Fic: Calling Card (mild Gene/Sam, Green Cortina)
Title: Calling Card
Rating: Green Cortina for language, sexual references and mentions of caning
Word Count: 2,571
Notes: Been wrangling with writer's block, so this didn't end up being posted when it actually was Valentine's Day. Oops. ... What's a week anyway?
Summary: So just who thinks a pink rabbit-themed Valentine's Day card would suit Gene?
-0-0-
Friday, 8:30am
YOU MIGHT BE BRUTISH, SWEATY, RUDE,
AND LIKE DOLING OUT FIGHTS,
BUT I WISH YOU HAD A BLOODY CLUE
WHAT YOU MAKE ME DO AT NIGHTS.
YOU CLEAN THE STREETS OF SCUM AND HATE,
YOU MAKE US ALL FEEL SAFE.
SO NOW MY ONLY WISH TO DATE
IS TO PRESS A BIG BASTARD SLOPPY KISS TO YOUR FACE.
LOVE,
YOUR VALENTINE
“Jesus effin’ Christ on a bike TYLER! What is this nonsense?!”
Sam had just sat down with a cup of tea. He hadn’t had one since eight o’clock that morning, he’d gone and put the kettle on twice only to be called away by Chris to explain long words in his training manual, then Ray had stolen the mug he’d finally had five seconds to make and denied all knowledge (“I can have it dusted for prints, Ray, but I really don’t want to put Forensics through the trauma of handlin’ your saliva…”), and now Gene had startled him and he’d poured the first bloody cup that had made it to his desk all over his lap.
“SHIT!” Shooting out of his chair, he fanned his trousers desperately, leaping about in a hoppy pain-dance that had most of CID laughing under their desks; Gene’s head poking round his office door and the snort at the sight of his DI earned him a glare that could have reduced a lesser man to ashes.
“Thank you for that.”
“Yer bloody welcome. Get yer arse in ‘ere.”
“I would, but it’s on fire.” Sam, a black expression on his face, brushed the tea-leaves off his groin and marched into Gene’s office with all the dignity he could muster hunched over and sopping wet from the waist down. Christ, that stain looked embarrassing.
Slap, and it was covered with a hot-pink card, patterned with bunny rabbits and hearts.
“… That’s sweet of you, Gene, but I’m not much of a bunny rabbit person, myself.” Sam lifted it up off his lap, turned it over.
“Left in ‘ere this morning.” Gene leaned over and rummages in Sam’s pocket, pulling his packet of Juicy Fruit out and extricating a piece for himself, brushing his fingers against various damp-sensitised areas of Sam’s anatomy in the process. “Don’t recognise the ‘andwriting,” he added through his mouthful of gum, blowing sweet-scented breath in Sam’s face. What a dichotomy that is.
“Well, it wasn’t me. I mean… if I wanted to leave you a card for Valentine’s Day, I’d… well, I’d book myself into a clinic citing masochistic tendencies, actually.”
Gene, gimlet-eyed, smacked his gum.
“You could… you could send it to be dusted for prints? Or… well, Guv, maybe it’s a practical joke, who knows. Probably some brave PC who’ll be gettin’ pints left, right an’ centre tonight for leavin’ a pink Valentine’s card in DCI Hunt’s office.”
“… Fine. So long as you didn’t leave it.”
“No, Guv. No, I didn’t.”
“Right. Sure.”
“Yeah.”
“… Last chance to confess.”
“I didn’t, Gene.”
“I know you find the Gene Genie irresistible.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Fine.”
-0-0-
11:00am
“Cartwright.”
“Guv.” Annie, engulfed in her report, doesn’t spot the hot-pink envelope appearing on her work until she’s written halfway across it. “… Oh. Er, thanks, Guv, but I’ve always thought of you more as a friend.”
Gene, expression like a man chewing a wasp, picks the card back up and holds it out in front of his face. “‘Eroded nasal cavities due to overuse of cocaine’. Right romantic, that.” He squints at her, face brooding, and Annie folds her hands in her lap and tries to look innocent. “Your doing?”
“If you mean the card, I’m afraid my taste is more in men my own age.”
Gene’s mouth twitches. “You fancy a demotion, Cartwright?”
“I’m told lyin’ to your superior officers is a disciplinary offence, DCI Hunt.”
