Warnings for slight PTSD, trauma, (canon) Morse-whump at the end, and spoilers for Coda (3.4) and Canticle (4.2).

All the standard disclaimers apply: Endeavour belongs to ITV, and I'm just borrowing it for a while. Some dialogues are Russell Lewis'.

All my deepest thanks to my Beta Penny (TimeLord98). Without her help and input, this fic would not be online.

For Mud_Lark who got me writing again.
For jokeperalta, Creya, Pink_Dalek, CuriousNymph, JustATinyTurtle and all the writers who enchanted me with their Joan and Endeavour fics.

There's no real magic in this world, only love, the rest are just smokes and mirrors.

Endeavour Morse.(Ride.)

Heist Day Eve: Morning

'You're right…'

Joan Thursday's murmur of assent brings an immediate response to Morse's lips, but this smugness doesn't linger for long. Her next sentence takes care of it.

'It's not your place to say,' she snaps and, turning on her heels, she leaves him stranded in the middle of the hall of the Wessex Bank, looking like an idiot.

Or so she hopes.

How dare Morse scold her as if she were ten? She has enough of that at home. With Sam gone off to the Army, she has no need for a phony replacement perfecting an older brother routine. No, thank you very much.

Whom she dates is her own business: Paul Marlock is glibly fun, fast talking and displays the kind of charm she enjoys. And if she wants to be taken advantage of—ever so slightly—it's her private business, not Morse's, damn it!

Hoping that Morse is watching her, Joan breezes as disdainfully as she can across the hall. As she slips behind the counter, Gillian whispers, 'Who's the gorgeous one?'

'Which one?' asks Joan, swiftly looking around. 'Where?'

No one could remotely match her colleague's description. Morse is exiting the Bank, stiffened back and all—'Good, score one for you,' her brain happily chips in—a woman with a toddler in a pram is chatting with an older man, and two average-looking blokes are approaching the counter.

Seeing her blank look, Gillian giggles. 'The one you were talking to, silly!'

'Oh, him! No one, just a customer.'

'How come you always get all the nice-looking ones?' Gillian's tone is on the side of wistful.

'I don't,' mutters Joan, as one of the two ordinary men reaches the opposite side of the counter, his face already broadcasting the question he's about to ask her.

Another day as usual at the Wessex Bank in 1967, Joan thinks gloomily.

The Kibbutz brochure advertises sun, sea, hard work, change of scenery and adventures aplenty.

Joan leafs through the pages half-heartedly, wondering what their previous allure was. Was their appeal once so entrancing that she has really considered exiling herself in a land about which she knew almost nothing? Uprooting was hard, Mary Bigot had confided to her. Yet, her friend had been willing enough to follow her fiancé to a new country where she would build her own home. She had almost enticed Joan to join them.

However, Joan has no one to follow in Israel; merely a pull coming from a mounting sense of inadequacy and her daily restlessness. Life in Oxford has become so stifling that sometimes she feels ready to scream at the most inappropriate moments. There's no remedy for it. No one in town would understand what she really feels or what she craves. All the more, since she doesn't know herself what the trouble is. She just wants something to happen. Anything.

Something that will spell change and a new momentum.

Something that would shake her out of the comfortable, stifling cocoon that encases and defines her.

Something that would ease her father's yoke—a father more irascible than usual these days, gone short-tempered under the black spell of an interminable cold—and her mother's warm care whose compliance now grates on her nerves.

In Oxford, Joan will forever be limited by her family, she knows. Being labelled 'copper's daughter,' 'Fred Thursday's little girl.' What he wanted her to be, the ideal offspring, drawn up by a forceful, protective father. Not a person in her own right, with her experiences to make, her path to choose or her own boyfriends to pick up. She has never relied on her own strength for anything. Fred Thursday takes care of it first.

No guy will try and put his hand up her skirt even with her tacit permission. No guy who happens to meet Fred Thursday first, anyway. To be honest, Jakes did try, but she just wasn't that interested.

