DISCLAIMER: 'The Bill' characters depicted in this story are copyrighted to Thames Television/Pearson Corp. All other characters depicted in this story are copyrighted to the relevant author or creator.
The canteen was pretty dead at this hour of the night and Di, sitting over her cup of chocolate chicken soup - as they dubbed the murky liquid the machine called hot chocolate - was bored. After a dull night being gaoler PC she'd been looking forward to catching up with some of her colleagues during her break - but Detective Inspector Cullen was the only other person in the canteen. Di unwrapped her apple and raisin muffin while watching him speculatively. She'd deny that she was nosy, but she certainly was very interested in her fellow human beings. She liked to know who they were going out with, why they had a Man U sticker on their car, when did they leave home, what they thought about Bob Geldoff; she liked to know who they were. So far, though, Cullen frustrated her. Without being anything as exciting as mysterious he gave so little away about himself a cardboard cutout could probably have been substituted without anyone noticing for several days.
Physically? Di eyed him consideringly, stirring up the silty residue of her hot chocolate. Average without being average. Rusty brown hair, blue eyes that seemed to measure you very thoroughly, rangy build and a bit above average height. She certainly wouldn't have crawled over John Boulton to get to him but she could imagine going home from a party with him, if he wasn't the DI. He looked as though he could have been anywhere from thirty-five to a fit forty-something but age was one of the few facts that could be tracked down and apparently he was thirty-three. Di glanced at her watch - at least another ten minutes before she was due back. Fishing for some change, she wandered over to the vending machine for a chocolate fix. Conveniently, it was just past where the DI sat, arms folded on the table and staring with apparent concentration at a black window. Discreetly, Di glanced at him as she passed. The remains of a neatly packed meal were in front of him. Who had packed it?
Sitting back at her table, Di summarized the known facts about Cullen. He was thirty-three, his previous posting had been in the West End and he was the Superintendent's man. He seemed to be a good DI, although there was always that element of uneasiness because you didn't know if you were really speaking to the DI, or to the Super. As for the rest, well, there were rumours, great rumours. He was an alien who had body-snatched someone and now controlled the Superintendent by mind-rays, he was Chandler's Monica Lewinski, he'd lost a fortune to the Super playing poker as a young DC, Chandler had been the only witness when he'd killed a prisoner…. Some said that he slept in a Star Trek uniform, others that if he touched you he could read your mind. Paul Riley swore that his hobby was cataloguing his socks by colour and texture, Tony Stamp said that young PCs had kept disappearing from the West End nick and that they'd been found bloodless, with two puncture marks over their jugular vein. There was currently a fifty-pound pool running on whether he went home to a he, she or it and there were those that said he simply didn't go home at all. Androids don't need to sleep. With Chris Deakin there had been plenty of good, solid, juicy and probably true stories to chew over; with Alex Cullen there was just this intriguing nothingness.
Absorbed, she hadn't noticed Cullen moving until suddenly he was beside her. He pointed down at his shoes.
"Nine and a half, narrow fitting."
The faintest of smiles might have lurked at the back of his eyes but Di was too shocked to notice. He went on, voice calm and quiet as always,
"I don't drink PC's blood, communicate with the mothership - or play poker."
He looked at her for a moment and then smiled.
"And I think your break was over five minutes ago."