Fanfic Whore, The Good, The Bad and The Easily Bribed - Chapter Two, White Cortina with Green Spots
Title: The Good, The Bad and The Easily Bribed - Chapter Two
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: Brown Cortina overall (this part white, with green spots)
Word Count: This part 7990. 15 000 so far.
Spoilers: None that I can think of. 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: Another part that’s been a bit dodgy to write. I’m struggling to find a balance between plot and slash (even mild slash!) and I’m struggling to find a balance between descriptive scene setting and plot movement. I have one beta that likes the scene setting and one that finds it distracting - so what do you guys think? Seriously, opinions gratefully received. I’ve left this chapter pretty much unaltered after beta comments but I’ll happily take direction from the comm. at large, where do you want to see this going?
Thanks go to missscarlett and to lo0o0ony_lauren for their betaing talents. Particularly to missscarlett for her fantastically speedy responses!
And now I’m off on my hols for a week. See ya all when I get back.
Feedback remains my recreational drug of choice. It still helps with motivation and at current market prices it’s cheaper than crack.
Prologue
Chapter One
The Good, The Bad and The Easily Bribed
Chapter Two
June 1974
The mid afternoon sun was beating down with startling ferocity as Sam made his way across St Peters square and slipped in between the large, imposing columns of the Central library, mounting the sweep of steps. He grimaced a little in the heat, warmth flaring and prickling down his back, tiny beads of sweat gathering in his hairline.
Reaching the top he pushed open the heavy double doors and sighed in relief as he stepped into the cool, marble lined lobby. Pausing for a moment he glanced around and smiled. Stone busts and bright posters stared back at him. And over thirty years the only things that would change were the posters. Well those and the café in the basement.
Crossing the narrow, curved lobby he pushed open another set of double doors and walked toward the issue desk, coming to wait behind a mother and her two young kids. Drawing in a long breath Sam rested an arm against the old oak desk and savoured the scent and sound of the place. To one side a collection of old men sat around one long table, newspapers spread across its surface, crinkling and crackling beneath their hands. And above the occasional cough or a man and creak of a spine the thump of the librarian’s stamp was loud but comforting in its familiarity. So much more resonant than the electronic self-service scanners that would replace them.
Before him the young woman placed several books on the counter, a couple of brightly coloured pictured books and at least one Topsy and Tim. Sam smiled and shook his head remembering the proud place such volumes had held on his bookcase. Slipping his hand into his pocket he removed the plastic wallet that contained the library tickets and laid it on the counter. As it became his turn he slipped it along the counter and flashed his badge to the librarian. Her eyes widened a little and she glanced up at Sam, confusion and a little fear gracing her face.
Her smiled briefly at her, trying to put her at her ease and pushed the wallet toward her.
“DI Tyler, Manchester CID,” he began, “Could you tell me who this belonged to please?”
“Of course Sir,” the woman answered. Taking the bag she reached for the seal and made to open it.
“No!” Sam said hurriedly, his suddenly loud voice causing several people to turn and stare at him.
“We, erm, need to preserve the evidence,” he explained, “If you couldn’t keep it sealed.”
The librarian turned suddenly steely eyes toward him, letting Sam know exactly what she felt about that idea, and then, with a laboured sigh glanced at the gathering queue. Sighing again she lifted the card to the light and scrunched up her eyes trying to read the catalogue number. Then she moved to one side of the desk and pulled open one of the large, wooden drawers and began to flick through the legions of similar cards, fingers flying fast over the papers.
Eventually she paused and withdrew a similar looking card. Bringing it over she double checked the number and then placed the evidence bag back on the counter.
“Miss Mary Chipley,” she announced with an air of finality.
“Do you have an address?” Sam asked, resisting the urge to sound apologetic.
The librarian raised her eyebrows, glanced at the queue, then back to Sam. With a slight shake of her head she returned to the drawers and opened another. Withdrawing a registration card she placed it on the counter and took a step back.
Sam glanced down at the card and jotted down several details in his notebook.
“Any chance I could take this?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
The woman shook her head, “we need it for the records. Can’t have missing information”
Sam nodded. “What does this ‘C’ mean, he asked, indicating a large red letter in the corner of the card.
“Children’s ticket,” the librarian answered with an air of forced patience.
Sam glanced down at his notes and did a quick calculation in his head, “But she was nineteen, maybe your records aren’t as accurate as you think,” he suggested with a quick grin.
The librarian shot him an unreadable look and took the card away from him. Selecting a black pen from the countertop she crossed the letter through and added an ‘A’ to its side.
“They are now,” she said with a tight-lipped smile, “if there’s nothing more Inspector?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen her in the last two or three days?” Sam asked, slipping the evidence bag back into his pocket.
“I wouldn’t know,” the woman answered stiffly.
Snapping his notebook and adding it to his pocket Sam smiled, muttered his thanks and took his leave.
Out in the sunshine he couldn’t help but smile. Because in his day there were network centres, mobile ringtones and DVD rentals in the library. Not the woman with the steel bun, a rod of iron and her ‘silence’ signs.
Beginning his walk back to the station Sam paused by a news stand and picked up The Guardian, glancing down at the front page. Watergate. Still. He sighed and tucked the paper under his arm, wondering, not for the first time why he even bothered with the news. After all it was all old news. Nothing remarkably surprising could actually occur for another thirty-two years. Which was a mildly depressing realisation when he thought about it.
Strolling into CID about ten minutes later he dropped the paper onto the edge of his desk, knowing it was safe from all grubby paws. After all there were no naked women on page three, just more domestic news. And some long words. Annie might glance at it, maybe Chris if he was really bored, but it was hardly likely to walk itself into someone else’s drawer.
Still standing Sam reached over his desk and snagged an index card from the pile that he always kept close by. Uncapping his pen he jotted down the bare facts; Mary Chipley; victim; seventeen; salient features: slim, young, blond hair, blue eyes; murdered. Then, slipping in into another pile of such cards he made his way to the Guv’s office.
Gene was sat at his desk, idly twirling a dart though his fingers. Sam eyed it warily. Gene hadn’t actually thrown one at him yet, but it was probably only a matter of time. And for a man who could deploy office stationary as interrogation equipment with barely a second thought, a dart could safely be considered an offensive weapon.
“Solved the case yet, Tyler?” he queried.
“Got a name and address,” Sam offered, “and next of kin.”
“Well aren’t libraries useful places?” Gene suggested sarcastically.
“Well it’s true what they say,” Sam told him with a grin.
“And what’s what then?” Gene demanded as he tossed the dart onto the desk and crossed his hands in his lap.
“Your Local Library: A world of information at your fingertips,” Sam parroted, repeating an old advertising campaign he remembered from his youth.
Gene looked unimpressed, “that so?” he drawled, “don’t suppose they told you the missus has done with the shed key, by any chance?”
“They neglected to mention it,” Sam told him, “but you do know the people that staff the building are librarians, not psychics.”
“Shame,” Gene responded evenly, “the lawn needs cutting. And I miss my deckchair.”
Sam stared at him and shook his head, still amazed at how quickly conversations with Gene could lose themselves. How easy it was to slip from the sublime to the ridiculous.
“Well is it on a hook by the back door?” Sam heard himself suggest.
“Nope,” Gene responded firmly.
“On a hook by the front door?” He continued.
“No hooks Sam,” Gene told him, firmly quenching that line of enquiry.
“Okay is it in the pocket of whatever she was wearing last time she opened the shed?” Sam asked.
Gene glanced up at him for a second, his blue eyes narrowing a little as he did so. Then he shook his head slowly and continued to regard Sam with a very odd expression.
“In the crap-drawer?” Sam tried in desperation.
“The what?” Gene barked.
“The crap-drawer,” Sam repeated, “the drawer in which you put all the crap: elastic bands; spare fuses; batteries; shed keys.”
Gene stared at him with an odd expression and shook his head slowly, “No,” he added for emphasis.
“Then I’m out of ideas,” Sam admitted.
“Some bloody detective you turn out to bed,” Gene grumbled, “count yourself lucky that girl went and got herself done in, else I might have made it your special assignment for the day.”
“Well you’re hardly Magnum PI yourself,” Sam retorted, “seeing as you clearly can’t find it.”
Gene cast him a steely gaze and reached for the dart, balancing its tip against his finger. Sam glanced at it as the overhead lights caused it to glint and silence settled over the room.
“Did you actually want anything?” Gene eventually asked.
“The file?” Sam queried with the tone of one talking to the mentally retarded.
Gene turned those blue eyes on him once again and tossed the newly made up file in Sam’s direction, not a word uttered.
Leaning forward Sam snagged it from the desk, opening it and glancing at its contents though sheer force of habit. It was empty but for the sparsely filled out docket. He stared down at it for a second and felt the surge of adrenalin flow through him, just as it always did at the start of a case. And even after fifteen years on the force he wasn’t sure if he preferred seeing the files like this, open, empty and filled with promise and the illusion of innocence, or if it was better when they were bulging; full of reports and analysis and statements. Full of guilt.
Realising he was still standing in front of Gene’s desk Sam moved to leave the office. He paused as he reached the rear door, hand on it’s wooden frame.
“Why don’t you just ask your wife where the key is?” he asked.
Gene sat perfectly still for a second and Sam could see the ramrod set of his back and the tension in his body. Then his shoulders rolled and Sam watched the dart shoot through the air, a sudden burst of energy and speed. It embedded itself in the colourful cork with a dull thud.
“Yep, that would seem to be the obvious solution, Tyler,” Gene agreed with just the barest hint of a sigh touching his voice. “Trolley-Lorry’s brought the stiff in, she’s on the slab,” he continued.
Sam’s hand remained on the door frame and he stared quizzically at Gene for a long second. The Guv sat perfectly still, back to Sam, making no attempt to turn around or engage Sam in further conversation.
“Well go on, bugger off and work your magic,” Gene told him in clear dismissal and so with a light shrug Sam pushed at the door and walked out into the corridor.
