He keeps the ring close to his heart, threaded through a leather necklace that’s double-knotted. It used to have eight diamonds embedded in the framework, tiny stones that caught the light, but one fell loose and Jamie’s managed to pry off another two since. His mother had named them after eight constellations, enduring myths, her mouth beside his ear as she whispered about the Hunter, Castor and Pollux, the twisted Dragon, the Virgin, the Bull, the Hero, the Scorpion and, finally, the River that meandered between them all, bathing everything that burned with fire into cool water.

Orion. Gemini. Draco. Virgo. Taurus. Hercules. Scorpius. And Eridemus.

He holds Eridemus in his hand now, sixteen years old and trying to figure how much he can pawn the solitary stone for, whether the money will feed him for another week or two; if maybe fortune shines, he can afford a bed-sit for Kate. He curls his fist around the diamond and counts the remaining five gems, ignoring the black holes.

He’s going to give the ring to Kate when they’re married; Jamie knows his mother would have wanted it so. He fears that when he does it will be nothing but an empty band, where riches have been mined and fortunes lost, the constellations sold one by one until the celestial heavens were laid bare, but the wondrous world his mother created can’t put food in Jamie’s belly, or find him a warm place to kip.

Kate finishes late, her mouth bruised at the edges, Jamie whispers reassurances against her skin. She tastes of fear, mingled with regret. He kisses her forehead, he smudges the finger-prints on her arm, he wipes her mouth clean, and if she doesn’t seem herself, if she no longer smells pure and clean, then Jamie ignores that too.

Virgo was the first stone he sold.

"I’m getting a cold-sore," she whispers miserably.

"S’okay," he can feel the ring against his chest. Her heart-beat is a wild flutter.

"They’re not going to want me going down on them if I have a cold sore."

"Hush," Jamie pulls her closer, guiding their footsteps to the rear entry where the lock on the glue factory remains jimmied, "you can take a break for a week or two. I’ll cover it." He could pry loose another stone, pay for food and try to find lodgings as well, so long as that prick Toylen didn’t rip him off. The stones can’t *all* be flawed, but then, his old man brought it, so maybe Jamie should be thankful that they’re real and not plastic junk.

He gives Kate a leg-up, watching nervously as she squirms and wiggles, fingers scraping at the glass panel.

He can hear the distant sound of traffic, eyes and ears straining, catching snatches of a low whistle, someone’s footsteps, and the mournful song of the wind. Eridemus cuts into the palm of his hand, the liquid making his grip tacky.

Cursing, Jamie places the stone in his top pocket and scrambles up, following Kate into the recesses of the factory. The stench of glue hits him like a visible wall. He can feel his head spin, a cough racketing in the back of his throat, breathing shallow until the dizziness recedes. Neither one of them have eaten today, and it makes everything so much worse, you become accustomed to the smell, eventually, but normally it‘s not this repugnant.

Their hidey-hole is at the back of the factory, squeezed behind a mountain of wooden pallets, two blankets folded neatly and a pillow case stuffed with spare clothing. They fumble in the dark, curling around one another, shivering against the cold. Outside, that damnable whistle grows louder, the tune off-key, carousel bright. It reminds Jamie of a merry-go-round, the type of melody that’s so cheerful it’s almost malicious.

The footsteps come to an abrupt stop.

He breathes out, compulsively re-counting his remaining stars. Gemini, Hercules, Draco, Scorpius, and…

It could be a copper, walking the beat, maybe he saw them enter the alleyway, maybe Jamie left the window open, and for a second, he’s almost paralyzed with the certainty of it. He hears the sharp scrape of a match being lit.

If they have to leg it, there’s no quick way out of the factory, creeping back and closing the window now is useless. He breathes in, and holds Kate tighter, spooned so close he can feel every shiver, mouthing a litany against her skin, petty gods that had raged across the sky - …Draco, Scorpius, and Orion - only visible by night. He can imagine the copper leaning against the brickwork, hands cupped around a cigarette, his collar pulled high against the chill, an iconic image that Jamie‘s never once trusted. Law enforcers are twice as dangerous as the scum they put away. Names are deceitful by nature, his mother had said; they turn with hidden clauses, extrapolated meaning, a hunter is just another word for a killer if seen in a certain light. He recites her legacy, the world she had gifted upon him until the merry-go-round whistle becomes stereo loud, until the first spark hits the floor in an incendiary shower. The smell of glue is overpowering.

It blazes a trail across the factory floor - a comet-tail in a starless night - and when it hits the plastic barrels lined in a neat row, the factory explodes like a roman candle.

_______________

"Who’s the crispy critter, then?" Sam throws him a rotten look. The body is curled protectively, its mass reduced to near skeletal remains. Gene can still feel the heat coming off the building in a palpable wave, impatiently, he motions Tyler to talk.

Sam rises from his crouch, dusting his hands clean on his jeans. "It’s taken close to four hours to wrestle the fire under control, guv."

"That’s not what I asked."

"Okay, I’ll just race over and check the horoscopes, shall I? They probably have as much idea as we do at this point. Allister McCaine said no one was working," when Gene raises an eyebrow, Sam extrapolates, "he owns the building. The victim was trapped in the rear of the factory."

"It smells worse than the annual Police Family Fun Day and Barbeque cook out," Gene sniffs the air distastefully. "He was vermin?"

"Homeless," Sam corrects sharply… "At least, we think he probably was. The fire chief said there was evidence of a hooch."

"Well he’s stenching up my air with a foul smell right now," Gene kicks at the dust, watching Tyler shrewdly. "It‘s a quarter to seven on a Sunday morning, Sammy, last I checked, *Ray* was working crime last night."

"We swapped."

"Yes, you’re the best wooden boy I’ve ever met. *Why* did you swap, Pinocchio?"

Tyler bares his teeth, "Because I’m a team orientated member of your division, guv?"

"Oh, you *are* feeling punchy today."

