Thanks first and foremost to Wombledon for the betaVoice of reason. And thanks to all of you who are reading and reviewing – makes it worthwhile.
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Gene sat behind his desk with his arms crossed, waiting for Carling and Granger to spit out their latest gobbets of news on the Rahman case. Alex leant against the filing cabinet where she could see Gene's reactions.
Ray tipped his chair back against the wall, smirking round his cigarette as he let Shaz summarise their investigations. 'It's nice this, Guv, you'll love it. Go on, Shazzer.'
'Bit of a family affair, Guv. Turns out Mrs Mundy…'
'Sick Transit Gloria…' chorused the two men; the women swapped impatient glances – that joke had worn a little thin.
Shaz tried again. 'Mrs Mundy has a sister called Vivi Gerrard, mother of Lance and Arthur.'
Alex clarified, for the Guv's benefit. 'The skinhead twins we've got banged up for arson.'
'Yes, thank you, Miss Marple, I think I worked that out.' Gene was in a snappish mood.
Shaz kept going. 'The idea was to scare Mrs Rahman into quitting her lease by making her think it was the start of a fascist campaign. That's why they attacked the other Asian newsagents as well.'
'So the ugly sisters told the lads and their mate Tyndall exactly what to do.' Gene was trying to hurry the recital along.
'Well, no, Guv.' Shaz looked embarrassed, and referred to her notebook to avoid Alex's gaze. 'They've got a copper in the family, and he was supposed to make sure the boys did enough damage to do the trick without arousing police interest.'
'As you said at the start, Ray.' Alex looked daggers at him. 'How did you put it? "Pissy little vandals winding up the Pakis", if I remember rightly. So sensitive.'
'Accurate, Drake. Uniform should have sorted it.' Gene snarled at her.
'That's the point, Guv.' Ray piped up, cigarette smoke spilling from his mouth as he spoke. 'Uniform weren't supposed to sort it, because our Gloria and her kid sister had an inside man. Just a shame it all went tits up because of bad timing. Their tame copper weren't available for bending the law because he'd been his own brand of stupid a few days earlier.' He waggled his eyebrows at Shaz, nodding at her to continue.
'Sorry Ma'am. Gloria Mundy and Vivi Gerrard had the maiden name Maddox.'
Gene shouted with laughter, then saw Alex's face, and turned the laugh into an ill-disguised cough. 'Very neat. Well done, Granger. Let's the get the paperwork done pronto, and we can let Her Majesty take pleasure in banging up the whole Maddox clan.' He clapped his hands together gleefully. 'Pub, Raymondo.'
The four of them split along gender lines; DCI Hunt and his DS vanished with beer and god knows what else on their minds, and the two women headed for the kitchen and Alex's secret stash of chocolate.
It had been two days since her night out at the Barbican with Gene, and the sour ending to the evening. In an attempt to find an olive branch, Alex had taped the Grieg and Sibelius on two ninety-minute BASF cassettes and left them on Gene's desk the next day. He never mentioned them, although Alex noticed they'd gone from his desk. She didn't stoop to checking his bin, although the mood he was in, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd thrown them away. She knew she'd done nothing to offend him to this degree, and was pissed off with him for being so mercurial. She'd asked him what was wrong the previous day, then wishes she hadn't bothered.
'Wrong, Bolly? Apart from the mortgage rate, Countryman, the war, Home Office statistics, and the fact that the World Cup's in Spain next month but the bastards upstairs won't give me any time off because every other bastard has booked their holidays ahead of me? Not a thing. Certainly nothing that involves you. My world doesn't revolve round Alex Drake, oddly enough.'
She didn't believe him. There had to be some reason he was so off with her. At the Barbican and in her flat afterwards they'd been relaxed and happy in each other's company, then he was up and gone like he'd been bitten. The only thing that happened between one state and the other was the phone call from Gordon Carr. Couldn't have been that. Gordon was old news, and anyway she hadn't picked up the phone – which she'd have thought Gene would appreciate, the oaf.
Clearly not. So the entente cordiale had dissolved back into a cool détente. It hadn't gone unnoticed by the sharp-eyed Shaz, nor by the canny Carling, who was quick enough to wedge himself into the breach between his two senior officers.
