30 August 1990

"You're not being particularly helpful, Mr Hopkins," Christina said, fixing the landlord of the Beckwith Arms with a steely look. "Don't you want the person responsible for causing all the mayhem in here last night caught?"

"Maybe Mr Hopkins was part of the mayhem," Tosh opined. "Maybe that's why he doesn't want to help us."

"That's rubbish," Tom Hopkins said, glancing up from where he was sweeping up glass behind the bar. "You can see the state of the place. Why wouldn't I want to help?"

"You tell us."

"Look, it was packed in here last night, all right? I can't remember every face. One minute, everything was fine…"

"And the next, a sixteen-year-old boy got a broken bottle pushed into his face," Christina finished for him. "Not exactly what you want on a night out, is it?"

"Well, he shouldn't have been in here, should he?" Hopkins said. "I had no idea how old he was."

"No, but you did see who assaulted him, didn't you?" The landlord said nothing. "Come on, Mr Hopkins, what if it had been your son that was lying in St Hughes with his face all slashed. You must be able to tell us something." She was frustrated at the apparent lack of assistance they were receiving from every quarter regarding the investigation. Darren Dodds had received ten stitches to his face and would be lucky not to be permanently scarred as a result of an altercation he swore blind he hadn't started with an as yet unidentified older male. So far, everyone they had spoken to had either been looking the other way, blind or too pissed to remember a thing and Dodds had seemed scared.

"All right…" Hopkins sighed. "I might have seen him having an argument with Jack Dickson earlier on, but I didn't see who put the glass in his face and that's the God's honest truth."

"Is Dickson a regular?" Tosh asked as Christina scribbled down some notes.

"No, not really. He comes in now and then, but it always makes me nervous when he does. Always looking to start a fight that one and look what happened."

"And the victim, Darren Dodds. Do you know him?"

"I've seen him round the estate, but he doesn't come in here." Hopkins paused on their look. "I don't serve underage kids."

"Well, leaving that aside," Christina said, "what can you tell us about the argument?"

"Well, I was busy serving, so I didn't see much. All I can tell you is that the two of them were over in that corner by the bogs having it out. Dickson was pointing his finger in the kid's face and the kid was laughing at him. Is he going to be all right, the kid?"

"He's got a very sore face," Tosh replied. "Heavy price to pay for an argument."

Hopkins sighed again before leaning across the bar towards them, as though about to reveal his knowledge of some conspiracy. "You hear a bit in here and, well, I'm pretty sure I heard that Dickson's been getting kids on the estate to run for him."

"Run drugs you mean?" Christina clarified.

"Yeah," Hopkins nodded. "Maybe it's something to do with that." He straightened back up. "But apart from that, there's nothing more I can tell you. Other than to say that I don't need that sort of nonsense going on in here. I've got a business to run. You mind and tell Frank Burnside that."

Christina thought back to what Frank had said about Hopkins being an acquaintance and found herself musing on the relationships that could spring up between officers and members of the community. For all that she sometimes disapproved at times of her boss's attitude and methods, she had to admit that he had an enviable network. "Don't worry," she said. "We will."

"So, what do you reckon?" Tosh asked as they made their way back to the car. "Do you want to see if we can pick Dickson up?"

"I think we should run it past the DI first," she replied. "What with him being such good mates with Hopkins."

"Fine, back to the factory we go." Tosh put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb. "You coming down the Grapes tonight?"

"Well, I could hardly miss your birthday celebration now, could I?"

"Glad to hear it. Stewart letting you out then?"

Christina paused, thinking back on the conversation she had had with her husband that morning. His mobility had continued to improve, and he was due to attend another Occupational Health appointment the following week where, he was hoping, they would allow him back to work. She had publicly shared in his hope, but privately had her misgivings. Although he could walk unaided, his back still caused him significant pain from time to time, though he tried to hide it and pretend that things were back to normal. Secretly, she was of the view that he wasn't ready yet, even if he thought he was. "Actually, he's going out himself tonight."

"What, again? Hasn't that been every night this week? He's got a better social life since he was shot than he had before."

"You don't have to tell me," she replied quietly. Her relief at Stewart's gradual physical recovery had been tempered quite significantly by her concern at how much he was drinking. The routine of a couple of cans a night had steadily increased, and she was acutely aware that he was now drinking during the day too. He took any and every opportunity to socialise with his colleagues, clearly desperate to still feel part of the squad, and though she had tried to talk to him about it, he had shut her down at every turn and accused her of trying to smother him.

"Is there a problem there?" Tosh enquired carefully.

"No," she replied quickly. "No, he's just letting off a bit of steam, that's all. Once he gets back to work, it'll calm down."

"Any news on catching whoever it was who pulled the trigger?"

"No, or if there is, no-one's bothered to tell me. I'm sure he'd tell me if he knew."

"I'm sure he would," Tosh replied, in a tone that she couldn't help but think alluded to much more than the context in which it was meant. "Anyway, forget about him for tonight and make merry with me instead."