Even her present job is probably a by-product of her father's reputation. What a better resume for a bank cashier than being Oxford City Police DI Thursday's daughter? No way would she give any crook entrance to the vault!

The glossy paper gets blurry, and she starts when Gillian whispers urgently, 'Look sharp, Joanie!'

Swiftly, Joan bends and hides the leaflet under the counter. From the corner of her eye, she sees Mr. Fordyce escort Mr. Mason out. Bouncing on his heels like a rooster, the manager surveys the two young women standing stiffly at their post. The slightly mechanical smile Joan flashes at him doesn't convince him in the slightest of her innocence. Frowning, he goes back to his office.

'I really must find myself another job or soon. They'll find me frozen rigid in the same spot at five,' Joan thinks. 'They'll have to wheel me out, feet first.' She smothers a smile at the preposterous image.

Beside her, Gillian is making a show of turning the pages of the cash record register. Joan focuses on the sheaf of forms before her, when an elongated shadow sweeps over her hands.

Out of habit, she raises her face with a polite smile. It widens into a welcoming one that brings a knowing grin to Gillian, clearly reminiscing their outing last night at the Bingo Hall. Hastily reorganising her face into the blandest welcoming expression she can paste on, Joan goes through the motions of taking Paul Marlock's check and fetching the cash he asked for.

She takes her sweet time, stretching this unexpected moment into the next minutes, letting his dimples lighten the space between them. Paul bends over to scribble his name, all the while chattering about the date Joan half-expected. She nods fractionally, her ponytail swinging happily.

At least, the day won't be entirely wasted.

Heist Day: Morning

As she hurries across the Wessex Bank rear entrance, Joan skids to an abrupt halt, brushing against Ronnie Gidderton. She smiles apologetically at him, then more widely to Gillian. Morning greetings fly back and forth. Gillian is already at her desk, methodically compiling her workload of the day. But she seems to have been slightly late too, which mitigates her own tardiness. No wonder Ronnie Gidderton looked at her half-disapprovingly. Joan hastens to put her handbag away and to get busy with her early morning tasks.

It promises to be another of those days.

'I must be psychic!' she muses a quarter of an hour later, as she watches Morse cross the hall with long strides. 'What's he doing here? Keeping a tab on me? People will talk.'

No, they won't.

Relieved, Joan keeps on filling her cashbox with bills while keeping an eye on him. Morse must still be smarting from their previous repartee, as he doesn't spare a look in her direction as he passes by. Instead, he is quite focused on a woman at the other end of the hallway: a buxom blonde, whose dress is stretched as far as it can across curves owing as much to Nature's gifts as to a push-up bra. The woman is conspicuously vulgar, but it doesn't detract from her obvious attraction. The way Morse is engrossed in her, he's clearly already under her spell.

Joan snorts, but the sound is drowned in sudden pandemonium.

The entrance door slams open. Through it, three masked and armed men burst into the morning tedium, yelling, 'Alright! Nobody move!' Their next sentence does state the obvious. 'This is a robbery!'

Joan freezes, as one of them nimbly jumps on the counter before her, revolver in hand, amid the shrieks of the customers. From the corner of her eyes, she sees Mr Gidderton slowly rise from behind the desk where he has been advising a now panic-stricken looking couple.

Sweat begins to gather on the nape of her neck while her legs feel like pillars of ice, yet her hand slowly inches towards the panic button hidden under the mahogany edge of the counter. As furtive as it is, it does not pass unnoticed.

'Hands where I can see 'em! Step away from the counter!' is the next command flung at her.

One of them is now standing on the mahogany, aiming his revolver at her, his vantage point allowing him to watch her every gesture, while another guy also aims in her direction.

Joan gasps and backs away, slowly raising her arms in surrender, her legs finding new life as she does so. Gillian's loud, panting breathing confirms that she is close by.