At least today was over, and she didn't have to think about Gene till the morning. Once she'd got herself outside a few squares of Galaxy and a cup of tea, Alex felt a bit more mellow, and Shaz seized her chance to tread on eggshells.
'Er… is everything all right? Between you and the Guv, I mean.'
Alex tipped her chair back against the wall and growled in exasperation. 'Don't ask me, Shaz. How the hell would I know? One minute we're fine, the next he's taken the hump over god knows what. I've given up trying to work out how his middle-aged Mancunian mind ticks.' She let the chair legs drop to the ground with a thud and stood up. 'Oh, sod it. Shall we go and get pissed?'
'Normally I'd be right there, but my mum's cooking tea for me and Chris…'
'Does Chris know how lucky he is, Shaz?'
She looked at Alex through her eyelashes. 'Yes, Ma'am. I remind him most days.'
Laughing, they left the office together.
Alex opted for a movie with her barrister chum Astrid, and they scared themselves witless watching Wait until dark at the Scala. It was the wrong movie to watch, Alex decided later, as she got ready for bed. She'd forgotten the plot; the only time she'd seen it before was with Pete, when they were first going out. A video, some cheap red wine, and they got distracted after ten minutes. She'd forgotten the knife-wielding psycho terrorising a woman in her own flat: a bit too close to recent events for comfort. So Alex dreamed of a man with a knife chasing her round the flat by the light of the open fridge; a giant rat stuffed with drugs and a tall fair-haired rescuer who turns out to be an enemy. She woke wide-eyed, stifling a scream in the darkness.
She got up, put the kettle on, put the World Service on, made tea. Sat in the kitchen and drank it. Looked at the clock. One fifty-three. Twisted the dial on the radio to see if there was anything else but sanctimonious journalists warbling about Argentina. Not in 1982. Oh, for Janice Long. Switched the radio off. Music. She hadn't put the LPs back after taping them, so she stuffed the Sibelius Fifth on the hi-fi. Except it was the wrong side, and Valse Triste. Which made her cry, so she reached for the Fettercairn. She slugged back three fingers of scotch, then remembered Gene's comment. 'Bit too easy.' Which made her cry more, before falling asleep on the sofa.
She woke when the rat came for her with the knife. Shivering, she got up to make another cup of tea. Looked at the clock: three-seventeen. She heard raised voices in the street and looked out of the window to see plods and drunks doing the custody dance.
The phone rang and she started like a hare then stood transfixed for two rings until the answerphone kicked in.
'Bolly? You there?'
She darted across the room and snatched up the phone. 'Gene? Hang on...' She stabbed at the answerphone to turn it off. 'Sorry… you still there?'
'Yes, Bolls.'
'What's up? Need me to come in?'
'No. Relax. I was about to leave and I noticed your light on.'
'You're still in the office?'
'Had things to do. You got company?'
'No.'
'You okay?'
Her brain was racing. Why was he ringing? 'Er… yeah.'
'You don't sound sure.'
'Couldn't sleep. Nightmares, that's all.'
'About Maddox?'
'Mmm.'
'He's tucked up in Pentonville, Bolls. Can't hurt you.'
'I know.
Silence.
'Gene?'
'What?'
'Want to come up for a bit? Before you go home. Have one for the road.'
There was such a long silence that she thought the line had gone dead. 'Gene? You there?'
She heard him sigh, but there was still a long beat before he spoke. 'Go back to bed, Alex. Get some sleep. No more nightmares now.' His voice was no more than a rumble. 'Sleep, Drake. That's an order.'
He hung up; she put the phone down and went to the window. Saw him emerge from the station, stop on the top step to light a fag. He tipped his head back to blow a stream of smoke into the cold air, and looked up at her window. Saw his face as he realised she was watching him. Frowning, he stabbed a finger at her and mimed Bed. She nodded, and lifted a hand to him. He made a shooing gesture, and was obviously waiting for her to obey. She went to turn the light out, but sneaked back to the window. He was still there, waiting; he knew her too well. He shook his head in defeat, got into the Quattro and drove off.
