Author's Note: Firstly, I want to thank everyone for their reviews of the last chapter, and to commend some of you for your [frankly terrifyingly] close attention to detail.
This outtake is not, alas, a happy, fluffy piece everyone enjoys so much. This scene is set in an alternative universe where in Ultimatum instead of receiving good news, Neil and Jake receive bad news. As such, RN and its sequels never occurred. I played around a little with the telling of it - I hope that doesn't distract too much from the story itself.
This chapter is rated M for adult themes and swearing. I repeat: this is not a happy piece.
"Doesn't exactly look like the scene of a crime," Leon noted as he and Jo pulled up in a flurry of lights and sirens in the quiet suburban street. "You think Barton's Street having us on?"
The location of the call was actually on Barton Street's patch, rather than Sun Hill's. Barton Street had apparently had a rough day of it: they'd been chasing a carjacker all day, a serial rapist had been caught mid-afternoon, and this evening, there'd been an armed robbery at a very posh restaurant. When the call had come in from the reasonably posh neighbourhood about a single gunshot being fired, Barton Street's Superintendant had contacted Jack Meadows. Given the lack of any reported argument, the men had agreed it was probably a bogus call, but if it weren't, it would require a large police presence that Barton Street just wasn't able to handle.
Which was why Jo and Leon were merely the first to arrive on scene. Within minutes, a Trojan Unit had pulled up, followed by another Sun Hill patrol car containing Smithy and Kirsty.
Jo frowned as she saw the car in the driveway of the reported house, a gleaming dark grey Mercedes. It looked familiar for some reason. She dismissed the thought as she knocked on the caller's door. A middle aged portly man answered the door, puffing slightly from the exertion of coming down the stairs.
"You're finally here," he said with a posh kind of aggravated impatience. An equally overweight woman appeared behind him. Jo groaned inwardly: she looked like the gossipy type.
"He called ten minutes ago!" she supported her husband in an irritatingly nasal voice.
"What happened, sir?" Jo asked, ignoring the slight.
"Well, we were just sitting down to dinner when bam!" the man replied, demonstrating with his hands.
"Are you sure it was a gunshot?" Leon sounded sceptical, and truthfully Jo couldn't blame him.
"Definitely," the other man nodded fervently. "I'm a member of a pistol shooting club, you know –" Leon snorted and Jo shot him a glare. She didn't doubt the man was a member, but she suspected he would only ever be there to be noticed. "Definitely a pistol shot."
"What else can you tell us about your neighbours? Who lives there?"
"It's just this one gentleman," his wife answered for him, settling into a gossipy tone. "He must work shifts, because he's always coming and going at odd hours. He's divorced, but he has his child over during the holidays. Apart from when that boy is there, he lives alone. Of course, his neighbour Mrs Potter could tell you more, but she's been visiting her son in Brighton. I have noticed he wasn't home very much for the last few months, but then all of a sudden, over the past week or so, there's been a lot of people coming and going from the house. Something is definitely going on. The entire thing's rather suspicious, don't you think?"
The wave of trivial gossip had been delivered so fast and expertly Jo could do little more than blink. Luckily Leon rescued them as the woman was about to draw breath for a second tirade.
"Do you know his name, ma'am?"
The woman paused with a frown. "It's Nigel or something. The man is rather unfriendly, he only exchanges the barest of greetings and has never-"
"Thank you, ma'am," Jo interrupted hurriedly, sharing a glance with Leon. Neither were the least bit interested in what 'Nigel' had 'never done'. "We've got to go now, thank you for your help."
Not-so-delicately hurrying away, they updated Smithy, standing next to the recently-arrived CID contingent of Grace and Stevie.
"You feeling okay?" Jo asked Grace quietly in concern as Leon replied to Smithy's questions. The other woman had only just come back from medical leave, which she had been on for nearly a full month after being stabbed while posing as a kidnap victim's daughter during an undercover op. Max had failed to pull her out, despite the obvious danger to her.
