A/N: Alas, I still don't own Ashes to Ashes. If I did, we'd still be getting new episodes on our TV screens.

Yet again, many apologies for the longer-than-intended delay between chapters. I've been (still am) having eyesight problems which have limited the amount of time I can spend looking at a computer screen.

Anyway, here's another chapter to start another new case for the gang, with a few surprises.

Many thanks, as ever, to Katie Duggan's Niece, Trainee Hero and LouBelle04 for reviewing Chapter 28. If anyone feels like reviewing this chapter, feel free...

It was the week before Easter. Everyone was engaged about their normal pursuits - which, roughly translated, meant Alex, Jason and Lisa working hard and the others catching up with the latest racing tips - when Gene emerged from his office.

"Ladies an' gentlemen, listen up. Everyone 'ere except Collins an' Lisa'll remember what 'appened when we were forced to co-operate with Hanfield station last year. Nasty business."

"What was?" Lisa inquired timidly.

"Their Guv abandoned one of 'is officers undercover. Got 'er to infiltrate a criminal family an' then took bungs from 'em to ignore 'er reports. She went over to the dark side. Got killed."

"My God," Jason muttered.

"The station's been investigated an' their Guv's been given medical retirement."

"Cover-up," Terry said bitterly.

"Yes, but he should have been pensioned off years ago. He walks with a stick," Alex observed.

"Was I talking or 'ave I become invisible?" Gene was the personification of sarcasm. "I'm coming on to news which affects us all. Hanfield's being closed an' its casework re-allocated." There was a general gasp of surprise. "We're getting part of it." A general groan. "Which means that, for the first time since Ray got inexplicably promoted, we are to have a Detective Sergeant. In fact, two." A much louder gasp of surprise. "One's being transferred in an' is arriving tomorrow. I just got the paperwork. Name of Joe Sargent."

"He'll be angling for promotion right away," Jason observed. "He must have had enough jokes about Sergeant Sargent to last him a lifetime."

"He'll be lucky to be working for the Genie, an' that's enough," Gene growled. "The other DS is being promoted from within the team."

There was an audible hum of anticipation and all the DCs sat up and looked hopeful. Even Alex was surprised. Although Gene had told her as long ago as Christmas that this was in the wind, he had not mentioned it since and she had no idea whom he would choose.

"My decision has been a difficult one, mainly because you are all such all-round, prizewinning bird brains that there is little to choose between you. But a choice 'as to be made, an' I 'ave selected the one among you who I consider has distinguished 'imself by being marginally less of a twat than the rest of you." He paused for just long enough to heighten the anticipation. "Step forward - Detective Sergeant Terry Munroe."

Terry was so gobsmacked that he simply sat there, his mouth hanging open, while the others gathered around, applauding and clapping him on the back. Both Alex and Jason were pleased to note their colleagues' generosity of spirit. Alex thought that Poirot looked disappointed, but he hid it well. Slate looked gutted, but recovered enough to shake Terry's hand with the requisite degree of warmth.

"WHICH MEANS," Gene bellowed over the uproar, "that all the drinks are on Terry tonight. Got to find some use for that rise in salary. In the meantime, this is Fenchurch East CID, not the regional final of Mr World. Back to work!"

-oO0Oo-

As it turned out, the first round that evening was not on Terry after all. CID surged into Sandro's en masse, intent upon serious liver damage, to find the proprietor standing in the centre of the room, one arm wrapped around his tiny wife, both radiant.

"Signore, signori, give us joy!" he cried. "La mia Teresina has just told me that she is once again incinta! Take your seats, please. Champagne all round, sulla casa!"

Alex and Lisa both embraced Teresina and the men shook Sandro by the hand as the waiters bore out the bottles and the corks popped.

"Which would you like this time?" Alex demanded.

"A boy would be nice," Sandro admitted. "To carry on our family name, and to make me less outnumbered in my household. But we do not mind which it is, so long as it is healthy."

"Another pizza in the oven. Bloody 'ell, that's your number three," Gene grumbled, shaking Sandro's hand. "You'll 'ave to have a snip."