Disgusted, Gene rocks on his heels for a moment, breathing shallow to off-set the stench of human remains. He learned how to confront death early, as do most plonks straight from the academy. It’s a time-honoured tradition to tell the most heinous corpse-joke; to laugh at another’s expense. He knows Chris is the winner of the biggest cock-up, letting the water out of a bath-tub four months after a bloke had a heart-attack in it and *before* they had a chance to remove the body. How Chris had vomited non-stop after witnessing two layers of skin peel straight off the dead man’s corpse and gurgle down the drain-pipe, victim to the gentle suction of the water.

He knows Ray once had to retrieve a body from a dirt-track, the road slippery wet, impossible for the coroner’s van to traverse, and how he drove four miles back with the body strapped to the roof of his car, feet and arms dangling over the edge, the head peering at Ray through the passenger side window, because he refused to drive with a smelly corpse propped up beside him.

They’re the type of stories that are told in the pub, to the accompaniment of laughter, with glasses that are sloshed half-empty, where you toast to the poor bleedin’ sod who died so undignified-like, and the even poorer miserable bastard who had to deal with it. Death smells bad, no matter which way you approach it; but the stench of burning flesh has a special place in memory. It’s the type of scent that can’t be forgotten once exposed to it. "You think it’s an insurance scam?"

"I’ll have Annie check out McCaine’s finances, and we’ll need the Chief’s report to determine whether it was deliberately set or not, but this is the fifth fire we’ve had in over a month."

Gene looks perturbed, "What, you’re counting the bin-raids?"

"Yes, I am" Sam squints at him, "It’s Sunday morning at a quarter to seven, guv, why on earth did you wander in?"

Regardless of time or date, Gene has standing orders with dispatch. He’s never once dumped his work-load on somebody else; and if anything goes down on Gene Hunt’s territory, then he wants to know about it. Immediately. He stares hard at the other man. "From bins to factories, it’s a bit of a leap."

"Signature versus M.O."

"And I’d find that very profound if I knew what you were bleedin’ on about."

"A killer takes a knife to some victim, and he uses that knife every time he kills, a set pattern that he’s loathe to break, we narrow the confines of our search until we can identify him; that’s your basic M.O." Gene can put up with a fair amount of bullshit, but having his D.I treat him like a two year old is not part of it. He makes one threatening gesture and Tyler darts out of range, hands held upward as if to ward him off, his words overly-hasty. "Some serial killer reads about it in the newspaper and goes one better; the first time he uses a knife, the second time he drugs them, on the third occasion he shoots them in the head, and the M.O is so disparate that we never connect the killings. But the *signature* is the same, what he’s getting out of it, what he’s seeking, remains unchanged," Sam motions at the gutted factory, the blackened destruction that surrounds them. "The end result is still…fire."

Gene glances at the body. He wonders who he was, limbs fused together, huddled against death, he wonders how old - and briefly - he hopes the noxious gas found him before the flames ever did.

A serial arsonist, insurance scam, or some pathetic div that threw firecrackers into the wrong building, either way, it’s now murder.

Tyler scrubs at his face, leaving a smear across his cheekbone, his complexion waxen pale in the early morning light. Gene can see the pronounced circles under his eyes, more heavy lidded than one fiery night should warrant. Tyler pulled a night-shift on Friday, too, spotting for Chris, and on the previous occasion, his D.I didn’t quit work until the early afternoon, leaving the office just after three. He would have been back in again by eight that same night, to cover for Ray.

Disconcerted, Gene asks pointedly. "Are you saving up for your very own pony, Gladys?"

Sam snorts at him sleepily, "Only if it’s the size of my palm and I can braid it’s hair every other night."

"Ray already thinks you’re a poof, you give him ammunition like that and he’ll do a strafing run right over your daft head. You‘ll be riddled with more holes than a Sopwith Camel after the Red Baron gave it a wink and a nudge."

Tyler smiles without humour, "Just trying to keep busy, guv."

"So long as you don’t sleep-walk yourself in front of a car, because god knows half the people at the station would *accelerate* given the chance."

Punch drunk and not a touch of alcohol in sight - exhaustion will knock Tyler out soon enough - Gene’s run every gambit when it comes to avoidance, but he doesn‘t know what Tyler‘s trying to hide *from*. Turning away, Gene scans the fire crews still working the site; he doesn’t *care* that Tyler’s scared to fall asleep; it‘s none of his concern. He leaves Sam standing beside the body, picking his way through the rubble until he spots Rory. The Fire Chief has a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, hat set well back on his forehead. He grins crookedly at Gene, "Hiya."

"Busy night?"

"Hotter than Raquel Walsh’s tits."

Gene pulls his flask out, pro-offering it, "You found an ignition source?"

Rory takes a sip, scratching at the stubble on his face. "The entire factory qualifies as one, but no, not yet. We received the call at two forty-five this morning; your boy arrived on the scene almost as fast as our trucks did."

Gene grimaces, watching Sam as he squats beside the corpse, one hand sifting through the ash near the body. "He get underfoot?"

"No. He’s a smart lad, kept back well back and let us do our thing - he‘s different." Rory’s teeth are abnormally white, face streaked into a topographical map, his voice takes on a sly manner, "You heard from Roberts lately?"

Gene almost fumbles his cigarette, looking up sharply.

In the distance, Tyler hunches over, shoulders tight, evidence bag held in one hand, a pen scratching delicately at the ground. "Last I heard he was in Southampton."

"He’s come back to say hello to the family, said he was going to drop by the Arms last night…he thought you’d be there."

Distracted, Gene shakes his head, "I was busy." Tyler straightens, zipping the evidence bag up, duck-walking on his heels as he searches the ground intently. "My D.I seems to think we could have a serial arsonist. "

"Five fires in four weeks," Rory shrugs, "you’re the betting man, Gene, what do you think?"

"I think an insurance scam is easier," Gene draws hard on his cigarette, "What about the two buildings on either side?"

"Minor structural damage to the parquetry shop - bloody miracle that - but the mechanics went up almost as quickly as the glue factory did, there wasn’t much we could salvage."