One of the men comes closer, growling, 'What are you doing?' The same icy shine glints in his eyes and the deadly thing he holds. Mesmerised, she stares at it with widening eyes.

'Stop!' Morse's urgent voice breaks her trance. 'Stop!'

In the blink of an eye, the barrel of the gun swivels around to him. Morse slowly takes a step back, head still held high, as if his stance alone could fend off a dangerous animal. No such luck.

'Don't look at me!' A powerful blow from the weapon underscores his meaning on Morse's cheekbone. He crashes to the floor. Women scream—Joan among them.

'Get down on the floor!' commands the robber, accenting the move with his weapon. Hurriedly, the hapless bystanders kneel or sit down. Morse is already slumped on the tiles, holding his face with both hands, which prevents Joan's frantic eyes from seeing what damage was done.

The bloke who seems to be in charge adds with a dry chuckle, emphasizing his words with a curt gesture of his gun, 'Do exactly as you're told, and no one will get hurt.' He looks pointedly at Joan, sneering. 'In five minutes, it'll all be over.' Ripples of warmth and ice creep up her spine.

She soon learns what she has to do.

At a fast pace, Joan, Gillian, and a female customer throw bills pell-mell into a holdall, under the impatient promptings of the leader. 'Put the money in the bag!' was a command that left no space for hesitation, but their hands are shaking so much that they have to aim carefully at the aperture.

Still, it isn't enough, as it soon becomes hideously obvious. Mr. Fordyce has to lead two of the robbers to the safe. They disappear through the corridor, the remaining gunman urging them, with increasing tension, to fill the bag faster. Joan's fingers ache from the strain, and she throws the last bills in with unabashed relief.

They no sooner complete their task than a swift arc from the weapon signals them to join the rest of the hostages huddled in a row. Joan manages to kneel next to Morse, now sporting a crimson mark on his cheekbone; his alert eyes, the only thing alive in his face, probing something she knows not what. Settling down, she breathes deeply in and out, fighting her urge to find shelter behind her father's bagman, and focusing instead on the shifts of colours on the tiles produced by obsessive cleaning. Maybe they just have to wait it out. Maybe they'll be all right. She feels detached from her own body, as if every second overflows into minutes.

Coming from the street outside, the bang of a sudden shot, followed in quick succession by screams, is a shock. She edges closer to Morse. Swivelling on all fours, facing the door with quivering nostrils, he goes a shade paler, and his head tilts as if he were trying to hear what goes on outside. Then, reluctantly, he settles back. Their eyes briefly meet. Joan tries to swallow, but her throat is too tight. Behind them, Buxom Woman gasps out loud.

Right on cue, Mr. Fordyce enters the hall, sandwiched between his escorts, and looking as terrified as she feels. For the first time since their barging in, anxiety stiffens the frame of the robbers.

'Talk to me, Tommy. What's going on?' their leader barks, striding through the hall toward his last accomplice.

Joan stops straining to see impossibly past the frosted glass door—her unquenched curiosity paralleled by nearly all the onlookers—and looks at him.

Tommy answers furiously, 'It's the kid. He's shot a copper!'

Unexpectedly, Joan lets out a hiccup and hastily swallows it. Uncertainly, Gillian's hand searches for hers; the faint handclasp Joan returns is as clammy and icy. Incredulous, unspoken messages go between the clustered hostages, the cold of the floor spreading into their faces.

'He's done what?' As if once weren't enough, the leader screams it again. He grabs his informant's arm roughly, shaking him.

Without thinking, Joan lets go of Gillian and clutches at Morse's arm, anchoring herself. He holds her gaze for a short while—her paralysed horror mirrored in his eyes—but otherwise seems oblivious of her. Taking a deep breath, Joan forces her fingers open and spreads them back on her thigs. A thin rivulet of sweat begins running beneath them, making her nylon tights itchy.

