MANCHESTER, NOVEMBER 5TH, 1973

There's a light touch to his shoulder-blade.

Sam tries to draw breath, a painful inhalation, ribs rubbing together like broken fingers. He can hear the mute sound of a respirator, the doctor intoning gentle instructions, a background swell of noise that's drowned out under the next slice, flesh parting under a hungry kiss. Mute, he writhes, feet tied together and his arms bound above him. The Mad Hatter caresses the knife-cut, worrying at the edges of his skin. "How'd you know it was me?" He sounds dreamy, as if like Sam he's not entirely in the room. 

"Permission to turn off life support was granted by Ruth Tyler on the 6th of July, 2008. Present are attending doctor Jacobs, Father Mathew, and Nurse Richards, time is 10:34 a.m. Father Mathew will recite last rites...."

He doesn't want to die, heart hammering inside his chest.

Sam tilts his head back, vision blurred. His hands are bound above him, a thin cord cutting into his wrists and looped over a high-beam as they support his weight, he can barely touch the ground. His shirt and t-shirt were cut from his frame long ago, skin pebbling with shock. The killer reverses the blade and strikes him in the back, the pommel shattering against his kidneys. Sam arches, body taut as a bow.

The hatter wraps his arms around him, pressing against the length of Sam's spine; chin hooked over his shoulder and one hand resting against his breastbone. The thumb flicks casually across his nipple, "How?"

The killer kept the boys alive for three days, but Sam isn't a child, and it's becoming harder and harder to breathe.

Connect, try and make a connection. It doesn't sound like his own voice, the words scratchy and disused.

"You worked the milliner's factory the longest, before World War Two even began, trying to help your mum. She had polio, didn't she, and sent you out to work? You were the breadwinner." The only one of the four suspects who never had a father figure to begin with. Sam drops his head, he can feel blood running into the waist-line of his jeans, drying tacky against his skin. He faces an oriel window, looking out on the empty grounds of an abandoned orphanage, St. Christopher's School for Boys, a converted church that was closed down in the 1960s. "No daddy to speak of, Anthony, did Sauvigon look after you, make you feel special, paid attention to you when no one else would? You must have been so grateful that he let you work in the first place, that he didn't report you to the authorities, you didn't want to be taken from your home, did you? Did you want to please him, Anthony? Show your gratitude? You were only eleven when you met, what Charles Sauvigon did was wrong." He can feel the hatter smile against his nape, one hand edges down to cup Sam between his legs.

Tyler jerks, "Don't..."

"Ssh," Anthony breathes. The knife in his left fist turns, the blade caressing over Tyler's stomach. Sam shudders and presses back, hands twisting uselessly in their bonds. The over-head beam that he's tied to creaks ominously. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam catches a flash of red dress and long blonde hair. Anthony squeezes him, then splays his fingers wide, digits curling toward scrotum and anus.

Sam snarls, slamming his head back. The knife slices across his stomach in a shallow gash.

He's never been at someone's complete mercy before, even with Hunt there had been some way to defend himself, but not like this. Anthony steps away and punches him, the blows falling across Tyler's ribs in a fury. The world darkens at the edges, the low beep of the respirator machine like a death knell, he fades out for a few blessed seconds then claws his way to consciousness, desperate and scared that if he closes his eyes, he'll die here alone. He can't regulate his breathing, shallow gasps that catch in his throat as Anthony circles him, touching Sam's shoulders and stomach, tracing over his buttocks with a propriety air. "Sssh," Anthony croons, "you're too old."

The test card girl sits cross-legged on an abandoned bunk, the clown held tightly to her chest, "Poor little Sammy," she sing-songs, "he died here so very alone."

"You look like him," the hatter says softly, "I used to teach here when the orphanage was still running, my very first victim lost both parents in a bus accident....you remind me of him....if he ever made it to adulthood, you used to be blond when you were a kid, didn't you? Your hair darkened as you became older."

"Little Sammy Williams, bones rattling in his grave. He followed the Mad Hatter down the wishing hole-tree," The test card girl jiggles her leg, like a child with too much red cordial, eyes fathomless and dark. "I gave you his surname, Sammy, because someone ought to have known he existed. He was so cold in the bottom of the well, he was so very alone."

Tyler coughs, his vision blurring as he tries to blink her image away. "Anthony, listen to me, you don't...."

Anthony Remick smiles beatifically, "I already killed you. I buried you deep. I always knife them here, on the hollowed ground of St. Christopher's, then I give them back. In the end, the milliner's was the only safe place to be. Did you find them? Did you find them quick? I didn't want to leave them out in the cold for too long. Not like you."

"My name's Tyler."

"One of Gene Hunt's lads. He was there the night my Charles died, thieving in the dark," Anthony comes to a stop in front of him, eyes narrowed, "Charles was the only one who ever cared... It should have been me..."

He's bat-shit insane, Sam thinks fuzzily, he can taste blood in the back of his throat, his ribs are shattered, and unless you're in the movies insults are not the appropriate response when tied down by a madman. "If you do this, they'll hunt you down."

Anthony giggles, "It's his namesake, I wouldn't expect any less. Shall I give you back to him, Sammy?" The knife flickers, darts in, then out, "I always give them back in the end."

The Mad Hatter grins, knots one hand in Tyler's hair and jerks his head up, kissing him long and deep as he pushes the blade forward. Tyler thrashes, snaps his chin down, but he can't escape the hug, or the cold bite of unyielding steel. Gene, he thinks, but his thoughts are fracturing, he's no longer certain what he's asking for.

 "Sam, Sammy, love, I'm so sorry," Ruth Tyler says.

There's blood running down Ray Carling's nose, he stands woozily, trying not to topple over, "Guv, I swear, the lads have been pulling in every known sex offender for the last week. I was conducting an interview, not shirking on the job. I thought he'd take a plod with him."