Alex dreaded that Sandro or Teresina might take offence, but both knew Gene well enough to be able to laugh.

"Ah, in Italy we have the tradition of large families," Teresina said knowingly. "Three, that is nothing. Have you never known the joy of children, Signor Hunt?"

Gene shook his head and stumped away to his place. Teresina looked distressed. "Please tell me, Signora Drake, have I offended him?" she whispered to Alex.

Akex shook her head. "You know Gene. He doesn't like anything sentimental. He's very protective of other people's children, but he's never mentioned any of his own."

Teresina nodded her understanding. "And - you?" she said softly.

Alex looked down. "I had a daughter. Not any more. I've lost her."

"I am sorry." Teresina grasped her hand. "I did not know."

"Thank you." Alex managed a smile. "And I apologise for Gene's manners. He won't."

"That is because he needs feeding. You British say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, no? I recommend my best fettucine in cheese sauce with parsley."

"I'll bet you a christening mug that he'll ask for steak and chips."

Teresina laughed. "I would not bet, I know I would lose. I'll be off to the kitchen."

She bustled away, still glowing with happiness, and Alex joined Gene, who sat glowering over his Asti Spumante.

"Didn't think you'd want to be 'ere tonight," he said gruffly. "Won't you an' Lisa want to join Mum there in the kitchen an' talk layettes, baby bottles an' pre-natal classes?"

"And what do you know about layettes?" Alex chuckled.

Gene examined the table top. "The missus started one, three times. Couldn't finish. Kept waiting an' then losin'. Every time, she'd start knitting jackets an' bootees, an 'er Mam an' aunties an' all 'er friends weighed in. Quilts, blankets, you name it, she 'ad it all. Except for the kid to use 'em. Every time she lost one, she threw the whole bloody lot on the fire."

"Oh, Gene I'm sorry." She knew better than to say more, but she hoped that the touch of her hand on his arm would tell him what she did not want to say.

"Didn't mind one way or the other, meself," he muttered. His body language told her that he was lying. "But she did. A lot."

How do you know I don't have children?

Oh, Gene, how I hurt you without knowing.

Neither said more, but it was on both their minds while they lifted a glass to Sandro, Teresina and "the sprog", as Gene instantly christened it, and later when they helped CID get noisily drunk over Terry's promotion. Perhaps that was why they were still relatively sober when they helped themselves to a bottle of house rubbish from the bar and sought refuge in their flat from the raucous celebrations.

"So you made your choice," she said while they were in the kitchen, sinking their first glassfuls. "Well done. What made you decide on Terry?"

Gene emptied his glass, wiped his mouth, and poured another slug before replying. "Number of things. Evidence is all the thing now, an' if I turn a case over to 'im, I know he'll research it into the ground. If there's a connection, he'll find it. We 'aven't yet found a case he's been on, where the briefs 'ave been able to dismantle the evidence. An' he was the one who made the first breakthrough on the Warren an' Earnshaw cases, when 'e rescued Sita an' got 'er to talk. Pity about 'is bad eyesight."

"Well, maybe our new boy will prove to be a brilliant shot," Alex said consolingly.

"Yeah. Joe Sargent. Let's 'ope 'e's the muscle man the team's been waiting for." Gene took another deep draught of wine. "Built like a factory chimney with fists like flatirons. A worthy successor to Ray."

"Do you know yet if he'll be one of us, or a construct?"

"Absolutely no way of knowing till we see 'im. But if someone's being sent to us all these months after Ray left, I'll bet money that this is another one needing our 'elp. Another soul to be sent to the pub. But we shall see, Bolly. We shall see."

-oO0Oo-

The following morning, the team were all actually or pretending to be hard at work, but there was no mistaking the air of excitement. At 9.30 precisely, one of the double doors swung open, and everyone straightened with anticipation, then relaxed as a young woman walked in, looking uncertainly about her. She was slim, petite and quite pretty, with blonde curly hair caught back by a slide at the nape of her neck, black-rimmed glasses, and a neat but frumpy trench coat well below the knee, open to reveal a prim pinafore dress and tie-neck blouse.

