I don't own Ashes to Ashes
---
Gene didn't say anything, nor did he react, except to wrap his own hand around hers in a silent gesture of reassurance. He reached over for the light switch, flicking it upwards so that the room before them was thrown into relief. The bulb flickered weakly, dimming and brightening at irregular intervals and casting ghastly shadows onto the cream coloured walls.
There was no question that Rosa McKellen was a typically messy teenager; her room was unkempt, with outfits strewn over her bed as though she had been deliberating for hours the correct combination of garments to make her feel and look the most presentable. The room was scattered with rubbish, pieces of cardboard, screwed up paper, school books, and coat-hangers.
The smell of the room was one of damp, as though it had not been aerated for days. The window was closed, with no light peeking in through the dark purple curtains, which matched in colour with the duvet and pillowcase. There was a faint hint of mud, and looking around, it was plain to see why; a pair of black boots stood in the corner, caked from top to toe in thick layers of hardened mud. A few pieces had dried and cracked off, landing on the floor around the shoes and standing out against the pale yellow of the carpet.
Facing the wall was a faded, palely coloured wooden desk, which was covered in make-up, hair products, mirrors and accessories. On the wall before it there were numerous photographs, all pinned or blue-tacked to the wall. Most of the photos included Rosa and one or more of Amanda, Benji and Joe. In the centre of the wall was a slightly faded and crumpled image of a much younger Rosa, aged four at the most, seated on Amanda's lap, with a rugged looking man seated on the arm of her mother's chair, arm slung over Amanda's shoulder, whilst his other hand was held out to the little girl looking adoringly up at him, one of his fingers tightly clasped in her fist. Alex gravitated towards it, wiping her streaming eyes on her sleeve and tugging Gene towards the desk and photos. With a reluctant sigh, he followed, eyes scanning the floor; pins, threads, an empty blue-tack packet, dirty clothes- there was nothing of note. When he looked towards Alex, she was tracing her fingers tenderly over the young Rosa's photographed face, arms wide in astonishment.
"She looks so... normal!" The disbelief was evident, and her grip on Gene's hand tightened. "So happy... look at her, Gene!"
Gene looked; yes, she looked normal, happy, your average four year old... but wasn't that just what she was? "Yeah Bols..." he said, voice gentle but with a gruff edge to it that told her he wasn't comfortable with the conversation, "'cause she was normal. She just 'ad a problem."
Alex sobbed slightly, and in moments she was burrowing her face in Gene's chest, both hands brought up to cover her face as she wept freely. "I can't handle this Gene," she whispered. "I can't do it... pull me off the case. This is... this is too much!" She was shaking violently, her whole body quivering with emotion. Awkwardly, Gene picked his way through the messy room, leading Alex towards the bed and sitting her down with two assured hands on her shoulders as he joined her.
"You're doin' it, Bolly. Just 'cause you care don't mean you can't do it. D'you think I don't care? Think it ain't making my blood boil knowing that there're sick bastards out there who do this kinda thing? 'cause you're wrong. I don't like it; but us ballin' our eyes out won't sort this mess out." His voice softened as a large hand drew up to cup her cheek, stroking away mascara stains as he murmured, "Screw your 'ead on right, Bolly, an' we'll sort it. 'ey?"
"We can't though, Gene," Alex whispered helplessly. "She's dead, isn't she? She's not coming back. Whether we find them or not, it's not... it won't be right." She took a deep breath. "I can't work this case without getting emotional.... so please, make good on your promise, and throw me out on my arse!" There were tears in her eyes, and Gene looked deeply into them, into her soul, until she was shivering, seeking the warmth of his chest and the thud of his heartbeat for safety. His hand caught her chin, tilting her face up to his so that their eyes met again.
"I ain't sending you anywhere, Bols, no matter 'ow much you beg me to. 'cause we need you on this one, posh-knickers..." there was a flicker of hesitance in his eyes before he murmured, "I need you on this one."
