All the King's Men (1/5)
Title: All the King’s Men (1/5)
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-15
Spoiler Warning: The Reichenbach Fall
[General Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]General Warnings: offensive language (including misogynistic and racist slurs); repeated threats of violence (physical and sexual); homicide and attempted homicide (on and off-screen); lightly implied assassination, torture (non-graphic), and other Not Good activities.
[Part I Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]Part I Warnings: offensive language and attitude towards women and minorities; casual discussion of assault and murder; off-screen minor character deaths
Summary: All Sergeant Sean Pritchard wanted was the chance to complete his assignment: kill Inspector Greg Lestrade. Lady Luck (and Scotland Yard) had other ideas…
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: I would be utterly lost without my awesome beta team: powdered_opium, bluewillowtree, and agent_bandit. Thank you for your patience, cheerleading, and putting up with the endless rounds of edits!
Author’s Note: This is the long-promised companion-piece/sequel to Long Live the King. This is far darker than my usual fare, so I do ask that my readers take heed of the general warnings. Each section will also have specific warnings in their individual headers. I have erred on the side of caution (because this story has an absurdly high body count).
This entire idea began with the fact that the majority of New Scotland Yard’s officers are unarmed. So how was Jim's man on the inside supposed to kill Lestrade with a bullet?
~
June 16th
It is an idiotic plan.
The man known as Sean Pritchard has kept his mouth shut about it-the Boss hasn’t been in the mood for opinion; Daniels found that out the hard way, poor sod-but he definitely thought it when he first heard about the plan in all its messy glory. Any moron would know that the more complicated a plan gets, the more likely it’ll go tits up without warning.
On the surface, the entire operation is simple enough: he’d go in, muck everyone up a bit, kill the target, and vanish off into the night. Easy, straightforward, and nothing he hasn’t done before with no problem whatsoever. He even had his own plan about how it was going to go down, a nice ‘drunken bloke in trouble’ ruse in a dark alley. Then a one and a two, and the Met would be down another pig copper, bleeding his guts out on the street. No one would be the wiser, and he would walk away scot-free.
But no, the Boss has details on the way Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector, has to die, an entire page of instructions about the where, when and how of it all that makes everything infinitely more complicated. The Boss wants fancy, and it isn’t the kind of fancy that he, the underling with his neck on the line, likes. It’s complicated in a bad way. He has done detailed work, fancy work, for the Boss before, but not like this. There won’t be time to savour the hunt or linger over the kill. It won’t be the first time he’s been deprived of the victory, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He had to do some fast talking to get the Boss to see sense. Even stupid pig coppers are going to notice someone carrying an illegal handgun in the middle of a police station. AFOs would be on top of him before he could get a shot off at the DI, and then where would they be? So he offered another plan for the Boss’ consideration.
Frankly, he is a bit surprised that his plan has gone as well as it has. He doesn’t know how his identity for this job came into existence. The Boss might have conjured him out of thin air or chosen some unlucky sod at random. If the bastard was a real person before two months ago, he’s probably dead by now. Either way, he is Sean Pritchard now, Detective Sergeant and recent transfer into the borough’s CID unit, and he has all the paperwork to prove it. He has done his job with all the bright enthusiasm of a green copper and the angelic curiosity of a small-town boy in the city for the first time, and he has seen all of his ‘colleagues’ fall for the act.
He doesn’t know the overall plan-he is just a foot soldier after all-but it has been ridiculously easy to push the Yard into the entire game, planting that one little seed of doubt that Sherlock Holmes is no saint. All he’s had to do is play the “newbie” card with DS Donovan and feed that harpy’s anger with wide-eyed innocence. No matter how self-righteous and outspoken they get, women are always easy to control once he figures out their buttons, and the resident shrew just needs an excuse to insult “the Freak.” Now Sean just has to sit back and watch the Boss’ plan fall into place like clockwork. Until it’s time for him to shine… or fall flat on his face and end up as the next corpse in an acid bath. Right now, the odds are about 50/50, but he would like it to skew towards the outcome where he doesn’t die a horrifically slow and painful death.
The plan is this:
1) On the pretext of following up a lead, he lures DI Lestrade out of his office to an abandoned warehouse by the docks.
a. He must keep all members of Lestrade’s fiercely loyal team, especially that lap-bitch Donovan, from tagging along.
i. This will be harder than it sounds since the entire team trails Lestrade like moronic puppies, especially Donovan. It’s a wonder she could be banging Anderson on the side when she rarely lets Lestrade out of her sight.
2) He then surprises the veteran copper, kills him with a single shot to the back of the head, and disposes of the body in the nearby floating skip.
a. Easily, he can think of four, no, five ways that things will go wrong, right here.
b.He determinedly does not think of that time with the Disappearing Skip.
i. He has made sure the incident will never be repeated. Ever. (He hopes.)
3) After cleaning up after himself, he will drive to another location and radio in a hysterical story to his ‘colleagues’ about an ambush that will stand up under repeated questioning.
a. This…cannot possibly end well.
So instead of a well-planned attack under the cover of darkness, Sean has to execute this in broad daylight, in fucking central London with bloody CCTV cameras all over the place, and not get caught or leave witnesses behind. Oh, and accomplish this entirely overcomplicated murder at the ring of a text. What. The. Fuck. Boss?
Look, all he’s asking for here is a little trust in his competence to do the job cleanly and swiftly. Hell, in his original plan, the bugger wouldn’t even have known what happened before it was all over, which made Lestrade a lucky bastard. Most of Sean’s targets have to do a bit of blood and suffering first before the coup de grâce, but the Boss’ orders have been very clear on this point: the murder itself is a message. No blood, no mess, no fuss. Just a clean, straightforward death. No one plays against the Boss and wins.
He sneaks a glance at Lestrade, the ridiculed and beleaguered idiot of the Yard, working away in his glass-walled office. Sean knows that he is getting unnecessarily fussy about the details. It doesn’t really matter what the plan is, the end result is the same. What the Boss wants, the Boss gets. Before the day is over, the Detective Inspector is going to die.
His phone vibrates with an incoming text.
Sean tucks his phone into his pocket. No need to read the message to know it’s time to hunt and play. The adrenaline brings the world into a detached, razor-sharp focus.
Lestrade has no idea he is entering the last hour of his life.
The younger man weaves his way around his harried colleagues, intent on fulfilling his mission. Walking past her desk, Sean notes with approval that Donovan is on the phone. Good, she’s distracted, which means she is less likely to barge in and derail the entire plan. Everything hinges on separating the Detective Inspector from his constant shadows. Before he can do more than approach Lestrade’s office, however, he is nearly bowled over by his pale and shaking colleague. He bites back the instinctive urge to snarl at Donovan, channelling his reaction into a look of polite distaste.
“Boss! You-” Donovan inhales sharply and asserts some semblance of control over herself before she continues, “Someone jumped from the roof of Barts.”
