Ashes to Ashes fic: Neutral Men, part 3
Part 3 of Ashes to Ashes fic 'Neutral Men'. Beware finale spoilers for both Ashes *and* Life on Mars!
3: Interlude: Take Heed Lest He Fall
Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
J Keats
Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.
Bible, 1 Corinthians x. 12.
Previously on Neutral Men:
“I won't let you down, Nick,” Keats said, shaking his boss's proffered hand. But it was Gene's narrow gaze he met as he added, “thank you.”
xxxxx
Daniel Connor liked to think of himself as a subtle, intelligent man - as indeed he was, Hunt's offensive attitude to him notwithstanding. He knew he wasn't like the others. Sam Tyler, a man who had chosen death, chosen, as Daniel now suspected, this place over the life he could have lived. Had his real life been so terrible, such a failure? Daniel had obtained and read Tyler's journals after the untimely death of Alex Drake, and had found nothing to suggest that his life before the coma-inducing 'accident' had been unsatisfactory. Curious. Interesting.
And now Daniel knew something else: by the simple expedient of listening outside Hunt's office door, he had learned that Alex Drake had been here, fulfilling the same kind of fantastic, twilight experience as Tyler. Where were they both now? No matter; the only important thing was that this world was real, in its way - real enough, at least. And Gene Hunt was at the centre of it, the lynch-pin on which it all turned.
And Keats. How did Keats fit in? Daniel remembered a grainy photograph, a name he'd assumed was a pseudonym to spare the family's shame - 'J Keats' indeed. And yet, that man had walked into CID yesterday, looking so different that Daniel had not at first recognised the barely familiar face. Keats was not like Hunt. He seemed to know things Hunt didn't. He did not, of course, recognise Daniel. Nonetheless, if there was a way out of here, Jim Keats was the key. Jim Keats, and perhaps Sam Tyler.
A violent thud startled him out of his thoughts.
“Oi! Connor! Are you masturbating in there, or have you just flushed yourself down the bog?”
Daniel sighed, rested his forehead for a moment against the toilet cubicle's graffitied and gouged wooden door. “No, Guv. Just thinking.”
“There's only one thing a man's supposed to think about on the karzy,” came the response, “maybe two. Now get out here and do some work for a change.”
Daniel flushed the toilet unnecessarily, sighed, and opened the door. Hunt was standing outside, an impatient glare etched on his face like a cave painting on rock. Daniel deliberately ignored him, going to the sink to wash his hands. “What's going on?”
“Another body,” was the grim response. “Get moving, we want to be there before plod messes up the crime scene.”
Daniel groaned inwardly. Another meaningless, pointless investigation. Either the case wasn't real, or it had been resolved many years ago; what did it matter whether they investigated it or not?
“Are you coming, or what?”
“Maybe I'll just stay here. Catch up on some paperwork.”
For a large man, Hunt could move very fast. He had Daniel by the collar and was shoving him against a wall before the last syllable was out of his mouth.
“You are my DI,” Hunt growled, “and as such, you will do as you're bloody well told. You might think you're too good for this station, you might ponce about with your procedures and your paperclips, but believe me, when you're in my kingdom my word is law. Understand?”
Daniel tried to force himself to nod when all he wanted to do was spit in the big bastard's face. He was spared the decision when the bathroom door abruptly opened, revealing Jim Keats standing in the doorway. He was holding a small toiletries bag in one hand and what appeared to be a flannel in the other. Did the man actually live in the station?
“Morning, Gene. Looks like you're starting early today, mate.”
“I suppose you want me to put him down, Jimbo?”
“Would you do it if I asked you nicely?” Sublimely uninterested, Keats made his way to the bank of sinks, withdrew a toothbrush and paste from his bag, and proceeded to clean his teeth. “Don't worry,” he told the still-pinioned Daniel, after spitting, “it's all going in my report.”
Daniel gurgled an objection, meeting Keats' eyes in the mirror. It triggered a more desirable response.
“All right, that's enough.” Keats put his toiletries down and strode over to stand almost as close to Daniel as Hunt was. “Let him go now. I mean it.”
“And I mean it when I say 'piss off, Jimbo'.”
