Sam blinks his way out of an uncharacteristically untroubled sleep to the sound of the static on his television. He blinks at it through the lingering scraps of sleep that cloud his vision, then rolls out of bed, grumbling, to switch the set off. It takes him a moment or two to remember the events of the night before, and when he finally does,
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Gene slides the Cortina into the lane before accelerating to top speed. The sooner they reach the hospital the better. He wants this case solved as quickly as possible before it can stretch into one tangled mess of family grievances. His eyes stay firmly on the road, refusing all urges to glance over at Sam. They need to work together on this and anything that involves looking or touching or being closer than an arm's length away is only going to distract him. The case needs the concentration.
Hooking a left, Gene lets his eyes slip towards Sam with the excuse that he's only watching where he's going.
'So how do you think she managed to ignore her husband's guts blasting out of his arse? The killer drug her first?' He raises his eyebrows as he pats down his pocket for a smoke. 'No one could have slept through that. Even if she was in another part of the house at the time, she would have heard something. So why didn't she call in?'
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His hand on the door tightens as the car makes a wild right turn, tyres screeching against cobblestones. His first instinct in in fact to agree with Gene in this case; that either the wife was the shooter, or was somehow in cahoots with whoever was. Still, though. It doesn't do to go around throwing people in gaol willy-nilly, on no more than a gut feeling. That might be how Gene Hunt preferred to work, but not Sam.
He takes a moment to collect himself as the Cortina screeches around and into a typically neat parking job in front of the hospital.
'Right.' He props himself up against the side of the car as he gets out, gazing over at Gene. He jerks his head sharply to the side, grimacing with satisfaction as several of the vertebrae in his neck crack, before turning to start up the stairs to the hospital.
'And do try not to punch out any doctors while we're in there, yeah?'
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The hospital smells of antiseptic and whatever else kind of cleanser they use here. It irritates his nose and he lights the cigarette while walking towards the desknurse.
'I'm sorry, sir, but you can't smoke in here,' she informs him in the crisp, cool tones of disapproval. She sounds a bit related to Sam.
'Sorry, love,' Gene replies around the fag, no intention of stubbing it out clearly written into the apology. 'I'm looking for a patient. Neil Abernethy.' He flashes his badge and waits while she digs around in her files.
'Room 321. And you really need to put that out,' she adds, like it will do any good. 'He's on oxygen.'
'I'll make sure not to stand too close.' Gene cocks his head at Sam to follow and leads the way to 321.
Neil's there, stitched up and unconscious as a footie fan after a winning game's all-night bender, but Mrs. Abernethy is conspicuously absent from her husband's bedside. Gene slumps against the wall outside Abernethy's room and takes a long, offended drag.
'Little tart's run out on him,' he says to Sam, focusing on a spot above his head. Like all hospitals, there's a waterstain on the ceiling. It looks a bit like a dog if Gene tilts to one side.
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When they reach room 321, Sam takes a good look at the man lying on the cot. He's getting on in years, maybe in his mid-sixties, with a soft face and thinning hair under all the tubes and wires running through his mouth and nose. The beep of his heart monitor is loud in Sam's ears, and he shakes his head forcefully, squeezing his eyes shut. Not now. Not while he's on a case, and certainly not while he's in a public building.
'Mmm.' He mutters instead, vague assent to Gene's comment. The room is indeed empty save for a young nurse who bustles in without giving either Sam or Gene the slightest notice, going over to the bed to check something with the machinery Abernethy's hooked up to. Sam shoots a glance at Gene, but the DCI seems preoccupied with a stain on the tiled ceiling, so Sam takes a slight step forward, towards the nurse.
'Excuse me?'
She turns abruptly, looking at him with wide, dark eyes.
'DI Sam Tyler.' He flashes his badge briefly. 'DCI Hunt and I are here in connection with the shooting of Neil Abernethy. Ah, I wonder could you tell us- was Mr. Abernethy admitted with anyone? A woman, perhaps...?'
The nurse hesitates a moment, her eyes flickering between Sam and Gene, but Sam gives her a reassuring, if rather tight, smile, and she nods. 'He were, yeah. That'd be be his wife; she were in a right state, poor dear. And I shouldn't wonder, either; somethin' like this...' She gives a sympathetic little shudder, and Sam forces himself to nod.
