Notes: Some of the content here is from 08/10/03; the rest is my own material and meant to fill the gaps before and during the show. Again, I would like to pay tribute to Chris Simmons portrayal of Mickey Webb during this episode and also the scriptwriter, who between them managed to put forward a very convincing portrait of a man taking the 'controlled' route through the acute phase of rape trauma. And even, by the end, to show Mickey beginning to enter the reorganisation phase and did so in a way that stayed true to the character. Bravo.

Notes 2: Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far – I hit a rough patch with this and it was all the comments which kept me going. You very probably wouldn't be reading this if it wasn't for them. And yes, I'm aware how long "Secret" was. Apologies in advance for the length of this one (and it's only half an episode!)

Notes 3: I'd also like to say something in admiration of the direction and camera work (and the understated acting) during the scene in the briefing room. Chris Simmons has no lines in this yet through nice camera movement and body language he dominates the scene. Also worthy of praise is the ending, which says so much with just a look. For a moment there, I thought I was watching the old Bill again.


One of Our Own III:

Gaining Insight

By NorthernStar

There was a peace in Jack's home that didn't exist in Mickey's. Not the quiet as such, although the house was so far from the main road that no traffic could be heard, unlike his place which suffered the constant shush-shush of cars passing by even in the dead of night, but rather it was the stillness. Jack's house was…sedate.

Mickey pulled the fluffy blanket further around him and thought about putting his green zip-up back on. The blanket wasn't really adequate for sleeping under in only underwear and a T-shirt, but he didn't complain. Jack had taken him into his home after all.

The thought made Mickey chuckle. A few weeks ago Meadows had accused him of wanting just this – a place in Jack's house. Despite the surprise he'd had felt over such a bizarre accusation, Jack's words had stung.

Nothing hurt like the truth, his mum had always said, and it had left him wondering. Mostly about his friendship with Jack and his place in CID but other things too, like his parents…like Kate Spears…

Logically, he'd recognised it for what it was – a desperate barb by a desperate man. Jack had wanted to wound, to get Mickey on the defensive, distract him from the topic of Rachel. Well, it had worked, hadn't it? Because he had begun to question his relationship with Meadows; he had wondered about the closeness between them.

Mickey wasn't stupid. He was well aware the rest of CID thought Jack favoured him. He even knew there was ample basis for that opinion. He'd done a few things in the past, the whole Ron Gregory situation the most recent, that would have had anyone else back in uniform, pounding the beat with the probationers. That the DCI had held off there, Mickey had decided, was because his previous record stood for more. He was good at his job. He was very good. And Jack would be a fool to lose that.

Sighing, Mickey turned over; moving off the unrelenting lump in the centre of the sofa, even though that wasn't what was keeping him awake. He was tired, bone deep tired, the ache of it fierce behind his eyes, but he was still awake, not even close to being drowsy.

When he'd lain down, Mickey had really thought he would sleep. Not just because he was here, but because…

Because he felt different now, having given in to the reality of what happened, to the pain of it…to the tears. It had left him exhausted and drained. The nasty tension inside him, to hide the truth from everyone, had lost its urgency now that Jack and God knew how many others knew. In its place was a sort of empty calm, striving to prove that he…was…okay.

He turned over again. He wasn't going to think about that right now.

He shivered; cold even with the blanket. He looked at his watch – 23:47 – and reached over to tug his zip-up from the untidy pile of clothes on the floor. He unzipped it and laid it over the blanket. Despite its thin material, he felt a little warmer.

Mickey closed his eyes, pulling the blanket right up to his chin and tucking his legs up. There was warmth and then there was that soft place just before sleep and then he was back there and the table was beneath him, digging into his hips and genitals and there was that smell, that ugly sickening smell of sweat and skin, semen and his own faeces and pain, ripping searing pain, and so much noise, his own screams, Delaney's grunts and mutterings, the clang of the table as he struggled and it was too much…too, too much…

Mickey awoke with a gasp, his heart threatening to burst free of his chest. He was shuddering violently and it wasn't until he felt the wetness on his cheeks that he realised he was sobbing. He couldn't breathe, couldn't draw breath.

