When Policemen Go Bad
by elfin and Carmenatorium

 
From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date:  Wednesday 10/09/2003 18:45

Inspector Troy!

Thought I'd drop you a line to see how you are and to prove that I do know how to work this thing without anyone's assistance.

How are things in Middlesbrough?  I presume they're keeping you busy as I haven't heard from you.

I ran into Witham from Thames Valley CID the other day and he was bemoaning the fact that you didn't choose his force.  I almost told him it was because of the football but I held my tongue.  He's a rabid Oxford supporter.

Joyce sends her best wishes and Cully says she misses you turning up for breakfast and to tell you we've had to halve the amount of bread we buy.  I hope they have a good canteen at the station up there, don't like to think of you starving!

Best wishes

Tom


He leaned back in the chair and read it through three times before hitting 'Send'.

~


From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date:  Thursday 11/09/2003 21:03

Chief Inspector Barnaby (seeing as we're using titles)

Thanks for the email, it was good to hear from you.

Sorry for not keeping in touch.  Been busy with work and finding a place to live.  The job is going well.  It's a bit different from Midsomer.  It's not really cups of tea with the suspects up here and I'm still the new boy.

Say hello to Mrs Barnaby and Cully and thank them for the breakfasts.  The food in the canteen is good as long as you don't try to run after anyone for the rest of the morning.

Thanks for keeping quiet about the football!  It wasn't the only reason I chose Middlesbrough.  At least, I don't think it was.

Hope things are peaceful in Midsomer for you.  Imagine you're putting bricks the wall of your new sergeant's education. 

Best wishes

Troy


~


From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date:  Monday 15/09/2003 08:03

Gavin (don't think we need titles)

Glad to hear you're still alive.  I was beginning to worry.


Tom read the sentence back and deleted it, typing instead,


Glad to hear you're still alive.  Still at work at 9pm?  Why weren't you at the match?


He knew there'd been one; he'd checked.  He'd checked the result too - Middlesbrough had won.


I imagine it is a bit different up there.  I was out with my new sergeant the other day and Mrs Gillviray from Midsomer Magna demanded to know what I'd done with you.  She wouldn't speak to Scott at all, completely ignored him.

Dan Scott is my new sergeant, by the way.  I'd forgotten how difficult it is to train a new recruit - especially one already so set in his big city ways.  I'd got used to not having to think for you and now I'm back to square one.  And I have to make sure he stays away from all the attractive women in the villages, unmarried or otherwise.

Do you enjoy the work?  I hope you do.  And what about a social life?  I'm sure you'll be sorry to miss the local production of 'Hamlet'.  I think it's the only play they've done where the body count is higher than real life round here.  It's meant to be four hours long!  Joyce isn't on stage this time.  She says she's 'resting'.

Were you involved in that operation at the weekend?  Not the kind of thing you get round here.  I hope you weren't hurt, if you were there.

Regards

Tom
One person critically injured, another two on the 'cause for concern' list and four with minor wounds.  He hadn't managed to find out any more information which was why he was here, at the station, so early in the morning.  No one could tell him anything and he was starting to worry even though he had no real reason to.


There was no reply that day.

He made Scott detour three miles to the station on Tuesday morning to find his Inbox full of circulars but nothing from Gavin.

~


From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date:  Tuesday 16/09/2003 12:05

Tom

Was there.  Not hurt.  Think I prefer Midsomer tea-parties.

Gavin


~


From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date:  Tuesday 16/09/2003 18:12

Gavin

I'm pleased to hear it.  Look after yourself.

Tom
He hit send and sat back and stared at the screen.  'Pleased' didn't even begin to cover what he'd felt when he'd first seen the message - his heart had leapt.  He needed to go and apologise to Joyce for tossing and turning last night and, he grudgingly admitted, to Scott for giving him a dressing down today in front of a PC. 

He should have rung Middlesbrough CID but somehow that had seemed too desperate.  Now the worry was over, his fears seemed irrational and excessive.

But the email… the email had been short and blunt….

~


From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date:  Tuesday 16/9/2003 22:16

Tom

God it's been an awful few days.  I don't know what to do.  Everyone is trying to blame everyone else for the complete screw up we made.  Not enough information, not enough backup.  You and I just used to walk into a suspect's house, unarmed, no backup.  Here it's like a military operation.  Actually it wasn't which was why it went so badly.  The investigation is going to take up more time than the planning for the dam raid.  Sometimes I really miss Midsomer.

Missed the match due to work.  I'm getting used to that.

I've joined a football team but don't get much time to play. 

Someone rear-ended my car this afternoon.  For once it wasn't my fault - you'll be surprised to know. 

Hamlet sounds long and those seats aren't comfortable.  Hope you don't have to suffer it.

Gavin


~


From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date:  Tuesday 16/9/2003 22:20

Tom

Sorry - that previous email was miserable.  I'm fine, honestly. 

Cheers

Gavin


~


From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date:  Wednesday 17/09/2003 08:41

Gavin

Sounds like you're having a difficult time.  I'm sorry to hear it.  I'm sure it will get better when things settle down.  I know internal investigations are awful; everyone tries to pass the buck.  If it is your fault, take it on the chin.  If it isn't, be honest.  The force shouldn't cover for those who aren't up to it.  If it was a series of mistakes, say so.  

Come and see us when you get some time off.  

Or ring me.  It's not the same as going to the pub for a drink but I want to hear from you.

You know where we are.


We?  He hit delete.


You know where I am.

Regards

Tom


~

From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date:  Friday 19/9/2003 17:20

Tom

Time off?  You're kidding?

Thank you. 

I miss Midsomer.  I thought that coming up here would be a homecoming but it's not.  It's freezing cold and it's still only September. 

The team here are excellent.  The last week has helped us to work together.  They tried to send us to a counsellor but we all went out for a few beers instead; seemed to do more good.

I think they think I'm a bit odd.  Here they're completely obsessed with Forensics, you can't breathe unless SOCO have been there and checked the place over and then taken hours to produce the most basic results.  I want to go and talk to people straight away, you know, like we did.  Get people when they're still distressed and give things away or aren't thinking.  Maybe I spent too long in the villages to move to the city.  I thought it would be exciting, all the city life.  It's so noisy I can't sleep sometimes and the traffic is a nightmare.  Can't believe I used to complain about getting stuck when they had sheep crossing the road.  I think I've turned into a country person without noticing.

Hope everything is going well with you and that Scott is coming up to scratch.  I'm sure he'll learn to fit in. 

Cheers

Gavin


~


From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date:  Monday 22/09/2003 18:04

Gavin

Come home.


I always thought you were a 'bright lights, big city' person.  I think the villages get inside you, the pace of life is gentle even if we seem to have more than our fair share of murderous individuals.  I'm too old for big cities now. 


Too old for you. 

<>You get used to places and change is difficult. 


I miss you every day.


I am sure that in a couple of months it'll become home to you up there.

Scott irritates me beyond belief.  I'm sure you never irritated me that much.  If you did, I've forgotten.

It's all been overwritten by more recent memories of you; of laughing with you, sharing success and failure with you, being sure that you would always be on the other end of the phone, whenever I called, whatever the time.

You're a good policeman, Gavin.  Don't lose faith in yourself.  And for goodness sake, take some time off occasionally.  You'll be no good if you're exhausted.

Tom

He didn't know how else to finish it, despite just his name sounding cold somehow.  But what else?  'Best wishes? Regards?'  The casual familiarity of the younger generation didn't come easily to him; those people who signed everything 'love', something they couldn't always feel and he wasn't sure they necessarily understood.


~


From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date: Thursday 25/9/2003 20:12

Tom

Sorry for the delay in replying.  Work ... you know how it is.

I can't believe you've forgotten how much I irritated you.  I think you sounded exasperated for the first two years we worked together.  It took me ages to wake up to the fact that you not only knew more about being a policeman but that you knew more about people.  When I remember it, I'm ashamed of how narrow-minded I was.  And naive.  And bigoted.   I'm surprised you didn't come up with some inventive way of killing me.

