Fic: Beyond the Pale 2/3
Sam woke to find himself tangled in a heavy wool blanket; it had rucked up about his shoulder and neck and was stiflingly hot. It also smelt of mothballs. He fought his way out of it, banging his knee on the coffee table in the process.
“Fuck!”
“Well, good morning, sunshine. Glad to see you made it through the night. Jesus, but you look like death warmed over. Fancy a cuppa?”
What Sam really wanted was codeine, but failing that he'd take some more paracetamol and tea. And a trip to the loo.
“Here,” Gene said, as Sam got to his feet, his good leg taking his weight. He held out a cane. “It was my grandfather's.” The wood was dark and glossy and the head well-worn silver. Sam accepted it and tried it out, taking a few experimental steps. It fit his hand well, and was definitely an improvement over clinging to the furniture.
He looked at Gene, meaning to thank him, but there was something about his expression that gave Sam pause and instead he said, “Be right back,” and hobbled off to the bathroom.
“Write if you get work,” Gene said.
After a heart-attack-inducing breakfast of fried potatoes, rashers, eggs, and toast with preserves, they headed into work. Ray whistled and Annie gasped when Sam walked in.
“You should be in hospital,” she said, taking his face in her slim hands.
“They'll be time for playing naughty nurse later, WDC Cartwright,” Gene said. “How's that robbery case coming?”
“We're sure it's the brother,” she said, stepping away from Sam. “His alibi doesn't wash and he's got a load of gambling debts-”
“Then what are you doing faffing about here for? Go and get him!” Gene barked.
“Yes, Guv.” Annie departed, Ray in tow.
By midmorning, Sam had found out that his professor was Dr Maxwell Ellis, Senior Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at Manchester University, and they were in the Cortina heading over to ask the professor some questions before his afternoon class.
-
“Toffs. I hate 'em,” Gene said as they made their way across campus. “Thinking they can just use whoever they like and toss them away like last night's johnny. So what do you think - lover's spat gone wrong?”
“So glad we're being circumspect today,” Sam said, panting with the effort of keeping up. He'd mostly got the knack of using the cane, but couldn't match Gene's wide stride. “And I was afraid you wouldn't be able to be impartial. How silly of me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Quit gobbing off.”
They found Dr. Ellis' office, but the man himself was absent. Gene let them in with a kick and settled himself in the leather-bound chair behind the desk. The office was all mahogany and brass, bookcases lining three walls. Books with titles like Antimachus of Colophon and the Position of Women in Greek Poetry and The Roman Poets of the Augustan Age filled the crowded shelves. Just looking at them was enough to give Sam a headache.
He turned to find Gene rifling though the desk. “Finding anything of interest?” he asked, in a tone that was supposed to mean we haven't got a warrant.
“Not really,” Gene replied, flipping through a notepad. He had his crossed feet on the desk. “Half of it's in Greek, anyway. Why would anyone waste their time-” Sam shushed him. There was a voice in the corridor; he could make out the words as it drew closer.
“You mustn't confuse the poet and the narrator, Danny. The narrator may be ingenuous, but I can assure you the poet is not …” the voice trailed off as the speaker came into view. The man was in his mid-thirties, tall and with dark hair worn surprisingly long for a stuffed-shirt academic. He had an attaché case and a student in tow. He came up short as he saw them. “I beg your pardon, but what the hell are you doing in my office?”
“Are you a poof, Doctor?” Gene said, without moving from his spot behind the desk.
“I'm DI Tyler and this is DCI Hunt,” Sam said, hurriedly. “We're conducting an investigation and would like to ask you a few questions.”
Ellis turned to the young man at his elbow. “Daniel, we'll have to reschedule our discussion.” The boy shot Sam and Gene a big-eyed look and darted away. Ellis entered the office and drew the door shut behind him.
“We didn't have enough gossip in this department, so thank you,” he said icily. “Full points for style, gentlemen.” He moved to his desk and might have sat down if Gene weren't already in his chair. Ellis settled for shoving Gene's feet off, sending a flurry of papers to the floor. “As to my, ah, inverted proclivities-”
“What's that mean?” Gene asked Sam.
“He's gay,” Sam supplied, and Gene nodded like that's what he'd guessed.
“They were known to my superiors when they hired me, and my family knew before I left school, so if blackmail is your aim, I would invite you to fuck off.” Ellis straightened to his full height, clearly determined to stand up to them. There was grey in his dark hair at the temples, but the slight gap between his front teeth gave him a boyish air.
Gene tsked. “Got a mouth on him. Shame it doesn't sound the same in such a posh accent.”
“Dr Ellis, what was your relationship with Robert Carter?” Sam asked, ignoring Gene.
Ellis went very still, and this time his voice was very quiet when he asked, “Have you found Robbie?”
“We found what's left of him,” Gene said.
“I'm afraid he's been killed,” Sam said.
“Beaten to a bloody pulp, more like.”
“Oh God.” Ellis sank down into one of the chairs opposite his desk, and Sam took the other. Ellis was shaking, and he covered his face with his hand.
Gene heaved a heavy sigh and again addressed Sam. “He's not going to cry, is he?”
“I think he's sad, Guv. Sometimes people do that when they're sad.”
“Real men don't. Though I guess he isn't a real man.” Sam shot Gene a look, this one as ineffectual as all the rest. “So you were knobbing the boy-”
“No!” Ellis looked up at that, his voice indignant. “He was just a child.”
“He was a rent-boy and on the needle to boot. Hardly Little Lord Fauntleroy.”
“Dr Ellis,” Sam interjected, trying to regain control of the interview.
“Please, call me Max.”
“All right. I'm Sam.” They shook hands, and Gene made an explosive noise of disgust and exasperation.
“What, now do we all trade blow jobs?!” he all but shouted.
“Are you offering?” Max said mildly, giving him the once-over.
“Max, we were told that Robbie was living with you,” Sam said, hurriedly.
Max looked back to Sam. “Yes, he was, but it's not the sordid thing that you suppose.” He paused and Sam gestured for him to go on. “I met Robbie about six months ago, at one of the clubs. I wasn't interested in his … services, but I was interested in him. He's a clever boy. He is … was smarter than most of my students, and he enjoyed philosophy. Most of them care about their marks and nothing else, but he found it interesting. Of course, he was forced to work and sometimes he was too high or drunk to talk. But I always encouraged him to get out. He was better than all that.
“Finally I convinced him to leave. He gave up, or said he gave up, the drugs. He stayed at my flat, but I never touched him. Two days ago he went out for take-away and never came back. I'd hoped he'd just run away again.” His voice broke and he didn't go on.
“Right,” Gene said and stood. “You're coming with us, Doc. We'll ask you the rest of our questions there.” He came around the desk and hauled Max to his feet by the collar of his jacket.
Sam followed after them, still struggling with his cane.
“Come on, Samantha!” Gene yelled back.
-
They left Max sitting in the storage room.
“Perhaps I should take the lead on this one,” Sam suggested. “I can handle the interview.”
“No.”
“Could you at least think about it?”
“Fair enough,” Gene said and paused to rub his chin. “Still no. But you can have sloppy seconds.” He pushed past Sam into the storage room. Max already sat at the table, his hands folded neatly before him. Gene pulled out the chair and turned it around so he could straddle it. Sam held back, taking up a position against the wall, bracing himself up when his knee got tired.
“Now, Doctor,” Gene started, in the tone that always meant trouble. “You were the last person to see Robbie alive.” He jabbed a finger at Max. “And he was staying at your flat. That's not going to look good to a jury.”
“I told you we weren't sleeping together.”
“Is that why you killed him? The little trollop was holding out on you?”
“No!”
“Then why did you kill him?”
“I didn't kill him!” Max threw a look Sam's direction. “I want a solicitor.”
“We're all out of them. How about a thumping instead?”