She can see he’s trying not to smile as he shoves the card back in his pocket and straightens up, sniffing. “Least you didn’t threaten to shoot me this time. I want that report in by lunch an’ some dimwits assembled outside for four o’clock, with vans, weapons an’ some flasks of tea if anyone needs emergency lubrication.”
“Yes, Guv.”
-0-0-
12:00pm
Ray normally has his lunch with Chris. Today, it’s pie and mash, Chris’s favourite, but the plonker is nowhere to be seen, something about a bird and “meeting her for a proper lunch, like”. Lunch. Men don’t have lunch with birds. Men have bloody dinner with birds, so they’re not neglecting their comrades during the day. Let women take the evenings over. More chance of getting her ‘downstairs inside’ in the evening, too.
So when the Guv plops down opposite him and starts tucking in with just a nod to Ray, he assumes Gene thinks he’s in need of a lunch companion. Well, he could do worse. Be just like bloody Cartwright to come over all sensitive at the sight of him at his and Chris’ lunch table alone and come over to ‘keep him company’.
“Been quiet recently,” he says after a minute. Most of the Guv’s pie has already vanished; Ray tentatively moves his plate further away from Gene’s fork, leg twitching where the Guv’s knee is touching his under the table. Gene nods, gulps, wipes his mouth with the napkin, and belches impressively enough for Ray to smell it. “Reckon there’s something big brewing?” Apart from that bloody burp.
“Dunno,” Gene answers shortly, digging into his mash. The mini mountain Gwen created is more of a molehill already. “Wouldn’t put it past the blokes in Milton Road, to pull in some small-time blaggers an’ pickpockets an’ try to buy their silence for a while, see if it puts us off our stride.”
“They should know you better than that by now, Guv.”
Gene’s lip quirks up, a second before he’s shovelling more dinner into it. Ray coughs, looks down at his own dinner, and scoops a quarter of the pie up onto his fork to start munching.
“Any luck with the Valentine’s day card, Guv?”
Prick. Ray looks up, nostrils twitching at the unhealthy clean smell of DI Tyler looming over- not him, looming over the Guv, daring to stand over the Guv and Gene hasn’t punched his gnashers down his throat yet, is just swallowing, tapping his foot against Ray’s and that is bloody distracting. And disturbing. The Guv allowing his DI to lord it over him? Tyler’s bad news, this only proves it.
What did he say anyway? Valentine’s day card?
“Nope.” Gene wipes his mouth again, leans back in his chair and stretches like a cat; Ray has to look away, glares at Tyler instead. “Probably some WPC hopin’ she’ll get lucky with the Gene Genie. Lemme eat my soddin’ lunch, the mighty engine needs fuel for later.”
“Of course.” Tyler lifts his own plate of green mush and- whatever the bloody hell that pile of overcooked shit is- and walks off to sit with Cartwright.
Ray clears his throat. “Someone been sendin’ you Valentines, Guv?”
Gene digs a hot-pink envelope out of a pocket and shoves it over to him. “Left it on me desk this morning. Any prankster you know, Ray?”
“Nope.” He turns it over in his hand, scrutinises it, trying to breathe evenly. “’Ere, Guv, this might be something, they’ve written sommat on it, right at the bottom, see? Neat handwriting an’ all, must be a bird. Reckon it must be an informant, maybe you should send it down to Forensics. Might recognise the ‘andwriting from somewhere.”
“That’s WDC Cartwright’s, you div. She managed to write ‘alf ‘er bloody report over it this morning.”
“… Oh.” Ray quickly shovels more food in.
“Speakin’ of that ruddy report, she still ‘asn’t finished it an’ we’re off in three hours.” Gene wipes his mouth one final time, shoves the napkin on his now-emptied plate, and stands up with a squawking of chair legs. “Ladies! Get a wiggle on, work to do!”
Tyler and Cartwright jump in their chairs, slopping green mush and carrot respectively over the table, and Ray sniggers as he returns to the pressing matter of his cooling pie.
He misses the look that passes between Sam and Gene as Gene hefts a case file into his arm and strides back towards CID, leaving the canteen doors swinging wide open in his wake.
-0-0-
2:30pm
“Christopher! You remembered to get the lovely lady a card?”
