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DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

by The Dark Basement aka Joodiff

Part One

The choral start to the song catches her attention, and as Grace passes the elderly radio that sits between the kettle and the hardly-used microwave, she turns the volume up just in time for Mick Jagger’s distinctive vocals to start. She can’t help smiling at a strong flash of memory as she extracts the milk from the fridge and adds a dash to her steaming mug of tea. The song – and plenty of others by the Stones and their generational ilk – often used to form the soundtrack to longer journeys in Boyd’s car. In fact, it’s his fault that she now listens to this damned station in the mornings before switching to either Radio Three or Four as the mood takes her. All the old classics from the ‘sixties and ‘seventies. Even a few from the ‘eighties, though she’s less keen on those.

Thinking about those trips reminds her that she owes him a call. A call, and, indeed, lunch. It’s overdue. First, he was away, then she was, and then Easter got in the way. Still, at least he should have had time to find and compile all the papers and documents she’d spent an entire evening of persuasion and two bottles of a ruinously expensive Scotch cajoling out of him. More background material for the criminal psychology book she’s a third of the way through writing. Say what you want about the man, she thinks, settling at the kitchen table to flick through the morning paper, he did make and keep copious notes on just about every case he ever worked on.

They don’t see much of each other anymore. One of those sadly inevitable things, she supposes. Still, they are still in semi-regular contact, which is more than she can say for some of her erstwhile colleagues, and she always finds herself looking forward to their long, often infuriating chats. She’ll call him this weekend, Grace decides, glancing without much interest at an article about the latest political scandal. Perhaps Sunday morning when he’s almost guaranteed to be at home. With or without company. Hopefully without.

Jagger’s voice fades away, replaced by a traffic report delivered by a woman with a broad Scottish accent. Definitely time to switch to Radio Three. A soothing touch of light classical music before heading to her laptop to wrestle with the last chapter she finished. Nothing very interesting in the paper, anyway. She’s not sure why she still has it delivered every day. Habit, maybe. Tradition.

Her phone starts to ring just as Debussy takes over from the Scottish lady. Either her brand-new smartphone is not as smart as the advertisers would have her believe, or whoever’s calling her has withheld their number. Which is a very Boyd thing to do. As is calling her just when she’s been thinking about him. Picking up the expensive little device she swipes clumsily at the screen and issues a confident, “Hello?”

“Doctor Foley?” an unfamiliar male voice asks. “Doctor Grace Foley?”

Not Boyd, then. Ready to shut down an unwelcome cold-caller if necessary, she offers a cautious, “Yes…?”

“Doctor Foley,” he says, “we haven’t met, but my name’s Julian Brooke. I’m… well, I’m Peter Boyd’s nephew.”

Julian. Boyd’s sister Pamela’s eldest. He was training to be an accountant or something, wasn’t he? At least, as far as she can recall. It’s been several years, after all. Bemused, she says, “Oh, yes. Julian. Your uncle used to mention you now and again. What can I do for you?”

He takes an audible breath. “My mother asked me to call you. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

A distinct chill runs down her spine. A cliché she could have done without as her stomach knots and her voice turns to dust. “How bad?”

“Very bad,” he says, a strange, flat quality to his voice. “Doctor Foley – ”

“Grace,” she interrupts. “Please, call me Grace.”

She hears him clear his throat. “Grace. Look, there’s no easy way to say this. Peter… my uncle… He passed away. Last night.”

Passed away. Such a ridiculous euphemism.

Her thoughts have slowed to an agonising crawl. Almost to a complete stop. “Passed away?”

“Late last night. At the Royal Free.”

No. No. It can’t be… He can’t be… She’s turning slowly and remorselessly to ice, her blood freezing in her veins. At least, that’s how it feels. Outside somewhere, a dog starts to bark. She sits down heavily on the nearest of the kitchen chairs. “Oh my God. How?!”

“A massive stroke,” Julian says, still almost completely toneless. “An intracerebral haemorrhage, to be exact.”

His mother – Boyd’s sister – is a doctor, Grace remembers. A hard-working GP at a surgery somewhere near Highgate. Which isn’t a million miles from the Royal Free Hospital. She swallows hard, “What…?”

“He was at my parents’ house. Mum said he was on good form over dinner. Then… well, she realised what was happening and called 999. Give them their due, they got him to hospital fast, and he went straight in for a CT scan, but…” he pauses, and Graces hears him take another slow, deep breath. “It was… catastrophic. He went into respiratory and cardiac arrest.”

“I see.” Her voice sounds as if it belongs to someone else.

“There was nothing they could do,” Julian tells her, and she hears his voice catch. “I’m sorry.”

She can’t process it. Not properly. How…? Why…? She looks down at her hands, absently notices that they are trembling slightly.

“Thank you so much for calling me at such a difficult time,” she hears herself say. It sounds ridiculous. Far too formal. Far too controlled. “How… How’s your mother?”

A low, shaky laugh, lacking any actual humour. “In bits, but in full-on coping mode on the surface. Dad’s with her, but she’s just throwing herself headfirst into all the things that need to be done. Peter was her big brother, and in some ways she still idolises… idolised… him just as much as she did when they were kids.”

Present tense to past tense. Grace closes her eyes for a moment. Tries to sound calm when she asks, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Actually, yes,” he admits, surprising her. “I don’t suppose I could ask you to break the news to his former colleagues? Only, I have so many people to contact, and – ”

“Of course,” she interrupts. “Leave it with me, Julian. You will keep me informed about… the arrangements?”

“I will. Mum is seeing… the undertaker… tomorrow. Finlay and MacDonald in Lewisham. The body…” he makes another rough, throat-clearing noise. “They’re collecting him from the hospital this afternoon.”

Outside, the dog is still barking.

-oOo-

“Doctor Lockhart,” the crisp female voice says, almost startling in its calm power.

“Eve,” Grace manages in return. Her throat feels so tight that it might as well be paralysed. Less from shock now and more from the wrenching sobs that had torn themselves loose from her once she’d said goodbye to Julian. Her eyes are stinging and watery, and she’s sure she sounds as if she has a heavy cold.

“Grace!” Immediately warmer and much more friendly. “Idiots didn’t tell me who it was, sorry. How are you?”

“To be absolutely truthful, not very good.” Standing by the open back door, Grace takes a steadying breath of fresh air. Air as fresh as London’s ever is, at least. “Eve, have you got a few moments? Only, I have some rather bad news.”

Rather bad news. What an utterly absurd thing to say.

“Yes, of course,” her ex-colleague says, a touch of real concern now evident in her voice. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

She can’t bring herself to be euphemistic. Not with Eve, whose speciality is death. Gripping the doorframe hard with her free hand, Grace says, “Boyd is dead.”

“What?!” Eve’s voice is high and loud.

“Haemorrhagic stroke. Last night.”

“Fuck.” There’s no attempt to hide the astonishment. “Fuck. Jesus bloody fuck.”

In a strange way, the visceral reaction is almost soothing. “His nephew called me about half-an-hour ago. He was taken to the Royal Free… but he didn’t make it. He didn’t make it, Eve.”

“Oh my God.” A tiny pause. “And you? How are you doing, Grace?”

“I’m… okay. Just a bit shell-shocked.” Her voice wobbles, though, and she knows it.

“Bollocks,” is the succinct reply. “This is me you’re talking to, remember?”