A dark look of fury flashes in Lestrade’s eyes before he says wearily, “Sergeant-”
“Sir,” she replies, her voice wavering, “It’s Holmes.”
His attention snaps to her like a man who has been gutted. “What?”
“Holmes, he jumped,” she says carefully. “He’s been declared DOA.” She swallows hard. “John saw the entire-”
“You’re driving,” the older man says sharply, standing from his desk and grabbing his jacket.
Sean knows he has to act now. He offers quickly, “I’ll drive, Boss.”
It sounds like a generous gesture, a newbie DS looking out for his DI. It’s a last ditch effort to save the plan. Sean tries not to glare at Donovan when she grabs her own jacket from her chair. The plan can still work, even if she comes along. They’re both in shock, unlikely to put up a fuss (especially once he puts a bullet in the outspoken bitch) or notice that he’s not taking the right route to Barts until it’s too late. Collateral damage and an extra bullet is no skin off his nose. The important thing is to leave no witnesses or evidence behind to contradict his story.
“Thank you, Pritchard.”
“Boss, Kapur’s waiting for us downstairs,” interrupts Donovan, sounding unusually timid. “He’s just back from a scene. If you want him to report…”
“I don’t-” snaps Lestrade in a fit of temper before he catches himself. The older man brushes past both of them. “Report to me in the car. Both of you.”
Fuck.
Kapur might be a sneaky Paki, but the man also has three inches and a stone on Sean. Two against one would be difficult odds, but not impossible if Sean uses Donovan’s well-being against Lestrade and vice versa. However, three police officers against one are impossible odds, especially with the gun hidden away in Sean’s unmarked car. There’s no way to get to the weapon in time, and no way to use it, even if he could. He can’t think of a plan to eliminate Kapur or Donovan before they would try to overpower him. There is no way for him to direct events now, not with Kapur driving and him in the backseat with the resident harpy.
As he follows Lestrade into the elevator, Donovan trailing behind him, all Sean can think of is how much God must love the bloody fucking Met. The Boss is going to kill him.
Fuck.
~
August 4th
“I’m so changeable.”
Sean heard the Boss say that once on live webcam, right before he kicked the chair out from under Humboldt’s feet and let the hit man hang for a botched assassination. It had been an objective lesson on the dangers of disappointing the Boss.
He still feels that healthy terror in the back of his mind. Sebastian has been in touch about the situation, and while the message has been reassuring-The Boss changed his mind; you’re off the hook-Sean knows it’s only a matter of time before the chickens come home to roost. Sure, the Boss changed his mind, but there’s nothing to say he won’t change his mind again and suddenly decide that Lestrade should have died six weeks ago. It might be easier, however, to kill the Detective Inspector now than then. The entire CID is in disarray, and with half the unit on garden leave or suspension, no one knows where anyone is at a given moment, creating the perfect chaotic environment to kill a copper. All the other detective sergeants are too busy trying to keep the constables in line to pay attention to what he is doing, which suits Sean perfectly fine.
It’s been a bit of a mess on the Boss’ side too. Rumour has it that J. Moriarty-one of the Boss’ deputies, certifiably insane genius, and the head of the European branch of operations-offed himself the same day that Holmes did. There hasn’t been any definite proof, but some of the minor syndicates and gangs have been jostling for territory. The Boss has had his hands full, having to put down a rebellion in his own ranks. Frankly, as long as Sean is paid for his work, he’ll steer clear of the power grab. None of this will end well for any of the little rebels. No one crosses the Boss, or his new right-hand man Sebastian Moran, and lives to tell the tale. So Sean keeps his head down and keeps on following his orders.
The Boss says that they’re playing the long game now. Lestrade will need to be eliminated eventually, but killing him today won’t send the right message at the right time. Sean took the job knowing that it would be a long assignment, but if the Boss says one year instead of three months…well, either way, Sean is used to lying in wait for the perfect moment for a kill. He’s done his best to work his way into Lestrade’s favour. When the harpy leaves, Sean wants to step into her shoes and become the Detective Inspector’s trusted right hand. That way, when the order does come, he can carry out the plan without any hurdles.
Sean knows that Donovan is going to leave the CID at the end of the investigation. She was already on thin ice when she decided to work the Bruhl case by herself. The Boss hired an idiot actor to impersonate Holmes for the kidnapping, so it’s no surprise that she managed to find the man. However, Donovan made that arrest while on garden leave, and as the media wants a scapegoat for Holmes’ suicide, she is the perfect one to take the fall. She is a copper with a known history of misbehaviour and professional misconduct. She’s the one who pushed for an arrest that tipped an unstable man over the edge, literally. It’s no loss to the Yard if she leaves their ranks. Even if they refuse to drum her out of the Met altogether, the Commissioner will make sure she transfers out of the unit to remove a potential troublemaker and avoid future morale issues.
Still, Sean knows better than to rest on his laurels. He does his best to stroke the smouldering resentment against her in a campaign of whispered gossip and elaborated truths. If, for some reason, the DCI doesn’t transfer her out, Sean will make sure she wants to transfer away from the glares and the anger. Everyone knows about the Bruhl case and its link to Holmes’ suicide. Everyone knows exactly what Donovan did to bring the inquiry committee’s attention down on the unit. All he has to do is remind the impressionable constables and a couple of the flakier sergeants about the interfering bitch’s role in the entire mess. The slander spreads like wildfire and he has to hide his smile as her reputation crumbles into ashes. Donovan is becoming the byword for an overly ambitious sergeant, one who isn’t a team player, who is a sloppy investigator, who sleeps her way up the ladder, who backstabs anyone and everyone to get what she wants, who drove a suspect to suicide, who is weak and-
“Pritchard, can I have a word with you?”
He looks up from his paperwork to see the pinched features of DS Miranda Bronte. Not worth a fuck, she is a mousy nobody from DI Dimmock’s team-in the CID hierarchy, she ranks somewhere above him, but somehow below Beckett and Kapur, who are below Donovan . The older woman has a ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude that irritates him. He’d love to arrange an unfortunate ‘accident’ for her, but he can’t kill every copper who annoys him. Even the Met would think it suspicious if an entire CID unit were suddenly plagued with accidents and suicides.
“Sure,” he says. He drudges up a good-natured smile to go with his forced agreement. She gestures towards the small kitchenette.
“Tea?”
The last thing Sean wants to do with Bronte is have a cuppa of the monkey piss that masquerades as drinkable tea, but he knows better than to make an enemy out of her. With a biddable expression, he stands and follows her brisk stride. He needs to appear harmless to his ‘colleagues’ until they drop their wariness around him. It’s been almost four months since he joined the unit and they still don’t trust him to watch any of their backs. He is neither well-liked nor widely-hated. Unwittingly wise, not a single officer has befriended him beyond what is professional. He hasn’t had a chance to ‘prove’ himself on crime scenes. Investigations have come to a halt for this CID squad until the internal affairs inquiries are finished. For all intents and purposes, Sean remains an outsider to this small community of police officers.