No, Chris did not remember to get the lady a card. Nor did he remember to get the lady any chocolates. Nor did he remember to get her a present. Which meant he had to run to WHSmith, then to the chocolatier’s on the corner, then to the shop next door selling cuddly toys, and by the time he got to the cinema, he was half an hour late and she was gone. It had seemed to be the end of his much-anticipated courtship, all his own stupid bloody fault; he’d been standing outside the cinema, cursing under his breath, clutching his presents in a paper bag and on the verge of tears, when she’d come rushing round the corner and hugged him, apologising over and over for being so late and upsetting him. The nice girl in the ticket booth had very kindly accepted their tickets for the later showing, and they had agreed to meet outside the cinema again at seven o’clock. Presents had been exchanged, and Lizzie had gone on her way with a smile and a peck to his cheek.
Not the lunch date he’d anticipated, but someone who was also always late to everything would be useful.
“MmmwemanagedGuv,” he mumbles, sliding behind his desk. Gene gives him a clap on the shoulder that made him wince.
“Good lad! Upstairs inside on the second date only, don’t want ‘er slappin’ yer brains out too soon. That’s if you’ve still got any.” And, as the rest of CID guffaws and Chris goes bright red, he drops his voice, leaning right over his DC. “You get ‘er a card?”
“Er, yeah.”
“What colour?”
What colour? Chris swallows, hard. Was red bad? Red was like roses, wasn’t it? “Red. It was, er, red. With flowers on. An’ writing. Er, black.”
The Guv purses his lips, and Chris closes his eyes and wiggles in his seat. Shit. He should have asked Cartwright first. Should’ve made sure red wasn’t bad. Shit.
“Good choice, lad. Shows yer eager. Right! I expect some meaningful work by the end of today, Skelton, no matter ‘ow excited you are about the hot date a little bird told me you ‘ad planned later tonight.”
His face splits into a big grin. Thank Christ and all the saints, he’s still in with a chance. “Yes, Guv. Thanks, Guv.”
Gene blows a Juicy Fruit bubble, pops it with his front teeth, and disappears back into his office. Chris blows out a shaky breath and picks up his pen.
-0-0-
3:20pm
“Any luck?”
“Nothing.” Gene pulls the card out of his pocket, throws it at his desk; Sam catches it and holds it up to the light, squints at it. “None of ‘em. None of ‘em succumbed to the Gene Genie’s subtle interrogation.”
“You an’ subtle. Not words that often go together.” Sam just smirks at Gene’s glare, places the card back down on the desk and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, as you said, maybe it was a WPC. Or someone’s dare. Don’t know why you asked Chris, his three ex-girlfriends will make it pretty clear that ‘e’s not into men.”
“You never know, Tyler. They’re exes for a reason. The lad’s been hangin’ onto my trouser leg since the day ‘e joined the Force.”
“Not literally.”
“Well, there was the time ‘e slipped on the steps outside an’ nearly took me boxers down the steps with ‘im.”
“He’s just clumsy, Guv. That an’ Ray’d tied ‘is shoelaces together.”
Gene spits his gum in the bin and reaches for Sam’s pocket; Sam slaps his fingers away. “Just give up, I would. Someone’ll own up in due course. In the meantime, isn’t there a home that needs raiding? Small issue of a drug dealer?”
“Got yer weapon?”
“No? Will I need one?”
Gene rolls his eyes so far up they disappear back into his skull, hops off his desk and throws a crowbar at his DI; Sam fumbles to catch it before it bashes into his ribs. “You never bloody learn, do you.”
“I did pretty well last time.”
“Yer up against Audrey Mason this time. She hits below the belt in all senses of the phrase. No wonder ‘er bloody husband uses ‘er as security.”
“Audrey Mason is sixty-eight.”
“Uses that cane like you’d never believe. Stop bloody answerin’ back an’ go rally the troops.”
-0-0-
5:20pm
“How’s yer elbow, Guv?”
“Bloody wonderful. How’s yer leg?”
“Well, it’s stopped bleeding now.”
“Told you to watch for the cane. She’s like my old schoolmistress, that hag. Knows just where to hit you to make it bloody last. Christ, the spring in that stick, it’d hit yer arse an’ rebound to ‘it the wall three foot away.”