The tears Grace had managed to get control of overwhelm her again. She doesn’t care if her voice sounds like a sob or not as she says, “I don’t know what to do, Eve…”

“All right.” Calm again now. Unnaturally so. “Take a few deep breaths for me, Grace, and just hold the line for a moment, will you?”

“Okay,” she manages through renewed sniffles. The tears are rolling down her cheeks again, and her nose is running in that unbecoming way that’s never shown in the movies. An odd hush replaces Eve’s voice. It gives Grace a chance to snatch a square of kitchen roll. Harsher by far than a tissue, but effective and within reach.

Boyd is dead.

Boyd is dead.

Gone. Forever.

There’s a crackle against her ear, and Eve’s voice says, “Grace? Still there?”

“Still here.”

“Mike’s taking over here for a couple of days. Give me half an hour and I’ll be in the car. I’m coming down.”

The announcement does nothing to help stem the tears. “Oh, Eve, you can’t…”

“I can,” is the decisive reply. “This is my project, remember? I can do whatever I like. I’ll book a room somewhere near you, and be there by, what, mid-afternoon, I suppose.”

“Don’t be silly,” she manages. “You’re in Manchester. I’ll be fine. It’s just all a bit…”

“Grace, I know exactly how much the bad-tempered, infuriating bloody man meant to you. Or had you forgotten that?”

She almost had. In a way. Consciously, at least. And now… yes, there were those long late evening heart-to-hearts in the days after her illness when it seemed that Boyd and Eve between them were the only things really stopping her whole world from crumbling. One taciturn but fiercely protective, the other calm – just as calm as she is now – and easy to talk to. Too easy? She can remember worrying about that from time to time, but Eve… Eve had proved to be a tenacious keeper of secrets.

The memories don’t help. Not one little bit. Her voice cracks as she says, “What am I going to do now, Eve? I just… I thought he’d always be there.”

“You and me, both,” and for the first time there is a catch in Eve’s voice, too. “I can’t believe it. A stroke?”

She almost laughs. In a hollow, broken way. “Seems so bloody mundane, doesn’t it?”

“What was it? An aneurysm? What?”

“I don’t know,” Grace admits. “His nephew just said intracerebral haemorrhage. He had a CT scan, but…”

“No post-mortem necessary, then. That’s one good thing, I suppose.”

Something Grace hadn’t thought about. An image of the CCU’s lab flashes through her mind, complete with cold stainless steel mortuary tables. For a moment a wave of nausea threatens. “Oh, God…”

Eve seems to understand. “They won’t do one, Grace. No need to. The coroner won’t be involved… assuming there was no unexplained head injury, or anything?”

“No, it seems he just collapsed. Out of nowhere. At his sister’s house. She’s a GP, so she knew it was potentially very serious. Julian said the ambulance was very quick.” Grace takes a slow breath, then another. The tears are beginning to slow again. “Eve… do you think… Could he have survived it?”

The answer is immediate. “Without seeing the results of the CT scan, I can’t tell you that for certain. But it doesn’t sound like it. Does that make it better or worse?”

“At this stage, I really don’t know. Better, I suppose. If there was nothing anyone could do…”

“Haemorrhagic strokes are nasty, Grace. Really nasty. Worst case, they can kill in minutes or even seconds. Treatment can be tried, but only if there’s time.” Eve goes quiet, as if weighing up how much information to give. It’s several long seconds before she says, “I’m so, so sorry, Grace.”

“Thank you.” What else is there to say?

-oOo-

It’s barely ten in the morning and she’s drinking brandy. Cognac, to be exact. It’s smooth fire without the roughness of whiskey. Not her usual tipple, but this morning… this morning it seems appropriate. She’s sitting at her desk now, still wearing her dressing gown and slippers as she flicks slowly through her elderly address book and transfers names and numbers by hand to a fresh piece of A4 paper stolen from the tray of the printer that only works when it feels like it. There are more names to be written out than Grace first thought, some associated with better memories than others. She’s got as far as ‘Howard, Katrina’ when her phone rings again. This time it does what it’s supposed to and shows her the caller’s name: Spence. He’s not on the list yet, J falling after H in the alphabet. But neither of them before B.

He's dead. The indomitable, indestructible man is dead.

Cannot be true.

Is true.

It's difficult to force herself into movement, but the phone is still stubbornly ringing and eventually she picks it up and answers with a weary, “Spencer.”

“Grace,” the well-remembered voice responds. It doesn’t surprise her at all that he dispenses with the pleasantries and opens with, “I’ve just heard about Boyd. Is it true?”

It will cut him deep, Grace knows. They may have butted heads regularly, but Spencer didn’t spend a decade-and-a-half as Boyd’s loyal subordinate just for the fun of it. There was a strong if largely unacknowledged bond between the two men. Mentor and mentee. The fierce, battle-scarred old lion and his would-be successor. She sets down her pen gently and precisely. “Yes, it’s true. Who told you?”

“DCI Kennedy. Her husband works at the Royal Free. He knew Boyd.” A short, strained pause. The rest of his reaction reminds her forcibly of Eve. “Fuck. Fuck.”

The first time she met them, they were already a team. The tall, handsome DI and his superficially quiet and surly DC. CID from Deptford. A double-killing in an old, empty church, both victims deliberately posed where the altar would once have been. Boyd had been sent a Home Office psychologist to help shed some light on the killer’s motivations and psyche. One Doctor Grace Foley, recently transferred from a post at Broadmoor to a far better-paid consultancy role.

“Oh, Spence,” she says. “Spence.”

“I just can’t believe it.” The words are thick with emotion. Emotion she’s certain he’s struggling to contain. “I only saw him last week at Connolly’s leaving do. He was fine. Absolutely fine. Talking about going on a road trip through Europe.”

“You can come with me, if you like,” he’d said. Ever so casually, as if he hadn’t thought it over a dozen or more times. She hadn’t known what to say, had joked about them not making it across the Channel before they were at each other’s throats, and he’d smiled tightly and immediately changed the subject.

To Spence, she says, “He talked to me about that, too. I told him he’d have to buy a much more reliable car if he wanted to make it further than Calais.”

“Yeah, that old Jensen he insisted on buying wouldn’t have made it very far.”

They are deflecting, Grace realises. Both of them unable to fully face the stark truth. Picking up the glass tumbler sitting next to her open address book, she allows herself to take a sip of brandy before saying, “The news is bound to spread fast, Spence. You know how the grapevine works. Julian asked me if I would notify all Boyd’s ex-colleagues for him.”

“I’ll help,” is the prompt response, and as she starts to half-heartedly protest, Spencer continues, “Boyd wouldn’t want you to shoulder it all, Grace, you know that. There’s one thing, though…”

“What?”

“Who’s going to tell Frankie?”

Oh, God, Frankie. A brief extra-marital fling prior to Boyd’s formation of the Cold Case Unit, and so, so much more. No-one, not even Grace, has ever quite managed to fully get to the bottom of the true nature of their longstanding, affectionate, but often difficult relationship. Just one more enigma he’s… taking to his grave. There is, of course, only one answer to Spencer’s question. “I will. I’ve already spoken to Eve. She’s insisting on driving down.”

“You told Eve?”

He sounds faintly hurt, and Grace finds herself rushing to reassure him. “You were next on my list, Spence, I promise, but you beat me to it.”

