Disclaimer: Someone amongst Kudos, the BBC and Monastic own this lot. Hey, if I owned 'em, we'd have series two by now.
A/N: Ever think about what songs from 1982 might surface in series two? Well so did I. This is extremely silly, so do us both a favour and leave your brain at the door before reading...
Once again, muchas gracias to the People's Beta. She had to read it twice, poor devil.
Centrefold
"So let's go through this one more time and bring DCI Hunt up to speed."
Gene Hunt perched himself on the corner of a desk and allowed the faintest of smiles to twitch at his mouth as the inevitable groans came from the other members of Fenchurch East CID. He'd been away for a week suffering a compulsory course in multi-cultural relations, whatever they were, and it was sweet relief to be back where he belonged, catching up on current cases. Even Bolly sounded like she was speaking plain English in comparison with some of the bullshit he'd heard bandied about in the last few days.
"The latest victim." Alex Drake tapped the white board, its surface covered in her distinctive scrawl, and stopped abruptly. "Chris? Where are the photographs?"
"Er, couldn't find any Blu-Tack, ma'am. I asked Viv but he said the per-, the pill-, er, people keep nicking stuff. Said I'd to have a chitty signed by the Commissioner to get some more this side of Christmas." Chris looked anxious.
"He was joking, you div," muttered Ray, rolling his eyes.
"I used chewing gum to put that one up." Chris nodded to the single surveillance photograph stuck on the board.
"Right. Okay. Very... enterprising, Chris." Alex regarded it with faint disgust for a moment, then pulled herself together. "So, Charlie Milligan. Twenty-three, attacked with a knife, serious cuts to face, arms and torso. What's the connection?"
Alex looked round the room, pushing her wayward fringe back from her face. They all knew the answer, but she wanted to make sure. A wall of indifference met her gaze; just one hesitant hand raised.
"Chris?" She sighed.
"They're all models, boss. Er, ma'am."
"Well done, Chris."
"Yeah, but the attacks aren't the same, are they? The first one, wotsit," Ray waved a hand vaguely at the white board.
"Kim Reeves," Alex supplied, with a hint of steel in her voice. "Try and make an effort to remember the victims of crime are human beings with names, Sergeant."
Ray muttered something derogatory under his breath which Gene couldn't quite catch; Alex, however, did hear it and gave him a withering glare. Ray scowled, but continued to make his objections.
"Well Kim Reeves wasn't knifed, right? That was someone putting the boot in. Different MO, guv."
He turned to Gene for support. To his complete disgust, it wasn't forthcoming.
"The attacks are evolving. Becoming more violent," Alex explained. "And planned. It's only a matter of time before he kills." Gene nodded slowly in agreement. "We have to stop him now."
"Still think we're on a wild goose chase," muttered Ray.
"We've ruled out the locations and times of the attacks as a connecting factor. They're too random," continued, Alex, ignoring him. "How does the attacker choose his victims? They're all models, but only two of them were on their way home from a photo shoot. Pat Connor," - another tap on the board - "was returning home from visiting a sick friend, for God's sake. Four in a row is too many for it to be coincidence. How does the perpetrator know they're all models?" Alex looked round, expectantly.
"He knows them," said Ray, rolling his eyes.
"He works with them," said Jim, in the bored tones of someone repeating something by rote.
"They've all had photographs for their portfolios taken by the same photographer," piped up Shaz.
"Exactly," Alex said, pointing her marker pen at her and then turning to land it on the surveillance photograph stuck in the centre of the white board. "Steven Finch. And he's our suspect."
"So what's your dazzling idea, Bolls?" Gene allowed a little sarcasm to enter into his inquiry; he was starting to wonder what he was there for. She had it all under control and he was feeling like a fifth wheel.
"We tether a kid in the clearing and catch the tiger red-handed," she said.
"Eh?"
"We put someone in undercover, get some photographs taken, wait to see if he takes the bait..."
"Someone pretends to be a model, Bolls?" Gene asked, carefully.
Sniggers started up around CID.
"Yes."
"Am I missing something here?" Gene frowned. "What's so bloody funny?"
"Finch specialises in a certain type of photograph," Alex sighed. "Some members of this team apparently find that particularly amusing."
"They're all starkers, guv," Ray smirked.
"They are all... nude pictures?"
"That's correct, yes." Alex smiled sweetly.
"Bloody hell."
Gene turned the idea over in his head with increasing fascination.
"So you're proposing that yo-, er, a police officer from this department," Gene continued. "Should pose as a model and strip off for a potentially homicidal photographer?"
"Yes."
"It's going to be difficult to hide the wire," sniggered Chris.
"Is it me, Bolls, or d'you have some sort of... well, you'd know what to call it, being a psychiatrist. I remember we brought in a bloke for indecent exposure once and his brief called it an exhibitionist streak."
"Streak was right, guv. Right into the away goal at Maine Road weren't it?" Ray laughed.
"Yes, thank you, Ray. Well, Bolls?"
"I really don't know what you mean, Gene."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Gene, there is one other similarity between the victims that seems to have escaped you."
The sniggers died away and Chris raised his hand.
"They're male models, ma'am."
"Well done, Chris. Now, do I have a volunteer?"
Really it was too bad for Chris that he forgot to lower his hand again in time.
The End.