“My boss is going to be checking up on me,” Keats replied, looking annoyed for the first time. “If you won't answer to me, you'll have to answer to him. Put DI Connor down - now. Please.”
“When he's apologised,” Hunt growled, though he did loosen his grip slightly, allowing Daniel to gasp,
“For what?!”
“For being a smartarsed little nancy boy. For your unsightly, sulky mug. For daring to come into my station and act like you own the place.”
“You're a bloody menace, you are,” Keats informed Gene. “Do you have no subtlety at all? You're like a big, overgrown five-year-old. Don't like somebody, so you punch them in the face. And nobody's allowed to play with your toys but you. Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'people skills?'”
Hunt looked into Daniel's eyes, giving Daniel the uncomfortable sensation that the man was X-raying his very soul. He did, however, let go.
“I'd say my people skills were excellent,” he told Keats. “They get the job done. Unlike you two tosspots, standing around when there's villains to be caught. Come on, both of you. Regent's Canal. Are you real coppers or aren't you? Don't bother to answer that, Jimbo - I already know you're not.”
He left, banging the bathroom door behind him, apparently in no doubt that his orders would be obeyed.
Daniel turned on Keats. “Fat lot of help you were!”
“He doesn't listen to me,” Keats shrugged, packing his toothbrush away neatly in its little bag. “I've given up trying, to be honest with you. I was getting ulcers from the stress.”
“What's the point of you, then? Why are you even here, if you're not going to do anything? And why put you in a position to investigate Hunt when he outranks you anyway?”
“Ours is not to reason why,” Keats quoted, unconcerned. “It's all going in my report, don't worry. Antagonising Gene Hunt isn't advisable at the moment. In fact, my boss is keen on my forging a 'sound working relationship' with him.” He put the phrase in air quotes. “I'm just the messenger, Daniel.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Don't shoot me, eh?”
He was smiling, but his eyes were fixed on Daniel's, dark and glittering. It was as if he were waiting for something. After a moment he shrugged and turned away.
Daniel caught his shoulder. “I can help you.”
Keats paused, turning back, a half-amused, half-incredulous expression on his face. “You what?”
“Your report on Hunt. I can help. I'm his DI - I have access to all his information, all his paperwork.”
“But he doesn't keep any paperwork, does he? That's the point. No respect for proper procedure, that man. Why do you think my superior is so interested in him in the first place?”
Daniel's eyes narrowed. He had overheard Nick Callaghan 's discussion with Hunt, but he wasn't sure yet what to make of it. “All right, but I can get close to him. Find out what you need to know.”
Keats was studying him thoughtfully. Daniel tried to look helpful and trustworthy. He all but fluttered his eyelashes.
“Okay.” Keats was nodding slowly. “You bring me what you can, yeah? But don't let Hunt catch you at it. He's got a nasty temper.”
“I noticed.”
Keats nodded again and opened the door.
“Wait,” Daniel said. “Don't you want to know what I want in return?”
Keats chuckled. “I'm sure you'll let me know when the time is right, DI Connor. Coming?”
Frowning, Daniel indicated that he'd be along in a minute. Keats left, closing the door quietly. Gene Hunt and Jim Keats - worlds apart, or two sides of the same coin? Who were they? What were they? Daniel splashed water on his face, pausing to gaze at his reflection in the mirror. He noticed the blood at once, diluted pale pink by the water, already coating his upper lip.
“Shit.” He grabbed a paper towel and mopped up his nosebleed. Second time this morning. He supposed Hunt's rough handling had triggered a fresh outpouring. As he pinched his nose to halt the bleeding, he became peripherally aware of something reflected in the grimy mirror. A pale shape which hadn't been there before. He turned, startled, and saw nothing. In the mirror, however, it was clearer. A child appeared to be standing behind him. The child - the same one he'd seen three times already in his flat, once in the mirror there, once standing at the end of his bed, once reflected in the sitting room window late at night. A boy, about ten, with blonde hair and large dark-blue eyes. He wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans. His small hands were pressed to his belly as though he had stomach-ache.
Daniel slowly lowered the blood-soaked paper towel. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
The boy made no response. He never did. As Daniel watched, he seemed to fade at the edges, blurring slowly into a background of mouldy white tiles. Gone.