“Okay.” He sounds as if he doesn’t really believe her, but isn’t interested in picking a fight. “Did the nephew – ”

“Julian,” Grace supplies.

“Yeah, him. Did he say anything about… the arrangements?”

She shakes her head, aware that he can’t see it. “Only the name of the undertakers. Some firm in Lewisham. He promised to keep me updated.”

As ever, Spencer is blunt. “Are you going to go and see him?”

“Julian?”

“Boyd. Before the funeral, I mean.”

Her stomach knots again. “I hadn’t got as far as thinking about anything like that.”

“Well,” he says, “if you decide to, call me, Grace. I’ll go with you.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. “Thank you. I mean it. I know this has to be terribly hard for you, too.”

“Yeah, well…” Dismissive in that brusque way that’s designed to mask a whole ocean of pain. “He wasn’t all bad, was he?”

The tears start to prickle again. “No. No, he wasn’t.”

-oOo-

Frankie meets her in the bright modern foyer of the university building where she’s been working as the head of a small research team for the last five years. Slightly dishevelled in a very Frankie way, as if she’s simply thrown off her lab coat and jumped into the lift. Which she probably has, Grace thinks. Her dark eyes are alive with what she interprets as friendship and curiosity as she advances with, “Grace. What on earth are you doing here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but…”

There’s no easy way. None. Accepting the light hug from her erstwhile colleague, Grace says, “Is there somewhere a bit more private we can go?”

Doctor Frances Wharton is no-one’s fool. “That bad?”

She has to stay strong. For them both. “It is, I’m afraid.”

“Come with me.”

Frankie escorts her through a door at the rear of the foyer, along a short corridor and into a small, windowless room crammed with books, files, folders, and cheap office furniture. A joint office, by the look of it. It smells faintly of furniture polish and room freshener. They settle on low, probably once comfortable chairs facing each other. Frankie’s expression has become set, her eyes guarded. “Tell me.”

Be brave, Grace. You owe him that much.

“Boyd,” she says. The tight constriction in her throat is back.

Frankie blinks. “Boyd? What about him? What’s he done now?”

Grace swallows hard. “I’m so sorry, Frankie.”

“Grace…?”

She looks down at the floor for a moment. Industrial grade carpet in a flecked dark blue. When she looks up again, she manages a hoarse, “He’s dead.”

“No.” The immediate denial comes with a firm shake of the head. “No.”

“He suffered a huge stroke. Last night. They couldn’t save him.”

And Frankie, who has always been so tough, so spiky, breaks. Instantly and completely. Her head drops into suddenly shaking hands, and she makes a low, drawn-out sound that reminds Grace of a badly-injured dog she once saw lying at the edge of the road after being struck by a passing car. An eerie, unnatural noise that makes her spine prickle. Her only instinct is to push herself to her feet and move to Frankie’s side, perching awkwardly on the arm of the chair as she offers a clumsy embrace. Frankie is sobbing now, with an intensity Grace would never have believed if she hadn’t witnessed it for herself, and Grace doesn’t bother trying to hold back her own tears. She mumbles soothing words that Frankie doesn’t seem to hear, and she clings on tight, taking some small comfort from the warm presence of another living human being.

In the end, the storm ends almost as abruptly as it started, but though the sobs finally become sniffles, Frankie doesn’t pull away. Her voice is raw as she says, “This really isn’t some stupid, fucked-up mistake, is it?”

Not releasing her hold, Grace shakes her head slightly. “I only wish it was. He’s gone, Frankie.”

“Shit.” A deep, shuddering breath. “Shit.”

“I know.”

Frankie raises her head, her face a pale study in bleak pain. “But he was only, what, sixty-four?”

Younger than I am, Grace thinks. Something he’d never quite let her forget. “He was. Too young to leave us like that. By far.”

“But I only spoke to him on the phone, what, three weeks ago? He was fine. Absolutely fine.”

“I suppose sometimes these things… just happen.” Grace finally loosens her grip, shifts her weight to ease the mounting pressure on her back. Outside, in the corridor, loud footsteps pass by and someone laughs uproariously. Bitterly, Grace wonders if she will ever laugh again. If any of them will. To Frankie, she says, “I know how much he meant to you.”

“It was over a long, long time ago.” Sharp now. Defensive.

Grace doesn’t take it personally. It’s always been a sensitive subject. “Even so.”

“Christ.” Frankie inhales unsteadily. “It’s been nearly fifteen years, and sometimes…”

“It still feels like yesterday?” Grace guesses.

A tiny nod. “Yeah. I guess. That’s the damned Peter Boyd experience for you.”

“I understand.” It’s empathy, but it’s an admission, too. An important one that she knows she needs to finally make.

“Do you?”

There’s no reason to be anything other than completely honest. “Better than you think.”

Frankie looks up at her again, the dark eyes intense, searching. After a moment she nods, her expression softening a fraction. “When?”

She still remembers the exact date. “Not long before Spencer got shot and Felix left.”

The intelligent dark gaze doesn’t waver. “Didn’t work out, huh?”

She almost shrugs. “Turned out we were much better off as simply very good friends.”

“Now say that like you mean it, Grace.”

You can’t always get what you want… Or keep hold of it if you do. “It’s human nature to find ourselves wanting what we can’t have, Frankie. Or really shouldn’t have.”

“When’s the funeral?” The sudden bald question falls heavily into the room.

“I don’t know yet. You will be there?”

Frankie nods. “Of course. I loved him, too. In my own way.”

“I know you did. And he loved you. In his own way.”

A watery smile. “So… what does that make us, Grace? You and me? Rivals?”

“Absolutely not,” she says firmly, and means it. “Not even if he was still with us. Boyd… was Boyd. The bloody church will be heaving with grieving exes he somehow still managed to keep hold of as friends, you wait.”

“Including Jen?” The inquiry is not as innocent as it sounds.

Grace inclines her head. “With that notable exception.”

“He never really got over it, did he? Finding out that Matt wasn’t his?”

They all lived through it. The acrimonious break-up of his second marriage. Vicariously, through his unstable moods and frequent outbursts of temper. Infidelities on both sides, and a young child caught in the middle. She sighs heavily. “No, I don’t think he ever did. To Boyd… well, it was just like losing another son, wasn’t it?”

“Mary will go, though, won’t she?”

Grace nods. “I’m sure she will. There was something of a reconciliation after Luke’s funeral.” At Frankie’s sideways look, she adds, “Not in that way. They just… finally decided to put their differences aside, I think.”

“I guess losing a child will do that.”

Releasing her hold on Frankie completely, Grace stands up, moves back to her former seat. “You can talk to me, you know. About him. If it helps. Any time.”

“Thanks.” Frankie looks across at her. “What about you, Grace? Who are you going to talk to?”

Eve, she thinks. I will talk to Eve. She doesn’t say it aloud.

-oOo-

On the way home, Grace stops at the little park a stone’s throw from the small parade of shops she tends to use for odd bits and pieces of everyday grocery shopping. There’s a small wooded patch, a well-maintained children’s play area, and a perfectly oval Victorian duck pond at the far end. It’s not a regular haunt of hers, and never has been, but she’s been there a few times, and more than once with Boyd. In the days when they were… whatever they were. The days when he would arrive at her house late on a Friday night and not leave again until at least Sunday afternoon. Walking along the central asphalt path, she can picture him walking at her side as they talked and laughed like the very ordinary couple they never were. It should be comforting, but it’s not. Just makes her feel even more hollow and alone.

