|Son of Lynley: Sins of the Father
Author: Mejhiren PM
A proposed sequel series to ILM, introducing two significant new characters and interesting new dimensions to Lynley and Havers' relationship - an eventual Lynley/Havers fic with serious issues of delayed gratification! Future eps hopefully to follow!Rated: Fiction T - English - Mystery/Drama - Thomas L. & Barbara H. - Chapters: 23 - Words: 86,474 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 2 - Updated: 12-27-10 - Published: 12-16-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6562284
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Son of Lynley: A (proposed) Masterpiece MYSTERY! Original Series
Pilot Episode: "Sins of the Father"
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Thomas Lynley or Barbara Havers, much as I might wish to, and I mean no disrespect to Elizabeth George, nor infringement of copyright, in creating and posting this project. I am neither a professional screenwriter nor a resident of the United Kingdom just yet (though I did enjoy the privilege of living there for several months) nor formally acquainted with police procedure in the United Kingdom or otherwise, so kindly overlook any shortcomings in those departments.
INT. CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL. NAVE – AFTERNOON.
ADELE's casket is placed at the crossing between the nave and quire, draped with lilies. THOMAS CRAWFORD is sitting in the foremost pew in the nave with LETICIA COPLEY (a diminutive, pretty lady of about 70, dressed neatly in black). MCALLISTER and the rest of the POLICE are a couple of pews behind him, while KIP FINNEGAN and KATHERINE BRAMWELL, together with ALAINA MORRIGAN and her husband ALASDAIR MORRIGAN (an attractive dark-haired man in his mid-30s), are seated opposite him on the other side of the aisle. HAVERS and a very gray LYNLEY are sitting a few pews behind the OXFORD POLICE, and behind them sit an assortment of other MOURNERS – including, inconspicuously, RUSHWOOD, lurking toward the rear of the church in a designer black suit, not unlike a fashionable vulture. FATHER COPLEY stands in the pulpit, calm and composed, though grief has not left him unmarked. The lines and hollows of his face have deepened overnight; he looks closer to 90 then 70. His voice is soft and gentle as he recounts his role in ADELE's past.
Adele was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. It wasn't merely her stunning physical appearance that made her so, but rather the selfless love she carried for her son Thomas…and for his father, whoever he may have been.
HAVERS quietly sets a hand on LYNLEY's hand where it rests on his leg.
FATHER COPLEY, CONT.
She was dear as a daughter to me, those four months she spent at The Ruskin. Oh, she'd not have thought of me as anything like a father, surely not then, but she was forever huddled in some corner of this place, sketching her own characters for the stained glass windows, and we quickly became something of friends. Not dear enough, however, for me to remark upon the growing evidence of her pregnancy…
He trails off with a heavy sigh.
FATHER COPLEY, CONT.
I daresay I was the last to see Adele the night she left Oxford. I was at the rail station, awaiting the arrival of some holiday visitors, when I spied her on a bench, laden with her suitcase and rucksack. She was…heavily pregnant, plainly dressed in a man's old jumper with her wonderful hair loose about her face, and I took the opportunity to remark on her resemblance to the Blessed Virgin of so many Christmases before.
FINNEGAN gives a small, choked sob at this. FATHER COPLEY smiles sadly at the assembly, but the expression is impossible to maintain more than a moment.
FATHER COPLEY, CONT.
Her plan was to take the first train anywhere; I gave her the address of my dear sister in Reading and begged her to go there. I also offered to help her track down the baby's father, as I should have done, oh, so many times before, but she refused. I shall never forget her reply: "Why would I wish to bring pain to the man who's given me such an amazing gift? The man I love more than my own life?"
LYNLEY's composure promptly cracks with a ragged exhalation – the prelude to sobs. HAVERS takes his hand in both of hers and grips it as tightly as possible without breaking the bones.
FATHER COPLEY, CONT.
I will remind you all that Adele was then just turned eighteen; pregnant, friendless, virtually penniless, and in the process of giving up her best chance of a brilliant art career simply to have the child of some boy she would never see again. And yet…I don't believe I have, to this day, seen any sight more beautiful than her face that night.
(shakes his head at the memory)
She was an amazing woman, was Adele. She raised a son whose policing work has spared pain for so many, and at the last gave up her own life for the police inspector who was protecting her – a man she had known for barely a day.
He pauses for a considerable moment before continuing:
FATHER COPLEY, CONT.