Christ. What the hell was this place?
xxx
“Where've you two been?” Hunt demanded suspiciously, when Daniel, riding shotgun in Keats' car (which he had initially assumed to be the Merc parked outside the station - he had been surprised to discover otherwise) finally arrived at Regent's Canal. “I can see I'm going to have to be careful about leaving the pair of you alone in the gent's. Have fun comparing willies, did you?”
“DI Connor and I were discussing my report,” Keats said, evenly.
“Yes - your report on tiny todgers.”
“Of which you're the star, Gene,” came the dry response.
Daniel sighed; it was like watching a tennis match.
“I merely asked DI Connor if he wanted to make a formal complaint against you,” Keats went on.
“What for? Twat-baiting?” Advantage Hunt, again.
“Let's just get on with the job, shall we?”
Daniel wasn't sure if Keats had lost that round, or won it by virtue of demonstrating some vestige of adult behaviour. Hunt glared for a moment, lips pursed, then nodded tersely and gestured. The canal was a stormy grey today, reflecting the dark, rain-threatening clouds above. It was a suitable backdrop for a gruesome centrepiece: the promised corpse, which, covered with a dampened blanket, lay alongside the water. The hidden form was was oddly small. Daniel, curious despite himself, went closer. Keats, however, hung back, looking unhappy.
“Not squeamish, are you?” Daniel teased him, grinning.
“No,” muttered Keats. “Can we move it a bit farther away from the water though, please?”
“He,” Hunt snapped. “Not it, he. Just a little lad, and some bastard stuck a knife in his guts and drowned him like a rat to make sure he was dead. We're dealing with a child killer.”
Daniel's stomach lurched. Suddenly he didn't want to look at the face under the blanket. But Keats was kneeling beside the body, his gaze firmly averted from the canal, peeling back the covering. And Daniel realised he'd known all along what he was going to see. It was the boy from his flat, the boy from the station, the silent, staring ghost which had haunted Daniel's dreams ever since he arrived here. The blonde hair was soaked and filthy with mud and weeds; the blue eyes were fixedly open, gazing at nothing; the mouth too was open, gasping for air he would never need again. Daniel swallowed hard.
“He was alive when he was dumped into the water,” Hunt said, brusquely. “Trying to breathe as the canal closed over his head. Fighting for his life.”
Keats flinched. It was a small enough movement that Daniel didn't think Hunt had even noticed it.
“Guv?” The young blonde DC - Arnie Carter by name - was trying to attract Gene's attention. “Found something, Guv. Might be the knife the killer used.”
“Right.” Hunt marched off. Keats was still examining the corpse.
“Do we know -” Daniel's mouth was dry. He had to stop and start again. “Do we know the victim's identity?”
“Don't ask me, this is the first I've heard of the case.” Keats got up, dusting off his hands. His shoulders were rigid with tension. “Nobody tells me anything these days. Why, have you seen him before?”
Daniel let out a breath. “No. No, of course not.”
Hunt was still conversing with punk-haired Carter when Daniel slid out from under the spell of Keats' knowing half-smile.
“Is it the murder weapon?”
“Looks like it.” Hunt was bagging up the item. It was a novelty paper knife, shaped like a miniature sword, the handle quite beautifully wrought, sculpted in the form of a Templar knight. A lovely thing. A nice gift. Something to keep on your mantlepiece while you tore letters open impatiently with your fingers. Daniel stared at it, feeling as though his insides were turning to water.
“Some kind of human sacrifice, d'you think?” Keats had slithered up, eyeing the weapon with an almost unseemly interest. “Looks like something from a black magic ritual to me.”
“You'd know, Jimbo. You probably spend your Saturday nights dancing nude in graveyards, with the light of the silvery moon glinting on your scrawny arse.”
Keats was unmoved. “Everyone's arse is scrawny compared to yours, Gene.”
Hunt's face was carved in stone. Angry stone. “If you've got nothing useful to contribute to this investigation, Inspector, then bugger off back to your filofax and let us real coppers do our jobs.”
“It's not a ritual sacrifice,” Connor snapped at Keats, tired of the absurd game. “This is a bloody paperknife. It's for opening letters, not abdomens.”