"Where?" Gene's voice is too quiet, the bluster and volume sinking below the surface.

"He didn't say," Ray's eyes are wide, the white's showing. "I didn't think he'd go off alone, guv. You have to believe me." He's shaking, a minor tremor from the velocity of the attack, adrenalin and fear mixing in his veins.

D.C.I Hunt stares at him for a full minute before he stalks from the room, making his way toward Annie Cartwright's desk instead. Sam was onto something last night. They didn't have time to talk before Hunt's meeting with Rathbone, which means right now, Annie is his best bet. Her face is the colour of pale milk. It's been over sixteen hours since anyone last heard from Tyler. Gene pulls her upright and drags her into the corner. "Out with it."

"With what, sir?"

"Tyler. What's he been saying lately?"

Her face contorts, a spark of resentment that flashes across her features before its hidden, for Cartwright, its near insubordinate, "Nothing, sir. He's been worried about you, that's all. If the two of you actually spoke rather than banged up each others skulls maybe you would have known that."

Sam left the milliner's factory in Chris' capable hands the other night, so he could fetch Gene from the pub. Hunt doesn't need words, he knows. If you had asked him six months earlier he would have said Sam was incapable of it. But Chris had done his job and stayed the night through and Tyler trusted the team well enough to leave, to go after Gene instead, to make sure his D.C.I didn't wrap his car around a tree on the way home. He can feel resentment below the surface, spiked with bewilderment. "I don't need Tyler playing nurse-maid. I need to know why he's not answering the radio."

Annie closes her eyes. "He thought you were....distracted lately," she stresses carefully. "He didn't want you getting hurt."

"D.I Tyler sees everything out of his arse-end," Gene snaps. Sam thought he was going to die in a hostage situation and Gene was the one to be shot. Tyler's intuition is topsy-turvy, where everything is accurate only if it's reversed, like the lense in a long-distance telescope cataloguing events from afar. Sam had a bad feeling about this case, Gene thinks randomly. "Call Morgan, see if he's kidnapped my D.I.. Grab some plods and run your arse down to those four addresses, I want those suspects brought in now."

"What about you, sir?"

"The lads and I are heading back to the factory." His gut is churning. Gene's never lost a police officer and he doesn't plan on losing one yet, but Sam hasn't called in since last night.

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

The factory floor resembles a seabed, shivery beams of pale blue light ripple outward from the windows. He can hear Ray in the background, his voice uncharacteristically frantic, high-pitched, as he places the call. Chris is outside, heaving his stomach contents. Too much blood, Gene thinks distantly, and too little time.

In a strange parody, Tyler is naked from the waist up, a twisted reversal from the poses the children's bodies had assumed. His breathing is a shallow rasp, pupils dilated, the black eclipsing the muted shades of his eyes - autumn colours, Gene's mother would have said - of dark browns and olive greens. Gene drops to his knees beside him. He's speaking, nonsense words without meaning, emptying insults and curses into the air along with the occasional plea. He wishes viciously that Annie was here, that someone from the women's department was here - a background in first aid, some measure of help. His hands hover a hairbreadth above Tyler's body.

Ironically, he doesn't know how to touch Sam without hurting him.

Gene clamps one hand tight against the stab wound and ignores the soft groan, the other he places over Tyler's forehead, fingers stroking through sweaty hair. Gene could wait outside, flag down the ambulance when it arrives, but he's paranoid that if he leaves Sam will perish alone, and Gene won't allow that to happen again, not after Stu. So Gene talks to him, bent double and whispering in Tyler's ear, telling him stories until his voice is hoarse, trying to keep him in the here and now. Sam looks fey. There are shallow cuts across his arms and torso, a starburst of bruises around his kidney's and lower ribs. His pallor is ashen.

Gene shrugs out of his coat, attempting to maintain pressure and keep Tyler warm at the same time, and covers him, shifting around until he's sitting cross-legged on the pitched concrete. He won't lose him, not like this, and if he repeats the words often enough they may come true. He can smell urine vaguely. He holds Sam's hand when his D.I clutches at nothing, his fingers scrabbling against concrete, eyes glazed and unfocussed. He listens as Sam gasps wetly and tells him off for being such a dramatic ponce. When Tyler's breath hitches, Gene wipes the moisture from his D.I's cheeks, involuntary tears from sensory overload, and tucks the camel-coat that much closer around his frame.

Gene sits beside him on the factory floor and bears sole witness to his D.I's death, the ambulance a distant scream in the background. He has one hand curled in Tyler's own, holding on to him. Tight.

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

"There are ligature marks around the wrist and ankles, extensive bruising to the abdomen. Your policeman took a flogging, D.C.I Hunt, he was restrained and beaten to near-death." The voice is a faint drone. With effort, Gene tunes back in again, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "The fatal wound was a single knife thrust to the stomach, and the subsequent exsanguination of fluid. There are no indications of foreign substances in his blood. He wasn't drugged during his ordeal," the M.E looks at him assessingly.

There's a spot on the opposite wall where the tiles are discoloured, a yellow mark like a nicotine stain. "The boys....they were...." Gene's never had difficulty finding words before, he breathes in once then lets it out, his jaw clamped tight. "Sam wasn't.....?"

"There was no sign of sexual penetration," the M.E adds hastily. "This was pure rage."

"Nothing like the first two murders at all," a new voice interrupts.

There's blood all over Gene's coat. He's going to need a new one, he thinks absently, something black that won't show the stains. He feels like he's wrapped in cotton, muffled against sound. In a thousand little ways he's asked Tyler to stay, the words turned backwards because he's never been able to say them direct. You asked to come here. You like it here, you just can't bare to admit it, an entreaty that when reversed spells Don't leave.

He's never wanted Sam to leave.

