It's after midnight, and raining. Raining so hard the water runs in rivulets down his face, along the crease between nose and cheek, down over his mouth and off his chin. It drips off the hair cut too short last Thursday. He can feel it seeping through to the roots, making curls at his nape before saturating his collar and spreading outwards, downwards, like a pool of blood between his shoulder blades.

'Gene.'

Tyler's voice is a long way away, and probably would be even if the wind weren't whistling along the alley, driving water sideways before it. He ignores it, and Sam, and curls into himself, shoulders hunched as he rests on his heels, the wall cold against his back.

'Gene, are you OK?'

He sucks in a breath, and lets it out slowly, mindful of the throbbing at his temple. He needs to calm down. The pressure in his head can't be good, and his chest feels tight like it hasn't since he was a kid, and lived on his nerves. It's distracting enough that he can't feel the damage he's done to his hand, though it's easy enough to see. Anyone can see, right through him, all the way down to the bone. Tyler's about to suggest he gets it sewn up, but that won't stop it scarring.

'Gene?'

'I'm fine.'

Sam nods once, and puts his hands behind his back with the air of someone who has no intention of moving. It's probably out of concern, but it's still a pain in the arse. Gene drops his head back to rest on the brick turned black from rain, and draws another breath through his nose. It's cold enough to sting, but he feels nothing. The others hover around the mouth of the alley, all except Cartwright, who's probably the only one here doing their job. And that's his fault, but it doesn't matter. He steels himself and stands up, using the wall to help.

'You'd better do it.'

'It can wait. You need to get to hospital.'

'After. Go on. No need for you to pick up a reprimand.'

Sam nods again, and brings his hands forward. Mercifully, they're empty, though he wouldn't have complained if they weren't.

'Gene Stephen Hunt, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Gary-John Lancett. You have the right to remain silent…'

Somewhere along the line, Tyler learnt how it goes.

###

One month earlier.

Sunday.

Sundays used to be about sleeping 'til noon. It wasn't so much about being lazy, or catching up on some kip, though they'd be valid reasons on their own. It was just that Saturdays meant the match, and the resultant celebration or drowning of sorrows – which equalled pub until kicking-out time, and then a club of some description. Gene's never really been a fan of nightclubs because the music's so bad, but if you want to keep drinking and pick up something shaggable, they're the places to go. On the nights he couldn't be bothered, there was always a poker game somewhere. Or a strip club, which he didn't do often because tipping gets expensive when the girls insist on sorting you out for free. He never felt guilty enough to insist on paying, but would leave her a few bob anyway. He's not a complete arsehole.

He used to enjoy it. Sunday hangover, followed by Sunday lunch with the missus – usually at his mam's house – and then doze the afternoon away in front of the telly with a beer to hand. Pub in the evening for a couple of social ones, dinner with the wife, more telly while she got his suit pressed for the morning. And then the easy, uncomplicated, well-practiced shag of the once-a-week married couple who'd been at it for more years than are memorable. And then that's it. Weekend done, back to the grind.

That was then. Now, at eight in morning, with a leg over his shoulder and straining, aching, buried balls-deep in Sam sodding Tyler, he's pretty sure this is better. Or would be, if the bloke would have the decency to come, so it can be his turn.

'I swear to God Samantha, if you don't toss it off I'm gonna break it in two.'

He's aware it sounds weak, because there's sweat running down the corded muscles in his neck, and he can't stop the snap of his hips. Every heaved breath is accompanied by a groan from so deep in his chest, it aches to rasp out. And Sam just looks at him, hands fisted defiantly in the sheets, a smirk on his lips despite the writhing, and the arching, and the steady leak of moisture from the tip of his rigid cock. It's transfixing, rubbing on his belly every time Gene thrusts in, and he can't drag his eyes away. Willing it to break, and wanting nothing more than to watch it forever. He'd have given in and grabbed it ages ago, but for the need to hold on to the bed, and Sam, to keep the rhythm up. He's pretty sure the entire universe rests on him not stopping this rhythm.