“I didn't kill Robbie,” Max said, his face flushed and his eyes bright. “I cared for him; I would never hurt him.”
“Yeah, I've heard that line from blokes standing over their wife's body with a bloody knife in hand.” Gene braced both hands against the back of the table. “If you didn't kill him, where were you while he was getting the stuffing beat out of him?”
“I was working on my lessons.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
Max thought for a moment and then said in defeat, “No.”
“That's what I thought.” Gene stood, kicking the chair aside and then doing the same to the table. Max scrambled to his feet, tripping over his chair as he backed up. Gene seized the front of his shirt and propelled him backward until Max ran into the wall with an audible thud.
Sam winced in sympathy as Gene delivered a sharp punch to Max's gut. Max would have doubled over if Gene hadn't had such a firm grip on him.
“Listen here, you poncey, arse-mongering poofter. That boy came from the streets, but he came from my streets and when posh knob-shiners think they can waltz in and do whatever the bloody hell they like to whomever they like, I take exception. I take very strong exception.”
Gene let go and stepped back. He paused as he passed Sam on his way out.
“Go on and drink your lunch,” Sam said, waving him on. “I'm going to finish up here.”
Gene shrugged. “As you like it.”
“Charming man, your Guv,” Max said, when Gene was safely out of earshot.
“You should see him when he's in a bad mood,” Sam said, and Max smiled wryly.
“I'm officially a suspect now, I take it?”
“Looks that way,” Sam agreed. “Um. You do not have to say anything …” He trailed off as Max waved the rest away with a shooing gesture. “I'll see that you get a solicitor.”
“And how would DCI Hunt feel about that?”
“None too keen. But some of us do care about the law, you know. Even he cares, in his way.”
Max's brow knit and he studied Sam long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. “You're a very queer copper, Sam.”
“I know.” Sam took Max to the cells, requesting he get one to himself.
“All right,” Phyllis agreed amiably. “But you owe me.”
“I hope it's not too bad,” Sam said, apologising for the state of the cell. It smelt strongly of disinfectant, which was an improvement over its more customary odour of piss and vomit. “I'm sure your solicitor will have you out in no time.”
“I think you're probably not supposed to say things like that to your prisoners.”
Sam smiled sheepishly. “Probably not.” He closed the cell and gave Phyllis what he hoped was a rakish smile. Then, on a hunch, he began pulling missing persons files: anyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen. There had been fifteen since the start of 1974 alone. Thirty in '73, twenty-one in '72, and fifteen in '71. Before that there were only a handful each year until he ran out of records. Most had been marked as runaways and given little or no priority. Most came from working-class families.
“Have you been mucking about in the records room all afternoon?”
Sam didn't look up from the map he was sticking full of pushpins. The pins' colours indicated the year the teens had been reported missing.
“Did you know Manchester's seen a sixty percent increase in missing persons under the age of eighteen in the last three years?”
“Fascinating. Why don't you tell me all about it over tucker?”
“Um. Okay,” Sam said distractedly, studying the scatter of pins across the map, hoping a pattern would suddenly appear.
“You make a sparkling conversationalist. Get your cane.” When Sam didn't move fast enough, Gene grabbed it for him and then swung it rather forcefully into Sam's stomach. Sam oofed and followed after Gene.
They went out for curry, not at Sam's favourite place but at one of Gene's choosing. They got a table in the back. The lighting was a little darker than Sam preferred.
“Did you get anything more out of Ellis?” Gene asked, through an overly large mouthful.
“I don't think he did it,” Sam said.
“Not what I asked, sweetheart, but thanks - your opinion means so much to me.”
“His grief seems genuine.”
“I'm sure it is; that was a nice bit of spare he was getting. I wonder if he got a discount, too.”
Sam snorted derisively. “Maxwell Ellis doesn't have to pay for it, that I can promise you.”
“Jealous, are you?” Gene goaded, sucking a bit of curry off his thumb. Not in a lascivious way - in a disgusting pig sort of way.
“He's not my type, but thanks for asking.” Sam tore a piece of naan off viciously. “You're letting your prejudices blind you. Not for the first time. I think Max cared for Robbie and was helping him get out. It was what Robbie was getting out of that killed him. And whatever it was is a lot bigger than both of them. I think it's got something to do with all these kids going missing.”
“You've see too many flicks, my paranoid little Pollyanna.” Gene tipped his glass and nearly drained it. “These kids are fuck-ups, not victims. They get into drugs and they run off. There's nothing anybody could have done. They don't give a kipper's dick about their families or the people the hurt. They're trash. S'all there is to it.”
“Guv…” Sam started and then found he didn't know how to continue.
“Don't Guv me, Tyler. Spit it out. I can see the wheels turning in that devious little brain of yours.”
Sam chased a few lentils around his plate with a bit of bread. “What happened to your brother … that wasn't your fault.”
“'Course it wasn't. Why the hell would I blame myself for something my fool of a brother did twenty years ago?”
Sam didn't look up from his plate, but he could feel Gene's glare on the top of his head. “I don't know. Normal people might be reminded of what was presumably a painful time for them. They might even let their emotions affect their judgement.”
“Good thing I am not a normal person. And I don't have any of those ruddy emotions,” Gene said, hotly. He made normal person sound like an insult.
“Of course not.”
“Kindly keep your beak out of my business. You've been spending too much time with WDC Cartwright.”
“Sorry, Guv.”
“I should finish what those blaggers started. No wonder they wanted to do you in. It's a miracle they got to you before I did.”
“Those men attacked me because they thought I was gay-”
“Hard to blame them.”
“-Has there been a rise in gay-bashings recently?” Sam asked, managing to keep from rolling his eyes at the Guv's threats.
“It is so irritating to me that I know exactly what you mean. Gay-bashings.” Gene shook his head, apparently in self-pity. “No, DI Fairypants, there haven't. If anything I'd say things have been quieter. The batty-boys have been taking care of things themselves. Some of those muscle Marys can give it as well as they take it.”
“Nice,” Sam said. “But you don't think it's odd-”
“What's the time?”
Sam checked his wristwatch. “Ah, half-seven.”
“Bugger, we're late.” He threw his napkin on the table and stood. “Have you got any bread on you?”
“About eight quid, why?”
“Don't ask so many questions.”
Sam got to his feet with a little effort - the swelling had gone down in his knee considerably but it was still touchy - and wondered why he seemed fated to spend the rest of his life trying to keep up with Gene Hunt.
Gene drove even faster than usual, taking corners on two wheels. When Sam grabbed the dashboard to steady himself, Gene told him to let go and quit being such a ponce.
“Slow down. How is fear of dying in a fiery wreck make me a ponce?”
“Can't slow down; this is urgent and we're late as it is.” Gene took his eyes off the road to glare at Sam for perilously long moments. “This is important, Sam. Can I trust you?”
“Please watch the road. And yes, you can trust me.”
“Just follow my lead and play it cool. Don't use my name. You can refer to me as Mr Eastwood.”
“Mr Clint Eastwood, by any chance?” Sam said, still pushing himself back into the seat, like you did on a roller-coaster when you weren't entirely sure that the restraints would hold.
“And don't tell anyone about this. This is strictly hush-hush.” The car careened into an empty car park and Gene brought it to an abrupt stop. They were outside the Morris-Franklin warehouse, the entire building dark.
“Sure thing, pardner,” Sam said, making a gun of his index finger and thumb and making a show of cocking it. “I've got your back whatever goes down at the old corral.”
“That accent is terrible,” Gene told him.
“Let's hear yours then,” Sam said, just a touch sulkily. But Gene wasn't listening as he checked to make sure no one was watching - no one was; the street was quiet and empty - and slipping through the unlocked back door.
Gene made his way down the long, narrow corridor without hesitating, but his confidence just added to Sam's nervousness, as though there were some kind of law of conservation. He shoved open heavy double doors and they were in the warehouse itself, their footsteps echoing across the floor. The huge shelves of boxes disappeared up into the black, towering above them. They reached the end of one of the rows, and weak light came into view.
