Fic: Nature Boy, Part II
Sorry this took so long. Plot is hard, man.
Title: Nature Boy, Part II
Category: Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes crossover. Gen with a fair bit of UST all around.
Rating: PG-13 for now
Word Count: ~7,000 this part
Spoilers: Takes place after A2A 1.08, so everything
Summary: Alex investigates, or: Nun’s the word.
A/N: Many thanks to wychwood for Brit-picking, siriaeve for nun-wrangling, and dancinbutterfly for advice and cheerleading; any remaining mistakes are of course my own.
Part I
Nature Boy, Part II
She awoke to the sound of hacking and spitting. Stumbling to the bathroom, she found Gene leaning over the sink, hand pressed to his forehead. “Untwist your knickers,” he said without turning around, “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
She blinked away her own bleariness in favor of a falsely bright expression. “’Why, good morning, Alex! Thanks so much for your hospitality, Alex! Alex, I’ve made you a nice breakfast and done the washing up to show my undying gratitude-’”
He kicked the door closed in her face.
Alex contemplated beating the door down for a moment, before sensibly realizing that that would punish her more than it would him, and staggering off to see if there was a cup of coffee she could drown herself in.
She had just reached the kitchen when a knock on the front door called her back. If it was Sam and Angie, she would push them down the stairs, Alex vowed. She flung open the door, snapping, “What?”
Chris was standing on the landing, looking twitchy. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I was just wondering…”
It was like her flat was a bloody drop-in center. She permitted herself a sigh. “Can’t this wait, Chris?”
He nodded. Then he shook his head. “I was hoping…” He lowered his voice. “It’s kind of private…”
Gene of course chose this moment to come slamming out of the bathroom. He was clearly wearing yesterday’s clothes (as, Alex realized, was she) and looked somewhat the worse for wear. Chris’ eyes widened to the size of saucers.
After a moment’s surprise, Gene’s features quickly composed themselves into a smirk. He slipped his thumbs under his belt. “Fine day today, isn’t it, young Christopher?”
Alex had had enough. “Both of you, out!” she snapped. “Not so worried about my ‘reputation’ now, are we?” she hissed at Gene as he passed. As the door slammed, he actually had the gall to look contrite.
Alex slumped back against the wood. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, with no relief in sight. Instead, she had to figure out how best to fit-up an old woman.
Maybe there was merit to Sam and Angie’s theory, after all. It would hardly be a stretch to imagine this all being Gene Hunt’s fault.
Once she reached the station, she didn’t feel particularly disposed toward dealing with Chris, so she snapped her fingers and said, “Ray, you’re with me.”
She had a feeling that Ray had been a little frightened of her ever since the incident with the pride parade and the tank. She could see him trying to come up with a plausible excuse that would get him out of accompanying her, and failing, fall bullishly in line behind her. Gene’s eyes stayed on her back as she waltzed out of the room, but she had decided to implement a policy of cheerfully ignoring him. Stage 1 never got old.
Unfortunately, employing a non-confrontational strategy in regards to Gene made it difficult to steal his car, so she had to take one of the ones from the motor pool. “This about the Scire case?” Ray asked as he got in.
Alex shook her head. “It’s more of a…personal project.”
“Oh god, not again.” Ray spent a moment looking like he might bolt from the car, before shooting her a glare and reaching for his seatbelt.
She could feel the crumpled piece of paper Sam had left her digging into her thigh as she drove to the address he had written down. “An orphanage?” said Ray incredulously as the pulled up beside St. Mary’s Foundling Hospital. His whole body drooped, from perm to mustache.
“And what’s wrong with that?” asked Alex, imagining a variety of deaths for Sam Tyler that would actually stick.
Ray looked at her like she must be mental-like he was actually kind of impressed that she was out walking around and functioning, mental as she was. “They’re full of orphans,” he said. “Small, grasping, needy children…brr.”
“I’m an orphan,” said Alex, slamming her door. Ray blinked at her. “I mean, I was.” Her mind filled inescapably with an image of Molly. An orphan: was that what her daughter essentially was, now?
“And nuns,” Ray continued, finding his rhythm now. “They’re terrifying. The old ones all look like their only pleasure in life comes from smacking you with a ruler or making you stand in the corner with a bin over your head. And the young ones! How are you supposed to act around the young ones? Women who aren’t interested in a good-”
Having reached the top of the steps, Alex rang the doorbell with some firmness. Ray thankfully took the hint, his mouth closing with a click. It opened again a moment later as he shuffled his feet and muttered to himself; Alex put on her game face and did her best to ignore him.
Her veil of professionalism, which was looking rather thin and tattered these days, suffered further damage when the door opened to reveal a stern-looking woman enveloped in black and white. Alex offered a reassuring smile as she flashed her warrant card, hoping all the while that the expression would have some effect on her own emotional state. “Good morning. I’m DI Drake and this is DS Carling. We were hoping to have a word with Margaret Hamilton?”
The nun’s face remained blank; she would have made an excellent poker player. “I believe you mean Sister Nicholas. If you follow me, I’ll see if she’s available.”
“Thank you,” said Alex. As she stepped over the threshold, she glanced back over her shoulder to ensure Ray wasn’t making a run for it and was made newly aware of the fact that her bra strap was showing. Intentionally showing, but- She fought the urge to tug at it. Stupid nuns.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what this is regarding?” asked the one leading them briskly down the corridor. It was all silent halls and polished dark paneling; it reminded Alex rather a lot of her old school, actually, and that was really not something she needed to think about right now.
“I think it would be best if we spoke directly to Sister Nicholas about that,” she said primly.
The other sister merely inclined her head in response. Alex glanced back at Ray, her only ally in this; he looked as nonplussed as she felt, and it made her ridiculously grateful to have him here. Alex shook herself. It went against all her personal goals to get attached. She couldn’t start thinking of these people as real.
No-this whole thing was a puzzle, like the Rubik’s Cube. Nothing more.
All right, start from the corners, then. What did Margaret Hamilton, a.k.a. Sister Nicholas, a nun who ran an orphanage, have to do with her frustratingly immovable centerpiece, DCI Hunt?
Tyler must have some idea-not that he had bothered to share. Didn’t that make this her favorite way to go into a situation, then: under-prepared! Backed up by Ray! Escorted by a nun! Oh, it was fun times in Alex’s head this week, that was for sure.
By the time the sister led them through a tall wooden door and into a small antechamber, Alex’s smile was somewhat brittle. The sister motioned for them to wait, then disappeared with a soft rustle of fabric through another large, imposing door. Alex looked at the trio of low, child-sized chairs lining the wall and elected to stand. Ray, however, started to lower himself into one, was forced to do some quick recalculations regarding the size of the seat and that of his arse, and bobbed back up again. A genuine laugh startled Alex with its emergence. “Oh, shut up,” said Ray, as Alex covered her mouth with her hand, Ray’s murderous expression only increasing her mirth.
“I’m relieved to know that my subconscious still has a sense of humor,” she said, biting back a snort. “A genuine one, I mean, not just the sick bits that dredge up things like latent coulrophobia and my semi-incestuous attraction to Evan and these ridiculous nu-”
Ray began having an entirely fake-sounding coughing attack. Alex summoned what was left of her dignity and turned to face Sister Nicholas.
The sister did not look terribly amused, but she also did not look sneering and superior. She offered Alex and Ray a smile that was actually rather generous under the circumstances, before ushering them into her office; the other sister was dismissed with a silent nod. Everything about Sister Nicholas seemed to embody the same quiet and efficiency of movement. Even her office appeared to be designed around that philosophy: despite its ostentatious entrance, the room itself was of reasonable size and plainly decorated; it was packed with books and papers without being cluttered. Sister Nicholas sat down behind a desk made of dark wood that matched the paneling and motioned for Alex and Ray to take the seats across from her. Ray sat warily, but these were proper, adult-sized chairs, padded with dark green cushions.
“Sister Aloysius tells me you’re with the police,” said Sister Nicholas, steepling her fingers. “How may I assist you?”
Alex pasted on a pleasant, but concerned, expression, and leaned forward. “I’m afraid we have reason to believe that one of your former residents has been killed under suspicious circumstances. We were hoping you could give us any information from your records and let us speak to anyone who might have known him.”
Sister Nicholas appeared genuinely upset by this news. “Oh, that’s terrible. Of course, we’ll do anything we can to assist you. What was the young man’s name?”
Alex almost said ‘Sam Tyler,’ but realizing just in time the kind of reaction that was likely to provoke in Ray, quickly went with, “John Scire.”
“Scire?” said Sister Nicholas, frowning. Ray, too, was shooting her a look: he and Chris were truly dreadful at deception and subterfuge; it was embarrassing, really.
“John Scire,” Alex repeated carefully. “Though it’s possible he might have gone by a different name when he was a boy. Mentions of St. Mary’s were found among his effects, you see…”
Sister Nicholas nodded, apparently buying it. “That does make things more difficult, I’m afraid. Of course, we’d still be happy to make our records available. How old was Mister Scire, do you know?”
