MANCHESTER, NOVEMBER 2ND, 1973

He had a brother once. Stu was two years younger and built like a Sherman tank, a stocky little bastard with a right smart mouth. Together they ran everything from Miller's Grove to Heckler Street, and there wasn't a kid on the block who didn't know it. See, things were still tight during the war, infrastructure staggering on its feet, room enough to gain a little capital if you could improvise.

Their old man spent his days on work crews, replastering walls to crumbling buildings, or sloughing the dead facade off houses that were condemned. He'd bring home trophies sometimes, tid-bits half-buried in rubble, scavenging from the dead. He did the same when he was fighting in the war. Gene had found a dagger with the Nazi emblem on his thirteenth birthday, along with a gold tooth and a photo of a group of Tommies, lounging in the sun. He'd left his fingerprint on it. The fine, intricate whirls of his thumb pressed against the image of his da. But the house felt too full with him home - his presence too big. His da's shadow stretched over the house and all within it, the soft sounds of sex bleeding through paper-thin walls. There were cries sometimes, male, halting, that came late at night. His father would get drunk, mean, the puckered scars along his face demonic in the twilight.

And Stu set him off. Stu wound him up like a grandfather clock with nothing but a smile.

Stu was eleven and almost the same size as Gene, a tow-headed kid with an easy temper, within a year of their father coming home he was hospitalised twice, his arm and jaw fractured in seperate instances. Their da never once touched their mother. He went after the youngest, he went after the weakest, and Gene couldn't stand to be in the same room as him. Their mum talked about the war, about the hardships, about the things their da had seen, but she never once looked him in the eye. Officially he was thirteen years old when he started to fight back; but Gene had already lived through the Blitz, he'd survived everything those German scum had thrown at him, and his da was no exception. Stu stood shoulder to shoulder with him, toeing the brotherly line.

He would always look perplexed in later photographs, constipated, squinting into the camera. He always had the air of someone who was about to ask a question, but couldn't find the courage, dumb smile and his eyes drifting away.

Six years later, Gene Hunt joined the police force, fresh-faced and spoiling for a fight. He banged up crooks and carved a niche for all the blaggers, a marker, here and no further, cos this was his city, his kingdom, like the corners of Miller's Grove and Heckler street once were. They drifted out of contact, no longer moved in the same circles. Stu was fine until all that blather about free love, he was the youngest and Gene knew he was the weakest, always trying to escape reality. Never happy where he was. Feeding a habit that divorced him from common wit. A fucking quitter, self-indulgent ponce. Gene tried to slap sense into him, tried to screw his head back on, but the first time Gene raised his fists Stu went wild, left, and Gene was angry enough to let him go. He's forty-three years old now, and there's not much that he regrets. Sam Tyler is nothing, absolutely nothing like his brother. Except in all the ways that he is.

**************

"Where?" He can feel the air rasp in his lungs, rough-finish concrete scraping against his knuckles. Ray's features are a pale smear as he levers himself upward, staggering like a new-born colt. The first breath hurts like a sonofabitch, trying to reinflate his lungs.

Ray grimaces and points toward the exit. The only downside to smacking Tyler so often is that, one year later, the little prick is fast. He can feel the stares of his men, uniformed coppers that dart nervous looks to and fro. They'd witnessed that, and something hot burns down Gene's spine. Ray's smart enough not to offer aid, "He went that way, guv...he was off faster than a bride's nightie."

Gene straightens, one hand curled loosely around his ribs. The cortina is still parked outside when they emerge. Sam might be a headcase but he's not suicidal and Gene grunts, lets his hand drop away from his side. He wants to canvas the streets but Sam comes back, he always does, and Gene doesn't have time for dramatics. There's an eleven year old boy in that building, his pants around his ankles, and the blood thick and sweetly odorous on a factory floor.

This is the second child they've found within a fortnight, narrow faced boys with dirty blonde hair. If it follows the same pattern, there will be alcohol in the boys stomach contents - along with traces of semen - he wouldn't have been fed for over three days, hands bound behind him with masking tape. In death, he would be neatly arranged, limbs straightened, his upper body fully clothed. His genitals would be bruised. Penetration would have been his final indignity, along with a single stab wound to the stomach.

Gene once thought the murder of Charlie Hassam was the worst he'd ever seen. He doesn't believe in monsters but he doesn't know what else to name this killer. He doesn't understand the kind of society that could produce him. Tyler never once looked horrified, instead a weary anger over-layed his features, as if he'd seen this type of thing before, as if Hyde had a monopoly on kiddie-killers. Gene wants him caught; he wants him castrated, he wants him thrown in prison with 'child molester' tattooed on his forehead and raped by a whole battalion of ugly bastards. Most of all, he wants his D.I working this case with him.

The crunch of wheels against gravel heralds the arrival of the coroner's van, plain white, a metallic steed for ferrying the dead.

************

Sam once jokingly (okay, maybe not jokingly), said he had an unhealthy obsession with male bonding and its true. But he's the guv. He runs this station. He needs to be able to read his men, and Gene does. Whatever Tyler says, Gene can read people a flamin' lot better than Sam. Tyler has charm, but it works almost exclusively with the birds, throw him in with a pit full of lads and Tyler is the odd man out, forever stalking against the current. Gene can spot a liar at twenty paces, regardless of gender. He knows his own team, both inside and out.

He drinks and throws darts with Ray. He gives pep talks to Chris, and talks the shit with Brownsie and Gavin. He jokes with Phyllis, ribald and dirty, trying to up the ante, and with Sam, he gives away pieces of himself, sullied and still smeared with blood.

It's painful in its own way, holding up a mirror to the past. He knows how to pick fighters and he had Tyler pegged the moment he walked into his station, off his rocker and concussed halfway to Hades. Tyler was always going to be difficult. He was always going to be worth it. And so he talks to Sam, haltingly and out of practice, about being on the take, about his brother, about Harry Woolfe, careful diatribes, the jagged shards of his own imperfect history. Private conversations away from prying eyes, where Gene has all the time in the world to study him.

