Sport Challenge, by Loz
Title: No Sweeping Exits or Offstage Lines
Author: Loz/lozenger8
Rating: Blue Cortina
Word Count: 6100+ words.
Notes: Sam/Gene slash.
Summary: Richie's an honest bookmaker, until Sanders enters his life. And then he's forced to deal with Hunt and Tyler. Let joy be unconfined.
They say the walls are thick and he guesses they’re right because no one comes to tell the shouting bastards to pipe down as their voices echo. Not that anyone would, because they run this joint, he knows that. There’s a soft musky scent, old books and broken lamps, and it reminds him of his attic.
The younger one spreads his arms in his direction.
“What the shit is this?”
The older one loops his fingers in his belt.
“Sammy-sweetie, are you having a little temper tantrum?”
“No, Gene, no. I’m having a fucking massive temper tantrum.”
And all Richie thinks about is the best way to say what they want to hear him say, whilst not saying anything at all.
“What’s your problem?”
“It’s quite simple - I don’t wanna be doing the CID equivalent to traffic duty.”
Laconic humour wraps itself in the next words spoken by ‘Gene’. “Where’d you prefer to be?”
Richie stares at him, gauging the force with which he could punch. It’d be hard. He’s broad shoulders and some height and heft on him. He looks like he’d have aim if not well cut.
“Leading up the Cameron investigation, for one.”
The other one, ‘Sammy’, with the short cropped hair that looks all wrong, he’s tense and made of wire. He could hold his own too, no doubt, slipping out from being grappled fast and using a well placed kick.
“Oh, alright then, I’ll toss you for it.”
“I don’t think I’m taking that the way you want me to be taking it.”
There’s the barest hint of a smile, a dip of the head. Richie can’t help but think that they’ve close to forgotten him, waiting for the axe and anvil. But then Gene claps his hands and gestures broadly.
“We’ll do this one and then we’ll do the other, okay?”
“It’d be quicker to separate.”
“Yeah, well, for once I don’t want quick - I want thorough. I’m sure that shocks you to your very core.”
Richie watches as Gene sits down across from him. He’s given up on thinking about tactics and is studying Sammy instead. Sammy’s resigned himself to his fate and is lowering himself into a position by Gene’s side.
“Nothing you do can shock me anymore, Hunt. You could come in tomorrow dressed in a big purple tutu and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.”
“That’s because you’re a pervert.”
They finally allow their attention to linger on Richie and he wishes they wouldn’t. Two sets of eyes gaze, intense to varying degrees.
Two Hours Later
Richie has taken to thinking of them as Hunt and Tyler. It’s more professional, alleged crim and alleged coppers, thinking of each other in professional terms. Hunt does punch hard. And Tyler doesn’t look best pleased when he does. Richie certainly isn’t. He gently skates his fingers over the bruise forming on his cheek.
“Did I, or did I not tell you that this had something to do with sport?” Hunt asks, fully turned to Tyler, occupying the seat beside him.
Tyler nods, then shakes his head. “You did. But it doesn’t.”
“Does too. He’s a sportsman, aren’t you, Dick?”
A chance to speak. “It’s Richie. I go by Richie.”
“And I go by Wimpy’s every Tuesday afternoon. Nah, you look more like a Dick to me.”
Tyler is still scowling at Hunt, his lips curled in distaste, his hand gripped into a fist that Richie feels sure he won’t use.
“Horse racing isn’t a sport.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“’Course it is. It’s an equestrian sport. In fact, it’s not just a sport, it’s ‘The Sport of Kings’.”
Tyler ignores him. “And Dick isn’t a sportsman. He’s a bookie.”
“Well, I do play football, on the weekend, you know…”
Hunt fakes a laugh. “Didn’t know you were a comedy act. You’ll be alongside Morecambe and Wise next.”
“Isn’t he now?”
Richie eyes the table as they glare at him. Perhaps if he gave them what they wanted he’d be home free. But no, if he sold out, his life would be even more misery. Sharon would be in danger. Andy’d be left in charge of the household, a child with too much responsibility. There’s no truth to be had other than pain and Richie avoids pain at all costs. The next punch startles him.
“Tell us when it’s going down.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know, I might believe you, if you didn’t look so shifty.”
“Then again, he probably wouldn’t.”
“By all accounts, intents and purposes, you’ve been an honest man up until the last month,” Hunt says. “What happened? Finally got tired of the hard slog?”
Tyler addresses Hunt. “You get tired of the hard slog, don’t you? I’ve seen you napping in the afternoon. It’s an easy thing to do.”
They have an odd interrogation style. Richie thinks it must be well-rehearsed strategy - spend the whole time distracting the suspect by biting at each other and then attack in unison.
He weighs his meagre options once more. A vision of spending the rest of his life in a cell versus his wife and child bloodied and battered. He may be a lot of things, but callous isn’t one of them. Not when it comes to his family.
Tyler’s eyes haven’t left his face. He leans forward over the desk conspiratorially. “There’s a reason you’re holding back.”
“There are always reasons, surely?”
“Yeah, but this one --- you keep looking at your wedding ring. Your wife is it?”
“Word on the street’s she’s a tasty bit of skirt. You worried someone’s gonna give her one from behind whilst you’re locked up good and proper? Probably be the best bit of rumpy pumpy she’ll have had for years. Something tells me your name’s grander than your reputation.”
He closes his mouth for good, then. Hunt obviously isn’t taking this seriously, and if he doesn’t say anything, there’s no reason for them to go after Sharon. Richie clamps his teeth together, keeping his focus trained on the table. The sting of a hand against his face shocks him into making a low noise at the back of his throat. Another one breaks the skin and a thin trickle of blood winds its way down toward his chin.
“Can’t you call him off?” he asks of Tyler, not knowing where the words come from. He’s hit another two times. His eyes start watering.
Tyler shakes his head, slowly, glancing from him, to Hunt, and back again. There’s more than one emotion in his expression that Richie doesn’t understand. Compassion. Anger. And maybe that flicker there is enjoyment.
“I don’t stop until you tell me more about this robbery, Dick.”
“You’ll kill me before you learn anything. I’ve told you, I’m useless. I don’t know anything, anywhere, anywhen.”
Hunt’s voice gets coarser the harder he hits. He draws in deep breaths and his face becomes red. He looks vicious, a wild animal. “The last Dick I had in here died too. Ended up in the ground. Dickie Fingers, heard of him? His fingers were definitely shot when I was done. Telephones have more than one function, you know. Bet you’d like to use one right now?”
Tyler stands. “Gene, that’s enough.”
“Oh, you think he’s ready for the next stage?”
Tyler hauls Hunt back. Richie rubs his head. Tyler’s whispering, but the sound carries.
“What’s with you? This guy’s small time. There’s more to this than you’ve told me, isn’t there?”
Hunt doesn’t answer. He stays stock still, Tyler’s hands on his shoulders. And it’s almost like they talk without speaking, because soon, they’re drawing away from each other and sitting back down opposite Richie, completely composed.
“We’re gonna try this one more time, Richie.” A change of name. That’s interesting. Richie waits. Tyler sucks his cheeks in, all serious and contemplative. “I can’t help but think that you’re scared of someone else more than you are of my colleague here. This further leads me to believe you’re in a situation you can’t control. We can help and protect you.”
“You say that to all of us.”
Hunt laughs again. This time it’s genuine. “He does, actually.”
“That’s ‘cause it’s true. We will do all in our power to support you, Richie. You’ve gotta give us a chance, mate. There’s much less risk here than in your job, yeah?”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Yeah, have you seen those horses, Sam? Vicious if you take away their sugar cubes.”
Another hour goes by and he refuses to tell them anything relevant, makes sure he doesn’t mention Sanders, but gives a potted history of his life in racing - how he’d once wanted to be a jockey, but was actually not that fantastic when it came to staying in the saddle. He tells about the move from London back to Manchester, explains briefly what skills you need to make a passable bookmaker, and hopes they’ll soon get bored.
