nodded again. “He was in the woods, must have gone to ground to escape. But he’d been grazed by a bullet, and when we finally found him, he didn’t recognize us at first, didn’t even know who he was.”

“Amnesia?” That meant the bullet had most likely grazed Ben’s head. Sarah thought she might be sick and took a deep gulp of coffee to settle her stomach, if not her nerves.

“Something like that. But bits and pieces started coming back when the boss calmed him down. He knows who he is, who we are, even flashes of what happened to him, but it was too much for him and he passed out.” He saw Sarah’s alarm and touched her hand in reassurance. “He was awake again by the time we got here. But there are still big gaps in his memory, and he’s a bit panicky about it, so I thought having you here might help.”

“Then we should go see him.” Sarah finished her coffee and wrapped the scone in a napkin to eat later. Her appetite had fled.

Jamie put a hand on her arm. “Don’t be upset if he doesn’t recognize you at first. He hit me when he saw me. Must have thought I was the one after him.”

She could see a mark on his cheek, and smoothed it with her thumb. It looked like it had just been a glancing blow. She imagined Jamie, caught by surprise, not being able to move away in time. Ben, terrified, lashing out in panic. He wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. Her stomach lurched again.

“I arranged for a private room,” Jamie said, leading her to the ward. “And a guard on the door, but I’ll stay with you until they arrive.”

Sarah was grateful for the precaution, but not entirely reassured. The man posing as Grady Felton had been killed in a hospital room with a guard outside.

He hesitated in front of a closed door, then knocked. “Inspector Jones?” he called out. “It’s DS Winter. I’ve brought you a visitor, a friend.”

Sarah thought it was kind of him to warn Ben, though he was unlikely to risk another blow to his face or ego from an unexpected encounter.

“Come in.”

It was Ben’s voice, firm and familiar, with just a hint of a Welsh lilt, and Sarah’s stomach settled a little. That only lasted as long as it took her to walk through the door and see him lying in a hospital bed, a white bandage wrapped around his head.

“Oh, Ben,” she murmured.

He sat up and turned to stare at her, his expression blank. He studied her silently for a long moment, as if cataloging her features. “Mrs. Barnaby,” he said finally.

He hadn’t called her that for years, except as a joke. He wasn’t joking now.

“I’m sorry,” he said, mistaking her concern for disappointment. “I know I know you. Your husband showed me pictures. But I can’t connect the pictures to anything.”

“I understand,” she said, pulling a chair over to the side of the bed. “When I first met you, all I knew was what John told me. And he’s not very good at sharing the important things. But once I got to know you all those disconnected details fell into place.”

He had closed his eyes when she started talking, a slight frown on his face, but then he smiled. “Sarah,” he said. “I’m not allowed to call you ma’am.”

Sarah half-laughed, half-sobbed. “No, you are not.”

“I’ll wait outside until the guard comes,” Jamie said, nodding at Ben and squeezing Sarah’s shoulder. “If you remember anything at all, call me. I grabbed your mobile and kit bag from your car.” He placed the phone on the side table and handed Ben a small penknife. “And this was in your pocket.”

Ben stared at it. “I found it in the hollow tree. The first thing I really remember is waking up there.” He stared at the knife, turning it around in his hands. “This is mine,” he said suddenly. “My initials.”

Sarah leaned in to look and saw what appeared to be a faded B and J. “It looks pretty old. Are you sure?” She wanted to call back the words as soon as they left her mouth. She needed to support him, not question his memories.

Ben shrugged helplessly. “It’s just a feeling. I can’t be sure of anything.” He looked down at the knife again, then put it on the table, next to his phone. “I don’t think I deliberately picked it up. I was just trying to pull myself up and felt it inside a nook.”

“Where was the tree?” Sarah asked.

Ben shrugged again, trying to be nonchalant, but Sarah could see the panic in his eyes.

“In a clearing off the path between Badger’s Drift and Midsomer Parva,” Jamie said. “Not far from Dunstan.”

“You grew up in Dunstan,” Sarah told Ben, hoping to see some glimmer of recognition, but he just looked away. “All the kids would have known about a big hollow tree. Maybe you hid the knife there when you were a boy.”

Jamie, at least, looked pleased. “That’s one mystery solved,” he said. “You must have instinctively headed for your favourite hiding place.” He glanced at his phone when it pinged with a text alert. “I’ve got to go. Your guard is outside now, but don’t let anyone in without clearance from either me or Inspector Barnaby.”

“If you see Inspector Barnaby,” Sarah replied tartly, “tell him I would like an explanation for his absence here.”

“He’s mad at me,” Ben said.

“No, he’s not,” Jamie protested, a little too quickly, and Sarah wondered what had happened to send John running from his responsibilities.

Ben snorted. “I don’t remember a lot, but I remember what it sounds like when he’s mad at me.”

“Well, he’s going to be mad at me if I don’t get to the lab in the next twenty minutes,” Jamie said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Before you have to get back to school,” he told Sarah. He paused, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “He’s not mad,” he said again. “You gave him a bad scare. You gave us both a bad scare.” He turned and hurried out of the room. The lock clicked shut behind him.

“I don’t know what happened,” Ben said. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Sarah said. She didn’t know that any more than Ben did, but some things could be taken on blind faith. “John’s just worried about you.”

Ben closed his eyes and leaned back. “It’s like there are all these fragments floating around my brain. Like puzzle pieces, but without colours or edges to match. I can’t put them together.”

