Fanfic be this away...
Title: The Good, The Bad and The Easily Bribed - Chapter One
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene (though none in this part)
Rating: Brown Cortina overall (this part white, with a hint of green?)
Word Count: 6292 (overall 7000)(comma not needed)
Spoilers: This part; one, maybe. Second season I think. The overall warning on the prologue sill stands; this fic assumes you know the ending to 2:08.
Summary: It’s 1974, Watergate continues apace, there are riots in London and in a small corner of Northern England a killer is stalking the streets of Manchester. As the world around him seems to break down can Gene Hunt keep control of his men and his patch? Or are there things afoot that even the Gene Genie can’t foresee?
A/N: Like boy has this been tough to write. Really difficult, which is why it’s taken so long. I really don’t know if this works. I hate the opening and I’m note sure about the rest of it. Conclusion: I’m so much happier writing character driven stuff. But I got myself into this and I’ll see it through. Cons crit welcomed, seriously, cos I think I’m rambling and the way this is going it looks like it’s going to turn into a novel.
Oh and last thing, this is unbetad. Given the length there will be typos. And probably some crap sentences. Sorry.
Feedback remains my recreational drug of choice. It still helps with motivation and it’s cheaper than crack.
Prologue
The Good, The Bad and The Easily Bribed
Chapter One
June 1974
The radio blared into life and Sam rolled over, opening his eyes, squinting a little against the bright, bright light streaming in through the ill fitting curtains. Outside he could hear the city, already awake, alert and alive. Busses and trams rumbling away in the distance and birds chirping from the rooftop. So different from before. So different to the future, where the double glazed windows and the ever present hum of five motorways drowned out the rest of world. Stretching he arched his back and flexed his toes, grinning to himself. Because he was awake, alert and alive. And too bloody hot.
He reached for his watch and glanced down at the tiny face. Seven in the morning and already the city was beginning to boil. He sighed and threw back the covers, heading for the shower, letting the slow trickle of cool, cleansing water flow over and around him.
Another day, another dollar. And about twenty five years to air conditioning. The radio blared out loud, tinny pop music as he dressed, slipping on trousers, shirt and boots to half remembered echoes of his childhood.
And it was just about perfect. An endless feedback loop of memories made and memories yet to form. Snippets of David Essex that pulled him back to the playground and beyond. Snippets of Essex that he’d technically never heard before. No one had heard before. Snippets of Essex that the man had never sung yet.
It was perfect, a self-contained little cocoon. His delusion of choice. And though he had no idea if he’d swallowed the red or the blue pill, it was good. Damn good.
Latching the door Sam headed out into the relative cool of the morning, the heels of his boots tapping rhythmically against the jutting and broken paving flags. Ignoring the car he turned left and walked toward the station, grinning like the lunatic half the station still thought he was.
Entering CID he grimaced at the scent of stale smoke and sweat that greeted him. Then, like every morning he emptied the ashtrays into Ray’s bin, raised the blinds, opened a few windows and sat down at his desk, ready for another round of ‘The Thorough Investigative Process versus Gene Hunt’. Really, it was like a TV show.
Pulling a pile of folders toward him Sam glanced down at the spine tags. Three robberies and one assault. His entire caseload. Four not vastly challenging cases. Selecting the assault case he began to work through the witness statements that Annie and Chris had spent most of yesterday collecting. His notepad lay to the side of the desk and he tugged it toward him, tore out the sheet on which Ray had scrawled ‘Twonk’, tossed it into the bin and wrote the date across the top of the sheet in neat, constrained little numbers. Soon names, more dates, a few places, snippets of arguments and insults adorned the page. Little salient facts; lives and relationships pared down to the bone. Simple, neat and easy little reminders.
After an hour or so he sat back and regarded his work, tapping the pencil idly on the side of the desk. It never ceased to amaze him just how easy it was to dissect and analyse a life. Two lives. Victim and perpetrator. Never ceased to amaze him how the tangled, complex mass of living, breathing people boiled down to the same thing, time and time again. Boiled down to money and testosterone and beer. At least in this instance.
Reaching for a red pen he underlined a name. Tearing out the page he clipped it to the summary sheet and shut the file. Case closed. Only the small matter of an interview and a date with the magistrate.
From down the hall Sam could hear footsteps approaching; a calm, steady and easy pace. He glanced at the clock. 9:03. Gene.
Sam glanced around the deserted office and closed his eyes, savouring the final moments of peace. The final moments of uninterrupted calm, before the easy, simple logic of method became tangled up in the visceral ball of emotion and gut that was Gene Hunt and his band of merry men.
Behind him the doors swung open. Sam opened his eyes. 9:04. No traffic on the bypass today then.
The footsteps behind him slowed and he heard Gene sigh loudly before stomping over to the windows and yanking them closed.
Sam leant back in his chair, stretching his legs, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Told you before Tyler,” Gene said, “Windows in this place are like a kikey shop on a Saturday; firmly shut.”
Sam rolled his eyes, “it’s just fresh air,” he pointed out, choosing to ignore the racist remark, “this place smells like a brewery has taken up residence in the men’s locker room and then somebody put the heating on for a week.”
“And this is Manchester,” Gene countered as he headed toward his office, “the only fresh air round here is the stuff that comes out of a can. And fresh air and CID don’t mix. You’ll confuse Chris, poor lad wont know what to do when all that pure oxygen flows into his brain. He might have an idea. Could be dangerous.”
“Guv,” Sam began as he stood up, following the DCI across the room, “I’ve got a theory about the Swann case.”
Gene tossed his jacket onto the hat stand and stared back at Sam. He shoved his hands into his pockets and raised an eyebrow.
“Does it involve…leprechauns?” he asked idly.
Sam cocked his head to one side and regarded his DCI with something akin to calm resignation. So it was going to be one of those days. “Not that I’m aware of,” he responded evenly, refusing to rise.
“Diana Dors?” Gene suggested as his eyes caught a piece of tattered newspaper, pinned to a pillar. Sam merely shook his head.
“Does it involve…” Gene began and paused, staring off into the middle distance as he contemplated his response.
“Guv,” Sam interrupted impatiently, “I didn’t come in here for a game of charades or eye-spy.”
Gene’s eyes narrowed a little and he glared at his DI, “Oddly enough, Tyler, neither did I. Now will the entire Manchester underworld secretly rejoice if I don’t hear this theory of yours for another twenty minutes?”
“No,” Sam concluded, a little exasperation creeping into his tone.
“Good, then piss off. I have a date with the canteen, some bacon, a dollop of brown sauce and Joan behind the counter. I do so love the way the her skin glistens with grease splatters in the early morning.”
And with that Gene ambled past him.
Sam stood in the office for a few moments and barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was definitely going to be one of those days. Sighing audibly he turned and followed after Gene, jogging a little to catch up with the elder man.
“I said piss off,” Gene pointed out as they stepped into the lift together.
Sam smiled as he leant back against the wall because though his words were harsh Gene’s tone held no anger or spite.
“I must have missed that memo,” Sam told him with a quick grin as he pressed the button for the ground floor, never tiring of the easy ebb and flow between him and his DCI.
“Go on then, out with it,” Gene insisted as the door rolled shut and the lift jerked downward, “I can see you’re not going to be happy until you’ve had your little morning confessional. What’s this ground breaking theory of yours?”
“Banksy Jones,” Sam told him, “he’s responsible for the assault on Paul Swann.”
“Told you that yesterday,” Gene pointed out with a self-satisfied smirk of his own as they reached the ground floor, the doors opening onto a corridor that looked remarkably similar to every other corridor in the station. In fact the only thing that distinguished it was the sickening smell of institutional cooking; grease and starch; hospitals and schools. That and the way Sam’s shoes always seemed to stick to the floor.
“No,” Sam contradicted as they pushed open the canteen doors, “You said it was Steve Jones, his elder brother.”
Gene shrugged, “so I was a sibling out. Got the right family though didn’t I? Told you it was them. Vicious little sods every last one of ‘em. Nabbed the mother once for flogging some dodgy CB radios at the Nash. Nearly took the end of me thumb off with her teeth.”
