"I can't sodding play tennis, though!" Sandra exclaimed in incredulous fury as she read the letter informing her that she was on the station's mixed doubles team for the upcoming inter-division tournament. Bloody hell, DS White or whatever his name was had some nerve. Tennis?! He had to be having a laugh. The last time Sandra Pullman had played tennis had been at an ill-fated, alcohol fuelled game at university following Wimbledon in 1979, in which she'd sprained her ankle and her friends had broken various bones, amongst other injuries, and a spectator had been given a black eye by a stray tennis ball. No, Sandra could absolutely not play tennis.

"Tennis?" Gerry asked from his position on the red sofa in the office. He'd raised one eyebrow in a cross between confusion and amusement, as he looked through the glass window into his Guv's office. Blimey, what he wouldn't do to see her in a tennis skirt, mind. Along with half of the Met, of course.

Sandra stormed through into the main office, clutching the letter with her right hand and making small imprints upon it with her perfectly manicured nails. The last time the team had seen her quite that angry was when Strickland had told her she had to present an award to an ex-boyfriend at a function - when she'd returned to the office that day, she'd thrown half a case file at the coffee machine ("Bloody American shit!") and decided to shred the majority of her paperwork.

"DS White," she began, trying to be calmer and quieter than she succeeded in being, "Has signed me up for the mixed doubles tennis match in the inter-division tournament."

Gerry looked at Steve, who proceeded to bury his head in a case file to stop himself snorting with laughter, although his shaking shoulders rather gave his amusement away. Gerry, unfortunately for him, had no such way of disguising his glee at the announcement, and burst out laughing at the prospect of Sandra having to play tennis.

"Who are you playing with?" Brian asked, seemingly not understanding the amusement of his colleagues, both of whom seemed close to having some kind of heart failure. He imagined Sandra would be quite a good tennis player - she had the height and strength for such a game, and if all else failed, she could probably knock the opposition out, or kill them with a steely glare she often directed at Gerry.

Sandra scanned the piece of paper with her ice blue eyes, looking for a name, and finally came across one... not the one she wanted to see. Why couldn't it have been DCI Lowe, the really fit one? DS Arden, the one with the incredibly gorgeous body? Hell, she'd even have played with Gerry, just for the amusement of it.

"Strickland."

Gerry, at this precise point, had calmed down and was just taking a sip of tea, when he was met with the news that Sandra was going to have to play doubles tennis with Strickland. He spluttered the tea, the hot drink going all over the place as he threw his head back and practically howled with laughter - Strickland! Steve didn't seem to be able to hide his amusement, either, and joined Gerry in laughing at their Guv, who was still looking absolutely mutinous. Even Brian had seen the funny side of the whole thing, and was now joining his colleagues in hysterical laughter.

Sandra marched back into her office, slamming the door behind her. Tennis. With Strickland. How much worse could things possibly get?

Sitting down, she decided to check her emails - a good murder would cheer her up, doubtless. She contemplated asking Gerry for a packet of cigarettes, on the basis that they might kill her before things actually got worse, if that was at all possible. Which, it turned out, it was.

Her newest email had been flagged as high priority from Strickland - she hoped that this would mean a big case to crack, or at worse, an invitation for her and the UCOS team to go out to dinner to celebrate some minor achievement or other. But oh, no.

"Subject: Tennis Practice."

Well, that filled her with confidence. Sport? High priority?

"Message: DS White emailed me earlier to inform me that you are my partner for the doubles tournament. Practice for all participants starts Tuesday in the Sports Hall at the station, 6pm sharp. Bring sportswear - I have racquets.
Rob."

Tuesday. Today was Tuesday. Shit.

Sportswear - Jesus, did she actually own anything suitable for playing tennis in? She decided that her gym kit would have to do - fluorescent trainers were probably frowned upon, but frankly, she couldn't care much less if she tried. That sports hall was absolutely freezing, though - she'd have to wear some kind of sports jacket... which she didn't own. She concluded that a hoodie she usually wore on a Saturday when she was busy doing nothing but watching telly would suffice.

Whatever happened, she decided, she was absolutely not telling Gerry, Steve and Brian when practice was. The three of them would turn up just to laugh at her as she tried (and inevitably failed) to play tennis, and probably give themselves heart attacks in the process - she could still hear them laughing at her misfortune through the office wall now. No, tennis practice was going to be a strictly secretive affair.

She'd told the team that she had a meeting at five, but had in fact snuck off home to find her sportswear, which turned out to be hidden at the very back of her wardrobe, underneath the three bottles of whisky she'd confiscated from Gerry last month.

She looked like a right idiot, she decided - black cropped sports tights (was that even what they were called? All she knew was that she'd chosen them purely because they made her legs look quite nice), grey and bright orange trainers, an old, oversized t-shirt, and a black hoodie which smelt strongly of white wine, badly disguised with half a bottle of perfume.

Nonetheless, she arrived at the sports hall unnoticed, sneaking in with her large handbag slung over her shoulder in an . She couldn't see Strickland, but by one of the nets, a pair of teenagers were waiting, looking typically bored. The girl was tall and slim, black hair tied up in a ponytail which showed off her long neck and sharp jawline, and the boy stood next to her was tall too, but brown-haired. He nodded over to Sandra, and the teenage girl turned and walked over to the Superintendent, suddenly not looking quite as intimidating.

"Are you Sandra?" She asked. Her accent was strong, like Gerry's, and she had chewing gum in her mouth, the smell of spearmint surrounding her. She wore pretty much the same outfit as Sandra, but willowy as she was, she could carry it off with great ease - girls like that could wear bin bags and still look like runway models. Sandra nodded, making some kind of noise in an attempt to signify that she wasn't mute.

"I'm Leanne. I'm Rob's son's girlfriend... I play tennis, so because Mr Competitive wants to win, he's roped me and Rufe in."

Ah, Rufus. Mini-Strickland. Sandra had often wondered what he'd look like - Strickland had a photo of his son and daughter in his office, but it had been taken years ago; the colours faded slightly through the glass. She caught a glimpse of her boss' son behind Leanne - he looked like his father, that was for sure, albeit taller than him, and with considerably more style. Being the son of Robert Strickland, he was obviously privately educated, presumably with the accent and mannerisms to prove it, and he began to make his way over to his girlfriend and Sandra.

Leanne turned her head for a moment, her long, satin like black hair swishing behind her. She was a pretty girl - not that her looks would matter to her boyfriends father. Sandra imagined that Robert Strickland wouldn't be pleased with his son's choice of girlfriend unless she was a minor royal, or at the very least, educated at the cost of most people's houses. Sandra didn't imagine Leanne fell into either of those categories.

"Hi. My... er, my dad's told me a lot about you." Well, if that sentence hadn't been prepared at Eton, Sandra would have eaten her own trainers.

"Likewise." Sandra responded with a forced smile, wondering to herself exactly how she'd managed to end up doing this. There were footsteps behind her from the entrance to the sports hall, and she turned, to see Strickland in his... well, sportswear.

Shorts.

DAC Strickland was wearing shorts.

Oh, Jesus.