They do get bored, or restless, or discouraged. Richie gets dragged to the cells. He smoothes his hand down the wall as he sits on the bunk.
Two Days Later
Her voice is strained. She’s been crying.
“Richie, I need you here.”
“I know, love, I know. But this is-”
“What? More important than taking care of us?”
“All I can manage.”
Richie wraps his hand tighter around the receiver as the Desk Sergeant stares at him.
Sharon makes another sobbing sound. “You’re going to gaol, Richie.”
“Yeah.”
“What good will you be there?”
“Look, Sharon, just remember what I said. You and Andy’ll be okay.” Richie sighs. There’s a sound like glass breaking in the background and Sharon squeaks, high-pitched and frantic. Richie’s heart thumps harder and he cocks his head to the side, trying to hear more. “Sharon, what’s going on?”
“It’s Sanders. He’s here.”
“What?”
“Richie, I… Richie, help us.”
The line goes dead. Bile rises in his throat and Richie tries to control his mounting terror. He hands the telephone back to the Desk Sergeant. She shoots daggers at him.
“You were supposed to be calling a lawyer.”
“I want to speak to DCI Hunt. Now.”
“Okay, keep your shirt on, I don’t wanna be seeing your flab.”
She calls for Hunt and he appears, triumph etched in every line of his face. Close on his heels is Tyler, who looks curious as opposed to anything else.
“You said you could support and protect me? My wife’s in danger right this second. I’ll give you anything you need if you ensure she’s alright.”
Tyler gets on the telephone and orders officers to his address. Hunt stares at him like he’s reading, analysing, then nods his head.
“You’re coming with us.”
Handcuffs are placed on his wrists and Richie is pushed into the back of the Cortina he arrived in when they first came and arrested him for illegal bookmaking.
When they pull up outside his house, before any of the other cars, he can’t hold back the sound that escapes. The door is flung off its hinges, the bin is overturned. They’re out of the car in seconds, running into the house. Hunt and Tyler appear to place some trust in him, because they let him go with them, Tyler holding onto his arm. Dread fills his entire being. Flashes rush through his mind of Sharon, red, lying, tears, and Andy cowering in a corner.
But that’s not what he sees. He sees a shirtless man he doesn’t know lying unconscious on his beige carpeting. His chest is covered in dark welts. They search the house, but neither Sharon nor Andy are to be found. There are no notes. The only other sign of a struggle is an upturned pot plant.
“I knew this was larger than it looked. Still wanna be working on the Cameron case?” Hunt asks Tyler. Tyler shakes his head, lips pursed. He bends down and examines the body.
“He’s out cold, but he’s breathing steadily and his heart seems to be working fine.”
“Oh, you’re a good actor,” Hunt says, shoving Richie into the wall. Richie swallows. He’s extremely confused.
“No, he’s not,” Tyler says. “You know he’s not. He was just as surprised as we were. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
Richie is further surprised when Hunt heeds Tyler’s words and eases away, grasping hold of his arm instead of continuing his assault.
“Who is this bloke?”
“I don’t know.”
Richie tries to persuade Hunt that he’s never seen the man before as Tyler makes the call. Tyler puts the phone down and comes back to join them, bending over and looking at the stranger again.
“The bruising is darker - stronger - on the right-hand side,” Tyler says.
Richie attempts a shrug. “So?”
“The assailant was left-handed,” Hunt supplies. “Your bird left-handed?”
“No.”
“These bruises are days old.”
Cars pull up outside and there’s the wail of a siren in the distance. Richie desperately wants to sit down. He tells Hunt and Tyler about Sharon and Andy, details about friendships, extended family. Officers are sent to various different addresses Richie supplies.
“Your robbery? You’re looking for a man called Sanders,” Richie says. “Danny Sanders. And he… he is left-handed.”
Hunt snaps his head to the side. “I knew it.”
Tyler folds his arms across his chest. “No you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You said it was Ash Powell.”
“Yeah, and who last worked with Powell?”
“Craig Denyer.”
“The time before that.”
Tyler quirks an eyebrow. Richie might ask them both to stop their immature bickering if he hadn’t already had a taste of Hunt’s fists. Instead, he bows his head and sighs deeply, hoping the communication comes across loud and clear.
“Tell us more about this Sanders.”
“He used to be a bookie himself, about five years ago - over in York. But apparently he wasn’t making as much as he’d like, so he burned the place down and used the insurance money to get himself set up in the crime game.”
“I just love it when people do that.”
“Keeps us working, at least. How boring life’d be if there was no glorious, er, ‘crime game’. Oh the tangled webs we weave.”
“I’m not positive, but I think you might be hitting eleven on the sarcasm scale.”
Richie snaps. He drags himself upright and yells at the men so intent on making everything a joke. “Do you not take anything seriously? My wife and child have been kidnapped.”
Tyler’s lips tighten and he swivels on the spot. “We don’t know that for sure. They might have escaped. Maybe this guy was meant to collect them and he collapsed.”
“From pneumonia.”
Tyler uncrosses his arms. “Gene.”
Hunt mirrors the action. “Sam?”
“Richie has a point. We’ve got to start following procedure.”
“You and procedure need to get yourselves a room and not come out until you’ve satisfied your lustful urges.”
“That may be so, but right now, you and me need to figure out what we’re going to do for Richie and his family. Richie, we need any and all information you can give us here - what Sanders was planning, why he wanted your help - everything. In the meantime, we better get back to the station.”
The drive consists of Hunt taking sharp corners and Richie explaining about being approached for a mock-robbery in preparation for the real one. Sanders was trying to make it look like a series, when really, only one, a huge one, was to be genuine. He’d set up two crews, and when one lot was arrested for the earlier crimes, the other would do the final heist. Not that the blokes working the job knew that. And Richie went along with it, because he was told that if he didn’t, knee-caps would be broken. Not necessarily his.
“The illegal bets you started running?”
“I needed the money. Sanders started demanding more than I could give. And everyone said you lot turn a blind eye to it. They said that nine times outta ten, you’d be in on the deals.”
Hunt hunches his shoulders and visibly bristles. “That was then. This is now.”
“The funny thing is,” Tyler says in a far-away voice, “in the future, we’ll be able to bet on almost anything. Very little’s not up for grabs. You’d probably never have been arrested.”
It doesn’t sound very funny to Richie.
*
They let him go without handcuffs once they’re back in the station, although Richie is still forced to sit in a cell. He rolls his head from side to side as they discuss their options. Sharon and Andy aren’t at any of the places Richie’s told them and he’s given up on thinking they’re anywhere but stuck.
“Look, it’s simple. We’ve gotta lure Sanders out of the woodwork.”
Hunt asks the obvious question. “How?”
“Richie, what if we pretended to let you go?”
“There’s no way Sanders would want to still do it, is there? He’d know it was a trap.”
“You said they’re convinced of our corruption. What if --- what if we did some additional convincing? Acted like we wanted in on it?”
“Oh yeah, head of CID’s just going to pretend it’ll never happen. Tell you what, gimme a tenner and I’ll forget all about your planned heist, illegal gambling and kidnapping,” Hunt scoffs, disbelieving.
Tyler dips his head and says one quiet word. “Harry.”
There’s quick anger and quicker action, Hunt propelling himself forward and grabbing at Tyler’s collar.
His voice is harsh and half-choked. “That was different.”
“Yes. It was. But so different? Really? You’ve been on the take, Gene. They know that. Others have done it before. It’s not beyond the world of reason. And we need a reason to get Sanders to let Richie’s family go.”
They’re staring at each other as if nothing else in the world exists, eyes locked and jaws tense. It’s unsettling. Richie stands to the side, wondering how he’s managed to get himself into this situation. After several seconds, Tyler averts his attention to Richie and motions for him to follow.
Richie’s handed a telephone receiver.
“Call Sanders. Tell him about the deal we’re willing to make.”
Richie hesitates. “But you’re not, actually, are you?”