'But she left?' He presses. 'Seems a funny thing to do, if she was as shaken up as you say. You'd think a wife would want to stay at her husband's bedside.'
'Oh, she were here for an half hour or so, but she said she couldn't bear sittin' there seein' him like that. Rushed out all white and shaking and all.'
Sam's brow furrowed. Damn. He wasn't leaping to convict the wife of murder, as Gene seemed to be, but he certainly wasn't ready to trust anyone involved in this. 'D'you have any idea where she might have gone?'
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Half an hour of playing the dutiful and disturbed wife is enough to test anyone's resolve, no matter what kind of actress she thought herself to be. Sam might not be prepared to form a judgment call but someone has to, and Gene feels about ready to call the case solved.
He takes another drag as Sam asks the nurse where Mrs. Abernethy might have gone. The nurse pauses for a few moments, clueless about the truth or unsure if she should share it. Gene rolls his head closer to the conversation.
'She were so shaken up, sir.' Her voice practically vibrates in a plea for understanding. 'I know it's against policy but I figured it would do her better than collapsing here on the floor.'
The cigarette crushes between Gene's teeth as he waits for Sam to reassure her and then press her for further revelations. Of course, Sam does, and in that slyly earnest way of his. It galls Gene. He's ready for this impromtu interview to come to an end so he and Sam can get after the case. The case is the thing to concentrate on -- not some naft skirt with big eyes and big tits.
'I put her in the nurses' lounge with a cuppa and some gin. I figured the gin would steady up her nerves a bit. I know I shouldn't've, but if you'd seen the state she was in, really.'
She sounds as if she's one step away from confessing all her sins, which might be as unlawful as popping her bubblegum too loudly. Gene knows how Sam operates with birds in distress. He needs to seperate them before Sam decides to take in another lost fledling for the night.
'And which way is that?' Gene shifts a shoulder between Sam and the nurse. She gapes up at him, unaware that he was even listening, and stutters something about left. 'Thanks, love.'
Gene backs suddenly, forcing his shoulder past Sam to head down the hall towards the lounge. He takes out the flask for a quick swallow as he waits for Sam to fall into step with him. 'A mousy nurse and a sloshed suspect. This hospital's pulling up all kinds of rabbits from its hat.'
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'Was that really entirely necessary?'
If he didn't know better, he might think Gene was jealous, and oh, now that was a thought worthy of a chuckle or several. Not that he had any time to think about that now.
Gene shoves through the door to the nurses lounge, which is all but empty save for a woman on one of the couches. It's the sight of her that causes Sam to halt in his tracks, because whatever he had been expecting, this was not it.
The woman- formerly presumed to be Abernethy's wife- is young, perhaps in her twenties, with long, curling auburn hair and a skirt that's far shorter than is entirely necessary. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara, black tear marks that bear the signs of being scrubbed at. Besides that, however, she doesn't look unduly distressed, gazing absently at the far wall, a cup of tea clutched in manicured fingernails.
Sam turns to Gene, wide-eyed, and mouths the word 'Wife?'
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Exchanging the flask for his badge, Gene catches the woman's attention. 'We're here to ask you about Neil Abethnethy.'
The woman startles then sways as she turns to look between Gene and Sam. Her eyes are glassy -- probably drinking more gin than tea in that cup -- but she smiles a polite greeting.
'Don't look like doctors,' she slurs, tapping one red fingernail against the china.
'Never said I was.' Gene crosses the room to sit in a chair next to the couch.
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'DI Sam Tyler.' He stows his badge back in his jacket and nods at Gene. 'And my colleague is DCI Hunt. Greater Manchester Police. We're here, as he said, in connection with the shooting of your, uh, husband.'
Distraught sobbing or perhaps a stalling gulp of her tea- that Sam might have expected. What he does not expect, however, is for her to break into decidedly unsteady laughter, leaning forward into her cup so far that Sam's almost ready to catch her should she fall off the couch entirely.
'Husband?' She asks, and gives a little hiccoughing laugh. 'Hardly.'
