lady_bols | [oom] Fighting The Rot

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[oom] Fighting The Rot

After pouring through the files Gene had brought home with him, Alex found she couldn't sleep. She was still operating on a sleep deficit from the previous week's case, so she did pass out in front on the couch with the files stacked around her, but only for a few hours. When she woke up, it was early Sunday morning.

And she thought, what better time to go diving for dirt in the Fenchurch East records room than now?

She wore old jeans, a grey knit blouse (mouse colours for mouse work), boots, and swept her hair up off the back of her neck. She made herself a thermos of tea and stuff a packet of biscuits in her handbag. The walk to the office took her five minutes, and when she got there, she had to let herself in. It was eerily quiet without the hum of the fluorescents, and her footsteps rung in the hallways.

She did have to turn on one light in the records room.

"Please, let today be a good day," she prayed quietly to herself, squeezing down the narrow aisle. "No roses. No white clown. No defibrillator. Just good -- honest police work."

For some reason, this kind of research felt the absolute opposite of boring. She knew there was something here they could use to bring SuperMac down. And before he managed to transfer Gene to Plymouth. That was really the key, wasn't it?

"Her name is Molly," she murmurs, pulling down a box of files and settling on the floor. "Today is her twelfth birthday."

The mantra doesn't even hold much anger anymore. Just a quiet resolve.

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'Whose twelfth birthday?'

He looks fairly dreadful, it has to be said. Even more tired than when she saw him yesterday, though now with an even more distinct aura of hangover about him. And he's clearly just woken up, is unshaven and messy and wearing the same clothes she saw him in the day before.

'What the bloody 'ell are you doin' here?'

Not that he sounds displeased to see her. Just surprised.

Edited 2010-08-03 22:13 (UTC)

She starts a bit, and immediately relaxes when she sees who it is.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in. What do you think I'm doing here?"

She shoves a box towards him, her trademark smirk firmly in place.

"We should put the kettle on. I didn't bring enough to share."

Edited 2010-08-03 22:15 (UTC)

'It's Sunday.'

This is said very much in the manner of a question rather than a statement, as he tries to ease the crick in his neck that always comes from sleeping in his office.

'Yeah, put the kettle on. I'm goin' for a shower.'

With that, he wanders back out again. It's only when he's getting his razor out of his office that it really hits him how she's putting herself out.

But then, he reasons with himself, police corruption is a problem for every copper and she wouldn't be the copper she is if she didn't care.

Alex closes her eyes and bites her lip.

Hard.

Tea. Another cup of tea, yes that's what she needs.

She pulls over another box of musty old files, and starts rummaging, opening up files and skimming, a biscuit between her lips.

It's going to be a long day.

At least, being the weekend, the station showers are relatively clean which is more that can be said of them on a Friday afternoon after being in use all week with only a perfunctory mop pushed around them. He feels better once he's clean, shaved and has fresh clothes on; he's back in the suit as he's at the office, though he leaves the tie off.

'Got any paracetemol, Bols?'

He will actually come join her to do some work in a minute; at present he's just busy damping the nice smell of his aftershave with his fourth cigarette of the morning, and trying to think through his headache.

"Same place as always. Top drawer, left hand side."

Aftershave. Cigarettes. Musty old files.

"When did Mac take over Fenchurch East? What year?"

'Got DSI, you mean? Because he was never DCI here. He was at Fenchurch West until he got the nod upstairs, an' that was...seventy-seven, I think.'

There must, and will be, paracetemol.

Her desk drawer is probably left not quite as neat as it was before. But armed with pills, cigarettes and five-sugar-strong tea, he's finally ready to kickstart this investigation.

'Why did you wan' to know?'

She's so far ahead of him. When he finds her, she's made herself quite at home. She points to two stacks she has going already.

"Before '77. After '77."

It's tight quarters in here, and his hair is still wet. Even with her back to him, stretching up over her head to reach another file, she can smell it from here.

He casts his eyes around the piles upon piles upon piles of records in here. Even lined up and listed alphabetically, this is going to take forever.

'There's got t'be a quicker way than this.'

He knows he doesn't have to remind her that time is very much not on their side. His fingers drum briefly on the side of his leg as he thinks. Then;

'Got pen an' paper?'

She pauses in mid-shuffle and gives him an arch look.

And points to what appears to be her base of operations. Thermos of tea. Box of biscuits. Pad and pen. A long list of file numbers, some already crossed off.

"I don't suppose you know when he joined the Lodge?"

'No idea. I 'aven't been back.'

He has to half step over/around her to get to her 'base' - small room, thousands of files. And not much room for a bloke over six foot with rather long legs to sit comfortably.

'...why the bloody 'ell aren' we just taking boxes up to my office? What're these file numbers for anyway?'

He's already scribbling. And eating her biscuits.

"Because I'm not humping these boxes up and then back down when we're done. And anyway, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile. Hey! Leave some for me, if you don't mind."

"And the file numbers are a preliminary list of every file he's signed off on in the last two years."

