NOTHING CAN BE DONE

A Prime Suspect Fan Fiction.

By Cappuccino Girl

Spoilers/ Timeline: Post The Last Witness by almost a year.

Feedback: is love. cappuccinogirl @ gmail.com

Notes: Big thanks to go the delightful Cheapmetaphor for her stylish little beta. Title shamelessly stolen from the same-titled Joni Mitchell song, which you should listen to if you haven't already done so.

 

Summary: maybe they can fool themselves into being equals this time

 

 

 

She's walking to the underground station on her way back from the Old Bailey with the wind in her hair. It's a crisp evening filled with bright lights and a steady flow of people who swish past her in a blur of black coats and briefcases and expensive cologne.

The press has been relatively sparse since the beginning of Jankovic's trial, and when she's honest with herself, that damn congestion charge does work. So the car stayed in the driveway, in spite of the fact that she was required to give evidence today. It's hardly something that worries her anymore. She's come to terms with the fact that the Q.C.s will be supportive and the prosecution bigger bastards than some of the criminals she's had to deal with. It goes with the turf like sexual advances and decomposed corpses. Once the case is over, she'll close the mental file forever.

She knows her colleagues would like to be done with her forever in much the same way. It's not like they haven't tried all manner of ways over the years. It almost bores her these days, because she's been through it all a hundred times before and sooner or later repetition becomes tedious, like writing thank-you letters for unwanted gifts.

The heel of one of her shoes catches on a slightly raised paving slab, causing her to stumble. In her mind, the comotion slows down and she can feel herself falling to the ground. She stretches her arm out in front of her because she'd rather that got scraped up than the rest of her, but her hand catches something warm and familiar on the way down and, somehow, she doesn't smash her knees open.

She gasps and retracts her hand and brushes her skirt and coat back down to their proper place at her sides.  She realises that she's standing right in front of a blue moleskin jacket and open shirt.

 

"Hello, Jane." She'd recognise that voice anywhere, anytime.

 

"Oswalde," she says. By taking a step back, she's able to look up further so that she can see his face. "This is mildly humiliating," she says with a self-derogatory chuckle. He pulls her over to the side of the pavement so that they're out of the way of the masses rushing back to their homes.

 

They stare blankly into space for a few moments before Jane braves asking, "What brings you to this corner of the country? They haven't sent you back to the Met without telling me, have they?"

"No. Still in Bristol." He sighs. "It seems like forever since I last saw you."

"Maybe because it has been. Where are you heading?"

"It's my nephew's wedding tomorrow, and because he doesn't have room to put me up, I've booked into a smallish B&B for the night. Right now I'm just wandering around in the hope of finding familiar places."

"And faces," she remarks. "If you've really not got anything planned, come back to my place for tea."

 

He doesn't need much persuading, and so they walk toward the tube station like the old friends and enemies that they had been ten years ago. She  no longer swings her briefcase, he notices, and they walk side by side. He's making an effort to walk slower so that she doesn't need to rush in order to keep up, and maybe they can fool themselves into being equals this time.

 

 

~* *~

 

She still lives in the same grotty old house that she used to, although she must have shoved some of her considerable pay rise into making the place more habitable. She's got a wilting pot-plant on a stand in the hallway, and the carpets have been removed, in favor of sanded-down floor boards. He's convinced that this is because she can get away without hoovering quite so often, rather than some home decorating fashion statement.

 

"Does it feel good to be back?", she asks while she closes the three security locks behind her.

"In London? I'm here at least once a year. Nothing's really changed, nothing out of proportion anyway. What's changed in Bristol has changed here," Robert says as he tosses his coat on to the sofa. He doesn't feel the need to ask her whether she's married. It's a given that she's not, and he can't see a reason to tell her that he's married and since divorced. They never talked about personal things before. "Your living room's a different color though, I think."

"Mmm. And the kitchen's been redone. You want a drink?"

"Please."