“His driver’s license had his age listed as 24,” Alex replied smoothly.
“Well, that narrows it down a bit. I’ll have Sister Aloysius escort you to the records room.”
She started to stand. Alex, remaining firmly in her seat, fixed the older woman with her winningest smile. “DS Carling can get a head start on that,” she said, and blithely ignored Ray’s bewildered, bordering on furious, look. “I’d like to ask you a few more questions, if that’s all right.”
“Of course.” Sister Nicholas lowered herself back down as Sister Aloysius entered; Alex had missed seeing whatever method had been used to summon her, much to her disappointment. The younger sister moved to stand beside Ray’s chair, expectantly, and Ray got grudgingly to his feet and followed her out. Poor Ray. Alex really ought to try to find some way to make it up to him…not that she had the time to be placating figments of her own disturbed imagination. Of course.
The door clicked shut and Alex found herself alone with Sister Nicholas. Alex searched her face, looking for some hint of nefarious intentions: a glimmer of darkness in her eyes; something around the mouth that would suggest a fondness for laughing maniacal laughs; a strokable white Persian cat, previously unnoticed atop her lap. Better yet, maybe the fact that they were now alone would render the sister suddenly overcome with the desire to confess all her evil plans.
Sister Nicholas looked thoughtful for a moment, then opened her mouth to speak.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Uh…” said Alex. “Yes, that would be lovely, actually. Thank you.”
“Good.” The sister rose again and went over to a small collection of tea things on a table in the corner. Alex watched her go through the familiar movements and hoped they would be suitably relaxing-and just slightly distracting.
“Have you been at St. Mary’s long?” she asked casually.
“Why, yes,” said Sister Nicholas. The china cups in her hands clinked softly. “Almost thirty years, now.”
So she hadn’t followed Gene down from Manchester. Her accent would seem to confirm this; she sounded like a native Londoner. “I’m sure you find the work very rewarding,” said Alex.
“It is a true blessing, being able to come to the aid of children in need. Sugar?” she asked. Alex declined. “Though of course it’s hard, sometimes, to see children who’ve suffered so much, so young.”
Sister Nicholas brought over a pair of cups and saucers, and a small plate of biscuits, then retook her seat across from Alex.
Alex took a deep sip of tea and used those few seconds to think. “How do children come to be in your care?” she asked.
“There are a number of ways. Most often they are assigned to us by the government. There have, however,” the sister’s smile was almost wry, “been a few instances of children left on the doorstep over the years.”
Alex favored her with a brittle smile in return. Something was starting to gnaw at her, an uneasy feeling creeping cold and jagged down her spine. It might be simply the power of suggestion: Tyler sending her here had prepared her to encounter some mighty, evil force, and the silent orphanage halls had only lent atmosphere to her presuppositions. And really, Sister Nicholas had been nothing but straightforward and polite…
“Can you imagine,” said Sister Nicholas, in her soft, regulated voice, “being a small child-a little girl, say-and losing your parents, having them taken from you? Left all alone in the world, maybe feeling like it was partly your fault, their deaths, that you could have prevented it, if only you’d been a better daughter?” She was looking Alex square in the eyes: cool blue gaze, calm as a quiescent ocean. “What would you do with yourself then? Where would you turn?”
She paused, and Alex opened her mouth, wanting to speak, but no words emerged. For the first time since she’d come here, it felt quiet in her head; she felt empty of all her ghosts.
“That’s what we’re here for, Alex.” Sister Nicholas reached a hand out across the dark wood and laid it next to Alex’s. “We give these children new purpose. Redirect them. This is our task; we consider it a privilege.”
It took Alex a moment to notice that the sister had withdrawn, was once again sitting straight at her end of the desk. She blinked, suddenly shivery, and discreetly adjusted her shirt so that her shoulders were no longer bare.
“So, DI Drake,” Sister Nicholas said, “is there anything else we can help you with?”
Alex realized that the muscles in her legs were cramping up, as if she’d been tensing them against the base of the chair. “No,” she said, getting shakily to her feet. “Thank you for your help, Sister. I’ll just collect DS Carling and then we’ll be out of your way.”
“It’s always our pleasure to assist the police,” Sister Nicholas said, escorting Alex to the door. Sister Aloysius was waiting, and Alex was neatly handed off. “Remember,” Sister Nicholas called, as she was led away, “Any time you need us, we’re here.”
Alex nodded absently, then turned to follow Sister Aloysius back down the corridor. It was a very long corridor. Alex reached out a hand and touched it to the wood; it felt…woody, like real wood. It all felt and smelled and looked and sounded and tasted so real. Real as Gene’s heartbeat, racing away within the warm cage of his chest.
Ray was standing beside the front door, looking cross. Sister Aloysius ushered them out with barely a word; “Well, that was as useful as a chocolate teapot,” Ray said, before the door had properly shut behind them.
“None of that now,” Alex said. She giggled. “Get it? Nun of that?”
Ray looked briefly taken aback. “Are you high?”
She laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the question, and because she was already laughing.
He was back to shaking his head now. “What am I on about? You’re always like this.”
She touched his shoulder before sliding into the driver’s seat. “But Raymundo, that’s part of my charm.”
She took them back to the station. On the way, Ray seemed less than charmed by her handling of the car, though personally, Alex thought she was offering a rather excellent example of the creative application of evasive driving techniques.
He really did look adorably murderous by the time they walked back into CID. It never ceased to amaze her how expressive they could be, considering… Alex reached the edge of her desk, then abruptly turned on her heel, pushed past Ray, and slammed through the door, out into the hall again. Two, four, six steps into the ladies’, then another and the stall door gave way before her, her knees bowed, and she paid quick and brutal homage to the porcelain throne.
“Ma’am?” came a hesitant voice as she was wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Are you all right?”
Alex made a concerted effort to respond, eventually managing an articulate, “Uhngh.”
Shaz stepped closer. She was still braced and bandaged, and officially wasn’t even supposed to be back at work yet. Through her watery eyes, Alex thought she looked smaller and more fragile then ever.
“Should I get someone?”
Alex took a tentative breath, then another. “No,” she managed. Bracing herself against the side of the stall, she pulled herself to her feet. “Dodgy curry,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
She wobbled over to the sinks, silently grateful for Shaz, who ducked into the stall behind her and flushed away her mess. Reaching to turn on the water, however, Alex saw something that momentarily puzzled her frazzled brain.
“Oh, sorry,” said Shaz, darting into her line of vision again. She removed the toothbrush and the tube of paste from the edge of the basin. “I was just…”
Alex nodded, wearily. “Oral hygiene is very important.” She turned on the tap, leaned over and filled her mouth, then spat.
“…Right,” said Shaz. She seemed to hesitate. “Ma’am, I was wondering if I could ask you-”
“Let me give you a little piece of advice, Shaz,” Alex interrupted, blinking at her bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror. Her eyeshadow was smudged and she began making an effort to wipe it off. “If you’re interviewing a potentially dangerous suspect about whom you are woefully underinformed, and he or she offers you a drink-even a perfectly innocuous cup of tea-tell me, what do you think you should do?”
“Well-”
“That’s right,” said Alex firmly, “Don’t bloody drink it.”
Alex saw the reflection of Shaz’s nod in the mirror. “I-I’ll talk to you later, then. Feel better, ma’am.”
She scurried from the bathroom at faster speeds than Alex would have advised, considering her injuries.
Alex continued to lean against the sink; the cool porcelain was calming, and she didn’t feel like she had the strength to move yet. The image in the mirror was far from comforting, however. She could hardly believe the person looking back at her was her: Alex Drake, Detective Inspector, believer in psychology and rationality, mother of Molly, goddaughter to Evan. No one to these people, to Gene Hunt, at all.
Her makeup looked smudged and tawdry. Her hair and clothes were ridiculous. What game was she trying to play? Why wasn’t she taking this seriously? Sister Nicholas certainly was. That’s what we’re here for, Alex. Spoken so assuredly, so unostentatiously. You could have prevented it, if only you’d been a better daughter.
Alex squeezed her eyes shut. If Tyler was right, it would mean-
That’s what we’re here for, Alex.
With a feeling like a stone settling quietly at the bottom of a cold lake, Alex realized that she’d never told either of the nuns her first name.
It was unprofessional, going home, but Alex needed time to think. Like Greta Garbo, she wanted to be alone. And if she had to sacrifice a little bit of professionalism for that, well…she’d become willing to let it go for a lot less, lately.
And anyway, Shaz had seen her chucking her guts up; she’d cover for her.
There was nothing, however, that Shaz could have done to protect Alex from the figure that emerged from the shadows of her stairwell as she was fitting the key in the lock. Alex started and just barely managed to bite back a gasp. She quickly adjusted her expression, made it into an eyeroll. Angie Jones shot back a somewhat halfhearted smirk and followed her into the flat.