“You get caned often?”
Gene snorts, cradles his elbow. “Often enough. What a soddin’ day, I ‘aven’t even ‘ad a decent cup of tea since ‘alf three. Think Cartwright put dog shit in them flasks instead of teabags.”
“Chris made the tea.”
“That’d explain it.”
It’s as Gene turns round, reaches for the scotch on top of his filing cabinet, that Sam sees the Valentine’s card, still stuffed in his back pocket. “You still tryin’ to find whoever wrote that?”
Gene, bottle of whisky clasped in his good hand, glances round mid-pour of his drink. “Nope. Why?”
“Well, thought you would’ve binned it by now, then. Not good for yer image to be seen walkin’ around with pink cards in yer pocket. Unless you really liked the poem?”
It might be the light, but he swears he sees Gene’s mouth curl up into a smile as he picks his tumbler of whisky up and takes a gulp.
“Never told you there was a poem inside.”
Shit. Bollocks shit bollocks shit.
Sam swallows, hard, hard enough that Gene probably heard it over on the other side of the room. Schoolboy error. Shit. “No. No, actually. You didn’t.”
Gene swerves round on the heel of his foot, drawn up to his full height, chin in the air. “You know who sent it, Tyler?”
Oh God. “OK. Fine. Yes, I know who put it on yer desk.”
“Who?”
“Phyllis.”
Gene chokes on his mouthful of drink, and Sam limps across to bang him on the back.
“Phyllis? She- she wrote that? You mean she- oh Jesus Christ, I’ll ‘ave to move out of Manchester in the morning.”
“Bastard. Yer not movin’ anywhere, because no, Phyllis didn’t write that poem. Or buy the card.”
“What?”
Sam takes hold of Gene’s injured elbow, pulls him down to align their heads with one another. Deep breath. Deep breath. “I did. She just left it there for you, seein’ as I couldn’t sneak into yer office without arousin’ suspicion. See, Gene, you were askin’ the wrong question all along, it didn’t matter who left it there- the crux of the matter was who the author was.”
Gene’s left standing there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as Sam rubs a hand up and down his arm and turns tail, limping out before Gene’s brain can reassemble enough to speak.
Rating: Green Cortina for language, sexual references and mentions of caning
Word Count: 2,571
Notes: Been wrangling with writer's block, so this didn't end up being posted when it actually was Valentine's Day. Oops. ... What's a week anyway?
Summary: So just who thinks a pink rabbit-themed Valentine's Day card would suit Gene?
-0-0-
Friday, 8:30am
YOU MIGHT BE BRUTISH, SWEATY, RUDE,
AND LIKE DOLING OUT FIGHTS,
BUT I WISH YOU HAD A BLOODY CLUE
WHAT YOU MAKE ME DO AT NIGHTS.
YOU CLEAN THE STREETS OF SCUM AND HATE,
YOU MAKE US ALL FEEL SAFE.
SO NOW MY ONLY WISH TO DATE
IS TO PRESS A BIG BASTARD SLOPPY KISS TO YOUR FACE.
LOVE,
YOUR VALENTINE
“Jesus effin’ Christ on a bike TYLER! What is this nonsense?!”
Sam had just sat down with a cup of tea. He hadn’t had one since eight o’clock that morning, he’d gone and put the kettle on twice only to be called away by Chris to explain long words in his training manual, then Ray had stolen the mug he’d finally had five seconds to make and denied all knowledge (“I can have it dusted for prints, Ray, but I really don’t want to put Forensics through the trauma of handlin’ your saliva…”), and now Gene had startled him and he’d poured the first bloody cup that had made it to his desk all over his lap.
“SHIT!” Shooting out of his chair, he fanned his trousers desperately, leaping about in a hoppy pain-dance that had most of CID laughing under their desks; Gene’s head poking round his office door and the snort at the sight of his DI earned him a glare that could have reduced a lesser man to ashes.
“Thank you for that.”
“Yer bloody welcome. Get yer arse in ‘ere.”
“I would, but it’s on fire.” Sam, a black expression on his face, brushed the tea-leaves off his groin and marched into Gene’s office with all the dignity he could muster hunched over and sopping wet from the waist down. Christ, that stain looked embarrassing.
