Jaspan was already ploughing into a plateful of eggs, rosti and bratwurst when Alex came down to breakfast on Thursday morning, and he grinned at her brazenly. 'Fry-ups are still legal in 1982. My wife hasn't let me have a sausage since 2004.'

Alex narrowed her eyes at him. 'Would you care to rephrase that? At Fenchurch East that could be construed as fighting talk.'

'Oh, go on – have a sausage. Nobody will know.'

Alex stuck her nose in the air with a flourish and went to get herself a bowl of fruit. Jaspan sneered at the dull option, and Alex speared a chunk of his bratwurst from under his nose, eating it before he could snatch it back.

'Bloody women! You take the moral high ground, but you're bloody devious all the same.'

'You're beginning to sound like Gene Hunt, Jim, and you've only been working for him for a couple of weeks. You'd better get back to Manchester before you turn into Gene's Mini-Me.' She threw him a wicked look through her eyelashes, and giggled.

'I'll have you know I'm the very model of a modern CID man.'

Alex gave him an old-fashioned look and ate a grape. 'Who are we meeting today?'

He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and scanned it, frowning over the complex German titles. 'Polizeioberkommissar Matthias Klostermayer of the Bavarian SEK – he knows everything there is to know about the Oktoberfest bombing two years ago. Tomorrow a big knob is coming down from Bonn – Ulrich Strauss. He's the blokein GSG9 who knows all about the neoNazis and Operation Gladio. Then we can go home and catch the fuckers who are playing with matches in our capital city. But not before you've told me about you and Gene Hunt, or before we've worked out what the fuck we're all doing in 1982.'

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Matti Klostermayr, a graduate officer in a sharp suit, showed the English visitors some of the evidence from the Munich bombing two years earlier. 'It was a pipe bomb made from a fire extinguisher; it was filled with one and a half kilos of TNT and some mortar shells, and this killed thirteen people and injured 200 more. Last year we found over thirty stores of arms buried in a forest by a member of a right wing group called Wehrsportgruppe Hoffman. The Oktoberfest bombing had the marks of a Gladio attack; such a huge arsenal of weapons and explosives suggests that this was not simply a group of amateur neo-Nazis. They must have had some influential army connections.'

Alex watched her colleagues as they went through the evidence, and wondered what Gene would make of them. Young, bright, well educated, urbane, European – the future of policing. It would drive him to drink.

'…Alex?'

'Sorry, Jim, what?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Matti's asked us to dinner. OK with you?'

Alex smiled at Matti. 'Yes, lovely. Thanks, Matti.'

'You're welcome, Alex. If you would like to try some traditional Bavarian food, there is a nice place behind the Marienplatz.'

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Before dinner on Thursday, Alex tried to ring him, reckoning that with the hour's difference he should still be at the office, but it was Ray that picked up. 'The Guv's gone home for his father in law's funeral. Back at weekend, I suppose.'

Alex felt deflated, hurt that Gene hadn't let her know, but realising that for Gene, out of sight was probably out of mind. His family was none of her business, either, so why would he think she should know? Stupid Alex, you're making too much of a few kisses. He wants you, certainly, but more than that? Two and two don't make five. Don't assume that he wants you for anything else. Except work – and most of the time, not even that. He didn't trust her enough to tell her who attacked him, after all. And he'd said nothing more about Miranda. How involved had he been – had he been in love with her? And what about Harry – why was Gene so angry about Haggerty? What had the weasel said to him? She had a sudden, horrible thought. Was it Harry who'd attacked Gene two weeks ago?

The phone buzzed, making Alex jump. It was Jaspan, ready for dinner.

'Oh, god, Jim – sorry. Ten minutes. See you downstairs…'

Matti Klostermayr was good company and brought out the clown in Jaspan, so Alex spent most of the evening giggling. It took her mind off things at home, but once back in her room, alone with her thoughts, she was plagued by fears and uncertainty about Gene.

It didn't take long to hit the familiar swamp of confusion about reality. She'd been so immured in this world that she'd almost accepted her place in it, learned to live out of her time, ceased to think of the people around her as anything but solidly, inescapably alive. How could all this be her imagination? It was too much, far too much for her mind to have created. London she knew well, but Munich? The scent of blossom on the Marienplatz, the flavours of Bavarian food, the complex structure of the German police force, every unfamiliar, unimaginable detail of her journey.

