This is totally fiction but you decide what rings true and where I'm truly taking the mick. No intention to offend. It's piss-take only.
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London, 2010—that time between Christmas and New Year
Rain slanted down from the London sky, on White City in particular. The chilly Christmas weather had turned from frosty and snowy to boring and miserable. A blanket of grey cloud had closed over London, the sun nowhere to be seen. Rainwater swished in the street at an annoying pitch as traffic moved. Snow melted and disappeared, the cheeryness of it gone. Large heaps of ploughed dirty snow piled high in carparks still remained. Familiar winter rain seemed more inconvenient than the snow, and certainly less Christmasy. Cheap umbrellas were turned inside out in sudden gusts of wind, annoying their bearers and getting them wetter than just the rain alone. Broken umbrellas were blown into hedges. Wet leaves floated down street gutters and clogged storm drains. Plastic water bottles floated like boats in puddles.
Philip sat waiting in the main reception of BBC's offices in White City. He chose a seat opposite the large Christmas tree. The tree had lights and red bobble ornaments. At some point one of them had dropped off and rolled up against the wall, ignored. Philip made himself comfortable on the sofa and pulled his black jumper further down his waist. He tugged nervously at his open colour before flipping through The Telegraph. He wondered why he had been summoned there, let alone be left waiting.
Fresh visitors, just arrived, either flapped their umbrellas and marched to the reception desk dribbling water from the points of their umbrellas or had freshly emerged out of taxis and were dry and umbrella free. Philip had arrived in a taxi. He found himself wondering abstractly whether he just ring for another ride and slip out of the offices before anyone had a chance to properly noticed his whereabouts.
Sitting and waiting as he has now was probably no different to his first acting gig in the late 1980s. The only difference sitting there now was the sofa was purple polyester instead of brown leather and framed posters of Sherlock Holmes decorated the walls instead of dated artwork of Morcambe & Wise. Two receptionists tapped discreetly at their computers behind a tall curved desk, designed for leaning on and signing the register and little else.
Phil still wondering why he was waiting. He knew he was on time.
James from Top Gear walked in and disappeared into the open mouth of an elevator speaking to and laughing with Fiona, one of the BBC's top anchorwomen. Some flirting was going on. The receptionists had a giggle and then remembered that a guest was sitting on their sofa and returned back to being poised and professional.
::
Up three floors and in a corner office Gene Hunt poured himself a whiskey and got up from his desk. The rain pelting against the window reminded him of the day his world fell apart. The day he said good bye to Alex Drake.
Gene stood hand in pocket, malt in hand peering down from on high from his large office window, thinking about the rain, savouring his malt, thinking about Alex. He would not lose her. Not now.
In the short time Gene had installed himself in his executive BBC office he liked to keep tabs on the roundabout the BBC offices looked down upon. There was the off-chance that Jeremy Clarkson was to be found entering the BBC via that very roundabout. Gene loathed to see the man, especially since he noticed he was in possession of an Aston Martin. Gene Hunt had flicked the bird at Jeremy no fewer than four times. By now Jeremy had probably taken to avoiding his line of sight from falling on the BBC executives offices where Gene Hunt was seen prowling recently. Gene fancied an Aston Martin for himself. Since his red Audi had been shot up by the Dutch mafia he had grown bored of his new Mercedes he was in need of a decent motor.
Gene knew it was time to start his investigation. He was in the right place. He was in the right time. He press a button on his desk phone. Things were beginning to fall into place and that very day would be a major turning point into finding Alex Drake in 2010 before the calendar ticked over into a new decade.
::
An internal call came into reception and one of the ladies answered. "Yes, Gene. Straight way." Before hanging up the receiver she giggled down the line.
The receptionist made her way to the waiting room sofa. The actor looked up expectantly.
"Right, Mister Hunt will see you now. Mister Tolbit is away today and Gene Hunt is taking his place."
Disturbed, Philip quickly closed the newspaper he was reading with a caffuffle. "Eh? I mean sorry—who the hell? Is this a wind up?"
He rose to his feet, tossing the paper onto a low designer table.
"Mister Gene Hunt. Surely you've meet him on countless occasions...on set...?" The receptionist gave the visitor a curious look.