(assertively, albeit still in his soft, gentle voice)
I am sure there are those among you who see this tragic event as prime grounds for an aggressive search for Tom's father – but I tell you, now more than ever, Adele would not wish it. Her focus was ever on her son, and that is where ours must be. I ask you all, who knew and loved Adele Crawford, to reach out and help sustain our Christian brother in this hour of complete loss. Honor our beloved sister and friend by caring, in her stead, for the one thing in all the world she truly treasured.
He gazes down at THOMAS, whose eyes are calm but bright with tears.
INT. CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL. NAVE – AFTERNOON.
The assembled MOURNERS are slowly, silently trickling out of the church. THOMAS CRAWFORD still sits with LETICIA COPLEY at the front of the nave, his eyes lingering on the empty crossing where ADELE's casket had stood – as though, at the absence of his mother, he has ceased to exist. MCALLISTER comes up to reassuringly clap his shoulder – a gesture of encouragement that seems somehow appropriate – and FAIRCHILD and ROTHEBY do the same. FINNEGAN ducks down to hug him about the shoulders, and KATHERINE BRAMWELL strokes his cheek with her fingertips and murmurs something inaudible but consoling. ALAINA and ALASDAIR MORRIGAN follow suit; ALASDAIR murmurs a condolence, and ALAINA sits beside THOMAS for a brief moment, holding his hands and murmuring her own comfort.
A grayer-than-ever LYNLEY stares in THOMAS's direction, at once desperate to speak with him and terrified of doing so, and gets to his feet, followed by HAVERS, but before he can take a step one way or the other, FINNEGAN and KATHERINE are before him, pausing in their exit from the church. KATHERINE hugs LYNLEY at once, to slight surprise but greater gratitude.
You're a very lucky man, Inspector.
(calmly, neither curious nor contradictory)
And why is that, Miss Bramwell?
You're the only man Adele ever loved. And no matter how briefly you knew her, I think you realize exactly how much that means.
I do. But thank you just the same.
He looks over at FINNEGAN with shadowed, sorrowful eyes.
Kip, old friend…
FINNEGAN pulls him into a brisk, gruff hug.
(with soul-deep pain)
This would never have happened if she'd chosen to love you – none of it.
(with a regretful smile)
Yeah, well, I had my chance twenty-six years ago.
LYNLEY frowns – this is the first time anyone's referenced 26 years.
She dumped three pints of bitter over you. I berated her like a lackey and you reassured her like an equal – and you're better looking.
It was never in question, who she'd fall for.
(before LYNLEY can speak, he adds)
Anyway, I should be thanking you. Katie here'd never have looked at me twice if she hadn't stumbled across me in a pub crawl, up to my eyes in lager to drown my unrequited love.
KATHERINE slips a hand through FINNEGAN's.
You lads are never more appealing than when your world has come to an end. All the posing and bravado are gone, and more often than not, underneath it all, you turn out to be someone we really rather like.
She looks directly at HAVERS as she says this.
I wasn't meant to raise your son, Tommy – though, God knows, I'd've done it in a heartbeat.
LYNLEY looks at him in surprise.
Oh yeah – prob'ly before she did. I offered, even, when she was still at uni, but she wouldn't have it.
(shakes his head)
Ah well. Del raised him perfectly on her own – well, with the Copleys lendin' a hand – and unless I'm much mistaken, it's your turn now.
He glances up to where THOMAS is still seated, with both LETICIA and FATHER COPLEY now, and sighs, giving a weary shake of his head.
Thomas Crawford doesn't want me in his life, and he certainly doesn't need me.
Yeah, he does.
LYNLEY looks up at THOMAS again; the COPLEYS are getting up, though THOMAS makes no move to join them, and LYNLEY takes half a step toward his son when –
I'm sorry; I can't…
He turns and walks quickly away down the center aisle. FINNEGAN, unsurprised by LYNLEY's behavior, turns to HAVERS.
Give him time – both of them.
(by way of a goodbye)
He catches her hand briefly, then retreats down the aisle. HAVERS looks after him as he goes, then turns back to KATHERINE – the one person, save ADELE, who's managed to get under her guard – and for a split second, it looks like her quiet sanity is about to shatter.
Right, come 'ere.
She grabs and hugs HAVERS fiercely.
You will remember to look after yourself, won't you, in and amongst taking care of those two?
(honestly, though she ventures a small smile at the query)
Here – you have your mobile?
