Chapter Text
Robbie pinched the bridge of his nose hard, hoping that creating pain there would dull the throbbing pain in the center of his brain. Hours spent at what looked like the deliberate murder of a woman on the bypass, road construction workers with jack hammers and drills because the bloody road crews couldn't wait.
Hit and run. And wouldn't it figure that she would be nearly the same age as Val had been, same sort of build and hair, too.
He'd felt horrible because it had been weeks—well, days—since he'd thought of Val at all. Used to be that she was first and foremost in his mind. He wasn't sure how he felt about the change, though he supposed, after ten years, that it was time her presence faded from his daily life and became the piquant memory that accompanied flowers on a birthday or anniversary. He just didn't want it to happen quite yet.
So, guilt and a headache. He became aware that he was teetering beside his desk in the office he shared with Lizzie and James. He pressed his hand to his forehead. He looked between his spread fingers to see Lizzie staring at him, dark eyes wide with concern.
"Sir? You all right?"
"No," he said, rounding the 'o' and raising his eyebrows in surrender. "Pounding headache."
She opened her bottom desk drawer, rummaged around in her purse. "I don't have anything. But he does. Top desk drawer. He's been having a lot of headaches lately, too."
Robbie nodded absently. "Must be the threat of new management." Making a mental note to ask James about his headaches later, he opened the man's top desk drawer. Neat as a pin, right down to the pencils—that had chew marks on them. Well, James had tried to quit smoking again recently.
There was a clear plastic box, the kind that might be tucked into a breast pocket, that seemed to contain generic white paracetamol tablets. Robbie took two, swallowed them dry, went back to his desk and dropped wearily into his chair. He focused on the notes he had made in the field while rubbing his neck. A minute later a cup of tea appeared at the edge of his vision.
"Thanks."
"Mine was cold," Lizzie said.
That's right, he thought, she'd need an excuse. She doesn't bring Hathaway tea or coffee. Or buy him pints. Must be nice to be a bagman these days. He gave it a sip.
It was good tea, right temperature and sweetness. Bit of milk. He allowed his eyes to close, hoping that between the tablets, the tea, and being in a quiet room, the incessant pounding in his head echoing the jackhammers of the road workers would go away.
But it didn't. The pain was still there, but it wasn't as insistent, wasn't as sharp. And he didn't care. Not at all. It was as if he was floating, buoyed up on a sea of consciousness.
Not like him to be poetic, but that's how he felt. Bloody brilliant. He could give Shelley, Keats and all the boys in the ruddy band what for. He was adrift on waves of words, images, feelings. The tea spilled in slow motion, creating a lake on his desk. And he felt now as if he was submerged.
And gradually he began to feel as if he was drowning.
It didn't matter to him. He'd recall later that he didn't even feel it when his head hit the edge of the desk as he slid off his chair onto the office floor.
+++
He knew he was in hospital. Antiseptic and institutional floor wax smell, the scratchy sheets on a too hard bed. He must not be hurt badly, though, because he didn't hear any beeping or ventilating.
'Course he could be dead.
He opened his eyes a bit. Took in the striped curtains that bulged with movement, the feeling of being in a ward rather than a private room. Loud conversation on one side of him. A & E, then. He turned his head.
James was sitting in a chair beside the bed.
His arms were folded and his face was a mask, almost a scowl. He met Robbie's eyes and pursed his lips as if he was angry.
Couldn't be angry. Concerned, yes. Could see him being angry if I'd done something stupid in the field, taken an unnecessary risk. Is he angry at himself for some reason? At me? Can't be angry at me, I'm the one lying here. Or—oh, Christ, maybe I've had a stroke. Or a heart attack. Last thing I remember was that headache. Aneurysm? Coma? Or maybe some sort of—
—Jesus, what the bloody hell did I do to piss him off? All I did was have a cuppa at my desk…
"What were those pills?"
James's face went red. "Prescription medication." He looked at the floor, his jaw working.
"For headaches, Lizzie said."
James chewed on his upper lip. His breath came out as a hard huff. "Painkillers."
"Did they have to pump my stomach?"
"No. Hydrocodone. You passed out."
"Lucky for you. What the hell—"
James's eyes flashed up to meet his. "If you needed a painkiller, it was a few steps down the hall. First aid kit right on the wall in the canteen. Lizzie—"
"—Lizzie said that you've been taking those tablets for a lot of headaches. Looked like generic paracetamol . Mind telling me why you're taking them?" Oh, that shut him down. "Right. Then mind telling me why they weren't in a prescription bottle?"
James seemed to hug himself tighter. "As I've explained to Innocent, it is more convenient to carry them with me in a small box."
Robbie counted to ten. Most stubborn sod in the world. Robbie took a deep breath as he reached seven and said, as reasonably as he could, "Why are you taking hydrocodone and why do you need to keep it with you?"