's'breakfast, Bolly.'

He shoots her a dark look as she answers his question and turns the pad around so she can see what he's been writing - a list of the jobs he can remember Mac signing off on from CID.

'...look, you do '77 onwards. I'll go back from now 'cos I was 'ere for more of the recent stuff. When we meet in the middle, we'll see where we are. Make note of any names tha' come up more than once, obviously - an' pay special attention t'people who deal with a lot of money. CEO's, bankers, lawyers; they're more likely t'be Masons. Especially if they were arrested but released withou' charge.'

She nods, and shows him her notepad with her scribblings on it.

"Two sets of eyes, we should get through this in no time at all."

She steals one of her biscuits, gripping it between her lips as she thumbs through another file.

"God, what I wouldn't do for a data analysis programme right about now..."

He looks around at the immense amount of files in the room, then back at her with a pointed expression. His eyes linger on the biscuit for a moment, then drop back to his work.

'What're you on abou'?'

"Nothing."

She glances up at him, only to see his nose down over a file. She lets her gaze linger for a moment, taking in the small details. The way his hair is still wet at the temple. The way he pouts when he thinks.

(Her name is Molly. She's my daughter, Gene. She needs me.)

She looks back down at the file, blinking rapidly, forcing herself to focus on the work at hand.

He spends half an hour making a list of the cases he's been thinking about over the last few weeks; not ones he was necessarily suspicious of at the time but, with hindsight, had descrepancies he can't easily explain.

There's a reason the Collator's Den back in Manchester was such a bloody mess - if anyone needed the details of a case they'd worked on, they just asked the Guv. Like a lot of coppers, he doesn't easily forget anyone he's banged up.

It takes maybe an hour to search out all the files he wants, and by the time they're piled up his hangover's really starting to take its toll. It doesn't help that every glance at her finds her seemingly engrossed entirely in what she's doing, and sucking on the end of her pen while she's at it.

'I need coffee. You wan' one?'

"God, yes," she sighs, rubbing a hand across the back of her neck. She shoves the stack of files off her lap and slowly gets to her feet.

"I need to stretch my legs."

He picks up five or so to take with him - he can flick through them while the coffee filters - and turns for the door. Only now she's standing there's not a lot of room and he gets to see, closer than he'd expected, how she looks kind of tired. Or worried, or something. Around the eyes.

It occurs to him it's not an uncommon look on her. She looks that way more often than not.

'Breathe in, Bols. Wouldn' want to be squashin' you up against the shelves.'

Apart from the way he would, of course.

She's still orienting herself when he moves, and before she realises quite what's happening, he's in her personal space, his gravelled voice filling her ears. She presses herself back, closing her eyes, which was exactly the wrong thing to do, because now she can smell his aftershave and his cigarettes.

Why is it she's supposed to not just -- touch him? She's having trouble remembering why, standing in the lee of his body.

The blood is still returning to her legs, and she takes a step back, but there are shelves, and she over balances. She has to throw out a hand to catch herself.

He does it for her. Of course he does. He's always there to catch her, isn't he? A hand on her waist this time, letting her balance herself on him if she wants.

'Been on the gin again? Could've offered t'share.'

It lacks his normal bite. He just had to say something, and it had to be something that would keep him from falling into that mindset because he can't go there.

But he can look. He can think about how close she is and the way no one else is around and how easy it would be, in different circumstances, to take full advantage of this.

And now he's touching her again, and the night they shared a kiss comes roaring back. She knows her heart is pounding, knows her cheeks are flushed. It feels like her heart is written on her face and there's no possible way that he can't see it.

"You don't like gin, do you?"

She steadies herself, straightens her blouse and runs a hand over her hair.

"Go on then." Her voice is soft, and it's possible she's telling him to precede her out of room.

'It'll do, in a pinch.'

He lets go of her waist and his eyes flick over her face one more time, seeing embarrassment at the proximity. And remembering, for a split second, the kiss at New Year's before pushing it away again.

She's telling him to move first, so he looks away and slides past, both relieved by the space he now has and disappointed by it.

'I'm goin' to the canteen, I'll bring you somethin' up. Stick the coffee on in my office, will ya?'

He has to put it back on a level footing. He's only got two weeks, he has to solve this. If he doesn't, all hope's lost anyway.

She nods, a little too quickly.

"Yeah. Meet you up there?"

She watches his back as he goes, and something makes her reach for him, but her hand catches only empty air.

She twists, turning to grab some files to bring with, grasping at something to fill her hands with so she doesn't feel so utterly adrift.

Edited 2010-08-05 02:09 (UTC)

It's only ten minutes or so until he's walking into his office, carrying a couple of sandwiches and smoking another cigarette. The door is firmly closed behind him and he makes sure there's no chinks in the blinds that anyone snooping could see through; he also tuns the radio on quietly so no one can come in unseen and overhear them.

'Right Bols, you got anythin'?'

She gets prawn mayonnaise. More her thing, he imagines. He'll stick with the ham.

