Fic: Jabberwocky, Part 31a, Blue Cortina, by Sytaxia

[sytaxia]

Gene awoke to the sound of harsh, choking coughs and slowly opened his eyes, sitting up and reaching around to rub at his neck, which had developed what could only be termed “a crick from hell” during the course of the night.  Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, hacking into another handful of tissues, and he slowly regained his breath and dropped it into the bin next to the bed, and then turned around and watched Gene rubbing at his own shoulders.  “I told you you’d strain your back, all that carrying me.  You didn’t need to do it,” Sam’s voice wasn’t nearly as admonishing as it could have been, but Gene still scowled in return, and pushed himself to the side of the bed, the covers bunching under him until his own legs were swung over the side and he was seated next to Sam.

“Rubbish.  Just a bit of a crick from sleeping under you, you daft jessie,” Gene grunted, giving a short, barking smoker’s cough of his own as he reached over to rub at Sam’s back.  “You feeling any better?”

Sam nodded, “Much.  I need the bog, though,” he said, and started to stand, and Gene moved to stand as well, wrapping an arm around Sam’s shoulders, which Sam tried to shrug off, “I want to walk on my own.”

Gene rolled his eyes, “Always fighting me.  Fine, but I’m staying right beside you.”  The two of them stood, and Gene felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he noticed that Sam was able to walk to the door on his own, albeit slowly and with more of a tremble to his steps than Gene would have liked.  Sam paused in front of the door, and looked up at Gene with a strange look in his eyes.

“Did you really mean it?  What you said last night?”

Gene paused for a moment, not sure how to respond, and then shook his head, “Christ, Tyler, you really are a girl, you know that?”  He leaned down slightly and pressed his lips against Sam’s, then ran a hand along the side of Sam’s face.  “I meant every word.  You tell anyone, and I’ll see your balls in the mouth of some junk yard Alsatian.”  He pressed his mouth harder against Sam’s then, forcefully crushing Sam’s lips under his, and then pulled back, the small smile still on his face.  “You look better, you scrawny sod,” he leaned forward again and brushed his cheek against Sam’s, then whispered into his ear, “Smug little gobshite, and too sparse even for a bird, even before all this, this…”  Gene pushed the thought away, trying not to think about everything that had happened to Sam, “But you were always gorgeous, you silly tart.”  He pulled back and unlocked the door, pushing it open and gesturing for Sam to exit, “Come on, let’s get you to the loo.”

Sam gave Gene a slightly dazed, questioning look, which quickly faded into a smile as he realized that he had just received the closest thing to a “sweet nothing” that Gene Hunt would ever utter, and he nodded and started the long journey down the hallway.  Sam managed the entire trip without any help from Gene; despite being even more out of breath than he had been before, his steps were firmer, his stride longer and growing more confident as they neared the bathroom door.  Gene paused, “You want to do this on your own?”

Sam nodded, gasping, and then entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him.  Gene let his grin broaden after the door was closed, and then turned as he heard footsteps behind him, and saw Annie standing there.  “Mornin’ then, DC Polly Petticoat.  You manage to get a decent kip in Skelton’s room?”

Annie nodded, “He cleaned it up a bit…  I might try to give it an actual scrubbing, during my shift here with Sam.”

Gene grunted, “Good.  Soon as everyone’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I want us all to get together, discuss shifts and other necessary bollocks.  We’ve got a new plan on the cooker, should draw the bastard out into the open, give us a bit of the ol’ upper hand.”  Annie’s eyes widened as Gene said this, and she nodded at Gene again.

“The others are having breakfast downstairs; I didn’t cook, but Chris and Ray ran out to pick up some takeaway for everyone, down the shops on the next block over.  I’ll tell everyone to come up once they’re done.”

“Good girl,” Gene motioned towards the door to Sam’s room with his thumb, “See about making the bed in there before you go down to the lads.”  Annie nodded at this, and made her way towards the room while Gene waited.  Several minutes passed, and he noticed Annie leaving and going back down the stairs without turning around himself, trying to hear the sounds from inside of the bathroom and wondering whether or not he should go in and offer to help Sam.  He was about to knock when the door finally opened, and Sam stood in front of him, washed and shaven, though still in his pajamas.

“You want to take a turn before we head back to the room, Gov?”

Gene nodded and ducked into the room, knicking an old scar on his chin as he hastily shaved, and then rushing out of the room once he’d finished with his morning routine.  Sam was still standing there, leaning against the wall, rubbing at his temples with the fingertips of both hands.  Gene’s brows knit at this, “You all right, Dorothy?”