Tyler smirks and scowls at once. “What d’you think?”
Hunt appears to have resolved any of his problems, because he stands nearby. He’s back to being light-hearted, no sign of previous consternation. “This works out, Sammy-boy, and I’ll buy you a cornetto.”
“I like vanilla.”
“There’s a shocker. I prefer something with a little more crunch.”
Richie takes a deep breath and dials. Sanders answers after only four rings. This catapults Richie from apprehension to full flung fear and he cradles the phone almost lovingly, so glad that this is occurring through cables and not in person. Not yet, at any rate.
“Richie? I thought you’d been banged up?”
“They let me go, Mr Sanders. Look, that Hunt’s dodgier than last week’s tuna,” Richie says. Tyler raises his eyebrows at Hunt with an amused smile and Hunt sniffs in indignation. “He was offering me all kinds of deals.”
Sanders adds bite to his words. “You didn’t tell him?”
“No, of course I didn’t. What do you think I’m made of? But I reckon, if we did, he’d be alright with it.”
“He might be, but what about every other copper out there? Sorry, Richie, but you’re a liability.”
“And Sharon?” Richie tries to regulate his panic, but his voice rises in pitch.
“You never told me she was so beautiful. Sharon’s lovely, doing well. Your young lad too.” Sanders pauses and Richie hitches a breath. “You tell that Mr Hunt of yours that I wasn’t born yesterday. You can also tell him that I’m gonna do this and he’s not gonna stop me - not ‘cause he’ll be getting some extra cash for his pocket, but ‘cause, if he does, my hostages are gonna have bullets in their brains. And if you try to do anything, you’ll meet the same fate. Get me?”
The line goes dead. Richie can feel every last inch of his reserve faltering. He tries to breathe, but his lungs stop working. His legs crumple beneath him. Tyler hooks hands under his arms and lifts him to a chair.
“Richie, what’d he say?”
“They’re dead.”
“What?”
“They… they will be --- if you stop the heist. That’s what he said. He said he’d shoot them both.” Richie begins to cry, his hands coming to rest against his eyes.
“Shit. We weren’t recording that by any chance, were we?”
“No. Last I checked, we weren’t secret agents. Perhaps if we’d set the whole thing up properly, given it more time.”
“Oh, yes,” Tyler says, nothing but bitterness in his tone and expression. “You know things are bad when the great Gene Hunt starts pulling others apart for trying to rush things through.”
“I’m DCI here, Tyler, don’t you forget that.”
“How could I forget, Guv? You tell me every hour, on the hour.”
“You shouldn’t need reminding, and yet, it seems you always do.”
Richie fades out on their argument. They continue speaking, but he doesn’t hear their words. He’s too occupied with regrets. He’s only revived by a tap on his arm.
“This is our plan. We do what he says. We track down where he’s keeping Sharon and Andy, with a little help from our own hostage, who should be waking up some time soon. And we bring them down.”
“For once, I think my DI here’s got his head screwed on straight.”
“Yes, thank you. Hang on. What do you mean by ‘for once’?”
Two Weeks Later
It takes four days to get the man to speak. His name turns out to be Arnold Pike, and he’s so fearful, he’s completely silent going on 96 hours. It’s only when Tyler tells him his girlfriend was found in the canal that he opens up. Everything he gives them is vague, but there are some trails to follow, and Richie knows that it’s Chris and Ray who are doing so - blokes he’s only met for ten minutes, but who seemed less than capable, if he were to be honest.
Richie stays at a motel with Hunt and Tyler keeping guard. They’ve had some further contact with Sanders and they’ve been given warning not to get too many officers involved. And now that they have a dead body on their hands, they know not to take risks. The information they have tells them that the heist is planned for the next day and they co-ordinate as best they can.
He doesn’t know why Sanders decides to wait so long, but he suspects it’s partly deliberate torture.
“I didn’t know he was this bad,” Richie says, pale and having lost a lot of weight due to an inability to keep anything down.
“It was your plan, wasn’t it?” Tyler says. He’s quiet. Sympathetic.
Richie lets his head fall between his knees and almost laughs. “How’d you guess?”
“Everything we’ve found out about Sanders so far points to him being a thug rather than a mastermind.”
“Yeah. I planned it. It wasn’t something I meant. I was joking. But Mickey - he’s the one you visited yesterday - well, he said it was a great idea, why not do it, and he spoke to Sanders. And Sanders came and roughed me up, got me to write it down, make sketches.”
Richie doesn’t know why he’s telling Tyler everything, but he trusts him. Tyler appears to have a genuine interest in justice and helping him. He’s made sure Richie hasn’t been kept in the dark.
Hunt’s out, ‘gathering intel’, so the constant talk has stopped, for now. There are moments when Richie’s sure they’re going to tear each other’s heads off, but at the same time, they have an affinity working together. Hunt’s DCI, Tyler’s DI, but they work more like equals, sharing the load. And they are trying to sort this out, when they probably don’t have to, when they could have taken any number of options that meant he was on his own.
As the day wears on, Richie gets increasingly uneasy. He jitters about, unable to concentrate on anything but worst case scenarios. Hunt comes back and it gets more intense, because he’s the other side of flippant and it grates.
“Three men are at dinner with their wives. The first man says “pass me the sugar, sugar”, the second one says, “pass me the honey, honey,” and the third one says, “pass me the milk-”
Tyler interrupts Hunt’s spiel. “Gene, please. Now is not the time to be making jokes.”
“Dorothy, we mightn’t live tomorrow, might as well be getting them in whilst we can.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
Tyler flicks his head back. “God, there are days I despair of you and days I know there’s no point.”
When he goes to bed, Richie lies awake, gazing at the ceiling. Thoughts crawl from dark recesses in his mind. His world has come crashing down. Even if he survives this, even if Sharon and Andy make it, he won’t be going back to regular bookmaking. He doesn’t know what tomorrow brings.
After a while he swings his legs off his uncomfortable bunk and decides he’ll ask Tyler for advice. Tyler’s room is adjoined to his and Hunt’s is on the other side of the hall. He’s about to slide open the door when he hears the murmur of speech.
Tyler’s voice is low, slightly muffled. “I don’t think we should-”
Hunt cuts him off. “I know we shouldn’t.” There’s a pause. “It’s been too long, Sam.”
“Yeah, I know, but…”
Tyler doesn’t finish his sentence. Hunt doesn’t speak either. Richie shuffles closer to the door and eases it gently open. His eyebrows raise as his mind configures what he’s seeing. Tyler stands, shirt half undone, pressed close to Hunt. Tyler has his hand in Hunt’s hair, Hunt has his fingers in Tyler’s belt loops. They’re kissing, hard, pulling back and pushing forward at each other. Hunt grinds his hips, his right leg situated between Tyler’s legs as he rocks.
Richie steps back. He’s met poofs before, but they were always so obvious, easy to spot a mile off - speaking with a lilt, walking with a mince. Hunt is the opposite of that in every way and Tyler comes across more as bloke than nonce. Richie was sure they were real men. But there they are, kissing, and looking like they’re enjoying it. Shit.
There’s a soft thump, a rumble of, “Sam”, and Richie practically runs away. He packs what he can and legs it out the window.
*
The robbery is planned for 2pm. It’s the ideal time. The bookie would have plenty of money from the lunchtime gambling crowd, but it’d be another few hours before it would be collected for security.
Richie stands in the corner of the shop, waiting. He’s been preparing himself for this, mentally. He tried to prepare himself physically, but he didn’t manage to gain arms. He wandered down streets instead. He’s going to stop Sanders, even if it means his death. He’s sick of playing by Sanders’ rules, letting the odds stack against him. It’s past 2pm before Sanders appears, and Richie is well and truly tense.
Sanders hasn’t bothered with a disguise. He knows he’ll get away with it, cocky bastard. He’s got the police under his thumb. He hasn’t any back up, either. Perhaps his allies learnt what he was planning for them. No, he stands there solo, brazen, dragging out his gun to point it straight at the person taking a fiver and proffering change.