"It was prescribed for a medical condition."
"Gathered that. What for?"
"I've been over this with Innocent."
"I'm the one who passed out, though. So I'm entitled to know why the bloody hell you are taking them." He said this is in a reasonable, measured tone, biting the inside of his lip to keep from yelling at the man. James was ill enough to be taking medication that sure as hell wasn't hydrocodone. Robbie had thrown his back out often enough over the years and, with one thing and another, he knew a couple of tablets wouldn't drop him to the floor, not even on an empty stomach. Didn't even look like hydrocodone. Had to be stronger stuff.
And why hadn't he said anything about being sick in the first place? "James?"
James's arms were pulled so tight that it looked as if he might snap in two. Every part of him seemed hard and brittle. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again, Robbie." He got up abruptly. "I have to go."
And he left.
Christ.
Robbie looked for a phone beside the bed, and finding none, he sat up, jabbed the call button for a nurse, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, scouting around for a bag of his clothes, his mobile, something to answer the million questions going through his mind.
He'd bloody well get to the bottom of this.
+++
"Ma'am, I don't think you understand—"
"No, Robbie, I do understand. You are the one who does not understand. I cannot talk about this. Not with you, not with James, not with anyone. James has taken advice." She folded her arms in an eerie imitation of Hathaway's earlier posture, as if she were bracing herself. She was standing and leaning her backside against her desk. "He wasn't supposed to be there in A & E to begin with. He nearly killed you, remember?"
Robbie raised a dismissive hand. "He didn't. I'm fine. Had the best night's sleep I've had in ages. My fault for digging in his desk. And then when I go in to find out why he's taking a painkiller powerful enough to lay me flat, he's gone. Disappeared. You say you don't know where—"
"I don't. He's entitled to leave and he took it. I've given you his solicitor's card. Family lawyer, from what I gather." She tilted her head. "I don't know where he went. If it helps, I know he didn't want to go. I know he was concerned about you, Robbie." She sighed. "I can tell you that he was coming down the hall as you were being wheeled out and I hope I never have to see that look on anyone's face ever again. The paramedics assured him that you had passed out, you were only being taken for observation. Though because of the possibility of poisoning, the pills had to accompany you to hospital."
"He told me it was only hydrocodone." Robbie took in her exasperated look and realization dawned. "Not as if I was going to hang about in A & E to find out differently."
She raised an eyebrow. "Well, if he had told you it was something stronger, something like oxycontin, you would have thought of cancer. And it's not cancer, Robbie. That much I can tell you." She went around her desk and sat down. "Have you been to his flat? You used to have keys."
"Looks like he bolted, though he didn't take much. His guitar is gone."
She brightened. "That's—that's a good sign, then."
"Really?" Robbie didn't bother to hide his irritation. "How can him making off with his guitar and leaving me here with a load of questions be a good sign?"
Her face softened. "Oh, Robbie. It means that he can still play it."
+++
"Are you certain he didn't tell you anything?" This was the second time he'd spoken with Laura. Robbie ticked a box from his mental list. He'd initially questioned nearly everyone James knew, even going so far as to ask the barista at James's favorite coffee shop if she'd seen him.
"No." Laura sighed. She seemed frustrated that she wasn't able to be more help. She reached across the small table, gave his hand a brief squeeze as she held it. Her eyes were filled with compassion. "And Jean says it isn't cancer?" She seemed to give this some thought. "You went through his flat. Did you check the medicine cabinet?"
"Cleared out." He didn't mention the things that he did find: the fact that only clothes were taken and a few books and personal belongings. Special things. Certain CDs. Strangely enough, it looked as though there were fewer kitchen utensils and the coffee machine was missing. Just enough to fill his car. As if he'd be away for weeks.
"Robbie, let's look at this from what we do know. I heard he was taking morphine."
"Right. Prescribed for pain."
Laura nodded as if she'd expected this. "That's what he says." Her hands clutched the coffee cup. "But what if it wasn't?"
"He doesn't have a drug problem."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know him and James would sooner put away a bottle before he'd take a pill."
"And yet," she insisted, "he was keeping morphine in his desk to take as needed."
Robbie folded his arms. He knew that she knew better, so he wasn't going to get his back up about the point. "Not on drugs."
"Okay. Well then, let's look at what else we know. Jean says he's hired a lawyer? Why? Why not go through the Police Federation rep?"
"Afraid he'd lose his job, I reckon. Or maybe he's concerned about his right to privacy at work about his medical condition." Hell, maybe he thought he was breaking policy without sufficient cause and felt the Federation wouldn't support him for some reason.