I need to see him, she realises. I need to know that this is real.

She knows far too much about the mechanics of death. Penalty of a decade seconded to the Cold Case Unit. Knows too much about what happens stage-by-stage to the human body once the heart stops beating. Knows all the quiet tips and tricks employed by undertakers seeking to reduce the trauma of grieving friends and relatives. The mortuary fridges, the cold rooms, the painstaking restoration of a semblance of life. Glue on the eyelids to keep them shut; a stitch through the palate to keep the mouth from gaping.

I need to see him tomorrow, before… Before.

She can feel a single wayward tear rolling down her cheek. Realises just how exhausted she is, despite it only being early afternoon. Too much intense emotion. Too many thoughts and feelings. Too many memories.

Deep in her coat pocket, her phone rings. The sound fills her with cold dread. I don’t want to have the same conversation yet again… He’s dead. The end.

Reluctantly, though, Grace fishes the device out and looks at it. Her eldest daughter, Tracey. Sighing, she answers with a subdued, “Hello, love.”

“Mum?” More than a touch of concern in the light voice. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“I’m fine,” she says automatically. That’s what people always say when their whole world is collapsing around them, isn’t it? “I’m fine”. What was it an old professor from her undergraduate days had told her once? ‘“Fine” is an acronym. Fucking Incapable of Normal Emotion’. “I’ve just had a bit of bad news, that’s all.”

“You’re not ill, are you? The cancer hasn’t…?”

“No, no,” Grace reassures her quickly. “Nothing like that. An old… colleague… has died, that’s all.”

That’s all.

“Oh.” Tracey sounds relieved. “Sorry to hear that. Who?”

Grace looks up at the bright blue sky. “Peter Boyd.”

-oOo-

“I’ve brought wine,” Eve announces, holding up a bottle of Pinot Noir. “The M25 was a bloody nightmare. How are you doing?”

Grace steps back to allow the younger woman to enter the house. “Do you want the psychologist’s answer to that question?”

The answer comes as a swift, fierce hug and then a pragmatic, “Have you eaten?”

“No,” Grace admits. It’s well past five, and breakfast was a very long time ago. Maybe that’s why she’s feeling so light-headed. “Things got away from me. I’ve only just finished speaking to Kat. She cried.”

“Really? Well, I suppose she always did have a bit of a crush on him.”

“She did?” It’s news to her.

“She did,” Eve confirms. “What have you got in the freezer?”

It’s like facing a well-meaning hurricane of practicality. And Christ, she needs it – really needs it. It’s nothing like normality, but it’s the change of mood and tempo that Grace needs. She allows herself to be shepherded into the kitchen and settled at the table. The morning paper is still there, still open at the page she had been glancing at when Julian had called.

“I’ve found a B&B on Cartwright Street,” Eve says over her shoulder as she inspects the contents of the fridge and freezer, “but I haven’t finalised the booking yet. I’m happy to stay there if you want to be alone, or…”

“Or you can have the spare room.” It’s more of a statement of fact than an offer.

“Your choice. Whatever you’re most comfortable with. I have to go back to Manchester on Sunday at the latest, though. There’s a funding thing for the Body Farm on Monday that I absolutely can’t miss.”

“How is the…” Grace starts to ask, but the final words trail away unvoiced as her stomach lurches. Body Farm. Human cadavers. Research into death and decay.

Eve looks round at her again. Her voice is gentle as she says, “Don’t let yourself go there, Grace. Remember him as he was the last time you saw him.”

“Infuriating,” she says, hating the renewed suggestion of brimming tears. “Far too energetic and full of himself. He wanted me to go to Europe with him. Road trip. I said no. Well, actually, I didn’t, I just wound him up about it until he changed the subject.”

“Didn’t fancy it?” Eve inquires.

“Fancied it rather too much,” she admits. “I’d have been sharing a bed with him long before we even got to Paris.”

“And that would have been a problem because…?”

Grace lets out a shaky breath. “Well, it doesn’t work, does it? We don’t work. Didn’t work. Fuck.”

“You do know that’s only the third time I’ve ever heard you use that word, don’t you?”

She manages a wobbly smile. “I think it’s probably justifiable today.”

“Fish fingers, frozen pizza, or takeaway?” Eve asks, completing her inventory. “And don’t bother saying you don’t want anything. Eating is non-negotiable.”

“Frozen pizza, then. And of course you can stay here.” Watching as Eve starts fiddling with the oven, she hears herself say, “Boyd was supposed to have the spare room after DCI Reed’s wedding in February. But we had a lot to drink, and things didn’t quite go according to plan.”

Eve looks up, her reactive smile simultaneously amused and melancholy. “Of course they didn’t. I’m sure he was comfortable enough in your room, though.”

No judgement. Not now, not ever. Just acceptance and occasional wry humour. Young enough to be her daughter, wise enough to be her mother. She’s never needed to understand any of it to be supportive. And bless her for it. Grace looks at the cold cup of tea abandoned by the open paper so many hours ago. “He could have been killed so many times on duty… and in the end it was a stroke that got him. A stupid bloody stroke. Is that irony?”

“No,” Eve says coming to stand beside her. A gentle hand squeezes her shoulder. “That’s just ordinary life and death, Grace. But if ever there was a man who didn’t do ordinary…”

-oOo-

Less than twenty-four hours later they are in Lewisham with Spencer.

“I’ve spoken to Mr Brooke on the telephone,” Geoffrey Chandler, junior partner in Finlay and MacDonald Undertakers and Stonemasons, says, his tone both respectful and professional, “and he’s given us permission to allow you to view the decedent, but I really would advise you to wait a couple of days. Mr Boyd has only been in our care since yesterday, and we – ”

Eve, standing on Grace’s left, interrupts him. She’s not rude or adversarial, just very firm as she says, “I’m a Home Office pathologist, this lady is a Forensic Psychologist, and the gentleman next to her is a Detective Chief Inspector. I can assure you we don’t need to be treated with kid gloves.”

Chandler reminds Grace a bit of a crow as he stands in front of his desk, hands clasped in front of him. Maybe it’s the formal black suit, or maybe it’s his deep, penetrating eyes, she’s not sure. He regards the three of them with cool detachment for a moment before finally saying, “We have the Medical Certificate of Cause of Death, so there’s no official reason you can’t view the decedent, but I believe Mrs Brooke will be back with the Death Certificate on Monday, so you could – ”

“We’d like to see him today.” Spencer this time, not aggressive, but implacable.

Chandler seems to recognise when he’s beaten. “Very well, if you’re sure. If I could ask you to wait in our relatives’ room for a few minutes…?”

A young woman in an austere dark blue dress shows them into a room at the side of the building. Good quality furniture, sombre colours. A large floral display on a closed antique bureau. Soft classical music is being piped in from somewhere, just loud enough to hear. There are a few small and discreet advertising displays, one of which, Grace notices, offers to transform the remains of the dear departed into tasteful items of jewellery. To Eve, she says, “Is that really a thing?”

“Memorial jewellery? Oh, yes. I know someone who – ”

“Not the time or place, Eve,” Spencer warns. “Grace, are you certain about this?”

