Fic: Jabberwocky, Part 21a, green cortina, Sytaxia
“Think they’ll have any luck?” Ray asked, as he and Gene banked hard around a corner in the Cortina, skidding into the car park of the Hyde police station.
“At this point, I’d take anything at all as a clue worth digging into faster than Jane Seymour’s crotch, Raymondo. And Phyllis had better have something on the badge that Skelton thought he saw in that damned piece of twisted art shite, or I’ll place standing orders that desk sergeants only are to clean out the cell toilets,” Gene responded as he cut the engine and ripped the keys from the ignition.
“Well, let’s see if these lazy gits have anything for us then, Gov,” Ray said, and Gene threw him a wicked grin.
“Just my thinking, Ray. Just my thinking.” The two of them burst through the door and into the station, both taking long strides up towards the front desk, shoulders back and swaggering, as if they had something to prove. They did have something to prove, Gene thought angrily, and that was that you didn’t dick around with A Division CID. The two of them stopped at the desk, where a middle-aged, male desk sergeant was sitting, slowly tooling through what looked like duty rosters.
Gene cleared his throat rather loudly, and the sergeant looked up at him with a disdainful stare. “Can I help you, Sir?” he asked, and Gene and Ray both glowered down at him.
Gene pulled out his warrant card and badge, and held them out to the desk sergeant, “I need to see DCI Williams,” Gene said, trying to keep his voice as even and hard as possible. The desk sergeant looked at the warrant card for a moment, and then pulled the handset off of one of the desk phones and pressed what looked like an internal phone switch.
“DI Pederson? There’s a DCI Gene Hunt from A Division, here to see DCI Williams. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Yes, Sir. All right,” the desk sergeant nodded and shook his head to the man he was speaking to over the phone, and then returned the handset to its place and looked back up at Gene and Ray. “DCI Williams is indisposed at the moment, but there is another DCI…” Gene cut the man off before he had time to finish his sentence.
“Not Morgan. And not bloody damned DI Scarborough, neither. I want to see Williams, and I want to see him now,” Gene said, leaning forward on the desk and glaring at the sergeant, who backed slightly away from him. Ray felt his own hackles rising, and stepped forward to throw his own angry glare at the sergeant.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but DCI Williams isn’t available at this time,” the sergeant said, and Gene and Ray noticed, with some satisfaction, that his eyes had gone slightly wide with fear. “DCI Morgan can explain that…” Gene cut him off again.
“I don’t want any more explanations from Morgan, or from Scarborough. I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear, on that point,” Gene reached forward and grabbed the sergeant by the collar. “What I want to know is, who the bloody hell is Williams, and why isn’t he the one that signed over the transfer of my DI, who supposedly comes from his division? And why do you lot of poncey gits think that you can get away with sending fake files down to A Division? Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” The sergeant was trembling under Gene’s hands, now, and Gene tightened his grip and pulled, lifting the man off of his seat. “I don’t want any more lies, and I don’t want any more stalling; if I wanted lies and stalling, I’d join the bloody government!
“Technically, DCI Hunt, the police force is classified as a part of the government,” came a flippant voice from Gene’s left, clear and unwavering. Gene looked over and saw the familiar sight of Frank Morgan, in another immaculate three piece suit, his arms crossed over his chest. “And I’d thank you to let go of Sergeant Daly,” he said. Gene thrust Daly back into his chair, and then turned to face Morgan.
“Like hell, we’re a part of the government,” Gene sneered at Morgan as he and Ray turned to face him.
“Thank you,” Morgan said, very shortly and without any discernable emotion, his head bobbing slightly in the direction of Sergeant Daly, who was busy adjusting the collars of his uniform and shirt, and eyeing Gene and Ray warily as he did so. “And might I ask why you have deemed it necessary to come to Hyde, instead of simply calling us? Something urgent, I presume?”
“I’m here because I don’t like the idea of another station stonewalling my investigation! An officer gets attacked, and every copper in the bleedin’ country should be out to offer a hand, not blocking and covering every lead that I have as if they were on a bloody damned gopher hunt!” Gene felt his voice start to rise and his chest start to push outwards, and he realized that he’d taken several steps towards Morgan, without meaning to do so. Morgan didn’t move.
“I’m sorry, DCI Hunt, but I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Morgan smiled slightly at Gene as he said this, and both Gene and Ray felt their anger grow nearer to the boiling point. Ray was the one that snapped back.