To her surprise, Alex went straight to sleep; if there were dreams, she remembered none of them and woke feeling well rested.
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For the rest of that week there was a truce, at least; no sniping at each other.
They swept up Gloria Mundy and her sister and dumped them in with the rubbish at Holloway while the Gerrard twins and Tyndall were sent to the Scrubs to await trial. Alex heard later that there was a party in White's Row to celebrate, after which the widowed Mrs Rahman and the lonely Mr Lalwani apparently continued celebrating in private. One good thing to come out of the mess, she thought.
The following Monday morning, Chris buttonholed Alex in the kitchen. 'Boss. Er, Shaz told me to tell you something.'
'Spit it out then, Chris. Where is Shaz, anyway?'
'Doctor's, Boss. Check-up, you know…' He fizzled out, blushing. Some gynae problem, then, Alex inferred.
'What have you got to tell me, Chris?'
He blushed a deeper crimson. 'Er… well, it's… er, not…'
'Shaz told you to tell me something.' Alex pinned him with a look and spoke firmly.
'Oh. Ah. Yes. I was at the Marillion gig at the Marquee –'
'Marillion? Fish, and that lot?' Alex giggled. 'Bloody hell. Sorry, Chris. Go on.'
'You know Fish, Boss?' Chris was clearly impressed with Alex's knowledge of up and coming prog rock front men.
'Mmm. And what about the gig, Chris?'
'Oh, yes. There was this bloke, right, totally blootered…'
'I don't need the story of the whole night, Chris. Just the relevant bits.'
'Okay.' He thought for a moment. 'Right. Next Saturday. There's a 2-Tone Anti-Apartheid gig at the Red Cow in Whitechapel.' He stopped to draw breath, and looked at Alex for approval.
'Good, Chris – what about it?'
'Going to be trouble. Bunch of National Front skins planning to crash it and break a few heads.'
'Weapons?'
'Not guns. He didn't know about other stuff.'
'How many?'
'Don't know, Boss, but enough NF to create a bit of havoc.'
'How many at the gig?'
'Hundred and fifty? Quite a big room above the pub.'
'Thanks, Chris. Well done. Seen the Guv this morning?'
'He's off, Boss. Dentist. Wisdom tooth giving him gyp, Ray says.'
Exploiting Gene's absence, Alex went straight to the Chief Super to approve an undercover sting, knowing Gene would give her hell for going over his head, but knowing also that Marsden would eventually say yes while DCI Hunt would immediately say no.
Having got the nod from the Chief Super, Alex recruited Shaz and Chris to act as wardrobe supervisors, and come Saturday evening the team, suited and booted, were ready to roll. The only person missing was Gene, and everyone was getting twitchy waiting for him.
Suffering from the dentist, he had not been happy last Monday when he heard the news, and had ripped Alex's head off for going to Marsden instead of consulting him. But he didn't stop the operation, and he opted to lead it rather than put Alex in charge.
During the week the team had been digging for more intelligence on the likely troublemakers. The gig was listed in Time Out's Agitprop section, so it had a clearly political agenda – not surprising since the ANC's offices in Islington had been firebombed in March. A political agenda didn't have to mean trouble, especially in the anti-partheid campaign, which was firmly non-violent. But young men full of strong opinions and strong beer, offered violence, were likely to return it, however sincere their pacifist leanings. The militant group Chris had heard about were known as the Wasps, and they had a nasty reputation even amongst right-wingers.
Alex looked round at the team. Between them, their outfits covered a fair spread of the street fashion spectrum from Ray in white t-shirt, braces, cut off jeans and Doc Martens, to DC Oliver Haan, known affectionately as Black Olive, who looked sharp as hell in a Ska suit and porkpie hat. Chris Skelton was in black jodhpurs, white shirt, bowtie, flat cap and shades, and Shaz wore a tight Union Jack t-shirt under a nipped-in denim jacket, with denim mini, fishnets, and cherry red DMs. She'd got whistled at when she swanned in to CID, whereas Alex got a stunned silence. In bleach-spattered jeans, black t-shirt under black bomber jacket, DMs, her hair slicked back with gel and face pale but for heavy black eyeshadow, she looked little short of psychotic.
