OOM: Canon, 1x06

[the_gene_genie]

 

‘Y’know, some people get Pick of the Pops; not me, oh no – I get Pick of the Twats. In the car, now, move!’

If she’s going to sleep on the job and Chris is going to sit there listening to his Walkman and reading a magazine, they deserve to get shouted out. Especially when they’ve just got a tip off on a Post Office job about to go off.

The Quattro is fired up with a dark kind of glee – Ray gets it, even if the others don’t.

‘This is like the good ol’ days!’

‘Over-the-counter jobs, love ‘em!’

They’re an excellent excuse for some proper police work – drive fast, bang heads, old-fashioned crooks that grab cash and whatever else they can get their grubby little hands on. No need for poncy surveillance and psychiatry; you work your snouts, shout at people and get the villains in the end. Lovely.
 

~ ~ ~
 

Mr. Chattergee is the guy who got robbed. Mr. Chattergee talks a lot and is a bloody cheeky bastard, calling him old like that. The robbers were wearing masks, one old, one young; the old one used two shotguns and the young one likes to do Robert de Niro impressions while pulling off a blag. Drake reckons he’s local because of the way he drove the bike. It makes sense but he’s distracted by Chris and Ray arsing about behind them, doing impressions of Chattergee doing impressions of the blaggers. He’d tell them to shut up but...

‘Do it again for me.’

They do and he’s back inside the shop in an instant, getting Mr. Chattergee to show him. A distinctive action, two shots, arms crossed over the chest.

And just like that, case solved.

‘Yeah, Chaz Kale.’

He whirls and leads the way out of the shop, Drake confused, Ray nodding.

‘So, who’s Chaz Kale...and how old is he?’

Trust her to bloody pick up on that and in that cheeky tone of voice too.

‘Tha’s the problem, he’s quite young. About my age.’
 

~ ~ ~
 

Chaz greets him like an old friend, offering to shake his hand (once he’s got Bolly to join them, instead of sitting shivering in the car). He’s in the restaurant business these days and the place looks nice. Swanky. But it doesn’t change what he is, or what he did, not even with a posh snooty wife hanging over his shoulder. Not to Gene.

‘Darlin’, let me introduce quality filth. This man an’ me had a run-in up in Manchester, what, fifteen years ago?’

‘Ten. Fifteen is wha’ you would’ve got if you’d gone down.’

‘Anyway, he lost. One-nil. Gene Hunt, my lovely wife Joan.’

‘You must’ve made an impression, Mr. Hunt. He never usually remembers names.’

Well, ‘is is easy innit, rhymes with my favourite word. In fact we used to call ‘im, Hunt the C...’

Gene grins, pleased, even as Joan cuts him off.

‘Yes, thank you Chaz. We still have diners in.’

He comes right out and tells the git that he knows he did it and the man has the nerve to act insulted, seeing as he was famous for doing banks. The insinuation that he’d go near something as poxy as a Post Office for a measly four grand seems to wind him up. But Gene doesn’t care. He’d know his MO anywhere. He’s their man.

Only when they get back to the station, it appears he isn’t their man at all. He was diagnosed as epileptic eight years ago and the fits are brought on by adrenaline rushes. He’s retired.

And that means Gene was wrong.

Chaz looks different to when he knew him all those years ago. He looks beaten. And Gene’s more shaken than he can hide because he always trusts his gut instinct. It doesn’t let him down, never bloody lets him down. And as soon as he saw that Indian doing the Mexican this morning, he’d known – Chaz Kale.

Drake won’t leave it alone. He shouldn’t be surprised. All he wants to do is go get a drink but no, there she is, hounding him into his office and yapping away while he pulls his coat on, telling him to trust that gut instinct.

‘Trust wha’? I was wrong.’ She’s standing in the doorway, defiant. ‘I knew Chaz Kale when he was in ‘is prime an’ I am tellin’ you for a fact, he is no’ the same man he once was. Which, believe you me, is a disappointment because maybe, just maybe, none of us are!’

He stalks out and she still follows. He tells her to trawl the files for other suspects and if he’s needed he’ll be in the pub. Company not required. Or appreciated.

‘No. No. I will not have you going wobbly on me. I was watching Kale and his whole body language was evasive...’

She starts shouting from there. And so does he. Right there in CID, in front of everyone. Nothing really new about it but at least Gene gets the last word this time.

‘He’s ashamed. He’s ashamed of bein’ past his best. But I’ll give him this, at least he knew when t’call it a day.’

