Fic: Burning Issues (Part 2)
Title: Burning Issues (Part 2)
Author: Lesley Mitchell (kjaneway)
Rating: 12-ish, currently.
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own these characters, or there would have been a damned sight more than 12 episodes and a good deal less Sullivan snogging.
Notes: So, someone suggested we needed some longer Ash/Scribbs fic. My currently frighteningly overactive muses appear to have taken this as a challenge.
Unbeta'd, as usual, and subject only to my proofing while I shoved it into the LJ client
"..der and Scully by Catatonia..." blared the radio as Scribbs turned the engine of their vehicle over.
Ash reached over and switched off the offending device.
"What are the rules about the car, Scribbs?"
"No food, no smoking, no radio," Scribbs muttered, sullenly.
"Exactly."
Silence descended, as Ash allowed Scribbs to ease the vehicle expertly through the early morning commuter traffic. Even with their warning lights flashing, making their way through Middleton town centre at the height of rush hour was a major trial. It wasn't until they emerged, reborn, into the suburbs, that Ash queried their destination and what she was going to find there.
Scribbs took a deep breath. "Spontaneous human combustion and alien abduction," she said, wincing.
"Scribbs, please tell me you're joking."
"Sorry, Ash."
They were driving though one of the many completely ordinary residential estates that made up the bulk of the area covered by Middleford CID.
"Scribbs, this," Ash gestured, "is the heart of middle England, not Area 51!"
"I know, Ash."
It was then that they turned into the cul-de-sac, and Scribbs was forced to a stop, by the sheer number of bodies blocking the road.
"Is this a crime scene or a circus?"
"Ah... seems that our alien abductee, and the wife of the deceased, called us first, and followed that up with the national newspapers."
Their car had attracted attention, now. Journalists with tape recorders and microphones, vied with cameramen using both still and video cameras, to get closest for the best chance of getting some form of comment or image.
Ash extracted her phone.
"Boss on site?" she queried with Scribbs.
"He was."
One brief speed-dialed call later, and a group of burly uniforms in high visibility jackets pushed back the unruly crowd to form a gap just wide enough for them to make progress to the scene. It closed again behind them, leaving a wall of bright yellow jackets between them and the pack of hungry news hounds.
"Ash, Scribbs. Nice of you to put in an appearance."
"Sorry, boss," came the stereo response.
Blue and white tape tape fluttered in the breeze, marking the edge of the scene, in which white paper suited SOCOs bustled around.
"Are we really looking at spontaneous human combustion, boss?"
"That's up to the lab boys to decide, Scribbs. For now, though, we're treating it as a suspicious death. The victim's been named as Hugo Withington, owner of the property, by his wife, Judith."
"The alien abductee?" Ash queried, scepticism heavy in her voice.
"The very same."
"She claims she was taken, again, last night. On her return, in the early hours of this morning, she found her husband burnt to a cinder in his favourite chair, where she'd left him watching poker on the telly, when she retired to bed."
One of the white suited figures, waved in their direction. "Ready for you now, ladies!" he called.
Sullivan paled. "This is decidedly not pretty."
They stopped at the front door where the smell was already disturbing. One of the men handed them a pot of strongly scented grease.
"Helps a little," said the man. gruffly.
"Thanks," said Ash, recognising scent from the autopsy she'd witnessed as part of her time at police college. She rubbed a little of the salve on her top lip, nose crinkling at the now overpowering smell of mint and wintergreen.
"This is a lot better than extra strong mints," she said, passing the jar to Scribbs, who imitated her partner, before handing the jar off to Sullivan.
"They way this burns, I'm not expecting to smell anything again for weeks."
A young uniformed officer burst out from the house, looking green, as they donned gloves and booties as provided by the SOCO stationed by the door.
"Once more into the breach," quoted Ash, and led the way into the incredibly ordinary semi-detached house.
The pathologist beckoned them to join him in the living room, where the last of the crime scene team were finishing processing the scene.
"The seventies called," joked Scribbs, nevously, "they want their decor back."
Looking around, Ash had to agree. The carpet was a vile orange and brown swirling pattern, while the chimney breast boasted a gas fire complete with fake log effect that would be illuminated in use by a pair of orange bulbs. Magnolia walls were set off by faded prints of wild flowers in heavy fake gilt frames, and the mantelpiece and the top of the TV were graced with the standard mix of formal wedding photos and bad holiday snaps, seen in millions of suburban homes across the country. Yellowing net curtains covered the window, turning the outside world into vague blurs of shapes and colour.
They stood around the body, and the pathologist explained the scene.
"The body's as we found it. Victim appears to have been seated in a chair, which is located consistently with viewing the television. The body has curled into the classic pugilistic pose of a victim of fire."
"Did the fire kill him?"
"I can't be conclusive yet. We'll need to give the body a full work over to check for other injuries."
"Er... if he's that badly burned, why is the rest of the room, so... untouched?"
"That, Ash, is a very good question. There's not much left of the chair. It looks to be on the older side, probably not up to the current fire specs, but then, so does the sofa and the curtains. I don't really understand how one corner of the room reached several hundred degrees, without the whole house
going up."
"Spooky," said Scribbs, as the walked back to the car.
"I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explaination," said Ash.
Sullivan coughed. "Well, I feel much better now I've got Mulder and Scully on the case."
"Who's he think he is, trying to be funny," Scribbs muttered as they pushed their way back through the cordon of uniforms and the scrum of press.