“But there's the rub,” Keats smiled. “There's the point, in fact. It is bloody, isn't it?” Daniel had never before seen anyone smile and snarl simultaneously. The effect was quite alarming. He backed away a step, his nerves stretched taught, and stumbled on the uneven ground. Keats reached out to steady him. Daniel could feel the heat of his fingers even through the thickness of his own winter coat.
“If you two are going to start fondling each other again, do it in private,” Hunt growled. “We've learned all we can here. Leave the rest to plod and the pathologist.”
And that, apparently, was what passed for a detailed crime scene investigation in this, Hunt's kingdom. Daniel certainly wasn't going to argue. He needed an opportunity to slip off, to think - perhaps to ask DI Keats a few well-phrased questions. He was debating how odd it would look (and the sort of homoerotic jokes Hunt might make) if he asked for a word in private when a unique opportunity arose by itself.
Keats and Hunt were walking together along the canal path, Keats keeping very firmly on the land side. There was the corpse, now ready for removal to whatever passed for a forensic lab here. Hunt veered away to give it a wider birth. Keats, lost in thought, didn't. They collided, and Keats, who seemed very much on edge, shoved angrily back, apparently under the impression that Gene had walked into him on purpose.
“Show some bloody respect!” Hunt hissed, nodding at the body.
“Get out of my way!” Keats hissed right back. Hunt's face reddened, his jaw clenched, and his lips compressed together so tightly they appeared in danger of amalgamating. He grabbed Keats by the lapel and swung him around.
It was then that something grotesque happened. Keats, pulled off-balance, stumbled sideways and tripped over the corpse. The impact didn't pull the blanket loose, which relieved Daniel, but Keats was not so fortunate. With a startling shriek he lurched forwards and fell headlong into the dirty grey canal.
Daniel looked at Hunt, expecting to see mockery and derision in his face. Hunt was not laughing, however; he looked disgusted. Keats was now flailing about in the canal like a toddler in need of water-wings, yelling for help. He seemed utterly unable to swim and looked absolutely terrified. As they watched, he went under with a gurgling howl.
“Shouldn't we pull him out?” Daniel wondered aloud.
Hunt didn't answer. He looked tense; almost - but not quite - guilty. Not pleased with himself, at any rate, nor the slightest bit entertained, which was surprising to Daniel.
It was Arnie Carter who reacted quickest. He shrugged off his coat and jacket, kicked off his shoes, and plunged into the chilly-looking water. Daniel watched as the young man hauled a now-limp and waterlogged Keats to the canalside and tried to push him up onto the muddy bank.
Hunt took half a step forward; it was hard to tell from the look on his face whether he intended to lend a hand or shove Keats back in. Daniel moved faster, reaching down to grab Keats by the arms. Between them, he and Carter pulled and pushed the soggy DI to safety.
Physically unharmed, but bedraggled and shivering, Keats lay curled up in the mud, unresponsive to both Carter's anxious prodding and Daniel's attempts at basic first aid. He reacted, however, when Hunt decided that the way forward was to nudge Keats in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. At that, Keats looked up at him with a kind of wide-eyed, stricken disbelief, like a kitten somebody had unexpectedly dropped in the bath.
“Bastard,” he managed, through chattering teeth.
“Sorry.” Hunt sounded almost as if it meant it. “Look, it's not my fault you're so bloody ungainly.”
“Piss off,” Keats hissed, curling into himself even more. He seemed to be in a sort of angry shock. And Daniel knew it was time to make his move.
“Let me take you home,” he said, crouching over Keats in what he hoped was an unthreatening way, taking him gently by the arm.
He earned a derisive snort. “Yeah. Like you can.”
Daniel hid his excitement at that hint as best he could, licking his lips. “All right, come back to my flat. I've got some dry clothes you can change into.”
“He only fell in the bloody canal!” Hunt snapped. “We've got a case here.”
“That water's freezing. He might get pneumonia. Just give us an hour.”
Carter was helping a slowly-uncoiling Keats to his feet. Miraculously, his glasses had stayed on, though they were steaming up.
“Fine,” Hunt growled. As they headed for the car, he called after them, “and once you've got his kit off, Danny-boy, don't let him get overexcited and forget the rubber.”
Daniel had nothing to say to that; he found it convenient instead to respond with an appropriate gesture, without even breaking stride.