Eventually Gene pushed through the double doors to a ragged cheer from his waiting crew. In a crombie and lovat green trilby, with the hardest of stony expressions on his face, the big copper would have given the Krays a run for their money in the Tough stakes.
'Ay ay! It's Jack the Hat, back from the grave!' Carling heckled from the kitchen doorway, but Gene ignored him.
Their DCI looked round the room, lip curled. 'Hawley Harvey Crippin. Look at you bunch of tossers. Talk about the Rumble in the Jumble.' He sighed like a walrus and pushed himself away from the door, shouldering to the centre of the room. 'Listen and learn. Keep your heads. I don't want anyone getting their blood up. We're there to stop trouble, not start it. Understand me, Carling?'
'Course, Guv.' Ray nodded.
'And you, Granger. I don't want you trying to prove you're as tough as your male colleagues. I know you're tough, Skelton knows you're tough. You have nothing to prove, so find a good spec and keep 'em peeled.'
Shaz failed to suppress a grin.
Gene continued. 'There'll be a van full of uniform parked in Green Dragon Yard waiting for the word from myself or DI Drake. Any sign of any weapon and we start arresting people. Do not respond to provocation. Do not judge members of the public by their attire.' He looked pointedly at Chris. 'Sometimes a prat looks like a prat, but not always.'
The Red Cow was only a ten minute walk from Fenchurch East, but they took two cars and parked in Green Dragon Yard next to the unmarked police van full of plods; the CID team scattered in different directions so they didn't get to the pub together, leaving Gene to have a quick word with Sergeant Allam.
'Hope you've all got flasks and butties, Roger. It may be a while before we're ready for you.'
'Don't worry, Mr Hunt. We've all brought our tatting and we have a medley of glees to sing if we get bored.'
Gene chuckled and clapped Allam on the shoulder. 'Good man.'
The pub was rammed, skinheads next to dreadlocks, mods drinking with punks, reggae boys and goth girls rubbing shoulders, all in a common cause. Alex was in her element, as was Shaz – albeit for different reasons.
The first two sets by the Higsons and Selecter were trouble free, the happy crowd jumping around in the smoky, beery atmosphere. It was just before midnight that Alex noticed a bunch of skinheads come up the stairs, all wearing yellow and black t-shirts. Wasps. She pushed through to where Gene was standing and made him look round. No point in trying to talk over the noise, but he didn't need telling. Apart from the yellow stripes, the group's body language was all aggression and malicious intent.
In the comparative silence between numbers, Gene leaned close to Alex and put his mouth to her ear. 'Carling's enjoying himself, the dickhead. Go and kick his arse and remind him he's working.' She nodded, and started to push into the crowd. Gene grasped her arm and she turned back to him. 'Watch yourself, Bolls.'
Despite his irritatingly paternalistic attitude, she had to admit to the warmth threading through her body at his show of concern for her. She weaved through the press of bodies towards Sgt Bovver Boy but was still fifteen feet away from him when a shout went up and it all kicked off. As the scrapping started and the crowd movement changed like a sudden squall at sea, Alex looked for the Fenchurch team; spotted Shaz up by the stage, Oliver Haan in the middle of a group of sharp-suited ska boys, and Chris by the door to the bogs. Gene had pushed through to one of the Wasps and with a hand squeezing the back of the man's neck, was issuing a strong warning, by the looks of it.
Alex heard Ray's voice raised in anger, and turned to see him react to whatever was said by a lanky man with dreadlocks. In any edgy situation Ray only had two instinctive reactions: laugh at it or hit it. He lashed out at the West Indian and the man staggered back, knocking a shaven-headed man off balance. In an instant there was a knot of men pushing and kicking and grunting at each other, trying to land punches.
Alex lunged at Ray, managing to grab a handful of t-shirt, and yanked him away from the dreadlocks. He swore later that he didn't hear her shout his name, and only felt somebody grab him. The adrenalin was racing; instinct spun him round, fist raised, and before he could stop himself, landed a right hook to the side of her jaw, sending her crashing backwards into a speaker stack and down to the floor.