She felt a smile creep across her face. The prospect of letting go for one evening, of almost playing Stewart at his own game was appealing. "Sounds like a plan."

XXXX

"Jack Dickson? He's a weasel, a scroat, a nothing, a nobody."

"Well, he's got a bit of a reputation, Guv. Tom Hopkins said he's always looking to start a fight."

"Tom Hopkins is right," Frank said. "Only Dickson thinks he's some sort of hardman when, in reality, he's just an idiot."

"He's got a fair record," Christina said. "Couple of counts of GBH which he served time for, petty theft, burglary, not to mention the fact he runs a lot of the drugs on the estate…"

"Yeah, well I'm not saying that he's saint of the century, just that he's got an overinflated opinion of himself. You get an ID from the kid?"

"No, he was scared," Tosh said. "He couldn't, or wouldn't, tell us what it was about, though Hopkins did say that he thought Dickson was using kids on the estate to help with his dealing. Maybe Dodds got on the wrong side of him."

"Well, pick Dickson up, if you can find him, and bring him in for a chat. We can't have that sort of behaviour going on, not at the Beckwith Arms."

"Favourite haunt of yours, Guv?" Christina asked, grinning at him.

"It's an establishment I like to frequent from time to time," he responded. "And no, I don't want dregs like Jack Dickson making it a no-go area for decent folk. So, let's get this one wrapped up quickly, shall we? A nice clean cough would be good."

"Yeah, and I'd like a million quid cheque for my birthday," Tosh said, "but I doubt it's going to happen."

"What happened to having a positive mental attitude Tosh?"

"I lost it Guv, somewhere between child number three and child number four."

"Yeah well…" Frank looked over at Christina. "You got a minute for a chat?"

"Sure," she replied, following him into his office and closing the door behind her. "Is it about Dickson?"

"No, it's about you." He regarded her carefully as her expression grew serious. "You think I haven't noticed you going at it hammer and tongs over the last few weeks?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." She looked away. "Ever since Stewart has started to improve, you've been in here every hour God sends, gobbling up every bit of overtime you can lay your hands on. I'm starting to think I should just order you a sleeping bag to keep in your desk drawer." It was no word of a lie. It seemed almost as though he couldn't get rid of her of late, and though he enjoyed looking at her when she was in the office, he wasn't completely blinded to the fact that there were clearly underlying issues going on at home. "Is it to do with his drinking?"

"Have you been talking to Tosh?" she said quickly.

"About what?"

"About Stewart's drinking, about what I told you last month."

"No, of course not," he replied, irked at the very suggestion. "We talked about that in confidence, remember? I told you that anything you said wouldn't go any further and it hasn't. Why, what has Tosh said?"

"Oh…nothing really," she sighed. "He asked if I was coming for a few drinks tonight for his birthday and I told him Stewart was going out and he…well…he just made a comment about him being out every night."

"Well, you must have told him that."

"I did…I suppose I did…" she sighed again. "I can't really remember what I've said, to be honest. Things go round and round in my head all the time and I'm never sure what way's up."

"That's because you're shattered. You're working too hard, Chris, and it's not on. If you need an excuse to get away from your husband, you're not going to use killing yourself in here as one." He paused. "So, is it his drinking? Is it getting worse?" He held his breath while conflict played out on her face once more. "Come on, you know you can trust me."

She met his gaze, her eyes huge in her head, and he almost felt as though she was transmitting to his very soul. Then she looked down again and sighed. "He's drinking a lot, yes. And I know why he's doing it but…well…it doesn't make it any easier to deal with."

"Have you spoken to him about it?"

"I've tried, but he just brushes it off, as though I'm making something out of nothing. He claims he's not drinking any more than he used to, but he definitely is. He never used to drink during the daytime, not at home anyway, but I keep finding bottles and cans all round the house. He doesn't even bother to hide it."

"Do you think he's got a problem?"

She met his gaze again and shook her head sadly, "I honestly don't know. If he does, he doesn't think he does so…I suppose being here means not having to see it happening in front of me. I'm sorry though, I shouldn't be hogging all the overtime."

"It's not about that," he shook his head. "It's about your wellbeing."

"I'm fine, really."

He could tell that she was lying, putting on a brave face in front of her boss, and he found himself almost inexplicably wishing that he could physically comfort her, put his arms around her, pull her close and tell her...he felt his nether regions stir and shifted in his chair. "Well, I suppose you know yourself best. But I want you to know that we're all here for you. I'm here for you. If there's anything you need or anything I can do…"

"You're not going to offer to talk to him again, are you?" she said, smiling.

"No, I'm not," he replied, "but I mean what I say."

"I know you do and I'm grateful, Guv, really I am." She got to her feet. "Maybe I should just get blind drunk tonight for a change, see what Stewart makes of that."

"You're coming tonight then?" he asked casually.

"I think I'm due a night out. Might even be fun."

