Unconditional Love

The morning wasn't so happy. Jim awoke grumpy about my impending absence, and things went downhill from there. When I told him simply to call my mobile if he wanted to contact me, he snapped, "For fuck's sake Jenny, you can't tell me where you're going, or who with, or why -- who the bloody hell do you think you are, Laura fucking Croft?" I'm my own worst enemy sometimes: the pedantic cow in me couldn't resist pointing out that the character's name is Lara. That just pissed him off all the more. "Jesus wept, I'm you husband for Christ's sake, who the fuck am I going to tell, Murder Incorporated?"

When I left, Jim ignored the peck on the cheek I gave him, and the stroke of his hair, and the sweet, simpering, "Bye darling, love you" I murmured as I walked out. I took it out on the other motorists on my way to work, driving like a maniac and turning the air blue. I decided to vent my frustration on the firing range, and that sobered me up a bit. I concluded that as long as I was attacked by a barn door I probably had a two in five chance of winging it. Then I tidied up my files, passed a few case notes to my colleagues, told them where to shove their jokes about romantic sojourns with teenage toyboys, and, after a late lunch, made my way to collect Peter.

We were driven to King's Cross Station, then escorted to a first class railway carriage. I settled into my train seat, acutely aware of the unloaded pistol nestling in the small of my back. Peter had barely said a word in the car, just stared listlessly out of the window. He clearly wasn't in the mood for conversation so, slightly worried about his mental state, I pulled on my reading glasses and buried my nose in my Georgette Heyer. Next thing I knew, Peter was shaking me by the shoulder and saying, "Sergeant, wake up, we're here." Some bloody bodyguard I was!

We were met at Darlington Station by a towering fat, jolly local copper and his equally tall, slim, glowering colleague -- I immediately secretly christened them Stan and Ollie. After an interminable drive we finally arrived -- in the middle of nowhere. In the dark of the evening I could see only an outline of some sort of small house. I could hear the crashing of waves, so we were clearly somewhere on the coast, but I couldn't see any other signs of life. Ollie bustled into the house switching on lights and heaters, muttering to himself. It was a small cosy cottage, that looked as if it had stood there for centuries.

Peter and I lugged our bags up the stairs, then returned to a grinning Ollie. In a broad Yorkshire accent he announced, "There you are love. The red buttons around the place are panic alarms, so don't knock them accidentally, and we'll be doing regular drive-bys. If you need to speak to us in a hurry, dial 777. The kitchen's fully stocked, so you're set up to go." Tired and hungry, I told him coldly that I was not his love, I was a detective sergeant. His grin never wavered as he cheerily replied, "Right love, I'll try and remember that."

Peter was as knackered as I was, so I made us both large plates of baked beans on toast, then I secured the doors and we retired to our bedrooms for the night. I rose early the next morning and scoped out the area. We were about a quarter of a mile from cliffs which looked down on the turbulent North Sea far below. I had been right about the lack of neighbours, but at least there was a huge home cinema set-up and a well stocked DVD cabinet. There was also a fully fuelled car for our use -- not that I intended us to go far. When I returned inside I found Peter moodily prowling the house. He turned and looked despairingly at me. "What are we supposed to do all day? There are no shops, no cafés, nothing for miles."

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "It looks as if there are some nice walks round about. And there's the TV. There's an old table tennis table we could set up in the conservatory if you like. And you can use the computer in the office as much as you like." He rolled his eyes and tutted dramatically. Then he mooched to the computer and, apart from the three square meals I insisted he eat, I saw nothing of him until the evening. That was spent with us both slumped in silence in front of the TV, watching whatever Peter chose. At one point I phoned home, and had a rather strained conversation with Jim. I went to bed thinking, "Oh great, I'm just going to love two weeks of this."

The next day Peter couldn't have been more different. I went downstairs to find him making me a lovely cooked breakfast, then we went for a walk along the cliff, after which he showed me some really interesting websites I hadn't known existed. After a sandwich lunch we sat in the conservatory soaking up the sun and chatting. Peter told me about the subjects he had liked at school, his ambition to attend college, foreign holidays he'd enjoyed, and I told him about some of my experiences in the police. I also persuaded him that my name was Jenny, not 'Sergeant'. He grinned, and quipped, "So it's not loove then."