Mickey tumbled off the sofa and stumbled into the kitchen. He leant over the sink, throat tight and stomach churning, convinced he was going to be sick but the retching never came.

When his heartbeat slowed and the gasping sobs died to sniffles, he turned on the tap and washed his face. The ice cold water seared his skin, tiny rivulets dribbled down his neck and soaked into his T-shirt. He shivered and grabbed some kitchen roll to wipe his face. As he chucked the tissue into the bin he noticed that the little clock on the microwave said 01:41.

How much sleep had he got? An hour? Hour and a half maybe?

His body was coated in sweat, raising goose pimples on his flesh as the moisture cooled. He didn't know whether that was the reason why he was trembling or not, but he couldn't stop shaking. He smelt of Delaney, imagined he could feel something slick trickling from his anus and he just wanted to shower.

Wanted to scrub and scrub and scrub until the only pain he felt was real pain, coming from his raw flesh instead of inside, where it wasn't real, where it justwouldn'tstop.

But as understanding as Jack was, he probably wouldn't look favourably on being woken up by his DC taking a shower in the middle of the night. Mickey would just have to live with it.

He left the kitchen and stared at the sofa - Jack's sofa. And it suddenly just felt wrong. He didn't want to be here, in Jack's home, with Delaney all over him.

He hurried over to the pile of clothes and began pulling them on. The fabric felt rough and unclean against his skin and his hands shook as he pulled up the zip.

Mickey took out his mobile as he crept to the front door. Quietly opening it, he slipped out into the bitterly cold night. Then thought of Jack and he hovered on the doorstep, thinking he should go back in and scribble something down, just a short note, thanks or sorry or something like that. But the decision was taken out of his hands when light suddenly flooded down onto the doorstep from the window upstairs and he heard Jack moving about up there.

Mickey quickly and quietly closed the door behind him and hurried away. He didn't want Jack to catch him, didn't want to have to explain or talk about this.

When he was a short distance from the house, he dialled the local cab company and then sat down on the curb to wait.


Mickey got into the shower the moment he got home and scrubbed hard. When he stumbled out, he saw his clothes tossed on the floor in the hurry. The little white prescription bag had fallen from his jacket pocket.

Mickey bent and picked it up. He sorted through the contents, antibiotics, pain-killers and some mild sedatives, taking care to read the instructions on the labels. He swallowed down a tramadol and forced himself to follow that with the tetracycline.

Welcome to the rest of your life, Mickey Webb…

He tossed the bag onto the bedside cabinet and then roughly dried himself off before tumbling into bed, hair still dripping wet. The pillow grew damp under his head, sticky and moist against his cheek.

The night wore on, but he couldn't sleep.

Delaney was out there somewhere, free and easy, smug over what he had done. He couldn't let him go free. Couldn't leave him out there to do this to someone else. The thought of making a statement made him sick, couldn't ever imagine putting what happened into words. He hated the thought of anyone looking at him and knowing.

He didn't think he could ever look anyone in the eyes again.

Mickey must have dozed off and on, drowsy from exhaustion, coaxed into submission by the strength of the pain-killer, because the space between the rattle and clink of a delivering milkman and dawn lighting the bedroom seemed almost instantaneous.

When his radio clicked on, it was almost a relief. Despite the lack of sleep, he felt more awake now that the sun was up. Mickey got up and forced himself to have a normal shower, just like he'd take any morning. At the sink, brushing his teeth, he made the mistake of looking at himself in the mirror. The person staring back at him was pale and drawn, eyes shadowed with blond stubble beginning to sprout on his chin.

He spat in the sink and rinsed his mouth, too tired to shave. He dressed in baggy jeans, belting then around his bruised hips and tugged on the first t-shirt he could find – pale blue to match his pale skin.

He took another antibiotic and slipped the bottle into his jacket pocket so he could take the next dose at lunch. Fidgety and nervous, he skipped breakfast, anxious to get to work, get started on the day.

He had Delaney to catch.


Jack picked up the blanket still draped over the sofa and began to fold it. The cushions were still dented from bearing Mickey's not very substantial weight but other than that, there was nothing to suggest he'd ever been there, sleeping under Jack's roof or crying his arms.

He tried not to worry.