“You know you bloody sent us fake files, you soft, posh twat! Nothin’ but lies an’ some other poncey little shit’s career, and we spent days working through it before we figured it out, when we coulda been lookin’ into the real investigation!” Ray had screamed this at the top of his lungs, and was advancing towards Morgan alongside Gene, but Morgan still didn’t give any sign of reacting to it, other than to curl his lip slightly as he looked down his nose, literally as well as figuratively, at them.
There were a few moments of strained silence, with Morgan giving Gene and Ray an appraising look, still staring directly down his nose at them, and then he gave a small sigh and nodded his head towards the door behind him. “DCI Hunt, perhaps you, and, err, I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted,” Morgan said nodding towards Ray.
“DS Carling,” Ray spat at Morgan, who raised his eyebrows and gave just the smallest hint of a knowing smile.
“If you and DS Carling would care to join me in my office?” Morgan asked, looking back at Gene, and then he turned and led the two of them through the door. They followed, and eventually found themselves working their way down a dimly lit hallway, and entering a glass-walled office, the door of which was simply labeled, “Frank Morgan, DCI” on a brass plate. Morgan led the two of them inside, and Gene felt himself sneer involuntarily at the incredibly tidiness of the room; everything was pristinely clean, amazingly well organized, and, to top it all off, dust free. There was something incredibly inhuman about that, and it served to put Gene further on his guard as he and Ray sat in the two chairs in front of the desk, and waited for Morgan to sit down behind it. Morgan did so, and then steepled his hands in front of him, giving a slightly smug, but otherwise blank, look to both Gene and Ray as he did so.
“Now, gentlemen, why don’t you explain to me exactly what it was that DS Carling was implying out in reception?” Morgan asked, flexing his arms so that they were both laid out in front of him on the desk.
“DS Carling weren’t implying anything,” Gene said, glaring angrily at Morgan. “My Sergeant was simply letting you know that we know that the files you sent weren’t DI Tyler’s career history. You took some other git from ‘round here, copied out all of his files, and you put Tyler’s name on them. And you’re the one that signed for Tyler’s transfer, even though he’s CID, and you’re Discipline and Complaints. You care, to, eh, elaborate on that any, or should I find a more effective means of communicating my distaste?” Gene leaned forward and growled out the last sentence, his voice lingering menacingly on the word “communicating.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, “DCI Hunt, I hope you’re not insinuating that Hyde CID has sent you falsified information. If that is the case, then my office is definitely the place for you to be: I can open a full inquiry into the actions of DCI Williams’ team, and look into the files that were sent down to you, and the ones that are in our own collator’s records in regards to DI Tyler’s files,” Morgan gave Gene a smirk, “I don’t suppose you’ve brought the offending files with you, DCI Hunt?”
Gene bristled at this, and fought against the urge to punch Morgan with all of his will. “No, I didn’t bring damned files with me, it’d take a full caravan to haul that lot down here. Over ten years of case files, none of which are connected to my DI, and all of which have been taking more time away from my department than a boozer with a going-out-of-business sale would’ve. I’ve got some other bastard’s career, when I requested DI Tyler’s, and I know that Tyler weren’t even a part of C Division CID before he transferred to us!” Gene’s voice grew steadily in volume and intensity as he worked his way through this speech, but Morgan simply continued to stare back at him, not even flinching as spittle started to fly from Gene’s lips in his fury.
“Now, forged files are a very serious accusation, DCI Hunt, and I can assure you that as the head of C Division Discipline and Complaints, I will launch a full inquiry into the matter, and you will get a full investigation, fair, comprehensive, and transparent to the utmost. So far as your claim that your DI was not a transfer from CID, I don’t quite understand: I signed the transfer orders myself, just as you stated, and I can assure you that I was only facilitating the transfer due to the fact that DCI Williams was still adjusting to his new position, having only just been promoted a few months before DI Tyler was sent to A Division. And you drove all the way down here, just to open the inquiry?” Morgan cocked an eyebrow at Gene as he asked this.
“I drove all the way down here to tenderize Williams into a bloody fois gras, if you must know, because I want to know why I received false files. And I don’t want some damnable investigation to creep along like a slap-headed snail on a Sunday stroll, I want answers now,” Gene spat this out at Morgan, who leaned back and fixed a hard look on Gene, and Ray, who was silently seething next to his DCI.