"Excuse me?"

"You're in the wrong place, love," Slate leered. "The public library's in Sun Street."

"I don't need the library, thank you," she informed him crisply. "I have orders to report to DCI Gene Hunt at this station."

Gene had heard his name and came to the door of his office. "Hunt here. Anything I can do for you, love?"

"Yes, please. I have to report to you, Sir." She produced a warrant card from her pocket. "DS Joanna Sargent."

Gene sagged visibly as the truth hit him. "You?" All around him, CID were reacting with mingled shock, horror and, in Alex's case, amusement. "But I thought - "

"Oh, I'm sorry! I only saw a copy of my transfer form for the first time this morning, and I realised that someone had mistyped my name. Absolutely everyone calls me Jo, you see. I'm sorry, you must have been expecting a man." She looked troubled. "Will I do?"

Gene struggled masterfully with his disappointment as he saw his dream of a muscle-bound DS fading into air. "Yeah, of course you will. 'Course you will. Welcome on board, Sergeant Sargent."

She looked relieved. "Thank you, Sir."

Alex rose from her seat and shook the newcomer's hand. "Welcome to Fenchurch East, Jo. I'm DI Alex Drake. You're only the third woman on the team, so we're heavily outnumbered. Let me introduce you to everyone."

"A woman DI? Goodness!"

"Like to see her try to tackle a football hooligan," Slate muttered, not quietly enough, to Bammo.

Oh, no, Alex thought. He's already upset at being passed over for promotion in favour of Terry, and now he's bound to resent this slip of a girl who's been brought in over his head. This could get nasty.

"Good point, Slate," Gene said. "Sargent. This is a hands-on station." One or two members of CID sniggered and were quelled by a glare from Alex. "Not that we're sayin' you can't do the job, but 'ow will a shrimp like you arrest criminals bigger than yourself, eh?"

"Oh, I think you'll find that I can look after myself, Sir," Jo said briskly.

"Right. Let's test that out. Slate, come 'ere."

"Yes, Guv." Slate rose from his place and approached respectfully.

"You are a criminal."

"Eh?"

"I mean, for the purposes of this exercise you are playing the part of a criminal, you numbnut. Sargent." He unhooked his handcuffs from his belt and tossed them to her. "Arrest this man."

She looked dubious. "Are you sure, Sir? I don't want to hurt a colleague."

"Not much chance of that, love," Slate leered.

"Oh, well..." She looked about her. "Give me room, everyone."

Despite her small size, her air of authority was sufficient to make everyone shuffle backwards as far as the furniture allowed, forming a ring around her and Slate. He approached her leisurely.

"Come on, darlin'. This won't hurt me as much as it 'urts you."

"I doubt that," she said crisply. "You're under arrest. Come quietly, please, or I shall have to use reasonable force."

"Come and get me." He stepped towards her and grabbed her arm with the intention of twisting it up behind her back. How it happened none of the spectators ever worked out, but suddenly she swung around, catching him off balance, and he went soaring through the air like Concorde. Detectives fairly trampled one another to evade his flight path. He crashed to earth behind a desk, and everyone applauded.

"Bloody 'ell!" In spite of himself, Gene was impressed. "Look at this, Bols, we've just recruited Emma Peel in disguise as a librarian!"

"Well, Guv, it goes to show that big surprises can come in smaller packages," Alex said with a laugh.

"I hope you think it'll help, Sir," Jo said hopefully. "I used to get bullied when I first joined the Force because I'm small, but it's stopped since I took up self-defence. I'm an orange belt, seventh dan. I'm hoping to take my eighth dan exam in the summer."

"You'll have to talk to DI Jason Collins here." Alex gestured towards him. "He's our resident kickboxer."

"Whether it 'elps depends on whether you've killed 'im or not." Gene did not say which would be preferable. "An' whether you've damaged any furniture."A hollow groan issued from behind the desk.

"Oh, no! I do hope I haven't hurt him!" Jo rushed around behind the desk, knelt beside Slate just as he was dazedly raising himself onto one elbow, and cradled him in her arms. He leaned luxuriously into her shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry, Sir. Please forgive me. I tried to make sure that you wouldn't hit anything when you landed, but I forgot that you wouldn't have the training to land well." Slate groaned again. "What hurts? I'm trained in first aid."

