DI Wallace sat upon the uncomfortable chair at his desk with a sigh and an ache in his knees. Normally, a long day without work in the field was tedious at best, even with the help of endless polystyrene cups of cheap coffee and his usual Benson & Hedges menthols, but for the past few months he had been sleeping better and waking refreshed.
He supposed it had started two years prior when Freddie took care of Brandon Duffy for him. On the day that bastard ex-son-in-law of his was to be released, an Irish gypsy serving at Her Majesty's Pleasure for murder did him in with a filed bedspring—crafty little buggers they were, prisoners.
Of course, the gypsy was a psychopath, but Wallace would have kissed him on the mouth for what he did. That fucker who ended the life of his daughter never stepped foot outside that prison, as should have been his proper punishment. The last thing he saw before going straight to hell was the walls that had kept him hostage for the previous twelve years, and knowing that, despite the fact Wallace wished he could have ended the bastard's life with his own two hands, brought him a deep restful sleep for the first time since Kelly had died.
Rightfully so, the act hadn't been traced to Freddie nor Wallace himself. But the detective knew better, and that's what mattered. Crime really did pay, and so did making friends with criminals.
It was an interesting relationship, what he and Freddie had. Most of the others in Scotland Yard thought he was crooked, a dirty filth, and he supposed in a way he was, but he came through when it mattered, which made him a valuable asset to the department. He had good standing in the criminal community, because he didn't grass unless necessary, and didn't spend his time piddling around with low-end scum. In fact, he often relied on those no-gooders to apprehend the real criminals, nonces and paedophiles and rapists, the bastards no one wanted to defend.
Now, Freddie wasn't a good man, and Wallace knew that more than most. But he was a valuable friend to have, especially when dealing with people like Brandon Duffy who had been out of his grasp. They both had done much for each other, he and Fred. Wallace had made sure certain deaths were overlooked, like with that tom Sara Wickers, whose daughter Kate Fred had since taken under his wing, in a way. And Fred had helped him with things like his divorce, and making sure his now ex-wife Sandra would be taken care of financially since she'd moved back to Scotland.
While he wouldn't trust most criminals as far as he could throw them, there was something he liked in Freddie Evans, genuinely liked, something he found dependable. He supposed it came down to the fact that they had similar values. They were both family men, and both alone in a way. A bond of loneliness, it seemed, held them together. There might have been something poetic in that, but Wallace never had been very creative.
He grabbed his latest folder, heavy with papers, and slid it towards him just as a WPC named Watson passed him a local newspaper as she made the rounds. He raised it to her with a small 'Ta, Marg,' before pulling it open for a quick read. A headline on the third page caught his attention, and he squinted to read the words:
FIRE ABOVE RESTAURANT KILLS 12
The article went on to explain that a block of flats had caught fire in Manor House and twelve people, including three children under the age of ten, had all died of smoke inhalation. It seemed that while he was reading, the bold title had caught someone else's eye as well, for he felt a large presence approach him from behind and watched as a chubby finger tapped the paper he was holding.
'Chip fat, I heard.'
Wallace turned his head and peered over at the source of the voice, and was greeted at first by a very large gut. As he glanced upwards, he realised the gut belonged to an officer by the name of Graves. He was a good man, Cockney through and through, but he took his time and had the patience of a saint, which was probably why he was one of the only few in Scotland Yard who seemed to genuinely like the Scottish detective.
'What?'
Graves nodded his head at the newspaper once again. 'Chip fat, what started the fire. Tragic, really. Could have happened to anyone, that's the saddest part about it. Been to that restaurant before, actually, with me trouble. She loves Greek, 'specially what's in Green Lanes.'
Greek. The word stood out to him suddenly, and he glanced down at the newspaper once again. The last time he spoke with Freddie, he said he was about to sort out the Greek problem he was having. Had Fred really done something this drastic? Killing children?