Slap, and it was covered with a hot-pink card, patterned with bunny rabbits and hearts.
“… That’s sweet of you, Gene, but I’m not much of a bunny rabbit person, myself.” Sam lifted it up off his lap, turned it over.
“Left in ‘ere this morning.” Gene leaned over and rummages in Sam’s pocket, pulling his packet of Juicy Fruit out and extricating a piece for himself, brushing his fingers against various damp-sensitised areas of Sam’s anatomy in the process. “Don’t recognise the ‘andwriting,” he added through his mouthful of gum, blowing sweet-scented breath in Sam’s face. What a dichotomy that is.
“Well, it wasn’t me. I mean… if I wanted to leave you a card for Valentine’s Day, I’d… well, I’d book myself into a clinic citing masochistic tendencies, actually.”
Gene, gimlet-eyed, smacked his gum.
“You could… you could send it to be dusted for prints? Or… well, Guv, maybe it’s a practical joke, who knows. Probably some brave PC who’ll be gettin’ pints left, right an’ centre tonight for leavin’ a pink Valentine’s card in DCI Hunt’s office.”
“… Fine. So long as you didn’t leave it.”
“No, Guv. No, I didn’t.”
“Right. Sure.”
“Yeah.”
“… Last chance to confess.”
“I didn’t, Gene.”
“I know you find the Gene Genie irresistible.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Fine.”
-0-0-
11:00am
“Cartwright.”
“Guv.” Annie, engulfed in her report, doesn’t spot the hot-pink envelope appearing on her work until she’s written halfway across it. “… Oh. Er, thanks, Guv, but I’ve always thought of you more as a friend.”
Gene, expression like a man chewing a wasp, picks the card back up and holds it out in front of his face. “‘Eroded nasal cavities due to overuse of cocaine’. Right romantic, that.” He squints at her, face brooding, and Annie folds her hands in her lap and tries to look innocent. “Your doing?”
“If you mean the card, I’m afraid my taste is more in men my own age.”
Gene’s mouth twitches. “You fancy a demotion, Cartwright?”
“I’m told lyin’ to your superior officers is a disciplinary offence, DCI Hunt.”
She can see he’s trying not to smile as he shoves the card back in his pocket and straightens up, sniffing. “Least you didn’t threaten to shoot me this time. I want that report in by lunch an’ some dimwits assembled outside for four o’clock, with vans, weapons an’ some flasks of tea if anyone needs emergency lubrication.”
“Yes, Guv.”
-0-0-
12:00pm
Ray normally has his lunch with Chris. Today, it’s pie and mash, Chris’s favourite, but the plonker is nowhere to be seen, something about a bird and “meeting her for a proper lunch, like”. Lunch. Men don’t have lunch with birds. Men have bloody dinner with birds, so they’re not neglecting their comrades during the day. Let women take the evenings over. More chance of getting her ‘downstairs inside’ in the evening, too.
So when the Guv plops down opposite him and starts tucking in with just a nod to Ray, he assumes Gene thinks he’s in need of a lunch companion. Well, he could do worse. Be just like bloody Cartwright to come over all sensitive at the sight of him at his and Chris’ lunch table alone and come over to ‘keep him company’.
“Been quiet recently,” he says after a minute. Most of the Guv’s pie has already vanished; Ray tentatively moves his plate further away from Gene’s fork, leg twitching where the Guv’s knee is touching his under the table. Gene nods, gulps, wipes his mouth with the napkin, and belches impressively enough for Ray to smell it. “Reckon there’s something big brewing?” Apart from that bloody burp.
“Dunno,” Gene answers shortly, digging into his mash. The mini mountain Gwen created is more of a molehill already. “Wouldn’t put it past the blokes in Milton Road, to pull in some small-time blaggers an’ pickpockets an’ try to buy their silence for a while, see if it puts us off our stride.”
“They should know you better than that by now, Guv.”
Gene’s lip quirks up, a second before he’s shovelling more dinner into it. Ray coughs, looks down at his own dinner, and scoops a quarter of the pie up onto his fork to start munching.
“Any luck with the Valentine’s day card, Guv?”