“Know how she feels,” Sam muttered under his breath as they approached the serving hatch.
“In the interest of a good working relationship I shall forget you ever said that,” Gene told him, “now since you seem to be here for the duration of my breakfast and I refuse to sit opposite a man who has nothing better to do than count how many times I chew, what do you want?”
Sam cast his eyes over the gleaming metal servers; noted the bacon and sausages glistening with grease, the rapidly congealing eggs, toast that appeared to be soggy or burnt and felt his stomach turn over.
“Yakult,” he declared longingly, “but I’ll settle for a coffee. Black, please,” he added, smiling to Joan.
Gene glanced at him and grimaced, “Sometime I wonder why you even bother pretending to be normal,” he said. “Oh, give wonder-boy here his caffeine fix and I’ll have me usual love,” Gene told the young woman as he rubbed his hands expectantly.
Taking the steaming cup with a nod of thanks Sam followed Gene as he walked across the canteen, heading toward Ray and Chris. Sam glanced around as he sat down, noting almost all of CID somewhere in the vicinity.
“Does anybody in this station actually eat at home?” he asked incredulously.
“Why would we want to boss?” Chris asked as he leant back in his chair, sipping a cup of very milky tea, "free food innit?”
“It’s a long, slow dance toward clogged arteries,” Sam said regarding their plates with horror, “I’m also assuming you’re clocked on at the minute?”
At this Chris ducked his head a little though Ray merely levelled his eyes and shrugged, the challenge clear in his eyes.
“Drink your breakfast Tyler,” Gene ordered as he opened the butty and applied a liberal serving of sauce with obvious glee.
“So go on then, astound me,” Gene continued as he bit into his bacon sandwich.
“Elton John is gay,” Sam muttered snippily as he hunched down in his seat.
“That’s not astounding, that’s stating the bleeding obvious, try again,” Gene retorted though a mouthful of breakfast.
Sam sighed and placed his mug on the table.
“Alright, we already know that Banksy owed Swann twenty quid.”
“For the work on his car,” Chris interjected.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “so when he wouldn’t pay up Swann, tanked up on five hours of beer, decides to take it by force, interrupts the pool game between Banksy and Steve, starts a fight, gets himself thrown out of the pub. Only he doesn’t leave and was seen hanging around by the side door. Half an hour later Banksy leaves two thirds of a pint on the bar and doesn’t return. At 10:15 Steve heads to the toilets. 10:20 he’s found standing over Swann, blood on his shirt and some splatters on his hands, bruising to the knuckles.”
“Like I said, he did it,” Gene confirmed.
Sam shook his head. “It makes no sense. Why would he beat up a man that he had no argument with?”
“Family loyalty,” Gene suggested, “you saw his hands Sam.”
“Nah,” Sam began with a shake of this head, “we already know they had a punch up in the pub. And there are four witness that saw Steve miss a punch and smash his hand into the wall during the fight. Now most of the wounds to Swann’s face are what you’d expect, playground ones; Split lip, nose bent out of joint. Kids stuff. What did the damage was the small matter of a knife wound to his stomach.”
“Which was on the floor, not two yards from where we found Steve, standing over Swann who was bleeding like a stuck pig,” Gene told him.
“But it’s a very distinctive knife; switchblade with a carved bone handle and I’ve got another four people telling me that it’s Banksy’s.”
“So he gave the knife to his brother and pissed off home. Your point?” Gene demanded.
“So what?” Sam demanded, “You think Banksy gave the knife to his bother and left the pub with the parting shot, ‘tell you what I’m going home now but you keep this on the off chance that Swann pops back here in say an hour and halfs time, cos I’d really like you to knife him for me, get arrested and carry the can?”
Gene shrugged, “don’t know. Don’t care. I’ve got a violent criminal locked up in the cells and I’m happy.”
“He didn’t do it,” Sam insisted, “look, we know that at about half nine Banksy left the bar and we know that at about quarter past Swann was still hovering around by the side entrance. The entrance that can’t be seen from main room and is on the same corridor as the gents. The way I see it Banksy heads off to the toilets, Swann sees him, confronts him again, Banksy stabs him and flees the scene.”
“That’s all supposition,” Gene pointed out, “you’ve got no witnesses that actually saw what happened. For all you know Banksy could have walked right out the front door, caught the bus home and been curled up in front of the telly while his brother helpfully knifes the bloke he hates.”
“So why did he leave most of his pint?” Sam asked with a smirk.
“Eh?” Gene demanded.
“He left a barely touched pint on the bar. Who leaves perfectly good alcohol on the bar and walks out of a pub, to catch the bus home and watch telly according to your theory. Would any of you do it?” he demanded, grinning widely at the blank faces that started back at him.
“And this is what you’ve spent the morning deducting?” Gene questioned, deliberately avoiding the question, “some half baked theory based on leftovers in a pub?”
“Oh yeah, I’m good!” Sam confirmed with a grin as he kicked out his legs and leant back in his chair.
Behind them the double doors to the canteen banged open.
“Does anybody around here do any work?” Phyllis demanded as she glanced around the canteen, “The phone’s been ringing off the hook, there’s no bugger in CID and once again I repeat, I am not your secretary.”
“Grub time Phyllis,” Gene told her as he patted his stomach, “man needs his fuel.”
“Yeah? Well when you’re done playing at being Fay Maschler, Tameside have just phoned through. They’ve found the body of a girl up on the moors.”
“Why are they phoning us?” Sam queried even as he knocked back the rest of his cold coffee and stood up, tucking the plastic chair neatly behind the table.
“Didn’t say,” Phyllis said tartly, “the didn’t give me a full weather report or the name of their tailor, only said that they want someone up there, sharpish like.”
“Murder most horrid,” Gene commented as he stood up, raising his eyebrows theatrically.
Sam sighed as he dropped his coffee mug onto the table top. “Is it possible, at all possible, just once, that you enter a situation with an open mind?” he asked, “We don’t even know this is a murder.”
“And,” Phyllis continued, ignoring the brewing argument between Sam and Gene, “there’s another body down by the canal.”
“Oh great, bloody junkies,” Ray griped as he tossed his fork onto his plate.
“Right,” Gene commanded, “Ray. Chris. You’re taking a trip down the tow path.”
“Fucking marvellous,” Ray began, “why do I always get dead hippies?”
“Well I don’t want them,” Gene told him with a grin, “boring is what they are.”
“Well why doesn’t he get the junkies?” Ray demanded, jabbing a finger in the direction of Sam.
Gene raised an eyebrow and turned to Sam who merely crossed his arms and frowned.
“’Cause he’s with me,” Gene said and, knowing an exit line when he saw one, headed for the doors.
Sam remained where he was and smirked at Ray who merely snarled in response.
“Tyler!” Gene yelled from the doorway, “Arse. Car. Now.”
Sam grinned as he snagged his jacket from the back of the chair, tossing it over his shoulder. Then with great relish he blew a kiss to Ray and followed after Gene.
“Like ordering my arse around do you Gov?” He queried as they bounded up the stairs and existed into the bright, early morning sunshine, a wave of humid heat hitting them as the doors rocked shut behind them.
“In your dreams Sammy Boy,” Gene countered as he paused to put on a pair of sunglasses.
Sam laughed out loud as they bounded down the steps, “Oh I have those, want to hear one?”
“Nope, you can save it for your therapist. Or WDC psychotricks,” Gene declared firmly as they reached the car, both opening their respective doors with an odd synchronicity.
Sam rolled his eyes and slipped into the car. The air within was even more humid than outside, the leather seats a little too warm against his skin and for a second Sam struggled to breathe. Then rolling down the window he reached for the ceiling handle and braced himself as Gene slammed the car into first, roaring off into the early morning traffic.
As they passed through the inner city, weaving and dodging through alleys, Gene navigating his own unique rat-run, Sam reached for the radio and hailed the station. “Got a location on that body, Phyllis?” he asked.
“Out toward Mossley,” she told them, “there’s a beauty spot five miles before the town, A653. Body’s at the bottom of some ravine or other. I’m sure you’ll spot the circus.”
