His fist clenched around the handset as somewhere in the distance he heard the click telling him that Manson had ended the call, and was thus nearer to returning to his old territory. But this was Max's territory now and he wasn't about to give it up. Still with the phone in hand, he looked out through the slatted blinds into his department, watching the quiet movements of his team. They might not like him, some of them might often hate him in fact, but they couldn't deny that they ran slickly and CID results had never been so good. The rarity of appearances by Meadows was testament to that. Heads were down and chat was minimal, or at least kept in the pub away from his ears, where Tommy Leighton was such a valuable resource. Personal relationships were actively discouraged from entering the building, making the arrival of the red head all the more uncomfortable, not least for him. Finally replacing the receiver he scanned the room for her, suddenly curious where she was and with whom. That was why he didn't want personal relationships in his team, they interfered with the thought process. His unwilling curiosity however turned suspicious when he found her, perched on a desk in front of the television with Tommy, presumably watching the CCTV footage. They weren't sitting too close, but close enough that when Tommy leant forward his arm brushed against hers and then again as he leant back. Too coincidental to be accidental. And Millie didn't make any effort to put some space between them either. What was she playing at? Perhaps she found him attractive, perhaps she liked it, perhaps she wanted ... He swore softly under his breath, suddenly aware that he was letting Manson's imminent arrival cloud his judgement already.

"So, you think this guy," she pointed to the man wearing the balaclava on the screen, "is the same as this guy here?" Millie waved a grainy printed picture of a figure.

"Yeah. That's what I think," Tommy smiled at her as he sat back onto the desk, his wrist sliding along her bare forearm as he did. Such smooth skin, pale, delicate looking, not his type. Surprised that she was the Guvnor's type really, but then, he mused, did that really matter. If the flesh was pliant and willing, then why not? Besides, who knew what went on behind closed doors. Maybe she was insatiable underneath, it was always the quiet ones. Maybe Max was the one who struggled to keep up, in every way. Or perhaps they liked to enjoy themselves with the aid of a few toys. He smirked to himself at the thought of Millie, dominatrix style with a submissive Max crawling at her feet.

Millie didn't flinch but she couldn't help feeling that he was closer than she would like, particularly when she could sense the green-eyed ogre somewhere behind her. Ignoring both men stoically, she continued. "Why? What makes you think that?"

"Watch this," he rewound the footage, "watch his right arm as it comes into view." Obediently, Millie did as she was told.

"A tattoo, can't see what it is though."

"No, but I'm working on that. Even so, now look at the picture."

Millie peered at it closely, she could just about make out something on the right arm of the man. "Looks like it could be similar. Long shot though, Sarge."

"Best we've got at the moment. When I get a clearer image from the footage, perhaps you could show it to Fleischman."

Millie bit her lip, still coming to terms with Georgie's likely involvement in whatever had sparked Carly's abduction. "I suppose … maybe he'll recognise it."

Tommy glanced at her, noting her tone of sorrow. He touched a hand to her arm, "Millie, if you-"

She did pull away from his touch this time. She might have felt at home in this building once, but not anymore. Her relationship with its DI changed everything. There seemed to be eyes everywhere that mistrusted her, or, as now, wanted something from her, or him. Suddenly she longed for the safe haven and relative anonymity of Barton Street, patrolling with Su or with others who knew Max only by reputation rather than experience. Where she really was one of the team.

"I'll do it, of course," she interrupted abruptly, "sort out a picture for me and I'll take it straight over. Hopefully it will mean something to him. Does Max know about it?"

Her obvious familiarity with his Guvnor put Tommy on the back foot this time. "Er, no. Not yet. Haven't seen him off the phone since I came back up with this."

"Right, well, will you fill him in?"

"No, no need. You do it. He scares me a little, and as you said, it's a long shot," Tommy winked, regaining his composure. "I'll let you take the flack," he continued over his shoulder as he stood and took a step away from the desk. As he walked away, Millie couldn't help taking in the fluid movement of his body, shirt tucked into jeans over a torso that screamed masculinity. Guiltily she tore her eyes away, something dragging them to look behind her. She half turned, looking back out of the corner of her eye and then, unable to resist the pull, straight into the furious glare of her very own ogre.

-ooOoo-

Max swore again. If there had been one, he'd owe a fortune to the departmental swear box by the end of the day. The look Millie gave him over her shoulder as she half turned, lips parted and eyes obscured by her lashes, just as in the pencil sketch in their home. The drawing he coveted, the one she had once tried to destroy in rage. Except now she was fully clothed, no hint of breast to enticed him, but he knew it was there and that knowledge was enough to make his palms itch to get near her to make sure there was no doubt in where her affection lay. He clamped his hands to his hips and clenched his jaw. Of course there was nothing between her and Leighton, he knew that at once, angry with himself for allowing pointless suspicions to play games with the deep set insecurity in his mind, wasting his time and sapping his energy. This was down to Manson and his 'offer' of 'help'. The sooner Max could get him and his sidekick out, the better.

However, Millie's expression brought him back to the present, suddenly realising that she was misreading his thoughts and he turned back to his office, only hearing her footsteps following him as he reached his desk.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Max," she sighed, "I know when something is wrong. I know when you are hiding something from me."

Max regarded her for split second, wondering how best to take her question. Was she referring to his behaviour just now or about Fleischmann in general? Or both? Probably both. "I've had a call from SOCA. They are coming in, 'to help'," he couldn't quite manage to keep the contempt out of his voice.

"Do we need help?"

Max raised his hands in frustration. "No, at least I don't think so, but it's not my choice, is it," he snapped and spun away from her, not entirely convinced that she believed his explanation.

