''ere, Guv. Dabs are back on that Post Office safe.'
'About bloody time.'
He tosses this month's
Just Jugs down on the desk, leans back and intertwines his hands behind his head.
'Hit me with it, Raymondo. I wan' to be blinded with shock and intruige at the revelation you're abou' to bestow on me because God knows, if I 'ave to spend another hour sittin' here listenin' to Chris moan on about some slag he's only known for five minutes, I'll stick him in a cell with tha' pillow-biter we picked up on Canal Street las' night and withhold the jelly.'
Ray looks amused at the prospect. Chris? Shuffles his feet in the doorway and keeps his mouth shut.
'You will be surprised, Guv. There's no record of the prints.'
Gene stares at his D.S, unmoving.
'What?'
'No records, Guv. It's got ter be someone we 'aven't picked up before.'
'
...that, Raymondo, is not possible.' Or not a notion he's willing to entertain, anyway.
'Well, we knew there were a chance, Guv. Dickie Fingers is banged up, Ernie Jacks is dead and no one's seen Slippers fer three years. An' it can't be 'im because we've
got 'is dabs.'
Gene pulls a thinky sort of face and stares at Gary Cooper for a minute. He really can't be arsed today.
'Wha's the name of tha' kid we brought in a couple o' months ago, tha' one who tried to jimmy the lock on ol' Marge Patterson's ready cash box?'
'Uhhh....Charlie somethin'. I think.'
'Find out. Charge 'im with it.'
Chris grins but doesn't open his trap, Ray pulls an expression of amused - and fake - consternation.
''e were a bit thick, Guv. Don' think he'd be up to pullin' off a Post Office job.'
He's already zipping his jacket up.
''course not, Raymondo. He did, 'owever,' Gene stands, hitches his trousers and reaches for his coat, 'key my car when we 'ad to let 'im go. So go nab him.'
'Right y'are, Guv. Evidence against him?'
'Got it 'ere.' He opens his filing cabinet and tosses Ray a wad of notes left over from the last over-the-counter they finished. 'That'll do it. Excellent work on your arrest, D.S Carling.'
Ray smirks and pockets the notes; Chris is wiping ketchup off his woollen tank top and cleaning his hand off on his trousers.
'An' you two pair o' tits meet me to discuss the case after.'
'Alrigh', Guv. You gettin' the first round in?'
'Seein' as you're about to collar me a notorious blagger Raymondo, I reckon I can stand you a pint. Hurry up abou' it an' all, me throat's as dry as Chris's bird after he worked 'is magic on 'er last night.'
Ray grabs Chris and pulls him out of the office by the collar before the objection can leave his mouth; Gene watches them leave, stretches and grins because he's been waiting for the perfect case to shove on to that little toerag.
No one keys the Cortina and gets away with it.
The clock says 3:30pm. He pulls his coat on and heads out of CID because its obviously lunchtime and, seeing as today is so quiet, that should segue nicely into beer o clock by the time the lads get back.
'Phyllis! If the missus rings, tell 'er I'm working late on a case. An' if the Super rings, take a message and call me at the pub.'
'She'll be off with the milkman soon, Guv.'
'And go without the Gene Genie? Never.'
It's a good day. A good, normal, enjoyable working day in Gene Hunt's kingdom. The front door of The Railway Arms beckons as he wanders up the road, the sun is warm, the sky is blue and everything is right with the world.
Except when he steps into the pub and...
it isn't.