Slipping the file under his arm and his hands into his pocket he made his way toward the basement, tripping lightly down the stone steps, eschewing the lift in favour of their cooler atmosphere.
Pausing in the dark, almost dank stairwell of the basement Sam drew in a long breath and smiled. The scent was so familiar; preserving agent, damp and just a hint of earth. A smell that never changed. Not once in thirty-three years.
He’d used to love it down here when he first landed. Because it really had barely changed. Because he could lean back against the walls, feel the damp begin to seep through his shirts and believe that when he opened his eyes he’d see halogen strip lights and the glass walled office, computers and basic analysis equipment. Only had to close his eyes to see different clothes and hear different voices. Loved it because it was the place he came to remind himself that he wasn’t mad. That there was a place he came from. Only these days the links to the future were fading, and now when he stepped into the morgue it was more like a burst of beautiful nostalgia, half faded memories of a place once loved, mourned and lost.
Well almost mourned and lost. Because he still loved it here, but now it was anticipation that thrilled him. Because here, amongst the dark and the dead, was where that he caught the longest glimpses of the future. Here ‘forensic’ wasn’t a dirty word. Here people didn’t look at him like he’d lost his mind when he suggested a tox-screen. Well no, they did, only they thought he’d lost less of his mind.
“What have you got Oswald?” Sam asked as strode into the examining room.
The aging, grey haired pathologist turning his head toward the intrusion and then, with a brief nod of acknowledgement turned back to his work, continuing to extract debris from her hair and place it in an evidence bag.
“Young female, late teens, early twenties,” he began, “no obvious signs of assault though some bruising to the upper arms and calves General outward appearance suggests good health but if I were to hazard a guess at cause of death I’d say some massive system overload, maybe a heart attack or a stroke.”
Walking toward the cadaver he lifted one of her closed eyelids, “see here?” he asked, “there are quite a few burst blood vessels in her eyes, certainly something was a shock to the system.”
Sam moved toward the body and glanced down at the girl. Picking up an arm he rotated it gently, glancing over the smooth, clear skin. Returning it carefully to the slab he repeated the process with her other arm.
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Oswald agreed as he paused in his work and straightened his back with a slight groan, “but there’s no obvious signs of drug use.”
Sam raised his eyebrows and took a long, searching look at the body, “Surely a heart attack is unusual in someone this young?” he queried, knowing the question was largely rhetorical.
“Congenital?” Oswald suggested as he turned away to his instrument tray, replacing the tweezers to its paper lined surface and sealing the evidence bag.
“Don’t know yet,” Sam replied a little distractedly as he moved to examine the bruising to her calves, noting the clear outline of fingers imprinted on the flesh.
“So you’re saying it could actually be a natural death?” Sam asked as he continued his visual assessment of the body, noting the thin, white strap lines on tanned feet, her painted nails and painted face, the scrapes and grazes across her arms and legs, a silver ring with a large, green stone on her right hand.
“But if it is how did she end up at the bottom of a ravine?” he continued.
“You’re the detective,” Oswald told him dryly.
Sam looked up from the body and laughed a little, enjoying a joke that somehow never seemed to get old.
“Can you estimate time of death?” he asked.
Oswald sighed, “between 8pm and 2am I’d say,” he suggested with an apologetic shrug.
Sam raised his eyebrow, “you can’t be a little more specific?” he queried.
“Not at this stage,” the doctor told him firmly, “the body temperate estimate is virtually useless when the body’s been out overnight, particularly in summer. There wont have been a steady rate of cooling. The post-mortem will tell us more.”
Sam acknowledged the point with a brief nod.
“I’m actually ready to begin,” Oswald told him as he picked up several large evidence bags, “I assume you’ll be staying.”
Sam paused and contemplated the idea for a moment, sorely tempted by the idea.
“I can’t,” he said with genuine regret, “someone needs to inform the family. I’ll send Chris down.”
Oswald raised his eyes to Sam’s and glanced at the clock with a despairing expression, “Well I suppose he’s had time to digest his breakfast,” he noted dryly.
“Oh plenty of time,” Sam agreed airily as he made his way toward the archway. Then he paused and glanced back to the body, watching as Oswald carefully removed her remaining shoe and dropped it into one of the bags, “though erm…maybe you should get most of the sawing done before he gets down?” he suggested with a grin.
Then, whistling idly to himself Sam headed back toward CID. Pushing open the double doors with something resembling enthusiasm he glanced around the room as he ambled toward his desk, dropping the file onto its surface.
“Any news on that canal death?” he asked, calling over to Ray and Chris who were lazing at their respective desks, smoking, chatting and flicking through some squalid rag or other.
“Dead hippie,” Ray told with a shrug, “night watchman remembers seeing a blue van sometime around three but he didn’t pay it much mind. Not much to do until someone reports him missing.”
“Looks like he OD’d and his mates dumped him,” Chris supplied as he reached into his drawer and pulled out a Twix and held in between two fingers, “Bit shit though innit, I mean I wouldn’t want friends like that,” he added with a mildly contemplative air.
“Got to have friends first you div,” Ray pointed out.
“Have,” Chris told him simply, refusing to rise to the jibe. Then he lifted the Twix and began to tear at its wrapper.
Sam sighed and turned back to his desk, reaching for more of the index cards, adorning them with his unique script. In their corner Ray and Chris continued the mild bickering and Sam found himself clenching his teeth, trying to block out the noise. It still amazed him that any crimes actually got solved by A division. Because with the Guv puffing away in his office practising his darts game and Chris and Ray puffing away in here practicing god knows what, and the rest of them puffing and practising at being dead, it didn’t leave many detectives prepared to do any actual detecting. Actually no, he amended, it was amazing when the right person was arrested, charged and convicted. It was almost an occasion to phone the Guinness Book of Records.
“No!” Sam suddenly yelled, whipping back around to face Chris, holding his hands up in warning.
Chris froze, instantly and glanced quickly glanced from side to side, eyes darting around the office.
“Step away from the Twix,” Sam told him, articulating his words carefully.
Chris glanced down at his chocolate and then back to Sam, confusion clear in his eyes. Ray simply shook his head and ignored the pair of them.
“You’re on morgue duty,” Sam explained and watched Chris’ face visibly collapse.
“Oh come on Boss,” Ray objected, “you know he hates it in there.”
“I know,” Sam agreed with a sympathetic smile to Chris, “but unfortunately he’s the only one around here I trust not to contaminate the evidence chain.”
“Can’t Annie go?” Chris asked a little desperately, not quite able to keep the whine from his voice.
“She’s not here,” he pointed out, “and the post-mortem wont wait until we find her.”
“I’ll go,” Ray offered with a shrug, “don’t bother me.”
“It bothers me,” Sam told him, halting Ray’s lumbering attempts to get out of his chair, “the last time you oversaw a post mortem you spilled tea all over the victim, used your saucer as an ashtray and then when it got full, emptied the contents into an evidence bag. We then spent a week looking for a heavy smoker who liked tea with two sugars. You’re lucky the Guv could alibi you for the time of death because I was quite up for arresting you on suspicion of double homicide. So no, you are going to sit there and write me a lovely detailed report about the body from the towpath.”
Ray glowered at him but made no further comment whilst Chris merely sighed loudly and dropped the Twix back into his drawer. He stood up slowly, the legs of his chair scraping across the floor.
“Me mam wont be happy if I ruin another pair of shoes,” he complained to Sam, hovering beside him for a moment.
Sam merely glanced up at him and cocked his head toward the door. Chris sighed again, loudly and wandered reluctantly out of the office.
“You have to pick on him?” Ray demanded once the doors had slammed shut behind Chris.
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, “I’m not picking on him,” he explained patiently, “believe me you’d know about it if I was. He’s a police officer under my command and I need him in the morgue. If you’re that concerned about him perhaps you’d like to develop an appreciation of basics of police procedure then I wouldn’t have to keep sending Chris to baby-sit the stiffs?” he suggested tartly.
Ray merely snarled at him in response and turned back to his magazine.
“Thought not,” Sam muttered under his breath as he made his way across the office. Pushing open Gene’s door he poked his head around it and then slipped into the room.
“Something wrong with your hands, Tyler?” Gene asked without looking up from the open file on his desk.
“Not that I know of,” Sam responded carefully.
“Then be a good boy and next time you feel like you need an audience with the Gene-genie, make a fist, remember your manners and knock. Like the rest of the sodding station.”
“Sorry,” Sam said, though his tone was far from contrite, “I’m going out,” he announced.
“Oh yeah, anywhere nice?” Gene asked.
“See the girl’s family,” Sam explained.
“Send plod,” Gene ordered instantly.
“No I want to talk to them,” Sam continued, “see what they can tell me. At the very least we need to know if there’s a history of heart trouble in the family.”
Gene raised his eyebrows in question but didn’t take his eyes from his paperwork.
“Oswald thinks she may have died of a heart attack,” Sam said by way of explanation.
“Dodgy ticker,” Gene mused idly, tapping his pen against the edge of the file, “so she got pissed, heart gave out and she fell over. Got stoned, heart gave out, fell over. Not much story there. Only bit of excitement you can hope for is that her heart gave out while she was giving one to her boyfriend.”
Sam stared back at Gene in amazement, wondering at the bizarre internal workings of his DCI’s mind.
“You’re a pig,” Sam pointed out flatly, and then with a brief shake of his head continued, “but this isn’t a natural death, something feels wrong about it,”
This got Gene’s attention and he finally glanced up from the report, “Do I smell instinct?” he asked with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows.
Sam sighed and leant back against a filing cabinet. “No,” he told him firmly, “Oswald can’t really give us a time or cause of death yet, but the marks around her ankles are clearly hand prints. She’s been roughly handled either just before or just after she died. Maybe the family can give us some idea of who her friends were, where she might have been last night, give us some way in.”
Gene considered the idea for a moment and then pushed his chair away, standing up. “Not one of your worst ideas,” he agreed as he reached for his jacket.