The first thing he notices when he walks into the closet that passes for their kitchenette and office lounge is that every table is occupied. At a glance, Sean can identify nearly all the senior sergeants and constables plus a good number of their juniors in the small room. It’s as if by coincidence over half of the entire unit just happened to take their lunch break at the same time. Sean feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Unconcerned by the crowded room, Bronte heads to the kettle and busies herself making ‘tea’.
“So, Pritchard, how are you settling in?”
Sean does his best not to roll his eyes. He reminds himself that tolerating inane chatter from his ‘colleagues’ will build camaraderie with them. When she glances at him, he plasters on a polite smile and shrugs. “It’s been… all right.”
She chuckles darkly. “That’s one way to put it.” She sighs and leans her hip against the counter. The audience to their little tableaux is listening with careful attention. He bites his tongue to stop his urge to fidget. The Boss doesn’t like nervousness or incompetence. Sean has neither weakness.
“Look,” she says in a faux-friendly tone, “you and I know that it’s been a bit chaotic lately, and what with everything that’s been going on, no one’s been able to show you the ropes. You’re doing fine, Pritchard, but you’re still new to this, even with the five years out in the Cotswolds under your belt.”
Avoiding the communal kitchen mugs, Bronte snags two paper cups. “It’s quiet out there, isn’t it?” It’s a stupid rhetorical question because the only murders that happen out in the Cotswolds are the drunken tourists in pub brawls or the angry couple on holiday where one spouse offs the other. Nothing happens out there. It’s why it’s called being put out to the damn pasture.
He shrugs again. “We get our share of murders.”
The kettle whistles and shuts off. “Is this your first inquiry board?”
“Yeah.” Sean barely keeps the wariness out of his voice. He has a feeling he knows where this conversation is going. Shit.
Bronte nods as if he has confirmed something for her before she says, “It’s hard on everyone, even if you’re just on the side, watching. One lesson you learn is that everyone makes mistakes, and if they haven’t yet, they will.”
She drowns two teabags in hot water.
“Donovan screwed up, and she knows she screwed up. She doesn’t need us to remind her.”
Fuck. That’s the warning. Someone has noticed his little side activities and told on him. Bronte might be uppity and out of her proper place in life, but she’s doing him a favour in warning him like this. He has to pull back on his smear campaign before he pisses off everyone else in the unit. He needs to be their friend, not their enemy. Sean keeps his face impassive as she continues, “I’m saying…don’t be so quick to judge. Learn from everyone’s mistakes, including your own.”
Tossing the used teabags in the bin beneath the counter, she hands him a weak cup of tea and this parting advice, “We’re a unit. We stick together. We watch each other’s backs.”
Bronte has kept her tone chatty throughout the conversation, as if they are just colleagues out having a pint and a bit of gossip, but he can hear the underlying edge in her words. Sean knows it’s no coincidence that Davies, Beckett, and most of their peers are ‘on break’ in the office lounge. She might be their elected spokesperson, but it’s the first warning from three senior sergeants and quite possibly the only one Sean’s going to get. They might not oppose him taking over Donovan’s role when the time comes. They do object to his implied challenge to their authority. He takes the scolding with a grateful smile and says all the right things to smooth their ruffled feathers. His mother always called him a “right charmer with a silver tongue” for a reason.
He spends the rest of the day buried in paperwork and daydreaming imaginative ways to kill them all. It’s the only way to cope with the endless boredom and the dark wallowing that has engulfed the squad. Self-pitying morons. If Sean had a death wish, he’d ask the Boss for a raise to put up with this shit.
~
January 29th
“- should be ready in the morning, Sir.”
With mussed hair and deep lines of fatigue on her face, Donovan looks about as exhausted as Sean feels. Fuck this fucking job. No one has been off the clock for the past 36 hours. Some bastard had to choose this week to turn serial killer, dropping bodies just about as fast as the Met can find them. Sean can admire the fucker’s efficiency, but he rates zero for creativity (or, y’know, getting away with it all). Goddamn it, when was the last time he slept?
Between his day job as a plodding DS for a shell-shocked CID unit and his real job for the Boss, Sean’s getting a bit thin around the edges. It’s taken longer than he thought it would for the Boss to get things under control, especially in London. Sean’s had to take sides, which doesn’t sit comfortably, but it’s not like he’s going to refuse the Boss. In the past five months, more than a few of the bodies that have come across his desk are ones that he dropped himself the day or night before. Thankfully, none of his colleagues has caught on to his off-duty activities.
Lestrade sighs and fingers the unlit fag in his hand. “Right, if he hasn’t killed another one by daybreak.”
Sean takes some pleasure in seeing Donovan flinch at the resigned statement. Somehow the bitch hasn’t been transferred and doesn’t seem inclined to budge from her position as Lestrade’s right hand. The Detective Inspector isn’t making a move to kick her out either. Everyone knows the two of them are on the outs, yet they still gravitate toward each other like she’s on his fucking leash and he can’t help but yank on it. When he calls, she comes running, and it’s almost painful to watch, the pathetic way she acts around him, all coolly professional and sharp edges as if she can cover up her faults. If she had messed up like that with him or the Boss, Sean would have put a bullet in her head and been done with it. Well, he might have had a bit of fun with her first, remind her just what women were good for: cooking, fucking, and killing. Still, he can’t blow his cover yet.
Ever since Bronte’s ‘talk,’ Sean has played nice with everyone. He might not always stop the gossiping constables, but if it gets too loud, he makes sure that the other sergeants see him telling the junior officers to shut up and respect the hierarchy. Slowly, painfully slowly, he is working his way into the senior sergeants’ good graces. Beckett has started to take an interest in mentoring him. It’s not an intense focus, which is good for Sean’s real job, but it is enough that the rest of the CID has started to accept him as one of their own. He can’t do anything to risk that fragile trust, not even to spread the news that Donovan has been in and out of counselling for the past two months. Rumour has it that while Lestrade made the initial referral, Donovan has continued to see the in-house therapist on her own. Some members of the unit scorn her for it, but oddly enough, most of the investigators have just brushed it off as a hazard of the Job. Sean hasn’t been able to pry any more details out of the Yard’s grapevine than that.
The female Sergeant has been tight-lipped about everything personal since the inquiry board cleared her of wrongdoing. Sean has taken rightful pride in the lingering resentment most of the CID unit harbours towards her and Lestrade, but he has been unable to translate that into any changes in the power dynamics. Even with the strained working relationships, Donovan still remains one of the senior Detective Sergeants in their squad and retains her close proximity to Lestrade.