Sam exchanges a quick look with Gene, all wryly pursed lips and raised eyebrows. He's wary of what Gene might say or do, though, so he hastily jumps in before the other man has the chance to say anything.
'Oh?' As if he was simply curious. 'What's your name, love?'
She gives him a look that doesn't come off quite as shrewd as she probably wants it to, before taking another delicate sip of her tea. 'Lucy.' She says after a moment. 'Lucy Bates. What's it to you?'
'Simple procedure.' Sam assures her, giving her another small smile. Her look of slight, inebriated suspicion melts slightly, and he leans forward again, pressing his advantage.
'Could you tell me, Lucy, what exactly your relationship was with Mr. Abernethy?'
For a moment, she just stares into the dregs of her teacup, swirling it absently in her hands. Her smile, when she looks up, though, has a sharp edge to it that Sam doesn't entirely like.
'Neil and I were... good friends. He was very close.'
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The woman seems to have taken the alternative route, and be absolutely nutty. Gene looks at Sam when the shrill giggle echoes into china. Sam seems about as impressed with Lucy's attitude as Gene is. She thinks she's as hard as tacks but all she's doing is making it more difficult for herself.
Gene snorts at the explaination for her relationship with Abernethy. 'Close meaning he showed you around all four of his bedposts?'
Lucy shoots him a sharp look, which Gene meets without so much as a blink. 'It wasn't like that,' she spits. 'We were friends. He cared about me.'
'Were but not anymore? Not interested in blokes with gaping holes in their guts?'
'I never seen him look like that. All that blood. He was in so much pain. I didn't want to leave him alone but I couldn't stand looking at him no longer. The doctors kept saying he would be all right but they weren't looking at him how I was.'
Tears form in Lucy's eyes and her lower lip quivers as she directs her attention back to the reamins of her cup. She stays quiet for a few moments. Gene offers his flask, hoping the alcohol will keep her together and talking. Lucy accepts it, taking a long swig.
'So you were at the house when he was shot?'
She shakes her head. 'He called me. He said -- He kept saying his stomach was out. He kept screaming and swearing. I never heard him sound like that. I didn't know...'
Whatever else Lucy had to say dissolves into one hiccuping sob. Gene looks over at Sam, uncomfortable with a crying woman in front of him and unsure whether to believe that Abernethy called her. He called them, so it was possible. But why her and not his wife? Where was his wife? And how did Lucy get to the house that quickly? All hope that this case will be wrapped up by the end of the day sinks to the pit of Gene's stomach.
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And besides which, he doesn't entirely trust her. She seemed perfectly calm before he and Gene had entered the room, and though her behaviour is quite plausibly hysterical, Sam still has his doubts. After all, it's hardly unheard of for the mistress (for that, presumably, is what Miss Lucy Bates is) to kill the husband. He refuses to leave his wife, or decides to break it off with the mistress, and she kills him in a fit of jealous rage. Or, in this case, attempts to kill him but misses somewhat.
At Gene's pleading glance that Sam do something about the now-sobbing woman in front of them, Sam leans forward and puts a gentle hand on hers.
'Hey.' He says quietly, meeting her eyes, wet and red from tears and smudged with running makeup. 'We're here to help you, Lucy. And to help Neil. I understand this might be difficult, but we really need you to answer some questions for us, yeah?'
She nods shakily, swallowing down more sobs with an unsteady drink from Gene's flask. Sam nods approvingly, and she ducks her head.
'I'm- I'm sorry...' She trails off and looks inquiringly at Sam.
'DI Tyler.' He fills in hastily.
'Right, DI Tyler. I am sorry, it's just... it was so horrible, and all that blood, I-'
Sam interrupts her again, tightening his hand on hers and leaning in to meet her eyes. Getting the subject to trust you works so much better than simply terrifying them into talking, after all.
'You don't need to think about that, now.' He says, gentle but firm. 'Neil's in good care. Do you happen to know where his wife was at the time of the shooting? Why he called you instead of her?'
'He trusts me-'
'Lucy. Please just answer the question.'