Thank you for the compliment - it means a lot.  I do doubt that I can do the job; probably why I spend so many hours at the office.  I'm going to take two days off this weekend (like normal people).  Guess I should unpack some of my things.  If I do that, it means I have to stay.

Gavin


~


From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date:  Monday 29/09/2003 19:12

Dear Gavin


 Deleted.


Gavin

I hope you enjoyed the weekend off and you managed to unpack and get some rest.  Have you been living out of your suitcase all this time? For three months, nearly four?

Back in those early days you wanted life to be like a novel, clear-cut, people in their pigeonholes.  You were bigoted; but I know that's not true anymore.  I never ever thought about killing you; it doesn't look good on your record, killing sergeants.  Believe me, if it did I'd have had Scott weeks ago!  

You were willing to learn, which is more than I can say for some people.  I don't know, maybe he just annoys me because he's not you.  Scott, I mean, of course.  I had a phone call from him the other day asking where I was.  I was still sitting at the kitchen table waiting for you to pick me up.  I felt very foolish.  And old.

But I caught the match on Saturday, it was very exciting. 

Tom
~


From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date: Tuesday 30/09/2003 06:51

Tom

I can't believe it; I fell asleep on the sofa at two and slept all the way through the match with the television blaring.  Felt better for the sleep but I was gutted about missing the game.  I didn't unpack.  I rented this flat in the middle of the city, thinking it would be convenient but it's too loud.  I'm going to look for somewhere out in the countryside when I get some more leave.

Sometimes I feel like I've been here a long time and then I get completely lost in the city and feel like a new boy all over again. 

You'll get used to Scott.  If you can put up with me, you can put up with anyone. 

I read about your latest case in the nationals.  Can you tell me what it is you're not telling the press?

I'm being sent to do shooting practice and more self-defence.  How to disarm kn1fe-wielding maniacs and people with guns, really looking forward to that, as you can imagine.

Send my best wishes to Joyce and Cully.

Gavin


~


From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date:  Wednesday 1/10/2003 18:58

Gavin

Good luck with your flat hunting.  Are you going to buy somewhere and settle down up there?
Because you sound so desperately unhappy and I think you're lonely and I wish I could help.


Re:  the case.  I can't put it in an email.  It would be good to talk to you about it though.  Call when you can? 

Shooting practice and self-defence?  Have you considered coming back to Midsomer and the more genteel type of psychopath? 


Please say yes.


Look after yourself, no getting shot or stabbed.  Or anything else for that matter.

Tom


~


From:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
To:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
Date: Thursday 2/10/2003 17:45

Tom

Flat hunting on hold due to work - surprise.   Yes I have thought about coming back to Midsomer, but even just thinking like that makes me feel like a failure.  It's only been four months; I can't make a decision after that amount of time.  I've told myself I'll think about it again after Christmas and make a decision then.

Would be good to talk to you - I'm on 01642 555312.  Or my mobile - 07785 555521.  I'm not around much but if you leave a message I can call you back.

Promise to try hard at my lessons; don't really like the idea of being shot, or stabbed for that matter.

Could really fancy a pint tonight by the fire in the Arms tonight.  I've yet to find that kind of pub round here.  I'm not even sure they exist.  Not like I could tonight, as I'm working!

Regards

Gavin
~


Friday 3rd October, 7.45 pm

"Gavin, it's Tom.  I thought I'd try and catch up with you.  I hope you've found your pub with the fire.  Give me a ring sometime."


~


Sunday 5th October 4.12 pm

"Hello Gavin.  Surely they don't make you work all weekend. It's Tom, by the way."


~


From:  T.Barnaby@midsomer.police.gov.uk
To:  G.R.Troy@Middlesbrough.police.gov.uk
Date: Monday 7/10/2003 16:32

Gavin

Hope all is well.  Give me a ring if you have time. 

You're not a failure.  It's hard to admit that the decision you made didn't work out.  I think waiting till after Christmas and reconsidering then is a good plan.  All those parties will make you feel much more at home up there.  I'm sure there are jobs in this area, even if we wouldn't be working together.  It's not as if we have a low murder rate.  I'd be delighted if you came back and wouldn't think anything less of you for having the courage to make that decision.

Take care

Tom


 ~


Wednesday 9th October 8.00pm

“I'm starting to think you don't want to talk to me. I hope you're all right."


~


Thursday 10th October 8.10am

"Middlesbrough CID."

"May I speak to Inspector Troy please?"

"Who's calling?"

"DCI Barnaby, Midsomer CID."

There was silence for a second.

"Can you hold the line please?"

Pause.

"Hello?"

"Gavin?"

"No, this is DCI Hickson.  Can I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Inspector Troy, as I told the receptionist."

"Which force are you from?"

"Midsomer.  Troy was my sergeant here before he transferred to Middlebrough.  I wanted to talk to him about an old case we worked on.  Is he in some kind of trouble?"  He knew his tones were icy, bordering on rudeness.

"He was injured in a raid on Friday night.  He's recovering, his injuries weren't life threatening."

"You sound remarkably unconcerned about him."

"Barnaby, I'm sure Troy will be back at work soon.  Shall I ask him to call you when he returns?" 

Tom knew his own tone had been rude - he'd done it on purpose, putting over the 'hard copper' act.  But that had been nothing to this brusque dismissal.

"No, you can tell me where he is."

"He discharged himself from hospital yesterday.  I would assume he's at home."

"You haven't bothered to check?"

"I'm not his mother."

"Neither am I, but I, at least, am concerned about him."

Silence hung in wire.

"We lost a man on Friday night.  Troy was meant to be covering him.  He failed and now there're two bairns without a father.  So he's not the top of my priority list."

"I'm sorry."

The line went dead.  He was shaking when he put the phone down.

How dare they make Troy 'cover' someone?  He had far too little experience with firearms; he should never have even been in the front line!  Tom had every idea of the hell his ex-sergeant would be putting himself through.  He needed to find him.

He called, but there was no answer - either landline or mobile.

So he decided on a different plan of attack. 

There were eight letting agents in Middlesbrough, one of which he dismissed because it was aimed at students. 

Fifteen minutes later he had an address for Gavin.

Forty-five minutes after that he was on the road, leaving a speechless Scott and a concerned Joyce behind.


He took breaks because he knew he had to, stared out of the window at the passing traffic.  The weather got greyer and colder when he hit the A1.  By the time he got to Middlesbrough it was dark and the rain was freezing.

He bought a map at the supermarket along with eggs, milk, bread and other necessities like wine, brandy and chocolate. 

As soon as he found the flat he knew what Troy had meant. 

It was a side street, near the centre, some kind of warehouse conversion of the kind he'd always thought people lived in for the kudos and the nearness of the takeaways and bars.  He could hear the constant thrum of the traffic, could even feel it through the pavement.

He couldn't tell which flat Number Seventeen was when he rang the entry buzzer.  No reply.  He'd been ignoring the internal 'bloody fool' warnings for the last five hours.  Now they seemed smug and satisfied.  He tried again.

"Hello?"  It didn't sound like Gavin.

"Gavin?"

"Who is it?"

"It's Tom.  Tom Barnaby."

Silence and then the welcome buzz of the door unlocking.

He shoved his way in and was pleased to see the lift.  Seventeen was marked as the only one on the top floor.  When the doors slid open, Gavin was standing in front of them wearing jeans and a v-necked sweater with nothing underneath.  His face was discoloured with bruising down one side, his eyes were red and bloodshot and one hand was bandaged.

Neither of them spoke, they simply stared at each other across the distance between them.

Tom swallowed and shifted the bags that were cutting into his palms.  Troy dropped his gaze.

"Let me help you."  His voice was gravely and husky.

"No, you're hurt.  I'm fine." 

Gavin tugged the sleeve down over the bandages and stepped backwards.  "Come in."