“Thanks,” Sam told her and cut the connection, throwing the robust radio onto the dashboard where it skidded to a halt, thudding against the windscreen.
“Well I hope you packed a picnic,” Gene commented as they careered across the Old High Street.
“It’s only ten miles,” Sam pointed out, wincing a little as the car narrowly avoided a temporary bus stop sign.
“It’s half way to Yorkshire is what it is,” Gene muttered, “You can bloody well see it from there.”
“Yeah if you remove the tops of the Pennines,” Sam agreed sarcastically, “anyway if you keep up this speed we’ll be there in just over…twelve minutes,” he computed, glancing down at the speedometer.
Gene merely grunted in response and they lapsed into silence as they continued to wind through streets and alleys. Soon shops and pedestrians gave way to the quieter suburbs and then with a startling abruptness the city vanished and they began the climb up into the hills.
Out on the clear, quiet roads Sam relaxed back in his seat, arm resting on the window, basking in the warm sunshine, watching as the green foothills gradually gave way to the sparser, rougher landscape of the moors with their sturdy, hardly sheep and deep, dark millstone grit. Sam smiled to himself, remembering weekend camping trips from uni and a couple of brutal training exercises. Situations and scenarios that never really happened. Or hadn’t happened yet. Might never happen. But memories nonetheless. Good times. And the landscape was striking in its sparse beauty. Clearer than he remembered. Fewer power lines; the Ovenden wind-farm twenty years away. No dying farms advertising cafés and ice cream parlours and visitors’ centres.
Just the moor, her grass slightly yellowed in the heat and the rush of warm, sweet air against his skin.
Climbing ever higher they eventually rounded a bend in the road and saw a police car in a roadside car park. Barely bothering to slow the car Gene turned off the road and came to a screeching halt, a cloud of dust rising up from the overheated tarmac.
Sam stepped from the car and took in the scene. It was like something out of heartbeat. An old, grey haired constable leant against the bonnet of his car, smoking a cigarette, one foot raised, resting against the paintwork. Behind them a large limestone cliff loomed and before them lay a river valley, shielded only by a low, metal barrier.
“DI Tyler, DCI Hunt, Manchester CID,” Sam said as he approached the old man.
“PC Brecks,” he responded, taking the proffered hand. “She’s down there,” he added, nodding toward the precipice.
Sam wandered over to the railing and glanced down the incline. Squinting a little he could make out a patch of red against some dry, brown ground.
“Any way down?” Sam asked as Gene came to stand beside him, eyes following Sam’s gaze.
“There’s a path this way,” Brecks said moving away to the left, stepping awkwardly over the barrier, “but it’s a bit of a scramble.”
“Well you wanted fresh air Tyler,” Gene commented as they began to pick their way carefully down the incline, stepping over sparse, wiry heather.
“I did,” Sam agreed as he glanced around with a quick grin, “it’s not like you to be so accommodating.”
“I won an argument over breakfast. It always puts me in a good mood.”
“You did not win an argument,” Sam pointed out as he rested a hand against a low rock, stepping over a gorse bush, “I’ve sent the knife to forensics and the fingerprints will prove me right.”
“Maybe they will. Maybe they wont,” Gene commented idly as he mirrored Sam’s action, “but until then I’m keeping Steve locked up. Cos I’m right.”
Sam rolled his eyes, “You do know that restating the same flawed logic over and over again doesn’t actually mean you’re right?” he asked.
“I’m the Sheriff,” Gene declared firmly as they reached the level ground and began to make their way toward the body. Giving the argument up as a lost cause Sam stepped ahead, glancing around with interest as they approached the prone figure. Then, as Gene and Brecks stood to one side he stepped carefully toward the girl, pacing around her in a tight circle, brown eyes carefully noting and cataloguing.
She lay at an odd angle, one knee bent under her body, leg clearly broken. Long, blonde hair spiralled around her head, some draped across her face, twigs, moss and debris tangled into the strands. But even in this disarray it was obvious that it was carefully styled and her finger nails were long, painted in a garish red that matched her light, cotton top.
Sam crouched down and carefully lifted her hand, twisting the fingers into the light, glancing under the nails. Nothing. Or at least nothing obvious. Stepping back he glanced up toward the car park, casting a long gaze across the ridge and then glanced back toward the body. Stepping two paces back he repeated the process and then nodded to himself.
Gene stood happily to one side, content to let Sam work his unique magic. Lighting a cigarette he took a long drag and then took his first good look at the girl. Pretty thing. Young. Blond. Skinny, but with curves in the right places. A right little looker. Bit dolled up, but they all were these days. He took another long drag. Red top, short black skirt, kitten heels. Nice.
Was nice, he corrected. Barely twenty, he guessed. Same age as the Missus’ niece. He felt his stomach tighten and a weight settle over his shoulders.
He took another drag. This was going to be bad. And whatever Sam might say it wasn’t a hunch. This was bad; his gut told him so.
Beside him Brecks reached up to a small ledge and retrieved a sequined hand bag, large and a little bulky.
“What’s he doing?” Brecks asked in a stage whisper.
“Oh he does this,” Gene told the bemused constable, “regular little Miss Marple. In a minute he’ll lick his finger, hold it up to the wind and tell you all the evidence points to Colonel Mustard. Then he’ll tell you black is white and spend three weeks running around the station with his head suck up his arse until someone forcibly drags it out.”
"She wasn’t killed here,” Sam noted, raising his voice a little. Gene glanced at the constable and raised his eyebrows feeling his point rather well proven.
“How do you know that?” Gene demanded.
“Body position,” Sam began. “It’s unnatural. At a guess her spine’s broken. And her clothing is torn, a shoe missing. She’s been tossed from up top,” Sam explained, disgust and sympathy lacing his tone.
Gene took a drag of his cigarette and followed Sam’s eyes upward.
“Could have fallen? So she back broke on the way down, doesn’t mean owt. She might have hit a rock and that’s what killed her. Lover’s tiff in the car park? Maybe she was just pissed, fell over?” He suggested, instinctively offering a differing opinion.
“Fascinating though this novel of yours is,” Sam muttered as he moved back toward the body, “I think I’ll wait for the movie.” But despite himself he gave some credence to Gene’s suggestions, contemplated them, turned them over in his head.
Bending down again he cast a long glance over the woman, head to toe. Lifting a stick from the ground he carefully peeled back the sleeve of her cardigan where it was torn, inspecting the flesh beneath.
“No,” he eventually declared, “she was dead long before the body was dumped. See these abrasions here? And the scratches on her legs? There’s no blood, just dirt and dust. If she was alive as she fell then these cuts would have bled. Some bruising though,” he noted. “Fresh. Probably inflicted just prior to death.”
“Or just after,” Gene pointed out.
“True,” Sam agreed, surprise lacing his tone. He glanced up at Gene, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun and wondered just when Gene had started listening to him.
“We need to get forensics down here as soon as possible,” he concluded, standing up and rubbing his dusty hands over his jeans.
“On their way,” the young constable commented, “your desk sergeant said you’d want them.”
Sam nodded his understanding and ignored Gene’s disparaging grunt. “Right then, you stay here until they arrive. I want the entire scene sealed off. Don’t interfere with them. Let them work. When they’re done search the area. Find her missing shoe. And record where it was found, to the nearest millimetre.”
“Nearest what?”
Sam sighed, “nearest eighth of an inch if it makes it easier for you. But you might want to get used to the metric system, they have been teaching it for nearly ten years.”
“Oi, watch it,” Gene said, “some of us like the old way. Anyway they’re never going to get rid of feet and inches, no one in Britain would stand for it.”
“Well you’re right there,” Sam agreed with a grimace, “Bloody Daily Mail. That her handbag?” he asked with a nod to the bag the constable held.
“There’s nowt missing,” Brecks noted as he passed it to Hunt.
Gene accepted it with a nod and opened it, cigarette dangling from his lip.
“Purse; fiver in it,” Gene noted with surprise as he flicked through, “house keys, make-up and usual bird bollocks; he’s right,” Hunt agreed, passing the handbag to Sam who approached them with his usual swagger.
