Fic: Starry Night (part 2)
TITLE: Starry Night
AUTHOR: rainer76
RATING: Brown cortina - M-rated - for violence, language, disturbing images, yada, yada, yada.
DISCLAIMERS: The characters of Life on Mars are the property of Kudos, there’s nothing original here, move on.
NOTES: Set between 1:08 and 2:01. I seem to live in a state of permanent denial regarding the series finale, so again, consider this an AU. This hasn’t been beta-read, all errors are painfully mine.
Unfortunately this is gen - predominantly a crime story - and because it's LOM, a touch of weirdness.
Part 1:http://community.livejournal.com/lifein1973/847639.html#cutid1
Sam ignores him, eyes fixed on Roberts, "You were the previous D.I?"
"Well, yeah, what did you think? That there was just a convenient hole for you to fill? That they‘ve been operating one man down until the moment you showed up? This was my crew for the last four years, Tyler."
"Funny, I thought it was the *guv’s* team." *I haven’t heard of you*, Sam thinks.
"And that’s why you don’t fit in." Clinton retaliates.
"Are you two going to bitch-slap each other?"
Hunt’s voice is mild with faux brightness, Sam realises his hands have curled inward, that Robert‘s isn‘t radiating dislike so much as outright hate, and Sam’s reflecting it like the mirror-mirror man. Tyler takes a slow breath, deliberately relaxing his muscles. He’s the clear-headed one, normally, when he isn’t being haunted by creepy little girls, or when his mother’s voice doesn’t scratch down his spine like nails down a blackboard….then barring that, Sam’s the sanest person in the room.
Except that he’s operating on five hours sleep over three days and his equilibrium flew out the window the moment he spotted Clinton Roberts. Gene’s former D.I sits down again, whistling between his teeth as he flips through an open folder.
"Sam, find me the insurance records for McCaine’s factory. If he burnt that building down with our crispy critter inside, then I want him nailed to a cross by tomorrow morning. Clear?"
Gene stares at him, his expression unreadable. Sam’s always preferred the company of women, but his most cherished recollections were of his father. The inner memory replayed until the reel began to distort - until the quality of light diffused - coloured hues replaced by negative brightness. His father was an extraordinary man, if only because he wasn’t *common*. Vic Tyler was absent more often than not, but to four year old Sammy he was the harbinger of excitement. To thirty-five year old D.I Tyler, he’s like a bleeding wound. It takes him a full minute to realise that Clinton Roberts is whistling "For He’s a Jolly Good, Fellow."
"Tyler!" Gene barks, "Sleep on your own damn time."
Sam startles, dragging his eyes away from Roberts, from the flash-memory of his father whistling that same tune, and turns on his heel.
*********
It’s a quarter to nine in the morning and W.P.C Cartwright has barely closed her locker door, stashing away her purse and a woman’s magazine when D.I Tyler pokes his head around the corner. "Mind if I have a word?"
"You don’t normally go for redundant questions, sir." She’s been avoiding him, avoiding the whole mess.
The right side of her face is yellow, the bruise days old now, but Vic Tyler’s handiwork is still visible despite her best concealer. Sam’s eyes fix on it, his mouth going angry tight. Annie said she’d find him help, she said Sam was sick and only growing worse; she hates indecision, hates that she totters like a drunkard in his presence, trying not to fall on either side of extremism, loitering between concern, friendship, and an interest that has nothing to do with her psych degree and everything to do with the flutter in her stomach when in his presence. She said she was going to find him help and walked out the door, adamantly lying to herself.
He looks wretched, like he hasn’t slept in a week. He looks a lot like she feels.
Annie’s been snared in a web of deceit ever since encountering him, but she never thought it would extend to herself - this far and no further, a line drawn where she measures his madness - except Annie keeps shifting the marker, allowing further excesses. She confided in someone once, and as a result, Sam almost leapt from a building. She owes him for that, for the breach in trust. She doesn’t want to be responsible for locking him up. Her voice is sharper than intended, "What can I do for you, sir?"
"What do you know about fire?"
Annie tilts her head, eyes hardening, "Stand too close and you’re bound to be burnt."
"Cute," his gaze is penetrating, "What about motivations and symbolism?"
She falters, the initial ire tugged out from under her, "Are you looking for a psychological analysis?" she asks curiously.
"You have the degree."
She wants to ask him if he still believes Vic Tyler is his father. Annie always intended to join the police force, the years spent at university merely gave her the maturity she needed. She didn‘t join up like the lads - like Ray and Chris, or the guv - straight out of high school and impressionable as children, she wanted to make a difference. "D.C.I Hunt will laugh in your face," she warns cautiously.
He looks chagrined, black humour glistening in his eyes, "Given that he normally *punches* me in the face, I think I can handle it."
She wants to know how long he watched Vic Tyler go to town on her before stepping in.
That first slap felt like it shattered every bone in her cheek, like Vic knew *exactly* where to hit. She wants to believe that Sam interfered the instant he arrived - but some part of her knows better, and it feels like betrayal - he stood there and watched. Annie wants to know for how long. "You make the coffee, and I want my contribution noted and logged," she states firmly, trying not to fidget.
Sam tilts his head, his voice lingering soft, "I always have. You can check C.I.D’s case reports if you want."
Credit given where credit is due, Annie feels her chest constrict, her throat closing down tight. The detective’s guard their success rate jealously; doing their utmost to maintain the elusion of independence. Whatever aid she has provided to C.I.D over the years, Annie’s never once had it officially recognised, men like Ray Carling would never admit to calling in help - and to acknowledge that the help came from a woman… She can’t keep her balance with Sam, reeling from three simple words, *I always have.* She closes her eyes, "Come on, then., what have you?"
"Accidental, carelessness, or deliberate."
"You haven’t ruled out any of the options yet?"
"Not officially, we’re waiting on the Fire Chief’s report, but…" Sam pauses, as if the word pains him, "…gut instinct says it’s the third. If it‘s deliberate, then the lee-way branches out into financial gain, destruction of evidence, or emotional fulfilment. I have experience with the first two, it‘s the self-wish scenario that I‘m interested in."
He’s just dying for a blackboard, Annie thinks, "Financial gain is self-explanatory, if he or she is trying to destroy evidence though… this is the fire at the glue factory, yes?"
He nods, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, "McCaine doesn’t have any criminal history, and if it *is* destruction of evidence, then I guess the so-called evidence could be the body. Maybe the victim saw something he wasn’t supposed to. Or maybe there was a paper trail inside the building, and the death is incidental, wrong place, wrong time."
It was the third option he was interested in. Serial arson hasn’t been extensively studied, it’s more like cliff-notes bandied together, and she doesn’t know how much it will help in the long run - police work is about the process of elimination - but Sam always keeps his horizon broad when he first begins.
The guv says he’s trying to increase the work load for the entire team; but Annie knows it’s also about not being narrow-minded in his initial approach. "Symbolism of fire," she starts slowly. "It’s hypnotic, elemental, sometimes people are just drawn to its unpredictability. If you’re looking at its historical significance, then it was corporal punishment, the burning of witches and demons, and a means of rebirth, the phoenix rising from the flames. Ultimately, it’s linked with religious purification." she winces, and shrugs one shoulder, "Not much help, really, is it?"
He taps his fingers against one thigh, a rapid pulse-beat.
***************
"What do you want?"
"You’re as cheerfully blunt as ever."
Gene pours himself a whiskey and drops down into his seat. "There’s a human kebab stinking up my Sunday morning, Clinton, and I’m not in the mood for piss farting around."
Roberts’ leans back, fingers laced across his stomach. "I’m chasing down a murder enquiry, a cold case, but we turned up a new lead that pointed in this direction and I thought I’d relieve you of the files pertaining to one Victor Tyler."
