Isn't the Morning After Just Lovely?
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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He catches up with Gene a moment later, as he stalks down the stairs with Chris and Ray in tow. Ray's looking about as disinterested as he always does, and Chris seems to be sulking, muttering something about how headshots aren't allowed indoors. Sam ignores them, and when they reach the Cortina, he ducks into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him and ignoring the glare he can see from Ray in the rearview mirror.
As the engine purrs into life beneath him, Sam runs over the contents of the file once again in his mind. There was so little to it, though, that there's no way he'd be able to reach a conclusion yet. The customary yearning for what CID in 2006 would call a case file sighs wistfully through his head, but he's been here long enough that he's able to shut it up with nothing more than a scowl out the window.
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He tries to do that same with Sam -- not give a rat's arse how close he's seated or the fact he's staring down the reflection in the window like it threaten to shoot him if he didn't hand over all his pocket change. Gene determines not to notice anything Sam does, except his eyes keep shifting irritatingly to the left about every three seconds.
What's going through Sam's mind, he doesn't know. He doesn't want to know, he decides -- or tells himself he decided. Sam can think whatever the bloody hell he wants, about anything. As long as he's going to be a sad Sally and not say one damn thing, Gene will take advantage of the peace and quiet for a while.
He throws the Cortina into a sharp turn, tyres skidding, and abruptly stops in the middle of a plod convention outside a very nice house. Reporters have just started to gather. Gene strides past the barrage of questioning without so much as a glance back.
A PC stands guard outside the front door, restricting access who goes in or gets out. Other uniforms mill inside, with more on the lawn. He steps aside as Gene enters, flanked by Chris, Ray, and Sam. The house is bigger than reported, and it takes some scanning to find where the staircase was set. He mounts the stairs, and pushes through another twisted maze of hallways and rooms, uniforms scattered about, before finding the bedroom.
The sheets are stained with blood and entrails, right about where someone's stomach might be if he slept on his back.
'Bastard must have been asleep like the dead to miss that,' Ray says somewhere behind Gene's shoulder. Gene hmphs, because, shit. Yeah. No one should be able to sleep through a blast like that.
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It takes them a while to find the bedroom, as the house is larger than he's come to expect, full of clean open spaces and stylishly 'modern' furniture. Clearly, Neil Abernethy is a man with money. When they do reach the crime scene, Sam winces, and his stomach does a familiar, nauseous flip. The otherwise pristinely white bedsheets are stained with a gruesome spatter of brackish entrails and blood, and his face twists in a grimace. The bullet must have ripped right through the stomach and out through Abernethy's back, by the looks of things.
'Christ,' he mutters, nodding agreement with Ray, for once. Dead drunk, maybe, because there's no way any sober man is going to sleep through having his stomach shot out.
Sam turns to Chris, who's looking rather white, and nods curtly at the bed. 'Get someone to dig the bullet out of that mattress, see what kind it is. And I want that sheet taken into forensics.'
He looks around himself, ducking down briefly to see if the shooter happened to have been stupid enough to leave the gun lying around. No such luck, however, not that he'd really expected it, and he turns back to Hunt.
'We should question the neighbours, find out if he lived with anyone, what he might have done to provoke this, if anybody heard anything this morning.'
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Ray and Chris disappear into the hallway, probably after some plod to pass the orders onto. Chris looked like he was about to upchuck -- not that Gene can entirely blame the poor sod.
They've each seen gory crime scenes before, blood splattered all over from the violence of a blow. A body usually only made it worse. Sometimes it didn't. Sometimes just a ring of blood and soppy bits that Gene supposes were once the man's innards littered across the sheets.
There was no way any human being should have been able to sleep through that. Gene interrupts his brooding to flick a glance towards Sam.
'Get Chris and Ray on the neighbours whenever Chris gets back from greeting his breakfast the second time.' He frowns and scans the room for any signs of forced entry. There isn't anything. Windows locked and not broken. The door was the only way someone could get in or out. 'Guy said he had a wife. We'll bring her in. Start there.'
Two plods wander in to poke at the mattress and fetch the sheets to be taken in as evidence.
'Clear that out,' Gene orders. As they rip up the bedding, he makes eye contact with Sam, holding it for a few moments. 'Someone was none best pleased with our Mr. Abernethy.'
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He tracks the movements of the police who come in to clear away the bedding, wincing a little at their indelicacy. He can feel Gene's gaze on him, though, that little prickle of hairs on the back of his neck, and he looks over to meet his gaze. Despite the seriousness of his words, Sam can't hold back a little snort of an exhalation.
'None best pleased, yeah; I'd say that was a bit of an understatement, Guv.'
Just looking around the relative luxury of the house, Sam supposes money could always be a possible motive, but then, that's hopefully what Chris and Ray will find out when they question the neighbours. They two are not exactly the pair Sam would ideally like to let loose on the public- Chris will fumble and Ray will leer at anything in a skirt, regardless of age or marital status- but they've not got anyone else, at least not right now.
But while they're busy mucking things up with the neighbours, Sam and Gene will be tracking down a certain Mrs. Abernethy. There's only one bed in the room- king sized- and Sam for one is curious how both a man and his wife can sleep through one of them getting shot in the stomach. Unless, of course, the wife was the one doing the shooting.
'File said Abernethy was admitted to hospital with a woman; that ought to be his wife.' He pivots on one heel, turning to face Gene properly. 'Shall we?'
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No one should have slept through that, and definitely not two. A rich man's spoiled wife didn't exactly bring to mind images of cherubs and flowers, in fact it brought to Gene's mind precisely that of blood and violent mornings. He jams his fists into pockets, skirting an arc around Sam towards the door.
'Let's go see what the rich bitch has to say.'
He doesn't stop to speak to anyone else apart from Ray and Chris, who he informs should look after the neighbours then meet back at CID at two. Jangling the keys in his pocket, he all but ignores Sam as they walk back to the Cortina. Gene slips into the driver's seat and pulls out his flask. He grimaces around the sour taste in his mouth, not due to the alcohol.
Domestics never amount to great cases. They're pervaded with shrieking spouses and dramatics and unnecessary bloodshed. It's not much in Gene's mind to ask that you don't kill whoever it is you're married to. At times he understands the compulsion to strangle the person you see live in day in and day out, but it's bullshit to actually act on it. One of the most senseless, gormless acts of voilence he sees, topped with a nice glaze of family politics.
Shaking his head, he tucks the flask back into a pocket, and turns the ignition to drive to the hospital.
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It's clear Gene already suspects the wife, and Sam can't entirely blame him. It would seem the only explanation for why she hadn't awoken immediately when the man lying next to her in bed was shot. But Sam's never been one to go for the immediate, easy answer, and besides which, he's been in the Force long enough to know that there's never an 'only explanation.'
He squints into the bright grey sky as he follows Gene into the Cortina, flashing uniforms and press alike perfunctory little nods. The look he turns on Gene when the Guv pulls out a flask and drinks deeply is customarily disapproving. Half nine in the morning, and already he's on the bottle. But he doesn't say anything, just glowers in a good-natured sort of way. Or at least, as good-natured as it's possible for such an expression to be.
'You think it's the wife.' He says, when Gene starts up the engine. It's not a question. 'You should wait until we actually meet the woman before you start mentally locking her up, you know.' He meets Gene's gaze levelly.
'Innocent until proven guilty.'
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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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