That incident also explained Stevie's exhausted-looking state. The shorter woman seemed to be living on coffee fumes as Max had been suspended pending a full investigation. The DI had been missing in action over those couple of days, but had returned in recent weeks distracted and irritable to the point where most of CID privately wished Max was around instead. Stevie, who'd always had a bit of an inexplicable fond spot, had eventually been forced to speak to the Super. The Super had immediately been around more in CID, but had refused to say why he was reluctant to force the DI to take time off.
The Trojan unit commanding officer returned from scoping out the place. They reported to Smithy that the house in question was secure and there were no signs of movement, although what looked like an adult male was sitting on the couch in the downstairs living room area apparently watching TV.
"Gov," a strangely ashen-faced Stevie got off the phone. Smithy looked over, alerted by her tone that something was seriously wrong. "The owner of the house it's...well...it's Neil Manson."
The atmosphere suddenly grew more tense.
"We need to call the Superintendant," Smithy said slowly, pulling out his phone to do just that.
"All units, go go go!" Smithy's voice crackled through the radio, and Jo's team burst through the front door. There'd been no response to calls to the DI's mobile or home numbers, or to the repeated doorbell ringing. Jack had agreed that Smithy should move in despite his own absence.
The front door splintered beneath the assault, crashing inwards.
Jo peeled away with Leon and two armed officers, moving upstairs to the first floor. There, Leon and one of the armed officers continued to the second floor while Jo and her officer Billy searched the first.
The first floor consisted mostly of bedrooms. The first door to the left was obviously a spare room, and the room opposite it was a study. Both held no life. Then an empty bathroom. At the end of the hall was the master bedroom.
Jo felt a little strange as she pushed the creaky door inwards, but she needn't have worried. Neil's bedroom was as impersonal as the rest of the floor so far; old-style wooden furniture abounded, with simple dark grey sheets resting on a neatly made bed. It was strangely tidy, and Jo got the impression it hadn't been used much recently.
The last room on the first floor was the bedroom to the left of Neil's room. While it was obviously his son's room, from the football posters and toys spread everywhere, what really took Jo's attention was the drip stand next to the boy's bed.
Looking more closely around the room, it was evident someone ill had been there. The bedside table was cluttered with bottles of pills, Vick's vapour drops, tissues and Get Well Cards. The bed had obviously been recently slept in. Leon caught up with her at the stairs, reporting that the second floor had been similarly devoid of life. They trudged down the stairs, and towards where the other officers had congregated.
Jo edged forward, and stopped in her tracks like her colleagues.
Neil Manson was slumped backwards on his couch. A gun was loosely held in a hand that had evidently fired a shot into his open mouth, up and towards the brain stem.
He was dead.
The Trojan officers had been dismissed in the light of the evident suicide, leaving behind a small group of shaken Sun Hill officers.
Kirsty was being noisily sick in the DI's kitchen. It wasn't, she explained between bouts of vomiting to Jo, that she had been particularly close to or fond of the DI. It was more that he'd been nice to her once, and congratulated her on a good job only two days ago.
"Oh Jesus," the Super's familiar voice rang through the house.
Jo left Kirsty to clean herself up, and re-entered the lounge. Smithy and Leon had gone outside to co-ordinate the cordoning off of the DI's house – it would be treated as a crime scene until the official autopsy.
The Superintendant had Eddie in tow. For once, Eddie looked solemn as he almost hesitantly approached the body. The Superintendant merely stood, staring at the body sadly.
"Jesus," he repeated with a shake of his head.
"It's just so unexpected," Stevie said, looking at the coffee table in front of the DI. It was empty apart from a packet of cigarettes, unopened bottle of scotch and a clean glass, and a single sheet of paper.
"Not really when you consider his behaviour over the last few months," Grace said quietly. Jo frowned, a handful of select memories flooding back.
Four weeks ago: 1405 hours
"Governor?" Terry repeated irritably as the DI's gaze remained fixed on the briefing room board.