Waiting for that click, when connection is established. He's waiting for that moment when Sam will give a little something back.

**************

There are no pictures of Samuel Williams. He was UC the moment he entered the police force, deep cover, identification rewritten with each new operation. It was easy enough - everything that could identify him was systematically removed - Sam Williams grew up in an institution, St. Christopher's school for Boys, orphaned from age eleven. The most recent photograph Gene found of him was when Sam was nine, when his parents were still alive. Frank Morgan found and sponsored him into the police force. Up until he met Gene Hunt, Sam spent his entire career hunting down authority figures, prosecuting anyone who abused their seat of power. Gene wonders what it's like, to be so desperate to escape your own identity. "Phyllis, is forensics in yet?"

"No, guv. The medical examiner would like a word with you, though."

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask if Tyler has checked in yet, but he's not a soddin' mother. "Where's Cartwright?"

"Down in storage," something flickers in Phyllis' eyes. "No one's claimed the first victim yet. She's trying to get him identified quick as possible."

Two weeks and no one has stepped forward to claim a child. There should be parents. There should be accusations and grief. There should be someone who's noted a little boy missing, "Have you made the rounds to the children's homes?"

"Aye. D.C Skelton did that last week, he came back with naught."

"He wasn't dropped off by a friggin' stork, Phyllis, find me his name." Blue eyed boy with dirty blonde hair.

****************

The second victim could have been a replica except for his eyes - a murky green - his chest concave, the ribs a stark line that spoke of malnutrition. Gene forces himself to stare, to note the graceful arc between shoulder and neck, the bruises that mar pale skin. A pattern, except....

"He was drugged." Sam's voice sounds abnormally loud in the tiled room.

Of course the ponce arrived here before Gene. "You hit me," he murmurs. Drugging was new. Drugging meant what? That he needed to subdue the boy? Needed to keep him quiet? He glances sideways.

Tyler stares at him incredulously. "Get your missus to kiss it better."

Gene snorts and leans against the wall, arms folded, his ankles crossed, "Oh, she will. You could have done me a favour and hit a little lower though," he bares his teeth in a grin, then gestures toward the child. "With what, Sherlock?"

Tyler shrugs and nods toward Doctor Heral. "Ask Holmes."

The M.E straightens, glancing between the two of them nervously as he smoothes his tie. "Trace elements of lysergic acid diethylamide."

"LSD," Gene spits.

"Yes, unfortunately, it was also laced with strychnine."

"I didn't major in bloody chemistry, mate."

"Rat poison," Sam supplies, he rubs the back of his head, eyes squinting shut, "that doesn't mean it was lethal. It's just one of the more 'exotic' mixes."

"No. That would be the knife to the gullet, I would wager," he keeps his voice withering, shooting daggers at his D.I.

Dr. Heral coughs politely. "Speaking of which, it wasn't the same weapon used in the previous assault, D.C.I Hunt. The blade was surprisingly narrow, piercing the lower abdomen and slicing the kidney. Your boy would have bled out over the course of hours. If not a day."

The flash of white is pure rage, fist slamming against cold tile. Heral visibly jumps; Sam goes still, his eyes dark and watchful as Gene rotates his wrist, lets the upsurge of hate wash away. "Anything else?"

Heral fusses for a moment, then begins to cover the body, "He hasn't been vaccinated against polio."

Tyler stirs, "He wasn't a ward of the state, then. The government made it compulsory for institutions in 1953. What about the labels on his clothing?"

"Forensics still has them," Gene answers. "Come on Gladys, we need to get his picture out there." The boy's features are still visible, the sheet pulled up to mid-chest, blonde hair matted to his head. His lashes are surprisingly long, his bones fine and delicate, he looks almost effeminate. Gene turns away. They walk in unison, Tyler has his hands jammed into his pockets, his head lowered.

"Why drug him?" Gene muses, "He didn't do it with the first vic."

"Maybe it was mercy."

"What," Gene turns on him blindly, "let him be high when he's getting raped? Let him be high when some faggot sticks him in the stomach? Where's the flaming mercy in that, Tyler?" Drugs, they didn't let you feel, or they made you feel too much. They let you wander away into your own personal landscape, disconnected from everything that mattered. Bugger that. If and when the time comes, Gene is going to stare his killer in the eye.

"Maybe not our definition of mercy. But it was someone's."

"Psychology?"

"Yeah."

"Bollocks. Do you want to know what all that psychology shit is about, Tyler? It's about finding excuses. Nothing more." There's silence for a moment, their footsteps ringing in the corridor. "Policing and psychology don't mix, and do you know why? Because shrink-work is about making things acceptable. That it's okay to commit this crime because his daddy hit him when he was a kid. So what."

"Oh god, you're not going to lecture me, are you? And psychology works fine if it helps us find the killer."

"No. You make psychology a part of law enforcement then it extends to jurisprudence. Just you see, thirty years from now, every armed blagger that holds up a post-office will wail black and blue that their daddy ill-treated them, see where your justice system lies then. The victims marginalised and the crims protected." Sam shoots him a sideways look, his mouth contorted for a bare second before he shakes his head, his grin almost rueful, and Gene relaxes, pushes the door open so they can both step outside. "Where did you go today, any way? And why hit me?"

"You wouldn't get out my way," Sam answers easily, "and every copper that's ever met you has wanted to hit you at one time or another, Gene."

It's not an answer, but Gene had seen the color drain from Tyler's face at the factory, that split second when his expression washed blank. It scares Gene a little, reminds him too much of those early days, when Tyler was ready to strike out in any direction. He doesn't believe in pop psychology. He believes in time. Ray was damn near blown up by a fake I.R.A bomb and came back to work within two days. Sending him to a shrink wouldn't help, plying him with alcohol and keeping him close to the unit did. He would do the same for Tyler except Sam had an idea about what a unit should be and none of the working experience. The contrary bastard would destroy anything that came too near.