Millie frowned, someone always had to bear the brunt of his anger. Usually at home she could deflect him or tick him off, depending on her mood, but here in the office it was different. Sidling up to him and strategically placing her hand on his body to take his mind elsewhere wasn't acceptable even in the relative privacy of his own office. It wasn't just that there were people around; it was also that there was a line which should not be crossed, they both respected that, it was why she left Sun Hill in the first place.

Max prayed she wouldn't ask who was coming in from SOCA, she didn't know Manson all that well but might want to hang around long enough to hear what he had to say. If that happened she might figure out that Max's interest in the family Fleischmann pre-dated Carly's abduction and then he'd have to explain himself before he was ready, before he had sufficient reason to give for investigating her Godfather. Aware that Millie was waiting for some sort of apology or at least conceding that he'd spoken too harshly, Max was relieved when Leighton appeared at the open door, his accent cutting through the tension in the small room.

"Millie? Got it," he waved a picture at her to take. "It's the best the guys can do for now, although if they can, they'll let us have a cleaner image later today." He glanced at Max in acknowledgment of his presence before returning to Millie, "I'll leave it with you," he murmured conspiratorially, leaving the room.

"Thanks, Sarge." Millie studied the picture, grateful for the excuse to end the stalemate.

"What's that?"

"A picture of a man DS Leighton has linked from the CCTV at the salon to CCTV on surrounding roads. A long shot, but I said I'd take it over to Georgie to see if he recognises the guy. He's got distinctive tattoo, still pretty poor image quality, but it might be enough for Georgie to recognise."

"Why didn't I know about this?"

"You've been on the phone for ages apparently."

"Oh, right. Well, DS Leighton should have brought it to me first, instead of …"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie."

"He was all over you."

"No he wasn't," Millie scoffed.

"Well, he was sitting too close. And you didn't stop him."

"Don't be ridiculous," but she smiled at his jealous petulance. "I'm off. I'll call you."

Max breathed a sigh of relief as she left, Manson might walk in at any time. For all he knew, Neil was in a car around the corner, and Max couldn't risk Millie being in the station when he arrived.

-ooOoo-

A key scraped clumsily in the lock alerting Carly from her amateur origami efforts with the sandwich packet, it was quite difficult to be intricate with nail extensions like hers but she was fairly proud of her first attempt. She wondered if she would get another packet for a second go. The door opened and no matter how she had steeled herself for this first encounter with her gaoler.

"Get up." Carly didn't move but instead stared up at the man with contempt. "I said get up!" Still she remained defiantly on the floor, leaning back against one of the crates. She slowly flicked at a fingernail with a thumb, the clicking noise exaggerated in the silence, reverberating off the bare walls. His eyes widened in hot fury, without words she was belittling him. Again. She'd done that once before, humiliated him in front of his mates on the door of her father's club. Now he had the chance to get even, no better than that, he'd make her sorry she had ever seen him. She was every girl who had ever laughed at him, every girl who had ever rejected him, every girl who had said not even if he was the last man on earth. Roughly he reached down and grasped a handful of her hair in his fist. That got her full attention, she yelped in pain as he dragged her to her feet and back across the room.

"Bastard! Let go!" she screamed. "You fucking bastard! Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is?"

"Yes I fucking do." He jerked his hand in her hair, eliciting a further yelp from her. She grabbed at his hand but he caught her and twisted her arm behind her back, propelling her forward through the open door. And directly into another room containing a chair and table.

"You're going to pay for this," she raged. "Ow! Don't pull at my hair like that! Ow! If you pull out my extensions … When my Dad get gets hold of you-"

"Shut up."

"No! I won't fucking shut up."

He shoved her against the wall, just as filthy as those in her prison, her cheekbone slamming hard into its gritty roughness bringing another gasp of pain.

"Yes, you fucking will, bitch," he whispered into her ear, "and what makes you think you Daddy is going to get hold of me? What makes you think your Daddy is ever going to get hold of me? Daddy's not going to save you now." He gave her another shove. "Stupid bitch."

She was breathing heavily now, her eyes wide with fear, tears threatening to fall. This was real, clearly not some sort of game to frighten her. She swallowed, using the pain in her cheek and scalp to focus her mind into survival, to conquer her fear. Being scared would get her nowhere. Her silence appeared to appease the man enough that he slackened his hold.

"Sit down."

Carly thought about defying him. But it didn't seem that would be a clever thing to do. With all the dignity she could muster she allowed him to guide her to the chair. As she sat she noticed the implements on the table next to her. A knife and a large pair of scissors. She gripped the seat of the chair to hide her trembling. His possible intentions raced through her mind but she clenched her jaw tightly and lifted her chin. She wouldn't beg, no matter what. And she wouldn't make it easy for him, meeting his eyes with unadulterated hatred.

He picked up the knife and pressed the point to her bruised cheek. "You move, and I'll cut you. And I'll enjoy it. Understand?" Carly didn't answer, her throat was too tight to make any noise and she didn't dare nod in case the knife point pierced her skin. "Understand?" he demanded again, applying further pressure to the knife but not quite enough to draw blood.

"Yes," she finally found herself able to whisper back and exhaling in relief as he drew the knife away and took a step back. His eyes appraised her, but not in the admiring way she was used to. He made her feel dirty, worthless. Suddenly he grabbed a handful of her hair again and began to roughly hack at it with the knife. He continued for several seconds, sawing away but succeeding in only pulling out a few strands. In her surprise Carly forgot her promise to stay still, her hands flew to her head. "You wanker, do you have any idea how much this weave cost? Bastard! You're so going to fucking pay for this!" The next thing she knew she had fallen from the chair and hit the ground with a thud, her head spinning from his fist into the side of her head. Then, as she regained her senses, she heard the shearing sound of the scissors efficiently cutting the precious waves of hair from her head, stripping her of everything she was.