"How far back is the cold case?"
"1971. I understand he’s a salesman. The man likes to travel wide and far."
"He travelled wide and far four days ago, took off like a sprinter on the mark. You want a copy of his bio and the interviews we conducted, go for it, and while you’re doing that, you can stop acting like a git and tell me what you *really* want before I lose my patience."
Clinton seems to consider, then confides, "Me mum’s sick, and I understand you have personnel issues." He trails off, leaves the sentence open-handed.
Gene turns the glass in his hand, "You want your old job back."
Roberts’ flinches, then gathers himself, his voice turning brisk, "The way I see it, you might be down a D.I shortly. I understand your Detective Inspector was the last person to see Vic Tyler before he vanished?"
"D.I Tyler, me self, and W.P.C Cartwright." Gene corrects. "To the full extent of my knowledge, Vic the prick vanished like a gopher after that episode in the clearing. The three of us split up to search for him, but nowt was seen of him."
"To the full extent of your knowledge…that’s very formal wording, guv, have you been taking lessons?" Clinton looks at him sharply, a pencil tapping against his note-pad, before he muses, "The surname’s an odd coincidence."
"Same as you being named after the greatest actor that’s ever lived. But that doesn’t mean I think you ride horses down the Rio Grande in your spare time, Clint. Tyler’s surname is common enough." Gene’s eyes turn guarded, "Why do you think I have personnel problems?"
"It’s common knowledge around here, he pulled a gun on you, everyone‘s heard of it in the station." Clinton rubs the back of his neck, his expression growing pained, "Guv, look, you and I work well together, and with me mum taking a slide in health I thought, circumstances permitting, that you might want to re-consider your options. It sounds like you could use someone who’s actually *guarding* your back, rather than trying to shoot you in it."
Gene lets some of the anger creep into his expression.
Clinton stands, mouth curving in a pale grin. "I’ll be hanging around for a few days, cross-referencing background checks, making sure everything’s dinky-die. I wouldn’t want to stumble across any sort of…connection…between your D.I and any unsavoury characters."
"Trust me, D.I Tyler knows a whole host of unsavoury characters."
If Clinton Roberts ever picks up on the implied threat, then he shows no sign of it. He walks out the door with the same confidence he had the first time he left, when Clint thought he would make D.C.I within a month. Gene wonders which way he’ll bolt first, to see his ailing mother, or to reacquaint himself with Rathbone’s wrinkly white arse. "D.C Carling!"
There’s a vibration running down his spine, taut as a divining rod, seeking water or the singular cause of an office leak. Ray freezes when he sees his face, but there’s honest confusion in the way he approaches Hunt’s office, "Guv?" Personnel problems, as if Gene can’t handle his own team, as if Tyler were a loose cannon and Hunt incompetent to the point where he couldn’t hold a rein on him. The vibration turns into a rattle, the fury spilling over. Ray whitens, tongue flickering at his lips. "Sir?" He doesn’t use the salutation often; it means he’s pissing in his pants, and to Hunt, it‘s like a red flag.
Gene rabbit punches him in the throat, only once, but viciously.
Ray crumbles to his knees silently, forehead pressed to the ground. Hunt crouches beside him, his voice a menacingly rasp. "We don’t have personnel problems in A division, Detective-Constable. We don’t require outside help when it comes to governing our own. Or did you forget that sweet little rule when I broke your rank down and docked your pay, instead of charging your sorry excuse with manslaughter and reckless endangerment?" There’s a shake, a strangled gasp. "The rules go both ways, Carling, next time you feel like gossiping like a dim-witted tart, show a little discretion and keep your mouth shut, comprehend?" Gene waits for a second, then hauls Ray upright, holding him steady until the frantic pulse-beat subsides. Even so, it takes a good five minutes before his D.C can draw breath to talk.
"S-sorry, guv," Ray’s voice is like raw hamburger meat, protesting feebly, "But Clint *worked* here."
Gene keeps his reply succinct, "He don’t any more."
"Guv?" Tyler enters the room, Annie trailing at his heels. His D.I takes one look at Carling, his eyes turning assessing. Annie hands over her coffee cup without a word, silent commiseration for those who have been at the receiving end of the guv‘s fury. Ray takes it, one hand curled around his throat protectively.
Gene leans against his desk, ankles crossed loosely, "What have you, Sherlock?"
"McCaine’s insurance claim runs consecutively from the years 1964 to 1972. His factory fell into harder climes three years ago, and to save money…"
"He skimped on the insurance," Gene rubs at his brow.
Tyler stares at him, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, like a flaming nancy-boy of ‘I-told-you-so-rightness’. "He hasn’t been covered for over nine months. McCaine’s not going to see a lick of money out of this fire, guv, and forty workers just lost their job. Still think it was an insurance scam?"
"What about the second building that was destroyed? The mechanics?" Sam drops his gaze. Smelling blood in the water, Gene pushes away from the desk, "Well, come on Sammy-boy, you’re the thorough investigative type, I have every confidence you looked into both businesses."
"Insured up to a quarter of a million." Sam admits.
Ray looks up from his coffee and whistles low, "For that, I would have let Chris *fart* in the building and set it alight myself."
"You would have taken out the whole city block, Raymundo." Hunt grins, razor sharp. Tyler’s holding another card up his sleeve, and although Gene knows that he is absolutely, without doubt, one hundred per cent right about this, and that Tyler is wrong, wrong, so very wrong, he’s still curious about Sam’s counter argument. Something coils tight in his stomach, anticipation, like the first round in a fight. "Is W.P.C Cartwright here for a reason, or do you just like travelling with a female entourage these days?"
"The mechanics wasn’t the primary target, there’s every indication that it’s destruction was a by-product."
"Balderdash. Some clever bastard thought being the secondary ‘victim’ would throw us of the scent, and while we’re focused on the body in the glue factory, some murdering swine is collecting a payout so large that he can permanently retire in Honor Blackman‘s crotch."
Ray considers, "Pussy Galore? Actually, that’s a pretty compelling argument."
"Good," Sam counters, "you can chase that avenue down with Chris, instead."
Ray, indignant, almost spills his coffee, "What about you?"
Tyler directs his answer to Gene, "I’m waiting to see if our John Doe has a name. You coming to the morgue, guv?"
Hunt narrows his eyes, gaze flickering to Cartwright. She’d been silent throughout the exchange, but her shoulders are riding high, tension evident in the line of her body. She would have seen corpses before, but Gene doesn’t know if she’s ever seen a burn victim. "Are we taking the sodding plonk?"
"D.I Tyler thought my presence might be beneficial," Annie answers evenly.
The girl didn’t flinch, not at his tone, or at the moniker Gene deliberately chose. Satisfied, Hunt grabs his coat, "D.I Roberts is gunning for your job, Sam, so you better impress."
Tyler looks up, his voice mock incredulous, "What, he actually *wants* to work here?"
Gene brushes past him, "Tyler, you’re already starting on a negative scale…don‘t make it worse." Roberts is a damn good detective, and if he’s serious about investigating Sam and his supposed connection, or lack thereof, to Vic Tyler, then Gene knows he’s like a basset hound, and a glory boy to boot.
He doesn’t tell Sam about the body from 1971 - he doesn’t want his D.I’s attention to be any more scattershot than it already is - and the name Vic Tyler never led anywhere good.
***********
//He lit his first fire when he was eleven years old, mesmerized by the shimmer and quake of an open flame. There was beauty in its flickering heat; a quantifiable, formless grace. He used to sit at the edge of the pit, fingers out-stretched toward the warmth. He’s lost all sensation in the pads now, the skin smooth as stretched rubber, the fingerprints melted clean.
He defecated at the first scene, crouched low under bushes, his heart-beat trip-hammering.
