"Everything alright?" she asked as he sat back down at the table. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he was having the worst date of his life. There was a mute apology in her eyes and for a moment Gene wondered if he hadn't misjudged her motives. For a brief, wonderful second her hand rested over his before he forced himself to pull away.

"I'm sorry Hunt, don't you like the snails?" Keats' voice taunted him.

"Not at all… I love molluscs me."

Buggar. Now he was going to have to eat the sodding things. As he struggled to get the snail out of his shell, he realised that yet again he was being made to look like an idiot. Still he managed to force one down… not able to taste much of anything apart from garlic. As he started on the second, Gene surreptitiously glanced at his watch. If Viv was doing his job properly then he should be getting a message right about …

"DCI Hunt?" The waiter had materialised at his side.

"Yes?"

"There is a phone call for you."

"Right. Okay."

Throwing his napkin down on the table, Gene followed the waiter to the phone. Sure enough the caller was his dedicated desk sergeant.

"Nice one, Viv," he muttered. "I owe you a pint."

"Are you sure about this Guv? DI Drake said you weren't to be disturbed."

Gene looked over to where DI Drake was laughing at something Jim Keats had whispered in her ear.

"I don't think DI Drake will mind," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Putting the phone down, he signalled to the waiter to bring his coat before heading back to the table.

"Sorry…Got to go," he said. "Armed blag on Dean Street. Duty calls."

"I'll come with you."

Finishing her wine she stood but Gene shook his head.

"No… Stay… enjoy your dinner. I'm sure DCI Keats will be able to see you home."

"Gene…?"

But he turned his back on her and hurried towards the door. She'd be alright. If there was one thing he had learnt about Alex Drake it was that she could look after herself. Gene was also certain that she would rather have dinner with someone who knew what wine to order and which fork to use.

He lit a cigarillo as he stepped out into the cold night air, relieved to finally get the nicotine hit he had desired for so long. The Quattro was parked a few streets away but for once he didn't mind the walk. He needed to clear his head. But it seemed that someone else had other ideas. Gene had barely walked a dozen paces before he heard hurried footsteps and a voice calling his name. She was running to catch up, unsteady on her heels, a flimsy shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

"I told you Drake, you're not needed," he sneered at her, deliberately quickening his pace.

"What about the blag?"

"There is no blag you mare!"

"What?"

"You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can work it out."

Her face seemed to crumple as realisation hit but Gene hardened his heart. He wasn't about to be taken in… not again.

"You didn't want to have dinner with me?"

"No… I didn't want to have dinner with your friend Jim. Go back to him Alex. Judging by the company he keeps he can appreciate a pissed up tart who can't keep her knickers on."

Gene expected her to punch him and for once he would have welcomed it. For some perverse reason, he wanted her to hate him … as if that would make it easier for him to cut her out of his life.

"Go!" he ordered, knowing that he sounded desperate.

"Fine! I will!"

She was crying. He could see the sparkle of the tears on her cheeks and even after everything he still wanted to kiss them away. Gene forced himself to turn from her, not able to watch her walk back to James Keats. Those long legs would be wrapped around the other man tonight, he was sure of it. He listened as the tap of her heels faded into the distance… right up to the point when she stumbled and let out a cry…