Mickey was the first of the day shift into CID and he went straight to the whiteboard with its scribblings of the Delaney case. He picked up the pen and changed the 2 into a 3 in the 'escaped from custody 2 days ago' blurb beneath the photo of Delaney's ugly face.

His eyes caught Delaney's; the man's pale square face stared out at him. Mickey's stomach turned over, not really fear, more like burning humiliation and…disgust. As much for himself as for Delaney.

Bastard…

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

Mickey's fingers tightened on the pen. He had the almost irresistible urge to use it to gouge out the picture, obliterate it. He forced his hand to lower, to the small space at the bottom, where new information would be placed.

New information…

If it had happened to anyone else, that's exactly what the rape would be. More ground to cover, new leads to follow up. Sickly, he imagined himself writing it; could almost see the words there, scrawled in block capitals.

RAPED DC WEBB TWO DAYS AGO.

Mickey swallowed. He touched the board with the pen. His hand shook as he forced himself to form an R. He stared at it, licked his lips. He moved his hand and watched it shake. The A he formed was almost illegible.

He knew there would be no more letters.

The door opened behind him and he quickly scrubbed the letters from the board, wiping with his hand. The ink smeared and vanished.

If only the act were obliterated so easily from his life.

Mickey put the pen back and turned away, he saw DC Thatcher hang up his coat.

The newcomer nodded his head. "All right?" He asked.

Mickey muttered 'yeah' back and sat down at his desk.


Jack called Mickey's house but got only the answer phone. He briefly considered phoning his mobile, but decided against it. He needed to treat carefully here, and besides, what was he going to say anyway? He was concerned, with good reason, but pushing could be counter productive.


Mickey picked through his paper work, always aware of Delaney's face staring out from the incident board. A few times he turned to stare at the picture, pale ugly eyes staring back. It almost felt like being watched.

Anger gnawed at him. Delaney was free: free to live.

And Mickey…

Mickey didn't think he would ever feel truely free again. Because deep down, where he didn't want to acknowledge it, was fear. Fear that a free Delaney could find him again. Do that again.

He hated himself for it.

Mickey forced his eyes away from the photo. No…

Delaney would not be free for much longer. He was going to make sure of it.

He was going to put Delaney behind bars.

Mickey balled up his right hand into a fist. Most of all, he wanted to make Delaney pay for what he'd done. The need to get his hands on the bastard was like an itch under his skin, crawling sickly at the thought of ever touching Delaney again but still wanting to hurt. But it wasn't like rage, not really. He was holding it in.

He wanted Jack and Smithy to see he was OK.

He glanced over at the photo again; calm fury growing in his gut.

Rob Thatcher looked his way. Mickey turned his attention to the computer in front of him. He tapped up Delaney's file. The same mug shot headed the notes. Bland eyes gazed out at him.

Mickey stared back.


Jack got to the nick early. He hurried up to CID and smiled slightly in relief at the sight of Mickey sitting at his desk, hand propping up his chin, drawing Jack's eyes to the red scrapes circling his wrist.

He went over, approaching softly, taking in the young man appearance as he walked. Mickey looked pale and tired, dark smudges under his eyes gave his face a hollow look.

"How you doing?" He asked gently.

Mickey broke the stand-off with the picture. "I want to get Delaney." He said.

Jack smiled, proud of him. "Good." He sat down. "I'll need to get a statement off you." He was back on familiar ground now. This he could handle. "Then we'll get the ball rolling, forensicate the scene-"

Mickey didn't look at him. "No I'm not reporting the rape." He murmured softly. "If we catch him, he'll still go down for the attacks on Rachel and Fiona McGowan, yeah?"

Jack leaned in, aware of Rob pottering about, casting curious looks their way. "I want him punished for what he did to you." He whispered.

The new DC looked over at them. "Everything all right?"

Jack pulled out a smile. "No, you're all right Rob." He turned back to the hunched young man. "Come on…"


He led Mickey to his office and opened the door for him. The gentleness with which Jack spoke and behaved around him, so unlike the professional attitude Mickey was used to, bothered him.

It didn't feel like respect. And he needed Jack to respect him.

But who could now? Knowing what Delaney had done?