---
There was a moment where they simply stared into one another's eyes, hearts thundering and minds whirring, before, with a sudden jerk, Gene had materialized on the other side of the room, starting to rifle through the desk drawers without another look at Alex. She, on the other hand, remained stock still, only her eyes daring to move as they followed his movements. His gloved hands flicked through each drawer with practised ease, eyes scouring for evidence, anything that might help them... Alex's mind drew a blank as all she could do was watch, wondering if there was more to that declaration than it appeared. She couldn't imagine Gene Hunt ever needing anyone but himself and his whiskey and his fags, but for this, he claimed, he needed her.
Her; Alex Drake- the renowned psychtwatterist and annoying mental fruitcake... she couldn't believe that Gene would ever need that. Miss it, maybe, if it disappeared. Want it, when he could no longer have it... But he didn't need anything.
"Bingo!" Gene said, drawing up, hands on a pink A4 notebook, with hearts scribbled all over the once-plain paper cover. In the top corner was written, in large letters, "My Diary". Alex watched as Gene turned it over in his hands, repeatedly, a frown of hesitance fixed in place. Eventually, he turned to Alex, holding it out. "'ere. You open it."
"I'm not reading her diary, Gene," Alex said coolly. Gene glared.
"Well someone's got to, Bols, and I can't; I'm a frickin' bloke you fruitcake! Christ knows what sorta thing she's written about; don' need to know 'er cycle if you catch me drift, Bols." He looked uncomfortable, and Alex wiped at her still wet eyes as a smile slipped into place.
"Ill-adept as you are with the English language, Gene, I did manage that much." She looked at the pink book briefly, and then shook her head. "I can't," she said, recalling the conversation she had had with her mother about her own childhood diary... she had never read it, Caroline had said. Never looked into her daughters private thoughts and acts... and Alex wanted, as she always did, to be the sort of woman her mother could be proud of. "It's none of our business Gene; she wrote it for herself and nobody else. Please, don't ask me to do it." Her eyes were soft, her tone firm, and Gene had to reign in his frustration as his fingers clenched on the pad in his fingertips, knuckles cracking as Alex watched.
"'course it's our bloody business! She was murdered for Christ's sake! An' other than a bloody mental poofter and a poetic rambling geek, both of whom you swear to the heavens couldn' 'ave done it, we don't 'ave any leads." He held the book out and growled, "she's dead, Bolly, and if we don't look, they migh' get away."
Alex looked from his face to the pink book he held out for her scrutiny. He was making sense, and she knew it. But it didn't stop the fact that Rosa McKellen probably didn't want the whole world reading her own deepest thoughts and feelings... how would she have felt, as young Alex Price, if she had known that her diary was being read and interpreted by complete strangers? Awful, she thought initially... but then it dawned on her that, if she had been able to help the investigation into the deaths of her parents, or anyone, for that matter, she would freely have handed it over... and so, despite the fact her fingers were shaking as she did it, she leant over and took the offered notebook from Gene's hand, hesitating only slightly before flipping it open, breathing heavy as she took in the first page, crammed full with a smooth flowing hand. The first entry was dated last summer, July 17th, 1981. Alex read it quickly, eyes stinging.
I've got another lump now. It's on my face; it feels just like a big spot before it comes out, but I know it's not. I tried to pop it, thinking it might be a spot, really, but it wasn't. Mum say's I have to stop trying, but I don't want to. If I squeeze hard enough it might break off, and then it won't be so bad; they can cut the broken bit out at hospitals, can't they? I wouldn't even mind a scar from it; at least scars can get covered up with makeup, unlike this. Benji says it's not ugly, that it's just me and I shouldn't get upset... but I am upset. He doesn't understand. Nobody understands. I sometimes think I'm the only one who knows.
Looking up at Gene, she saw the question in his eyes and, with a brief pause, she collected herself, then asked, calmly as she could, "is there another one? Another diary?"
Gene turned, pulling out a blue pad, the same as the pink one, though slightly tattier and unlabelled. "There's this," he said, holding it out. She shook her head.