“DCI Hunt, I surely hope that you are not threatening violence against a fellow officer,” Morgan said it with as much emphasis as he could, and Gene suddenly felt all of his senses become more acute: the last thing he needed now was an inquiry into himself, especially when it could result in him being taken off of the case of finding Sam’s killer. He swallowed, hard, and willed himself to be calm. If only Sam were here, he’d know how to play Morgan’s damned games… The thought of Sam, and of Sam not being present, didn’t do anything to salve his anger, and Gene continued to try and calm himself, the seconds sliding away and Morgan continuing to give him that sly, knowing look. Gene wanted nothing more in the world than to wipe that look off of Morgan’s face - no, he thought, with sickening certainty, he wanted nothing in the world more than to have his DI back, fully functional, well, as functional as Sam ever got, and not being hunted like a pre-lamed fox on some bloody aristocrat’s pleasure hunt. He reminded himself, over and over again, that he needed to keep a calm head here, and eventually his temper was reduced from a full boil to a slow simmer. He looked down at his hands for a moment, and then smiled back at Morgan.
“Well, I suppose that’s all, then,” Gene sensed Ray’s eyes bugging out and his back going rigid, and knew that his DS was trying not let his jaw drop. “Thank you for your time, DCI Morgan, and you’ll let me know the results of your inquiry, soon as it finishes?” Gene stood and held out a hand to Morgan, whose expression finally shifted, this time to a strange look of shock, but only for a moment, before he stretched out his own hand, standing as he did so, and shook Gene’s. Gene turned and headed for the door, kicking his foot at Ray’s as he did so, knowing that Ray’s would remain seated and disbelieving for several moments if he didn’t. Ray stood, and together the two of them exited Morgan’s office.
“Oh, just one thing, DCI Morgan - you wouldn’t happen to be able to point us towards the bogs, would you?” Gene asked, and Morgan quirked and eyebrow at Gene and pointed down the hallway, where a sign was neatly labeled, “Restrooms,” just like the stupid signs above public loos. Gene nodded in thanks, and then kicked Ray’s ankle again to steer him towards the restroom door.
Once the door had closed behind them, Gene checked quickly under the stalls to make sure that he and Ray were alone, with nothing but the sinks and urinals as company. “Gov, what the bloody hell was that? We can’t just walk away from that wanker like that…” Ray began, confusion contorting his features, but Gene cut him off.
“If we lay into him any harder, he’s going to bring down another investigation, into us, and if he does that, someone else takes over all of our cases, including this one. And I don’t know about you, but damned if I’m going to let some arsehole that would wear a waistcoat to a football match and probably drinks his booze from glasses shaped like tits take over finding our killer!” Gene hissed at Ray, and a look of angry realization came over Ray’s features.
“So what do we do, then? Just leave, hope that we can find sommat else out, without any of the Hyde cases?” Ray was drawing a blank, and Gene couldn’t help but sympathize with him. He stood, leaning against the cold tile walls of the bathroom for a moment, and then looked back at Ray.
“When in Rome, wear a bleedin’ toga. When in Hyde, act like a poncey git. What would Tyler do here, Ray?” Gene rubbed a hand over his face, wracking his brain for a suitable plan, and Ray stared at the floor, presumably doing the same.
Ray’s head snapped up on his neck so quickly Gene would’ve bet money that he’d given himself whiplash. “Surveillance!” Ray blurted it out quickly, and Gene stared at him for a moment.
“Brilliant idea, Ray, and do you know of anyone, by any chance, that knows how to rig those radios like Tyler did?” Gene slapped Ray across the ear, and then pulled his hand back and pulled at the flesh around his jaw with it. It was a good idea, but there was no way that they could pull it off without Tyler.
Ray shrugged, “Best I could think of, Gov,” he muttered, and Gene wished for a moment that he would sneer at him and hit him back, just like Tyler would have. While he definitely cherished Ray’s unyielding loyalty and support, it wasn’t what he needed now. What he needed was someone to fight back at him, to throw some stupid cockamamie idea that he’d never come up with on his own at him, to convince him that the only course of action was some half-baked scheme full of science and bollacks and… What he needed was Sam. Gene let his head beat back against the wall, relishing the hard smack against his skull and hoping that it would jog his thought processes.
“Fletcher,” Gene said suddenly, and Ray gave him another confused look.
“You what?”
