DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

A/N: You can blame Got Tea for this story. She wanted me to do it. :)

Errors of Judgement

by Joodiff

1 - Chief Suspect

Waking up with her next to him is still a novelty. A very pleasant novelty that Boyd is happy to take a few minutes to savour, despite the nightmarish prospect of the long and difficult day ahead of them. Wise enough to know that there will be more than enough time for stress and exhaustion later, instead of prising himself out of the bed's warm embrace, he does the exact opposite, burrowing further under the covers until he can mould himself around the soft contours of her body. Grace makes a sleepy noise, presses herself back against him. It doesn't matter to Boyd whether she's fully awake or not, only that they share a few quiet, intimate moments of togetherness before the day duly sets them in opposition the way he fully expects it to.

He slips an arm around her waist, not too tight, but possessive nonetheless. Enough to encourage her into even closer contact with him, not quite enough to fully rouse her from her drifting semi-consciousness. The warmth of her, the scent of her, the soft, sensual smoothness of her skin… he enjoys it all while he can. Erotic in a languid, easy sort of way that's more agreeable than urgent, despite the predictable physical effect the heady combination of speculation and sensation has on him. Tonight, Boyd thinks. Tonight there will be more time, and doubtless some apologies and reparations to be made. On both sides, probably.

He concentrates on her bare shoulder for a moment, taking the time to explore its gentle curve with his lips. She stirs, mumbles a sleepy, irritable, "Tickles…"

It's fascinating, seeing her like this. Drowsy, dishevelled, and completely unguarded. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of it. So different from the side of her he's so used to seeing in working hours. He wonders if she ever thinks the same about him, but now isn't the time for such thoughts, not when he can better amuse himself by tracing an uneven line of light kisses along her shoulder and up the exposed side of her neck. She twitches, makes a half-hearted effort to shrug him off. Allowing himself a quick grin at her expense, he tries a soft, "Grace…?"

"Mm."

"It's nearly seven. Time to wake up."

"Mm," she says again. Boyd waits for further comment, but it never comes. Instead, she settles again, quite obviously intent on returning to her dreams. It should exasperate him, but somehow… Then she undulates back against him with far more intent than he could ever have anticipated and his focus instantly shifts. There's no doubt whatsoever that it's quite, quite deliberate, designed to seize his interest and hold onto it. It's a complete and instant success, disrupting any lingering notion he still has of getting out of bed before the alarm on the bedside table starts to shrill.

No words needed. Not a single damn one.

He surrenders to the inevitable quickly and without a fight.

-oOo-

The morning meeting scheduled for nine doesn't start until nearer half-past, and by the time Grace is finally settled with the rest of the team, Boyd is much closer to wanting to strangle her than to kiss her. Though he wouldn't ever attempt either in front of Spencer, Stella, and Eve, all of whom are exchanging cautious but meaningful looks behind his back at his determined non-reaction to their colleague's late arrival. He can see each and every one of them reflected in the evidence board's glass, and it does little to improve his increasingly bad mood. How can a day that started so promisingly already have degenerated so bloody far so bloody fast?

"So," Spencer says, shuffling through the pile of papers in front of him, "I've finally got hold of Webb's prison records, and it seems that he was a model prisoner from day one."

Wondering when it was that it stopped being his prerogative to deliver the opening statement at such meetings, Boyd turns his back on the evidence board and surveys the small cadre of people gathered around the squad room's central block of tables. He has a considered measure of respect and affection for each and every one of them, but this morning everything from Eve's unconscious pen-tapping to Stella's wide-eyed enthusiasm is scraping across his already frayed nerves. It's a huge effort to keep his mounting displeasure to himself, but he just about manages it. After all, it's not their fault that he's being hounded on a daily basis by the DAC's office, or that the media have discovered that the badly-flawed investigation into the notorious King's Street murders has been reopened. Nor is it anyone's fault but his own that his diary for the day is so full that he has no damn idea how he's going to find the time to interview David Webb again without cancelling something equally important and pressing.

"That's not uncommon," Grace says, putting on her reading glasses and taking the sheaf of papers offered to her. Watching, Boyd can't help being struck once again by the differences between her work persona and –

The loud ringing of the phone buried deep in the inner pocket of his jacket interrupts both his private thoughts and Grace's measured explanation. Fishing out the offending device, he almost groans when he sees the name clearly displayed on the tiny screen. Waving off the quizzical glances being directed at him, he heads rapidly towards his office, closing the glass-panelled door behind him as he answers with a sharp and completely unnecessary, "Boyd."

"Peter," a tired, familiar female voice says, its distinctive cadence stirring a thousand bittersweet memories. "The stonemasons have been in contact again."

Something in his chest tightens. It's not his imagination, he's sure. It's a physical reaction, one that threatens to half-cripple him for a moment. A quick, obstinate and very deep breath provides a temporary respite, allows him to respond, "I told you – "

"I know what you told me," is the immediate and tetchy reply, "but decisions have to be made, and ignoring it won't make it go away. Any of it."

