Ashes to Ashes: Neutral Men, Part VI
Sixth part of eight of 'Neutral Men'. Beware spoilers for the show finale!
xxx
6: The frying pan of purgatory
Little Blue
How do you do?
Your smile is like Heaven but your eyes
Hold a storm about to brew
Beautiful South, Little Blue
We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you’re well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the frying pan of life into the fire of purgatory.
James Joyce
When Gene Hunt threw the coffee-stained folder down on his desk, Daniel knew he had been waiting for this moment ever since he arrived in Hunt’s bizarre world. His fingers trailed over the folder's rough surface, kissing gently against the pages within. A thin, sharp pain made him draw his finger back, place it in his mouth. A paper-cut, oozing blood.
Hunt was scowling at him. “Shall I book you and the file a nice hotel room, Connor, or are you going to actually do some police work this morning?”
“I cut my finger,” Daniel said, taking it out of his mouth and studying it. The cut was surprisingly deep. He could see blood on the paper, blurring its crisp white edges.
“Perhaps you’d like me to get you a tart to kiss it better,” Hunt suggested. “One with enormous bosoms and a belt for a skirt. Or shall I ring your mother, ask her to bring your dummy and your favourite teddy bear from home?”
On the other side of the room, half-hidden behind Hunt’s solid frame, Daniel heard Jim Keats make a small sound. It was too soft for him to tell whether it had been a snort of amusement or a ‘tsk’ of disapproval.
“Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone.” Daniel replied, eyes locking with Hunt’s. “Send me your mother.”
Hunt lunged across the desk, pausing only when Keats spoke without bothering to look up from a stack of paperwork he was examining. “Don’t, Gene. It isn’t fair on the cleaners, who’d have to deal with all the mess.”
Hunt had stopped with his flushed, angry face inches from Daniel’s, who could see every pore in his skin as he growled back, “fair enough. Next time you so much as mention my dear old mum, Connor, you’ll be wearing your bowels for a hat. Understand?”
“Yes.” Daniel kept all emotion out of his voice. He didn’t drop his gaze, taking some pleasure in the brief look of confusion on Hunt’s face as he slowly withdrew.
He tapped the file on Daniel’s desk. “Everything we’ve got so far on the little lad from the canal. We’ve had a breakthrough: somebody’s identified the corpse. I want you to handle this one, Connor. Think of it as your big chance to prove you’re not as much of a useless bastard as we all think.”
Daniel held Hunt’s gaze until the bigger man moved away, disappearing into his office with a brusque gesture in Keats’ direction. Keats got up to follow him. As he passed Daniel’s desk, he murmured,
“I know it must all seem ridiculous. But trust me - this case is very important, especially for you, on a personal level. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes.” Daniel’s smile was paper-thin. “I understand very well. Is Callaghan aware that you’ve taken to hedging your bets, by the way? Have you ever played for any side except your own, Jim?”
The sally didn’t strike as close to home as Daniel had hoped. Keats smiled, shook his head. “I was trying to do you a favour, mate. Maybe I shouldn’t bother, eh? I’ve got other options, this time around.”
Daniel watched silently as Keats followed Hunt into his office, closing the door and drawing the blinds. He waited until the rest of CID had stopped their staring and snickering, before opening the file. He skipped through the forensic reports first - the boy had indeed been alive when he hit the water: the stab wound in his stomach would have killed him, without treatment, but he had drowned before the sharp silver letter-opener - that so-familiar little item - had had its chance.
Incongruously, at the back of the file was the personal information Hunt’s team had managed to gather about the victim. One page only - date of birth, physical description, address, and a name.
A name.
Daniel read it twice, then again. And abruptly understood the oblique remark Keats had made on his way to Hunt’s office.
He looked up. The pale, yellow-haired boy was standing in front of his desk, his face averted, gazing towards the closed blinds of Hunt's inner sanctum. Nobody else in the room appeared to react to the small, dripping, bloodstained figure. As though feeling Daniel’s gaze on him, the boy turned his head. The face was still ghastly - still dead - and yet it was filled with a terrible animation. The blue eyes stared directly into Daniel’s. It was no longer the gaze of a child. Confusion, fear and pain had been replaced by a very adult triumph.
