[oom] 3x07 (ii)

[lady_bols]

Getting out of the office feels good. Less stagnant. He’d say it was a chance to get away from his thoughts, but that wouldn’t be right, exactly. They go with him, just hidden a little behind the roar of the Quattro’s engine, and the prospect of a nice bit of trouble.

ANC. Bloody terrorists. He doesn’t care to think about it further than that. As they troop down wooden stairs to the drinking den, he can hear angry voice rising up to meet them. Someone’s getting called a Judas, by another person who’s bloody furious.

Tasty.

‘Are we in Dalston, or did we just take a wrong turn into Bogo-Bogo land?’

It’s not the done thing to say. He even registers that it’s out of order, but he’s not sorry. The one who talks to him is obviously the bloke in charge, and that puts him firmly at the front of the queue for any guilt to be assigned. What did he tell Sam, once? First one to speak did it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

‘Is it true that in your country, the police don’t need warrants? They can hang a man by his ankles just because they don’t like the cut of his jib?’

‘You mean the colour of a man’s skin? Yes, it’s true.’

Yeah, that’s what he meant. ‘Ray, take this place apart.’

This isn’t what Viv would want, probably. Though he can’t be sure, can he? Viv was black, and it never mattered a damn to any of them. They never talked about politics. The only thing Gene cares about are the guilty, and these bastards are guilty of something, so they’ll pay for it.

Chris tries to organise them, politely. Every time he looks at the bloke these days, he wants to punch him. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’

‘Guv, there’s no point in giving them a hard time. We don’t know if they’ve done anything wr-‘

‘When I want your opinion, I will ask for it. And I will never ask for it. Prick.’

She looks shocked, and he doesn’t care. ‘Guv, I know you’re upset, but that’s-‘

‘Ray. Get on with it.’ Not interested. She tries to tell him these people are fighting something, and he couldn’t care less. ‘They’re members of a terrorist organisation, and they are on my patch, Bolly.’

‘They didn’t kill Viv. Nor did Chris, and nor did I.’

Not. Interested. The only thing he’s interested in is the body that Ray finds in the kitchen. Terrorists or not, it’s murder, and it’s on his manor.

~ ~ ~

CID’s a zoo again, filled to bursting with Africans, and his lads clamouring for information. And Keats, of course, with his hints about his report and the things he’s put in it to bury them. As Gene points out, there’s ‘nothing a big, juicy collar won’t override.’ Sometimes he even believes it. He has to believe it, otherwise they’re doomed already, aren’t they?

The victim’s name is Oliver Ndlovu. Member of the ANC. Fled South Africa six months ago after organising strikes in township schools. Killed with a kitchen knife. And as a member of the ANC, killed by someone at that shebeen – also a member of the ANC, no doubt – catching the killer will be catching a terrorist. Yeah. Let Keats put that in his pipe and smoke it.

All of them, to a man – or woman – are claiming they were in the bathroom when Ndlovu was killed. The head bastard as well, but he’s not having that.

‘I may not be able to pull your fingernails out, but I’m not stupid. He was murdered on your watch, in your club-‘

‘I was in the bathroom-‘

‘D’you know what I think? I think you killed him.’

‘No.’

He’s a first-class stone-waller, he’ll give him that. Maybe Drake’s getting somewhere with the girl.

~ ~ ~

"There's no need to be afraid, Tzitzi."  The poor girl across the interview table from Alex looks like she's terrified out of her wits.  And it's understandable, knowing what would have happened to her in police custody in her home country.  "I give you my word."

Still, she only watches Alex with wide, frightened eyes.  All right, then.  Start at the beginning.

"Did you know Oliver--"

"I was in the bathroom. I saw -- nothing."

"That's not what I asked."  Again, the girl doesn't respond.  "I understand he had quite forthright views on how the struggle should progress."  She turns the handful of pamphlets and slides them across the table.   "We found these, in his belongings.  Did he upset someone, Tzitzi?  Is that why he was killed?"

Still, nothing.  She sat with her hands in her lap, her jumper buttoned up to her throat, her shoulders up around her ears.  Her whole body language screamed that she knew something, but was too afraid to open her mouth.

"You know, we will find out what happened, and when we do, there'll be discussions as to who should be deported--"

"Please.  Don't send me back."