And there was Gene. Every unfamiliar, unimaginable detail. Not just of the man, but of her feelings about him. She'd despised the man Sam Tyler had described, perhaps more than she'd expected because of the unwelcome frisson, the undeniable chemistry between them from the moment she arrived. She hadn't wanted to want him – a Northern, pig-headed thug, however effective a copper. But she'd discovered so much more to him. Little by little, she'd seen facets of his character that had taken her by surprise, even shocked her. His kindness, the innate sense of fairness that would override his prejudices; his uncanny instincts about people. His strength. His vulnerability. Full of contradictions, he was an impossible man. Like no-one else she'd met; no-one she could have imagined. Gene Hunt – a trusted friend? Crazy. But she did trust him. Loved him. Want his arms around me, keeping the world at bay. Feel so safe with him. So alive. Want to look into those beautiful eyes, want to fall asleep in his arms, wake up with him every morning.

Then – stabbed by the memory of Molly in her bed, the silky hair tickling her face, the sharp little shoulders jabbing into her ribs as her child wriggled close for comfort. Alex cried out with the pain of it. She'd pushed Molly into a dark corner, couldn't cope with the ever-present ache of missing her, the compulsion to get back to her fighting with the growing love for a 1980s anomaly, the astonishing reality of Gene Hunt.

I'm going to be ripped in half when I'm forced to choose. There is no choice – home is with Molly. But please god, please don't make me decide. If you take me away from here, make me forget. If I have to lose Gene, I don't want to remember. Too much pain – it'll kill me.

She slept, eventually, but woke with a head full of cotton wool, eyes sore with crying. Got to talk to him. Get him away from everything, wrap myself round him, have all that strength and warmth to myself. Want to be driven out of my mind with wanting. To forget everything but him. Want to hear him shout my name as he comes, to hold him as he falls asleep in my arms…

Her body ached for him, a physical craving only partly satisfied by the jet of water from the efficient German shower. No substitute for his tongue, his fingers…. oh god… Gene… If anything, it made things worse. She thought about him all morning, had to be kicked sharply on the ankle by Jaspan when she failed to respond to Matti's questions about Jack Carteret.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Alex had explained the connections between English establishment, neo-Nazi Catholics, and the Hindu fundamentalists, Matti Klostermayr puffed out his cheeks and blew out a long breath. 'That seems very, ah, what is the word…'

'Far-fetched?' Jaspan prompted him.

'Far-fetched, ja.'

'Doesn't it just. It would be so much easier if we could pin it on the IRA. But there are links in to all these political and religious organisations, like Operation Gladio and Opus Dei, and in the middle of it all is this one family, the Grenvilles.'

'What do they want? This is costing them a great deal of money.'

Jaspan nodded. 'I don't think Grenville is short of cash. And there must be other influential names backing him, but he is staggeringly well-connected and we haven't yet discovered who his backers are. As far as we can see, it's a political agenda. Grenville is linked with the British Democratic Party, and even his daughter accuses him of being racist.'

Matti scribbled some notes. 'This sounds very like the strategia della tensione in Italy. You know about the massacre in December 1980 in Bologna? But it has been going on since 1969.'

'Strategy of tension – this was far right activists using false flag terrorism to feed people's fear about the Italian communists?'

'Exactly. It sounds like your Mr Grenville is trying to turn people against Hindus. All Asians, maybe.

Alex remembered Lucilla Grenville's bitter accusations. 'It also allowed them to get rid of what they saw as the taint in their own family. For a British fascist to have a Bengali son-in-law must have been somewhat galling.'

Tearing a page of his notepad, Matti got to his feet. 'Excuse me for a few minutes. I want to make a call to a friend in Milan who might be able to help you.'

Within half an hour, Matti had arranged for Jaspan to fly to Milan in the morning to meet a journalist, Flavio Zanetti. 'He is the expert on the strategia della tensione, Operation Gladio, P2, everything you need.'

'Journalist? We've issued D notices on all this in the UK. If our media know we're briefing an Italian hack, they won't be so happy about keeping things hush-hush'

'It's OK, Alex. Zanetti can be trusted. He will want the… prize?'

'The scoop.'

'…the scoop, in Italy, when you are ready. It will pay him to be discreet, and he may find out some things for you faster than is possible for the police. Zanetti has an address book that many people would kill for.'

'Literally, I suppose. How does he survive?'

'No-one knows. No-one wants to know…' Matti smiled wryly.

Friday saw Jaspan jet off to Milan, while Alex stayed in Munich to see Ulrich Strauss. In Manchester, Gene went to Reg's funeral, and in London a second Panzerfaust was fired, this time at the Synagogue in St John's Wood. The missile hit the building but failed to detonate. Under the D Notice issued to the press, the incident was reported, but not the details of the weapon or its connection to earlier attacks.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Alex got to Heathrow late on Saturday night hoping that someone would be there to collect her, but she was out of luck. She knew Gene was in Manchester, but thought he might have told Chris or Duffy to come and get her. But no. Her return obviously hadn't crossed his mind. She looked at the signs for the Piccadilly Line, but it was nearly midnight, and it was a good hour's trek by tube to Tower Hill. Fuck it. Sod 'em. They can bloody well pay for a cab. Furious, hurt, and tired, she hurled her case into the back of a taxi and brooded all the way back to the flat. Bloody Gene bastard Hunt. He can be generous when he wants something, like a shag, but when he's getting nothing out of it, hard cheese, DI Drake.