Tom simply stared as he followed then stopped.  It was a loft conversion with wooden floors and a picture window that gave a view over the city.  The kitchen was open plan onto the living room which contained a huge saggy sofa and a TV and a lot of cardboard boxes piled against the wall. 

It was only when Troy tried to take one of the bags from him that he came to and headed for the kitchen.  A bowl and some mugs stood by the sink.  There was nothing on the surfaces.  The bottles clinked together when he put the bags there and Gavin raised his eyebrows.

"I bought some necessities.  I didn't know...."  He stopped.  He didn't even know if Gavin wanted him here.  "I'm sorry.  I rang but there was no answer."  Silence.  "I rang the station too.  They told me that you'd discharged yourself."

"Did they tell you I killed a man?"  Long fingers bunched into a fist, white knuckles showing clear against the dark blue wool. 

Tom took a step towards Gavin, very slowly, reaching out for him with both hands.  Gavin took a step backwards and stopped, tears forming in his eyes. 

"I want to hear from you what happened," Tom said, and sank his fingers into the soft wool, holding tight.

Something that was halfway to a howl forced itself from Gavin's throat and he leaned into Tom, who took his weight and sank down with him to the floor, trying to encircle him and protect him.

He spoke no words of calm or comfort but simply held him, feeling the heat of the tears and the gasping breaths against his skin and wishing he could wipe it all out.  He pressed his mouth to the soft dark strands and breathed in the fragrance of shampoo and the familiar scent that was Gavin, something that had become part of him without him ever noticing.  He hadn't even known he'd missed it.

Between the racking sobs, Gavin was speaking.  Tom let him talk, catching only a few of the tumbling words and knowing he could piece it together later.

A child, a wife, recklessness, fear, the gun, screams.  As each memory gripped him, Gavin's sobs swelled and subsided.  And the repeated phrase 'I want to die'. 

Claws shredded Tom's guts and he held Gavin so tightly he thought they both might suffocate, wrapped together like that.

Finally the storm broke, leaving the younger man leaning heavily against him, his face buried in Tom's damp coat, trembling with exhaustion and cold. 

Without speaking Tom half lifted him to his feet.  Gavin kept his face turned away from him as he led the way round to the sofa and Gavin sank into it, curling up in the corner, pressing himself into the soft depths.  Tom gazed at him for a moment and then went to find a blanket.

Beyond the kitchen there was a door that led to another huge room, dominated by an unmade bed.  Tom dragged the king-size duvet back through with him and covered a seemingly oblivious Gavin with it.

Then he put the kettle on to make tea and took off his jacket.  The room was freezing.

As he busied himself in the kitchen, Tom ignored the voices in his head, all vying for attention, all born of dark emotion.

When he crouched in front of Gavin with a mug in one hand and tissues in the other, he was rewarded with a croaky 'thank you'.  Tom smiled gently.  He fetched his own drink and was about to lower himself onto the far end of the sofa when Gavin lifted the duvet and indicated the spot next to him.

Tom let himself to sink into the sofa's embrace, enjoying the warmth from the mug that soaked through his fingers.

"I haven't figured the heating out yet," Gavin said with a self-deprecating shrug. "It gets warm about 11pm."

"I'll take a look later," Tom said unthinkingly and then realised that sounded as if he were taking over, claiming control.  "If you'd like," he tagged on hurriedly.

Gavin nodded and dropped his gaze to stare at the steaming drink.  Tom waited until the tea was all gone before he instructed gently, "Tell me."

Gavin started with a shuddered sigh.  "It was a raid on a flat in one of the sink estates.  Not just drugs, everything.  Prostitution, the lot.  Kevin Miller was part of the ARU.  He shouldn't have been there.  His wife left him a while back; took the kids.  Came back, left again.  He was really messed up; they should have taken him off duty."

The words tumbled out, tripping over each other.

"But he's really tough, kept saying he was all right.  I'd been out with him for a drink after the last raid, ended up taking him home because he couldn't even walk.  His house was a tip, looked like he hadn't cleaned up in ages.  The way he was talking, sort of raving about her and the kids, it was frightening.  Next day I pulled him into the office, suggested he take some leave, that he see a counsellor.  He nearly punched me."

Gavin shuddered at the memory, closing his eyes and gripping the empty mug.  Tom unwound his fingers from round it and dumped it with his own on the floor.  He turned in the seat, moving closer so that Gavin's freezing toes were tucked under his leg.

"I talked to his senior officer about taking him off AR, but he's one of their best guys and he kept saying he would be fine.  And then this came up.  He insisted I cover him.  I told him I couldn't, wasn't experienced enough.  He wouldn't let me out of it.  My shooting is better than it was but ... guns still scare me stupid.  He was all sure of himself and strutting around.  We got there ... didn't expect much trouble.  He wanted to get killed.  I know he did.  We were in position, waiting in this godforsaken place and all of a sudden there's this kid next to me.  This little girl - no idea where she came from - saying 'Let me look at your gun, mister.'  I tried to get her to leave.  God, I tried.  So I wasn't looking when Miller went in before the order was given.  I swear I was trying to protect her.  I didn't know what to do."

Freezing fingers sought Tom's under the quilt and he gladly took them in his and squeezed.

"I told her to stay there, legged it after him.  I heard the shot.  I tried to get to him but....  Suspect came charging out and shoved me down the stairs.  By the time I got back up there, he was lying on the floor bleeding out.  I tried!  I tried to help him, Tom.  The rest of team came in.  I don't remember much for a while.  He went in there because he wanted to die.  He should never have been on the team.  He wanted to die.  Wanted to."

That's what he'd been saying.  Not 'I want to die' but 'he wanted to die'.  Relief ripped through Tom.

"Gavin, you did the right thing. You did everything you could."

He shook his head.  "It wasn't enough.  None of them would drive me to the hospital. Told me to get a cab."  Tom gaped at him and he shrugged.  "It wasn't bad.  Couple of broken ribs, sprained wrist.  Concussion."

"So why did they keep you in?  You discharged yourself yesterday but you should have been home sooner than that."

"Kept me overnight.  One of my colleagues came to see me the next morning, early.  Had a few words with me about what I should have done.  He... broke a couple of my fingers.  I... lost it.  They sedated me.  Every time... I woke up I… they said I started screaming.  So they kept me doped up.  I was sure they were going to section me.  I came to on Tuesday when Hickson came to see me.  I tried to tell him what had happened.  He said I was lying, that I broke my fingers when I fell down the stairs.  Fell, not pushed.  Like I was clumsy.  He told me not to talk to anyone.  Told me it would all come out in the investigation anyway.  My word against everyone else's.  He told me about the happy family Miller had had, how I'd been really against him from the start.  Said it was my fault he was dead.  I wouldn't let them give me more drugs.  Nothing.  Came home yesterday and I... I heard your message last night.  I...."  He finally looked up at Tom, silent tears on his cheeks.  "I wanted to talk to you so much."

"Why didn't you pick up the phone?"  He stroked the back of the un-bandaged hand with a gentle thumb, the movement soothing himself more than Gavin, he thought.

"I couldn't have told you on the phone. I was going to come down and see you when I was feeling up to driving.  I didn't know who else to talk to.  My career's fucked.  I can't stay here."

"You don't have to stay here, Gavin.  We'll handle this.  I'm sure the Chief Constable would be interested to hear about what happened."

"It's my word against theirs, Sir.  They've had all this time to cook something up."

"But you have the truth on your side."

Blue eyes met his and they were full of fear. "I've got you too, haven't I? On my side? You do believe me?"

"I am most definitely on your side.  I don't doubt anything you've said.  I know you and I know you did the right thing."  Gavin stared at him.  "It will be all right.  We can deal with this."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Hey, there's no need for that," Tom reached out, unthinking, and brushed a stray tear from Gavin's cheek and felt him freeze beneath his hand.  He knew he should back off, but the urge to offer this man some kind of comfort was overwhelming. 