He doesn’t give her the chance to come back again, which she undoubtedly would. Just leaves. Alcohol awaits and Christ, he needs it.
 

~ ~ ~
 

The investigation, as he explains to Bollyknickers when they’ve both returned to the office later, is continuing apace.

Only it’s not. Chris and Shaz are giggling over a Rubik’s cube, Ray’s throwing darts and he...has his feet up on his desk, doodling. The sort of doodle that makes him glance around furtively every now and again, in case anyone sees. It may involve DI Drake in a certain position over a desk, with her tits out. And him giving her one. With his shades on.

A bit inconvenient when she waltzes into his office then, but he reckons he binned it in time.

‘Talk of the doodle...yes, hello. How are you? Wha’ can I do you for?’

‘Chaz Kale...’

And so it goes. It goes and goes and ends with her stealing his bloody car and filling it with rubbish. Literally rubbish; the bins from the back of Kale’s restaurant. He throws her off the case, and then the team because a) no one drives his car but him, and b) she made it smell bad. And then he orders her to clean it but she points out that seeing as she’s off the team, she doesn’t actually have to do anything he says. Or at least, that’s the drift of it. They’re too busy yelling blue murder at each other like a couple of teenagers to actually make a lot of sense.
 

~ ~ ~
 

‘What are you doing, drinking by your own?’

There’s no peace to be had anywhere. He just wants to lean on the bar and fume over a pint but no, he can’t even have that.

This has not been a good day for him.

‘Where are your men? And why is the lovely signorina up in her flat, also by her own?’

Luigi’s an alright bloke, most of the time. Apart from being Italian but he suppose the man can’t help that. Today though, no. He’s just annoying.

‘The lads’ll be ‘ere soon and as for the lovely signorina, well, she c’n take a swan dive from the window as far as I’m concerned.’

He looks like he means it too but Luigi isn’t fooled and proceeds to talk to him in an overly-knowing manner, like a patronising adult to a child.

‘Ahhh, I see. Be careful. Who will catch her?’

‘No one, ‘opefully!’

He’s treated to a description of some bloke Bolly’s brought here before, apparently someone dashing and full of ‘youthful vigour’. He really would kind of like to slap him. Luigi. Not the mystery man.

Well OK, maybe him too.

In the end, he’s had enough.

‘Luigi! DI Drake is of no interest t’me whatsoever, comprehende? Now change the bloody subject or go away.’

He doesn’t go away, just waves a finger with a really annoying smile.

‘You don’ fool me!’

In the end it’s him that turns away, a look of disgust on his face. He goes back to his pint. Half an hour later though, he’s back.

‘You drink alone because of love. You can deny all you wan’...all Englishmen, in the art of seduction, are pathetic. Nooo passion..’

He’s walking away. OK, so he’s walking up to her flat but it’s only to shut Luigi up. If he doesn’t do something, he’s going to have to listen to that prattling idiot all bloody night. Only when he gets there, she’s shaking and cold and obviously sick and strangely, it makes him feel better. Because now he can forget about the earlier rows and just do something, namely take her downstairs, drape his coat around her shoulders and get her something medicinal to drink.

‘You’re a bossy cow.’

‘And you are a Bonapartist.’

‘Fine, wha’s that then, like double-jointed?’

Even Luigi has the good grace to get him a double brandy on the house and look apologetic, as she goes on and on and on, pointing out all his faults.

‘What is this, Slap Gene Day?’

It feels like it. But at least now there’s a bloke in custody. Chris and Ray brought him in, the young one, they think, due to the Robert de Niro impression he was doing in the pub. Progress, finally.
 

~ ~ ~
 

It doesn’t look promising. Billy, the maybe-young-biker, has an alibi, backed up by his young nephew who he was supposedly looking after. Donny’s a nice kid, really, as kids go. Polite. Eloquent. But it goes nowhere and so Drake gets those bin bags out; not content with stinking up his car, the whole office has to reek like rotten meat as well, apparently. He watches as they all dig in and he’ll give her credit where it’s due, at least she gets stuck in as well, babbling on about what people throw away and how you can build a picture of someone, even steal their identity. It’s quite interesting, even if it stinks.

And then the phone rings and thirty seconds later, he’s kicking his bin across the office. Thirty seconds after that, they’re in the car and on the way to where they’ll find Billy, on waste ground, with half his face missing due to some nutter having shot him in the back of the head.