Sarah couldn’t imagine what that must be like, having your life shattered into pieces that didn’t fit. “Why don’t you talk it through with me. I’m good at puzzles. Maybe we can work it out together. You said the first thing you remember is the tree.”

Ben nodded. “At first there was just pain. Like a spike in my head. Or a bullet.” He grinned, but Sarah could see how shaken he was.

She reached out and took his hand. “You’re all right, Ben. You’re safe now.”

The grin faded. “I wish I knew that. Someone shot me and I have no idea why.” His voice cracked, and he looked away in humiliation.

Sarah didn’t think it would be a good idea to push it any further without John or Jamie present. Memories were fragile at the best of times. She didn’t want to manufacture anything. “Let’s start with the basics. You know who you are.”

He nodded, a little calmer now. “Ben Jones. I’m a police officer and I live in Brighton. By the sea. You’re Sarah Barnaby. Your husband is DCI John Barnaby. I used to work for him. You have a daughter named Betty.”

It sounded like things he’d learned, not that he knew. “Can I tell you something I remember about you?”

He nodded, smiling slightly. “How weird is it that you know me better than I know myself right now.”

“You will,” she reassured him. “It’s all there, you just have to let it come back to you.” She took his hand. “I remember the first time I met you. You came by to pick John up for work, and you brought me flowers to welcome me to Causton.”

He closed his eyes again, and Sarah realized he was letting the sound of her voice guide his memories. She squeezed his hand. “You said they were from everyone at the station, but I knew they were from you. It was very sweet.”

“You asked me to stay for coffee, but John -” he stumbled over the first name, “- DCI Barnaby said we had to get to work.” He frowned, a deep line burrowing towards the bridge of his nose. “You said I could drop by any time, but he said you didn’t mean it.”

“I knew he told you that,” Sarah exclaimed. “He’s infuriating.” It had taken weeks to convince Ben that he really was welcome to drop by any time, months before he actually did so. “What else can you remember?”

He leaned back, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Falling, and your husband shouting at me not to move. But it was a bomb, not a gun.” He glanced sideways at her, a familiar smirk twitching his lips. “That’s how he sounded when he was shouting at me today.”

“Then he’s not mad, he’s scared.” She remembered that day, how shaken John had been, not by his own close call, but by Ben’s hail Mary leap. She’d had years of pushing past John’s bluster, but back then, Ben had been uncertain of his place with John. He’d gotten better over the years at hearing the words unsaid, but that ability was floating about the ether with the rest of his memories, and he would have only heard the anger, not the fear it masked.

“You’re remembering more than you think,” she said. “You’re putting those pieces together, making connections. It doesn't have to be in a straight line.” She didn’t have a psychology degree, but she had taken courses at Durham. It was how she’d met John. She dredged through her own memories to find something helpful, something that might help him piece together the fragments. “You remembered me when you heard my voice. You made the connection between John shouting at you and defusing that bomb. Let yourself drift, see what else floats to the surface.”

He closed his eyes again, but held tightly to her hand. “Poison frogs,” he said. “On my sleeve. Broken glass. But I wasn’t the one who died.” His voice was low, but too tightly controlled, and she squeezed his hand again, latched their fingers together. He flinched suddenly. “A tunnel collapsing on me. Dirt in my nose, in my mouth. Hands pulling me out.” He coughed, choking on remembered dirt.

“Shush,” she said, stroking a hand up and down his back. “You’re safe.”

But he shook his head. “A gun. There was a gun. But not pointing at me. At the boss. He’s going to shoot him and I can’t get there.” He cried out, his body twisting against itself.

Sarah shifted onto the side of the bed and gathered him in her arms. Not all of the memory fragments were familiar to her, but she recognized the showdown in Midsomer Herne. If she had to, she would give Tom a call, see if he could fill in any of the blanks, but Joyce had been poorly recently, and she didn’t want to burden him with anything else.

“It’s okay, Ben,” she soothed. “He didn’t shoot him, he’s okay.”

But he shook his head. “Not then, not in the village. But this time by the side of the road. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

There was no point in lying. He would find out eventually, even if he didn’t remember clearly. “There was a body in a clearing off the road. Your car was nearby and your warrant card. You must have dropped it. That’s how they knew to look for you.”

“But I was in the woods.” He pulled away from her. “Why was I in the woods?” He stared straight ahead, breathing raggedly. “I was running. I ran away. I ran away and left him to die.”

“Of course, you didn’t,” she replied. “I know I wasn’t there, but it’s perfectly obvious that you tried to help him and that’s how you were hurt.”

But Ben wasn’t listening. “I should get changed,” he said. “I can’t be sure, but I don’t think these are my colours,” he said, gesturing at the hospital gown, and doing his best to give her a smile. He got up, swaying slightly, but he shook his head when she offered to help him. He grabbed the kit bag that Jamie had brought and walked, relatively steadily, to the bathroom.

Sarah could have kicked herself for playing with his memories without having the whole story. All the more reason for John to be here. Sometimes, she wanted to strangle him, which was not exactly the safest impulse for the wife of a homicide detective. She waited until Ben closed the door, then called John.

“Sarah.” He sounded cautious, as well he should.

“Where are you?” She kept her voice low, but not so low that John wouldn’t be able to hear the reproach in her voice.

“I’m at the station. Where are you?” He had surely guessed but was too cautious to risk an assumption.

“At the hospital. With Ben. Where you should be.” He didn’t answer and for a moment, Sarah thought he’d hung up, but then she heard him exhale heavily.