Her period was giving her gip, there was no chocolate in the flat, and the heating was off. Sodding Luigi, useless bloody landlord. She didn't sleep well, spending most of the night convincing herself that Gene just wanted a shag, probably trying to win a bet with CID over how long it would take him to crack her. She'd made a complete tit of herself, begging him for sex, for god's sake. Maybe it was a means of getting rid of her. Perfect way of manipulating me into transferring out. And a shag. What a deal. And wouldn't Ray Carling just love it. The Manc Lion knocks off another lovestruck bird, and Bollyknickers vacates the premises. Beers all round.

Maybe a transfer wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe Brian Cruickshank would give her a job. Special Branch would get right up Gene's nose. She was qualified for it, and she could handle it. Spooks. She could do that. Or maybe go up to Manchester. Work with Jaspan. Sounded as though they were modernising at GMP now that Attila the Hunt had gone south.

She looked at her clock. Five to four. She could get up, make tea, open her post, put the washing on, pretend she'd slept. Or she could shut her eyes and

She looked at her clock. Two minutes past ten. Shit. I'm late. She flung back the duvet, then remembered. Sunday. Off duty. She got up anyway, showered, dressed, drank too much coffee and ate a boiled egg sandwich. Bloated and wired, she caught the bus to the London Hospital and walked miles through the green painted corridors to the children's ward.

'Can I see Nicole Cazneau? I'm one of the police officers investigating the case.'

The young staff nurse smiled at her, but looked nervous and trotted off to find the ward sister.

'You're looking for Nicole?'

'Yes please, Sister. DI Drake. I'm…'

'Yes. I'm afraid Nicole has had to go back to Intensive Care. No visitors, sorry.'

'Oh, god – what's happened?'

'She's developed an infection. It should be under control in the next couple of days, but no visitors in ICU, I'm afraid.'

'Give her my love. I'll be back to see her. Can I say hello to the boys?'

'Yes. Mirza and Firoz are across the corridor.'

Alex pushed through the double doors and looked for the boys she knew. Firoz was in the corner bed and Mirza… Six year old Mirza was there, sitting up and giggling at something his visitor was telling him. Alex didn't move, but watched him talking to the boy. Gene was in full flow, gestures, voices, movement – it was like watching Jackanory. Mirza was entranced. He's brilliant with kids. Maybe…

Mirza caught sight of her and waved, grinning. Gene turned to see who the child had spotted, and for a split second he looked happy to see her, before the shutters came down.

'Hello, Bolly. Glad to be back from München?' He turned back to Mirza. 'Mönchengladbach – get it? Footie joke – girls don't get 'em.'

The child giggled.

'Don't listen to him, Mirza. I can explain the offside rule, and I can tell you if your team wins the FA Cup in the next twenty-five years. Who do you support?'

'West Ham. Do they win?'

Alex put her hands in her back pockets and chewed her lip. 'Umm… Don't know offhand, but I'll find out for you. Gene isn't interested in winning things. He's a Manchester City man.'

'I know. He told me all the names of the first team, and who's scored this season, and when he met Francis Lee…'

'I'd probably support ManU if I came from up North. Or Liverpool. Nice red shirts.'

Gene picked up his cue. 'See? Girls. Useless. They pick teams for the colour of their kit.' He tutted dramatically, waggling his eyebrows. Mirza giggled. It was a good sound.

'How's Firoz?'

Mirza looked across at his friend. 'He's only got one eye now. He hasn't been out of bed yet. He has to pee in a bottle. His dad cries when he visits, and Firoz says it makes him sad. He sometimes pretends to be asleep so he doesn't have to talk to his dad.'

'Shall we go and talk to him for a bit?'

Mirza nodded. Gene and Alex padded across to the corner bed and sat next to each other so the child didn't have to turn his head to see them. A bandage covered half his head, his left eye covered over and the other closed, looking sunken in the thin face. His arms, resting limply on the blankets, were desperately thin. Alex took the boy's bony hand and saw Gene take the other. She felt the tears well up and tried to blink them away, but had to wipe away one that fell to her cheek. Gene glanced at her, his own eyes bright with a sheen of moisture; he took her free hand in his and squeezed it.

'Hello, Firoz. My name's Gene, and I'm here with Alex. We've just been talking to Mirza and he said you're sometimes a bit sad so we thought we'd come and say hello.' He paused to see if the boy would respond, but his unbandaged eye stayed shut.