“Lurking in doorways now, are we?” Alex said, frowning as Angie plopped right back down on the sofa, as if she had never left. “I could have…shot you, you know.”
“Wouldn’t that be tragic.” In the full light of day, the lines on Angie’s face were much more noticeable-she looked her age, and then some.
“So are you and Tyler just planning to pop ’round all the time now?” Alex asked, forcing down another rising bubble of hysteria. For as bad as it had been when she was alone in this, she was now all-too-vividly picturing the way it could go, this half- dream-life, full of secret meetings and illicit rendezvous, even the evenings of camaraderie at Luigi’s tainted by the whisper of someone lurking in the shadows-not just a dream or a nightmare, but a vast conspiracy, with her but a helpless little pawn to be batted around…
She turned her back to Angie, quickly, and rubbed the heel of her hand over her red-rimmed eyes.
“Sorry,” said Alex, a moment later, turning back to where Angie was waiting patiently, a sickening look of sympathy on her face. “Your bloody nun drugged me.”
Angie’s expression mutated into one of confusion. “My what?”
Alex was perfectly happy to let this emotion show. She waved her arm, and punctuated the gesture with an exasperated foot stamp. “The suspect you and Tyler sent me after! Sister Nicholas?” Angie’s expression remained blank. “Margaret Hamilton?” She began digging through her pockets. “I still have the stupid scribble Tyler left me…”
“Wait, wait,” said Angie, extending her hand, palm out, “Margaret Hamilton is a nun?”
“The address you gave me was for St. Mary’s Foundling Hospital! Of course she’s a bloody nun!”
Angie, now looking very taken aback, was shaking her head. “We just got that address from the logbook at the Royal London. We hadn’t had a chance to check it out yet. We were too busy trying to figure out why she was taking such an interest in one of the members of your department.” More lines were added to Angie’s forehead as she thought. “A WPC Granger?”
The rage left Alex, flushed out by a cold chill. “Shaz,” she said. Feeling Sister Nicholas’ cold, calm gaze on her even now. Judging. “What does she want with Shaz?”
It was clear Angie didn’t know. “She came to visit almost every day your WPC was in hospital.” Angie was making that scratching motion against her thigh again. “She was stabbed, right?”
Alex nodded. “In the line of duty, yes.”
“Right. Well, Sam followed Gene there a couple times, and once,” a whisper of a smile began to appear on Angie’s face, “apparently, through no fault of his own, he almost got caught, and he had to hide in the loo for a while. And while he was there, a woman came in and stood by the bed for several minutes. Not Granger’s mum; Sam had seen Gene talking with her on a different day. Apparently, there was something strange about her manner that made Sam take notice-this was when the girl was still unconscious, but this woman, she didn’t hold her hand or try to talk to her like people usually do when they come to visit a sick person. She just stood there-evaluating, is I think what Sam said. So he and I came back later, and while Sam distracted the on-duty nurse, I got a look at the logbook. And that’s where we got Margaret Hamilton, and that address-written over and over, visit after visit.” Angie’s twitching fingers tightened into fists. “She had herself down as a friend.”
Alex had met some of Shaz’s friends, in all their New Romantic glory. “Not likely,” she spat. “So you think Sister Nicholas, Margaret Hamilton, whatever she’s called, is trying to use Shaz in some way?”
Angie nodded. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you. That’s what they do.”
Pawns, Alex thought again, and felt a new flush of fury. Figments, delusions-she could accept these people as that, allow them to be so reduced. But the idea of them used up and thrown away like broken toys-she thought of Shaz’s small, hopeful smile, her determination. Chris’ eagerness, Ray’s loyalty, Viv’s morality, Gene- No. That she could not allow.
“All right.” Alex stalked over to the bin in the corner, unraveled the crumpled sheets of paper. She could feel Angie frowning at her, but she ignored it and carefully smoothed out the sheets, fixing them to the wall again, but backwards, so the side that faced her was once again clean and white.
She’d left a felt-tip lying on top of the TV. The cap came off with a satisfying pop. “What do we know?” she asked.
When Angie didn’t immediately speak, Alex turned around. “You’re going to make a chart?” Angie asked.
“Yes.” She was tapping her foot impatiently, and once she noticed, she didn’t even bother to make herself stop. “I like charts. And you-you badly need to get organized. I thought Tyler was a stickler for paperwork?”
“You’re going to make a chart right up on your sitting room wall, where anyone could come in and see?”
Alex sighed and forced her foot to still. “Aren’t you being a little bit paranoid?” Angie scratched at her thigh and said nothing. “Where’s Tyler, anyway?” Alex pressed. “He needs to be here. We need to pool our knowledge. What’s the point of working together if we don’t communicate? That’s how people end up drinking drugged tea given to them by psychotic nuns!”
Angie looked torn between laughter and concern. “She really…drugged you?”
Alex put her hand on her hip, annoyed..
“I mean, a standing police officer-she drugged you?”
“Yes,” said Alex, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Do you see how we’re having a problem with communication here?”
But Angie was shaking her head. “They really don’t care,” she said, her face draining of color. “About the law. About how close we get. They’re so confident. Like they think-like they know they’ve already won.”
“No,” said Alex, trying to shake away the chills, even as she saw it again and again. One flash of light… “We’re here for a reason. There has to be a reason…”
“Maybe the universe just hates us,” said Angie. Unlike Alex, when she spoke, she sounded like she believed it.
“No,” Alex said again, definitively. She turned back to the empty white paper on the wall.
Her pen was still hovering over blankness when a knock sounded. Alex turned to look at Angie, as if the other woman could somehow explain Alex’s sudden popularity. She just shrugged, and made no move to get up from the sofa.
Fine. Well, if that’s how she wanted to play it, who was Alex to stop her? She went and let Chris in with little more fuss than a discreet, weary sigh.
“Ah, yes, I seem to recall that you wanted to speak to me,” she said, stepping back and sticking her hands in her back pockets casually.
Chris’ posture was in direct opposition to hers. He stood with his back rigid, a folder clutched to his chest. He shook his head. “The guv asked me to bring you this,” he said, handing her a folded piece of paper.
“’Bolly-You can either be on the rag or up the duff, not both,’” she read aloud. “’Please pick one and then get that flat arse of yours back into work.’ Charming. Though I suppose I should be immensely gratified that he’s familiar enough with the word ‘please’ to use it correctly in a sentence.”
Crumpling the paper in her fist, she glanced up to see Chris’ deer-facing-down-a-lorry expression. “What?”
“You’re…you’re not, are you? Up…” The rest of the sentence vanished in a hasty gulp.
“Chris, Chris, Chris…” She shook her head. “Setting aside the fact that it’s none of your business, I simply do not understand why men are perpetually so disturbed by the natural female biological functions. And I can’t even blame it on this age of dinosaurs, as they’re just as bad where I-what’s this?”
She paused to look at the folder Chris had hastily shoved at her chest. It appeared to be financial documents of some sort, though their relevance wasn’t immediately clear. “Ray asked me to bring it,” Chris explained through his blush. “Said he wasn’t sure he should give it to you before, as you were high as a kite and might try to use it to make a party hat.” A smile crept onto his face at this, but Alex barely noticed, engrossed as she was in the documents. The top paper appeared to be a list of donations from charitable organizations…
“Anyway, he said he hopes it makes the morning less of an overgrown penguin chase.” Chris’ smile turned down into a curious frown. He craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of what Alex was looking at. “What is it?”
“Over £2,000 from the Metropolitan and City Police Orphans Fund,” said Alex, her throat going dry. Her fingers tightened against the manila as she closed the folder. “Where did Ray get this?”
Chris took an involuntary step back. “Dunno. I think he just took it from wherever you were investigating this morning. Is it a lead on the Scire case?”
“I don’t care about the sodding Scire case!” Alex snapped. For a second she felt almost dizzy; then her head cleared. “Sorry. Sorry, Chris.” She rubbed at her temples. “You wanted to talk to me about something this morning. What was it?”
But Chris was shaking his head. “No, my mistake, I didn’t realize you had company.” It appeared he had finally noticed Angie-was peering over Alex’s shoulder and through the kitchen to where the older woman sat on the sofa. Alex saw the moment his gaze narrowed, a flicker of recognition passing fleetingly across his features. “Do I-”
“You’re right, we’re being very rude,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him forcibly toward the door. “It doesn’t do to be rude, Chris.”
“But-”
“Thanks for stopping by!” she said brightly, and nearly took his nose off in her haste to shut the door in his face.
“You know, it hardly matters if I have a chart up on my wall when you’re a much more prominent and ostentatious feature!” she said, turning on her heel and stomping back into the sitting room. Angie was staring into the middle distance; she appeared lost in thought. “Hey!” said Alex, and snapped her fingers in front of the other woman’s face.