“Bit of a headache.  I really am feeling better,” Sam pushed himself off of the wall and started to walk towards the room, Gene following him, trying to keep his own steps slow and small in order to keep an even pace.  “You…  Gazette offices..”  Sam was panting heavily as he tried to speak, and Gene reached over and rubbed at his back as the two of them neared the door.

“Wait ‘til you’re sitting down to talk, Sammy-boy,” Gene grunted it out and pulled his hand away from Sam, who nodded as they continued towards the room.  When they finally reached it, Sam sat down heavily, and Gene started to rummage through the suitcase that Annie had packed, pulling out clothes for him.

“You need to visit the Gazette offices today, get the story printed.  Make sure that the others know, have them tell everyone.  I mean it, everyone.  Phyllis, all the others in CID and uniform, hell, tell Litton, it’ll be all over the city before the story’s even printed if we do that.  The doctor, too.  If Denslow thinks I’ve died, he’ll tell Barrie, who’ll tell Morgan and the killer, and then we’ll have him out in the open, slipping up, his whole, whole plan, plan shot to…”  Sam’s voice trailed off as he started coughing again, and Gene let the clothing in his hand flop onto the bed as he sat down and started moving his hand along Sam’s back, slowly rubbing up and down his spine.

“That wasn’t part of the deal, Sam.  We can’t have the doctor thinking you’ve died; we need him to check up on you,” Gene’s voice had an angry, exasperated edge to it, and Sam scowled as he continued to cough, then drew his head up, gasping again.

“I’ll be fine.  I’ve got you to look after me, haven’t I?  We’ve got the prescriptions from Denslow, those should clear everything up,” Sam’s tone was unmistakably frustrated, despite the fading breathlessness in his voice.  “I’ll be fine,” he repeated, “I’m getting better.  Stronger.  The stitches don’t come out for another week, and by that time, we should have our collar.”  Gene reached up and rested a hand against Sam’s cheek again, and Sam felt his anger spark up again, “Gene.  I am better, I swear.”

Gene scowled, “You’re still too hot.  A lot cooler than last night, but you’re still not well.  What if you take another turn?  What if it takes longer than a week, who’ll take out your stitches?  It doesn’t make sense to keep the doctor out of the loop.”

“It makes perfect sense.  The only person still in the damned loop that has contact with Barrie and all of the other hospital personnel is Denslow - we keep him out of the know, it’ll be that much easier to convince our killer.  And if I’m right about this, it won’t take a week.  If it does…  We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.  If I do get worse, than you can always call Denslow.  Hell, you can call your own bloody GP to come in and see me; that might be a better idea than relying on any of the doctors from the hospital.”

Gene sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then reached over and squeezed Sam about the shoulders, “Fine.  But you have to stay put, don’t go wearing yourself down or jumping about any more.  And I’m the one that makes the call on whether or not we call the damned doctor.”

Sam made an exasperated sound in his throat, shaking his head, before eventually staring at the floor.  Gene reached over and stroked the side of his face, and Sam leaned into the touch, raising his head a bit and moaning slightly, “Feels nice…  Fine.  Agreed.”

“If I’d’ve known it was that easy to get your poncey arse to agree with me, I’d’ve started shagging you long ago, Sam,” Gene leaned over and kissed Sam on the neck, letting his tongue linger on the sinews there, tracing the line of them slowly with the tip of it before he pulled back and reached for the pile of clothing.  “You want to try getting your kit on without help?”  He set the clothing in Sam’s lap as Sam nodded, and then watched as Sam slowly dressed himself, feeling a tightening of his trousers as Sam stripped.  He fought against the urge to reach out and assist him as he saw Sam wincing slightly, and smiled when he watched Sam buttoning up his shirt at the end, having fully clothed himself for the first time in weeks.  “Back under the covers?” he asked as Sam straightened himself.

“No.  On top.  Like this.  Chills are gone; I actually feel a bit warm now.  And I want to look over the files,” Sam started the process of pulling himself back against the pillows and headboard just as a knock came on the door, and Gene stood to answer it, turning and nodding at Sam before pulling it open and letting Ray, Glen, Chris and Annie file into the room.  Chris was holding a fried egg butty in each hand, and he held them out to Gene, who took one and then gave Sam a questioning look, allowing himself a second to smile when Sam nodded and held out his hand, taking the other one from Chris.