Sam winced and pushed himself away from the cabinet, bringing him close to Gene. Close enough to smell the lingering scene of aftershave and the hint of sweat that lay just beneath the surface.
“Actually I was thinking of taking Annie,” Sam said as his nostrils flared, his stomach tightening.
Gene paused mid movement and turned slowly to face Sam.
“Oh you were, were you?” he demanded, edging a little closer, threatening Sam with his very presence and bulk, invading his personal space just as he always did. “And what makes you think I’m going to give you permission to take the plonk out for a nice little romantic stroll in the park?” Gene asked, an odd edge of bitterness creeping into his acid tones.
“I just thought Annie might be a more sympathetic presence,” Sam suggested with a light shrug.
“Meaning I’m not a sympathetic presence?” Gene asked in that same tone, and turning away he tossed his jacket onto the hat stand and slouched back behind his desk.
“Oh come on Guv!” Sam began, “two seconds ago you were suggesting the girl died while having sex with her boyfriend. So as I have to go and tell her mother…”
“Do you need to take the plonk?” Gene interrupted, eyes narrowing.
Sam paused and raised an eyebrow, glancing over at Gene, studying him carefully. “I’m about to tell a mother that her daughter has been murdered and her body dumped off the side of a mountain. And no she can’t have the body for a funeral because our pathologist wants to slice into it. And no I don’t know when she can have it back and nope, we have no idea where to even start finding her killer. So yeah, I thought that in the circumstances, a female presence might be a help.”
“I’d have thought you were woman enough Tyler,” Gene suggested with a snide half-smiled as he turned back to his desk, “fine take her. Only I want her back before lunchtime. And no stopping off for ice cream on the way home. You’ll spoil her dinner.”
Taking this for the dismissal that it was Sam wandered back into CID, casting a cursory glance around the room. Ray and Vince were hunched over their desks, to all intents and purposes working, or at the very least quiet. Which he supposed was a benefit in and of itself.
“Annie,” he called out spotting her brown curls the instant they entered the office.
“Sam?” she queried as she walked toward his desk, pausing to drop off a file at her own before continuing.
Turning to face her he held up one of the index cards, gripping it between two fingers.
“What is it?” she asked.
Sam grinned at her and continued to hold the card aloft.
Sighing she reached for it, swatting his arm lightly as he moved it out of her reach before relenting and handing it to her.
“Fourteen Gladstone Road?” She read, her eyebrows raised in silent question.
“Last known address of Mary Chipley,” he explained, “fancy a trip?”
Annie rolled her eyes as she handed the card back to him, “thought I’d got rid of that job when I left uniform,” she told him with a sigh.
Sam shook his head, “You never get rid of it,” he told with a quick, sympathetic smile, “do you mind?” he queried, concern touching his voice.
She returned the smile, “nah,” she confirmed, “come on, we can take my car.”
Sam nodded and found himself smiling again.
Turning to his desk to pick up his notebook Sam patted down his jacket, checking for a pen, As he did so he glanced upward, toward Gene’s office and watched as the blinds bounced a little, falling back into place. Pausing for a second he noted Gene, his bulky frame just visible behind the thin fabric. Beside him Annie jostled his arm.
“We going?” She asked.
“Sorry, yes,” Sam agreed turning away from the office and following Annie out of the room. Only as he did so he felt a shiver skitter down his spine and he knew those blue eyes were watching him walk, and that same odd tension was back in his stomach.
Sitting in the passenger seat of Annie’s little run around Sam found himself once again watching the world through a windscreen. Only Annie didn’t see road signs, zebra crossings and traffic lights as optional undertakings and so he actually had time to see the detail. Time to watch life slide past. Outside the Farley Lane Post Office two women, hands resting on old perambulators chatted and nodded their way through the morning. Down on Main Street shoppers and browsers and workers milled around, their movements sluggish and slow in the ever rising heat. And there were kids and alkies, bikes and boozers. Life’s rich tapestry he thought sardonically.
Eventually they pulled up outside a small, red bricked terrace. Steps led straight from the footpath to a bright blue front door with a gleaming knocker. House-proud, Sam noted idly as he stepped from the car. Then, with a glance to Annie, he jogged up the small flight of steps and raised the gleaming knocker, rapping it sharply.
The door was soon opened by a middle aged woman in an old housedress, its floral pattern faded by time and too many washdays. A robust, calico apron was smattered with flour and a long streak of something white adorned her face. Her hair was a corn-yellow and bright blue eyes peered out through a long, untidy fringe. Bright blue eyes that matched those of the dead girl. Bright blue eyes that caused him to blink in surprise as an echo of that skitter slid thorough his body.
“Mrs Chipley?” he queried as he held up his warrant card.
She blinked. Once. Twice. And then nodded tersely.
“DI Tyler, WDC Cartwright,” Sam continued. Then he waited. Waited while cogs turned and the truth began to dawn.
“Can we come in?” he asked carefully as Annie shuffled nervously beside him.
And then it was there. Waiting over. Because Mrs Chipley pushed open the door and welcomed them in, even as her face crumpled and her shoulder sagged a little. And he was there, sat in the living room of another shocked, grieving relative, asking impolite, impertinent questions and just doing his job.
Some days he hated his job.
Sam sat in the Railway Arms and dropped his head back against the seat, wincing a little as it connected with the wooden tip of the headrest. His third pint sat on the table, barely touched. But his veins were singing with alcohol, that last whiskey chasing through his body making him mellow and mild and quite mute.
Gene was propping up the bar while Ray, Chris, Annie and a random smattering of the station orbited around him like demented little satellites.
Okay, Sam conceded analysing that last simile with a slight frown, maybe he was somewhat past mild and mellow and most of the way to half cut.
He frowned a little as Ray placed another double in front of Gene, only to have it vanish in the space of a few seconds. He tipped his head to one side and watched as Gene signalled for another drink. Sam frowned a little more. Gene was drinking too much. More than usual. And talking less. He watched for a few more minutes. Watched as Gene drank. Watched as Gene watched the others. Watched Nelson watching Gene.
Glancing around the pub Nelson’s eyes settled on Sam and the barman raised his eyebrows. Sam understood the question and merely shrugged in response.
Sighing he took a sip of the pint and picked up his paper. The clock above him ticked loudly, audible even over the din of the pub. He turned, craning his neck; ten thirty. He sighed again. Too early to go home then. Too early to head back to his flat with its newly white walls and echoing, empty rooms. Opening the paper he shook open its large pages and began to read. It was amusement. Of a sort.
Half way through the international news the paper was snatched from his hands and he glanced up to find Gene towering over him.
“Oi!” Sam objected grabbing at the paper, glaring as Gene merely moved it out of his reach and glanced idly at the pages, his eyes bleary and bloodshot.
“Don’t know why you read that bollocks anyway,” Gene said as he folded it untidily, dropping it onto the table as he sat down heavily, knocking Sam’s arm as he did so.
“Because I find it an informative and educational read,” Sam said sweetly as he inched a little to his right, putting some space between him and his Guv.
Gene raised an eyebrow, “ts’not, its communist drivel written for the summer of love crowd and teachers in the suburbs. Head in the sand stuff Sam.”
“Oh just because it contains words longer than two syllables?” he suggested reaching for it again, “I’ll have you know that sales of this paper are what subsidise you beloved Chronicle and keep it in print.”
Gene grunted in disbelief and slapped Sam’s hand away, placing his pint on top of the paper, the force of his movement causing some of the beer to splash onto the paper.
“Oh dear,” he noted with nothing resembling remorse entering his tone.
Sam rolled his eyes and gave it up as a bad job. “You’re drunk,” he observed as he sat up and reached for his own drink.
“Not yet,” Gene contradicted, “but I’m getting there.”
Sam shook his head but made no further comment.
“So talk to me Sammy-boy,” Gene instructed, “what do we know?”
Sam lifted his pint to his lips and took a small mouthful.
“About what?” he asked, genuine confusion spreading over his features.
“The case, the girl, the job. Our bread and butter.”
“You are drunk,” Sam concluded as he sat back in his seat once again, cradling his drink against his chest.
Gene ignored the comment and they sat in silence for several seconds. Last orders had been called and the crowds in the pub were beginning thinning, the ever present shroud of smoke lessening as punters gradually drifted home. At the bar Ray held court, several of the team seeming to hang on his every word. Only Annie stood a little to one side, disbelief writ clear across her face. Another one of Ray’s implausible action hero stories Sam concluded.
“So come on,” Gene prompted, “get owt from the mother?”
“A bit,” Sam told him, “names of friends. Work address. Usual.”
“So were looking at the corpse of a lovely, sweet girl who wouldn’t melt butter, visited her gran every Sunday and always helped orphans and cripples over the road,” Gene concluded sarcastically.
“Pretty much,” Sam agreed, “but we’ve got enough to start digging.”
“Want to handle it?” Gene asked with a sideways glance to Sam, unsurprised as his DI nodded.
“I’ll check out her work first thing tomorrow,” Sam told him, “we need to establish her movements last night. Someone there must know if she was meeting anyone, what her plans were.”
“Typing-pool grapevine,” Gene said with a slight nod, “where would we be without it.”
“Fucked,” Sam agreed.
“So you haven’t got some great theory yet then?” Gene asked as he look a long gulp of his pint.”
“Nope, too early in the investigative process,” Sam told him, “It’s actually a bit odd,” he admitted.
“Eh?” Gene demanded.
Shifting in his seat a little Sam turned toward Gene, moving his focus away from the pub.
“Well Annie and I had a look round her room when we were there and it looked…well it looked right” he suggested. “Everything you’d expect from a nineteen year old girl, a few books and dolls on a shelf, magazines and make up on her dresser, picture of Donald Sinden stuck to her mirror. Even her diary didn’t give us anything. Normal kid,” he concluded with a slight shrug.
“What you saying?” Gene asked as he moved to match Sam’s position, bringing their shoulders together in a gentle collision.