Angie blinked, her eyes refocusing like a person coming out of a fugue, or awakening after a hypnotic trance. “Sorry,” she said, “I drifted off.”
Alex flung the folder at her. “See if this will wake you up.”
“Orphans,” said Sam.
Alex nodded and took the cup of tea Angie handed her. She lifted it halfway to her lips, then tried to cover her instinctive unwillingness to complete the motion by taking another look around the room. The flat Sam and Angie were sharing-“Our headquarters,” Sam had sarcastically called it-was both more and less depressing than Alex had imagined. It had clearly come furnished, and clearly, neither of them had made any effort to spruce it up. There were papers everywhere, and several not-inconspicuous bottles of booze, and a blanket in a wad at the end of the sofa, where one of them-most likely Sam-appeared to sleep. But at least it wasn’t a total hovel. Light came in-the last rays of sunlight just then pouring through the blinds, chasing dust motes around Sam’s face as he stood there, frowning.
“Orphans and nuns. That’s…” He shook himself a little. “…Unnerving. Bit Dickensian. Or…” His mouth turned down in a slant.
“Or?” prompted Alex.
Sam uncrossed his arms, only to immediately clench his fists. “I don’t know. I still don’t know.”
“All right. Orphans,” said Alex, setting down her tea untouched and striding forward with her red felt-tip. They’d reaffixed her sheets of paper to Sam and Angie’s sitting room wall, as it seemed likely it would receive far less police traffic. Either way, she was determined to have her chart.
“Police orphans,” she said, and wrote it down. Almost immediately, she stepped back. “Which relates to Gene…how?”
“Don’t look at me!” said Angie, realizing belatedly that both Sam and Alex were staring at her. “We never- We never even really tried,” she finished, flatly.
Sam seemed to accept this. “He doesn’t even have any nieces or nephews,” he went on, pursing his lips. “Unless his brother-”
“Wait just one minute,” interrupted Alex. She was still watching Angie’s carefully expressionless face. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but just because you-”
“Just because I couldn’t supply him with children doesn’t mean he hasn’t fathered bastards from Land’s End to John o’ Groats?” Angie’s dark eyes blazed. “He may be a lot of things, my husband, but he was never-” And all at once the fire seemed to go out of her. “Never that careless. Besides,” she added, releasing a short puff of breath, “you don’t really think this comes down to illegitimate children. Mordred much?”
“Right now,” said Sam, raising a pair of placating hands, “we can’t afford to rule anything out.” He stole the pen out of Alex’s hand, causing her to release an indignant snort, and drew a line away from “Police orphans” and wrote “Mordred angle” next to it.
“Yes, because the place we should be looking for hard evidence is mythology,” said Alex.
“Feel free to throw some better ideas out here,” countered Sam.
“Maybe the whole orphan thing is just a red herring,” suggested Angie. “Being a nun is a good cover. It may not have anything to do with anything.”
Alex had thought that, too-which was why all the contributions St. Mary’s had received from the Police Orphans Fund had left her so unsettled. It felt like too much of a coincidence.
Sam seemed to think so, too. He tapped Alex’s bright red scrawl: Police. “You can’t just assume something is a red herring and discount it as evidence. This isn’t an Agatha Christie novel. Besides, think about Frank Morgan-having a role within the police was more than just a good cover, he exploited his position. And the same could be said of Jack Haley.”
“Who’s Jack Haley?” asked Alex, catching the dark look that passed between Angie and Sam.
The look passed back and forth again, several times. “Maybe we should save that conversation for another time,” said Sam, looking suddenly uncomfortable.
“So we’re back to withholding information again,” said Alex with a disgusted sigh. “Well, isn’t that-”
“He worked at the hospital with me.” Angie’s interruption was sharp. “I trusted him. I was wrong.”
“All right,” said Alex, after a moment’s pregnant silence. “Okay.” Unspoken, they seemed to agree, Let’s leave it at that.
“So,” said Sam, turning back to the wall, “assuming for the moment that Hamilton’s position at St. Mary’s is significant, is there any other connection we can draw between the orphanage and Gene? Between it and any of us?”
Angie shrugged. “Gene’s mum died in ’74, when he was 42, so I hardly see how there could be any connection there. And my parents are still alive-in fact, they both outlive me.” There was almost ironic appreciation in her mention of that little tidbit.
“My mum’s still alive, too,” said Sam. “And she-well, it’s the same thing. Besides,” and unlike Angie, he seemed happy to get off the subject, “this was all back in Manchester. Hamilton set up shop in London-from the looks of things, long before any of us knew we would be making the move. So why here? What’s in London?”
Alex had known it would be coming-while the others crept slowly toward the only possible destination, she had raced right to it. But now their eyes were on her, as they had been on Angie, and she almost couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“I’m an orphan.”
There.
“I’m an orphan,” she repeated, her heart beating faster now, “my parents died just last month. And Gene promised to help Evan get custody of me, but it hasn’t happened officially yet, and he’s not a blood relation, they might be able to make a case, they might-oh god.” She swayed and had to accept Angie’s hand, her help into a chair. “They could try to take me away from him.” An entire childhood between those dark walls, within those long, silent halls… “They could try to take me away.”
Sam was suddenly there beside her; they were flanking her. “We will not let that happen,” Sam said. “Alex, I promise you…”
Alex nodded and tried to breathe, closing her eyes and trying to be grateful when she didn’t see a bright red mouth rise up out of the dark to laugh at her. When she didn’t see anything.
And since she was trying to be grateful, she refrained from pointing out that Sam did not exactly have a sterling record when it came to the women he promised to protect.
That so far, if something cosmic were placing bets, she was doubtful that their little group-that any one of them-would be winning any wagers.
There was still light and noise spilling out of Luigi’s when she reached her street-the street that housed her temporary residence. She thought about sticking to the shadows, about sneaking upstairs and burying under the covers, pretending that the sounds she heard drifting up from the restaurant were actually Molly snoring lightly in the next room. But suddenly she felt the need to talk to Gene, to look him in the eyes and hear him promise that he wouldn’t let evil nuns get their hands on the little girl he had scooped up into his arms that day; whom he had let cry silent, choked tears into his collar; in whom he had planted the first seed, the roots of the idea that the police could be a force for good, for justice in this world.
She needed to hear that promise, as much as she needed not to think about why it meant so much more to her than Sam’s.
But Gene wasn’t there. She could tell almost as soon as she walked through the door, long before she could take a full scan of the room. Something in the quality of the air was different, and Alex was tempted to turn on her heel and walk right back out the way she came. However, in her moment of hesitance, Shaz had looked up from the corner table she was sharing with Chris and started shooting a heartbreakingly hopeful look in Alex’s direction. In the last few weeks it had become harder than ever to deny Shaz much of anything, which made Alex fear that she was becoming worryingly sentimental. However, there was no reason she couldn’t grant someone-even an entirely made-up someone-a few minutes of her time.
And considering how rude she’d been to Chris earlier, she felt she could withstand a few minutes of his company, considering that he still seemed willing to endure hers.
He’d been leaning forward, whispering to Shaz, but he stopped as she approached, retreating back in his chair as far as he could. “Hey, stranger,” said Shaz, smiling brightly and nearly drowning out Chris’ much more subdued “Ma’am.” “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Alex said, sitting down. There was a carafe of wine, but only one glass on the table. Alex had just barely turned her head to look for service when Luigi appeared at her side with two more.
“Is good for upset stomach,” he said, nodding approval as Chris filled her glass and set the carafe back down. He shot her a wink, then retreated to help the few other customers still lingering in the restaurant.
Alex helped herself to a slightly indelicate sip. “So, Chris,” she said, “I feel like you’ve been trying to chase me down all day. Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
Chris looking flustered and uncomfortable was hardly an unfamiliar sight, but watching him defer so obviously to Shaz still surprised Alex a little. “It was both of us, actually, ma’am,” said Shaz, at which point Alex realized two things:
1) They were holding hands under the table.
2) She wasn’t going to like where this conversation was going one bit.
“You see, we were hoping you might have some advice…”
Click, click, click-suddenly the little colored squares were snapping into place. Shaz brushing her teeth in the middle of the morning, Chris’ reaction to Gene’s note, the discrepancy between the number of glasses on the table and the number actually containing wine- Alex thunked her head down beside her nearly full one. “Oh, Shaz.”
“Ma’am?” There was a hint of real fear in her tone now, and Alex forcibly pulled herself together.
“Sorry.” She forced an encouraging expression onto her face as well. “Of course you can ask me anything. Go ahead.”
Of all the things to have to deal with now, on top of everything else…! she thought. Because of course, Shaz gave Chris’ hand one last squeeze, then said, with an admirable attempt at good cheer, “Well…I’m pregnant.”
TBC
I’d also like to quickly state that, while the London Metropolitan & City Police Orphans Fund is real, I’m sure it is actually a lovely organization that is in no way involved in anything dodgy with evil nuns. Even in this story, I’m sure they were just taken in by Sister Nicholas’ wiles. She’s wily!
