"Aren't you going to get that?" Sam asked, bewildered by Malcolm's sudden inability to process basic information. He was like one of those new computers IT had put in… Nothing on the screen but their fans were in overdrive going a million bloody miles an hour to stop the core entering meltdown. That was Tucker in a nutshell. A nuclear reactor built on a fault line next to a mining operation run by North Korea.

He still hadn't moved.

"Uh – yeah. 'course..." Tucker frowned and stepped away from his P.A. He'd been rather blind sighted by the interruption. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time someone had found the balls to knock on his door. There was an invisible sign hanging on the outside that read, 'Fuck off or have your limbs fucked off' to warn brave carbon units away but whoever this was knocked again as Tucker reached the handle. The steel was as cold as his mood.

"Can I help you..." Malcolm trailed off immediately – abandoning his usual ire for an infinitely more professional and rigorously filtered version of himself. "Officer?"

Sam's head snapped around as a police constable poked his head in.

"Morning to you, sir." The PC began, carrying his hat under his arm. "Security downstairs let me in and directed me to this office. Are you Malcolm Edward Tucker, Director of Communications for Her Majesty's government?"

"I am," Malcolm replied, not entirely sure why the back of his throat resembled the Sahara. He hadn't done anything of note. Well hadn't done anything lately that could explain the official visit unless the police had lost a politician and thought the body parts might be buried in his office. Oh… Oh fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck.

"Are you all right, sir?"

"Fine. Fine. Would you like to come in? Have a seat. Have a mandarin – I've got loads." Too much, Malcolm… His best impression of cordial behaviour was freaking the PC out so he dialled it down a notch. "A seat is probably better. We have those. What?" He hissed the last bit at Sam, whose eyes had narrowed from across the room.

The officer wasn't quite sure what to make of – anything – really. "Actually, I was wondering if I could have a word with your personal assistant. A Ms Sam Cassidy if she is – ah, Ms Cassidy?" The PC turned to the woman approaching, without shoes, from the depths of Tucker's office.

"That's me," she confirmed. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Sam's manner was much better, Malcolm noted. She was a pro when it came to dealing with people in unforeseen circumstances. Malcolm, well, his natural reaction was to storm in and pulverise anything with a pulse, turn the dust into chalk and pen a warning for others on the nearest wall.

"These are routine questions," the PC continued. "And though you are under no obligation to answer I will be required to invite you down for a formal interview at the station should you fail to comply."

"Now wait on a m-" Tucker protested, attempting to step in front of Sam but she pushed him away discreetly with a firm hand.

"No, it's okay. I do not mind. You may continue."

"If you prefer, Ms Cassidy, we can conduct these questions somewhere more private." The PC glanced deliberately at Tucker who had developed a twitching vein.

"No," she repeated. "He will be all right, won't you..." Her sharp gaze met his and Tucker found himself compelled to back off.

The PC closed the door to keep their conversation private from the corridor outside then all three of them settled on a pair of couches. Tucker and Sam on one, the PC facing them on the other. He glanced at the paperwork strewn over the floor but made nothing more than a passing nod of interest to it.

"Is it usual," he began, "to work here on a Sunday?"

Sam nodded. "Oh yes. Politicians do not take the weekend off and so neither do we. Mr Tucker keeps an eye on their activities and I keep an eye on his tea and coffee."

"And were you here this Saturday passed?"

"Part of it, yes."

"Friday night?"

"She was with me..." Tucker reached over, taking Sam's hand and moving it to his knee.

Sam's first thought was that is a lie swiftly followed by what the Jesus-fuck? Neither of those thoughts did anything to calm her nerves and all she could do was thank the layers of caked foundation covering her blush.

"For the whole evening." Malcolm added, as the PC made notes, in case there had been any level of doubt to his meaning.

"Ms Cassidy?"

Shit. Shit. Shit. "Yes. Malcolm," she dropped formalities deliberately, "and I left together in the early afternoon and returned to his house. Why?"

"These are routine questions," the PC assured her, unconvincingly, "in relation to the death of Dan Miller. I can see by your activities that you are aware of his sudden death yesterday."

"He is one of my ministers," Tucker nodded. "We are in the process of monitoring the media and managing the reshuffling of internal jobs following his tragic death. That is the main focus of our activities this morning."

Sam was genuinely proud of Tucker's ability to answer questions without cursing. Contrary to popular opinion, he was a man of infinite restraint. When he unleashed hell, it was by choice.

"We are treating this sudden death as suspicious. Do either of you remember the last time you saw Dan Miller alive?"

"At DoSAC, in his office a few days after Christmas. I asked him to attend a news interview wearing antlers to up the Christmas cheer which he subsequently did."

It would have been hilarious if it wasn't so serious. "I have not seen him since he appeared to testify in the Goolding inquiry. We did not speak. I was a member of the audience. I can check the date for you but it was prior to the aforementioned Christmas presentation."

"And how would you describe Mr Miller as a minister?"

