It had been a long and gut-wrenching walk back to CID. Keats had reared his ugly head again and had left Gene with a few choice words before being slung back into the gutter. Rather than focus on Keats and the knowledge that one day, he would be back as promised, Gene decided to use the journey to the station to remind himself of his purpose in this world, hoping that each step would free him from the memory of Alex Drake and secure him in his belief that there was still a job to be done here, on this side of the Railway Arms doors.

He was now walking down the corridor towards CID and was slowly approaching the gates to his kingdom. Any second now, he would swing open the doors with his usual force, his towering figure would fill the door frame and he would be king of the jungle again. If only it had been that easy. His usual bravado deserted him and he entered CID using only one side of the double-doors, making an almost unnoticed entrance.

Things had returned to a semblance of normality inside the office – the mess left earlier on by Keats had been tidied up, the air was shrouded in cigarette smoke again and the sound of voices, telephones and typewriters echoed around the corners of the room. People were busying themselves with the latest case – though what that might have been, Gene had no idea – and it seemed that CID was on its way back to being a well-oiled machine again.

The door closing behind Gene made him realise two things. First, that he was standing directly in front of Alex's desk, and second, that the checkerboard ceiling lights were off, as if there had not been quite enough power to bring the office fully back to life. And rather than make him feel as if he had returned to the comfort of his own home, the cigarette smoke made everything look cold and grey.

He could not quite remember how many steps he had taken to get here from the Railway Arms, but he knew the second he looked at Alex's desk that his tactics of using the walk to focus on work and duty had been in vain. There was paperwork everywhere – even Chris, Ray and Shaz's desks had been requisitioned by new arrivals – yet Alex's desk had been cleared, and cleaned, it seemed. Someone may as well have plunged a dagger through his heart when he noticed the 6-6-20 carving, taunting him from the shiny black surface below. His eyes settled there for a few seconds, not quite knowing what else to do or how to convince his brain to think of something else, anything else. And then there was the added insult of the red telephone, its colour reminding him of the life and soul he had lost, of the fire that had kept burning inside Alex Drake until he had sent her off into the pub.

It was during this moment of crushing solitude that the last words Keats had spoken came back to haunt him. "All alone", "No one to care", "You're doomed", "All alone, Gene", "See ya – wouldn't want to be ya". He hated himself for admitting to it, but Keats had been right; he would always be alone. He mustered just enough self-control to prevent the rage that had been building up inside him from bursting out and exploding into a storm of files, folders and documents. Clenched fists and gritted teeth got him into his office, where he was at last able to let out a deep breath and hide his anger and sadness from the men at work behind him. They had remained oblivious to the tragedy that was playing out in front of them.

Clinging on to normality, Gene took off his coat, placed it onto the coat rack and walked towards his desk, attracted by the bottle of scotch someone had kindly, or mercifully, left there for him. It was at that moment that he felt a presence behind him, staring at him from behind the glass door. He turned around quickly, but there was nothing there. The cloud of cigarette smoke was still swaying around the room, the new team was still hard at work and Alex's desk was still empty and bare. Alex. Bolly.

Think, Gene! Think! What do blokes do when they want to forget about birds?

Booze, football, motors, other birds…

He knew of course that he was kidding himself, that this was not a case of working your way around a lovers' tiff or letting off steam because you had been nagged a thousand times too many, but thanks to two items on the desk in front of him, it seemed that help was at hand. The scotch would numb his pain eventually, he was sure of it – hadn't it always? – and the Mercedes brochure might prove to be interesting now that his beloved Quattro had gone to the big scrap yard in the sky. For a second he found the thought quite amusing. Hey, Bolls, I'm sorry I can't be with you quite just yet, but here's a little something to remember me by…. He was sure she would appreciate the gesture. Still that colour, though. Red. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone with that bloody colour?

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash through the CID doors, followed by a string of questions that were growing louder and louder.

"What the hell is this? Where's my office? One of you jokers give me back my iPhone. Now. Who the hell do you think you are? This is my office. Right here! Where's my office? WHY DON'T YOU MORONS SAY SOMETHING? WHERE'S MY OFFICE?"

Oh for Christ sakes, this was not happening. Not now…

No sooner had DI Drake been packed off to paradise had they sent in a replacement. One that looked like a cross between a vicar and a gay DJ, at that. Did nobody have any consideration for him, for what he might be going through right now?

Well stick that in your pipe and smoke it!

Gene grabbed his coat and flung the door of his office open. He marched down CID and stopped next to the new recruit.

"A word in your shell, like, pal… Good luck!"

God did that feel good. A loyal servant for so long, all he had wanted at that point was to be left alone so that he could feel sorry for himself and think about the woman whose heart he had just broken. He wanted to let himself feel like the complete and utter bastard he had been towards her. Hey, Bolls! Guess what? You're dead. No, your daughter isn't dead but you won't be seeing her for a long, long while. You stay here with me? Don't be silly. Oh, and by the way, didn't I shoot you last year? Yeah, I'm sorry about that too… Yes, all he categorically wanted at that point was to get pissed, and sad, and more pissed. But oh no! Gene could be counted on. The great Gene Genie always did what was right – he would be able to cope if they sent him a new basket case this soon.

Where did one go if one wanted to get pissed and think about the woman one lo...? Had he just said it? Had that word just come out?