“I’m not saying anything,” Sam pointed out, making no attempt to move, enjoying the slight pressure, the tiny focus of warmth through his thin shirt. “Not in the way you mean,” he clarified, “I’m just saying that there didn’t seem to be anything amiss when we were there. She goes out on a Friday night with the friends she’s known from school, occasionally goes on a few dates with one of the local boys, it’s not like she’s out pole dancing every night of the week in a pink PVC boobtube and chatting with the local chaos crew.”
Beside him Gene huffed and slouched a little further in his seat, the movement echoing through Sam. “You’re talking shit,” Gene told him lazily, his words slurring just a little, “what you actually mean is either little Miss Muffet’s been leading a very clever double life or this case is about to go arse over tit.”
“And you have such a lovely turn of phrase,” Sam retorted, “but yeah. Feels like that.”
Gene nodded slowly and drained the last of his drink. Then standing up carefully he nodded to Sam’s still half-full glass, “Want another?” he asked.
Sam shook his head, “and you shouldn’t either Guv,” he suggested, knowing full well Gene would ignore the comment. Or punch him. Or both. If that were at all possible.
As it happened Gene simply grunted and turned back to the bar, confident of being served even though ‘time’ had been called a good half an hour ago.
The pub was almost empty now. A couple of middle aged men sat quietly in the opposite corner, finishing their pints in a contemplative silence that spoke more of wanting to be away from the wife than of any genuine friendship. At the bar only Ray and Vince remained, short remnants of whiskey warming in their hands. And their stilted, slightly awkward conversation was just like that of the other men.
Soon Gene ambled back toward him, rebuffing Ray’s attempts to engage him in conversation. He placed a pint and two large whiskeys on the table and then slipped back into his seat, resting lightly against Sam once again, leaning into his body just a little. Just two mates. Just in the pub. Just a little drunk.
Only it was a touch more than that. Because that tightness in his stomach was back and he was no sweet ingénue. He was plenty old enough to recognise it for what it was. Attraction. Dull and muted. Probably twisted halfway to hell and back, but attraction nonetheless.
Across in the corner the two men finished up their pints and still with never a word exchanged rose in unison and ambled toward the exit, nodding to Nelson who voiced a cheerful goodbye as they left. Their movement roused Ray and Vince from their easy slump against the bar and then they too made efforts to leave, downing dregs of drink and reaching for discarded jackets.
As he slipped a little unsteadily from his barstool Ray glanced around the pub, his eyes lighting on Sam and Gene and a hard expression suddenly defined his features.
Sam noticed it with a sense of perverse enjoyment and felt the slight tense of Gene’s shoulders as he clocked the look.
“Night Raymondo,” he called across the pub, raising a glass in salute.
“Guv,” Ray responded easily, “Boss,” he added, his tone a little more formal.
“Night,” Sam agreed, nodding to Vince as the pair made their way out of the pub.
And then there were two, Sam noted, laughing to himself a little. Yeah, he was pissed.
From behind the bar the ching of the till echoed loudly as Nelson began to cash up. And it was easy. Comfortable. Like it always seemed to be lately. Just the two of them. Mild and mellow and musing.
“What do you think of them Sam,” Gene suddenly asked as Nelson moved to the doors, sliding the bolts firmly shut, the metal rasping as he did so.
Sam turned his head and glanced over at Gene. The elder man seemed suddenly alert, his eyes oddly clear and frighteningly intense even as he stared into the middle distance.
Sam blinked and cast a long glance over his DCI. Shit, he thought. How did he do this? How could he be slumped in his seat, tie askew, lolling against Sam one second and so shrewd the next?
“This is not the time for appraisals,” Sam told him with a groan, trying to deflect the question.
“I’m not asking for an appraisal, I’m asking you what you think of ‘em,” Gene told him.
“It’s the same thing,” Sam pointed out lazily, “as you well know.”
“Isn’t,” Gene contradicted, “else they’d be called the same thing.”
Sam sighed and ignored the question and they lapsed into silence again, each sipping away at their pints.
“Thing is Sam,” Gene eventually continued as he dropped his empty glass onto the table, “if you’re telling me we’ve got some loony killer on the loose that likes killing pretty young things we’re going to need everyone singing from the same hymn sheet else the boat will sink.”
“I didn’t say we had a ‘loony killer’,” Sam clarified automatically, “besides so long as it’s not ‘Nearer My God To Thee’ I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“What?” Gene demanded.
“It’s what they played as the Titanic sank,” Sam explained. “Your metaphor,” he continued as Gene’s expression remained confused, “hymn sheets…sinking boats…oh never mind.”
“Talking shit again,” Gene told him, “Come on Gladys, down your drink it’s past your bed time.”
Sam eyed the whiskey on the table and, like most nights, gave up all hope of a clear head and stable stomach come morning. Obeying the instruction he winced as the whiskey burned a fiery trail down his throat. Then, gathering up the glasses they wandered across the put and placed them on the bar.
“Thank you gentlemen,” Nelson said with one of his obscenely cheerful grins. “Servant’s entrance,” he reminded them with a nod to pub’s fire exit and then, goodbyes exchanged they exited into the still warm night.
They paused as the heavy door clanged shut behind them, Sam to glance up at the night sky, Gene to light a cigarette.
“It’s still there,” Gene commented as he glanced over at Sam, noting the long, graceful curve of his neck as his head craned upward and long eyelashes were framed in the glow of a streetlamp.
Following his DI’s gaze Gene turned his eyes upward, unerringly picking out Venus as she hung in the night sky. Sam glanced toward him and smiled, a tiny moment of understanding passing between them as their eyes met. Then Gene stepped away and they ambled back to the station car park and the waiting Cortina.
As he eased himself into the seat Sam didn’t even bother rehashing the argument over drink-driving. It was getting just a little tired. After all Gene hadn’t killed him. Yet. And he did have enough sense to keep to a reasonable speed as they wound through the night streets. Soon, almost too soon, Gene pulled up outside Sam’s flat and twisted the key in the ignition, killing the engine.
“Well here we are,” he observed, “home sweet home.”
“New home sweet home,” Sam commented as he made no attempt to move, glancing up at the tenement building though the windshield. It wasn’t much to write home about. But it was bigger and better. Cleaner and a little more salubrious. Fewer flowers on the wall, more flowers in window boxes.
Beside him Gene lit up another cigarette, rolled his window down and settled back into his seat. And it had also been like this lately. Still just the two of them. Still musing and mellow. Loath to part. Like the blokes in the pub.
“Is it…you know…better?” Gene asked slowly, his tone careful as he searched for words
Sam glanced over at him and his eyes crinkled in confusion.
“You new place,” Gene explained with a brief nod toward the redbrick building.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed.
“Why,” Gene asked.
Sam simply stared at him and found himself wondering what on earth had prompted the question. Conversations about the housing market were for dinner tables in suburban Surry, not the passenger seat of Gene’s Cortina. And they were exactly the type of thing he’d hoped to leave far in the future.
“Why is it better?” Gene clarified, “what it is that makes one flat better than another, one house better than another?”
Sam raised his eyebrows and then shrugged. Just another drunk conversation with Gene Hunt. “Location, location, location,” he suggested idly, and then seeing Gene was serious sat up in his seat.
“Depends,” he eventually said, giving the question some thought, “with this it’s close to work to be able to leave the car at home but far enough away that I don’t feel like I never leave the place. Big windows that face West so they get sun in the evening. Spacious rooms. Up and coming area…”
Gene didn’t respond but Sam could see the cogs working, see him filing away the information for future use and possibly further contemplation.
“You could come up if you want?” Sam suggested, not even bothering to make an excuse. Not bothering to make mutterings about coffee or a guided tour or using the bathroom.
Gene glanced over at his DI, noted the skin of his arms and the slight Goosebumps caused by the night air. Noted the easy, lazy slide of his eyes and remembered the way Sam had felt pressed against him. Remembered the warmth and the heat and the gentle haze of the pub. Thought of his cool, cold half of the double bed. Imagined the cool, clear slide of Sam’s skin against his own. Then he thought of his wife.
“Nah,” he said and with a quick toss of his head turned back to the road.
Sam shrugged and without another word slipped from the car. He paused as he slammed the door shut, hands resting against the Cortina roof for just a second. Then he tapped the metal in dismissal, a sharp double rap that echoed loud in the silent street.
And then he was gone. Walking up the still unfamiliar stairs and trying to ignore the odd sense of disappointment.
The flat was dark when he pushed open the door though the heat of the day still lingered and caused his flesh to crawl and prickle. Kicking the door shut he heard the flare of an engine and then the low, chugging ripple as Gene drove away, fading into the night. And then he was left alone. Left to rest his forehead against the wall and stop his thoughts long before they started.
Next morning Sam slipped into work later than usual dosing his hangover with copious amounts of caffeine. Sitting at his desk he glanced at its satisfyingly tidy surface and ignored anything that required effort. Reaching for his in-tray he removed the stack of papers and sorted through them idly. Toward the bottom of the pile he found Oswald’s post-mortem report and reached for it with interest.
Sipping at his black coffee he began to flick through it. Glancing at the photographs he tossed them to one side and pulled the summary sheet from the sheaf of papers.
“Shit…” he muttered as he read through the two terse paragraphs. Placing his coffee mug on the desk Sam read through them again and then, shoving his chair away from his desk, strode purposefully toward Gene’s office. Not bothering to knock he pushed open the door and tossed the papers onto Gene’s desk where they landed with a satisfying thud. At the Guv’s questioning look he simply nodded to the bundle and then with arms folded tight around his body he waited patiently as Gene read through the file.
“So it’s a drug overdose,” Gene commented with a shrug, “Close the file and add it to the growing pile in the collators office, it’s not news.”
“It is if you read on,” Sam told him with a grim smile, “because someone injected a massive quantity of heroin directly into her stomach.”