She lay for a second, winded and semi-conscious, a spinning confusion of noise and pain and flashing lights. Then Ray was beside her, helping her sit up, alarm in the blue eyes, muttering something, her name, maybe. She struggled to sit up, get her legs beneath her, but they wouldn't work properly. Then a rush of movement and an enraged roar, and Gene dragged Ray to his feet before throwing a punch that sent the sergeant flying.
'Alex… Bolls...' Gene pulled her to her feet, but had to catch her as her knees buckled. Cursing at the state of her, he picked her up and pushed through the milling, scrapping crowd to the fire exit, shouldering through the door and making his way carefully down the metal stairs to the yard. Alex was deposited on a beer keg and felt Gene take her head between his hands and peer at her, frowning as he tried to look into her eyes.
'Shit. Can't see in this light. Bolls? How do you feel? Dizzy? Can you see straight?'
She tried to pull away from him, but the effort made her head spin and she almost tipped off her perch. Gene steadied her, a heavy hand on her shoulder.
'Christ, Bolls, you've probably got concussion. Bastard hit you hard.'
'I'll be all right, Guv. Give me five minutes. Fresh air and a bit of quiet and I'll be fine.'
'Too right. Here, Shaz, give me a hand.'
Shaz had followed them out and materialised at the Guv's elbow looking as worried as Minnie the Minx's mother.
Gene handed her his car keys. 'Get the door open.' He picked Alex up again and carried her through the piles of crates and kegs to the gate into Green Dragon Yard, and across to the Quattro. Sergeant Allam and a bunch of PCs crowded round, wanting to know what had happened, but Gene shooed them away. Setting Alex down, he lowered her into the passenger seat and squatted beside her. 'Do you feel sick? Talk to me, Alex.'
'If you let me get a word in edgeways, Guv…' She put a hand to her abused jaw and winced. 'Bruised, that's all. My head's buzzing, and I'm a bit shaky, but that's it. I'll be back there in a minute. You go – sort them out.'
Gene glared at her. 'You will not go back in there. Shaz – don't let her move. Not one inch till I get back. Understand?'
'Yes, Guv, don't worry.'
Alex raised a protest. 'Don't treat me like a child, Gene. I'll be fine in a minute.'
Gene swore under his breath and clenched his teeth in frustrated rage, then got to his feet. 'You're not up to the job, Drake. You're off the case for the rest of the night.' He turned and beckoned to the knot of uniformed officers standing by the van. 'Come on, you lot. Time to restore a bit of order.' He headed off at a run, sending a clutch of uniforms back up the fire exit and taking the rest round to the front.
Five minutes later the relative peace was exploded by the blare of sirens, announcing the arrival of more back-up. Alex opened the car door. 'Come on, Shaz, better get back. Make sure they're not cracking the wrong heads.'
'Ma'am! Hang on – you're not supposed to budge. The Guv'll kill me.' She scrambled out of the car and shot round to Alex's door, trying to stop her senior officer getting out. 'Please, Ma'am, get back in the car.'
Alex leaned against the Audi, hanging on to the open door. 'What rank are you, Shaz?'
'Detective Constable.'
'And what rank am I?'
'Detective Inspector.'
'I'm not going to break, Shaz. We don't want to miss out on this, do we?'
'Well no, Ma'am. But the Guv…'
'The Guv's a paternalistic chauvinist.'
'Maybe, but he's only worried about you. And Ray gave you quite a thump. You sure you're okay?
'Yeah. Everything aches, but most of me's in working order. Tell you what, though. I'm glad of these Doc Martens. I'd be rubbish in heels at the moment.' She grinned at Shaz and pushed herself upright. 'For god's sake lock the car. If it gets nicked the Guv will kill us both.'
They went round to the front of the pub to find uniforms steering bodies out of the building and into one of four police vans parked outside, blue lights flashing; one man, bar towel clamped to his bleeding skull, was being carried into an ambulance. Alex and Shaz pushed their way inside and up the stairs to find the melée all but over, Sergeant Allam orchestrating the removal of the tired and emotional, and the CID crew parcelling up the last few Wasps.
Gene was refereeing a discussion between what Alex guessed was the pub landlord and two gig organisers, his back to the door. So it was Ray who saw Alex first, and came at a run across the room to her. 'Boss… Christ, I'm sorry –'
Alex put up a hand to stop him. 'Save it, sergeant.'