She's distracted from the rising awareness of her physical discomfort by an amplified voice. So focused was she on her assumed composure, that she has missed the beginning of the sentence.

'…Chief Superintendent Reginald Bright of the City Police. To whoever is inside the Wessex Bank, you are completely surrounded by armed officers.'

As Bright repeats his ultimatum, the gunmen slowly peel their masks off. The taller man hurls it to the ground, the stripping of his disguise displaying the beginning of a beard and a wide forehead over ferret-like eyes. The ugly thing with the rotund metal eyeholes nearly lands on Gillian's knees. She lets out a tearful gasp and shrinks onto herself. Joan's heart sinks. Inexperienced as she is in Police stuff, she knows what this uncovering means.

It isn't lost to Morse either. Acutely conscious of his responses, Joan's hand–which has resumed its previous place, clutching at his arm–feels his muscles and sinews stiffen. Under the subdued lightning, the fleeting half-smile splitting Morse's face has the opposite effect of its intent as it morphs into a grimace. No reassurance, that, despite his well-meaning intent.

The outside voice surges up again. 'My name is Bright. Let's not make things worse.'

Morse shifts, legs flexing, tension radiating from his body. He bends forward, intent on the door. The nearby lighted Art Déco pillar sheds grey shadows on the planes of his intent face. The red mark on his cheekbone blossoms like a flower of fire.

Bright's voice subsides into silence. In the following lull, the ferret's order shoots out like a bullet. 'Put him down.'

Eagerly, the youngest strides forward, the panelled door groaning under his push. He is gone from their sight, when Morse cries out, 'What? Wait!'

The leader swivels back, snarling. 'Who asked you?'

'Don't be so bloody stupid!' Morse's voice sounds desperately practical.

'Stupid?' The gun gets intimidatingly nearer, yet Morse opines, sounding more than desperate—defiant.

'Do I look stupid?' The barrel is now hovering a few inches from Morse's head. Still, he doesn't look at it, searches behind the enraged man's glower, willing to brand his words on him. The man springs, grabbing Morse by his shirt, and forces him backward, bringing the gun over his heart. Joan's stops briefly, then resumes its erratic beat.

Despite his danger, Morse forges ahead as reasonably, as if he was quoting some obscure piece of poetry. 'If you gun down a senior police officer in cold blood, they'll hunt you to the ends of the earth.' There is anxiety in his voice, now. His palms rise pleadingly. 'That's all.'

As quickly as he had sprung, the man releases Morse, who blinks once, then sags back. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut off, Joan slumps, her trembling hand wiping her face, trying to erase the dismal imaginings her brain has summoned. Next to her, Gillian smothers a whimper and hides her face against her.

Perhaps Morse's crazy stunt has not been in vain. The leader's torso disappears between the two doors, snapping curtly at his acolyte, 'Tell him we want transport.' Joan inhales sharply. 'And safe passage guaranteed.'

It slowly dawns on her that one or all of the people squatting on the floor might just be their ticket out.

Yelling excitedly like a banshee and beating his chest like an ape, the young bloke goes back inside. His boss–Cole by name, they find out–makes him round up the hostages, and down they go, into the vault where they are locked in, except for Mr. Fordyce. As they are led away at gun point, the unfortunate manager goes with Cole towards the storage area.

The vault has never felt so stuffy before. The dim neon light and metallic hues give it a deadly, unexpected atmosphere. Everyone feels it, and they begin to whisper as if they were mourners at their own wake.

Apart from the safes lining the walls, there is little furniture in the room; only two tables in the middle of the room and a few chairs. The bleached-haired woman with brown eyes appropriates the one farthest from the gate, and begins to draw upon her cigarette in remote and disdainful silence. Others have no other choice than to sit on the hard floor.

Gillian perches awkwardly on the table. She wails faintly, 'I want to go home,' sounding near tears, and Joan draws upon unexpected fortitude to assure her, 'We'll all go home.' A hug follows. Gillian heaves a shuddering breath.