“Shit,” Gene muttered as he tossed the file back onto the desk and stared up at his DI.
“That was my response,” Sam agreed darkly.
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: Brown Cortina overall (this part white, with green spots)
Word Count: This part 7990. 15 000 so far.
Spoilers: None that I can think of. 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: Another part that’s been a bit dodgy to write. I’m struggling to find a balance between plot and slash (even mild slash!) and I’m struggling to find a balance between descriptive scene setting and plot movement. I have one beta that likes the scene setting and one that finds it distracting - so what do you guys think? Seriously, opinions gratefully received. I’ve left this chapter pretty much unaltered after beta comments but I’ll happily take direction from the comm. at large, where do you want to see this going?
Thanks go to missscarlett and to lo0o0ony_lauren for their betaing talents. Particularly to missscarlett for her fantastically speedy responses!
And now I’m off on my hols for a week. See ya all when I get back.
Feedback remains my recreational drug of choice. It still helps with motivation and at current market prices it’s cheaper than crack.
Prologue
Chapter One
The Good, The Bad and The Easily Bribed
Chapter Two
June 1974
The mid afternoon sun was beating down with startling ferocity as Sam made his way across St Peters square and slipped in between the large, imposing columns of the Central library, mounting the sweep of steps. He grimaced a little in the heat, warmth flaring and prickling down his back, tiny beads of sweat gathering in his hairline.
Reaching the top he pushed open the heavy double doors and sighed in relief as he stepped into the cool, marble lined lobby. Pausing for a moment he glanced around and smiled. Stone busts and bright posters stared back at him. And over thirty years the only things that would change were the posters. Well those and the café in the basement.
Crossing the narrow, curved lobby he pushed open another set of double doors and walked toward the issue desk, coming to wait behind a mother and her two young kids. Drawing in a long breath Sam rested an arm against the old oak desk and savoured the scent and sound of the place. To one side a collection of old men sat around one long table, newspapers spread across its surface, crinkling and crackling beneath their hands. And above the occasional cough or a man and creak of a spine the thump of the librarian’s stamp was loud but comforting in its familiarity. So much more resonant than the electronic self-service scanners that would replace them.
Before him the young woman placed several books on the counter, a couple of brightly coloured pictured books and at least one Topsy and Tim. Sam smiled and shook his head remembering the proud place such volumes had held on his bookcase. Slipping his hand into his pocket he removed the plastic wallet that contained the library tickets and laid it on the counter. As it became his turn he slipped it along the counter and flashed his badge to the librarian. Her eyes widened a little and she glanced up at Sam, confusion and a little fear gracing her face.
Her smiled briefly at her, trying to put her at her ease and pushed the wallet toward her.
“DI Tyler, Manchester CID,” he began, “Could you tell me who this belonged to please?”
“Of course Sir,” the woman answered. Taking the bag she reached for the seal and made to open it.
“No!” Sam said hurriedly, his suddenly loud voice causing several people to turn and stare at him.
“We, erm, need to preserve the evidence,” he explained, “If you couldn’t keep it sealed.”
The librarian turned suddenly steely eyes toward him, letting Sam know exactly what she felt about that idea, and then, with a laboured sigh glanced at the gathering queue. Sighing again she lifted the card to the light and scrunched up her eyes trying to read the catalogue number. Then she moved to one side of the desk and pulled open one of the large, wooden drawers and began to flick through the legions of similar cards, fingers flying fast over the papers.
Eventually she paused and withdrew a similar looking card. Bringing it over she double checked the number and then placed the evidence bag back on the counter.
“Miss Mary Chipley,” she announced with an air of finality.
“Do you have an address?” Sam asked, resisting the urge to sound apologetic.
The librarian raised her eyebrows, glanced at the queue, then back to Sam. With a slight shake of her head she returned to the drawers and opened another. Withdrawing a registration card she placed it on the counter and took a step back.
Sam glanced down at the card and jotted down several details in his notebook.
“Any chance I could take this?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
The woman shook her head, “we need it for the records. Can’t have missing information”
Sam nodded. “What does this ‘C’ mean, he asked, indicating a large red letter in the corner of the card.
“Children’s ticket,” the librarian answered with an air of forced patience.
Sam glanced down at his notes and did a quick calculation in his head, “But she was nineteen, maybe your records aren’t as accurate as you think,” he suggested with a quick grin.
The librarian shot him an unreadable look and took the card away from him. Selecting a black pen from the countertop she crossed the letter through and added an ‘A’ to its side.
“They are now,” she said with a tight-lipped smile, “if there’s nothing more Inspector?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen her in the last two or three days?” Sam asked, slipping the evidence bag back into his pocket.
“I wouldn’t know,” the woman answered stiffly.
Snapping his notebook and adding it to his pocket Sam smiled, muttered his thanks and took his leave.
Out in the sunshine he couldn’t help but smile. Because in his day there were network centres, mobile ringtones and DVD rentals in the library. Not the woman with the steel bun, a rod of iron and her ‘silence’ signs.
Beginning his walk back to the station Sam paused by a news stand and picked up The Guardian, glancing down at the front page. Watergate. Still. He sighed and tucked the paper under his arm, wondering, not for the first time why he even bothered with the news. After all it was all old news. Nothing remarkably surprising could actually occur for another thirty-two years. Which was a mildly depressing realisation when he thought about it.
Strolling into CID about ten minutes later he dropped the paper onto the edge of his desk, knowing it was safe from all grubby paws. After all there were no naked women on page three, just more domestic news. And some long words. Annie might glance at it, maybe Chris if he was really bored, but it was hardly likely to walk itself into someone else’s drawer.
Still standing Sam reached over his desk and snagged an index card from the pile that he always kept close by. Uncapping his pen he jotted down the bare facts; Mary Chipley; victim; seventeen; salient features: slim, young, blond hair, blue eyes; murdered. Then, slipping in into another pile of such cards he made his way to the Guv’s office.
Gene was sat at his desk, idly twirling a dart though his fingers. Sam eyed it warily. Gene hadn’t actually thrown one at him yet, but it was probably only a matter of time. And for a man who could deploy office stationary as interrogation equipment with barely a second thought, a dart could safely be considered an offensive weapon.
“Solved the case yet, Tyler?” he queried.
“Got a name and address,” Sam offered, “and next of kin.”
“Well aren’t libraries useful places?” Gene suggested sarcastically.
“Well it’s true what they say,” Sam told him with a grin.
“And what’s what then?” Gene demanded as he tossed the dart onto the desk and crossed his hands in his lap.
“Your Local Library: A world of information at your fingertips,” Sam parroted, repeating an old advertising campaign he remembered from his youth.
Gene looked unimpressed, “that so?” he drawled, “don’t suppose they told you the missus has done with the shed key, by any chance?”
“They neglected to mention it,” Sam told him, “but you do know the people that staff the building are librarians, not psychics.”
“Shame,” Gene responded evenly, “the lawn needs cutting. And I miss my deckchair.”
Sam stared at him and shook his head, still amazed at how quickly conversations with Gene could lose themselves. How easy it was to slip from the sublime to the ridiculous.
“Well is it on a hook by the back door?” Sam heard himself suggest.
“Nope,” Gene responded firmly.
“On a hook by the front door?” He continued.
“No hooks Sam,” Gene told him, firmly quenching that line of enquiry.
“Okay is it in the pocket of whatever she was wearing last time she opened the shed?” Sam asked.
Gene glanced up at him for a second, his blue eyes narrowing a little as he did so. Then he shook his head slowly and continued to regard Sam with a very odd expression.
“In the crap-drawer?” Sam tried in desperation.
“The what?” Gene barked.
“The crap-drawer,” Sam repeated, “the drawer in which you put all the crap: elastic bands; spare fuses; batteries; shed keys.”
Gene stared at him with an odd expression and shook his head slowly, “No,” he added for emphasis.
“Then I’m out of ideas,” Sam admitted.
“Some bloody detective you turn out to bed,” Gene grumbled, “count yourself lucky that girl went and got herself done in, else I might have made it your special assignment for the day.”
“Well you’re hardly Magnum PI yourself,” Sam retorted, “seeing as you clearly can’t find it.”
Gene cast him a steely gaze and reached for the dart, balancing its tip against his finger. Sam glanced at it as the overhead lights caused it to glint and silence settled over the room.
“Did you actually want anything?” Gene eventually asked.
“The file?” Sam queried with the tone of one talking to the mentally retarded.
Gene turned those blue eyes on him once again and tossed the newly made up file in Sam’s direction, not a word uttered.
Leaning forward Sam snagged it from the desk, opening it and glancing at its contents though sheer force of habit. It was empty but for the sparsely filled out docket. He stared down at it for a second and felt the surge of adrenalin flow through him, just as it always did at the start of a case. And even after fifteen years on the force he wasn’t sure if he preferred seeing the files like this, open, empty and filled with promise and the illusion of innocence, or if it was better when they were bulging; full of reports and analysis and statements. Full of guilt.
Realising he was still standing in front of Gene’s desk Sam moved to leave the office. He paused as he reached the rear door, hand on it’s wooden frame.
“Why don’t you just ask your wife where the key is?” he asked.
Gene sat perfectly still for a second and Sam could see the ramrod set of his back and the tension in his body. Then his shoulders rolled and Sam watched the dart shoot through the air, a sudden burst of energy and speed. It embedded itself in the colourful cork with a dull thud.
“Yep, that would seem to be the obvious solution, Tyler,” Gene agreed with just the barest hint of a sigh touching his voice. “Trolley-Lorry’s brought the stiff in, she’s on the slab,” he continued.
Sam’s hand remained on the door frame and he stared quizzically at Gene for a long second. The Guv sat perfectly still, back to Sam, making no attempt to turn around or engage Sam in further conversation.
“Well go on, bugger off and work your magic,” Gene told him in clear dismissal and so with a light shrug Sam pushed at the door and walked out into the corridor.