The boy’s smile was cold as death.
Xxx
Daniel Connor, DCI, one of the Met's finest specialists in vice. DCI Connor, who had put away no less than three of London's major players in the drug trade. Connor, who paved the way for a fourth to rise to prominence in the twilight of the city's underworld. Daniel's father had been a spineless, worthless specimen, but the young man had learned one crucial lesson from him, one which was to shape his life: knowledge is power. The knowledge of Michael Connor's extramarital affair had provided Daniel with an endless array of expensive gifts from his dear old desperate dad. Daniel had quickly found that the sort of people he had the opportunity of meeting as a vice copper also had secrets they wanted kept - and that they could offer him a great deal more in return than a new games console or a secondhand car.
It was all very easy. Working in vice gave Daniel the contacts he needed to make enough money to keep him in the manner to which he had been accustomed - i.e., having everything he wanted without expending a significant amount of effort, or taking any undesirable risks. For two years, it all went beautifully: quietly and competently Daniel kept a few secrets, and made the fallout of a few little indiscretions go away. In return, as well as his irregular pay-packet, Daniel arranged a gentleman’s agreement that if his unofficial employer should find himself in an unfortunate legal position, Daniel would have complete deniability. Minimal risk, handsome payoff, perfect situation...in retrospect, he had been naive to think that such a set-up could last for very long.
The vice squad was instructed to investigate Daniel's friendly contact, the nice man who filled his wallet on a semi-regular basis and helped him earn a swift and early promotion by providing insider information which allowed Daniel to send his competitors in the demanding career of drug-trafficking to prison. Potential disaster: Daniel could simply invoke the 'deny all knowledge' portion of the contract he had made with his friendly tame drug baron, but that would mean the end, at least for a while, of his lucrative moonlighting operation. Further, Daniel could not be absolutely sure that the man who called himself 'Dr. P. Harm', or simply 'the Doctor', would uphold his end of the bargain - outside of books and TV shows, career criminals rarely demonstrated the fabled concept of honour among thieves.
The problem was dire, but its solution was obvious: ensure that he, Connor, was put in charge of the case (easy, with his track record), and make the evidence go away as unobtrusively as possible. One failure on top of all his successes would not detract very much from his reputation as a police officer, and he would earn significant brownie points (convertible to 1 - favours and 2 - hard cash) with the enigmatic Doctor.
It was a beautiful plan - until Daniel's immediate superior, Superintendent Suman Singh, threw a curveball.
"The Met has absolute faith in you, Daniel," Singh said, waving Connor to a chair and offering him coffee from an espresso machine which sat in place of the more usual water cooler or potplant. "We feel, however, that the work of this case will be too much for a single chief investigating officer to manage by himself. Although we're somewhat overstretched at the moment, you will be assigned a senior Inspector to take over some of the paperwork."
Singh took a long sip of decaffeinated coffee, smiled contentedly, and waved at Daniel to do the same. Feeling that he was signing some kind of devil's contract, Daniel took a cautious slurp of the murky, nerve-jangling liquid. He was never sure whether Singh was sincere in his drastic overestimation of his colleagues’ respective tolerance levels for caffeine, or whether he simply used the lethal coffee as a test of his subordinates’ characters. "Who are you intending to assign, sir?" Daniel's tone was perfectly controlled, casual but not too casual, an undercurrent of mild indignation peeping through. To be entirely unconcerned at having to share the kudos of bringing in a major player with another officer would have sounded a false note.
"That, Chief Inspector, is in part up to you," Singh said, looking pleased that Daniel had passed the espresso test. "Who would you like as your second-in-command?"