None of the other ranking sergeants has truly challenged her for that position. Part of it is that no one wants to work with Lestrade, given his current pariah status with On High. The inquiry board might have cleared him of misconduct, but the stink of Sherlock Holmes keeps all but Lestrade’s most stalwart colleagues away. There also seems to be unit-wide agreement that no one else should work with Lestrade. It is as if all the senior sergeants have suddenly lost their good sense and decided that Donovan should stay with the DI as some form of twisted murder-squad-style of penance for her behaviour. Every time a Lestrade-involved case comes up in the Sergeants’ brief, everyone passes the task to her as if nothing has changed in the past seven months. Sean is still too junior to make a play for her position, at least, not without raising some suspicions from his ‘colleagues.’ Another part of it is that Lestrade doesn’t seem willing to work with anyone else as his right hand. The gestures have been subtle on his part, but Sean has seen the older man consistently and visibly turn to Donovan as his implicit liaison with the rest of the squad’s sergeants and constables. The inspector is a nutter to trust a persistent bitch like Donovan, but the Boss never said Lestrade was a sane man.
“Boss!”
Looking as harried and exhausted as the rest of them, DS Tommy Lee strides up the stairs with a mobile in hand. He passes it to Lestrade.
“The DCI wants to talk to you.”
All three senior CID members exchange resigned glances as Lestrade accepts the call. He turns away to walk back down to the ground floor, tossing over his shoulder, “Sergeant, you’re in charge until I get back.”
For the briefest of moments, Sean wonders whom Lestrade is talking to before Donovan nods. “Yes, Sir.” The phrase is crisp and professional, as if she is a green constable still kissing her way up the ranks. It takes all Sean’s considerable experience to mask his inward sneer. Lee tilts his head with an unreadable expression.
“I’ve got to get back down,” he says flatly. “You all right up here?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’ll send a runner down if he needs to see anything.”
“Likewise.” Lee goes back to his post. A SOCO comes down from the main scene to talk with Donovan. Sean does his best to look busy, scouring the first floor for evidence. The second story of the abandoned building is a blood-splattered mess that he would prefer to avoid. He is a connoisseur in the art of dealing death, and the crime scene above his head is like a drunken baboon’s scrawl. It is simply painful to contemplate.
The heavy tread of someone sprinting up the rickety stairs is the only warning before PC Harris, all bright-eyed, idiotic belief in the bullshit about ‘working together for a safer London,’ bursts onto the first floor landing.
“Sergeant,” the lanky young man pants, “the media is here.”
Donovan swears under her breath and turns to Sean. “Pritchard, have you done your media liaison training yet?”
“No,” he lies. She frowns at him, but calls up the stairs to the main scene on the second story with an impressive bellow.
“Bronte!”
“Yeah?” comes the disembodied shout back.
“Media alert!”
It takes a minute, but the other female Detective Sergeant appears at the top of the second floor stairs, stripping off her gloves as she bitches, “Jesus Christ, Donovan, the day the Super lifts the ban on you talking to the press is the day I celebrate.”
Although the internal investigation is far from over, there has been a recent set of memos from On High. Most of it is bureaucratic nonsense repeating what every copper learns at Hendon, but there have been a few gems. Ever since Lestrade and Donovan returned to work, the official unofficial rule is that the two investigators are under a lifetime ban from ever speaking to the press again. The woman in question flashes a tight smile at her junior. “That’s five drinks on me, next pub night, for dealing with the vultures.”
“No point in you coming if you’re just buying and not drinking,” retorts Bronte, stripping off the protective gear and stuffing it into a sealed bag. She runs a hand through her messy hair. “How do I look?”
Donovan deadpans, “Like you’ve just stumbled out of bed.”
“Oi!” comes the heated response, “Like you look any better.” Bizarrely enough, the two women don’t look like they’re in a cat fight, trading shite-eating grins with each other. Sean can tell that it has to be one of those women things because Harris doesn’t look any more knowledgeable about what’s going on than he does.
Twisting his radio wire nervously, Harris chirps, “You look fine, Sergeant Bronte.”
“You, young man, will go far,” says Bronte with a quirk of her lips. “Now who have we got out there?”
Sean finds Donovan staring at him. She tilts her head toward the doorway. “Pritchard, don’t stand there and look pretty. Go help Harris secure the perimeter.” Dismissing his presence, she turns away and keys the radio. He goes, inwardly fuming at being ordered around. “Heads-up, everyone: the media is on scene. You know the drill.”
A chorus of clicks sound over the channel, the typical acknowledgement that the message has been received, before Beckett comes over the line and growls, “So we’re all on our best behaviour, eh? ‘Cause the first person to break from the script gets to buy two rounds at the next pub night. Who’s with the Boss?”
“I am,” says Lee. “And he’s with the DCI. I’ll keep him out of sight. Donovan?”
“I’m staying far away, and I will cheer for Manchester at the next pub night.” Profanities about the press drift down from the first floor landing before Donovan keys the radio again. “But only if Davies does his David Mitchell impression.”
The female constable posted at the bottom of the staircase snorts with dark amusement and Sean makes himself smile at her in faux bonhomie. Sergeant Davies is not amused by David Mitchell’s politics, but if plied with enough pints, he does a highly entertaining impression of the commenter’s (in)famous rants. Sean concedes that the image alone is enough for him to tolerate the sickeningly chummy pub nights.
Since he started this job, he has been to a few pubs with various colleagues. Most of his (grudging) attendance is to maintain the façade of the eager-but-clueless police officer. If Sean ignores his companions’ boring shenanigans, it’s actually not that bad to have a pint in hand, to watch a match on the telly, and be somewhere warm and dry. It certainly beats being out in the downpour, hunting down some suicidal criminal who pissed off the Boss. He can also scout people out for weaknesses. He knows that Kapur has a wife and three children. Like most women, Constable Dunne is a blonde lightweight; she also has an amazing set of lungs. Beckett’s husband is a schoolteacher over in Notting Hill. Saunders is smitten with one of the court clerks. Lestrade is divorced, with two children, both at universities not in London. Donovan is single, keeps to herself unless engaged, and is not a Manchester United fan. She doesn’t drink enough to get sloshed and, like any copper, guards her drinks carefully. No chance of slipping anything in her pint to make her an easy target. No chance of making her elimination anything other than suspicious. Bloody fucking bitch.
Sean almost runs over Lestrade in the darkened main foyer. He steps back with a hurried apology, but it goes unnoticed.
“We’ve got another one.” Lestrade runs a hand through his silvered hair in exhausted exasperation. Before Sean can say anything, the DI turns to his left and says, “Sergeant, with me.”
Appearing from nowhere, Donovan is already by his side, keys in her hand as he continues, “Montgomery is handling this one. We leave out back.”
“Where?” she asks, matching her stride to his as the two disgraced members of the CID move onto the next murder scene.
Sean permits himself to watch them go before turning back to his pointless vigil, guarding against a crime scene invasion of rats. It might not be time yet, but one day soon, he’ll be trusted and fast enough to take her place by Lestrade’s side.
All he needs is for her to slip up, and he is golden.
