A/N: Damn wanted to get this posted before Monday's ep! Ok, I don't really know. Might be a bit disjointed, I always find myself pondering the clarity of my writing. Hope it's passable though! In less self deprecating news, I like the ending if you make it that far. ;) Please R&R, I much appreciate it! X
Cloudless.
Four figures stand side by side on an elaborate stoop in the heart of the Shropshire countryside. Three hours out of London, including the never ending trail through shaggy hedged muddy country lanes. This particular part of the trip had been taken under the baking midday heat of british July, and naturally at a speed that nudged, even, at the fruitless limit of sixty applied as a blanket over the area. That, actually, was the one element of the countryside that Gene had frequently verbalised his approval of. Alex had simply sat back, closed her eyes, and thought of Traffic Cops.
It was Ray who, as the others observed their surroundings in awe, reached forward and gave the oversized knocker a hefty, 'thunk thunk' upon the gothic wooden door. It opens a few seconds later, slowly, and with an authentic creak. A man of fairly average height and slim build finds himself face to face with the team, and he narrows his eyes accordingly towards Gene's chewed up expression and glowers impressionably at the cigarette he's stubbed out beneath his boots. Chris shrinks back slightly, puts his own out on the door frame and hides it in the closest plant pot with a goofy smile. Alex takes this as her cue, before the Manc Lion gets a chance to open his mouth and cause further conflict.
"Good afternoon, we're here to see Mr Bonner-Wright. Is he in?" She smiles broadly and takes a pointed step forward, maintaining enough distance so as not to intrude and discreetly passing her badge to the butler by means of explanation. Just as expected, he takes a flustered glance around the courtyard before swiftly ushering the four detectives into the entrance hall. He leaves them standing as he rushes away, offering a stumbling apology to Alex on the promise of a hasty return.
As they're left alone in the room, Gene puffs out his chest and begins to stroll territorially around the hall, fixing his gaze on Alex. "Of all the bloody, poncey, hm. We should've left this to uniform. Local, bloody, uniform at that. I've got better things to do with my time." She doesn't let him bait her. It'd been a long drive and they'd been over his reservations quite enough times for one morning. Alex knows better than to let herself get wound up, and she turns her nose to the sky, smiling conspiratorially at his comments and mirroring his move to strut around the vicinity. She leans over, forging an interest in an ornate portrait as her bottom moves directly into his line of vision.
"We're here now, Gene. Let's just, see what we find." Cool, calm and collected. She can almost hear his blood beginning to boil. Before he has a chance to utter some ludicrous counter point they're interrupted by the butler, clearing his throat and wordlessly ushering them through another menacingly large wooden door. Gene, as the last of the four to reluctantly comply, pauses briefly as he reaches the door frame in order to study the small man. He appears to think twice about making some derogatory comment and continues into the plush living room, quickly shifting Chris from his place upon one of the extravagant floral sofas but knowing better than to challenge Bolly for her central position in a large leather armchair. Once begrudgingly seated he folds his arms, eyes narrowed and lips forming a sulky pout. Alex can't quite suppress a smile.
After a few thoroughly contrived seconds of impatience, the man of the house makes his anticipated entrance. The silk monogrammed dressing gown says it all, and Alex predicts the judgemental snort that breaks the silence. She quickly ponders how long it will take Gene to lock antlers, before standing to make her introduction. "Mr Bonner-Wright?" A curt nod. "Good afternoon. Detective Inspector Drake, Alex. My colleague DCI Hunt. We're here to discuss David Watson." At this point the curt nod pales in comparison to Bonner-Wright's frosty glare in Gene's direction. Remaining unfazed by the mention of Watson, his ex partner and glorified nemesis, he zones in upon the DCI (who appears surprisingly nonchalant at the encounter) and gestures to his butler who immediately makes himself scarce.
-*-
A few minutes later, after the fanciful rigmarole of polite introduction and appropriate manner, the three are seated aptly around a small wooden table in a less extravagant room, surrounded by the two junior members of the team who manage to fill the rest of the space. Alex wastes no time in placing a postcard sized photograph on the table in front of them with a snap.
"Look sweetheart, what's this about?"
"Do you recognise the woman in this photograph, sir?" He slides the picture towards himself and picks it up casually, taking a few seconds to study the smiling face.
"Nah, sorry sweetheart. Looks like a nice bit of fluff though." Gene bangs his fist down upon the table with a jolt, letting his disapproval be known without yet having opened his mouth. Alex takes advantage of the rare bout of silence from her superior and reaches into her file again, placing a second photograph, a mugshot, on the table next to the first.
"What about here, Mr Bonner-Wright? Do you recognise her with two black eyes and a split lip?" He doesn't pick up the second photo, but sits further back in his seat, his expression souring accordingly.
"What the bloody hell is this?"