"I don't want to see it... let's take these and then... then someone can have a look through them..." They both knew that that someone was going to be Shaz. "Anything else?"
He shrugged, "I dunno, Bols, you're the psychiatrist. Come an' 'ave a look." And, though she knew he was really just trying to get her involved again, and though she wanted to correct him and remind him it was 'psychologist' not 'psychiatrist', she did join him, standing with him next to the desk and slowly picking her way through the contents; he'd been quite thorough, actually, even though she wouldn't tell him so, and even though she knew he'd often thought the whole emptying contents scenario a waste of time and decent clothing. The only thing she'd picked out that he hadn't noticed was a bank statement. He snorted at first, but soon stopped when she pointed to the sum of £100, being paid in by an "Angelo Heart?"
His voice was disbelieving, but they both looked up and silently agreed that it was not a coincidence. Rifling through the rest of the statements, Alex pointed out regular, monthly payments, all in the name of 'Angelo Heart', since October of the previous year. "Reckon we've got our 'Angel' then Bols?" Gene asked quietly, eyes scanning the statement briefly; there were £50 instalments, also monthly, from Jeremy McKellen, and the look of disgust on Alex's face wasn't missed by Gene; he knew she was silently cursing the father who abandoned his child, then tried to pay her off to make up for that abandonment; unknown to Alex, Gene was keeping in his own bitter fury to the man who pawned off his child because he couldn't handle it himself... But it was she that was shaking in anger, and, without more than a glance, he took the paper from her fingers, placing that, and the diaries, on the desk, before turning her body to face his, hands on her shoulders.
"Stop your belly-aching you daft tart; we'll get you back an' I'll make us a cuppa, 'ow's that?"
Alex sniffed, nodding, "yes... of course... I'll start looking for this 'Angelo', see if we've got him on file or anything... and I'll get in touch with the bank, see if they can give us any more information before we do anything else... and maybe I'll-"
Gene placed his hand over her mouth, eyebrows raised. "You could talk for England you posh-knickered nut; just tell me when you're done, 'ey?"
She nodded, pulling away from him and picking up the diaries and bank statements. "Let's go, shall we?"
Gene answered with a short nod, turning to leave, only to find her hand sliding into his once again. A brief squeeze, and he led her from the room, opening the door and checking the landing; Amanda wasn't there. He opened it wider, motioning for Alex to hand him the diaries and tucking them under his armpit in the depths of his overcoat; somehow he didn't think Amanda would like them sniping through her daughters' diary... Alex didn't even question the ethical issues of his actions, simply following as he kept his other arm pinned to his side, deceptively putting his hand in his pocket so that the discrepancy was less obvious, arm tensed tight as he led her down the stairs.
Amanda must have heard them, as she appeared at the door to the living room, and, to Alex's disappointment, Gene dropped her hand, placing his own hands in his pockets as he spoke, assured and certain. Alex remained behind him, hiding her slight pang of pain behind an impassive mask. "Tar, love- Mrs McKellen, I mean," he corrected himself. "Think we learnt enough for now- we'll be in touch, 'ey? Make sure you ain't by yerself too much; get some mates round, 'ave a ladies night, an' if you need anythin', give us a bell."
"One last question," Alex said, stepping forward without a glance at Gene. "Where's your husband, Mrs McKellen?"
Amanda sighed, opening the front door. "He's away on work, I'm afraid - Tunisia." She looked sad as she said, "he'll be gone for two weeks more at least."
Alex nodded, "thank you."
---
In the Quattro, Alex looked out the window as she spoke, "do you believe her husband's away on work?" Gene turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the drive before answering, eyes remaining permanently fixed on the stretch of road ahead of him in order for him to avoid seeing the look of accusation in Alex's eyes, and to prevent the formation of any more ill-founded theories, he answered her.
"Shaz rang 'is 'ouse after we saw Amanda the first time- answer phone said he was. Can't really accuse him of anything though Bols, so don't start with your-"
"But do you believe it?" Alex implored, interrupting him, her voice insistent.
