My first jab at a fanfic. I have always shipped Dalgliesh and Cordelia Gray and I think it was implied that they had an affair.
This feels like a first chapter and I am not sure yet where it will go or if I will have the energy to do this, but the idea is to explore this pair and maybe have some smut in the future. :) Feedback welcome.
Summary: More than a year since their first encounter, Adam Dalgliesh and Cordelia Gray cross paths again and they clear the air between them.
Pairing: Adam Dalgliesh x Cordelia Gray
Contains: minor spoilers from A Suitable Job For A Woman. Some flirting. Kisses. Slow burn. Divergence from canon.
Word count: 2.4k
It had been 15 months since Cordelia Gray sat in front of Chief Superintendent Adam Dalgliesh's desk, resolute and unwavering in the face of his questions surrounding the death of Mark Callendar. On their third and last meeting, she wore brown slacks and a mannish black sweater, echoing the masculine environment of New Scotland Yard. This, however, only accentuated her fine features - the elegant curve of her mouth and soft brown eyes that glinted with wariness. She answered Dalgliesh directly; there were no wasted words that he could use to crack open her story. Only on their third and last conversation, did her composure break down. But she did not give him a confession of her misdeeds; instead she admonished him for what he did to Bernie Pryde, her late mentor, whose detective agency she inherited after Bernie sliced his own wrists to avoid the incivilities of illness and treatments. She buried her face in her hands and tried to swallow the sobs that racked her body. Dalgliesh realised that her grief unsettled him. He had a sudden urge to go to her and comfort her. Instead, he cleared his throat and offered his white handkerchief. She was right, he told her, Bernie Pryde deserved better from him. Later on, during the debrief with the AC, he told him that the case was closed and that he hoped not to ever encounter Ms. Gray again.
Corderlia Gray saw him first. Adam Dalgliesh strode inside the cafe just in time to avoid the sudden autumn downpour, his long, charcoal coat billowing after him. She could feel her face heating at the thought of him seeing her here, the memory of their last meeting still a fresh embarrassment. She imagined him to be an overbearing, pugilistic policeman. Late forties, running to fat. The puffed-up kind who relished dispensing pithy advice and quips to anyone within speaking distance. So when she was shown into his office, she had to school her face to passiveness as her heart dropped to the floor. For in front of her stood the man himself, tall, long-limbed, with a handsome but inscrutable face. She could look at it the whole day; pity it was an interrogation. For it was interrogation, despite being told that she was "helping the police clear up some matters." She was irritated at herself for not asking Bernie what he looked like, for putting herself at a disadvantage. But she quickly learned to ignore his face and his elegant hands when he gestured to make a point, staring at various items in his office instead. The metal pencil holder on his desk, the legal books on his shelves, her nail-bitten hands. She needed all of her powers to make sure that her answers were straight as he made her walk back and forth to certain points in her story. As someone whose job was to dig out the truth, she understood that he was only doing his job. But she was also resentful of his questions. She was so exhausted by the whole ordeal that she did not leave her bed the next day. Since then, she had imagined what to say to the Superintendent the next time they see each other but none felt appropriate. Now they were in the same room again and she hoped that he would not notice her. She stared at his profile for a good moment, as if committing to memory, and then turned her head away from his direction.
Something in the air made Adam Dalgliesh glance to the windowed corner of the cafe. Cordelia Gray, a pleasant surprise in the truest sense of the word. She was wearing a nondescript navy cardigan, her hair in a bun, a couple of books and a notebook in front of her, and a mug of half-drank milky tea in front of her. To anyone, she looked like a graduate student deep into her texts.
"Hello Ms. Gray. It's been a while. May I join you?" he asked.
"Please." She waved at the empty seat in front of her. Fifteen months, she thought. Then she added softly, "I have to warn you Superintendent that I'm working so apologies if I suddenly have to leave."
"I understand. The man at the corner booth?" he said as he sipped his coffee. Sitting diagonally across the room was a blond-haired man in a suit carefully reading an unmarked folder of documents. Once in a while, he would jot down something from his notebook.