“This was found with the body?” Sam asked as he accepted it, peering into the interior.
“Nah, it was on the path up there. A dog walked found it this morning. That’s who found her. Well the dog found her really,” Brecks explained.
Sam sighed out loud and glanced down at the bag, “I don’t suppose anyone gave a second thought to getting prints from it?” he asked, though he knew the question was pointless. “And it was up here?” he continued, bounding a little way back up the slope.
“Yeah, by that rock he said.”
“Where is the dog walker?” Sam asked as he glanced upward again.
“Dunno,” Brecks told him with a light shrug, “Sent him on his way. Nowt else he could tell us.”
Sam raised an eyebrow and walked back toward the two men, “Did you get a name, an address?” he suggested.
Brecks shook his head, “Nah, like I said, nowt else he could tell us.”
“Okay,” Sam said with a patience he didn’t really feel, “what did he tell you.”
“Where the body was,” the constable repeated, confusion colouring his features.
“Forget it,” Sam muttered dismissively as he moved back to the body. He stood still, glancing down at the girl, a slight frown on his face as he turned the bag over in his hands.
“What is it?” Gene asked as he ambled toward him, knowing that the tense set of Sam’s shoulders meant only one thing.
“Well look at he strap,” Sam told him, holding it up for inspection.
“Yeah, what of it?” Gene demanded a little aggressively, as he was wont to do when Sam stared on his forensic supposition bollocks
“Well it’s perfect,” Sam pointed out, “there’s not a break in it, not even an abrasion.”
“So?” Gene asked with a sigh.
“So if it was on her body when they threw her over it would still be with the body. And if it was on her body but broke off during the fall the strap would be damaged. So they must have thrown it down after her.”
“And…?”
“And so she was probably tossed from about, there,” Sam suggested indicating a point on the ledge above them. Now the body will have rolled around a lot, might have banged against something on the way down, so you can’t use it to deduce where she was thrown from. But the bag’s a lot lighter, didn’t travel as far, that’s why it ended up higher up. There was no wind last night and no reason for it to have been disturbed or moved so the fact that it was sat on the path means it was probably dropped from a point directly above.”
Gene paused and glanced upward. “’bout there you reckon?” he asked, indicating a point on the ridge.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, following Gene’s finger, “near enough.”
“So you mean she was dumped from the car park?” Gene asked with a raised eyebrow, “Thank god I have your forensic mind and incisive reasoning, where would we be without you?”.
“The other thing,” Sam continued, ignoring the jibe, “is why toss the handbag down after her?”
“God I don’t know,” Gene said, “maybe to avoid the interesting little scenario where you do the usual, pull a rabbit out of a hat, we arrest some slimy toe rag scum ball and when I bust he door down, there, sat on the hall table is the handbag. Bloody incriminating evidence. That stuff you and the judges seems to like.”
“Exactly, it’s evidence,” Sam pointed out, “You don’t dump a body and then helpfully throw the victims personal effects down after them. If the handbag was with her it either means she was killed close to this spot, which is a little unlikely, I mean where around here are you going to murder someone? Or, as I think is more likely, she was killed elsewhere and brought here. Now if you’d just murdered someone you wouldn’t stop to pick up her handbag, you’d sling it into the nearest bin, let the council take it to the dump where it’s never heard of again.”
“Get to the bloody point Tyler,” Gene grumbled, though his eyes remained bright and interested, “I have a meeting with the Super next Tuesday I don’t want to be late for.”
“So perhaps there was something in the handbag?” Sam suggested, “Something that was important. Something whoever it was killed her, took out and then tossed the handbag when he’d got what he wanted.”
“Now I think it’s my turn to wait for the film,” Gene pointed out.
Sam shrugged and moved to one side, opening up the purse and glancing through it. Several small, card wallets caught his attention and he drew them out.
“Manchester Central Library,” he read turning over the orange packets, noting the stamp on the back.
“That’s why we phoned you,” Brecks said as he stepped forward, deliberately avoiding looking at the body.
“There are cards in them,” Sam noted as he dropped them back into the purse, sealing the handbag and slipping it under his arm.
“City girl,” Gene noted with a nod, “well at least getting a name and an address should be easy. Owt else we need to know,” he asked Brecks.
The constable shrugged a shoulder and shook his head.
“Right,” Sam began, “you stay here. Remember what I said about forensics. Nothing gets moved until they’re done. No matter how long it takes. You got that?”
The constable nodded his assent and Sam moved away, beginning the climb back up toward the car park.
“Bloody hell, he always like this?” Brecks asked once Sam was safely out of earshot.
Gene narrowed his eyes and glared at man from beneath the shade of his hand. “You could do a lot worse than pay attention to some like Tyler,” he pointed out gruffly, and then tossing his cigarette onto the ground, Gene marched away, following Sam up the hill.
“Car was parked here,” Sam noted as Gene hauled himself onto the tarmac, panting and puffing with the effort. Leaning heavily against the police car Gene struggled to regain his breath and glanced down at the clearly preserved tyre marks in the dry, dusty car park.
“Forensics should take a look up here as well,” Sam continued, “we might get lucky and get the make and model of the tyre. Narrow down the search for the car a bit.”
Wandering off toward the ledge Sam peered down over the edge and began to write in his note book. Gene patted his pockets and locating a hip flask took a quick drag, happy to let Sam work. This was Sam’s element. Detail. Tiny little insignificant details that he spend hours writing down and pouring over. Tiny little details that every now and again proved useful. Not that he’d ever admit that to Sam.
Capping the flask Gene dropped it into his trouser pocket and lit another cigarette, glancing up at the sky as he did so. It was bright blue, clear and shining. An odd counterpart to the crime scene. And once again he felt that weight settle over his shoulders and a black mood begin to creep over him.
Pushing himself up he wandered over to Sam and stared out over the valley. Beside him Sam paused, snapped the notebook shut and slipped it into this back pocket.
They stood in silence, broken occasionally by the chatter of birds or the hum of a car on the road.
“So what do you think Sam?” Gene eventually asked.
“Too early to say,” came the expected response.
Gene grunted.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” Sam said as they stood staring out over the moors, eyes following the river bed as it coiled and narrowed, meandering up toward Stalybridge and the barren tops.
“Dry, yellow grass and sheep? Yeah bloody perfect,” Gene agreed, “get one of those forensics of yours to take a snap. We could put it on a postcard.”
Sam raised an eyebrow and they both instinctively glanced down into the valley, eyes drawn to the eerily still corpse.
Gene finished his cigarette and tossed the tab end over the ledge, watching as it hovered briefly in the air before plummeting toward the ground.
“You shouldn’t do that Gov,” Sam noted absently, “the moor’s dry as tinder. You could send the whole lot up.”
Gene ignored the comment, eyes remaining fixed on the brash, bright red top. Too brash. Too bright.
“She was just a young lass,” Gene eventually commented. “And that junkie Chris and Ray are on, be another kid. Two sets of parents going to get a knock on the door and we are the lucky buggers that get to watch the light go out of their eyes.”
”Part of the job,” Sam commented, though not unkindly, “We do get to lock people up as well,” he pointed out.
“Yeah,” Gene agreed though his tone held no real joy. “Sometimes it’s not enough though is it? Because they get younger and maybe I’m getting old but there seem to be more and more bodies.”
“I think it has to be enough,” Sam offered carefully as he glanced over at Gene, noting the slight slump of his shoulders, “otherwise you stop caring. Become bitter. And then you either drink yourself to death or…”
“Or what?” Gene demanded as Sam trailed off.
“End up like Harry Wolfe,” Sam finished quietly, letting the comment sit heavily between them.
“Right,” Gene suddenly said, pushing himself away from the barrier, all action and energy once again. “Back to the smoke, there’s a bastard murderer and a bastard pusher on the loose in my city and I want them caught. Preferably before tea time. I’m having beef and it doesn’t go well with unfinished business.”
Sam shook his head and smiled to himself as he walked back to the Cortina. Because to Gene things were always that simple. Good and bad. Black and white. Only it rarely worked out like that. So very rarely.