Slipping the file under his arm and his hands into his pocket he made his way toward the basement, tripping lightly down the stone steps, eschewing the lift in favour of their cooler atmosphere.
Pausing in the dark, almost dank stairwell of the basement Sam drew in a long breath and smiled. The scent was so familiar; preserving agent, damp and just a hint of earth. A smell that never changed. Not once in thirty-three years.
He’d used to love it down here when he first landed. Because it really had barely changed. Because he could lean back against the walls, feel the damp begin to seep through his shirts and believe that when he opened his eyes he’d see halogen strip lights and the glass walled office, computers and basic analysis equipment. Only had to close his eyes to see different clothes and hear different voices. Loved it because it was the place he came to remind himself that he wasn’t mad. That there was a place he came from. Only these days the links to the future were fading, and now when he stepped into the morgue it was more like a burst of beautiful nostalgia, half faded memories of a place once loved, mourned and lost.
Well almost mourned and lost. Because he still loved it here, but now it was anticipation that thrilled him. Because here, amongst the dark and the dead, was where that he caught the longest glimpses of the future. Here ‘forensic’ wasn’t a dirty word. Here people didn’t look at him like he’d lost his mind when he suggested a tox-screen. Well no, they did, only they thought he’d lost less of his mind.
“What have you got Oswald?” Sam asked as strode into the examining room.
The aging, grey haired pathologist turning his head toward the intrusion and then, with a brief nod of acknowledgement turned back to his work, continuing to extract debris from her hair and place it in an evidence bag.
“Young female, late teens, early twenties,” he began, “no obvious signs of assault though some bruising to the upper arms and calves General outward appearance suggests good health but if I were to hazard a guess at cause of death I’d say some massive system overload, maybe a heart attack or a stroke.”
Walking toward the cadaver he lifted one of her closed eyelids, “see here?” he asked, “there are quite a few burst blood vessels in her eyes, certainly something was a shock to the system.”
Sam moved toward the body and glanced down at the girl. Picking up an arm he rotated it gently, glancing over the smooth, clear skin. Returning it carefully to the slab he repeated the process with her other arm.
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Oswald agreed as he paused in his work and straightened his back with a slight groan, “but there’s no obvious signs of drug use.”
Sam raised his eyebrows and took a long, searching look at the body, “Surely a heart attack is unusual in someone this young?” he queried, knowing the question was largely rhetorical.
“Congenital?” Oswald suggested as he turned away to his instrument tray, replacing the tweezers to its paper lined surface and sealing the evidence bag.
“Don’t know yet,” Sam replied a little distractedly as he moved to examine the bruising to her calves, noting the clear outline of fingers imprinted on the flesh.
“So you’re saying it could actually be a natural death?” Sam asked as he continued his visual assessment of the body, noting the thin, white strap lines on tanned feet, her painted nails and painted face, the scrapes and grazes across her arms and legs, a silver ring with a large, green stone on her right hand.
“But if it is how did she end up at the bottom of a ravine?” he continued.
“You’re the detective,” Oswald told him dryly.
Sam looked up from the body and laughed a little, enjoying a joke that somehow never seemed to get old.
“Can you estimate time of death?” he asked.
Oswald sighed, “between 8pm and 2am I’d say,” he suggested with an apologetic shrug.
Sam raised his eyebrow, “you can’t be a little more specific?” he queried.
“Not at this stage,” the doctor told him firmly, “the body temperate estimate is virtually useless when the body’s been out overnight, particularly in summer. There wont have been a steady rate of cooling. The post-mortem will tell us more.”
Sam acknowledged the point with a brief nod.
“I’m actually ready to begin,” Oswald told him as he picked up several large evidence bags, “I assume you’ll be staying.”
Sam paused and contemplated the idea for a moment, sorely tempted by the idea.
“I can’t,” he said with genuine regret, “someone needs to inform the family. I’ll send Chris down.”
Oswald raised his eyes to Sam’s and glanced at the clock with a despairing expression, “Well I suppose he’s had time to digest his breakfast,” he noted dryly.
“Oh plenty of time,” Sam agreed airily as he made his way toward the archway. Then he paused and glanced back to the body, watching as Oswald carefully removed her remaining shoe and dropped it into one of the bags, “though erm…maybe you should get most of the sawing done before he gets down?” he suggested with a grin.
Then, whistling idly to himself Sam headed back toward CID. Pushing open the double doors with something resembling enthusiasm he glanced around the room as he ambled toward his desk, dropping the file onto its surface.
“Any news on that canal death?” he asked, calling over to Ray and Chris who were lazing at their respective desks, smoking, chatting and flicking through some squalid rag or other.
“Dead hippie,” Ray told with a shrug, “night watchman remembers seeing a blue van sometime around three but he didn’t pay it much mind. Not much to do until someone reports him missing.”
“Looks like he OD’d and his mates dumped him,” Chris supplied as he reached into his drawer and pulled out a Twix and held in between two fingers, “Bit shit though innit, I mean I wouldn’t want friends like that,” he added with a mildly contemplative air.
“Got to have friends first you div,” Ray pointed out.
“Have,” Chris told him simply, refusing to rise to the jibe. Then he lifted the Twix and began to tear at its wrapper.
Sam sighed and turned back to his desk, reaching for more of the index cards, adorning them with his unique script. In their corner Ray and Chris continued the mild bickering and Sam found himself clenching his teeth, trying to block out the noise. It still amazed him that any crimes actually got solved by A division. Because with the Guv puffing away in his office practising his darts game and Chris and Ray puffing away in here practicing god knows what, and the rest of them puffing and practising at being dead, it didn’t leave many detectives prepared to do any actual detecting. Actually no, he amended, it was amazing when the right person was arrested, charged and convicted. It was almost an occasion to phone the Guinness Book of Records.
“No!” Sam suddenly yelled, whipping back around to face Chris, holding his hands up in warning.
Chris froze, instantly and glanced quickly glanced from side to side, eyes darting around the office.
“Step away from the Twix,” Sam told him, articulating his words carefully.
Chris glanced down at his chocolate and then back to Sam, confusion clear in his eyes. Ray simply shook his head and ignored the pair of them.
“You’re on morgue duty,” Sam explained and watched Chris’ face visibly collapse.
“Oh come on Boss,” Ray objected, “you know he hates it in there.”
“I know,” Sam agreed with a sympathetic smile to Chris, “but unfortunately he’s the only one around here I trust not to contaminate the evidence chain.”
“Can’t Annie go?” Chris asked a little desperately, not quite able to keep the whine from his voice.
“She’s not here,” he pointed out, “and the post-mortem wont wait until we find her.”
“I’ll go,” Ray offered with a shrug, “don’t bother me.”
“It bothers me,” Sam told him, halting Ray’s lumbering attempts to get out of his chair, “the last time you oversaw a post mortem you spilled tea all over the victim, used your saucer as an ashtray and then when it got full, emptied the contents into an evidence bag. We then spent a week looking for a heavy smoker who liked tea with two sugars. You’re lucky the Guv could alibi you for the time of death because I was quite up for arresting you on suspicion of double homicide. So no, you are going to sit there and write me a lovely detailed report about the body from the towpath.”
Ray glowered at him but made no further comment whilst Chris merely sighed loudly and dropped the Twix back into his drawer. He stood up slowly, the legs of his chair scraping across the floor.
“Me mam wont be happy if I ruin another pair of shoes,” he complained to Sam, hovering beside him for a moment.
Sam merely glanced up at him and cocked his head toward the door. Chris sighed again, loudly and wandered reluctantly out of the office.
“You have to pick on him?” Ray demanded once the doors had slammed shut behind Chris.
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, “I’m not picking on him,” he explained patiently, “believe me you’d know about it if I was. He’s a police officer under my command and I need him in the morgue. If you’re that concerned about him perhaps you’d like to develop an appreciation of basics of police procedure then I wouldn’t have to keep sending Chris to baby-sit the stiffs?” he suggested tartly.
Ray merely snarled at him in response and turned back to his magazine.
“Thought not,” Sam muttered under his breath as he made his way across the office. Pushing open Gene’s door he poked his head around it and then slipped into the room.
“Something wrong with your hands, Tyler?” Gene asked without looking up from the open file on his desk.
“Not that I know of,” Sam responded carefully.
“Then be a good boy and next time you feel like you need an audience with the Gene-genie, make a fist, remember your manners and knock. Like the rest of the sodding station.”
“Sorry,” Sam said, though his tone was far from contrite, “I’m going out,” he announced.
“Oh yeah, anywhere nice?” Gene asked.
“See the girl’s family,” Sam explained.
“Send plod,” Gene ordered instantly.
“No I want to talk to them,” Sam continued, “see what they can tell me. At the very least we need to know if there’s a history of heart trouble in the family.”
Gene raised his eyebrows in question but didn’t take his eyes from his paperwork.
“Oswald thinks she may have died of a heart attack,” Sam said by way of explanation.
“Dodgy ticker,” Gene mused idly, tapping his pen against the edge of the file, “so she got pissed, heart gave out and she fell over. Got stoned, heart gave out, fell over. Not much story there. Only bit of excitement you can hope for is that her heart gave out while she was giving one to her boyfriend.”
Sam stared back at Gene in amazement, wondering at the bizarre internal workings of his DCI’s mind.
“You’re a pig,” Sam pointed out flatly, and then with a brief shake of his head continued, “but this isn’t a natural death, something feels wrong about it,”
This got Gene’s attention and he finally glanced up from the report, “Do I smell instinct?” he asked with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows.
Sam sighed and leant back against a filing cabinet. “No,” he told him firmly, “Oswald can’t really give us a time or cause of death yet, but the marks around her ankles are clearly hand prints. She’s been roughly handled either just before or just after she died. Maybe the family can give us some idea of who her friends were, where she might have been last night, give us some way in.”
Gene considered the idea for a moment and then pushed his chair away, standing up. “Not one of your worst ideas,” he agreed as he reached for his jacket.