And there it was: a glimmer of hope. Daniel could not demand all the glory for himself without giving a bad impression; besides, he was phobic about giving the superintendent - who was as sharp as his coffee was bitter - any grounds, no matter how slight, for suspicion. Daniel hesitated, was about to ask for a day or two to think it over, when inspiration struck.
"DI McQueen, sir."
"Gordon McQueen?" Singh's greying eyebrows lifted, almost brushing the edge of his somber navy-blue Dhamala turban. "And why him?"
Daniel could hardly give the real reason - that McQueen's wife Pamela had been diagnosed with aggressive multiple sclerosis six years ago; more importantly, her condition had recently begun to deteriorate rapidly. This made McQueen ideal in two ways: firstly, that he was likely to be so distracted by his personal problems that he would be more than willing to let Daniel take on most of the workload; secondly, that if McQueen did by some chance manage to find out something incriminating about his fellow officer, the escalating cost of his wife's treatment meant that he would be the perfect candidate for a bribe.
The only difficulty was convincing Singh that McQueen was suitable for the job in any legitimate way.
"Gordon has a lot of experience, sir. His record in this area..."
"I'm aware of his record." Singh seemed torn. On the one hand, Pamela McQueen's illness was common knowledge, and the source of much sympathy in the Met for her likeable, harried husband. A case like this could help McQueen towards a cushy promotion and a bigger pay packet. He deserved these things as much as anyone. Problem was, the same reasons which made Daniel want him on the case were precisely why Singh might not. Daniel, however, was confident of getting his way.
He always had.
xxx
Gordon McQueen was tallish and lightly built, with the kind of graceful, tidy musculature more traditionally associated with a dancer than a copper. Indeed, Daniel understood that before her illness, McQueen and his wife had cut an enthusiastic rug at their weekly ballroom classes.
When he shook Daniel's hand and thanked him for ensuring Singh's recommendation (it was an open secret, apparently, that the much-lauded King of Vice had personally requested to share his latest accolade with his blighted fellow officer) McQueen's grip was weak and clammy. Daniel pulled his hand back as quickly as possible, gazing curiously into the other man's pale, worried face. McQueen's flaxen hair had become both greyer and thinner over the last few months, and his trim waistline was thickening; comfort eating, Daniel suspected. He wouldn't be surprised if comfort-drinking rapidly followed; McQueen looked like a man on the brink of complete despair.
Perfect.
"You're sure you want this?" Daniel asked, scultping his face into an expression of comradely concern. "If everything goes our way, this case could be time-intensive."
McQueen licked his lips. He searched Daniel's gaze, his sad, pale-blue eyes flicking rapidly and appealingly over Daniel's face, seeking any sign that Daniel had changed his mind, decided he wasn't up to this. He made Daniel think of a spaniel puppy wearing contact lenses.
"I can do this," McQueen said earnestly. "I - I need this."
Daniel nodded, altering his expression slightly. Now it said: I'm concerned, but I believe in you. It worked like a charm - McQueen's face relaxed minutely, the ghost of the shadow of a smile appearing. "Thank you, sir." Oh, but that grateful little smile could break your heart. If you happened to have one. Another encouraging nod from Daniel, and McQueen was on board. He was about to bring to the investigation an entirely unexpected degree of dedication, tenacity, and insight, plus an incorruptible sense of duty. To his credit, of course.
And his detriment.
xxx
At 8.15pm, on the second day of the third week of his investigation into the Dr. P. Harm case, Daniel finally got home to his tidy, well-appointed flat. It was not a large home, but it came with a luxury which particularly pleased him: the sitting room windows overlooked Limehouse Cut, the oldest canal in London. Here, nestled between battered warehouses and scenic towpaths, Daniel made his home. He was fond of the small balcony, equipped with a white-painted metal folding table and a single matching chair, where he liked to sit on warm evenings, watching the sparkle of starlight and streetlamps on the dark water.
