OOM: Vault

[the_gene_genie]

He always knows what kind of day it's going to be when the first thing on the menu is a random dead body. At least there's room to handbrake the car into a sliding stop under the police tape when you get there.

These little things brighten up any murder scene and make the morning just that little bit perkier.

He thinks suicide. Then accident. Even makes up a nice little scenario until the chop-doc points out that he's had his head bashed in before he fell.

'Murder, then.'

Yes, thank you Bollinger Knickers. Point out the bleedin' obvious like any woman would.

* * *

'Secret keys? See, I knew you'd be like this.'

'What if they're linked?'

'What if Lee Harvey Oswald shot Elvis an' they both flew t'the moon...?'

'Come on Gene, this must set off alarm bells.'

'Yes it does; 'Bollykecks on rampage with idiot theories, run for your lives!''

* * *

He wonders what it is about toffs and their conspiracy theories. Is it something they teach 'em in private school, in between pony riding and buggery in the dorms? Or...the female equivalent in her case, he supposes.

That thought is definitely more fun than dealing with reality, which currently involves a CID full of radical women Commie bra-burning idiots who tell him they deny his authority for some shit reason about morally bankrupt states when he asks a simple question about the whereabouts of the victim. And then call him a fascist. Ray's getting stonewalled for having the nerve to ask a bird her name, Chris has got himself into a discussion about some feminist crap to do with Shaz and Bollykecks is nowhere to be seen. Until he's interviewing the next one and she waltzes in like she was here all the time.

Which he knows is bollocks because he kept an eye out for her.

'...then some of us went back to a comrade's house to discuss the economic imperative behind the British occupation of Ireland.'

'Blimey, that must've been a barrel of laughs.'

'Socialists have a sense of humour too.'

'Right! How many birds does it take to change a lightbulb? Two. One to run aroun' screaming 'what do I do?' and one to shag the electrician!'

He likes that joke. The two women in the room don't seem to find it funny but he can live with that.

* * *

'There is no conspiracy.'

'And you are not listening.'

'Contrary to what Commie nutters like the RWF believe, an' what you seem to 'ave forgotten, is that this is the home of bloody democracy. Land of Hope an' Glory, Rule Britannia, roast beef an' Yorkshire pud an' a square deal for all. If the government're keepin' secrets, it's probably for our own bloody good.'

'You are so naive.'

'And you are really pissin' me off!'

Sometimes, arguing with her is fun.

This is not fun.

This is her accusing the British Government of spying and murder, just because some twat who had a job at a weapons testing facility got killed. Where the bloody hell does she think they are, East Germany?

This is Britain. These things don't happen. Not in his world.

He won't have it.

* * *

There are photos of Caroline Price shagging Evan White.

Drake seems to take it really badly.

* * *

It comes to something when a bloke's relaxing in his office, reading the paper and suddenly finds the blinds drawn and having to talk over the blare of the radio. And then she takes him to the kitchen and makes him talk over the sound of running water, while she bangs on about spies and MI5 and his office being bugged. OK, so some evidence has gone missing in mysterious circumstances - she reckons 'they' walked in and helped themselves, which has to be bollocks - but that hardly means the government is knocking people off and keeping tabs on senior police officers.

For a brief moment, he wonders if this sort of thing excites her. She certainly seems to dive into it wholeheartedly, can't wait to get the taps going and the accusations flying. Whereas he just feels a bit of a pillock.

Until five minutes later when Viv cracks the code and Drake figures out what it means.

'They're old names for tube stations.'

'Which means?'

'I don't know. They all fit the pattern. Apart from this one...Sienna.'

'Sienna.

...that's Branch Code. It's a Special Branch file.'

He starts the car. It's not a joke now and if he feels like a pillock, it's for different reasons.

'My station, my evidence.

...bastards.'

* * *

It all gets a bit serious. He's sure he put that hip flask in the glove compartment but there it is, on his seat again. Every bloke in the pub looks at them like they're trying to hear what they have to say and when they leave the Price's house later, it's pretty obvious that that car was watching the house and had been planning on following them.

He doesn't like it.

And in other revelations, Luigi lets it out that Bolly's been eating out with Evan White. Your young man, he calls him. And she looks embarrassed, glances over at him, tries to deny it.

He should slip Luigi a few quid to spy for him. That's the kind of surveillance he's interested in.

But the moment passes and there's a murder that has to be solved.

'You really think the British Government are capable of killin' somebody to keep 'em quiet?'

He knows what she'll say and doesn't want to believe it.

'Yeah. I do.'

But he does. When she says it like that, he does. So when she adds;

'So? We're going to do it?'

he doesn't hesitate for even a second.

''course we are.'

* * *

Getting locked in an underground vault is not his idea of a good time. No air, pitch black and hotter than a Majorcan minge after a while. He thinks it perfectly justified that he should be pissed off, given that she closed the door.

Sweat drips. It's like sitting in a sauna with your clothes on. So he takes some off. They don't talk. And sometimes they do, in the soft light cast from his Zippo. He thinks about that conversation earlier in Luigi's and it clicks for him; that he may have fancied her since he first laid eyes on her but that brief snippet,

('...we're going to do it?')

was the first time they've worked together. Really together, like Bonnie and Clyde, Bodie and Doyle, Sapphire and Steel.

Chalk and cheese, yes, that too.

It'd felt good.

'...that Evan bloke.'

'It's complicated. And it's none of your business.'

She'd caught him looking at her, he had to ask something. And he was curious anyway. Still. He can respect her desire to not talk about it.

He can tell she's scared. Truth be told, he's getting a bit nervous himself. Seeing as he's about to die, he figures it's alright to think impure thoughts about her when she takes her top off. Even though, as impure thoughts go, they're about as PG as you can get. She's scared and he wants to hold her, tell her it's going to be alright without having to say it.

So he does and you know what? Holding her against his chest, looking into her eyes - chalk and cheese, yeah, but mutton and gravy too. Some things just fit.

The light dies and for those few seconds he's sure this is it, their time has come. But there are worse people to die with. And when the buzzer sounds and the door opens - well, honestly, all he feels is relief; perhaps a bit shifty too, when three pairs of eyes catch him with his arm around his DI.

Later, at home on his own, he thinks back and wonders if it would have been so bad to just have another minute there, holding her in the dark.

Gene Hunt is a copper that lives by his gut. He has a deal with his gut. He doesn't ignore it and it doesn't let him down. And it's telling him pretty damn loudly that, subtle as it may be, something has changed.

'So what are y'then? C or a D-cup?'

No need to let her know that though. Of course.