“Gimme all your cash!”
There’s a startled yell. Half a dozen men slip out of the shop and Sanders doesn’t do anything to stop them. Richie’s about to spring when Hunt and Tyler burst through the doors.
“Richie, you don’t have to do this,” Tyler shouts. “Sharon’s okay. Andy is too. We’ve got officers keeping them safe.” His voice is calm, but there’s a throbbing vein in his forehead.
Sanders spins at Tyler’s voice. He is at once menacing and scared. “Look who didn’t follow orders.”
“Sanders, put the gun down. You’re surrounded.”
“I can’t see anyone but you,” Sanders replies with a leer that’s only half forced. Tyler steps purposefully forward, his hand outstretched, his face determined.
It happens in seconds. A flurry of action. An echoing bang. Tyler’s on the floor, clutching at his lower stomach, blood oozing between his fingers. Hunt is clutching at his shoulders, pain and terror, wide eyes and open mouth. Richie is numb.
Sanders goes to fire again, but he’s out of bullets, or the gun’s cocked up, because nothing happens. Hunt whips up and pulls the gun away, his hand an iron claw around Sanders’ neck and suddenly, Sanders is crashing to the ground, his head making a sickening sound as it thumps against the concrete. Hunt continues to pull Sanders up and send him down again, pounding away, until Sanders is halfway to death and definitely unconscious. In the movement, anyone who was left in the shop runs out, leaving only the four of them.
“Call an ambulance,” Hunt yells. He manoeuvres alongside Tyler again and places his hand at the back of his head. His voice is ragged and he’s breathing heavily. “Tell me what I need to do, Sammy-boy.”
Richie doesn’t wait for Tyler’s response. He’s on the phone, calling an ambulance, calling the police, wishing desperately to get out, now, to be with Sharon and Andy, to be safe like them.
“You thick, fucking bastard, always needing to be the hero…” Hunt mutters, bending over Tyler, cocooning him. Richie’s guilt mixes with repulsion. He watches with morbid fascination as Tyler’s eyes roll around in his head and Hunt panics. He keeps talking, berating, soothing.
The ambulance arrives after what seems like several hours. It’s more likely twenty minutes. They follow behind in the Cortina. Hunt shoves Richie to sit in the waiting area of the hospital, attaching one half of a pair of handcuffs to his wrist and the other half to one of the chairs.
He thinks about escape, briefly. He could probably wing it, with some careful thought. But he doesn’t do anything. He waits as Hunt disappears. He prays that what Tyler said earlier was true. And he watches the hands of the clock as they tick slowly around. More than an hour, close to two.
Hunt comes back and Richie half-stands, hampered by metal.
“They say he’ll be alright,” Hunt replies gruffly to the question Richie never asked.
“That’s… good.”
Hunt punches him square in the stomach. “You stupid tossbag.” Richie doubles over and attempts to gain his breath. Hunt continues to shout. “How many people were you hoping to kill with this little adventure of yours?”
“No one.”
“We had it all sorted, remember? We knew what we were doing.”
“I was just trying to protect my family.”
“Yeah, well, your family’s safe. Chris and Ray just told me. They’re back at your place. Your precious family’s safe and my DI…” Hunt balls his fists again. He sets his shoulders and rids his expression of anything but blank indifference. “My DI will be alright.” There’s a twitch of a muscle in his cheek. “With no thanks to you.”
*
Back at the motel, Richie’s on the phone and Hunt is stalking by the window. They’re packing up and moving out. Tyler’s going to be in hospital for a few weeks and Sanders has recovered enough consciousness to be read his rights.
Sharon sounds nothing but relieved. “I’ll meet you here later, yeah?”
“Yeah. Tell Andy he’s gonna be playing football with his dad in no time. Sharon, I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Richie puts the receiver down and hoists his bag. He’s about to walk out the door, but Hunt grabs hold of his arm. “Dick, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re still wanted for illegal bookmaking and there’s no waving it away.”
“Oh, come on,” Richie exclaims. His forehead creases.
“No. This is a high profile case. You’ve gotta serve your time. It’ll be a few years, you’ll be out and all will be happy as larry.”
Richie shakes his head and adds authority to his tone. “You can’t lock me up.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell everyone about you and your darling DI.”
There’s a sudden flash in Hunt’s eyes. “You what?”
“Best buddy bum bandits. I saw you. Why’d you think I ran? Didn’t wanna be killed alongside a couple of poofs.”
Hunt pushes him and Richie stumbles back, almost falling on his arse. He smirks at Hunt and grows in confidence as he’s met with stony anger.
“You little fucker.”
Richie laughs. “No, that’s you, isn’t it? But I won’t say a word, if you just let me go.”
“Who’s to say you’d be believed if you did say anything? You’d hardly have proof, would ya?”
Hunt is trying to determine if Richie has more than words, he knows that, but he’s not going to play Hunt’s game. He’s desperate. And they deserve whatever’s coming to them.
“Do you really wanna take that risk, DCI Hunt? The smallest suggestion of your sexual… what’s the word… proclivities? Being known to all and sundry. Probably wouldn’t go down well with the public at large.”
Moments pass. A tight, cold atmosphere fills the room. Richie begins to think he placed his bets too early.
“Right then,” Hunt says eventually. He turns a steely gaze on Richie’s face, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Go.”
Richie doesn’t need a second command. He makes his way to Sharon’s destination, a grin on his face that symbolises every kind of freedom.
Two Months Later
Being on the lam isn’t nearly as romantic as stories would have him believe, and no matter how much he tries to teach Andy everything he thinks an eleven year old needs to be learning, he’s never quite successful.
He’s made bets to tide them over, got Sharon to take their life savings from the bank, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Desperation sets in. He thinks there’s only one solution, but it will work, he knows it will work. He’s got privileged information and that pays. So he waits outside, late one afternoon, in the empty car park.
And there they are, walking together. It’s almost too good to be true. They’re chatting in an animated fashion, everything in the way they’re relating to each other reminding him of the first time he met them, when they crashed into his shop and arrested him, turning his life into the pig sty it is today.
Tyler’s words float toward Richie as he waits. “You’re wrong. City’s going down.”
“I am never wrong, as you well know.”
“You’re wrong sometimes, DCI Hunt,” Richie says, walking out of the shadows. He steadies himself, his feet firmly planted. “For instance, you should never have let me go.”
Tyler glances from one man to the other. “Let him go? You said he escaped.”
“He did. Didn’t you, Richie?”
“Not much of an escape. I need your assistance, Hunt.”
Hunt growls in reply. “Go to hell.”
“I need money. Lots of it.”
“Gene, what’s going on?”
“Your DCI made a deal with me.”
“No. He stopped all of that months ago. No backhanders. No turning a blind eye.”
Richie is emboldened. Tyler’s faith appears to be unswerving, but he’s staring at Hunt intently and Hunt isn’t returning the gaze.
Richie speaks with mellow confidence. “That’s where you’re sadly mistaken.”
There’s a note of dread. “Gene?”
“It’s not what it sounds like.”
“Unless it sounds like I know about everything that goes on between you two. And I do mean everything.”
Tyler’s eyes open wide and he looks like they’ll pop out of his head. “Fuck.”
“If you don’t want me telling the whole world your sick little secret, you’ll do what you promised you’d do and support me. It won’t be a once off payment. I’ve lost my ability to make my own cash, so I’ll take yours. And there’ll be no complaints.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t do the bidding of weak little scroats like you,” Hunt says. He swaggers toward Richie, calm and collected.
Richie pulls his gun. The one he finally managed to acquire to take care of himself and his family. The weight is comforting in his hand. The trigger is smooth. Tyler shouts. Hunt lunges forward. There’s noise and fury and pain, so much pain, numbing Richie, sending him falling to the ground.
The last thing Richie sees is Hunt’s face staring down at him, not the smallest trace of happiness in his expression, but the undeniable air of lifted burden. And the world goes black.