The second time he used fire, he set alight his neighbours cat, doused in petrol, and using his da’s old lighter. He almost singed his eyebrows off, and as for the cat, he never saw the end result. He remembers its scream, inhuman bright, a flash of hell-fire before it sprinted away. He tried to follow its circular route, its wild dash, but he lost it, like trying to catch a will-o-the-wisp by the tail, nothing left but the lingering stench of torched fur and a bone-deep rage that he had been cheated of his prize. He wanted to *watch*.
He’s twenty-four years old when he first sees the Buddhist monks protesting the war in Vietnam. Mesmerized all over again as he observed their tranquil composure on telly. He wonders what it’s like, to sit so still, untouched by the physical horror they *must* have felt. He remembers the way they folded forward, robes like the corona of a sun, blazing orange, the way their expression crumbled and blackened at the lips.
He was hard from the moment they lit themselves alight. He jerks off to that image rarely, hoarding it like a secret treasure, to be admired sparingly before its packed away in a protective box. He thinks that is what belief *really* is - the first rule of any religion is to do no harm - and their act of martyrdom to a shocked world was never forgotten. There was nothing cowardly about the strength of their conviction.
Living or dying by fire. Existing in a world of heat.
He tilts his head toward the pale blue sky, one hand cupping his balls, tracing idle patterns, and thinks about Jamie Currol’s twisted visage, the scream of fire trucks ringing in his ear, and that lone copper crouched among the ruins as the sun painted the sky red. //
**********
"Of a study relating to serial arsonists, the statistics of two hundred known offenders revealed that 82% were Caucasian and aged twenty-seven years or younger. They averaged thirty-one fires apiece and 94% of them were male. Most had a high school education or less, mid to low intelligence, and masturbated or scented the crime scene."
"Scented?" Gene asks sharply.
"Pissed, shitted, wanked off. Take your simile and run with it, guv. 87% had prior felony of some sort, and most to all of them stayed to watch their handiwork if the fires were lit in an urban environment."
"Kinky little bugger, I’m not sure if hanging around to take a dump would be high on my priority list. Are you planning on collecting any and all samples of dog shite found in the area, Tyler?"
Hardly. "I thought I’d leave that for Ray."
Gene snorts and eyes Cartwright, "That’s what plonks are for." They’re sitting on the bench at the coroners, lined up like the three wise monkeys while waiting for Oswald. It can’t hurt to humour him, "What’s the cliché?"
"Fire department, someone who works close to flames, someone who can insert themselves into the process. Serial arsonists, serial killers, one trait they share in common is their desire to have both thumbs in the pie."
"Rory will love that. He’ll take you apiece limb by limb, then shove that fire-hose he loves so much right up your jacksie."
"You asked for the cliché."
Cliché’s only become that way because of one reason - the frequency in which they occur - it doesn’t mean Gene believes it though. Oswald appears at the doorway, blinking like an owl when he spots Annie sitting between them.
"You might want to leave the girl behind, gentlemen, it’s not a pleasant sight for a pretty lass."
"We’re furthering her education, doc," Gene mutters, "besides, I have a quid saying she’ll throw up in under five minutes."
Annie stands, smoothing her skirt down, "What did D.C Carling say?"
"Under two."
"Good, if I last ten minutes then I collect on both bets."
Sam grins faintly.
Gene says confidentially, "You know, I do believe that bird is coming out of her shell a little bit...I don’t think I like it."
"Dental records, I’m afraid, were my only recourse," Oswald interrupts, leading them back into the morgue, "the body itself was burnt beyond recognition. I estimate the ambient temperature inside the factory would have been around seven hundred degrees, which left us with a husk, sexual genitalia and most flesh burnt clean off. I can tell you from the initial examination that he was a male, the growth and striation marks along the femur would indicate an adolescent between the ages fifteen to seventeen years old. The gasses the boy inhaled shredded his lungs before the flames ever reached him; but it would have been small mercy, gentlemen."
Annie’s nostrils flare, her eyes darting from the body to the opposite wall. She sees the corpse in flashes of red/black, the occasional white, where bone is visible in the most vulnerable regions, the wrist, ankles, shin. Everything else reminds her of a lava bed, crusted black, flashes of gory red. She feels her stomach heave and breathes out of her mouth deliberately, trying to waylay the scent by not inhaling through her nose. Unconsciously, she shifts closer to Sam. Oswald passes a yellow file to Hunt, x-rays spilling out haphazardly.
"Jamie Currol," Gene reads, "Born 1957, and reported missing in the summer of ‘72. Looks like your street rat was sixteen, Sammy." He glances over, eyes narrowing, "Stand any closer to him, Cartwright, and you’ll be sitting on Tyler’s dick." Annie leaps away. Sam scowls. "What’s the matter, love, feeling a bit queasy?" Gene continues, "A nice steak, medium rare, will settle your stomach right down."
"Lay off, guv."
Gene’s eyes flash, fix on Tyler dangerously, "The *plonk* shouldn’t be here."
"You’ll want uniform peddling the streets to find out if Jamie Currol knew anyone, or had any connection to McCaine. If they’re going to do the leg-work, then at least one of the ’plonks’ should have an in-depth understanding of the case they’re working."
Gene checks his watch impatiently, "You know, the eyeballs would have popped in his skull under the intensity of that heat…have you thrown up yet, girl?"
"Christ, will you forget about your Party Seven and focus on the case."
Gene drops the file, they scatter forgotten on the tiled floor and steps in close, shoving Tyler hard across the shoulders. Buffeted, Annie clears away, not understanding why the mood changed so fast. "I *am*. We ditch the plonk in the street as soon as we’re done here and then you and me, Tyler, are going to have a nice chat with the man who owned the mechanics and had it insured up to a quarter of a fucking million pounds, because call me daft, but that sounds pretty damn relevant to me!!!"
Sam twists away, his face flattening, his hands curling tight.
He hasn’t slept, Annie thinks, he hasn’t slept in days, and this can’t be helping. "Sir, I haven’t thrown up yet, and I could use that ten quid to catch a taxi back to the station and alert uniform that we have an I.D. on the body."
Gene jerks, but doesn’t turn to face her. "Use the radio in the car, luv, and get one of the lads to pick you up. Canvas the streets. Find out what you can about our Mr. Currol and any dealings he may have had. Make sure Ray has the information, too, when he question McCaine this afternoon."
"Yes, sir." She glances at Sam, his face is corpse-white. She says hesitantly, "Night shift finished a few hours ago, sir."
"He can sleep when he’s dead. Right, Tyler?" The tension in Sam’s body bleeds away, he nods jerkily. "Good lad, now quit it with the outlandish theories and focus on the obvious. You and I are going to bust down some doors and catch ourselves a greased monkey." Gene shakes him, once, hard. "And you’re going to do it without sticking out your bottom lip and sulking like a nipper." He’s invaded Sam’s personal space, a casual usurpation, smashing down the barriers and occupying the no-man‘s land between them.
What’s more interesting to Annie, is that Tyler *allows* it. He doesn’t attempt to pull away, the professional distance he maintains with almost everyone else knocked askew. Gene does it again and again, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Sam during interviews, so close you couldn‘t slip a penny between them, or arguing with him when displeased. Hunt doesn’t use his fists quite so much anymore, instead he blocks, using his body weight to pin the slighter man against slippery surfaces; or he drags Tyler around by the collar like a disobedient puppy.
The first instances when they clashed, the intent was bodily harm, (and bizarrely, she suspects that for *Sam* it still is) but something has tempered Gene’s interaction since then, and the guv has gentled his approach.
It’s still frightening in Annie’s eyes, like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, the snap and crackle of violent energy making the hairs on her nape stand on end, but it feels leashed, anger and need coiled tight. She watches them for a moment, her thoughts veiled, then glances away.
