Chapter 3

Their faces are always what stay with you longest. They haunt you more than any ghost ever could. Even if this place is imaginary or not, it's hard. Always so hard. Meeting the mothers, the fathers, wives, husbands. They might have trained me to deal with these situations, but nothing can ever prepare you for how someone will react when they've lost a loved one forever. It's at times like this I think of Molly most. I miss her so much.

This case is a hard one, we looked through Perky's flat, the others using their usual grace and double vigor as ever. Shaz is sticking a vase back together as we speak. There was nothing to suggest that he was in any sort of financial trouble, no drugs, no stolen goods, no threatening letters. Gene's being his patient self as ever, throwing theories around like nobody's business. He's convinced Perky is either a rent boy or a kiddly fiddler which would account for his lack of social acquaintances and why he hadn't moved back in with his parents. He really is preposterous sometimes!

When I was at school there was this gym teacher, Mrs Barthes. Barty. She was insufferable and made my life absolute hell. She was convinced I should be in the netball team, but I had no interest in the game, she and her henchmen were relentless. Her henchmen were called Zoe Phelps and Trina Cooper-Smith. Two hateful little suck ups who were far too engrossed in sticking their heads up Barty's arse to see just how much everyone hated them. They weren't just Barty's golden girls they were terrible bullies too. More than once I saw them teasing the chubby girls, or mocking the poorer girls who were there on scholarships, girls worth twice as much as they were. And because of their loyalty to Barty she'd get them off the hook on anything and everything. That's what they would try and allure me into their little clan. Immunity. I hated them, but they were convinced I was going to be their new best friend, as well as Goal Attack.

I get a horrible sense of de ja vu here at Fenchurch station.

Another lad caught in possession got brought in, was taken out with a broken nose.

"That'll stop him chasing white lines for a bit."

I think he thinks it's the only way he'll get results, using his own henchmen to use brute force to get results, just like Phelps and Cooper-Smith at school. Thinking back, one of them did have a mustache.

I really have to talk to him about his behavior towards the people here, public relations are of utmost importance, if they feel they can't trust us then no-one will talk to us and we'll all be out of a job. It's common sense really. I'll talk to him about it later, once he's had a few drinks, he's usually less hostile then. Hopefully he wont be dormant.

"Bolly you're a bird. You will never understand." His hand slices through the air, his scotch inevitably sloshing on his trousers. "Bugger."

"All I'm asking is for you to tone it down a bit Guv. It's getting to much, it's not you getting the reputation it's Ray."

"Ray's a big boy, he can look after himself." Conscious of the fact he's being talked about a sheepish looking Ray looks over, Gene raises his empty glass at him, half smiling. Ray nods and calls over Luigi to order him another drink.

"I won't be a part of it Gene. I refuse."

"You already are, you work here, you're a part of the team... What's this Luigi? Half measures?" Gene looks at his glass, almost imploringly.

The little Italian blushes slightly and shuffles back off to the bar to top up the glass.

"I don't know who exactly you think you are Gene Hunt, but you certainly are not the boss of me. I am my own woman. I am independent, I am confident, and I always get my own way." The effects of the wine finally taking their toll on me.

"Is that so? I think you'll find I own your arse. I stamped it after all. I am DCI." He emphasises the middle syllable. "Whereas you are my DI... Now where is my drink?" He looked about the bar, his blue eyes twinkling in the warm lighting.

I've noticed that sometimes, just sometimes I just find myself looking at him. Wondering.

He was impressive. This big hulk of man, all cheap shirts and polyester ties, old spice and cigarettes, but somehow he doesn't reek of pathetic old has-been. There still is something there. Something to be salvaged from the ashes of his past. A burning ember of something waiting to be found by the right person. Whoever it is will have an awful lot of history to get through.

I finish my drink, knowing that the conversation was soon to end.

"Are you always this possessive of your DI's, or is it because simply because I'm a woman?"

"I'm not ... Ahhhhhh, thank you Luigi, next time I'd appreciate it if it arrived before Christmas."

"Wine for the lady?"

"No thank you, I think I've had enough for one night."

It's always a bad sign when the only gentleman you know is Italian.