"Send me a report with your findings, or better yet, send it to my D.I instead. He likes reading," Gene butts his cigarette out and bellows at full volume, *"Tyler!"* Sam approaches casually, dropping the evidence bag into Gene’s out-stretched hand. It’s a ring, blackened at the band, he can make out five gems with three missing holes. "Pricey?"

"Well, it didn’t melt in the flames," Sam retorts dryly.

Gene pockets the evidence and tugs Tyler out of the ruined building, "The plonks can keep the magpies away, as for me, I missed breakfast this morning because you can‘t keep my streets safe at night. You‘re buying." It’s a lie, but there’s a bakery not far from the station, and he knows the proprietor has a crush on his D.I. Whatever the man may order, she’ll double the serving.

If Tyler’s not sleeping, then the least Gene can do is make sure he’s eating.

He can recall Annie’s words clear as a bell. *He’s under stress, sir.* Sam wasn’t joking when he pointed that gun at him, it’s the reason why Gene held so still. Barely a minute, and for once in their partnership doing his utmost *not* to antagonize him, but in that moment he knew Sam’s loyalties lay divided. That some part of him belonged to that two-faced scum Vic Tyler and his slick charade - king of the porn industry - leading his D.I on like the Pied Piper whistling a jaunty tune.

No. Gene wasn’t dozing in a ditch. He was this side of livid.

Loyalty is the only thing Gene Hunt prizes, it’s what makes the job *bearable*, it’s how you measure the worth of the man standing beside you. Sam has loyalty running through him like a line of gold through rock, embedded deep underground, twice as difficult to tap into. Vic had it *freely* given, Sam backing him up when every instinct Gene possessed said he was rotten to the core. Five stolen minutes in a secluded clearing, the muzzle of a gun held against him steadily, and Gene came to a sudden revelation. He was pissed. He was out-right furious, but not, eventually, at Sam.

If Stu were still around, then he would have said Gene Hunt going quiet is as dangerous as it comes.

If he meets Vic again, (whether he be a lover, or family, or whatever the fuck he *is* to Sam) then Gene won’t involve his D.I. Next time, Hunt swears, he needn’t ever find out.

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

Sam watches the rituals of male bonding with a kind of wary distrust, always positioned one step away, in the outer orbit of their team. He watches Gene Hunt even closer.

He knows how to scrutinize without drawing attention.

Sam’s earliest memories are of women - bright peels of laughter and the quicksilver motion of their hands - flying from task to task to task. His house was full of them, a rotation of aunts and next-door-neighbours who dropped by at any given time or day. He remembers how their presence could make his mother brighten like a sunrise, her smile turning warm after the darkness of a long night.

His sharpest memory is of scent - the rich aroma of baking - Auntie Heather measuring out each ingredient with a sloppy disregard, how the kitchen resembled a bomb explosion and how it always, *always* turned out lumpy, irregular, and perfect. They used to huddle in the family room together, the rise and fall of their voices like some ancient song, a woven tapestry of merriment and underlying grief - *hide away those bad feelings, Sammy* - the fleeting touch of their hands on his skin, carding through his hair. He used to watch them diligently, until the sadness that permeated Ruth Tyler evaporated, until the mere presence of those women tempered away his own disquiet. They never once stood up and vanished.

Sam never thought he’d vanish on them.

He’s comfortable with the subtleties of women, with their casual insights. He misses Maya’s grace, the exotic way she pronounced certain letters, the r’s rolling off her tongue with emphasis, the way she could laugh mid-way through a kiss. He misses *home*.

Gene lengthens his stride down the corridor, eating up the distance with agitation. Sam paces him, his thoughts quieting. He can still feel the effects of the miniature banquet the guv shoved down his throat, that, and the warmth of the office is conspiring to send him to sleep.

He’s never had an easy time with male companionship - the angles are all wrong - the symmetry too harsh, too alien, until Sam feels his hackles rise, ready to lash out and fight. He’s never been ‘one of the lads’, regardless of time or place. If he was a Freudian, he could blame that on his upbringing, but Freud was a wanker and had an Oedipus complex to boot. The truth is, he’s always preferred the company of women.

He wants to sleep, to collapse in his dingy little flat, where the walls press against him and the childish taunt of a little girl awaits. But in the static of his home radio, Sam thought he had heard his mother cry, her voice ripped with accusation, scoured with disappointment.

He wants to rest without the macabre rattling in his skull. Failing that, Sam will work until his mind whitens out.

He’s already stumbling with exhaustion when the guv pulls up short, and Sam almost breaks his nose running into the man’s back. Exasperated, he steps around the temporary road-block and freezes. There’s a man sitting at *his* desk.

The stranger’s adopted Ray’s posture, slouched in a chair with his feet propped on an open draw, using Sam’s coffee cup as an ashtray. His features are blunt, black hair and a stocky build, his nose crooked from a poorly healed break. He holds court with the familiarity of the well-known, both Chris and Ray hanging off his every word, the sound of their laughter like the ominous crack of a gun-shot.

He’s pissed about his coffee cup. Sam’s even more pissed when the geezer doesn’t clear away from his desk - swivelling around to meet his eyes instead - mouth curling into a smirk. "You must be D.I Tyler."

"Sam," he confirms, and holds out one hand. The stranger clambers to his feet slowly, eyes flat, impeccably dressed. After an awkward second, Sam lets his hand drop.

The smile is more honest this time, "Guv, it’s good to see you."

"Rory said you were hanging around like a bad smell," Hunt shifts on his feet, voice curt as he makes the introductions, "Sam, this is Clinton Roberts, former deputy of my department, a first-rate D.I until Southampton got their claws into him. How’s the seaside treating you?"

"Just balmy, guv. I was wondering if I could have a word with you. In private."

Ray grins, his eyes avarice cold as he looks between them, "You have a big night out, boss? You look a little dirty around the edges."

Sam ignores him, eyes fixed on Roberts, "You were the previous D.I?"