It had been a long day: perhaps unsurprisingly, sabotaging a high-level police investigation was a great deal more difficult than actually conducting one. Gordon McQueen was the main problem. He was proving unexpectedly tenacious about the details of the case, leaving no stone unturned, no file unopened, no angle unexplored. Gentle suggestions that he should probably go home to his sick wife before it was too late were less effective than predicted, and Daniel was forced to conclude that he had underestimated both his colleague's competence, and his dedication.
Given all this, the message waiting for Daniel on his answerphone, left only minutes ago, was far from a pleasure. McQueen's recorded voice, with its faint Lancashire burr, was harried, unhappy. "Daniel? Something came up after you left. Something you should...I need to talk to you. I'm coming over to your flat, now. If you're not there by then, I'll wait. I'm going to try your mobile in the meantime."
Beep. End of message.
Daniel let out a long, exasperated breath, took his mobile phone out of his pocket and switched it off, threw his car keys and driving gloves irritably on the table, and spent a few minutes pacing, trying to get his thoughts in order. Logic had always been his greatest ally. Point one: McQueen wouldn't call him at home unless he had something important to impart. Point two: they were not friends, merely colleagues; the only current point of connection between them was the Dr. P. Harm case. A breakthrough in the case was inevitably the reason for the call; however, point three: there was a notable lack of the puppyish triumph Connor would have expected to hear in McQueen's voice. Therefore, point four: McQueen had uncovered something he subsequently wished he hadn't, but having discovered it, felt it was his duty to persue.
The only possible logical conclusion: point five, McQueen had learned something about Connor's connection to the Doctor. Not enough to absolutely convince him: he was giving his colleague a chance to explain himself. Question: what had McQueen found, when Connor had so carefully covered his tracks, obliterating or burying every page of the paper trail? He racked his brains, couldn't think of a single thing he had missed. Naturally - if he'd known what it was, he wouldn't have missed it.
McQueen would not have told anybody yet. He would have called Daniel first, giving him that chance to clear himself. Partly his sense of honour, obligation to a colleague, partly because exposing a superior officer - especially one so respected and above suspicion as the celebrated DCI Daniel Connor - as thoroughly corrupt would not be an easy process. Connnor doubted McQueen could handle the stress, on top of his personal problems. It would probably be easy enough to convince Singh that McQueen's admittedly stoic mind had finally crumbled under the demands made upon it. Then again - Daniel had discovered an undercurrent of steel in his colleague which he had not predicted. There remained the worrying possibility that dogged, dutiful Gordon would actually manage to follow the case through to its painful, shameful end.
Daniel would not and could not take that risk, however small. McQueen would require approximately twenty minutes to reach Daniel's flat, if he came straight here after making his phone call. Daniel made his decision, therefore, with a few minutes to spare. His plan had only two key requirements, both of which he thought would be fulfilled. He needed McQueen to be alone, and he needed that nobody overhear their meeting. Life was not like a cop film - the man was hardly likely to show up wearing a hidden microphone, with three squad cars full of armed officers waiting outside to take Daniel down as soon as he confessed his sins.
No. McQueen would be alone, desperate to be wrong, and entirely unprepared for the reception he was going to get. Slowly, thoughtfully, Daniel put back on his leather driving gloves, and took down an ornamental paper-knife, a gift from an ex-girlfriend which he never used, but displayed on his mantelpiece due to its attractiveness. It was silver, shaped like a miniature sword, the handle sculpted into the form of a Templar knight. He tapped it absently against his gloved palm as he crossed the room, opening the balcony door to gaze thoughtfully, contemplatively, down at the dark and silent water.
xxx
In CID, painfully aware that both Hunt and Keats were watching him through the window of Hunt's office, Daniel lifted the cover of the manilla folder between finger and thumb and slowly, reluctantly, flicked through the pages to the back of the file. He read, again, the name written at the top of the final sheet (lightly stained, he noted once again, with his own blood), hoping irrationally that he might have misread the reporting officer's inadequate scrawl. He knew he had not. The name was clear enough: Gordon Andrew McQueen. The name of a man Connor had known in 2008 as DI McQueen; a man who, in 1985, would still have been a boy, just ten years old.