“Exactly!” Hunt roared, in delight. “Up yours!”
xxxx
Go to part 4: The Devil Wears Your Patience
3: Interlude: Take Heed Lest He Fall
Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
J Keats
Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.
Bible, 1 Corinthians x. 12.
Previously on Neutral Men:
“I won't let you down, Nick,” Keats said, shaking his boss's proffered hand. But it was Gene's narrow gaze he met as he added, “thank you.”
xxxxx
Daniel Connor liked to think of himself as a subtle, intelligent man - as indeed he was, Hunt's offensive attitude to him notwithstanding. He knew he wasn't like the others. Sam Tyler, a man who had chosen death, chosen, as Daniel now suspected, this place over the life he could have lived. Had his real life been so terrible, such a failure? Daniel had obtained and read Tyler's journals after the untimely death of Alex Drake, and had found nothing to suggest that his life before the coma-inducing 'accident' had been unsatisfactory. Curious. Interesting.
And now Daniel knew something else: by the simple expedient of listening outside Hunt's office door, he had learned that Alex Drake had been here, fulfilling the same kind of fantastic, twilight experience as Tyler. Where were they both now? No matter; the only important thing was that this world was real, in its way - real enough, at least. And Gene Hunt was at the centre of it, the lynch-pin on which it all turned.
And Keats. How did Keats fit in? Daniel remembered a grainy photograph, a name he'd assumed was a pseudonym to spare the family's shame - 'J Keats' indeed. And yet, that man had walked into CID yesterday, looking so different that Daniel had not at first recognised the barely familiar face. Keats was not like Hunt. He seemed to know things Hunt didn't. He did not, of course, recognise Daniel. Nonetheless, if there was a way out of here, Jim Keats was the key. Jim Keats, and perhaps Sam Tyler.
A violent thud startled him out of his thoughts.
“Oi! Connor! Are you masturbating in there, or have you just flushed yourself down the bog?”
Daniel sighed, rested his forehead for a moment against the toilet cubicle's graffitied and gouged wooden door. “No, Guv. Just thinking.”
“There's only one thing a man's supposed to think about on the karzy,” came the response, “maybe two. Now get out here and do some work for a change.”
Daniel flushed the toilet unnecessarily, sighed, and opened the door. Hunt was standing outside, an impatient glare etched on his face like a cave painting on rock. Daniel deliberately ignored him, going to the sink to wash his hands. “What's going on?”
“Another body,” was the grim response. “Get moving, we want to be there before plod messes up the crime scene.”
Daniel groaned inwardly. Another meaningless, pointless investigation. Either the case wasn't real, or it had been resolved many years ago; what did it matter whether they investigated it or not?
“Are you coming, or what?”
“Maybe I'll just stay here. Catch up on some paperwork.”
For a large man, Hunt could move very fast. He had Daniel by the collar and was shoving him against a wall before the last syllable was out of his mouth.
“You are my DI,” Hunt growled, “and as such, you will do as you're bloody well told. You might think you're too good for this station, you might ponce about with your procedures and your paperclips, but believe me, when you're in my kingdom my word is law. Understand?”
Daniel tried to force himself to nod when all he wanted to do was spit in the big bastard's face. He was spared the decision when the bathroom door abruptly opened, revealing Jim Keats standing in the doorway. He was holding a small toiletries bag in one hand and what appeared to be a flannel in the other. Did the man actually live in the station?
“Morning, Gene. Looks like you're starting early today, mate.”
“I suppose you want me to put him down, Jimbo?”
“Would you do it if I asked you nicely?” Sublimely uninterested, Keats made his way to the bank of sinks, withdrew a toothbrush and paste from his bag, and proceeded to clean his teeth. “Don't worry,” he told the still-pinioned Daniel, after spitting, “it's all going in my report.”
Daniel gurgled an objection, meeting Keats' eyes in the mirror. It triggered a more desirable response.
“All right, that's enough.” Keats put his toiletries down and strode over to stand almost as close to Daniel as Hunt was. “Let him go now. I mean it.”
“And I mean it when I say 'piss off, Jimbo'.”
“My boss is going to be checking up on me,” Keats replied, looking annoyed for the first time. “If you won't answer to me, you'll have to answer to him. Put DI Connor down - now. Please.”