"Everything," he mumbled, and burrowed deeper into her frontage. Strangely, she didn't seem to mind.

"Don't go sir-ing 'im." Gene was at his most autocratic. "You are DC Jack Slate's superior officer. Slate, you bastard, stop inspecting 'er frontispiece an' get up."

"How can you be so heartless?" she cried. "He might be badly injured, and it's all my fault!"

"The Guv has two hearts, just like Doctor Who," Alex informed her. "His own, and some toerag's he ate earlier."

Gene had helped himself to the Racing News on Slate's desk. "Just look at this. HIGHLAND LADDIE WON THE 2.30 AT KEMPTON!"

"What?" Slate scrambled stiffly to his feet, nearly knocking Jo over in the process. "That's my horse!"

"Just 'aving you on, you hypocrite." Slate sagged, and Jo helped him into his chair. The phone in Gene's office rang. He dashed to answer it, and they all heard him barking questions into the receiver. He hung up and emerged.

"We 'ave a murder on our 'ands, ladies an' gentlemen. Drake. Collins. Slate. With me. Sergeant Sargent, let's see if you're good for anything other than demolishing poor, defenceless DCs. Come on! You are not going to believe this one."

-oO0Oo-

"Where are we going and why won't we believe this?" Alex ventured as the Quattro bounded across London Bridge. Jo, she saw in the mirror, did not seem at all peturbed by Gene's driving. Jason and Slate were used to it.

"Brockwell Park. Where they're setting up for the Lambeth Country Show over this bank 'oliday weekend. We've got ourselves a canned corpse."

"WHAT?"

"They've got a group doing a poncey knights-in-armour display. One of 'em's just been found dead. Very dead. In a full metal jacket an' trousers."

They were met at the entrance to the park by a PC and a distressed young woman who was introduced to them as Debbie Hitchen, the organiser of the tournament.

"You'll need to protect your feet, Sir," the PC said diplomatically, eyeing Gene's new crocodile boots. "The whole site's very muddy."

"Shit. There's only two pairs of wellies in the boot of my car. Bolly's an' mine."

"I can help," Debbie said timidly. "I brought along several spare pairs in case anyone needed them while we were setting up. They're in the caravan I'm using as a site office."

"Ta. Bring something to fit these three Cinderellas, an' we can get on."

Suitably booted, they were escorted to the tournament area. The lists had already been roped off and eight small, colourful round tents had been pitched at one end. Squelching through the mud, Alex was grateful for her wellingtons. Her own high-heeled boots would have been ruined.

"Victim's in here, Sir." The PC gestured to the second tent on the left. They trooped in to find it empty apart from a single metal chair beside the entrance, on which a young man was slumped forward, his head bowed. He wore full armour apart from the helmet. A piece of paper was clutched in his mailed fist and a Styrofoam cup of coffee lay spilled on the ground in front of him. The pathologist was already fastening his medical bag.

"Nothing yet to say how he died, Hunt. No injuries at all to the head, which is the only bit I can get at at the moment, but it's hard to see how anyone could have done him any external damage while he was done up like this. I'll need a can opener before I can do very much with this one."

"Ha, perishin' ha."

"If someone can let me know when he's been taken to the mortuary and got out of all the tin plate, I can get to work."

"Noted, Bones."

The pathologist took his leave, and Gene crouched to retrieve the cup.

"Anyone know what was in this?"

"Yes. Coffee." Debbie spoke up. "I had it sent round to all the knights."

"Had it sent round? Or took it yourself?" He passed the cup to Slate. "Get this to the lab. It might 'ave been poisoned."

"Guv!" Alex protested. She turned to Debbie, who looked terrified. "Please don't be afraid, he's only doing his job. With his usual sensitivity of a rhinoceros with an extra dozen skins. Let's start at the beginning. Who was this poor young man?"