"Uh...yeah...okay...fine." He wondered whether the joke had something to do with Children in Need.
Satisfied that the visiting actor was perhaps preoccupied with other thoughts, the receptionist turned on her heel. "If you follow me please."
"Right."
She lead him to a small bank of elevators. "If you take the elevator up to the third floor, Mister Hunt's office is all the way down the corridor and on the right. You can't miss it."
"Right. Thank you."
The BBC offices in White City, west London were an eccentric maze of narrow hallways, split levels and departments flooding into one another. As soon as Philip arrived at the correct floor he exited the elevator. It was obvious which direction he was meant to go, there was only one corridor and one direction. He noticed a typical directional sign fastened to the wall directly opposite. The plaques read:
'Country File/Gardener's World/Flog It'
'Top Gear Room 1'
'Top Gear Room 2'
'Top Gear Room 3'
'Top Gear Room 4'
'David Attenborough Room 1'
'David Attenborough Room 2'
'David Attenborough Room 3'
'Christmas Specials'
and finally...
'DCI Gene Hunt'
"Wot the bloody hell?" Philip groaned in surprise at the last room reference on the list and its appearance.
The last plaque in the list looked as though it had been slipped out of its holder, flipped upside down and the words 'DCI Gene Hunt' written neatly in ballpoint pen across the blank surface.
As Philip walked down the corridor there were countless doorways leading to open plan offices, which lead to other departments. Each doorway he passed was loaded with a cacophony of sounds of ringing telephones or people chatting in groups or tapping on keyboards. Water coolers gurgled. Mobiles beeped for texts. A young woman poured ten cups of tea for colleagues in a tiny kitchenette in the corridor. In one of the Top Gear rooms someone played with a whirring remote control car and bashed it against desk legs and filing cabinets repeatedly.
Philip heard the toy be driven into more furniture as he made his way further down the hallway and past natural history posters of the Attenborough departments. Skulls and fossils were scattered on cabinet tops. A secretary tied her dreadlocks back with a band of South African waxprint. People looked tanned and drank Fairtrade coffee out of Fairtrade coffee mugs, as did the whole of the BBC. Someone was attempting to score a cricket point with a broken kayak paddle. They missed.
The whole place smelled of carpet tile glue.
Philip finally reached the end of the long corridor and stood in front of the door he was looking for. The same improvised treatment of relabelling the door plaque did not escape his attention.
"Christ almighty." He muttered to himself in disbelief.
It was proving to be a strange morning. The actor found himself glancing down the corridor he had just travelled. It looked normal enough.
He had no choice. He knocked.
A highly familiar voice boomed from inside.
"Stop dithering! I can here you cursing from in 'ere!"
The actor entered the room with uncertainty and shut the door behind him. He found himself standing in a large sophisticated office. The decor was sleek and cutting edge but otherwise barren and without character. It looked as though the office had only been recently occupied. The only sign of life, other than the obvious bulk of a tall blonde man in a suit, was a nondescript office plant in a pot on the corner of the large executive desk.
"Ah...good morning...I'm—" The visitor held out his hand out but tucked it away after realising the man sat in front of him truly was the vision of Gene Hunt.
The man sat behind the enormous executive desk was framed by an enormous floor to ceiling window. He did not look up from his paperwork. His hair was longer and feathered back over his collar and ear. He wore a grey suit and purple tie with a diagonal grey stripe like many Philip had worn from the Ashes to Ashes costume department.
Gene Hunt was larger than life and sitting there, clear as day.
"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute."
The actor took a seat in the only available chair and looked around, in total shock. Was he dreaming?
Finally, Gene pushed the paperwork forward, placed his elbows on the desk and pressed the pads of his thumbs together and addressed his visitor.
"Right. So, you're him are you?"
"Yeah. My name is—" He admitted surreally.
"I know exactly who you are! You're probably wondering why you've been dragged into the Beeb on such a fine, crime-filled but otherwise normal London day."
"Well, yes...it's a little odd...it's Christmas and usually...okay this is fucking—surreal."
"Usually wot?"
"I...ah...don't come here much. You know, you look just like—"
"—Why not? We pay you."
"I know that but...uh..."