Sam winced and pushed himself away from the cabinet, bringing him close to Gene. Close enough to smell the lingering scene of aftershave and the hint of sweat that lay just beneath the surface.
“Actually I was thinking of taking Annie,” Sam said as his nostrils flared, his stomach tightening.
Gene paused mid movement and turned slowly to face Sam.
“Oh you were, were you?” he demanded, edging a little closer, threatening Sam with his very presence and bulk, invading his personal space just as he always did. “And what makes you think I’m going to give you permission to take the plonk out for a nice little romantic stroll in the park?” Gene asked, an odd edge of bitterness creeping into his acid tones.
“I just thought Annie might be a more sympathetic presence,” Sam suggested with a light shrug.
“Meaning I’m not a sympathetic presence?” Gene asked in that same tone, and turning away he tossed his jacket onto the hat stand and slouched back behind his desk.
“Oh come on Guv!” Sam began, “two seconds ago you were suggesting the girl died while having sex with her boyfriend. So as I have to go and tell her mother…”
“Do you need to take the plonk?” Gene interrupted, eyes narrowing.
Sam paused and raised an eyebrow, glancing over at Gene, studying him carefully. “I’m about to tell a mother that her daughter has been murdered and her body dumped off the side of a mountain. And no she can’t have the body for a funeral because our pathologist wants to slice into it. And no I don’t know when she can have it back and nope, we have no idea where to even start finding her killer. So yeah, I thought that in the circumstances, a female presence might be a help.”
“I’d have thought you were woman enough Tyler,” Gene suggested with a snide half-smiled as he turned back to his desk, “fine take her. Only I want her back before lunchtime. And no stopping off for ice cream on the way home. You’ll spoil her dinner.”
Taking this for the dismissal that it was Sam wandered back into CID, casting a cursory glance around the room. Ray and Vince were hunched over their desks, to all intents and purposes working, or at the very least quiet. Which he supposed was a benefit in and of itself.
“Annie,” he called out spotting her brown curls the instant they entered the office.
“Sam?” she queried as she walked toward his desk, pausing to drop off a file at her own before continuing.
Turning to face her he held up one of the index cards, gripping it between two fingers.
“What is it?” she asked.
Sam grinned at her and continued to hold the card aloft.
Sighing she reached for it, swatting his arm lightly as he moved it out of her reach before relenting and handing it to her.
“Fourteen Gladstone Road?” She read, her eyebrows raised in silent question.
“Last known address of Mary Chipley,” he explained, “fancy a trip?”
Annie rolled her eyes as she handed the card back to him, “thought I’d got rid of that job when I left uniform,” she told him with a sigh.
Sam shook his head, “You never get rid of it,” he told with a quick, sympathetic smile, “do you mind?” he queried, concern touching his voice.
She returned the smile, “nah,” she confirmed, “come on, we can take my car.”
Sam nodded and found himself smiling again.
Turning to his desk to pick up his notebook Sam patted down his jacket, checking for a pen, As he did so he glanced upward, toward Gene’s office and watched as the blinds bounced a little, falling back into place. Pausing for a second he noted Gene, his bulky frame just visible behind the thin fabric. Beside him Annie jostled his arm.
“We going?” She asked.
“Sorry, yes,” Sam agreed turning away from the office and following Annie out of the room. Only as he did so he felt a shiver skitter down his spine and he knew those blue eyes were watching him walk, and that same odd tension was back in his stomach.
Sitting in the passenger seat of Annie’s little run around Sam found himself once again watching the world through a windscreen. Only Annie didn’t see road signs, zebra crossings and traffic lights as optional undertakings and so he actually had time to see the detail. Time to watch life slide past. Outside the Farley Lane Post Office two women, hands resting on old perambulators chatted and nodded their way through the morning. Down on Main Street shoppers and browsers and workers milled around, their movements sluggish and slow in the ever rising heat. And there were kids and alkies, bikes and boozers. Life’s rich tapestry he thought sardonically.
Eventually they pulled up outside a small, red bricked terrace. Steps led straight from the footpath to a bright blue front door with a gleaming knocker. House-proud, Sam noted idly as he stepped from the car. Then, with a glance to Annie, he jogged up the small flight of steps and raised the gleaming knocker, rapping it sharply.
The door was soon opened by a middle aged woman in an old housedress, its floral pattern faded by time and too many washdays. A robust, calico apron was smattered with flour and a long streak of something white adorned her face. Her hair was a corn-yellow and bright blue eyes peered out through a long, untidy fringe. Bright blue eyes that matched those of the dead girl. Bright blue eyes that caused him to blink in surprise as an echo of that skitter slid thorough his body.
“Mrs Chipley?” he queried as he held up his warrant card.
She blinked. Once. Twice. And then nodded tersely.
“DI Tyler, WDC Cartwright,” Sam continued. Then he waited. Waited while cogs turned and the truth began to dawn.
“Can we come in?” he asked carefully as Annie shuffled nervously beside him.
And then it was there. Waiting over. Because Mrs Chipley pushed open the door and welcomed them in, even as her face crumpled and her shoulder sagged a little. And he was there, sat in the living room of another shocked, grieving relative, asking impolite, impertinent questions and just doing his job.
Some days he hated his job.
Sam sat in the Railway Arms and dropped his head back against the seat, wincing a little as it connected with the wooden tip of the headrest. His third pint sat on the table, barely touched. But his veins were singing with alcohol, that last whiskey chasing through his body making him mellow and mild and quite mute.
Gene was propping up the bar while Ray, Chris, Annie and a random smattering of the station orbited around him like demented little satellites.
Okay, Sam conceded analysing that last simile with a slight frown, maybe he was somewhat past mild and mellow and most of the way to half cut.
He frowned a little as Ray placed another double in front of Gene, only to have it vanish in the space of a few seconds. He tipped his head to one side and watched as Gene signalled for another drink. Sam frowned a little more. Gene was drinking too much. More than usual. And talking less. He watched for a few more minutes. Watched as Gene drank. Watched as Gene watched the others. Watched Nelson watching Gene.
Glancing around the pub Nelson’s eyes settled on Sam and the barman raised his eyebrows. Sam understood the question and merely shrugged in response.
Sighing he took a sip of the pint and picked up his paper. The clock above him ticked loudly, audible even over the din of the pub. He turned, craning his neck; ten thirty. He sighed again. Too early to go home then. Too early to head back to his flat with its newly white walls and echoing, empty rooms. Opening the paper he shook open its large pages and began to read. It was amusement. Of a sort.
Half way through the international news the paper was snatched from his hands and he glanced up to find Gene towering over him.
“Oi!” Sam objected grabbing at the paper, glaring as Gene merely moved it out of his reach and glanced idly at the pages, his eyes bleary and bloodshot.
“Don’t know why you read that bollocks anyway,” Gene said as he folded it untidily, dropping it onto the table as he sat down heavily, knocking Sam’s arm as he did so.
“Because I find it an informative and educational read,” Sam said sweetly as he inched a little to his right, putting some space between him and his Guv.
Gene raised an eyebrow, “ts’not, its communist drivel written for the summer of love crowd and teachers in the suburbs. Head in the sand stuff Sam.”
“Oh just because it contains words longer than two syllables?” he suggested reaching for it again, “I’ll have you know that sales of this paper are what subsidise you beloved Chronicle and keep it in print.”
Gene grunted in disbelief and slapped Sam’s hand away, placing his pint on top of the paper, the force of his movement causing some of the beer to splash onto the paper.
“Oh dear,” he noted with nothing resembling remorse entering his tone.
Sam rolled his eyes and gave it up as a bad job. “You’re drunk,” he observed as he sat up and reached for his own drink.
“Not yet,” Gene contradicted, “but I’m getting there.”
Sam shook his head but made no further comment.
“So talk to me Sammy-boy,” Gene instructed, “what do we know?”
Sam lifted his pint to his lips and took a small mouthful.
“About what?” he asked, genuine confusion spreading over his features.
“The case, the girl, the job. Our bread and butter.”
“You are drunk,” Sam concluded as he sat back in his seat once again, cradling his drink against his chest.
Gene ignored the comment and they sat in silence for several seconds. Last orders had been called and the crowds in the pub were beginning thinning, the ever present shroud of smoke lessening as punters gradually drifted home. At the bar Ray held court, several of the team seeming to hang on his every word. Only Annie stood a little to one side, disbelief writ clear across her face. Another one of Ray’s implausible action hero stories Sam concluded.
“So come on,” Gene prompted, “get owt from the mother?”
“A bit,” Sam told him, “names of friends. Work address. Usual.”
“So were looking at the corpse of a lovely, sweet girl who wouldn’t melt butter, visited her gran every Sunday and always helped orphans and cripples over the road,” Gene concluded sarcastically.
“Pretty much,” Sam agreed, “but we’ve got enough to start digging.”
“Want to handle it?” Gene asked with a sideways glance to Sam, unsurprised as his DI nodded.
“I’ll check out her work first thing tomorrow,” Sam told him, “we need to establish her movements last night. Someone there must know if she was meeting anyone, what her plans were.”
“Typing-pool grapevine,” Gene said with a slight nod, “where would we be without it.”
“Fucked,” Sam agreed.
“So you haven’t got some great theory yet then?” Gene asked as he look a long gulp of his pint.”
“Nope, too early in the investigative process,” Sam told him, “It’s actually a bit odd,” he admitted.
“Eh?” Gene demanded.
Shifting in his seat a little Sam turned toward Gene, moving his focus away from the pub.
“Well Annie and I had a look round her room when we were there and it looked…well it looked right” he suggested. “Everything you’d expect from a nineteen year old girl, a few books and dolls on a shelf, magazines and make up on her dresser, picture of Donald Sinden stuck to her mirror. Even her diary didn’t give us anything. Normal kid,” he concluded with a slight shrug.
“What you saying?” Gene asked as he moved to match Sam’s position, bringing their shoulders together in a gentle collision.