“I can’t,” he said, sounding broken. “Not while there’s someone out there who might still be after him. I can’t face him until I’ve made sure he’s safe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” she retorted. “Even if he wasn’t your friend, he’s your only witness. You wouldn’t abandon anyone else like this.”

There was another long pause. “I thought he was dead,” he said finally.

Under any other circumstances, she would have tried to comfort him, but not while Ben was struggling to find himself again. “But he’s not. He’s right here, and he needs you.”

“I can’t,” he said again, and this time he did hang up.

After she pocketed her phone, she looked up and saw Ben standing just outside the bathroom watching her. He had changed into a faded brown t-shirt and joggers and had splashed water on his face. He was still pale and his forehead was creased with pain lines, but he looked a bit more alert and less fragile.

She gave him a bright smile, but she could tell he wasn’t buying it. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“A little more human,” he said, getting back on the bed, but just sitting on top of the covers. He smiled brittlely. “I told you he was mad at me.”

“He’s definitely not mad at you,” Sarah replied. “I, however, am extremely unhappy with him. Why do you think he’s mad? What did he say to you?”

He stared blankly at her, and for a moment Sarah worried that he was having anterograde issues as well, but then he frowned. “He was mad at me for running. He called me an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t read too much into that,” Sarah said lightly. “That’s practically a term of endearment between you two. What did he say exactly?”

Ben shook his head. “I was trying to remember what happened. All I had was a feeling that something was wrong, someone was in danger. I had to get there in time.” He turned to Sarah, his eyes wide. “I wasn’t running away, at least not at first. I was trying to stop him. That’s why he’s mad. Because I was running towards them, not awayr.”

Sarah stilled, the implications of his words hitting her like a brick. Or a stray bullet. She was still unhappy with how John had reacted, but at least she understood now. “You could have been killed,” she said, the words catching in her throat. She pushed back the tears that were threatening, knowing they would upset him even more than John’s anger.

This time, he took her hand. “I wasn’t trying to get killed,” he said.

“Of course not,” she agreed, but a few tears spilled through anyway. “I’m so very glad you didn’t succeed inadvertently.” They both laughed, slightly hysterically.

“Do you have a pen and paper?” Ben asked. “We should write down what I’m remembering. Make sure the memories are consistent.”

Sarah rummaged through her purse and found a notebook but not even a pencil. She passed the wrapped-up scone to him. “I’ll find a pen and get us some coffee,” she said. “Hold tight.”

“I’m all right.” he reassured her.