Title: Nature Boy, Part II
Category: Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes crossover. Gen with a fair bit of UST all around.
Rating: PG-13 for now
Word Count: ~7,000 this part
Spoilers: Takes place after A2A 1.08, so everything
Summary: Alex investigates, or: Nun’s the word.
A/N: Many thanks to wychwood for Brit-picking, siriaeve for nun-wrangling, and dancinbutterfly for advice and cheerleading; any remaining mistakes are of course my own.
Part I
Nature Boy, Part II
She awoke to the sound of hacking and spitting. Stumbling to the bathroom, she found Gene leaning over the sink, hand pressed to his forehead. “Untwist your knickers,” he said without turning around, “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
She blinked away her own bleariness in favor of a falsely bright expression. “’Why, good morning, Alex! Thanks so much for your hospitality, Alex! Alex, I’ve made you a nice breakfast and done the washing up to show my undying gratitude-’”
He kicked the door closed in her face.
Alex contemplated beating the door down for a moment, before sensibly realizing that that would punish her more than it would him, and staggering off to see if there was a cup of coffee she could drown herself in.
She had just reached the kitchen when a knock on the front door called her back. If it was Sam and Angie, she would push them down the stairs, Alex vowed. She flung open the door, snapping, “What?”
Chris was standing on the landing, looking twitchy. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I was just wondering…”
It was like her flat was a bloody drop-in center. She permitted herself a sigh. “Can’t this wait, Chris?”
He nodded. Then he shook his head. “I was hoping…” He lowered his voice. “It’s kind of private…”
Gene of course chose this moment to come slamming out of the bathroom. He was clearly wearing yesterday’s clothes (as, Alex realized, was she) and looked somewhat the worse for wear. Chris’ eyes widened to the size of saucers.
After a moment’s surprise, Gene’s features quickly composed themselves into a smirk. He slipped his thumbs under his belt. “Fine day today, isn’t it, young Christopher?”
Alex had had enough. “Both of you, out!” she snapped. “Not so worried about my ‘reputation’ now, are we?” she hissed at Gene as he passed. As the door slammed, he actually had the gall to look contrite.
Alex slumped back against the wood. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, with no relief in sight. Instead, she had to figure out how best to fit-up an old woman.
Maybe there was merit to Sam and Angie’s theory, after all. It would hardly be a stretch to imagine this all being Gene Hunt’s fault.
Once she reached the station, she didn’t feel particularly disposed toward dealing with Chris, so she snapped her fingers and said, “Ray, you’re with me.”
She had a feeling that Ray had been a little frightened of her ever since the incident with the pride parade and the tank. She could see him trying to come up with a plausible excuse that would get him out of accompanying her, and failing, fall bullishly in line behind her. Gene’s eyes stayed on her back as she waltzed out of the room, but she had decided to implement a policy of cheerfully ignoring him. Stage 1 never got old.
Unfortunately, employing a non-confrontational strategy in regards to Gene made it difficult to steal his car, so she had to take one of the ones from the motor pool. “This about the Scire case?” Ray asked as he got in.
Alex shook her head. “It’s more of a…personal project.”
“Oh god, not again.” Ray spent a moment looking like he might bolt from the car, before shooting her a glare and reaching for his seatbelt.
She could feel the crumpled piece of paper Sam had left her digging into her thigh as she drove to the address he had written down. “An orphanage?” said Ray incredulously as the pulled up beside St. Mary’s Foundling Hospital. His whole body drooped, from perm to mustache.
“And what’s wrong with that?” asked Alex, imagining a variety of deaths for Sam Tyler that would actually stick.
Ray looked at her like she must be mental-like he was actually kind of impressed that she was out walking around and functioning, mental as she was. “They’re full of orphans,” he said. “Small, grasping, needy children…brr.”
“I’m an orphan,” said Alex, slamming her door. Ray blinked at her. “I mean, I was.” Her mind filled inescapably with an image of Molly. An orphan: was that what her daughter essentially was, now?
“And nuns,” Ray continued, finding his rhythm now. “They’re terrifying. The old ones all look like their only pleasure in life comes from smacking you with a ruler or making you stand in the corner with a bin over your head. And the young ones! How are you supposed to act around the young ones? Women who aren’t interested in a good-”
Having reached the top of the steps, Alex rang the doorbell with some firmness. Ray thankfully took the hint, his mouth closing with a click. It opened again a moment later as he shuffled his feet and muttered to himself; Alex put on her game face and did her best to ignore him.
Her veil of professionalism, which was looking rather thin and tattered these days, suffered further damage when the door opened to reveal a stern-looking woman enveloped in black and white. Alex offered a reassuring smile as she flashed her warrant card, hoping all the while that the expression would have some effect on her own emotional state. “Good morning. I’m DI Drake and this is DS Carling. We were hoping to have a word with Margaret Hamilton?”
The nun’s face remained blank; she would have made an excellent poker player. “I believe you mean Sister Nicholas. If you follow me, I’ll see if she’s available.”
“Thank you,” said Alex. As she stepped over the threshold, she glanced back over her shoulder to ensure Ray wasn’t making a run for it and was made newly aware of the fact that her bra strap was showing. Intentionally showing, but- She fought the urge to tug at it. Stupid nuns.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what this is regarding?” asked the one leading them briskly down the corridor. It was all silent halls and polished dark paneling; it reminded Alex rather a lot of her old school, actually, and that was really not something she needed to think about right now.
“I think it would be best if we spoke directly to Sister Nicholas about that,” she said primly.
The other sister merely inclined her head in response. Alex glanced back at Ray, her only ally in this; he looked as nonplussed as she felt, and it made her ridiculously grateful to have him here. Alex shook herself. It went against all her personal goals to get attached. She couldn’t start thinking of these people as real.
No-this whole thing was a puzzle, like the Rubik’s Cube. Nothing more.
All right, start from the corners, then. What did Margaret Hamilton, a.k.a. Sister Nicholas, a nun who ran an orphanage, have to do with her frustratingly immovable centerpiece, DCI Hunt?
Tyler must have some idea-not that he had bothered to share. Didn’t that make this her favorite way to go into a situation, then: under-prepared! Backed up by Ray! Escorted by a nun! Oh, it was fun times in Alex’s head this week, that was for sure.
By the time the sister led them through a tall wooden door and into a small antechamber, Alex’s smile was somewhat brittle. The sister motioned for them to wait, then disappeared with a soft rustle of fabric through another large, imposing door. Alex looked at the trio of low, child-sized chairs lining the wall and elected to stand. Ray, however, started to lower himself into one, was forced to do some quick recalculations regarding the size of the seat and that of his arse, and bobbed back up again. A genuine laugh startled Alex with its emergence. “Oh, shut up,” said Ray, as Alex covered her mouth with her hand, Ray’s murderous expression only increasing her mirth.
“I’m relieved to know that my subconscious still has a sense of humor,” she said, biting back a snort. “A genuine one, I mean, not just the sick bits that dredge up things like latent coulrophobia and my semi-incestuous attraction to Evan and these ridiculous nu-”
Ray began having an entirely fake-sounding coughing attack. Alex summoned what was left of her dignity and turned to face Sister Nicholas.
The sister did not look terribly amused, but she also did not look sneering and superior. She offered Alex and Ray a smile that was actually rather generous under the circumstances, before ushering them into her office; the other sister was dismissed with a silent nod. Everything about Sister Nicholas seemed to embody the same quiet and efficiency of movement. Even her office appeared to be designed around that philosophy: despite its ostentatious entrance, the room itself was of reasonable size and plainly decorated; it was packed with books and papers without being cluttered. Sister Nicholas sat down behind a desk made of dark wood that matched the paneling and motioned for Alex and Ray to take the seats across from her. Ray sat warily, but these were proper, adult-sized chairs, padded with dark green cushions.
“Sister Aloysius tells me you’re with the police,” said Sister Nicholas, steepling her fingers. “How may I assist you?”
Alex pasted on a pleasant, but concerned, expression, and leaned forward. “I’m afraid we have reason to believe that one of your former residents has been killed under suspicious circumstances. We were hoping you could give us any information from your records and let us speak to anyone who might have known him.”
Sister Nicholas appeared genuinely upset by this news. “Oh, that’s terrible. Of course, we’ll do anything we can to assist you. What was the young man’s name?”
Alex almost said ‘Sam Tyler,’ but realizing just in time the kind of reaction that was likely to provoke in Ray, quickly went with, “John Scire.”
“Scire?” said Sister Nicholas, frowning. Ray, too, was shooting her a look: he and Chris were truly dreadful at deception and subterfuge; it was embarrassing, really.
“John Scire,” Alex repeated carefully. “Though it’s possible he might have gone by a different name when he was a boy. Mentions of St. Mary’s were found among his effects, you see…”
Sister Nicholas nodded, apparently buying it. “That does make things more difficult, I’m afraid. Of course, we’d still be happy to make our records available. How old was Mister Scire, do you know?”
