"You, Gene Hunt, are bloody lucky you didn't snap every single one of those stitches. What on Earth were you thinking?"
"Oh, stop naggin', woman. I'm still 'ere, you're still 'ere an' accordin' ter Shaz Keats still got 'is Fairy Liquid coffee, so stop be'avin' like my ex-wife an' get me a scotch, I'm parched."
"Get it yourself."
"You told me not ter get off the bloody sofa!"
"Looks like you're going to have to wait, then," Alex retorts promptly, pushing her DCI back into the cushions of her sofa as he props himself up on his elbow to carry on arguing with her. "Gene, lie down, for God's sake. I don't want you snapping the new stitches as well. Christ knows how you've got enough blood left in your body to carry on bloody arguing with me."
Gene rolls his eyes, shifting to make his aching stomach more comfortable. Alex had stitched him up herself, with more force behind the needle than he suspected was strictly necessary; he would rather have let her see that doodle Chris and Ray pinned up in the kitchenette in 1981 than let her treat his wounds again.
"Are you going to tell the Super it was Keats?" Alex asks softly, budging him up to sit down behind him and pulling him back onto her lap, stroking his hair. Gene frowns.
"Why? Might not believe us. Even if we both said it... Bolls, Keats'll 'ave told 'im about the Fairy Liquid teas an' the various other pranks we've played on 'im by now. Yes, everyone knows I was injured in CID, but nobody else was there an' we gave the excuse of me fallin' onter the whiteboard. Been in this long enough, Bolls, 's not the first time a copper's 'ad a pop at me an' the 'igher ups 'aven't believed me."
Alex cocks her head to one side.
"Well? Story time with the Gene Genie. What happened?"
"Derek bloody Litton 'appened. We'd 'ad an office fight a couple o' days before'and, 'e thought 'e'd get me back by slashin' the Cortina's tyres, but I caught 'im in the act, so 'e slashed me instead."
"Where?"
Gene lifts his sleeve to point out a scar on his arm.
"Wasn' deep, just bloody painful. But the superiors wouldn' believe me. Said I was makin' it up."
"Why didn't they believe you?"
"What's the point o' this, Bolls?"
"Well, if I know what happened before, we can devise a plan to get round these obstacles and prove it was Keats. So. Why didn't they believe you?"
"Litton's reputation, our reputation workin' together. They searched Litton's 'ouse an' office an' didn't find the knife. Prob'ly threw it in the river. Litton was a wanker, but a smart wanker."
He sniffs.
"That an' Sam Tyler 'ad died the week before. They thought I was lookin' fer pity, the DCI without 'is DI. Litton cashed in on that, told 'em 'e'd found me in the toilets doin' somethin' less than manly. Not even goin' ter bloody repeat it. Long shot of it was, Litton got a few gags fer 'is team an' I got bloody humiliated. Couldn' walk down a corridor without someone makin' cryin' noises at me. Got into a few more office brawls that week. An' every-bloody-where else brawls."
Alex smiles.
"Well, Keats doesn't have an unblemished reputation. That 'conference' was exposed, he got talked to over that. The higher-ups know he's got it in for you, that's common knowledge."
"An' they know that the same is true vice versa. As much as I 'ate ter say it, Bolls, we're goin' ter 'ave ter let this go an' just think of somethin' else. Like framin' Keats fer this robbery."
Alex's face becomes thoughtful.
"We're going to need some convincing evidence, along with Peterson's word. That on its own won't get Keats sent down, it won't even reach his record. Just be a desperate blagger throwing crazy accusations around."
Gene's face sets in a determined pout; Alex is visited by the desire to pick him up and kiss it off his face.
"So what d'yer suggest?"
"Letters. Fingerprints. Maybe someone else saw him? Did his car brush anything on the way there? Who else knows he was meeting those blaggers there? We're going to have to dig deep into Jim Keats, find out everything we can."
Gene nods.
"We're goin' ter find the skeletons in 'is closet, and keep just enough under our sleeves ter 'ave 'im by the short an' curlies."
Alex rolls her eyes.
"Metaphors. All over the shot."
He tips her a wink, resting his head on her stomach as she begins running over plans in her head, her fingers drumming absently on Gene's arm. It's only when she hears a light snore and feels Gene cuddling her arm that she realises he's fallen asleep on her.
Ah well. I can think of worse places to be.
Alex wriggles slightly to get comfortable, picking up her blanket from the floor and draping it over the pair of them as she settles back, her head lying on the armrest.
Within a couple of minutes they are both fast asleep.
Keats isn't stupid.
He knows that bastard Dyke has squealed. His master has tipped him off that Hunt's feeling good tonight. Keats suspects that has something to do with the fact that Drake is looking after him, but he's not naïve enough to think that it's all to do with that. Hunt's planning something, him and Drake.
So he has a plan.