The little mousy man, whose voice Joan has not yet heard, adds helpfully, 'The police will sort it out,' but Gidderton, deaf to any hint, asserts angrily, 'They haven't made much of a job of it so far.'

Instinctively, Joan's gaze follows Morse. He's pacing the length of the room. Hands in pockets, outwardly relaxed, he stops and stands near the gate, as if expecting something. Yet, for all his seeming ease, his hands are folded into fists, making his pockets swell.

A watch fit for a lone soldier, then, while factions foolishly bicker among themselves.

Turning his head away with obvious reluctance, he explains, 'It's a raid that's gone wrong. The getaway driver's panicked. The men upstairs are stranded, frightened, and in it up to their necks.'

It isn't enough for a sneering Gidderton. 'They didn't seem frightened to me.' His eyes study Morse with something like disgust.

'Once they realise the fix they're in, they'll surrender. We all just need to keep calm,' Morse clarifies, as if reason were the only answer. As befitting a good sentinel, he surveys all the people seated in various chairs or against the walls, and calmly resumes his pacing, Gidderton's gaze following him with growing hostility.

Settling onto the table top, Joan turns her back on him, lulled into lethargy by a carousel of regrets. What if–what if she never gets out of this? Mum, Dad, Sam… They'll be crushed. She'll never find out–whatever she's been seeking, if she… She'd never know–God, it hurts.

Joan's arm tightens around Gillian's neck. She winces, and Joan murmurs a hasty apology, letting her hand slide around her shoulder. She keeps it there. Holding Gillian comforts them both.

Morse's steps resound in this…this…prison, with a steady ring mingling with her thoughts. Had he paced his cell like that after the Blenheim Vale debacle? She knows little about it, except what her mother explained, what she overheard from her parents' talking when they thought neither Sam nor she could overhear. Weeks of it. How could Morse stand it? Ten minutes locked in a familiar room and she is already fit to be tied. It isn't really the place that matters, it's the knowing she can't get out.

Behind her, low voices jerk her back to reality. 'Can you read it?' Joan glances over her shoulder, but from the sound alone, she understands that whatever her previous involvement was, Blondie currently doesn't really care.

Morse's lips curl up derisively. 'Not without the key.'

Almost disdainfully, Blondie returns a notepad to him. 'Good luck! It's all Greek to me.'

Unfazed by her lack of enthusiasm, Morse pulls a chair and sits down at the table, poring over it. He begins scribbling in it. His eyes sparkle with a delight which reminds Joan of a five-year old Sam unstopping a jar of candy.

Relief pours into her chest. Nothing'll happen to them—to her. She's sure of it, now. Well, almost. Watching Morse's quiet focus is a ray of hope piercing the heart of her desolation.

She makes a decision and heaves a great sigh. Sliding into the chair right in front of him, she owns up, without daring to look Morse in the eyes, 'It's a good job you're here.'

What an understatement! She falters and begins again. 'I mean, I'm glad. If it's any comfort,' hoping that he will read between her lines. Not that she's such a complex book, just a second-shop one, really. One with chapters stuck together.

Morse flashes Joan a swift, uplifting smile. 'Me too.' His eyes linger on her rather than on his latest toy. The pages of the carbon pad he was copying from are mostly blank, with what looks like random numbers written down at regular intervals. He adds, more forcefully, 'Don't worry.'

As if it were so simple! She nods assent, nevertheless.

'It'll be all right,' he insists, a thin smile stretching his lips.

You're here, so it might, she wants to say. Instead, she asks, 'What's this?'

"A puzzle."

Her eyes widen. Encouraged, he unfolds a yellowed leaflet. 'Why would a man carry around a menu for a restaurant that long ago went out of business?'

She has no idea, and tells him so.

Prodding her, he reasons aloud. 'More to the point, why would he circle just one item on the menu? Number 26. Chicken meat and sweetcorn soup.' His hands still holding the pen and menu punctuate his words as he talks. Pale, freckled elongated fingers, slender yet strong.