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene (though none in this part)
Rating: Brown Cortina overall (this part white, with a hint of green?)
Word Count: 6292 (overall 7000)(comma not needed)
Spoilers: This part; one, maybe. Second season I think. The overall warning on the prologue sill stands; this fic assumes you know the ending to 2:08.
Summary: It’s 1974, Watergate continues apace, there are riots in London and in a small corner of Northern England a killer is stalking the streets of Manchester. As the world around him seems to break down can Gene Hunt keep control of his men and his patch? Or are there things afoot that even the Gene Genie can’t foresee?
A/N: Like boy has this been tough to write. Really difficult, which is why it’s taken so long. I really don’t know if this works. I hate the opening and I’m note sure about the rest of it. Conclusion: I’m so much happier writing character driven stuff. But I got myself into this and I’ll see it through. Cons crit welcomed, seriously, cos I think I’m rambling and the way this is going it looks like it’s going to turn into a novel.
Oh and last thing, this is unbetad. Given the length there will be typos. And probably some crap sentences. Sorry.
Feedback remains my recreational drug of choice. It still helps with motivation and it’s cheaper than crack.
Prologue
The Good, The Bad and The Easily Bribed
Chapter One
June 1974
The radio blared into life and Sam rolled over, opening his eyes, squinting a little against the bright, bright light streaming in through the ill fitting curtains. Outside he could hear the city, already awake, alert and alive. Busses and trams rumbling away in the distance and birds chirping from the rooftop. So different from before. So different to the future, where the double glazed windows and the ever present hum of five motorways drowned out the rest of world. Stretching he arched his back and flexed his toes, grinning to himself. Because he was awake, alert and alive. And too bloody hot.
He reached for his watch and glanced down at the tiny face. Seven in the morning and already the city was beginning to boil. He sighed and threw back the covers, heading for the shower, letting the slow trickle of cool, cleansing water flow over and around him.
Another day, another dollar. And about twenty five years to air conditioning. The radio blared out loud, tinny pop music as he dressed, slipping on trousers, shirt and boots to half remembered echoes of his childhood.
And it was just about perfect. An endless feedback loop of memories made and memories yet to form. Snippets of David Essex that pulled him back to the playground and beyond. Snippets of Essex that he’d technically never heard before. No one had heard before. Snippets of Essex that the man had never sung yet.
It was perfect, a self-contained little cocoon. His delusion of choice. And though he had no idea if he’d swallowed the red or the blue pill, it was good. Damn good.
Latching the door Sam headed out into the relative cool of the morning, the heels of his boots tapping rhythmically against the jutting and broken paving flags. Ignoring the car he turned left and walked toward the station, grinning like the lunatic half the station still thought he was.
Entering CID he grimaced at the scent of stale smoke and sweat that greeted him. Then, like every morning he emptied the ashtrays into Ray’s bin, raised the blinds, opened a few windows and sat down at his desk, ready for another round of ‘The Thorough Investigative Process versus Gene Hunt’. Really, it was like a TV show.
Pulling a pile of folders toward him Sam glanced down at the spine tags. Three robberies and one assault. His entire caseload. Four not vastly challenging cases. Selecting the assault case he began to work through the witness statements that Annie and Chris had spent most of yesterday collecting. His notepad lay to the side of the desk and he tugged it toward him, tore out the sheet on which Ray had scrawled ‘Twonk’, tossed it into the bin and wrote the date across the top of the sheet in neat, constrained little numbers. Soon names, more dates, a few places, snippets of arguments and insults adorned the page. Little salient facts; lives and relationships pared down to the bone. Simple, neat and easy little reminders.
After an hour or so he sat back and regarded his work, tapping the pencil idly on the side of the desk. It never ceased to amaze him just how easy it was to dissect and analyse a life. Two lives. Victim and perpetrator. Never ceased to amaze him how the tangled, complex mass of living, breathing people boiled down to the same thing, time and time again. Boiled down to money and testosterone and beer. At least in this instance.
Reaching for a red pen he underlined a name. Tearing out the page he clipped it to the summary sheet and shut the file. Case closed. Only the small matter of an interview and a date with the magistrate.
From down the hall Sam could hear footsteps approaching; a calm, steady and easy pace. He glanced at the clock. 9:03. Gene.
Sam glanced around the deserted office and closed his eyes, savouring the final moments of peace. The final moments of uninterrupted calm, before the easy, simple logic of method became tangled up in the visceral ball of emotion and gut that was Gene Hunt and his band of merry men.
Behind him the doors swung open. Sam opened his eyes. 9:04. No traffic on the bypass today then.
The footsteps behind him slowed and he heard Gene sigh loudly before stomping over to the windows and yanking them closed.
Sam leant back in his chair, stretching his legs, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Told you before Tyler,” Gene said, “Windows in this place are like a kikey shop on a Saturday; firmly shut.”
Sam rolled his eyes, “it’s just fresh air,” he pointed out, choosing to ignore the racist remark, “this place smells like a brewery has taken up residence in the men’s locker room and then somebody put the heating on for a week.”
“And this is Manchester,” Gene countered as he headed toward his office, “the only fresh air round here is the stuff that comes out of a can. And fresh air and CID don’t mix. You’ll confuse Chris, poor lad wont know what to do when all that pure oxygen flows into his brain. He might have an idea. Could be dangerous.”
“Guv,” Sam began as he stood up, following the DCI across the room, “I’ve got a theory about the Swann case.”
Gene tossed his jacket onto the hat stand and stared back at Sam. He shoved his hands into his pockets and raised an eyebrow.
“Does it involve…leprechauns?” he asked idly.
Sam cocked his head to one side and regarded his DCI with something akin to calm resignation. So it was going to be one of those days. “Not that I’m aware of,” he responded evenly, refusing to rise.
“Diana Dors?” Gene suggested as his eyes caught a piece of tattered newspaper, pinned to a pillar. Sam merely shook his head.
“Does it involve…” Gene began and paused, staring off into the middle distance as he contemplated his response.
“Guv,” Sam interrupted impatiently, “I didn’t come in here for a game of charades or eye-spy.”
Gene’s eyes narrowed a little and he glared at his DI, “Oddly enough, Tyler, neither did I. Now will the entire Manchester underworld secretly rejoice if I don’t hear this theory of yours for another twenty minutes?”
“No,” Sam concluded, a little exasperation creeping into his tone.
“Good, then piss off. I have a date with the canteen, some bacon, a dollop of brown sauce and Joan behind the counter. I do so love the way the her skin glistens with grease splatters in the early morning.”
And with that Gene ambled past him.
Sam stood in the office for a few moments and barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was definitely going to be one of those days. Sighing audibly he turned and followed after Gene, jogging a little to catch up with the elder man.
“I said piss off,” Gene pointed out as they stepped into the lift together.
Sam smiled as he leant back against the wall because though his words were harsh Gene’s tone held no anger or spite.
“I must have missed that memo,” Sam told him with a quick grin as he pressed the button for the ground floor, never tiring of the easy ebb and flow between him and his DCI.
“Go on then, out with it,” Gene insisted as the door rolled shut and the lift jerked downward, “I can see you’re not going to be happy until you’ve had your little morning confessional. What’s this ground breaking theory of yours?”
“Banksy Jones,” Sam told him, “he’s responsible for the assault on Paul Swann.”
“Told you that yesterday,” Gene pointed out with a self-satisfied smirk of his own as they reached the ground floor, the doors opening onto a corridor that looked remarkably similar to every other corridor in the station. In fact the only thing that distinguished it was the sickening smell of institutional cooking; grease and starch; hospitals and schools. That and the way Sam’s shoes always seemed to stick to the floor.
“No,” Sam contradicted as they pushed open the canteen doors, “You said it was Steve Jones, his elder brother.”
Gene shrugged, “so I was a sibling out. Got the right family though didn’t I? Told you it was them. Vicious little sods every last one of ‘em. Nabbed the mother once for flogging some dodgy CB radios at the Nash. Nearly took the end of me thumb off with her teeth.”