Author: Loz/lozenger8
Rating: Blue Cortina
Word Count: 6100+ words.
Notes: Sam/Gene slash.
Summary: Richie's an honest bookmaker, until Sanders enters his life. And then he's forced to deal with Hunt and Tyler. Let joy be unconfined.
They say the walls are thick and he guesses they’re right because no one comes to tell the shouting bastards to pipe down as their voices echo. Not that anyone would, because they run this joint, he knows that. There’s a soft musky scent, old books and broken lamps, and it reminds him of his attic.
The younger one spreads his arms in his direction.
“What the shit is this?”
The older one loops his fingers in his belt.
“Sammy-sweetie, are you having a little temper tantrum?”
“No, Gene, no. I’m having a fucking massive temper tantrum.”
And all Richie thinks about is the best way to say what they want to hear him say, whilst not saying anything at all.
“What’s your problem?”
“It’s quite simple - I don’t wanna be doing the CID equivalent to traffic duty.”
Laconic humour wraps itself in the next words spoken by ‘Gene’. “Where’d you prefer to be?”
Richie stares at him, gauging the force with which he could punch. It’d be hard. He’s broad shoulders and some height and heft on him. He looks like he’d have aim if not well cut.
“Leading up the Cameron investigation, for one.”
The other one, ‘Sammy’, with the short cropped hair that looks all wrong, he’s tense and made of wire. He could hold his own too, no doubt, slipping out from being grappled fast and using a well placed kick.
“Oh, alright then, I’ll toss you for it.”
“I don’t think I’m taking that the way you want me to be taking it.”
There’s the barest hint of a smile, a dip of the head. Richie can’t help but think that they’ve close to forgotten him, waiting for the axe and anvil. But then Gene claps his hands and gestures broadly.
“We’ll do this one and then we’ll do the other, okay?”
“It’d be quicker to separate.”
“Yeah, well, for once I don’t want quick - I want thorough. I’m sure that shocks you to your very core.”
Richie watches as Gene sits down across from him. He’s given up on thinking about tactics and is studying Sammy instead. Sammy’s resigned himself to his fate and is lowering himself into a position by Gene’s side.
“Nothing you do can shock me anymore, Hunt. You could come in tomorrow dressed in a big purple tutu and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.”
“That’s because you’re a pervert.”
They finally allow their attention to linger on Richie and he wishes they wouldn’t. Two sets of eyes gaze, intense to varying degrees.
Two Hours Later
Richie has taken to thinking of them as Hunt and Tyler. It’s more professional, alleged crim and alleged coppers, thinking of each other in professional terms. Hunt does punch hard. And Tyler doesn’t look best pleased when he does. Richie certainly isn’t. He gently skates his fingers over the bruise forming on his cheek.
“Did I, or did I not tell you that this had something to do with sport?” Hunt asks, fully turned to Tyler, occupying the seat beside him.
Tyler nods, then shakes his head. “You did. But it doesn’t.”
“Does too. He’s a sportsman, aren’t you, Dick?”
A chance to speak. “It’s Richie. I go by Richie.”
“And I go by Wimpy’s every Tuesday afternoon. Nah, you look more like a Dick to me.”
Tyler is still scowling at Hunt, his lips curled in distaste, his hand gripped into a fist that Richie feels sure he won’t use.
“Horse racing isn’t a sport.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“’Course it is. It’s an equestrian sport. In fact, it’s not just a sport, it’s ‘The Sport of Kings’.”
Tyler ignores him. “And Dick isn’t a sportsman. He’s a bookie.”
“Well, I do play football, on the weekend, you know…”
Hunt fakes a laugh. “Didn’t know you were a comedy act. You’ll be alongside Morecambe and Wise next.”
“Isn’t he now?”
Richie eyes the table as they glare at him. Perhaps if he gave them what they wanted he’d be home free. But no, if he sold out, his life would be even more misery. Sharon would be in danger. Andy’d be left in charge of the household, a child with too much responsibility. There’s no truth to be had other than pain and Richie avoids pain at all costs. The next punch startles him.
“Tell us when it’s going down.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know, I might believe you, if you didn’t look so shifty.”
“Then again, he probably wouldn’t.”
“By all accounts, intents and purposes, you’ve been an honest man up until the last month,” Hunt says. “What happened? Finally got tired of the hard slog?”
Tyler addresses Hunt. “You get tired of the hard slog, don’t you? I’ve seen you napping in the afternoon. It’s an easy thing to do.”
They have an odd interrogation style. Richie thinks it must be well-rehearsed strategy - spend the whole time distracting the suspect by biting at each other and then attack in unison.
He weighs his meagre options once more. A vision of spending the rest of his life in a cell versus his wife and child bloodied and battered. He may be a lot of things, but callous isn’t one of them. Not when it comes to his family.
Tyler’s eyes haven’t left his face. He leans forward over the desk conspiratorially. “There’s a reason you’re holding back.”
“There are always reasons, surely?”
“Yeah, but this one --- you keep looking at your wedding ring. Your wife is it?”
“Word on the street’s she’s a tasty bit of skirt. You worried someone’s gonna give her one from behind whilst you’re locked up good and proper? Probably be the best bit of rumpy pumpy she’ll have had for years. Something tells me your name’s grander than your reputation.”
He closes his mouth for good, then. Hunt obviously isn’t taking this seriously, and if he doesn’t say anything, there’s no reason for them to go after Sharon. Richie clamps his teeth together, keeping his focus trained on the table. The sting of a hand against his face shocks him into making a low noise at the back of his throat. Another one breaks the skin and a thin trickle of blood winds its way down toward his chin.
“Can’t you call him off?” he asks of Tyler, not knowing where the words come from. He’s hit another two times. His eyes start watering.
Tyler shakes his head, slowly, glancing from him, to Hunt, and back again. There’s more than one emotion in his expression that Richie doesn’t understand. Compassion. Anger. And maybe that flicker there is enjoyment.
“I don’t stop until you tell me more about this robbery, Dick.”
“You’ll kill me before you learn anything. I’ve told you, I’m useless. I don’t know anything, anywhere, anywhen.”
Hunt’s voice gets coarser the harder he hits. He draws in deep breaths and his face becomes red. He looks vicious, a wild animal. “The last Dick I had in here died too. Ended up in the ground. Dickie Fingers, heard of him? His fingers were definitely shot when I was done. Telephones have more than one function, you know. Bet you’d like to use one right now?”
Tyler stands. “Gene, that’s enough.”
“Oh, you think he’s ready for the next stage?”
Tyler hauls Hunt back. Richie rubs his head. Tyler’s whispering, but the sound carries.
“What’s with you? This guy’s small time. There’s more to this than you’ve told me, isn’t there?”
Hunt doesn’t answer. He stays stock still, Tyler’s hands on his shoulders. And it’s almost like they talk without speaking, because soon, they’re drawing away from each other and sitting back down opposite Richie, completely composed.
“We’re gonna try this one more time, Richie.” A change of name. That’s interesting. Richie waits. Tyler sucks his cheeks in, all serious and contemplative. “I can’t help but think that you’re scared of someone else more than you are of my colleague here. This further leads me to believe you’re in a situation you can’t control. We can help and protect you.”
“You say that to all of us.”
Hunt laughs again. This time it’s genuine. “He does, actually.”
“That’s ‘cause it’s true. We will do all in our power to support you, Richie. You’ve gotta give us a chance, mate. There’s much less risk here than in your job, yeah?”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Yeah, have you seen those horses, Sam? Vicious if you take away their sugar cubes.”
Another hour goes by and he refuses to tell them anything relevant, makes sure he doesn’t mention Sanders, but gives a potted history of his life in racing - how he’d once wanted to be a jockey, but was actually not that fantastic when it came to staying in the saddle. He tells about the move from London back to Manchester, explains briefly what skills you need to make a passable bookmaker, and hopes they’ll soon get bored.