A flaxen-haired boy, with sad, searching blue eyes.
xxx
6: The frying pan of purgatory
Little Blue
How do you do?
Your smile is like Heaven but your eyes
Hold a storm about to brew
Beautiful South, Little Blue
We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you’re well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the frying pan of life into the fire of purgatory.
James Joyce
When Gene Hunt threw the coffee-stained folder down on his desk, Daniel knew he had been waiting for this moment ever since he arrived in Hunt’s bizarre world. His fingers trailed over the folder's rough surface, kissing gently against the pages within. A thin, sharp pain made him draw his finger back, place it in his mouth. A paper-cut, oozing blood.
Hunt was scowling at him. “Shall I book you and the file a nice hotel room, Connor, or are you going to actually do some police work this morning?”
“I cut my finger,” Daniel said, taking it out of his mouth and studying it. The cut was surprisingly deep. He could see blood on the paper, blurring its crisp white edges.
“Perhaps you’d like me to get you a tart to kiss it better,” Hunt suggested. “One with enormous bosoms and a belt for a skirt. Or shall I ring your mother, ask her to bring your dummy and your favourite teddy bear from home?”
On the other side of the room, half-hidden behind Hunt’s solid frame, Daniel heard Jim Keats make a small sound. It was too soft for him to tell whether it had been a snort of amusement or a ‘tsk’ of disapproval.
“Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone.” Daniel replied, eyes locking with Hunt’s. “Send me your mother.”
Hunt lunged across the desk, pausing only when Keats spoke without bothering to look up from a stack of paperwork he was examining. “Don’t, Gene. It isn’t fair on the cleaners, who’d have to deal with all the mess.”
Hunt had stopped with his flushed, angry face inches from Daniel’s, who could see every pore in his skin as he growled back, “fair enough. Next time you so much as mention my dear old mum, Connor, you’ll be wearing your bowels for a hat. Understand?”
“Yes.” Daniel kept all emotion out of his voice. He didn’t drop his gaze, taking some pleasure in the brief look of confusion on Hunt’s face as he slowly withdrew.
He tapped the file on Daniel’s desk. “Everything we’ve got so far on the little lad from the canal. We’ve had a breakthrough: somebody’s identified the corpse. I want you to handle this one, Connor. Think of it as your big chance to prove you’re not as much of a useless bastard as we all think.”
Daniel held Hunt’s gaze until the bigger man moved away, disappearing into his office with a brusque gesture in Keats’ direction. Keats got up to follow him. As he passed Daniel’s desk, he murmured,
“I know it must all seem ridiculous. But trust me - this case is very important, especially for you, on a personal level. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes.” Daniel’s smile was paper-thin. “I understand very well. Is Callaghan aware that you’ve taken to hedging your bets, by the way? Have you ever played for any side except your own, Jim?”
The sally didn’t strike as close to home as Daniel had hoped. Keats smiled, shook his head. “I was trying to do you a favour, mate. Maybe I shouldn’t bother, eh? I’ve got other options, this time around.”
Daniel watched silently as Keats followed Hunt into his office, closing the door and drawing the blinds. He waited until the rest of CID had stopped their staring and snickering, before opening the file. He skipped through the forensic reports first - the boy had indeed been alive when he hit the water: the stab wound in his stomach would have killed him, without treatment, but he had drowned before the sharp silver letter-opener - that so-familiar little item - had had its chance.
Incongruously, at the back of the file was the personal information Hunt’s team had managed to gather about the victim. One page only - date of birth, physical description, address, and a name.
A name.
Daniel read it twice, then again. And abruptly understood the oblique remark Keats had made on his way to Hunt’s office.
He looked up. The pale, yellow-haired boy was standing in front of his desk, his face averted, gazing towards the closed blinds of Hunt's inner sanctum. Nobody else in the room appeared to react to the small, dripping, bloodstained figure. As though feeling Daniel’s gaze on him, the boy turned his head. The face was still ghastly - still dead - and yet it was filled with a terrible animation. The blue eyes stared directly into Daniel’s. It was no longer the gaze of a child. Confusion, fear and pain had been replaced by a very adult triumph.