She nods as she sits down. “Yes. If either of you would rather wait until they’ve done… what they’re going to do… that’s fine. I just want to see him now. Before. You understand?”

“When my grandfather died,” Eve says, sitting down next to her, “the funeral directors used so much make-up that – ”

“Eve.” Spencer again. The vocal whiplash has the desired effect. Eve murmurs an apology and falls silent.

He’s taking on Boyd’s role as protector, Grace realises. Consciously or unconsciously. It feels… right. Strange, but right.

“You’re sure Brooke is okay with this?” the man in question asks. “Us seeing him before the family do?”

“Pamela and Julian were both with him at the hospital,” Grace reminds him. “I don’t know about Pamela, but Julian said that was enough for him. So, yes, I’m sure. I did ask.”

Eve takes her hand. “Grace… this might seem obvious… but you need to prepare yourself. He’s going to be cold. Really cold. And… well, because of… refrigeration… rigor may well still be present.”

Grace stares straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the imposing floral display. “I know.”

“Bit unnecessary,” Spencer mutters.

“It’s different when it’s someone you know,” Eve says quietly, “and… well, we’ve all got a strong mental image of him. Of how he was. I’m just… trying to make it all a bit less traumatic.”

“Man’s dead, Eve. Can’t get much more bloody traumatic than that.”

“No,” Grace snaps at them both. “Today we don’t bicker amongst ourselves. Today we stand together. As a team. As friends. He was a good man who cared about us all. Oh, he had his flaws, but he was one of us. And we owe it to him to behave with dignity. Yes?”

Eve nods meekly. “Yes.”

“Yes, Grace.”

The room becomes still and hushed, only the soft music anchoring them to a semblance of reality.

-oOo-

The soft lighting of the chapel of rest can’t hide just how pale the man lying in the simple wood coffin looks. Almost as pale as the sheet pulled up to his neck, as the silk coffin lining, but with ashier undertones. Very pale, impossibly still.

Grace tightens her grip on Eve’s hand, and is inordinately grateful for Spencer’s strong, reassuring support on her other side. Her legs feel weak and useless, but they don’t – thank God – buckle. She hears Spencer’s breath hiss out softly, and she understands. Completely. The terrible thing that has been on all their minds for the last twenty-four hours is no longer an abstract concept. It is real. Real, and right in front of them.

“He looks peaceful,” Eve murmurs, an unexpected touch of awe in her voice.

He does. All the brooding lines of stress and despondency smoothed away. His eyes are closed, his lips very slightly apart. To Grace, at least, he does not look as if he is sleeping. He sleeps – slept – after all, with his long limbs carelessly thrown out in all directions. Nor is his chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm she used to find so comforting.

Looking to her for a nod that she willingly gives, Spencer steps away from her. Moves to stand beside the coffin, his head lowered. He could be praying, he could just be remembering, Grace isn’t sure. The lump forming in her throat feels as inevitable as the sunrise or sunset. She hears him mumble something, too low for her to catch, sees him take something from his pocket and place it in the coffin. She’s at the wrong angle to see what it is. Next to her, Eve clears her throat, the sound an emotional punctuation mark. A comma, maybe, or a semicolon. Not a full stop. Not yet. Spencer turns back to them, his expression raw and bleak. He nods to the door they entered by. “I’ll wait out there, if that’s okay.”

He starts into movement as they murmur vague assents, clearly not prepared to wait for agreement or permission. He closes the door quietly behind him. Too quietly. Over-controlled. Broken, and trying so hard not to be. The mechanical sound of the latch clicking shut almost makes Grace jump.

Eve gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “Do you want a few minutes alone?”

The thing in her chest that she’d been trying to ignore, the thing that felt a lot like the crushing weight of encroaching terror, has lifted. There’s nothing to fear here in this small, sombrely-draped room with its faint floral scent and soft lighting. She nods. “If you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Of course not.” Eve lets go of her hand and looks at the coffin for a moment. There’s a false note of brave jauntiness in her voice as she says, “‘Bye, Boyd.”

And then she’s gone, and Grace is standing by herself, three feet from the lifeless body of one of her oldest and dearest friends. She doesn’t move, and she doesn’t cry. She simply stands and gazes at him, the only thoughts in her head centred around just how angry he would have been to know that he’d been felled by something as ridiculously mundane as a stroke. All the stupid acts of insane bravery, all the times he willingly put himself at risk, and not one of them ever brought him to a place like this.

Take my life for Grace’s.

Not the first time he’d been prepared to die for her.

She takes a hesitant step forward, all her attention still focused on his bloodless face. The dark eyebrows, the impressive Roman nose, the short, neat silver beard. It’s unquestionably Boyd, but some strange, ethereal version of him devoid of all the restless energy and unconquerable spirit that characterised his living years. Another step; the final one needed to bring her within touching distance. There’s nothing to fear here, she reminds herself as she reaches out.

His skin is shockingly cold. Not just lacking in living warmth, but artificially chilled.

He feels almost like marble beneath her fingertips.

Rigor mortis is still present, a clinical voice at the back of her mind says portentously, as if it is reading one of Eve’s lab reports to her.

She tries to suppress the instinctive sob that rises. Doesn’t want to summon Eve and Spencer back into the room with audible proof of her pain and vulnerability.

The gleam of something metallic draws her attention. Red and silver. Small. The thing Spencer placed in the coffin.

It’s the red crown from a police superintendent’s epaulette.

Goodbye, old friend.

-oOo-

The days count down, the world keeps on turning, and Grace lives through every moment of the strange limbo time between death and funeral in the best way she can. Eve returns to Manchester, phone calls are made and received, some less difficult than others, details are finalised and disseminated. The administration of death happens beyond her immediate control, but she accepts the fact as quietly and serenely as she can. Boyd had a life beyond work and beyond them; had a family who loved him, and who are now making choices for him. Eve returns to London with her funeral clothes packed in a neat little designer suitcase. A suspiciously hoarse Frankie calls asking for last-minute directions to the church that Grace knows she doesn’t actually need. Inevitably, the sun sets and rises again.

They travel to South London as a trio, Spencer driving and Grace sharing the freshly-washed car’s back seat with Eve. The mid-morning traffic isn’t too heavy, and the sun is shining in the brilliant blue sky. It’s a perfect, warm June day.

Even before they pass through the church gate, she spies a few familiar faces. Ralph Christie, long retired, and his petite, mousy wife. Maureen Smith, alone, hard-faced and wearing full dress uniform. DCI Kennedy and her husband, both of whom offer quiet words of sympathy. A tall, statuesque lady barrister whose name she can’t quite recall who was most definitely chasing Boyd for less than professional reasons for a few months not long after Mel’s death. Whether he ever allowed himself to be caught remains a mystery, though her presence at his funeral speaks volumes. A detached part of Grace that almost seems to be observing everything from afar notices how they are treated with a certain amount of deference as they join the small throng of people outside the church. By those in the know, at least. ‘They’re from the old CCU,’ she imagines them whispering. Boyd’s other family.

“Mary’s here,” Grace murmurs to Eve, spotting the tall, elegant figure off to their left.

“I thought she went back to Bologna a couple of months after Luke’s funeral?” Eve whispers back.

“She did.”