Morgan watches him calmly before he stops beside Tyler's corpse, his words overly pensive. "I tried to take him back, once, but he wouldn't stay." His eyes flit toward Gene, and Hunt sees a malicious glee, before the same mildness cloaks his demeanour. "Ashes to ashes, then. May the gods have mercy on his soul."

"I don't believe in the gods."

"Nor do they believe in you." Morgan's teeth are sharp in his mouth, he touches Tyler's hair like a benediction, lets his finger trails against the St. Christopher medallion, "But in the end Sam did. Ironic isn't it, that he believed in you enough to come back." Conversations that are layered with double meaning, that shift on their axis, and Gene knows enough to understand a trickster when confronted by one.

He has no clear recollection of the fight, one moment he's leaning against the wall, the next it's open carnage. He can feel cartilage give way under his fist, can feel the anger and pain twist like a cordian knot, fighting against the only thing that's tangible. Unlike Sam, Morgan doesn't try to defend himself. Frank's body folds after the first blow. Gene breaks his nose, strikes him in the stomach, kicks him in the bollocks. He splashes Morgan's blood against pristine tiles and his own coat where it mixes against Sam's. Distantly he knows that he's yelling, filth and profanities that echo in the confined space, but it's only after he tries to dash Morgan's brains against the nearest wall that the M.E pulls him off.

Breathing hard, vision blurred - Gene thinks this must be what it feels like - to be gutted all over again. 

 LONDON MET, 1981

The murders stopped after Sam's death.

Alex refuses to call the victim Tyler, because that would concede to Gene that her current predicament is real, and she won't do that. Colin Harper, Anthony Remick, James Berrin and Leonard Sirl were questioned extensively over the murder of Samuel Williams but remained steadfast in their alibis. Remick's mother, an invalid, spoke of her son's teaching status and how he had cared for her the entirety of his life. Remick's mother remained loyal against any rebuttal, maintaining her son was at home on the night of William's death. Harper was at a family function and Berrin in a worker's rally near the Quays.

Of the four, Leonard Sirl was the only one without an air-tight alibi. He left home at two am to start work in the bakery, his only proof of whereabouts the quantity of bread he produced the following morning, as far as C.I.D was concerned, the loaves could have been days old. He was locked up and charged with every minor offence they could think of while Hunt questioned him - until the moment when Gene himself became the primary suspect. By then, it was well known that Samuel Williams was an undercover agent, and the relationship between the two of them turbulent. Eventually Elise was Gene Hunt's saving grace, the wife who provided the alibi and who then later divorced him.

Alex knows Gene Hunt lived with the stigma and the whispered asides until the day he left Manchester behind, his footsteps dogged by Carling and Skelton, who remained loyal throughout it all. She doesn't know why she's still stuck here, though.

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

"They found a police car outside the factory?"

"D.I Tyler signed it out on the night he died, it was wiped clean from all prints, but we found black garbage bags in the boot...there was a lot of blood," Chris' voice is too quiet.

Alex doesn't question him any further, capable of filling in the gaps herself. The killer transported Sam to the milliner's using his own car, the black garbage bags a cheap and effective way of making sure the vehicles were never stained. If Gene Hunt hadn't arrived at the factory as quickly as he had, then the Mad Hatter would have sat beside his victim in the final moments, before disposing of the garbage bags in the nearest landfill. With the children, he must have used his own vehicle.

Chris bites into a meat pie and speaks around a mouthful of pastry, "The guv doesn't like cold cases. He especially doesn't like them when they involve his own men. I'm not saying he throws rocks through their windows, because you know, juvenile, but he does keeps close tabs on the two from Hyde."

Alex coughs softly, "That didn't stop him from throwing a rock through Terry Haslem's window, did it?" When Skelton jerks, Alex bites down on her lip and shrugs, "It was in the audio tape."

"That's...kind of creepy actually, did D.I Tyler talk about all of us?"

"Some more than others, you, Annie, and the guv featured quite a bit," Alex smiles faintly, peeling the crust off her pie, "Why so restrained? I thought Hunt would have gone in gun's blazing."

"He would have, except half the police force thought the guv did it - he was familiar with the Mad Hatter case - and everyone was whispering that he set it up so the serial killer could take the blame. His missus cleared him, but..." Chris winces and tosses a pebble across the ground, "the guv's made a lot of enemies over time. The brass are just waiting for him to foul up in some way. He can't catch the killer if he's thrown off the police force, miss."

There are pastry flakes against her fingers, small crumbs stick to her shirt, the top of the pie is half-peeled so she can add tomato sauce to the meat. Alex feels the same old rush of vertigo, and murmurs. "I used to do this for Molly, she was in the car, Chris...God, I need to wake up, why can't I wake up?"

He turns, one hand hovering as if he wants to touch her knee, "Easy, skip, I'm sure your little girl is fine... Just, don't act too crazy, alright, this isn't 1973."

"This isn't real, I don't care if everyone thinks I'm crazy. I have a daughter that needs me," frustrated, she stands, turning in a half circle.

Chris looks uncertain, his eyes darting between her and the door they're supposed to be watching. This is the first time Hunt has taken Drake on a sting, and if Chris knows anything, he knows there's going to be running, and in his case, probably falling over. He's never felt comfortable with the action role of being a copper, he chose surveillance for a reason. Since her arrival, it seems to Chris that Alex is becoming increasingly unstable. "You said D.I Tyler could hear 2006 in his coma. That whatever happened in the future, impacted on what was happening to him in 1973."

"Yes."

"Was the opposite true as well? Did he do anything in 1973 that would have impacted 2006?"

Her voice turns scolding, "I'm hardly going to know that, am I? If he changed the course of history I'm not going to remember it. It never would have happened - and this conversation is useless."

"I know, I know, you sound like a broken record, I'm not real," Chris waves her protest away, a hint of impatience tightening his voice. "What about the tapes, though?"