They do get bored, or restless, or discouraged. Richie gets dragged to the cells. He smoothes his hand down the wall as he sits on the bunk.
Two Days Later
Her voice is strained. She’s been crying.
“Richie, I need you here.”
“I know, love, I know. But this is-”
“What? More important than taking care of us?”
“All I can manage.”
Richie wraps his hand tighter around the receiver as the Desk Sergeant stares at him.
Sharon makes another sobbing sound. “You’re going to gaol, Richie.”
“Yeah.”
“What good will you be there?”
“Look, Sharon, just remember what I said. You and Andy’ll be okay.” Richie sighs. There’s a sound like glass breaking in the background and Sharon squeaks, high-pitched and frantic. Richie’s heart thumps harder and he cocks his head to the side, trying to hear more. “Sharon, what’s going on?”
“It’s Sanders. He’s here.”
“What?”
“Richie, I… Richie, help us.”
The line goes dead. Bile rises in his throat and Richie tries to control his mounting terror. He hands the telephone back to the Desk Sergeant. She shoots daggers at him.
“You were supposed to be calling a lawyer.”
“I want to speak to DCI Hunt. Now.”
“Okay, keep your shirt on, I don’t wanna be seeing your flab.”
She calls for Hunt and he appears, triumph etched in every line of his face. Close on his heels is Tyler, who looks curious as opposed to anything else.
“You said you could support and protect me? My wife’s in danger right this second. I’ll give you anything you need if you ensure she’s alright.”
Tyler gets on the telephone and orders officers to his address. Hunt stares at him like he’s reading, analysing, then nods his head.
“You’re coming with us.”
Handcuffs are placed on his wrists and Richie is pushed into the back of the Cortina he arrived in when they first came and arrested him for illegal bookmaking.
When they pull up outside his house, before any of the other cars, he can’t hold back the sound that escapes. The door is flung off its hinges, the bin is overturned. They’re out of the car in seconds, running into the house. Hunt and Tyler appear to place some trust in him, because they let him go with them, Tyler holding onto his arm. Dread fills his entire being. Flashes rush through his mind of Sharon, red, lying, tears, and Andy cowering in a corner.
But that’s not what he sees. He sees a shirtless man he doesn’t know lying unconscious on his beige carpeting. His chest is covered in dark welts. They search the house, but neither Sharon nor Andy are to be found. There are no notes. The only other sign of a struggle is an upturned pot plant.
“I knew this was larger than it looked. Still wanna be working on the Cameron case?” Hunt asks Tyler. Tyler shakes his head, lips pursed. He bends down and examines the body.
“He’s out cold, but he’s breathing steadily and his heart seems to be working fine.”
“Oh, you’re a good actor,” Hunt says, shoving Richie into the wall. Richie swallows. He’s extremely confused.
“No, he’s not,” Tyler says. “You know he’s not. He was just as surprised as we were. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
Richie is further surprised when Hunt heeds Tyler’s words and eases away, grasping hold of his arm instead of continuing his assault.
“Who is this bloke?”
“I don’t know.”
Richie tries to persuade Hunt that he’s never seen the man before as Tyler makes the call. Tyler puts the phone down and comes back to join them, bending over and looking at the stranger again.
“The bruising is darker - stronger - on the right-hand side,” Tyler says.
Richie attempts a shrug. “So?”
“The assailant was left-handed,” Hunt supplies. “Your bird left-handed?”
“No.”
“These bruises are days old.”
Cars pull up outside and there’s the wail of a siren in the distance. Richie desperately wants to sit down. He tells Hunt and Tyler about Sharon and Andy, details about friendships, extended family. Officers are sent to various different addresses Richie supplies.
“Your robbery? You’re looking for a man called Sanders,” Richie says. “Danny Sanders. And he… he is left-handed.”
Hunt snaps his head to the side. “I knew it.”
Tyler folds his arms across his chest. “No you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You said it was Ash Powell.”
“Yeah, and who last worked with Powell?”
“Craig Denyer.”
“The time before that.”
Tyler quirks an eyebrow. Richie might ask them both to stop their immature bickering if he hadn’t already had a taste of Hunt’s fists. Instead, he bows his head and sighs deeply, hoping the communication comes across loud and clear.
“Tell us more about this Sanders.”
“He used to be a bookie himself, about five years ago - over in York. But apparently he wasn’t making as much as he’d like, so he burned the place down and used the insurance money to get himself set up in the crime game.”
“I just love it when people do that.”
“Keeps us working, at least. How boring life’d be if there was no glorious, er, ‘crime game’. Oh the tangled webs we weave.”
“I’m not positive, but I think you might be hitting eleven on the sarcasm scale.”
Richie snaps. He drags himself upright and yells at the men so intent on making everything a joke. “Do you not take anything seriously? My wife and child have been kidnapped.”
Tyler’s lips tighten and he swivels on the spot. “We don’t know that for sure. They might have escaped. Maybe this guy was meant to collect them and he collapsed.”
“From pneumonia.”
Tyler uncrosses his arms. “Gene.”
Hunt mirrors the action. “Sam?”
“Richie has a point. We’ve got to start following procedure.”
“You and procedure need to get yourselves a room and not come out until you’ve satisfied your lustful urges.”
“That may be so, but right now, you and me need to figure out what we’re going to do for Richie and his family. Richie, we need any and all information you can give us here - what Sanders was planning, why he wanted your help - everything. In the meantime, we better get back to the station.”
The drive consists of Hunt taking sharp corners and Richie explaining about being approached for a mock-robbery in preparation for the real one. Sanders was trying to make it look like a series, when really, only one, a huge one, was to be genuine. He’d set up two crews, and when one lot was arrested for the earlier crimes, the other would do the final heist. Not that the blokes working the job knew that. And Richie went along with it, because he was told that if he didn’t, knee-caps would be broken. Not necessarily his.
“The illegal bets you started running?”
“I needed the money. Sanders started demanding more than I could give. And everyone said you lot turn a blind eye to it. They said that nine times outta ten, you’d be in on the deals.”
Hunt hunches his shoulders and visibly bristles. “That was then. This is now.”
“The funny thing is,” Tyler says in a far-away voice, “in the future, we’ll be able to bet on almost anything. Very little’s not up for grabs. You’d probably never have been arrested.”
It doesn’t sound very funny to Richie.
*
They let him go without handcuffs once they’re back in the station, although Richie is still forced to sit in a cell. He rolls his head from side to side as they discuss their options. Sharon and Andy aren’t at any of the places Richie’s told them and he’s given up on thinking they’re anywhere but stuck.
“Look, it’s simple. We’ve gotta lure Sanders out of the woodwork.”
Hunt asks the obvious question. “How?”
“Richie, what if we pretended to let you go?”
“There’s no way Sanders would want to still do it, is there? He’d know it was a trap.”
“You said they’re convinced of our corruption. What if --- what if we did some additional convincing? Acted like we wanted in on it?”
“Oh yeah, head of CID’s just going to pretend it’ll never happen. Tell you what, gimme a tenner and I’ll forget all about your planned heist, illegal gambling and kidnapping,” Hunt scoffs, disbelieving.
Tyler dips his head and says one quiet word. “Harry.”
There’s quick anger and quicker action, Hunt propelling himself forward and grabbing at Tyler’s collar.
His voice is harsh and half-choked. “That was different.”
“Yes. It was. But so different? Really? You’ve been on the take, Gene. They know that. Others have done it before. It’s not beyond the world of reason. And we need a reason to get Sanders to let Richie’s family go.”
They’re staring at each other as if nothing else in the world exists, eyes locked and jaws tense. It’s unsettling. Richie stands to the side, wondering how he’s managed to get himself into this situation. After several seconds, Tyler averts his attention to Richie and motions for him to follow.
Richie’s handed a telephone receiver.
“Call Sanders. Tell him about the deal we’re willing to make.”
Richie hesitates. “But you’re not, actually, are you?”
Tyler smirks and scowls at once. “What d’you think?”