A thousand thoughts ran though his mind, none of which he was allowed to voice. Wildly entertaining, vividly perfect puns lived and died without being heard. "Diligent," Malcolm settled on. "Dedicated. Docile. Deliberately determined to make a difference to the day-to-day of his department." He left out Miller's other notable adjectives. Dull. Delusional. Dangerous. Dubious… "To be honest with you, sir-"

"I hope all our dealings have been honest..." The PC eyed him suspiciously.

"Well – yes – of course… Turn of phrase." He cleared his throat. "Dan Miller is of a rare breed. He showed up for his meetings, read the script and generally got through the day without offending anyone or creating a new story." Malcolm noticed Miller's face on the TV screen beside them. "This is the first time I've been called in to deal with anything unplanned related to Miller. Tragic. Utterly dire." Sam was glaring at him again.

"And have there been, to your knowledge, any outside threats made to him either in person or via external sources? Threatening phone calls, emails – suspicious letters?"

"Nothing beyond the usual constituent mayhem – nothing that that his team felt compelled to report to you," he amended. "Death threats are a part of our world, sir but there is a difference between the usual crazies and a serious threat. Miller did not receive any credible threats, as far as I know."

The carefully prying questions continued throughout which Malcolm continued to hold Sam's hand, stroking his thumb over her knuckles in a very convincing gesture that left her just as confused as the PC. Eventually, the constable had gone as far as he dared without issuing a formal invitation and excused himself with a final, bewildered look at the row of mandarins. Malcolm politely closed the door and then neither of them moved or said a word until they heard the car leave.

"Jesus Malcolm!" Sam shoved him hard in the chest – so hard he landed against the door in an awkward sprawl. She wasn't even sorry and turned on him again. "What were you thinking? You lied to a copper and you made me follow you into the lie."

"Are you serious?" He hissed back, keeping his voice low. He pried himself off the door and folded his arms protectively across his chest in case she came for him again. "He was after you for Dan Miller's murder. I did you a fucking favour."

"By giving me an alibi?"

"Yes. By giving you a solid as fuck alibi for the most likely time in which Miller was killed. Where were you?"

"At home."

"Alone?"

"Peter's in Paris for a conference so yeah, alone. Unless you count my cat."

"Exactly. You've got all the same motives I have, Sam. A smart man, which Weir certainly fucking is, would go after you, not me. The quaint little slanderous bit of spin the press have been running all week backs us up. If we were together, they can't touch us. Admit it. It's fucking perfect."

"Unless they think we both did it – together."

"Well-" Actually, Malcolm didn't have a way out of that one.

"Precisely. We're going to have to strengthen this alibi you've gone and fabricated Malcolm because if we're called before another inquiry I couldn't tell them jack shit about your house beyond the living room."

"Bollocks..." Malcolm felt that vein in his neck returning. "Who are you calling?"

"Your pet. If they haven't been to see him, they'll be on their way there shortly. I'm giving him a heads up that you and I are apparently a not-so-secret item so he doesn't do anything stupid when questioned – like choke on his coffee."

"Sam – Sam..." His tone shifted into something softer. "I'm sorry." And he looked it. Malcolm's pale skin was nearly white. "I panicked. That was – out of line." Well there was a fucking understatement. He'd fabricated an affair with his P.A. and if that wasn't crossing a professional line, he wasn't sure what was.

She wasn't exactly angry with him. "Look, it was a good idea but all it'll do is buy us some time. You realise that… We need to slam the inquiry shut before this murder investigation gets going. They can never pin us with Miller's death because we didn't do it – Weir knows this but all he has to do is paint you as a monster in the eyes of the board to prejudice their ruling. They want to pile the collective weight of sin on your shoulders. By the time you make your closing statement there won't be a shred of credibility left. We're going to fight this, Malcolm." She promised him. "Whatever that might entail. I won't let them drag you under."

"Yer and I are 'aving further discussions about this at a later date..." Jamie hissed down the phone at Tucker. Malcolm allowed him a few courtesy minutes of abuse before he hung up and nodded at Sam. "Right, I'm fucking ready. You ready?"

Sam lingered in the doorway of his office carrying her handbag. "I can safely say no," she replied. Sam was not, in any way, prepared for the shitstorm they were about to orchestrate or for the toxic fallout that came after.

Malcolm didn't look ready either. He'd been pacing around his office for fifteen minutes, finding endless tasks with absolutely no relevance.

"Can we please just get this over with," she insisted. "Think of it as your opus of spin."

He wasn't even thinking about the papers. Malcolm was preoccupied with the notion that he'd have to actually let another human soul into parts of his life that he'd roped off for safety. There was a reason he kept people at a distance. It was better. Just – just fucking better. Sam was one of the few things he hadn't fucked up yet and here he was, about to pull the safety cord on a parachute folded by a blind man.

"And remember to smile at least once," Sam nudged him, "or they'll think I'm there under duress."

"Gosh, I wonder how they might arrive at that conclusion."

Tucker wasn't swearing properly and Sam found the censored version of him unsettling. Maybe that's what happened when he was truly stressed. He tapped out of his second language.