'The last time we came you were still in intensive care, so it's great that you're up here on the getting-better ward.' Gene squeezed his hand gently.

'When you're really better, Firoz, will you come and see us where we work? We're police officers. Our station is quite close to where you live, near the Tower, so you could get the bus down with your dad and come in for a visit.' Alex stroked her thumb across the little hand.

'And if you fancy it, you can come for a ride in my car. Your dad'll like my car. Tell him it's a Quattro. Red. I'll get Alex to give it an extra clean for you.'

Alex gasped. 'Cheek. He should clean his own car, don't you think, Firoz?'

The boy was nodding. Not much, and his eye was still shut, but he was definitely nodding. And there was the hint of a smile.

'See, Gene? Firoz agrees with me. That's a cream cake for you, Firoz, and crisps.'

'Firoz is just being a gentleman, Alex. I bet he really thinks you should be nice and clean it for me, but he's too polite to say so. Aren't you, Firoz?'

The boy opened his eye, and his face split into a shy smile.

They stayed for another five minutes and played the fool; Mirza got out of bed and hobbled across to join in. When the ward sister came in, she found the two boys chuckling.

'Don't want to exhaust the boys, officers. Better make a move, please.'

'Oh, don't go!' Mirza hung on to Gene's arm.

'We'll come back another day. Promise.'

The boy grinned when Alex kissed his cheek. Gene ruffled his hair, and they stood up.

Firoz reached a hand to him. 'Come tomorrow?' His reedy voice was barely audible.

Gene took his hand. 'We'll come back whenever we can. But I won't promise tomorrow, because making promises that you're not sure you can keep isn't right, is it?'

Firoz shook his head.

Gene bent and kissed the boy's head, and got a grin as a reward. He squatted down and hugged Mirza, and Alex kissed him, too.

Once outside, Gene turned to Alex and pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. Then he let her go and slumped against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb. 'Christ.'

'You were brilliant. You got them both laughing.'

'We did. Make a good team, Bolls.'

'You were doing fine when I turned up.'

'Did better with you there.' Gene levered himself upright. 'Come on. I need a fag.'

Out in the weak sunlight they perched on a wall and he lit up, sucking the nicotine down into his lungs then exhaling a long stream of smoke which drifted on the cool breeze. Propping his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head and closed his eyes. Alex's heart contracted, seeing him with the weight of the world on his shoulders. She put a hand on his neck, rubbing gently; he grunted softly. 'Nice…'

'You OK?'

'Just old. So fucking tired, Bolls.'

'What's happened?'

'One thing after a bloody other.'

'Tell me.'

No response. She waited, but he stayed silent.

'Gene?'

He took a long drag on his ciggie and sat up. 'Compared to the kid in there? Nothing.'

'Why won't you talk to me?'

'I'm not in the mood, okay? Stop nagging me.'

She clenched her teeth to stop herself snapping at him. 'How was Manchester? Sorry to hear about your father in law.'

'Yeah.'

'Were you close?'

'Alex – I'm really not in the mood.'

'Fine. Sorry I asked.'

Gene heaved a great sigh, took a last drag and flicked the fag end into the flowerbed. 'How was Germany?'

'Oh, you sound really interested.'

'Know what? I'm not. Couldn't give a flying fuck, right at this moment.'

'Thanks a bunch.'

'Oh, for f…'

She snapped. 'Make your bloody mind up, Gene. I thought you'd be pleased to see me.'

'I am Or I was. I said so.'

'When would you have got in touch if I hadn't turned up here?'

'I don't know. Maybe when we'd both had some sleep.'

'Oh, right. When we got to the office tomorrow, then.'

'Maybe, yes. I thought you'd be tired. I know I'm sodding exhausted.'

'Not so keen to see me as you were on Wednesday.'

'Nothing's changed.'

'You won't talk to me, you don't care what we've found out in Munich, you leave me to come home on my own last night, you….'

'I was in Manchester. You knew that.'

'Only because I phoned you and had to hear it from bloody Ray.'

'There you go. You were told.'

'Not by you.'

'Oh, Christ…' He got to his feet and walked a few paces before turning back to her, eyes blazing. 'All right. Sorry I didn't ring Germany to tell you I had to go to a funeral of someone you've never heard of. Sorry Reg didn't die at a time more convenient to you. Sorry I wasn't in two places at once. Sorry you were forced to walk home from Munich. Sorry I was bloody born!' He snarled, the rage barely contained.

'Don't you bloody shout at me. I was trying to help…'

'There's nothing you can do, Alex.' He spat the words out, and grabbed his head in despair. 'Jesus… I can't handle this crap.' He stalked off round the corner, leaving Alex open-mouthed. She slumped back down on the wall and cursed herself for a fool.