Mickey sat down, perched on the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

He couldn't meet Jack's eyes.

"What time d'you leave last night?"

The question surprised him, even though he knew Jack would ask eventually.

Mickey ran his hand over his face. "Sorry, guv." He said quietly. "Couldn't sleep."

Jack watched him for a moment. Mickey could feel his eyes on him and he felt immediate humiliation.

"I want Delaney caught as bad as you do." Jack told him.

Rachel… "I know that."

"For what he did to you." He added softly.

Mickey couldn't face that. "This is up to me, OK? This is my choice."

"I know." Jack told him. "I respect that. We both want Delaney caught. But to do that we need to throw all the resources we can at this case. The DI and the super need to know what happened to you."

Mickey let out a breath.

"We need them on side." Jack continued.

"I can't talk to anyone about this."

"I'll tell them."

Mickey looked up.

Jack got up from the chair and came round the desk to him. "You know I'm right."

"And if I say no, yeah?" The words weren't as angry as he'd intended them to be. He wanted to be defensive and found he wasn't.

"I'll respect that too."

Mickey's head lowered and a long silence followed. As the minutes passed, he heard the faint echoes of footsteps outside. The arrival of the day shift: muffled conversation and movement. There was even some laughter in there.

Finally, Mickey looked up at the DCI. Jack stood over him, waiting out the time passively.

"Do you?" Mickey asked. His voice cracked.

"Do I what?"

"Respect that?" Respect me? The hidden meaning was as loud as Mickey's words were soft.

"Yes." The answer was immediate and certain.

Mickey lowered his head again. "Okay." The agreement came out surprisingly strongly.

Jack laid a hand on his shoulder briefly and then he turned to go. Mickey didn't look up until he heard the door close behind Jack, leaving him alone.


Jack went straight to the DI's office and knocked.

Sam looked up from her files when he entered. "Jack."

"There's something I need to discuss with the Super." He told her. "You need to hear it too."

"Give me ten minutes."

"It can't wait that long."

She frowned. "What's this about?"

"New information on the Delaney case." He told her and turned to hold open the door for her. "I'd rather not go through it twice."

"Should I call a briefing?"

"No." Jack sighed. "It's…its confidential."


Okaro frowned as the pair walked into his office. Jack knew the feeling. It was entirely too early for a crisis and the presence of his senior officers could only mean just that.

This wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to hear. Ever.

"Sit down." Okaro indicated the chair across from his own.

Jack took a seat. Sam preferred to stand. Okaro looked questioningly at him.

Jack drew a breath. "I've got some… sensitive and… highly personal information concerning the Delaney case."

Okaro's eye's flickered to Sam.

"I'm as in the dark as you are, sir." She said, eyes on Jack, every bit as watchful as Okaro.

"I know this irregular, but before I say anything I need your word that what I tell you will not leave this room."

"We're police officers, Jack." Okaro's tone was edgy, a little dangerous.

"I think you'll understand why when I explain things."

The super nodded once. "All right." He didn't sound happy.

Jack looked up at the acting DI. "Sam?"

She nodded as well.

"Right." Jack took a breath. "Two nights ago, DC Webb chased Martin Delaney into the warehouses across from the Larkmead Station."

"I read the report."

"Mickey left a few things out, sir."

The super's face hardened. "Falsifying police reports is a criminal offence and I take it very seriously-"

"Delaney tied him up and subjected him to a serious assault." Jack cut in. "He…confided in me yesterday."

The anger faded from Okaro's face. "How serious?"

Jack met his eyes. "He was raped."

Complete silence. Beside him, Sam swallowed. It was so quiet he was surprised he didn't hear the jump of her Adam's apple.

"Why didn't he come forward with this information?" The super's tone was softer.

"He's…trying to deal with this as best he can, sir."

"That's not what I asked."

"He doesn't want to make a complaint." Jack admitted.

"What sort of message does this send out? One of our own officer's gets raped and he won't make a statement."

"Well, we can't begin to imagine what Mickey's feeling right now so we're not in a position to tell him what to do." He believed that. "I think we should concentrate our efforts on finding Delaney."