She catches a quick glimpse of the corpse, Jamie Currol’s lips are burnt clean off, his teeth bared in a rictus grin.
************
He finds 21a Burrowhead Ave without a hitch, walking the distance from the police station to D.I Tyler’s flat with an unhurried stride. He’s compiling a list of shopping items he needs to buy for his mother, thinking about Ray’s crow of delighted laughter when he entered the building. Relief. It’s not a reaction he would have expected out of the former D.S, but there it was, clear as day, Ray Carling was *happy* to see him. Clinton Roberts grin’s faintly and flicks out his pocket knife as he takes the stairs three at a time.
As it turns out, the door looks like it’s been hit on by a rhinoceros, it stands crookedly upright on a whim and a prayer. It takes him less than thirty seconds to break into the flat, and it takes him less than half a second to decide D.I Tyler’s not on the take. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The bed is neatly made, the telly stands at an angle to the room, and he’s getting a headache just contemplating the wallpaper. He turns in a semi-circle. Photograph, a book bent back on its spine, case reports stacked neatly by the bed. The room has the closed in scent of a house not lived in, as if Tyler hasn’t been home for some time.
Clint doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly - but there’s a wrongness that bleeds out of the very walls - an itch in his spine that urges him to turn around now (see it!) , now, now, now, like a phantom buzzing in the periphery of his eye-line. He jerks, feels sweat gather under his shirt. He can’t hear the street, the room with its open door devoid of all neighbourly sounds, or even the barking of a dog. He strains his ears, turns again, the oppressiveness tunnelling the edges of the room, the shadows from the half-drawn curtains growing long. It feels like there’s no air in the room.
*"Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est,"* he murmurs, then again, calming himself. It’s a stupid litany, the words rolling off his tongue, the edges of an asthma attack easing as he fights for stillness, inner tranquillity. He can feel his heart-rate slow down, blinking spots from his vision. The sweat on his skin turns clammy.
Gene Hunt’s reception had surprised him, made him burn with humiliation, he wasn’t expecting the door to be closed permanently when he left, he wasn’t prepared for the frozen wasteland of Hunt’s regard, to be shuttered out into the cold. D.C.I Hunt is ferociously protective of his team - a primitive law of us and them that dictates social niceties. Two years working in Southampton, and Clinton Roberts has become one of ‘them’. Not to Ray or Chris though, not to half the station who watch Tyler uneasily.
He’s seen enough in this room. Clinton fingers the crucifix at his throat, then closes the door quietly behind him, tripping lightly down the stairs. He’s going to catch Vic, he’s going to expose Tyler to the light so that Gene can see what he is, he’s going to win back his place and the fellow respect of his old-time colleagues.
************
"Nuttier than a fruit-cake."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My god, man, I had a 1935 Jaguar SS 100 housed in that garage!! Are you bleedin’ insane," John Edward Corrington bellows, "of course I didn’t set it alight!" agitated, the man actually pulls at his hair.
Alarmed, Gene takes a step back. "Alright then, easy does it."
"I mean, it was beautiful, it glistened hunter green. The engine purred like a cat. I loved that car," tears prickle at the man’s eyes, he paws at Sam‘s sleeve imploringly. "I could see every wrinkle in my face reflected in the paint-work."
"That’s um….um…"
"A little bit disturbing actually. I’m beginning to think you might have sexually molested it."
The man throws his hands up, cries out like a drama queen, "I lost my virginity in that…."
"Enough!! You’re very upset, we understand that, but the mechanics was insured for a pretty price, Mr. Corrington, we’d be remiss if we didn’t investigate."
"Yes! Yes, you do that! You find out who destroyed my life with such callous disregard. You do that, Mr. Hunt, and I’ll reward you with a king’s ransom."
"We don’t accept money," Sam interjects quickly.
"We don’t?" Gene protests.
"Four vintage cars, Mr. Hunt, fully restored or in the process thereof. You find out who did it."
"Can you tell us where you were on the night?"
"At the gala opening of the Regent Theatre, the presentation of the Nutcracker."
Tyler elbows him, hard, before Gene can muster a reply. John Edward Corrington frets, wringing his hands silently. Disbelievingly, Gene says, "You’re actually married?"
The man frowns, bites down on his cheek, and says cautiously, "I have children."
Knowingly, Gene lets his eyes rake over the ponce, "Right."
"Can anyone verify your presence?" Sam asks smoothly.
"My daughter and….a friend of mine, Dayel Harren."
"It’s alright if we come back with any further questions," Tyler’s not asking permission, but the words are politely phrased. Gene doesn’t know why he bothers.
"Of course."
They walk away together, hands jammed into their coat pockets. "He wasn’t exactly a grease monkey, was he?"
Gene looks over sideways, voice a deadpan, "He was greased in places where the sun don’t shine, Sammy." Tyler makes a face and slides into the passenger seat. It’s late afternoon, the sun waning behind a growing cloud-front. Gene starts the engine, listening to the quiet roar, "Losing your virginity in a Jag, sad thing is, he was probably old enough to drive it at the time. Me, I was fourteen when I shuckled off my innocent coil."
Sam snorts, "How much did you pay her?"
"Best five pounds I ever spent." Gene admits, unashamed. He sees a smile curve Sam’s lips, his head ducking down. Content, Gene down-gears into second, his hand firm on the stick. "What about you?"
"You have a disturbing fascination with your team’s sex life."
Gene lets his teeth show, "Past, not current…it’s not like I’m asking for the story of your life." He almost regrets the words when he says them. Gene’s never asked anything from Tyler, not about his history, but Clinton Roberts is going to be digging in the man’s cradle soon, and Hunt wants something for himself. Freely given.
He jerks the cortina around a corner, foot slamming hard on the clutch, sliding into third then fourth as they gather momentum. He needs to warn Sam, but Tyler isn’t corrupt and as for Vic…well, that’s a sore spot for everyone involved. He glances sideways, lets his eyes go hard, "You still a virgin, Tyler?"
"Not since I was sixteen."
Huh, beat him by two years, Gene thinks, he always knew he had the good looks. He returns his attention to the road. "What, in a meadow, seduced her with a line of poetry and cheap wine?"
"No, in the back of the gym on a Wednesday afternoon with dirty socks."
Gene laughs, "Who with? Tom, Dick, or Harry?"
"Melissa Spur."
"Big tits?"
"No," Sam says slowly, "she was as flat-chested as a teenage boy."
Nonplussed, Gene looks at him, "Don’t tell me Ray was right about you all along."
Sam grins, mischievously bright. "She represented the school in gymnastics."
"Oh," Gene says, with a whole new level of respect, he pauses for a beat then enquires, "Flexible?"
"Like the snap of a rubber band."
Gene chortles softly. Tyler goes boneless in his seat, the smile dark in his eyes, watching Gene silently, five minutes later, he’s finally fallen asleep.
**********
Katie screams herself awake, limbs failing in the absence of light, fire burning behind her eyelids as the dreams recedes. She’s awake, shivering uncontrollably, coughs that are lung-deep and painful spasms that have her bent double. She can hear Jamie’s voice in the back of her mind. Her hands are burnt, the flesh on her inner thigh oozing wet. She feels like she’s burning up, like she’s still stuck in the glue factory, with Jamie shoving at her from behind. Self-flagellation, she lets her nails dig into the open blisters until she whimpers aloud. She lost her sanity a long time ago.
***
Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est
- Life is more than staying alive.
Regarding the statistics Sam quotes - this is fiction, which means I lie like a dog. The sample pool consisted of 83 known offenders and the source information came from:
http://www.cbsnews.com/elements/2003/07/07/in_depth_us/whoswho562004_0_4_person.shtml
AUTHOR: rainer76
RATING: Brown cortina - M-rated - for violence, language, disturbing images, yada, yada, yada.