Playing along, Joan says, 'Do you know?'

He may not know, not yet, but he replies. 'Well, of what are there 26?'

His musings snare another player. Gillian ventures, 'Teeth?'

'No, no. That's 32,' Joan corrects.

'Bones in the human foot.' Gidderton's input. But does he have to be so snappish?

Morse says quietly, 'There are, but that's not it.'

So, he already knows the answer. Joan stifles a smile. What's Morse playing at? A light bulb switches on in her brain, and then, it takes all her resolve not to get up and hug him. Brainy, indeed.

The little man offers, '26 cantons in Switzerland. Or is it 25?,' so Joan decides to put an end to it, before answers can go more off base. 'Letters in the alphabet,' she ventures.

Morse's approval sets fire to a happy glow deep in her stomach. Still, he's unremitting in his endeavours. 'Of which the last and 26th is—?'

'—Z,' Gillian says, her legs now swinging excitedly under the table.

Morse writes in the air as he speaks, his face smoothed into eagerness; trying to make them say it, like a teacher inciting answers from baffled or reluctant pupils. 'So 26 equals—Z.' His hands shapes the letter. '—equals C for chicken.'

Before their puzzlement, he presses on, focusing on Joan. 'And so it goes on. One gives us…' His voice trails, faintly interrogative.

'—D,' she hastens to answer.

'That's right.' Morse smiles at her with his eyes; then, without missing a beat, goes on, 'And two is E and so on.'

Interested despite herself, Joan wonders aloud: 'So, what does it say?'

He shrugs deprecatingly. 'Well, so far, I've got "Royal Palace 50", "Dark Venetian 80" and "Greek Scholar 200".'

'What?' Joan leans forward, over the table. So does he, but the voluptuous blonde's voice pierce their iridescent soap bubble. 'Maybe I was wrong.' Looking down on them and holding her cigarette like a Hollywood starlet, she looks thunderstruck.

Raising his eyebrows, Morse wryly offers, 'You're welcome to grab a bunch of numbers and start turning them into letters.'

'You're trying to keep us occupied,' counters Ronnie Gidderton, sounding more and more aggravated and standing rigidly against the nearest wall as if he were propping it together by his will alone.

'Which would you prefer? Terrified or distracted?' Morse flings back.

'I'd sooner be thinking of a way out.'

'Oh, come on!' Joan snaps to Gidderton, before it could escalate further. 'You want to tunnel a way out? Might take a while. Till then...'

She gets up, goes around the table and looks at the letters that Morse is busy scribbling. 'I'm in. Who else wants to try?' she offers.

Silently, the couple of customers, who have kept their presence as unobtrusive as possible, rise. The man takes a fountain pen from his coat and uncaps it.

With the good players engrossed in their calculations, the only remaining awkward customer is Gidderton. He keeps pacing to and fro, like a rat in a cage, in the same black mood. Joan no longer pays him any attention.

Standing close to Morse and shielding him from inquisitive eyes, she secrets his warrant card into a pocket of her dress. He's right. She'd better look after it. The tautness around his mouth lessens somewhat when she is done.

Before he goes back to his deciphering, she plunges ahead. 'What did you mean? About Paul?' Suddenly, it seems terribly important, not only to understand, but to be sure of Morse's…regard.

There's no inflection in his answer, just a swift glance up, as if to gauge her reaction. 'Just that I've come across him in my travels. That's all.' A heartbeat. His. Not hers, still processing his words. 'You deserve better.' A tiny shake of his head underlines the adjective.

His pen scratches the paper as he writes down another word. She can no longer look at him.

'He asked me about work,' Joan confesses at last.

The faint scratching stops. She almost doesn't dare to look at his face, but when she finally does, it's expressionless.

