I'm sure you're all wondering what the heck is going on here. He's hearing voices, good and bad, seeing things that can't be real, but he's got a job to do… well we can't have the Gene Genie having a day off can we?

(Thank you one and all for reading and if you did so reviewing)

Chapter 8

Gene woke up in the early hours of the morning, head throbbing.

Either alcohol was stronger in 2007 or he'd finally discovered his limit.

Sighing heavily Gene heaved himself up from the settee. It was the second night he'd slept there and already it was doing blue murder to his back. Groaning loudly he staggered over to the light switch and shed some light on the gritty darkness. Looking at the painfully modern watch on his wrist it told him it was 4 O'clock. Gene had spent many a long night being in CID until that time, back when he'd been more idealistic about the job admittedly, but his Misses never appreciated him rolling in at half four, reeking of single malt and early-morning fag smoke.

Gene wondered what time he'd got in, eleven, twelve?

It all had got a little hazy after ten and he wondered what he might have done or said. He was the violent type, he'd be the first to admit, but there where Plonks around, his manners weren't that good round skirts when he wasn't half cut. Rubbing his face with his hands he trudged heavily over to the sideboard to get a fag. He wondered whether he smoked just out of routine and less addiction most of the time. But just for a moment he felt he needed to feel like in three hours he'd be getting up properly and be rolling in by half eight to 1973.

"Rough night?" Sam asked as Gene poured his third cup of coffee of the morning. Gene had to use all his will power not to punch is poncy DCI in the teeth.

All the coffee in the world wouldn't cure this head.

"Hunky dory Sam." Gene said through gritted teeth.

"Surprised you got home in one piece, you left around half ten after a punch up with a police constable." Sam said grimly.

"Ah sod, that explains the headache." Gene muttered, feeling himself go slightly red, no one, but no one, punched up Gene Hunt!

"Well t'be fair he was far more drunk than you, you tried to help 'im up after he'd fallen over at the bar and he simply let you have it." Sam said.

"Thank goodness I didn't start the fight." Gene mumbled and Sam rolled his eyes,

Mental note, don't invite Gene drinking again.

"Anyway, once you've found yourself some painkillers we'll begin." Sam intoned and Gene instantly looked doubly alert.

"What's 'appened?" Gene asked quickly, he was used to people saying things like that, as it was normally him saying it.

"Lucinda Jackson, murdered. From what we can gather already this was gang related." Sam stood in front of the department boldly. Behind him crime scene photos and names made the beginnings of the case evidence.

"Why?" Gene inputted, making heads turn.

"'Cos the girl, inspector, was the sister of a known drug addict." Sam said grimly, pointing vaguely at a name behind him on the board.

"So far we have no witnesses. The bullet shells found at the scene have been sent down to the lab and we'll get the results in a few hours, if not tomorrow."

"A few hours?!" Gene whispered to himself, this time no one heard.

"The last number that was called on her mobile was her boyfriend." Sam held up a clear plastic bag containing a mobile phone.

"He did it." Gene piped up and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Based on…?" Sam asked, trying not to smirk.

"Well, if she mixed with the wrong crowd, her boyfriend could be one of 'em." Gene reasoned, but Sam wasn't convinced and continued to talk about other evidence found so far.

"We need to talk to her boyfriend." Sam said as he and his inspector walked the long corridor out of the station.

"Oh good, we'll 'ave this thing wrapped up by teatime." Gene said with glee.

"No, so we can rule him out of the investigation. Have you ever heard of tack?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"'Cos we're gunna need to use it now, the lad's just lost his girlfriend." Sam said and spotting Gene's factual expression wish he hadn't said anything,

This guy's not having any of it.

"Just trust the Gene Genie. I've played this game before." Gene said resolutely and Sam closed his eyes in disbelief.

Gene wondered if the slightly rougher parts of Manchester had changed at all since he'd left them in 1973. It was all still the same old redbrick and rusty cars. Sam had insisted on turning on his music despite Gene's silent protest.

"A fan?" Sam joked as a ballad by Keane struck a mournful tone.

"I'm used to David Bowie." Gene commented, thinking back to the back-hander club tickets he'd get from Crime lord Steven Warren.

"Jean Genie?" Sam asked and Gene nearly smiled,

Maybe this guy wasn't all work and no play.

"Here we go." Sam said parking neatly by a scruffy terrace house. Gene rolled his eyes,

You're a copper not a chauffeur! Gene thought getting out of the car and sighing at Sam's immaculate parking.

Next time on The Gene Genie, the lessons continue with Sam and a mysterious man answers a question Gene never asked…