She's right. He knows she is. Doesn't stop her weary composure infuriating him. Why today of all bloody days? He draws another deep breath, searching for equilibrium. Striving for an equanimity he doesn't feel, he says, "Mary – "

"No," she interrupts. "I'm not listening to any more excuses, Peter. It's been three months since the funeral and – "

" – and," he cuts in, "we were told it would be at least six before we could erect a headstone."

"I know that. But we need to tell them what – "

"Tell them what the hell you like," he raps out, the very last slim threads of his patience snapping under the strain. "I really don't fucking care. Our son is dead, Mary. Who the hell cares what's written on his bloody gravestone?"

"You're such a – "

He doesn't give her the chance to finish the – well-deserved – insult. A quick movement of his thumb and the call is ended. Quick. Simple.

Painful.

Of course he cares. He cares so much that it's –

A gentle tap on the door behind him brings Boyd out of his moment of black, self-loathing despair. Stella. He waves her into his office with an abrupt motion, not at all sure he can control his simmering temper long enough to deal with whatever it is that she wants. Her expression is as cautious as her tone as she says, "Sir…?"

"Tell Grace she's going to do the interview with Jackson. You can sit in."

"I thought you…" Stella's voice trails away in the face of the baleful look he gives her. "Yes, sir. What about Webb? Spencer and I could go and see him this – "

"No. I'll meet up with Spence later and we'll do it," he tells her, feeling no need to explain his decision. His unit, his command, his decisions. "Has Eve got anything more from the DNA tests yet?"

"I don't know," Stella admits, starting to look and sound flustered. She's young, he knows, and still not as confident as she could be. Should be. Whatever.

Glaring, he shakes his head at her. "Well, go and bloody find out. Christ, do I really have to do everything around here myself…?"

-oOo-

"Shouting at Stella," Grace scolds, less than half an hour later as she advances towards his desk carrying two steaming mugs of what he hopes is very black, very strong coffee, "won't change whatever it is that's put you in such a bad mood. I would have thought you'd have known that by now."

Ignoring the criticism, he asks, "So – is he a psychopath?"

"Webb?" she inquires, putting down both mugs and settling herself into her customary chair opposite him. "I take it you don't want to hear that only a series of specialist psychiatric interviews and diagnostic tests could actually establish that in any legal sense?"

"Grace."

She gazes at him for a moment, and he's well aware of the level of careful concern being concealed behind the façade of professional calm. She worries about him far more than she should. It's both infuriating and endearing. He waits, and she eventually gives in and asks, "Gut instinct?"

"Yeah."

She nods. "Definitely. He has a remarkable ability to accurately mimic the kind of emotions the rest of us actually feel, but they don't mean anything to him. He's a highly-skilled manipulator, very capable of getting people to cooperate with him without any need for physical coercion."

"Which is how he managed to lure his victims into meeting him alone."

"That's supposition, Boyd."

"Yeah, well, assume that I'm supposing that he's our killer. Work with me here, Grace, for God's sake."

"In which case, yes. That's how he did it." A pause, followed by a sombre, "Don't underestimate how dangerous he could be if he starts to feel cornered."

He sighs, rubs his eyes. It doesn't help. "Why do you think I'm going to handle it myself?"

Grace's response is quiet. "I'm just… suggesting… that you bear in mind that barrelling back into his flat with the intention of strong-arming him into a confession would not be… prudent."

"I know that. Look, we're not in a position to nick him, not yet, but I'm hoping that it won't be long before we are… until then…" He sighs, shakes his head slightly. "Look, I just want to have another chat with him."

"Yes, well… Your idea of a quiet chat and mine are two totally different things."

He leans back in his chair. The day's barely begun and he already has a sullen, nagging headache that matches the dark grimness of his mood. Staring at his untouched mug of coffee, he breaks the sudden strained silence with, "That was Mary on the phone earlier. She's chasing me about the headstone."

A small pause is followed by, "I thought you couldn't do anything about that until…"

He knows why she doesn't finish the sentence. Looking up to meet her eye, he says, "…the ground's settled?"

"Boyd…"

It's one of those rare moments when she simply doesn't know what to say to him, he knows. He sympathises with her, in a distant, abstract sort way. He's dealt with too many grieving, traumatised relatives over the course of his career not to understand the awful significance of saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment. Reaching out for his coffee at last, he says, "If she knew as much about the realities of death and decomposition as I do…"

She grimaces. "Don't."

"True, though, isn't it? There was a very good reason why I wanted him cremated."

Grace's reply is a gentle but firm, "You've got to stop doing this to yourself."

Boyd doesn't offer a response, just sips his coffee, relishing its distinctive bitterness. She's helped him far more than she probably knows in the last couple of months, and he's grateful, but… He stops the chain of thought before it can escalate, before it starts to choke the life out of him. Not meeting her gaze, he says, "I want you and Stella to talk to Jackson. Find out what he was really doing the night Amy Hughes died."

"All right," Grace says, "but I thought we'd discounted him?"

"As a suspect, yes. As a potential witness, no. His alibi is so full of holes…"

"…we could use it as a colander," Grace finishes for him. "What time will you be finished at the Yard?"

Boyd shrugs. "Depends on just how thoroughly they want to haul me over the coals for our supposed lack of progress, doesn't it?"

-oOo-

cont...