Police AU: The Android Sent By Cyber Crime

[chlorhexidine]

“Superintendent Kier needs to speak to you.” The words were delivered in a menacing sing-song. That combined with the full title of DS Kier sent shivers of alarm up and down Lumi's spine. Larxene enjoying herself never boded well for anyone.

“I'm on my way,” Lumi answered. He put the internal phone down before Larxene could offer further words of menace and discomfort. Marluxia was picking his way through DC Jaegerjacques' appalling grammar in a report, with a frown on his face. Lumi glanced at him sidelong and uttered, “I swear if this is arts and crafts related I'm retiring.”

Marluxia’s eyes remained fixed on his screen longer than his face did as he turned towards Lumi. “Don't do anything hasty,” he said, in a silky purr. “We know how to make bodies disappear so long as we have time to plan.”

Lumi allowed Marluxia’s pragmatism a huff of dry amusement before he stood. Kier's office was across the bank of open cubicles that made up a lot of the department's space. One or two of the more alert coppers watched as Lumi passed between desks, a definite stalk in his step. He didn't pause when Larxene smirked at him from hers and filed past her to get to her boss.

Kier had anticipated his arrival. The fact would have been more impressive if he hadn't told his vicious little secretary to call him sixty seconds before. “Two of our suspects have turned up in the back of the same lorry,” he declared, the moment Lumi was through the door. “The NCA are coming down to review the files.”

Lumi felt the growl in his own throat. Having another department, or in the case of the NCA a cluster of associated departments that now made up what used to be known as Serious and Organised, come in to run roughshod over your investigations and pick through your paperwork was as annoying as being audited. “Dead?” he asked, clinging to hope.

Kier shook his head. His face spoke of the same regrets. “Being smuggled out.”

Lumi would have been lying if he claimed that didn't surprise him. Trafficking wasn't his field, and cases that pointed that way were handed over to be somebody else's budgetary concern as quickly as the paperwork would allow, but in his limited experience people were usually trafficked into the country, not out of it. He blinked. “Just two?”

Kier's lips pursed as if he was trying to hold back a nasty smile. “Two of yours, one of Johnson's, and one for anti-terrorism, so far. They're still identifying the others.”

Lumi wanted to ask more but held his tongue. He didn't want to know too much. It was the NCA's problem, and it could remain the NCA's problem. The more Lumi knew, the more involved he’d invariably become, and the longer it would take to pack this whole thing off to somebody else. “What do we need to do?”

“They're sending a couple of officers to us to review the cases. Familiarise them, hand them anything they want, and then fuck them off before something else happens,” Kier instructed, a grimace in his tone. “I want them gone before anyone finds more mess. If we can shunt two unclosed cases to the NCA to deal with that's two less out of my budget, and two more off your uncleared list.” The look he gave Lumi with that closing statement was pointed.

Two stubbornly uncleared cases pushed over to screw with somebody else's clearance rate instead of his own was all the incentive Lumi needed to co-operate to the fullest and Kier knew it. He had a silent, ongoing rivalry with DCI Scientia in arts and crafts, and Lumi was fully prepared to employ underhand tactics to maintain his lead. “Who are they sending?”

“DCI Anderson,” Kier answered, automatically. He had to look back at his screen for the second name, “and DI Roberts. I know Hank,” he added, which told Lumi everything he might need to know about the sort of copper DCI Anderson was, “you might have to ask Florent about the DI.”

Lumi intended to. Marluxia had worked in Serious and Organised just as it became the National Crime Agency, and Johnson still worked for them, if you could call it that, although his dress sense had offended someone to the point of shunting him to a different station. Old names had a habit of sticking with old coppers, so it still got called Serious and Organised by anyone that had been a copper longer than most of Lumi's DI's. “Am I going to have to endure Johnson as well?” Lumi asked, his jaw tight.

Marius's mouth drew into a dangerous, predatory smile. “What do you think?”

Lumi’s habitual frown deepened. Johnson liked to make a nuisance of himself and avoid working on any of his own cases, so the moment some old friend from back when suspects had an unlucky tendency to fall down stairs on their way to interview showed up, he was going to come up here and offend Lumi with his continued existence. It would have the added benefit of allowing Johnson to do as little work as possible under the guise of doing important cross-departmental liaising.

“Do you know a DI Roberts?” Lumi asked, as he pulled his chair out in his and Marluxia’s office and sat back down.

