A/N - so here we go! thanks for sticking with me! Chapter 8 and yet more angst. AND... Handymelon - thankyou!!
Luigi walked away from the front door of the flat, shaking his head and sighing. "Well, you are late again Signore Hunt, I try to wake you but you sleep like the dead!" he muttered to himself as he made his way down the stairs to his restaurant. Ten minutes of hammering on the door had failed to waken the DCI from his drunken stupor.
Inside the flat, Gene slowly came to and, eyes still closed, reached a hand across the bed expecting to meet the soft warmth of Alex's body: to throw his arm around her and pull her close to him. He was disappointed to discover she wasn't there. He turned over on his back and opened his eyes, carelessly shoving the sheets down to his waist. Lying there for a moment, he listened for sounds of her moving around the flat; the spray of the shower, or the clatter of breakfast from the kitchen. Silence. The only sound came from the occasional car in the road below.
Gene rubbed his face and sat up. His head ached. Eyes screwed up, he looked down at his own naked body and at his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. Immediately this struck him as odd, since he had a vague recollection of having undressed in the bathroom. He blinked in momentary confusion and then shrugged, swinging his legs out of the bed, retrieving his boxer shorts and putting them on.
"Bols?" he shouted through to the living room. No answer. Gene headed to the wardrobe, hoping there would be a clean shirt for him to wear. A quick look at the clock had made it clear he wouldn't have time to go home to change, so it looked like he would have to just make do. "If I can find anything in amongst Bolly's dressing up box that is," he grumbled, half smiling. When he opened the wardrobe he was taken aback to discover just three or four shirts, on wire hangers, swaying slightly as he leaned against the doors. Gene whipped round and glanced at the room. No perfume on the bedside table. No bras spilling from the wicker linen basket. No curling tongs on the dresser.
He hurriedly pulled his trousers and boots on and walked into the living room. On the smoked glass coffee table sat a half-empty bottle of Scotch and one tumbler, an overflowing ashtray and a tattered copy of a girlie mag. No white leather jacket flung carelessly over the back of the settee, no pixie boots waiting for him to trip over. What the bloody 'ell is going on? "Bolly!" he shouted again, silently praying she would appear from the kitchen.
But Gene Hunt was completely alone.
Across the road, there was a buzz in CID. Shaz was carefully arranging file trays and new pens on the spare desk in the outer office. "Ooh, d'y reckon e's gonna be a looker?" she giggled in Chris's direction. The young DC just swallowed nervously and tried to act casual. "Nah, I 'eard e's proper old. Hairy chap, that's it yeah. Big beard."
Ray sat at the desk opposite. He was on the phone, frowning. He put one hand over the receiver and hissed at his colleagues. "Will you two twonks bloody shut up!"
Shaz made a face behind Ray's back and Chris laughed. His mirth was quickly stifled however when Ray slammed the phone down and got to his feet. "I don't wanna 'ear about 'im, ok?"
Chris tried to make the peace. "I know yer disappointed not gettin' the promotion an' all Ray. You never know though, 'e might turn out to be alright?"
"Or another sanctimonious twat like Tyler!"
Shaz opened up a brown padded envelope and carefully drew out a brushed steel nameplate "D.I. Drake". She placed it deliberately on the desk facing Ray, who just scowled at her.
"Where the 'ell's the Guv?"
"I dunno," Shaz replied. "There's been no word from 'im all morning. Why don't you try 'is radio?"
"If I want your advice I'll ask fer it alright?" said Ray, reaching into the desk drawer for his radio set.
Gene sat down heavily on the sofa, taking a mouthful of coffee. Try as he might he could not make sense of it at all, Where the hell was Alex? He toyed with the idea that she might have simply got up early and gone to the station, but that didn't explain why all her things were gone: in fact the flat looked like she'd never been there at all. He stared at the space on the floor where all the paper cuttings and photographs had been. Don't panic. His rational brain was telling him it would all be okay, but he had a horrible churning feeling in his gut that she was gone forever.
He suddenly became aware of a crackling hissing sound coming from his coat, which was lying across the black leather chair in the corner. He raced over and snatched up his radio, pressing the button to speak. "Hello? Hello Bols?"
"Guv?" came Ray's voice, intermittent and distorted. "Guv, where are yer? Are y'there? Guv?"
"Ray… RAY… I'm 'ere. Hello? - Bloody useless thing – hello? Ray?"
"Guv, y'aright? Are ye comin' in to work? Just, today's the day the new..." The radio went dead.
"RAY?" Gene yelled.
