Grace stared out through the French windows into the rain. The sudden change in the weather fitted her mood. Within minutes, the normally vibrant landscape had transformed into a shapeless monochrome blur in the mist.
Rationally, she knew her current malaise was a combination of delayed shock and grief, and the after-effects of the head injury. For the first few days after she was discharged from hospital, she’d mostly slept, allowing her physical self, at least, to recover. They’d signed her off for a fortnight with the possibility to extend. Her psychological self might have healed faster, she recognised, had she jumped straight back into the fray.
Now, she was beset by doubts.
Max hadn’t helped, although with best intentions. Behind her on the coffee table were the glossy brochures for the ornate Grand Hotel in Florence, part of his plan to gradually wear down her resistance. His inconvenient male instincts protective this time.
“What’s the point of moping around here?” he’d coaxed. “Come to Florence with me, darling. Plenty of time to think about all this when you get back. And if this Blenkinship really doesn’t appreciate you, why not simply tell him to go to hell?”
The same day Blenkinship was made acting head CSI, she’d heard her suspension was rescinded, but he had not been in touch. Not even to enquire after her health. Grace, who’d been properly brought up to send thank-you notes at every occasion, couldn’t help feeling slighted.
The beating rain on the skylights above the living area masked the sound of a vehicle approaching, so her first warning was the doorbell and Tallie’s customary half-hearted bark.
She found Nick on her doorstep, hunched into the upturned collar of his suit jacket, had no choice but to invite him in.
“It was sunny in Penrith,” was his opening gambit. He jerked his head towards the ivy as he shook off the excess water. “No more webcam?”
“No need.”
“We haven’t caught him yet, Grace.”
“Maybe not,” she agreed, leading him through, “but you have the gun.”
He saw the brochures and the pair of empty coffee cups immediately, she noted, but didn’t comment.
“We traced the Barrett’s serial number through the manufacturer,” he said instead, watching her closely. “You were quite right. It most likely came in from Afghanistan.”
She shrugged, moved through to the kitchen to make fresh coffee.
He asked quietly, “When are you coming back?”
She filled the kettle, glad of something to do with her hands. “Well, the headaches have stopped and the lump’s nearly gone, so I suppose…as soon as they pass me fit to drive.” That calm cool stare unnerved her. “Poor Tallie has never been for so many long walks. She’s exhausted.”
“You’re having second thoughts about the job, aren’t you?”
Grace stopped fussing with the cafetière. “Honestly?” She sent him a level stare. “Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
Another shrug, almost an irritated twitch. “Didn’t you have doubts—after your last undercover assignment went so badly wrong?”
“You’ve been checking up on me.” Something quick and bright flashed behind his eyes. “Oh, I probably would have made myself get back on the horse, but there was Sophie to consider.” He gave a rueful smile. “At the time, I was glad of the excuse.”
“Well, there you go.” She lifted down clean cups.
“I didn’t say I’d never regretted that decision, but I would have been a liability.” He leaned his hip against the worktop, arms folded.
“And if I can’t be relied upon to do my job in the field,” she agreed, ignoring the ache in her chest, “then I’m no help to anyone, either.”
“So, that’s it, is it? The going gets tough, and you throw in the towel?” And when she turned, surprised by such lethal calm, he added, “You’ve never had to want for anything, have you?”
Masking her hurt, she said, “That’s not fair and not true!”
“People like you have had it so easy all your lives and you just can’t cope when things get difficult. Is that what happened to your marriage, Grace? You ran away?”
“And of course you’re such an expert on relationships.” She stopped, lifted her chin, her voice brittle as ice. “I don’t have to justify my decisions to you.”
“No, you don’t, but you have to justify them to yourself. You know what I think?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“I think you had it too easy with Sibson. You were his discovery, his pet project, and he cut you a lot of slack.” Those merciless eyes raked her, derisive. “Now Blenkinship’s taken over, you’re going to have to fight to prove yourself. And I don’t think you’ve ever had to do that before, have you, Grace?”
“I’ve worked hard to get where I am.” But the shake in her voice lent uncertainty to the words.
His lips twisted. “You worked hard, sure—surrounded by people who supported you, believed in you. And now, for the first time, your abilities are being questioned.” His voice grew harsher. “And you can’t handle it.”
The kettle boiled, clicked off. In silence, Grace turned away, measured in coffee, poured the water, hands moving automatically.
With her back to him, she said, “Max is wonderful in many ways—generous, unselfish—but he’s so single-minded, so clear in his vision, that living with him left no room for me. I spent twelve years living in his shadow; an appendage rather than a separate person in my own right. Richard understood that. Without him…” She trailed off helplessly, looked over her shoulder and wished Nick wasn’t so hard to read.
He shifted. “He wasn’t the only one who could see how good you are at your job, Grace. Don’t let an arse like Blenkinship make you throw it all away.”
She blinked. “You’re being deliberately mean to goad me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, almost cheerful. “I imagine Max has been round, patting your hand, saying ‘there, there’ and doing you no favours whatsoever.” He grinned, suddenly boyish. “You needed a good kick up the backside.”
“Thank you, I think,” she said gravely. “Is that why you came round—just to rattle my cage?”
“No, I thought you might like a ride out.” Something in his voice nudged her interest like a half-remembered scent.
She raised an eyebrow, asked coolly, “Where did you have in mind?”
“I hear Wythenshawe’s nice this time of year.”
“Wythenshawe?” she repeated. “Manchester, isn’t it? What’s in Wythenshawe that’s so important for me to see?”
“We’ve had a report of a man admitted last night with a badly infected gunshot wound. Like to take a guess at his name?”
Grace stared. “You don’t mean—?”
“Pete Tawney. The very same. I’m on my way down to interview him and I’d like you to come along.”
“But any trace evidence will be long gone by now,” Grace pointed out. “You may believe hygiene standards are low within the NHS, but it’s been more than a week and—”
“You saw him,” Nick interrupted quietly. “That day you went looking for Edith at the Retreat. You saw his face. One of the few people who did and lived to tell the tale.”
Grace paused. She’d done some sketches. There was something about the man’s eyes she would not forget. However much she might try…
“Come on, Grace,” he murmured. “Let’s go lay some ghosts, hm?”