“Jen’s not coming, is she?” Spencer asks, evidently overhearing them. “Because Frankie’s just arrived…”

The news reminds Grace of her half-joking prediction about the number of Boyd’s ex-ladyfriends who would be present. Only needs Jess and Sarah to… She feels her eyes widen. Oh, fuck. Ever-observant, Eve frowns and asks, “Grace?”

“Sarah,” she says.

“New York Sarah?”

“Yes. I’ve no idea if anyone’s told her.”

“Not your responsibility,” Eve tells her firmly. She nods to the woman approaching them. “Hi, Frankie.”

Frankie looks pale, but utterly determined, as if she’s going to do her damndest get through the day without breaking, whatever it takes. Grace feels for her. Intensely. Close as she is to Eve, she shares a bond with Frankie that has everything to do with today and the farewell they’re here to say. Impulsively, she slips her arm through Frankie’s, and receives a slight, grateful smile in return.

“Hearse is here,” Spencer announces, tight and controlled.

Grace follows the direction in which he is looking. Sure enough, the hearse is in sight, moving slowly behind the top-hatted funeral director with his black, silver-topped cane. Behind the hearse, the first of the black cars conveying the immediate family rolls into view.

“Time to go in,” Eve says, as the other people left standing outside the church begin to do exactly that. She nods to Spencer, who remains stationary as they begin to move.

Inside, St Paul’s is exactly like more-or-less every other traditional church Grace has ever set foot in, but she doesn’t notice much about it, not even the strong scent of brass polish and lilies. Once they have filed into a pew together, Eve and Frankie on either side of her, she finds her attention solely fixed on the waiting bier standing in front of the altar.

So, here we are, she thinks, at the very end of a journey that began nearly twenty years ago at a crime scene in another church…

The unobtrusive background music quietly gives way to Elgar, and an instant hush falls over the congregation.

First, the priest, then the coffin, Julian Brooke and Spencer amongst the pallbearers, and then the rest of the family, including a visibly tearful woman clutching onto the arm of a stocky, grey-haired man. Pamela and her husband, Grace assumes. The sun streaming through the stained-glass windows throws a subtle rainbow of colours over the black-clad procession as it moves sombrely and steadily up the aisle.

Somewhere behind them, someone starts to sniffle loudly.

-oOo-

tbc...

Chapter Text

Part Two

“He left the house to mum,” Julian says, more than three weeks after the funeral, as they ascend the stone steps to Boyd’s front door, “but obviously she’s had to apply for probate, so she decided to go ahead and sort out the smaller individual bequests now rather than waiting.”

“Of course,” Grace murmurs, but she’s barely listening. Instead, she’s trying to prepare herself for what the house will feel like without its – former – owner’s energetic, larger-than-life presence. In a way, this might be the final test of the new reality. The world as it now exists without Peter Boyd. If he is not here, part of her feels, then he truly isn’t anywhere within her reach.

Unlocking the door and conspicuously not looking at her, Julian says, “Mum… Well, mum said there might… be a few of your possessions here that you might want to collect, too.”

So Pamela knew. Knew at least something. Grace isn’t sure if that surprises her, or not. To the back of Julian’s head, she says, “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”

He does look at her then, with eyes every bit as dark and knowing as his late uncle’s. “It doesn’t. Broaching the subject makes me uncomfortable. Knowing Peter had someone in his life other than us who actually gave a damn about him… that’s actually a comfort.”

“We weren’t really together,” she says, deciding it’s an important point to make. “Not in any conventional way that most people would understand.”

“My uncle never gave much of a ‘flying fuck’ for conventionality,” he responds. “And yes, that’s a direct quote. Come in.”

There are no coats hanging on the coat pegs. No expensive leather shoes lined up beneath them. The big hall mirror has vanished, and someone has polished the black and white Victorian floor tiles to a slippery sheen. Following Julian left into the long front-to-back living and dining room, Grace doesn’t pass comment on how unnaturally tidy it is, the missing high-end audio equipment, or the small stack of cardboard boxes piled in the corner. It feels, though, as if the living heart has been ripped out of the familiar space.

Julian picks something up from the glass coffee table and holds it out to her. A couple of keys and a worn leather fob on a metal split ring. “He left you the car. The Austin Healey, I mean, not the Interceptor. That’s why I asked you to come on the Tube. Mum wants it gone so we can clear the garage. It doesn’t need an MoT, and it’s taxed, so if you call your insurance company and arrange temporary cover, you can simply drive it away today.”

“He left me the Sprite?” Grace blinks in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Solicitor says it’s okay for you to take it. Dad says it’s worth about twelve grand, maybe a bit less.”

“Oh, Julian, I can’t accept it.”

He smiles, shakes his head. “Nothing to do with me. The instructions in his will were very clear. The Frogeye’s yours, Grace. Keep it, or sell it, it’s up to you, just take it away. Mum doesn’t ever want to see it again.”

Taking the proffered keys, Grace frowns. “Whyever not?”

Julian regards her for a moment. “He bought it from some dodgy used car dealer not long after he started at Bethnal Green. Cost him about a hundred quid, I think.” He pauses, then continues, “Within a couple of months he’d rolled it tanking along some country lane. He was nearly killed. My grandparents wanted him to sell it for scrap, but he wouldn’t. He restored it instead. Took him years, working on it on and off. It was going to be my cousin’s twenty-first birthday present.”

She swallows hard. “Luke? He was going to give it to Luke?”

Julian nods. “That was the plan. Now it’s yours. That car meant a lot to him, Grace. Please don’t sell it just on a whim.”

“I won’t,” she promises, chastened. All the times she and Spencer ribbed him mercilessly about his ‘old wreck’ after discovering its existence, and now…

“The stuff mum wanted you to look through is over here,” Julian says, gesturing to two large boxes set aside from the others. “He told her he’d been sorting out a load of old papers and diaries for you. Something about a book you’re writing?”

Somehow, she’d almost completely forgotten about that. Grace nods. “That’s right. The differing psychology of various types of offenders. You know the sort of thing. These aren’t the official casefiles – those are in the Met’s archives – but his own notes and the like.”

“There’s more still up in the loft,” Julian tells her, moving back to let her look, “but this lot had all been brought down recently. We’re putting all the rest in storage for now, so if you need anything else, just give me a call.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“There’s another box here,” he says, taking a smaller box from the top of one of the stacks, “and there’s a list inside that mum wrote for you. It’s some of the other small bequests. The ones we thought you could pass on for us? Spencer Jordan, Frances Wharton, and a couple of others…?”

Just another piece of the pragmatic jigsaw of death. “Of course I can do that for you.”

“And there’s this,” he adds, picking up a small rectangular box from a partially-cleared bookshelf. “He left you this, too.”

“What is it?” Grace asks, taking it. The box is covered with a dull red leather tooled with a worn gold motif that looks as if it might have been a stag.

“It belonged to Sir Cyril Barrett,” Julian tells her.

A flash of memory. The bizarre, intriguing web of the Mahdi’s missing skull and the modern-day murder of Omar Jaffiri. “I met him once,” she says. “A very… singular man.”

“He was sort of Peter’s unofficial godfather,” Julian supplies, answering her unasked question. “He and my grandfather were old friends. They saw action together in Africa during the War.”