"Well, I --"

"They will kill me, like they killed my father."

The therapist in Alex cannot resist trying to help someone who is in so much distress.

"How did your father die?"

"They put wires -- in his penis, and shocked him.  The shock cracked his spine, and hurt his vocal cords.  He couldn't even say goodbye to me before he died."

"I'm sorry."  Her voice is barely more than a whisper.  She'd read the journals coming out of the Truth and Reconciliation courts when they'd been published.  She knew that Tzitzi wasn't lying.

"I was in the bathroom."  She says the words again, adamant.  Like they're the only thing standing between her and unimaginable horrors.

~ ~ ~

"Tobias, I can only guess at the experiences you've been through in South Africa."  Alex covered her heart with her hand as she spoke.  "I have the profoundest admiration for your struggle."

This man was much older than the girl, probably in his mid-forties, and as stoic as a block of granite.  His eyes didn't even really focus on her face.  Building a rapport here was going to be very difficult.

"This may sound trite, but uh -- I argued against Apartheid at my school's in-house debating society, and I very nearly won."   She heard the words coming out of her mouth before she could stop them, and her shoulders sagged a bit.  "Does sound a bit trite."

Nothing.  Not even anger.

"I know what you're doing.  You're creating a conversational vacuum that you think my white, liberal guilt will fill with inane chatter and banalities, almost completely without punctuation or coherent syntax, thus taking the heat off what it is we're meant to be here talking about.  Which is murder."

Tobias' gaze remained fixed on some point in the middle distance.

"It's not going to happen."  She hopes.  What if she shares a bit of the truth with him?

"It will all end beautifully, Tobias.  In seven years time, Nelson Mandela will be released and he will become the first democratically elected president in South Africa.  I want you to be there on that wonderful day, not rotting away in some London prison.  But you have to help me."

Nothing.  She'd have better luck chatting up the toaster in the canteen.  This one was going to be a hard nut to crack.

~~~

Tzitzi’s nothing more than a frightened kid. Normally, that would hold some sway. But at the moment, all emotion comes through a veil of anger, and he really, really doesn’t have patience enough for this.

‘I don’t care what happened to you in South Africa. I don’t care what happens to you when I send you back.’

‘No. Please, you don’t understand-‘

‘D’you know, I imagine they’ll probably wire you up like a lightbulb, an’ then plug you into the mains.’ It’s true. He really doesn’t care. It doesn’t seem to matter.

‘Please, don’t send me-‘

‘Who killed Oliver Ndlovu? Was it Tobias? C’mon, you can tell me. He can’t get to you in here.’

Ray turns up with the murder weapon. He found it concealed in the shebeen, along with passports, money and papers. He forces Tzitzi to take her cardigan off, and there they are, bloody handprints all over her dress.

~~~

But that’s not the prize. ‘This isn’t just a drunken murder. This is a fully fledged, one-stop, ANC cell.’

‘Right, I’m going to go call Special Branch.’  She turns to leave.

He leafs through the passports distractedly, the possibilities neat, lining up one by one. ‘No, you won’t.’

‘Guv, we have to. If we suspect a link to a potential terrorist, we-‘

‘There’s a big fish here, and he’s ours. It’ll scupper Keats’ report once and for all.’

He wants to catch a murderer. He wants terrorists in prison. But above all, he wants his kingdom left alone. If the leader of an ANC cell gets banged up for murder, and that cell destroyed along with him, he’ll be a bloody hero. Nothing Keats says will matter.

It works like a charm. Threaten Tzitzi with a murder charge in front of Tobias, the bloke confesses in under thirty seconds. He’s obviously a smart one too – without blinking, he’s got a cover story for the girl all ready. The blood’s there because she tried to revive the dead man. The dead man wanted to bring violence to London. He couldn’t let that happen, so there was a fight. The girl was shagging the dead bloke. All there, nice and clean. Confession, motive and opportunity.

It’s all bollocks. Tzitzi’s got guilt written all over her. He doesn’t care. He just takes Tobias into his office, shows him the IDs and passports they found.

‘Explain this.’

‘You let the girl go?’

‘Illegal passports, forged visas, laundered money…’

‘I’ll tell you about it all.’

‘Everything?’

‘Everything.’