"Well, yeah, what did you think? That there was just a convenient hole for you to fill? That they‘ve been operating one man down until the moment you showed up? This was my crew for the last four years, Tyler."

"Funny, I thought it was the *guv’s* team." *I haven’t heard of you*, Sam thinks.

"And that’s why you don’t fit in." Clinton retaliates.

"Are you two going to bitch-slap each other?"

Hunt’s voice is mild with faux brightness, Sam realises his hands have curled inward, that Robert‘s isn‘t radiating dislike so much as outright hate, and Sam’s reflecting it like the mirror-mirror man. Tyler takes a slow breath, deliberately relaxing his muscles. He’s the clear-headed one, normally, when he isn’t being haunted by creepy little girls, or when his mother’s voice doesn’t scratch down his spine like nails down a blackboard….then barring that, Sam’s the sanest person in the room.

Except that he’s operating on five hours sleep over three days and his equilibrium flew out the window the moment he spotted Clinton Roberts. Gene’s former D.I sits down again, whistling between his teeth as he flips through an open folder.

"Sam, find me the insurance records for McCaine’s factory. If he burnt that building down with our crispy critter inside, then I want him nailed to a cross by tomorrow morning. Clear?"

Gene stares at him, his expression unreadable. Sam’s always preferred the company of women, but his most cherished recollections were of his father. The inner memory replayed until the reel began to distort - until the quality of light diffused - coloured hues replaced by negative brightness. His father was an extraordinary man, if only because he wasn’t *common*. Vic Tyler was absent more often than not, but to four year old Sammy he was the harbinger of excitement. To thirty-five year old D.I Tyler, he’s like a bleeding wound. It takes him a full minute to realise that Clinton Roberts is whistling "For He’s a Jolly Good, Fellow."

"Tyler!" Gene barks, "Sleep on your own damn time."

Sam startles, dragging his eyes away from Roberts, from the flash-memory of his father whistling that same tune, and turns on his heel.

*********

It’s a quarter to nine in the morning and W.P.C Cartwright has barely closed her locker door, stashing away her purse and a woman’s magazine when D.I Tyler pokes his head around the corner. "Mind if I have a word?"

"You don’t normally go for redundant questions, sir." She’s been avoiding him, avoiding the whole mess.

The right side of her face is yellow, the bruise days old now, but Vic Tyler’s handiwork is still visible despite her best concealer. Sam’s eyes fix on it, his mouth going angry tight. Annie said she’d find him help, she said Sam was sick and only growing worse; she hates indecision, hates that she totters like a drunkard in his presence, trying not to fall on either side of extremism, loitering between concern, friendship, and an interest that has nothing to do with her psych degree and everything to do with the flutter in her stomach when in his presence. She said she was going to find him help and walked out the door, adamantly lying to herself.

He looks wretched, like he hasn’t slept in a week. He looks a lot like she feels.

Annie’s been snared in a web of deceit ever since encountering him, but she never thought it would extend to herself - this far and no further, a line drawn where she measures his madness - except Annie keeps shifting the marker, allowing further excesses. She confided in someone once, and as a result, Sam almost leapt from a building. She owes him for that, for the breach in trust. She doesn’t want to be responsible for locking him up. Her voice is sharper than intended, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"What do you know about fire?"

Annie tilts her head, eyes hardening, "Stand too close and you’re bound to be burnt."

"Cute," his gaze is penetrating, "What about motivations and symbolism?"

She falters, the initial ire tugged out from under her, "Are you looking for a psychological analysis?" she asks curiously.

"You have the degree."

She wants to ask him if he still believes Vic Tyler is his father. Annie always intended to join the police force, the years spent at university merely gave her the maturity she needed. She didn‘t join up like the lads - like Ray and Chris, or the guv - straight out of high school and impressionable as children, she wanted to make a difference. "D.C.I Hunt will laugh in your face," she warns cautiously.

He looks chagrined, black humour glistening in his eyes, "Given that he normally *punches* me in the face, I think I can handle it."

She wants to know how long he watched Vic Tyler go to town on her before stepping in.

That first slap felt like it shattered every bone in her cheek, like Vic knew *exactly* where to hit. She wants to believe that Sam interfered the instant he arrived - but some part of her knows better, and it feels like betrayal - he stood there and watched. Annie wants to know for how long. "You make the coffee, and I want my contribution noted and logged," she states firmly, trying not to fidget.

Sam tilts his head, his voice lingering soft, "I always have. You can check C.I.D’s case reports if you want."

Credit given where credit is due, Annie feels her chest constrict, her throat closing down tight. The detective’s guard their success rate jealously; doing their utmost to maintain the elusion of independence. Whatever aid she has provided to C.I.D over the years, Annie’s never once had it officially recognised, men like Ray Carling would never admit to calling in help - and to acknowledge that the help came from a woman… She can’t keep her balance with Sam, reeling from three simple words, *I always have.* She closes her eyes, "Come on, then., what have you?"

"Accidental, carelessness, or deliberate."

"You haven’t ruled out any of the options yet?"

"Not officially, we’re waiting on the Fire Chief’s report, but…" Sam pauses, as if the word pains him, "…gut instinct says it’s the third. If it‘s deliberate, then the lee-way branches out into financial gain, destruction of evidence, or emotional fulfilment. I have experience with the first two, it‘s the self-wish scenario that I‘m interested in."

He’s just dying for a blackboard, Annie thinks, "Financial gain is self-explanatory, if he or she is trying to destroy evidence though… this is the fire at the glue factory, yes?"

He nods, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, "McCaine doesn’t have any criminal history, and if it *is* destruction of evidence, then I guess the so-called evidence could be the body. Maybe the victim saw something he wasn’t supposed to. Or maybe there was a paper trail inside the building, and the death is incidental, wrong place, wrong time."

It was the third option he was interested in. Serial arson hasn’t been extensively studied, it’s more like cliff-notes bandied together, and she doesn’t know how much it will help in the long run - police work is about the process of elimination - but Sam always keeps his horizon broad when he first begins.