Hunt appears to have resolved any of his problems, because he stands nearby. He’s back to being light-hearted, no sign of previous consternation. “This works out, Sammy-boy, and I’ll buy you a cornetto.”
“I like vanilla.”
“There’s a shocker. I prefer something with a little more crunch.”
Richie takes a deep breath and dials. Sanders answers after only four rings. This catapults Richie from apprehension to full flung fear and he cradles the phone almost lovingly, so glad that this is occurring through cables and not in person. Not yet, at any rate.
“Richie? I thought you’d been banged up?”
“They let me go, Mr Sanders. Look, that Hunt’s dodgier than last week’s tuna,” Richie says. Tyler raises his eyebrows at Hunt with an amused smile and Hunt sniffs in indignation. “He was offering me all kinds of deals.”
Sanders adds bite to his words. “You didn’t tell him?”
“No, of course I didn’t. What do you think I’m made of? But I reckon, if we did, he’d be alright with it.”
“He might be, but what about every other copper out there? Sorry, Richie, but you’re a liability.”
“And Sharon?” Richie tries to regulate his panic, but his voice rises in pitch.
“You never told me she was so beautiful. Sharon’s lovely, doing well. Your young lad too.” Sanders pauses and Richie hitches a breath. “You tell that Mr Hunt of yours that I wasn’t born yesterday. You can also tell him that I’m gonna do this and he’s not gonna stop me - not ‘cause he’ll be getting some extra cash for his pocket, but ‘cause, if he does, my hostages are gonna have bullets in their brains. And if you try to do anything, you’ll meet the same fate. Get me?”
The line goes dead. Richie can feel every last inch of his reserve faltering. He tries to breathe, but his lungs stop working. His legs crumple beneath him. Tyler hooks hands under his arms and lifts him to a chair.
“Richie, what’d he say?”
“They’re dead.”
“What?”
“They… they will be --- if you stop the heist. That’s what he said. He said he’d shoot them both.” Richie begins to cry, his hands coming to rest against his eyes.
“Shit. We weren’t recording that by any chance, were we?”
“No. Last I checked, we weren’t secret agents. Perhaps if we’d set the whole thing up properly, given it more time.”
“Oh, yes,” Tyler says, nothing but bitterness in his tone and expression. “You know things are bad when the great Gene Hunt starts pulling others apart for trying to rush things through.”
“I’m DCI here, Tyler, don’t you forget that.”
“How could I forget, Guv? You tell me every hour, on the hour.”
“You shouldn’t need reminding, and yet, it seems you always do.”
Richie fades out on their argument. They continue speaking, but he doesn’t hear their words. He’s too occupied with regrets. He’s only revived by a tap on his arm.
“This is our plan. We do what he says. We track down where he’s keeping Sharon and Andy, with a little help from our own hostage, who should be waking up some time soon. And we bring them down.”
“For once, I think my DI here’s got his head screwed on straight.”
“Yes, thank you. Hang on. What do you mean by ‘for once’?”
Two Weeks Later
It takes four days to get the man to speak. His name turns out to be Arnold Pike, and he’s so fearful, he’s completely silent going on 96 hours. It’s only when Tyler tells him his girlfriend was found in the canal that he opens up. Everything he gives them is vague, but there are some trails to follow, and Richie knows that it’s Chris and Ray who are doing so - blokes he’s only met for ten minutes, but who seemed less than capable, if he were to be honest.
Richie stays at a motel with Hunt and Tyler keeping guard. They’ve had some further contact with Sanders and they’ve been given warning not to get too many officers involved. And now that they have a dead body on their hands, they know not to take risks. The information they have tells them that the heist is planned for the next day and they co-ordinate as best they can.
He doesn’t know why Sanders decides to wait so long, but he suspects it’s partly deliberate torture.
“I didn’t know he was this bad,” Richie says, pale and having lost a lot of weight due to an inability to keep anything down.
“It was your plan, wasn’t it?” Tyler says. He’s quiet. Sympathetic.
Richie lets his head fall between his knees and almost laughs. “How’d you guess?”
“Everything we’ve found out about Sanders so far points to him being a thug rather than a mastermind.”
“Yeah. I planned it. It wasn’t something I meant. I was joking. But Mickey - he’s the one you visited yesterday - well, he said it was a great idea, why not do it, and he spoke to Sanders. And Sanders came and roughed me up, got me to write it down, make sketches.”
Richie doesn’t know why he’s telling Tyler everything, but he trusts him. Tyler appears to have a genuine interest in justice and helping him. He’s made sure Richie hasn’t been kept in the dark.
Hunt’s out, ‘gathering intel’, so the constant talk has stopped, for now. There are moments when Richie’s sure they’re going to tear each other’s heads off, but at the same time, they have an affinity working together. Hunt’s DCI, Tyler’s DI, but they work more like equals, sharing the load. And they are trying to sort this out, when they probably don’t have to, when they could have taken any number of options that meant he was on his own.
As the day wears on, Richie gets increasingly uneasy. He jitters about, unable to concentrate on anything but worst case scenarios. Hunt comes back and it gets more intense, because he’s the other side of flippant and it grates.
“Three men are at dinner with their wives. The first man says “pass me the sugar, sugar”, the second one says, “pass me the honey, honey,” and the third one says, “pass me the milk-”
Tyler interrupts Hunt’s spiel. “Gene, please. Now is not the time to be making jokes.”
“Dorothy, we mightn’t live tomorrow, might as well be getting them in whilst we can.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
Tyler flicks his head back. “God, there are days I despair of you and days I know there’s no point.”
When he goes to bed, Richie lies awake, gazing at the ceiling. Thoughts crawl from dark recesses in his mind. His world has come crashing down. Even if he survives this, even if Sharon and Andy make it, he won’t be going back to regular bookmaking. He doesn’t know what tomorrow brings.
After a while he swings his legs off his uncomfortable bunk and decides he’ll ask Tyler for advice. Tyler’s room is adjoined to his and Hunt’s is on the other side of the hall. He’s about to slide open the door when he hears the murmur of speech.
Tyler’s voice is low, slightly muffled. “I don’t think we should-”
Hunt cuts him off. “I know we shouldn’t.” There’s a pause. “It’s been too long, Sam.”
“Yeah, I know, but…”
Tyler doesn’t finish his sentence. Hunt doesn’t speak either. Richie shuffles closer to the door and eases it gently open. His eyebrows raise as his mind configures what he’s seeing. Tyler stands, shirt half undone, pressed close to Hunt. Tyler has his hand in Hunt’s hair, Hunt has his fingers in Tyler’s belt loops. They’re kissing, hard, pulling back and pushing forward at each other. Hunt grinds his hips, his right leg situated between Tyler’s legs as he rocks.
Richie steps back. He’s met poofs before, but they were always so obvious, easy to spot a mile off - speaking with a lilt, walking with a mince. Hunt is the opposite of that in every way and Tyler comes across more as bloke than nonce. Richie was sure they were real men. But there they are, kissing, and looking like they’re enjoying it. Shit.
There’s a soft thump, a rumble of, “Sam”, and Richie practically runs away. He packs what he can and legs it out the window.
*
The robbery is planned for 2pm. It’s the ideal time. The bookie would have plenty of money from the lunchtime gambling crowd, but it’d be another few hours before it would be collected for security.
Richie stands in the corner of the shop, waiting. He’s been preparing himself for this, mentally. He tried to prepare himself physically, but he didn’t manage to gain arms. He wandered down streets instead. He’s going to stop Sanders, even if it means his death. He’s sick of playing by Sanders’ rules, letting the odds stack against him. It’s past 2pm before Sanders appears, and Richie is well and truly tense.
Sanders hasn’t bothered with a disguise. He knows he’ll get away with it, cocky bastard. He’s got the police under his thumb. He hasn’t any back up, either. Perhaps his allies learnt what he was planning for them. No, he stands there solo, brazen, dragging out his gun to point it straight at the person taking a fiver and proffering change.