Marluxia's mouth pulled tight as he thought. After a moment he answered, “Vaguely. Why?”

Lumi sighed. It was a dramatic gesture, coming from him, but that was allowed in front of Marluxia. “He and DCI Anderson are on their way.”

Marluxia gave a small chuckle that held little actual amusement. “That should be interesting.” He elaborated, when he caught Lumi's expression, “Hank Anderson never liked me, and what I remember of Constable Roberts is from when he was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie who was,” Marluxia tailed off and took a breath before he emphasised his next word, “desperate for his superior's approval.”

Lumi's frown turned into a scowl. “Oh goodie,” he muttered, wryly.

*

“So what do you know about these people?” Hank asked. The station was in the next borough to their own, but London traffic was a sticky web that entangled anyone that tried to pass through it.

“DCI Cacciatore became the youngest DCI in the service after you,” recited Connor, who had clearly read a profile or two. “Despite working murder cases he maintains one of the best clearance rates year on year. He's reported to be cold, calculating, and difficult to work with,” he continued, “and if he makes Superintendent within the next two years will be the youngest ever.” Hank was impressed Connor actually paused for breath before continuing with the next name. “DCI Johnson,” he continued, “has worked with the NCA for years, mostly on drug cases. Did you work with him?”

Big brown eyes fixed themselves on Hank. Hank could feel the force of Connor's gaze hitting the side of his face. “Yeah,” he confirmed, “Braig and I go way back. He's as bent as they come, but the good sort of bent.”

When you were training a puppy and gave it a command it didn’t understand it tilted its head. Connor did exactly the same movement. “There's a good sort of bent?”

Hank turned to look at him and sighed. “Connor,” he said, “we really need to work on your,” he waved his hand, trying to capture the word from the air while at the same time gesturing to Connor in his entirety, “rigid adherence to the rules.” Connor's lips thinned and became tight in response. “Sometimes you've gotta be flexible to get things done. Like,” he reached for an example, “not arresting everyone. So long as they're not hurting anyone it can be helpful to keep them on the streets where they can feed you information.”

Connor blinked. His head remained tilted. Hank looked away and concentrated on the road as the lights turned green again and the traffic began to trundle forwards once more. “I guess in cyber crime you didn't have that problem,” he conceded.

“No,” Connor admitted, sitting back against his seat slowly. The movement, like his tone, was thoughtful. He turned his gaze out of the window again, “I can't say we did.”

“How long were you there?” Hank asked. He knew, but Connor had an unsettling habit of sitting in utter, unmoving silence while cogs whirred in his brain, and they were whirring right now. Keeping him talking filled the void a little.

“Five years,” Connor answered. The thoughtful tone remained in his voice, or perhaps it was a regretful one.

Hank gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep his eyes on the road no matter what temptation there was to try and see if what Connor was thinking was written across his face. “You sure you wanna make it permanent?” he asked. The move from cyber crime to trafficking had been a lateral one for Connor, but Hank needed the help and the two fields intersected so much these days that it was becoming impossible to get any work done without someone that could navigate the dark web to hand.

Connor's head turned sharply towards Hank again. “Yes,” he answered, without a second's doubt. In his peripheral vision Hank saw Connor's smile. It eased the squirming discomfort in Hank's own. Connor had only been with him for a few months, and the ink was still wet on the paperwork that made the transfer permanent, but Hank had grown to like Connor's particular brand of naïve enthusiasm. Plus he was a fiend in the interview room.

“Here we are,” Hank said, giving his indicators a cursory flash before he turned into the car park. It was definitely a copper's car park. You could even spot the ranks by how much each car cost. “Flash bastard,” Hank muttered, eyeing up an honest to god Bentley as he pulled into the only available space.

Connor's head turned as he took in the cars all around. Hank had pulled up next to a battered old Nissan Sunny that was fog grey except for the passenger side door, which was bright orange. A dark grey Bentley sporting a disabled badge took prime position closest to the doors, and a black Mercedes C-class and beautifully maintained if ageing Jaguar XE sat beside that. “We seem to be outclassed,” Connor commented, stepping out of Hank's dull if very comfortable Ford Focus.

“They seem to be overpaid,” Hank replied. He jabbed a finger at the Bentley. “That's Marius. He always was a prick.”