"Answer the question please, sir."
"Look darlin', I'm not answering anything until you tell me what this is about." Alex pauses before responding, anticipating Hunt's all guns blazing approach to kick start the interrogation. When he keeps quiet she shoots him a glance, feeling suddenly unnerved.
"On January 15th 1979 Jane Watson died as a result of a serious head injury. She was discovered by her husband, Dave Watson, on the floor of their shared bedsit unconscious and having suffered extensive blood loss. Six months later Mr Watson was sent down to serve a life sentence for his wife's murder. He had several previous convictions for violence and records show his wife reported an attack upon herself three days before her death. There was no evidence to back up her claims and no charges were brought at the time."
"Tragic story, love."
"Indeed. And you knew it already, Mr Wright. After all, Watson was your hit-man. He was your partner, back then."
"I knew the scrubber. We had a few business arrangements. Heard the story; This his girl then?"
"I think you're perfectly aware that the woman in these photographs is the late Mrs Watson. After all, you followed the case. And this picture?" She picks up the smiling snapshot, "It's from the Telegraph." He shrugs, shifting slightly in his chair and covering up the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach in an ever so well practised manner.
"Been a long time, darlin'."
"It has. So, do let me enlighten you as to your own movements over the course of the incident." He sits back now, folds his arms and lets her speak. The actions of a powerful man. Gene's surprised to find himself keeping to his vow of silence, studying the character in front of him and coming to some outrageously Bolly-esque conclusions. He can't help but glare threateningly in the man's direction, however, as Bonner-Wright's eyes seem to have slipped around eight inches south of where they should be. "Mr Wright, in the days leading up to Jane Watson's death you fell out with her husband and during his trial this fact was brought up. You didn't testify. After all, you'd traded London for Shropshire by this point and put your corrupt earnings into the very pile we find ourselves sitting in. The prosecution used your fallout to incriminate Watson. He was riled, drunk and even more out of control than normal when he returned home that fateful evening. The defence, however, had a different conclusion to draw. Why had you fallen out? Where were you the night of the murder? And what would possess a man to murder his wife when he'd spent the past few days fighting for her with you, only to have found out days before that she'd aborted your baby. A fact she mentioned when she visited the police station to make an accusation of abuse." Alex found herself ending the accusation in almost a whisper.
"Nice story, sweetheart. Shame these things need, what's it you mentioned a minute ago? Evidence?" He closes the distance between them in a moment by uncrossing his arms and leaning forward, his face inches from hers and his breath on her cheek. "You remind me of the prosecution, you know. That Price woman, very slick. No audience now though. Shame." The table is upturned and the room in disarray before Alex is even aware of her own anger. Bonner-Wright is a picture of smarmy serenity whilst Gene is more surprised than Alex at her sudden outburst. He grabs her arm roughly and drags her from the room, leaving chaos in their wake. Chris, and even Ray, make a conscious decision to keep their mouths shut and stay away from the impending stormy clash of personalities outside.
-*-
Gene finally loosens his grip on her arm once the pair have stumbled out of one of the entrances to the room into what turns out to be the garden. She pushes him away half heartedly, feeling suddenly dizzy in the bright light, her anger dissipating under its glare.
"What the bloody hell are you playing at?" He spits the words with force and she dips her head.
"He's scum."
"What was that about, Alex?" He raises his voice as she turns away and begins to walk, faced with an extensive garden. She ducks through a stone archway and takes a right, forcing him to stalk after her to continue the conversation. "We came here to nail this bastard on a murder charge, and dig a bloody body up from underneath the sodding rhododendrons. Why are you getting your flipping knickers in a twist over something he probably got away with three years ago. Bolls?" They're moving at a pace along a cherry tree walk that leads to an impressive statue of a lion and another passageway half obstructed by a weeping willow. As he finishes Alex turns sharply on her heel and he all of a sudden finds himself almost colliding with her.
"I know him; I know this. Years from now David Watson dies in prison. Suicide. A reaction to years of abuse from his fellow inmates and, ultimately, grief. He never gets over finding his wife dead on the floor, knowing the man he used to call a friend was responsible."
"Watson's a slimy git."
"He's a violent criminal but he's not a killer. He loved his wife."
"You know what, Bolls, why don't we concentrate on putting the scum behind bars and leave the technicalities to the smarmy posh poofs in the curly wigs." Alex wants to scream. She desperately hopes he doesn't notice that her eyes are over bright and she tries fruitlessly to suppress a tremble in her bottom lip. She turns away and continues in the direction of the lion, glad not to hear Gene in her shadow. He mirrors her action and heads back towards the house, muttering something that she doesn't catch.