Sam gets a look sometimes, an expression that's bastardized between wariness and fear. It's as if he's been confronted with something that he doesn't quite know how to believe in.

*********

"Your killer isn't new, guv, people build up to these sorts of things, they escalate. Sixty-two percent of male flashers will eventually attempt rape. That's a documented fact. People dismiss the early warning signs as eccentric or lewd behaviour, but your killer has a history."Maybe.

Gene knows that Sam's so-called 'facts' can come with a fiery shock-wave. Personally, he thinks they'd find the killer faster if Tyler quit prattling on like a school-master. The sky is pearl-grey, a blustery kind of day with a lightning mood. Patches of sunshine stretch across the pavement in ripples, only to be chased away by rain. Gene had crashed into Sam's flat at six am to find his D.I asleep - half-buried under files stolen from the collators office - barefoot and messy. He hasn't moved from the housing unit that the police provided him with. The door stands on a permanent tilt.

Gene flicks his lighter on and inhales with his eyes half-slitted. "Reginald Carver," he says.

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It would if you knew how to net-work the community." Sam makes a face and mouths 'network' back at him, his fingers drumming. Amused, Gene keeps his smile hidden, "Reginald Carver is a nasty little scrotum. He committed G.B.H on an elderly grandmother for the change in her purse. Doris says he's been spotted hanging around school-yards lately, and I, for one, want to know why."

"His name wasn't on the sex offenders registry."

"That's because he hasn't done anything yet - aggravated assault and petty theft is all S.O.P for him - but I think Reg is moving down in the world," Gene flicks the ash from his cigarette.

Sam has his knee braced against the dashboard, half-turned in his seat. "So long as we question him and not kill him."

"Get the truncheon out of your arse, Tyler."

"I mean it, guv. He's of no use to us dead."

Gene curls his fingers, the leather stretching over his knuckles. "If I want him dead, Sam, then all I need to do is leak the details to the papers."

"And if Doris' information is duff?"

"He's still ropeable. One less crim on the street." Gene has turned a blind eye before. Society is the same wherever you go, people are all too willing to stratify themselves. Gene's happy to let the criminals kill each other if it means less paperwork for him, besides, nobody likes a child molester.

************

The door to Carver's apartment splinters open under the first kick. Gene catches a glimpse of red hair before Reg makes a sprint for the rear entrance. Sam pushes past, skidding out the same doorway. Outside, the weather has finally turned, the rain falling down in a solid sheet, soaking his loafers as Gene follows the chase down the alleyway.

He can no longer see Reg, visibility reduced to mere feet.

Gene spots Sam just as Tyler makes a running jump, scrambling over a six foot wall like a monkey. Gene swings right, barrelling into a plywood door that gives way under his shoulder-blade. He stumbles, then regains his footing. He catches a brief glimpse of a man sitting at a kitchen table, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth, before Gene charges past and into the lounge-room, flinging open the front door and hitting the main street just as Reg Carver turns on his D.I, a broken bottle clenched between his fist. Reg's voice is inaudible over the rain, but his face is flattened into a snarl, his arm stiff as he thrusts forward. Sam skips aside, deflecting the bottle as he closes with his assailant, and greets him with a Manchester head-butt. Blood hits the pavement as Reg drops to his knees, clutching his nose.

Gene steps up behind them and knees Carver in the center of the back, pitching him forward into the dirty storm-water.

************

"Right then, I have a reliable witness that puts you at the juncture of Wilkins and Berrick roads, Reg. What's the sudden interest in school-yards?"

Carver grins, his teeth tobacco stained, "Pretty girls and long socks, Inspector. Can't blame a man for looking."

"I didn't think birds were your type, Reg. Too many curves and not enough tackle between the legs." Gene can't sit yet, adrenalin is flooding his system, keeping him wired as he paces. He's a large man, and Lost and Found is a small room, Gene knows exactly what type of effect he has.

Carver twitches as he nears, his brows drawn together. "What?" he says. He looks toward Sam.

Tyler has his arms folded, his expression inscrutable. Gene slaps the black and whites down, "Two boys, age eleven, raped and murdered. A witness said you've been talking to school-kids recently. More specifically, that you've been chatting up blondes."

"It's not a crime to walk past a school-yard, Mr. Hunt," Carver answers. He touches one of the photographs gingerly, his brow creased into a frown. "It's a shame, he's a pretty lad. Or at least he was."

Gene hits him. Carver rocks back in his seat, spitting blood. "You were doing what at that school-yard?"

"Sod off!"

The second blow is a body-rip, catching Carver under the ribs. He gasps, eyes tearing up. Gene curls his fingers in Carver's hair and yanks his head up. "You were doing what?"

There's a wild look in Reg's eyes, teeth bared, the cordons in his neck strained taut, "Get off me."

"I'm gonna bounce your head off this goddamn desk if you don't answer me. You were doing what?!!!""It's on the way to the shops, you lunatic!"

"You're lying." Gene knows it, like he knows his own name, a subliminal click that murmurs fraud. The third blow lifts Reg off his chair. Gene has his leg drawn back for a kick when Tyler body-checks him, knocking him off balance and into a wall.

"Enough!"

Gene shoves back. He can hear Carver retching in the background, body curled fetal, and Gene's a second away from decking Tyler when Reg makes a pitiful sound, a strangled sob that resolves into a laugh. Sam has his palm pressed against Gene's chest, close enough that he can smell wet leather, the heat from his D.I's body soaking through his own damp clothing. In this light, Tyler's eyes are almost black. Gene goes still, then deliberately re-focuses his attention on Carver. Sam steps away, squatting down on his haunches. "Something amusing, Reg?"

"They reckon, in the moment before you die, that your life flashes before your eyes," Carver speaks in a stuttering gasp, his eyes squeezed shut. Gene stiffens, because if he wanted to kill the dirty little ponce he wouldn't do it in the center of a police station.

"So?" Sam's features go sharp.