When she had left his office, he thought about the evening ahead. Camaraderie and alcohol often led to loosened tongues and things being said that were better kept to oneself. He only had to think back to the aftermath of Tracy's funeral to realise that, not to mention the time she had thrown it in his face, angered at any suggestion that Stewart's activities of an evening were proof that he was unfaithful. If she was intending to let go for a night, then him doing the same could be considered highly unwise and, with that thought in mind, he reached into his pocket for his little black book and flicked to Fiona's number.

XXXX

"Did you get anything out of Jack Dickson then?" Jim asked, as they all congregated in the Grapes after the shift.

"We couldn't find him," Tosh replied. "I swear someone had tipped him the wink that we were looking for him. No-one had seen him, no-one at all."

"Suspicious that."

"You're telling me. And there's a poor kid lying in hospital who's potentially lost whatever good looks he might once have had."

"He'll turn up," Jim opined, draining his glass. "They always do and Dickson's not that clever. Ready for another?"

"I'm still nursing this one," Tosh replied. "We can't all sink them as fast as you can."

"I'll have another," Christina replied, putting her empty glass back down on the table, the conversation swirling around her head. Not being able to locate Dickson that afternoon had been irritating, but she had buoyed with the idea of the evening to come, as though making a decision to go out and enjoy herself, regardless of what was going on at home, had lifted a great weight from her mind.

"Steady on," Tosh said. "That's your third you've just downed."

"And?"

"Well…don't you think you ought to take it easy?"

"Why? I can't remember the last time I had a drink, let alone actually been in a pub for one." She wiped her hand across her mouth. "I'm entitled to have a good time once in a while am I not?" She paused as Tosh and Jim exchanged looks. "Well, aren't I?"

"Yes of course," Jim said. "But it's only just gone seven. Unless you want carted home before nine, you might want to pace yourself. You know what you ladies are like when it comes to holding your liquor."

"Hmmm…" she replied sourly before diverting her attention to what else was going on inside the pub. It was busy for a Wednesday night, but somehow that made her feel better. It would have been worse if there had been no atmosphere, no people shouting to be heard, no thick fog of smoke lingering near the ceiling. She suddenly realised perhaps why Stewart felt the need to go out as often as he did of late. A pub was a place where anyone would be your friend for the price of a pint, where you could feel enveloped. She hadn't realised just how much she had missed going out with the gang after a shift, something that had stopped after Stewart's accident, feeling as she had that she needed to be with him. But that warm feeling, the feeling of being among friends…it couldn't be replicated sitting in the house on your own staring into a glass, and that was what she couldn't understand. That was what confused her about her husband's current state of mind. What did he possibly gain from getting drunk on his own?

"Do you think he's got a problem?"

Frank's words from earlier that day came back to her. Did she think he had a problem? What did 'having a problem' even look like? When she thought about the people she had come across through her work who were full blown alcoholics, they had almost always been down and outs, living in dumps or on the streets, a bottle at their lips before dawn had even broken. And yet, she wasn't naïve enough not to realise that there were people out in the world holding down jobs and caring for families who were also alcoholics. They were the functioning ones and, in a way, were almost more dangerous. Equating that with her husband however, sent a shiver down her back.

She tried to think about something else, anything else to take her mind off of her own situation and, ashamedly, found her thoughts straying to Frank. Part of her excitement at coming out for the evening had included spending time with him, even if they were surrounded by all the others. She hadn't taken him up on his offer of a quiet drink, just the two of them, and she often wondered why not. They were colleagues and, she assumed by now, friends and he was being very supportive of her. What would have been wrong in meeting up just the two of them?

"Aye, aye, look at this," Jim said suddenly, pulling her out from her thoughts. He was looking over towards the bar and, following his gaze, she saw Frank moving through the crowds towards them. Her stomach turned over and she found herself sitting that little bit straighter in her chair, for what reason she knew not.

She took a breath and smiled, only for it to freeze on her face as she watched a woman follow him. She was blonde and petite, wearing a top with a plunging neckline that showed off assets Christina knew she would have killed for. He stopped in front of them and slid his arm around the woman's waist.

"How drunk are you all then?" Frank asked, looking between them, his gaze resting only momentarily on her.

"Not drunk enough," Jim replied, holding up his empty glass. "Is it your round then, Guv?"

"Looks like it. Same again?" The others all nodded, but she found herself unable to react and he looked at her again. "Chris?"

"Oh…uh yes, thanks Guv."

"Right," he nodded. "Oh, by the way, this is Fiona. Fiona, this is everybody." He patted her gently on the backside. "Make yourself at home."

"Don't mind if I do," Fiona replied, pulling up a vacant chair opposite and smiling. "You the only girl here then?"

"Me?" she replied stupidly. "Oh, no, my colleague Viv's here too, somewhere. So…" she fought for some kind of conversation. "How long have you known the…Frank, then?"

"About eighteen months," Fiona replied, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of her handbag. "But it's not a steady thing, you know."

"No?"

"Just as and when," she lit up, sucked in and blew the smoke out with a smile. "Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Christina replied, looking over the other woman's head and towards the bar where she could see Frank watching them, an unreadable expression on his face. "I know what you mean."