His hand was slowly covered by the bandaged fingers.  Tom could see the two centre ones strapped together and the violent surge that rose in his chest shocked even him.

How dare they?  How dare anyone do this to him? 

Then Gavin's thumb caressed the fingers of his hand and all thoughts of vengeance were blown from his mind.

Gavin's knees formed a barrier between them that he couldn't cross and Tom had to content himself with the heat that curled through him from those points where their bodies touched, his thigh, their hands.

"I won't leave you here," he said quietly, determinedly.

Gavin's eyes flicked open.  There was a long silence, just the two of them staring at one another and then he shrugged and disentangled his hands, folding them across his chest, protecting himself.  "You have to.  You can't stay up here."

"Come back with me.  You can't go back to work in that team."  He could hear something approaching desperation in his own words.

"Tom," Gavin sighed in defeat.  "It's my job. I have to stay till it's sorted out."

"And then you'll come back?"  He wondered where the line was between protecting Gavin and his own selfish need to not let him go.  And for what?  What could he offer him?

Something more than this misery, at least.

"I ... don't know.  I don't know what to do."  Utter exhaustion seemed to have drained him.

Guilt rushed through Tom and he withdrew his hands.

"Let me make you some food.  You don't have to think about this now."

"Can't seem to think about anything else."

"Food and wine.  And sleep. Then you can think about it."

Tom stood up, tucking the duvet round Gavin and smiling at him.  It won him a small brief curl of a smile in return; the first since he'd arrived.  Definitely worth the journey.

As he headed round the sofa, cold fingers found his wrist and he looked down into tired eyes. "Stay tonight, please.  I don't want to be on my own."

"Of course."  He stroked the soft dark hair once as a substitute for the kiss he wanted to give.


~


Gavin consumed the omelette like a starving man and Tom thought he probably was.  "Another one?"

"No, thanks.  That was so good.  I can't remember the last time I ate.  But no more."

Tom opened the wine then.  He'd been careful not to feed it Gavin on an empty stomach, knowing the effect it would have.  He listened, relishing the 'glug' of the first glass being poured, relishing the way Gavin's eyes seemed to follow him as he tidied up the kitchen.  Relishing simply being near the man again, despite the circumstances.  Because of them.

"I need to get my things from the car," Tom told him as he ate pudding.

Gavin nodded, focussed on blotting up slivers of chocolate from silver foil.  He raised one finger to his mouth and Tom couldn't drag his eyes away from the strangely alluring sight of those lips curving round the digit and the slight hollowing of pale cheeks as Gavin sucked at it, unaware that he was being watched.

As he headed for the door, Tom was only just becoming aware of how much self-control he was going to have to acquire to get through the next few hours.  Gavin may have asked him to stay, was pleased to see him and definitely needed him there.  But it didn't mean that he felt anything more than an aching loneliness and a despairing need for comfort from an old friend.

"Tom."

He half-turned, smiling to hear Gavin saying his name. Whatever he wanted ... anything.

"Keys," he said and waved at the shelf by the door.

Tom swallowed and grabbed them.

On the way down in the lift he told himself firmly to pull himself together.  It wasn't fair to Gavin to try anything on.  Wasn't fair to Joyce either.

He pushed the door open, nearly into the face of the man standing on the outside of it fiddling with a bunch of keys.

"I'm sorry."

"Cheers mate."  The bloke grabbed the door and vanished inside instantly.  Tom looked after him; he didn't look like a resident of that building, bull-necked and slightly scruffy.

He shrugged, accused himself of being an eternal policeman, shivered once in the chill wind and headed for the car, ringing Joyce as he did so.

"How's Gavin?" were her first words.

"Not good.  He's a bit battered."

"Bring him back with you Tom.  He doesn't belong there.  We miss him.  Can't he come back with you?"

"Joyce..." he paused, unsure what to say in the face of her pleading.  He wanted nothing more than that, however it worked out, however impossible the situation might get.  "I don't know.  I'll talk to him about it tomorrow."

"He can stay with us if he needs to."

Tom was lost for a moment.  He had to grit his teeth to stop them chattering as the wind whipped down the street.

"I need to go love.  I'll ring you tomorrow and let you know what's happening."

"All right.  Bye, Love."

Tom dragged the bag from the boot and headed for the door.  As he searched through the selection of keys he kicked away the cigarette butt that stuck to his shoe. 

There were several of them and they hadn't been there when he'd arrived two hours ago.  He remembered the man who had pushed past him.  An old con trick.

Damn!

 In his haste he dropped the keys and had to start again.  He hadn't shut Troy's door. 

The last key he tried turned smoothly and he flung the door back, cracking it against the wall in his haste. 

'Come on, come on,' he told the lift uselessly.  The fire exit wouldn't open from this side - it had to be the elevator.  Silent doors slid open.  He leaned on the button.  Another delay.  Patience.  One second, maybe two.  They'd broken his fingers last time.  What would it be now?  

Surely the lift hadn't been this slow before. 

He recalled the layout.  The front door was directly opposite the lift.  If the door was open he'd have no element of surprise, depending on whether they heard him.  If Gavin was screaming, they wouldn't....  He banished the very idea.  He would have to play it by ear.

Slowing down, stopping.

The door was ajar, like he'd left it.  Maybe he was just being foolish and paranoid.  He put his bag on the landing and stepped quietly up.

"...who make mistakes.  I won't let a man who should never have been allowed to carry a weapon ruin my life.  I won't let you do it either."  Gavin, the man who two hours ago had been sobbing in his arms, sounded calm and collected.

"No?"  The tone was low and threatening and slow, heavy footsteps crossed the floor. 

Reflected in the window Tom could see Gavin standing by the counter.  Pride rushed through him when the young man didn't take a step back in the face of the oncoming threat.  He was taller than the intruder but looked slight in comparison to the bulky width that now challenged him from just inches away. 

"Couple of fingers is nothing, Gavin.  Steve said he could hear you screaming all the way down the corridor.  Not very tough are you?"

"I teach my officers to use their brains, not their fists." Tom pushed open the door and strolled across the floor.  The visitor fell back a swift two paces, curling his fingers, stepping light, ready to fight.  Tom glanced at Gavin and noticed the white knuckles gripping the surface.  Later he would tell him how proud he was of him.  "DCI Tom Barnaby, Midsomer CID."  He flashed his ID.  "And you are...?"

He was eyed up and down, assessed for his fighting strength and found wanting.  But being caught in the act of threatening an officer had definitely put this man on the back foot.

"Hickson.  DCI."

"Troy's superior.  In rank only apparently."  He kept his voice cool and waited.  Silence.  Not a complete fool.  "Can I suggest that Troy and I come into the station in the morning and we discuss this whole matter then?"

Hickson's nostrils flared.  He still wanted that fight he'd come for.  Tom noted the heavy coin ring on his right fist.  The damage that would do to a man's face....

"I think you should leave, don't you?"  He walked across and held the door wide.

The other man hesitated, but did turn and walk passed him, not meeting his eyes.

"Ten o'clock?" Barnaby asked politely.  Hickson shrugged, which he chose to take as acceptance. 

He watched him into the lift, watched the doors shut and then collected his bag from the hall.  Dropping it inside the door, he locked turned the key and shot the bolts, making sure Gavin could see and hear him doing it. 

When he turned back to the room, Gavin was watching him, still gripping the worktop.  Tom crossed the room in measured steps, not rushing anything.

"You stood up to him." 

Gavin nodded.

"I was proud of you."

"I knew you would come back.  I just had to wait till you arrived.  I saw the reflection in the window.  If you...." he swallowed.  "It was because you were there.  It's all for you."  He held Tom's gaze and neither of them looked away. 

Tom reached out and caught Gavin's bandaged left hand, lifting it to his lips.

"I wanted to kill him," he muttered, half against the tape. 