Okaro nodded in agreement. "I want uniform and CID in for a briefing in one hour." He looked over at the DI. "Samantha, I want you to take another look at Delaney's profile. Clearly there are things we don't know about him."

"I'll do that right away sir."

Sam left.

Okaro looked back at Jack. "Say we get Delaney. He gets convicted for assault. What'll he get? Two? Three years?" Okaro asked. "Hardly justice for a rape."

Jack understood that frustration all too well. "I'm no happier about that than you are. But Mickey's been through enough. I'm not going to put pressure on him because of what I want." There was subtle note of warning in his voice. He wasn't about to let anyone else pressurise the young man either.

Okaro thought for a moment. "Dismissed."

Jack got up and opened the door to leave. He heard the super approach and turned in the doorway.

Okaro looked at him, eye to eye. "How is he?" He asked softly.

Jack's jaw tightened. "He'll be OK."

He could only hope that was true.


Sam left Okaro's office, grateful for the chance to escape. The horror she'd felt at Jack's words was second only to sick jolt she experienced moments later, on turning the corner in the corridor…

…And coming face to face with Mickey.

She stopped, dead, Mickey had to pull up sharp to avoid colliding with her. Immediately she looked down at her feet. "Mickey." She managed to grind out.

"Guv."

There was something in his tone, something enquiring and…normal…that made her look up. She caught a glimpse of his pale drawn face and shadowed eyes before Mickey bowed his head, avoiding her gaze.

She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it when she realised she didn't know what.

"I'd best get on." The DC said and walked around her.

She hated the relief that surged through her now he was gone.


Mickey went straight to the men's room and splashed water on his face. He looked at his dripping, tired face in the mirror. Now five people knew about him. Six if he counted Delaney.

And they all looked at him like he was…

He didn't think he could he face a lifetime of reactions like Sam's.


Jack supervised the setting up of the briefing room, aware all the time that Mickey was missing from CID. He hoped the young man hadn't done a runner again. He tried to tell himself that Mickey was determined to catch his attacker; he wouldn't have gone AWOL again.

But that didn't stop him worrying that Mickey hadn't gone out alone.

He finally gave in to the desire to find Mickey and left Sam Nixon in charge of the details.

Jack went downstairs and asked the first person he came across – June Ackland – if he'd seen Mickey.

"Last I saw, he was heading for the canteen, sir."

"Thanks."

Jack glanced at his watch and saw he had only fifteen minutes before the briefing. He hurried to the canteen and scanned the tables for the familiar blond head.

Mickey sat at the far end, alone at the furthest table, sipping a steaming mug, staring into its contents blankly. Jack allowed himself a slight smile of relief before moving further into the canteen. He caught sight of the food on display and gave in to a sudden impulse. He stopped at the cooler, grabbed a packet of sandwiches and paid for them before heading over.

"Mind if I join you?"

Mickey looked up. "Guv." He shifted a little. "Yeah."

Jack sat down and put the sandwiches in front of the DC. "Here."

Mickey swallowed some coffee. Then he took the packet and opened it. "Cheese and pickle, guv?"

The DCI half-smiled. "Beggars can't be choosers."

He pulled a sandwich out, took a bite and chewed. "You told 'em?" He asked around the mouthful.

"Yeah. There's a briefing in..." He glanced at his watch. "About ten minutes."

Mickey continued to munch through the cheese and pickle. Jack watched him eat. The young man never really looked at him.

"It'll get things moving, Mickey."

Mickey swallowed the last of the first sandwich and took out the second. "Long as he's caught, yeah?"

He didn't like the vaguely fatalistic tone to Mickey's voice. "He will be."

Mickey didn't reply, eating probably so he wouldn't have to talk. Jack watched the last of the sandwich vanish, washed down with a mouthful of coffee.

"They ain't saying nuffing?" Mickey asked at last. "Okaro and the DI?"

Jack made sure he caught Mickey's eyes, hoped the young man could see the sincerity there. "No."

The DC drank the last of his coffee, staring into the distance behind Jack.

Jack checked the time. "Come on."

"Give us a minute, yeah?" Mickey muttered. "Gotta take a jimmy."


Mickey made sure he was last. He followed behind Jack and the super, keeping his distance. He felt sick. He didn't want to do this.