“Know how she feels,” Sam muttered under his breath as they approached the serving hatch.
“In the interest of a good working relationship I shall forget you ever said that,” Gene told him, “now since you seem to be here for the duration of my breakfast and I refuse to sit opposite a man who has nothing better to do than count how many times I chew, what do you want?”
Sam cast his eyes over the gleaming metal servers; noted the bacon and sausages glistening with grease, the rapidly congealing eggs, toast that appeared to be soggy or burnt and felt his stomach turn over.
“Yakult,” he declared longingly, “but I’ll settle for a coffee. Black, please,” he added, smiling to Joan.
Gene glanced at him and grimaced, “Sometime I wonder why you even bother pretending to be normal,” he said. “Oh, give wonder-boy here his caffeine fix and I’ll have me usual love,” Gene told the young woman as he rubbed his hands expectantly.
Taking the steaming cup with a nod of thanks Sam followed Gene as he walked across the canteen, heading toward Ray and Chris. Sam glanced around as he sat down, noting almost all of CID somewhere in the vicinity.
“Does anybody in this station actually eat at home?” he asked incredulously.
“Why would we want to boss?” Chris asked as he leant back in his chair, sipping a cup of very milky tea, "free food innit?”
“It’s a long, slow dance toward clogged arteries,” Sam said regarding their plates with horror, “I’m also assuming you’re clocked on at the minute?”
At this Chris ducked his head a little though Ray merely levelled his eyes and shrugged, the challenge clear in his eyes.
“Drink your breakfast Tyler,” Gene ordered as he opened the butty and applied a liberal serving of sauce with obvious glee.
“So go on then, astound me,” Gene continued as he bit into his bacon sandwich.
“Elton John is gay,” Sam muttered snippily as he hunched down in his seat.
“That’s not astounding, that’s stating the bleeding obvious, try again,” Gene retorted though a mouthful of breakfast.
Sam sighed and placed his mug on the table.
“Alright, we already know that Banksy owed Swann twenty quid.”
“For the work on his car,” Chris interjected.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “so when he wouldn’t pay up Swann, tanked up on five hours of beer, decides to take it by force, interrupts the pool game between Banksy and Steve, starts a fight, gets himself thrown out of the pub. Only he doesn’t leave and was seen hanging around by the side door. Half an hour later Banksy leaves two thirds of a pint on the bar and doesn’t return. At 10:15 Steve heads to the toilets. 10:20 he’s found standing over Swann, blood on his shirt and some splatters on his hands, bruising to the knuckles.”
“Like I said, he did it,” Gene confirmed.
Sam shook his head. “It makes no sense. Why would he beat up a man that he had no argument with?”
“Family loyalty,” Gene suggested, “you saw his hands Sam.”
“Nah,” Sam began with a shake of this head, “we already know they had a punch up in the pub. And there are four witness that saw Steve miss a punch and smash his hand into the wall during the fight. Now most of the wounds to Swann’s face are what you’d expect, playground ones; Split lip, nose bent out of joint. Kids stuff. What did the damage was the small matter of a knife wound to his stomach.”
“Which was on the floor, not two yards from where we found Steve, standing over Swann who was bleeding like a stuck pig,” Gene told him.
“But it’s a very distinctive knife; switchblade with a carved bone handle and I’ve got another four people telling me that it’s Banksy’s.”
“So he gave the knife to his brother and pissed off home. Your point?” Gene demanded.
“So what?” Sam demanded, “You think Banksy gave the knife to his bother and left the pub with the parting shot, ‘tell you what I’m going home now but you keep this on the off chance that Swann pops back here in say an hour and halfs time, cos I’d really like you to knife him for me, get arrested and carry the can?”
Gene shrugged, “don’t know. Don’t care. I’ve got a violent criminal locked up in the cells and I’m happy.”
“He didn’t do it,” Sam insisted, “look, we know that at about half nine Banksy left the bar and we know that at about quarter past Swann was still hovering around by the side entrance. The entrance that can’t be seen from main room and is on the same corridor as the gents. The way I see it Banksy heads off to the toilets, Swann sees him, confronts him again, Banksy stabs him and flees the scene.”
“That’s all supposition,” Gene pointed out, “you’ve got no witnesses that actually saw what happened. For all you know Banksy could have walked right out the front door, caught the bus home and been curled up in front of the telly while his brother helpfully knifes the bloke he hates.”
“So why did he leave most of his pint?” Sam asked with a smirk.
“Eh?” Gene demanded.
“He left a barely touched pint on the bar. Who leaves perfectly good alcohol on the bar and walks out of a pub, to catch the bus home and watch telly according to your theory. Would any of you do it?” he demanded, grinning widely at the blank faces that started back at him.
“And this is what you’ve spent the morning deducting?” Gene questioned, deliberately avoiding the question, “some half baked theory based on leftovers in a pub?”
“Oh yeah, I’m good!” Sam confirmed with a grin as he kicked out his legs and leant back in his chair.
Behind them the double doors to the canteen banged open.
“Does anybody around here do any work?” Phyllis demanded as she glanced around the canteen, “The phone’s been ringing off the hook, there’s no bugger in CID and once again I repeat, I am not your secretary.”
“Grub time Phyllis,” Gene told her as he patted his stomach, “man needs his fuel.”
“Yeah? Well when you’re done playing at being Fay Maschler, Tameside have just phoned through. They’ve found the body of a girl up on the moors.”
“Why are they phoning us?” Sam queried even as he knocked back the rest of his cold coffee and stood up, tucking the plastic chair neatly behind the table.
“Didn’t say,” Phyllis said tartly, “the didn’t give me a full weather report or the name of their tailor, only said that they want someone up there, sharpish like.”
“Murder most horrid,” Gene commented as he stood up, raising his eyebrows theatrically.
Sam sighed as he dropped his coffee mug onto the table top. “Is it possible, at all possible, just once, that you enter a situation with an open mind?” he asked, “We don’t even know this is a murder.”
“And,” Phyllis continued, ignoring the brewing argument between Sam and Gene, “there’s another body down by the canal.”
“Oh great, bloody junkies,” Ray griped as he tossed his fork onto his plate.
“Right,” Gene commanded, “Ray. Chris. You’re taking a trip down the tow path.”
“Fucking marvellous,” Ray began, “why do I always get dead hippies?”
“Well I don’t want them,” Gene told him with a grin, “boring is what they are.”
“Well why doesn’t he get the junkies?” Ray demanded, jabbing a finger in the direction of Sam.
Gene raised an eyebrow and turned to Sam who merely crossed his arms and frowned.
“’Cause he’s with me,” Gene said and, knowing an exit line when he saw one, headed for the doors.
Sam remained where he was and smirked at Ray who merely snarled in response.
“Tyler!” Gene yelled from the doorway, “Arse. Car. Now.”
Sam grinned as he snagged his jacket from the back of the chair, tossing it over his shoulder. Then with great relish he blew a kiss to Ray and followed after Gene.
“Like ordering my arse around do you Gov?” He queried as they bounded up the stairs and existed into the bright, early morning sunshine, a wave of humid heat hitting them as the doors rocked shut behind them.
“In your dreams Sammy Boy,” Gene countered as he paused to put on a pair of sunglasses.
Sam laughed out loud as they bounded down the steps, “Oh I have those, want to hear one?”
“Nope, you can save it for your therapist. Or WDC psychotricks,” Gene declared firmly as they reached the car, both opening their respective doors with an odd synchronicity.
Sam rolled his eyes and slipped into the car. The air within was even more humid than outside, the leather seats a little too warm against his skin and for a second Sam struggled to breathe. Then rolling down the window he reached for the ceiling handle and braced himself as Gene slammed the car into first, roaring off into the early morning traffic.
As they passed through the inner city, weaving and dodging through alleys, Gene navigating his own unique rat-run, Sam reached for the radio and hailed the station. “Got a location on that body, Phyllis?” he asked.
“Out toward Mossley,” she told them, “there’s a beauty spot five miles before the town, A653. Body’s at the bottom of some ravine or other. I’m sure you’ll spot the circus.”