Cold fingers stroked the side of his face and Tom swallowed.  He could see the uncertainty in the blue eyes and something else too.

"Tom...?" 

He tried to say something but his throat was dry with desire.  When he licked his lips, Gavin's gaze leapt to his mouth.

"Oh God," said Gavin just before Tom kissed him. 

He had intended it to be gentle and unthreatening but the raw need in those two words destroyed the small restraint he had possessed. 

Fingers curled into his scalp.  He could taste the chocolate Gavin had been eating.

Tom wrapped one arm round the young man's waist, tangling the other in the short hair, holding him as close as he could, resenting the need to breathe, needing to be closer to him. 

"Stop!" The low cry was enough.  Tom dropped his hands, stepping away from the embrace.  However much he wanted this, he would never go one inch beyond any boundary Gavin set.

"I'm sorry."  He could hear his own ragged breathing, out of sync with that of the young man.  "I'm so sorry.  I ...." 

Helpless hands fluttered as Gavin leaned back against the counter, eyes closed, breathing out as soon as he could, "Ribs!" 

"Oh God, I'm sorry, I forgot."  Tom laid a tentative hand on the muscled shoulder, brushing the other down the smooth cheek.  All this and he'd still shaved.  The thought seemed oddly random.

Blue eyes, pupils dilated with passion and the dim light, met his own.

"You'll have to be gentle with me, that's all."  The curve of the kiss-swollen lips, sensuous and slow, made the heat leap in his belly. 

Gavin's fingers came up to entwine with his and their iciness on his skin made him draw in a breath.

"You're freezing."

"So take me to bed and warm me up." 

Tom found his hand released and Gavin headed for the sofa and grabbed the duvet.  As he made his way towards the bedroom he stopped and turned and Tom could see doubt clawing at his confidence.

"Tom?" 

He moved to be by his side.

"Yes."  An answer to so many questions they could ask later.


Tom was as gentle as he'd been asked to be.  He asked Gavin if he was sure for the third time in a row.  And with a nod the beautiful man who knelt astride him answered him with a smile and a kiss and slid down to impale himself on Tom's cock.


~


Gavin lay against him, finally warm.  The bandages on his fingers glowed a little in the dimness where they rested on Tom's chest, and Tom felt a sickening roll of rage at the memory of Hickson and what they'd done, would have done to Gavin.  What if he hadn't been here?

He was proud of being a policeman, proud of what they did, but today he wasn't proud of the force.  How had those men lost their ability to make judgements?  When had they become so much of a team that they'd stopped being coppers?

"Relax, Tom."  He could hear a smile in the quiet voice. 

"Sorry." 

The hair was soft beneath his lips when he pressed a kiss to it.  Tom traced a slow pattern on the length of Gavin's spine, fingers following the lines of the muscles. 

He could hardly believe this gorgeous man had wanted him.  He didn't know what he could offer him back in Midsomer, but now he would never let him stay here. 

Not with this team and these people. 

Tom knew about internal investigations; he knew how long they took, the recriminations, the publicity, the bitterness.  He wanted to protect Gavin from as much of it as he could and be there to support him when he couldn't.  At least he could offer him that.

The feel of Gavin's skin beneath his fingers and the weight of him against his side, his heat and his scent were almost overwhelming.  Tom tried to distract himself, to think about something else. 

A feathered caress across his hip and down his thigh made him suck in a breath.  Testing the water?  A kiss was pressed to his shoulder, his neck and then to his mouth.

"Tom."  Since when had his name sounded like a promise of sex?


~


Tom lay awake and watched the dawn creep into the room.  It was damp and grey and cold outside and he revelled in the warmth beneath the heavy duvet.

Gavin moved, snuggling into his embrace for a second before opening his eyes. 

The slow wash of guilt and horror in the blue gaze made Tom's blood run cold.  It was the tight grip of Gavin's fingers on his waist that held him in place, as if Tom was the one thing that would stop him falling.  He tightened his own grip, letting Gavin know that he was there. 

The horror wasn't for him; it was for today and what was to come.

The moments dragged on; Gavin's eyes closed and breathed deeply, evenly, in some kind of desperate effort to maintain control.  Tom revelled in the bite of nails in his f1esh and the knowledge that here he was needed here.

Eventually, with gentle fingers, he reached out and lightly stroked the smooth hair, watching him, putting his concern and affection in his eyes, hoping when Gavin saw it he would know without a doubt that he deserved it.

"I can't take away what they've done to you but I can help you heal, if you'll let me.  And I meant what I said last night, I won't leave you here.  No one needs me as much as you just now."

Two tears formed under Gavin's eyelids and he blinked them away, rising from the safety of Tom's embrace just enough to be able to look at him.

"Thank you," was all he could manage.

Tom's hand roamed his hair and throat, touching reverently.  "You stood up to him last night, you can again.  Today we'll sort this out and tomorrow I'm taking you home."

Tom was well aware of how he sounded.  But it seemed to him that Gavin just needed to hear that it was okay to leave and return to Midsomer.  There was no shame in it.

"You didn't fail."  What was it Joyce had said on the phone last night?  "You simply didn't belong." 

Gavin hesitated.  "They didn't give me chance to."

Tom ached for the young man he'd spent years helping mature into the confident copper who'd come up here filled with ambition and drive. 

A man they'd broken in so few months. 

He hated them for it. 

"Were you happy here, before the raid?" 

A quick shake of the head confirmed what he already knew.

"I wanted this... so much.  This was my dream for so long."  Gavin took a deep, shuddering breath and lay down again, his head against Tom's shoulder.

Tom tightened his arms across the bare skin, holding tight.  They'd destroyed all that as well as almost destroying Gavin.

"Don't let them take you too," he murmured his quiet plea.

Gavin didn't promise; maybe it was one he couldn't make.  That was all that scared Tom now.


~


Tom drove them to Middlesbrough CID so that they arrived just before 10am.  He'd already made a couple of phone calls that morning.

Gavin was a silent passenger throughout the journey; Tom glancing at him at every traffic light they stopped at.

Dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a black shirt and blue tie, the only outward sign of his turmoil was the bruising on his face and the fresh bandage on his hand.

But Tom could read the set of his shoulders, the way he held his head and stared blankly ahead out of the windscreen; scared but in no way showing it to the outside world.

Tom's thudding heart swelled with pride.  He loved this man so much and these people had hurt him so badly. 

He allowed the anger to fill him, keeping it just in check, in reserve in case he should need to call on it.

Nothing about the coming meeting was going to be easy.


They didn't speak as Tom parked in the Visitors car park at the front of the imposing building.  Neither did they speak as they walked from the car in through the entrance.  But Tom flanked Gavin, letting him lead while reassuring that he was there.

He followed as they climbed the wide, dull staircase without being stopped.  Tom noticed a few glances cast in their direction but didn't catch the remarks if any were made.

No one acknowledged them at all until Gavin pushed open a glass door halfway along the corridor at the top of the stairs.

"What the hell are you thinking, showing your face around here?"  The gruff question had come from a large man overwhelming a small desk to their left.

"I work here," Gavin stated calmly and continued though the open-plan office, heading for the smaller offices at the far end.

Tom heard someone else say ‘not for long’.  He didn’t know if Gavin had heard it or not, but if he had he didn’t react.  Once again he couldn't help but imagine what they'd have done to Gavin if he hadn't have come.  He hadn't trained his sergeant to deal with this kind of environment - had never thought he needed to - but for a man so out of his depth, Gavin Troy was far from drowning.

They stopped in front of a cheap wooden door and Tom glanced at the nameplate. 

DCI HICKSON

Gavin knocked twice and waited for his boss to shout, “Yes?” before opening the door and stepping inside.

Hickson's watery stare followed them in.

"I hope he's better back up than you were, Troy," he stated, looking slowly from him to Tom and back again.

Tom held back the sudden urge to punch the man.  His desperation to get Gavin home, to surround him in love and reassurance, increased with every passing minute he spent up here.  Why hadn't he come sooner?