He had a really engaging personality, and a quirky sense of humour which had me laughing more than I had for a long time. I carefully avoided any mention of his parents or the trials to come -- plenty of time for that later. In the evening we watched Blazing Saddles on DVD, then played Snap. That was fun, with us slapping each other's hands off the cards and falling about laughing.

The next day, my boss Andy had news when I checked in with him. "You remember Richie Marston's tart gave us that crap alibi for him? Well, he's changed his story now. According to him, some mystery woman phoned him and told him she had dirt on John Richmond that would stop him giving evidence against Craig. She told him to meet her at a café in Whittingford the night of the murders, but she never showed up." Whittingford was a village a few miles from Eastgate Farm. I asked if anyone could back up Richie's story. Andy chuckled. "Nah, the caff was shut and he claims he sat in the car park for half an hour then gave up. We might get him on CCTV along the route, but that'll just prove he was in the area where the crime took place. Honestly, what a load of bull." It certainly seemed a strange story for the accused to make up if he was trying to claim innocence.

Peter and I continued to get on well, but I began to feel quite melancholy. He was a really nice young man, and quite handsome too, and he truly didn't deserve what was happening to him. I knew I should be asking him about the murders, but I kept putting it off: he seemed to have banished that night from his mind, and I didn't want to upset him more than necessary.

One morning I got up and was surprised to find the house silent. Peter had got into the habit of getting up before me and turning on the kitchen radio, although he'd promised never to unlock the doors until I was around. We'd got to bed quite late the previous night, after playing Trivial Pursuit, and I assumed he was having a lie-in. I made him a cup of coffee and knocked on his door. When he didn't answer I pushed it open with a cheery "come on sleepy..."

The words died on my lips. Peter's rumpled bed was empty. I dropped his mug in shock, the coffee spreading across the polished wooden floorboards. Trying not to panic, I quickly searched the house, but he was nowhere to be seen. I had to pause for a moment to keep from hyperventilating, then I checked the doors. A side door was unlocked! I dashed outside and looked around desperately for him, calling his name without response.

I could feel terror building in my belly, and I rushed down the path towards the cliffs, praying Peter would be there. I suddenly realised I had pulled my gun from its holster. I had never actually loaded the bloody thing, and with shaking hands I dug three slugs out of a pouch in my jeans. I dropped them in the grass and scrabbled wildly for them, a constant stream of "Oh shit, oh fuck, oh no, please, no" running through my head.

Having finally loaded the gun I raced towards the cliffs and cast around. I could see nothing at first, then I almost collapsed in relief as I saw the wind catch a tuft of black hair behind a rock. I stumbled around it to see Peter sitting on the grass, his back against the rock as he stared moodily out to sea, tossing pebbles over the cliff edge. He glanced up when he heard me, and looked shocked at what he saw. He scrambled to his feet and I stepped towards him, not sure whether I was going to hug him or brain him with the gun. In fact, I just stood panting, and gasped, "You stupid, stupid, little bastard! Don't you ever scare me like that again."

He hugged me then, and I fell against him, sobbing with the release of tension. He held me tightly, murmuring, "Oh God, I'm sorry Jenny, I really am, I didn't think, I just needed some time to myself. Please don't cry, I'm so sorry." I realised he was kissing my cheeks, kissing away my tears. I should have stopped him, but I was just so relieved that he hadn't been abducted or worse. We walked back to the cottage with his arm still around me, as he apologised every step of the way.

I felt edgy the rest of the day, and more or less followed Peter from room to room. Mid--afternoon Andy called me, sounding quite down. "We've got a problem with Richie Marston. Seems like he might have an alibi after all. One of the local curtain-twitchers saw him in that café car park he claimed to be in. The old bloke thought it looked suspicious, so he kept an eye on the car. It was there from 8.25 to just after 9pm, then took off along the A2 towards London -- the opposite direction to the Richmond place. I was hoping Richie might have been trying to be clever, and got a stooge to go to the café, but if he did the bloke was a dead ringer for him. The witness said the guy in the car was a big ugly bloke with long dark hair and a stubbly beard."