Donny saw it all. And it’s his birthday. Imagine ringing in your eighth year by watching the uncle you dote upon getting murdered. He feels bad for the kid but he has a job to do – a job that, tonight, involves getting Luigi out of bed and making him put on a feast for the birthday boy.

Drake’s good with kids, even if she is sick as a dog. And Donny tells them Billy left him at the park and went off with a bloke on a motorbike this morning. Yesterday morning. It’s after midnight but there’s work to do, so he leaves the boy with her (and she moans about it, predictably) and goes back to the station.
 

~ ~ ~
 

That rubbish from the restaurant stinks. It’s not right.

‘Why would anybody throw away this amoun’ of meat? Sell-by dates’re recent. It’s like it ‘asn’t even been refrigerated.’

‘Like they were never gonna use it?’

Cogs are whirring. And then, wonder of wonders, Chris and Ray turn up and have actually shown some initiative. Billy used to work for Chaz Kale.
 

~ ~ ~
 

If this had been yesterday morning, he’d be enjoying this. A connection to Chaz, a reason to bring him in and proof that his gut instinct was dead-on all along.

But a lad’s been murdered. Murdered in front of an eight year old boy and he was handing over half of the proceeds too. He wasn’t trying to keep it all for himself. So there’s no enjoyment when he’s banging on the door to the restaurant in the dawn light, nothing but desire to get to the truth, to get that bloke and lock him up where he belongs. He rings the bell, paces the big glass doors, trying to get a decent look inside and see if they’re around. Shouting for Chaz to open them gets no response and he’s in two minds about whether to leave or not. And then he sees it. On the ground, a warrant card.

Her warrant card.

He doesn’t think twice before drawing his gun; just steps back a pace or two and fires into that expanse of glass, trying not to think about what this could mean, about why Alex would come here on her own, about where she is. He just steps through those now-empty panes, ignores the falling shards and bloody well goes and finds her.

She’s not breathing. They put her in the meat-locker and she’s not breathing.

He tries not to think about too late as he carries her out, tries not to panic. But it’s there, under the surface, evident in his voice as he speaks to her.

‘I’ve bloody dreamt about doin’ this.’

He rips her shirt open and, OK, he’s dreamt about it but not in these circumstances.

One, two, three, four, five...

...

One, two, three, four, five...

Nothing.

 

‘...don’t you dare!’

 

Please, Alex.

His ear against her chest, listening for her heart; desperate now and leaning in, her lips a centimetre away, a millimetre. And then
 

...thank you, God.

she’s gasping, and her eyes are open, so close. And she’s touching his face just like his hand still cups her chin. Touching his face. No. Stroking it.
 

‘I worked it out. I made the connections and I...I solved it. And you saved me. And if you saved me...maybe I can save them.’
 

Relief washes through him. She’s awake and talking bollocks. Everything’s all right.
 

~ ~ ~
 

‘...bloody hellfire! Disgustin’, obscene, smutty filth! Find out who did it!’

‘What? What’s obscene?’

That’d be his doodle from yesterday, somehow finding its way up onto the wall of the small canteen attached to CID. Ray and Chris are looking decidedly innocent at the table but thank God, Drake didn’t seem to have seen it.

‘Lets get you ‘ome, shall we?’

Walking out with her is...the air feels different. Somehow. Maybe that’s what happens when you literally save someone’s life.

He’s saved lives before. But not hers.

‘All I have to say to you, Gene Hunt, is that you should trust those aging instincts because you haven’t even approached your prime yet.’

‘I think you’re right. In fact, I’m about three minutes from reachin’ my sexual peak. D’you wanna celebrate?’

‘Unfortunately...I have a headache.’

‘Of course you do!’

He looks down her shirt, like normal. They stand a bit too close, like normal. But there’s eye contact and a brief moment of silence and...the moment’s ruined when Evan White shows up with Donny. Evan White, the bloke Luigi was no doubt talking about yesterday. Handsome, charming and full of youthful vigour. And keen. Obviously keen. Gene lets out a breath and looks down at the floor, can do nothing as he pulls Alex away with that smile and Donny begging her to go with them.

‘I’m just going to...’

She indicates Evan and yeah. Of course she is.

‘Yeah. Yeah! I’ll see...I’ll see you later. Well tomorrow, probably. Sometime. Whenever.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

She walks away without looking back. And he’ll be damned if he’s going to stand there in the corridor and watch her leave, like some forlorn kid. Even if he sort of wants to.

No.

 

Back to work.