"Whiskey alright? And please, take a seat."

 

She walks out to the kitchen to wash two glasses. He loves the sound of mildly stressed clattering, the tap coming on far too strong and the water pounding against the metal basin. Her ceiling can't have been repainted because he remembers the brownish rim around the lamp fitting from his last visit.

Two shoes fly out of the kitchen door before Jane emerges with a dish towel and dripping glasses.

"Tell me about your cases, about your life," Bob asks, more out of politeness than a need to know.

Jane smiles, sly and brooding. "You still think I can't separate the two, don't you?"

"You're still far too paranoid."

She screws the lid back onto the bottle and hands him his whiskey and their glasses clink. They drink but don't know to what or whom.

 

Robert pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and eases one out for himself, then offers her one.

"No thanks. I'm trying to quit."

"That's something I never expected to hear." He lights it and inhales deeply. She watches him breathe out away from her. "How long?" he asks when he turns around again.

Jane takes a sip of her whiskey, and he wonders how she can make such a simple act appear so precise. "Well, I haven't."

"What do you mean?"

"I try, and each time it lasts about a month and then I light up again, but everyone gives me this approving look, much like the one you have on  now, so I keep telling people that I have." She stares at her stained coffee table.

"So you do want one?"

"Yes."

"And all you really wanted was a supportive glance?"

"Mmm. I rarely receive them. They're quite precious." She takes a cigarette from the packet on the table and lights hers with the tip of his.

"Some things never change."

"You always thought the best of people, didn't you? I remember liking that about you. An appealing quality in a cop."

They both lean back and rest their feet on the table, relishing their bad habits.

 

"So, what have you been up to then Bob since you last scuttled out of here with your tail between your legs? Has to have been far more interesting than the shit that's been going on with me lately."

"Work's been good. I got promoted to head of vice last year."

"Good good."

"And I moved house a few months ago. My mother fractured her hip last  month, so I've had to take on some extra responsibilities there. My father just isn't fully up to it anymore."

"The new place is closer?"

"It's about ten minutes drive from their house."

"Convenient."

"It is." He takes a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out. "How's work treating you then?"

She laughs, and it's artificial and heaped with sarcasm and contempt. "They tried to shove retirement on me. The thing I just came back from doing today, the Jankovic trial, well, during that one they tried to convince me to retire. The usual things: you've served your time, getting older, blahblah. They've been desperate for a reason for years and now that they think they've got a genuine one... Not that I didn't fuck them over royally during that investigation, mind you. If I wouldn't have been right, they probably would have sacked me."

"I have no trouble believing that." He watches her shoulders slump in and her head drop to her chest. "Are you going to take it?" he asks.

She drains the glass of whiskey in her hand in a feeble attempt at finding clarity, and pours herself another one when it obviously isn't going to work. "Don't know," she says, punctuating herself by sliding the bottle across the table to Robert. "Would you take the money and leave?"

"If I thought they just wanted to done with me?"

Jane nods.

"No. I'd leave when I was wanted the most."

"It's that rather selfish?"

"Yes, but when have you ever cared about that?"

 

He replenishes his drink and tops hers up as well while he's at it. They both stare at each others' feet that rest on the table. It's a shame that palm readings don't work for feet, she muses, because she's convinced that she sees a long life-line on left his one, or is it a crease line from his socks?

 

 

"So," says Bob after  an unusually long silence, "Are we just going to sit here and get silently smashed, or is there some dinner in this for me as well?"

"I did promise."

"Yes, you did."

"And I always keep my promises," she says with a smile.

 

He helps her up from the sofa and they drag each other to the kitchen. The work surface is covered with semi-dissolved Nescafe granules, but everything else is spotless. Jane plonks herself onto the kitchen table and lets her legs swing about while she finishes her third glass of whiskey and stares into her neighbours' bedroom window, hoping for her regular cheap Friday entertainment.