The guv says he’s trying to increase the work load for the entire team; but Annie knows it’s also about not being narrow-minded in his initial approach. "Symbolism of fire," she starts slowly. "It’s hypnotic, elemental, sometimes people are just drawn to its unpredictability. If you’re looking at its historical significance, then it was corporal punishment, the burning of witches and demons, and a means of rebirth, the phoenix rising from the flames. Ultimately, it’s linked with religious purification." she winces, and shrugs one shoulder, "Not much help, really, is it?"

He taps his fingers against one thigh, a rapid pulse-beat.

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

"What do you want?"

"You’re as cheerfully blunt as ever."

Gene pours himself a whiskey and drops down into his seat. "There’s a human kebab stinking up my Sunday morning, Clinton, and I’m not in the mood for piss farting around."

Roberts’ leans back, fingers laced across his stomach. "I’m chasing down a murder enquiry, a cold case, but we turned up a new lead that pointed in this direction and I thought I’d relieve you of the files pertaining to one Victor Tyler."

"How far back is the cold case?"

"1971. I understand he’s a salesman. The man likes to travel wide and far."

"He travelled wide and far four days ago, took off like a sprinter on the mark. You want a copy of his bio and the interviews we conducted, go for it, and while you’re doing that, you can stop acting like a git and tell me what you *really* want before I lose my patience."

Clinton seems to consider, then confides, "Me mum’s sick, and I understand you have personnel issues." He trails off, leaves the sentence open-handed.

Gene turns the glass in his hand, "You want your old job back."

Roberts’ flinches, then gathers himself, his voice turning brisk, "The way I see it, you might be down a D.I shortly. I understand your Detective Inspector was the last person to see Vic Tyler before he vanished?"

"D.I Tyler, me self, and W.P.C Cartwright." Gene corrects. "To the full extent of my knowledge, Vic the prick vanished like a gopher after that episode in the clearing. The three of us split up to search for him, but nowt was seen of him."

"To the full extent of your knowledge…that’s very formal wording, guv, have you been taking lessons?" Clinton looks at him sharply, a pencil tapping against his note-pad, before he muses, "The surname’s an odd coincidence."

"Same as you being named after the greatest actor that’s ever lived. But that doesn’t mean I think you ride horses down the Rio Grande in your spare time, Clint. Tyler’s surname is common enough." Gene’s eyes turn guarded, "Why do you think I have personnel problems?"

"It’s common knowledge around here, he pulled a gun on you, everyone‘s heard of it in the station." Clinton rubs the back of his neck, his expression growing pained, "Guv, look, you and I work well together, and with me mum taking a slide in health I thought, circumstances permitting, that you might want to re-consider your options. It sounds like you could use someone who’s actually *guarding* your back, rather than trying to shoot you in it."

Gene lets some of the anger creep into his expression.

Clinton stands, mouth curving in a pale grin. "I’ll be hanging around for a few days, cross-referencing background checks, making sure everything’s dinky-die. I wouldn’t want to stumble across any sort of…connection…between your D.I and any unsavoury characters."

"Trust me, D.I Tyler knows a whole host of unsavoury characters."

If Clinton Roberts ever picks up on the implied threat, then he shows no sign of it. He walks out the door with the same confidence he had the first time he left, when Clint thought he would make D.C.I within a month. Gene wonders which way he’ll bolt first, to see his ailing mother, or to reacquaint himself with Rathbone’s wrinkly white arse. "D.C Carling!"

There’s a vibration running down his spine, taut as a divining rod, seeking water or the singular cause of an office leak. Ray freezes when he sees his face, but there’s honest confusion in the way he approaches Hunt’s office, "Guv?" Personnel problems, as if Gene can’t handle his own team, as if Tyler were a loose cannon and Hunt incompetent to the point where he couldn’t hold a rein on him. The vibration turns into a rattle, the fury spilling over. Ray whitens, tongue flickering at his lips. "Sir?" He doesn’t use the salutation often; it means he’s pissing in his pants, and to Hunt, it‘s like a red flag.

Gene rabbit punches him in the throat, only once, but viciously.

Ray crumbles to his knees silently, forehead pressed to the ground. Hunt crouches beside him, his voice a menacingly rasp. "We don’t have personnel problems in A division, Detective-Constable. We don’t require outside help when it comes to governing our own. Or did you forget that sweet little rule when I broke your rank down and docked your pay, instead of charging your sorry excuse with manslaughter and reckless endangerment?" There’s a shake, a strangled gasp. "The rules go both ways, Carling, next time you feel like gossiping like a dim-witted tart, show a little discretion and keep your mouth shut, comprehend?" Gene waits for a second, then hauls Ray upright, holding him steady until the frantic pulse-beat subsides. Even so, it takes a good five minutes before his D.C can draw breath to talk.

"S-sorry, guv," Ray’s voice is like raw hamburger meat, protesting feebly, "But Clint *worked* here."

Gene keeps his reply succinct, "He don’t any more."

"Guv?" Tyler enters the room, Annie trailing at his heels. His D.I takes one look at Carling, his eyes turning assessing. Annie hands over her coffee cup without a word, silent commiseration for those who have been at the receiving end of the guv‘s fury. Ray takes it, one hand curled around his throat protectively.

Gene leans against his desk, ankles crossed loosely, "What have you, Sherlock?"

"McCaine’s insurance claim runs consecutively from the years 1964 to 1972. His factory fell into harder climes three years ago, and to save money…"

"He skimped on the insurance," Gene rubs at his brow.

Tyler stares at him, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, like a flaming nancy-boy of ‘I-told-you-so-rightness’. "He hasn’t been covered for over nine months. McCaine’s not going to see a lick of money out of this fire, guv, and forty workers just lost their job. Still think it was an insurance scam?"

"What about the second building that was destroyed? The mechanics?" Sam drops his gaze. Smelling blood in the water, Gene pushes away from the desk, "Well, come on Sammy-boy, you’re the thorough investigative type, I have every confidence you looked into both businesses."

"Insured up to a quarter of a million." Sam admits.