'Can't. You look too fucking sexy.'

'Shut it. And touch it, for Chris'sakes. Looks painful.'

'Feels better. Than …anything.'

'Please, Sam.'

'Nope.'

This is Sunday now. Sam doesn't have any respect for the sanctity of the hangover. He doesn't care about what time Gene turned up last night, or how much he drank. He'll wake him up at some ungodly hour with his mouth wrapped firmly around his dick, forcing him to look down and watch the way his cheeks hollow as he sucks. As soon as he sees that, he's gone. There's no headache in the world that'd stop him getting inside the bloke after that. And Tyler knows it, damn him.

Later, when the sly little bastard brings the tea and bacon sarnie up, and Gene's kissed him into next week in gratitude, the day tends to get some focus. Today's no different. He puts his empty plate down, lights a fag, and watches Sam twist over to put his mug down on the side. And hisses suddenly, stretches out to run his fingers over the red-raw skin of his shoulder blades.

'Shit. Is that from last night?'

Sam rolls back with a grin on his face, and props himself up on an elbow. 'Yeah. Doesn't matter. It was worth it.'

It was too. What's skin, when there's a really good shag to be had? Still. He doesn't like to be the one that causes Sam pain. 'You should've said if it was hurting. I thought the leather would take most of it.'

'It did. You're going to have to buy me a new jacket soon.'

'Bollocks.'

Sam rolls his eyes, and flops back to the sheets. It's chilly in Gene's bedroom, but he makes no effort to cover himself over. He just scratches at his stomach, pushing the waistband of his boxers down an inch or so as he does. Gene's gaze follows, and mentally yanks them down the rest of the way.

'It's been a long time since you've done me against a wall.'

'That's because you never come out on Saturday night anymore.'

'I might, if you and Ray weren't so disgusting when you're bladdered.'

Gene sniffs, and pouts. 'It's not news to you what me and him are like.'

'Exactly. And I don't have to watch it.'

He concedes the point silently, and smokes, and watches the ceiling. Sam yawns, and stretches. 'I'm going for a run, I think. Wake myself up.'

'For God's sake. Just go back to sleep. It's too early.'

'Can't. I'm awake now. Anyway, I want to look over the Lancett file, and make sure it's right.'

Gene lifts an eyebrow. 'You've spent the last month making sure it's right. And it's hardly a major case. It's just a domestic.'

'I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.'

He sighs, and pulls a long drag from his cigarette. They've had that argument a few times, yeah. 'Look, I'm not denying the bloke's a scumbag-'

'Good. I'm glad you're not denying that.'

Sam's voice is dangerously deadpan, but Gene didn't get anywhere in life by backing off. 'And I'll be happier to bang him up than anyone. I'm just saying, you've done the work already. No need to spend Sunday on it too.'

'I'm not asking you to do it. I just said I was going to.'

'Why's it so important to you?'

'Why isn't it to you?'

Gene looks over again. Sam holds his gaze, and does actually look curious. As if he was expecting something worse, something more, a reaction Gene wasn't aware he was supposed to give. 'What?'

'I'm just surprised, that's all. I thought…'

Gene waits, but apparently he's supposed to guess. Well, he's not going to, not least because he knows exactly what Sam's getting it, and wishes he weren't. Also because he has a hangover the bacon hasn't fixed yet, and he's sleepy from having to work so hard for an orgasm.

'…never mind.'

It's not often Tyler backs off, but happy soddin' days when he does. Gene nods, drops his fag butt in the dregs of his tea, and puts it down firmly. 'Go on then, if you're going. I'm going back to sleep.'

'Of course you are.' Sam grins, has the temerity to kiss him on the forehead, and slips out of bed before retaliation can happen. 'I'll wake you up in time to-'

'-vegetables, yes, I bloody know. Go away.'