 

Meanwhile, Bob decides to get to work. First port of call: fridge. He opens the door, revealing two large bottles of Diet Coke, a box of All Bran and a jar of ready-made pasta sauce. He holds it up. "This is empty."

"So? Put it in the bin then," she says from her place on the table. He goes to toss it away, but, "No. wash it out first and put it in the green recycling bag next to the tumble dryer." The bag is hidden from sight, so he keeps staring at the space between the fridge and the doorway. "Give me that," she snaps while lunging off the table to snatch the jar from him. Jane puts the tap on full whack and scalds herself on the water while she washes the thing out.

Bob steps back into the doorway, distancing himself from the lousy food and the increasingly sour mood of his hostess.

 

"I was going to cook for you but I obviously can't, can I? Unless there is some recipe for All Bran I haven't heard about. Doesn't even belong in the fridge to start with." He pauses before stating the obvious. "I should have found a pub like I had planned."

 

She dries her hands on a dishtowel and wrings it out when she's done, which turns her knuckles a bright white. "I don't fuck colleagues anymore, Robert," she says remarkably calmly. "All they ever do is fuck me over and leave a note on the bedside table the next morning. 'Sorry to have ruined your career prospects. Much love, Sad Wanker.'"

"I suppose I could be glad to see that your cynicism is still in tact."

"Some things never change, remember?"

"I did say that, didn't I?" Bob stares at the lone box of cereal sitting on the worktop.  "Should we get a take-away?"

"Yeah. There's a pile of numbers by the phone," she says on her way out of the room. "Anything so long as it isn't Indian or pizza and they'll deliver." She wanders back into the living room to collapse on the sofa and pour herself another whiskey.

 

When he sits down next to her again, she's flipping between Sky News, ITV, and some home shopping channel.

"You must have really wanted it," he says while staring at the photos displayed on her bookshelf.

She mutes the TV. "Wanted what?"

"To stay. Don't think I didn't follow what went on when they re-opened the Marlow murders nine years ago."

"I suppose I did, yes." He can tell that she doesn't like to talk about this. The corners of her mouth tense up into fine lines and her eyes seem to lose focus. "They don't like it when I'm right, when I have to go against the grain to prove a point."

"No team oriented employers approve of that, Jane. Not the military; not the police."

She fiddles with the creases in her skirt. It's long and woolen and suddenly seems uncomfortable. "Yeah, but what if the team needs to rethink things?" She tugs at a loose thread while she speaks. "Isn't it always the pioneers, the inventors, who improve the way things work?"

"And the ones whose mistakes have the gravest consequences."

"I wasn't a sniper, Bob," she clarifies, his name as her highlighter pen. "I had a great record of solving crimes-- correction-- have a great record. Just because I sometimes rely on my own common sense rather than the stupidity of others doesn't make me a bad person."

"No, I never said that, and they never managed to kill your visions off, so you can be proud of that as well, but haven't you had enough of it now? I mean, how can you still want to stick it out, all those men gagging to shove you out the door?"

He clinks the ice around in his empty glass before setting it back onto its coaster. At this moment, she thinks, would it even matter if she were despicable? Would anyone care?

"Why don't you just cash your retirement check, accept a decent lecturing job at some university, and be done with it all?"

She leans into the space created between his arm and his side and says, "I'm now, for the first time in my life, in the position where I can genuinely change things. I suppose I want to prove to everyone that it can be done."

"By you."

"By me."

On the television, Big Ben silently strikes seven. Robert strokes her hair. He knows she's given almost everything else up for this and the fact that she believes now will be different amazes him. They haven't quite managed to turn her sour, not yet anyway. He hopes she'll put her stubbornness aside and leave before they succeed. The masses always win eventually.

 

The doorbell rings.

"Food," she says.

"I'll deal with it."

"No. I will." She rolls over so she's facing him. As she's in the process of standing up, she leans over, leaves a kiss on his forehead."I always do."

 

~* fin.