Necessary as Blood

father‘s always wanted.‘
    ‘But you didn‘t do what he wanted.‘
    ‘No.‘
    Cullen shifted awkwardly. ‘Look, I didn‘t mean...‘
    ‘Are you saying I should stay on, and have you hold the truth over my head? 1
    ‘No. Not me. But you should tell the guv‘nor.‘
    ‘You think I would ever be assigned to a major case again?‘
    ‘Well, if they discriminated against you because of who your father is, you could always threaten to take the story to the paper.‘ He grinned suddenly, but Melody wasn‘t sure she found the irony funny.
    ‘Seriously,‘ Cullen continued, ‘you are good at what you do. And I suppose you were right. I have been jealous of Gemma, and of you.‘
    ‘Doug, why?‘ she asked, and the use of his first name felt comfortable again. ‘You‘re a good officer, and Kincaid depends on you.‘
    ‘Because I don‘t seem to have the talent for reading signals.‘ He shrugged. ‘I‘m good with facts, but I always seem to get things wrong with people. Foot in mouth.‘ He looked away. ‘Like that night in front of the Yard. I was an idiot.‘
    Even now, remembering his rejection made her flush with embarrassment. But she‘d only suggested a drink, after all, and maybe he had just felt shy. Had she overreacted? And was it too late to make amends?
    ‘You were,‘ she agreed, but without rancour. ‘But that was ages ago. Do you think, if I talked to the Super, that I could get on in this job?‘
    ‘There are times it might be helpful to have a friendly connection with the press. As long as the press knew where your interests lay.‘
    ‘Loyalties, you mean,‘ she said.
    ‘Yeah. That, too. Do you know?‘ he asked, with a frankness she‘d never heard from him.
    ‘Definitely.‘
    ‘Then maybe...‘ He rocked a little on his feet, and pushed his glasses up on his nose. ‘... if you gave me a lift, we could stop for a drink. Have a chat or something.‘
    Melody laughed aloud. She felt a bit giddy with liberation. ‘What would we talk about?‘
    ‘I‘m thinking of looking for a new flat.‘
    ‘Well, that‘ll do for a start.‘

    ‘You have sixteen days of official freedom,‘ Duncan said when they left the town hall, having filled out the paperwork required by the borough of Kensington and Chelsea for a marriage licence. ‘In case you change your mind.‘
    ‘I‘d better not,‘ she said, teasing. ‘Your mum and dad have promised to come to Glastonbury for Winnie‘s blessing. And Juliet‘s promised to come with the kids. Kit should be pleased.‘ She took his arm. ‘It‘s cooling off. Let‘s walk down to the river, to celebrate.
    ‘Winnie‘s doing well, by the way,‘ she added as they strolled down Oakley Street. ‘I talked to her this morning.‘ Gemma didn‘t want to think about her mum, and whether she would be well enough in a few months to attend. Not today.
    ‘You realize that if we go to Glastonbury for Winnie‘s blessing in the church, we‘ll be married three times,‘ Kincaid said.
    ‘Is that for luck, then?‘ she asked.
    ‘I don‘t know about luck, but it should make it stick.‘
    She punched his arm and he laughed, but when they reached the river he stopped, his back to the railing, and looked at her soberly.
    ‘Will you mind? About Winnie and Jack‘s baby?‘ he asked.
    ‘No, of course not,‘ she answered, but she knew what he meant. ‘I‘m so pleased for them. Really, I‘ll be fine.‘ And she realized, as she said it, that she was fine — that she was, in some indefinable way, healed, and that it was not a baby that she wanted.
    ‘But there is...‘ She struggled with the words. ‘I don‘t want you to think that it‘s not important to me to have a child of our own. But Kit and Toby, they‘re just as much ours as if we‘d had them together. I can‘t imagine loving them any more, or any differently. And today‘ — she swallowed and went on — ‘when I knew what had happened to that little girl... to all those girls, I thought: if we could make a difference to one...‘
    ‘I know,‘ he said, and smiled. ‘And besides, the boys need someone to keep them in line.‘

Acknowledgements

    Writers are not isolated creatures, and books are built on so many things — bits read, bits heard, bits remembered — that a writer can only begin to thank all those who contributed to the making of a novel.
    So, then, where to begin?
    Thanks to Darcy Falk, textile artist in Flagstaff, Arizona, whose beautiful works helped serve as a blueprint