Gene was walking back from Luigi's when he stumbled upon the dead body.
It didn't seem right; it being called Luigi's when Luigi wasn't there anymore. Gene supposed that someday soon another person would take over and call it something else. He hoped that it wouldn't be another poncey, flowery name – like Philip's, for example. But for now it was still called Luigi's and he'd had a little too much to drink there in an effort to drown the headache his new DI had given him.
Overcome by a need to release his last few pints back into the wild, he made a detour into the nearest alleyway. The light from the streetlamps didn't quite reach into this mucky little corner of the world and he was forced to stumble along, one hand out against the wall to support himself. He had taken only a couple of steps in before something unseen tripped him up, knocking his feet out from under him.
His upper lip curling slightly in preparation for a snarl, Gene turned to see what it was that had unbalanced him. With some surprise, he found that he was able to pick out the rough shape of a body – a body that happened to be wearing a policeman's helmet and jacket.
"Bugger," Gene stated and fumbled immediately in the pockets of his coat for his radio. "This is your DCI requesting – no, demanding – backup. I've got an officer down in the alley near Luigi's." He snapped the radio off and shoved it back into his pocket before anyone had the chance to answer. Then, for a while, he just knelt there in the damp and filth of the alley, staring at what once had been one of Her Majesty's finest.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, but he knew that he was relieved to finally hear the sound of approaching feet, although he would never admit that to anyone. A small group of CID and a couple of uniformed officers filed into the alleyway, whilst Gene stood and made an attempt to brush off the knees of his trousers, surreptitiously searching for the face of his new DI. He was pleased to see that the long-haired nonce wasn't amongst them.
The narrow alleyway was beginning to get cramped, as policemen jostled each other and shone torches down on the body without managing to illuminate it. In the confusion, the body was knocked several times, altering the position that Gene had found it in. He thought about what the new boy would say about them smearing their greasy fingerprints all over the crime scene before Forensics had had a chance to work their voodoo magic and it was almost enough to make him smile.
Bammo had crouched down beside the body, readying to remove the helmet. As he gingerly pulled it off, Gene had a sudden, crazy premonition that he would see his own face staring back at him with dead, blank eyes; one side of his face caved in and covered with blood. The terrible image lasted only a split-second in his mind, but he was compelled to look out of the mouth of the alley as the corpse's face was revealed.
"It's a dummy," Bammo announced.
Gene felt his anger flare up. "It may not be the smartest thing to do, go wandering into an alley alone at night in the uniform, but I will not have one of our own spoken about like that."
"No Guv, I mean he really is a dummy. Look."
Frowning, Gene turned to look and saw that beneath the helmet there was not a face, but just a slightly dirty cloth sack in the general shape of a head. He shoved through the small crowd of officers to stand beside Bammo, putting the toe of his boot into the Guy-Fawkes. It felt remarkably solid. Perhaps there still was a body after all. He tore the cloth apart and began pulling out the stuffing of old newspapers and roof insulation. There was no face hidden beneath it, but he still emptied the dummy down to the midriff before he was satisfied that there was no corpse hidden inside.
He became aware of the eyes of the other officers on him, watching him closely. With a business-like sniff, he reached across to the shoulder of the jacket that the dummy was wearing. Even in the poor light of the bobbing torches some of the policemen carried, he could tell that the article was the real thing – standard issue. He pulled the number off of the shoulder and handed it up to Bammo.
"Recognise it?"
There was a reflexive silence and then: "No. I'll check it out in the morning."
"Right, well…" Gene pushed himself to his feet and glared around at the assembled officers. He was aware that the dummy had robbed him of a piece of his dignity. The team needed a strong leader, not one who would wet his knickers over a piece of stuffed rag in a policeman's helmet. He would make sure tomorrow that he reminded his team that their Guv was of the former type, not the latter. If he heard one single snigger, he'd bring his wrath down upon them all. "I don't know about you lot, but I'm off home."
Gradually the officers dispersed until Gene was left alone once again. Before going home, he decided he might go back into Luigi's for just one more pint, as he was starting to feel far too sober.
The next morning found Gene sitting in his office and contemplating a rather nasty headache when there was a tap at the door.
"What?" he called out irritably. The door opened and the new skip came in, holding out a manila envelope like a peace offering. "I'm busy," Gene told him as he leant back in his chair, making no effort to appear anything of the kind.
"Bammo said you wanted this information," the new skip said, undeterred. His interest piqued slightly, Gene beckoned for the envelope. Once it was in his hands, he tore it open, scattering the contents over his desk. A photograph of a handsome, smiling young man in uniform fluttered out to land on top of the other papers. Gene checked the number on the shoulder, although he already knew it would be the same as the one he had found on the dummy the night before. The name on the papers was Peter Eddings.
"Did Eddings… Is he alright?"
"He seemed to be when he signed in this morning."
"Hm," Gene grunted, sliding everything back into the envelope, "Then let's keep it that way."
Dismissing the skip in a simple gesture, Gene pushed away from his desk and went out into the main CID room. He stood for a moment, surveying his kingdom, his team, and not particularly liking what he saw. Far from the lean fighting force of law, his team lounged idly about, gossiping and laughing amongst themselves. Something was missing…
He turned to Forrester, who had pushed aside paperwork in favour of a cigarette and now sat with his feet up, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.
"Where's his Royal Highness?" He asked, referring to the new DI.
Forrester at least had the good grace to jump slightly at the interruption and make an attempt at pulling some papers towards him. "Not in today, Guv," he replied after carefully looking around the room.
For someone with so many airs and graces, the DI didn't show up at work very often. Even on the days that he did come in, he operated like a lone agent, thinking himself too high and mighty to participate in the daily routine of work in a police station. Disciplinary action would have to be taken. Gene vowed to do so the next time the bastard condescended to put in an appearance.
He crossed the room – pushing one man's feet off the desk as he went – to the whiteboard and rubbed off the cuss-words and dirty doodles that had accumulated there. Taking up a pen he wrote the name Peter Eddings in capital letters, and then rapped the board loudly to command attention. "Right, you bunch of sagging girls' tits, one of our own has been threatened and I want something done about it."
There was a general chorus of 'Yes Guv's.
Someone has gotten close enough to him to nick his helmet and jacket. Whoever it is, we can assume from the little trick with the Guy Fawkes dummy that they are trying to tell us that they can get to our man any time they want to, none of us being able to do a thing to stop them. It's our job to find out who this sick bastard is and show him what we do with his kind of underhanded scum."
"Could have been an inside job, Guv," said a voice from the doorway.
Gene scowled, annoyed to find that he had been interrupted by some skinny bird wearing jeans so tight she was showing her Fanny Craddock. "Who the bloody 'ell are you?" he snapped.