Alex doesn't answer. Maya, she thinks. Tyler said Maya was kidnapped in 2006 and it was the event that preceded his coma. Alex always assumed it was the brain damage talking, officer Roy was never kidnapped, what Tyler was doing on that abandoned road before he was struck by a car remained unknown. She never answers Chris. The door they're supposedly watching flies open, a lanky teenager streaks across the road and down an alleyway, followed hotly by Ray Carling. Gene Hunt slams through the door half a second later.

"Bollocks," Skelton yelps and takes off after Ray.

"You can fight or you can flight, I don't care which. But if you even think about freezing then I'm going to lock you in the cells for a fortnight, let's see you imagine your way out of that one, sweetheart." Alex twists away from him, darting after Chris. Hunt watches her go, then moves in the opposite direction, circling to the left.

Alex has always hated running, cycling yes, but running is as much fun as watching paint dry. Chris Skelton hurdles over a bin and keeps moving, three minutes later he trips over his own shoelaces and crashes to the ground. Alex barely dodges the flailing limbs in time, skipping around him and turning left at the end of the alleyway. Ray Carling slams into her, knocking Alex into the corrugated iron of a cheap fence. The breath leaves her body in one fail swoop and she drops, barely coherent that D.I Carling is covering her body, climbing half on top of her. She hears a sharp zing, the ground kicking up in front of her in a miniature explosion. The second bullet ricochets off the fence-line. Fire scorches down her forearm. Ray rolls and they separate, scrambling backward into the first alleyway, their breathing harsh in the sudden silence.

She's bleeding.

Chris drops down beside them, a gun held between his knees, "He's shooting?"

"Well he's not smiling at us," Ray snaps. He checks the load in his revolver, "Bloody druggies, half of them want to shag all day and the other half are more paranoid than the skip, here." Carling takes a deep breath then drops to his stomach, inching his head around the corner. He jerks back instantly, "Dead end. He's up in the corner, trying to figure out how to scramble over a wall without being shot in the back."

"Are we shooting?" Chris asks uncertainly.

"I'm definitely shooting."

"You could try talking," Alex offers.

"You could offer him crumpets and tea, too," Ray makes a florid gesture, "Brilliant idea, skip, be my guest."

She's the psychologist, Alex supposes, and despite Hunt's insinuation she's never frozen in her life. "Andrew? My name's Alex Drake, I know you're frightened, I know you don't trust any one, but I need you to hold steady, just for a minute, can you do that?" Silence is the only rejoinder. The blood runs down her forearm in a steady trickle, keeping time to her heartbeat. She stands, "No one wants to hurt you, Andrew, we just need to ask some questions."

There's a scuffle, the sharp sound of skin impacting against skin. Alex turns the corner in time to see Andrew half-way over the wall, his face startled as he comes nose-to-nose with Gene Hunt. The guv rabbit-punches him in the throat, and Andrew lands flat on his back, gagging. Gene straddles the fence, then drops over the side, landing heavily beside Andrew, twisting his arm to almost breaking point before he cuffs him. "Nice job, Bob, while you're crooning him a lullaby he's running down Maybury Lane. Is that some fancy new tactic from 2008? Talk them into submission?" His eyes rake over, coming to a stop at the flesh wound. "You're bleeding," he says flatly.

As if his words draw the wound to life, there's a sharp bark of pain down her forearm, adrenalin fading away as her body takes notice of all the aches, "It's not real," Alex says, hollow.

Gene Hunt stares at her shrewdly. "Maybe. But you're beginning to wonder, aren't you?"

The guv takes her to the pub that night, knocking the drinks back as if he could swallow the Atlantic sea if it were made of beer. Alex sits beside him, nursing a Chardonnay, tension making her shoulders tight. Hunt becomes quieter as the night progresses, the patrons emptying out of Nelson's pub one by one, at closing time Alex grabs her coat and shrugs it on, her jaw tight, "What do you want from me?"

Hunt turns the glass in his hand, "I don't like you. I don't want you here. Psychologists don't catch killers, bobbies do. I do." Gene's eyes are blood-shot, the stench of alcohol on his breath enough to make her step away. He sees it and Hunt's eyes flare in satisfaction. "But here's what's going to happen, Alex. I'm going to help you. You're not like Sam, I've heard you talking and you have a little girl to go home too."

Molly, she thinks, and the vice in her chest tightens viciously.

"I'll cover your arse when you start muttering at voices, I'll even keep the white-coats away, I'll protect you cos this isn't 1973. Sam could get away with it back then because nobody gave a whoopsie what cops did so long as they got the job done. But not now. Now they'll lock you away as soon as look at you." He moves in close, animal scent and a nameless rage that's been long buried. "I'll do all this for you, and you....you are going to do one thing for me and I don't care how you manage it." His hands are curled into fists, standing so close his torso brushes against her own, voice low with menace. "When the time comes, when FrankbloodyMorgan comes knocking, when you wake up in 2008 again, you keep Ruth Tyler from turning off that god-damn machine."

Alex stands stock-still, her demeanour cool as her eyes flick over Gene Hunt's face. He's drunk, he's going to die in five years time, and it's not as if any of this makes a difference either way.

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

Frank Morgan never comes for Alexandra Drake, but the test card girl makes her first appearance exactly one week later. Half out of superstition, half on a whim, but mostly because calling her 'test card girl' is too long, Alex gives her Frank Morgan's middle name, and refers to the girl as Eris. Two years after that, in the middle of broad daylight, Alexandra Drake vanishes from sight.