Prick. Ray looks up, nostrils twitching at the unhealthy clean smell of DI Tyler looming over- not him, looming over the Guv, daring to stand over the Guv and Gene hasn’t punched his gnashers down his throat yet, is just swallowing, tapping his foot against Ray’s and that is bloody distracting. And disturbing. The Guv allowing his DI to lord it over him? Tyler’s bad news, this only proves it.
What did he say anyway? Valentine’s day card?
“Nope.” Gene wipes his mouth again, leans back in his chair and stretches like a cat; Ray has to look away, glares at Tyler instead. “Probably some WPC hopin’ she’ll get lucky with the Gene Genie. Lemme eat my soddin’ lunch, the mighty engine needs fuel for later.”
“Of course.” Tyler lifts his own plate of green mush and- whatever the bloody hell that pile of overcooked shit is- and walks off to sit with Cartwright.
Ray clears his throat. “Someone been sendin’ you Valentines, Guv?”
Gene digs a hot-pink envelope out of a pocket and shoves it over to him. “Left it on me desk this morning. Any prankster you know, Ray?”
“Nope.” He turns it over in his hand, scrutinises it, trying to breathe evenly. “’Ere, Guv, this might be something, they’ve written sommat on it, right at the bottom, see? Neat handwriting an’ all, must be a bird. Reckon it must be an informant, maybe you should send it down to Forensics. Might recognise the ‘andwriting from somewhere.”
“That’s WDC Cartwright’s, you div. She managed to write ‘alf ‘er bloody report over it this morning.”
“… Oh.” Ray quickly shovels more food in.
“Speakin’ of that ruddy report, she still ‘asn’t finished it an’ we’re off in three hours.” Gene wipes his mouth one final time, shoves the napkin on his now-emptied plate, and stands up with a squawking of chair legs. “Ladies! Get a wiggle on, work to do!”
Tyler and Cartwright jump in their chairs, slopping green mush and carrot respectively over the table, and Ray sniggers as he returns to the pressing matter of his cooling pie.
He misses the look that passes between Sam and Gene as Gene hefts a case file into his arm and strides back towards CID, leaving the canteen doors swinging wide open in his wake.
-0-0-
2:30pm
“Christopher! You remembered to get the lovely lady a card?”
No, Chris did not remember to get the lady a card. Nor did he remember to get the lady any chocolates. Nor did he remember to get her a present. Which meant he had to run to WHSmith, then to the chocolatier’s on the corner, then to the shop next door selling cuddly toys, and by the time he got to the cinema, he was half an hour late and she was gone. It had seemed to be the end of his much-anticipated courtship, all his own stupid bloody fault; he’d been standing outside the cinema, cursing under his breath, clutching his presents in a paper bag and on the verge of tears, when she’d come rushing round the corner and hugged him, apologising over and over for being so late and upsetting him. The nice girl in the ticket booth had very kindly accepted their tickets for the later showing, and they had agreed to meet outside the cinema again at seven o’clock. Presents had been exchanged, and Lizzie had gone on her way with a smile and a peck to his cheek.
Not the lunch date he’d anticipated, but someone who was also always late to everything would be useful.
“MmmwemanagedGuv,” he mumbles, sliding behind his desk. Gene gives him a clap on the shoulder that made him wince.
“Good lad! Upstairs inside on the second date only, don’t want ‘er slappin’ yer brains out too soon. That’s if you’ve still got any.” And, as the rest of CID guffaws and Chris goes bright red, he drops his voice, leaning right over his DC. “You get ‘er a card?”
“Er, yeah.”
“What colour?”
What colour? Chris swallows, hard. Was red bad? Red was like roses, wasn’t it? “Red. It was, er, red. With flowers on. An’ writing. Er, black.”
The Guv purses his lips, and Chris closes his eyes and wiggles in his seat. Shit. He should have asked Cartwright first. Should’ve made sure red wasn’t bad. Shit.
“Good choice, lad. Shows yer eager. Right! I expect some meaningful work by the end of today, Skelton, no matter ‘ow excited you are about the hot date a little bird told me you ‘ad planned later tonight.”
His face splits into a big grin. Thank Christ and all the saints, he’s still in with a chance. “Yes, Guv. Thanks, Guv.”
Gene blows a Juicy Fruit bubble, pops it with his front teeth, and disappears back into his office. Chris blows out a shaky breath and picks up his pen.
-0-0-
3:20pm
“Any luck?”