There was worse to come. After a pause, Andy said, "I'm beginning to be worried about your boy. There's too much in what he said that doesn't add up. Plus, we found out today, he had psychiatric therapy when he was 15. The bloody specialist won't tell us what it was for of course, bastard, but Peter's school reckon he was being bullied and turned the tables, kicked the shit out of the bully and put him in hospital for three weeks. The victim's family wouldn't cooperate with the investigation, so it was dropped, but Peter's obviously got quite a temper when he's roused. Look Jen, I'm not jumping to any conclusions -- yet -- but just be careful, that's all I'm saying."

Just as Andy was about to ring off, I asked him to check something in the Scene-Of-Crime Officer's report. I heard rustling paper, then he came back on the line. "Right Jen, no, according to the SOCO the computer in the boy's room was switched off. Why, is it important?" I said it wasn't and rang off. Peter had clearly told me that he'd been on his computer when he left it to go to the horror show downstairs. If that was true, at what point had he found the time to go and turn off the PC?

After speaking to Andy I crept up to my room and listened to the tape of the 999 call Peter had made. I had taken it with me but had never heard it before. In flat, shocked tones, he told the operator, "I've...they're dead...I...my parents are dead, send someone." He had quite a light, asexual voice. Richie Marston had said a woman had called him to the café. If he'd wanted, Peter could easily have sounded like a female on the phone without too much effort. I was growing fond of Peter -- always a mistake for a copper -- and I really didn't want to think of him what I was starting to suspect. I'd seen him that night -- he was terrified, clearly a victim, he couldn't kill anyone.

My day didn't get any better. Since my loving husband had never bothered to call me, in the evening I went into the entrance hall and called him again. Once again he sounded gruff and unwelcoming on the phone. I was just about to end a rather stilted conversation when I heard, quite distinctly in the background, a female voice say, "Jimmy, where's the...oh, sorry."

I instantly went from simpering and wheedling to rottweiler, demanding to know who the woman was. There was a moment's silence, then Jim replied, slightly uneasily to my suspicious ear, "It's my sister, who the bloody hell do you think it is?"

I felt insulted by the obvious lie. "That was not Gina's voice. And when the fuck did she ever call you Jimmy? Look Jim, what the hell's going on? Who have you got there?"

His response was an enraged bellow. "Just what the fuck are you accusing me of Jenny? For Christ's sake -- look, why don't you just fuck off and get on with your work, whatever the fuck it is." I stared in bewilderment at my mobile as it flashed 'call ended'. I told myself I wasn't going to cry not in front of Peter, not again, it was so bloody unprofessional. Then I heard a huge racking sob, and my vision blurred with tears.

Peter appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, staring at me in amazement. Then he walked over and gently wrapped his arms around me, murmuring into my hair, "I think someone needs a hug." I shouldn't have let him hug me. Apart from the fact that I was nearly twice his age, and a married woman, I was there to ensure his security, not to flirt with him. But at that moment I just felt completely miserable, and he was right, I really did need it. I buried my face in his chest and wept bitter tears as he led me back into the sitting room and sat me beside him on the couch, continuing to hold me.

God knows how long it took for me to calm down. Eventually I sat up and, sniffling, apologised shamefacedly. Peter wiped a tear away with a finger, then cupped his hand to my cheek and gazed into my eyes. He had such pretty hazel eyes. He almost whispered, "Jenny, I hate seeing you upset. You're such a sweet, lovely lady, I'd like to see you happy all the time." I chuckled cynically at the idea of that. Then he sat up straight and said, "I know what, I'll give you a foot massage."

Before I could stop him he'd dropped to the floor and slipped off my trainers and socks. I did start to tell him to stop, but my voice died at the feel of his soft, warm hands on my bare feet. He held each foot in the palm of one hand, manipulating and caressing each toe with the other, then gently massaging my soles and ankles with strong, subtle fingers. I knew I shouldn't have let that go on, but he was so good at it, and it really was relaxing. He smiled up at me and murmured, almost hypnotically, "I used to do this for my mum when I was young. She said I had magic hands. She used to really enjoy it." I wasn't surprised, if he massaged her feet as skilfully as he was mine. I doubted her young son doing it to her had the same effect it was having on me though. As Peter worked my feet I felt little electric charges tickling slowly up my legs -- and congregating in a part of my anatomy where they had no right to be.