‘Full confession?’

Tobias nods. Done.

Alex stays behind. ‘This isn’t right, Guv. He’ll say anything to get Tzitzi off. You’d let a potential murderer go, just to get a bigger collar?’

‘This is the final chapter, Bolly. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re fightin’ for our lives.’

It’s the only thing that matters. If they’re going to survive at all, he has to do this. There’s no way to make her understand. He can’t explain it to himself. But he knows, more clearly with every passing day, that something’s coming to an end. Him? This place? When was the last time he had a phone call from the Super, or the Commissioner? It’s like they’ve all melted into the dark, and this station is the only thing left. There’s him and his team, and then there’s Keats. Nothing else.

~~~

'A man was killed and another man owned up to his murder.'  He spit the words out like he could make it the truth by just saying it with enough conviction.  'Which means you're free to go.'

Tzitzi stood between the two of them in his office, still the wide-eyed terrified girl.

'Did you kill Oliver, Tzitzi?'  Alex wasn't sure what she was trying to accomplish. Perhaps appealing to the girl's better nature would make her fess up and prevent Tobias from being deported.

'No.'

'Give it a rest, Bolly.'  

'If you've got something to say, you <i>must</i> say it now.'  

Gene stalked between the two of them and jerked the door open.  'Chris!'  He left the door open and smothered any chance Alex might have had at getting something out of the girl.  'Show this young lady out.  And you, tell your terrorist friends to keep off of my manor or I'll hunt them down like rats, understood?  Bye bye.'

She waited until the door closed before confronting him.  'You can't be sure it wasn't her, and you certainly can't be sure it was Tobias.'   

She could tell by the cant of his shoulders and the harsh lines of his mouth, he was spoiling for a fight.  'He's giving me an entire ANC illegal immigrant center.'  Again, he punctuated the sentiment with a fist to the desk. 'He's the prize!'

'And what about the the truth?'

'Oh, grow up.'

Keats didn't even knock, just invited himself in.

'Jimbo! My moods improved.  Murderer apprehended, international incident avoided, and terrorist leader in the cells.  And on something of a promise!"  The last was directed at her.

'In your dreams,' she muttered.  Unbelievable.

'Glad you're in a good mood, Gene.'  Keats straightened his tie, clearing enjoying the strife between them.

'So if you need to know how to spell the word "stupendous" on your D&C report, you just give us a shout, eh.'

'The dead man.  Oliver Ndlovu.'

'What about him?'

'He's Special Branch.'  

Lovely, Alex thought.  Because nothing can ever be simple around here.

Keats was convinced it was some sort of political assassination conspiracy, attempting to cover up a terrorist plot to blow up the visiting South African President while he was visiting London.  Gene insisted the murder looked more like a frenzied attack than an execution, and she had to agree with him.  (The truth, but only when it suited him.)

But no, Special Branch was taking custody of the suspect.  As soon as they could find a copy of the proper form.  The proper form number of which Gene Hunt pulled out of his arse so they could have some more time to get to the bottom of things.

~~~

Turns out her inquiries to Manchester via Ray were all for naught.  The name attached to those epaulette numbers would remain a mystery.  The records were all destroyed in a fire.  

So she was back to square one.  

She was just finishing up for the day, that same strange giddiness bubbling up in her chest, putting her in a good mood, despite all else.  She was having dinner with him.  A date.  A proper date.

'Good night, Chris.'

'Ma'am.  Guv.  Ma'am.'  Poor boy, he always looked so confused.

'S'everything all right?'

'Why wouldn't it be?'

Oh, a myriad reasons.  'Just asking.'  She decided not to press the issue, and he surprised her.

'Do you ever have the feeling, that things are falling apart, and the world as you know it -- is about to end and nothing will ever be the same?'  His words were pitched low, and she could feel the waves of grief coming off him.  Grief they all felt.  Grief they needed to work through, together.  It was the only way they were going to get through, together.

'DI Drake, could I borrow you a moment?'  Of course, if Keats had his say, that would never happen.

'I'm -- I'm -- I'm just...'

'Just a minute.  In my office.'  He wasn't going to take no for an answer.  

By the time she looked back to Chris, she could see any willingness he had to open up was evaporating.  And she had no choice but to follow Keats.