"It would be kind of boring, don't you think? To see the same old story? To have the same old ending," Reg rolls onto his back, his chest heaving. The stench of bile floods the room. "The Chinese have a similiar saying, you know, but the wording is a little different. 'You live an entire lifetime in the instant before you die' - " Reg opens his eyes, his smile a little maniacal. "What do you think, D.I Tyler? Want to re-write the epitaph?"

Sam grins.

It's a startling expression, it washes ten years from Tyler's face, and for a moment Gene understands why the women watch him so closely.

"Reg, if you're trying to psych me out, then I've known little girls that have done a better job than you."

Like calls to like, Gene thinks, the crazy ones always imprint on Tyler, he keeps his tone mock conversational, "Did you just threaten my D.I, Reg?"

"What? No."

"That's what it sounded like, all that clap-trap about dying. Threatening a police officer is a serious offence, Reg, that almost gives me grounds to charge you," Gene motions towards the black and whites. "What do you think will happen if you spend the night in the clink? It's not all long socks and pretty dresses here, boy; we'll be mopping your blood off the ceiling come this time tomorrow."

"I wasn't threatening him!" There's a flash of panic in Carver's voice, his eyes drawn back toward the photographs. "Look, I don't know anything about those lads, I swear."

Sam tilts his head, "The first victim had alcohol in his stomach contents, the second was doped with LSD - altered states, Reg - were you trying to send them 'someplace else' before they died? Someplace better?" He's cracking. There's a discernible change in Carver's features, tongue darting out to lick at his lips, the earlier bravado gone, his attention fixed completely on Sam. Gene circles around them, ready to rattle Reg's windows one more time while Tyler remains calm - like the patient eye of a very large storm - they've been doing this together long enough for it to be second nature.

"Listen, I have a boy - illegitimate - I wanted to see him, that's all, that's why I've been hanging around the school. It has nothing to do with this!"

"Name?"

"Thomas Rye. It's his mother's maiden name."

Sam catches Gene's eye, then pushes to his feet.

*********

"I should have hit him with the bloody phone book."

"His story checks out."

"I know, but it would have made me feel better." Gene eyes the single malt carefully, then pours himself a finger. He doesn't offer one to Tyler, knocking it back in a single hit. Fire scorches his belly, Gene has tossed his coat aside and loosened his tie, but he still feels damp. Tyler's hair is standing on end like a wild-cat. "He ran, Sam. That little vermin is guilty of something."

"But not this." Tyler looks at him quizzically, "Shouldn't you be heading home?"

Gene's been married for twenty years but he hasn't loved her in ten. It's a habit more than anything else. He grew up during the depression, and if there's one thing he knows it's this; if something falls into your lap, you don't give it back. It's not a bad relationship. Gene can still talk to Elise, which is more than he can say for half the married blokes he knows, but the passion bled away a long time ago. "No Dorothy, I don't need to head home. What's the matter? You have some urgent knitting you need to catch up on?" Elise, he knows, is at her 'mothers,' although Gene has made it a point never to call the in-laws.

"Guv," Cartwright pokes her head through the office door, "we have an I.D on the second victim."

"Who?"

Annie glances at Tyler, then steps into the room tentatively. "A Mrs. Jenny Robson filed a missing person's report five days ago."

Gene swears. "Why, in gods name, are we only hearing about this now?"

"Because she doesn't live in our sector, guv. Mrs. Robson filed the report with her local constabulary," Annie shrugs, her eyes direct, "they mislaid it for a few days. The boy's photo wasn't sent to other police stations until today. Phyllis found it in the mail not a half hour ago."

Tyler grimaces and murmurs under his breath, "What I wouldn't give for the computer age."

Gene's had over a year to catalogue Sam's pecularities, to perfect his own facade of wilfull blindness, smoothly he speaks over the top of him, "So who's responsible for that cock-up?"

There's a beat as Annie hesitates, her eyes searching Sam's face. "Hyde C.I.D, sir."

Tyler stiffens down his entire body. Gene draws a breath, then lets it out. It's not a name that's spoken aloud - it's paramount to waving a red flag in these parts - and Gene can feel his gut clench in a homicidal reaction. Sam might have waded in like a hero at the end, but Gene hasn't forgotten his part in the whole mess, not by a long shot. If he ever sets foot in this station, Frank Morgan is a dead man. Ironically, it probably won't even be Gene who pulls the trigger. Ray, Chris, and Annie almost died because of that tosser. Morgan and his whole back-stabbing department can rot in Hades for all Gene cares.

Sam swallows, "I'll make a phone call," he offers.

"No...you...will...not."

"Guv...."

Gene stares at him flatly, and for the first time in his career, Tyler subsides. "You're my officer, you do as I say, are we clear?" He waits for a curt nod before he addresses Cartwright, "What's the boy's name?"

Annie's mouth is tight and unhappy. "Pauley Robson, sir."

"What?" Sam jerks as if stung.

Annie glances at the pad in her hand, double-checking. "Pauley Robson," she repeats cautiously.

Nancy Drew is a proper trooper; Gene didn't object to her placement in C.I.D because for one, the girl does her job, and secondly, Sam talks to her. A year ago Tyler vanished when they were hunting down Vic; Sam knew where the mark would be and didn't share the information with anyone bar Annie. Gene spent twenty minutes intimidating the bejesus out of Cartwright before she gave up Sam's location. The girl is smart, more importantly, she knows which side her bread is buttered on. She's not a spy exactly, it's too harsh a word to assign a bird like Cartwright, but Tyler confides in her, and anything that ties his D.I more securely into Gene's department is to be exploited. "You've heard the name before," Gene deduces.

Sam scrubs at his hair, "I've read it before in....in conjunction with the murder of a police officer," Tyler's voice trails off, his eyes suddenly wide. "I need to go."