Then a girl's voice said, quite clearly, "You have to stop it. Stop." It was a voice Gene recognised: Alex's daughter.
"Molly!" Gene shouted frantically into the radio, "Is your mother…?"
"'Oo's Molly?" came Ray's voice again.
"Ray, listen to me, 'as Alex been in the office today?"
"Alex? Alex Drake?" Ray sounded confused, "Well, obviously not, I mean, not yet…"
"Oh forget it!" Gene grunted, exasperated, "I'm comin' over, 'ang on."
"Oh Guv, we've just 'ad a call in. One of our motors 'as been found abandoned down at the docklands. Trinity Buoy Wharf…" the radio cut out again.
"I'm on it!" Gene yelled, not caring if anyone heard him or not. He raced back through to the bedroom and flung on a white shirt. Striding towards the door, he picked up his coat and the radio: a determined look came over him. He had no idea what he was heading for, but he knew he had to stop it.
The Quattro was waiting for him outside Luigi's. He leapt inside and sped off towards the East End. When he arrived at the wharf he immediately saw the abandoned Triumph. The door was locked but there was no sign of Alex. He raced down the white metal gangway towards Layton's boat, his heart sinking. He was beside himself with fear that he had lost her. Bracing himself to find her dead, he climbed on board, making his way through the mess and the squalor to the rear deck. He looked for signs she had been there but there was nothing, and no sign of Layton. In his chest, his heart drummed a frantic rhythm: adrenaline coursed through his veins, making him feel suddenly sick. He leaned over the side of the barge, retching, tears of panic forming in his eyes.
"WHERE ARE YOU?" he yelled at the sky, his voice echoing across the water.
Think Gene, think. He tried desperately to make sense of the myriad of jumbled thoughts and images in his head. The present. The future. Did she go looking for Layton? She wanted him dead. He couldn't bring himself to contemplate what might have happened if she'd found him - or worse, if he'd found her first. I have to do something, but what? How can I help you if I don't know where you are? His own words haunted him, "I'm everywhere Bolly – I was needed and I was there." But I couldn't save you this time. Pictures flashed in his mind: the fireworks, the mobile phones, the wedding dress… Ray's promotion.
Ray's promotion! Ray was promoted to DI! Gene's heart raced. She never turned up… she never came and the promotion went to him. The earlier conversation came back to him, when he'd asked the DS if Alex had been in the station... no wonder he sounded confused. It can't happen like that… he thought, it can't be me who hands it over. I need to be with Alex.
Gene ran back up the gangway and climbed into the Quattro. He picked up his radio to contact Ray back at the station, but before he was able to speak, he caught sight of Molly in the rear-view mirror. He jumped, trying to catch his breath. The little girl spoke. "Go to her. She needs you."
Gene whipped round in his seat, but the car was empty. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. "How? HOW?" he yelled in frustration.
He started the engine: the car radio blared to life. "Let's all meet up in the year 2000, won't it be strange when we're all fully gro-o-own," the singer sounded familiar. I've heard that song before. His police radio suddenly hissed... through the static came an unknown man's voice.
"Charlie 7-5 to DI Drake… South Bank, outside Tate Modern. Gunman has taken a female hostage. Trojan Units are assigned. Over."
Alex! Gene put his foot down and spun the car round: tyres screeching as he roared off along the river. He threw the car round corner after corner, making his way to the East India Dock Road. The engine screamed and leapt, Gene struggling to control it as he sped through the city streets. Other traffic came to a standstill: horns blaring, tyres squealing, angry fists appearing from drivers' windows. The Quattro blazed a trail of red fire through the dull concrete grey of the industrial east end: the sky above turned a deep blue and strands of white slowly took the place of the ravaged dark clouds of the morning.
He didn't see the motorcycle coming. The courier was taking a shortcut and slipped through the bollards of a lane meeting the main road. Gene was doing 65 and the bike appeared from nowhere: the last thing he saw was a white helmet as it hit his windscreen. The Quattro spun wildly off the road, mounting the pavement and coming to a standstill with a sickening crunch as it hit the bollards. The nearside front wheel lifted from the road and continued spinning as smoke plumed from under the bonnet. Sparks flew as the motorcycle skidded along the road without its rider, leaving green paint marks on the tarmac. Gene's body lurched forward and everything went black.
Onlookers ran in panic: the sound of sirens echoed through lanes, railway arches and yards, but they were too late. One spark: leaking petrol pooled under the chassis: ignition. A tower of flame and black smoke dominated the skyline as shards of glass ripped through the air and drips of molten metal settled into cracks in the road. The Audi Quattro was gone.