The boy’s smile was cold as death.
Xxx
Daniel Connor, DCI, one of the Met's finest specialists in vice. DCI Connor, who had put away no less than three of London's major players in the drug trade. Connor, who paved the way for a fourth to rise to prominence in the twilight of the city's underworld. Daniel's father had been a spineless, worthless specimen, but the young man had learned one crucial lesson from him, one which was to shape his life: knowledge is power. The knowledge of Michael Connor's extramarital affair had provided Daniel with an endless array of expensive gifts from his dear old desperate dad. Daniel had quickly found that the sort of people he had the opportunity of meeting as a vice copper also had secrets they wanted kept - and that they could offer him a great deal more in return than a new games console or a secondhand car.
It was all very easy. Working in vice gave Daniel the contacts he needed to make enough money to keep him in the manner to which he had been accustomed - i.e., having everything he wanted without expending a significant amount of effort, or taking any undesirable risks. For two years, it all went beautifully: quietly and competently Daniel kept a few secrets, and made the fallout of a few little indiscretions go away. In return, as well as his irregular pay-packet, Daniel arranged a gentleman’s agreement that if his unofficial employer should find himself in an unfortunate legal position, Daniel would have complete deniability. Minimal risk, handsome payoff, perfect situation...in retrospect, he had been naive to think that such a set-up could last for very long.
The vice squad was instructed to investigate Daniel's friendly contact, the nice man who filled his wallet on a semi-regular basis and helped him earn a swift and early promotion by providing insider information which allowed Daniel to send his competitors in the demanding career of drug-trafficking to prison. Potential disaster: Daniel could simply invoke the 'deny all knowledge' portion of the contract he had made with his friendly tame drug baron, but that would mean the end, at least for a while, of his lucrative moonlighting operation. Further, Daniel could not be absolutely sure that the man who called himself 'Dr. P. Harm', or simply 'the Doctor', would uphold his end of the bargain - outside of books and TV shows, career criminals rarely demonstrated the fabled concept of honour among thieves.
The problem was dire, but its solution was obvious: ensure that he, Connor, was put in charge of the case (easy, with his track record), and make the evidence go away as unobtrusively as possible. One failure on top of all his successes would not detract very much from his reputation as a police officer, and he would earn significant brownie points (convertible to 1 - favours and 2 - hard cash) with the enigmatic Doctor.
It was a beautiful plan - until Daniel's immediate superior, Superintendent Suman Singh, threw a curveball.
"The Met has absolute faith in you, Daniel," Singh said, waving Connor to a chair and offering him coffee from an espresso machine which sat in place of the more usual water cooler or potplant. "We feel, however, that the work of this case will be too much for a single chief investigating officer to manage by himself. Although we're somewhat overstretched at the moment, you will be assigned a senior Inspector to take over some of the paperwork."
Singh took a long sip of decaffeinated coffee, smiled contentedly, and waved at Daniel to do the same. Feeling that he was signing some kind of devil's contract, Daniel took a cautious slurp of the murky, nerve-jangling liquid. He was never sure whether Singh was sincere in his drastic overestimation of his colleagues’ respective tolerance levels for caffeine, or whether he simply used the lethal coffee as a test of his subordinates’ characters. "Who are you intending to assign, sir?" Daniel's tone was perfectly controlled, casual but not too casual, an undercurrent of mild indignation peeping through. To be entirely unconcerned at having to share the kudos of bringing in a major player with another officer would have sounded a false note.
"That, Chief Inspector, is in part up to you," Singh said, looking pleased that Daniel had passed the espresso test. "Who would you like as your second-in-command?"
And there it was: a glimmer of hope. Daniel could not demand all the glory for himself without giving a bad impression; besides, he was phobic about giving the superintendent - who was as sharp as his coffee was bitter - any grounds, no matter how slight, for suspicion. Daniel hesitated, was about to ask for a day or two to think it over, when inspiration struck.
