Chapter Text
She rode in the ambulance with him — the medics weren't paying her any mind, once they'd assured themselves that the blood all over her uniform wasn't hers. Dalgliesh had (mercifully) passed out, so he wouldn't be getting in a tut over it. And the fact of the matter was, once you'd watched a man almost bleed to death, you got sort of invested in making sure he didn't.
Once they got to hospital she had to wait like anyone else, although a nurse took pity on her and gave her a jumper from the lost and found bin. It had patches on the elbows and a hole near the collar but it was clean, at least. CI Daniels didn't make (much) comment on it when he tracked her down for an after-action report.
'Mind you,' he said, scratching his head like a dog at a flea, 'I'd like to know how it was you knew where to find them, from a pen dropped on the ground.'
Of course he was going to make out like she'd done something wrong. 'I knew Julius Marsh was at the house, and the information I'd got from the Foreign Office lead me to believe he might be a person of interest to your investigation.' Daniels bristled at the mention of the Foreign Office and the call he'd warned her not to take, but settled when she called it his investigation. Injured Met officer or not, suspect suicide or not, Daniels was going to get credit for solving four murders and an international drug bust. 'DCI Dalgliesh informed me the other day that Maggie Hewson had stolen that pen from him. And it's a fancy little pen, sir; he wouldn't have just dropped it.' She didn't mention the bit about it being a gift from his wife; she could still picture the stricken expression on Dalgliesh's face when he'd seen it, quickly concealed. It had felt cruel, somehow, even to witness that moment. 'I took a chance that Marsh would take him where there's easiest clean-up, up on the cliffside — the other murders all left a body behind, sir.'
'You think just like a criminal, Miskin,' grunted Daniels. 'Speaking of bodies, you'll be joining the search team down at the shoreline — haven't found Marsh's body just yet, though the tide's with us and there's a good chance.'
'Yes sir,' she replied, heart sinking. Freezing ocean water she'd not be able to rinse off until she went home, whenever that might be. 'Is there anyone here who can give me a ride back? My car's still at the scene.'
'It can stay there a while, you'll not be leaving here just yet.' Daniels jerked his head toward the door, through which Dalgliesh was still being worked on. 'I want you taking Sleeping Beauty's statement if he wakes up. He took quite a shine to you," he added, his voice flat and toneless, his expression blank. 'Mayhap he'll let more slip than he's told us so far.'
Kate made sure not to flinch at either 'if he wakes up' or 'he took quite a shine to you.' It would only ever make things worse. 'Yes, sir,' she said.
'I'll let it slide you're out of uniform,' Daniels added as he turned to go, 'But see it don't happen again, all right, Sergeant?'
*
A few hours later the surgeons called it a success: the bullet had gone clean through Dalgliesh's shoulder without nicking any important arteries or shattering any bones. 'It'll be a tedious recovery, but he'll be right as rain in a few months, so long as he makes sure to pace himself.' Dr. Sutton looked through the paperwork. 'You're welcome to sit with him, but he'll not be awake for a good while yet.'
'That's fine,' Kate said, 'I'm happy to wait.' The adrenaline had long since worn off and she was that knackered; a chair where she could sit for a few hours sounded like heaven.
Dr. Sutton smiled sympathetically. 'Would that every man's wife were as attentive,' he said, patting her on the shoulder. 'I'm sure it will do him the world of good to see you first thing, Mrs. Dalgliesh.' And he strode off before Kate could formulate a decent reply.
Mistaken identity aside, she felt a bit joppety-joppety about sitting by his bed, but it wasn't as though anyone from London would be down soon. Or if there was anyone who would come down. She'd done some digging on him last week, while doing all that digging for him: DCI Adam F. Dalgliesh, forty-five, twenty-one years on the force, twelve as DCI, widowed last year when his wife (Jean Dalgliesh, nee Cartwright) died in childbirth. No other relations known, and if he had any friends, her friend Conroy at Hillingdon was buggered if he knew who they were.
'Keeps himself well to himself,' he'd said when she'd called him the other day. 'Stands one drink at the pub and then goes home, that sort. Although he's something in the literary world, a playwright or zummat.' So maybe Dalgliesh's friends weren't coppers at all. Kate's certainly weren't.