Continued in Part II
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-15
Spoiler Warning: The Reichenbach Fall
[General Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]General Warnings: offensive language (including misogynistic and racist slurs); repeated threats of violence (physical and sexual); homicide and attempted homicide (on and off-screen); lightly implied assassination, torture (non-graphic), and other Not Good activities.
[Part I Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]Part I Warnings: offensive language and attitude towards women and minorities; casual discussion of assault and murder; off-screen minor character deaths
Summary: All Sergeant Sean Pritchard wanted was the chance to complete his assignment: kill Inspector Greg Lestrade. Lady Luck (and Scotland Yard) had other ideas…
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: I would be utterly lost without my awesome beta team: powdered_opium, bluewillowtree, and agent_bandit. Thank you for your patience, cheerleading, and putting up with the endless rounds of edits!
Author’s Note: This is the long-promised companion-piece/sequel to Long Live the King. This is far darker than my usual fare, so I do ask that my readers take heed of the general warnings. Each section will also have specific warnings in their individual headers. I have erred on the side of caution (because this story has an absurdly high body count).
This entire idea began with the fact that the majority of New Scotland Yard’s officers are unarmed. So how was Jim's man on the inside supposed to kill Lestrade with a bullet?
~
June 16th
It is an idiotic plan.
The man known as Sean Pritchard has kept his mouth shut about it-the Boss hasn’t been in the mood for opinion; Daniels found that out the hard way, poor sod-but he definitely thought it when he first heard about the plan in all its messy glory. Any moron would know that the more complicated a plan gets, the more likely it’ll go tits up without warning.
On the surface, the entire operation is simple enough: he’d go in, muck everyone up a bit, kill the target, and vanish off into the night. Easy, straightforward, and nothing he hasn’t done before with no problem whatsoever. He even had his own plan about how it was going to go down, a nice ‘drunken bloke in trouble’ ruse in a dark alley. Then a one and a two, and the Met would be down another pig copper, bleeding his guts out on the street. No one would be the wiser, and he would walk away scot-free.
But no, the Boss has details on the way Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector, has to die, an entire page of instructions about the where, when and how of it all that makes everything infinitely more complicated. The Boss wants fancy, and it isn’t the kind of fancy that he, the underling with his neck on the line, likes. It’s complicated in a bad way. He has done detailed work, fancy work, for the Boss before, but not like this. There won’t be time to savour the hunt or linger over the kill. It won’t be the first time he’s been deprived of the victory, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He had to do some fast talking to get the Boss to see sense. Even stupid pig coppers are going to notice someone carrying an illegal handgun in the middle of a police station. AFOs would be on top of him before he could get a shot off at the DI, and then where would they be? So he offered another plan for the Boss’ consideration.
Frankly, he is a bit surprised that his plan has gone as well as it has. He doesn’t know how his identity for this job came into existence. The Boss might have conjured him out of thin air or chosen some unlucky sod at random. If the bastard was a real person before two months ago, he’s probably dead by now. Either way, he is Sean Pritchard now, Detective Sergeant and recent transfer into the borough’s CID unit, and he has all the paperwork to prove it. He has done his job with all the bright enthusiasm of a green copper and the angelic curiosity of a small-town boy in the city for the first time, and he has seen all of his ‘colleagues’ fall for the act.
He doesn’t know the overall plan-he is just a foot soldier after all-but it has been ridiculously easy to push the Yard into the entire game, planting that one little seed of doubt that Sherlock Holmes is no saint. All he’s had to do is play the “newbie” card with DS Donovan and feed that harpy’s anger with wide-eyed innocence. No matter how self-righteous and outspoken they get, women are always easy to control once he figures out their buttons, and the resident shrew just needs an excuse to insult “the Freak.” Now Sean just has to sit back and watch the Boss’ plan fall into place like clockwork. Until it’s time for him to shine… or fall flat on his face and end up as the next corpse in an acid bath. Right now, the odds are about 50/50, but he would like it to skew towards the outcome where he doesn’t die a horrifically slow and painful death.
The plan is this:
1) On the pretext of following up a lead, he lures DI Lestrade out of his office to an abandoned warehouse by the docks.
a. He must keep all members of Lestrade’s fiercely loyal team, especially that lap-bitch Donovan, from tagging along.
i. This will be harder than it sounds since the entire team trails Lestrade like moronic puppies, especially Donovan. It’s a wonder she could be banging Anderson on the side when she rarely lets Lestrade out of her sight.
2) He then surprises the veteran copper, kills him with a single shot to the back of the head, and disposes of the body in the nearby floating skip.
a. Easily, he can think of four, no, five ways that things will go wrong, right here.
b.He determinedly does not think of that time with the Disappearing Skip.
i. He has made sure the incident will never be repeated. Ever. (He hopes.)
3) After cleaning up after himself, he will drive to another location and radio in a hysterical story to his ‘colleagues’ about an ambush that will stand up under repeated questioning.
a. This…cannot possibly end well.
So instead of a well-planned attack under the cover of darkness, Sean has to execute this in broad daylight, in fucking central London with bloody CCTV cameras all over the place, and not get caught or leave witnesses behind. Oh, and accomplish this entirely overcomplicated murder at the ring of a text. What. The. Fuck. Boss?
Look, all he’s asking for here is a little trust in his competence to do the job cleanly and swiftly. Hell, in his original plan, the bugger wouldn’t even have known what happened before it was all over, which made Lestrade a lucky bastard. Most of Sean’s targets have to do a bit of blood and suffering first before the coup de grâce, but the Boss’ orders have been very clear on this point: the murder itself is a message. No blood, no mess, no fuss. Just a clean, straightforward death. No one plays against the Boss and wins.
He sneaks a glance at Lestrade, the ridiculed and beleaguered idiot of the Yard, working away in his glass-walled office. Sean knows that he is getting unnecessarily fussy about the details. It doesn’t really matter what the plan is, the end result is the same. What the Boss wants, the Boss gets. Before the day is over, the Detective Inspector is going to die.
His phone vibrates with an incoming text.
Sean tucks his phone into his pocket. No need to read the message to know it’s time to hunt and play. The adrenaline brings the world into a detached, razor-sharp focus.
Lestrade has no idea he is entering the last hour of his life.
The younger man weaves his way around his harried colleagues, intent on fulfilling his mission. Walking past her desk, Sean notes with approval that Donovan is on the phone. Good, she’s distracted, which means she is less likely to barge in and derail the entire plan. Everything hinges on separating the Detective Inspector from his constant shadows. Before he can do more than approach Lestrade’s office, however, he is nearly bowled over by his pale and shaking colleague. He bites back the instinctive urge to snarl at Donovan, channelling his reaction into a look of polite distaste.
“Boss! You-” Donovan inhales sharply and asserts some semblance of control over herself before she continues, “Someone jumped from the roof of Barts.”