"It's a favor for my friend, Elise," she sighed, closing her book. "She has suspicions about her husband."
"Ah."
Cordelia glanced at the man in front of her as she took a sip of her tea. She had only seen Dalgliesh in a suit, which he wore impeccably. But today, he wore a thick dark red sweater. It made him look less forbidding, more approachable but she knew better. Two weeks after her last visit to his office, she received a letter from the New Scotland Yard thanking her for her assistance on the investigation of Callender's death. The note, signed by Dalgliesh, stated that the case was closed. The Superintendent had deduced her secret and the innocuous letter was his way of telling her to live her life, that she will not be shadowed by the Yard, despite his suspicions. Yes, she was sharp as a knife, but there was no guilt on her. That Adam Dalgliesh recognised how her moralistic core shaped her decisions and burdened her made him the most dangerous man she knew.
So she asked him, "And what about you, Superintendent? What brought you here, this far from Scotland Yard?"
Dalgliesh leaned back on his seat, his eyes on her. He looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it. Instead he picked up his coat lying on the next seat and took out something from the inside pocket.
"I went to visit my ophthalmologist, who is just around the corner. I'm afraid my eyesight is not what it is used to be, Ms. Gray. The perks of getting old, you see", he said. He unfolded his eyeglasses and put them on. "So, what do you think?"
Cordelia made herself look straight at him. This close, with the late afternoon light casting shadows, his face was devastating. The eyeglasses failed to blunt its power. It took all of Cordelia's power not to gasp.
"Er. You're not that old," was all she could say.
"Damning with faint praise" he said, smiling at her.
"Are you fishing for compliments, Superintendent?"
"No, but it is reassuring that you don't think I'm ancient, Ms. Gray".
Outside the rain had stopped and clouds had lightened. Elise's husband looked at his watch and then at the door. He stuffed the folder in his briefcase and stood to leave.
Cordelia put her books into a large bag efficiently and swiftly. I'm afraid I have to go, Superintendent," she said. She held out her hand. "It was nice to see you again."
Dalgliesh ignored her hand and gulped his espresso. "I'll come with you," he said, a small smile playing on his face. He put on his coat and followed her. "Ladies first," Dalgliesh said as opened the door for her. Cordelia opened her mouth to argue but Elise's husband was already out of the cafe and walking away. She threw up her hands in resignation.
The air was chilly and Cordelia tightened the scarf around their neck. She walked briskly and deliberately, keeping an appropriate distance between her and her target.
Dalgliesh followed her lead and walked close beside her. When their mark stopped to check a store window, Cordelia whispered, "Let's cross the street." Dalgliesh sent a silent prayer of thanks to Bernie Pryde. Whatever his sins were, at least he made sure that Cordelia Gray had solid training in foot surveillance.
At some point of their walk across the labyrinthine streets of Marylebone, Dalgliesh offered his arm, which she accepted absentmindedly. It occurred to him that to strangers, they might look like lovers on a night out.
"It's been awhile since I have done this, Ms. Gray. I can't say I am not having fun." She gave him a sideways glance, an amused look on her face.
She gave him a brief account of their target. The name was Malcolm Fernsby, aged 35. Originally from Chelmsford where he studied town planning in a polytechnic. She recounted his routine, his line of work at a surveyor's office, the suspicions of his wife. According to Elise, her husband had been home late at least once a week for the last three months. He had been irritable and impatient, all red flags pointing to an affair.
Dalgliesh waited for Cordelia to explain her ties to the wife, how she came to the case, but no explanation was forthcoming. He recognised this maneuver and was secretly pleased that Cordelia used it on him: never volunteer information to the police, even if the truth was true and harmless. He would have to draw it out of her.
Elise was one of the girls who befriended her at the Convent, a daughter of a bit actress and the youngest son of a gently impoverished minor nobility. They were not necessarily best of friends - Elise was a year older and Cordelia was taken out of school by her radical, itinerant father before she could cultivate deeper friendships - but they had an easy camaraderie that comes from being girls who lived uncertain lives outside the walls of the school. After Bernie's death and driven by the gloom of the flat they used to share, Cordelia sent postcards to old friends, telling them that she moved back to London. Most did not respond, but a few did, including Elise.