'About the bank,' she finally breathes with a tremendous effort. Her throat aches as if her words are being handpicked with hot irons. 'When we had deliveries for the weekend float.'

'I thought it was just conversation,' she adds brokenly, 'but it wasn't, was it?'

His silence is answer enough. Then, 'Did you let on about—?' A sharp nod of his head.

She understands. 'Dad? No fear.'

He says drily, 'Well, that's something, at least.' His hand clenches around the pen.

He has no time to turn back to his calculations. Ronnie Gidderton stands before them, a weird lilt to his voice as he surmises, 'You two know each other, do you?'

Morse raises an eyebrow. 'We've a mutual acquaintance.'

His dilatory answer doesn't please Gidderton one bit. 'Who's that, then?'

'No-one you'd know.'

'It's like that, is it, then?' Again, this strange note.

'It's like that,' Joan says, fingering the creased menu.

Then Gidderton lets it drop, as Gillian exclaims aloud about her finds. The words make no sense. Underneath her surprise, sounds of hurried footsteps echo in the corridor. The hostages freeze in alarm as one of the robbers, Tommy, the sullen one, unlocks the gate. Blocking the entrance, he summons Gidderton and Morse. He grabs Gidderton by the collar, ushering him outside. Meekly, Morse follows suit, deliberately embracing the blonde. Unobtrusively, he slips the notepad to her, under the jeers of his captor.

Behind them, the steel door snaps shut like a burial crypt.

With Morse gone, all the warmth has fled the room. Shivering, Joan wraps her arms around herself. Morse's warrant card suddenly weighs a tonne in her pocket. The women—even Blondie—huddle together.

It seems forever before the clang of the lock heralds them back.

Whistling, the youngest henchman advances towards Joan. Her world shrinks to his deliberate, leisurely progress. For each step he takes, another sweat drop slithers down her spine.

He stops before her, at arm's length, and with a gleeful nod, signals her to come forward.

Joan takes a small, faltering step, then another. Hearing the others follow her doesn't lessen her fear.

Seeing the light of day doesn't bring Joan any relief. Watching Morse entering the hall of the bank—along with Gidderton—does. They are both in their shirt sleeves, their faces shiny with sweat. Much to Joan's regret, they take place at the opposite side of the line.

'Come on!'

It takes a few seconds before she gets it. Cole has to repeat it before Joan leaves the security of the row and steps forward.

He flings out his arm and the barrel of his gun goes to rest on the side of her head. At the contact, she flinches and goes so unnaturally still that she doesn't dare blink. Her staring eyes begin to fill.

'What's your name?'

'Joan.'

Far, far away, Morse's eyes are filled with anguish.

'Joan what?'

Morse.

'Strange.' Her voice finds strength as she repeats, 'Joan Strange.'

'Is that right? Joan Strange?'

The ringing in her ears makes hearing difficult. She blinks away the gathering moisture. Her eyes flick to Morse then right in front of her.

'Yes,' she says. Her back itches.

The pressure against her temple subsides as Cole chooses a new target: Morse. 'And who's this?'

Morse's stricken face.

'I don't know,' Joan lies, hoping the tremor in her voice is of her own imagining.

Morse's blanched lips, parting as if preparing for a riposte. Naked fear in his eyes.

She manages a tight smile. 'I've never seen him before.' A little laugh. Good touch, that. Yeah, that's good.

From the corner of her eyes, she glances swiftly at Cole. His mouth is set in a tight, hard line. Then, with a sick, mock friendliness, he says, 'You see, this one says that one is a copper.'

This one… Gidderton. Dirty little shit! Triumph brightens his eyes. Hers flash loathing at him, and he lowers them for a second. But Cole's voice is relentless. 'He says you know him.'

Morse's coat's hanging from his right hand. Rolled up sleeves on his arms. Strange how she's rarely seen him in such dishabille. Always so formal.

'I don't. He's just a customer.' Anguish running over.

'He's just a customer?' Disbelief.