Two men sat at a table, backlit by the lamp they'd set up. They looked up as Gene and Sam approached.
“I do the talking. You just shut your gob and look pretty.”
“Glad you came, Mr Eastwood,” the first man said. Sam couldn't get a good look at him, but the impression he got was of muscle and a bad attitude.
“Where's Mr Wayne?” the second asked. He had a high, wheedling voice that set Sam's teeth on edge.
“He couldn't make it tonight,” Gene said. “But I brought a replacement.” Sam stepped forward, ready to introduce himself as Mr Redford. He thought he had a very Redfordesque quality, but Gene didn't give him the chance. “This is Gladys. Gladys, this is Mr Heston and Mr Newman.” They both nodded and Gene gestured for him to take a seat at the table.
Mr Newman produced a deck of cards and began to shuffle. “The game is five-card draw. 50p minimum bet.”
“Poker?” Sam started, and was quickly silenced by a sharp kick delivered under the table.
“You sure he won't run to the coppers?” Mr Heston asked.
“I'm sure,” Gene replied and shot Sam a wide smile. “You can put your faith in Gladys.”
Mr Newman dealt, and Sam considered his hand. He'd played the occasional game back when he'd first joined the force, but he'd quit when he'd been promoted.
The hand went to Mr Heston, but it was enough to refresh Sam's memory and he grew a little more confident. He had shit cards the next hand, but the one after he won, calling Mr Heston's bluff and taking the five-quid pot. A high-roller he was not, but it still felt rather good.
They played a few more hands, Sam either folding early or winning the hand.
“Lady Luck must be smiling on you,” grumbled Mr Newman.
“The birds all love Gladys; it's a shame he doesn't love them back,” Gene said and raised Sam two quid.
“Just waiting for the right bird,” Sam said, smiling. “And I fold.”
“You hear about the trouble over near Canal Street?” Gene said, studying his cards with intensity.
Mr Newman laughed and shook his head. “Two blokes beaten near to death. Looks like there might be more trouble coming. One of the club owners is right unhappy. Man's as gay as a goose, but a cold-hearted cunt all the same. Says the coppers don't do enough to keep the streets safe.”
“Is that so?” Gene said mildly. “What's he want? The good men of Manchester's police force to tuck him in at night?”
“He probably does,” Heston said. “Fucking fairy.”
“Yeah, Perry the Fairy.”
Sam nearly dropped his cards. “I haven't heard of him”
“Well, you wouldn't, Gladys, now would you? Not unless you were frequenting the queer clubs. Perry owns two and is looking to expand his operations. You going to call or not?”
Sam hurried to push his coins into the centre of the table. “So what's Perry going to do about the beatings?”
Newman shrugged. “Who knows. And when he does move, we probably won't know it's him what's done it. Keeps it low-profile, like.”
“Do you ladies want to talk or play?” Gene said. Sam tried to give him a meaningful look, but if Gene got it, he didn't react.
“You want to play, so play,” Heston replied.
They played the next few hands in silence, and the next time Sam tried to bring up Perry, Gene kicked him again.
When the game finally ended and Gene collected his substantial winnings, Sam had lost all his money, his shins were sore, and his mood foul. He waited until they'd reached the car park to say, “Well, I really hope that was worth it.”
“I think it was.” Gene was considerably more cheerful and he clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Don't worry, Sammy, you'll win it back next week.”
“Next week? How long has this been going on?”
“Mr Wayne couldn't make it because he's currently looking at twenty years for armed robbery. So we'll need another person. ”
“Can't you get another one of your low-life friends?”
Gene grabbed the back of Sam's neck and pulled him in so he could say, “Do you know how many blaggers I've nicked with leads I got from nights like this? So don't lecture me, you jumped-up twat.”
“But you wouldn't let me follow the Perry lead. When I was interviewing prostitutes for the Carter case, that name came up.”
“It wouldn't do to seem too interested. If they know you want to know, the price gets to be very dear indeed. We can look into Perry ourselves. If he's as big as they say, he should be on our radar anyway.”
Sam was ready to go home, but Gene stopped by a chips shop over his protest.
“I'm broke,” Sam said with an accompanying glare.
“My treat,” Gene said, returning shortly with a couple of chips, greasy and hot and drenched in vinegar. They sat in the car and ate and when Gene passed the flask over, Sam took it. Sam ate his chips in silence, his temper abating with his hunger. “So you think Perry the Fairy has something to do with this?” Gene asked finally, wiping a hand down his trousers.
Sam shrugged. “Don't know. It just seems odd that I would hear his name twice in the same week when I'd never heard of him before. Maybe I am paranoid.”
“What's the saying? Twice is a coincidence, three times is a conspiracy.”
“I thought you were going to tell me that just because I was paranoid didn't mean they weren't out to get me.” Sam licked the salt from his fingers and felt suddenly self-conscious as he caught Gene watching him.
“That too.”
-
Max looked up as the door of his cell swung open. He had shadows under his eyes, but looked otherwise unharmed from his stay.
“Sam,” he said and his voice broke.
Sam entered the cell and took a seat next to Max. He gingerly placed a hand on Max's back. “There, there.” That just seemed to make it worse, and Max took a shuddering breath.
“I didn't kill him, Sam. You've got to believe me.”
“I believe you,” Sam said. It was so strange to touch someone without violence. He tried a circular stroke, feeling Max's heartbeat under his hand. “We'll figure it out, Max. We will.”
“He only stepped out for take-away. I never should have let him go - I knew he had rough contacts, that he'd left it behind too easily.” Max scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, but he wasn't crying. “More the fool I, to think they would just let him go. There is always a price …”
“You can't blame yourself.” And how many times had he told grieving loved ones that? “Max, I need you to think back - did Robbie ever mention someone named Perry?”
Max thought about it, his brow knit in concentration. “Perry owned the club where we met. He's got an unsavoury reputation, but there aren't that many places that cater to my kind. You think he did it?”
Sam shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. I'll check by after lunch, all right? If the Guv still hasn't cut you loose.”
Max sighed wearily. “I'll pencil you into my diary, then.”
“If your schedule allows.” He turned to leave, but Max stopped him.
“Wait, there's something else and I've only now remembered. That last time Robbie came to my flat - he had a little book with him. He kept it very close, but I looked at it once,” Max glanced down, shamefaced. “I thought it was his appointment book or journal and I was … curious. But it wasn't that at all. It wasn't even his handwriting. It was some kind of ledger, but I really couldn't make heads or tails of it. I thought it was strange at the time, but not particularly alarming.”
“This book, is it still at your flat?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Max said, raking a hand through his hair. “Robbie kept it in his rucksack. I couldn't bear to touch his things after he disappeared. Do you think it had something to do with his … with all this?”
“Perhaps,” Sam said and tried for a reassuring smile.
Gene was loitering in the hallway as Sam closed Max's cell again.
“Let's go,” was all he said.
-
Max's flat was neat and well decorated, stereotypically so. He'd bucked the orange-and-brown palette of this decade and used shades of cream and green.
“Christ, it's like living in a Harrods advert,” Gene said as they stepped over the threshold. Sam was already looking for the rucksack, but a first pass through the flat didn't reveal anything. “Maybe he was just winding us up,” Gene suggested, as Sam began a more thorough investigation.
“Well, presumably he knows that you'd pound him to jam in short order and as he is extremely intelligent and doesn't seem like a masochist, I doubt that he'd do something so suicidally stupid.”
Gene started through the drawers of the desk while Sam checked under the bed. “Oi!”
Sam came limping back out. He'd left the cane behind, but his knee was still quite tender. Gene held something aloft, a dark handle. With a practised flick of his wrist, the knife snapped out. A switchblade.
