Oh Danny Boy

Welcome to my new Ashes to Ashes story guys! Jeez, I haven't written one for years. I re-watched the series and just fell back in love! Bit out of the blue, but I hope you guys enjoy!

Alex couldn't remember the last time she'd had a decent nights sleep. Since Mac's suicide, barely a week gone, her nights were plagued – and her memory of her home was diminishing. Only remnants circled her at night – Molly's terrified face, confused and alone. It broke Alex's heart to a point where guilt at her inability to return home kept her awake all night. The Guv asked if she'd been out on the town, every time she walked in with tired eyes, hair sagging slightly. But he probably knew. His eyes were tired too. As were everyone else's.

But last night, luck was in her favour. She'd left Luigi's and everyone down stairs by ten. Ray flirting with a girl at the bar, Chris and Shaz slowly getting more drunk and cosy. Gene sat there, brooding, with that frown on his lips. He'd barely muttered his g'night to her when she'd left. But a hot bath and fresh pyjamas led to her sleeping deeply. A good sleep. No nightmares. Molly was smiling. Alex was pretty much content through the night.

She could have slept the whole way through had the phone not woken her.

'Bolls? Get yer pretty behind down 'ere now.' The phone went dead. Still in a bedtime haze, Alex's only proof the call hadn't been a dream was the red phone in her hand, rather than in its cradle. A groan into the pillow, and sleep rubbed from eyes, she climbed out of the warmth. Why was her bed always warm when she had to get up? Maybe luck really wasn't on her side.

Within less than an hour, she'd made herself decent and walking through the front doors of Fenchurch East police station. A car screeched past the doors, the sirens wailing, and more could be heard from the back of the building. Alertness pushed her brain like five strong coffee's, and her heeled boots clinked all the way to C.I.D.

When she walked through, the room was the busiest she'd ever seen it. A dozen, or definitely more, young children were seated all round, on seats, on top of her desk, or on the floor. Some were pale and silent, some red in the face as WPO's attended to crying faces.

It wasn't even five in the morning.

'What's going on?' She asked, her eyes wide as she looked at the children, of both genders, the youngest no more than eight, surely. The oldest ones could be fourteen, fifteen. And they were all filthy. Not street kid dirty, but children who had shelter, but not treated well.

'Get in here, Alex.'

Alex. Not Bolly. Things had gone south in less than an hour. One young girl with red hair was sat outside Gene's office. She was clutching her knees, and Shaz was sat next to her, a cup of orange squash in her hands. Alex stepped in and closed the door.

'What-?'

'If you thought things were shit before, you'll be in for the shock of yer life.' Gene's suit jacket had been discarded. The black sleeves were folded up, his tie loose, and his dark sandy hair a tousled mess. 'The business with Ralph Jarvis went deeper than we thought.' The sentence was momentarily interrupted by Gene kicking his waste paper bin. The racket caused several young heads to whip around in fear, and Alex felt her heart ache.

'You mean to tell me he's been...all of them?'

'Yes. We had an anon tip us off about some old warehouse. Though we're getting contraband, or some drug shite ready for the pipeline. Not this.'

Gene downed the half glass of scotch on his desk, and stretched his face as the liquid burned. 'It doesn't stop Bolly. That bastard Jarvis got of light with a bullet. I would 'ave personally kicked his head in. Picking up little kids. Some of them won't say what for.'

'And the others? What do they say?'

Gene tilted his head up and his heavy stare met hers. 'From being used for burglaries, robberies, Jarvis had men making 'em do all sorts of things. That bastard had more people in his pocket than I though possible.'

There was a knock at the door, and Shaz poked her head though. She too was deathly pale. Alex could see the small red haired girl looking up to watch. The plastic cup of juice was still full at her feet. 'Guv. Social services are here.'

'Right Shaz, thanks.' No sexist remarks, or demands for coffee with a dab of whiskey. Shaz nodded lightly and shut the door. Gene rubbed his eyes until he saw stars and spots mingle. 'Come on Bolly, we've got talking to do.' Alex watched him pull his jacket on, and root inside his desk draw, before collecting a half eaten packet of biscuits.