__________________________________

LONDON METROPOLITAN POLICE, JULY 4TH, 2008

"Miss, can you tell me your name?" a pen-light flashes in her eyes. Alex winces and jerks back, the radio crackles once before she fumbles with the key and flicks the engine off. Her nose is broken. The Audi's air-bag is deflated in front of her like a soggy condom, one of her arms is thrown across the passenger seat, holding Molly in place, living flesh against her palm, the soft curve of her daughter's breast heaving erratically. In the sudden silence, she can hear the car engine ticking over in the cold air.

Alex gasps out a laugh. It felt like she spent two years in a dream-world - the opposite to Tyler in every sense - because for her it was 2008 where no time passed at all, Alex breaks off when she realises the noise she's making sounds closer to a sob. She pulls Molly in tight, buries her nose in her daughter's hair and squeezes her, careless of the blood and the bobby who watches them deferentially. Her vehicle is caught in the middle of a six-car pile up on the motorway, she can't see two meters in front of her because of the early morning fog, and Alexandra Drake doesn't have a care in the world.

Jake Barrassi grins, dropping into a seat opposite the desk, his long legs twisted like a pretzel. "Oh, you look smashing."

Alex touches the thin strip of plaster across her nose in a mock salute, "It's the latest fashion, all the cool kids are wearing it."

"How's Molly?"

"Rattled but unhurt, unfortunately my Audi died an unglamourous death, I'm plotting the murder of my insurance company as we speak. Buy me coffee?"

"Grab your coat," Jake's eyes are warm, his voice a soft burr, "Are you certain you should be back at work so soon?"

"It's a broken nose, I've had worse in....well, I've had worse," she pulls her coat on, linking her arm through Jake's as they stroll through the door.

"Given our conversation yesterday, I thought you might want to know Ruth Tyler is turning off the machine in two days. Were you going to attend?" Jake feels her stiffen beside him.

"No. I think I've wasted enough time obsessing over D.C.I Tyler. It's time to focus on something else."

She has two neat black eyes from the car accident, she barely comes up to Jake's waist-line, she's hard-headed and completely sure of herself and to Jake, she's always embodied home. He pulls her in close as their conversation drifts to other matters, one arm curled protectively over her shoulders, breathing in perfume and fragrant soap. When they return from lunch, there's a parcel waiting on Alex's desk.

"It's from D.C.I Skelton."

Her face is chalk white. Jake looks between the parcel and Alex, his voice perplexed, "Well, that's good. Didn't you say yesterday you wanted to contact him and Superintendent Litton?"

"Yeah...yeah I did, sorry...it seems so long ago now."

She hasn't opened it yet, circling behind the desk. The return address is designated Wales, it appears D.C.I Skelton moved further abroad as the years progressed. Barrassi shifts uncomfortably, "Alright then, I'll leave you to it?"

"Cheers, Jake." Alex says absently.

There's no note inside the parcel, only a single audio cassette tape. It's takes Alex half an hour to hunt down the appropriate play-back, the staff grumbling about MP3 players and the wonders of digital technology, as opposed to antiquated dinosaurs. It takes Alex a further ten minutes before she can find the courage to hit the play button, the quality sub-par as the voices echo in her office. "October 12th, 1981, oh nine hundred hours, D.S Chris Skelton and criminal psychologist Alexandra Drake are both present, this interview is not for police purposes." 

Her own voice says smugly from the past.  "It's July 4th. I mean, at least it was July 4th."

________________________

 MANCHESTER, NOVEMBER 5TH, 1973

There's a light touch to his shoulder-blade.

Sam tries to draw breath, a painful inhalation, ribs rubbing together like broken fingers. He can hear the mute sound of a respirator, the doctor intoning gentle instructions, a background swell of noise that's drowned out under the next slice, flesh parting under a hungry kiss. Mute, he writhes, feet tied together and his arms bound above him. It hurts. The Mad Hatter caresses the knife-cut, worrying at the edges of his skin. "How'd you know it was me?" He sounds dreamy, as if like Sam he's not entirely in the room.

He doesn't want to die, heart hammering inside his chest.

Sam tilts his head back, vision blurred. His hands are bound above him, a thin cord cutting into his wrists and looped over a high-beam as they support his weight, he can barely touch the ground. His shirt and t-shirt were cut from his frame long ago, skin pebbling with shock. The killer reverses the blade and strikes him in the back, the pommel shattering against his kidneys. Sam arches, body taut as a bow.

"Mrs. Tyler, I know after everything that's happened this is so hard to accept, but there's something....actually there's two tapes, that you really need to hear....

The voice is vaguely familiar, but he can't quite focus on it. Every muscle in his body has locked into rigidity. His biceps have flexed, raising him half an inch higher, as if by going upward he can escape the pain

....you see, your son went somewhere..."

The hatter wraps his arms around him, tugs him back down again until Sam is stretched at full length, he hooks his chin over Sam's shoulder, one hand resting against his breastbone. The thumb flicks casually across his nipple, "How?"

The killer kept the boys alive for three days. He's shaking, infinitesimal tremors that he tries to clamp down on. Connect, try and make a connection, try and draw it out until Gene can arrive. Sam doesn't doubt that Gene will come. It doesn't sound like his own voice, the words scratchy and disused....

******

"Jackie Queen is running a full length feature in tomorrow's newspaper, Hunt. Your period of grace is up. Unlike the first boy, Pauley Robson has been identified. His mother wants to know what's being done to find his killer!"

Gene doesn't slouch in front of Superintendent Rathbone, but there's a certain insolence in the way he stands. "Has Jackie Queen connected the two killings?"

"Yes. The 'Mad Hatter.' I can see it in tomorrow's headlines, the newspapers are going to be all over this one, Gene. If your team can't pull in the results, then maybe Litton can."

Rathbone likes to burn both ends of the candlestick at once. Gene knows his tricks, has heard every single one of his empty threats, and they're not worth a minute of his time. "Regional Crime Squad have an appointment to do their nails tomorrow, sir. I'm not sure if Litton would be able to slot the investigation in with his busy schedule."