Gene shrugged, flicking his indicator and swerving sharply round the corner as he said, "ain't for me to say, is it? When an' if 'e gets 'ome, we can pay him a little visit- if he don't come back, then maybe we'll 'ave reason to think differently."
Alex sat thoughtfully, chewing her lip before she started to spill her thoughts out loud; Gene remained quiet, privately immune to her self-directed ramblings by now. "It seems a little coincidental, don't you think? A father who can't stand his daughters state of illness, who sends monthly money packages to her even though he didn't want anything to do with her, suddenly disappears from the country the week his daughter turns up dead- ever so slightly convenient, don't you think?"
Sighing, Gene pressed down on the accelerator, "depends on 'is job, dunnit? Could be a normal thing for 'im, Bols. An' right now, the only person I'm interested in is this Angelo Heart."
Knowing there was no point pressing the issue, Alex conceded, sitting back in her seat and eyeing him carefully. His gloved hands adjusted the gears skilfully, gripped the steering wheel with assured ease, fingers tapping out a rhythm as they seemed to cruise – though at a slightly faster speed than 'cruising', she though– down the London roads. His mouth was set in his customary pout, eyes slightly crinkled at the edges, as though he were lost in thought, cogs turning beneath that head of soft blonde hair... She tore her eyes away, looking instead at the radio, tuning it in and listening as The Police sang 'Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic'. She watched in amusement as Gene creased his brow, frowning at the wheel before twisting the tuner into another station; Dexy's Midnight Runners sang 'Geno' and, with a grin, he cranked it up to full volume, throwing Alex a look of utter self-importance as she rolled her eyes.
"Typical," she muttered, as the song reverberated through her ears, joined moments later by Gene's accompanying gruff recital of the lyrics, his beat on the steering wheel suddenly more assured and happy. She wondered if he did this often, singing along with songs as though he hadn't a care in the world... somehow she knew he didn't, and she was privileged to have been allowed this rare insight into his other life; the life outside of CID, where maybe he did listen to music, cook, read novels, have Sunday afternoon naps, think about having children and... Oh Christ, she thought, snap out of it!
"Oh-oh-oh-Geno-o!" Gene's voice was by no means pleasing to the ears; it was grating and gruff, but it held a note of freedom she didn't think she'd ever heard before. As she watched him, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at her, eyes aglow. "Can't beat a bit o' Geno, Bollykecks."
She laughed, raising her voice to be heard above the music, "Oh I don't know, Gene; there's alot to be said for a bit of Bolly!" Her eyes danced, equally as suggestively, never for a moment straying from his, and she felt a pool of warmth gathering in her stomach, stretching out to touch her toes, warming her whole insides...
His eyes trailed over her figure appraisingly, resting on her breasts, cleavage evident to his eye as a result of the low cut blouse she'd donned that morning; it was thin and sheer, making evident the colour of her pale blue bra... his eyes moved down her legs, encased in those tight blue jeans he just wanted to tear off her at any opportunity. "Yeah, Bols," he growled, looking back at the road and swerving to a halt outside CID, "there is."
---
Gene gave Shaz the job of trawling through Rosa's diaries, explaining that he, Ray and Chris were unsuited to the job, and that Alex was following up other leads in the investigation; it wasn't exactly a lie, but he knew that Shaz, Ray and Chris all knew Alex's fragile emotional state when it came to the case and, as he'd hoped, Shaz accepted the task willingly, quickly settling down to scan the diaries for anything of importance.
Alex, meanwhile, trawled through records for any signs of Angelo Heart; they drew a blank. "There's an Angela Llewellyn, and an Angelica Partridge," she reported to Gene, placing two files down. "Llewellyn came in a year or two ago with a shoplifting charge. Partridge was sent down for assault and is serving five years in young offenders; there's no Angelo's within twenty miles, and the name 'Heart' is pretty common. There are five households in our radius, but none of them have anyone called Angelo, Angela, Angelica or anything close. Best we have is an Alicia Heart, who's seventy years old and disabled."