'He was your sergeant, Barnaby,' the tiny voice in his head berated him, 'not your son.  Certainly not your lover.'

Hickson indicated the two chairs in front of his desk and Tom took his seat a second before Gavin, sensing the young man's hesitation.  Who could blame him?  How much more violence would he have been subjected to at this man's hands had Tom not....  He silenced the internal monologue.  It wasn't helping either of them.  He was here now.  That was all that mattered.

Only when he'd pulled his chair to up to the desk did Hickson introduce the man standing in the corner of the room, next to the dirty window.

"This is DI Burns, he was Miller's sergeant before his promotion.  And his friend."

"A character witness?"  The question from Gavin sounded to Tom like a tiny hiss of steam escaping under pressure.  He continued to stare at Hickson, glad to be by Troy's side.

Burns stepped forward.  "He was a good man."  The retort was spat back at them but he was halted by Hickson's hand going up.

"There will be a full investigation into the events of last Friday night," Hickson stated formally.

"Good."  Tom sat back a little.  "I assume it will be led by Internal Investigations."

"We deal with our own messes up here, Chief Inspector."

"I've seen how you 'deal' with things up here."  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gavin flinch just a little - not enough that the others would notice.

Hickson sat forward too, mirroring Tom's posture, large hands flat on the desk's surface. 

"One of my men is dead because of Inspector Troy."

Tom felt his rage build.  "Inspector Troy *is* one of your men," he pointed out steadily.  "You're as responsible for him as you were for...."

Hickson slammed his palms down hard against the polished wood.

"Two bairns are down one father, a young woman is a widow, thanks to him!  His incompetence has cost us the life of a valued copper."

Tom was on his feet in a heartbeat, fingers spread on the desk.  He leaned over, eyes flashing.  "That's enough."  His tone threatened something more than words and it stopped the tirade.  “We might not have an ARU in Midsomer but I know the rules and I know the regulations.  Who was Gold Commander that night?”

Hickson regarded him cautiously.

“All right, how about an easier one?  If I took a close look at Inspector Troy’s medical records from the last couple of days – which are, incidentally, now in safe keeping – what date would I find on the X-rays of his fingers?”

Sitting back, off the offensive, Hickson held Tom’s challenging stare.

“You’ll never prove he didn’t break them falling down the stairs.”  As the jeer crept into his tone he glanced at Gavin who glared right back.

“I don’t believe that’s how he sustained those injuries.  I also don't believe that he fell down those stairs.  He was pushed.  I know there was a witness to the whole incident.  And yes, I believe I can actually prove that his fingers were broken the day after he was admitted to hospital.  By you, in fact.”

Another glance at Gavin but Hickson bit back the obvious assault.

“Chief Inspector Barnaby,” he started carefully, after a deep breath and a moment's thought, “it’s obvious that Inspector Troy doesn’t fit in up here.  I’ll approve a transfer back down south and… we can forget about this.”

“No.”  Both men turned sharp looks in Gavin’s direction.  He looked directly at his boss.  “You blamed me for Kevin Miller’s death until you almost had me believing it.  But it wasn’t my fault.  I hadn’t even seen a gun before I came up here.  I wasn’t ready to back up anyone in an ARU, but Kevin wanted to die.  He was depressed.  His wife had left him taking the kids.”  Gavin took a deep breath.  “He wanted to die.”

"He didn't want to fucking die!"

"Burns.…"  Hickson's warning was ignored.

"I won't stand here and listen to a mate being insulted!  It should be you we're burying, Troy!  You useless piece of..."

"Not another word!"

"How dare you suggest...."

"Tom."  Gavin's hand on his arm and the quiet calm in his voice overrode his anger and he took a deep breath while Hickson stared back into the corner of the room.

“I won’t tarnish the name of a bloody good copper.”

“I’m not asking you to.  But I’m a good copper too, and I won’t have your mistake on my record.”

Hickson stared at him, a nasty expression on his face.  “You really think you can work in this team after what happened?”

Troy shook his head.  “No.  And I wouldn’t want to.  I’ll put in for that transfer.  I’ll leave your CID just like you want me to.  And then I’ll make a statement to Internal Investigations and they can take it from there.  Maybe you know some people in that department to bribe or blackmail but at least I won’t be one of them.”  He pushed his chair back and stood, Tom following suit.

Hickson watched him.  “What if I don’t approve the transfer?”

“Then I’ll go to the press with the truth about what happened.”

The nasty expression turned up into an equally malicious smile.  “Not above a little blackmail yourself, Troy?”

Gavin shook his head slowly.  “Not if it gets me out from under people like you.”

They were the last words spoken in that office for many minutes.  Tory said a flat goodbye and walked out, Tom – feeling slightly surplus and glad of it – followed without a word.

They were half way across the open plan floor of Middlesbrough CID when they heard something smash behind them, the sound muffled by the glass walls of Hickson’s office.  Troy glanced over his shoulder and Tom grinned at him.

Once back in the car, Tom let his pride shine on his face.  But Gavin just sat staring through the passenger window.

“How are you feeling?” Tom asked as they sat in the car park.  “What are you feeling?”

“I don't know.  Numb mostly.  This was a dream.  I thought Middlesbrough was the only place I’d ever want to call home.  And… if it hadn’t been for Hickson it might have worked out that way.”  He took a deep breath and released it.  “Can we get out of here?”

Tom nodded and started the engine.

They were half way back to the apartment when Gavin asked in a quiet voice, “What now?”

Tom glanced over.  Through the expression on Troy's face he could see that the confidence and brevity that had got him through the interview with Hickson was gone, replaced by uncertainty and a false realisation that he didn’t belong anywhere.

“Now I make four phone calls and tomorrow I take you home.”  He stopped at some traffic lights, mentally ticking off the numbers.  “Maybe five calls.”

~

Troy made coffee while Tom used his phone. 

His first call was to a storage company in Causton.  He agreed a time for them to come up – 9am the following morning – to clear the apartment and pack up Gavin’s things.  Tom explained it was mostly boxes which were already packed.  Or rather, hadn’t been unpacked since their last move.  They'd be taken into storage for now.

Troy had taken the apartment furnished – most of the stuff wasn’t his.  Bed, suite, oven, fridge, even the television and DVD player were rented.  The only things he owned that would need boxing up were his separates system and speakers, a couple of gadgets in the kitchen, bedding, clothing and CDs.

Tom’s next call was to Gavin’s letting agent.  They weren’t quite as helpful, telling him that Troy would have to go in to sign some papers.  There would also be an ‘early termination of contract’ fee.  Tom said he’d bring a cheque and arranged an appointment at two that afternoon.

Call number three was to Joyce.  He explained briefly that he would be home the following afternoon and he would be bringing Troy back with him.  She was relieved and concerned all at once and he reassured her that they were working things out slowly but that Gavin needed some TLC.  Even as he said it he knew their definitions of the phrase would differ considerably.  But right now he couldn't allow himself to ponder on that.

He asked her to collect some details on places to rent in and around Causton and while she promised to do so that very afternoon, she also said she would make up the spare bed for Gavin while he was looking for somewhere to live.

It was a minefield Tom didn’t even want to think about but there wasn’t much choice and he was already starting to fantasise about late nights sitting up drinking whiskey and talking with his much-missed friend.

After returning Joyce’s words that she loved him, Tom hung up and replaced the phone in its cradle.  Even with Troy getting changed in the bedroom he still took his mobile and stepped just outside the apartment to make calls four and five.

It was almost half an hour before he stepped back inside.  Troy, back in his old blue woollen sweater and blue jeans, was padding around the kitchen making sandwiches from the loaf Tom had brought the previous evening and a block of cheddar he’d found in the fridge.

Tom stood just outside the kitchen with a mug of coffee wondering if watching was akin to voyeurism. 