“His driver’s license had his age listed as 24,” Alex replied smoothly.
“Well, that narrows it down a bit. I’ll have Sister Aloysius escort you to the records room.”
She started to stand. Alex, remaining firmly in her seat, fixed the older woman with her winningest smile. “DS Carling can get a head start on that,” she said, and blithely ignored Ray’s bewildered, bordering on furious, look. “I’d like to ask you a few more questions, if that’s all right.”
“Of course.” Sister Nicholas lowered herself back down as Sister Aloysius entered; Alex had missed seeing whatever method had been used to summon her, much to her disappointment. The younger sister moved to stand beside Ray’s chair, expectantly, and Ray got grudgingly to his feet and followed her out. Poor Ray. Alex really ought to try to find some way to make it up to him…not that she had the time to be placating figments of her own disturbed imagination. Of course.
The door clicked shut and Alex found herself alone with Sister Nicholas. Alex searched her face, looking for some hint of nefarious intentions: a glimmer of darkness in her eyes; something around the mouth that would suggest a fondness for laughing maniacal laughs; a strokable white Persian cat, previously unnoticed atop her lap. Better yet, maybe the fact that they were now alone would render the sister suddenly overcome with the desire to confess all her evil plans.
Sister Nicholas looked thoughtful for a moment, then opened her mouth to speak.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Uh…” said Alex. “Yes, that would be lovely, actually. Thank you.”
“Good.” The sister rose again and went over to a small collection of tea things on a table in the corner. Alex watched her go through the familiar movements and hoped they would be suitably relaxing-and just slightly distracting.
“Have you been at St. Mary’s long?” she asked casually.
“Why, yes,” said Sister Nicholas. The china cups in her hands clinked softly. “Almost thirty years, now.”
So she hadn’t followed Gene down from Manchester. Her accent would seem to confirm this; she sounded like a native Londoner. “I’m sure you find the work very rewarding,” said Alex.
“It is a true blessing, being able to come to the aid of children in need. Sugar?” she asked. Alex declined. “Though of course it’s hard, sometimes, to see children who’ve suffered so much, so young.”
Sister Nicholas brought over a pair of cups and saucers, and a small plate of biscuits, then retook her seat across from Alex.
Alex took a deep sip of tea and used those few seconds to think. “How do children come to be in your care?” she asked.
“There are a number of ways. Most often they are assigned to us by the government. There have, however,” the sister’s smile was almost wry, “been a few instances of children left on the doorstep over the years.”
Alex favored her with a brittle smile in return. Something was starting to gnaw at her, an uneasy feeling creeping cold and jagged down her spine. It might be simply the power of suggestion: Tyler sending her here had prepared her to encounter some mighty, evil force, and the silent orphanage halls had only lent atmosphere to her presuppositions. And really, Sister Nicholas had been nothing but straightforward and polite…
“Can you imagine,” said Sister Nicholas, in her soft, regulated voice, “being a small child-a little girl, say-and losing your parents, having them taken from you? Left all alone in the world, maybe feeling like it was partly your fault, their deaths, that you could have prevented it, if only you’d been a better daughter?” She was looking Alex square in the eyes: cool blue gaze, calm as a quiescent ocean. “What would you do with yourself then? Where would you turn?”
She paused, and Alex opened her mouth, wanting to speak, but no words emerged. For the first time since she’d come here, it felt quiet in her head; she felt empty of all her ghosts.
“That’s what we’re here for, Alex.” Sister Nicholas reached a hand out across the dark wood and laid it next to Alex’s. “We give these children new purpose. Redirect them. This is our task; we consider it a privilege.”
It took Alex a moment to notice that the sister had withdrawn, was once again sitting straight at her end of the desk. She blinked, suddenly shivery, and discreetly adjusted her shirt so that her shoulders were no longer bare.
“So, DI Drake,” Sister Nicholas said, “is there anything else we can help you with?”
Alex realized that the muscles in her legs were cramping up, as if she’d been tensing them against the base of the chair. “No,” she said, getting shakily to her feet. “Thank you for your help, Sister. I’ll just collect DS Carling and then we’ll be out of your way.”
“It’s always our pleasure to assist the police,” Sister Nicholas said, escorting Alex to the door. Sister Aloysius was waiting, and Alex was neatly handed off. “Remember,” Sister Nicholas called, as she was led away, “Any time you need us, we’re here.”
Alex nodded absently, then turned to follow Sister Aloysius back down the corridor. It was a very long corridor. Alex reached out a hand and touched it to the wood; it felt…woody, like real wood. It all felt and smelled and looked and sounded and tasted so real. Real as Gene’s heartbeat, racing away within the warm cage of his chest.
Ray was standing beside the front door, looking cross. Sister Aloysius ushered them out with barely a word; “Well, that was as useful as a chocolate teapot,” Ray said, before the door had properly shut behind them.
“None of that now,” Alex said. She giggled. “Get it? Nun of that?”
Ray looked briefly taken aback. “Are you high?”
She laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the question, and because she was already laughing.
He was back to shaking his head now. “What am I on about? You’re always like this.”
She touched his shoulder before sliding into the driver’s seat. “But Raymundo, that’s part of my charm.”
She took them back to the station. On the way, Ray seemed less than charmed by her handling of the car, though personally, Alex thought she was offering a rather excellent example of the creative application of evasive driving techniques.
He really did look adorably murderous by the time they walked back into CID. It never ceased to amaze her how expressive they could be, considering… Alex reached the edge of her desk, then abruptly turned on her heel, pushed past Ray, and slammed through the door, out into the hall again. Two, four, six steps into the ladies’, then another and the stall door gave way before her, her knees bowed, and she paid quick and brutal homage to the porcelain throne.
“Ma’am?” came a hesitant voice as she was wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Are you all right?”
Alex made a concerted effort to respond, eventually managing an articulate, “Uhngh.”
Shaz stepped closer. She was still braced and bandaged, and officially wasn’t even supposed to be back at work yet. Through her watery eyes, Alex thought she looked smaller and more fragile then ever.
“Should I get someone?”
Alex took a tentative breath, then another. “No,” she managed. Bracing herself against the side of the stall, she pulled herself to her feet. “Dodgy curry,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
She wobbled over to the sinks, silently grateful for Shaz, who ducked into the stall behind her and flushed away her mess. Reaching to turn on the water, however, Alex saw something that momentarily puzzled her frazzled brain.
“Oh, sorry,” said Shaz, darting into her line of vision again. She removed the toothbrush and the tube of paste from the edge of the basin. “I was just…”
Alex nodded, wearily. “Oral hygiene is very important.” She turned on the tap, leaned over and filled her mouth, then spat.
“…Right,” said Shaz. She seemed to hesitate. “Ma’am, I was wondering if I could ask you-”
“Let me give you a little piece of advice, Shaz,” Alex interrupted, blinking at her bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror. Her eyeshadow was smudged and she began making an effort to wipe it off. “If you’re interviewing a potentially dangerous suspect about whom you are woefully underinformed, and he or she offers you a drink-even a perfectly innocuous cup of tea-tell me, what do you think you should do?”
“Well-”
“That’s right,” said Alex firmly, “Don’t bloody drink it.”
Alex saw the reflection of Shaz’s nod in the mirror. “I-I’ll talk to you later, then. Feel better, ma’am.”
She scurried from the bathroom at faster speeds than Alex would have advised, considering her injuries.
Alex continued to lean against the sink; the cool porcelain was calming, and she didn’t feel like she had the strength to move yet. The image in the mirror was far from comforting, however. She could hardly believe the person looking back at her was her: Alex Drake, Detective Inspector, believer in psychology and rationality, mother of Molly, goddaughter to Evan. No one to these people, to Gene Hunt, at all.
Her makeup looked smudged and tawdry. Her hair and clothes were ridiculous. What game was she trying to play? Why wasn’t she taking this seriously? Sister Nicholas certainly was. That’s what we’re here for, Alex. Spoken so assuredly, so unostentatiously. You could have prevented it, if only you’d been a better daughter.
Alex squeezed her eyes shut. If Tyler was right, it would mean-
That’s what we’re here for, Alex.
With a feeling like a stone settling quietly at the bottom of a cold lake, Alex realized that she’d never told either of the nuns her first name.
It was unprofessional, going home, but Alex needed time to think. Like Greta Garbo, she wanted to be alone. And if she had to sacrifice a little bit of professionalism for that, well…she’d become willing to let it go for a lot less, lately.
And anyway, Shaz had seen her chucking her guts up; she’d cover for her.
There was nothing, however, that Shaz could have done to protect Alex from the figure that emerged from the shadows of her stairwell as she was fitting the key in the lock. Alex started and just barely managed to bite back a gasp. She quickly adjusted her expression, made it into an eyeroll. Angie Jones shot back a somewhat halfhearted smirk and followed her into the flat.