He was desperate to make his peace, but Alex didn't want to deal with him. 'Go away, Carling. Go. Away.'
Gene had heard Alex's voice, and left DC Haan to sort out the aggrieved landlord. 'What the fuck are you doing here, Drake? I gave you an order to stay in the car.'
'Yeah, yeah. Told you, Guv, I'm fine. Don't fuss.'
That sent him up to the rafters. 'I'm not fussing, Drake, I'm reprimanding you. You're worse than useless to your colleagues or the general public when you're not fit to stand upright. Look at you. You're white as a Rizla.'
'That's the make-up –'
His eyes flashed. 'Don't answer me back. You can go and wait for me in the car, or you can get a cab and go home on suspension. Up to you.' He spat the last three words at her, furious and implacable.
Alex knew there was no point in arguing, so she went back to the Quattro. Only when she got there did she realise that Shaz had the keys. The police van, however, was unlocked, and there was a flask tucked by the handbrake that sloshed when she shook it. Tea, tepid and sweet, but she drank the lot and hoped Sergeant Allam would forgive her. She looked at her watch. Ten past one. It might be half an hour before Gene could get away. Her head was banging, her bruised body ached, she was fed up, dreading the drive home, and above all, bone tired. She curled up and closed her eyes.
She was woken abruptly when Gene wrenched open the van door. 'Out, Drake.' He was clearly still furious. She slid out of the van carefully, blinking to clear her vision. Gene looked much like the dragon in whose yard they were standing, teeth clenched, fire behind his eyes, hand outstretched. 'Give me the keys. Why aren't you in the car, like I told you?'
'Haven't got the keys, Guv. That's why I was in the van.'
'Who's got 'em, then?'
'Didn't Shaz give them back to you?'
He looked for a second as though he'd go supernova.
She realised how stupid a question that had been. 'That's a no, then.'
He spoke through his teeth, jaw clamped tight. 'Granger's gone back to the station.'
Alex tried really hard to stop the giggle escaping her, but failed. It didn't help. 'Sorry, Guv.'
PC Bird lobbed up at that point, sent by Sergeant Allam to fetch the van and take the plods back to Fenchurch East. Gene collared him.
'George, you're taking DI Drake and me back to the station now. One of my defectives has taken my car keys.' He pushed Alex back into the van and scrambled in after her.
'Er, Mr Hunt, I've got to pick the lads up.'
'We're five minutes from Fenchurch East. They can walk back. DI Drake here needs to see the quack, pronto.'
George Bird couldn't do much but obey the order, and Sergeant Allam was miffed to see his lads' transport whizzing past him. Bird's radio buzzed within seconds; Gene grabbed it from the driver's hand. 'The walk'll do you all good, Roger. Out.'
Outside the station, Gene gave PC Bird some messages to deliver. 'Tell whoever's on the custody desk to keep the Wasps separated. I don't want them concocting a story for the morning. If necessary, send some up to Bethnal Green. Caution everybody else unless they were using a weapon of any kind, and send them home.' He took a breath. 'Tell WDC Granger to give my car keys to Sergeant Carling and tell Carling to go back and fetch my car immediately. He is to fetch it, understand me? He is not to delegate the task. Then tell him he's to write his report tonight, before he goes home. I want it on my desk first thing, without fail.'
'Yessir.' PC Bird wasted no time and was through the station doors in a flash.
'Right, Drake. Let's get you sorted.' Gene gestured her out of the van.
'I don't need "sorting", Guv. I'm fine.' She was emphatic, but Gene wasn't listening. When she pulled her keys from her pocket, he took them from her hand and opened the street door, ignoring her protests. At least he didn't carry me up the stairs, she thought as she plodded the last few steps to her front door.
He opened up, shepherded her into the living room, and dropped the keys on the coffee table. 'Sit.' He pointed to the sofa.
She sat. It would be quicker and easier to let him fossick around than to fight him. She heard him crashing around in her kitchen, slamming cupboard doors and clattering about making tea. She was out of coffee. Hadn't fancied it since Maddox had laced the jar with poison.