-*-
As soon as she'd read the names on the case file four days ago in CID a shiver had run down Alex's spine. Some new information had come to light on a closed missing persons case, and there was now reasonable suspicion to justify the investigation of Robert Bonner-Wright for the murder of Melanie Smith, a young prostitute reported missing three years ago. In addition, new evidence strongly suggests the body had been buried in Wright's grounds at his Salopian pile. Admittedly, the additional information wouldn't come to light for another decade, long after Watson's death, but when the file landed on her desk relating to Wright's involvement Alex couldn't help but feel that familiar pang of destiny calling. Having thoroughly examined every inch of the case in 2008 retrospect, she'd always felt an angered attachment to the tragic story, it'd always stuck in her mind. Her mother's name, typed in black and white across the court file and convicting the innocent party had been a breath baiting catalyst to her anger. Ultimately she'd become so wrapped up in the closed case she'd thought of her daughter, and she'd dropped the study. Two weeks later, Arthur Layton had taken a busker hostage on the south bank.
Taking a deep breath, Alex turns around and begins to head back towards the house, her mind closed and focused on the imminent task. Melanie Smith, not Jane Watson. Only now does she take in her surroundings, and the full impact of the breathtaking landscape around her. She takes the long route back up to the house, following a trickling stream by a crunchy gravel path and a series of miniature wooden bridges back and forth over the water. The trail eventually opens up into a flat section of grass edged by a blooming sequence of flowerbeds and overlooked by a patio disguised as a giant chess set. Standing upon the chequered patio are the very four figures Alex was looking for. Gene and Bonner-Wright are at the centre of the game embroiled in an animated discussion that appears to be in relation to a piece of paper that Wright's gripping aggressively. The search warrant, she can only guess. Gene stands firm, a look of thunder on his face and his fist tightening by his side. She approaches the group with a bright look plastered falsely across her features, just in time to see Ray knock Chris's three foot queen from her perch with a hefty thwack from one of his castles.
"Be careful with that!" The incredulous owner turns his attention to the junior officers. Ray, seizing his opportunity to jump in on the action, doesn't miss a beat.
"We've got a warrant."
"Your warrant isn't valid. Your warrant was issued from the Met, and doesn't cover this property until it's backed up by a supporting document from this borough."
"Tosser."
"He's right." Alex announces her presence as she steps onto the patio, her low heels clicking loudly upon the marble surface. "I spoke to DSI Chalk from the West Mercia Constabulary yesterday. He was very accommodating and may even pop over here himself later on. For now, he's providing us with a team in uniform who are due in half an hour. They'll bring the correct documentation when they arrive." She smiles as she finishes, getting a dark pleasure in watching the bastard standing before her squirm. Gene remains stony faced, not letting his surprise at this information or annoyance at Drake's apparent chummy relationship with the local DSI show upon his face.
"Half an hour." He echoes fruitlessly. "Now, why don't you put the kettle on?"
-*-
Half an hour passed slowly. Incidentally, so did the following hour. The team Alex had mentioned arrived on schedule, leaving her just enough time to reorganise her thoughts and return her mind to the task in hand. Something like the idea of fate had left a jumping childlike excitement in the back of her throat, and she feels on edge as she watches the events play out.
It's her very own headstrong and all guns blazing certainty that leaves her, not for the first time in this era, confused and outsmarted once the drama is over. Bonner-Wright had disappeared in an appallingly expensive car as soon as the team in uniform had arrived and the clerical issues had been ironed out. He'd muttered something about, 'bloody coppers' and had probably gone in search of legal representation and an expensive loop hole to find in the investigation. The following hour had been spent watching the men demolish the oversized chess set and proceed to dig frantically in the presence of a forensic team who'd also been sent by the local police station. At one point even Gene had picked up a spade. Yet, one hour and a lot of very expensive damage later, the search had proven itself entirely pointless.
She had been sure. Throughout this entire investigation Alex had been utterly certain of the outcome. She'd been ruthless in getting here, with Gene for one and today with Bonner-Wright, because she knew that the ends would justify the means. She knew it. In April 1993 a body is discovered buried underneath the novelty chess set at Bonner-Wright's Shropshire property, Hughley Gardens. Melanie Smith. Case closed. The subsequent reinvestigation of Watson's wife's murder is five years too late for the prisoner, who kills himself in 1988. This had been a chance to change all that. Only, there's no body. In July 1982 there's no body buried in the bloody garden, only a group of tired and disgruntled police officers scarpering in the direction of their cars and their wives and an extremely angry murdering bastard storming towards her from the direction of the house with a look of fury so distinctive she feels a shiver run down her spine. Gene appears to have taken this outcome as an opportunity to return to his earlier sulk and has folded his arms and stepped back in line with the other two detectives.
"What the hell have you done? Know how much this cost?" Ray grins from ear to ear and Chris nervously begins to brush soil from his sleeves. Alex tries to keep calm but fails to control her temper and steps towards the man, so that they come to a standstill almost on top of one another. Adrenaline pumps through her veins and she gives him a fruitless shove.