Tears were falling down Debbie's face. "H-he is - he was - Nigel Fareham. He's one of a stunt team I hire regularly. I'm an events director. I run a company which puts on open air spectacles. The Country Fair engaged me to put on the tournament."

"What do you know about 'im?" Gene demanded. "Do you know anyone who'd want to do 'im in?"

"No, oh, no! He was such a nice young man, always very willing and helpful. I didn't know him outside work, but I can't imagine that he had any enemies."

"Who found 'im?"

"I did." She burst into tears again, wiped her eyes, and bravely continued. "This is only our second morning on site because the weather has been so bad. It's been raining constantly and we knew that the ground would be in very bad condition. The riggers came in yesterday to set up the lists and the pavilions for the knights. I asked the knights and squires to come in this morning so that we could have a walk-through. I was very worried about our being so far behind schedule. This show's very important to us. We've been losing money lately, there was a cancellation when the organisers went bankrupt and my application for compensation is still being considered. If this date isn't a success, the company may go under. But what does that matter now, with Nigel dead? Anyway, I knew that we wouldn't be able to have a full rehearsal until the horses arrive at midday - "

"Give me strength," Gene muttered.

" - and I was hoping that the ground would have dried out a bit by then. The pavilions are meant to be properly furnished, chairs, tables, a camp bed, lights, but because we're so behind it wasn't possible to put any furnishings in yesterday and the electric plant hasn't arrived yet. I got Ben, one of my runners, to put a chair in each pavilion so that at least they'd have somewhere to sit down, and to leave them a copy of the running order sheet on each chair. I - I think that's what he's holding."

Jason bent over the body without touching it, looked at the heading of the paper, and nodded.

"And I'd told Lucy, she's on the catering staff, to leave a cup of coffee in each of the pavilions. Normally the knights would have changed into their armour in the pavilions, but today because there are so few facilities in here yet and the ground's so wet, they armed up in one of the caravans. Then they all went into their pavilions. He looked fine then, I saw him walking across the grass and going into the tent. I was going round to check that they were all ready for the walk-through, and I - I found him…" She began crying again, and Jo put a comforting arm around her. "He was sitting in his chair, quite still. I called him by his name and he didn't move. I ruffled his hair, and his head tipped forward. I felt his pulse, he was cold, and I knew… So I called the police."

"Did any of the caterers know him already?" Gene demanded.

"Not professionally, no. This is the first time we've been at the Country Fair, and we've never had any contact with this catering company before."

"Where are the rest of your team?" Alex asked.

"The other knights are in their pavilions. I told them to stay there until you'd had the chance to talk to them. The squires and the rest of the team are in the caravans."

"Had anyone else been in 'ere today, before or after Metal Man?"

"No, only Ben and Lucy - and then me…" She wiped her eyes. "The riggers were in here yesterday."

"The other Iron Men drank the coffee and they're all OK?"

"Yes, they're fine. Shocked, of course, as we all are."

"An' Lucy was the only one to 'andle it?"

"Aren't we jumping to conclusions rather, Guv?" Alex said sarcastically. "We have no proof that there was anything wrong with the coffee, or that anyone had any reason to want to poison him."

"Well 'ow else can 'e 'ave carked it? He's done up like the Bank of England in that lot, an' Bones can't find any injuries on the unplated bits! Got to 'ave eaten or drunk something, there's no other way! An' what's up with you, Mr Thinker?" The last sentence was directed at Jason, who was surveying the unfortunate deceased while resting his chin against his hand, somewhat after the manner of Rodin's masterpiece. Alex was astonished by Gene's unexpected erudition.

"Why didn't he fall?" Jason said, almost to himself.

"Eh?"

"He's wearing several pounds of armour. When Debbie touched him, his head tipped forward. He'd gone limp, so why didn't the weight of the armour pull him off the chair? It's as though he's welded to it. Why?"

Slate reached out towards Nigel's back.

"Don't touch him!" Jo cried suddenly.

TBC

The Lambeth Country Fair usually takes place in Brockwell Park in August, although in 2012 it was moved to the late spring bank holiday to avoid a clash with the Olympics. I moved it to the Easter bank holiday for plot purposes.