His eyes are shut, but he can feel Sam's amusement through the rustling of clothes as he finds his shorts and singlet for running. 'You'll be ready for an upgrade soon, I reckon. Hoovering, maybe. Just as soon as you stop leaving the eyes in the spuds.'

'Well, there's an incentive for me to try harder.'

'Maybe dusting. There's no ornaments for you to break.'

'If you don't sod off in the next five bloody seconds-'

The door opens, the sound not quite hiding the chuckle. 'See you later.'

'Mmm.'

He lets himself smile when he hears the stairs creaking. Sunday mornings. Brilliant.

###

He still goes to the pub on his own in the evening. It would be a bit hard to explain away if he and his D.I. were always seen together at weekends, especially when it's fairly well known how they clash at work. Since Barbara moved away, he's become aware of these things – more aware than Sam even, which is strange because the bloke's normally so clued up on details. There's also the way Sam uses at least two hours on Sunday evenings to get things straight for work the next day, which is very efficient, and very annoying. He won't be talked out of it, and only distracted for an hour or two if sex is offered. Gene's never known anyone who can go at it like Sam, then get up and wash it away, and turn to something else before the stain on the bedsheet 's halfway dry.

'Evenin', Gene.'

'Michael. Usual, ta.'

The King's Head is no Railway Arms, but it's just down the road and has the advantage of not being full of coppers. Which is also its disadvantage, but you can't have everything.

'There you are. Fifteen pence. Good weekend?'

'Aye, can't complain.' He hands the money over, and lights up a fag. He limits himself to two on a Sunday night, but there's always whiskey at home. 'Especially as your boys got stuffed yesterday.'

Michael pulls a face. 'Just resting the big guns until we go to Maine Road next week. My bet's three-nil.'

'You're dreaming, pal.'

'We'll see.'

'Yeah, we will.'

He smiles at Michael's expression, but frowns as he watches the bloke's eyes twitch towards the door. He's about to turn, when Michael says, softly, 'The fella that just came in. He was in earlier, asking after you.'

'Yeah?' Gene doesn't turn, but puts his pint down. 'You know him?'

'No. Sorry mate, he's never been in here on my shift.'

'Don't worry about it.'

He'd add more, but then there's a presence at his elbow. He glances over casually, like he hasn't just been given a heads-up. The guy standing there is small, wiry, with a dark head of curls that manage to stand up from his scalp. Hair that wouldn't be out of place on a black fella, Gene thinks, but he's thought that every time he's seen this bloke before. 'Ricky Lancett. Bit far from your neck of the woods, aren't you?'

Ricky shrugs, and jerks his head towards a table in the corner. Gene frowns again, and shakes his head. 'Don't think so. What do you want? I'm not on the clock, and I prefer it when the brothers of scum I've got in me cells stay away on weekends.'

'You don' want me talkin' out here. Not where anyone might be listenin'.'

Ricky's accent is thick, Blackburn, and sandpapered to a harsh rasp by years in a pit. Gene knows he's only about thirty, but that's still fifteen years working in the filth underground. Best place for him, as far as he's concerned. 'Like that is it? Think you can come down my local and threaten me?'

'Want me to throw him out, Gene?' Michael's not as big as he is, but still twice the size of Ricky.

'Nah. As long as you don't object if I do it myself.'

'Oh, be my guest.'

Ricky glances between them, and shrugs again. 'I won't be back anyway. But I want to talk to you,' he points a finger at Gene's chest, black under the nail, 'and if I have to shout it to the whole lounge, it don' matter to me.'

Gene exchanges a glance with the landlord, then sighs. 'Oh, come on then. Make it quick. The missus'll burn my tea.'

