Page 19 of No Safe Place

Wednesday | Evening

Field

When Field finally got home, she was still mentally running through tomorrow’s to-do list.

Interview more of David’s friends, colleagues. Ask them about the divorce – explore what Penny had said about being jealous of his patients.

Then there was CCTV and forensics and a meeting with the super first thing.

And trying to trace the five patients from the paper David had written – teenagers at the time, but Toby’s age now.

She opened the front door and was surprised that the living room was lit by the flickering light of the TV. Toby twisted on the sofa, smiling at her, sleepily.

‘What are you doing here?’ Field kicked her shoes off.

‘Hello, son,’ he said, grinning. ‘Lovely to see you, son.’

She flopped onto the sofa and Toby leaned the top of his head towards her so she could kiss his hair, like she always did when he was little.

At thirty-two he was too old for this action, but they’d done it so instinctively, for so long, that there’d never been a natural stopping point.

‘I was home alone anyway, and I had no plans after someone bailed on dinner,’ Toby said, through a yawn. ‘So, I thought I’d make sure you were okay.’

Toby looked knackered. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he’d lost more weight. He put it down to long shifts, no time to stop for lunch between calls. His ambulance station was particularly short-staffed, he claimed, but it would calm down soon.

‘You thought you’d raid my fridge, you mean?’ She sat next to him.

Toby made no denials, sitting up so she could claim a corner of the blanket.

‘How’s the case then?’ Toby said, pressing mute on the remote and turning to her. ‘Caught the guy yet?’

Field shook her head. ‘Give me another day or two, at least.’

Toby smiled. ‘You can have four.’

‘Thanks, boss.’ She touched his hand. ‘How’s work been?’

‘Pretty rough. Hit-and-run,’ he said, grimly. ‘Twenty-year-old kid.’

‘Christ. I’m sorry, Tobes.’

‘It’s okay.’ A shadow crossed his face.

Field wanted to take away some of the darkness. Toby always asked her, when he was little, whether he could join the police when he grew up. She’d wanted to shield him from this kind of work.

He forced a smile. ‘Did I tell you we delivered a baby in the van last week?’

‘Yep,’ she said, adjusting the blanket. ‘Amazing.’

She braced herself for the next question. ‘And how is the revision going?’

‘Yeah, good,’ he said vaguely, suddenly engrossed in the drama on Married at First Sight .

All the horrific things she’d seen at work – abuse victims and mutilated bodies and people wasting away from drugs or disease or sheer poverty – and nothing had terrified her more than Toby’s illness. There was no darker period in her life.

It was the speed of it all that scared her – one day he was a happy fourteen-year-old and almost overnight he was catatonic, unresponsive. Locked in his own brain. The pressure of exams, and coursework – the long essays he found it difficult to concentrate on.

She’d made it clear that she couldn’t give a shit whether he passed or failed the lot; he didn’t need to make himself ill over his marks. But it made no difference.

Toby had forgiven her, for the things she’d said to him when she was at her most desperate. The day she’d cracked and screamed at him.

You’re selfish. Attention-seeking.

It’s not that hard. Just get the fuck up.

And worse.

Toby forgave her, but his father never had. During their divorce he’d made bitter swipes at her, accused her of being an unfit mother.

It was all ancient history now – more than half of Toby’s life ago. But Field was always watching, always looking for evidence that they were on the precipice of another downturn.

Toby laughed at something on the screen, and she shot a sideways look at him.

Three years ago, he’d given up his comfortable job, working in phlebotomy at the hospital, to do a Paramedic Science degree at Greenwich Uni.

She’d seen less of him, in the last year, as the workload intensified, and he went out on more placements. Harder to keep a gauge how he was doing when he was on a run of nights, and she was in court for a week straight.

As if he could sense her thoughts on him, Toby turned to her. ‘You okay, Mum?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Tired. Thinking about work.’

Was he still going to therapy? Still taking meds? She didn’t know how to ask him.

What would she do, if it happened again? If Toby got ill? He wasn’t a child anymore. She couldn’t force him to get help.

Maybe if Toby had met David Moore when he was ill, if she’d taken him to a good psychologist, it would never have got as bad as it did.

No.

She couldn’t entertain those thoughts, and she couldn’t let this case get personal.

‘You look done in, Mum,’ he said, touching a hand to her cheek. ‘Bed?’

Field wanted to be in at the crack of dawn, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

She liked it when Toby stayed over. On the phone he never called it “her house”, it was always “our place”, even though he hadn’t lived here for years.

She liked knowing he was safe and warm in his childhood bedroom – painted magnolia now.

She kissed the top of Toby’s head again, unable to resist.

‘Bed.’