“Superintendent Kier,” Connor replied. Hank couldn't tell if he was being corrected, or if Connor was just locking the information down in his own head. “You worked with him, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” Hank said, making his way towards the doors. Connor followed like a well trained dog, tugging the cuffs of his shirt straight underneath his jacket. “Don’t see him often these days. He got his knee busted up a while back. Walks with a stick now, so they put him on desk work.”

“Did you never consider going for superintendent?” Connor asked, following Hank into the lift like an eager poodle.

Hank was almost offended at the question. “Hell no,” he replied, fixing Connor with a glance as if he'd just suggested Hank go vegetarian. “That's not police work,” he spat, brows furrowed and lip curled in a sneer, “that's management.” Hank looked at Connor's big dumb face, and the slight tilt to his head as he looked up at Hank and listened. “I wouldn't touch that no matter what they paid me,” he insisted, waving the idea down with one hand, “Some of us are happy staying as DCIs.”

The lift ground to a shaky halt and the doors opened, spitting them out onto a corridor. Connor stayed behind Hank as he made his way down it, stopping at one door to poke his head inside.

“Hank!” a man's voice exclaimed, coloured with a laugh before the speaker enveloped him in a brief embrace. “How you doing you old bastard?”

Hank grinned back at the speaker. “Getting old,” he answered. “The years ain't been kind to you either. What happened to your face?”

The man shrugged one shoulder. The injury was old enough to have scarred, but it had clearly been deep and nearly taken the man's eye. His eyebrow and cheek were bisected with a gnarled line of flesh. “Drug dealer maybe five years back? We didn't find the shiv on the pat down.”

Hank hissed a quiet, “Shit. Has it been that long?”

“Feels longer. Who's the stiff?” The man pointed to Connor behind Hank's shoulder.

Hank glanced behind him, and then gestured to Connor with a thumb. “Connor,” he said, and then looked back at Connor, gesturing to the scarred man. “This is Braig.”

“DCI Johnson,” Connor said, the man’s identity resolving into one he’d seen a file on. Connnor moved forward and offered his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.”

Braig raked his eyes over Connor, taking in the polished shoes, fitted suit, and cropped hair. He took Connor's hand, but turned to Hank to speak. “He new?”

Hank shook his head, his mouth turned into a thoughtful frown. “No,” he said, and then amended with a shrug, “well, cyber crime,” as if that was an explanation for something.

Braig's reply of “Ohh,” sounded as if it was all the explanation he needed. “Lumi's gonna love him.”

“Where is he?” Hank asked. They might as well get this over with.

Braig pointed upwards. “Up one. I'll come with you. Any time DCI Princess sets eyes on me he gets this expression like he's biting into a lemon. Might as well do two birds with one stone and get us all together, right?” His grin was twisted and mean.

*

Lumi’s will to live died a little more as Braig approached the office. He was followed by a man in his fifties. Lumi took in the grey hair, grey beard, and truly awful patterned shirt showing from underneath the worn waterproof coat. He and Braig shared their taste in clothing.

“Have you found anywhere to hide the bodies?” he asked Marluxia, in an undertone.

Marluxia didn't look up from his computer terminal. “If we hide them at Kier's country house and then call it in we might be able to make another opening in the ranks.”

Lumi looked across at Marluxia, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards despite the incoming annoyance. “Have I ever told you how impressed I am at what a devious bastard you can be?”

Marluxia's lips curled in a smirk and he turned his gaze to Lumi. “I’m glad that my skills are appreciated.”

The door to their office was thrown open without so much as a knock. “Lumi!” The voice was bright and joyous.

Lumi scowled. “Johnson,” he reluctantly acknowledged.

Braig gestured to the man following him. “This is DCI Anderson. Marius spoke to you, right?”

“He did,” Lumi confirmed, eyeing the identified DCI critically. His shoes were worn out trainers that were probably comfortable on the feet, and he had a generally unkempt look about him that made Lumi expect he smelled of greasy food and cheap whiskey on the weekends. He was taller than Braig, and broader, and while he had the thick body of middle age, with the padding of bad diet and inactivity around the middle, he wasn't in the worst shape Lumi had seen for a man in his fifties.

Someone Lumi guessed to be in his mid-twenties, wearing a well cut Ralph Lauren suit with polished black shoes and a carefully combed hairstyle entered the room behind Anderson. “And DI Roberts, I presume,” Lumi commented.