"What do you think Tucker is doing right now?" Glen asked, trapped behind his desk along with the rest of the office mediocrity. He was just another shade of grey, blended into the lamp, desk, chair and pile of manilla folders that had developed an alarming lean since he'd piled them on the edge of his table. He'd placed the bin beneath in the off-hand chance they tumbled in. He had about as much intention of looking through them as a cockroach did of space exploration.

"What do I think Malcolm is doing?" Ollie mocked Glen's absurd comment. "I don't have a chip implanted in my ear that feeds me information from the netherspeare whenever he thinks hateful thoughts in my direction. There's no tracking system or inter-cranial email system set up."

"At a guess, Ollie. No need to be such a twat about it."

"I don't know – invading Poland? I'm not a, 'twat' I'm just realistic about my prospects – which aren't good considering we're under investigation for Tickel's much prayed for demise. Then there's the tiny issue of our boss' recent assassination to attend to. I've got paperwork for miles. You know the shit has really hit the fan when Terry's dragged herself in on a Sunday. I didn't think that was possible for public servants. I thought it'd make their wiring melt or explode or something."

Glen was still stuck back on 'murder'. "Oh yeah – and what motive do we have to kill our dreary friend?"

"He's the annoying prat that makes our lives a misery? One day with Miller is enough to make anyone consider irrational violence. Or rational, carefully considered violence..."

"That's probably not something you should admit to in court."

"In court..." Ollie was laughing, dragging his chair in closer to the desk. It was an object completely mismatched to his size. He was a praying mantis perched on a pin head, fighting for grip. "We're not living The Bill, Glen. This isn't one of your day time soaps or a Netflix binge. One of our ministers died and like it or not it was us who found him. At his house. In the fucking snow with a knife this big poking out his chest. We had a genuine reason to be there, didn't we? Miller'd gone and bollocksed up an interview."

"But that's not what happened, is it, Ollie? Not exactly. Exactly." He added, when Ollie lifted his hands in resignation. "And it's subtle discrepancies like that which the prosecution use for twine to hang you with. Good twine, too. None of that shit from our cupboard. I tried to hang a perfectly simple Christmas decoration with it last week and it snapped the moment I taped it to the ceiling. Hadn't even let go of it. Bloody cheap rubbish. Like the people who work in this office."

"All right. Calm down." Ollie lowered his hands back to the table. A disgruntled Glen was more vexing than a compliant one. "We'll go over this one more time. Get our stories straight oh fuck you've gone and jinxed us. Malcolm's calling me. Probably wants to know if my liver's ready to harvest. Malcolm?"

"Right. Ollie – we're sending over the minister for moving useless shit about."

"The Minister for Transport?" Ollie translated, despite barely containing his utter contempt. "Is that the best you can do for a replacement? Don't we have another waxed box we can paint a few eyes on? Nobody'd be able to tell the difference."

"Ha ha that's very fucking hilarious coming from a twisted cheese snack but the Honourable Minister is the only tool left in the box with one good eye and a spine that hasn't folded back over itself so many times that it resembles a theme park attraction. I can't unpack any of the other ministers without the kiddies screaming so play-a-fucking-long, yeah, and find him a milk carton to sit on so that he's at the right height when I come over to breathe down his neck. Now fuck off."

"Fucking off..." Ollie muttered at the phone, long after Malcolm had hung up. "He's in a mood again."

"He'd hate this," Glen said, prodding his pile of folders with the edge of his pen. "Transport is one of Julius' goons. Either his strings are being pulled or he's got nothing better to offer up."

"I thought we grew ministers in the basement? You know – beds of shit and body parts liquefying in the dark until heads pop up."

"Of course not. That would be efficient."

"Oy, where are you going?"

"Do get my fucking chair back." Glen snapped. "Been waiting since Nicola left, haven't I? Still my bloody chair, isn't it."

"And what's Paul going to sit on?"

"He's own severed head for all I care. Though I think Malcolm was serious about the carton." Glen replied, slamming the door. The vibration nudged his pile of files directly into the bin.

"Are you really going to follow through with Julius' request on the appointment of Paul Ryder? He seems a little..." Sam fished for a word to describe the maelstrom of weariness surrounding the Minister for Transport.

"The North Sea. It's just there, like Ryder and occasionally bits of it freeze – crack apart and get in the way of shipping lanes. Well, now a big fucking chunk is about to float over to DoSAC and obstruct a few very deserving people. Miller might have been boring but Ryder's a toddler in an abattoir." Malcolm passed over his jacket for Sam to mind as they got into the car. Their driver was always the same – the only one who agreed to transport the scariest fucking human in the world around. As the doors closed, it started to snow again.

"Whether it was your intention or not, you've made Julius very happy."

"Don' say things like that," Malcolm snapped. "You'll give me indigestion and I'm already struggling after the meal I made of Ollie earlier."

"Ollie's more of an ordoeuvre."

Malcolm lifted his head and cracked a genuine smile as their car pulled away.