“Maybe it's a family heir-”
“What, with blood still dried on it?”
Sam looked at the blade more closely without taking it from Gene - no point in further mucking up the prints. Telltale flecks of brown were still in the groove down the knife and in the recesses of the screws on the handle.
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“Funny old world, innit?” Gene said philosophically.
“Guv, think about it - why would he tell us to search his flat if he knew he'd just happened to leave a murder weapon lying about? Why would he keep the weapon in the first place?”
Gene got that stony inward look that meant he was processing. “You're right.”
“It just doesn't make any - what?”
“I'm not saying it again.” He tucked the knife in his pocket. “Max said Robbie worked for Perry?” Sam nodded. “That's three times Perry's come up. It was a coincidence before, but now …”
“But now it's a conspiracy.”
-
“Guv, I've finished that report you wanted on Oliver Perry,” Annie said when they returned to the station. She offered him a thick file, but he glared at it and refused to take it.
“How about if you just give us the highlights, love? Reading all that print gives me a headache.”
“All right,” she said, opening the file. “Oliver Francis Perry. Born and schooled in London. Left home when he was sixteen, arrested for petty theft and assault and spent some time in the system. Since he left it at eighteen, he's been a person of interest in a variety of crimes, but never been formally charged.”
“Pick it up, WDC Cartwright. I don't need his memoirs.”
“Um, he moved to Manchester in 1970 and opened a club near Canal Street called the Bella Union, which caters to a mostly gay clientèle. The club has all the required licences and other than a few broken windows, hasn't had any trouble.” She shrugged. “No one I talked to had anything bad to say about him. He's a fine businessman and an asset to the community.”
Gene snorted. “If he's an asset to the community than I'm a bloody saint.”
“I got the feeling they were all scared of him,” Annie said. “Even after I told them anything they said was confidential. One did tell me that you could get whatever you wanted at the club if you knew how to ask. I took that to mean drugs and prostitutes.”
“No, I'm sure he meant flowers and bonbons,” Gene snapped. “Sam, what was that you were saying about those missing kids?”
“They all started going missing in 1970.”
“About the same time Mr Perry came to town.”
“Gay youth are an especially vulnerable population,” Sam said. “They run away or get kicked out by their families and then walk right into people like Perry's waiting arms. He probably offered them safety and a place to sleep. And I'd imagine the acceptance would be especially alluring.”
“And then he turns around and starts peddling their arses like a travelling salesman.”
“But Robbie got out; he had to be made an example of,” Annie suggested.
“And there's the book Robbie nicked. Someone wanted it back and wants Ellis to go down enough to fit him up. For once it weren't me.” He leaned against Sam's desk, crossing his arms.
“This is all circumstantial.” Sam rubbed his face wearily. “We won't be able to get a warrant with that. We have nothing tying Perry to Robbie's murder or the other missing kids. And I'm guessing the one thing that could link them was that book.”
“So we don't get him for Robbie's murder first. You sure his licences are all in order?” Gene asked, glancing at Annie.
“Yeah, I went over them twice.”
“S' a shame. We'll have to pose as customers. Soliciting's enough to bring him in, and from there we'll get a warrant.”
“You want to entrap him,” Sam said.
“Do you object?” Gene asked, lip curled.
“Well … no. But who's going to pose as the john?” Sam said and suddenly felt every pair of eyes in the room on him.
“Who 'ere thinks DI Tyler makes a brilliant fairy?” Gene called out, and every hand in the room went up.
“Et tu, Annie?” Sam said, shooting her a betrayed look.
“It's your hygiene,” she said, apologetically. “Very few men have fingernails so tidy.”
“There you have it,” Gene said, satisfied. “You'll get Perry to offer you the goods and arrest him. Operation Flaming Copper goes down tonight.”
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Gene didn't give him the chance. “You wanted to catch Robbie's murderers.”
“Yes, but-”
“You were the one what pushed me on this case, Tyler.”
“I know, but-”
“So we're going after them - the only thing I should be hearing from you is 'thank you, Guv' and 'I really appreciate this opportunity, Guv' and 'I admire your unswerving commitment to justice, Guv.'”
Sam took a deep breath and then nodded. “Thank you, Guv.”
“You're welcome,” Gene said. “Sweetheart.”
-
“You want to what?” Max said, as they dragged him out of his cell and into the Guv's office.
“Sammy here's going to pose as one of your lot and get Perry to offer him the goods. Once the tosser's done that, we drag him in and search his place. If he's got the book - which my gut tells me he does - it'll be enough to convince any jury in the world he's guilty as sin.”
Max blinked, trying to follow the plan with some effort. “You want to entrap him?”
“S' how they got Al Capone,” Chris offered.
“… On a solicitation charge?” Max said doubtfully.
“Tax evasion, actually,” Sam said. “But the idea's the same. If he's charged with solicitation we can get the warrants needed to search his club and flat.”
“And since warrants seem to be de rigueur these days, we've got to have one,” Gene said, crossing his arms. “Normally I wouldn't bother with them and save my DI the fuss of prancing about like a poofter.”
“No offence,” Sam added with a wince.
Max was unfazed by Gene's language and instead focused on Sam. “Do you really think this will work?”
“I think it has a fair chance, yeah.”
“Then what do you need from me?” Max asked. “I'll do whatever I can.”
“We appreciate your co-operation, princess. You've been to this club before. Would you recognise Perry if you saw him?” Gene perched on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed.
“I've only seen him once or twice, but I think so,” Max said.
“Good,” Gene said, satisfied. “You're accustomed to moving amongst them. You see that DI Tyler makes it in, help him get past whatever he needs to get past, and point out Perry.”
“There's really not any code or secret handshake or anything,” Max said. “Any of you could just walk in off the street and no one would bat an eye. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised-”
“Thanks so much for your help with this, Max,” Sam said before Gene or Ray could feel the need to re-exert their manhood. “But it will be risky. Oliver Perry is a dangerous man; you don't have to do this.”
“I want Robbie to have justice. And despite a few teenage fantasies, I have no interest in going to prison,” Max said, no trace of doubt in his voice.
-
Annie oversaw Sam's costuming.
“You can wear those tan trousers - you know, the ones that are quite snug.”
“They're not that snug,” Sam said, offended.
“I'm sorry, Boss, but they leave precious little to the imagination.” She wasn't quite smiling, but her eyes were sparkling.
Sam felt his face and the back of his neck heat. “I don't have a full-length mirror. I didn't realise how tight the fit was.”
“No, no. I quite like them.” She went through his wardrobe, considering and then rejecting all his shirts. “Haven't you got something a little brighter?”
“I hope not.”
“S'all right,” Annie said and rummaged through her handbag, producing a purple shirt with lilac pinstripes. “I've brought something. Try it on.” She threw the shirt to him and he held it up, horrified.
“What is this?”
“It's one of my ex's. He was quite a snappy dresser. And purple suits you. Matches your bruises, too,” she said as he reluctantly stripped out of his sensible brown shirt and slipped into the purple … thing.
“I think it's missing a button.” He hooked a finger into the deep V of the neckline.
“No, it's supposed to fit like that. You look quite well in it, actually. If you don't mind me saying.” Annie set her hands on her hips as she considered him.
“I want to look gay but, you know, not like a stereotype.” He inspected his image in ten-inch sections in the mirror above the sink. “Rupert Everett, not Elton John, all right?”
“You look like my ex, actually. He was cute. He was also gay. I seem to have a type.” There was a strange note in her voice and something about it made him look up. She was watching him wistfully, her smile crooked and her eyes sad.
“Annie …” he started, unsure what to say. They had gone on three official dates, which had been fine, but only fine. After the last he hadn't called and neither had she. “It's just-”
“You can wear those boots with the Cuban heels,” she interrupted, shaking herself a little. “And I've brought me make-up to cover that eye.”
Sam frowned. “Just to cover, right? No shadow or lipstick.”