Ten seconds later Gene reappeared. 'Come on. I'll take you home.'

Alex stared at him, then heard herself spit out: 'Don't bother. I'll take the bus.'

For a moment Gene looked as though she'd slapped him. Then the anger blazed. 'Sod you, then.' And he vanished.

Alex went after him. 'Gene. Gene!'

He didn't stop till he reached the car. He threw one scathing look in her direction, got in and slammed the door, firing the engine and making her jump out of the way as the Audi's tyres squealed on the tarmac.

xxxxxxxxxx

Alex was back in half an hour, time enough for bitter regret to turn to tears; her vision blurred, she almost fell off the bus. Trailing round from the bus stop in Leman Street, the first thing she saw when she turned the corner into Scarborough Street was the Quattro. Her heart thumped, either with fear or joy, she didn't know which. Both. She knew she'd been a complete shit, and that Gene had every right to be angry. Not enough sleep, too much oestrogen. No excuse for being an über-bitch, but he was here to give her another chance, thank god. Still a hope she could apologise, make him stay, hold him while he slept, or talked, or whatever he needed. Then, maybe, just maybe, he'd make love to her. She ran down to the bar.

Luigi beamed when he saw Alex. 'La bellissima signorina… buon giorno. You look for Signor Hunt? He was here, but he has gone.'

'Did he leave a message for me?'

'He said only two words. Scotch, and one minute later, Scotch again. He was not happy.'

'No. I'm afraid I made him angry.'

'Is good. Anger is a strong emotion. It can quickly turn to passion. He will not be angry with you for long.' He smiled reassuringly at her.

'I hope you're right, Luigi.'

She trudged upstairs. If the car's still there I'll phone the station, see if he's there. But there was no need – he was sitting at the top of the stairs. Alex stopped on the half landing, looking up at him. 'Gene… thank god you're here. I'm so sorry. I…'

He put up a hand to stop her. 'Forget it, Bolly. Doesn't matter.'

'It does ma…'

'I said, forget it. I'm here on business. Not staying.'

'Business? What business?'

'Was there any post waiting when you got back?'

'Post?'

'Letters. Mail. Envelopes, Alex. On your doormat last night.'

She was bemused. 'Y.. yes, I haven't looked…'

'Show me, please.'

'Why?'

'Just show me, DI Drake.'

Alex pushed past him and unlocked the door. She'd kicked the post out of the way last night, too tired to deal with them. She picked them up now, and had them snatched from her hand. 'Do you mind?' She couldn't believe this.

Gene didn't answer, looking through the envelopes. There were two A4 size, one brown, one white. The manila envelope was handwritten with franked postage. The white one had a typed address and a courier's label. Like the one delivered to him. Unopened. Thank Christ. He ripped the envelope open, but Alex tried to grab it off him.

'Do you bloody well mind? That's my post. It's illegal to interfere with the Royal Mail.'

'It wasn't delivered by the Royal Mail, but if you want to report a crime you'll find a number for your local station in the phone book.' Gene yanked the envelope from her grip and held it behind him. 'I'm going to check it. If it's not what I'm expecting, I'll know at a glance, and I'll give it back to you. Okay?' Not waiting for her response, he pulled the contents half way out, shoved it straight back in, and stuffed it inside his coat.

'What is it? Let me see…'

'No.'

He tried to move past her, but Alex slammed the door and put her back to it. 'Gene, please don't go like this.'

'Let me out, Alex.'

'I'm sorry for what I said earlier. Please stay for a bit. Have a drink. You can have a sleep, and then I'll make dinner. We can watch a video – just relax. No talking. Gene?'

'Some other time. Now if you don't mind...'

He gestured her out of the way, and she stepped aside. He was through the door and on the stairs.

'Gene…'

No reply. She listened to his footsteps get fainter, and a few seconds later, the Audi engine revved and moved off.

The phone was ringing. She picked up. It was DCI Clark.

'Can you be at Scotland Yard first thing for a debrief, Alex? Eight o'clock at Mr Cruickshank's office.'

xxxxxxxxxx

'Viv? Morning. Alex Drake. Could you give a message to DCI Hunt for me? Just let him know I'll be at Scotland Yard this morning. Thanks – bye.'

It was a long morning. Alex, Jaspan and Clark were in Cruickshank's office overlooking the front entrance, the trees of St James's Park visible between the buildings opposite.

Jaspan had had a fruitful day in Milan, with the journalist Zanetti deluging him with information and potential leads. 'He's looking to connect Grenville with Propaganda Due. Masons. When you're going through Grenville's contacts, Mr Clarke, you might also look for links with Banco Ambrosiano and Roberto Calvi.'