'What, some of Jarvis's men?' She asked.

'No. Some of the kids. Older ones. Some point to the same lad, says he knows it all. Want to talk to him till he's taken outta our hands an' we don't see 'im again.'

'Wait Guv-' but Gene had already wrenched his office door open.

''Ere you are love.' He passed down the packet of Garibaldi's to the red haired girl, who took them cautiously.

'Guv!' Alex followed his out of C.I.D., past a rough looking boy who was making Chris look rather small. 'Guv!' Her perm bounced as she strode to keep up with his longer legs. 'You can't just go in there and fire questions. They're all traumatised. You might hurt-'

He stopped outside interview room 2. 'Listen Bolls, only people I want to 'urt are Jarvis and those scumbags who work for 'im. But as Jarvis is dead, I'mma make his men pay. And only way I'll know anything is if I ask this kid. Now you with me, or will I have to do it by myself?'

Alex pushed the door open for him. But she bit her lip as she imagined the mental state any of those children would be in after should a terrifying ordeal. How long had they been there? Days? Years? Where did they even sleep? Did they get enough to eat, had they been warm? Her instincts as a mother flared up at seeing their small faces.

Interview room 2 was the one known for the dud light. Maintenance had done nothing, so the room was only half lit. But Alex could easily see the hunched up figure, sitting at the table. A too big jacket had been placed over him and he had drawn the hood up. If his face were any closer to the table, it would be pressed down on the surface. Alex could make nothing up from his physical profile, other than he was terrified. Utterly scared of anyone or anything.

Gene sat down at the table slower than Alex had ever seen him do. He approached the hooded boy gently to a point were she was standing speechless. Alex had seen Gene Hunt near enough pounce over this very table at a smug criminal who happily admitted a foul murder. But he took care ad grace when confronted with this scared child. She knew he had a soft side, deep down. It just took the utterly terrible to bring it out.

'My names D.C.I. Hunt. This 'ere is my colleague D.I. Drake-'

'I know who you are. Coppers. Pigs. Police.' The voice spoke softly, clear grown to be quiet. As Alex sat opposite, she repressed the shudders of what her imagination told her this boy had been through. He still did not raise his head. He did not look them in the eye.

'Well, suppose you could 'ave guessed what were going on.' Gene said, quietly too. He didn't take his eyes away. Alex looked between the two before stepping in, with a light smile on her face. Don't be threatening.

'What's your name?' She asked. The boy was silent, and she briefly wondered about his hearing, or selective mutisum, until-

'Name's useless.' He mumbled. 'Just something to distract yourself with. No point in keeping one, is there?' It wasn't really a question, so neither of them did.

'You must have something.' Alex said softly. 'What did your parents call you?' She could think of no other way to approach the topic delicately. Gene glanced over at her.

'Don't use that name anymore.' The voice very nearly whispered. 'Don't have one at all.'

They stayed silent for a few minutes. The sound that can only be made by silent children crept passed the door. Alex estimated they didn't have long until this boy was handed over.

'See, we want to find whoever did this to you and your friends-' Gene was cut of my a small laugh, which he tried to ignore. '-so we need you to tell us what you can, lad.'

'The other children seem to think you know the most about everything.' Alex said. The hood tilted up slightly, but they couldn't even see his chin yet.

'Only 'cus I've been there the longest.' And with that, Alex felt her heart break. The boy's voice had wavered slightly, strongly ashamed of the fact.

'Well you must have a pretty good idea of how things are run, what happens to who. Who the other kids are.' Gene said, and the unnamed boy shrugged.

'I remember some of their old names, the ones they used before they either forgot or didn't want remindin' of.'

Gene's movements were so subtle Alex didn't register until the photograph was place on the table, and Gene was pushing it towards the hooded boy.