She stares at Sam for a moment, her gaze flickering between the two men, before taking another bracing swig from the flask. 'Out. They've got daughters- twins. She'd taken them to a friend's house, and then gone out to meet some mates. I-' She falters for a moment, scrubbing a hand across her eyes. 'I was going to come over later today anyway, since she was out. Probably why he rang me.'
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'We should hire you to drive the ambulences, being that quick. He rings you up and suddenly you're there, lickety-split.'
The alcohol -- or Sam's hand -- seems to have relaxed her somewhat. Lucy doesn't quite manage a glare at Gene this time. He sees her compose herself a little more, sliding one very lovely leg over the other. Gene doesn't miss that it brings Sam's hand to rest right on her knee. Any doubt Gene had in his mind that she wasn't shagging Abernethy disappears. This is a bird that knows where her strengths are and doesn't hold any confusion about how to use them.
Lucy returns her eyes to Sam, looking as if she means to ignore Gene, but she does answer his question.
'I was concerned about my friend, Detective.'
Gene swears he can detect a sneer behind the moniker. He continues to stare at her until she adds more detail to her answer.
'I'm not close to my family. Neil was helping me through a rough time. He found me a flat a few streets down and was going to help me through beauty school.'
Gene snorts, because of course she fancies herself some sort of posh bird. From the look of her and her story, she seems more one step away from being a prozzie. Sam's just about got to be in love with her now. Gene doesn't want to give him an opportunity to prove it.
'Who let you in the house?'
'Neil gave me a key. I -- We meet sometimes at odd hours and he didn't want me waking his wife to come in.'
I wouldn't want my bit on the side waking the missues either, Gene thinks.
'So you open the door. Then what? Anyone else there?'
Lucy shakes her head. 'I didn't -- There was no one that I saw. It was just Neil and he was --' She shakes her head again, sipping at the flask. Her hand squeezes at Sam's and she seems fit to cry again. 'Please. I don't want to discuss it anymore,' she says to Sam. 'It's all so horrible.'
They won't get anymore from her. Gene can sense it, from her body language and her resistence to answer any question without whimpering and clinging to Sam. He raises up from the chair, physically announcing their departure.
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So Sam comforts, ignoring the way she crosses her legs so that the back of Sam's thumb just brushes against the smooth skin of her thigh. In hospital with her lover lying in critical condition not a ward away, and yet she's expending energy flirting with the DI trying to help him. All it accomplishes, however, is to make Sam even less inclined to trust her, and he's not at all sorry when Gene abruptly rises to his feet.
Lucy looks up at his figure towering above the couch, her face twisted in something between a glare and a whimper. Sam gently guides her to her feet as well, keeping a grip on her hand as he stands. She wobbles slightly, and Sam notices for the first time that she's wearing very high heels.
'You'll be alright here.' He tells her, and it's as much an order as it is encouragement. 'We understand, of course, that you wouldn't want to leave Neil like that. We'll have to talk to you, though, and get an official statement, as you were the first one to see him.'
She looks dangerously close to more quivering tears, but Sam puts one hand on her shoulder, reaching into his jacket with the other to produce a notepad and a pencil. 'Just procedure, Lucy. If you could just give us your address and phone number; we'll be in contact.'
When she hands the notepad back, Lucy gives Sam a little smile, tipping her head to the side so her ginger curls tumble out from where they've been tucked behind one ear. 'Not exactly the circumstances I would've imagined, giving me phone number to a handsome bloke like you. Pity.'
'Mmm.' Sam makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. It could be construed as agreement if that's what you were looking for, and doubtless that's how Lucy will see it.
And indeed, it seems that it is, for she favours Sam with another watery smile and holds out her hand. 'Your DCI's flask. Very kind of him to let me borrow it.'
Sam takes the flask with a word of thanks. It's clear, however, that Gene is itching to be off, and Sam no less so. So he gives Lucy a parting nod, tucking her address and phone number back into his pocket, and heads out the doors with Gene.
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Gene's seen enough at any rate. A prissy broad who whimpers and simpers to get what she wants is all Lucy Bates seems to be. They know Abernethy has money if he paid rent on a flat for her, and a little slag like her spending her time with a load of lard like him is almost classic. Add a wife to the bank account and a little jealousy, and a murder was practically expected.