The young one straightened up, and gave Lumi a polite and confirming nod. “Yes, sir.” Lumi's dislike of him was instant.

Braig gestured to Marluxia. “You probably remember Marluxia,” he added, for Anderson's benefit.

Anderson regarded Marluxia like he'd been reintroduced to something he'd stepped in a while back and had almost had the fortune to forget about. “Yeah, I remember him,” he said, his nose wrinkling. “I heard you finally made it to DCI.”

Marluxia's smile held no warmth, just the restrained venom of a long nurtured distaste. “News travels slowly,” he replied.

“Kier didn't elaborate much,” Lumi said, drawing attention away from the dagger throwing competition that threatened to start. “What's the NCA's interest?”

“Border control stopped a lorry heading for Calais and found people in it,” Anderson supplied. “Leaving the country. Four are suspects in cases from London, and one we haven't found out what she did yet.”

“Illegal emigration,” Lumi replied. Border control were always so focused on stopping foreigners getting into the country on the backs of lorries that they barely gave a passing thought to stopping people from getting out.

“Shouldn't be a surprise,” Anderson said. “Wherever there's money there's crime. Human beings are just another kind of cargo.”

“Yeah,” Braig supplied, “and this cargo paid thousands to travel.”

“There's no point moving an empty vehicle,” Anderson added. His mouth was pressed into a thin frown. “We're still working on what was going to happen when they got to France, but for now we wanna know how these guys knew where to get on that truck.”

“If three of them are linked to crimes here,” Lumi began, and tailed off. The rest of the sentence didn't need to be said.

DI Roberts said it anyway. “Then it stands to reason that the link that brought them together is also here.”

Lumi inhaled slowly through his nose. This was going to be a very trying day, and he could see Marluxia's amused smirk out of the corner of his eye, compounding his irritation. “What do you need?”

“Your case files,” Anderson answered, and then gestured to Roberts, “and Connor can go over anything digital you have in evidence. Make sure we haven't missed anything.”

It was a magnanimous 'we', and it sent the hackles on Lumi's back up. “Of course.”

“I look forward to working with you, DCI Cacciatore,” Roberts said. He even pronounced the name right.

Lumi fixed the kid with a flat, unimpressed look. “Do you.”

*

“I don't think DCI Cacciatore likes me,” Connor said, as they left the office with slim files. A couple of empty terminals beckoned, allowing them the opportunity to review the logs.

Hank looked sidelong at Connor. Cacciatore hadn't been openly hostile, but he'd exuded hostility just as surely as Florent had exuded smarm. “Cacciatore's a fucking prick,” he announced. “He's more bothered about his fancy suit and his reputation than the job.”

Connor fell a step behind and glanced down at his own clothing before he resumed his stride. “His reputation is linked to his being good at the job,” he pointed out.

Hank sat down in a chair and glowered at the computer screen as he stabbed at the power button with a finger. “No it's not,” he countered, “it's linked to him having people who are good at the job under him.” The screen went from black to a different type of black, and then became Microsoft blue. Connor sank into the seat beside him. “Never trust a DCI who's got his eyes on Superintendent, Connor,” Hank added. “He'll tell you whatever he needs to say to get to you to do his work for him.”

“Unlike you,” Connor replied, his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. “You would never stand back while I do the work.”

Hank eyed him, turned away, and then turned back to eye him again. He fought against the smile that threatened to spread across his face. “That's different,” he said, “I'm your CO. You have to do what I tell you.”

*

Marluxia stepped out of his Mercedes and into the organised, busy chaos of a recently discovered crime scene. A chill wind ruffled his hair and tried to reach its fingers beneath his coat. DI Paine approached, her notebook in hand.

“I left a rather nice steak to go cold for this,” Marluxia commented. Lumi had been cruelly amused and assured him that the wine would be finished without him, which hadn't helped soothe Marluxia's irritation with the inconvenience.

“Glenn Bradford. Truck driver,” Paine said, simply. She never had been one for indulging people's gripes. “Throat slit. NCA are interested for Operation Drawback.”

The mention of the NCA's involvement sent a prickle of unpleasant anticipation down Marluxia's spine. “Operation Drawback wouldn't happen to be the one involving the trafficking of criminal suspects out of the country, would it?”