“When he's apologised,” Hunt growled, though he did loosen his grip slightly, allowing Daniel to gasp,
“For what?!”
“For being a smartarsed little nancy boy. For your unsightly, sulky mug. For daring to come into my station and act like you own the place.”
“You're a bloody menace, you are,” Keats informed Gene. “Do you have no subtlety at all? You're like a big, overgrown five-year-old. Don't like somebody, so you punch them in the face. And nobody's allowed to play with your toys but you. Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'people skills?'”
Hunt looked into Daniel's eyes, giving Daniel the uncomfortable sensation that the man was X-raying his very soul. He did, however, let go.
“I'd say my people skills were excellent,” he told Keats. “They get the job done. Unlike you two tosspots, standing around when there's villains to be caught. Come on, both of you. Regent's Canal. Are you real coppers or aren't you? Don't bother to answer that, Jimbo - I already know you're not.”
He left, banging the bathroom door behind him, apparently in no doubt that his orders would be obeyed.
Daniel turned on Keats. “Fat lot of help you were!”
“He doesn't listen to me,” Keats shrugged, packing his toothbrush away neatly in its little bag. “I've given up trying, to be honest with you. I was getting ulcers from the stress.”
“What's the point of you, then? Why are you even here, if you're not going to do anything? And why put you in a position to investigate Hunt when he outranks you anyway?”
“Ours is not to reason why,” Keats quoted, unconcerned. “It's all going in my report, don't worry. Antagonising Gene Hunt isn't advisable at the moment. In fact, my boss is keen on my forging a 'sound working relationship' with him.” He put the phrase in air quotes. “I'm just the messenger, Daniel.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Don't shoot me, eh?”
He was smiling, but his eyes were fixed on Daniel's, dark and glittering. It was as if he were waiting for something. After a moment he shrugged and turned away.
Daniel caught his shoulder. “I can help you.”
Keats paused, turning back, a half-amused, half-incredulous expression on his face. “You what?”
“Your report on Hunt. I can help. I'm his DI - I have access to all his information, all his paperwork.”
“But he doesn't keep any paperwork, does he? That's the point. No respect for proper procedure, that man. Why do you think my superior is so interested in him in the first place?”
Daniel's eyes narrowed. He had overheard Nick Callaghan 's discussion with Hunt, but he wasn't sure yet what to make of it. “All right, but I can get close to him. Find out what you need to know.”
Keats was studying him thoughtfully. Daniel tried to look helpful and trustworthy. He all but fluttered his eyelashes.
“Okay.” Keats was nodding slowly. “You bring me what you can, yeah? But don't let Hunt catch you at it. He's got a nasty temper.”
“I noticed.”
Keats nodded again and opened the door.
“Wait,” Daniel said. “Don't you want to know what I want in return?”
Keats chuckled. “I'm sure you'll let me know when the time is right, DI Connor. Coming?”
Frowning, Daniel indicated that he'd be along in a minute. Keats left, closing the door quietly. Gene Hunt and Jim Keats - worlds apart, or two sides of the same coin? Who were they? What were they? Daniel splashed water on his face, pausing to gaze at his reflection in the mirror. He noticed the blood at once, diluted pale pink by the water, already coating his upper lip.
“Shit.” He grabbed a paper towel and mopped up his nosebleed. Second time this morning. He supposed Hunt's rough handling had triggered a fresh outpouring. As he pinched his nose to halt the bleeding, he became peripherally aware of something reflected in the grimy mirror. A pale shape which hadn't been there before. He turned, startled, and saw nothing. In the mirror, however, it was clearer. A child appeared to be standing behind him. The child - the same one he'd seen three times already in his flat, once in the mirror there, once standing at the end of his bed, once reflected in the sitting room window late at night. A boy, about ten, with blonde hair and large dark-blue eyes. He wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans. His small hands were pressed to his belly as though he had stomach-ache.
Daniel slowly lowered the blood-soaked paper towel. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
The boy made no response. He never did. As Daniel watched, he seemed to fade at the edges, blurring slowly into a background of mouldy white tiles. Gone.