When they returned to the station, Gene was going to send a uniform to collect her properly. They still had the wife to find and interview, and frankly, Gene didn't much wish to spend the trip to CID with her in the back making googly eyes at Sam. Sam might decide that better than a night in the cells was a night in his flat with him.
Wrenching his flask from Sam's hand, Gene stalks out the door and down the hall. He doesn't check to see if Sam's following him or not, but the click of boot heels soon echoing behind him smooths over some concern that Sam would stay back to finish chatting Lucy up.
'Must you always do that?' Gene asks once they're outside the hospital. He doesn't elaborate, since he's sure Sam knows what he's talking about -- or at least will figure it out in due time. Instead, he sinks into the car and fiddles with the flask.
A red lipstick smear mars the mouth when Gene screws off the cap. He wipes it away with a forceful scrape of his palm and tips his head back to drink. A little bit of liquid trickles out before it runs dry.
'That little tart drank all my scotch.'
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As it is, though, he's far too lost in his thoughts to notice.
'Shall we leave her alone with you next time and see how far you get?' He suggests wryly. 'Lucky if we don't get a sexual harassment lawsuit slapped on us before the end of it.'
He pulls out the little notepad with Lucy's address and phone number on. Her flat really is only a street or two away from Abernethy's house. Strange. You'd think if the man's going to keep a mistress, he'd at least situate her somewhere a little further away to avoid any potential awkward meetings between her and his wife.
Sam's distracted from his thoughts by Gene shaking his flask irritably, scowling like thunder, and he can't help his face cracking momentarily in a smirk. 'That bitch.' He deadpans.
He doesn't get the chance to be amused for much longer, though, for the radio sitting between them crackles into life. Sam quickly reaches down to adjust it, and Phyllis's voice fizzes through.
'Alpha One to 870, come in.'
'870 to Alpha One, over. Phyllis?'
'Who d'you think?' She sounds only slightly more irritable than usual. 'We've got trouble over at the Abernethy house, you two'd better head over.'
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He rips the radio from Sam's hand. 'On our way.' The radio crackles as he releases the button but then he changes his mind. 'And Phyllis? Send uniforms to -- '
Gene wiggles his fingers at Sam, wanting the notebook. Once Sam gets his head around to give it to him, Gene flips through to where Lucy wrote down her number and address. A little slaggy heart decorates the i in her street name. Gene holds back a growl, and reads the address over the radio.
' -- and run a background check on a Lucy Bates, will you,' he finishes.
'Bates,' Phyllis recites as she writes it down. 'Anything else?'
'Thanks, love.'
Gene replaces the radio and starts the engine. Throwing an arm around the back of Sam's seat, he reverses down the street before swinging around to head back towards the Abernethy house.
The first thing Gene sees as they pull close is Chris, cowering on the front steps and bracing his notepad to his chest like it's a security blanket, and an angry blonde with shapely legs in a charcoal skirt railing at him. Gene stalls the car a few meters away and crosses his arms over the wheel to watch for a few moments.
'Looks like our boy Neil is a leg man. Tenner says that's the charming Mrs. Abernethy.'
Gene looks on as Chris tries to placate the screaming woman with some (probably flat) excuse. She shoves him in the chest, one hand on her hip, and goes on raving. She gestures to two plods walking out of the house with evidence bags and then launches on the group of reporters gathered like over-eager dogs begging for table scraps when one of them seems about ready to approach her with a question. Poor Chris looks like he's about to shit a brick as she turns back to him, continuing to shout.
'Feisty broad,' Gene remarks, impressed. 'My kind of woman.' He lifts his eyebrows and trades a look with Sam.
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He can't help his scowl when Gene's eyes sweep appreciatively over the ranting woman, presumably Abernethy's wife. And yeah, maybe a little of it's jealousy; after all, it was only last night he had Gene's prick in his hand and his tongue in his mouth. He was, Sam figured, allowed a little bit of jealousy.
Not, of course, that it's a great deal of jealousy. He purses his lips when Gene throws him a look.
'Would it kill you to show an ounce of respect for a woman as something besides a piece of meat for your amusement?' He mutters. Then:
'Come on, let's go break this up. Have ourselves a little chat with Mrs. Abernethy.'
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