DISCLAIMERS: The characters of Life on Mars are the property of Kudos, there’s nothing original here, move on.
NOTES: Set between 1:08 and 2:01. I seem to live in a state of permanent denial regarding the series finale, so again, consider this an AU. This hasn’t been beta-read, all errors are painfully mine.
Unfortunately this is gen - predominantly a crime story - and because it's LOM, a touch of weirdness.
Part 1:http://community.livejournal.com/lifein1973/847639.html#cutid1
Sam ignores him, eyes fixed on Roberts, "You were the previous D.I?"
"Well, yeah, what did you think? That there was just a convenient hole for you to fill? That they‘ve been operating one man down until the moment you showed up? This was my crew for the last four years, Tyler."
"Funny, I thought it was the *guv’s* team." *I haven’t heard of you*, Sam thinks.
"And that’s why you don’t fit in." Clinton retaliates.
"Are you two going to bitch-slap each other?"
Hunt’s voice is mild with faux brightness, Sam realises his hands have curled inward, that Robert‘s isn‘t radiating dislike so much as outright hate, and Sam’s reflecting it like the mirror-mirror man. Tyler takes a slow breath, deliberately relaxing his muscles. He’s the clear-headed one, normally, when he isn’t being haunted by creepy little girls, or when his mother’s voice doesn’t scratch down his spine like nails down a blackboard….then barring that, Sam’s the sanest person in the room.
Except that he’s operating on five hours sleep over three days and his equilibrium flew out the window the moment he spotted Clinton Roberts. Gene’s former D.I sits down again, whistling between his teeth as he flips through an open folder.
"Sam, find me the insurance records for McCaine’s factory. If he burnt that building down with our crispy critter inside, then I want him nailed to a cross by tomorrow morning. Clear?"
Gene stares at him, his expression unreadable. Sam’s always preferred the company of women, but his most cherished recollections were of his father. The inner memory replayed until the reel began to distort - until the quality of light diffused - coloured hues replaced by negative brightness. His father was an extraordinary man, if only because he wasn’t *common*. Vic Tyler was absent more often than not, but to four year old Sammy he was the harbinger of excitement. To thirty-five year old D.I Tyler, he’s like a bleeding wound. It takes him a full minute to realise that Clinton Roberts is whistling "For He’s a Jolly Good, Fellow."
"Tyler!" Gene barks, "Sleep on your own damn time."
Sam startles, dragging his eyes away from Roberts, from the flash-memory of his father whistling that same tune, and turns on his heel.
*********
It’s a quarter to nine in the morning and W.P.C Cartwright has barely closed her locker door, stashing away her purse and a woman’s magazine when D.I Tyler pokes his head around the corner. "Mind if I have a word?"
"You don’t normally go for redundant questions, sir." She’s been avoiding him, avoiding the whole mess.
The right side of her face is yellow, the bruise days old now, but Vic Tyler’s handiwork is still visible despite her best concealer. Sam’s eyes fix on it, his mouth going angry tight. Annie said she’d find him help, she said Sam was sick and only growing worse; she hates indecision, hates that she totters like a drunkard in his presence, trying not to fall on either side of extremism, loitering between concern, friendship, and an interest that has nothing to do with her psych degree and everything to do with the flutter in her stomach when in his presence. She said she was going to find him help and walked out the door, adamantly lying to herself.
He looks wretched, like he hasn’t slept in a week. He looks a lot like she feels.
Annie’s been snared in a web of deceit ever since encountering him, but she never thought it would extend to herself - this far and no further, a line drawn where she measures his madness - except Annie keeps shifting the marker, allowing further excesses. She confided in someone once, and as a result, Sam almost leapt from a building. She owes him for that, for the breach in trust. She doesn’t want to be responsible for locking him up. Her voice is sharper than intended, "What can I do for you, sir?"
"What do you know about fire?"
Annie tilts her head, eyes hardening, "Stand too close and you’re bound to be burnt."
"Cute," his gaze is penetrating, "What about motivations and symbolism?"
She falters, the initial ire tugged out from under her, "Are you looking for a psychological analysis?" she asks curiously.
"You have the degree."
She wants to ask him if he still believes Vic Tyler is his father. Annie always intended to join the police force, the years spent at university merely gave her the maturity she needed. She didn‘t join up like the lads - like Ray and Chris, or the guv - straight out of high school and impressionable as children, she wanted to make a difference. "D.C.I Hunt will laugh in your face," she warns cautiously.
He looks chagrined, black humour glistening in his eyes, "Given that he normally *punches* me in the face, I think I can handle it."
She wants to know how long he watched Vic Tyler go to town on her before stepping in.
That first slap felt like it shattered every bone in her cheek, like Vic knew *exactly* where to hit. She wants to believe that Sam interfered the instant he arrived - but some part of her knows better, and it feels like betrayal - he stood there and watched. Annie wants to know for how long. "You make the coffee, and I want my contribution noted and logged," she states firmly, trying not to fidget.
Sam tilts his head, his voice lingering soft, "I always have. You can check C.I.D’s case reports if you want."
Credit given where credit is due, Annie feels her chest constrict, her throat closing down tight. The detective’s guard their success rate jealously; doing their utmost to maintain the elusion of independence. Whatever aid she has provided to C.I.D over the years, Annie’s never once had it officially recognised, men like Ray Carling would never admit to calling in help - and to acknowledge that the help came from a woman… She can’t keep her balance with Sam, reeling from three simple words, *I always have.* She closes her eyes, "Come on, then., what have you?"
"Accidental, carelessness, or deliberate."
"You haven’t ruled out any of the options yet?"
"Not officially, we’re waiting on the Fire Chief’s report, but…" Sam pauses, as if the word pains him, "…gut instinct says it’s the third. If it‘s deliberate, then the lee-way branches out into financial gain, destruction of evidence, or emotional fulfilment. I have experience with the first two, it‘s the self-wish scenario that I‘m interested in."
He’s just dying for a blackboard, Annie thinks, "Financial gain is self-explanatory, if he or she is trying to destroy evidence though… this is the fire at the glue factory, yes?"
He nods, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, "McCaine doesn’t have any criminal history, and if it *is* destruction of evidence, then I guess the so-called evidence could be the body. Maybe the victim saw something he wasn’t supposed to. Or maybe there was a paper trail inside the building, and the death is incidental, wrong place, wrong time."
It was the third option he was interested in. Serial arson hasn’t been extensively studied, it’s more like cliff-notes bandied together, and she doesn’t know how much it will help in the long run - police work is about the process of elimination - but Sam always keeps his horizon broad when he first begins.
The guv says he’s trying to increase the work load for the entire team; but Annie knows it’s also about not being narrow-minded in his initial approach. "Symbolism of fire," she starts slowly. "It’s hypnotic, elemental, sometimes people are just drawn to its unpredictability. If you’re looking at its historical significance, then it was corporal punishment, the burning of witches and demons, and a means of rebirth, the phoenix rising from the flames. Ultimately, it’s linked with religious purification." she winces, and shrugs one shoulder, "Not much help, really, is it?"
He taps his fingers against one thigh, a rapid pulse-beat.
***************
"What do you want?"
"You’re as cheerfully blunt as ever."
Gene pours himself a whiskey and drops down into his seat. "There’s a human kebab stinking up my Sunday morning, Clinton, and I’m not in the mood for piss farting around."
Roberts’ leans back, fingers laced across his stomach. "I’m chasing down a murder enquiry, a cold case, but we turned up a new lead that pointed in this direction and I thought I’d relieve you of the files pertaining to one Victor Tyler."