“One of these days, Ben Jones, you’ll say that to me and it will be true.” She brushed her hand down his back and knocked on the door to be let out.

~~~

John Barnaby wasn’t a man who was accustomed to second-guessing his actions, much less having them challenged. He made mistakes, of course, missed connections, misunderstood information, sometimes with disastrous results. He regretted the pain they caused, did everything he could to mitigate the damage, but he recognized that they were an unavoidable risk of the job.

But after he hung up on Sarah - and he knew he would pay for that later - he wondered if he’d made more than a mistake by returning to the station instead of going to the hospital with Jones. He’d been honest with Sarah. He couldn’t face Jones, not after the display he’d put on by the hollow tree, but personal embarrassment was no reason to avoid his responsibilities. And Ben Jones was very much his responsibility - as a friend and as a victim.

It wasn’t as if he had made any significant progress at the station. They had identified the victim through his fingerprints - Robbie Quinlan, a petty criminal with a record stretching back more than two decades. He didn’t recognize the name, but it was possible that Jones had crossed paths with him during his time in uniform. John tried to build a scenario.

Jones, driving from the ring road, taking the back ways to avoid traffic. He glances off to the side of the road and sees Quinlan. It’s been a few years, so he doesn’t recognize him at first, but - and this is the painful irony - Jones had an encyclopedic memory when it came to the criminal class of Midsomer. Once he matched the face to the file, he would have known Quinlan was up to no good. So he turns around to check it out.

When he gets there, Quinlan’s on the ground, the other man standing over him. Fleur’s initial report indicated that Quinlan had been in a fight not long before he died. That he was prone when he was shot, the bullet through and through and embedded in the ground. Maybe Jones didn’t see the gun, doesn’t realize the danger, so he pulls out his warrant card, identifies himself and runs to intervene. Maybe he plans to tackle him away; John saw him do it a dozen times before. But the other man does have a gun, and he shoots Jones and then shoots Quinlan. But Jones is only grazed, knocked down but not out, so he scrambles to his feet and runs to safety. The gunman follows and shoots again, but this time he misses, and Jones escapes into the woods.

SOCO had found the third bullet, embedded in a tree trunk just a few feet down the path. John was certain the forensics report would support his scenario, confirm the how, even if Jones couldn’t explain the why. John didn’t know what had brought Quinlan and his killer to that back road: a drug deal, an exchange of stolen goods, an innocent meeting that turned violent. Uniform had found a bike stashed in the woods; the fingerprints on the handlebar matched Quinlan’s, which meant the killer must have come - and left - by the car.

The car was the key, he thought. Find the car, find the shooter. In the meantime, he started building a list of Quinlan’s known associates.

When Winter returned from the lab with the forensics report, he very carefully avoided the subject of Jones, other than to mention that he’d arranged for an around-the-clock guard at the hospital.

“And Sarah,” John noted wryly.

“I thought he could use a friend,” Winter replied, any tone of reproach so carefully avoided that John heard it all the same.

He was right, of course. He should have called Sarah himself. He’d pay for that as well later. “What he needs is someone to find out what happened to him,” John replied defensively. “Until we do that, or until he can clear himself, there’s a cloud hanging over him.”

“Lab says no gunpowder residue on his hands,” Winter pointed out. “He wasn’t the shooter. But you already knew that. I can chase up the CCTV, coordinate the search for the car. But we need Jones’s statement, or as much as he’s able to give, and you’re the one who’s been able to get through to him. Put that degree he hated so much to good use.”

It was almost as if Winter had coordinated his arguments with Sarah. Or that they were both right. John was about to admit as much when he was saved by Winter’s mobile ringing.

“We’ve identified all the cars in the area during the relevant time period,” Winter said when he hung up. “All but one check out. Reported stolen two days ago. We’ve got an APB out on it and are tracking it as far as we can.”

Progress at last. That deserved a concession on his part. “Get the plate and a description of the car to hospital security. I’ll head over and see if it jogs Jones’s memory.”

Winter nodded, trying to hide a satisfied smile. “Done, sir. I’ll keep you updated on any sightings.”

It was only a five-minute drive to Causton General, but it was long enough for John to decide that he’d been an idiot. So had Jones, but it was the kind of idiocy that hurt only himself and had, in the past, saved others. But he still couldn’t shake the knowledge that a fraction of an inch was all that separated a graze from a fatal shot. It hadn’t been Jones beneath the sheet, but it easily could have been.

He couldn’t do anything about that, but he could do everything in his power to make sure nothing else happened to Jones.

And of course Winter and Sarah were right. The more information they had about the shooter, the better they could protect Jones. And maybe seeing Jones alive, if not entirely well, would banish the remnants of the morning’s nightmare.

When he walked into the lobby, he caught sight of Sarah, waiting in line at the cafe. She was frowning slightly, but not visibly upset, which he hoped meant Jones was awake and alert.

She gave him a knowing smile when he joined her. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

“Yes, yes, you were right, as always.” But he would always be grateful for how well Sarah knew him. “How is he doing?”

“What do you think? He barely knows who he is, or what happened to him. He’s terrified, John, and trying so hard not to show it.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “How could this have happened? He was just coming for a visit, not a case.”

“I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” But there was more to it than bad luck. Jones had seen something that made him stop, something that the average person might have overlooked or ignored. Jones was in that hospital room because of who he was.

“He’s remembering a bit more,” Sarah said. “I went to get a pen so he could write it down. But it will be better if he tells you directly.”

John nodded. “Why don’t you head back to the school,” he said. “I'll stay with him. If the doctors agree, I’ll bring him to the concert. Betty was the first thing he remembered. It will be good for him.

She hesitated, then nodded, glancing at her watch. “Call me if anything changes or if there’s anything I can do. I’ll get the spare room ready.” She handed him the coffee cups and kissed him on the cheek.

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

“That’s up to Ben,” she admonished. “Jamie and I both told him you’re not mad at him. But he’s only going to believe you.”