At the entrance to the briefing room, he caught Okaro's attention.

"Sir?"

The super stopped. "Mickey."

"There's to be no reference to me in there, is there?"

Okaro's eyes were hard, but there was no edge to his answer. "No."

Mickey's "okay" was barely audible as he nodded and went into the briefing room.

All the chairs were filled, although he had no intention of sitting in any case. Mickey took position right at the back, not far from the door. He leaned back against the counter, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed.

He had to be here because he was part of the team, part of this case in a way no one else could ever be, but he didn't need to participate.

Jack stood in front of the incident board "Right then, Martin Delaney…" He began. The DCI's voice faded into the background as Mickey let all his concentration focus on keeping it together, keeping everything in.

He didn't want to listen. There was nothing about Delaney that he didn't already know.

Intimately…

DI Nixon's voice took over and his mind caught on her husky words - "almost feral" and "loner" sank through the roaring in his head.

"He takes pleasure out of hurting and humiliating people."

Mickey's eyes flickered up.

"He also has an almost pathological need to exact revenge on those he feels have wronged him."

His stomach turned over. The knowledge screamed inside him. But it was her next statement that turned his inside to fire and made his cheeks burn with shame.

"There may also be a sexual element creeping into his MO."

The words made him feel dirty, like he wanted to shrink away. But he didn't move. He kept his head lowered, chest heavy as he breathed, throat tight, barely able to swallow. He was OK, he could get through this.

Then Sam said something else, something that caught inside him. Delaney was operating in the area, using his stolen credit cards. There was no reason for him to stay within the zone marked out on the incident map.

And yet he was.

"…something is keeping him here." Sam told them.

Mickey lifted his eyes.

For the first time, Mickey wondered 'why?'


The rest of the briefing was a jumble of voices and opinions. Mickey's mind raced, dragged back only once to the present, by Jack's eyes on him. The DCI was watching him. He ignored the concern he saw: he didn't have time for it.

Mickey was too busy thinking.

The briefing ended after what felt like a lifetime of torment. Everyone filed out, filed past him and he caught snatches of their discussions. Mickey stayed where he was, hands still clasped in front of him. It didn't feel like he would ever move again.

When there was only Okaro and Jack left, the DCI came over to him.

"You did good."

Mickey nodded once and went to leave, suddenly tired. The adrenaline feeding him during the briefing crashing now it was over.

"Mickey?" Okaro came up behind him.

He turned. "Sir?"

"My door is always open…"

It really ought to be funny. He barely looked up. "Yes, sir."

Mickey continued out the door, one foot in front of the other. He felt drained. And all he'd done was half listen to a briefing.

"Mickey!"

He carried on walking. He didn't want to talk to anyone, least of all Smithy.

"If there's anyfing I can do…" the sergeant offered as he fell into step beside Mickey.

Mickey didn't want to deal with this right now. "You've dun enough, ain't ya?" But there was no heat in his words. He was too tired.

Smithy came to stand in front of him. "I couldn't just stand by and pretend like nuffing had ever 'appened." He sounded so earnest, so convinced. "I told the DCI coz I was worried about ya."

Mickey looked at him. So many people knew now, it seemed pointless to argue over it. Especially when all he felt right now was exhaustion. "Yeah." He murmured and continued on his way.


Smithy watched him go. It had been hard to sit through the briefing and not look around at Mickey. It had been hard enough to sit through knowing what the others didn't. Knowing precisely what the 'sexual element' was and why this investigation had suddenly been stepped up.

It had been a relief to stand up and see the DC at the back. He hadn't seen Mickey since yesterday, when the young man had attacked him. It had bothered him to see just how pale and dishevelled he looked, worse even than he had when Smithy had challenged him with the truth in the toilets.

He didn't like to think that he might be the cause of that.


Mickey wandered outside. Britain was going through a pleasant 'Indian summer' and the late September sunshine felt warm on his back. He sat down on the wall and bent over his knees, resting his elbows on his legs and pressing his face into his hands.

The tiredness was getting to be almost overwhelming now and he just felt…used.

He stayed that way for a long while.

"Here."

Mickey straightened up. He hadn't heard anyone approach.