HAVERS looks about herself helplessly and finally finds the mobile in her coat pocket; KATHERINE takes it and quickly programs herself in before handing it back.
Anytime you need anything –
Anything. Day or night. Even if you just want to talk – you know.
HAVERS hugs KATHERINE impulsively, startling (and slightly embarrassing) herself.
Take care of them – and you.
She walks down the aisle after FINNEGAN, leaving HAVERS alone to go and offer her condolences. THOMAS is sitting alone now, still in the foremost pew, still fixated on the place where ADELE's casket had stood. HAVERS comes up to him and rests a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at her like a wounded little boy.
Can I give you a lift?
She sits down beside him and pulls him into her arms, stroking his back with one hand.
Look, I know you're in hell right now, but…I just want you to know, you're more than welcome to come with us.
(addressing her shoulder, caustically)
What, you and DI Lynley?
Me and your dad.
He pushes her away, not cruelly but with definite anger at her suggestion.
I'm fine as I am, thanks.
(acknowledging this, though it's a patent lie)
She looks at him for a long moment, then leans forward to kiss him on the cheek.
He closes his eyes and lowers his face as she walks away.
INT. CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL. NARTHEX – AFTERNOON.
LYNLEY is lingering just inside the door, waiting for HAVERS, when RUSHWOOD approaches him.
(with perfect, emotionless courtesy)
Lord Asherton, forgive me for intruding at such a time, but I wondered if I might have a word.
Very well; what can I do for you, sir?
I understand you were a – patron, of sorts – to Adele Crawford, were you not?
Yes, what of it?
I infer from your behavior that you were also her lover.
What do you want, sir?
(his tone now is all business, albeit not without some small satisfaction at his assumption proving true)
You'll recall, I spoke with Adele yesterday regarding a series of paintings, to be loaned our gallery for the spring season. I have since spoken with my colleagues at the Tate Britain, in light of this recent tragedy, and we wish to –
(he chooses the word carefully)
- amend – our request.
You wish to cancel?
Not as such…
(putting on the figurative kid gloves)
My lord, I – and my colleagues in London – are of the mind that, owing to this recent tragedy, there may shortly be an influx of interest in Miss Crawford's work. As a witness to the – favorable relations – between Tate Britain and the artist in question, we hoped you might, perhaps, see your way to supporting a claim on behalf of Tate Britain to promptly –
(he clears his throat pointedly, much as he did with ADELE at this point, though the meaning here is starkly different)
- acquire – Miss Crawford's full collection.
(sharply rephrasing RUSHWOOD's request without its politic trappings)
You want all of Adele's paintings now?
It sounds rather unfeeling of us, put just so, but surely you can see the sense in it. Miss Crawford made no secret of her love for Tate Britain, going so far as to say, in my presence, that she should like nothing better in the world than to be granted a special exhibit of her works in our gallery.
(intensely, leaning toward LYNLEY a little)
We can make that happen, Lord Asherton. In light of this recent tragedy –
LYNLEY bristles at this third reference to ADELE's death as "this recent tragedy."
My colleagues and I are prepared to reconfigure our schedule – our gallery, truth be told, and an unprecedented honor, you may be sure – to create a special exhibition of Miss Crawford's paintings. If all goes as planned, her works could be on display before Christmas –
LYNLEY has heard quite enough.
(in cold fury)
Do you realize what you are saying, Mr. Rushwood? Adele Crawford – "the artist in question," as you put it – was shot and killed last night at the grand opening of her exhibition. By her father. In full view of her son. You try to euphemize it as "this recent tragedy," thinking these pretty phrases, coupled with your presence at her funeral, will win you exclusive rights to her life's work –
His voice has risen in anger, causing RUSHWOOD, despite his composure, to shrink back ever so slightly. LYNLEY pauses a moment to collect himself before continuing:
It's fortunate for you that I have no legal claim to Adele's work. I'm afraid you'll have to repeat your proposal for her son –
He turns brusquely to leave, HAVERS or no HAVERS, but RUSHWOOD has one final card to play.
LYNLEY turns back, not quickly, as he is well past the point of being shocked or concerned that others have this knowledge.
(his tone is reassuring, though his words bear a threat)
The Tate puts little stock in gossip and rumors, my lord, save for when they might impact a forthcoming exhibition.
The way I understand it, sir, I'm already twenty-five years overdue for blackmail. By all means, do your worst.