“Fletcher. He was here earlier, and he’d be just the man for me to have courier a highly confidential package down, and drop it off on Williams’ desk. And while he’s at it, he can take a looksie through William’s files, and possibly the collator’s. It’s perfect. If what he says is true, then no one here expects anything of him, no one would suspect him. Fact is, I don’t even know if they know he’s up in A Division with us now. I’ll have him come down, say he’s got a confidential delivery for Williams, not from me, but from Salford. Then I’ll have him try and sneak into their collator’s, say he’s looking for a file, see if he can’t sneak into their den and pick up some of Sam’s old stuff. Maybe even the file he saw with Tyler’s picture in it last year.”
Ray nodded, and then grinned at Gene, “Brilliant, Gov. Boss couldn’t’ve thought’ve nought better,” Ray said, and Gene grunted at him.
“Now come on, before Morgan thinks we’ve both fallen in and drowned. We’ve got to pick up Skelton and Fletcher soon, and I want Fletcher’s take on the plan,” Gene pushed the door open, and the two of them made their way out. Gene couldn’t help but notice that Morgan was standing in the doorway to what had to be their CID offices, making small talk with one of the younger officers, and obviously trying to prevent Gene and Ray from attempting to enter. Gene nodded at him, as politely as he’d ever nodded at anyone, and then he and Ray slowly made their way out of the station and back towards the Cortina.
By half past ten, Gene and Ray had rejoined Chris and Glen, who had been unsuccessful in their attempts to trace the sculpture through auction houses and consignment storefronts in Hyde. Their final trip was to be to the one thing that could pass as an art gallery in Hyde, which was a small store that sold elaborately framed prints of famous artwork at inflated prices, and also showed and sold small works by local artists, which mostly consisted of watercolor versions of pastoral and religious scenes done by bored middle-class housewives. Gene stared dubiously at the windows as he pulled past the shop, searching for a place where parking was allowed, and eventually screeched to a halt around the side of the block, knocking over several bins and blocking an alley.
Glen gave an odd look at the dubious parking job, and then piled out of the Cortina, followed closely by Chris, who was already tailing Ray and Gene as they climbed out of the front seats, and the four of them made their way along the pavement, and eventually reached the door, the mere minute it had taken them to reach it seeming like an eon to Gene, who had an odd, niggling sensation in the pit of his stomach about this. This was their last, best hope of finding new evidence, at least until they thought of a way to sneak Fletcher back into the Hyde station as a delivery boy, and they would have Sam’s help with that, at least. Gene wondered if it was his instinct telling him to be on guard, or if it was actually a sort of fear, fear that he would come back to Sam empty handed once again. He shook his head and dismissed the thought: he’d been a damned good copper long before he’d met Sam, and there was no reason for him to be constantly proving himself to Sam; it was that crazed nutter that should be proving himself to Gene. As he reached for the handle of the door, Gene realized that that was exactly what they had been doing for months: proving themselves to one another. He smiled at the thought, and then thrust the door open so hard that the hinges rattled.
The force of the door being opened shocked the shopkeeper out of his thoughts, and he looked up at them quickly, and then began to stride towards them from behind the counter, a slightly nervous expression on his face. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked.
“DCI Gene Hunt, Manchester Police,” Gene said, and then gestured towards the others, “Detective Sergeant Carling, Detective Constables Skelton and Fletcher. We’re looking into local art, sculpture, in particular,” Gene asked, not sure how to approach the topic with the shopkeeper.
“Police? Looking into sculpture?” The man looked at Gene with a very puzzled expression, and Gene nodded.
“The recent string of murders in Manchester was connected to an artist, name of Jefferson Myers,” Gene said, and then man’s eyes went wide.
“THE Jefferson Myers?” He asked, and Gene gave him a sneer. He just couldn’t wrap his head around all of the art blokes in the area going so crazy over a man that had been a psychotic killer, or at least the apprentice of a psychotic killer, and who’d turned out nothing more than a bunch of hunks of twisted metal.
“That particular murdering bastard, yes,” Gene said, still giving the shopkeeper a look of distaste. “We think he might be connected to a local artist here in Hyde, and seeing as this is the only shop that local artists peddle their trash in,” Gene began, and the shopkeeper gave him a stunned look, drawing back slightly.
“I can assure you, Sir, that we only carry the most intriguing and interesting works of local art, and I highly doubt that any of our local artisans would be connected in any way to such heinous crimes,” the shopkeeper said quickly, a hurt look bending his features, and making him look even more like a frightened ferret than he had when they had first come into the shop. “We stock a wide selection of all forms of art, mostly tributes to the great impressionists by the more distinguished members of the local WI, but a few pieces from some very promising artists.”