"Bollucks!" Gene growled – he was pretty sure a seventy year old pensioner couldn't run around killing people by night. "Any other Angelo's anywhere?"
"Only one in ten years, but he passed away five years ago; it's not a common name, Gene. It's probably a code for something else, a symbol, something that whoever it is thought up in order to hide their own identity and make her feel better..." Alex trailed off as Gene put his feet up on his desk, lighting up a cigarette and frowning.
"What kinda bloke makes up a fake name to get on good terms with a teenager, Bolly? Don' see it, meself."
"She was religious," Alex said, leaning on the desk in front of him, not in her usual argumentative manner, more in order to stop herself sagging. "Religious, terminally ill- and then suddenly an Angel appears; he's got the name, he makes her feel good about herself... who can blame her for believing it? And suddenly he's the most important thing in her life, the most intricate thread of hope she's got, and she's relying on him, believing in him... and he convinces her that he knows how she feels, that he can help, and suddenly there's someone other than Benji, other than Joe, other than Amanda; someone who understands, Gene. Don't you see, Gene? She wanted an Angel- and there he was!"
"If you're sayin' this Angel bloke was just some twonk who killed 'er 'cause she asked 'im to, I'm not sayin' anything more; I don' wan' another fight about bloody suicidal pish-posh. We'll talk about it later; just got a call though from forensics, anyway. Want us to go down, Bronson's got some more news." He stood up, shrugging his overcoat on and motioning towards the door. "Come on, get your coat. An' bring the lads an' all; don' think I can 'andle all your talk on me own."
---
Bronson gave the four of them a small smile as they entered the room, motioning them over to the table he was working at, pointing to several Petri dishes and the murder weapon, all of which were covered over to stop any contamination. Alex looked at the knife, feeling her stomach churn with sickness, but that was nothing compared to the reaction she felt in her guts when her eyes fell on a small sample of flesh, also covered up, that she had never seen before. She felt Ray and Chris glance over at her, saw Gene's shoulders stiffen out of the corner of her eye, and she knew suddenly that this was what Ray had asked her to stay away from in the warehouse. She covered her mouth, swallowing back a mouthful of vomit and counting slowly to fifty, eyes tightly shut. She longed to be somewhere –anywhere- else, but knew that was out of the question; she had to face the investigation head on, for Rosa, for Amanda, for Molly... for Gene. Alex opened her eyes, just as Bronson began to speak.
"We got the knife dusted," he said, eyes passing over the whole group of them before settling firmly on Gene, who stood with his face impassive, arms crossed over his chest silently. "Only one set of prints; they're hers. But there were leather fibres caught in the weapon, too," he pointed to the burnt plastic handle, with significant ridges and bubbles present, the result of burning or melting plastic.. "Some of her prints have been smudged out by something else as well - probably a leather glove, if the fibres are anything to go by." He pointed to the flesh next, and Alex flinched, instantly finding herself looking away as he continued. "It matches hers, but there are traces of someone else's blood on there, too; different type."
Gene nodded, glancing over at Alex worriedly, before speaking up again, "any idea whose?"
Bronson shook his head. "Doesn't match with Bragden's or Ellison's – could be anyone's. Might be another victim, might just be a remnant of a kitchen injury that was never fully cleaned off,. It's hard to tell." He motioned for them to follow him, leading them to a desk overflowing with documents and selecting a file from the top of the pile, opening it and scanning the contents. "Confirmed the anorexia, also got hold of her medical records; congratulations, DI Drake, you were right about the F.O.P or whatever you called it..." he tried to give her a warm smile but, given the situation, it wasn't completely reassuring. He sighed, then went on. "Body shows sign of recent sexual activity; gentle, doesn't look forced, no brutality, no bleeding... A few love bites along her pelvis, but other than that, nothing odd-"
"Not too religious then, 'ey Guv," Ray said jokingly. Both Alex and Gene glared at him and he stopped, looking back at Bronson apologetically.