“I had no idea.” Hesitantly, Grace opens the box, not knowing what to expect to find nestled within. Jewellery, perhaps, or a… It’s a pen. An antique fountain pen, dully gleaming in the bright sunlight streaming in through the room’s big windows.

“24-karat, apparently,” Julian says, shrugging. “He said in his will, ‘A writer needs a pen’. He also said you’d know what that meant.”

The fountain pen is smooth and heavy in her hand, the old gold warming quickly. She looks up. “It’s permission.”

“Permission?” He looks puzzled.

Grace nods. “To write the book I always wanted to about the CCU. I put the idea on hold after Boyd… Peter… was… less than keen.”

That’s Boyd’s real bequest to her, she realises. Not the car, the pen, or any other material trinket, but his blessing. Just in case he never had a chance to bestow it in person. His blessing for her to become the prime architect of his legacy.

-oOo-

St. Michael, patron saint of police officers. Solid sterling silver, on a heavy silver chain. There are numbers engraved on the reverse of the medallion that Grace is almost certain is the date Boyd graduated from Hendon. March, nineteen seventy-three. Just before he went to Bethnal Green as a fresh-faced young officer at the very start of his career. A gift from his parents, perhaps? Grace doesn’t know. All she does know is she’s seen it hanging round his neck more than once, and that he’s left it – and a chunky Swiss wristwatch – to Spencer. For now, though, it’s lying on her desk amidst some of the papers from the two boxes perched precariously on a couple of dining chairs commandeered for the purpose.

Boyd might have been meticulous, but whoever packed the boxes for her wasn’t. Any date order has been lost, and like does not seem to be bundled with like. It’s going to take a considerable amount of painstaking effort to work out what she has, and how it all fits together. She quickly discovers, too, that a few random, unconnected things have been scooped up with the rest of the papers. A petrol receipt only six weeks old, a recent bank statement, an Easter card from someone called Rebecca who felt the need to append numerous scrawled kisses to her signature. Grace wonders if Rebecca – whoever she may be – knows if ‘Darling Peter’ is now lying at rest in Shooters Hill Cemetery next to his son.

It’s a melancholy thought. One that drives her away from her desk and into the kitchen to make herself a much-needed cup of tea. She’s past the initial paralysing shock, and marching her lonely way through the stages of grief. Kübler-Ross model. Currently somewhere between Depression and Acceptance. Maybe.

Part of her doesn’t think she will ever accept it. Not so much his death, but the manner of it. Men like Boyd aren’t supposed to die like that, she thinks, as she waits for the kettle to boil. It’s becoming a bit of an obsessive thought. One she keeps returning to and picking at, as if it’s a wound she subconsciously wants to keep open and bleeding.

“Physician, heal thyself,” she mutters, watching wisps of steam begin to rise towards the ceiling. Something she’s never been good at, if she’s perfectly honest with herself. She’s too analytical for it. Too… erudite. Psychology as a tool to understand others, not to counsel herself. Boyd had known that. Instinctively. Better than she had, it had sometimes seemed. One of the reasons, perhaps, that their relationship had been far more balanced than many people had – and still – thought.

Her phone rings just as the kettle automatically clicks itself off. International number. Call centre, probably. She answers it anyway. “Hello?”

“Hi,” the caller says. “Grace?”

Female. American accent. Shit. Unconsciously she tightens her grip on the sleek little device. “Sarah…?”

“Yeah. I guess you know why I’m calling.”

Closing her eyes, Grace decides prevarication is both unwise and unfair. “Boyd.”

“Boyd.” A heartbeat’s pause. “It’s true then? I called his cellphone, and the number’s no longer in service.”

Grace doesn’t answer directly. It’s too painful, too raw. “Who told you?”

“An old friend from your intelligence services. I gather the funeral was two weeks ago.” The sharp edge of bitterness is palpable.

“I’m sorry. Genuinely.” Grace stares out of the kitchen window, not really seeing the untidy garden beyond. “It was a complete shock, and everything became such a blur… The family made all the arrangements, and we… I…”

“I’m not going to say it’s okay, because it’s really not,” Sarah grinds out. “I deserved that much courtesy, Grace. I loved the man, too, you know.”

Too.

Synonym of ‘as well’.

Oh, Christ, she knew. Knew… or worked it out. Grace closes her eyes again. “I’m sorry.”

A sound that sounds suspiciously like a choked-off sob. “Yeah, you said that. So am I. Thanks for nothing, Grace.”

The line goes abruptly dead. A sense of shame and regret twists in Grace’s stomach and brings a slight flush to her cheeks. In an uncharacteristic flash of temper she lashes out at the waiting empty mug, sends it flying across the kitchen. Hears it smash on the floor beyond the table. “Damn. Damn.”

You drove him straight into her arms, the cool, self-critical commentator in her mind says. He went to her because you more-or-less told him flat out that you didn’t love him. It’s all your own stupid fault, Grace…

“Forget it,” she advises herself aloud. “Just forget it.”

It was years ago, and what the hell does any of it matter now?

-oOo-

It’s late evening when she finds the creased envelope caught between scribbled notes on what seems to be the original Linda Cummings case and a photocopy of an earlier and completely unrelated pathology report bearing Frankie’s signature. Unsealed, it gives up its contents easily. A couple of sheets of paper covered in Boyd’s impatient scrawl. Two things strike Grace simultaneously – firstly, that the top sheet is dated just a few months after the official disbandment of the Metropolitan Police’s Cold Case Unit, a period when Boyd was kicking his heels on so-called gardening leave, counting down the days to retirement, and secondly that the letter, which is exactly what it appears to be, is addressed to her.

They hadn’t had much contact during those first months, Grace recalls. Boyd had been determined to distance himself as far as he could from his former colleagues in some noble last-ditch attempt to save them from any guilt-by-association. How effective it had been she still doesn’t know. She’d resigned before she could be removed from post, Eve had easily secured university funding for her relocated body farm, and Spencer had almost immediately moved to CID in Ealing. Everyone else, from lab technicians to junior officers, had been spread to the four winds. Perhaps, on reflection, Boyd’s decision to temporarily step away from everyone had eased the way for some, if not all, of the CCU’s former staff.

Making her way to her living room, envelope in hand, Grace forms a strong mental image of him sitting alone in his big empty house, writing to her. Clearly, however, the letter had never been sent. Still, he had kept it rather than destroyed it. Or perhaps he’d simply forgotten about it.

This is going to hurt. She pours herself a large gin, adds the merest dash of tonic, and moves to the sofa almost like an automaton. Once settled, she stares at the envelope and sips the gin. It’s several minutes before she leans forward to put the glass down and then very deliberately plucks the sheets of paper from their shroud.

---

Probert Road
27^th July 2011

Dear Grace,

I’m sorry that I’ve been ignoring your calls. Really, I am. I’m just not sure I’m ready to have the kind of conversations I know you’ll insist on. I’m slowly coming to terms with things, I think, but being ready to talk about them… that might take me a while yet. You’ll be rolling your eyes at that, I’m sure, but something tells me you’ll understand, even if it’s not what you want to hear.

Spencer says you’re thinking about writing a book about your time with the Unit. I have the feeling I should be very worried about that. Do remember that we have very specific laws regarding libel in this country, and I most DEFINITELY won’t be afraid to sue you for every penny of your Home Office pension. Let’s leave out some of the juicier details, shall we? The Great British Public does not need to hear about Interview Room Roulette, nor do they need to know what happened at the office Xmas party in 2005. Trust me, they really don’t!