Gene's out of his seat in a second, one hand fisted in his D.I's collar, that upswell of betrayal hammering in his blood. "Not on your life," he hisses. He's waiting for it, he's been waiting for it since yesterday when Tyler made a swing at him in public, balanced on the balls of his feet and using his height to every advantage. Sam's quick but Gene has twenty pounds on him and one hell of a nasty temper. Tyler tries to push him off and Gene jerks him up, off his feet, before slamming him down. The papers scatter. He hears Cartwright gasp, sees her step forward in a movement that's half-aborted. Gene pushes between Sam's legs, one fist knotted in Tyler's collar, keeping him pinned and flat on his back on the desk, "Last time you were out of line I threw your stupid carcass into the back of my car-boot. If that wasn't humiliating enough, then I have a whole bunch of other tricks to show you. Do you want Cartwright to watch this time?" It's a deliberate shot, meant to hit below the belt. Sam is breathing hard, his face twisted in anger before the words penetrate. Gene can feel Annie's eyes on him, silent and meditative, before she steps out of the room - a smart lass - not one to let herself be used and Sam goes boneless. "Good lad," Gene murmurs.

"Get off me."

"Gladly, as soon as you start talking. You can use long sentences. You can even use bloody big words if you like and I'll find myself a dictionary. But Sam, you're not going anywhere until you explain how an eleven year old boy is involved in the murder of a policeman. What was he, a witness?" Gene eases out the roughness and lightens his touch, but he holds his position.

Sam lets his head thump against the desk, mouth working silently before he decides. "It was nothing, a cold case I once read about, that's all, it had some similar characteristics, except the investigating officer was murdered. The name threw me for a loop...."

"Pauley Robson," Gene repeats. He allows some space between them. Sam is lying through his teeth but for the life of him, Gene can't figure out why. Gene can hit him but the element of surprise is already gone and violence never worked against Tyler to begin with, it only makes him stubborn. Curiously, Gene tilts his head, "Who was the copper that brought it?"

Sam's eyes darken. "Honestly, I don't remember."

And now that, Gene knows, wasn't a lie. He hesitates, weighing his options quickly before hauling Tyler to his feet. "You want to get the details from Hyde?" he hazards. He wants to get the details from Morgan, Gene thinks sullenly.

"Yes," Sam answers, "We need to find out where Pauley Robson was last seen. If the location was residential, business, or park-land. We need to cross-check with criminal activity in the area, see if there is any marks that hit the paedophilia profile - predatory white male, mid to late thirties, above average intelligence," Sam snaps his fingers, "also, check back with the M.E and find out if the rat poison used in the LSD was a generic brand or home-made."

Gene folds his arms, "Who's the D.C.I around here, Tyler?"

"You. Unless they're handing them out in lucky boxes," Sam's mouth quirks ruefully. "Seriously, guv, we need to hurry. There's going to be a third victim."

He knows what Tyler looks like when he's frightened; Gene has seen him running a fever and drugged out of his mind; he's seen him kneeling on a floor with an executioner standing behind, and Gene knows what Tyler looks like when he's scared for other people. This seems more like the latter. "Chris can handle the M.E, I'm not sending you to Hyde by yourself."

It's nearing beer o'clock and the lads are already tooling up, grabbing their coats as they file toward the door. The office is rank with smoke, a low-hanging cloud that eddies under the flicker of uncertain lighting. Gene catches sight of Chris Skelton near the rear of the room; the youngest member of his team has his feet hooked over a desk, a yellow case file held up to his nose. Gene knocks it aside and listens to the clatter as a novel hidden inside tumbles to the floor. Chris sits up, guilt flying across his face before he composes himself.

"I need you to get down to the M.E's office, find out if the toxicology report on the rat poison has any distinguishing markers. And Chris, if I catch you reading on the job again, I'm going to cut you into bite size pieces and feed you to my Staffi, are we clear?" There's an undignified scramble, elbows and knees akimbo as Chris pushes to his feet. It's as if the boy never grew out of adolescence, awkward as a teenage virgin. Gene watches him race off before he looks at the book, the Mad Hatter grins at him cheerfully, doffing his hat. The page is dog-eared and well thumbed - the illustrated copy of a children's book - the same novel he stole from Vic Tyler's son and gave to Sam.

**************

Morgan, Frank Eris is stencilled across the doorway, D.C.I is written in bold type above. Hyde is pristine, untouched by the dirt that coloured Gene's perception a long time ago, he feels out of place suddenly, too aware of his own shabby suit. Irritated, Gene lengthens his stride.

Sam once said that the police budget in this time was too stringent; that if their salary standard were below par corruption would spread, the police trying to subsidize a crummy pay-packet with backhanders from the pollies and criminal element. Harry Woolfe was the walking embodiment of that philosophy, a life-time on the force watching blaggers make it rich when all the while he was being eaten alive from the inside, hollowed out by cancer. The police did have a low budget, but you wouldn't think it to look at Hyde. The place is airy, natural light falls through rectangular windows. The building is built on an open floor-plan, there are no hidden corners, no dark spots, no air of secret menace. It feels strangely empty, devoid of any character.

Sam is pale beside him. Gene observes him quietly out of the corner of his eye. Tyler is scoping the place out, noting the exits as if he's never set foot here before. Gene raps his knuckles on the glass window and pushes the door open without waiting for a response.

Morgan looks up sharply, his teeth showing in a thin smile, "Mr. Hunt. Sam." He's sitting behind a mahogany desk that's bigger than the entirety of Gene's office.

"Blimey, that must have cost a pretty penny, you could sail all the way to Australia on that, Frank."

The room reeks of position, everything from his stencilled name to the furnishings speak of a company man scrambling up the ladder. Morgan is the worst kind of copper, going for the easiest meat, his eye cast inward instead of at all the horror outside. His suit is lined with silk and neatly tailored. Morgan's eyes flicker at the slight but his smile doesn't waver, "All above board, I assure you. I take it you've come for the report that Mrs. Robson filed?"

Sam shifts on his feet. "It would be helpful, sir."

Morgan zeros in on him, studying Tyler with an intensity that makes Gene uncomfortable. "How are you doing, Sam?"

"Happy enough," Tyler responds, his voice is pitched almost too low to hear, "I half expected you not to be here."

Tyler had sworn Morgan was in the tunnel when Gene was shot, but he'd never seen anything to back up Sam's claim. Morgan's stare is agate, his body a straight line behind the desk.