"How far back is the cold case?"
"1971. I understand he’s a salesman. The man likes to travel wide and far."
"He travelled wide and far four days ago, took off like a sprinter on the mark. You want a copy of his bio and the interviews we conducted, go for it, and while you’re doing that, you can stop acting like a git and tell me what you *really* want before I lose my patience."
Clinton seems to consider, then confides, "Me mum’s sick, and I understand you have personnel issues." He trails off, leaves the sentence open-handed.
Gene turns the glass in his hand, "You want your old job back."
Roberts’ flinches, then gathers himself, his voice turning brisk, "The way I see it, you might be down a D.I shortly. I understand your Detective Inspector was the last person to see Vic Tyler before he vanished?"
"D.I Tyler, me self, and W.P.C Cartwright." Gene corrects. "To the full extent of my knowledge, Vic the prick vanished like a gopher after that episode in the clearing. The three of us split up to search for him, but nowt was seen of him."
"To the full extent of your knowledge…that’s very formal wording, guv, have you been taking lessons?" Clinton looks at him sharply, a pencil tapping against his note-pad, before he muses, "The surname’s an odd coincidence."
"Same as you being named after the greatest actor that’s ever lived. But that doesn’t mean I think you ride horses down the Rio Grande in your spare time, Clint. Tyler’s surname is common enough." Gene’s eyes turn guarded, "Why do you think I have personnel problems?"
"It’s common knowledge around here, he pulled a gun on you, everyone‘s heard of it in the station." Clinton rubs the back of his neck, his expression growing pained, "Guv, look, you and I work well together, and with me mum taking a slide in health I thought, circumstances permitting, that you might want to re-consider your options. It sounds like you could use someone who’s actually *guarding* your back, rather than trying to shoot you in it."
Gene lets some of the anger creep into his expression.
Clinton stands, mouth curving in a pale grin. "I’ll be hanging around for a few days, cross-referencing background checks, making sure everything’s dinky-die. I wouldn’t want to stumble across any sort of…connection…between your D.I and any unsavoury characters."
"Trust me, D.I Tyler knows a whole host of unsavoury characters."
If Clinton Roberts ever picks up on the implied threat, then he shows no sign of it. He walks out the door with the same confidence he had the first time he left, when Clint thought he would make D.C.I within a month. Gene wonders which way he’ll bolt first, to see his ailing mother, or to reacquaint himself with Rathbone’s wrinkly white arse. "D.C Carling!"
There’s a vibration running down his spine, taut as a divining rod, seeking water or the singular cause of an office leak. Ray freezes when he sees his face, but there’s honest confusion in the way he approaches Hunt’s office, "Guv?" Personnel problems, as if Gene can’t handle his own team, as if Tyler were a loose cannon and Hunt incompetent to the point where he couldn’t hold a rein on him. The vibration turns into a rattle, the fury spilling over. Ray whitens, tongue flickering at his lips. "Sir?" He doesn’t use the salutation often; it means he’s pissing in his pants, and to Hunt, it‘s like a red flag.
Gene rabbit punches him in the throat, only once, but viciously.
Ray crumbles to his knees silently, forehead pressed to the ground. Hunt crouches beside him, his voice a menacingly rasp. "We don’t have personnel problems in A division, Detective-Constable. We don’t require outside help when it comes to governing our own. Or did you forget that sweet little rule when I broke your rank down and docked your pay, instead of charging your sorry excuse with manslaughter and reckless endangerment?" There’s a shake, a strangled gasp. "The rules go both ways, Carling, next time you feel like gossiping like a dim-witted tart, show a little discretion and keep your mouth shut, comprehend?" Gene waits for a second, then hauls Ray upright, holding him steady until the frantic pulse-beat subsides. Even so, it takes a good five minutes before his D.C can draw breath to talk.
"S-sorry, guv," Ray’s voice is like raw hamburger meat, protesting feebly, "But Clint *worked* here."
Gene keeps his reply succinct, "He don’t any more."
"Guv?" Tyler enters the room, Annie trailing at his heels. His D.I takes one look at Carling, his eyes turning assessing. Annie hands over her coffee cup without a word, silent commiseration for those who have been at the receiving end of the guv‘s fury. Ray takes it, one hand curled around his throat protectively.
Gene leans against his desk, ankles crossed loosely, "What have you, Sherlock?"
"McCaine’s insurance claim runs consecutively from the years 1964 to 1972. His factory fell into harder climes three years ago, and to save money…"
"He skimped on the insurance," Gene rubs at his brow.
Tyler stares at him, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, like a flaming nancy-boy of ‘I-told-you-so-rightness’. "He hasn’t been covered for over nine months. McCaine’s not going to see a lick of money out of this fire, guv, and forty workers just lost their job. Still think it was an insurance scam?"
"What about the second building that was destroyed? The mechanics?" Sam drops his gaze. Smelling blood in the water, Gene pushes away from the desk, "Well, come on Sammy-boy, you’re the thorough investigative type, I have every confidence you looked into both businesses."
"Insured up to a quarter of a million." Sam admits.
Ray looks up from his coffee and whistles low, "For that, I would have let Chris *fart* in the building and set it alight myself."
"You would have taken out the whole city block, Raymundo." Hunt grins, razor sharp. Tyler’s holding another card up his sleeve, and although Gene knows that he is absolutely, without doubt, one hundred per cent right about this, and that Tyler is wrong, wrong, so very wrong, he’s still curious about Sam’s counter argument. Something coils tight in his stomach, anticipation, like the first round in a fight. "Is W.P.C Cartwright here for a reason, or do you just like travelling with a female entourage these days?"
"The mechanics wasn’t the primary target, there’s every indication that it’s destruction was a by-product."
"Balderdash. Some clever bastard thought being the secondary ‘victim’ would throw us of the scent, and while we’re focused on the body in the glue factory, some murdering swine is collecting a payout so large that he can permanently retire in Honor Blackman‘s crotch."
Ray considers, "Pussy Galore? Actually, that’s a pretty compelling argument."
"Good," Sam counters, "you can chase that avenue down with Chris, instead."
Ray, indignant, almost spills his coffee, "What about you?"
Tyler directs his answer to Gene, "I’m waiting to see if our John Doe has a name. You coming to the morgue, guv?"
Hunt narrows his eyes, gaze flickering to Cartwright. She’d been silent throughout the exchange, but her shoulders are riding high, tension evident in the line of her body. She would have seen corpses before, but Gene doesn’t know if she’s ever seen a burn victim. "Are we taking the sodding plonk?"
"D.I Tyler thought my presence might be beneficial," Annie answers evenly.
The girl didn’t flinch, not at his tone, or at the moniker Gene deliberately chose. Satisfied, Hunt grabs his coat, "D.I Roberts is gunning for your job, Sam, so you better impress."
Tyler looks up, his voice mock incredulous, "What, he actually *wants* to work here?"
Gene brushes past him, "Tyler, you’re already starting on a negative scale…don‘t make it worse." Roberts is a damn good detective, and if he’s serious about investigating Sam and his supposed connection, or lack thereof, to Vic Tyler, then Gene knows he’s like a basset hound, and a glory boy to boot.
He doesn’t tell Sam about the body from 1971 - he doesn’t want his D.I’s attention to be any more scattershot than it already is - and the name Vic Tyler never led anywhere good.
***********
//He lit his first fire when he was eleven years old, mesmerized by the shimmer and quake of an open flame. There was beauty in its flickering heat; a quantifiable, formless grace. He used to sit at the edge of the pit, fingers out-stretched toward the warmth. He’s lost all sensation in the pads now, the skin smooth as stretched rubber, the fingerprints melted clean.
He defecated at the first scene, crouched low under bushes, his heart-beat trip-hammering.