Ray looks up from his coffee and whistles low, "For that, I would have let Chris *fart* in the building and set it alight myself."

"You would have taken out the whole city block, Raymundo." Hunt grins, razor sharp. Tyler’s holding another card up his sleeve, and although Gene knows that he is absolutely, without doubt, one hundred per cent right about this, and that Tyler is wrong, wrong, so very wrong, he’s still curious about Sam’s counter argument. Something coils tight in his stomach, anticipation, like the first round in a fight. "Is W.P.C Cartwright here for a reason, or do you just like travelling with a female entourage these days?"

"The mechanics wasn’t the primary target, there’s every indication that it’s destruction was a by-product."

"Balderdash. Some clever bastard thought being the secondary ‘victim’ would throw us of the scent, and while we’re focused on the body in the glue factory, some murdering swine is collecting a payout so large that he can permanently retire in Honor Blackman‘s crotch."

Ray considers, "Pussy Galore? Actually, that’s a pretty compelling argument."

"Good," Sam counters, "you can chase that avenue down with Chris, instead."

Ray, indignant, almost spills his coffee, "What about you?"

Tyler directs his answer to Gene, "I’m waiting to see if our John Doe has a name. You coming to the morgue, guv?"

Hunt narrows his eyes, gaze flickering to Cartwright. She’d been silent throughout the exchange, but her shoulders are riding high, tension evident in the line of her body. She would have seen corpses before, but Gene doesn’t know if she’s ever seen a burn victim. "Are we taking the sodding plonk?"

"D.I Tyler thought my presence might be beneficial," Annie answers evenly.

The girl didn’t flinch, not at his tone, or at the moniker Gene deliberately chose. Satisfied, Hunt grabs his coat, "D.I Roberts is gunning for your job, Sam, so you better impress."

Tyler looks up, his voice mock incredulous, "What, he actually *wants* to work here?"

Gene brushes past him, "Tyler, you’re already starting on a negative scale…don‘t make it worse." Roberts is a damn good detective, and if he’s serious about investigating Sam and his supposed connection, or lack thereof, to Vic Tyler, then Gene knows he’s like a basset hound, and a glory boy to boot.

He doesn’t tell Sam about the body from 1971 - he doesn’t want his D.I’s attention to be any more scattershot than it already is - and the name Vic Tyler never led anywhere good.

***********

//He lit his first fire when he was eleven years old, mesmerized by the shimmer and quake of an open flame. There was beauty in its flickering heat; a quantifiable, formless grace. He used to sit at the edge of the pit, fingers out-stretched toward the warmth. He’s lost all sensation in the pads now, the skin smooth as stretched rubber, the fingerprints melted clean.

He defecated at the first scene, crouched low under bushes, his heart-beat trip-hammering.

The second time he used fire, he set alight his neighbours cat, doused in petrol, and using his da’s old lighter. He almost singed his eyebrows off, and as for the cat, he never saw the end result. He remembers its scream, inhuman bright, a flash of hell-fire before it sprinted away. He tried to follow its circular route, its wild dash, but he lost it, like trying to catch a will-o-the-wisp by the tail, nothing left but the lingering stench of torched fur and a bone-deep rage that he had been cheated of his prize. He wanted to *watch*.

He’s twenty-four years old when he first sees the Buddhist monks protesting the war in Vietnam. Mesmerized all over again as he observed their tranquil composure on telly. He wonders what it’s like, to sit so still, untouched by the physical horror they *must* have felt. He remembers the way they folded forward, robes like the corona of a sun, blazing orange, the way their expression crumbled and blackened at the lips.

He was hard from the moment they lit themselves alight. He jerks off to that image rarely, hoarding it like a secret treasure, to be admired sparingly before its packed away in a protective box. He thinks that is what belief *really* is - the first rule of any religion is to do no harm - and their act of martyrdom to a shocked world was never forgotten. There was nothing cowardly about the strength of their conviction.

Living or dying by fire. Existing in a world of heat.

He tilts his head toward the pale blue sky, one hand cupping his balls, tracing idle patterns, and thinks about Jamie Currol’s twisted visage, the scream of fire trucks ringing in his ear, and that lone copper crouched among the ruins as the sun painted the sky red. //

**********

"Of a study relating to serial arsonists, the statistics of two hundred known offenders revealed that 82% were Caucasian and aged twenty-seven years or younger. They averaged thirty-one fires apiece and 94% of them were male. Most had a high school education or less, mid to low intelligence, and masturbated or scented the crime scene."

"Scented?" Gene asks sharply.

"Pissed, shitted, wanked off. Take your simile and run with it, guv. 87% had prior felony of some sort, and most to all of them stayed to watch their handiwork if the fires were lit in an urban environment."

"Kinky little bugger, I’m not sure if hanging around to take a dump would be high on my priority list. Are you planning on collecting any and all samples of dog shite found in the area, Tyler?"

Hardly. "I thought I’d leave that for Ray."

Gene snorts and eyes Cartwright, "That’s what plonks are for." They’re sitting on the bench at the coroners, lined up like the three wise monkeys while waiting for Oswald. It can’t hurt to humour him, "What’s the cliché?"

"Fire department, someone who works close to flames, someone who can insert themselves into the process. Serial arsonists, serial killers, one trait they share in common is their desire to have both thumbs in the pie."

"Rory will love that. He’ll take you apiece limb by limb, then shove that fire-hose he loves so much right up your jacksie."

"You asked for the cliché."

Cliché’s only become that way because of one reason - the frequency in which they occur - it doesn’t mean Gene believes it though.  Oswald appears at the doorway, blinking like an owl when he spots Annie sitting between them.

"You might want to leave the girl behind, gentlemen, it’s not a pleasant sight for a pretty lass."

"We’re furthering her education, doc," Gene mutters, "besides, I have a quid saying she’ll throw up in under five minutes."

Annie stands, smoothing her skirt down, "What did D.C Carling say?"

"Under two."

"Good, if I last ten minutes then I collect on both bets."