Alex looked sharply at Jaspan. Banker Roberto Calvi would be found dead under Blackfriars Bridge in August – still four months in the future; Zanetti couldn't have given him that lead. She exchanged glances with Cruickshank – the name hadn't been lost on him, either.

Alex gave them the German end of things. 'The SEK officer has promised to chase up the Panzerfaust lead – the ones that have been used here date back to the war. There can't be many of the things left, so he's confident of finding out where Carteret got them. Ulrich Strauss was very interesting. He's nearly sixty, semi-retired, acts as a consultant for the antiterrorism squad. He was actually recruited to Operation Gladio after the war until he joined the CIA in 1963. He hadn't heard the names Grenville or Carteret, but he has a good idea of their likely contacts in Gladio. Carteret has to have access to military supplies and personnel.'

Alex and Jaspan were let out for beer and sandwiches, before meeting up with the whole team after lunch.

'Come on then, Alex – cough. Give me the low-down on Gene Hunt.'

Alex looked bleak. 'Huh. Not much to tell you. We're not on speaking terms.'

'What? Last Wednesday you were practically on fire.'

'Fire's well and truly out now. Ashes are cold.'

'Bollocks. I'll bet you my next month's salary that you're back on within the week.'

She shrugged. 'All right. At least I'll get a new coat out of the miserable mess.'

'The real mystery is how you two got together in the first place.'

'Tell me about it.'

'No, no… you are going to tell me.'

That got a smile out of her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The twelve-strong team met in one of the conference rooms at the Yard, and the update took the rest of the day. Womble was looking sleek and happy – the picture of a man well loved-up. Lucky Carol, thought Alex.

The upshot of the various reports was that there was little doubt that the Carterets and Haggerty were the key perpetrators, and that Sir Richard Grenville was almost certainly the influence and the money. Only two tasks remained: to amass so much evidence they had no chance of walking away, and to catch the bastards.

They had been preparing for at least six years – vehicles used and discarded included two stolen in Glasgow in 1976. The level of organisation was enviable – they had covered tracks well – leads fizzled out with false names and dead end paper trails.

By the time everyone was given new leads to work on, it was past six, and Cruickshank was waiting outside in the Jaguar to take Alex and Jaspan to dinner. They were dropped in St Martin's Lane, and Cruickshank opened the door of a pub on a corner. Alex goggled. 'The Salisbury?'

Cruickshank grinned. 'There's method in my madness. After you…'

They found a corner table. 'I thought you said we were going somewhere discreet? The biggest gay pub in the West End isn't where I'd have chosen.' Alex was perplexed.

'It's tricky finding somewhere we won't be noticed by police, spooks, journalists or shit stirrers. If we're clocked here, one of two things will happen. Whoever spots us will either be here on the pull, and won't be keen to announce his presence; or they will be so busy chasing down stories about one or more of us being gay that they'll miss the real story.'

Jaspan went to the bar, and Cruickshank grabbed the opportunity. 'Are you married in 2008, Alex?'

'Divorced. Why?'

'You and Gene Hunt. Complicated, if you'd had someone in your own time.'

'There is no me-and-Gene-Hunt.'

'Come on, Alex – it's blindingly obvious to anyone with half an eye that you and Hunt are an item.'

Alex started to protest but Cruickshank stopped her. 'You can't get a cigarette card between you, physically or metaphorically.'

'We fight all the time. About everything.'

'Maybe, but it's still you two against the world. Within half an hour of getting a direct order from me, you disobeyed it, because you never wanted to work against Gene again.'

Alex's eyes widened. 'You heard that?'

Cruickshank laughed. 'For a 21st century copper you can be delightfully naïve, Alex. Of course we heard. I thought it entirely charming. And very useful. Two such loyal officers are of great value. Dangerous, though, if things get out of hand. Be careful that you and Gene don't get too far away from the team.'

'Is that a threat, sir?'

'Far from it. Genuine advice. I like you both very much. Gene is a rare beast to be conserved, and I have a vested interest in keeping you safe. You, Jim and I are lifelines for each other. I know it sounds odd coming from a senior Branch man, but you can trust me, Alex.'

'Yes, sir, I think I can. I think Gene does, too, although it makes him uncomfortable. He has an inbuilt mistrust of spooks. Er, Branch.'

'There are far spookier types than us. Scary lot. And you don't think that Operation Gladio bypassed the UK, do you?'

'No. I know Britain was one of the drivers after the war, and isn't The Great Handbag trying to get it up and running again now?'

'In 2005, I'd be nodding. In 1982, Ms Drake, you might think that, but I couldn't possibly comment.'

Alex laughed outright.