"What?" the DI snapped back venomously. "I was thinking, Terry, or would you prefer me to go blundering in blindly and end up getting one of my officers injured, especially as no one seems willing to stand up and take accountability for stopping an operation that's obviously gone sour? Unlike you, I want to avoid a repeat of last week!"
Terry flinched back. It was common knowledge he blamed himself for not rescinding Max's orders, but Jo had done her best to reassure him. Max's orders had been crystal clear, and as sergeant, Terry couldn't have done much more than what he had done.
Jo suspected the DI partially blamed himself for Grace's injury. He'd been absent that day, indeed, for the remainder of that week, but she knew he'd been made aware of Max's alleged drug use. Neil was probably blaming himself for not picking up on that, and on his return the week later, had been lashing out a lot at Terry.
Three weeks ago: 1829 hours
"Philippa, I'm on my way, okay?" the DI sounded exhausted as Jo walked past his office, catching a hint of the conversation. She lingered by the doorframe, just in earshot, curiosity piqued.
The only Philippa she knew the DI to have associated with was his ex-wife...who she'd last seen punching him in the face.
"You know it's no reflection on you," Neil continued, his voice strangely soft and gently."We've just got a routine. That's all." There was a pause. "It's okay, I understand. Hey, as long as I'm only your verbal punching bag...yeah. See you in a bit."
Moments later, a whirlwind of briefcase, coat and paper had raced out of his office, leaving Jo blinking in surprise after him.
Two weeks ago: 0754 hours
"DI Manson's going to be away for a while," the Superintendant looked unusually grim as he announced this to CID. Jo could see Stevie's shoulders slump from her place behind the Super. She couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of sympathy for her recently promoted friend who would now shoulder some of the DI's responsibilities in addition to the suspended Max's.
"Why?" Terry was still smarting over the large number of verbal lashings the DI had doled out to him the previous week.
"A family matter has arisen," the Super replied. He hesitated before adding, "it's a very serious family matter." Pausing to let that last comment sink in, his tone lightened a little as he clapped the officer standing next to him on the shoulder. "That being said, I'm glad to welcome DC Dasari back to the fold."
Everyone cheered as Grace blushed. Jo thought she was the only person to notice that Banksy and the Super remained solemn.
She wondered what Banksy knew.
One week ago: 1903 hours
"Oi, isn't that the DI?" Terry asked, nudging her and slopping some of his beer in the process.
Jo, along with everyone else in their little group, craned her head in the indicated direction. Sure enough, there was the DI sat at the corner of the bar, despite the fact he hadn't been to work today.
"Let's go find out why he's here," Mickey suggested a little drunkenly [despite the fact they'd only just arrived at the bar, the young man had downed several beers in the space of ten minutes like a pro]. Without waiting for a response, Mickey had started making his way over to the DI. Banksy followed with uncharacteristic haste.
The remaining members of the group looked at each other and shrugged before following. None of them wanted to miss out on learning more about their enigmatic DI.
"What's brought you here on your week off?" Mickey asked, settling himself in the stool next to their boss.
"Mind your own fucking business, Mickey," Neil spat almost reflexively, sounding more exhausted and numb than angry. The near-sympathy in Mickey's eyes crystallised into offence.
"Gov," Banksy said gently, touching the other man's shoulder. Neil stiffened visibly.
"Sorry Mickey," he muttered after examining his glass for a long moment. "Look, I'm just here to get drunk, okay? I don't want to talk about it."
He drained the glass and set it back down. There was a strained silence as they watched him order another drink, before they all silently left.
Ten minutes later, Jo was not the only one watching in curiosity as a tall, blond, upset-looking man sat himself on the empty bar stool next to their DI. The two men did not speak, but Neil did not shake off the arm the stranger placed around his shoulders as the other man ordered a drink for himself.
That Monday: 0748 hours
Jo felt bad as she headed upstairs to CID. It was only 8am, and here she was bearing another case she'd have to dump on the frazzled Stevie. [With the DI mysteriously absent again for last week and Max on suspension, Stevie was swamped].