Gene Hunt even sounded like Gene Hunt, had the mannerisms of Gene Hunt and certainly possessed the gruff exterior of Gene Hunt.
"Anyway, who gives a shit. You're here and were going to have a little chat about a couple of things." Gene directed his attention to the open file in front of him. He picked up some of the pages as if to review its contents. "It says here you're an actor."
"Yes, that's right."
"Successful?"
"I do alright...had my own show..."
"Bollocks! It was my life!" Gene barked.
"Uh? S-s-s-sorry?"
"Ashes to Ashes and that other one—Life on Mars—that was ME you div!"
Philip raised his hands, showing his palms in surrender. "Right! This has gone far enough. What the bloody hell is going on—you can't be Gene Hunt. Gene Hunt is a bloody character...in...in...a...uh...um...erm..."
Gene stood up and rounded the front of the desk. He slid the paperwork out of the way so he could sink his weight onto the desk. It creaked. He folded his arms and silently studied his visitor. He certainly looked real. There was the distinct smell of Paco Roban in the air. Gene Hunt had presence, he cast a shadow.
"If you prefer that I duff you up, I'll duff you up. That would be real enough. Wouldn't it?"
Philip swallowed and wondered if he had said the right thing but he had no time to backpedal. "No need to get physical...or anything...okay...you seem real enough..."
Gene did not seem bothered what state of mind his visitor was in. He was on a mission.
"Where can I find Alex Drake?" He laid out plainly.
"Eh? She's not even—"
Gene eyed the man with displeasure. "—Wot? Real? Of course Alex Drake is bloody real. I don't care what a mambie pambie actor thinks."
Philip rubbed the palms on his hands on his thighs. "Right. Okay. Sure."
Gene pulled a cigarillo, lit up and blew smoke towards the ceiling. "So where is she? Where can I find her?"
"I should tell you, it's illegal to smoke in here." He no sooner said it when he wondered why he dared to utter a word.
Gene lowered his chin and brushed the side of his lip with his thumbnail, then pursed the cigar in his lips, relishing a second drag. "I hauled you in here to ask you a question, not to have you waste my time. Where is Alex Drake?"
Philip started laughing at the bloody absurdity of the question and at his situation.
"I dunno what you want me to say...I don't know an Alex Drake. If it's Keeley you want, I can call her and but she'll just laugh down the telephone at this. I mean, it's bloody absurd." He dared to chuckle, gripping the back of his own neck hard.
"Keeley? Who's Keeley?"
Philip grimaced at the question. "Keeley is the actress that played Alex Drake."
Gene sobered instantly. "Shit. So there is a connection..."
He rubbed his jaw in thought and continued to smoke. In time he rose from his sitting position and sat back down in his executive chair.
The next thing Philip heard was the heavy thud of a snakeskin cowboy boot, followed by a second onto the corner of the desk. The chair tilted back at a perfect angle. Gene also picked up the file he was looking at earlier and silently leafed through the papers again. His cigarillo continued to smoulder between his lips. Gene Hunt paused at one particular page, a casting photo from a leading London talent agency. Keeley's full name in a simple script was typed across the top of her portrait. Gene held up the photo.
"That her?"
"Yeah. That's Keeley."
Gene turned the image back towards him. He smoked the last drags silently and studied it, his expression softer. "She looks different." He blew out through his nose and realised he did not have an ashtray.
Philip watched the man dig the burning cigar remnant into the soil of the plant.
"It's a casting photo. Of course, Alex Drake had to have an 80's look. So they changed Keeley's look." Philip attempted to be helpful but then his confidence petered out.
"I see." A glimmer of something was evident in Gene's eye. He lifted up the photo for a moment, irritated again. He pointed to a logo and address on the bottom corner of the image. "Tried to call these people they told me to bugger off. Almost went down there to tear out the innards of the prat I spoke to but I don't have a bleeding motor!"
"It's an agent's job to protect anonymity."
"Ano—wot?" Gene barked.
"Nevermind—the point is that an agent isn't going to release private details about people they represent over the phone, or to anyone other than...well...people who are in the position to hire an actor...erm..."
Taking a call from Gene Hunt must have a scorching experience. As was attempting to educate a figment about the entertainment industry.