Only when they were ensconced on the sofa with plates of sandwiches did Tom explain about the storage van coming up from Causton in the morning, the appointment with his letting agent that afternoon and Joyce’s offer to make up the spare bed.

Troy’s eyes flicked up to meet his own when he mentioned the spare bed in Tom’s family home but he didn’t say anything.  Instead he asked about the calls Tom had stepped out to make.

“I wanted to speak to my Chief Constable.  And I had to check on my sergeant, make sure he was holding the fort.”  Tom lied smoothly.

Nodding slowly Troy put his plate of untouched sandwiches onto the wooden floor.

“You’re not a failure,” Tom reiterated, correctly interpreting the dejected sigh.

 “So why do I feel I’m going back to Midsomer with my tail between my legs?”

“You’re not.  You’re coming home.  If you were a failure, the Chief Constable in Causton wouldn’t want you back, would he?”  Troy looked at Tom, the smallest glimmer of hope in his tired eyes.  “He told me we’re understaffed anyway, for such an… active CID.”  Putting down his own plate, Tom reached for Gavin’s uninjured hand.  “I want you back in Midsomer.  I know… this - what’s between us - won’t be easy.  I don’t know if I can give you everything you need from it.  But… I want you home.  I want you near me.  I want to share at least a part of my life with you.  And I need… I need to know you’re safe and for you to know it.  It’s selfish but I don’t care.”

Closing his fingers around Tom’s hand, feeling the warmth and gentleness in the fingers, Troy shook his head.  “I wanted to come home months ago.  But I didn’t want to admit I’d made a mistake.  I couldn’t, it was too soon.”

“I kept wanting to ask you.  Reading your emails, you sounded so very lonely.”

“What’s your new sergeant going to think?”

“Nothing, unless he wants to start applying for transfers himself.  I think he might be happy up here actually.  He’s from the Met, he’s used to this kind of environment.”

”Stronger than me, you mean.”

“No, I do not mean.”  Glancing at the clock on the front of the DVD player, he changed the subject.  “How long will it take for us to get into town?”

Troy shrugged.  “Half an hour?”

He said cheerfully, “Then we’d better go.”


~


Despite being male, the letting agent reminded Tom ridiculously of Miss Beauvoisin who owned and ran the estate agency in Causton.  But the setting couldn’t have been more different.

He thought perhaps it was the dull weather, the drizzle of the cold rain and the ever-present fog, but it was a depressing city.

He suddenly, keenly felt the distance between Midsomer and Middlesbrough.  Three hundred miles felt like a million.  He might as well have been on a different planet.

Midsomer looked beautiful even in the rain.  Even when it was stormy the green of the trees stood out against the iron-grey clouds.  And if he closed his eyes he could imagine the sounds of water drops on leaves and fast running streams swollen by rainfall.  He’d never considered himself a poetic person but he’d be the first to admit it was something the Midsomer villages brought out in him.

He realised he was biased.  As he followed Troy’s directions into the city centre, he tried to imagine it with the sun shining but found he couldn’t.  He hated the place simply by association.  As stupid and irrational as he knew it was to blame a city for the behaviour of a couple of its inhabitants, he couldn’t help it.

The agent was as awkward as he’d sounded on the phone.  Troy signed the paperwork and ignoring his protests, Tom handed over a cheque for eight hundred pounds.  If that was the financial cost of getting Gavin back, so be it.  The other costs were much, much higher.

As they stepped out of the agent’s office they turned to one another and Troy smiled.  The sentiment didn’t quite reach his eyes but it was a start.  “Thanks.  I’ll pay you back.”

“It doesn’t matter, Gavin.”  He glanced up and saw the pub opposite.  “How about a pint and some grub?”

This smile was definitely forced.  “My sandwiches not good enough?”

“I don’t know, you were the one who didn’t eat them.”  Casually, he threw his arm around Gavin’s shoulders, keeping the contact easy and light.  Neither of them had mentioned what had happened last night yet.  It was all entwined with this place and Tom couldn’t help but wonder if they could take it home.


Conversation in the pub had been mostly Tom talking and Troy listening.  He'd asked about life in Midsomer and Tom had outlined a few of the more unusual cases he and Scott had dealt with while, as he put it, Gavin had been away. 

As he got further down the pint glass, he talked more about his miserable relationship with Scott, how much he missed Gavin dropping in for breakfast or supper - the easy friendship they'd shared, how Gavin had been a part of his life.

He didn't want to get maudlin, yet some of it felt like begging.  He might have done, he thought, eventually.  Maybe he'd pushed Troy into moving back down south, taken the young man's life into his own hands.  But, Tom told himself with very little certainty, if Gavin had been happy here he would have let go, would have left him to lead the life he'd chosen for himself.

The cynical voice inside his head jeered but he wilfully ignored it.

Just watching Gavin try to eat with a knife and fork, taped fingers hampering his progress, brought out the worst kind of protective steak in him.  The need to get him back to Midsomer where he belonged and away from the big, bad city was almost overwhelming and yet he knew he was being irrational.  Gavin was a grown man who could look after himself; these circumstances would have broken anyone. 

Hadn't Gavin said he'd never been happy here?  How long had the bullying gone on?  Was that why he'd never got to a football match?  Was that why he'd never got round to unpacking and settling down here?

"Tom...."  There was a warning underlying Gavin's tone and Tom realised his expression must have changed to reflect his thoughts.

"Sorry."

"We'd better get back, I've got some packing to do and I think I'm going to need a hand." 

It took Tom a couple of moments to realise the attempt at humour by which time Gavin was no longer smiling.


~


They got back to the apartment around four and despite everything that he knew of and that which he only suspected Tom still couldn't believe the sight that greeted them.

Someone had gone through the place like a hurricane. 

The boxes that Gavin had left untouched for months were now open, contents spewed out across the wooden floor.  The television was smashed, lying screen-down on the stained rug in front of it.  From the doorway he could see the havoc wreaked in the kitchen - from the state of the floor he guessed that almost everything made of glass had been broken.

For a second all he could hear was the rush of his own blood as a hot fury seethed through him.  And then he thought of Gavin.  He’d had left his side and headed for the bedroom door.  Belatedly Tom realised it was a bad idea but he was only in time to hear Gavin's sharp intake of breath and the low moan of despair that followed it.

As Tom approached he didn't need to see it.  He could smell it.

Sliding his arms around Gavin's shoulders he gathered the young man against him, holding him as he shook.  Tom felt fingers claw at his shirt, gripping the material so tight he thought it might rip under the strain.

But there were no tears.  Just the terrible sounds of a man losing his already pitiful grip on a precarious existence.

Tom petted him gently; long strokes up and down his back, carding strong fingers through his short hair.  He murmured nonsensical words of comfort, trying to subdue his own anger.

After a long, long time, Gavin pulled back a little and Tom let him go, keeping a loose hold on his arms.  Tom looked into the churning dark of the blue eyes, trying to make some sense of the storm of emotions that he saw there.  And failing.

When Gavin turned Tom let his hands drop.

He watched for a second or two, watched Gavin crouch by one of the toppled boxes and pick up a couple of the CDs strewn across the floor.

Then he took out his mobile and dialled 999.

The girl in the control room was suspicious about a man claiming to be a Detective Chief Inspector, but as Tom spoke and his warrant number plus Troy's address validated his claim, her attitude changed subtly and she promised him an officer would be with him in half an hour.

Initially he didn't consider any kind of forensics.  Then he remembered one of Troy's emails, saying that they weren't allowed near a crime scene until SOCO had been and he made an additional request of the girl in the control room, asking her name before he hung up.

Then he moved to crouch next to Gavin in the middle of the living room.

"I'm sorry," he murmured uselessly. 

"At least I wasn't here," Troy responded, voice quiet.  "I won't ever be safe again up here, will I?"

"I don't know if they'd hurt you now that Internal Investigations has been briefed.  They might be able to pin this on the common garden vandal, but you standing in front of an investigation board with more injuries than you had when you confronted Hickson would look considerably worse for them."