Gene took a large bite and swallowed without chewing, earning a disgusted look from Sam, and then stood at the side of the bed, staring at the other officers and giving Sam the impression of a primary teacher about to address his pupils.  “Right, you lot, here’s the plan: this sick bastard thinks that DI Tyler here is some important part in some twisted master plan of his, so we stamp all over the plan by making him think that Tyler’s died.  I’m heading off to the Gazette offices now to have them run the story, and you’re to tell any and all that you come across that he’s up and joined the angels.  We print that his body is being put on ice and sent down the Met so that their criminolowhatsit bastards can examine the wounds for some study on serial killers, and that explains the lack of him turning up in the mortuary.”

Annie’s eyes went wide, “We can’t tell everyone, Gov: it’ll break Phyllis’ heart when she hears that.”

“Didn’t know the withered old biddy was so arse over tea kettle for the lad,” Gene said, and Ray chuckled a bit at this, and then fell silent when he realized that none of the others were laughing.  “No, it won’t be easy, and you’d best be up for your finest playacting.  I want you bawling over his corpse an’ all, Princess, and you others had better look shaken and stirred over it.  Everyone’s to think he’s died, even the bloody doctors.”

“Don’t he need the doctor, though, Gov?” Chris asked, looking nervously at Sam, who shook his head as he nibbled at his sandwich.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam said, but the worried look remained on Chris’ face.  Ray nudged Chris slightly with his shoulder.

“He’ll be all right, yeh div.  Got all us to look after him, don’t he?”

Chris looked from Ray to Sam to Gene, and then back at Ray again, meeting him sharply in the eyes, and then nodded, “I s’pose.”

“Good.  Settled then.  Or unsettled, I should say: you’ve just lost a colleague to a bastard murderer.  Cartwright here is going to the hospital to start having plod fingerprint the whole staff, everyone that we missed the first time, and to look about the place a bit more.   Fletcher is taking the first shift over at the factory with DC Morris.  Ray, you and Skelton have first watch on Tyler, and you’d better be checking back in with Cartwright and Fletcher every fifteen minutes on the radios, or you’ll catch hell when I get back from meeting with that harpy up at the Gazette, telling them to print this out in their bleedin’ rag.  Once I get back, Ray’s to replace Morris with Fletcher, and once Cartwright turns up, Skelton’ll replace Fletcher, who’ll spend the evening canvassing for other possible killing grounds with plod.  And Cartwright - you pick up the coroner’s report and the photos from the hospital on your way back, so Tyler and I can muse over them.  Have I made all of the plans of the day perfectly clear, or do you limp-wristed sallies need an itinerary?”

“It might help, Gov…”  Chris started to speak, but Ray silenced him by nudging his shoulder again as Gene started to glower and fume.  “No, Gov,” Chris added, and Gene nodded at them.

“Fine then.  Dismissed.  And Skelton?”  Chris turned as he started to leave the door, “You’ve got other duties as well when you’re checking the radio and going over the files with Tyler: get this place cleared up, squared away so neatly the Queen Mum’s own butler would be proud of it.  You lend him a hand, Raymondo.”

Ray and Chris nodded at this, “Sure thing, Gov.  We’ll have Chris’ digs ready to pass whatever bloody white-glove test Tyler’s preparing for when ‘is sorry prat arse is well enough to come downstairs, ship shape an’ the lot.”

Gene watched them file out of the room, waiting for the door to close behind them before he moved to sit next to Sam again, chewing on his butty as he did so.  “You get some decent kip today, Tyler, or I’ll hang your sorry carcass from the washline,” he said softly, then leaned down and planted a kiss on Sam’s forehead, “And finish that,” he gestured towards Sam’s breakfast, “Get some meat back on those bones of yours.”

“Tell Jackie I said hello, will you?  She’s not all bad, you know,” Sam said, thinking about how the journalists of 1973, though annoying and persistent, were a far cry from those that he was used to in 2006.

“The bleedin’ harpy just wants a piece of Gene Genie action, poor bitch.  I’ll keep her in line,” Gene said, and Sam shook his head, then gave Gene a playful grin.

“Who the hell wouldn’t?” he asked, and Gene gave Sam a slightly amused and almost preening look before standing and cramming the remains of his own breakfast into his mouth on his way out the door.  “And make sure they bring up the files!” Sam called out as the door opened, receiving a muffled grunt in reply as Gene left.

The offices of the Gazette weren’t at all like they had been the last time that Gene had entered the building; there were journalists at every desk, busily poring over pages of handwritten notes and clacking away at typewriters.  Gene glared at them as he entered the office, recognizing each and every one of them as an enemy, albeit a more benign enemy than the criminals that he faced on a daily basis.  As he strode down the long line of desks towards Jackie Queen’s station, which was situated directly in front of George Bates’ own office, many of them stopped working and stared at him, some even having the nerve to let their jaws hang open at the sight of one of the city’s DCI’s, especially one with Hunt’s journalist-loathing reputation, slowly sauntering through their midst as if he were Wyatt Earp striding down the dusty line of the OK Corral.