Sam refuses to make eye contact, gaze drifting over the room with a casual intensity, inexplicably, he says, "Your middle name is Eris?"

"There's no accounting for taste," Morgan counters, his attention shifting back to Gene, "Do you do much classical reading, Mr. Hunt?"

"No, you twat, I spend most of my time putting away scum...as in people who have perpetrated a criminal felony." Morgan has 'big-word syndrome', or as Gene likes to call it, 'look-at-me-I've-got-a-feather-up-my-arse syndrome,' anything to make himself more noticable.

Morgan's eyes gleam, his rejoinder just as pointed. "By any means necessary?"

The vein in Gene's temple is beginning to throb. "I get the job done. If you lot knew anything about real policing then you wouldn't have stuffed up the paperwork to begin with."

"I wouldn't throw stones if I were you, Mr. Hunt, it was an honest mistake," Morgan capitulates. He sighs, fingers laced over his stomach as he leans back in his seat. He's a dapper man, the very image of avuncular concern, and Gene can't read anything in him but coldness, a black void where naught stretches out. "Sam, will you be notifying Mrs. Robson of her son's death?"

Tyler's head jerks up, "You haven't told her yet?"

"WDC Cartwright informed us of the match barely two hours ago, it seemed pre-mature to go knocking on her door. Given the geographical distance between Hyde and Manchester, I thought you might oblige her with a ride." Ample opportunity to question her, too, Morgan doesn't say. Gene's delivered enough bad news to know that it's hit and miss, sometimes the relatives are inconsolable, unable to function past the immediate grief; other times shock will cushion the blow, allowing them to reveal facts they would otherwise conceal. Either way, he doesn't want some bird crying a river in the back of his cortina. "Sam, it's not too late," Morgan adds softly, "there's still a place for you, all you need to do is accept it."

Gene stares at him, agog, before he roars, "Am I not standing in the bloody room?""The report, Morgan," Sam insists mildly.

Frank pushes a slip of paper over the desk and Sam picks it up, scanning the contents quickly. Gene plants his hand in the centre of Tyler's back and steers him toward the door, because he's not going to stand around and watch other D.C.I's poach his officers, he has better things to do. He can hear the scrape of a seat being pushed away as Morgan rises to his feet, and he thinks Tyler's insanity might be catching. Gene's wanted to leave since the moment he set foot in this shiny building . There's something about the way Frank Morgan stands - the peculiar tilt to his head, the way his body is angled, back-lit by lighting that makes him fuzzy around the edges - and all of Gene's instincts are screaming wrong.

Tyler shrugs him off, a crease between the eyebrows speaking volumes.

"What have you got?"

"Mrs. Robson's address, and the last known whereabouts of Pauley before he disappeared. He's compiled a list of sex offenders from this sector, too" Tyler flicks the paper over, circumnavigating between the office desks without raising his head. "You know, both or our victims were stabbed in the stomach, guv, but the volume of blood found at the crime scene doesn't match. That indicates they were moved prior to actual death, and care was taken with how the bodies were presented. They weren't just dumped; their limbs were straightened. The buttons on their shirts done up."

"Your point?"

Impatience flares across Tyler's face. "If you get stabbed and dumped somewhere you're hardly going to lie still, even if you are drugged. You'll flail, you'll shift about, at the very least, you're gonna clutch at the wound. The bodies were arranged after death, which means he sodomised, stabbed, then shifted them," Sam stops at the elevator, his back propped against the wall as he waits. The long column of his neck is exposed, throat working silently as he tips his head back. "They were still bleeding when they arrived at the factory; he sat down beside them so he could watch them die. He tidied them up. That's a duty of care, guv." Sam's smile is humourless, "Most killers dump the body without thought...or leave them pitched on an abandoned road."

Gene watches the elevator light as it climbs the floors and disagrees. "He's running a hell of a risk. Why move them if they were bleeding out? Why not wait until they were dead and then shift them? It doesn't make sense, if someone stops him, if he was pulled over by one of our lads..." Gene lets the thought trail off because neither of those things occurred, but surely the possibility must have preyed on the killers mind.

"The dumping ground may hold significance. He broke the cordon so he could place the body at the first crime scene, something about that factory holds sway," Sam straightens as the elevator dings, then steps inside. "People go back to the things they value." He adds quietly.

"It's an abandoned factory," Gene snorts.

"Of what?"

"It used to be a milliner's, real big back in the twenties. It employed up to sixty people until it got bombed in the Blitz, Stu and I played in the rubble as kids." There's a familiar stab, the same tangle of anger and regret. Gene's visited Stu's grave maybe twice since he O.D. His own voice comes out harsher than he intends, "Home wasn't the safest place to be back then."

Sam looks at him sharply.

He can feel the internal schism - recalling how hard his father used to hit Stu, remembering the bright blossom of pain when he stepped between them - Gene wants a drink suddenly, his throat parched as the bloody Sahara, unscrewing the cap on his flask with jerky movements. He can feel Sam watching him with the kind of sympathy that Gene's never asked for, and snatches the report from Tyler's hand, his eye scanning over the photo of Pauley Robson furiously. "Me and the missus never had kids," he says abruptly. Gene punches grown men because he knows they can fight back, he strikes out with his fists because it was the only decent thing his father ever taught him; he's never hit Elise, not once, and he's never had children because he doesn't want to find out. Pauley Robson smiles at him impishly. Psychology is Frenchlovinggayboypseudofuckingscience, Gene thinks, and crumples the photo in his fist.

"Gene," Sam touches his arm, his expression troubled, "go home, you look knackered."

Belligerent, Gene knocks his hand away, "You don't want me working on this case."

"I've a bad feeling, is all."

"Because of that copper who died? In that other case? That was remarkably similar?" The words are barbed with sarcasm because either Tyler trusts him or he doesn't, but there's no middle ground with Gene Hunt.