They had a good evening, reminiscing about the future, and trying to work out why they were here, and where 'here' was. Alex told them about Sam Tyler, his suicide and subsequent seven years with Gene, Annie and the rest, till his death in 1980. 'I knew all about Gene and his sidekicks, so finding myself sharing a world with them was bizarre.'

The two men had found no such ready-made constructs, nor did they have any particular mystery to solve, unlike Alex with her parents' death. Jaspan was the only one with a spouse and family; Cruickshank's wife had left him and taken his son to live in Spain. Cruickshank had been in hospital with pneumonia when he left 2005 and woke up in 1979; Jaspan had been stabbed by a junkie. The three of them had little in common, other than being police officers, and being on the edge of life in their own times.

'Do you even think we're all from the same future?' Jaspan threw another spanner into the works.

'Christ, Jim, don't make it worse.' Cruickshank was frowning at the permutations of that one. 'It's bad enough. Is this our imaginations, or a real world? Our real past that we've crashed through to? Am I imagining you two, or is one of you imagining me?'

Alex shook her head and protested at the confusion. 'God… I can't get my head round it. Do you think we're alive or dead?'

'Alive. I'm sure I'm alive.' Jaspan pulled out a photo of his wife and kids. 'I still feel connected to them. Don't ask me how.'

'Sam Tyler lived 'here' for seven years after he jumped off the roof of GMP HQ in 2006. Ray Carling told me he died in 1980. Or disappeared – his body was never found.' Alex gasped. 'It's just occurred to me. What about all the others – are they from different times too? Have they just been here so long they've forgotten the future?'

'I want to know one thing.' Jaspan paused. 'How do I get back to my family?'

'I thought I knew. If I stopped my parents dying, I'd go home. But I couldn't change the past. I don't know why I'm here if not for that. I don't know how to get back to Molly. Or how I'll cope back in 2008 without… without what I have here.'

'Without Gene.'

Alex sighed. 'Yes, sir. Without Gene. Haven't you made friends here? Had relationships? Fallen in love?'

'Friends, yes. Sexual relationships, yes. Love, no. People I'd miss, but no-one of crucial importance. Maybe Gene is the key to your presence here, Alex.'

'I was afraid you were going to say that.'

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The atmosphere in CID on Tuesday morning was poisonous, with a collective hangover of which Gene was the epicentre. He stayed in his office for most of the morning, shouting now and then for WPC Granger to produce tea, biscuits and paracetamol. Twice he summoned Ray, but Alex and Jaspan had got a toxic glare through the glass when they arrived, since when Gene had said not one word to either of them.

Gene was struggling with his second hangover in two days. After the row with Alex on Sunday, the rest of the day was spent getting through a bottle of Scotch, with the TV on to distract himself from thinking about her. It failed. But no matter how often he went over and over the row, he couldn't understand why she was so upset. A bit narked, maybe, but to go ballistic like that… Hormones, maybe. But the way he treated her at the flat… That was what he couldn't deal with. Alex was trying to make things right, and I turned her down flat. He hadn't believed his luck when he found the envelope still sealed, and he wanted to get the thing out of her reach. He'd been so fixed on that goal that he had missed the bigger picture. Twat. Should have gone back. Left the bastard envelope in the car and crawled back to her. Grovelled. Begged her to take me to bed.

On Monday, he was ready to make amends somehow, maybe take the morning off and take her back across the road, or wherever she wanted. But when he arrived, Viv told him Alex was off with her pals at Broadway for the morning. But noon came and went, teatime came and went, and no sign of her. No messages, no calls, no excuses, no apologies. I'm still her DCI, for fuck's sake. Didn't that deserve a phone call even if I don't? Maybe she's after a job with Cruickshank. She'd like poncing around with that lot. Her psycho-bollocks would do her no end of good. Cruickshank should get her to psych out the Home Secretary. Bet he'd love that.

At the end of the day, with nothing achieved, he'd sat on his own at Luigi's and beaten hell out of another bottle of Scotch, waiting for the sound of Alex's footsteps on the stairs above. Sometime after midnight Ray and Luigi wrenched his car keys off him and pushed him into a cab; he woke on his own couch, still in his suit, cold, nauseous and sick at heart. And this morning she swans in with her chum Jaspan, the bastard, laughing their heads off and crashing through CID like a pair of delinquents. Was she with him last night? Maybe she's cut her losses with me and he was in the right place last night. I'll kill him. He had the sense to avoid her for most of the day, feeling another row might be the death of him.

Mid-afternoon, Alex's phone rang: Viv, saying Cruickshank was in reception to see her and Gene. She took a deep breath and knocked on his door, putting her head round without waiting for a response. 'Chief Superintendent Cruickshank's here, Guv. I'll go and get him.'