Sam grins faintly.

Gene says confidentially, "You know, I do believe that bird is coming out of her shell a little bit...I don’t think I like it."

"Dental records, I’m afraid, were my only recourse," Oswald interrupts, leading them back into the morgue, "the body itself was burnt beyond recognition. I estimate the ambient temperature inside the factory would have been around seven hundred degrees, which left us with a husk, sexual genitalia and most flesh burnt clean off. I can tell you from the initial examination that he was a male, the growth and striation marks along the femur would indicate an adolescent between the ages fifteen to seventeen years old. The gasses the boy inhaled shredded his lungs before the flames ever reached him; but it would have been small mercy, gentlemen."

Annie’s nostrils flare, her eyes darting from the body to the opposite wall. She sees the corpse in flashes of red/black, the occasional white, where bone is visible in the most vulnerable regions, the wrist, ankles, shin. Everything else reminds her of a lava bed, crusted black, flashes of gory red. She feels her stomach heave and breathes out of her mouth deliberately, trying to waylay the scent by not inhaling through her nose. Unconsciously, she shifts closer to Sam. Oswald passes a yellow file to Hunt, x-rays spilling out haphazardly.

"Jamie Currol," Gene reads, "Born 1957, and reported missing in the summer of ‘72. Looks like your street rat was sixteen, Sammy." He glances over, eyes narrowing, "Stand any closer to him, Cartwright, and you’ll be sitting on Tyler’s dick."  Annie leaps away.  Sam scowls.  "What’s the matter, love, feeling a bit queasy?" Gene continues, "A nice steak, medium rare, will settle your stomach right down."

"Lay off, guv."

Gene’s eyes flash, fix on Tyler dangerously, "The *plonk* shouldn’t be here."

"You’ll want uniform peddling the streets to find out if Jamie Currol knew anyone, or had any connection to McCaine. If they’re going to do the leg-work, then at least one of the ’plonks’ should have an in-depth understanding of the case they’re working."

Gene checks his watch impatiently, "You know, the eyeballs would have popped in his skull under the intensity of that heat…have you thrown up yet, girl?"

"Christ, will you forget about your Party Seven and focus on the case."

Gene drops the file, they scatter forgotten on the tiled floor and steps in close, shoving Tyler hard across the shoulders. Buffeted, Annie clears away, not understanding why the mood changed so fast. "I *am*. We ditch the plonk in the street as soon as we’re done here and then you and me, Tyler, are going to have a nice chat with the man who owned the mechanics and had it insured up to a quarter of a fucking million pounds, because call me daft, but that sounds pretty damn relevant to me!!!"

Sam twists away, his face flattening, his hands curling tight.

He hasn’t slept, Annie thinks, he hasn’t slept in days, and this can’t be helping. "Sir, I haven’t thrown up yet, and I could use that ten quid to catch a taxi back to the station and alert uniform that we have an I.D. on the body."

Gene jerks, but doesn’t turn to face her. "Use the radio in the car, luv, and get one of the lads to pick you up. Canvas the streets.  Find out what you can about our Mr. Currol and any dealings he may have had. Make sure Ray has the information, too, when he question McCaine this afternoon."

"Yes, sir." She glances at Sam, his face is corpse-white. She says hesitantly, "Night shift finished a few hours ago, sir."

"He can sleep when he’s dead. Right, Tyler?" The tension in Sam’s body bleeds away, he nods jerkily. "Good lad, now quit it with the outlandish theories and focus on the obvious. You and I are going to bust down some doors and catch ourselves a greased monkey." Gene shakes him, once, hard. "And you’re going to do it without sticking out your bottom lip and sulking like a nipper." He’s invaded Sam’s personal space, a casual usurpation, smashing down the barriers and occupying the no-man‘s land between them.

What’s more interesting to Annie, is that Tyler *allows* it. He doesn’t attempt to pull away, the professional distance he maintains with almost everyone else knocked askew. Gene does it again and again, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Sam during interviews, so close you couldn‘t slip a penny between them, or arguing with him when displeased. Hunt doesn’t use his fists quite so much anymore, instead he blocks, using his body weight to pin the slighter man against slippery surfaces; or he drags Tyler around by the collar like a disobedient puppy.

The first instances when they clashed, the intent was bodily harm, (and bizarrely, she suspects that for *Sam* it still is) but something has tempered Gene’s interaction since then, and the guv has gentled his approach.

It’s still frightening in Annie’s eyes, like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, the snap and crackle of violent energy making the hairs on her nape stand on end, but it feels leashed, anger and need coiled tight. She watches them for a moment, her thoughts veiled, then glances away.

She catches a quick glimpse of the corpse, Jamie Currol’s lips are burnt clean off, his teeth bared in a rictus grin.

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

He finds 21a Burrowhead Ave without a hitch, walking the distance from the police station to D.I Tyler’s flat with an unhurried stride. He’s compiling a list of shopping items he needs to buy for his mother, thinking about Ray’s crow of delighted laughter when he entered the building. Relief. It’s not a reaction he would have expected out of the former D.S, but there it was, clear as day, Ray Carling was *happy* to see him. Clinton Roberts grin’s faintly and flicks out his pocket knife as he takes the stairs three at a time.

As it turns out, the door looks like it’s been hit on by a rhinoceros, it stands crookedly upright on a whim and a prayer. It takes him less than thirty seconds to break into the flat, and it takes him less than half a second to decide D.I Tyler’s not on the take. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The bed is neatly made, the telly stands at an angle to the room, and he’s getting a headache just contemplating the wallpaper. He turns in a semi-circle. Photograph, a book bent back on its spine, case reports stacked neatly by the bed. The room has the closed in scent of a house not lived in, as if Tyler hasn’t been home for some time.

Clint doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly - but there’s a wrongness that bleeds out of the very walls - an itch in his spine that urges him to turn around now (see it!) , now, now, now, like a phantom buzzing in the periphery of his eye-line. He jerks, feels sweat gather under his shirt. He can’t hear the street, the room with its open door devoid of all neighbourly sounds, or even the barking of a dog. He strains his ears, turns again, the oppressiveness tunnelling the edges of the room, the shadows from the half-drawn curtains growing long. It feels like there’s no air in the room.