A dark look of fury flashes in Lestrade’s eyes before he says wearily, “Sergeant-”
“Sir,” she replies, her voice wavering, “It’s Holmes.”
His attention snaps to her like a man who has been gutted. “What?”
“Holmes, he jumped,” she says carefully. “He’s been declared DOA.” She swallows hard. “John saw the entire-”
“You’re driving,” the older man says sharply, standing from his desk and grabbing his jacket.
Sean knows he has to act now. He offers quickly, “I’ll drive, Boss.”
It sounds like a generous gesture, a newbie DS looking out for his DI. It’s a last ditch effort to save the plan. Sean tries not to glare at Donovan when she grabs her own jacket from her chair. The plan can still work, even if she comes along. They’re both in shock, unlikely to put up a fuss (especially once he puts a bullet in the outspoken bitch) or notice that he’s not taking the right route to Barts until it’s too late. Collateral damage and an extra bullet is no skin off his nose. The important thing is to leave no witnesses or evidence behind to contradict his story.
“Thank you, Pritchard.”
“Boss, Kapur’s waiting for us downstairs,” interrupts Donovan, sounding unusually timid. “He’s just back from a scene. If you want him to report…”
“I don’t-” snaps Lestrade in a fit of temper before he catches himself. The older man brushes past both of them. “Report to me in the car. Both of you.”
Fuck.
Kapur might be a sneaky Paki, but the man also has three inches and a stone on Sean. Two against one would be difficult odds, but not impossible if Sean uses Donovan’s well-being against Lestrade and vice versa. However, three police officers against one are impossible odds, especially with the gun hidden away in Sean’s unmarked car. There’s no way to get to the weapon in time, and no way to use it, even if he could. He can’t think of a plan to eliminate Kapur or Donovan before they would try to overpower him. There is no way for him to direct events now, not with Kapur driving and him in the backseat with the resident harpy.
As he follows Lestrade into the elevator, Donovan trailing behind him, all Sean can think of is how much God must love the bloody fucking Met. The Boss is going to kill him.
Fuck.
~
August 4th
“I’m so changeable.”
Sean heard the Boss say that once on live webcam, right before he kicked the chair out from under Humboldt’s feet and let the hit man hang for a botched assassination. It had been an objective lesson on the dangers of disappointing the Boss.
He still feels that healthy terror in the back of his mind. Sebastian has been in touch about the situation, and while the message has been reassuring-The Boss changed his mind; you’re off the hook-Sean knows it’s only a matter of time before the chickens come home to roost. Sure, the Boss changed his mind, but there’s nothing to say he won’t change his mind again and suddenly decide that Lestrade should have died six weeks ago. It might be easier, however, to kill the Detective Inspector now than then. The entire CID is in disarray, and with half the unit on garden leave or suspension, no one knows where anyone is at a given moment, creating the perfect chaotic environment to kill a copper. All the other detective sergeants are too busy trying to keep the constables in line to pay attention to what he is doing, which suits Sean perfectly fine.
It’s been a bit of a mess on the Boss’ side too. Rumour has it that J. Moriarty-one of the Boss’ deputies, certifiably insane genius, and the head of the European branch of operations-offed himself the same day that Holmes did. There hasn’t been any definite proof, but some of the minor syndicates and gangs have been jostling for territory. The Boss has had his hands full, having to put down a rebellion in his own ranks. Frankly, as long as Sean is paid for his work, he’ll steer clear of the power grab. None of this will end well for any of the little rebels. No one crosses the Boss, or his new right-hand man Sebastian Moran, and lives to tell the tale. So Sean keeps his head down and keeps on following his orders.
The Boss says that they’re playing the long game now. Lestrade will need to be eliminated eventually, but killing him today won’t send the right message at the right time. Sean took the job knowing that it would be a long assignment, but if the Boss says one year instead of three months…well, either way, Sean is used to lying in wait for the perfect moment for a kill. He’s done his best to work his way into Lestrade’s favour. When the harpy leaves, Sean wants to step into her shoes and become the Detective Inspector’s trusted right hand. That way, when the order does come, he can carry out the plan without any hurdles.
Sean knows that Donovan is going to leave the CID at the end of the investigation. She was already on thin ice when she decided to work the Bruhl case by herself. The Boss hired an idiot actor to impersonate Holmes for the kidnapping, so it’s no surprise that she managed to find the man. However, Donovan made that arrest while on garden leave, and as the media wants a scapegoat for Holmes’ suicide, she is the perfect one to take the fall. She is a copper with a known history of misbehaviour and professional misconduct. She’s the one who pushed for an arrest that tipped an unstable man over the edge, literally. It’s no loss to the Yard if she leaves their ranks. Even if they refuse to drum her out of the Met altogether, the Commissioner will make sure she transfers out of the unit to remove a potential troublemaker and avoid future morale issues.
Still, Sean knows better than to rest on his laurels. He does his best to stroke the smouldering resentment against her in a campaign of whispered gossip and elaborated truths. If, for some reason, the DCI doesn’t transfer her out, Sean will make sure she wants to transfer away from the glares and the anger. Everyone knows about the Bruhl case and its link to Holmes’ suicide. Everyone knows exactly what Donovan did to bring the inquiry committee’s attention down on the unit. All he has to do is remind the impressionable constables and a couple of the flakier sergeants about the interfering bitch’s role in the entire mess. The slander spreads like wildfire and he has to hide his smile as her reputation crumbles into ashes. Donovan is becoming the byword for an overly ambitious sergeant, one who isn’t a team player, who is a sloppy investigator, who sleeps her way up the ladder, who backstabs anyone and everyone to get what she wants, who drove a suspect to suicide, who is weak and-
“Pritchard, can I have a word with you?”
He looks up from his paperwork to see the pinched features of DS Miranda Bronte. Not worth a fuck, she is a mousy nobody from DI Dimmock’s team-in the CID hierarchy, she ranks somewhere above him, but somehow below Beckett and Kapur, who are below Donovan . The older woman has a ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude that irritates him. He’d love to arrange an unfortunate ‘accident’ for her, but he can’t kill every copper who annoys him. Even the Met would think it suspicious if an entire CID unit were suddenly plagued with accidents and suicides.
“Sure,” he says. He drudges up a good-natured smile to go with his forced agreement. She gestures towards the small kitchenette.
“Tea?”
The last thing Sean wants to do with Bronte is have a cuppa of the monkey piss that masquerades as drinkable tea, but he knows better than to make an enemy out of her. With a biddable expression, he stands and follows her brisk stride. He needs to appear harmless to his ‘colleagues’ until they drop their wariness around him. It’s been almost four months since he joined the unit and they still don’t trust him to watch any of their backs. He is neither well-liked nor widely-hated. Unwittingly wise, not a single officer has befriended him beyond what is professional. He hasn’t had a chance to ‘prove’ himself on crime scenes. Investigations have come to a halt for this CID squad until the internal affairs inquiries are finished. For all intents and purposes, Sean remains an outsider to this small community of police officers.