Paine only smiled. Marluxia sighed. “Has DCI Anderson been informed?”

“He and DI Roberts are already here.”

“Delightful,” Marluxia intoned, as if the word were a funeral bell. “Take me through it, then.” He gestured to the crime scene, and the fresh noddy suits milling about in the centre. The eighteen wheeler had been parked neatly in a bay, at the edge of the lot.

“Tachograph showed break time,” Paine said. She rarely wasted words in sentences. “Parked. Bought food. Got back in his cab. Now dead.”

“By someone that slit his throat,” Marluxia murmured. They gave the noddy suits space to work and circled wide around the truck.

“Quiet.” Paine commented.

Marluxia nodded. His thoughts were the same. Whoever had done it had known who they were going for, what their opportunity would be, and had planned for it to draw as little attention as possible. The lot used by the lorries and trucks was brightly lit at the centre, but dark and shadowy at the edge. “How long ago?” Marluxia asked.

Paine shook her head. “Pathologist is still assessing.”

“Which one?” Marluxia felt a knot of unhappiness form suddenly in his gut. He didn't like either of the pathologists, but one was definitely worse than the other.

“Granz.”

Marluxia's upper lip curled. “At least Granz will get to meet Roberts,” he muttered, taking small consolation in the fact. “What else?”

Paine looked back at her notebook and flicked through pages. “Schedule puts him in Dover tomorrow morning. Previously worked for Stobart, now works for LKW Walter.”

Lorry drivers moved around, Marluxia reflected. They were as bad as any other kind of traveller community. Never in one place for long, everyone else they knew was also one of them, and a pain in the proverbial to pin down when you needed to speak to them. “Next of kin?”

“Wife,” Paine answered, “and child in Slough. Someone's on route.”

They hadn't been told yet, then, which was unfortunate. Marluxia remembered being the one that had to deliver that news, back when he'd been just a constable. A man's wife and children had been in the car when some idiot in a stolen vehicle had T—boned them at high speed. The wife had made it to hospital along with one of the kids, and the other was dead at the scene. The man looked like his world had just ended. Dahlia had only been six at the time and hadn't understood why her father was waking her up for a hug in the middle of the night. He hoped she would never have to understand.

“No witnesses?” Marluxia asked. It would be too much to hope for that someone that knew the driver's route and break routine well enough to slit his throat in the dark corner of a parking lot had made the mistake of being seen, but criminals were stupid and sometimes police got lucky.

Paine gestured towards the lit shop, which harboured a few uniforms hiding from the chill. “Just the employee. Says the victim bought a sandwich, drink, and several chocolate bars around 6pm. Multiple customers since. Thought they saw the victim get out of his cab around 7pm and figured he was going to piss against a tree.”

Marluxia's brow furrowed. “So they saw someone head out into the darkness behind the truck instead of using the toilet on-site?”

Paine's flat expression told Marluxia she had the same doubts he did. “Could have been buying drugs,” she pointed out, fairly. “Drivers are known for it.”

“Or it could have been our throat slitter,” Marluxia replied. “Did they find drugs in the cab?”

“Not yet,” Paine replied. “Still searching.”

Marluxia didn't want to wade in amongst a bunch of noddy suits and start giving orders. That was a fast track to wearing one of the wretched things yourself, and they always played havoc with his hair. “Let's go and ask our witness some further questions,” Marluxia murmured.

Paine followed him towards the lit shop. It looked like a combination greasy spoon and corner shop, which was probably highly lucrative in this location. Trucks ran on their driver's bellies, and their driver's bellies ran on sausages, fried bread, sweet tea, and chocolate. The thought was enough to make Marluxia ill.

The smell inside the shop was worse. Old grease pervaded the air. Marluxia didn't want to touch anything because he'd have to wash his hands afterwards, and he didn't want to think what condition the toilet and bathroom facilities were in.

DI Roberts stood in the middle of the canteen, his pristine suit covered over by a long coat. He looked from the CCTV camera behind the till, and out along its line of sight. Anderson stood with his back against a wall, arms folded, watching Roberts do whatever he was doing.

“Don't waste your time,” Marluxia said. “The CCTV won't have caught anything out there.”

“The CCTV system is on a looped network,” Roberts said, turning his attention back to the camera, instead of to Marluxia. “One of the loops has been down for weeks, so only half the parking area is covered.” Now he turned to Marluxia, setting big brown eyes and an honest face on him. “Our victim parked right in the dead zone. The killer knew he wouldn't be caught on camera.”