Outside his office, she tried to make the case again.  'We've found no evidence to support Special Branch's allegations.'

He closed the door behind her, and it was clear, that wasn't what he wanted to discuss.

'Do you think this is a game?  Hmm?'  He spoke to her like she was a child, and the question took her aback.  'Some -- flirty, silly little game being played out by me, you, and Hunt?'

'No, I don't think it's a game.'  It was clear, there was a rage simmering beneath the surface of his cool, grey exterior and she was about to face the brunt of it.

'Sam Tyler lost his life. By all accounts, an extraordinary man.  His life was taken from him.  Murdered.'

'We don't know that, not for sure.'  She felt herself waver, felt the tears that had been threatening all day rising in her throat.

'Yes we do.'  He spat the words at her, shouting at her.  'In our hearts we know that.  Now it's down to you Alex, to take that final step.  To find out from Hunt's own mouth, how he did, where he did it and why he did it.'

'It's not that easy, is it, sir?'  She forced herself to stay calm, but she couldn't just stand here and listen to him accusing Gene as if he already knew the outcome.

'Oh actually, it is.  It's about being a solution a problem, a despicable problem.  Or being part of the problem itself.'

There was no reason to give him anything.  No reason to let him see her doubts.  No reason to show him anything other than the truth, she was here to save Gene.  Not betray him.

'I'm -- I'm having dinner, this evening, with DCI Hunt. Hopofully I'll find out the truth then.'  He wouldn't let her down.  She knew that, with all her heart.

'Last chance, Alex. If you don't have the courage to do it, I'll find someone who --'

'Oh I have the courage.  Sir.'  After all she'd been through, that he'd dare to question her intestinal fortitude at this late stage of the game.  

'Get.  Him.'

She didn't even grant him the courtesy of saying goodbye.  She simply turned her back on him and walked out.

Comments

[the_gene_genie]

‘Nope.’

He picks up the salt automatically, and shakes liberally over his food.

‘Hope they were filthy.’

[lady_bols]

She scoffs, eying him with her fork hovering over her fish.

'No, I dreamt you were driving the Quattro like a maniac, and shooting that gargantuan revolver at the scum you were apprehending. I think -- no, that was another dream, you reading out of a story book, with a smoking jacket on. But no filthy dreams.'

At least, none she's willing to admit to publicly.

[the_gene_genie]

He sniffs, trying to feign disappointment.

‘I do not drive like a maniac. Maniacs are out of control.’

And he is never out of control. At least in the Quattro.

‘Sounds like you were just reliving a normal day to me. For that one. I don’t read out of story books, dressed like a poof.’

[lady_bols]

She hides a smirk with a bite of fish, humming a bit in agreement. After she swallows, she takes another swig of wine. 'You were also shouting at me. From every television screen. I imagine that was my subconscious just channeling what was happening in the -- here and now.' She'd almost said, 'real world'. But this isn't the real world, is it?

And it's not at all a stretch for her to imagine him barking at her unconscious form lying in a hospital bed.

'You were shouting at me while I was out, weren't you?' The question has a definite hint of amusement to it.

[the_gene_genie]

He pulls a wry face, and drops his gaze. ‘Just the once, right after it happened.’

Wait.

‘An’ when you woke up. But that worked, so you can’t have a go for that one.’

[lady_bols]

She mirrors his wry grin, and lets it blossom into a proper smile.

'I'm not having a go. It's what you do, when you're scared.'

Her tone isn't judgmental, it's quiet; she's simply stating a quiet fact, one that she knows from years of watching him when he thought she wasn't looking.

[the_gene_genie]

His face darkens, just a touch.

‘Gene Hunt does not get scared.’

His tone isn’t angry, but there’s the barest hint of warning in it. They’re not going to maintain this finely-balanced equilibrium if she’s going to start pointing out things she perceives as flaws.

‘He shoots a gargantuan revolver at scumbags, remember?’

[lady_bols]

'Right.'

She's not going to press the issue. She knows what fear looks like on his face, and it's not a sight she ever hopes to repeat.

'And yells at unconscious DIs when they're lying down on the job, yeah?'

[the_gene_genie]

He lets it lie. No point stirring things up over a single remark at this point in proceedings.

‘It were in your interests. They put you on half-pay after three months on the sick.’