It was possibly the only reason to explain why, for once, she was glad to see Neil Manson back in his office. With him back [hopefully for a bit longer], Stevie would have some of the load taken off, and hopefully Grace would stop moping around quite so much. Not that that was likely, given their strange little friendship seemed to have splintered recently under the strain of Neil Manson going through whatever crisis he was going through.
"Gov," she began briskly, giving a light perfunctory knock on his open door. She froze when he looked up at her from his reports in acknowledgement.
He looked dreadful. Paper-thin white skin stretched across his face, contrasting sharply with the deep, dark circles circumscribed under his eyes.
"Jo?" he prompted wearily. He was normally reasonably quietly spoken, as his air of authority meant he rarely had to raise his voice...but this morning he was hoarse and even quieter than normal.
"You look like crap," she said bluntly, shaking her head. He cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow, so she unhurriedly tacked on a belated 'sir'.
"Gee, thanks," he said dryly.
"What's the matter?" she asked sympathetically. His face tightened and he looked down to his desk.
"Nothing anyone can help with," he said with a tone of finality. "What's the case?"
She knew better than to try to work around that tone. Halfway through briefing him on the case, a rape case that bore an eerie similarity to one from the previous week, she felt a looming presence behind her. She stopped, half-turning to see the Superintendant with a strange expression on his face in the doorway of Neil's office.
"Neil," she'd never heard Jack speak so kindly to the younger man before. "What are you doing here?"
"Doing reports," the smart answer came without the usual spark of defiance and humour.
"Neil," Jack's tone held warning and sympathy both.
"Jack, please," it was the closest to pleading Jo figured she'd ever hear the DI. "What else am I supposed to do?"
Jack sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Okay," he acquiesced quietly and reluctantly. "But if there are any problems –"
"Yeah," Neil cut him off. And that was that – the DI was back. If you could call the ghost of the man drifting numbly around the department DI Neil Manson.
Jo was jolted back to the present by the continuation of the conversation.
"Yes, but it seems like he just expects everyone to understand why he's been like that for the last few months," Eddie said, picking up one of the two pieces of paper after the table had been photographed. "It's not really much of a suicide note–"
"So it's definitely suicide, Eddie?" Grace asked quietly, looking pale.
"Oh yeah," Eddie nodded, looking at the body briefly. "No doubt. The angle, the placement...The note's the only unconvincing thing, listen: 'Philippa – for the first time in my life I hope you're right. Ricky – I love you and yours, but this was always going to end this way. Thanks anyway. And to us – Sun Hill, sorry for being unbearable.' Doesn't really give much of a clue, does it?"
"Jake died last week," Jack said suddenly, eyes still fixed on the body of his DI. "His son died last week of leukaemia."
"What?" suddenly the DI's behaviour and absences, Jake's bedroom...they all made sense.
"Leukaemia," Jack repeated, finally looking away from the body. "Jake was diagnosed with leukaemia over two months ago. Five weeks ago the first line treatments failed, two weeks ago the last treatments failed and they brought him here and last week Jake died."
"And," Eddie added to the timeline, picking up the other piece of paper from the coffee table and holding it up. It was a receipt stapled to a copy of a gun license. "Nearly six weeks ago, Neil Manson bought a gun."
Author's Note Part II: I've always thought it highly likely that Neil suffered from some kind of undiagnosed and untreated depression. He was moody to begin with, but after his divorce I saw him as falling away from most of his friends as well, and throwing himself into his work. Add to this the prospect of losing his son and future redemption...
I don't want to explain this story too much, but I think I should clarify a couple of things in the note. I've always thought of Neil as an atheist, but of Philippa as someone who believes in God and the afterlife...just not organised religion. Ricky is the same "Uncle Rick" who is Jake's godfather and the blond man in the pub - Neil's best friend, a doctor, and someone who was trying to help him through it.