John flushed, realizing Jones had heard enough - too much - of his rant. “I’ll fix it,” he promised. “We’ll both see you at the concert.”

But when he reached the ward, he saw that there wasn’t a guard on Jones’s door. He looked around, wondering if he’d just stepped away, but there was no one in sight. He hurried back to the duty station. “What happened to the guard at Inspector Jones’s door?” he demanded.

The nurse looked puzzled. “He was there a few minutes ago.”

“Has anybody else gone by in the last five, ten minutes?”

“Not that I’ve seen, but we’re short-staffed and I’ve been in and out of patient rooms.” She smiled reassuringly. “He probably just stepped away to go to the bathroom.”

That wasn’t protocol, but protocol didn’t take into account uncooperative bladders. That wouldn’t stop him from giving the officer a well-deserved dressing down. He poked his head into the bathroom, the lecture already on the tip of his tongue, but his words died away when he found the officer slumped on the floor.

John knelt down, breathing out a sigh of relief when he felt a strong pulse on the officer’s neck. Even as he did a quick check for injuries, the other man stirred and groaned. “Don’t move,” John ordered. “I’ll get help.” He hurried back to the nurse’s desk.

“Call security and have them get up to Inspector Jones’s room right away. And there’s an officer down in the bathroom. He’s conscious now, but it looks like he was knocked out.” His phone rang, Winter calling in. “What?” he snapped.

“We picked up the car near the hospital. I’m on my way over.”

That confirmed John’s worst fear. “Make it snappy. I found the guard unconscious in the bathroom. I’m going to check on Jones now.”

“Wait for back-up,” Winter shouted, but John ended the call.

He wasn’t entirely reckless, however, unlike some detective inspectors he knew, so he approached the room with caution, pausing at the door to listen for any clue to what was happening. Although Sarah hadn’t been gone long, it only took a second to pull a trigger.

Then he heard Jones’s voice, firm and authoritative. His relief was short-lived, however.

“You’re not thinking this through,” Jones said. “Walk away now and your only witness is a guy with a bullet in his head who wouldn’t even be able to identify his own mother. But you fire that gun and security will be on you before you take a step out that door. And they’ll have the gun that put the bullets in me and the poor sod on the side of the road, and they won’t need a witness to put you away for life.”

John stepped back and called in to headquarters. “I need armed response at Causton General, ward 3, room 25. We have a hostage situation with an armed suspect in a murder investigation.” He looked around, assessing his options. His instinct was to just walk in, try to diffuse the situation. It had worked before with Grady Felton and Germaine Troughton. But neither of them had a gun.

He moved back within earshot, hoping he might find an opening. He could hear Jones talking again and that gave him momentary hope.

“And you think you can get close enough for that? Because I might not be in top form, but I’m not going down without a fight.

“Then I may as well shoot you and take my chances.”

Any openings were rapidly closing, and ART was still en route. John glanced around for inspiration; his eyes fell on the chair the guard had been using, a wheeled office chair, probably borrowed from the duty station. Maybe a distraction would give him the opening he needed.

He pushed the door open and shoved the chair through. Three things happened nearly simultaneously. The gun went off, a bullet splintering the door frame. A man cried out in pain. Something clattered to the ground.

And then Jones called out. “Clear.”

Chapter Text

When the door opened and a man walked into the room holding a gun, Ben knew he was in trouble. He didn’t recognize the man, but he didn’t have to be in full possession of his faculties to figure out that whoever had shot him had come to finish the job. A voice in his head that sounded very much like DCI Barnaby commented that he’d never been in full possession of his faculties before. Ben told the voice very politely to shut up and concentrated on staying alive.

“Where’s the guard?” There was no point trying to pretend this was just a well-wisher. All he could do was keep the man talking and hope Sarah would raise the alarm when she returned and saw the room unguarded. His memory of her was still a patchwork but he knew she would be smart enough to call security and get to safety. Unlike some, her voice echoed unhelpfully in his mind. Ben was starting to miss the void.

“Left his post to take a piss,” the man replied. “Pretty easy to sneak up on a guy when he’s holding his dick.” He shrugged. “He’ll be all right. I just gave him a tap.”

That did nothing to reassure Ben. He’d just been grazed - the doctor had confirmed that, told him he was a very lucky man - but he still didn’t know his own address. He’d tried unlocking his phone to search for answers when Sarah left, but he couldn’t remember his passcode.

At least he had some kind of a weapon. He’d palmed the old penknife when the man walked in. Now he slipped his hand under the cover and carefully worked the blade open, talking to try and keep the attention on his face. “I would have thought you’d be in the next county by now. Not very smart sticking around after you murdered someone.”

“And leave a witness?” The man shrugged. “I knew I’d winged you so I’ve been keeping an eye on the hospital.”

Ben tapped the bandage on his head. “You’re not thinking this through,” he said. “Walk away now and your only witness is a guy with a bullet in his head who wouldn’t even be able to identify his own mother.” A spot of exaggeration in the name of survival seemed called for. “But you fire that gun and security will be on you before you take a step out that door. And they’ll have the gun to match the bullets in me and that poor sod on the side of the road, and they won’t need a witness to put you away for life.”

“Except you’ll remember me now,” the gunman pointed out, and it was a shame, really, that he wasn’t quite as stupid as his recent actions would suggest. Though he wasn’t smart enough to wear gloves. At least there was a chance they could get fingerprints and an ID from the door. He trusted Barnaby to bring him to justice eventually, no matter what happened now.

Ben calculated how long Sarah had been gone. Even if she went to a café for the coffees, she would surely have returned by now. The longer he could keep the conversation going, the better chance he had of security arriving in time. More importantly, if they could listen in, they would know the situation they were facing. He had to keep talking.

“Why did you shoot him? Why did you shoot me? If I’m going to die, I’d at least like to know why.” He pushed the covers clear and swung out of bed, facing the gunman, but careful to keep the knife out of sight.

“Tried to rip me off, didn’t he? Wasn’t the first time, but it was the last. You just barged in at the wrong moment. Didn’t see the gun, did you? Well, you see it now. Thing about guns is you don’t have to shoot them to kill someone. I bet another blow to the head will finish you off.”