Jack Meadows stood at his side, holding out a polystyrene cup. Mickey smelt coffee.

He took it with a barely audible, "cheers" and opened the lid to take a sip. It was hot, very black and very sweet. "You're makin' a habit of this, ain't ya?"

Jack smiled. "Don't get used to it."

Mickey drank down more of the burning liquid, aware of the DCI's scrutiny.

"You could go home." Jack said, looking away from the young man. "You look like you could use the sleep." Jack half smiled. "A shave wouldn't go amiss either."

Mickey ran his fingers over the scratchy blond stubble on his chin. He got up, suddenly uncomfortable with the man standing next to him. "I need the work, yeah?"

"Well you're not doing it out here."

Mickey tensed at the words.

"Are you?"

Mickey stared out across the yard for a moment before looking back at his guv'nor. "Just…needed a minute."

"I know." Then Jack made a 'go on' gesture with his head. "The public aren't paying you to sit on your backside."

A flicker of anger blossomed in his chest. "I wasn't…"

"I know what you were doing." Jack told him evenly. "Now its time to do some work."

Mickey turned and stalked back into the nick. It wasn't until he sat back at his desk he realised that between the anger and the coffee, he wasn't tired anymore.

Scheming old bastard…


About an hour later, after yet another read through Delaney's profile, he heard Jack's voice, yelling at Debbie, Brandon and that new DC, Rob.

"…that you're not taking this investigation seriously-"

He knew what they were sniggering about, what Debbie was stirring. "Guv!"

Jack reacted to his summons, coming straight over. It really ought to be amusing.

The DCI leaned over him, head bent.

"She saw you with Rachel the other day." Mickey murmured.

Jack's face hardened. "How many other people know?"

The whole bloody Nick… Mickey took a breath. "I want to be part of this investigation."

If Jack recognised the delaying tacit, he made no mention. "Well help us sift through Delaney's intelligence." He said and straightened up.

Left alone, Mickey pulled out a paper file and opened it. Sam's words came back to him and he glanced at the incident board with its section of Canley ringed as the area Delaney was operating in. There was no reason for him to be there. His mother lived across town.

There was nothing…

Something is keeping him here… With a sick churning, he couldn't help wondering if the reason Delaney stayed was to toy with him. Turn the knife just a little bit more. He wouldn't put it past the sadistic son of a bitch.

But what if it was more than that? What did he really know about Delaney?

Why…why had he raped at all?

Mickey reached for the prison file.


Mickey had been moved up to DC very quickly. He'd planned to make DS before he was 30 and he still had plenty of time. He wasn't yet 29. He knew how good he was and he let those instincts guide him now.

The food and coffee in his stomach fuelled his actions and he knew his fevered behaviour and quick phone calls were attracting attention from the rest of the team, who were mainly huddled together, sniggering over the DCI's involvement with Rachel Heath.

One sentence jumped out at him from the prison file and a thought occurred. Mickey frowned and reached out for the file Debbie had placed on the edge of her desk to cross check what he'd read.

Her eyes flickered up from her work to see him snag it. She frowned. "You want to let the FME look at that."

"What?"

She gestured at his wrist, peeping out from his sleeve as he leaned forward to take the file. He looked where she pointed; at the red and raw bruises circling his narrow wrist and for a brief moment, his mind pulled him back, seeing that same arm twisting to get free as Delaney laboured over him.

Mickey tugged the sleeve back over the mark. "It's nothing."

She shrugged, unconcerned and nodded at the file. "I'll need that back."

"Just need to check something, yeah? Coupla minutes tops."


For the next couple of hours, he phoned around, but if anything, the little inconsistency in Delaney's file just became more blaring as the information mounted up. It wasn't much more than a brief mention of the incident in Delaney's cell, only in the prison record it was described as minor. The beating Delaney had taken in his cell; the one he'd blamed the now missing Eddie McGowan for not stopping.

Delaney certainly hadn't seen it as minor.

He reached for his phone…

Ten minutes later, he hung up, picked up his pad and turned in his chair to face Debbie. He looked up at her

"Here listen to this."

She gave him her attention. "What?"