“Lurking in doorways now, are we?” Alex said, frowning as Angie plopped right back down on the sofa, as if she had never left. “I could have…shot you, you know.”
“Wouldn’t that be tragic.” In the full light of day, the lines on Angie’s face were much more noticeable-she looked her age, and then some.
“So are you and Tyler just planning to pop ’round all the time now?” Alex asked, forcing down another rising bubble of hysteria. For as bad as it had been when she was alone in this, she was now all-too-vividly picturing the way it could go, this half- dream-life, full of secret meetings and illicit rendezvous, even the evenings of camaraderie at Luigi’s tainted by the whisper of someone lurking in the shadows-not just a dream or a nightmare, but a vast conspiracy, with her but a helpless little pawn to be batted around…
She turned her back to Angie, quickly, and rubbed the heel of her hand over her red-rimmed eyes.
“Sorry,” said Alex, a moment later, turning back to where Angie was waiting patiently, a sickening look of sympathy on her face. “Your bloody nun drugged me.”
Angie’s expression mutated into one of confusion. “My what?”
Alex was perfectly happy to let this emotion show. She waved her arm, and punctuated the gesture with an exasperated foot stamp. “The suspect you and Tyler sent me after! Sister Nicholas?” Angie’s expression remained blank. “Margaret Hamilton?” She began digging through her pockets. “I still have the stupid scribble Tyler left me…”
“Wait, wait,” said Angie, extending her hand, palm out, “Margaret Hamilton is a nun?”
“The address you gave me was for St. Mary’s Foundling Hospital! Of course she’s a bloody nun!”
Angie, now looking very taken aback, was shaking her head. “We just got that address from the logbook at the Royal London. We hadn’t had a chance to check it out yet. We were too busy trying to figure out why she was taking such an interest in one of the members of your department.” More lines were added to Angie’s forehead as she thought. “A WPC Granger?”
The rage left Alex, flushed out by a cold chill. “Shaz,” she said. Feeling Sister Nicholas’ cold, calm gaze on her even now. Judging. “What does she want with Shaz?”
It was clear Angie didn’t know. “She came to visit almost every day your WPC was in hospital.” Angie was making that scratching motion against her thigh again. “She was stabbed, right?”
Alex nodded. “In the line of duty, yes.”
“Right. Well, Sam followed Gene there a couple times, and once,” a whisper of a smile began to appear on Angie’s face, “apparently, through no fault of his own, he almost got caught, and he had to hide in the loo for a while. And while he was there, a woman came in and stood by the bed for several minutes. Not Granger’s mum; Sam had seen Gene talking with her on a different day. Apparently, there was something strange about her manner that made Sam take notice-this was when the girl was still unconscious, but this woman, she didn’t hold her hand or try to talk to her like people usually do when they come to visit a sick person. She just stood there-evaluating, is I think what Sam said. So he and I came back later, and while Sam distracted the on-duty nurse, I got a look at the logbook. And that’s where we got Margaret Hamilton, and that address-written over and over, visit after visit.” Angie’s twitching fingers tightened into fists. “She had herself down as a friend.”
Alex had met some of Shaz’s friends, in all their New Romantic glory. “Not likely,” she spat. “So you think Sister Nicholas, Margaret Hamilton, whatever she’s called, is trying to use Shaz in some way?”
Angie nodded. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you. That’s what they do.”
Pawns, Alex thought again, and felt a new flush of fury. Figments, delusions-she could accept these people as that, allow them to be so reduced. But the idea of them used up and thrown away like broken toys-she thought of Shaz’s small, hopeful smile, her determination. Chris’ eagerness, Ray’s loyalty, Viv’s morality, Gene- No. That she could not allow.
“All right.” Alex stalked over to the bin in the corner, unraveled the crumpled sheets of paper. She could feel Angie frowning at her, but she ignored it and carefully smoothed out the sheets, fixing them to the wall again, but backwards, so the side that faced her was once again clean and white.
She’d left a felt-tip lying on top of the TV. The cap came off with a satisfying pop. “What do we know?” she asked.
When Angie didn’t immediately speak, Alex turned around. “You’re going to make a chart?” Angie asked.
“Yes.” She was tapping her foot impatiently, and once she noticed, she didn’t even bother to make herself stop. “I like charts. And you-you badly need to get organized. I thought Tyler was a stickler for paperwork?”
“You’re going to make a chart right up on your sitting room wall, where anyone could come in and see?”
Alex sighed and forced her foot to still. “Aren’t you being a little bit paranoid?” Angie scratched at her thigh and said nothing. “Where’s Tyler, anyway?” Alex pressed. “He needs to be here. We need to pool our knowledge. What’s the point of working together if we don’t communicate? That’s how people end up drinking drugged tea given to them by psychotic nuns!”
Angie looked torn between laughter and concern. “She really…drugged you?”
Alex put her hand on her hip, annoyed..
“I mean, a standing police officer-she drugged you?”
“Yes,” said Alex, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Do you see how we’re having a problem with communication here?”
But Angie was shaking her head. “They really don’t care,” she said, her face draining of color. “About the law. About how close we get. They’re so confident. Like they think-like they know they’ve already won.”
“No,” said Alex, trying to shake away the chills, even as she saw it again and again. One flash of light… “We’re here for a reason. There has to be a reason…”
“Maybe the universe just hates us,” said Angie. Unlike Alex, when she spoke, she sounded like she believed it.
“No,” Alex said again, definitively. She turned back to the empty white paper on the wall.
Her pen was still hovering over blankness when a knock sounded. Alex turned to look at Angie, as if the other woman could somehow explain Alex’s sudden popularity. She just shrugged, and made no move to get up from the sofa.
Fine. Well, if that’s how she wanted to play it, who was Alex to stop her? She went and let Chris in with little more fuss than a discreet, weary sigh.
“Ah, yes, I seem to recall that you wanted to speak to me,” she said, stepping back and sticking her hands in her back pockets casually.
Chris’ posture was in direct opposition to hers. He stood with his back rigid, a folder clutched to his chest. He shook his head. “The guv asked me to bring you this,” he said, handing her a folded piece of paper.
“’Bolly-You can either be on the rag or up the duff, not both,’” she read aloud. “’Please pick one and then get that flat arse of yours back into work.’ Charming. Though I suppose I should be immensely gratified that he’s familiar enough with the word ‘please’ to use it correctly in a sentence.”
Crumpling the paper in her fist, she glanced up to see Chris’ deer-facing-down-a-lorry expression. “What?”
“You’re…you’re not, are you? Up…” The rest of the sentence vanished in a hasty gulp.
“Chris, Chris, Chris…” She shook her head. “Setting aside the fact that it’s none of your business, I simply do not understand why men are perpetually so disturbed by the natural female biological functions. And I can’t even blame it on this age of dinosaurs, as they’re just as bad where I-what’s this?”
She paused to look at the folder Chris had hastily shoved at her chest. It appeared to be financial documents of some sort, though their relevance wasn’t immediately clear. “Ray asked me to bring it,” Chris explained through his blush. “Said he wasn’t sure he should give it to you before, as you were high as a kite and might try to use it to make a party hat.” A smile crept onto his face at this, but Alex barely noticed, engrossed as she was in the documents. The top paper appeared to be a list of donations from charitable organizations…
“Anyway, he said he hopes it makes the morning less of an overgrown penguin chase.” Chris’ smile turned down into a curious frown. He craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of what Alex was looking at. “What is it?”
“Over £2,000 from the Metropolitan and City Police Orphans Fund,” said Alex, her throat going dry. Her fingers tightened against the manila as she closed the folder. “Where did Ray get this?”
Chris took an involuntary step back. “Dunno. I think he just took it from wherever you were investigating this morning. Is it a lead on the Scire case?”
“I don’t care about the sodding Scire case!” Alex snapped. For a second she felt almost dizzy; then her head cleared. “Sorry. Sorry, Chris.” She rubbed at her temples. “You wanted to talk to me about something this morning. What was it?”
But Chris was shaking his head. “No, my mistake, I didn’t realize you had company.” It appeared he had finally noticed Angie-was peering over Alex’s shoulder and through the kitchen to where the older woman sat on the sofa. Alex saw the moment his gaze narrowed, a flicker of recognition passing fleetingly across his features. “Do I-”
“You’re right, we’re being very rude,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him forcibly toward the door. “It doesn’t do to be rude, Chris.”
“But-”
“Thanks for stopping by!” she said brightly, and nearly took his nose off in her haste to shut the door in his face.
“You know, it hardly matters if I have a chart up on my wall when you’re a much more prominent and ostentatious feature!” she said, turning on her heel and stomping back into the sitting room. Angie was staring into the middle distance; she appeared lost in thought. “Hey!” said Alex, and snapped her fingers in front of the other woman’s face.
Angie blinked, her eyes refocusing like a person coming out of a fugue, or awakening after a hypnotic trance. “Sorry,” she said, “I drifted off.”