I miss you. Christ, you’re rolling your eyes again, aren’t you? I just know it. Somehow, it’s so often much easier to write things down than it ever is to say them aloud. Doesn’t make them any less true, though, does it? Yes, in answer to your question, I might have had a few too many to drink tonight. You can berate me loudly about that at some point (and I’m quite certain you will).

I spoke to Frankie earlier. She says I am a “selfish, self-centred idiot” who needs to “work out what the fuck it is” he wants. She’s probably right. But what if I worked it out a long time ago and it turned out to be… I don’t know. Unachievable for someone with “the emotional intelligence of a breeze block” (one of yours, in case you’d forgotten)?

It was always me, wasn’t it? The reason we couldn’t make “us” work. I didn’t want to face that then, but I think I’m starting to now. Better late than never, eh? I just wanted to tell you… I don’t know. That I think I knew it then, and I definitely know it now. No excuses. None. I was probably everything you ever said I was when you were angry. Too much hard work for any sane woman to take on permanently. I have two ex-wives that would willingly agree with you on that.

Mary’s father died recently, and she’s now living in the family home looking after her elderly mother. She says I can join her in Bologna for a few months if I want to. Part of me is tempted but my Italian’s very rusty nowadays, and I don’t think I’m quite as good at ducking flying crockery as I used to be, so I’ll probably just stay here in London quietly licking my wounds.

Do you remember that little place in Cornwall we stayed in for a weekend not long after Felix left the Unit? I was thinking about it earlier. About the sunlight sparkling on the sea, and that weird quality of light that the artists bang on and on about. I was thinking about that old fireplace, and the sound of your voice. Yeah, I probably am more than a bit drunk. Sorry.

You’ve always been there, Grace, and half the time I’ve never understood why. Best friend I ever had, and all that. But much more than that. And no, I’m not talking about sex. Though the sex was good. Even you willingly admitted that! No, being with you was so often like being with someone who sees into every corner of your soul, and somehow still doesn’t turn their back on you. You never did run away, did you? Not ever. The times you went, I drove you away. Everyone has their limits and I’ve always seemed to be very good at finding yours.

I wish I could go back and put everything right. I suppose you’ve heard that a lot from patients (clients?) over the years. Or variations of it. Regret. We make stupid mistakes and then we find we can’t undo them, however much we want to. Or even if we can, the thing we so carelessly broke is never really properly repaired afterwards. Like snapping a stick and trying to glue it back together.

Frankie thinks I should try the grand gesture. Buy a ring. Go down on one knee. That sort of thing. I told her she was crazy, that the only thing that would get me was chapter and verse on just how dysfunctional my behaviour was. Blah blah blah. Anyway, I can’t picture a universe in which you’d be stupid enough to even vaguely consider the question, let alone give me an answer that didn’t sting like a bastard.

I’m going to call you, Grace. I am, I promise. Not this week, and probably not next, but soon. The dust’s beginning to settle, I think. I’m told I’m getting the gold watch (apparently, it’s more likely to be a very cheap carriage clock) at the end of the summer. Christ knows what I’m going to do then. Learn how to play golf, I suppose (that’s a joke, in case you can’t tell). Maybe go and see my cousin in Australia. Or just hang around outside your place until you feel sorry enough to finally take me in as one of your waifs and strays. I’m pretty good at DIY, you know. I’m sure you could find a use for me eventually.

Probably won’t have the balls in the morning to post this. So I guess I’ve just wasted an hour writing it. I wonder what would happen if I just called you now and told you that I loved you, eh? Don’t worry, not going to happen. Just another stupid random thought in my less-than-sober state.

Look after yourself. We’ll talk soon.

Peter

PS: You’d tell me I was drunk and to go and sleep it off. Yes, I know.

---

The pale hand holding the sheet of paper is trembling. It’s the first thing Grace notices as his ghostly voice in her mind fades away. She swallows involuntarily against the predictable lump in her throat and takes a long, deep breath, trying to ground herself. It doesn’t work. The tears start to fall again, stinging her eyes badly enough to make her remove her reading glasses and rub at them hard. It makes things worse.

“Boyd…” It’s barely a whisper, hardly audible above the ordinary, background noises of the house. The ticking clock, the low background hum of the heating system, the occasion creaks and cracks of the building settling. “Oh, Boyd…”

All the things he could never say. All the things she waited so long for him to try to say.

And now it’s too late. All of it is too damned late.

-oOo-

Epilogue

It’s gone noon by the time Grace sets down the heavy gold fountain pen and picks up her half-finished cup of tea only to find the remaining contents are cold. The therapeutic rhythm of writing page after page in longhand is incredibly soothing, and every day it seems to steal a little bit more time from the rest of her daily routine. She doesn’t necessarily view that as a bad thing. Straightening up in her chair, she stretches her back and stares out at the short stretch of lawn and the jagged cliff edge beyond it. The summer sun is blazing down, but though it’s mid-holiday season, all she can hear through the open window is the content chirping of garden birds and the distant, slightly mournful cries of seagulls. There’s a peace here that she couldn’t find in London, but it has very little to do with the quiet.

Almost exactly a decade has passed since the last time she stayed in this picturesque stone cottage with its uneven floors, old wooden beams, and working fireplaces. When she arrived two weeks ago, she feared what might lurk within, but soon found that only stillness and serenity awaited her. There are memories, of course, but when they do come to mind, she finds herself welcoming them for what they are – recollections of a brief, but very happy stay.

The book will have to be finished in London. The three weeks remaining of her stay won’t be anything like long enough even to complete a rough first draft. She could speed the process by using the laptop lying closed in the kitchen, but she knows that the first draft, at least, will be written entirely in ink on endless sheets of lined A4 paper. Eve was incredulous when she heard, as was Frankie, but oddly enough, Spencer seemed to understand.

They worry about her, she knows they do. There’s no need. Every day she grows a little stronger, a little more able to face reality head-on and with a calm smile. Her daughters had thought she should stay in London for the summer – where they could keep an eye on her being the unspoken subtext – and still do, but Grace has never been one to give in easily to external pressure, no matter how well-meaning. So here she is, alone on the Cornish coast, writing the book she wanted to write, without even restless ghosts to keep her company.

Boyd’s life was cut brutally short, but hers will go on, and she’s accepted that with equanimity. Almost accepted it. There are still moments of anger, of despair, but she’s learning to live with them. To somehow integrate them. To make them a non-destructive part of herself.

She talks to him when she takes her lunchtime walk along the almost always deserted beach. It’s a conscious foible she allows herself, almost a small ritual. He doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t expect him to. Wherever he is, he’s doubtless very busy causing utter chaos. She can’t bring herself to think that he’s nowhere. That no part of him exists anywhere.

She’s already written the dedication for the book. Her publishers might – almost certainly will – request a change, but she has no intention of indulging them. “Jesus, you’re so fucking stubborn, Grace…” Boyd had thrown at her once in a petty argument about something she can’t remember, and though she’d told him he was a fine one to talk, it had secretly pleased her. Just a little. And she is. Can be. Stubborn. Will be.

‘For Peter – impossible to be with, impossible to be without. G.’

- the end –

“You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes, well, you just might find
You get what you need…”

- The Rolling Stones