“Nothing.” Gene pulls the card out of his pocket, throws it at his desk; Sam catches it and holds it up to the light, squints at it. “None of ‘em. None of ‘em succumbed to the Gene Genie’s subtle interrogation.”
“You an’ subtle. Not words that often go together.” Sam just smirks at Gene’s glare, places the card back down on the desk and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, as you said, maybe it was a WPC. Or someone’s dare. Don’t know why you asked Chris, his three ex-girlfriends will make it pretty clear that ‘e’s not into men.”
“You never know, Tyler. They’re exes for a reason. The lad’s been hangin’ onto my trouser leg since the day ‘e joined the Force.”
“Not literally.”
“Well, there was the time ‘e slipped on the steps outside an’ nearly took me boxers down the steps with ‘im.”
“He’s just clumsy, Guv. That an’ Ray’d tied ‘is shoelaces together.”
Gene spits his gum in the bin and reaches for Sam’s pocket; Sam slaps his fingers away. “Just give up, I would. Someone’ll own up in due course. In the meantime, isn’t there a home that needs raiding? Small issue of a drug dealer?”
“Got yer weapon?”
“No? Will I need one?”
Gene rolls his eyes so far up they disappear back into his skull, hops off his desk and throws a crowbar at his DI; Sam fumbles to catch it before it bashes into his ribs. “You never bloody learn, do you.”
“I did pretty well last time.”
“Yer up against Audrey Mason this time. She hits below the belt in all senses of the phrase. No wonder ‘er bloody husband uses ‘er as security.”
“Audrey Mason is sixty-eight.”
“Uses that cane like you’d never believe. Stop bloody answerin’ back an’ go rally the troops.”
-0-0-
5:20pm
“How’s yer elbow, Guv?”
“Bloody wonderful. How’s yer leg?”
“Well, it’s stopped bleeding now.”
“Told you to watch for the cane. She’s like my old schoolmistress, that hag. Knows just where to hit you to make it bloody last. Christ, the spring in that stick, it’d hit yer arse an’ rebound to ‘it the wall three foot away.”
“You get caned often?”
Gene snorts, cradles his elbow. “Often enough. What a soddin’ day, I ‘aven’t even ‘ad a decent cup of tea since ‘alf three. Think Cartwright put dog shit in them flasks instead of teabags.”
“Chris made the tea.”
“That’d explain it.”
It’s as Gene turns round, reaches for the scotch on top of his filing cabinet, that Sam sees the Valentine’s card, still stuffed in his back pocket. “You still tryin’ to find whoever wrote that?”
Gene, bottle of whisky clasped in his good hand, glances round mid-pour of his drink. “Nope. Why?”
“Well, thought you would’ve binned it by now, then. Not good for yer image to be seen walkin’ around with pink cards in yer pocket. Unless you really liked the poem?”
It might be the light, but he swears he sees Gene’s mouth curl up into a smile as he picks his tumbler of whisky up and takes a gulp.
“Never told you there was a poem inside.”
Shit. Bollocks shit bollocks shit.
Sam swallows, hard, hard enough that Gene probably heard it over on the other side of the room. Schoolboy error. Shit. “No. No, actually. You didn’t.”
Gene swerves round on the heel of his foot, drawn up to his full height, chin in the air. “You know who sent it, Tyler?”
Oh God. “OK. Fine. Yes, I know who put it on yer desk.”
“Who?”
“Phyllis.”
Gene chokes on his mouthful of drink, and Sam limps across to bang him on the back.
“Phyllis? She- she wrote that? You mean she- oh Jesus Christ, I’ll ‘ave to move out of Manchester in the morning.”
“Bastard. Yer not movin’ anywhere, because no, Phyllis didn’t write that poem. Or buy the card.”
“What?”
Sam takes hold of Gene’s injured elbow, pulls him down to align their heads with one another. Deep breath. Deep breath. “I did. She just left it there for you, seein’ as I couldn’t sneak into yer office without arousin’ suspicion. See, Gene, you were askin’ the wrong question all along, it didn’t matter who left it there- the crux of the matter was who the author was.”
Gene’s left standing there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as Sam rubs a hand up and down his arm and turns tail, limping out before Gene’s brain can reassemble enough to speak.