Annie smiled, more genuine this time. “It would be very Ziggy Stardust.”
On to Part Three.
“Fuck!”
“Well, good morning, sunshine. Glad to see you made it through the night. Jesus, but you look like death warmed over. Fancy a cuppa?”
What Sam really wanted was codeine, but failing that he'd take some more paracetamol and tea. And a trip to the loo.
“Here,” Gene said, as Sam got to his feet, his good leg taking his weight. He held out a cane. “It was my grandfather's.” The wood was dark and glossy and the head well-worn silver. Sam accepted it and tried it out, taking a few experimental steps. It fit his hand well, and was definitely an improvement over clinging to the furniture.
He looked at Gene, meaning to thank him, but there was something about his expression that gave Sam pause and instead he said, “Be right back,” and hobbled off to the bathroom.
“Write if you get work,” Gene said.
After a heart-attack-inducing breakfast of fried potatoes, rashers, eggs, and toast with preserves, they headed into work. Ray whistled and Annie gasped when Sam walked in.
“You should be in hospital,” she said, taking his face in her slim hands.
“They'll be time for playing naughty nurse later, WDC Cartwright,” Gene said. “How's that robbery case coming?”
“We're sure it's the brother,” she said, stepping away from Sam. “His alibi doesn't wash and he's got a load of gambling debts-”
“Then what are you doing faffing about here for? Go and get him!” Gene barked.
“Yes, Guv.” Annie departed, Ray in tow.
By midmorning, Sam had found out that his professor was Dr Maxwell Ellis, Senior Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at Manchester University, and they were in the Cortina heading over to ask the professor some questions before his afternoon class.
-
“Toffs. I hate 'em,” Gene said as they made their way across campus. “Thinking they can just use whoever they like and toss them away like last night's johnny. So what do you think - lover's spat gone wrong?”
“So glad we're being circumspect today,” Sam said, panting with the effort of keeping up. He'd mostly got the knack of using the cane, but couldn't match Gene's wide stride. “And I was afraid you wouldn't be able to be impartial. How silly of me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Quit gobbing off.”
They found Dr. Ellis' office, but the man himself was absent. Gene let them in with a kick and settled himself in the leather-bound chair behind the desk. The office was all mahogany and brass, bookcases lining three walls. Books with titles like Antimachus of Colophon and the Position of Women in Greek Poetry and The Roman Poets of the Augustan Age filled the crowded shelves. Just looking at them was enough to give Sam a headache.
He turned to find Gene rifling though the desk. “Finding anything of interest?” he asked, in a tone that was supposed to mean we haven't got a warrant.
“Not really,” Gene replied, flipping through a notepad. He had his crossed feet on the desk. “Half of it's in Greek, anyway. Why would anyone waste their time-” Sam shushed him. There was a voice in the corridor; he could make out the words as it drew closer.
“You mustn't confuse the poet and the narrator, Danny. The narrator may be ingenuous, but I can assure you the poet is not …” the voice trailed off as the speaker came into view. The man was in his mid-thirties, tall and with dark hair worn surprisingly long for a stuffed-shirt academic. He had an attaché case and a student in tow. He came up short as he saw them. “I beg your pardon, but what the hell are you doing in my office?”
“Are you a poof, Doctor?” Gene said, without moving from his spot behind the desk.
“I'm DI Tyler and this is DCI Hunt,” Sam said, hurriedly. “We're conducting an investigation and would like to ask you a few questions.”
Ellis turned to the young man at his elbow. “Daniel, we'll have to reschedule our discussion.” The boy shot Sam and Gene a big-eyed look and darted away. Ellis entered the office and drew the door shut behind him.
“We didn't have enough gossip in this department, so thank you,” he said icily. “Full points for style, gentlemen.” He moved to his desk and might have sat down if Gene weren't already in his chair. Ellis settled for shoving Gene's feet off, sending a flurry of papers to the floor. “As to my, ah, inverted proclivities-”
“What's that mean?” Gene asked Sam.
“He's gay,” Sam supplied, and Gene nodded like that's what he'd guessed.
“They were known to my superiors when they hired me, and my family knew before I left school, so if blackmail is your aim, I would invite you to fuck off.” Ellis straightened to his full height, clearly determined to stand up to them. There was grey in his dark hair at the temples, but the slight gap between his front teeth gave him a boyish air.
Gene tsked. “Got a mouth on him. Shame it doesn't sound the same in such a posh accent.”
“Dr Ellis, what was your relationship with Robert Carter?” Sam asked, ignoring Gene.
Ellis went very still, and this time his voice was very quiet when he asked, “Have you found Robbie?”
“We found what's left of him,” Gene said.
“I'm afraid he's been killed,” Sam said.
“Beaten to a bloody pulp, more like.”
“Oh God.” Ellis sank down into one of the chairs opposite his desk, and Sam took the other. Ellis was shaking, and he covered his face with his hand.
Gene heaved a heavy sigh and again addressed Sam. “He's not going to cry, is he?”
“I think he's sad, Guv. Sometimes people do that when they're sad.”
“Real men don't. Though I guess he isn't a real man.” Sam shot Gene a look, this one as ineffectual as all the rest. “So you were knobbing the boy-”
“No!” Ellis looked up at that, his voice indignant. “He was just a child.”
“He was a rent-boy and on the needle to boot. Hardly Little Lord Fauntleroy.”
“Dr Ellis,” Sam interjected, trying to regain control of the interview.
“Please, call me Max.”
“All right. I'm Sam.” They shook hands, and Gene made an explosive noise of disgust and exasperation.
“What, now do we all trade blow jobs?!” he all but shouted.
“Are you offering?” Max said mildly, giving him the once-over.
“Max, we were told that Robbie was living with you,” Sam said, hurriedly.
Max looked back to Sam. “Yes, he was, but it's not the sordid thing that you suppose.” He paused and Sam gestured for him to go on. “I met Robbie about six months ago, at one of the clubs. I wasn't interested in his … services, but I was interested in him. He's a clever boy. He is … was smarter than most of my students, and he enjoyed philosophy. Most of them care about their marks and nothing else, but he found it interesting. Of course, he was forced to work and sometimes he was too high or drunk to talk. But I always encouraged him to get out. He was better than all that.
“Finally I convinced him to leave. He gave up, or said he gave up, the drugs. He stayed at my flat, but I never touched him. Two days ago he went out for take-away and never came back. I'd hoped he'd just run away again.” His voice broke and he didn't go on.
“Right,” Gene said and stood. “You're coming with us, Doc. We'll ask you the rest of our questions there.” He came around the desk and hauled Max to his feet by the collar of his jacket.
Sam followed after them, still struggling with his cane.
“Come on, Samantha!” Gene yelled back.
-
They left Max sitting in the storage room.
“Perhaps I should take the lead on this one,” Sam suggested. “I can handle the interview.”
“No.”
“Could you at least think about it?”
“Fair enough,” Gene said and paused to rub his chin. “Still no. But you can have sloppy seconds.” He pushed past Sam into the storage room. Max already sat at the table, his hands folded neatly before him. Gene pulled out the chair and turned it around so he could straddle it. Sam held back, taking up a position against the wall, bracing himself up when his knee got tired.
“Now, Doctor,” Gene started, in the tone that always meant trouble. “You were the last person to see Robbie alive.” He jabbed a finger at Max. “And he was staying at your flat. That's not going to look good to a jury.”
“I told you we weren't sleeping together.”
“Is that why you killed him? The little trollop was holding out on you?”
“No!”
“Then why did you kill him?”
“I didn't kill him!” Max threw a look Sam's direction. “I want a solicitor.”
“We're all out of them. How about a thumping instead?”
“I didn't kill Robbie,” Max said, his face flushed and his eyes bright. “I cared for him; I would never hurt him.”