"DI McQueen, sir."
"Gordon McQueen?" Singh's greying eyebrows lifted, almost brushing the edge of his somber navy-blue Dhamala turban. "And why him?"
Daniel could hardly give the real reason - that McQueen's wife Pamela had been diagnosed with aggressive multiple sclerosis six years ago; more importantly, her condition had recently begun to deteriorate rapidly. This made McQueen ideal in two ways: firstly, that he was likely to be so distracted by his personal problems that he would be more than willing to let Daniel take on most of the workload; secondly, that if McQueen did by some chance manage to find out something incriminating about his fellow officer, the escalating cost of his wife's treatment meant that he would be the perfect candidate for a bribe.
The only difficulty was convincing Singh that McQueen was suitable for the job in any legitimate way.
"Gordon has a lot of experience, sir. His record in this area..."
"I'm aware of his record." Singh seemed torn. On the one hand, Pamela McQueen's illness was common knowledge, and the source of much sympathy in the Met for her likeable, harried husband. A case like this could help McQueen towards a cushy promotion and a bigger pay packet. He deserved these things as much as anyone. Problem was, the same reasons which made Daniel want him on the case were precisely why Singh might not. Daniel, however, was confident of getting his way.
He always had.
xxx
Gordon McQueen was tallish and lightly built, with the kind of graceful, tidy musculature more traditionally associated with a dancer than a copper. Indeed, Daniel understood that before her illness, McQueen and his wife had cut an enthusiastic rug at their weekly ballroom classes.
When he shook Daniel's hand and thanked him for ensuring Singh's recommendation (it was an open secret, apparently, that the much-lauded King of Vice had personally requested to share his latest accolade with his blighted fellow officer) McQueen's grip was weak and clammy. Daniel pulled his hand back as quickly as possible, gazing curiously into the other man's pale, worried face. McQueen's flaxen hair had become both greyer and thinner over the last few months, and his trim waistline was thickening; comfort eating, Daniel suspected. He wouldn't be surprised if comfort-drinking rapidly followed; McQueen looked like a man on the brink of complete despair.
Perfect.
"You're sure you want this?" Daniel asked, scultping his face into an expression of comradely concern. "If everything goes our way, this case could be time-intensive."
McQueen licked his lips. He searched Daniel's gaze, his sad, pale-blue eyes flicking rapidly and appealingly over Daniel's face, seeking any sign that Daniel had changed his mind, decided he wasn't up to this. He made Daniel think of a spaniel puppy wearing contact lenses.
"I can do this," McQueen said earnestly. "I - I need this."
Daniel nodded, altering his expression slightly. Now it said: I'm concerned, but I believe in you. It worked like a charm - McQueen's face relaxed minutely, the ghost of the shadow of a smile appearing. "Thank you, sir." Oh, but that grateful little smile could break your heart. If you happened to have one. Another encouraging nod from Daniel, and McQueen was on board. He was about to bring to the investigation an entirely unexpected degree of dedication, tenacity, and insight, plus an incorruptible sense of duty. To his credit, of course.
And his detriment.
xxx
At 8.15pm, on the second day of the third week of his investigation into the Dr. P. Harm case, Daniel finally got home to his tidy, well-appointed flat. It was not a large home, but it came with a luxury which particularly pleased him: the sitting room windows overlooked Limehouse Cut, the oldest canal in London. Here, nestled between battered warehouses and scenic towpaths, Daniel made his home. He was fond of the small balcony, equipped with a white-painted metal folding table and a single matching chair, where he liked to sit on warm evenings, watching the sparkle of starlight and streetlamps on the dark water.
It had been a long day: perhaps unsurprisingly, sabotaging a high-level police investigation was a great deal more difficult than actually conducting one. Gordon McQueen was the main problem. He was proving unexpectedly tenacious about the details of the case, leaving no stone unturned, no file unopened, no angle unexplored. Gentle suggestions that he should probably go home to his sick wife before it was too late were less effective than predicted, and Daniel was forced to conclude that he had underestimated both his colleague's competence, and his dedication.