I shuddered as Peter's hands slipped up inside the leg of my jeans and began to knead my calf. My eyes closed, I let my head fall back on the couch. I could feel a blush spreading across my chest, my tongue was rimming my open lips and my breathing was getting deeper and more regular -- exactly the way my body reacted when Jim was building up slowly to making love to me. If Peter had only known it, at that moment he could have done anything he liked with me. I opened my eyes in surprise and, I hated to admit to myself, disappointment as I felt his hands leave my leg and he stood. He smiled and stroked my hair. "I'll do that again for you tomorrow if you like. And now I'm going to run you a nice bubble bath and make you a cup of cocoa to take to bed with you." I tried to keep my eyes on his face, but they rebelled and flicked down to the front of his jeans, and the very obvious bulge there.

In bed that night I lay wide awake, feeling terrified of what I was getting myself into. I was starting to feel more than fond of Peter. How could that be? A teenage kid shouldn't be capable of having that sort of effect on an experienced married woman. And at the same time, I was beginning to have serious concerns about Peter's role on the night his parents died -- quite frankly, though I desperately wanted to, I just didn't believe his version of what had occurred. But the thing that scared me most of all was that that didn't matter to me -- the way that man, that 18-year old man, had made me feel that evening was overriding my better judgement and my commonsense. I decided I was going to have to find some way to convince Andy Purvis to replace me on this job, without telling him I feared that if he didn't I was going to end up sleeping with a murderer!

The next morning Peter was his usual self, but I couldn't look at him without flushing. After breakfast he spent the morning on the computer, and I sat and tried to read my book. After maybe an hour I jumped as I felt his hands resting on my shoulders. "God Jenny, you feel tense." He began to knead my shoulders and upper back with his hands. Almost instantly the same electric charges as the previous day radiated through my body, again ending up in the same place. "Is that good?" he whispered. I nodded, my eyes closed, my head lolling back onto him, my nipples straining against my bra. After a few minutes I forced myself to break the contact and, standing on shaky legs, I told him I needed a breath of air.

I went for a walk along the cliffs. It was a dereliction of duty - I should have stayed close to Peter - but I needed space to think. I knew that, despite every shred of sense in my head, I was falling - what, in love, in lust? - with Peter. I knew that if I wanted to save my career, and probably my marriage, I had to ask Andy Purvis to replace me as the boy's minder. But I didn't want to - I wanted to be near Peter; I wanted to be with him.

After lunch we watched a sweet Whoopi Goldberg DVD, Corrina Corrina. I was a bit worried that the subject of grief over a lost parent might impact on Peter, but he didn't seem to make the connection. Something had changed between us though; I was no longer in control of our relationship, he was. We were sitting side by side on the couch, and at some point during the movie I felt Peter's arm snake around my shoulders. Instead of moving away and telling him off, which the sensible me would have done, I tucked my feet under my bum and snuggled into him, exactly as I would have done with my husband, my hand resting lightly on his chest. I went for a lie down in my room after that, and fretted about what the hell was happening in my head.

We had a light dinner, then Peter suggested a game of Trivial Pursuit. As I laid out the board, he said brightly, "I'll tell you what - we should do forfeits for each question we get wrong. Like, every time you don't know the answer, you, I don't know, erm, have to give me a kiss."

That was the key moment. I should have told him not to be stupid. I should have sat him down and given him a stern talk, adult to youth, about my responsibilities as a wife and a police officer. Obviously I should. Instead, I heard myself reply, "Oh yes? And what do you do when you get one wrong?"

Peter sniggered. "Um, I have to kiss you!" It was crazy, absolutely insane, I knew it even as I made my opening throw of the dice. But when I fluffed an answer, Peter presented his cheek to me and, meekly, I leant over and kissed him. On the fourth wrong answer, he moved his face and my mouth slipped from his cheek to his lips. By the seventh answer, whichever one of us was paying the forfeit, it was automatically mouth to mouth. I began to suspect Peter was getting things wrong on purpose. Gradually the kisses became more lingering, and our hands began to rest on each other's shoulders, our eyes closed as we shared each moment. Oh God, by the time I answered the final question and ended the game, I knew deep down that I was going to be his - it was just a matter of time.