“Yeah, I've heard that line from blokes standing over their wife's body with a bloody knife in hand.” Gene braced both hands against the back of the table. “If you didn't kill him, where were you while he was getting the stuffing beat out of him?”
“I was working on my lessons.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
Max thought for a moment and then said in defeat, “No.”
“That's what I thought.” Gene stood, kicking the chair aside and then doing the same to the table. Max scrambled to his feet, tripping over his chair as he backed up. Gene seized the front of his shirt and propelled him backward until Max ran into the wall with an audible thud.
Sam winced in sympathy as Gene delivered a sharp punch to Max's gut. Max would have doubled over if Gene hadn't had such a firm grip on him.
“Listen here, you poncey, arse-mongering poofter. That boy came from the streets, but he came from my streets and when posh knob-shiners think they can waltz in and do whatever the bloody hell they like to whomever they like, I take exception. I take very strong exception.”
Gene let go and stepped back. He paused as he passed Sam on his way out.
“Go on and drink your lunch,” Sam said, waving him on. “I'm going to finish up here.”
Gene shrugged. “As you like it.”
“Charming man, your Guv,” Max said, when Gene was safely out of earshot.
“You should see him when he's in a bad mood,” Sam said, and Max smiled wryly.
“I'm officially a suspect now, I take it?”
“Looks that way,” Sam agreed. “Um. You do not have to say anything …” He trailed off as Max waved the rest away with a shooing gesture. “I'll see that you get a solicitor.”
“And how would DCI Hunt feel about that?”
“None too keen. But some of us do care about the law, you know. Even he cares, in his way.”
Max's brow knit and he studied Sam long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. “You're a very queer copper, Sam.”
“I know.” Sam took Max to the cells, requesting he get one to himself.
“All right,” Phyllis agreed amiably. “But you owe me.”
“I hope it's not too bad,” Sam said, apologising for the state of the cell. It smelt strongly of disinfectant, which was an improvement over its more customary odour of piss and vomit. “I'm sure your solicitor will have you out in no time.”
“I think you're probably not supposed to say things like that to your prisoners.”
Sam smiled sheepishly. “Probably not.” He closed the cell and gave Phyllis what he hoped was a rakish smile. Then, on a hunch, he began pulling missing persons files: anyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen. There had been fifteen since the start of 1974 alone. Thirty in '73, twenty-one in '72, and fifteen in '71. Before that there were only a handful each year until he ran out of records. Most had been marked as runaways and given little or no priority. Most came from working-class families.
“Have you been mucking about in the records room all afternoon?”
Sam didn't look up from the map he was sticking full of pushpins. The pins' colours indicated the year the teens had been reported missing.
“Did you know Manchester's seen a sixty percent increase in missing persons under the age of eighteen in the last three years?”
“Fascinating. Why don't you tell me all about it over tucker?”
“Um. Okay,” Sam said distractedly, studying the scatter of pins across the map, hoping a pattern would suddenly appear.
“You make a sparkling conversationalist. Get your cane.” When Sam didn't move fast enough, Gene grabbed it for him and then swung it rather forcefully into Sam's stomach. Sam oofed and followed after Gene.
They went out for curry, not at Sam's favourite place but at one of Gene's choosing. They got a table in the back. The lighting was a little darker than Sam preferred.
“Did you get anything more out of Ellis?” Gene asked, through an overly large mouthful.
“I don't think he did it,” Sam said.
“Not what I asked, sweetheart, but thanks - your opinion means so much to me.”
“His grief seems genuine.”
“I'm sure it is; that was a nice bit of spare he was getting. I wonder if he got a discount, too.”
Sam snorted derisively. “Maxwell Ellis doesn't have to pay for it, that I can promise you.”
“Jealous, are you?” Gene goaded, sucking a bit of curry off his thumb. Not in a lascivious way - in a disgusting pig sort of way.
“He's not my type, but thanks for asking.” Sam tore a piece of naan off viciously. “You're letting your prejudices blind you. Not for the first time. I think Max cared for Robbie and was helping him get out. It was what Robbie was getting out of that killed him. And whatever it was is a lot bigger than both of them. I think it's got something to do with all these kids going missing.”
“You've see too many flicks, my paranoid little Pollyanna.” Gene tipped his glass and nearly drained it. “These kids are fuck-ups, not victims. They get into drugs and they run off. There's nothing anybody could have done. They don't give a kipper's dick about their families or the people the hurt. They're trash. S'all there is to it.”
“Guv…” Sam started and then found he didn't know how to continue.
“Don't Guv me, Tyler. Spit it out. I can see the wheels turning in that devious little brain of yours.”
Sam chased a few lentils around his plate with a bit of bread. “What happened to your brother … that wasn't your fault.”
“'Course it wasn't. Why the hell would I blame myself for something my fool of a brother did twenty years ago?”
Sam didn't look up from his plate, but he could feel Gene's glare on the top of his head. “I don't know. Normal people might be reminded of what was presumably a painful time for them. They might even let their emotions affect their judgement.”
“Good thing I am not a normal person. And I don't have any of those ruddy emotions,” Gene said, hotly. He made normal person sound like an insult.
“Of course not.”
“Kindly keep your beak out of my business. You've been spending too much time with WDC Cartwright.”
“Sorry, Guv.”
“I should finish what those blaggers started. No wonder they wanted to do you in. It's a miracle they got to you before I did.”
“Those men attacked me because they thought I was gay-”
“Hard to blame them.”
“-Has there been a rise in gay-bashings recently?” Sam asked, managing to keep from rolling his eyes at the Guv's threats.
“It is so irritating to me that I know exactly what you mean. Gay-bashings.” Gene shook his head, apparently in self-pity. “No, DI Fairypants, there haven't. If anything I'd say things have been quieter. The batty-boys have been taking care of things themselves. Some of those muscle Marys can give it as well as they take it.”
“Nice,” Sam said. “But you don't think it's odd-”
“What's the time?”
Sam checked his wristwatch. “Ah, half-seven.”
“Bugger, we're late.” He threw his napkin on the table and stood. “Have you got any bread on you?”
“About eight quid, why?”
“Don't ask so many questions.”
Sam got to his feet with a little effort - the swelling had gone down in his knee considerably but it was still touchy - and wondered why he seemed fated to spend the rest of his life trying to keep up with Gene Hunt.
Gene drove even faster than usual, taking corners on two wheels. When Sam grabbed the dashboard to steady himself, Gene told him to let go and quit being such a ponce.
“Slow down. How is fear of dying in a fiery wreck make me a ponce?”
“Can't slow down; this is urgent and we're late as it is.” Gene took his eyes off the road to glare at Sam for perilously long moments. “This is important, Sam. Can I trust you?”
“Please watch the road. And yes, you can trust me.”
“Just follow my lead and play it cool. Don't use my name. You can refer to me as Mr Eastwood.”
“Mr Clint Eastwood, by any chance?” Sam said, still pushing himself back into the seat, like you did on a roller-coaster when you weren't entirely sure that the restraints would hold.
“And don't tell anyone about this. This is strictly hush-hush.” The car careened into an empty car park and Gene brought it to an abrupt stop. They were outside the Morris-Franklin warehouse, the entire building dark.
“Sure thing, pardner,” Sam said, making a gun of his index finger and thumb and making a show of cocking it. “I've got your back whatever goes down at the old corral.”
“That accent is terrible,” Gene told him.
“Let's hear yours then,” Sam said, just a touch sulkily. But Gene wasn't listening as he checked to make sure no one was watching - no one was; the street was quiet and empty - and slipping through the unlocked back door.
Gene made his way down the long, narrow corridor without hesitating, but his confidence just added to Sam's nervousness, as though there were some kind of law of conservation. He shoved open heavy double doors and they were in the warehouse itself, their footsteps echoing across the floor. The huge shelves of boxes disappeared up into the black, towering above them. They reached the end of one of the rows, and weak light came into view.
