My name is Gene Hunt. DCI Gene Hunt, one of the Met's finest, and I seem to be in the middle of a nightmare. According to the posh mouthy tart, the one wished on me as my new DI, I am an "imaginary construct" who can't feel or think for himself. I am just a figment of her imagination. Well, I wish she was a figment of mine, half the time I don't know whether to kiss or kill the dozy bird. She's slapped me a few times, so I know I'm awake, and the air could be rent at any time by her dulcet tones, she has the shriek of an Intercity 125 coming off the rails.
So in what way could life possibly get worse? What grand plan did the good lord have for me, because I fear I have failed most of the tests set miserably so far...
But there was worse to come.
It turned up, one afternoon, 1981, winter, about tea time. Why do all these things show up at tea time.
It was sopping wet, and in a very, very bad mood.
Oh good lord, why me?
She was freezing cold, every stitch was soaked through due to her impromptu swim in the river and she was feeling very angry. She read the transcripts, seen the tapes and worked her own way around the story, taken it home as a bit of night time reading because she was bored. Now she recognised the hallmarks. Somehow, it had got under her skin. She knew where she was, and she didn't like it one little bit. Imaginary construct. Bollocks.
She picked her way past the dilapidated fence, walked up the garden path, and knocked. As her knuckles connected with the front door, she had a moment to wonder if he would be in. It was Sunday, he might have been at work.
He answered the door.
Gene Hunt was just settling down in front of the telly for final score and a bit of peace and quiet, when there was a loud knock at the door. Bolly? He thought he recognised the aggressive summons. He opened the door.
Big mistake.
He was face to face with a tall young woman who was soaking wet, not dressed in very much, and appeared to be very angry. Why she should be angry was something that he wondered about for a brief second before she spoke.
"PC Caroline Hunt, at your service," her sarcastic tone registered and his hackles began to rise. "I know you're going to think that I've lost my mind, so feel free to add your ten p's worth at any time."
She poked him in the chest with a long finger. "I'm your daughter, Cat. Only," she smiled conspiratorily, "that will have to be our little secret, because according to records, I haven't even been born yet." She winked at him and pushed past into the hall.
He stood there, open mouthed. First Sam, then Bolly, now this. He turned round. The problem was, he could see the truth in what she was saying, the eyes that were looking back at his, it was like looking in a mirror, her hair was the same colour as his, her heart shaped face, and pointed chin had clearly come from her mother, and the shape of her mouth.
Gene groaned, he might not be an educated genius like Sam or Bolly, but there were enough clues in front of him for even a blind dog to follow. He cast an exasperated eye upwards.
Dear Lord. If this is another test. Or if you are just trying to drive me stark bollocking mad, lord? Please let this nightmare pass from me. Because I'm looking my female mirror image in the eye, and I have the bloody awful feeling I know who her mother is. And right now, one insane, crazed, crack-brained fruit bat with the common sense of a grasshopper is quite enough. But if you really have been this cruel, lord. Please don't let this one sound quite like the other one... please.