Cult Following

Disclaimer – I don't own Midsomer Murders

Chapter One

"How many times do I have to tell you Winter, I am not interested." Detective Chief Inspector John Barnaby told his Sergeant as they entered their office, coffees clutched tightly and a box of doughnuts balancing precariously on DS Winter's free hand.

"We can't get enough numbers together for a team though, sir," DS Winter countered as he found a clear spot on top of one of the old-fashioned metal filing cabinets to deposit his load. There were at least two pairs of eyes watching his every move and he knew that as soon as he stepped away they would be on the doughnuts like vultures. He quickly grabbed one for himself and the boss before stepping away to leave the doughnuts to their fate.

"I fail to see how that's my concern, Winter." Barnaby replied as he took the offered treat, stepping back to his desk and pulling a paper napkin towards himself.

DS Jamie Winter considered his options. He had hoped that the boss would cave in sooner, they really did need him to be able to put up a team. "It's a one off, sir. It's just a bit of –"

"Don't say it!" Barnaby raised a hand and cut him off, glaring at the younger man. "There is nothing 'fun' about a fun run. Nothing. They just label it that so that gullible, innocent victims get bullied into it and only later have to face up to the reality. Runs are hard, painful, sweaty and humiliating but never fun."

This was it. When all else failed, it was time for him to pull out the big guns. With a nonchalant sigh, Jamie sat down at his own desk. "Oh well, it would have been nice to be able to get one over the Shepley CID but I guess we'll have to wait for another year."

He counted down in his mind. Five, four, three, two, one….and…

"Shepley CID?" Barnaby asked, his tone somehow curious and disinterested at the same time. Jamie smirked to himself – he knew had him hook, line and sinker now.

"Oh, they've just been bragging about how they would win the team competition this year again. We've been dying to take them down a peg or two but with Andrews injured we are now one person short."

"Hmm." Barnaby replied, taking a sip of his coffee and scrutinising his doughnut. "Well, maybe I will join in after all. I've always thought Shepley are just a little too smug for their own good." His eyes roved from his own doughnut to Jamie's. "Well, we can't all sit around eating doughnuts if we want to beat Shepley! We need a training plan, athlete's diet, coach." He stood up quickly, snatching away Jamie's doughnut as his sergeant watched on with the protest dying on his lips. The box on the filing cabinet was scooped up too, much to the consternation of those in the office. "We are instigating a healthy eating regime! We are going to become lean, mean running machines by the twenty-first of April." He strode out the door, muttering about getting a trainer and a physio. Winter hastily grabbed his jacket and followed, mainly to avoid the death glares being sent his way from the rest of the office.

"Sir, I'm not sure we need to take it quite so seriously…it is only a charity race."

"I have known DCI Whiting for several years now, and he always has a superior attitude. We need to take Shepley down, Winter. This is a matter of departmental pride." Barnaby had a fervent look about him, one that Jamie had learnt not to interfere with in the couple of years he had been working underneath him.

"Yes sir," he sighed, looking wistfully at the box of doughnuts that had been shoved into one of the bins in the foyer.

"Now it's a Friday and all is quiet Winter, get out of here – go home and go for a run."

Jamie blinked. "Now, sir?"

"There's no time like the present! I want to hear about how it goes tomorrow. Chop chop."

With a shake of his head, Jamie complied. As he stood outside the police station in the sunshine, he thought that maybe it wasn't such a bad suggestion after all. It was late March, the sun just beginning to have some warmth although the air was decidedly chilled. He headed to his car, thinking that maybe a run was in fact a very good suggestion.

Half an hour later, he had laced up his slightly dusty running shoes and taken to the pavements of Causton. Down past St Andrew's church, up to the river path. Along the gravel river path, skipping past dog walkers and the occasional other jogger. Through the gate onto the cycle path and across the field. Jamie usually kept fairly fit, but he was blowing a bit by this time. The odd game of five-a-side wasn't quite the same as just running for twenty minutes without a break.

Jamie turned for home, weaving his way through some of the alleyways that ran behind Causton's main shopping street. He was beginning to think longingly of a shower and a pint as he turned out of the alleyway onto a quiet residential street near the new estate he lived in. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't pay attention to the runner who was already coming along the street, at least not until he ran straight into them. Jamie staggered, surprised by the impact on his shoulder, but he was better off than the person he hit. The slight framed runner fell hard to the ground, letting out a cry of surprise and pain.

"Oh God!" Jamie exclaimed, running over to help them up. "I'm so…sorry…" he tailed off as he found himself staring into light brown eyes that sparkled in the late afternoon sun.

"Seriously?" The runner grumbled, pushing herself up on to her knees. "You run into me, then stand there staring instead of helping? Ow!" She clutched at her shoulder as she rocked backwards into a sitting position.

"Here," Jamie put a hand underneath her uninjured elbow and helped her to her feet. "Are you ok?"

"I'll be fine," she muttered curtly, trying to pull her arm around to look at her shoulder. Jamie winced at the large graze – her sleeveless running vest hadn't done anything to protect her. In addition, her shorts were ripped down the right side, the side she had landed on.

