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[oom] 3x07 (ii)
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.
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.
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'What happened?'
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‘He’d been actin’ strange for a few weeks.’
He’s just trying to get it out without thinking about it. Impossible, but something to aim for.
‘An’ Sam Tyler ‘strange’ was very bloody strange indeed.’
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‘Yeah, I asked him what was wrong, he wouldn’ tell me. Said he couldn’t tell me.’
That conversation with Sam...he hadn’t remembered it, until recently. If it’s true that a person can repress unpleasant things, there might be something to her psychiatry bollocks after all.
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He takes a drink.
‘He said he wanted to leave.’
He pauses. If she doesn’t believe him...
‘Then he asked me to help him fake his own death.’
She takes a breath. Her expression is surprised, and she moves her head from side to side. It looks like this is something she’s never considered. He nods minutely at her.
‘That’s why we set fire t’the car, an’ pushed it in the river.’
He says it square to her face, as if challenging her to doubt him.
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'What -- so Sam asked you to commit an illegal act and you just did it?'
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‘Well, I wasn’t happy for him t’go, I wanted him to stay. I didn’t want to lose him.’
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'Well, what happened next?'
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He looks down.
‘I never saw him again.’
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'Oh come on, what -- he just vanished?'
He doesn't waiver, and she has the sinking feeling -- he doesn't have the answers she's looking for. Maybe -- if she gave him a little more.
'Look, Sam -- was like me...''
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He can’t let that one pass.
‘Well, he’s not quite as annoying, as it happens.’
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There's an urgency in her voice now, born of three years of frustration, of fear and homesickness. She's calm and collected, but somewhere out in the universe, her little girl is waiting for her. And this is as close as she's ever come to finding out how this is supposed to play out.
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All serious again. Because this is the crux of the matter, and it’s time she heard it.
‘I asked him why. He said it would be better for me that I didn’t know – y’see, this is about respect, Alex. It’s about trust. About faith. Something you haven’t learned, yet.’
Sam said ‘don’t ask’, so he didn’t ask. That’s the end of it. She has to understand. If she were like Sam, they would never be having this conversation. If he asked Sam to back off something, he’d moan at first – but he’d respect it in the end, if he saw the damage that was being done. She’s never understood that. She closes her eyes, and barges in, and demands answers simply because they’re what she wants, and hang the consequences.
She needs to get that she can’t do that here. This is his manor. Some things are bigger than a case she wants run a different way, or files she wants to get her hands on. And he can’t sit back and let her ruin everything.
If she cares about him at all, she’ll get it. But the look on her face – it’s a bit like a schoolgirl after a telling off. His heart sinks, even as his voice remains steady. He needs her to hear him. He needs her to understand, and trust him.
But he doesn’t think she will.
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Luigi interrupts them from the bar. 'Signore Hunt, Signora Drake. Some coffee, brandy?''
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He leaps on that suggestion like a drowning man snatching at a lifebelt.
‘Brandy.’
If ever a conversation needed a strong drink...and despite it, he doesn’t want to let go of this date yet. Once it’s over, it’s over. He might have blown it, but he wants a few more minutes.
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She looks into Gene's face, still hanging on that moment. Still reaching for a way to bridge the divide between them.
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That stubborn flame of hope in his chest flickers, and dies.
She heard the truth, and it’s finished. Maybe she really did just come for the info. Maybe she didn’t, but the truth has ruined any chance they had. It doesn’t matter. The end result is the same.
He keeps looking at her. Hopes like hell the sadness doesn’t show on his face.
‘Well, you’re a feminist. You can pay half.’
And then he can’t look at her anymore. He can’t show her how he feels. That’s not what Gene Hunt does. So he lowers his face, and stares at the tablecloth. If it’s done, just let it be done.
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'Get your coat. You've pulled.'
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His head comes up, eyes wide, searching her face. Is she messing with him?
No, she’s not. It’s there in her face. She only bloody means it.
The flame bursts back into life, then explodes in his chest. He resists the urge to grin, but only because at that moment, Ray strides into the bar. He doesn’t take his eyes off her.
‘Guv. Got somethin’ for ya.’
‘So has DI Drake, an’ I think hers is gonna be a lot more interesting.’
‘Wanna bet?’
He places a box down on the table. A box with dynamite in it - and some's missing. Fabulous.
Sometimes it really does feel like the whole world’s conspiring against him and Alex. But if she means it, then she’ll mean it later.
Job to do first.