They went to the press. They had to, or so Bright had said when he’d joined Morse and Peter at the hospital just as the injured man was being admitted for the night, or Deare’s “friends in high places” would be quick bury the truth in order to keep the mud from staining them when it started flying. So Morse called in a favour.
He hadn’t meant to come here. Not again. And yet, here he was stumbling along the pavement towards Doctor Fairbridge’s house. What was he going to do? He didn’t know.
Peter noticed the changes to the board as soon as he entered the squad room. The photograph of George’s ‘A4’ tattoo had been moved and placed beside a photograph of the rosary that had been found in the caravan that George had been using as a hiding place. A note, in Morse’s handwriting, had been pinned up between them. Link – The Three Musketeers.
Peter was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming. And yet, somehow, that didn’t make it any less terrifying.
Blenheim Vale loomed over him, even more dark and imposing in his mind than it ever had been in reality, and between one blink and the next he was inside, the door slamming shut. “Hello, Peter.”
Entering the morgue a couple of paces behind Morse who in turn entered a couple of paces behind Bright and Thursday they were greeted by the sight of Dr DeBryn carefully laying a strip of cloth across Geo…across the body resting on the metal table so as to keep Geor…to keep the corpses dignity intact even in death.
1966 It took him a couple of moments upon waking to figure out what had woken him almost a full hour before his alarm was due to go off, the fog of sleep still clogging all of his senses. In fact it was only after he’d brought his hands up to rub at his eyes, pausing just in time. His hands were on fire.
1952. Peter wanted to go home. Sliding out of the car when he was told to, his feet crunching on the gravel of the driveway, he gazed fearfully up at the largest building he’d ever seen. It was grey, as though all of the colour had been sucked out of it a long time ago, with imposing windows that seemed to be filled with ghostly shadows.
As Peter slipped into the squad room at Cowley CID (Criminal Investigations Department) he was met by Morse, his beautiful wings pulled in tightly to his back over that awful coat that he insisted on keeping despite the fact that the thing was literally falling apart at the seams. “We’ve got reports of a missing boy. Tommy Cork?”
Years spent in and out of institutions designed to “correct” the “errors of his ways” had Peter responding to his alarm clock not by ignoring it, as most would, but immediately throwing off the covers and rising from his bed, stretching his arms above his head in an attempt to get rid of the aches and pains in his back caused by his tired, lumpy mattress. A particularly loud pop from his lower back brought with it a feeling of relief, a large chunk of the unpleasant pressure within his spine easing off, and a brief spark between his fingers…
It had been an accident. The fire, that is. Peter hadn’t meant for it to happen. It just had. “That freak tried to kill me!” “Colin! Please! He’s just a boy!” His parents, well, his mum and his step-dad, had been arguing ever since…
An investigation into a runaway boy, a dead journalist and an escaped convict brings the past, a past he had struggled so long to bury, back to the surface for Detective Sergeant Peter Jakes…