Alex flung the folder at her. “See if this will wake you up.”
“Orphans,” said Sam.
Alex nodded and took the cup of tea Angie handed her. She lifted it halfway to her lips, then tried to cover her instinctive unwillingness to complete the motion by taking another look around the room. The flat Sam and Angie were sharing-“Our headquarters,” Sam had sarcastically called it-was both more and less depressing than Alex had imagined. It had clearly come furnished, and clearly, neither of them had made any effort to spruce it up. There were papers everywhere, and several not-inconspicuous bottles of booze, and a blanket in a wad at the end of the sofa, where one of them-most likely Sam-appeared to sleep. But at least it wasn’t a total hovel. Light came in-the last rays of sunlight just then pouring through the blinds, chasing dust motes around Sam’s face as he stood there, frowning.
“Orphans and nuns. That’s…” He shook himself a little. “…Unnerving. Bit Dickensian. Or…” His mouth turned down in a slant.
“Or?” prompted Alex.
Sam uncrossed his arms, only to immediately clench his fists. “I don’t know. I still don’t know.”
“All right. Orphans,” said Alex, setting down her tea untouched and striding forward with her red felt-tip. They’d reaffixed her sheets of paper to Sam and Angie’s sitting room wall, as it seemed likely it would receive far less police traffic. Either way, she was determined to have her chart.
“Police orphans,” she said, and wrote it down. Almost immediately, she stepped back. “Which relates to Gene…how?”
“Don’t look at me!” said Angie, realizing belatedly that both Sam and Alex were staring at her. “We never- We never even really tried,” she finished, flatly.
Sam seemed to accept this. “He doesn’t even have any nieces or nephews,” he went on, pursing his lips. “Unless his brother-”
“Wait just one minute,” interrupted Alex. She was still watching Angie’s carefully expressionless face. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but just because you-”
“Just because I couldn’t supply him with children doesn’t mean he hasn’t fathered bastards from Land’s End to John o’ Groats?” Angie’s dark eyes blazed. “He may be a lot of things, my husband, but he was never-” And all at once the fire seemed to go out of her. “Never that careless. Besides,” she added, releasing a short puff of breath, “you don’t really think this comes down to illegitimate children. Mordred much?”
“Right now,” said Sam, raising a pair of placating hands, “we can’t afford to rule anything out.” He stole the pen out of Alex’s hand, causing her to release an indignant snort, and drew a line away from “Police orphans” and wrote “Mordred angle” next to it.
“Yes, because the place we should be looking for hard evidence is mythology,” said Alex.
“Feel free to throw some better ideas out here,” countered Sam.
“Maybe the whole orphan thing is just a red herring,” suggested Angie. “Being a nun is a good cover. It may not have anything to do with anything.”
Alex had thought that, too-which was why all the contributions St. Mary’s had received from the Police Orphans Fund had left her so unsettled. It felt like too much of a coincidence.
Sam seemed to think so, too. He tapped Alex’s bright red scrawl: Police. “You can’t just assume something is a red herring and discount it as evidence. This isn’t an Agatha Christie novel. Besides, think about Frank Morgan-having a role within the police was more than just a good cover, he exploited his position. And the same could be said of Jack Haley.”
“Who’s Jack Haley?” asked Alex, catching the dark look that passed between Angie and Sam.
The look passed back and forth again, several times. “Maybe we should save that conversation for another time,” said Sam, looking suddenly uncomfortable.
“So we’re back to withholding information again,” said Alex with a disgusted sigh. “Well, isn’t that-”
“He worked at the hospital with me.” Angie’s interruption was sharp. “I trusted him. I was wrong.”
“All right,” said Alex, after a moment’s pregnant silence. “Okay.” Unspoken, they seemed to agree, Let’s leave it at that.
“So,” said Sam, turning back to the wall, “assuming for the moment that Hamilton’s position at St. Mary’s is significant, is there any other connection we can draw between the orphanage and Gene? Between it and any of us?”
Angie shrugged. “Gene’s mum died in ’74, when he was 42, so I hardly see how there could be any connection there. And my parents are still alive-in fact, they both outlive me.” There was almost ironic appreciation in her mention of that little tidbit.
“My mum’s still alive, too,” said Sam. “And she-well, it’s the same thing. Besides,” and unlike Angie, he seemed happy to get off the subject, “this was all back in Manchester. Hamilton set up shop in London-from the looks of things, long before any of us knew we would be making the move. So why here? What’s in London?”
Alex had known it would be coming-while the others crept slowly toward the only possible destination, she had raced right to it. But now their eyes were on her, as they had been on Angie, and she almost couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“I’m an orphan.”
There.
“I’m an orphan,” she repeated, her heart beating faster now, “my parents died just last month. And Gene promised to help Evan get custody of me, but it hasn’t happened officially yet, and he’s not a blood relation, they might be able to make a case, they might-oh god.” She swayed and had to accept Angie’s hand, her help into a chair. “They could try to take me away from him.” An entire childhood between those dark walls, within those long, silent halls… “They could try to take me away.”
Sam was suddenly there beside her; they were flanking her. “We will not let that happen,” Sam said. “Alex, I promise you…”
Alex nodded and tried to breathe, closing her eyes and trying to be grateful when she didn’t see a bright red mouth rise up out of the dark to laugh at her. When she didn’t see anything.
And since she was trying to be grateful, she refrained from pointing out that Sam did not exactly have a sterling record when it came to the women he promised to protect.
That so far, if something cosmic were placing bets, she was doubtful that their little group-that any one of them-would be winning any wagers.
There was still light and noise spilling out of Luigi’s when she reached her street-the street that housed her temporary residence. She thought about sticking to the shadows, about sneaking upstairs and burying under the covers, pretending that the sounds she heard drifting up from the restaurant were actually Molly snoring lightly in the next room. But suddenly she felt the need to talk to Gene, to look him in the eyes and hear him promise that he wouldn’t let evil nuns get their hands on the little girl he had scooped up into his arms that day; whom he had let cry silent, choked tears into his collar; in whom he had planted the first seed, the roots of the idea that the police could be a force for good, for justice in this world.
She needed to hear that promise, as much as she needed not to think about why it meant so much more to her than Sam’s.
But Gene wasn’t there. She could tell almost as soon as she walked through the door, long before she could take a full scan of the room. Something in the quality of the air was different, and Alex was tempted to turn on her heel and walk right back out the way she came. However, in her moment of hesitance, Shaz had looked up from the corner table she was sharing with Chris and started shooting a heartbreakingly hopeful look in Alex’s direction. In the last few weeks it had become harder than ever to deny Shaz much of anything, which made Alex fear that she was becoming worryingly sentimental. However, there was no reason she couldn’t grant someone-even an entirely made-up someone-a few minutes of her time.
And considering how rude she’d been to Chris earlier, she felt she could withstand a few minutes of his company, considering that he still seemed willing to endure hers.
He’d been leaning forward, whispering to Shaz, but he stopped as she approached, retreating back in his chair as far as he could. “Hey, stranger,” said Shaz, smiling brightly and nearly drowning out Chris’ much more subdued “Ma’am.” “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Alex said, sitting down. There was a carafe of wine, but only one glass on the table. Alex had just barely turned her head to look for service when Luigi appeared at her side with two more.
“Is good for upset stomach,” he said, nodding approval as Chris filled her glass and set the carafe back down. He shot her a wink, then retreated to help the few other customers still lingering in the restaurant.
Alex helped herself to a slightly indelicate sip. “So, Chris,” she said, “I feel like you’ve been trying to chase me down all day. Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
Chris looking flustered and uncomfortable was hardly an unfamiliar sight, but watching him defer so obviously to Shaz still surprised Alex a little. “It was both of us, actually, ma’am,” said Shaz, at which point Alex realized two things:
1) They were holding hands under the table.
2) She wasn’t going to like where this conversation was going one bit.
“You see, we were hoping you might have some advice…”
Click, click, click-suddenly the little colored squares were snapping into place. Shaz brushing her teeth in the middle of the morning, Chris’ reaction to Gene’s note, the discrepancy between the number of glasses on the table and the number actually containing wine- Alex thunked her head down beside her nearly full one. “Oh, Shaz.”
“Ma’am?” There was a hint of real fear in her tone now, and Alex forcibly pulled herself together.
“Sorry.” She forced an encouraging expression onto her face as well. “Of course you can ask me anything. Go ahead.”
Of all the things to have to deal with now, on top of everything else…! she thought. Because of course, Shaz gave Chris’ hand one last squeeze, then said, with an admirable attempt at good cheer, “Well…I’m pregnant.”
TBC
I’d also like to quickly state that, while the London Metropolitan & City Police Orphans Fund is real, I’m sure it is actually a lovely organization that is in no way involved in anything dodgy with evil nuns. Even in this story, I’m sure they were just taken in by Sister Nicholas’ wiles. She’s wily!