"If I could still tell anyone what happened."

Tom felt a cold chill in his stomach.  What would they have done?  He put a hand on Troy's back more to steady himself than Gavin.  "Where's your phone book?"

Troy didn't even glance.  "Under the houseplant," he replied.  Tom looked.  He'd missed it in his initial check.  Hickson - or whoever he'd sent to do this, Burns possibly - had knocked over Gavin's only plant, the one Joyce had given him as a leaving gift.

Not wanting to put anything right until SOCO had been, Tom rose to gingerly rescue the Yellow Pages from the spilt soil, shook it off and thumbed through to 'Hotels'. 

"Once they've been we'll pack up then I'll check us into a hotel somewhere for the night."

"You think they'll come back?"  The fear he was trying so hard to hide sang in his voice.

"I doubt it.  They've made their point.  But just in case, is there anything you need to take with you?  Anything that means too much to lose?"

Photographs, he thought, memories locked in pictures or items kept over from his childhood.  He was surprised when Gavin's slim fingers curled around his forearm.  "You," came the simple reply.

For a moment, Tom thought he might shed a tear or two.  He covered Gavin's hand.  "I'm not leaving you," he whispered, repeating his promise from the previous night.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door at which Gavin froze under Tom's touch.  "It's all right," he reassured before calling out, "Who is it?"

"SOCO, Sir.  Reporting to a Chief Inspector Barnaby."

Still cautious, he was relieved to open the door to a very well equipped team of a man and a woman.  Her eyes widened at the mess.

Tom quickly explained the layout of the apartment - the bedroom through the wide doorway and the en suite bathroom through that.  He wanted anything they could get - fingerprints, boot prints, blood type, the lot.


Gavin didn't want to think about that.  He sat in the corner of the room, in the armchair that he'd pulled up to the picture window one night several miserable weeks ago to look out over the city in hopes he could find some sort of peace here.  And he stared again out at the dreary day while three strangers went through the material things that made up his life.

He let Tom deal with them, let him deal with the two uniforms that arrived ten minutes later too - a WPC and a sergeant.  Something in Tom's attitude and rank had brought out the best in the Middlesbrough Constabulary.  He knew in his heart that it wasn't fair to paint the entire force with the tainted brush he held for CID.  But his heart was aching just now and it was difficult to forgive what had been done to him, his career and his dreams.


Troy spoke to the WPC, giving his statement while Tom explained the whole story to the sergeant.

They were gone within the hour, taking with them what little evidence they'd found.  But it wasn't evidence Tom wanted.  He'd called them out to let Hickson know that nothing he did to Troy from now on would go un-remarked.

Afterwards, Tom and Gavin tidied up.  Tom stripped the bed and threw the bedding in the trash while Gavin repacked the boxes, rescuing a photograph from a frame that had been smashed, a couple of CDs from cases broken in half.

Then they moved into the kitchen, Gavin clearing up the smashed glass while Tom boxed the microwave, toaster and kettle.

An odd sort of peace descended, so that when Gavin suddenly cried out, Tom's heart missed a beat.

Tired and in pain, his hand slipped from the cloth he was using and a clear glass shard had embedded itself in his skin and turned slowly red.

Without fuss, Tom put arm around his waist, supported his injured hand and led him to the sink where he started the steady flow of luke-warm water and let it clean the wound. 

Tom looked at the glass in Troy’s palm, assessed it, then glanced at Gavin.  And in the same moment, Gavin pulled the shard from his hand.

“No…!”  But it was too late.  Blood flowed from the deep cut as freely as the water from the tap and Tom immediately pressed the heel of his palm to Troy’s, applying pressure.  “Have you got a first aid kit?”

He shook his head.  “There’re… plasters… in the bathroom.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough.”  Looking around, he reached for a tea towel and one-handed he folded it into a temporary bandage.  “So, where’s the nearest hospital?”


~


Doped up on painkillers, Troy barely kept his eyes open on the journey between Middlesbrough General Hospital and Redmarshall, where Tom had booked two double rooms in the Star Inn.

He settled Gavin into one of the rooms and kissing his forehead even as he fell asleep, he murmured, unheard, that he loved him, before leaving him to get some rest while Tom went to get a beer in the quiet bar downstairs.

He chatted to the barman for a time before moving off to sit in a corner, enjoy his beer and think about the situation he was creating. 

First and foremost in his mind was Troy’s physical and mental state.  He couldn’t get the young man out of Middlesbrough fast enough as far as he was concerned but he had to make sure his needs weren’t entirely selfish.  He’d wanted Gavin back before all this had happened and although he knew without a doubt he hadn’t been responsible for the trauma that had brought them here he knew he was using it to his own advantage.

Was being whisked back to the safety of Midsomer really the best thing for Troy?  Was protecting him from the trauma of an internal investigation for his own sake or from Tom’s, simply because he couldn’t stand to see Gavin in pain?

Nothing had been the same since he’d left.  Having Scott at his side didn’t feel right.  He longed to turn and see the happy smile and bright blue of Gavin’s gaze.  It was something he wanted so much he couldn’t be completely sure he wasn’t doing this entirely for the best motives.

Turning his head to stare unseeing out of the window Tom thought about Gavin sleeping upstairs, dark head on the white pillow, broken and bandaged fingers rested comfortably on the thick duvet, maybe finding the first peaceful sleep he’d had in over a week.  Tom knew the depth of his feelings for Gavin.  He just wasn’t sure of Gavin’s for him.

Not for a second did he imagine or even want the young man’s feelings to be the same.  Troy had his career and his life in front of him and as much as he wanted to be a part of that he couldn’t – wouldn’t – be it all.  He knew in his heart he’d never give up Joyce, however strongly he felt about Gavin, however much he loved him.

Taking a deep breath he finished off his pint, ordered a second and too it up to their rooms, quietly opening the door of Gavin’s.  He hadn’t shifted an inch from where he’d been sound asleep in the middle of the large double bed when Tom had gone downstairs.  He didn’t even twitch as Tom closed and locked the door behind him and sat down on the cushioned window seat.

It had surprised Tom – albeit pleasantly – to find the peace and quiet of the small village so close to the chaos of Middlesbrough’s city centre.  Troy wasn’t the only one to have been under stress over the last couple of days.  Sitting with his back against the protruding wall his eyes dropped closed and he too fell asleep surrounded by the familiar sounds of country life.


When he opened his eyes again and turned his head from the sodium-yellow lit view of the road and village shop below, he was being watched.  Gavin had woken and rolled onto his side.

Tom smiled.  “Hey, how long have you been awake?”

“Not long.  You don’t look comfortable.”

Sitting up and popping his spine back into alignment, Tom rubbed his shoulder.  “First proper night’s sleep I’ve had in a while,” he explained.

“Same here.”

Rising to his feet, Tom dropped to his knees next to the bed and reached to cover Gavin’s uninjured hand with his own.  “Hungry?” he murmured, keeping his eyes locked with Troy’s, refusing to let them flick to the full lips or long neck.

Gavin curled his long fingers around Tom’s hand.  “Yes.”  It was obvious he wasn’t talking about food.  Tom swept his other hand over Gavin’s hair, taking a single, unsteady breath.  “Stop looking at me like that.  I’ll be all right, thanks to you.”

“You need time, you need to recover and I feel like… like I’m taking advantage.”

“You’re not.”  Pushing himself up on his elbow, Troy leaned across, closed the gap and kissed Tom’s mouth. 

He may have been feeling guilty but he truly believed Gavin’s mouth would tempt a monk.  He couldn’t resist him, couldn’t refuse him.  Instead he climbed onto the bed, still kissing his lover’s welcoming mouth.

Gavin dropped onto his back, inviting the advantage Tom thought he was taking of him.

Tom looked at him, awed by the need in his expression, by the blaze of love in his eyes.  “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered.

And Gavin told him with absolute certainty, “Take me home.”


~

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