(feigning horror at this accusation)
Who said anything about blackmail, sir? I'm simply urging you to see the positive side of this terrible event. Surely you of all people must admit that Adele would want –
LYNLEY whips forward to grab RUSHWOOD by the throat.
How the hell can you presume to know what Adele would want? She's nothing more than a commodity to you –
As though on cue, HAVERS is suddenly beside him, prying his hands off RUSHWOOD's throat.
Let it go, sir.
He looks at her, his eyes wild with fury and grief.
Let it go.
LYNLEY shoves RUSHWOOD away and walks out of the church; HAVERS flashes a murderous look of her own at RUSHWOOD before following LYNLEY out.
EXT. CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL – AFTERNOON.
HAVERS catches up to LYNLEY, just outside the vast and glorious church.
Sir, Rushwood only asked you because Tom already told him to go to hell.
LYNLEY looks over at her in surprise.
In those exact words?
Finnegan just told me; Rushwood caught Tom before the service and asked if he could have a word after…
She trails off meaningfully, and LYNLEY looks away with a grim smile.
What time is it, do you know?
(peers at her watch)
Quarter of three, give or take.
Great – we'll beat the rush.
He hands her his car keys; she looks over at him for a long, telling moment then pockets his keys and they continue down the cathedral walkway to the street. Unbeknownst to them both, THOMAS is standing in the narthex doorway, watching them depart, while RUSHWOOD lurks behind him, clearly awaiting a reply.
Mr. Crawford, if I may –
THOMAS glances back at him.
(sounding eerily like LYNLEY in his sudden, posh dismissiveness)
I've your card, haven't I? If I should decide to entertain this offer of yours, I'm sure you'll be the first to know. Now if you'll excuse me –
He walks out of the cathedral, leaving a slightly dumbfounded RUSHWOOD behind.
EXT. ADELE'S LOCK-UP – LATE AFTERNOON.
THOMAS walks up to the storage unit, unlocks and slides open the door. The unit is reasonably small and contains primarily canvases – some framed, some not, all carefully wrapped for protection. He shuffles purposefully through the frontmost stack of these and draws out one, its wrapping labeled simply "Spring '82." He crouches down to tear at the wrapping and it falls away, revealing the completed version of the painting YOUNG ADELE had been working on in the flashback: a Pre-Raphaelite portrait of YOUNG LYNLEY, very much in the style of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and strikingly true-to-life. Even with LYNLEY bearing 25 more years of age and dissipation than YOUNG LYNLEY, it is still unmistakably him. THOMAS stares at it for a very long time.
He carefully pulls the wrapping together to cover the painting once more, then rises to his feet and slides the door closed.
INT. A PUB – EARLY EVENING.
LYNLEY and HAVERS are sitting silently in a dark booth in a nondescript pub. LYNLEY is idly turning his half-full pint glass on the tabletop while HAVERS looks on.
You know, sir, it sort of defeats the purpose of having a designated driver if you're not gonna drink.
He sets the glass aside and sits back in his chair, though his hands linger on the tabletop.
I should probably ring Hillier.
Actually, McAllister beat you to it. He was on damage control first thing last night.
LYNLEY looks at her with the slightest flicker of interest at this news.
He told Hillier about our plan – the "protection" –
(his mouth twists bitterly at the word)
- we'd arranged for Adele?
The good news is, with three officers in the corridor when it happened, they can't exactly accuse us of negligence.
It still doesn't change what happened.
His gaze returns to the tabletop once more, though he does not reach for his glass.
I think Adele knew she was going to die the moment her father walked into the corridor. She was…holding onto me so tightly; I thought she was afraid. And she was…for my sake.
What would drive Crawford to that? I mean, clearly, he worshipped his daughter –
(with a small, twisted smile)
Well – you were competition, for a start, sir. Single, working-class dad with a gorgeous, accomplished daughter – he'd've resented anyone who held her affections.
You were the first thing she'd ever fought him over – and the last.
LYNLEY inhales sharply at the memory and HAVERS proceeds to study the tabletop.
(carefully, knowing her words may cause pain)
All Del ever wanted was to love you, sir. She knew – or thought she knew – you'd never love her back, but that didn't matter – and Crawford couldn't comprehend that. From his way of thinking, she was holding onto something that could only hurt her more – and that, on top of the anger any father feels when his daughter comes home pregnant, was enough to drive him mad. Mad enough, in the end, to think that the only way to protect her from you was to kill you…and forgetting, in the heat of the moment, that Adele loved you more than her own life.