*"Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est,"* he murmurs, then again, calming himself. It’s a stupid litany, the words rolling off his tongue, the edges of an asthma attack easing as he fights for stillness, inner tranquillity. He can feel his heart-rate slow down, blinking spots from his vision. The sweat on his skin turns clammy.

Gene Hunt’s reception had surprised him, made him burn with humiliation, he wasn’t expecting the door to be closed permanently when he left, he wasn’t prepared for the frozen wasteland of Hunt’s regard, to be shuttered out into the cold. D.C.I Hunt is ferociously protective of his team - a primitive law of us and them that dictates social niceties. Two years working in Southampton, and Clinton Roberts has become one of ‘them’. Not to Ray or Chris though, not to half the station who watch Tyler uneasily.

He’s seen enough in this room. Clinton fingers the crucifix at his throat, then closes the door quietly behind him, tripping lightly down the stairs. He’s going to catch Vic, he’s going to expose Tyler to the light so that Gene can see what he is, he’s going to win back his place and the fellow respect of his old-time colleagues.

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

"Nuttier than a fruit-cake."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My god, man, I had a 1935 Jaguar SS 100 housed in that garage!! Are you bleedin’ insane," John Edward Corrington bellows, "of course I didn’t set it alight!" agitated, the man actually pulls at his hair.

Alarmed, Gene takes a step back. "Alright then, easy does it."

"I mean, it was beautiful, it glistened hunter green. The engine purred like a cat. I loved that car," tears prickle at the man’s eyes, he paws at Sam‘s sleeve imploringly. "I could see every wrinkle in my face reflected in the paint-work."

"That’s um….um…"

"A little bit disturbing actually. I’m beginning to think you might have sexually molested it."

The man throws his hands up, cries out like a drama queen, "I lost my virginity in that…."

"Enough!! You’re very upset, we understand that, but the mechanics was insured for a pretty price, Mr. Corrington, we’d be remiss if we didn’t investigate."

"Yes! Yes, you do that! You find out who destroyed my life with such callous disregard. You do that, Mr. Hunt, and I’ll reward you with a king’s ransom."

"We don’t accept money," Sam interjects quickly.

"We don’t?" Gene protests.

"Four vintage cars, Mr. Hunt, fully restored or in the process thereof. You find out who did it."

"Can you tell us where you were on the night?"

"At the gala opening of the Regent Theatre, the presentation of the Nutcracker."

Tyler elbows him, hard, before Gene can muster a reply. John Edward Corrington frets, wringing his hands silently. Disbelievingly, Gene says, "You’re actually married?"

The man frowns, bites down on his cheek, and says cautiously, "I have children."

Knowingly, Gene lets his eyes rake over the ponce, "Right."

"Can anyone verify your presence?" Sam asks smoothly.

"My daughter and….a friend of mine, Dayel Harren."

"It’s alright if we come back with any further questions," Tyler’s not asking permission, but the words are politely phrased. Gene doesn’t know why he bothers.

"Of course."

They walk away together, hands jammed into their coat pockets. "He wasn’t exactly a grease monkey, was he?"

Gene looks over sideways, voice a deadpan, "He was greased in places where the sun don’t shine, Sammy." Tyler makes a face and slides into the passenger seat. It’s late afternoon, the sun waning behind a growing cloud-front. Gene starts the engine, listening to the quiet roar, "Losing your virginity in a Jag, sad thing is, he was probably old enough to drive it at the time. Me, I was fourteen when I shuckled off my innocent coil."

Sam snorts, "How much did you pay her?"

"Best five pounds I ever spent." Gene admits, unashamed. He sees a smile curve Sam’s lips, his head ducking down. Content, Gene down-gears into second, his hand firm on the stick. "What about you?"

"You have a disturbing fascination with your team’s sex life."

Gene lets his teeth show, "Past, not current…it’s not like I’m asking for the story of your life." He almost regrets the words when he says them. Gene’s never asked anything from Tyler, not about his history, but Clinton Roberts is going to be digging in the man’s cradle soon, and Hunt wants something for himself. Freely given.

He jerks the cortina around a corner, foot slamming hard on the clutch, sliding into third then fourth as they gather momentum. He needs to warn Sam, but Tyler isn’t corrupt and as for Vic…well, that’s a sore spot for everyone involved. He glances sideways, lets his eyes go hard, "You still a virgin, Tyler?"

"Not since I was sixteen."

Huh, beat him by two years, Gene thinks, he always knew he had the good looks. He returns his attention to the road. "What, in a meadow, seduced her with a line of poetry and cheap wine?"

"No, in the back of the gym on a Wednesday afternoon with dirty socks."

Gene laughs, "Who with? Tom, Dick, or Harry?"

"Melissa Spur."

"Big tits?"

"No," Sam says slowly, "she was as flat-chested as a teenage boy."

Nonplussed, Gene looks at him, "Don’t tell me Ray was right about you all along."

Sam grins, mischievously bright. "She represented the school in gymnastics."

"Oh," Gene says, with a whole new level of respect, he pauses for a beat then enquires, "Flexible?"

"Like the snap of a rubber band."

Gene chortles softly. Tyler goes boneless in his seat, the smile dark in his eyes, watching Gene silently, five minutes later, he’s finally fallen asleep.

**********

Katie screams herself awake, limbs failing in the absence of light, fire burning behind her eyelids as the dreams recedes. She’s awake, shivering uncontrollably, coughs that are lung-deep and painful spasms that have her bent double. She can hear Jamie’s voice in the back of her mind. Her hands are burnt, the flesh on her inner thigh oozing wet. She feels like she’s burning up, like she’s still stuck in the glue factory, with Jamie shoving at her from behind. Self-flagellation, she lets her nails dig into the open blisters until she whimpers aloud. She lost her sanity a long time ago.