No. He's Dad's bagman. He's— She can't voice it, even in her mind.

'He isn't!' In a flash, Gidderton hurls himself away from the others, hands extended as in prayer. 'Joan, tell him!'

Not minding him, Cole keeps moving purposely, his gun pointed at Morse's head. The latter is petrified with horrified dismay, his heavy breathing the only sign he is human and not carved from marble, as the distance between flesh and steel lessens.

'He's just a customer?' Cole cocks his gun; the click explodes loudly in the silence.

Try as she can, Joan's eyes don't shut.

'So if I was to…' Cole's finger pulls the trigger as he whirls around.

The voice that screams in agony isn't Morse's. The body that topples on the floor isn't Morse's. Joan welcomes that knowledge, in a sick, horrified wave of liberation. Hit in the lower abdomen, Gidderton lays on his side, the whiteness of his shirt now marred by a widening streak of crimson.

As swiftly, Cole pounces on Joan and seizes her by the throat, whirling her around in an obscene parody of waltzing. He forces her to gaze on Morse.

Time slows to a halt. There are only three people in the world: Morse, herself and Cole. Coursing through her mind is an overwhelming refrain, we're going to die, we're going to die, but the pressure wounding her windpipe forces her to focus on Cole's words.

'Look at me! If I was to do that to him, that'd be alright with you?'

No words come to her, just memories.

Morse's shyness, not daring to go in. Snippets of conversations, her trying to draw him out. His lopsided smiles, brief bark of a laugh or fidgeting, when she gets past his defences. Her sudden disappointment when he didn't take advantage of her. The crinkling at the corner of his eyes, the night she invited him to dance. The momentary twinkle in his eyes. His sleeping face propped awkwardly on the back of their couch, the usual lines of his forehead smoothed by sleep. The way he discreetly looked at her legs.

Morse shouting, 'Just leave her. He's telling the truth. I'm a police officer. Let her go.'

That is no memory.

Cole releases Joan and hurls her away, as if she were some kind of trash. She stumbles back, her widened eyes not leaving Morse.

Cole has known all along. A tell-tale form lying abandoned on a desk gave away Morse's identity. Gidderton turned traitor and got shot for nothing.

But Mr. Fordyce has no wish to be the next casualty. He tells Cole Joan's surname. Cole bursts out laughing, with joyless mirth.

Kneeling down by Gidderton's side, Morse seems at a loss, not daring to touch the wound. No one offers to help him. Even Joan doesn't contemplate it. She stands as though shackled to the spot, an island of whirling thoughts.

Now armed with full knowledge, Cole smoothly moves across the floor towards Morse. 'Remind me. An inspector outranks a constable, doesn't he? So what do I need you for?' His demonstration is faultless and he knows it.

He raises his gun, but pauses as Morse utters, 'Kill me, you'll never know who set you up.' On Morse's upper lip, sweat glistens dully under the neon light.

This comes, obviously, as a surprise. Morse pushes his advantage, filling all the squares. 'You think it's an accident that I'm here? That we had the place surrounded in five minutes?' Defiant scorn drips from his tone as he drives his point home. 'Somebody sold you out.'

Frowning, the youngster interferes, 'Maybe we should hear him out.' Instead of listening, Cole puts the gun in his hand, and instructs, 'Put him down.'

The scream tearing out of Joan's throat suffocates her. She springs out of her stasis and runs towards Morse.

She has to reach him before...before…

She never knows what for. Her impetus is broken by a hard arm closing upon her ribs. She struggles against that unyielding girdle with all her might, but loses the fight and is dragged away from Morse before she can even get close. Her last sight of him is stamped under her eyelids: arm reaching out to her, helpless agony in his eyes.

Morse shakes his head in denial, and seeing this artless gesture, she just dies inside.

This is it. Nausea rising, Joan squeezes her eyes shut with all her might, the now too familiar coldness weighting on her temple.

Then a phone starts ringing.