Bronson rolled his eyes and continued, "No fibre's caught beneath her nails; can only assume the gloves weren't hers." He shut the file and looked towards Gene again. "Blade fits with the injuries as well. I'd say it's an open-and-closed murder case."
Gene looked thoughtful. Ray and Chris remained quiet, absorbing the information. Alex hesitated, and then said, "may I see her records? Do you have a copy?"
Bronson nodded, reaching into another file and extracting a photocopy. "All ready for your perusal DI Drake, thought you might be interested, though wouldn't know why."
Alex smiled half-heartedly, eyes scanning the paper and falling on the next of kin; Amanda McKellen. Her heart sank as she saw there were no other person's details. Gene looked at her expectantly, but Alex only shook her head, still scanning the page. "History of counselling for her anorexia," she murmured, "is it possible to get hold of this counsellors details, do you think?" she looked expectantly up at Bronson, who shrugged in a non-committal manner, face set in a thoughtful frown as he looked at her.
"Shouldn't be too difficult, the hospital should probably have them to hand. Though I doubt he'll be able to tell you much; as you can see DI Drake, she was discharged from the counsellor almost a year ago. Don't think there'll be much there you won't have heard before from her mother."
Alex nodded, "yes, thank you. Can I keep this?"
Bronson shrugged, "course Ma'am."
---
"So Bragden wasn't all talk then," Gene mused, smoking a cigarette as he spoke, feet up on his desk, exhaling a large cloud of smoke in Alex's general direction.
"How so?" Alex asked, distractedly looking over the medical records for what felt like the tenth time in an hour.
"Well, 'e said they 'ad a bit of the old heave-ho," there was no humour in his voice, and Alex knew he was battling with the evidence and what his own head was telling him. "An' this 'Angel' bloke might even be real... Don' wanna let 'im out though Bols... don' trust 'im."
Alex nodded, eyes downcast as she murmured, " but as it is, we haven't got enough evidence to charge him, or Ellison, and we've kept them longer than we should have done already."
Gene nodded, face set in a grim expression. "Don' like it, Bols. Thought of the two of 'em walkin' round free... makes my stomach ache..." He reached for his tumbler of whiskey, gulping it down angrily.
"I know," she said tiredly, "but we could be housing two harmless innocents instead of looking for the real killer; we can't lock everyone who may or may not have any relation to the case in a two by four cell until we're certain, can we?"
Gene looked as though he were thoroughly considering it. "Well it might-"
"No, Gene," she said, with just a hint of amusement. "We can't."
He sighed. "Alrigh'. I'll get Skipper to let 'em out... with an 'arsh warning, mind."
"I wouldn't expect anything less of you, Gene," she grinned. "Can I use the phone?"
"Depends; not ringin' the Indian again are you?" Gene's voice was playful and Alex rolled her eyes.
"It wasn't on my agenda, no. I was going to ring the hospital to arrange an appointment and collect this counsellors details?"
Gene frowned, "jus' get 'em to give it you over the phone, Bollykecks. Save you some time... no point going down there an' botherin' 'em when you could just ask like the nice little bird you are." He winked across at her.
"They can't just give them out left, right and centre," she replied, ignoring his suggestive wink as she walked towards the phone, "they don't know who might be ringing up; it could be anyone, and how are they to know if the person at the other end is genuine or just a complete stalker?" Alex sighed, then added, in a soft undertone that was difficult to hear, "besides, I need the distraction."
Gene nodded slowly. "Guess you're right, Bols... You and your pert, privately educated arse seem to 'ave the knack for outsmarting the Gene Genie... I'll put you right someday though, 'ey Bollykecks?" He threw her another flirtatious wink, and then stood up. "Right. Fancy a brew, posh-knickers?"
When she nodded distractedly, Gene walked round the desk, slapping a large hand briefly to her behind on his way out of the office; she looked round instantly, unnecessarily hiding her smirk of amusement, since he was already out of the door, disappearing to the kitchen. And though she couldn't see it, she knew he was sporting a grin that split his face in two.
---
Mage of the Heart