“And you think you can get close enough for that? Because I might not be in top form, but I’m not going down without a fight.” He had the knife ready, gripped in his left hand. He just needed an opportunity.

“Then I may as well shoot you and take my chances.”

That was when the door slammed opened and a chair shot in. Ben was almost as surprised as his would-be killer, but he recovered quickly, taking a second to steady his breathing and aim, as the man shot wildly in the direction of the chair. Then he threw the knife, watching with satisfaction as it hit squarely and lodged in the gunman’s arm.

He had a sudden flash - firing a gun at a man dressed like a cowboy, and that surely wasn’t a real memory - and then he dropped to the ground, out of the line of fire. But he could see the gun on the floor, so he risked poking his head up. The gunman was slumped against the wall, clutching his arm and moaning. Ben hoped it hurt like hell.

“Clear!” he shouted, letting whoever rolled in the chair know that it was safe to enter.

The door opened and John Barnaby ducked through cautiously, then moved quickly to secure the gun. The look he gave the gunman frightened even Ben, and for a moment he thought Barnaby might actually pull the trigger.

He stood up to distract him. “Did Sarah read you the riot act or do you have a sixth sense for trouble?” he asked.

Barnaby didn’t relax, but he did lower the gun. “Why can’t it be both?” Barnaby replied. “Trouble is a default state with you.” He turned as security rushed in, followed by Winter a moment later, “Get him out of here,” he ordered, handing the gun to Winter. “Have him treated and then book him.”

Winter looked at the penknife, then looked at Ben. “Is that the knife from the tree?”

Ben grinned. “Mumblety-peg,” he said. “I guess muscle memory returns first.” But the adrenaline was wearing off and his head reminded him that throwing himself on the ground with a concussion was not a great idea. He braced himself against the bed to stay upright, trying to look nonchalant.

But Barnaby saw through the pose and moved to Ben’s side, gently pushing him down on the bed. “Did he hurt you?” he asked.

Ben shook his head, wincing. “Just a bit shook up.” He frowned. “Is the guard okay?”

Barnaby looked disapproving. “Ambushed while answering the call of nature. That’ll teach him to follow procedure.” But his bark was apparently worse than his bite. “Make sure he’s all right before you explain his job to him, Winter.”

Winter nodded and manhandled the gunman out of the room. “I’ll come by later,” he told Ben. “See how you’re doing. Maybe you’ll have remembered some embarrassing stories about the boss.”

“Away with you,” Barnaby scolded, but he pursed his lips as if trying not to smile.

The duty nurse pushed past Winter, frowning in disapproval at the scene before her. “This is not how you recover from a serious head injury,” she scolded, as if Ben had planned to almost be murdered. But her hands were gentle as she settled him back into bed.

Barnaby stepped back, but hovered just out of the way, watching her with a mixture of suspicion and concern.

“Pulse and blood pressure are surprisingly normal considering someone just tried to kill you,” the nurse - Mary Atkins, according to her name badge - said. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” Ben replied. Whatever they’d given him earlier was holding up. His head still hurt, but it was a dull ache rather than a sharp spike.

“You must have a hard head,” she said, checking his pupils and reactions.

Barnaby snorted, but didn’t comment, even when Ben made a face at him.

“You don’t seem to have done yourself any more damage,” she said finally. “But I’ll have the doctor come by as soon as he’s free.” She gave Barnaby a disapproving glare. “Your idea of protection has landed us with three patients instead of one.

“Technically I’m to blame for one of them,” Ben said, annoyed. It wasn’t her place to judge. “And he’s lucky my aim was a bit off. I was trying for his torso.” Always aim for the largest target. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did.

“Better a knife in the arm than a bullet in the head,” she admitted. “Try not to attract any more trouble. I’d like a nice quiet shift from now on.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, giving her his most charming grin.

It worked on Nurse Atkins, as she gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before bustling away, but Barnaby was still lurking a few feet away, looking oddly uncertain. What little Ben remembered didn’t include Barnaby ever being uncertain, at least about a case.

“She’s right,” Barnaby said. “We should have protected you better. I should have protected you better.” He paused, looked away. “I should have been here.”

“You’re here now,” Ben pointed out.

Barnaby shook his head. “Don’t make excuses for me. It’s unconscionable what I did to you.”

“What did you do to me?” Ben asked, genuinely puzzled and not because of any memory loss. “You found me. You helped me find myself.”

“And then I left.”

“To do your job.” Ben glanced around to make sure the nurse was out of sight and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He could barely manage his own thoughts, much less work out what was bothering Barnaby, but he had to try. He gestured for Barnaby to come over, patting the bed at his side. “Where’s Sarah, by the way? Did you send her away?”

Barnaby managed a small smile, walking towards the bedside chair. “I wouldn’t put it that way and neither would she. I should let her know you’re safe.” But he suddenly wavered and caught himself on the chair.

“Hey,” Ben said, looking at him with surprise and concern. He tugged Barnaby down beside him. “You didn’t catch a ricochet, did you?” he asked, remembering the wild shot. He thought it had hit the wall, but everything had happened so quickly. He patted Barnaby down gently, looking for a wound; tried to push his jacket off to see better.

Barnaby caught his hands. “I’m okay,” he said. “It just occurred to me how close you came to not being safe. It was all just a bit too much for a moment.”

Ben looked closely at him. His face was grey and more lined than in the picture taken just a few weeks before. Even his hair was lighter, as if something had drained the colour from him. “Sarah said the body was near my car,” he said carefully. “And my warrant card. You thought it was me. You thought I was dead.”

Barnaby actually flinched at the words and for a moment Ben thought he might pass out, so visceral was his reaction.

“It takes twenty minutes to drive from Causton to Badger’s Drift,” Barnaby said, scrubbing his face roughly. “Make it thirty, from the time I got the call to when I could muster up the courage to make the identification. Those were thirty minutes I never want to experience again.”

One of the few advantages of having a mostly blank slate was that Ben could form what fragments of memory he had into any picture. He remembered again the shotgun pointed at Barnaby and imagined a past where it had gone off. Even though he knew it wasn’t real, could feel Barnaby’s warm presence beside him, it was unbearable. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“You damn well should be,” Barnaby snapped, and for a moment Ben thought that Sarah and Winter were wrong, but then he heard the pain beneath the anger. “You ran towards a man holding a gun.”