'I've found a couple o'cases tha' we might want to look into, includin' that bullion job last month. There's a bloke I want to talk to later abou' that.'

The way he says it, it's pretty clear that 'talking' is not exactly what he has in mind.

Edited 2010-08-05 19:20 (UTC)

"Nothing."

She takes the sandwich and peers between the slabs of bread with a hint of scepticism, but she'll eat whatever he hands her, really.

"The bullion job is the only thing that seems somehow -- too nice and tidy. It looks like something out of an academy textbook."

'Yeah. I mean, it was obviously a job tha' had inside help.'

He has no such scepticism about his sandwich; if he worried about what's in canteen food, or the taste of it in general, he'd starve to death.

'Bu' all the staff that were interviewed were apparantly clean. An' it doesn' look like anyone dug too deep into 'em, which means this was come at all wrong. Instead of digging into the security staff, an' them at the bank, we should've looked closer at the coppers doin' the interviews.'

Hmmm.

'I'll go over t'Fenchurch West later an' 'ave a word, see if any o'their files on it can shed some light. An' get the names of the coppers on the case over there. Talk t'some people in the Flyin' Squad an' all.'

She hums as he's talking, still staring intently at her notes, nibbling on her sandwich.

She looks up sharply at the last sentiment.

"Softly softly," she says, concern lining her face. "It's impossible to know who we can and can't trust at this point."

'Yeah, I know.'

It's what makes all this so difficult. He has less than two weeks to get to the bottom of this and can't do anything.

'I've got a mate in the Flyin' Squad. He should be clean; at least, I bloody 'ope he is.'

Even as he's saying it, he knows there's no way to tell for sure. If this whole mess has taught him anything, it's that there's not a damn person out there you can trust.

Except for her.

'...maybe I'll go an' talk t'the staff again first. Informally. See if anythin' turns up.'

She sighs, looking across at him.

"It'll get back to him, still. They are everywhere, as they do so like to point out. Just -- be careful." She looks back down at her coffee, swirling it in the bottom of the cup.

"I don't want you to turn up like Kevin Hales for your troubles."

It's said casually enough, but there's still an edge of fear in her voice.

'What, me? Wouldn' be able t'get me hangin' from a pipe, Bolly. Not without every bastard in the vicinity hearin' me bashing their skulls against the walls.'

Bravado, yes. But he also doesn't believe anyone's going to succeed in making it appear like he'd commit suicide.

'Anyway, Mac still don' know I'm investigatin' him properly. We're alright at the moment. He just thinks I'm not lettin' him sweep Hales's death under the rug.'

He's flicking through the files he brought up with him, sipping from his mug, when he frowns.

'Mac was away when the Ball's Pond road job wen' down, wasn't he? On holiday.'

Well, she's glad he's determined to go down fighting, if it has to be that way. (She won't ever let it come to that. She has no idea how to fight it, but she'll never let it come to that.)

Her eyes flit back to her notepad and she has to flip through several pages before finding the right one.

"Yes. Conveniently enough, he was. Why? What are you thinking?"

He turns the file around so she can read it, taps his finger on a signature.

'The attempted robbery at Heathrow, six month ago. Mac didn' sign the file off, which means he was away. The Chief Super did it.'

Cogs are clicking in his brain, speeding up, starting to whirr.

'I don' think it's a coincidence but tha' isn't the point. He always goes away t'the same place in the West Country; a mate of his owns a hotel an' golf course. He takes the family there a few times a year.'

He sits up straight and opens another file. No luck with this one, or the next. Maybe it is just a coincidence.

'If he was involved, he'd 'ave wanted t'know how it went. He'd 'ave had to have someone phone him, or something, wouldn't he? If we can get the phone records an' check who he spoke to when he was away, we migh' find a trail. A name, somethin' to go on. People t'look into, at least. Someone calling who normally wouldn't when he's not at work.'

It's a long shot, he knows. A really long shot. But if Mac wasn't in London when these jobs went down, then surely another copper, or a criminal...or whoever he's working with...phoning him, would stick out like a sore thumb, in a way that wouldn't when he was back in his office.

"Well, it's a start."

A golden needle this perpetual haystack, more like.

"We'll have to put in an inquiry with regards to another case. I can have Shaz do that, easily enough. No one ever need know which phone number we're looking for. A separate inquiry to determine which rooms he was staying in, and we should have something to go on."

She tips her head back, staring at the ceiling, echoing his thoughts back to him.

"It's a long shot, but it's something."

'Yeah.'

He knows what they need more than anything; bank statements. Bank statements will prove a lot. Unfortunately, they're difficult to get hold of and while he does know a way...he's not sharing it with Alex. She will disapprove, even when it's for something as serious as this. And it's also highly against the rules, what he's going to get someone to do for him; the less anyone knows, the better.

'...come on. We've only got abou' another thousand files to get through by tonight.'

Lunch is, apparantly, over. Even though he hasn't eaten his yet.

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[oom] Fighting The Rot

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