She squeezes his hand for a brief moment – a gesture of reassurance – then gets up from her seat.
C'mon, sir. Let's go home.
She tosses him the keys.
(warningly – he sounds ever so slightly like his old self again)
You've had exactly one half-pint in two hours – I think you're good. Not to mention, you know the roads.
She walks out of the pub, LYNLEY tagging along behind her.
INT. LYNLEY'S CAR – EARLY EVENING.
LYNLEY is staring fixedly ahead, while HAVERS is hunkered down in her seat like a teen on a road trip, peering out the window with a pensive frown.
Okay, maybe I was wrong. This is the fourth time we've driven down this street.
She sits up a little, looking back at him in mild surprise at this observation.
Um…is there some kind of landmark you're waiting for me to catch?
Not as such, no.
She settles back into her seat, presumably to enjoy the ride, but her next statement makes it perfectly clear that she hasn't missed a thing.
Have you considered - I don't know, maybe - just…asking him to come back with us?
LYNLEY looks over at her with a start at this perception, then remembers who she is. His expression fades to one of pained resignation, and he releases a shallow breath before replying:
I couldn't bear to hear him say no.
What makes you so sure he would?
He retains his sidewise glance as he recounts THOMAS's last words to him:
"You disgust me, Inspector." Of course, then there was, "Go back to London and your wife and your mansions; I hate you."
You'll recall, his mum'd just been killed –
Yes, and this, being, what, almost 24 hours later? is surely all the grieving an angry young man requires.
EXT. LYNLEY'S CAR – EARLY EVENING.
The Bristol pulls sharply up to the nearest curb.
INT. LYNLEY'S CAR – AFTERNOON.
LYNLEY closes his eyes in tearless anguish.
I can't bear it, Havers.
Now you mention it, I could stand to have a drink. 'Scuse me.
She gets out of the car and LYNLEY, momentarily appalled at her reply, realizes that he has unconsciously stopped in front of The Tangled Hare. There are a couple of lights shining through the dim windows of the taproom and one on the floor above, indicating that someone is at home.
INT. THE TANGLED HARE. TAPROOM – EARLY EVENING.
THOMAS CRAWFORD opens the front door just a crack to see a surprisingly chipper HAVERS on the pub doorstep.
Bit quiet 'round here for a Friday night, isn't it?
(obviously, but not too unkind)
We're closed. Come back in six months. Trust me, with new management, you'll hardly recognize the place.
Pity. I was really hoping for one last pint before I leave town.
In spite of himself, THOMAS cracks a small smile and opens the door widely enough to let her in.
Right, one pint, then you're out the door.
He locks the door again and adds, over his shoulder:
And it'll cost you double for the inconvenience.
INT. THE TANGLED HARE. TAPROOM – EARLY EVENING.
HAVERS is sitting with a quietly contemplative THOMAS CRAWFORD at the bar, sipping at her pint of cider.
She shoots him a look over the top of her glass; he amends his address with the tiniest bit more confidence:
Barbara…I wonder if you can forgive me for what I said this morning at the hotel.
HAVERS sets down her glass with a grin, perfectly aware of the line to which he's referring…
What, callin' me pretty? Aside from bein' a bold-faced lie, I din't see any harm in that.
Even after all the trauma of the past several hours, THOMAS blushes a little at her remark.
No, I mean – with regard to…Inspector Lynley. I know that you and he aren't…like that.
He pauses a moment in thought.
Well, I know you aren't like that; the Inspector –
(supplying for him)
Has had a bit of a reputation now and again, yeah.
Still – I never should've said.
Nah, you were entitled, I think. You came to me to get away from all that, an' the man responsible for your mum's death comes bargin' in like he owns the place.
Y' never know. He might, actually – own the place, I mean. He's an earl, right?
He cracks a feeble smile at his own joke.
Anyway, Granddad's the one responsible for Mum's death. He'd gone a little crazy, even before, and I should have paid attention.
And everyone thinks me such a great cop.
You are – worlds better than the rest of us. The Met won't know what hit 'em.
He makes a noncommittal sound at this and looks away.
Sorry, s'pose I should've asked: what are you plannin' to do now?
Same as always, I suppose: go to work, come home –
Yeah, but where's home gonna be?
He looks up at her, not sharply, almost surprised, as if he'd not realized it was an issue of contention.