"Delaney got attacked in prison, right," he said, looking at her. He didn't feel so…wrong…around her, maybe because she'd gone through something similar with her husband, Chandler. "But he only received treatment for a superficial wound to his face. Then he was put in hospital. He was put on the Radcliff ward. I just rung and checked. It's the psychiatric unit. And he was put on suicide watch for three weeks after he was discarded."

"But you heard what the DI said. Delaney couldn't cope with prison. So no big surprise that he cracked."

Mickey went to reply but his phone rang and he turned to answer. Debbie just eyed his strange behaviour and carried on with her own work.

"DC Webb. Yeah, I'm trying to track down a probation officer…"


It was just after three pm that Mickey got his break. After coming to several dead-ends, he finally found someone willing to talk about Delaney. The prison chaplain had agreed to see him.

Mickey got off the phone and grabbed his jacket. Jack stopped him before he got two paces away from his desk.

"You off somewhere?"

Mickey continued to shrug into his jean jacket. He'd hoped to make it out the nick without Jack knowing. He didn't want the DCI to pull rank and order him to do desk work, using the regulation about facial injuries to keep Mickey sidelined on the investigation. "There's something in Delaney's file that doesn't make sense to me."

"What's that?"

"Well the prison physiatrist won't release any of his records and his probation officer doesn't know anything about it but he put me in touch with a prison chaplain who's had dealings with him."

The DCI's reaction was guarded. "Sounds like a fishing trip to me."

"We need to find out more about him." Mickey pointed out.

"We just need to find him."

"All right. I need to find out more about him." The reply was quiet. Sincere.

He watched understanding dawn in Jack's eyes. "Go on." He almost smiled.

Mickey hurried out before Jack could change his mind.


Jack watched the young man leave, doors swinging shut behind him. He hoped he hadn't made a mistake in letting Mickey go. He knew the copper in Mickey wouldn't let this go. But so far, Jack had seen none of controlled rage and drive for revenge that sometimes fuelled officers when cases turned personal, Mickey included.

This time, the young man wasn't bent on revenge at any cost. He really did just want Delaney behind bars.

Jack had never been prouder of him.

Either way, if Mickey was up at the prison, he wasn't likely to run into Delaney again. And with any luck, and a whole lot of hard work, CID would have Delaney in custody before Mickey even got back.

It was the only thing he could do for his friend.


Despite everything that had happened, Mickey's mind dwelled more on Polly Page as he drove towards the prison. Coppers took it bad inside, as bad as nonces' did. He couldn't imagine what she was going through.

And yet…in her own way; Polly probably understood a little of what he was feeling. They were both facing a life sentence.

Pulling up in the visitor's lot, Mickey got out of his car and stared up at the brick walls and bars of Delaney's prison. He felt a shiver run down his back. This was the place that might well have been responsible for turning Delaney into a rapist.

And himself into a vic…

Into whatever he was.

Inside, he was escorted through to the chapel and left to knock on the chaplain's door.

"Come."

He opened the office and saw a preacher tiding some books. He was a middle aged man with a salt and pepper beard and intelligent eyes.

"DC Webb?" He asked in a deep, accented voice. "Mike O'Donnell."

Mickey closed the door and sat down.

"Would you like some tea?"

"No. 'Fanks. Look, I'm a bit pushed for time, actually."

O'Donnell nodded and settled in the chair opposite Mickey. "You know the conversations I have with inmates…" He began. "They're supposed to be in confidence."

"Then why have you agreed to see me?"

"Because the conversations I had with Delaney were not like the conversations with other inmates. Despite this," he gestured to his dog collar, "I'm not a great believer in good and evil, but I'd say Delaney is closest thing to evil I've ever met."

"Why did he come to you?"

"He didn't have anywhere else to go." The chaplain frowned. "When Martin hit rock bottom, he was put under psychiatric care. The doctor's terrified him. Anyone Martin perceived to be more intelligent that him was a threat. He couldn't talk to them."

"So he confided in you?"

"When he was at his lowest ebb. His most vulnerable."

"And that's as result of him being beaten up in his cell, yeah?"

The chaplain didn't hold back on the confidence. "He was raped." He corrected.

Mickey felt a rush of adrenaline run through him and his heart pounded.

The world had suddenly got darker…


To be continued...