"Don't play smart with me. What do you have?"

"I have a team that's understaffed and I have a short-list of four names that require further investigation. I don't have time to be pandering to the brass. I'll give you my report when I catch the killer...sir." Sam's words are bothering him, the significance of a missing father figure rattling in his head, how Pauley and Sam never had one for any length - how people ache for the things they lose.

Gene Hunt had a father that he would have happily pushed off the edge of a cliff. Those boys from World War Two would have been hoping their father's came home. Charles Sauvigon's first victim might never have known a comparison to begin with, and the Mad Hatter selected his victims the same way.

Gene shifts, glancing at the time rudely. It's been over an hour already and Rathbone doesn't look like he's had fill yet, his chest is puffed up with self-importance, eyes glittering. "Look, sir, it's been a lovely chat. I'll make sure D.I Tyler writes everything down in triplicate first thing tomorrow morning, he'll provide you with flow-charts, graphs, and anything else that's remarkably girly, but for the moment, I'm busy trying to catch this nutter before he kills again."

"Hunt...!"

Gene keeps walking.

"Make sure your D.I hands me your badge first thing tomorrow morning, too!"

He should have stayed and seen the meeting through to the end but he knows Rathbone won't fire him, he doesn't like Gene's methods but there's no arguing there effectiveness. Gene trips down the stairs lightly and swings left, thinking about Elise and a warm meal when he crashes into Ray Carling. "Oi! I thought you were with Tyler!"

His D.S looks harassed for a second, "Any one would think Manchester is filled with perverts, guv. The plods have dragged in two 'questionable' queers."

"I'm not chasing after fudge-packers. I'm after killers, tell the lads to pull their heads in smartly," Gene steps in close, eyes narrowed, "Where's Sam?"

"Dunno, guv, he signed out a car a couple hours back."

"He's gone to Hyde, then," Gene says bitingly. Sam tends to walk if its anywhere local. "Bring him up on the radio. Now."

Ray glances toward Lost and Found, "What about the fairies, guv?"

"I don't give a toss about the bum-bandits. Find my D.I."

**********

"...did Sauvigon look after you, make you feel special, paid attention to you when no one else would? You must have been so grateful that he let you work in the first place, that he didn't report you to the authorities, you didn't want to be taken from your home, did you Anthony? Did you want to please him? Show him gratitude? You were only fifteen when he died. What Charles Sauvigon did, what he was doing before that, was wrong." He can feel the hatter smile against his nape, one hand edges down to cup Sam between his legs. Tyler jerks, "Don't..."

"Ssh," Anthony breathes. The knife in his left fist turns, the blade caressing over Tyler's stomach. Sam shudders and presses away, hands twisting uselessly in their bonds. The over-head beam that he's tied to creaks ominously. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam catches a flash of red dress and long blonde hair. Anthony squeezes him, then splays his fingers wide, digits curling toward scrotum and anus. Sam snarls, slamming his head back. The knife slices across his stomach in a shallow gash.

Anthony laughs, a pleased twitter, fingers sliding through blood, nails tearing at the edges of parted skin. Sound and vision go white for a bare second then the world rushes back in. Sam slumps, panting, blinking sweat from his eyes. Anthony gentles his touch, stroking over his skin in languid patterns. "Little Sammy Williams. I thought I already killed you."

He feels sick, nausea rolls over him in a damp wave. "My name's Tyler."

"You look like him, all grown up. Are you trying to haunt me?"

He looks intrigued, insane, as fucking psychotic as Tyler's ever seen, but pleased by the idea, as if it makes sense to him. Yes or no, keep his gob shut. Sam has three choices but he doesn't know which option will keep him alive longest. He arches up on his toes, tries to take the pressure off his arms for a bit, chewing on his bottom lip, "Why would I want to haunt you, Anthony?"

Anthony grins brightly, "I'm a teacher, you know, not stupid, calling me by my name won't make this any easier."

"I never thought you were stupid." Typically, serial killers aren't. Tyler swallows and rolls the dice, "But you were kind to me, once."

Anthony goes still, leaning against Sam's body from chest to groin, his words barely audible, "I was only twenty-three. I never did anything like that before." They breath in tandem, sharing sweat and the rustic tang of old blood, close as lovers. "I'm sorry I panicked. I'm sorry I buried you in the dark...I haven't done it since, my boys are always found. Should I make certain the police find you this time?"

God no, that sounds a little too final. Tyler struggles past the immediate panic and keeps his voice even, working the math out in his head. If Anthony was teaching in the orphanage at age twenty-three, then Samuel Williams must have died in 1949. "Why me, Anthony? Why choose me?"

Anthony pulls away a fraction, eyes darting over Sam's face, voice tender, "You were so alone. We all were..." The knife turns, circling Tyler's navel, edging against frayed denim and then up again, the movement ponderous. "I couldn't let you scream back then, too many people would have heard, but not now. Now it's safe..." A minute flicker, a fresh runnel of blood, and Sam hisses, toes scrambling for purchase as Anthony carves a line down his arm.

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

Phyllis is under orders to keep on trying - after the first ten minutes, Gene grabbed Ray Carling and left in the cortina - Sam had a bad feeling about the case, and Gene can't shake the unease that's crawling down his spine. He keeps one firm hand on the steering wheel, the other is clutching the police radio, waiting impatiently for Hyde to respond.

"This is Acting D.C.I Tyrol."

Fifteen minutes in the car and Gene's half way to Hyde already, the cortina's engine a low growl in his ear. Sam and himself had interviewed Harper and Remick earlier in the day. Remick's house is closest, but he needs someone to sit on Colin until he has an idea on his D.I's location. "Where's Morgan?" he barks.

There's a pause before Tyrol responds, "Unavailable. I'll be acting as his replacement in Hyde for the duration."