Tyler flinches before his expression closes down, "Were you this riled up when Charlie Hassam died? How many errors did you make back then? You're no use like this, not to me and not to Mrs. Robson, go home and get some bloody kip."

"You sanctimonious little shit; you don't run my department, Sam, and why come to Hyde? You could have picked up the phone any time and had the report couriered over. Are you looking to jump ship again? Do you want to go running back to your mates?" Gene shoves him and Tyler trips backward into the elevator wall. Gene steps forward and roars, "Did you find yourself some new piece of evidence to destroy my career with?" Gene's never gotten used to Tyler, to those lightning changes in mood, blood boiling mid-fight and Sam will turn on a dime - all that intensity directed elsewhere like a static charge - it leaves the hair on Gene's arms standing on end, baffled and ready to throttle him.

"You said the factory was a milliner's," Tyler says, apropos of nothing.

"What?"

"Lewis Carroll immortalised the phrase back in 1865."

"If you don't start talking sense, then I'm going to pry open the elevator doors and hurl your broken body down the shaft. Clear?"

Tyler's mouth purses tight, emotion free-falling. "Milliner's used mercury to cure` felt, to stiffen the brims and give their products the perfect shape; it was the key ingredient from the 1800s until its use was universally banned in the 1940s; the constant exposure to mercury fumes used to send the milliner's insane - hence the phrase - 'mad as a hatter.'

"You think we're chasing down a hat maker?"

__________________________

 LONDON METROPOLITAN POLICE, JULY 3RD, 2008.

"You still at it, Alex?"

D.C.I Alex Drake bites down on the tip of her pen and casts a wary eye at Jake Barrassi. He's a tall man, hovering near six foot seven and cursed with a habitual stoop, the tip of his nose flayed red from hay-fever. He's worked SOCO for two years, a friendly face among the tiered levels of bureaucracy. Alex glances at the grainy feed from the CCTV and hits pause, "Heya," she says sympathetically, "the blooms are out early this year, huh?"

His face twists into a scowl, "Don't talk to me about the bloody weather."

Amicably Alex shrugs, "My kid called her teacher a pissant the other day."

Jake stares at her, perplexed, "I thought you said she was precocious."

"She is."

"No, that's sociopathic."Alex takes a sip of tepid coffee, hiding her smile, her eyes feel gritty, too many hours spent at the computer screen, transcribing audio tapes onto file. "How many jumpers have you seen, Jake?" she asks distractedly. Barrassi steps into the room. Alex rubs at the bridge of her nose, her voice muffled. "Sometimes they're composed, and sometimes they're as rigid as an ironing board, but universally, when they take that plunge and commit suicide, they step from the building. They don't take a running start and hurtle over the edge like Lynn Davies at the Olympics."

Frustrated, she stares at the man on her screen, his face tipped toward the sky. There's only one angle from the roof of the police station and she's watched this tape half a dozen times. "You know, everyone I spoke to regarding D.C.I Tyler said the same thing, that he was committed, driven, calculating, words that describe a work ethic and not a single word of kindness. I met him after the coma, Jake, I asked him to participate in this study, you should listen to the tapes that he made, he wasn't like that, he was..." Alex struggles for a moment, then decides, "so very much alive. He described 1973 vividly. He described those people and their habits like he loved them. Something changed him."

"Three months in a coma, I'd wager, if that's not an life-altering event, then what is?" Barrassi pops his back with a groan, his eyes drifting over the office. Alex's desk is littered with personnel files, and one overly large stack catches his attention. "So you found Hunt, then?"

"Manchester C.I.D from 1967 to 1975, he went south to London Met after that."

"Did Tyler ever meet him?"

"No. Hunt passed away in 1986, two years before Tyler even joined the police force, there's no indication that either man met. Ray Carling, Annie Cartwright, Litton, Skelton, every single one of them is ridgy-didge... except for Frank Morgan."

Jake laughs, "Well, he wouldn't be, would he?" At Alex's blank expression Barrassi leans forward, mouth twitching with humour, "Frank Morgan was the name of the actor who played the Wizard of Oz in the 1939 flick, you should check it up on IMDB....the trickster behind the curtain...." Barrassi takes on the bored tones of a university lecturer, "So maybe your Tyler read about Hunt, stumbled across a cold case and wallah, he ends up in a coma hallucinating 1973 with the cast-offs from the Sweeney."

Alex frowns, her pen tapping rapidly against the pad. She'd scribbled Frank Morgan's name on the legal pad earlier that morning with a question mark circling it, underlined in red is his middle name, Eris. Absently, she says, "Hunt had a spotted career, allegations of police brutality and corruption plagued him until his early demise."

"He was fifty-six when he passed?"

Alex nods, "There aren't many of the old dinosaurs left here who knew him, but those that did said D.C.I Hunt was pretty intimate with Mr. Daniels. He probably died from liver failure."

"Speaking of which, I'm off to the pub, you ought to come with."

"It's 12:30."

"So, I'm wretched and I want lunch. Besides, I need to talk to you about this case I'm working on, I may need your expertise."

"Swapping attempted suicide for the criminally insane," Alex sighs. The grumbling, she knows, will buy her a free coffee at least. She's already compiling a list of things that need to be done, obviously interviewing Gene Hunt is out of the question, but Superintendent Litton is still on active duty, as is D.C.I Skelton. How to phrase the question into 'adult' was a bit more troubling. Did you ever meet D.C.I Sam Tyler in recent years, or, more appropriately, did you happen to meet him in 1973? Jake shakes his head, "You may want to drop the 'attempted suicide.' I heard on the grape-vine that Ruth Tyler has decided to turn off the machines."

Alex freezes, one arm halfway in her coat. "When?"

"Don't know, it's up to the family..." when he sees her expression, Jake frowns, "Her son tried to top himself, Alex, and there's no indication that he's going to wake up this time. I guess she figures it's what Tyler wanted."

She doesn't know Sam, not really. Alex spent one afternoon at his bedside, she's listened to the cadence of his voice on tape, the smooth rhythm of his observations; she keeps her head lowered, buttoning her coat casually.