You can hardly stay here, let alone at your mum's –
- at the flat.
The pub'll get sold soon enough; I'll get another flat.
What, here in Oxford?
They exchange looks once more; this time, THOMAS knows exactly what she's implying and frowns darkly.
Tom, whether or not you choose to accept it, you've got a dad outside who loves you –
- yes, loves you, and wants desperately to know you –
THOMAS turns away – here the equivalent of putting one's fingers in one's ears and humming loudly – and HAVERS catches his chin with a hand, forcing him to look back at her – not unlike a mother with a sulky teen.
No, listen to me. He was gutted at never knowing about you, and in case you forgot, he's grieving for your mum too.
She sighs and drops the hand from his face.
Look, I know it's not the reunion your mum dreamt of, and –
- in your position, I'd prob'ly feel the same way. But Lynley's a good man – the best I've ever known. And your mum gave up her life to save his, which should mean more than all the rest.
THOMAS's face and voice are expressionless. It's impossible to tell in this moment whether HAVERS's words have made him think or only served to anger him further.
And why is that?
(softly and very serious)
Because she loved him. And no one in this world knows better than you exactly how much that means.
She hops down from the bar stool and wrestles a £5 note out of her pocket, which she tosses on the bar next to THOMAS's hand.
Right, here's five quid. Strictly speaking, I owe you six, but the company was too gloomy by half.
He glances from the note to her face, still expressionless.
(slightly more subdued)
I'll let myself out.
She crosses the silent taproom and unlocks the door.
EXT. THE TANGLED HARE – AFTERNOON.
LYNLEY is standing beside the Bristol, waiting, as HAVERS walks out of the pub.
How is he?
(taking slight and uncharacteristic exception to the query)
Well, be fair, sir: his granddad kills his belovèd mum and he finds out he's the bastard son of an earl, all in the same thirty seconds. How would you be?
LYNLEY's only reply is a wince, and HAVERS is quick to reassure.
Nah, he'll be all right.
She glances back at the pub for a long moment, then goes to the passenger side of the car, where LYNLEY opens the door for her. His eyes also linger on the pub's façade.
(more to himself than to her)
It feels wrong, leaving him here.
He's a grown man, sir. It's his decision.
(hesitates for a moment)
And while it would prob'ly be the stupidest in his life, he's got the right to make it. Come on.
She gets into the car and pulls the door shut behind her. LYNLEY looks back at the pub one last time, sighs deeply, and walks around to open his car door when –
(calling to him)
Detective Inspector Lynley – sir.
LYNLEY turns back with almost painful eagerness.
I mean: Detective Constable.
(as though telling himself)
No – Tom's fine.
There is a ponderous pause.
Might I come with you, sir?
(in utter astonishment)
Yeah, the, um…the Tate really wants Mum's paintings, apparently…They're a commodity now that…Well, anyway, they want to put in a special exhibition. I thought I should go up there, maybe – negotiate the details and such.
(at once disappointed and anticipant)
(deadpan and noncommittal)
Well, and I imagine I should start looking for a flat, if the Met's serious about taking me on.
(with almost embarrassing enthusiasm)
Of course they are!
(restrains himself to add)
Erm…of course you should.
I'll just be a minute, then.
LYNLEY smiles as THOMAS walks back into the pub – his first real smile, albeit bittersweet, since ADELE's death.
INT. CRAWFORD'S FLAT. THOMAS'S BEDROOM – EARLY EVENING.
THOMAS walks into his bedroom, where sit two packed bags – clearly, he had been anticipating a departure long before HAVERS came into the pub. He picks up the framed photo of himself and ADELE from off his dresser, strokes a fingertip across her face, and carefully sets the worn Polaroid of YOUNG LYNLEY and YOUNG ADELE on top of it. He promptly puts both into the top of one bag, zips it shut, then hefts both bags and exits the flat.
Author's Note: Feedback is most welcome - and will help me decide how soon I should finish Episode 2! It's loooong overdue, particularly for any Punch & Judy readers, but significantly closer to done than it was in October 2008! ;D It features loads of repercussions for the events in this episode, on top of a tangled new murder mystery, with lots of Tom and Havers banter to boot (one of my favorite aspects of the story, which the P&J readers also enjoyed)! Oh, and please don't hate me for killing off Adele! (While I had planned and even written drafts of her death from the earliest versions of this story, it still tore my heart out at the end - just reading that scene hurts!) She's not entirely out of the picture...