Newly promoted and full of himself. Gene doesn't like him already. "Send a car around to Colin Harper's address. Eyes and ears open for an unmarked police vehicle, registration number PLR 792."

"You're out of your jurisdiction, Mr. Hunt."

"Look, laddie, you sound new so I'll say this delicately. You do what I say, right now, or I'll come to your station and put my boot so far up your arse you'll think you've contracted a permanent case of Foot 'n Mouth disease!!!" Gene tosses the radio aside and pulls the steering wheel sharply to the left, taking a corner so violently that Ray has his eyes squeezed shut. "Carling, try Phyllis again, see if she's had any luck." Ray makes a grab for the radio, mouth pressed tight. Five minutes later, the cortina slams into a row of dust-bins outside of Anthony Remick's house.

"Guv, if the ponce is having tea with them and left his radio in the car, permission to shoot, or at least, throw up on him?"

Gene doesn't answer, finger stuck on the doorbell, watching the misshapen shape of a wheelchair through the distorted window. The street is clear, the vehicle Tyler signed out on the duty roster is nowhere to be seen. He thinks bitterly that he should have opted for Harper's address instead, but it's still that much further away, and he has to trust the Hyde lads aren't all out to crucify him, that in the end, they're still cops with a job to do. "Mrs Remick, can you open the door sometime this century, as a personal favour, from you to me, friendly like?"

Carling's radio squawks, Hyde comes over the air-waves with a burst of static. "Colin Harper is at home with the wife, D.C.I Hunt. Police vehicle, registration number PLR 792 is unsighted. Instructions?"

"Stay with him," Ray orders, one eyebrow quirked at Gene.

Hunt nods, tension racketing down his spine as the door swings open. "Mrs. Remick, I need a word with your son, if you don't mind." Wisps of grey hair and huge eyes frame a withered countenance. The wheelchair seems to swallow her entire bulk, legs atrophied and resting askew on the foot-rest, her hands lay one on top of the other, fingers curled inward. She would be a brilliant eyewitness, Gene thinks dispassionately. People would take one look at Mrs. Remick and fall all over themselves with misplaced sympathy.

"It's late Mr. Hunt," her voice is a rasp, dry as autumn leaves, the wheelchair barricades the door neatly.

"I seem to have lost one of my Inspectors, love, did Sam Tyler call around this evening?" He knows how to deal with old bitties, his voice deferential, layered with false warmth, his eyes take note of every flutter and nuance. Her fingers spasm, then release, her shoulders draw back to square up against him.

"I haven't seen Inspector Tyler since this morning, sir."

Just as pleasantly, Gene says, "That was lie number one. You do that to me again and I'll roll you down the nearest staircase. So what time was this non-existent encounter?"

Her mouth opens and closes like a clown fish. He doesn't like liars, he doesn't appreciate deception. He doesn't know what to do with Sam, who spent the entire year lying to him without even knowing it. Who tricked him, fought with him, stood at his back and protected him when Gene was framed for murder. Tyler's as contradictory as water - intangible and inexorable - pushing everything into an unknown design. Morgan dropped Sam into his lap and Hunt's a born magpie, he doesn't plan on letting him go. "I play rough, Mrs. Remick, where's your goddamn son?"

"He's a good boy! He spent his entire life providing for me!"

"Guv," Ray interrupts. He kicks one foot out, toes angled down, pointing out a black spot that lies near the brick-work. "Blood."

Gene places his foot on the wheelchair, in between Mrs. Remick's legs, and shoves, the chair sails backward with an outraged scream.

*********

He's never been at someone's complete mercy before, even with Hunt there had always been some way to defend himself, but not like this. Anthony punches him, the blows falling across Tyler's ribs in a soundless fury. The world darkens at the edges, the low beep of the respirator machine like a death knell, he fades out for a few blessed seconds then claws his way to consciousness, desperate and scared that if he closes his eyes, he'll die here alone. He can't regulate his breathing, shallow gasps that catch in his throat as Anthony circles him, touching Sam's shoulders and stomach, tracing over his buttocks with a propriety air. "Sssh," Anthony croons, "Everyone thought little Sammy Williams ran away from the orphanage, but I found you. I find you still." The kiss is harsh, tongue in his mouth, a hand fisted in his hair. Anthony rocks against him, then releases.

Tyler coughs, his vision blurring. His thoughts are muddled. He doesn't know how long he's been hanging from the ceiling, the threat of shoulder dislocation just one more distant ache. He's in agony, he's alive, and his mother never raised him to be a quitter. Draw it out, Sam thinks, until help arrives. "You kill the children, Anthony - but it was Charles Sauvigon who died in the factory - why reverse it?"

Anthony steps away, half a foot between them and the knife held at an angle, "Charles was the only one who cared, don't you see, it was me who died in the milliner's..."

"Cry me a river, Remick. It would have made life easier for everyone if you had died."

Anthony spins, the knife held loose in one hand. He's bat-shit insane, Sam thinks fuzzily, he can taste blood in the back of his throat, his ribs are shattered, and unless you're in the movies you don't bait the fucking psychopaths. Anthony snarls, the blade darting forward. "Shoot!" Sam hollers.

It's a double tap, two shots fired almost simultaneously. Anthony jerks, the knife tumbling from his fingers, bullet velocity spinning him in a half circle.

Gene lowers his weapon, noting with satisfaction that Carling keeps his own trained on Anthony Remick. The Mad Hatter hits the ground awkwardly, scrambling backward. Gene knows Ray's shot impacted high on the shoulder, whilst his own bullet caught Remick in the hip, shattering the pelvis. The knife lies abandoned at Tyler's feet. His finger twitches, a rhythmic tic next to the trigger-guard. Hunt keeps his weapon lowered but aimed, catching Ray's eye with a sharp nod. Carling sidles close, handcuffs in one hand, and kicks Remick onto his stomach, dropping down with one knee planted firmly on Anthony's hips. Remick screams, the sound shattering through the abandoned room.