“And then I ran away, once I’d realized the error of my ways,” Ben pointed out. He smiled, but it faded when Barnaby just stared at him stony-faced. “All I remember is a sense that someone needed help. I don’t know if I’ll ever remember everything, but I don’t think I saw the gun until it was too late.” He’d said as much to Sarah - even the gunman had said as much - but he didn’t think Barnaby would be as quick to accept that.

Barnaby stood up and walked over to the chair, putting distance between them. “Have you heard of Aristotle’s Golden Mean? The middle ground between extremes of excess and deficiency. Courage is a virtue, but in excess it’s recklessness.”

Ben wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t remember the passcode to his phone. How was he supposed to know anything about Aristotle? “Were you always like this? I’m not sure I want to remember that.”

That at least teased a smile from Barnaby. “You always were an inverted snob,” he said. “Amnesia hasn’t broadened your mind.”

Ben stared at him and then laughed. “I think, by definition, it’s the opposite.”

Barnaby looked stricken, but then joined in the laughter, though it was a little broken and just on the flip side of tears. “I’m sorry,” he said, catching his breath. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

Ben had been trying not to think about it, as if pretending it wasn’t real would just make it go away. But it wasn’t a dream, and his life was still in limbo. He crawled back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard and pulling his knees up to his chest. “It feels like I’ve lost some essential part of myself, and maybe I’ll never get it back.”

“Our memories aren’t who we are,” Barnaby replied. “It’s what we did to create those memories that define us. And nothing can take that away from you, as long as the rest of us are still here to bear witness.”

“But I don’t live here,” he pointed out. “I don’t even know where I live. Brighton. It’s just a word. I don’t have anything to attach to it.” He thought he might recognize it if he saw a picture, the way he’d remembered Betty Barnaby, the way he’d been able to connect Sarah to her picture and then her voice.

“The Palace Pier,” Barnaby said. “The Royal Pavilion.”

They were just words. Ben shook his head. “It’s no good,” he said. “I can’t remember.”

“But think of everything you have remembered. A couple of hours ago, you didn’t know your name. And Sarah says you’ve remembered more.”

“Just bits and pieces. Most of them are things that I wish I didn’t remember.”

“That’s the nature of trauma and memory,” Barnaby said. “And the nature of our job. Strong memories are associated with strong emotions, and the ones we experience are rarely good.”

“But there must have been good times as well,” Ben said. “I was happy in the pictures on your phone.”

Barnaby looked thoughtful. “Do you remember what happened to the ring I bought Sarah for our fifteenth anniversary?” he asked. He didn’t wait for Ben to answer. “I accidentally fed it to Sykes. My dog. And then had to pretend he’d been in a fight so I could keep him close to me to retrieve the present.”

Ben chuckled, and that did feel familiar, though he half-expected Barnaby to chastise him for laughing. “You said it was my fault for distracting you,” he said, the memory settling into place. “Somehow everything was always my fault.”

“Because it was,” Barnaby said, but he looked pleased. “Can you remember anything about the case we were working on?”

Ben closed his eyes, letting the images slip in and out, grasping the ones that seemed to fit. “Cheese,” he said finally. “Someone was killed with a wheel of cheese. Midsomer Blue. And someone was smuggling maggots. And there was a missing girl.”

Barnaby nodded. “Poppy Ordish. You found her. You could never just stand around and wait. Like today,” he said. “You saw someone in trouble and you tried to help. That’s who you are. And that’s what scares me. That one of these days I’m going to get a phone call that isn’t a mistake.”

Ben didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have a sense of himself as reckless. But then again, he didn’t have a real sense of himself at all. Maybe he went skydiving on the weekends. Tombstoned off the pier. The thought came to him out of the ether, accompanied by the sensation of falling, and then hitting the water feet first, the shock so sharp and sudden that it forced the air from his lungs. Maybe he was reckless after all.

Something puzzled him. “Why would you get the call? Are you my emergency contact?” Did that mean he didn’t have any family? But somewhere, floating through the fragments, was a memory of warm hugs and biscuits in the oven.

“I have my sources,” Barnaby replied, but he looked a little guilty, so Ben thought maybe that wasn’t something he’d forgotten. “But I might be. I was when we worked together. You didn’t want your Gran to get that kind of call.”

“My Gran?” That was the source of the hugs and baking he thought. But there was sadness there too. A fresh pain and an older ache. The hole where his family should have been wasn’t new. “She’s not…” He didn’t want to put it in words.

“She passed last year,” Barnaby said softly. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “Maybe it would help if you looked through your pictures. I can try to fill in any gaps.”

Ben picked up his mobile and stared at the screen. “I don’t know my passcode,” he said, unable to summon even a fragment of a memory.

“24-04-14,” Barnaby said. “Betty’s birthday,” he added at Ben’s puzzled look.

Ben typed the numbers and the phone unlocked. “Why?” he wondered.

“Because you love her,” Barnaby replied simply. “She’s your goddaughter.”

And a whole row of puzzle pieces fell into place. Sarah’s tears, Barnaby’s anger made sense now. He wasn’t alone, after all. He looked through his recent text messages, read a thread from Sarah. “I came up for her concert,” he said. He could attach memories to that now. Arranging for the day off. Conspiring with Sarah to make it a surprise for both Betty and John. It had been a surprise - just not the way he'd wanted. He looked at the time. “Can you spring me for the concert?” he asked. “Flash your badge at the doctor?”

“You never were one to linger in hospital,” Barnaby said, “but I already told Sarah I’d see what I could do.” He checked the time as well. “We still have a couple of hours. You should get some rest and I should get started on the paperwork.”

But he seemed reluctant to leave, and Ben was reluctant to be left alone with the fragments. “Winter can handle the paperwork. You still have to interview me,” he said.

Barnaby stood up. “Give me fifteen minutes to check in with Winter and talk to your doctor. Can I get you anything?”

Ben shook his head. “You can’t get me what I need. It just has to come back. I’ll be fine,” he said. it was the same thing he’d said to Sarah, and someone had tried to kill him just a few minutes later. But he was safe now. He had run, and Barnaby had left, but Barnaby had come back in time to save him. Or at least to help him save himself.