The second time he used fire, he set alight his neighbours cat, doused in petrol, and using his da’s old lighter. He almost singed his eyebrows off, and as for the cat, he never saw the end result. He remembers its scream, inhuman bright, a flash of hell-fire before it sprinted away. He tried to follow its circular route, its wild dash, but he lost it, like trying to catch a will-o-the-wisp by the tail, nothing left but the lingering stench of torched fur and a bone-deep rage that he had been cheated of his prize. He wanted to *watch*.
He’s twenty-four years old when he first sees the Buddhist monks protesting the war in Vietnam. Mesmerized all over again as he observed their tranquil composure on telly. He wonders what it’s like, to sit so still, untouched by the physical horror they *must* have felt. He remembers the way they folded forward, robes like the corona of a sun, blazing orange, the way their expression crumbled and blackened at the lips.
He was hard from the moment they lit themselves alight. He jerks off to that image rarely, hoarding it like a secret treasure, to be admired sparingly before its packed away in a protective box. He thinks that is what belief *really* is - the first rule of any religion is to do no harm - and their act of martyrdom to a shocked world was never forgotten. There was nothing cowardly about the strength of their conviction.
Living or dying by fire. Existing in a world of heat.
He tilts his head toward the pale blue sky, one hand cupping his balls, tracing idle patterns, and thinks about Jamie Currol’s twisted visage, the scream of fire trucks ringing in his ear, and that lone copper crouched among the ruins as the sun painted the sky red. //
**********
"Of a study relating to serial arsonists, the statistics of two hundred known offenders revealed that 82% were Caucasian and aged twenty-seven years or younger. They averaged thirty-one fires apiece and 94% of them were male. Most had a high school education or less, mid to low intelligence, and masturbated or scented the crime scene."
"Scented?" Gene asks sharply.
"Pissed, shitted, wanked off. Take your simile and run with it, guv. 87% had prior felony of some sort, and most to all of them stayed to watch their handiwork if the fires were lit in an urban environment."
"Kinky little bugger, I’m not sure if hanging around to take a dump would be high on my priority list. Are you planning on collecting any and all samples of dog shite found in the area, Tyler?"
Hardly. "I thought I’d leave that for Ray."
Gene snorts and eyes Cartwright, "That’s what plonks are for." They’re sitting on the bench at the coroners, lined up like the three wise monkeys while waiting for Oswald. It can’t hurt to humour him, "What’s the cliché?"
"Fire department, someone who works close to flames, someone who can insert themselves into the process. Serial arsonists, serial killers, one trait they share in common is their desire to have both thumbs in the pie."
"Rory will love that. He’ll take you apiece limb by limb, then shove that fire-hose he loves so much right up your jacksie."
"You asked for the cliché."
Cliché’s only become that way because of one reason - the frequency in which they occur - it doesn’t mean Gene believes it though. Oswald appears at the doorway, blinking like an owl when he spots Annie sitting between them.
"You might want to leave the girl behind, gentlemen, it’s not a pleasant sight for a pretty lass."
"We’re furthering her education, doc," Gene mutters, "besides, I have a quid saying she’ll throw up in under five minutes."
Annie stands, smoothing her skirt down, "What did D.C Carling say?"
"Under two."
"Good, if I last ten minutes then I collect on both bets."
Sam grins faintly.
Gene says confidentially, "You know, I do believe that bird is coming out of her shell a little bit...I don’t think I like it."
"Dental records, I’m afraid, were my only recourse," Oswald interrupts, leading them back into the morgue, "the body itself was burnt beyond recognition. I estimate the ambient temperature inside the factory would have been around seven hundred degrees, which left us with a husk, sexual genitalia and most flesh burnt clean off. I can tell you from the initial examination that he was a male, the growth and striation marks along the femur would indicate an adolescent between the ages fifteen to seventeen years old. The gasses the boy inhaled shredded his lungs before the flames ever reached him; but it would have been small mercy, gentlemen."
Annie’s nostrils flare, her eyes darting from the body to the opposite wall. She sees the corpse in flashes of red/black, the occasional white, where bone is visible in the most vulnerable regions, the wrist, ankles, shin. Everything else reminds her of a lava bed, crusted black, flashes of gory red. She feels her stomach heave and breathes out of her mouth deliberately, trying to waylay the scent by not inhaling through her nose. Unconsciously, she shifts closer to Sam. Oswald passes a yellow file to Hunt, x-rays spilling out haphazardly.
"Jamie Currol," Gene reads, "Born 1957, and reported missing in the summer of ‘72. Looks like your street rat was sixteen, Sammy." He glances over, eyes narrowing, "Stand any closer to him, Cartwright, and you’ll be sitting on Tyler’s dick." Annie leaps away. Sam scowls. "What’s the matter, love, feeling a bit queasy?" Gene continues, "A nice steak, medium rare, will settle your stomach right down."
"Lay off, guv."
Gene’s eyes flash, fix on Tyler dangerously, "The *plonk* shouldn’t be here."
"You’ll want uniform peddling the streets to find out if Jamie Currol knew anyone, or had any connection to McCaine. If they’re going to do the leg-work, then at least one of the ’plonks’ should have an in-depth understanding of the case they’re working."
Gene checks his watch impatiently, "You know, the eyeballs would have popped in his skull under the intensity of that heat…have you thrown up yet, girl?"
"Christ, will you forget about your Party Seven and focus on the case."
Gene drops the file, they scatter forgotten on the tiled floor and steps in close, shoving Tyler hard across the shoulders. Buffeted, Annie clears away, not understanding why the mood changed so fast. "I *am*. We ditch the plonk in the street as soon as we’re done here and then you and me, Tyler, are going to have a nice chat with the man who owned the mechanics and had it insured up to a quarter of a fucking million pounds, because call me daft, but that sounds pretty damn relevant to me!!!"
Sam twists away, his face flattening, his hands curling tight.
He hasn’t slept, Annie thinks, he hasn’t slept in days, and this can’t be helping. "Sir, I haven’t thrown up yet, and I could use that ten quid to catch a taxi back to the station and alert uniform that we have an I.D. on the body."
Gene jerks, but doesn’t turn to face her. "Use the radio in the car, luv, and get one of the lads to pick you up. Canvas the streets. Find out what you can about our Mr. Currol and any dealings he may have had. Make sure Ray has the information, too, when he question McCaine this afternoon."
"Yes, sir." She glances at Sam, his face is corpse-white. She says hesitantly, "Night shift finished a few hours ago, sir."
"He can sleep when he’s dead. Right, Tyler?" The tension in Sam’s body bleeds away, he nods jerkily. "Good lad, now quit it with the outlandish theories and focus on the obvious. You and I are going to bust down some doors and catch ourselves a greased monkey." Gene shakes him, once, hard. "And you’re going to do it without sticking out your bottom lip and sulking like a nipper." He’s invaded Sam’s personal space, a casual usurpation, smashing down the barriers and occupying the no-man‘s land between them.
What’s more interesting to Annie, is that Tyler *allows* it. He doesn’t attempt to pull away, the professional distance he maintains with almost everyone else knocked askew. Gene does it again and again, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Sam during interviews, so close you couldn‘t slip a penny between them, or arguing with him when displeased. Hunt doesn’t use his fists quite so much anymore, instead he blocks, using his body weight to pin the slighter man against slippery surfaces; or he drags Tyler around by the collar like a disobedient puppy.
The first instances when they clashed, the intent was bodily harm, (and bizarrely, she suspects that for *Sam* it still is) but something has tempered Gene’s interaction since then, and the guv has gentled his approach.
It’s still frightening in Annie’s eyes, like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, the snap and crackle of violent energy making the hairs on her nape stand on end, but it feels leashed, anger and need coiled tight. She watches them for a moment, her thoughts veiled, then glances away.