“Do you, now?” Gene asked, quirking an eyebrow at the shopkeeper, and then smiling at him. “Allow me to explain,” Gene reached out a hand and grabbed the back of the shopkeeper’s collar, lifting him up and off of the ground. “There is a serial killer, murdering innocent people, in my city. He might be making sculptures. You might be selling those sculptures. Am I making myself clear, or do I have to throw some dribbles of paint at a piece of sackcloth to get the point across? How exactly does one paint, ‘show us the sculptures?’ Is it more of a speckling, or a splattering, or is it people with square faces and women with their tits on their elbows, paying guitar?” Gene shook the shopkeeper as he described each type of art, and the color drained quickly away from the smaller man’s face.
“Far right, back of the shop,” the man said, and Glen and Chris immediately headed into the shop, twisting their way towards thick, bronze frames with prints of Monet and Degas paintings proudly displayed in them. Gene gave a very large, very fake smile to the shopkeeper, and set him back on his feet. “Oh, so very cooperative, thank you so very much,” he said, and then stopped short of giving the man a quick jab in the kidneys: with his luck, he thought, he’d send the daft twat to hospital, and then there really would be an inquiry.
“Gov…” Chris’ voice came floating up from the back of the shop, and Gene knocked over a display of Botticelli prints on his way back to them. When he reached there, he felt his throat tighten and his heart stop for a beat. There, in the corner of the shop, between a few hideously misshapen horses and angels, was an abstract sculpture. It was made of fine, twisted metal and various objects, one of which appeared to be an empty beer bottle, the metal and glass heated until they fused together. The strands of steel curved inwards and outwards, giving him a sad, defeated feeling, and he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe there was some artistic merit to the thing.
Gene pushed the thought aside and whipped around, practically racing back to the front of the shop and grabbing the shopkeeper by the arm, so hard that the other man let out a small yelp. “Who did it?” Gene couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice as he asked. “Who made that thing?”
“The, the abstract? Beautiful, isn’t it? It was actually a member of the police force…” Gene felt his blood run cold, and his mind instantly leaped to Morgan… If it were him…
“Who, damn it! What was the bastard’s name?” There was a kind of tension now, and it filled the shop, winding its way amongst the paintings and sculptures, the small, factory-made figurines that copied Michaelangelo’s David and the vast collection of water lilies prints, all of the pieces crowded around, seemed to tremble with the force of Gene Hunt in their midst. “Who did it?”
“Detective Inspector Samuel Williams, Sir. Except, I believe he’s a DCI now, and he hasn’t been round in years - that piece came to us nearly three years ago, and no one’s purchased it. I always told him that he should leave the force, foster an art career, and for a while, I thought he was going to…” The man stopped as Gene thrust him forcefully aside, and he slammed into a display of figurines with a crash.
“That is enough! I, I can’t believe this behavior, and from police officers, no less! If, in fact, you are police officers - you never showed me any identification, and I can’t believe that you would treat a citizen this way! I’ve half a mind to call the local constabulary now, see what they make of the havoc you’ve wreaked in my shop, and, and, and,” the man was red faced and stammering now, staring up at Gene’s expression, which was hard and cold.
“Thank you. We’re leaving,” Gene said it in a quiet, hushed voice, and hunched his shoulders low as he made his way out of the store. Once he reached the door, he waited for the others to congregate around him, and pulled out his cigarettes, withdrawing one from the packet with his lips and then lighting the end slowly, staring at the flame as he did so. Silence fell upon the officers as they stood in the cold, crisp autumn air, and all three of the others stared at him. Gene had remained silent as he made his way back to the Cortina, the others in tow, all lighting their own fags in turn, and none daring to look at him. The expression on his face as they’d left the shop had been more than murderous, more than dangerous, it had been unnerving to the greatest extent, an expression that would strike fear into the heart of any man. It wasn’t a look that Gene Hunt usually employed, even at his hardest.
When they had all piled into the car, Gene sat still for a moment, staring at the burning end of his cigarette, at the keys, at his leather-clad hands, and he noticed that none of the others were looking at him, or at each other. “Ray. Tell Skelton and Fletcher our plan,” he finally said, and then started the engine. Ray described, in detail, the plan to try and sneak Glen into the Hyde station as an errand boy for the Salford station, and Chris and Glen listened in silence. Gene, too, was silent as they made the short trip out of Hyde and back into Manchester proper, except that his silence was deafening.
All comments, criticism, and general feedback are welcomed and highly encouraged. Feedback is <3