He opened the pictures app and started clicking through the photos. Most meant nothing to him, pictures of cars, license plates, people coming in and out of buildings. They must be tied to surveillance and suspects, and he wondered how many cases would collapse if he didn’t get his memory back.

Then he clicked on albums, found the folders of people who were important in his life. Barnaby, Sarah, Betty. An elderly woman, with sharp eyes - sharp as a ferret came the whisper of a memory. The last photo dated more than a year ago. His Gran. A blonde woman, smiling and laughing with him in selfies. Kate. He was going to be in trouble if she ever found out how long it took to remember her. He found pictures of his team - Lis, Mac, Debs. The names came back all at once, as if they were a single unit. He wondered if Barnaby had contacted them about what happened, but there were no messages on his phone, no missed calls.

Barnaby came in, waving a sheaf of papers. “The doctor will come by to sign you out in time for the concert, and I have to bring you back for a check up, but if they’re satisfied that you’re not bleeding into your brain or likely to slip into a coma, you’re free to go.”

That was good news. Though he wasn’t entirely sure where he could go. “I hope you have my address,” he joked, “because I don’t know where I live.”

Barnaby looked at him as if he’d lost his mind - which of course he had. “Don’t be an idiot.” This time Ben could hear the affection. “You’re not driving back to Brighton. Sarah is making up the spare room for you, and she’s probably already gone shopping for your favourite food. Taste and smell can be powerful memory stimulants.”

“You don’t have to…” Ben started to say, but Barnaby quelled him with a look, and that he definitely remembered.

“You were planning on staying the weekend already. We can put you up as long as you need.” He glanced at the phone in Ben’s hand. “Have you remembered anything else?”

He showed him the photo albums. “Kate,” he paused, searching for the last name. “Wilding. We worked together here. And then lived together in Brighton?”

Barnaby nodded. “She stayed with you while she was looking for a place. You’ll have to ask Sarah for any other details. I try to stay blissfully unaware of such things.”

Ben hoped he remembered what that meant soon. He did remember something else. “Like Winter and Dr. Karimore?” he teased. But there was something off about that. Fleur was the pathologist in Causton now. Kam had gone...somewhere in the States, he thought. Or Canada. Kate was in the States. He looked again at the last photo in the album of her. Another selfie, but without him.

“She’s on sabbatical in Boston,” Barnaby said, seeing his confusion. “I think she’s back next month. Unless of course Sarah called her, and then she’ll be on the next plane.”

Ben didn’t know how to feel about that. He sorted through the Kate-shaped puzzle pieces, tried to assemble a clearer picture. Dancing in a hotel bar. Walking hand in hand down a pier. The Palace Pier. Saying goodbye at the departure gate, because he’d flashed his badge to get through security. He missed her doubly now, for the times they’d had together and for the ones he couldn’t remember.

“She hasn’t called though,” Barnaby continued, “so I suppose Sarah has been discreet.”

“What about my team?” Ben asked. “Have you been in touch with them?”

Barnaby looked guilty now. “I may not have had a chance to do that yet. The last thing I needed was your sergeant out for vengeance on my patch. She’s small, but fierce.”

Ben swiped to a photo of his sergeant and smiled. “She’s going to be pissed with you.” Then he came to a terrible realization. “You’re going to make me tell her, aren’t you?” He tried to imagine that conversation. Hey, Lis. How are things at the station? Guess what? Someone shot me in the head. I’m okay, but I can’t really remember much at the moment. “She’s going to kill me for getting hurt.”

“See, you are remembering things.” His expression hardened. “I’m not inclined to share information with Brighton CID. The last time something happened to you, they didn’t tell me until you’d been missing for nearly a day. But I’ll talk to your divisional commander, sort things out.”

Ben rubbed his face. “What if we can’t sort things out? How can I do my job if I can’t remember anything?”

“It will come back, Ben, I promise.”

It wasn’t a promise he could make, but Ben still believed him. John Barnaby was the kind of man who could make anything sound possible.

“I heard you,” Barnaby continued. “You handled an armed killer under incredibly trying circumstances. That’s not just instinct, it’s knowledge and training, and it’s all still there. I’ll help you find it again, and whatever we can’t find, I’ll help you relearn.”

“Why?” It slipped out before he could stop himself. “I’m not your sergeant any more. I’m not your responsibility.” Right now, it felt like he wasn’t anything at all.

Barnaby stared at him, looking puzzled. Then his expression transformed into one of gentle understanding. Ben had seen that expression before, directed at witnesses, victims, and even some traumatized criminals. He couldn’t remember seeing it directed at him.

“Because you love my daughter,” Barnaby answered. “Because you might have started as my sergeant - and an annoying one at that -“ and Ben remembered that funny little pursed lips smile that Barnaby let slip when he was feeling particularly pleased with himself, “but you’re family now.”

And suddenly the gaps in his memory didn’t matter. He might not know his address or what Winter’s first name was, but he knew who he was, and he knew that he wasn’t alone. His eyes filled with tears and he looked down before Barnaby could see. He felt a hand on his shoulder, strong and warm, grounding him. Ben reacted by instinct, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Barnaby, seeking shelter.

Barnaby froze, and Ben started to pull back, wishing he could remember if they had the kind of relationship that allowed for comforting hugs. But then Barnaby choked out a laugh and clutched him fiercely, as if afraid to let him go.

It didn’t feel familiar, but for the first time since he stepped out of the hollow tree, Ben felt safe.

~~~

Epilogue

Kewstoke House in Causton was a relatively new addition to the landscape, its years numbered in decades, rather than millennia, But what it lacked in history, it more than made up for in warmth.

It was home to a loving couple, their beautiful daughter, and a rescued dog; a place to gather for Saturday barbecues or movie marathons. The spare room had a chest of drawers that had accumulated spare clothes and a kit bag with toiletries. A place of belonging, of friendship, of family.

Memories are encoded neural ensembles, a construct of our brains and as fragile as filaments. Instinct is an ancient force that can lead us to safety, a survival system hardwired into our DNA. But beyond history, beyond instinct, beyond memory, there is love. And that leads us to shelter, to sanctuary, to home.