Gene pulled out a ballpoint pen. "So what's this bird's number then? Got an address for her?"
"Who's? Keeley's?"
"Who the bloody else have we been talking about? Unless of course you're holding out on me about Alex." Gene spat and narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the man on the other side of the desk.
"Alright hold on...I'll look up the number for you...but if anyone asks...you didn't get her phone number from me—okay? I might have her home address...too..." Philip dug his mobile out of the front pocket of his jeans and began poking his thumb over the keypad.
"I suspect this Keeley bird is smart enough to realise I could find stuff out from someone like you so I wouldn't die in a ditch about it." Gene patronised, looked out the window for a moment of thought before looking on with a curious expression and continuing his enquiries.
"Is she a posh bird, this Keeley?" Gene asked, curious.
"Not especially. She's well educated, I guess...yeah." Phil did not look up as he rifled through various numbers. He was finding it hard to concentrate, something occurred to him. "So how did you find me...then?"
Gene tapped his thumb pads together, considering how to answer the question without being too accommodating.
"Quite easily. This the BBC, there's all kinds of filing cabinets without locks on them. This place is wide open. You can walk in and find out anything about anybody. Just takes balls. I could have kept looking around for details about Drake but then some poof security guard started to get suspicious and then I found this place." Gene looked around with approval at his enormous office he had been squatting in for the past day. The proper occupant was away for the Christmas holidays.
Gene continued to watch his visitor fiddle around with the machine in his hand. He appeared to be taking his time.
"I assume that is what modern folk call a mobile. Bloody ridiculous things if you ask me. People calling you night and day. On the street, in the pub. On the loo. What's the bloody point?"
"It's considered convenient these days...Right—here's the number. Went to a party once at her place so have her home address too if you want it."
"I want everything you got."
Philip divulged the facts and Gene carefully took down the details in his file. He pondered the look of the number he just jotted down.
"Is that a London number? It looks foreign..."
"It's a mobile number. They're...erm...different. What...ah...are you going to ask her? When you ring? What do you want from her?"
"I want to find Alex Drake. I'm hoping this Keeley bird might know where she is. Why? Do you have some sort of thing going with her?"
"No, I'm married. I've got a family. And so does she. She's married. Erm..."
"So that's why you didn't get your end away then...I thought you were gay."
"Eh?"
"You didn't snog the knickers off that Keeley bird in that show you did. You should of."
"Should I have?"
"I would have, no doubt about it. I mean, Jesus, the legs on the woman are enough to drive a man round the bend. And then the rest...a bit mouthy but that posh accent of hers...does it for me."
"I suppose so...yeah." Philip admitted cautiously.
The actor found himself warming to the bristly DCI.
Gene Hunt suddenly changed the subject.
"Erm, that Top Gear bloke. The one that looks like a blobby lightweight—Clarkson I think his name is...know him?"
"Not really. Not personally."
"Shit."
"Why?"
"Just putting two and two together about something." Gene answered vaguely. "Anyway, I have an important phone call to make so you can bugger off and do some Shakespeare or panto or whatever you acting blokes do."
Philip stood up and watched Gene Hunt review the notes he had just taken. He turned off his mobile and slipped it into a front pocket and pulled his jumper down over his belt.
"So I...uh...guess that's it then?"
"Yeah, unless you want to lend me your car..."
"I came in a taxi, sorry."
"Right then! Desperate times call for desperate measures." Gene was already standing in front of the huge window once again, this time eyeing the contents of the BBC car park. An Aston Martin clearly in his sights, a smirk on his face.
The actor took a few backward steps and then paused. He hovered behind the visitors chair he had just been sat in. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the distinctive black wool coat hanging on the coatrack, the whisky bottle, the empty used glass tumbler. The cigarette butt jammed into the plant pot.
He was Gene Hunt alright. No doubt about it.
"Uh Gene?"
Without turning Gene replied. "Hmmmm?" From his vantage point he was able to discover more about the way the security worked in the car park. Cars seemed to be able to freely come and go simply by having a word with the security guard in the copula. No ID seemed to be required.
"I hope you find what you're looking for...you know, Alex."
Gene Hunt glanced back for a cursory look. "I intend to."
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