He wouldn’t want her to suffer that fate. How would she keep her drinking habit up?

[lady_bols]

'Perish the thought,' she murmurs, cutting a glance at him, smirking behind her wine glass.

She saw his mood shift, and realises, not for the first time, just how tenuous things are between them. She eyes his plate, and how slowly he's eating.

'You need to eat.'

[the_gene_genie]

He glances up at her.

‘Yes, mam.’

Always with the sarcasm reflex. He can’t help it. But it’s a bit gratifying too. Unless she’s only pretending to care.

‘How’s your fish?’

[lady_bols]

'Oh this? It's -- delicious. Really. Surprisingly so.'

She peers at her plate, skeptical.

'I think he forgot the pineapple ring.'

[the_gene_genie]

‘An’ you’re complaining?’

Good God, Luigi and his pineapple rings. Still, at least they come out of a can, in syrup. None of that fresh crap that’s usually sour.

[lady_bols]

'No no, not in the least. It's -- actually quite -- nice.'

She leans in a bit. 'Should we tell him?'

[the_gene_genie]

‘Don’ you dare. You’ll destroy the man’s life.’

Perhaps literally.

‘Any criticism from you would have him crying into his little bow-tie for about a year.’

[lady_bols]

'Pfff, nonsense. He's always been very open to constructive criticism. Unlike some people I know.'

Okay, that was a jab, but it was playful enough.

[the_gene_genie]

‘From you, maybe.’

His point being that Luigi fancies the arse off her. Or would, if he were twenty years younger.

‘An’ I can take...’

He trails off, sighs a bit, and eats a forkful of pasta. He was going to say ‘don’t start’, but that’ll only stuff things up.

‘There. Eating. It’s not like I’m gonna waste away.’

[lady_bols]

'No,' she explains in a tone that can only be described as motherly, 'but you need to keep your strength up. Loss of appetite is a very common, and understandable symptom of grief. And it's not like we're going to get a chance to -- rest and process Viv's -- you know.'

She pokes at her fish, and reluctantly takes a bite. This time, the smile is a bit more fake, but she's soldiering on. They all are.

[the_gene_genie]

He thought she was just talking about how busy they’ve been. But no, she had to mention Viv. His face closes off immediately, and he puts his fork down so he can pick his wine up.

A moment later, he shrugs a shoulder, as if it doesn’t matter at all.

‘Keats is nearly done. Might take some time off when we’ve seen the back of him.’

As if it’ll be that easy. As if Keats, all this time, has just been another bloke hanging around the place. And it’s a nod to defiance as well. This place is going to survive past that bastard.

At least, that’s still the public face he’s choosing to show.

[lady_bols]

She follows his lead, eager to leave the shadows behind her.

'Might take you on a road trip this time. Somewhere -- warm.'

The last sentence is directed at her plate, as she remembers, no Chunnel. No driving to France in 1983. She chuffs a laugh to herself, imagining Gene and the Parisians getting on smashingly. Somewhere far away from Fenchurch. She blinks, looking over his shoulder, her thoughts drifting away for a moment.

[the_gene_genie]

His eyebrows quirk.

‘Oh, you’re comin’ with me?’

Interesting.

[lady_bols]

'No.'

She frowns a little, contemplating.

'This time, you're coming with me.' So there.

[the_gene_genie]

‘Oh.’

He pushes his pasta around his plate a bit. He doesn’t quite know what to make of this, but he’s willing to run with it.

‘You’re not drivin’ the Quattro.’

Because that has to be laid down as law right now.

[lady_bols]

Again, she frowns, watching his eyes.

'Fine. I'll have to find a car to let. Maybe something vintage, with -- big butterfly fenders and a rag top, hmm? Something that requires a cap to drive, lest your hair be all mussed.'

[the_gene_genie]

‘Would you buggery. We’d take my car, and I’d drive it.’

On this hypothetical holiday, that ignores the fact that the two ranking officers in CID wouldn’t really be able to take time off at the same time, let alone to go somewhere with each other.

It’s a nice thought though. He can almost quash the little voice that reminds him how she doesn’t actually like him much at the moment. And she’s talking about holidays?

‘Not Spain. Or Italy. I’m not goin’ anywhere with a few million more Luigis in it.’