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The hotel room in Cambridge was small enough that when Neil turned from the desk, his knee brushed the bed. The radiator ticked faintly, trying to convince the damp air to warm. He’d been at the table for hours, pages spread in careful disorder: statements, diagrams, photographs that had begun to blur into a monotone of grey and black.
The radio played softly in the background an old recording of Bach, slightly tinny because of the intermittent connection. Beyond the window, headlights skimmed across wet cobbles and disappeared. The sound of the street below was distant, muffled by the rain that had returned sometime after eight.
He rubbed his eyes, and looked at the telephone on the bedside table. Beige plastic, the receiver attached by a coiled cord that had gone a little stiff with age.
It was late, but the need to hear Daniel’s voice outweighed the polite hesitation. He lifted the receiver and dialled the number from memory, each click of the rotary dial a small act of faith. The line hissed faintly; the tone began to pulse.
Two rings. Three. Then —
“Hello?”. Daniel’s voice, a little breathless, as though he’d hurried from another room. In the background, Neil thought he heard a chair scrape, the muffled thud of paws on the floor.
“It’s me,” Neil said.
A pause, then warmth: “Neil. I was hoping you’d ring.”
“You weren’t asleep, then.”
“Not yet.” Daniel’s voice softened, lower now. “I was in the kitchen, working on the sermon. Or trying to.”
Neil smiled faintly. “Interrupting divine inspiration, am I?”
“You’re improving it, if anything,” Daniel replied. There was the sound of paper shifting, a pen being set down. “Give me a second to sit down properly. Hilda, off — that’s not for you.”
The gentle reprimand made Neil’s chest loosen, he let out a small chuckle. He pictured the rectory kitchen: lamplight pooling over the scrubbed wood table, Cosmo and Hilda curled near the woodburner, the smell of rain through the slightly open window.
“Long day?” Daniel asked, once the sounds had settled.
“Long,” Neil admitted. “I’ve been in the records office most of it. The staff were helpful but the filing system was old, it takes ages to get through”
Daniel chuckled. “And I bet you weren’t used to that, with Braunstonbury being very high tech.”
“Something like that.” He leaned back against the headboard, cradling the receiver between shoulder and ear. “What about you? How was Champton today?”
“Oh, the usual chorus of small happenings.” The affection in Daniel’s tone turned every ordinary thing into something worth hearing. “Alex is painting again, Stella’s old shop has finally been sold. The postman’s changed his route and now Cosmo thinks he’s an intruder. My mother’s doing fine; she’s been asking after you.”
“Has she?”
“She says the place feels quieter without you.”
Neil smiled. “Tell her the feeling’s mutual.”
“I will.” Daniel hesitated, then added, “She’s trying to fix my car again.”
“It’s broken again?,” Neil asked with a laugh. “At this rate you’ll have to get another one”.
“Possibly.” Daniel laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. “I took a walk after supper, down to the green and back. The leaves are nearly gone now.”
Neil listened intently, letting the words build a picture he could step into. “I miss that,” he said quietly.
Daniel didn’t answer at once. There was a small, sympathetic noise, then, “And I miss having you here to share it.”
The line crackled faintly. Neil cleared his throat. “How are the dogs really coping? Behaving themselves?”
A sigh, fond and dramatic. “Cosmo’s convinced you’re coming back every time someone comes to the door. Which is a nightmare for the postman. And Hilda’s taken to sleeping by the front door.”
Neil’s hand tightened around the receiver.
Another pause, then Daniel’s voice, lower: “You know, it’s strange. The house feels too quiet lately. Even the dogs keep checking the door.”
Neil swallowed hard. “Tell them I’m still around somewhere.”
“I think they already know.”
Something in his chest eased, the tension of days away loosening. He wanted to stay on the line until dawn.
“Have you eaten properly?” Daniel asked, sudden and practical, as if sensing the silence had gone too deep.
“Don’t start,” Neil sighed.
“I’ll start if I like. What did you have?”
He hesitated. “A sandwich.”
“Neil.”
“And an apple,” he added, quickly. “Happy?”
“Moderately.” Daniel’s voice softened into teasing. “You do realise food isn’t optional, don’t you?”
“I’m aware.”
“You forget to care for yourself when you’re chasing the next lead. If only I could telepathically give you reminders”
Neil smiled into the receiver. “That sounds like an accusation.”
“An observation,” Daniel corrected gently. “And concern.”
He could picture Daniel now, one hand resting on the receiver, the other absently stroking Cosmo’s head. The thought tightened and warmed something behind his ribs.
“I’m fine,” Neil said, but it came out too light to be convincing.
“I know,” Daniel said. “But I’d like you to be more than fine.”
For a while neither spoke. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward; it was simply full. The only sounds were the faint hiss of the line, the tick of a clock on Daniel’s end, the distant hum of traffic from Neil’s window.
Daniel broke the silence first. “You’ll be pleased to hear I fixed the lamp in the study. Or rather, mother did, after I nearly electrocuted myself.”
“That sounds about right,” Neil said. “She’s more competent than either of us.”
They both laughed then, an easy, familiar rhythm that drew the miles between them tighter.
“It’s getting late” Daniel observed.
“Gone eleven.”
“And you’re still working.”
Neil looked at the papers spread across the bed. “Not really. I’m just sitting with them, hoping they’ll rearrange themselves into something meaningful.”
“Maybe they will,” Daniel said. “If you glare at them long enough.”
“I’ve been trying that method all week.”
“It works for you sometimes,” Daniel said. “You handled the Ned & Anthony case well”
Neil smiled. “That’s different.”
“It’s really not. You’re a brilliant detective Neil, you just need to believe in yourself a lot more, and trust your instincts. You’ll get it, even if you don’t think you can” Daniel said quietly.
Neil had no ready answer to that. The truth was too simple.
Outside, the rain eased to a soft patter. Somewhere, a church bell marked the half hour.
“Daniel?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for picking up.”
“As if I wouldn’t.”
He could hear the smile in Daniel’s voice, could almost see the tilt of his head.
“Do you remember,” Daniel said after a moment, “the first time you called me from a case?”
“I was in Manchester,” Neil said, recalling the cold payphone, the smell of diesel and rain. “You thought I’d rung the wrong number.”
“You sounded so formal,” Daniel said, laughing softly.
“I was terrified you’d hang up.”
“I nearly did, until you said my name.”
They fell quiet again, both remembering.
“Strange,” Daniel murmured. “Even now, hearing you through the line… it still feels like a small miracle.”
Neil felt something twist and settle in his chest — the simple truth of being missed.
“I miss you,” he said.
“I miss you too.”
“Every day.”
“Every hour,” Daniel whispered, and his voice didn’t waver.
Neil’s throat tightened. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The words lingered in the small static between them, fragile and certain.
Neither hung up right away. They talked a little longer, about the colour of the sunset over Champton, about a new hymn Daniel wanted to try, about nothing of consequence and everything that mattered. Neil listened to the steady rhythm of Daniel’s breath, the faint movement of the dogs settling again, the domestic symphony of the life waiting for him.
At last Daniel said, “You should get some sleep.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. I’ll ring you tomorrow, if the line’s free.”
“I’ll be here,” Neil smiled.
A soft click, the sound of the receiver replaced in its cradle.
Neil sat for a moment, the handset still warm against his palm. Outside, the streetlight caught in the rain, scattering it into gold. He set the receiver down and leaned back, letting the quiet fill the room.
It no longer felt empty.