Ricky snorts, and raises his eyebrows. Gene glares back. It takes a moment before the smaller bloke turns and slopes off to a table; Gene hesitates, then follows. There's something in that snort he doesn't like, and much as he'd hate to admit it, a hint of trepidation creeps into his gut. Ricky Lancett was there the night his brother was arrested for beating up his wife the first time, and again two days ago when they caught him red-handed with a knife in his hand, about to go for her again. He'd been standing by, letting it happen. He'd said he only just got there himself, and didn't fancy taking on his brother when there was a blade involved. In Gene's book, that makes him as guilty as Gary-John, because what sort of bloke stands by and watches when a woman's about to be cut up? He'd have tried to prove complicity if it were possible, but Ricky's never had much to say for himself, and with no prior convictions, it'd be a thankless job.

He keeps all of it off his face, and just sits down firmly, DCI air in full force. 'Let's have it, then.'

Ricky lights a bent roll-up. The flame from the lighter takes half the paper away, leaving flecks of red tobacco to fall to the carpet. 'You'll want to let my brother go.'

Gene raises his eyebrows. 'Is that right? Anyone else? Moors Murderers, while we're at it?'

'Funny.' He extends a hand, and flicks ash towards the ashtray. It misses, but he doesn't seem bothered. 'He wasn't going to kill her.'

'Oh yeah, it looked like he was bringing her roses. She's still in bloody hospital.'

'Yeah, but-' and now Ricky looks uncomfortable, '-he was only tryin' to frighten her.'

'I'd say he succeeded, what with her having a broken rib and a cracked wrist, and a knife shoved under her nose.' Gene lets out an exasperated breath, and leans in. 'What do you want? I'm not letting him go.'

'I'm looking after his kids. She's not fit to have 'em. If you don't let him go, they'll have no one.'

Gene pulls up. 'He's got kids?'

'Two. Shouldn't you know that?'

'It's not my case. My D.I.'s handling it – and before you think you can appeal to him, forget it. Christ. Wife-beaters procreating. Shouldn't be allowed.'

Ricky shrugs again. It seems to be a gesture he uses in lieu of words whenever possible. 'Whatever. Point is, if you don't let him out, you'll regret it.'

'Oh, really? I don't think I'll lose sleep, somehow.'

'You will.'

He doesn't add more, even though Gene's waiting for it. Eventually he huffs a breath, and sits straight. 'You know, if that's a threat, it's pathetic. I think you're supposed to give me some reason to listen to you? Not that I'm an expert, like. But as intimidators go, you're rubbish.'

It doesn't seem to matter what he says, Ricky makes no sign of rising to it. 'Maybe.' He stands up, and moves around the table. 'You let him go by the end of tomorrow, or you'll be sorry.'

'You're not serious. That's it?'

'Mmm.' The man takes a step away, and his mouth twists into something ugly. 'Say hello to your missus for me.'

He drops an envelope on the table, and walks away. Time seems to slow. Gene has frozen before it hits the surface, his blood turned to ice as soon as the man spoke. He doesn't hear the door bang, or feel the cool evening breeze cut through the fug; doesn't hear Michael calling over to see if everything's OK. He has to force his fingers to unclench from the fist they've made, and pick up the envelope that will contain exactly what he's expecting it to, he's sure.

The photograph is from last night. They must have been watching as soon as Gary-John got pinched. It shows him, and Sam, and the alleyway they'd stumbled into. It was dark, but the streetlight highlights enough – the colour of his coat glowing in the orange light, the sepia tinge to Sam's face, contorted in ecstasy. The legs around his own waist – he can still feel the clench of them – the absolute, undeniable truth of what they were doing.

'Gene. You all right?'

He nods dumbly, not looking around. His head feels heavy on his neck, and unbalanced, as though the world has tilted and he can't find north. He doesn't trust his legs to hold him steady, so he sits, and breathes, deep as he can manage, and flicks his lighter open with a shaking hand. For a moment, he just holds it there, trying to control the fear – the instant, debilitating panic – that's trying to claw its way up his throat. Sam's face, turned up to the light. His mouth on Sam's neck, the gloved hand curled under his thigh. The glint of light off shining, exposed skin.

He moves his hand, and watches himself go up in flames. It only takes a second.