Two men sat at a table, backlit by the lamp they'd set up. They looked up as Gene and Sam approached.
“I do the talking. You just shut your gob and look pretty.”
“Glad you came, Mr Eastwood,” the first man said. Sam couldn't get a good look at him, but the impression he got was of muscle and a bad attitude.
“Where's Mr Wayne?” the second asked. He had a high, wheedling voice that set Sam's teeth on edge.
“He couldn't make it tonight,” Gene said. “But I brought a replacement.” Sam stepped forward, ready to introduce himself as Mr Redford. He thought he had a very Redfordesque quality, but Gene didn't give him the chance. “This is Gladys. Gladys, this is Mr Heston and Mr Newman.” They both nodded and Gene gestured for him to take a seat at the table.
Mr Newman produced a deck of cards and began to shuffle. “The game is five-card draw. 50p minimum bet.”
“Poker?” Sam started, and was quickly silenced by a sharp kick delivered under the table.
“You sure he won't run to the coppers?” Mr Heston asked.
“I'm sure,” Gene replied and shot Sam a wide smile. “You can put your faith in Gladys.”
Mr Newman dealt, and Sam considered his hand. He'd played the occasional game back when he'd first joined the force, but he'd quit when he'd been promoted.
The hand went to Mr Heston, but it was enough to refresh Sam's memory and he grew a little more confident. He had shit cards the next hand, but the one after he won, calling Mr Heston's bluff and taking the five-quid pot. A high-roller he was not, but it still felt rather good.
They played a few more hands, Sam either folding early or winning the hand.
“Lady Luck must be smiling on you,” grumbled Mr Newman.
“The birds all love Gladys; it's a shame he doesn't love them back,” Gene said and raised Sam two quid.
“Just waiting for the right bird,” Sam said, smiling. “And I fold.”
“You hear about the trouble over near Canal Street?” Gene said, studying his cards with intensity.
Mr Newman laughed and shook his head. “Two blokes beaten near to death. Looks like there might be more trouble coming. One of the club owners is right unhappy. Man's as gay as a goose, but a cold-hearted cunt all the same. Says the coppers don't do enough to keep the streets safe.”
“Is that so?” Gene said mildly. “What's he want? The good men of Manchester's police force to tuck him in at night?”
“He probably does,” Heston said. “Fucking fairy.”
“Yeah, Perry the Fairy.”
Sam nearly dropped his cards. “I haven't heard of him”
“Well, you wouldn't, Gladys, now would you? Not unless you were frequenting the queer clubs. Perry owns two and is looking to expand his operations. You going to call or not?”
Sam hurried to push his coins into the centre of the table. “So what's Perry going to do about the beatings?”
Newman shrugged. “Who knows. And when he does move, we probably won't know it's him what's done it. Keeps it low-profile, like.”
“Do you ladies want to talk or play?” Gene said. Sam tried to give him a meaningful look, but if Gene got it, he didn't react.
“You want to play, so play,” Heston replied.
They played the next few hands in silence, and the next time Sam tried to bring up Perry, Gene kicked him again.
When the game finally ended and Gene collected his substantial winnings, Sam had lost all his money, his shins were sore, and his mood foul. He waited until they'd reached the car park to say, “Well, I really hope that was worth it.”
“I think it was.” Gene was considerably more cheerful and he clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Don't worry, Sammy, you'll win it back next week.”
“Next week? How long has this been going on?”
“Mr Wayne couldn't make it because he's currently looking at twenty years for armed robbery. So we'll need another person. ”
“Can't you get another one of your low-life friends?”
Gene grabbed the back of Sam's neck and pulled him in so he could say, “Do you know how many blaggers I've nicked with leads I got from nights like this? So don't lecture me, you jumped-up twat.”
“But you wouldn't let me follow the Perry lead. When I was interviewing prostitutes for the Carter case, that name came up.”
“It wouldn't do to seem too interested. If they know you want to know, the price gets to be very dear indeed. We can look into Perry ourselves. If he's as big as they say, he should be on our radar anyway.”
Sam was ready to go home, but Gene stopped by a chips shop over his protest.
“I'm broke,” Sam said with an accompanying glare.
“My treat,” Gene said, returning shortly with a couple of chips, greasy and hot and drenched in vinegar. They sat in the car and ate and when Gene passed the flask over, Sam took it. Sam ate his chips in silence, his temper abating with his hunger. “So you think Perry the Fairy has something to do with this?” Gene asked finally, wiping a hand down his trousers.
Sam shrugged. “Don't know. It just seems odd that I would hear his name twice in the same week when I'd never heard of him before. Maybe I am paranoid.”
“What's the saying? Twice is a coincidence, three times is a conspiracy.”
“I thought you were going to tell me that just because I was paranoid didn't mean they weren't out to get me.” Sam licked the salt from his fingers and felt suddenly self-conscious as he caught Gene watching him.
“That too.”
-
Max looked up as the door of his cell swung open. He had shadows under his eyes, but looked otherwise unharmed from his stay.
“Sam,” he said and his voice broke.
Sam entered the cell and took a seat next to Max. He gingerly placed a hand on Max's back. “There, there.” That just seemed to make it worse, and Max took a shuddering breath.
“I didn't kill him, Sam. You've got to believe me.”
“I believe you,” Sam said. It was so strange to touch someone without violence. He tried a circular stroke, feeling Max's heartbeat under his hand. “We'll figure it out, Max. We will.”
“He only stepped out for take-away. I never should have let him go - I knew he had rough contacts, that he'd left it behind too easily.” Max scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, but he wasn't crying. “More the fool I, to think they would just let him go. There is always a price …”
“You can't blame yourself.” And how many times had he told grieving loved ones that? “Max, I need you to think back - did Robbie ever mention someone named Perry?”
Max thought about it, his brow knit in concentration. “Perry owned the club where we met. He's got an unsavoury reputation, but there aren't that many places that cater to my kind. You think he did it?”
Sam shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. I'll check by after lunch, all right? If the Guv still hasn't cut you loose.”
Max sighed wearily. “I'll pencil you into my diary, then.”
“If your schedule allows.” He turned to leave, but Max stopped him.
“Wait, there's something else and I've only now remembered. That last time Robbie came to my flat - he had a little book with him. He kept it very close, but I looked at it once,” Max glanced down, shamefaced. “I thought it was his appointment book or journal and I was … curious. But it wasn't that at all. It wasn't even his handwriting. It was some kind of ledger, but I really couldn't make heads or tails of it. I thought it was strange at the time, but not particularly alarming.”
“This book, is it still at your flat?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Max said, raking a hand through his hair. “Robbie kept it in his rucksack. I couldn't bear to touch his things after he disappeared. Do you think it had something to do with his … with all this?”
“Perhaps,” Sam said and tried for a reassuring smile.
Gene was loitering in the hallway as Sam closed Max's cell again.
“Let's go,” was all he said.
-
Max's flat was neat and well decorated, stereotypically so. He'd bucked the orange-and-brown palette of this decade and used shades of cream and green.
“Christ, it's like living in a Harrods advert,” Gene said as they stepped over the threshold. Sam was already looking for the rucksack, but a first pass through the flat didn't reveal anything. “Maybe he was just winding us up,” Gene suggested, as Sam began a more thorough investigation.
“Well, presumably he knows that you'd pound him to jam in short order and as he is extremely intelligent and doesn't seem like a masochist, I doubt that he'd do something so suicidally stupid.”
Gene started through the drawers of the desk while Sam checked under the bed. “Oi!”
Sam came limping back out. He'd left the cane behind, but his knee was still quite tender. Gene held something aloft, a dark handle. With a practised flick of his wrist, the knife snapped out. A switchblade.
“Maybe it's a family heir-”
“What, with blood still dried on it?”