'What's he after?'

Alex shrugged, and left him to guess. She found Cruickshank leaning on the counter and chatting easily to Viv. 'Hello, sir. Come to see DCI Hunt?'

Viv's phone rang.

'Afternoon, Alex. Yes, quick word, that's all. I've been up to see Mr Dorney, thought I'd update you while I was here.'

'Sorry, sir. Call for you, Ma'am.' Viv held the phone out to her.

It was the ward sister at the London. 'It's bad news, DI Drake. One of the children from the Brick Lane bombing died this morning.'

Alex felt sick. 'Oh, god. Who?'

'Nicole Cazneau. We couldn't get her infection under control.'

'Do her parents know?'

'Yes. Her mother and grandmother were here.'

Alex handed the phone back to Viv. 'Bad news, Ma'am?'

'One of the Brick Lane victims… Died.' Her voice cracked, and she couldn't speak.

Cruickshank put a hand on her shoulder, and turned his head to Viv. 'Tell DCI Hunt, would you, please? And is there an interview room free?'

'Yes. Second on the left, sir.'

Cruickshank steered Alex in to the empty room, the grey walls comfortless, unyielding. 'One of the children in the firebombing?' he asked gently.

'Nicole Cazneau. She was eight.' There was a silence as she struggled to keep control of her voice. 'I never saw her face properly. Her back was burned, so she had to lie face down…' She put her hands over her eyes and hunched over, the tears unstoppable. Cruickshank put an arm round her shoulders, one hand on her head, comforting her.

Gene, still not knowing which of the children had died, dropped the phone on its hook and flung himself out of CID and round to find Alex. He saw them through the glass, and stopped dead. In his arms… the plummy Southern bastard's got hold of her. Should be me. You don't belong here, you spooky shit. He pushed the door open. 'Who is it, Drake?'

At the sound of his voice, Alex pulled away from Cruickshank, sniffed, and wiped her eyes. She cleared her throat and took a breath. 'Sorry, Guv. Nicole. Nicole Cazneau.'

'Yes.' Gene turned his head away for a moment. 'Come on, Alex. Let's get you back to CID.'

Cruickshank frowned. 'Maybe DI Drake could take the rest of the afternoon off, Hunt?'

'She's needed here, sir. Things to do, like catching the arseholes behind the firebomb.'

'Hunt…'

'It's OK, sir. I'm better here. DCI Hunt's right. Rather be doing something.' Alex wiped her eyes again and made a visible attempt to pull herself together. 'I'm fine. Really.'

Gene opened the door, ushered them both out and shepherded them back to CID, trying not to give in either to his ache to have Alex in his arms or to his longing to choke the life out of Cruickshank. Younger, senior, taller, fitter, better educated, plummy Southerner. Christ… Back in the CID sanctum, Gene marched to his office door and gestured Cruickshank ahead of him, turning to find Shaz. 'Granger – cup of tea for DI Drake. And bring another glass.' He turned back to Alex. 'Want five minutes to yourself?'

Alex shook her head. 'I'm fine. Caught me, that's all.'

Gene nodded, poured a finger of Scotch into two glasses and handed them to Alex and Cruickshank. Shaz handed a glass tumbler round the door and ran back to the kitchen. Gene poured himself a drink and without thinking, tipped his glass against Alex's. 'Here's to justice.' They drank in silence. 'Is there a reason for your visit, sir, or did you just want a chat with DI Drake here?'

Cruickshank perched on the edge of Gene's desk, and Gene, leaning against the door, gestured to Alex to take his chair.

'This is between us. Not to go outside this room.' Cruickshank spoke softly, and waited for the two Met officers to nod agreement. 'We've found Grenville's contact in the Met.' He mentioned the name of an assistant commissioner. 'A Mason. Known racist. Kicked upstairs last year.'

'You've told Mr Dorney, sir?'

'Yes, Alex. Your Chief Super is one of the few senior officers who isn't a Freemason.'

'I thought funny handshakes were all the rage in Special Branch.'

'I'm not a follower of fashion, Hunt.'

Gene nodded, assessing.

'Mr Dorney's brother is a senior civil servant in the Home Office; has the ear of the minister. A useful clean contact.' Cruickshank swallowed the rest of his whisky and stood up, holding his hand out to Gene. 'I like to know who can be trusted, Gene. Which pipes have no leaks.'

'Sir.' Gene shook his hand.

'I'll be in touch.' Cruickshank smiled at Alex.

She jumped up. 'I'll see you out, sir.'

Gene had to clench his teeth to stop himself saying something rash, and watched her walk away from him, glancing up at Cruickshank, exchanging smiles like friends. She didn't look back.

xxxxxxxxxxx

TBC