He called through to her. 'Have you got any painkillers?'
'Paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet.'
She heard him in there rummaging, muttering impatiently, but couldn't hear what. Probably squeamish about Immac and Tampax, like most men, she thought.
Eventually he came in with a steaming mug in one hand and a glass of water in the other. 'Here.' He put the tea on the coffee table and handed her the glass. Tucked into his palm were two paracetamol, and he held them out for her to take.
'I thought they were for you.' She took the pills and swallowed them.
He frowned. 'No.'
She saw the knuckles on his right hand, skinned and sore-looking. 'That must hurt.'
Gene ignored her. 'Stand up a minute.'
She complied, and he pulled her to the middle of the room, under the overhead lamp. The bright light made her squint and protest.
'Shut up, Bolly, and look at me.' He held her head still and peered into her eyes. She could feel the heat coming off him; smell the smoke on his breath. The idea that he was close enough to kiss whisked through her mind, but she suppressed it. He let her go and held up his index finger. 'Follow my finger.' He moved it from side to side and watched her eyes move in synch. 'What's the date?'
She frowned, but answered easily. 'The sixteenth. Seventeenth by now.'
'Okay. Don't think you're concussed.'
Her head was grasped gently in his hands and he tilted it to one side, probing with surprising sensitivity at her bruised jaw with his surgeon's hands, the long fingers gentle on her skin. She hissed with pain and flinched away from his touch when he found a really sore spot.
'Hold still, Bolls. Trying not to hurt you…' He touched the place again and pressed gently around the area. 'Open your mouth wide.'
'What –?'
'Don't talk. Yawn. That's it.' He was feeling for movement where there shouldn't be any. 'Good. Any teeth feel loose?'
She probed her molars with her tongue. 'No. How come you're such an expert?'
'Boxing.'
'Ahh. Not a street fighter, then.'
'No.' He let her go and went to the window, looking down at the street.
'Any good?'
'I didn't win competitions, if that's what you mean. Ray Carling had the Manchester Police welterweight belt for three years running.'
'Can't say I'm surprised.'
'He's gone soft. Fifteen years ago he'd have broken your jaw, if not your neck.' He sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over his face.
'I'd offer you a drink before you go but I really think you need to get home, Gene. You look knackered.'
'Thanks.' He sounded sour.
She tutted. 'Don't be so touchy. It's been a long day. It's after two.'
'Right. I'll go, then. He collected his gloves from the kitchen as they went to the front door. He stood in the open doorway looking down at her, his face unreadable. The moment stretched and his expression changed subtly; she still couldn't read him but something was making her tremble. She started to lift a hand towards him, but the movement broke the airlock and he stepped out to the landing.
'No hurry in the morning, Bolly. Go to the doctor if you're dizzy or you feel like you're a bit pissed.'
'I will. Thanks. Night, Guv.'
He gave her a last long look, then turned away and walked downstairs.
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Having drunk her tea, tepid by the time she got to it, she had a long, scalding shower to wash the gel out of her hair and the memory of violence off her skin. Thought about Gene. Felt his hands on her face, felt his eyes burning into hers, his body close; felt her body react to the memory. Difficult, awkward man. More layers than puff pastry, if you could make puff pastry out of kevlar. She thought she knew him when she first arrived. Knew his type. She laughed to herself at her crass lack of perception. How quickly she'd judged him. In the last eighteen months all she'd learned was how little she knew of him. Most of the time she didn't have a clue what was going on behind the poker face; there had been fleeting moments when his emotions were raw and unguarded, but he kept himself behind lock and key when it came to what he thought about her. She'd given him plenty of cues, but either he didn't notice, wasn't interested, or… what?
She snapped off the shower and reached for her bathrobe, tying the belt with a yank. Grabbing a towel she draped it over her dripping head and rubbed her hair vigorously, wincing when she brushed against her jaw. Lovely dark blotch tomorrow. There had to be a Carling Black Label joke in there somewhere, but her sense of humour had gone AWOL.
Still rubbing her hair she wandered through to her bedroom. Dark figure standing against the window. Dark figure lunging at her, grabbing her before she had a chance to scream…
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Final chapter to come.
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