It didn't take a genius to work out that the combination of Luigi's followed by Alex's flat would be a great place to start, and possibly finish. The restaurant had long been closed for the night but that did not prevent Gene from banging on the door until someone let him in. A shuffle of feet and choice Italian language could be heard behind the front door and Luigi eventually appeared, wearing his black and gold smoking jacket and a frown the size of Cheddar Gorge.

"Sinor Hunt! Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"My dear Luigi" came the answer. "I am fully aware that it is way past beer o-clock and that I have got you out of your peaceful slumbers. However, I find myself in the urgent need of getting very drunk very quickly, after which I shall retire to Lady Bolls' apartments."

"I cannot let you wake Sinora Drake, not when you are in this state!"

"Don't you worry, Luigi. Sinora Drake has gone on a long journey and will not mind one bit. Now if you please – two bottles of scotch and the keys to her majesty's palace."

"Please, Sinor Hunt. Don't be like this. I am sure that whatever is troubling you, you will feel better tomorrow".

"Ah Luigi, that is exactly the point, you see. I do not intend to stay like this. I intend to get much, much worse and reach a point where nothing will matter anymore".

Luigi could see that there was no point arguing with the man. He had seen Gene depressed and uninterested before, but this was something else. He quickly returned from the bar with two bottles of whisky and the spare key to Alex's flat.

Gene made his way up the stairs, remembering that at roughly the same time the previous day, his ascent had been full of the promise that unfinished business would at last be seen to. Of course, he fancied the knickers off her – always had – and he was constantly thinking about having his own way with her, but there was so much more than physical attraction between them. She had become his Bolly, he would do anything to keep her safe, but in doing so he had had to keep her at arms length. Did she understand now why he had acted that way? Yes, the night before had been about so much more than physical attraction. By sitting and talking quietly on the sofa and later dancing so tenderly in each other's arms, they had finally admitted that they needed each other and that they could be in each other's company as two consenting adults, without having to fight or bicker.

Alex and Gene. Gene and Alex.

Gene turned the key in the lock and quietly opened the door, almost hoping that she would be fast asleep on the sofa and that he would see her perfect figure lying there peacefully, the previous 24 hours' discoveries nothing more than a god-awful nightmare. The flat was as he had left it the night before – funny that he should have been the last person in here. Even the lights were still on, making the possibility that she might appear from the bedroom or the bathroom feel all the more real. He needed to stop having these thoughts. She was gone. He had made her go. But her perfume still filled the air, some of her clothes were still draped across the furniture, empty bottles of beer and wine were still scattered around the coffee table.

God. What I have done?

He needed her, he wanted to see her, to hear her. And then he remembered. The tapes. Where did she keep the tapes? If he could find the tapes he could at least hear her voice. Have something of hers left behind for him. He knew these were the thoughts of a mad man, that nothing could bring her back but it didn't matter. If all he could have was her voice stuck on bits of plastic then he would take it. He placed the bottles of whisky on the dining table and went straight to the bookshelf. The tape she had played the night before was still in the cassette player – of course it was, where else would it be? Gene found the empty box and proceeded to examine the ones that were lined up against it along the shelf. Music. Music. Nothing but eighties crap and no sign of Alex's voice anywhere. He looked on the shelves under the window. Nothing. In the kitchen cabinets. Nothing. There was only one place left. Should he go into her bedroom? Her very own private domain? What did it matter? She was gone. What was she going to do about it now? He frantically looked through her wardrobe, through all her drawers, her bedside table, under the bed, completely oblivious to the fact that he had been rummaging through her underwear in the process. Still nothing.

Gene returned to where he had first started his search and unscrewed the top off one of the bottles of scotch. He took a large swig and let the warm liquid descend slowly into his gut. Another gulp and his frantic state had abated a little. By the third mouthful he had turned to face the bookshelf again and was sitting on the edge of the round glass table. Books. When the hell did she have time to read, anyway? It had always seemed to him as though they had either been working on a case, drinking or eating at Luigi's, or asleep. What a simple, beautiful existence it had been.

Notepads. Lists. Alex always did like lists. Helped her clear her mind and process her thoughts in a logical, almost clinical manner. Gene pulled out the first notepad that came into view. Seeing some of the words on the front page made him instantly lose his grip and drop the pad onto the table. If words could have this effect on him, he hated to think what state Alex's voice would have left him in. The whisky was disappearing rapidly, but if Alex had taken the time to write down these words, he would read them.

"ICU
WEATHER VANE
RURAL
DEAD COPPER

GENE

6620
GENE/SAM
SHAZ

STARS"

He understood what it all meant, what the various references were pointing to. What hurt him more was that he could now see how consumed Alex must have been by her pursuit of the truth. Out of the nine lines of text, seven of them had directly or indirectly been about him. How ironic and how tragically, pathetically sad that Alex had been looking for him all this time. The thought made him sick to the pit of his stomach. He took another swig of scotch before flipping the notepad over to the next page. There was only one line of text on it:

"Alex loves Gene"

He had done so well to keep the tears at bay but they all came flooding out now. He couldn't sob – he would have had to be able to breathe for that. Instead, tear after tear silently rolled down his cheeks, splashing onto the page below his face and onto the trembling hand that had now let go of the whisky bottle. He somehow picked himself up, took a few steps across the tiny room and collapsed onto the sofa.