"Look, I live just down the road," he said, pointing his house out on the estate across the road from where they were standing. "Come back to mine and let me patch it up, to make up for running into you."

The woman glared at him, brown hair plastered to her red face in a frizzy mess. Jamie found himself hoping she would take him up on the offer. Instead, she pulled a phone out of a back pocket on her shorts and swore. "I have no battery. Guess I have no choice, it's a way to walk home from here."

"This way," Jamie gestured. "I'm Jamie, by the way." The woman didn't reply. Now that she was standing Jamie could see that she was several inches shorter than him, a curvaceous figure that hinted of muscle instead of fat. He only tore his gaze away from her Lycra-clad form when the sound of someone clearing her throat actually broke through the haze in his mind. She was still glaring angrily, making him feel more than a bit sheepish.

"You house?" She questioned, a hard look on her face.

"Oh, of course." Jamie led the way to his house, surreptitiously watching the woman out of the corner of his eye the whole time. She was limping now, obviously in pain through her right side that she had landed on. Jamie was about to comment on it when a glance at her gritted teeth and determined expression made him think the better of it.

Even though it was close, they weren't moving very fast and it took a few minutes to reach the house Jamie was staying in. He stepped forwards and opened the door, gesturing for her to enter first. With a suspicious glance in his direction the woman walked straight into the front room of his small, new build end of terrace. She stood on the laminate floor and looked around at the bland furnishings – mainly things he'd picked up for cheap when he first rented his tiny London flat, but even though this house wasn't big his furnishings looked sparse.

"I'm renting," he told her, feeling that he needed to explain why it looked so cold and clinical. With no pictures on the wall or decorations, it still looked barely lived in even though he'd been in Causton now for two years or more. "Here," he hurried forwards to clear a couple of stray magazines off his brown leather couch. "Sit down while I go and get some antiseptic and plasters for your shoulder." She winced but complied, perching awkwardly on the very edge of the seat as though afraid to make herself comfortable.

Jamie ran up the stairs to his bathroom, where he kept medical supplies. As an afterthought he grabbed a large pullover from his clean laundry pile on the spare bed. The woman was sat where he had left her, arms wrapped tightly around herself as she began to shiver.

"Do you mind?" Jamie asked, gesturing to her injured shoulder. She shook her head, so he grabbed some gloves and the cotton wool to clean it up. She flinched when he first applied antiseptic but then sat ramrod straight. It must have hurt, she was biting her bottom lip to stop crying out, so Jamie worked as quickly as possible to clean the cut. He could see now that it was a graze, not deep but a layer of skin had been taken off the back of her shoulder and was probably very painful. He carefully pressed a large gauze pad against it and offered her the jumper he'd picked up.

"I'm ok, thanks." She replied curtly.

"You're shivering." Jamie told her, waving the jumper again. "Please, it's the least I can do."

She sighed and took it off him. "I don't want to make it all disgusting."

"I can wash it. Do you want a lift home?"

"I guess. Thanks."

Jamie smiled at her. "Given that it's my fault you hit the deck, you shouldn't be thanking me. I don't think I caught your name?"

"I didn't give it." She studied him for a moment, before relenting and turning away. "It's Clara."

"Well, Clara, your chariot awaits." He helped her up and out of the door, into the passenger seat of his car. Swinging into the driver's seat, he looked over at her. "Where to?"

"The far side of the town, I live in one of the old cottages by the old mill."

Jamie nodded, he knew it well. "Well then, let's go."

The drive was mostly spent in silence, Clara looking out of the passenger window while Jamie drove. Eventually he pulled up by a row of small terraced cottages that were set back from the street.

"Are you going to be ok from here?"

"Yes, thanks." She muttered, rolling her neck as she went to stand.

Jamie suddenly felt a strange panic that this might be the last time he saw her, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "Do you want to go for a drink sometime?"

Clara turned her bright, expressive eyes towards him with an incredulous expression on her face.

"As an apology!" He added, the words coming out in a rush. "An apology drink, sometime. On me." He winced, willing himself to shut up before he put his foot in it any more.

"You are really asking me out after you knocked into me? As a dating technique, that's pretty poor."

"That's not a no?" He said hopefully.

Clara sighed. "It's not a no. It isn't a yes either!" She cautioned. "It's more of an 'I can't make a sensible decision when I'm cold, tired and hungry'."

"I'll take that," Jamie grinned at her, before reaching into his door pocket. "Here, this has my number on." He handed her one of his business cards, made up to hand to people who might just remember something later. She took the card, her eyes widening as she recognised his job title. "When you make up your mind, call me. If, you know, you want to."

Clara nodded slowly at him. "OK. Thanks for patching me up, and the lift."

"I really am sorry," Jamie replied earnestly, gesturing towards her shoulder. Clara stepped back and shut the car door before fumbling with a key for the central cottage. With a quick wave, she was gone and Jamie was left to clutch the steering wheel and let go of the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. With one last look at the closed door to number three, he started the car and drove back to his small house, not realising he was wearing a goofy smile on his face.