Jackie stood at her desk, her widened eyes slowly narrowing and one hand going to her hip as she struck a very angry pose.  “Months into the most unfruitful search for a serial killer since the days of the ripper, and you have the gall to come in here and hound us?  What is it, Gene?  Did one of us cross more than an inch over one of your precious cordons yesterday?  Don’t you have better things to do than pester us for simply doing our jobs?”  Jackie pulled out a cigarette and lit it, still glaring at Gene as she did so, and he raised his eyebrows slightly and then turned, glowering at the other journalists with enough intensity to frighten them all into turning back to their work.

“As it happens, Jackie love, I’m here to do a part of my job.  And I’ll need your cooperation to do it,” Gene said, trying to keep his tone as even as possible and wanting more than nothing else at that moment to call her every dirty word that he could think of.  His mind was still ticking down the impressive checklist of phrases when she narrowed her eyes at him.

“My cooperation?  Oddly enough, that’s not something that we’ve ever gotten from you.  Five members of the community, one accomplice to the murders, and four police officers all killed, and you haven’t given us nearly any detail whatsoever.  And the bodies of those five primary victims haven’t even been returned to their families, who are praying and crying for a proper funeral for their loved ones.  And you think that I should give you cooperation?  Are the staff here getting in your way somehow?  Is there some miraculous course that will lead the killer directly into your hands as long as we stop doing our own jobs, a damn sight better than you’re doing yours?”  Jackie was glaring daggers at him, and she punctuated her statement with a long exhalation of bluish grey smoke.  “A lot of nerve you have coming in here and asking for that.”

Gene bristled and felt his shoulders set back, “For your information, I’m not here to ask you to stop writing about this.  I’ve got a proposition for the Gazette, and if you want to hear it, you’d better show me in to see that witless balding bastard of a boss of yours.  You’ve got to the count of ten before I leave and take this story to the bloody Post, if this is how you’re going to welcome me in when I’m offering you the story of your damned career, woman!”  Gene wished for the third time that second that Jackie was a man, and that he could punch her swiftly in the jaw without breaking his rule against hitting women.

Jackie stopped for a moment, giving Gene a look that was half disgusted and half curious, and Gene glared back at her.  “Fine.  One.  Two.  Ten.”  He turned on his heel and made for the door, and was nearly halfway there before Jackie called back to him.

“Gene.  DCI Hunt!  I’ll tell George that you’re here,” she said, the irritated tone still in her voice, and Gene paused for a moment, and then turned back, following him to the office.

“No time for pleasantries, Love, we’re going in and talking this out now, no appointments or any other useless shite,” Gene growled at her as the two of them approached George’s office, and Jackie raised her eyebrows again as she pulled the door open.

George Bates was sitting at his desk, musing over some form of document as he looked up and saw Gene and Jackie entering the office, his jaw setting nervously as he took in the angry looks on both of their faces.  “DCI Hunt.  This is unexpected…” Gene cut him off before he could continue.

“Shut the door,” he grunted at Jackie, who kicked the door shut with one foot and then crossed her arms angrily over her chest, still glaring at Gene icily enough to cause a snowstorm on a tropical island.

“DCI Hunt says that he has a story for us, George,” Jackie spit out the words, and Gene felt his hackles stand on end as she did so.

“I’d be telling the great blubbering idiot that myself if you’d shut your trap, you damned harpy!” Gene turned around and hissed the words back at Jackie, trying to keep his voice from carrying outside of the office, and then he pulled out one of his flasks and took a swig, crossing his arms over his chest as he replaced it.  “The fact is, the police force needs your help.  We want you to run a story, to help us to draw out the killer.”

“A story in the paper to, to…” George was stammering nervously, and both Jackie and Gene glared at him.

“Go on, then, what exactly is it that you want us to print?”  Jackie raised an eyebrow and leaned against the side of George’s desk, and Gene took a breath before answering.