Sam looked at the blade more closely without taking it from Gene - no point in further mucking up the prints. Telltale flecks of brown were still in the groove down the knife and in the recesses of the screws on the handle.
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“Funny old world, innit?” Gene said philosophically.
“Guv, think about it - why would he tell us to search his flat if he knew he'd just happened to leave a murder weapon lying about? Why would he keep the weapon in the first place?”
Gene got that stony inward look that meant he was processing. “You're right.”
“It just doesn't make any - what?”
“I'm not saying it again.” He tucked the knife in his pocket. “Max said Robbie worked for Perry?” Sam nodded. “That's three times Perry's come up. It was a coincidence before, but now …”
“But now it's a conspiracy.”
-
“Guv, I've finished that report you wanted on Oliver Perry,” Annie said when they returned to the station. She offered him a thick file, but he glared at it and refused to take it.
“How about if you just give us the highlights, love? Reading all that print gives me a headache.”
“All right,” she said, opening the file. “Oliver Francis Perry. Born and schooled in London. Left home when he was sixteen, arrested for petty theft and assault and spent some time in the system. Since he left it at eighteen, he's been a person of interest in a variety of crimes, but never been formally charged.”
“Pick it up, WDC Cartwright. I don't need his memoirs.”
“Um, he moved to Manchester in 1970 and opened a club near Canal Street called the Bella Union, which caters to a mostly gay clientèle. The club has all the required licences and other than a few broken windows, hasn't had any trouble.” She shrugged. “No one I talked to had anything bad to say about him. He's a fine businessman and an asset to the community.”
Gene snorted. “If he's an asset to the community than I'm a bloody saint.”
“I got the feeling they were all scared of him,” Annie said. “Even after I told them anything they said was confidential. One did tell me that you could get whatever you wanted at the club if you knew how to ask. I took that to mean drugs and prostitutes.”
“No, I'm sure he meant flowers and bonbons,” Gene snapped. “Sam, what was that you were saying about those missing kids?”
“They all started going missing in 1970.”
“About the same time Mr Perry came to town.”
“Gay youth are an especially vulnerable population,” Sam said. “They run away or get kicked out by their families and then walk right into people like Perry's waiting arms. He probably offered them safety and a place to sleep. And I'd imagine the acceptance would be especially alluring.”
“And then he turns around and starts peddling their arses like a travelling salesman.”
“But Robbie got out; he had to be made an example of,” Annie suggested.
“And there's the book Robbie nicked. Someone wanted it back and wants Ellis to go down enough to fit him up. For once it weren't me.” He leaned against Sam's desk, crossing his arms.
“This is all circumstantial.” Sam rubbed his face wearily. “We won't be able to get a warrant with that. We have nothing tying Perry to Robbie's murder or the other missing kids. And I'm guessing the one thing that could link them was that book.”
“So we don't get him for Robbie's murder first. You sure his licences are all in order?” Gene asked, glancing at Annie.
“Yeah, I went over them twice.”
“S' a shame. We'll have to pose as customers. Soliciting's enough to bring him in, and from there we'll get a warrant.”
“You want to entrap him,” Sam said.
“Do you object?” Gene asked, lip curled.
“Well … no. But who's going to pose as the john?” Sam said and suddenly felt every pair of eyes in the room on him.
“Who 'ere thinks DI Tyler makes a brilliant fairy?” Gene called out, and every hand in the room went up.
“Et tu, Annie?” Sam said, shooting her a betrayed look.
“It's your hygiene,” she said, apologetically. “Very few men have fingernails so tidy.”
“There you have it,” Gene said, satisfied. “You'll get Perry to offer you the goods and arrest him. Operation Flaming Copper goes down tonight.”
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Gene didn't give him the chance. “You wanted to catch Robbie's murderers.”
“Yes, but-”
“You were the one what pushed me on this case, Tyler.”
“I know, but-”
“So we're going after them - the only thing I should be hearing from you is 'thank you, Guv' and 'I really appreciate this opportunity, Guv' and 'I admire your unswerving commitment to justice, Guv.'”
Sam took a deep breath and then nodded. “Thank you, Guv.”
“You're welcome,” Gene said. “Sweetheart.”
-
“You want to what?” Max said, as they dragged him out of his cell and into the Guv's office.
“Sammy here's going to pose as one of your lot and get Perry to offer him the goods. Once the tosser's done that, we drag him in and search his place. If he's got the book - which my gut tells me he does - it'll be enough to convince any jury in the world he's guilty as sin.”
Max blinked, trying to follow the plan with some effort. “You want to entrap him?”
“S' how they got Al Capone,” Chris offered.
“… On a solicitation charge?” Max said doubtfully.
“Tax evasion, actually,” Sam said. “But the idea's the same. If he's charged with solicitation we can get the warrants needed to search his club and flat.”
“And since warrants seem to be de rigueur these days, we've got to have one,” Gene said, crossing his arms. “Normally I wouldn't bother with them and save my DI the fuss of prancing about like a poofter.”
“No offence,” Sam added with a wince.
Max was unfazed by Gene's language and instead focused on Sam. “Do you really think this will work?”
“I think it has a fair chance, yeah.”
“Then what do you need from me?” Max asked. “I'll do whatever I can.”
“We appreciate your co-operation, princess. You've been to this club before. Would you recognise Perry if you saw him?” Gene perched on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed.
“I've only seen him once or twice, but I think so,” Max said.
“Good,” Gene said, satisfied. “You're accustomed to moving amongst them. You see that DI Tyler makes it in, help him get past whatever he needs to get past, and point out Perry.”
“There's really not any code or secret handshake or anything,” Max said. “Any of you could just walk in off the street and no one would bat an eye. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised-”
“Thanks so much for your help with this, Max,” Sam said before Gene or Ray could feel the need to re-exert their manhood. “But it will be risky. Oliver Perry is a dangerous man; you don't have to do this.”
“I want Robbie to have justice. And despite a few teenage fantasies, I have no interest in going to prison,” Max said, no trace of doubt in his voice.
-
Annie oversaw Sam's costuming.
“You can wear those tan trousers - you know, the ones that are quite snug.”
“They're not that snug,” Sam said, offended.
“I'm sorry, Boss, but they leave precious little to the imagination.” She wasn't quite smiling, but her eyes were sparkling.
Sam felt his face and the back of his neck heat. “I don't have a full-length mirror. I didn't realise how tight the fit was.”
“No, no. I quite like them.” She went through his wardrobe, considering and then rejecting all his shirts. “Haven't you got something a little brighter?”
“I hope not.”
“S'all right,” Annie said and rummaged through her handbag, producing a purple shirt with lilac pinstripes. “I've brought something. Try it on.” She threw the shirt to him and he held it up, horrified.
“What is this?”
“It's one of my ex's. He was quite a snappy dresser. And purple suits you. Matches your bruises, too,” she said as he reluctantly stripped out of his sensible brown shirt and slipped into the purple … thing.
“I think it's missing a button.” He hooked a finger into the deep V of the neckline.
“No, it's supposed to fit like that. You look quite well in it, actually. If you don't mind me saying.” Annie set her hands on her hips as she considered him.
“I want to look gay but, you know, not like a stereotype.” He inspected his image in ten-inch sections in the mirror above the sink. “Rupert Everett, not Elton John, all right?”
“You look like my ex, actually. He was cute. He was also gay. I seem to have a type.” There was a strange note in her voice and something about it made him look up. She was watching him wistfully, her smile crooked and her eyes sad.
“Annie …” he started, unsure what to say. They had gone on three official dates, which had been fine, but only fine. After the last he hadn't called and neither had she. “It's just-”
“You can wear those boots with the Cuban heels,” she interrupted, shaking herself a little. “And I've brought me make-up to cover that eye.”
Sam frowned. “Just to cover, right? No shadow or lipstick.”
Annie smiled, more genuine this time. “It would be very Ziggy Stardust.”
On to Part Three.