Reading over the words on the page, he suddenly wished there had been a victim list. If one of them was Vasilis Papakostas or his family . . . Well, he supposed it was easy enough to discover for himself. Then again . . . maybe it was best he didn't know. After all, what good had knowing things ever brought anyone?
Graves soft voice brought him from his contemplation. 'There's a woman here for you.'
This made Wallace lift his head once again, brows furrowed. 'Woman? Sandra?'
The officer shook his head. 'No, not her. Some black woman.'
DI Wallace stood, still confused, and took a long sip of his coffee before brushing off his hands and heading into the reception area. There, amongst the morning murmur of ringing phones and typing fingers, stood a familiar woman in a blue knitted jumper with relaxed hair and a warm smile.
'Susan?' It was more shock than question.
Susan's smile stretched even wider, and she nodded her head a number of times. 'Yeah, that's right.'
Wallace approached her and stood ahead of her, looking her up and down. No longer was she a junkie shacked up in squalid conditions, but a beautiful young woman practically glowing with health. Her skin was vibrant, far from its pale, ashen tone it had taken back when they had first met, and her hair was shiny and clean, swept back and cropped just below her chin. She was still a bit prematurely aged, but still looked young and fit, and if Wallace didn't know better, he might have thought he was dreaming.
'Well,' he said, his mouth feeling oddly dry. He was gob-smacked. 'I'll be fucked sideways. Look at you! How you've changed!'
Susan chuckled bashfully and continued nodding, her smile as strong as ever. 'Yeah. All thanks to you.'
They looked at one another before embracing tightly, an embrace which ended far too quickly. Susan blinked away tears as Wallace kept his hands on her upper arms, looking her over, in disbelief that not only was she alive and standing there before him, but healthy and clean.
'How's the wain?' he asked, swallowing the emotion in his voice.
Susan lifted her bag and removed a small photograph, offering it up a moment later. 'Fantastic. Healthy. Smart, too. Does well in school and all.'
The detective took the photo and inspected it. There was a handsome young boy grinning toothily with wide brown eyes and soft curls, both which were familiar. 'George, wasn't it? How old now?'
'Georgie, yeah. He's six now.' Susan admired the photo as well, resting her fingers on the strap of her purse. ' . . . He wouldn't have got past two if it weren't for you.'
Wallace lifted his eyes from the picture as he handed it back to her. 'No. Was your own doing, Susan. You only took my advice.'
'And fifty quid,' she retorted with a small chuckle, and the detective met her smile. ' . . . Without it, me and him would 'a been brown bread, mate. Me mum didn't want noffink to do with me, and me dad, well he fucked off years ago. You was the only person what helped me, Officer. Er, Detective. I was just a junkie. But now me son's in school. And, I got meself a job, in an office. Me. Can you believe it?'
Wallace could feel his cheeks beginning to hurt from smiling. 'Aye. That makes me more happy than you know, Susan.'
A comfortable beat of silence passed between them, and the petite woman glanced behind her towards the door before looking back at the detective. 'Speaking of, I'm actually on me way there now. But, I was thinking that I could, y'know, thank you proper for this after me shift, with Indian. — Unless you're on a . . . a case or summink.'
Wallace's grin still hadn't left. 'I'd love tae.'
Susan took a moment to dig around in her purse once more, this time for a scrap of paper, which she hastily wrote down on before offering it up to him. 'Just ring me mobile then, yeah? I'm off at three.'
The detective took the offered scrap and looked at the sloppy writing before smiling back at Susan, giving a little nod as she quietly excused herself from the building.
In four years, so much had changed in his little world, it was almost enough to bring him to his knees. Temporarily, his concern with Freddie and the Greeks were gone. With so much hostility in the world, it filled his heart to bursting to see at least one person change for the better. His co-workers might have thought him to be a crooked filth, or a ponce, but they couldn't say he didn't make a difference. There, in jeans and a knitted jumper, was the living proof.