The first thing he notices when he walks into the closet that passes for their kitchenette and office lounge is that every table is occupied. At a glance, Sean can identify nearly all the senior sergeants and constables plus a good number of their juniors in the small room. It’s as if by coincidence over half of the entire unit just happened to take their lunch break at the same time. Sean feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Unconcerned by the crowded room, Bronte heads to the kettle and busies herself making ‘tea’.
“So, Pritchard, how are you settling in?”
Sean does his best not to roll his eyes. He reminds himself that tolerating inane chatter from his ‘colleagues’ will build camaraderie with them. When she glances at him, he plasters on a polite smile and shrugs. “It’s been… all right.”
She chuckles darkly. “That’s one way to put it.” She sighs and leans her hip against the counter. The audience to their little tableaux is listening with careful attention. He bites his tongue to stop his urge to fidget. The Boss doesn’t like nervousness or incompetence. Sean has neither weakness.
“Look,” she says in a faux-friendly tone, “you and I know that it’s been a bit chaotic lately, and what with everything that’s been going on, no one’s been able to show you the ropes. You’re doing fine, Pritchard, but you’re still new to this, even with the five years out in the Cotswolds under your belt.”
Avoiding the communal kitchen mugs, Bronte snags two paper cups. “It’s quiet out there, isn’t it?” It’s a stupid rhetorical question because the only murders that happen out in the Cotswolds are the drunken tourists in pub brawls or the angry couple on holiday where one spouse offs the other. Nothing happens out there. It’s why it’s called being put out to the damn pasture.
He shrugs again. “We get our share of murders.”
The kettle whistles and shuts off. “Is this your first inquiry board?”
“Yeah.” Sean barely keeps the wariness out of his voice. He has a feeling he knows where this conversation is going. Shit.
Bronte nods as if he has confirmed something for her before she says, “It’s hard on everyone, even if you’re just on the side, watching. One lesson you learn is that everyone makes mistakes, and if they haven’t yet, they will.”
She drowns two teabags in hot water.
“Donovan screwed up, and she knows she screwed up. She doesn’t need us to remind her.”
Fuck. That’s the warning. Someone has noticed his little side activities and told on him. Bronte might be uppity and out of her proper place in life, but she’s doing him a favour in warning him like this. He has to pull back on his smear campaign before he pisses off everyone else in the unit. He needs to be their friend, not their enemy. Sean keeps his face impassive as she continues, “I’m saying…don’t be so quick to judge. Learn from everyone’s mistakes, including your own.”
Tossing the used teabags in the bin beneath the counter, she hands him a weak cup of tea and this parting advice, “We’re a unit. We stick together. We watch each other’s backs.”
Bronte has kept her tone chatty throughout the conversation, as if they are just colleagues out having a pint and a bit of gossip, but he can hear the underlying edge in her words. Sean knows it’s no coincidence that Davies, Beckett, and most of their peers are ‘on break’ in the office lounge. She might be their elected spokesperson, but it’s the first warning from three senior sergeants and quite possibly the only one Sean’s going to get. They might not oppose him taking over Donovan’s role when the time comes. They do object to his implied challenge to their authority. He takes the scolding with a grateful smile and says all the right things to smooth their ruffled feathers. His mother always called him a “right charmer with a silver tongue” for a reason.
He spends the rest of the day buried in paperwork and daydreaming imaginative ways to kill them all. It’s the only way to cope with the endless boredom and the dark wallowing that has engulfed the squad. Self-pitying morons. If Sean had a death wish, he’d ask the Boss for a raise to put up with this shit.
~
January 29th
“- should be ready in the morning, Sir.”
With mussed hair and deep lines of fatigue on her face, Donovan looks about as exhausted as Sean feels. Fuck this fucking job. No one has been off the clock for the past 36 hours. Some bastard had to choose this week to turn serial killer, dropping bodies just about as fast as the Met can find them. Sean can admire the fucker’s efficiency, but he rates zero for creativity (or, y’know, getting away with it all). Goddamn it, when was the last time he slept?
Between his day job as a plodding DS for a shell-shocked CID unit and his real job for the Boss, Sean’s getting a bit thin around the edges. It’s taken longer than he thought it would for the Boss to get things under control, especially in London. Sean’s had to take sides, which doesn’t sit comfortably, but it’s not like he’s going to refuse the Boss. In the past five months, more than a few of the bodies that have come across his desk are ones that he dropped himself the day or night before. Thankfully, none of his colleagues has caught on to his off-duty activities.
Lestrade sighs and fingers the unlit fag in his hand. “Right, if he hasn’t killed another one by daybreak.”
Sean takes some pleasure in seeing Donovan flinch at the resigned statement. Somehow the bitch hasn’t been transferred and doesn’t seem inclined to budge from her position as Lestrade’s right hand. The Detective Inspector isn’t making a move to kick her out either. Everyone knows the two of them are on the outs, yet they still gravitate toward each other like she’s on his fucking leash and he can’t help but yank on it. When he calls, she comes running, and it’s almost painful to watch, the pathetic way she acts around him, all coolly professional and sharp edges as if she can cover up her faults. If she had messed up like that with him or the Boss, Sean would have put a bullet in her head and been done with it. Well, he might have had a bit of fun with her first, remind her just what women were good for: cooking, fucking, and killing. Still, he can’t blow his cover yet.
Ever since Bronte’s ‘talk,’ Sean has played nice with everyone. He might not always stop the gossiping constables, but if it gets too loud, he makes sure that the other sergeants see him telling the junior officers to shut up and respect the hierarchy. Slowly, painfully slowly, he is working his way into the senior sergeants’ good graces. Beckett has started to take an interest in mentoring him. It’s not an intense focus, which is good for Sean’s real job, but it is enough that the rest of the CID has started to accept him as one of their own. He can’t do anything to risk that fragile trust, not even to spread the news that Donovan has been in and out of counselling for the past two months. Rumour has it that while Lestrade made the initial referral, Donovan has continued to see the in-house therapist on her own. Some members of the unit scorn her for it, but oddly enough, most of the investigators have just brushed it off as a hazard of the Job. Sean hasn’t been able to pry any more details out of the Yard’s grapevine than that.
The female Sergeant has been tight-lipped about everything personal since the inquiry board cleared her of wrongdoing. Sean has taken rightful pride in the lingering resentment most of the CID unit harbours towards her and Lestrade, but he has been unable to translate that into any changes in the power dynamics. Even with the strained working relationships, Donovan still remains one of the senior Detective Sergeants in their squad and retains her close proximity to Lestrade.