"Yeah," said Ash, half-heartedly. "That's our job."
Author: Lesley Mitchell (kjaneway)
Rating: 12-ish, currently.
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own these characters, or there would have been a damned sight more than 12 episodes and a good deal less Sullivan snogging.
Notes: So, someone suggested we needed some longer Ash/Scribbs fic. My currently frighteningly overactive muses appear to have taken this as a challenge.
Unbeta'd, as usual, and subject only to my proofing while I shoved it into the LJ client
"..der and Scully by Catatonia..." blared the radio as Scribbs turned the engine of their vehicle over.
Ash reached over and switched off the offending device.
"What are the rules about the car, Scribbs?"
"No food, no smoking, no radio," Scribbs muttered, sullenly.
"Exactly."
Silence descended, as Ash allowed Scribbs to ease the vehicle expertly through the early morning commuter traffic. Even with their warning lights flashing, making their way through Middleton town centre at the height of rush hour was a major trial. It wasn't until they emerged, reborn, into the suburbs, that Ash queried their destination and what she was going to find there.
Scribbs took a deep breath. "Spontaneous human combustion and alien abduction," she said, wincing.
"Scribbs, please tell me you're joking."
"Sorry, Ash."
They were driving though one of the many completely ordinary residential estates that made up the bulk of the area covered by Middleford CID.
"Scribbs, this," Ash gestured, "is the heart of middle England, not Area 51!"
"I know, Ash."
It was then that they turned into the cul-de-sac, and Scribbs was forced to a stop, by the sheer number of bodies blocking the road.
"Is this a crime scene or a circus?"
"Ah... seems that our alien abductee, and the wife of the deceased, called us first, and followed that up with the national newspapers."
Their car had attracted attention, now. Journalists with tape recorders and microphones, vied with cameramen using both still and video cameras, to get closest for the best chance of getting some form of comment or image.
Ash extracted her phone.
"Boss on site?" she queried with Scribbs.
"He was."
One brief speed-dialed call later, and a group of burly uniforms in high visibility jackets pushed back the unruly crowd to form a gap just wide enough for them to make progress to the scene. It closed again behind them, leaving a wall of bright yellow jackets between them and the pack of hungry news hounds.
"Ash, Scribbs. Nice of you to put in an appearance."
"Sorry, boss," came the stereo response.
Blue and white tape tape fluttered in the breeze, marking the edge of the scene, in which white paper suited SOCOs bustled around.
"Are we really looking at spontaneous human combustion, boss?"
"That's up to the lab boys to decide, Scribbs. For now, though, we're treating it as a suspicious death. The victim's been named as Hugo Withington, owner of the property, by his wife, Judith."
"The alien abductee?" Ash queried, scepticism heavy in her voice.
"The very same."
"She claims she was taken, again, last night. On her return, in the early hours of this morning, she found her husband burnt to a cinder in his favourite chair, where she'd left him watching poker on the telly, when she retired to bed."
One of the white suited figures, waved in their direction. "Ready for you now, ladies!" he called.
Sullivan paled. "This is decidedly not pretty."
They stopped at the front door where the smell was already disturbing. One of the men handed them a pot of strongly scented grease.
"Helps a little," said the man. gruffly.
"Thanks," said Ash, recognising scent from the autopsy she'd witnessed as part of her time at police college. She rubbed a little of the salve on her top lip, nose crinkling at the now overpowering smell of mint and wintergreen.
"This is a lot better than extra strong mints," she said, passing the jar to Scribbs, who imitated her partner, before handing the jar off to Sullivan.
"They way this burns, I'm not expecting to smell anything again for weeks."
A young uniformed officer burst out from the house, looking green, as they donned gloves and booties as provided by the SOCO stationed by the door.
"Once more into the breach," quoted Ash, and led the way into the incredibly ordinary semi-detached house.
The pathologist beckoned them to join him in the living room, where the last of the crime scene team were finishing processing the scene.
"The seventies called," joked Scribbs, nevously, "they want their decor back."
Looking around, Ash had to agree. The carpet was a vile orange and brown swirling pattern, while the chimney breast boasted a gas fire complete with fake log effect that would be illuminated in use by a pair of orange bulbs. Magnolia walls were set off by faded prints of wild flowers in heavy fake gilt frames, and the mantelpiece and the top of the TV were graced with the standard mix of formal wedding photos and bad holiday snaps, seen in millions of suburban homes across the country. Yellowing net curtains covered the window, turning the outside world into vague blurs of shapes and colour.
They stood around the body, and the pathologist explained the scene.
"The body's as we found it. Victim appears to have been seated in a chair, which is located consistently with viewing the television. The body has curled into the classic pugilistic pose of a victim of fire."
"Did the fire kill him?"
"I can't be conclusive yet. We'll need to give the body a full work over to check for other injuries."
"Er... if he's that badly burned, why is the rest of the room, so... untouched?"
"That, Ash, is a very good question. There's not much left of the chair. It looks to be on the older side, probably not up to the current fire specs, but then, so does the sofa and the curtains. I don't really understand how one corner of the room reached several hundred degrees, without the whole house
going up."
"Spooky," said Scribbs, as the walked back to the car.
"I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explaination," said Ash.
Sullivan coughed. "Well, I feel much better now I've got Mulder and Scully on the case."
"Who's he think he is, trying to be funny," Scribbs muttered as they pushed their way back through the cordon of uniforms and the scrum of press.
"Yeah," said Ash, half-heartedly. "That's our job."