"Where is she? Where's Melanie? What happens here, Wright? What, you dig her up and move her in a few years time? You're a sick bastard. I know this, I know she ends up here." He grabs her lapels and shakes her with such a force she gasps involuntarily.
"What the hell do you want here, you bloody tart!" He crushes his greasy mouth aggressively onto her unwilling lips before shoving her to the floor where she lands with a painful thud, a split second before Gene prevents the man's next move by landing an almighty blow to his nose. Ray and Chris are happy to follow suit and shove him towards a large pile of dirt, cuffing him as their boss turns his attention to Alex.
"Bloody hell Bolls, you alright?" She doesn't need much help back onto her feet as she jumps up shakily, a look of horror on her face as the realisation dawns in a flash and she can't take her eyes off the man who'd pushed her. She shakes Gene off and takes a step back from the group.
The body remains unidentified but is thought to be that of missing female, Melanie Smith. The date of death was only ever an estimate. A guess. A bloody assumption.
She looks from the man on the floor, cuffed but still glaring at her in a menacingly terrifying fashion, to the man standing in front of her. The man who just prevented events getting dangerously out of hand by his imaginary presence. The man who may have just stopped an irate and fearless DI ending up at the bottom of the six foot pit before them. A shiver runs down her spine.
Gene takes a step towards her, noticing the way her eyes are starting to glaze over and redden. She shakes him off with an angry shove and stalks away from the stunned group of detectives, running from what she can't comprehend.
Who are you, Hunt? Who are you?
-*-
After uncharacteristically sensibly leaving her to cool off for half an hour, Gene finds Alex sitting on the large lawn facing the expansive view with her legs stretched out in front of her and her weight resting languidly back upon her hands. Her eyes remain closed as he approaches her, head back sunning her feline features. Her white jacket is discarded behind her, revealing the sleeveless black silk shirt beneath. In sharp contrast his attention is drawn to her slender arms, pale and bare, stretched out behind her and almost shining in the bright light. He groans inwardly and pulls open his top button as he gets close enough to dump his weight down next to her. The summer heat can do the strangest things to a man, and Gene starts to think desperately of a cold shower.
"Isn't it just beautiful here?" She speaks in a husky half hearted drawl that he doesn't expect, and he reaches down to further loosen his tie. He takes the hint to avoid the subject matter hanging gloomily over their heads without question.
"Mmm; The trees, fields. Great." She turns to face him as he speaks, smiling, and unfazed by his fixed line of vision out towards the rolling landscape before them, avoiding her gaze. When she speaks again she's suppressing a good natured giggle.
"Why the 1980's, hmm? Wouldn't it be wonderful if, just for a while, we were back in Austen's countryside? I think, and god my mother would be appalled at the mere suggestion, but I think I could get used to sacrificing modern feminism for a bit of daily chivalry. For a knight in shining armour." The last sentence is breathy and quiet, Gene pretends not to hear her and she finds she's blushing. She checks herself and makes a conscious effort to stop, the heat having the strangest of effects and making her feel light headed. He may have verbally ignored her musing, but the garbled compliment doesn't go unnoticed and he starts to wonder if that's what she's been thinking about. Sitting here, staring into the distance and considering whether her unhealthy entanglement in this case followed by her series of outbursts wouldn't have happened if he hadn't taken a step back. Had she been considering the fact that she might just need him? "Gene?" Back to earth. "Hm, you've been atypically quiet today."
"You already know what I think Bolls. Waste of time, all this. Might as well sit here sizzling in the sun and watch you get your silky knickers in a twist over the bastard. No skin off my nose." His darkened words aren't held in sincerity thanks to his playful tone. The bumbled admittance of respect and trust badly disguised as a cynical rant is enough for Alex, and she smiles broadly as they make eye contact at last. Suddenly shy after a couple of silent seconds she looks away again and lets herself fall back onto the grass, her jacket becomes a soft pillow and she draws her bare arms forward, dragging them soothingly back and forth across the lawn. She's surprised, at this point, to find herself aware of his eyes upon her body. Her arse certainly isn't in view, and the high necked baggy black silk of her top definitely isn't doing her breasts any more justice than the mental images from outfits past can be. She rolls her head to the side, curious eyes searching his features for an explanation to this sudden sobered interest in her.
"Gene -"
-*-
Then he does it. As soon as she'd opened her eyes and looked at him he knew he'd be sure to leave it too late. Except, and this was definitely due to the suffocating heat, he just couldn't leave this particular moment to chance. She opens her mouth to say his name, and he reaches forward and kisses her with such manly prowess and superior domination that when he pulls away to hover inches above her form, his body heat close to hers, she's speechless.
Alex Drake is utterly speechless.