Fenchurch East CID, 3rd August 2010

"For the last time, Hartley, No!"

"But I know it's him, Guv, I know it!"

"Knowing isn't good enough Detective Sergeant" retorted DCI Clement. Dan noticed the pointed emphasis upon his rank, although it did nothing to cool his temper, on the contrary, Dan felt the familiar rush of adrenalin that preceded a good punch up.

"It's him. I know it's him. Guv, you've got to see, it's got Malone's fingerprints all over it!"

Clement ran a weary hand down his face and turned back to the man now breathing heavily, fists upon his desk and staring at his superior with furious intensity.

"Well I tell you what Hartley, you find me those prints, you find me the tiniest shred of evidence and I'll be behind you all the way. Until then, I don't want to hear any more about it. You understand me?"

"Well how the hell am I supposed to find evidence if I can't have a bloody warrant?" Dan cursed, his voice rising dangerously.

"You need to control your temper, Detective," said Clement, coolly. "Won't look good on your appraisal that, will it?"

"Fuck my appraisal!" Dan shouted, turning on his heel and leaving Clement's office angrily, letting the door slam behind him.

Dan sat moodily at his desk, fingering his stapler and pouting. The sound of keyboards clicking as the room typed, seemingly in unison, filled his head, polluting him, the noise boring into his mind like an ever present drill into his brain.

He looked frustrating over at Emily Robins, a round-faced, middle aged colleague, her eyes focused upon the screen before her, typing expertly, each finger keeping to its specified domain on the keyboard, oblivious to the rhythmic tapping that was bothering Dan so much. She caught his eye and looked over, wondering why he was staring at her. He averted his eyes and continued push the stapler around the wooden surface.

"What's going on in there Dan?" she asked, leaning across her desk and smiling pleasantly.

"I'm sick of it," Dan muttered, still not looking up.

"What, love?"

"Pussy footing around…paperwork...we're the bloody Met! We should scare the shit out of 'em all. The scumbags. The murderers. We should be out on the streets rounding 'em up, not pissing about here with bloody laptops and chemicals."

"Well…" Emily looked away, steeling herself for the inevitable onslaught. "Speaking as your friend Dan…I can sort of see the Guv's problem with it…you can -not often though!- be a little… a little cavalier."

Dan looked at her inquisitively. She lowered her eyes in fear of his retort; he was known for his blunt approach to life and the ability to overreact at the slightest thing. After several moments, he spoke quietly, voice wavering dangerously.

"Cavalier?"

He stood up suddenly, Emily's eyes still upon him, full of concern, as he turned to leave wordlessly.

"Where are you going, Dan?"

"Malone." He murmured, not turning around, adding, before she could interrupt. "Just to talk to him. I can do that can't I?" He said, with more venom than he had intended. Emily didn't answer. Dan crossed to the door, negotiating his way round the many desks of CID. Emily shook her head and resumed the clicking of the keys.

Dan walked down Station Road three hours later, the very picture of a man on a mission. He checked his phone. 19:45. He rounded the corner, focusing his eyes upon Malone's house, walking with purpose, anger bubbling within him. It was Malone. It had to be Malone, and he was stuck asking him questions. Going round to his house, acting all 'Good Cop, Good Cop,' meeting on Malone's terms. He should be dragging him down to the station by his knackers. Eva Robinson stab herself, did she? Throw herself into the river after carving 'whore' into her own forehead, did she?

Malone did it. Dan had never been more sure of anything as long as he lived.

Dan stood in Malone's living room, having refused his snide offer to sit down.

"Eva was a friend of yours, wasn't she Arthur?"

Malone looked up, heavy lidded eyes raking the object of their scrutiny.

"Friendly enough to knife her and chuck her in the river, anyway."

"That's dangerous talk DS Hartley, don't you think? Not sure your boss'd like that, would he?" Malone smirked. "Cup of tea, detective?"

"Don't push me Malone!"

"Or what? You gonna beat me up? What's one head-strong copper gonna do? You've got nothing on me and you bloody well know it!"

A beat passed in which Malone and Dan stared at each other from opposite corners of the room, the latter seething with anger, the former calm and supercilious.

"Thank you Mr Malone. I think I've got everything I need. No need to show me out." Dan crossed the room in two strides, but Malone stood in his way, the smallest hint of a grin playing about his lips.

"Oh no Mr Hartley, allow me, I'm nothing if not well mannered."

Dan stepped back and grudgingly allowed Malone to open the door for him and usher him out into the hallway.

"Forgive me, Detective," drawled Malone as he opened the front door of the flats for Dan, holding it for him in mock subservience, "but I'm sure you'll understand why I hope we don't have any further dealings."

"Oh really. That's funny," replied Dan sarcastically. "I was under the impression you and me were going to be seeing a lot more of one another."

Malone turned the miniature Swiss army knife over in his pocket as the copper spoke. With one thumb, he slid the corkscrew from inside and put it between his index and middle finger, balling his hand into a fist as he did so.

Dan turned to leave, lifting his foot onto the top step. He looked out into the street for the briefest moment before…

Malone tore his fist out of his pocket, and punched the copper just above the nape of the neck, feeling metal pierce flesh, then bone, feeling the familiar rush of warm scarlet behind his fingers. The copper fell straight forward heavily, limp as a rag doll. Malone watched as he landed with a thump and slid down the remaining few stairs, finally stopping to lie sprawled on the pavement. He had never killed in a single blow before. He felt a warm glow of satisfaction as he watched the blood pour from the wound.