Twenty minutes of walking had led them to the narrow streets at the edge of Soho. The man turned right to an alley. Dalgliesh vaguely remembered that the surrounding streets used to house brothels, a common sight in the neighborhood. Crackdowns, zoning laws, and new technologies have driven out most of the brothels, only to be replaced by more secretive, more slippery, and seedier businesses.
There were no streetlights in the alley except for a flickering lamp post at the other end. The man stopped in the middle of it. He knocked at the door. From where they were, they could not hear anything that was said but they could see Fernsby gesticulating heavily. The door opened wider and he stepped in.
"I don't think it is wise to go further Ms. Gray,"
he said.
"I need to see closer."
"If the door opens again, you'll be exposed," he warned her.
"Don't worry, I'll be very quick."
Before he could stop her, Cordelia sprinted forward.
Dalgliesh swore under his breath and followed her.
The iron door was gray and heavy, rust coloring its edges. Cordelia pressed her ear against it. Nothing. Beside the door was a metal trash can, surrounded by cigarette butts. She took a pen from her pocket and crouched to check its contents.
More cigarette butts. A greasy newsprint that probably held a fish and chips dinner. A crumpled paper that looked like a receipt from a nearby laundry service, dated today. This she put in her pocket.
She could feel Dalgliesh disapproving eyes drilling down her back. He was right, of course, there was no place to hide in this street, but she promised Elise answers. She straightened up. "Alright, I am done, Superintendent." They were about to walk away when they heard the lock turn.
Cordelia inelegantly grabbed Dalgliesh by his hand and pushed him against the opposite wall. "I am so sorry about this Superintendent," she said as she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.
Guided by instinct or wishful thinking, Dalgiesh understood what was needed of him. His head dipped to meet her mouth. This was just for show but it needed to look real. One hand cupped the side of her face, the other hand lighted on her waist. . He kissed her softly, tenderly. She responded by opening her lips to welcome his tongue. She tasted of caramel and sugar and he wanted more. He pulled her closer to his body, the way lovers do in darkened alleys.
Dalgliesh opened one eye quickly, enough to see a burly man wearing a leather jacket hurried out. Behind him, a hall lit by a red light and what looked like a staircase going down to another floor below. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Get a room," the man barked.
They broke the kiss as the man's steps faded away. It might have been five seconds or an hour. They looked at each other in silence, breathing heavily. Cordelia looked shell-shocked; lips slightly parted and eyes glazed. Her bun had come undone and loose tendrils framed her face. She looked utterly delectable, Dalgliesh thought, as he tucked a stray lock behind her ear. And as of him, he must have look like a sight. He brushed his hand across his hair, patting it down. Before he could do anything they would both regret, Dalgliesh swiftly guided them out of the alley, back to the main street.
Cordelia's heart felt like it was running away from her. Did she really kiss him? The discordant sound of traffic horns shook her back to herself. She turned to him, her face in her hands, and wailed. "Oh my God. I am so sorry -"
"There's nothing to apologise for, Ms. Gray," he murmured.
"But still, Superintendent - "
He touched her elbow gently. "After that, don't you think we should be on a first-name basis now? Besides, you don't work for me. You just should call me Adam."
"Adam?", she repeated to herself. With her furrowed brows and sceptical expression, she looked as if she was calculating the weight of his words against an equation that held no meaning. She then drew herself up and took a big breath, as if coming up from underwater for air. "This is really embarrassing," she muttered.
"Your secret's safe with me, Cordelia."
She stared at him, faking panic in her eyes. "Oh, no. That's exactly what blackmailers say to their victims."
Dalgliesh suddenly threw his head back and laughed, a deep joyous sound. Under the neon lights, the angles of his face softened. He looked carefree and boyish, just a man enjoying a good joke.
"Am I that black in your books, Cordelia? You know you have nothing to be afraid of from me."
"Yes, I know," she replied softly, grinning. She felt privileged to see him laugh, and a little proud to be the cause of his short-lived merriment.
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