“Thanks,” Sam told her and cut the connection, throwing the robust radio onto the dashboard where it skidded to a halt, thudding against the windscreen.
“Well I hope you packed a picnic,” Gene commented as they careered across the Old High Street.
“It’s only ten miles,” Sam pointed out, wincing a little as the car narrowly avoided a temporary bus stop sign.
“It’s half way to Yorkshire is what it is,” Gene muttered, “You can bloody well see it from there.”
“Yeah if you remove the tops of the Pennines,” Sam agreed sarcastically, “anyway if you keep up this speed we’ll be there in just over…twelve minutes,” he computed, glancing down at the speedometer.
Gene merely grunted in response and they lapsed into silence as they continued to wind through streets and alleys. Soon shops and pedestrians gave way to the quieter suburbs and then with a startling abruptness the city vanished and they began the climb up into the hills.
Out on the clear, quiet roads Sam relaxed back in his seat, arm resting on the window, basking in the warm sunshine, watching as the green foothills gradually gave way to the sparser, rougher landscape of the moors with their sturdy, hardly sheep and deep, dark millstone grit. Sam smiled to himself, remembering weekend camping trips from uni and a couple of brutal training exercises. Situations and scenarios that never really happened. Or hadn’t happened yet. Might never happen. But memories nonetheless. Good times. And the landscape was striking in its sparse beauty. Clearer than he remembered. Fewer power lines; the Ovenden wind-farm twenty years away. No dying farms advertising cafés and ice cream parlours and visitors’ centres.
Just the moor, her grass slightly yellowed in the heat and the rush of warm, sweet air against his skin.
Climbing ever higher they eventually rounded a bend in the road and saw a police car in a roadside car park. Barely bothering to slow the car Gene turned off the road and came to a screeching halt, a cloud of dust rising up from the overheated tarmac.
Sam stepped from the car and took in the scene. It was like something out of heartbeat. An old, grey haired constable leant against the bonnet of his car, smoking a cigarette, one foot raised, resting against the paintwork. Behind them a large limestone cliff loomed and before them lay a river valley, shielded only by a low, metal barrier.
“DI Tyler, DCI Hunt, Manchester CID,” Sam said as he approached the old man.
“PC Brecks,” he responded, taking the proffered hand. “She’s down there,” he added, nodding toward the precipice.
Sam wandered over to the railing and glanced down the incline. Squinting a little he could make out a patch of red against some dry, brown ground.
“Any way down?” Sam asked as Gene came to stand beside him, eyes following Sam’s gaze.
“There’s a path this way,” Brecks said moving away to the left, stepping awkwardly over the barrier, “but it’s a bit of a scramble.”
“Well you wanted fresh air Tyler,” Gene commented as they began to pick their way carefully down the incline, stepping over sparse, wiry heather.
“I did,” Sam agreed as he glanced around with a quick grin, “it’s not like you to be so accommodating.”
“I won an argument over breakfast. It always puts me in a good mood.”
“You did not win an argument,” Sam pointed out as he rested a hand against a low rock, stepping over a gorse bush, “I’ve sent the knife to forensics and the fingerprints will prove me right.”
“Maybe they will. Maybe they wont,” Gene commented idly as he mirrored Sam’s action, “but until then I’m keeping Steve locked up. Cos I’m right.”
Sam rolled his eyes, “You do know that restating the same flawed logic over and over again doesn’t actually mean you’re right?” he asked.
“I’m the Sheriff,” Gene declared firmly as they reached the level ground and began to make their way toward the body. Giving the argument up as a lost cause Sam stepped ahead, glancing around with interest as they approached the prone figure. Then, as Gene and Brecks stood to one side he stepped carefully toward the girl, pacing around her in a tight circle, brown eyes carefully noting and cataloguing.
She lay at an odd angle, one knee bent under her body, leg clearly broken. Long, blonde hair spiralled around her head, some draped across her face, twigs, moss and debris tangled into the strands. But even in this disarray it was obvious that it was carefully styled and her finger nails were long, painted in a garish red that matched her light, cotton top.
Sam crouched down and carefully lifted her hand, twisting the fingers into the light, glancing under the nails. Nothing. Or at least nothing obvious. Stepping back he glanced up toward the car park, casting a long gaze across the ridge and then glanced back toward the body. Stepping two paces back he repeated the process and then nodded to himself.
Gene stood happily to one side, content to let Sam work his unique magic. Lighting a cigarette he took a long drag and then took his first good look at the girl. Pretty thing. Young. Blond. Skinny, but with curves in the right places. A right little looker. Bit dolled up, but they all were these days. He took another long drag. Red top, short black skirt, kitten heels. Nice.
Was nice, he corrected. Barely twenty, he guessed. Same age as the Missus’ niece. He felt his stomach tighten and a weight settle over his shoulders.
He took another drag. This was going to be bad. And whatever Sam might say it wasn’t a hunch. This was bad; his gut told him so.
Beside him Brecks reached up to a small ledge and retrieved a sequined hand bag, large and a little bulky.
“What’s he doing?” Brecks asked in a stage whisper.
“Oh he does this,” Gene told the bemused constable, “regular little Miss Marple. In a minute he’ll lick his finger, hold it up to the wind and tell you all the evidence points to Colonel Mustard. Then he’ll tell you black is white and spend three weeks running around the station with his head suck up his arse until someone forcibly drags it out.”
"She wasn’t killed here,” Sam noted, raising his voice a little. Gene glanced at the constable and raised his eyebrows feeling his point rather well proven.
“How do you know that?” Gene demanded.
“Body position,” Sam began. “It’s unnatural. At a guess her spine’s broken. And her clothing is torn, a shoe missing. She’s been tossed from up top,” Sam explained, disgust and sympathy lacing his tone.
Gene took a drag of his cigarette and followed Sam’s eyes upward.
“Could have fallen? So she back broke on the way down, doesn’t mean owt. She might have hit a rock and that’s what killed her. Lover’s tiff in the car park? Maybe she was just pissed, fell over?” He suggested, instinctively offering a differing opinion.
“Fascinating though this novel of yours is,” Sam muttered as he moved back toward the body, “I think I’ll wait for the movie.” But despite himself he gave some credence to Gene’s suggestions, contemplated them, turned them over in his head.
Bending down again he cast a long glance over the woman, head to toe. Lifting a stick from the ground he carefully peeled back the sleeve of her cardigan where it was torn, inspecting the flesh beneath.
“No,” he eventually declared, “she was dead long before the body was dumped. See these abrasions here? And the scratches on her legs? There’s no blood, just dirt and dust. If she was alive as she fell then these cuts would have bled. Some bruising though,” he noted. “Fresh. Probably inflicted just prior to death.”
“Or just after,” Gene pointed out.
“True,” Sam agreed, surprise lacing his tone. He glanced up at Gene, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun and wondered just when Gene had started listening to him.
“We need to get forensics down here as soon as possible,” he concluded, standing up and rubbing his dusty hands over his jeans.
“On their way,” the young constable commented, “your desk sergeant said you’d want them.”
Sam nodded his understanding and ignored Gene’s disparaging grunt. “Right then, you stay here until they arrive. I want the entire scene sealed off. Don’t interfere with them. Let them work. When they’re done search the area. Find her missing shoe. And record where it was found, to the nearest millimetre.”
“Nearest what?”
Sam sighed, “nearest eighth of an inch if it makes it easier for you. But you might want to get used to the metric system, they have been teaching it for nearly ten years.”
“Oi, watch it,” Gene said, “some of us like the old way. Anyway they’re never going to get rid of feet and inches, no one in Britain would stand for it.”
“Well you’re right there,” Sam agreed with a grimace, “Bloody Daily Mail. That her handbag?” he asked with a nod to the bag the constable held.
“There’s nowt missing,” Brecks noted as he passed it to Hunt.
Gene accepted it with a nod and opened it, cigarette dangling from his lip.
“Purse; fiver in it,” Gene noted with surprise as he flicked through, “house keys, make-up and usual bird bollocks; he’s right,” Hunt agreed, passing the handbag to Sam who approached them with his usual swagger.