“Gimme all your cash!”
There’s a startled yell. Half a dozen men slip out of the shop and Sanders doesn’t do anything to stop them. Richie’s about to spring when Hunt and Tyler burst through the doors.
“Richie, you don’t have to do this,” Tyler shouts. “Sharon’s okay. Andy is too. We’ve got officers keeping them safe.” His voice is calm, but there’s a throbbing vein in his forehead.
Sanders spins at Tyler’s voice. He is at once menacing and scared. “Look who didn’t follow orders.”
“Sanders, put the gun down. You’re surrounded.”
“I can’t see anyone but you,” Sanders replies with a leer that’s only half forced. Tyler steps purposefully forward, his hand outstretched, his face determined.
It happens in seconds. A flurry of action. An echoing bang. Tyler’s on the floor, clutching at his lower stomach, blood oozing between his fingers. Hunt is clutching at his shoulders, pain and terror, wide eyes and open mouth. Richie is numb.
Sanders goes to fire again, but he’s out of bullets, or the gun’s cocked up, because nothing happens. Hunt whips up and pulls the gun away, his hand an iron claw around Sanders’ neck and suddenly, Sanders is crashing to the ground, his head making a sickening sound as it thumps against the concrete. Hunt continues to pull Sanders up and send him down again, pounding away, until Sanders is halfway to death and definitely unconscious. In the movement, anyone who was left in the shop runs out, leaving only the four of them.
“Call an ambulance,” Hunt yells. He manoeuvres alongside Tyler again and places his hand at the back of his head. His voice is ragged and he’s breathing heavily. “Tell me what I need to do, Sammy-boy.”
Richie doesn’t wait for Tyler’s response. He’s on the phone, calling an ambulance, calling the police, wishing desperately to get out, now, to be with Sharon and Andy, to be safe like them.
“You thick, fucking bastard, always needing to be the hero…” Hunt mutters, bending over Tyler, cocooning him. Richie’s guilt mixes with repulsion. He watches with morbid fascination as Tyler’s eyes roll around in his head and Hunt panics. He keeps talking, berating, soothing.
The ambulance arrives after what seems like several hours. It’s more likely twenty minutes. They follow behind in the Cortina. Hunt shoves Richie to sit in the waiting area of the hospital, attaching one half of a pair of handcuffs to his wrist and the other half to one of the chairs.
He thinks about escape, briefly. He could probably wing it, with some careful thought. But he doesn’t do anything. He waits as Hunt disappears. He prays that what Tyler said earlier was true. And he watches the hands of the clock as they tick slowly around. More than an hour, close to two.
Hunt comes back and Richie half-stands, hampered by metal.
“They say he’ll be alright,” Hunt replies gruffly to the question Richie never asked.
“That’s… good.”
Hunt punches him square in the stomach. “You stupid tossbag.” Richie doubles over and attempts to gain his breath. Hunt continues to shout. “How many people were you hoping to kill with this little adventure of yours?”
“No one.”
“We had it all sorted, remember? We knew what we were doing.”
“I was just trying to protect my family.”
“Yeah, well, your family’s safe. Chris and Ray just told me. They’re back at your place. Your precious family’s safe and my DI…” Hunt balls his fists again. He sets his shoulders and rids his expression of anything but blank indifference. “My DI will be alright.” There’s a twitch of a muscle in his cheek. “With no thanks to you.”
*
Back at the motel, Richie’s on the phone and Hunt is stalking by the window. They’re packing up and moving out. Tyler’s going to be in hospital for a few weeks and Sanders has recovered enough consciousness to be read his rights.
Sharon sounds nothing but relieved. “I’ll meet you here later, yeah?”
“Yeah. Tell Andy he’s gonna be playing football with his dad in no time. Sharon, I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Richie puts the receiver down and hoists his bag. He’s about to walk out the door, but Hunt grabs hold of his arm. “Dick, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re still wanted for illegal bookmaking and there’s no waving it away.”
“Oh, come on,” Richie exclaims. His forehead creases.
“No. This is a high profile case. You’ve gotta serve your time. It’ll be a few years, you’ll be out and all will be happy as larry.”
Richie shakes his head and adds authority to his tone. “You can’t lock me up.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell everyone about you and your darling DI.”
There’s a sudden flash in Hunt’s eyes. “You what?”
“Best buddy bum bandits. I saw you. Why’d you think I ran? Didn’t wanna be killed alongside a couple of poofs.”
Hunt pushes him and Richie stumbles back, almost falling on his arse. He smirks at Hunt and grows in confidence as he’s met with stony anger.
“You little fucker.”
Richie laughs. “No, that’s you, isn’t it? But I won’t say a word, if you just let me go.”
“Who’s to say you’d be believed if you did say anything? You’d hardly have proof, would ya?”
Hunt is trying to determine if Richie has more than words, he knows that, but he’s not going to play Hunt’s game. He’s desperate. And they deserve whatever’s coming to them.
“Do you really wanna take that risk, DCI Hunt? The smallest suggestion of your sexual… what’s the word… proclivities? Being known to all and sundry. Probably wouldn’t go down well with the public at large.”
Moments pass. A tight, cold atmosphere fills the room. Richie begins to think he placed his bets too early.
“Right then,” Hunt says eventually. He turns a steely gaze on Richie’s face, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Go.”
Richie doesn’t need a second command. He makes his way to Sharon’s destination, a grin on his face that symbolises every kind of freedom.
Two Months Later
Being on the lam isn’t nearly as romantic as stories would have him believe, and no matter how much he tries to teach Andy everything he thinks an eleven year old needs to be learning, he’s never quite successful.
He’s made bets to tide them over, got Sharon to take their life savings from the bank, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Desperation sets in. He thinks there’s only one solution, but it will work, he knows it will work. He’s got privileged information and that pays. So he waits outside, late one afternoon, in the empty car park.
And there they are, walking together. It’s almost too good to be true. They’re chatting in an animated fashion, everything in the way they’re relating to each other reminding him of the first time he met them, when they crashed into his shop and arrested him, turning his life into the pig sty it is today.
Tyler’s words float toward Richie as he waits. “You’re wrong. City’s going down.”
“I am never wrong, as you well know.”
“You’re wrong sometimes, DCI Hunt,” Richie says, walking out of the shadows. He steadies himself, his feet firmly planted. “For instance, you should never have let me go.”
Tyler glances from one man to the other. “Let him go? You said he escaped.”
“He did. Didn’t you, Richie?”
“Not much of an escape. I need your assistance, Hunt.”
Hunt growls in reply. “Go to hell.”
“I need money. Lots of it.”
“Gene, what’s going on?”
“Your DCI made a deal with me.”
“No. He stopped all of that months ago. No backhanders. No turning a blind eye.”
Richie is emboldened. Tyler’s faith appears to be unswerving, but he’s staring at Hunt intently and Hunt isn’t returning the gaze.
Richie speaks with mellow confidence. “That’s where you’re sadly mistaken.”
There’s a note of dread. “Gene?”
“It’s not what it sounds like.”
“Unless it sounds like I know about everything that goes on between you two. And I do mean everything.”
Tyler’s eyes open wide and he looks like they’ll pop out of his head. “Fuck.”
“If you don’t want me telling the whole world your sick little secret, you’ll do what you promised you’d do and support me. It won’t be a once off payment. I’ve lost my ability to make my own cash, so I’ll take yours. And there’ll be no complaints.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t do the bidding of weak little scroats like you,” Hunt says. He swaggers toward Richie, calm and collected.
Richie pulls his gun. The one he finally managed to acquire to take care of himself and his family. The weight is comforting in his hand. The trigger is smooth. Tyler shouts. Hunt lunges forward. There’s noise and fury and pain, so much pain, numbing Richie, sending him falling to the ground.
The last thing Richie sees is Hunt’s face staring down at him, not the smallest trace of happiness in his expression, but the undeniable air of lifted burden. And the world goes black.