Given all this, the message waiting for Daniel on his answerphone, left only minutes ago, was far from a pleasure. McQueen's recorded voice, with its faint Lancashire burr, was harried, unhappy. "Daniel? Something came up after you left. Something you should...I need to talk to you. I'm coming over to your flat, now. If you're not there by then, I'll wait. I'm going to try your mobile in the meantime."
Beep. End of message.
Daniel let out a long, exasperated breath, took his mobile phone out of his pocket and switched it off, threw his car keys and driving gloves irritably on the table, and spent a few minutes pacing, trying to get his thoughts in order. Logic had always been his greatest ally. Point one: McQueen wouldn't call him at home unless he had something important to impart. Point two: they were not friends, merely colleagues; the only current point of connection between them was the Dr. P. Harm case. A breakthrough in the case was inevitably the reason for the call; however, point three: there was a notable lack of the puppyish triumph Connor would have expected to hear in McQueen's voice. Therefore, point four: McQueen had uncovered something he subsequently wished he hadn't, but having discovered it, felt it was his duty to persue.
The only possible logical conclusion: point five, McQueen had learned something about Connor's connection to the Doctor. Not enough to absolutely convince him: he was giving his colleague a chance to explain himself. Question: what had McQueen found, when Connor had so carefully covered his tracks, obliterating or burying every page of the paper trail? He racked his brains, couldn't think of a single thing he had missed. Naturally - if he'd known what it was, he wouldn't have missed it.
McQueen would not have told anybody yet. He would have called Daniel first, giving him that chance to clear himself. Partly his sense of honour, obligation to a colleague, partly because exposing a superior officer - especially one so respected and above suspicion as the celebrated DCI Daniel Connor - as thoroughly corrupt would not be an easy process. Connnor doubted McQueen could handle the stress, on top of his personal problems. It would probably be easy enough to convince Singh that McQueen's admittedly stoic mind had finally crumbled under the demands made upon it. Then again - Daniel had discovered an undercurrent of steel in his colleague which he had not predicted. There remained the worrying possibility that dogged, dutiful Gordon would actually manage to follow the case through to its painful, shameful end.
Daniel would not and could not take that risk, however small. McQueen would require approximately twenty minutes to reach Daniel's flat, if he came straight here after making his phone call. Daniel made his decision, therefore, with a few minutes to spare. His plan had only two key requirements, both of which he thought would be fulfilled. He needed McQueen to be alone, and he needed that nobody overhear their meeting. Life was not like a cop film - the man was hardly likely to show up wearing a hidden microphone, with three squad cars full of armed officers waiting outside to take Daniel down as soon as he confessed his sins.
No. McQueen would be alone, desperate to be wrong, and entirely unprepared for the reception he was going to get. Slowly, thoughtfully, Daniel put back on his leather driving gloves, and took down an ornamental paper-knife, a gift from an ex-girlfriend which he never used, but displayed on his mantelpiece due to its attractiveness. It was silver, shaped like a miniature sword, the handle sculpted into the form of a Templar knight. He tapped it absently against his gloved palm as he crossed the room, opening the balcony door to gaze thoughtfully, contemplatively, down at the dark and silent water.
xxx
In CID, painfully aware that both Hunt and Keats were watching him through the window of Hunt's office, Daniel lifted the cover of the manilla folder between finger and thumb and slowly, reluctantly, flicked through the pages to the back of the file. He read, again, the name written at the top of the final sheet (lightly stained, he noted once again, with his own blood), hoping irrationally that he might have misread the reporting officer's inadequate scrawl. He knew he had not. The name was clear enough: Gordon Andrew McQueen. The name of a man Connor had known in 2008 as DI McQueen; a man who, in 1985, would still have been a boy, just ten years old.
A flaxen-haired boy, with sad, searching blue eyes.