"I'll shout you lunch," Barrassi says kindly, "I'll even take your mind off this 'trauma study' with the gruesome details of our newest case instead, what do you say?"

Alex eyes him skeptically, "Two dead corpses don't make a serial killer, Jake." Jack the Ripper, Mack the Knife, the Mad Hatter, the Boston Strangler. England isn't America, ninety per cent of murders are still committed by family or friends, but Alex thinks everyone is keen to jump on the serial killer bandwagon because of the sensationalism - to try to coin the next headline that will encapsulate the killer's madness - it's not slackness, exactly, but it's easier to blame multiple killings on one man rather than run separate investigations.

"No, it establishes pattern," Barrassi corrects her sharply. "It's always the third victim that confirms it."

____________________

 MANCHESTER, NOVEMBER 3RD, 1973

Tyler drops a sandwich into his lap. Sam will buy for him without quibble and Gene's enough of a cop not to turn his nose on a free feed, but for the love of god, fish 'n chips wouldn't go astray, he's freezing his bollocks off here. The cortina's engine is running, blasting heat from the vents. Sam slams the door shut and huddles forward, muttering "Jesus Christ," under his breath. He's wearing the same black beanie he wore when they went after Joni Newton's killer, the hat pulled low on his forehead, shivering under the onslaught of an early winter.

Surreptitiously, Gene cranks the heating up. "He'd be mad to come back here."

Sam smirks, "Insane and mad, fancy that."

"Okay, riddle me this smartass, you said they stopped using mercury in the 1940s," Gene bites into the sandwich, disgruntled when the tomato and half the lettuce falls out the opposite end, "and those that went insane did so after a period of exposure. So is our child molester wobbling around on his wooden cane then? Tipping his hat to all the pretty lads? The dates don't add up, he's too old to fit your 'profile'."

"Profiles can be wrong."

"Hallelujah, I'll mark this day down for prosperity. He's not coming back."

"Yes he will," Sam insists.

"He's not some old, decrepit bum-bandit," Gene argues heatedly. They're parked two streets away from the factory. Chris is running surveillance with a small team but Gene's certain the whole lot will flog off by half past ten, he knows from experience that Sam won't. At the moment, Gene's content to keep warm in the car, one ear tuned to the police radio and monitoring the sporadic traffic, if the temperature drops any further though, then he's ditching Tyler in the street and heading home. Gene's been a D.C.I for years, he knows all about delegation.

The factory is derelict, one entire corner of the building is missing, reduced to masonry and dust. They found the first, and still unidentified victim, lying on the upper-floor of the north-west corner. The second boy, Pauley Robson, was placed one level down and directly under him, lined up neat as can be. Gene remembers raiding this place for textiles after the bomb hit, sifting through rubble, collecting leather cut-offs and anything else he could trade. He doesn't understand how Tyler could attach any significance to the building. The milliner factory is an exposed carcass, laid open like the stink and rattle of human remains.

"She was cold," Gene says into the silence, "Mrs Robson, I mean. Not a lot of grief to be seen. I hate delivering dirty-thirties to birds, they either wail like a banshee or dance the macarena. It's always a toss-up as to what I should bring, dancing shoes or an umbrella." He sees Sam choke on his sandwich and smiles at him meanly, "No, I'm serious. I had one tart who broke open a bottle of champers once."

Tyler chooses the compassionate route when it comes to delivering death notices, as if a caring voice and gentle touch would lessen the heartache any, but Gene doesn't know the victims and he's never been one for play-acting. It's only one notch down from deception. "You handled her well," he adds, after some consideration.

"Hang on, I'm having an existential crisis here. Did you just compliment me?"

"Once a year, to each member of the team, you ought to savour it twinkle-toes."

"Just like Christmas," Sam answers dryly, he's turning the police radio over and over in his hand, fingers stroking down one side. "What was Chris'?"

"I told him he had a nice pitching arm," Gene bares his teeth, "But if I ever saw him throw his gun away, again, then I would personally lynch him stark naked from the nearest yard-post."

Tyler scoffs and speaks into the radio, "Skelton, any activity?"

"No, boss, all quiet here."

The lads aren't happy to be pulling watch-duty and Gene agrees with them. Sam seems to think the killer will return, but even if he does that would imply another victim, Gene wants to be out on the street, catching the psychotic queen before it occurs. He frowns and checks his watch, "You think our killer is from Manchester or Hyde?"

Tyler chews on his bread, buying himself time, Gene thinks. His eyes are narrowed thoughtfully, "That's what's bothering me. Serial killers normally operate within a defined space, almost territorial. They rely on the familiarity of their ground to select, kill, and dispose of the victims. If you operate in an unknown environment you increase the chances of being caught. Kill patterns are always close to home. We don't know where the first victim hailed from but Pauley was from Hyde."

"And he was dumped forty-five minutes away. That's a long way to drive with a victim leaking blood."

Sam nods, "Choose the quieter streets, don't draw attention to yourself, the boot space has to be large enough to hide a body, so not a small car." He bites down on his thumb then seems to realise it, shaking his hand loose. "Superficially, the killer must have a working knowledge of both towns. He used to reside in one and moved to the other, or vice versa, my best guess, he grew up in Manchester and lives in Hyde."

He's all over the gaff, Gene thinks sourly, no wonder Sam was 'bothered'. "I'm not turning this case over to Morgan."

Sam keeps his voice deliberate, "The bodies are ours so you don't have to. Co-operation might not go astray though."

"Ask Litton, I don't play well with others," Gene turns the key in the ignition then looks pointedly at Tyler's clothing - leather jacket, dark pants, black beanie. "Don't let Chris shoot you. In that set-up he might mistake you for the killer."

Sam grimaces and gives a half-hearted wave, opening the car door. He pauses halfway in and halfway out, looking over his shoulder uncertainly. "Gene, everything right?"

Hunt feels his expression turn to stone. "It will be when you stop letting in the arctic breeze. Get out of my car, Tyler."

************

Part two