What does Gene value, above many other things? Alex, but she's well nigh untouchable at the moment, and he wants to preserve her for later, play with her a bit, make her squirm before he brings her down. Gene's team are too well-protected, and he can't get within ten feet of most of them anyway, thanks to that bloody crucifix. Plus two of them are regulars at the local church.
No. He's going for Gene's baby. His pride and joy. The object he very nearly considers of more importance to him than his own ball-sack.
The Quattro.
And he's not skulking around like some common criminal puncturing the tyres, either. It has to write the thing off, devastate Gene. Preferably cause some damage to him and Alex as well, and maybe some back-seat passengers too? Chris and Ray... a broken ankle could see them off the streets for a good couple of months. Keats rubs his hands together in glee, studying the blueprint of the station he's gleaned from the records room with fresh determination.
So he would be driving it out of there... under the bridge. If he got a call to the west, that's the way he'd go, under there... giving me the perfect opportunity. All I have to do is organise a quick call to the west.
Something that'll hurt him even more, when he gets back from the garage after being told that the Quattro is smashed to smithereens.
His grin widens.
Lions don't like their cubs being killed. Especially little pretty ones. Five or six? Very, very cute. I'm sure I can find one with more than a passing resemblance to Alex Drake... one very close to our own Gene Genie...
No. He has to reign that in. Alex Price has to live. Killing her would cause such a paradox, he'd never work his way out of the paperwork. Just a child will do. A sweet one. A cute one. The kind adults always simper over. Pigtails. Bloodstained pigtails outside the school gates. Yes.
He circles the bridge in red pen- after opening the barrel to check it- and sniggers to himself, picking the phone up. Time to check who the active murderers in the area are. Specifically ones who specialise in children.
Tomorrow, Gene. Tomorrow.
Above Luigi's, Gene subconsciously nuzzles into Alex's stomach, long legs draped over the end of the sofa, a tiny smile quirking over his face before he settles to sleep again.
In her small London house, five-year-old Katie Howard clutches the teddy bear her grandma made for her to her chest, blowing a goodnight kiss to her daddy as she settles to sleep, the memory of her parents' bedtime cuddle still warm around her little body.
In Fenchurch East, Keats lies down carefully on the sofa at the back of his office, draping the usual mass of blankets over himself and wishing he had a nice hellfire to warm him up. Nothing like the destruction of a soul to keep your hands from going blue.
The blueprint is sat in his locked desk drawer, next to his correspondences with Dyke and his little notebook. He knows he should get rid of all three, but it gives him a little thrill to have such incriminating evidence right under Hunt's nose, where he can never get at it. He grits his teeth as the crucifix above his door replays in his memory. If only there was something that kept Hunt and his cronies out of his office... unfortunately, Hunt's 'search warrant' and skeleton key ensure that the majority of the station is his oyster.
He closes his eyes, determinedly shutting that train of thought down. He has to remain focused, and for that he needs sleep.
A grin grows on his face as he idly envisages tomorrow's killing, and his revenge on Hunt. His way of keeping the DCI silent. Oh, Hunt will be silenced. And I will bathe in glory when it happens.
He turns over to get comfortable, chuckling to himself.
A shelf drops away from the wall, dousing him in cold water.
"AHHHHHHHHH! HUNT, I WILL BLOODY GET YOU!"
He has to do this quietly. If he's found, the game is up. A little girl's life, the life of an innocent, depends on him keeping his cover. Gene cannot suspect or know anything.
His footsteps echo around the empty street as he slides towards the Quattro, slotting the spare key into the lock. The door feels smooth under his fingers as he opens it; leaning in, he gets a faceful of sleek seating and perfectly modelled dashboard, a cool leather steering wheel, the energetic dignity of a rally car woven into each inch of the vehicle. He basks in it for a second, choosing to ignore the smells of whisky and cigarette smoke that hang around the interior. It is Gene's car, after all.
I wonder if it's time to trade in my Rover?
He chuckles to himself, taking the note out of his pocket, making sure the Sellotape is strong enough to hold out until morning. He needs to be careful not to set off the horn while he's taping the note to the wheel. That would be suicide... for himself and for the child.
The Audi seems to pick up on his intentions, and sits, quiet as a baby, while he fixes it in place.
Good car. Well done. You behave well for Gene tomorrow, eh? Make sure he sees the note.
It may just be his imagination, but he thinks the car rocks slightly, as though it were nodding its assent. He smiles wanly, giving the steering wheel one quick stroke.
I'm getting fanciful in my old age. Better be getting back.
He locks the Quattro up, nodding sagely at it before turning to make his way home.
The light from Luigi's catches for a second on his epaulette.
A/N: Sorry about the long wait for this update- hope you like it! Please, please remember to review. Even if it's just for Amberdextrous' sake. She's terrified of fireworks and everyone seems to be having a collective senior moment and thinking it's the 5th already. Jazzola *cuddling her dog*