None of the other ranking sergeants has truly challenged her for that position. Part of it is that no one wants to work with Lestrade, given his current pariah status with On High. The inquiry board might have cleared him of misconduct, but the stink of Sherlock Holmes keeps all but Lestrade’s most stalwart colleagues away. There also seems to be unit-wide agreement that no one else should work with Lestrade. It is as if all the senior sergeants have suddenly lost their good sense and decided that Donovan should stay with the DI as some form of twisted murder-squad-style of penance for her behaviour. Every time a Lestrade-involved case comes up in the Sergeants’ brief, everyone passes the task to her as if nothing has changed in the past seven months. Sean is still too junior to make a play for her position, at least, not without raising some suspicions from his ‘colleagues.’ Another part of it is that Lestrade doesn’t seem willing to work with anyone else as his right hand. The gestures have been subtle on his part, but Sean has seen the older man consistently and visibly turn to Donovan as his implicit liaison with the rest of the squad’s sergeants and constables. The inspector is a nutter to trust a persistent bitch like Donovan, but the Boss never said Lestrade was a sane man.
“Boss!”
Looking as harried and exhausted as the rest of them, DS Tommy Lee strides up the stairs with a mobile in hand. He passes it to Lestrade.
“The DCI wants to talk to you.”
All three senior CID members exchange resigned glances as Lestrade accepts the call. He turns away to walk back down to the ground floor, tossing over his shoulder, “Sergeant, you’re in charge until I get back.”
For the briefest of moments, Sean wonders whom Lestrade is talking to before Donovan nods. “Yes, Sir.” The phrase is crisp and professional, as if she is a green constable still kissing her way up the ranks. It takes all Sean’s considerable experience to mask his inward sneer. Lee tilts his head with an unreadable expression.
“I’ve got to get back down,” he says flatly. “You all right up here?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’ll send a runner down if he needs to see anything.”
“Likewise.” Lee goes back to his post. A SOCO comes down from the main scene to talk with Donovan. Sean does his best to look busy, scouring the first floor for evidence. The second story of the abandoned building is a blood-splattered mess that he would prefer to avoid. He is a connoisseur in the art of dealing death, and the crime scene above his head is like a drunken baboon’s scrawl. It is simply painful to contemplate.
The heavy tread of someone sprinting up the rickety stairs is the only warning before PC Harris, all bright-eyed, idiotic belief in the bullshit about ‘working together for a safer London,’ bursts onto the first floor landing.
“Sergeant,” the lanky young man pants, “the media is here.”
Donovan swears under her breath and turns to Sean. “Pritchard, have you done your media liaison training yet?”
“No,” he lies. She frowns at him, but calls up the stairs to the main scene on the second story with an impressive bellow.
“Bronte!”
“Yeah?” comes the disembodied shout back.
“Media alert!”
It takes a minute, but the other female Detective Sergeant appears at the top of the second floor stairs, stripping off her gloves as she bitches, “Jesus Christ, Donovan, the day the Super lifts the ban on you talking to the press is the day I celebrate.”
Although the internal investigation is far from over, there has been a recent set of memos from On High. Most of it is bureaucratic nonsense repeating what every copper learns at Hendon, but there have been a few gems. Ever since Lestrade and Donovan returned to work, the official unofficial rule is that the two investigators are under a lifetime ban from ever speaking to the press again. The woman in question flashes a tight smile at her junior. “That’s five drinks on me, next pub night, for dealing with the vultures.”
“No point in you coming if you’re just buying and not drinking,” retorts Bronte, stripping off the protective gear and stuffing it into a sealed bag. She runs a hand through her messy hair. “How do I look?”
Donovan deadpans, “Like you’ve just stumbled out of bed.”
“Oi!” comes the heated response, “Like you look any better.” Bizarrely enough, the two women don’t look like they’re in a cat fight, trading shite-eating grins with each other. Sean can tell that it has to be one of those women things because Harris doesn’t look any more knowledgeable about what’s going on than he does.
Twisting his radio wire nervously, Harris chirps, “You look fine, Sergeant Bronte.”
“You, young man, will go far,” says Bronte with a quirk of her lips. “Now who have we got out there?”
Sean finds Donovan staring at him. She tilts her head toward the doorway. “Pritchard, don’t stand there and look pretty. Go help Harris secure the perimeter.” Dismissing his presence, she turns away and keys the radio. He goes, inwardly fuming at being ordered around. “Heads-up, everyone: the media is on scene. You know the drill.”
A chorus of clicks sound over the channel, the typical acknowledgement that the message has been received, before Beckett comes over the line and growls, “So we’re all on our best behaviour, eh? ‘Cause the first person to break from the script gets to buy two rounds at the next pub night. Who’s with the Boss?”
“I am,” says Lee. “And he’s with the DCI. I’ll keep him out of sight. Donovan?”
“I’m staying far away, and I will cheer for Manchester at the next pub night.” Profanities about the press drift down from the first floor landing before Donovan keys the radio again. “But only if Davies does his David Mitchell impression.”
The female constable posted at the bottom of the staircase snorts with dark amusement and Sean makes himself smile at her in faux bonhomie. Sergeant Davies is not amused by David Mitchell’s politics, but if plied with enough pints, he does a highly entertaining impression of the commenter’s (in)famous rants. Sean concedes that the image alone is enough for him to tolerate the sickeningly chummy pub nights.
Since he started this job, he has been to a few pubs with various colleagues. Most of his (grudging) attendance is to maintain the façade of the eager-but-clueless police officer. If Sean ignores his companions’ boring shenanigans, it’s actually not that bad to have a pint in hand, to watch a match on the telly, and be somewhere warm and dry. It certainly beats being out in the downpour, hunting down some suicidal criminal who pissed off the Boss. He can also scout people out for weaknesses. He knows that Kapur has a wife and three children. Like most women, Constable Dunne is a blonde lightweight; she also has an amazing set of lungs. Beckett’s husband is a schoolteacher over in Notting Hill. Saunders is smitten with one of the court clerks. Lestrade is divorced, with two children, both at universities not in London. Donovan is single, keeps to herself unless engaged, and is not a Manchester United fan. She doesn’t drink enough to get sloshed and, like any copper, guards her drinks carefully. No chance of slipping anything in her pint to make her an easy target. No chance of making her elimination anything other than suspicious. Bloody fucking bitch.
Sean almost runs over Lestrade in the darkened main foyer. He steps back with a hurried apology, but it goes unnoticed.
“We’ve got another one.” Lestrade runs a hand through his silvered hair in exhausted exasperation. Before Sean can say anything, the DI turns to his left and says, “Sergeant, with me.”
Appearing from nowhere, Donovan is already by his side, keys in her hand as he continues, “Montgomery is handling this one. We leave out back.”
“Where?” she asks, matching her stride to his as the two disgraced members of the CID move onto the next murder scene.
Sean permits himself to watch them go before turning back to his pointless vigil, guarding against a crime scene invasion of rats. It might not be time yet, but one day soon, he’ll be trusted and fast enough to take her place by Lestrade’s side.
All he needs is for her to slip up, and he is golden.
Continued in Part II