"But if the medication is prescribed, then he's looking at a reprimand for not having it in a prescription bottle. It's not actionable. They can't dismiss him for taking needed medication. And he can't be afraid that you would bring a suit against him since you were the nosey parker who went into his desk. So why the lawyer?"
"All right, if the pills weren't prescribed, then he'd have to enter an addiction counseling program, but he wouldn't lose his job."
She nodded. "Right. And I agree with you about James—he's not the sort to take pills." She looked up, thinking. "If I had spotted anything, you know, any outward indication of drug dependency, even a tendency towards alcoholism, or anything more than his bloody cigarettes, I would have said something to him. And I have mentioned to him that I've been concerned about what he uses to get himself through. He always listens. Well, not about the smoking." She seemed to collapse into herself and then drew herself up straighter, looking in the distance. "He and I have coffee now and again, too." She pursed her lips. "No, I would have seen something, Robbie. He and I talk—actual conversation. You might want to give that a go sometime."
It was one thing to talk with Laura—and they'd had enough troubles trying to do that—quite another to talk with James. It had been hard enough telling James that he and Laura had decided they'd rather be friends. James seemed more crushed than they were, to tell the truth. He moped around the nick like he was devastated that all of his pushing and shoving to get Laura and Robbie together had failed. Told him he shouldn't plan on a second career as a matchmaker and the man didn't even crack a smile. It was as if now that Robbie was unattached, James had to do something about it.
Confused the bloody hell out of Robbie because all he wanted was to have everything go back to the way it had been before Laura: pints after work, takeaway, telly, and James kipping on his couch now and again. He thought James wanted that too.
And now this.
"Unless he's simply been using for years and we've both been taken in," Laura mused. "Might explain why he's so isolated and awkward. If he was in pain all the time…"
Robbie shook his head, staring at the table. Not shy, our Laura. She would speak her mind and be heard. "No, that's not it. So we agree he needed to take the pills for some reason."
Laura's mouth became a straight line. "If he was in enough pain to require morphine, he wouldn't be able to man a desk, Robbie. He'd be out on disability. It would also call into question every bit of evidence, every line of questioning, every arrest he'd made since the medication was prescribed."
No. Robbie's stomach churned. Right, well, that might explain the lawyer, then. "But what's wrong with him, d'y'think?"
She glanced first at the table, and then at him, her eyes sad and kind. She reached for his hand. "He's seriously ill and been prescribed morphine, Robbie. Does the reason why really matter?"
+++
Robbie rubbed the back of his neck and then stretched his arms over his head. He was getting too old to sit for hours in front of a computer screen, even if he was sitting on his couch to do it now. He'd spent most of his day at the nick looking for something, anything, to indicate where James had gone after he left A & E yesterday. Thought about calling hospitals. He had called the number on the solicitor's card—no answer, which was odd for a lawyer, even a family lawyer would have an answering machine. The microwave in the kitchen beeped. Penne pasta ready to eat. He set his laptop aside as his mobile rang. Good, maybe it was a shout and he'd be able to chuck the meal into the bin and pick up Indian food on the way home. Get his mind off that awkward sod. His awkward sod.
"Lewis."
"Dad, when were you going to call me?" Lyn's voice was irritated.
"Well, they let me out of hospital, so I didn't see the need to, pet." This was all he needed now, his daughter on his case for not calling about being in A & E .
"What?"
"I was only in for observation. If it had been something more serious, I would have called. I'm fine."
There was a pause. A long pause. "Hospital?"
"Isn't that why you're calling?"
"No-o-o-o. But I'd love to hear about that. I'm calling because I just wanted to know if you and James were coming here for dinner tonight. I just saw him—"
"You saw James? Just now? In Manchester?" Robbie rose, eyes scouting for shoes, keys. "You're sure?"
"Yeah, he was sitting in front of the Salford smoking a cigarette. So I wanted to tell you that he blew the surprise. So—are you planning to join us for dinner tonight? We were going to have, well, Jack's been so good about my new schedule we were going to get McDonald's. We could get takeaway at that Thai place you like, though. I just need to know—"
"Lyn, love. I'm in Oxford. Do me a favor, pet, and go back to where you saw James—a hotel, is it? And sit on him if you have to, but I need to talk to him. Don't let him go anywhere, understand?" He grabbed his jacket. "I'm leaving now." He rang off.
The phone buzzed again. Lyn.
"I'm going to be on the road, pet, and—"
"Dad, the Salford Royal isn't a hotel. It's a medical center. What's going on?"
Christ. Oh, Christ. "Lyn, please, for the love of all that's holy, go and see if James is still there. You're a nurse, can you—would you find out if he's a patient there? Can you do that?"
Long pause. "Dad."
Crap. "Well, find him, then. Sit on him." Bloody patient confidentiality. "I'll be there as soon as I can."