Christ. What the hell was this place?
xxx
“Where've you two been?” Hunt demanded suspiciously, when Daniel, riding shotgun in Keats' car (which he had initially assumed to be the Merc parked outside the station - he had been surprised to discover otherwise) finally arrived at Regent's Canal. “I can see I'm going to have to be careful about leaving the pair of you alone in the gent's. Have fun comparing willies, did you?”
“DI Connor and I were discussing my report,” Keats said, evenly.
“Yes - your report on tiny todgers.”
“Of which you're the star, Gene,” came the dry response.
Daniel sighed; it was like watching a tennis match.
“I merely asked DI Connor if he wanted to make a formal complaint against you,” Keats went on.
“What for? Twat-baiting?” Advantage Hunt, again.
“Let's just get on with the job, shall we?”
Daniel wasn't sure if Keats had lost that round, or won it by virtue of demonstrating some vestige of adult behaviour. Hunt glared for a moment, lips pursed, then nodded tersely and gestured. The canal was a stormy grey today, reflecting the dark, rain-threatening clouds above. It was a suitable backdrop for a gruesome centrepiece: the promised corpse, which, covered with a dampened blanket, lay alongside the water. The hidden form was was oddly small. Daniel, curious despite himself, went closer. Keats, however, hung back, looking unhappy.
“Not squeamish, are you?” Daniel teased him, grinning.
“No,” muttered Keats. “Can we move it a bit farther away from the water though, please?”
“He,” Hunt snapped. “Not it, he. Just a little lad, and some bastard stuck a knife in his guts and drowned him like a rat to make sure he was dead. We're dealing with a child killer.”
Daniel's stomach lurched. Suddenly he didn't want to look at the face under the blanket. But Keats was kneeling beside the body, his gaze firmly averted from the canal, peeling back the covering. And Daniel realised he'd known all along what he was going to see. It was the boy from his flat, the boy from the station, the silent, staring ghost which had haunted Daniel's dreams ever since he arrived here. The blonde hair was soaked and filthy with mud and weeds; the blue eyes were fixedly open, gazing at nothing; the mouth too was open, gasping for air he would never need again. Daniel swallowed hard.
“He was alive when he was dumped into the water,” Hunt said, brusquely. “Trying to breathe as the canal closed over his head. Fighting for his life.”
Keats flinched. It was a small enough movement that Daniel didn't think Hunt had even noticed it.
“Guv?” The young blonde DC - Arnie Carter by name - was trying to attract Gene's attention. “Found something, Guv. Might be the knife the killer used.”
“Right.” Hunt marched off. Keats was still examining the corpse.
“Do we know -” Daniel's mouth was dry. He had to stop and start again. “Do we know the victim's identity?”
“Don't ask me, this is the first I've heard of the case.” Keats got up, dusting off his hands. His shoulders were rigid with tension. “Nobody tells me anything these days. Why, have you seen him before?”
Daniel let out a breath. “No. No, of course not.”
Hunt was still conversing with punk-haired Carter when Daniel slid out from under the spell of Keats' knowing half-smile.
“Is it the murder weapon?”
“Looks like it.” Hunt was bagging up the item. It was a novelty paper knife, shaped like a miniature sword, the handle quite beautifully wrought, sculpted in the form of a Templar knight. A lovely thing. A nice gift. Something to keep on your mantlepiece while you tore letters open impatiently with your fingers. Daniel stared at it, feeling as though his insides were turning to water.
“Some kind of human sacrifice, d'you think?” Keats had slithered up, eyeing the weapon with an almost unseemly interest. “Looks like something from a black magic ritual to me.”
“You'd know, Jimbo. You probably spend your Saturday nights dancing nude in graveyards, with the light of the silvery moon glinting on your scrawny arse.”
Keats was unmoved. “Everyone's arse is scrawny compared to yours, Gene.”
Hunt's face was carved in stone. Angry stone. “If you've got nothing useful to contribute to this investigation, Inspector, then bugger off back to your filofax and let us real coppers do our jobs.”
“It's not a ritual sacrifice,” Connor snapped at Keats, tired of the absurd game. “This is a bloody paperknife. It's for opening letters, not abdomens.”
“But there's the rub,” Keats smiled. “There's the point, in fact. It is bloody, isn't it?” Daniel had never before seen anyone smile and snarl simultaneously. The effect was quite alarming. He backed away a step, his nerves stretched taught, and stumbled on the uneven ground. Keats reached out to steady him. Daniel could feel the heat of his fingers even through the thickness of his own winter coat.