'Did you know this boy, at any point? Name's Daniel O'Malley. Been missin' since 1974.' Alex glimpsed the upside-down photo – strongly curious of Gene's motives – and saw the boy who could be the same age as the youngest outside. No more than eight. Maybe younger. Sandy hair and a smling face. The school portrait was well kept, yet regularly taken out and stared at. 'Be about fifteen now.' Gene finished.

The hooded boy didn't even look up. The name must have been enough.

'Might have done once. But not now. Act like he's dead, sir. Makes it easier.' The cryptic voice was halted by a knock on the door. Shaz re-appeared and relayed the message of a frustrated and angry social worker. Gene had her escort the boy from his seat out of the room. He wasn't too tall, but still hunched over. Alex still didn't see his face, but saw the threadbare green jumper and frayed pants.

Once the door clicked shut, Gene snatched the photo from the table, and looked ready to flip the furniture whilst at it.

'Guv-'

'Not now Bolls.' He grunted and made a move to leave, but Alex was faster. She blocked his door.

'We seriously risked that boy's mental state by shooting questions at him. Not to mention social services will want our heads mounted. Who's O'Malley?'

'A long shot, that's who O'Malley is. Was. I don't bloody know.' He sighed heavily, running both hands through his hair. Alex glimpsed the photo inside the breast pocket of his shirt. 'Kid went missin' when 'e were jus' seven. Parents reached out when I were transferred down 'ere, hoped I'd be better than the last D.C.I who turned nuffin up. Still haven't found the lad. I took a shot, alright?'

Alex stared at her superior as he managed to push past and leave her inside Interview room 2, with the dud lighting.

C.I.D was bare now. Ray could be heard making himself a brew from the kitchenette, and a phone rang through the wall. Gene Hunt slammed his office door shut and closed the blind.

Do not disturb the Manc Lion.

The jacket came off again, and he poured himself another scotch. It was five fifty-five in the morning. But he didn't care. Didn't care that his supply was now running low. Didn't care his bin had a dent the size of his boots. Didn't care that he could be steaming drunk for the rest of the day, to the point where he could fall down the front steps and pass out.

He downed the burning amber and grimaced. There were a few scuffs outside the door, followed by the clink of heels. But Bolly had sense – for once in her goddamn time here – not to disturb him. He was grateful for that. He took what little more he could from the decanter until it was empty. Swing back. Burning. Grimace. Goddamn.

Once certain he had heard Alex head towards her desk, and tat he wouldn't be disturbed, he removed the slightly worn school photo of Daniel O'Malley. It had never spent more than a day inside the case file since Todd and Marie O'Malley had walked in with their thick Irish accents, crying for their son. When Gene came down to London in 1980, Daniel had been missing for six years already, his predecessor hadn't found anything of the boy. He was just gone from the park without a trace, and with no witnesses.

When he arrived he'd been gone six years. He would have been thirteen, and who knows where.

Think he's dead – he refused to let the boy's words get into his head. It wouldn't be easier. The O'Malley's still met with him, every other Thursday, at half eleven, to see if anything had been done. It used to be every Thursday, not every other.

Gene was ready to lick the remains of the scotch from his glass when he put Daniel O'Malley's photo back in his pocket, and removed his wallet from his trouser one.

Behind the old receipts and license, he pulled the small folded image.

Black and white, unlike O'Malley's school photo. And instead of a school boy, it was an infant. He'd been barely a day old. The picture taken at the only time he'd slept between being born and being handed over. Gene stared at the image for as long as he could go without blinking. He'd trained himself to not blink for as long as he could. Just so he look at the details he had already memorised to heart.

By six fifteen, and having blinked and repeated the routine several times, Gene decided he needed to re-fill that decanter, and was better to throw himself into the case that had been presented to him with an anonymous phone call in the early morning.

The small image was safely re-tucked in the back of his wallet, and back in his pocket.

This had been my first attempt at writing Hunt and Drake in years, so reviews are most helpful. If anyone enjoyed it, please let me know, and hopefully it will be a long and enjoyable story guys!

:)