“This was found with the body?” Sam asked as he accepted it, peering into the interior.
“Nah, it was on the path up there. A dog walked found it this morning. That’s who found her. Well the dog found her really,” Brecks explained.
Sam sighed out loud and glanced down at the bag, “I don’t suppose anyone gave a second thought to getting prints from it?” he asked, though he knew the question was pointless. “And it was up here?” he continued, bounding a little way back up the slope.
“Yeah, by that rock he said.”
“Where is the dog walker?” Sam asked as he glanced upward again.
“Dunno,” Brecks told him with a light shrug, “Sent him on his way. Nowt else he could tell us.”
Sam raised an eyebrow and walked back toward the two men, “Did you get a name, an address?” he suggested.
Brecks shook his head, “Nah, like I said, nowt else he could tell us.”
“Okay,” Sam said with a patience he didn’t really feel, “what did he tell you.”
“Where the body was,” the constable repeated, confusion colouring his features.
“Forget it,” Sam muttered dismissively as he moved back to the body. He stood still, glancing down at the girl, a slight frown on his face as he turned the bag over in his hands.
“What is it?” Gene asked as he ambled toward him, knowing that the tense set of Sam’s shoulders meant only one thing.
“Well look at he strap,” Sam told him, holding it up for inspection.
“Yeah, what of it?” Gene demanded a little aggressively, as he was wont to do when Sam stared on his forensic supposition bollocks
“Well it’s perfect,” Sam pointed out, “there’s not a break in it, not even an abrasion.”
“So?” Gene asked with a sigh.
“So if it was on her body when they threw her over it would still be with the body. And if it was on her body but broke off during the fall the strap would be damaged. So they must have thrown it down after her.”
“And…?”
“And so she was probably tossed from about, there,” Sam suggested indicating a point on the ledge above them. Now the body will have rolled around a lot, might have banged against something on the way down, so you can’t use it to deduce where she was thrown from. But the bag’s a lot lighter, didn’t travel as far, that’s why it ended up higher up. There was no wind last night and no reason for it to have been disturbed or moved so the fact that it was sat on the path means it was probably dropped from a point directly above.”
Gene paused and glanced upward. “’bout there you reckon?” he asked, indicating a point on the ridge.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, following Gene’s finger, “near enough.”
“So you mean she was dumped from the car park?” Gene asked with a raised eyebrow, “Thank god I have your forensic mind and incisive reasoning, where would we be without you?”.
“The other thing,” Sam continued, ignoring the jibe, “is why toss the handbag down after her?”
“God I don’t know,” Gene said, “maybe to avoid the interesting little scenario where you do the usual, pull a rabbit out of a hat, we arrest some slimy toe rag scum ball and when I bust he door down, there, sat on the hall table is the handbag. Bloody incriminating evidence. That stuff you and the judges seems to like.”
“Exactly, it’s evidence,” Sam pointed out, “You don’t dump a body and then helpfully throw the victims personal effects down after them. If the handbag was with her it either means she was killed close to this spot, which is a little unlikely, I mean where around here are you going to murder someone? Or, as I think is more likely, she was killed elsewhere and brought here. Now if you’d just murdered someone you wouldn’t stop to pick up her handbag, you’d sling it into the nearest bin, let the council take it to the dump where it’s never heard of again.”
“Get to the bloody point Tyler,” Gene grumbled, though his eyes remained bright and interested, “I have a meeting with the Super next Tuesday I don’t want to be late for.”
“So perhaps there was something in the handbag?” Sam suggested, “Something that was important. Something whoever it was killed her, took out and then tossed the handbag when he’d got what he wanted.”
“Now I think it’s my turn to wait for the film,” Gene pointed out.
Sam shrugged and moved to one side, opening up the purse and glancing through it. Several small, card wallets caught his attention and he drew them out.
“Manchester Central Library,” he read turning over the orange packets, noting the stamp on the back.
“That’s why we phoned you,” Brecks said as he stepped forward, deliberately avoiding looking at the body.
“There are cards in them,” Sam noted as he dropped them back into the purse, sealing the handbag and slipping it under his arm.
“City girl,” Gene noted with a nod, “well at least getting a name and an address should be easy. Owt else we need to know,” he asked Brecks.
The constable shrugged a shoulder and shook his head.
“Right,” Sam began, “you stay here. Remember what I said about forensics. Nothing gets moved until they’re done. No matter how long it takes. You got that?”
The constable nodded his assent and Sam moved away, beginning the climb back up toward the car park.
“Bloody hell, he always like this?” Brecks asked once Sam was safely out of earshot.
Gene narrowed his eyes and glared at man from beneath the shade of his hand. “You could do a lot worse than pay attention to some like Tyler,” he pointed out gruffly, and then tossing his cigarette onto the ground, Gene marched away, following Sam up the hill.
“Car was parked here,” Sam noted as Gene hauled himself onto the tarmac, panting and puffing with the effort. Leaning heavily against the police car Gene struggled to regain his breath and glanced down at the clearly preserved tyre marks in the dry, dusty car park.
“Forensics should take a look up here as well,” Sam continued, “we might get lucky and get the make and model of the tyre. Narrow down the search for the car a bit.”
Wandering off toward the ledge Sam peered down over the edge and began to write in his note book. Gene patted his pockets and locating a hip flask took a quick drag, happy to let Sam work. This was Sam’s element. Detail. Tiny little insignificant details that he spend hours writing down and pouring over. Tiny little details that every now and again proved useful. Not that he’d ever admit that to Sam.
Capping the flask Gene dropped it into his trouser pocket and lit another cigarette, glancing up at the sky as he did so. It was bright blue, clear and shining. An odd counterpart to the crime scene. And once again he felt that weight settle over his shoulders and a black mood begin to creep over him.
Pushing himself up he wandered over to Sam and stared out over the valley. Beside him Sam paused, snapped the notebook shut and slipped it into this back pocket.
They stood in silence, broken occasionally by the chatter of birds or the hum of a car on the road.
“So what do you think Sam?” Gene eventually asked.
“Too early to say,” came the expected response.
Gene grunted.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” Sam said as they stood staring out over the moors, eyes following the river bed as it coiled and narrowed, meandering up toward Stalybridge and the barren tops.
“Dry, yellow grass and sheep? Yeah bloody perfect,” Gene agreed, “get one of those forensics of yours to take a snap. We could put it on a postcard.”
Sam raised an eyebrow and they both instinctively glanced down into the valley, eyes drawn to the eerily still corpse.
Gene finished his cigarette and tossed the tab end over the ledge, watching as it hovered briefly in the air before plummeting toward the ground.
“You shouldn’t do that Gov,” Sam noted absently, “the moor’s dry as tinder. You could send the whole lot up.”
Gene ignored the comment, eyes remaining fixed on the brash, bright red top. Too brash. Too bright.
“She was just a young lass,” Gene eventually commented. “And that junkie Chris and Ray are on, be another kid. Two sets of parents going to get a knock on the door and we are the lucky buggers that get to watch the light go out of their eyes.”
”Part of the job,” Sam commented, though not unkindly, “We do get to lock people up as well,” he pointed out.
“Yeah,” Gene agreed though his tone held no real joy. “Sometimes it’s not enough though is it? Because they get younger and maybe I’m getting old but there seem to be more and more bodies.”
“I think it has to be enough,” Sam offered carefully as he glanced over at Gene, noting the slight slump of his shoulders, “otherwise you stop caring. Become bitter. And then you either drink yourself to death or…”
“Or what?” Gene demanded as Sam trailed off.
“End up like Harry Wolfe,” Sam finished quietly, letting the comment sit heavily between them.
“Right,” Gene suddenly said, pushing himself away from the barrier, all action and energy once again. “Back to the smoke, there’s a bastard murderer and a bastard pusher on the loose in my city and I want them caught. Preferably before tea time. I’m having beef and it doesn’t go well with unfinished business.”
Sam shook his head and smiled to himself as he walked back to the Cortina. Because to Gene things were always that simple. Good and bad. Black and white. Only it rarely worked out like that. So very rarely.