“If you two are going to start fondling each other again, do it in private,” Hunt growled. “We've learned all we can here. Leave the rest to plod and the pathologist.”
And that, apparently, was what passed for a detailed crime scene investigation in this, Hunt's kingdom. Daniel certainly wasn't going to argue. He needed an opportunity to slip off, to think - perhaps to ask DI Keats a few well-phrased questions. He was debating how odd it would look (and the sort of homoerotic jokes Hunt might make) if he asked for a word in private when a unique opportunity arose by itself.
Keats and Hunt were walking together along the canal path, Keats keeping very firmly on the land side. There was the corpse, now ready for removal to whatever passed for a forensic lab here. Hunt veered away to give it a wider birth. Keats, lost in thought, didn't. They collided, and Keats, who seemed very much on edge, shoved angrily back, apparently under the impression that Gene had walked into him on purpose.
“Show some bloody respect!” Hunt hissed, nodding at the body.
“Get out of my way!” Keats hissed right back. Hunt's face reddened, his jaw clenched, and his lips compressed together so tightly they appeared in danger of amalgamating. He grabbed Keats by the lapel and swung him around.
It was then that something grotesque happened. Keats, pulled off-balance, stumbled sideways and tripped over the corpse. The impact didn't pull the blanket loose, which relieved Daniel, but Keats was not so fortunate. With a startling shriek he lurched forwards and fell headlong into the dirty grey canal.
Daniel looked at Hunt, expecting to see mockery and derision in his face. Hunt was not laughing, however; he looked disgusted. Keats was now flailing about in the canal like a toddler in need of water-wings, yelling for help. He seemed utterly unable to swim and looked absolutely terrified. As they watched, he went under with a gurgling howl.
“Shouldn't we pull him out?” Daniel wondered aloud.
Hunt didn't answer. He looked tense; almost - but not quite - guilty. Not pleased with himself, at any rate, nor the slightest bit entertained, which was surprising to Daniel.
It was Arnie Carter who reacted quickest. He shrugged off his coat and jacket, kicked off his shoes, and plunged into the chilly-looking water. Daniel watched as the young man hauled a now-limp and waterlogged Keats to the canalside and tried to push him up onto the muddy bank.
Hunt took half a step forward; it was hard to tell from the look on his face whether he intended to lend a hand or shove Keats back in. Daniel moved faster, reaching down to grab Keats by the arms. Between them, he and Carter pulled and pushed the soggy DI to safety.
Physically unharmed, but bedraggled and shivering, Keats lay curled up in the mud, unresponsive to both Carter's anxious prodding and Daniel's attempts at basic first aid. He reacted, however, when Hunt decided that the way forward was to nudge Keats in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. At that, Keats looked up at him with a kind of wide-eyed, stricken disbelief, like a kitten somebody had unexpectedly dropped in the bath.
“Bastard,” he managed, through chattering teeth.
“Sorry.” Hunt sounded almost as if it meant it. “Look, it's not my fault you're so bloody ungainly.”
“Piss off,” Keats hissed, curling into himself even more. He seemed to be in a sort of angry shock. And Daniel knew it was time to make his move.
“Let me take you home,” he said, crouching over Keats in what he hoped was an unthreatening way, taking him gently by the arm.
He earned a derisive snort. “Yeah. Like you can.”
Daniel hid his excitement at that hint as best he could, licking his lips. “All right, come back to my flat. I've got some dry clothes you can change into.”
“He only fell in the bloody canal!” Hunt snapped. “We've got a case here.”
“That water's freezing. He might get pneumonia. Just give us an hour.”
Carter was helping a slowly-uncoiling Keats to his feet. Miraculously, his glasses had stayed on, though they were steaming up.
“Fine,” Hunt growled. As they headed for the car, he called after them, “and once you've got his kit off, Danny-boy, don't let him get overexcited and forget the rubber.”
Daniel had nothing to say to that; he found it convenient instead to respond with an appropriate gesture, without even breaking stride.
“Exactly!” Hunt roared, in delight. “Up yours!”
xxxx
Go to part 4: The Devil Wears Your Patience