"Sam?" Tyler doesn't answer. Gene waits until he hears the sharp click of the handcuffs being locked on before he shifts, weapon tucked into his waist-line, movements hurried. Tyler's head is slumped forward, a fine tremor running down the length of his body; the shakes setting in fast now that it's over. There are lacerations over his torso and stomach, minor cuts to the arms and back. The bruising near his ribs is storm-black, Hunt curses silently when he notices it circles close to the spine. Gene comes to a stop in front of him and angles his body until he's blocked Sam from Ray's line of sight.

His D.I is shaking silently - this is the only kindness Gene can afford.

His own voice is overly loud. "What is it with you, Tyler? You're either in your birthday suit chained to a bed, or you're swinging from the rafters half naked. I say aloud I'm going to bust down Sam Tyler's door and every female plod in the squad begs to come along. They're developing a fetish because of you."

Sam raises his head. Gene waits patiently until he makes eye contact. Tyler has never taken long, half a minute tops to compose himself, to lock everything away, his voice a painful rasp when he bites out, "Funny, guv."

Gene smirks, looking over Tyler's ribs speculatively, "Ray, you done securing that scum-bag?"

"Aye, guv."

"Good, grab your knife and move your body over here," he taps Sam high on his chest and ignores the flinch, spreading his fingers wide, maintaining contact. "Your ribs are done in."

"Yeah, I was here when it happened."

"Don't get testy, Dorothy, Ray will cut you down soon enough." He's been hanging from the ceiling too long, Tyler won't be able to support his own weight at first, but that's not what's bothering Hunt. "When he does, try and lower your arms slow. Knowing you, you're just spiteful enough to stab yourself internally. Try not to deflate a lung, or poke anything vital, good?"

Sam nods, the cut on his cheek almost indistinguishable from all the other injuries.

It makes Gene uneasy to see it, the ring on his finger suddenly uncomfortable. He circles behind Tyler, his voice gruff, "Knew you'd see it my way." He has a good few inches on Sam, the difference in height is an asset when they're actively trying to kill one another, but now, when lowering his D.I down safely is his only concern, it's a blessing. From the periphery of his vision, Gene keeps one eye on Anthony Remick, noting the spreading bloodstain. They should hurry this up, find medical assistance for the freak; only Gene's happier watching him slowly bleed out. Hunt steps in close, knees bumping the back of Tyler's, both arms looped high around Sam's torso, as far from the broken ribs as possible, and supports him while Carling cuts the rope, "Easy," he murmurs, barely audible, "You're alright."

Sam doesn't respond, but infinitesimally, his body gradually relaxes, arms coming down slow.

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

Sam's barefoot and semi-naked. There's no way in hell Gene is going to have blood-stains on his favourite camel-haired coat, so he orders Ray out of his jacket and tosses it over Tyler's shoulders carelessly, following quietly as Sam walks aimlessly onto the orphanage's grounds. 

Sam tracks his movements with his eyes half closed, "How did you find me?"

"Beat up an old hag."

"I thought you hated liars?"

Gene snorts and turns around. It's pitch black out here, the grass damp beneath his shoes, trees dot the edge of the 'play-ground', overgrown shrubbery a hazard in the dark. Near the fence-line, he can barely make out the edge of a disused well, the top covered over with chicken-wire. Gene drops his voice to a dangerous rumble. "You go off alone, half-cocked again, and I really will beat you to an inch of your life. The team's here for a reason, Tyler," Gene glances over sharply, then says, "Anthony Remick has a spare room, a working office I guess, with all his smart-alecky diplomas and achievements tacked up on the wall. Photos of schools that he's taught in or subbed at, trophies that he's won, children that he's met. Once I convinced Mrs. Remick to let me search the premises, the office and school photos were easy to find. St. Christopher's is a converted church, it had oriel windows out the front, and it's been abandoned for over a decade. I took a gamble."

"Where is Mrs. Remick?"

"Hyde Police Station. She lied about her sons whereabouts on the night Pauley Robson died; she would have done it again, Sam. We've banged her up for perverting the course of justice, for wilful deception, for perjury, and for looking like a hag."  Sam laughs faintly, then hisses, body tightening as he breathes through the spasm.  Gene eyes him, "I was shot in the leg because of you and I don't recall making this much fuss." Sam flips him off. In the distance, the red/blue light of an ambulance begins to flash, approaching the orphanage at speed. Carling is baby-sitting Remick inside and Gene has no idea what they're doing out here. "Sam, come on."

"There's a body down the well, Gene. The Mad Hatter mentioned him."

Gene breathes out, then nods sharply, "He was one of the kids here? Fine, we'll bring some plods in first thing tomorrow, have them dredge out the remains"

"No, tonight. He fell through the cracks of the system once before, guv," Sam's voice is strange, it takes on the verbal cadence people use when quoting. "Someone ought to have known he existed."

"Fine," Gene doesn't care either way.  He'll pander to Tyler's request, so long as Sam doesn't stand out here all night and try to supervise. Gene wants those ribs looked at professionally, he wants his D.I as far from Anthony Remick as possible. Tyler smells like blood and fear, the first touch of an on-coming dawn, when the night remains most darkest. Gene stands shoulder to shoulder with him and goes still when Sam confesses, "I thought I was going to die alone out here."  Sam tilts his head, squints out of the corner of his eye with a faint smile, "Thank you." The ambulance pulls into the courtyard, blue and red light strobing across masonry stone.

"I wouldn't let that happen," Gene says, and means it.

 Fini.

 ...he says he's going to change the world some day...*  Song lyric, Rejoice, U2.