“As you know, and as you’ve printed, without our permission, there’s been a surviving victim of the killer.  A member of the police force.  The killer wants him, wants him back badly, and the soddin’ pervert has gone so far as to kill his own accomplice and several officers in his attempts to get at this officer.  The twisted little gobshite sees the murder as a sort of test, ritual, sommat like that, and he’ll do his nut in and slip up enough to allow us to catch him if he can’t do that.  So we need you to print that the officer in question has died.  Once we nab the sorry cunt, you print a retraction of your fake story, alongside an exclusive interview with the officer.  Sounds like more than a fair deal for you, if you ask me,” Gene didn’t dare to pause and breathe throughout the telling of his story; he was sure that if he did, he’d only end up screaming at either one of them and walking out, and he couldn’t afford to do that.  A small, niggling voice at the back of his mind pointed out just how much he was starting to sound like Sam as he went through the statement, wheedling out a proper explanation for the useless journos, and part of him wanted to smile at this realization.

Jackie seemed to have been incredibly diffused by Gene’s statement; her sharp looks and tone were gone when she spoke next, “Awfully good insight into the killer’s mind.  You’re sure that this plan of yours will work?”

“And the Gazette would be responsible for helping you to catch the killer?  And an exclusive interview with the officer?”  George was beaming now, as if starstruck, and Gene couldn’t help but hate him even more.  He’d seen that exact same look before, on Litton’s face the last time that he’d described some poncey award that the mayor was about to present to RCS, and it made him feel sick to his stomach.  He turned quickly away from George before the urge to hit him overwhelmed him, and stared at Jackie.

“We’d want you to write the story.  None of the others can have any knowledge of the fact that the officer is still alive.  We’ve already moved him out of the hospital and to a safe house, so you’ll need to print that, too…”  Gene’s mind started to reel as he sorted through all of the facts and lies that would both need to be present in the article, and he felt a deep surge of anger and sorrow well up inside of him as he realized that Sam would have known exactly what to say to Jackie Queen.

“Hold on, hold on a second…”  Jackie ducked out of the office and returned with a pad and a pen, and then looked over at George, who was still musing over the idea of his newspaper being labeled as responsible for the takedown of a brutal killer.  She shot him a dirty look, and then turned back to Gene, her features unreadable but unmistakably dark as she gestured towards the door, “We can conduct the interview in our stationary cupboard; no one would hear, that way,” her voice was much softer as she led Gene away from George’s desk, to the room that Gene had been locked in, alongside Sam and Annie, all those months ago during the hostage situation.  As they entered, Gene stared at a patch of floor; Sam had sat there, exactly in that place…

“Well then; no airs and graces for us, is it, Love?” Gene lowered himself onto the floor, trying to situate himself in the same spot that Sam had been sitting in, leaning against the boxes that lined the walls of the closet as he did so.  He pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lit one, and Jackie followed suit, folding her legs underneath her skirt as she sat on the floor across from Gene and lit her own cigarette, then lifted up the pen and pad before her, juggling both fag and pen with practiced ease in one hand as she looked across at Gene.

“You’re serious about this?  And you’ve moved the officer out of the hospital?”  Jackie’s tone was soft and sympathetic as she started to speak, and Gene suddenly came to understand how so many people could tell her so many things; she knew how to work people, that was true, but there was something honest in her curiosity that made him feel safe with his choice of the Gazette;  his hatred of her was slightly muted, just as it had been at the end of the day when Reg Cole had been carted away, and he contented himself with the fact that of all the journalists in the city, he could at least come to think of her as the lesser of all evils.

“Surer than I am of my own name, Sweetheart.  Now, are you ready to take this down?  The officer was removed from the hospital after the other officers, who were guarding him against the killer, were murdered.  He was taken to a safe house, whose location was known only to the police, four days ago, against doctors’ orders, and he died there.  You need any other details and the like?”  Gene felt sweat starting to roll down the back of his neck, and he again wished that Sam were present to conduct the interview; he mentally kicked himself in the rear for not asking Sam to write out a statement that they could have simply handed to Jackie, saving him from having to embarrass himself like he was doing.

“Is that true?  I mean, aside from the bit about the officer dying?”

“All of it.  Doctors said he wasn’t well enough to leave, but eventually let him go after I persuaded them a bit.  He’s still at the safe house.”

Jackie scribbled on her pad for a moment, and then squinted at Gene for a moment, “Doesn’t seem like you at all, Gene, playing mind games with the murderer.”

“Desperate times, desperate bloody measures,” Gene grunted at her, then took a long drag on his cigarette.  “Weren’t my idea, but it’s a solid soddin’ plan, you have to admit, especially if my DI’s right about this sick pervert needing to complete all of the murders for some twisted ritual shite.”

Jackie gave a smug, knowing grin, “I had a feeling this was DI Tyler’s idea.  Why didn’t you just send him in, then?  From what I remember, he could practically write the article himself and just have us run it.”