“I’m not saying anything,” Sam pointed out, making no attempt to move, enjoying the slight pressure, the tiny focus of warmth through his thin shirt. “Not in the way you mean,” he clarified, “I’m just saying that there didn’t seem to be anything amiss when we were there. She goes out on a Friday night with the friends she’s known from school, occasionally goes on a few dates with one of the local boys, it’s not like she’s out pole dancing every night of the week in a pink PVC boobtube and chatting with the local chaos crew.”
Beside him Gene huffed and slouched a little further in his seat, the movement echoing through Sam. “You’re talking shit,” Gene told him lazily, his words slurring just a little, “what you actually mean is either little Miss Muffet’s been leading a very clever double life or this case is about to go arse over tit.”
“And you have such a lovely turn of phrase,” Sam retorted, “but yeah. Feels like that.”
Gene nodded slowly and drained the last of his drink. Then standing up carefully he nodded to Sam’s still half-full glass, “Want another?” he asked.
Sam shook his head, “and you shouldn’t either Guv,” he suggested, knowing full well Gene would ignore the comment. Or punch him. Or both. If that were at all possible.
As it happened Gene simply grunted and turned back to the bar, confident of being served even though ‘time’ had been called a good half an hour ago.
The pub was almost empty now. A couple of middle aged men sat quietly in the opposite corner, finishing their pints in a contemplative silence that spoke more of wanting to be away from the wife than of any genuine friendship. At the bar only Ray and Vince remained, short remnants of whiskey warming in their hands. And their stilted, slightly awkward conversation was just like that of the other men.
Soon Gene ambled back toward him, rebuffing Ray’s attempts to engage him in conversation. He placed a pint and two large whiskeys on the table and then slipped back into his seat, resting lightly against Sam once again, leaning into his body just a little. Just two mates. Just in the pub. Just a little drunk.
Only it was a touch more than that. Because that tightness in his stomach was back and he was no sweet ingénue. He was plenty old enough to recognise it for what it was. Attraction. Dull and muted. Probably twisted halfway to hell and back, but attraction nonetheless.
Across in the corner the two men finished up their pints and still with never a word exchanged rose in unison and ambled toward the exit, nodding to Nelson who voiced a cheerful goodbye as they left. Their movement roused Ray and Vince from their easy slump against the bar and then they too made efforts to leave, downing dregs of drink and reaching for discarded jackets.
As he slipped a little unsteadily from his barstool Ray glanced around the pub, his eyes lighting on Sam and Gene and a hard expression suddenly defined his features.
Sam noticed it with a sense of perverse enjoyment and felt the slight tense of Gene’s shoulders as he clocked the look.
“Night Raymondo,” he called across the pub, raising a glass in salute.
“Guv,” Ray responded easily, “Boss,” he added, his tone a little more formal.
“Night,” Sam agreed, nodding to Vince as the pair made their way out of the pub.
And then there were two, Sam noted, laughing to himself a little. Yeah, he was pissed.
From behind the bar the ching of the till echoed loudly as Nelson began to cash up. And it was easy. Comfortable. Like it always seemed to be lately. Just the two of them. Mild and mellow and musing.
“What do you think of them Sam,” Gene suddenly asked as Nelson moved to the doors, sliding the bolts firmly shut, the metal rasping as he did so.
Sam turned his head and glanced over at Gene. The elder man seemed suddenly alert, his eyes oddly clear and frighteningly intense even as he stared into the middle distance.
Sam blinked and cast a long glance over his DCI. Shit, he thought. How did he do this? How could he be slumped in his seat, tie askew, lolling against Sam one second and so shrewd the next?
“This is not the time for appraisals,” Sam told him with a groan, trying to deflect the question.
“I’m not asking for an appraisal, I’m asking you what you think of ‘em,” Gene told him.
“It’s the same thing,” Sam pointed out lazily, “as you well know.”
“Isn’t,” Gene contradicted, “else they’d be called the same thing.”
Sam sighed and ignored the question and they lapsed into silence again, each sipping away at their pints.
“Thing is Sam,” Gene eventually continued as he dropped his empty glass onto the table, “if you’re telling me we’ve got some loony killer on the loose that likes killing pretty young things we’re going to need everyone singing from the same hymn sheet else the boat will sink.”
“I didn’t say we had a ‘loony killer’,” Sam clarified automatically, “besides so long as it’s not ‘Nearer My God To Thee’ I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“What?” Gene demanded.
“It’s what they played as the Titanic sank,” Sam explained. “Your metaphor,” he continued as Gene’s expression remained confused, “hymn sheets…sinking boats…oh never mind.”
“Talking shit again,” Gene told him, “Come on Gladys, down your drink it’s past your bed time.”
Sam eyed the whiskey on the table and, like most nights, gave up all hope of a clear head and stable stomach come morning. Obeying the instruction he winced as the whiskey burned a fiery trail down his throat. Then, gathering up the glasses they wandered across the put and placed them on the bar.
“Thank you gentlemen,” Nelson said with one of his obscenely cheerful grins. “Servant’s entrance,” he reminded them with a nod to pub’s fire exit and then, goodbyes exchanged they exited into the still warm night.
They paused as the heavy door clanged shut behind them, Sam to glance up at the night sky, Gene to light a cigarette.
“It’s still there,” Gene commented as he glanced over at Sam, noting the long, graceful curve of his neck as his head craned upward and long eyelashes were framed in the glow of a streetlamp.
Following his DI’s gaze Gene turned his eyes upward, unerringly picking out Venus as she hung in the night sky. Sam glanced toward him and smiled, a tiny moment of understanding passing between them as their eyes met. Then Gene stepped away and they ambled back to the station car park and the waiting Cortina.
As he eased himself into the seat Sam didn’t even bother rehashing the argument over drink-driving. It was getting just a little tired. After all Gene hadn’t killed him. Yet. And he did have enough sense to keep to a reasonable speed as they wound through the night streets. Soon, almost too soon, Gene pulled up outside Sam’s flat and twisted the key in the ignition, killing the engine.
“Well here we are,” he observed, “home sweet home.”
“New home sweet home,” Sam commented as he made no attempt to move, glancing up at the tenement building though the windshield. It wasn’t much to write home about. But it was bigger and better. Cleaner and a little more salubrious. Fewer flowers on the wall, more flowers in window boxes.
Beside him Gene lit up another cigarette, rolled his window down and settled back into his seat. And it had also been like this lately. Still just the two of them. Still musing and mellow. Loath to part. Like the blokes in the pub.
“Is it…you know…better?” Gene asked slowly, his tone careful as he searched for words
Sam glanced over at him and his eyes crinkled in confusion.
“You new place,” Gene explained with a brief nod toward the redbrick building.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed.
“Why,” Gene asked.
Sam simply stared at him and found himself wondering what on earth had prompted the question. Conversations about the housing market were for dinner tables in suburban Surry, not the passenger seat of Gene’s Cortina. And they were exactly the type of thing he’d hoped to leave far in the future.
“Why is it better?” Gene clarified, “what it is that makes one flat better than another, one house better than another?”
Sam raised his eyebrows and then shrugged. Just another drunk conversation with Gene Hunt. “Location, location, location,” he suggested idly, and then seeing Gene was serious sat up in his seat.
“Depends,” he eventually said, giving the question some thought, “with this it’s close to work to be able to leave the car at home but far enough away that I don’t feel like I never leave the place. Big windows that face West so they get sun in the evening. Spacious rooms. Up and coming area…”
Gene didn’t respond but Sam could see the cogs working, see him filing away the information for future use and possibly further contemplation.
“You could come up if you want?” Sam suggested, not even bothering to make an excuse. Not bothering to make mutterings about coffee or a guided tour or using the bathroom.
Gene glanced over at his DI, noted the skin of his arms and the slight Goosebumps caused by the night air. Noted the easy, lazy slide of his eyes and remembered the way Sam had felt pressed against him. Remembered the warmth and the heat and the gentle haze of the pub. Thought of his cool, cold half of the double bed. Imagined the cool, clear slide of Sam’s skin against his own. Then he thought of his wife.
“Nah,” he said and with a quick toss of his head turned back to the road.
Sam shrugged and without another word slipped from the car. He paused as he slammed the door shut, hands resting against the Cortina roof for just a second. Then he tapped the metal in dismissal, a sharp double rap that echoed loud in the silent street.
And then he was gone. Walking up the still unfamiliar stairs and trying to ignore the odd sense of disappointment.
The flat was dark when he pushed open the door though the heat of the day still lingered and caused his flesh to crawl and prickle. Kicking the door shut he heard the flare of an engine and then the low, chugging ripple as Gene drove away, fading into the night. And then he was left alone. Left to rest his forehead against the wall and stop his thoughts long before they started.
Next morning Sam slipped into work later than usual dosing his hangover with copious amounts of caffeine. Sitting at his desk he glanced at its satisfyingly tidy surface and ignored anything that required effort. Reaching for his in-tray he removed the stack of papers and sorted through them idly. Toward the bottom of the pile he found Oswald’s post-mortem report and reached for it with interest.
Sipping at his black coffee he began to flick through it. Glancing at the photographs he tossed them to one side and pulled the summary sheet from the sheaf of papers.
“Shit…” he muttered as he read through the two terse paragraphs. Placing his coffee mug on the desk Sam read through them again and then, shoving his chair away from his desk, strode purposefully toward Gene’s office. Not bothering to knock he pushed open the door and tossed the papers onto Gene’s desk where they landed with a satisfying thud. At the Guv’s questioning look he simply nodded to the bundle and then with arms folded tight around his body he waited patiently as Gene read through the file.
“So it’s a drug overdose,” Gene commented with a shrug, “Close the file and add it to the growing pile in the collators office, it’s not news.”
“It is if you read on,” Sam told him with a grim smile, “because someone injected a massive quantity of heroin directly into her stomach.”
“Shit,” Gene muttered as he tossed the file back onto the desk and stared up at his DI.
“That was my response,” Sam agreed darkly.