She catches a quick glimpse of the corpse, Jamie Currol’s lips are burnt clean off, his teeth bared in a rictus grin.
************
He finds 21a Burrowhead Ave without a hitch, walking the distance from the police station to D.I Tyler’s flat with an unhurried stride. He’s compiling a list of shopping items he needs to buy for his mother, thinking about Ray’s crow of delighted laughter when he entered the building. Relief. It’s not a reaction he would have expected out of the former D.S, but there it was, clear as day, Ray Carling was *happy* to see him. Clinton Roberts grin’s faintly and flicks out his pocket knife as he takes the stairs three at a time.
As it turns out, the door looks like it’s been hit on by a rhinoceros, it stands crookedly upright on a whim and a prayer. It takes him less than thirty seconds to break into the flat, and it takes him less than half a second to decide D.I Tyler’s not on the take. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The bed is neatly made, the telly stands at an angle to the room, and he’s getting a headache just contemplating the wallpaper. He turns in a semi-circle. Photograph, a book bent back on its spine, case reports stacked neatly by the bed. The room has the closed in scent of a house not lived in, as if Tyler hasn’t been home for some time.
Clint doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly - but there’s a wrongness that bleeds out of the very walls - an itch in his spine that urges him to turn around now (see it!) , now, now, now, like a phantom buzzing in the periphery of his eye-line. He jerks, feels sweat gather under his shirt. He can’t hear the street, the room with its open door devoid of all neighbourly sounds, or even the barking of a dog. He strains his ears, turns again, the oppressiveness tunnelling the edges of the room, the shadows from the half-drawn curtains growing long. It feels like there’s no air in the room.
*"Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est,"* he murmurs, then again, calming himself. It’s a stupid litany, the words rolling off his tongue, the edges of an asthma attack easing as he fights for stillness, inner tranquillity. He can feel his heart-rate slow down, blinking spots from his vision. The sweat on his skin turns clammy.
Gene Hunt’s reception had surprised him, made him burn with humiliation, he wasn’t expecting the door to be closed permanently when he left, he wasn’t prepared for the frozen wasteland of Hunt’s regard, to be shuttered out into the cold. D.C.I Hunt is ferociously protective of his team - a primitive law of us and them that dictates social niceties. Two years working in Southampton, and Clinton Roberts has become one of ‘them’. Not to Ray or Chris though, not to half the station who watch Tyler uneasily.
He’s seen enough in this room. Clinton fingers the crucifix at his throat, then closes the door quietly behind him, tripping lightly down the stairs. He’s going to catch Vic, he’s going to expose Tyler to the light so that Gene can see what he is, he’s going to win back his place and the fellow respect of his old-time colleagues.
************
"Nuttier than a fruit-cake."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My god, man, I had a 1935 Jaguar SS 100 housed in that garage!! Are you bleedin’ insane," John Edward Corrington bellows, "of course I didn’t set it alight!" agitated, the man actually pulls at his hair.
Alarmed, Gene takes a step back. "Alright then, easy does it."
"I mean, it was beautiful, it glistened hunter green. The engine purred like a cat. I loved that car," tears prickle at the man’s eyes, he paws at Sam‘s sleeve imploringly. "I could see every wrinkle in my face reflected in the paint-work."
"That’s um….um…"
"A little bit disturbing actually. I’m beginning to think you might have sexually molested it."
The man throws his hands up, cries out like a drama queen, "I lost my virginity in that…."
"Enough!! You’re very upset, we understand that, but the mechanics was insured for a pretty price, Mr. Corrington, we’d be remiss if we didn’t investigate."
"Yes! Yes, you do that! You find out who destroyed my life with such callous disregard. You do that, Mr. Hunt, and I’ll reward you with a king’s ransom."
"We don’t accept money," Sam interjects quickly.
"We don’t?" Gene protests.
"Four vintage cars, Mr. Hunt, fully restored or in the process thereof. You find out who did it."
"Can you tell us where you were on the night?"
"At the gala opening of the Regent Theatre, the presentation of the Nutcracker."
Tyler elbows him, hard, before Gene can muster a reply. John Edward Corrington frets, wringing his hands silently. Disbelievingly, Gene says, "You’re actually married?"
The man frowns, bites down on his cheek, and says cautiously, "I have children."
Knowingly, Gene lets his eyes rake over the ponce, "Right."
"Can anyone verify your presence?" Sam asks smoothly.
"My daughter and….a friend of mine, Dayel Harren."
"It’s alright if we come back with any further questions," Tyler’s not asking permission, but the words are politely phrased. Gene doesn’t know why he bothers.
"Of course."
They walk away together, hands jammed into their coat pockets. "He wasn’t exactly a grease monkey, was he?"
Gene looks over sideways, voice a deadpan, "He was greased in places where the sun don’t shine, Sammy." Tyler makes a face and slides into the passenger seat. It’s late afternoon, the sun waning behind a growing cloud-front. Gene starts the engine, listening to the quiet roar, "Losing your virginity in a Jag, sad thing is, he was probably old enough to drive it at the time. Me, I was fourteen when I shuckled off my innocent coil."
Sam snorts, "How much did you pay her?"
"Best five pounds I ever spent." Gene admits, unashamed. He sees a smile curve Sam’s lips, his head ducking down. Content, Gene down-gears into second, his hand firm on the stick. "What about you?"
"You have a disturbing fascination with your team’s sex life."
Gene lets his teeth show, "Past, not current…it’s not like I’m asking for the story of your life." He almost regrets the words when he says them. Gene’s never asked anything from Tyler, not about his history, but Clinton Roberts is going to be digging in the man’s cradle soon, and Hunt wants something for himself. Freely given.
He jerks the cortina around a corner, foot slamming hard on the clutch, sliding into third then fourth as they gather momentum. He needs to warn Sam, but Tyler isn’t corrupt and as for Vic…well, that’s a sore spot for everyone involved. He glances sideways, lets his eyes go hard, "You still a virgin, Tyler?"
"Not since I was sixteen."
Huh, beat him by two years, Gene thinks, he always knew he had the good looks. He returns his attention to the road. "What, in a meadow, seduced her with a line of poetry and cheap wine?"
"No, in the back of the gym on a Wednesday afternoon with dirty socks."
Gene laughs, "Who with? Tom, Dick, or Harry?"
"Melissa Spur."
"Big tits?"
"No," Sam says slowly, "she was as flat-chested as a teenage boy."
Nonplussed, Gene looks at him, "Don’t tell me Ray was right about you all along."
Sam grins, mischievously bright. "She represented the school in gymnastics."
"Oh," Gene says, with a whole new level of respect, he pauses for a beat then enquires, "Flexible?"
"Like the snap of a rubber band."
Gene chortles softly. Tyler goes boneless in his seat, the smile dark in his eyes, watching Gene silently, five minutes later, he’s finally fallen asleep.
**********
Katie screams herself awake, limbs failing in the absence of light, fire burning behind her eyelids as the dreams recedes. She’s awake, shivering uncontrollably, coughs that are lung-deep and painful spasms that have her bent double. She can hear Jamie’s voice in the back of her mind. Her hands are burnt, the flesh on her inner thigh oozing wet. She feels like she’s burning up, like she’s still stuck in the glue factory, with Jamie shoving at her from behind. Self-flagellation, she lets her nails dig into the open blisters until she whimpers aloud. She lost her sanity a long time ago.
***
Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est
- Life is more than staying alive.
Regarding the statistics Sam quotes - this is fiction, which means I lie like a dog. The sample pool consisted of 83 known offenders and the source information came from:
http://www.cbsnews.com/elements/2003/07/07/in_depth_us/whoswho562004_0_4_person.shtml