She scrounged up a paper and caught up with the news while around her the ward settled down for the night: the hushing, slowing movements of the nurses, the snoring from the patients down the row, the way conversations dipped down from their normal daylight volumes. The ward stayed fairly empty and she had another nurse take pity on her, this time in the form of offering her the bed next to Dalgliesh's.
'Normally we'd tell you to run off home, get yourself some real rest,' the nurse whispered, fluffing up the pillow. 'But we've found husbands get so stroppy if they wake up alone.'
It was almost two in the morning and Kate was in no mood to correct the record if it meant she could lie down for a bit, so she made some vague noises of agreement. She was asleep before she'd pulled up the covers.
*
Dalgliesh was still out when Kate woke up around dawn, the light turning the room grey and blue. Nurses clipped by quietly, but with the unspoken implication that the patients would be expected to handle the noise of the normal business of the ward any moment now. She went off for a coffee and a toilet and came back with a scone and another paper, as well — this one with the crossword not yet started.
It was still dark enough to have trouble seeing the clues, and she was squinting at 17 across, 'the introductory section of a story,' when she heard, 'You can turn a light on, you know.'
She looked up — Dalgliesh was squinting at her, pale but alert, looking better than he ought to do. 'It's half seven, sir,' she said. 'Nobody would thank me.'
He seemed to consider that. 'I suppose not. How long have I been unconscious?'
'About eighteen hours, sir,' she said. That made his eyebrows go up in surprise, though she couldn't think why. 'You were shot, sir, but they said you'll make a full recovery, nothing seriously damaged.'
'That's not what it feels like at present,' he said, grimacing. 'I don't suppose I could trouble you for some water?'
There was a pitcher and glass on his bedside; she poured it out and handed it to him, making sure to reach for the right hand. 'My governor asked that you give a full account as soon as you can, but if you'd rather wait a bit longer,' she trailed off. He knew as well as she did that it didn't matter if he'd rather wait a bit longer, but it seemed kinder to pretend either of them had a choice.
'It's fine,' said Dalgliesh, raising his glass to her in salute.
She filled up three and a half pages with his recollections of yesterday: from driving up to the Grange to see the group off, to discovering Marsh still there, to teasing the truth out even while the suspect tried to brush him off, to having Marsh pull the gun on him and march him up to Toynton Point.
'And of course, the rest you know,' Dalgliesh concluded an hour or so later. The sun had got up over the horizon at last, and in the daylight she could see him blushing. 'Thank you, by the way, Sergeant. You saved my life, and I'm very grateful.'
Somehow it didn't surprise her that he was embarrassed, of all things, to have been rescued. 'It was nothing, sir. I might bill the Met for my dry-cleaning, though.'
His mouth quirked; not much of a smile, but then he didn't have much to smile about. 'However, I do feel it necessary to ask what on earth you were thinking, running toward us like that.'
He didn't sound angry, exactly. Not the way Daniels did whenever she mucked something up (and often when she didn't). But he didn't sound all that grateful. 'Annan, sir?' she tried.
'He had a gun, Sergeant,' Dalgliesh said, starting to sound a bit cross. 'One he could have used on you.'
'And one he did use on you, sir,' Kate replied, with perhaps a bit more vim than she ought but really, it was one thing to feel like a satepoll for getting yourself shot and quite another to get crousty about it. 'And begging pardon, but I wasn't the one going in all Boris-noris on the suspect with a rugby tackle three feet from the edge of a cliff.' He gaked at her, but she was absolutely not having it; he wasn't her guv'nor. So instead of apologising, she explained, '"Boris-noris" means acting like a total—'
'Thank you, sergeant, I was able to understand from context,' he said, but at least he wasn't frog-faced at her anymore; if anything, he looked amused. 'And you're quite right — of the two, it was probably I who behaved more recklessly yesterday. But in future I would ask that you exercise more caution when approaching armed suspects.'
She shook her head, putting her notepad away. 'Can't make any promises, sir. Besides, I'm not sure Daniels will be all that willing to send on every one of my after-action reports.'
But instead of smiling again or threatening to write her up or any one of a half-dozen expected reactions, Adam Dalgliesh surprised her — not for the first time, nor the last. 'Yes,' he said, putting the glass down on the bedside stand. 'I'd like to talk to you about that.'