Marluxia felt the frown settle on his face. He turned his attention to Anderson instead. “So you think he was picking up illegal emigrants.”

“Or he'd been told to,” Anderson commented, taking a couple of steps forward to move nearer Roberts. It was almost protective, like a large predator moving behind its cub, making sure that it was close enough to do some serious damage if anyone made a wrong move. “Instead he was killed.”

Marluxia pursed his lips. “I don't suppose,” he ventured, “that the NCA were already watching this site?”

Anderson gave a single 'ha' of derision. “You think we'd be that lucky?” He shook his head, taking another step towards Roberts. “This place was on a list. We hadn't got as far as doing a manned watch yet. There won't be any point now, either. The place is crawling with uniforms. If they were running anything out of here they'll move.”

“It might be worth putting some men on the other sites,” Roberts suggested, turning towards Anderson like an eager puppy looking for approval.

Anderson shook his head. “They'll be on high alert for days, and we don't have the men or the budget to man all the places for long enough for this to die down.”

“We could check their camera networks,” Roberts pointed out. “See if any of the others have similar dead zones? That way we could focus our resources.”

Anderson's mouth turned into a large, thoughtful frown as he nodded. “Worth a try,” he agreed. “I'll make some calls.”

Anderson moved away, pulling out his phone, and leaving Roberts to stand there with a small, genuine smile on his face. Marluxia moved in a little closer. “Have you questioned the shop attendant?”

Roberts looked at him. They were of roughly equal height, while Anderson was a little taller. “Yes,” he said. “Our victim arrived on the lot at seventeen fifty two, parked, and came into the shop at eighteen zero three, purchased a cheese and pickle sandwich, three yorkie chocolate bars, and refilled his flask with tea, and returned to his cab at eighteen eleven. The CCTV behind the till corroborates his story.”

Marluxia blinked. Roberts rattled off times and facts without referring to a notebook, as if he'd memorised minute details. It was like being addressed by a computer in a good suit. “And the figure he saw at around seven?” Marluxia pressed.

“It was getting dark and he couldn't see very well,” Roberts recited from some internally memorised script, “but he saw a figure of indeterminate gender and height that he presumed to be the victim leaving the cab via the driver's side door at around seven and move towards the back of the HGV. Their clothing was dark, and their hood was up, but there was nothing else of note. No one was witnessed returning to the cab, but a customer came in so the assistant wasn't looking.”

Marluxia blinked again. It was eerily uncanny listening to Roberts. His eye fell on Anderson who was buried in his phone and didn't seem to have noticed. “Are you always like this?” he asked Roberts.

Roberts' head tilted. “Like what?”

Marluxia frowned. “Never mind. Have you spoken to the pathologist yet?”

“No,” Roberts answered, carefully. “DCI Anderson suggested we would get more benefit from looking at the full report instead of disturbing him right now.”

Marluxia smiled at Roberts. “Just make sure you pick up the report in person. It's helpful to be able to ask them other questions then, rather than doing it over the phone when they're working on another case.”

Roberts gave a single nod of acknowledgement. “Of course,” he answered.

“Wonderful,” Marluxia commented. “It seems you and DCI Anderson have everything under control, so my presence is superfluous. If anything else crops up, I'm sure you'll be able to enlighten me tomorrow.”

“Yes sir,” Roberts replied. Marluxia didn’t warrant the same warm smile Anderson did, he noted.

“Paine?” Marluxia asked. His DI presented herself in his line of sight without a word. “Make sure we have some uniform hangers to secure the area and then get home yourself. If anything important crops up that needs urgent attention, call me.” He trusted Paine to understand that the words 'needs urgent attention' meant 'if it's currently dying, on its way to hospital, on fire, or exploded'. Anything else could be written down and dealt with in the morning.

“Yes sir,” she replied.

“Good,” Marluxia said. “Then I'm going back home. We don't need two DCIs on scene.”

*

Connor stepped out of the uber. The pathologist's office was a grim building surrounded by businesses and residential flats that likely had no idea what went on in there. It was utterly nondescript, with a small car park to the rear that held, this early in the morning, two cars. One of them was a bright pink Volkswagen beetle that Connor had only seen exist in adverts for dolls. The other was a green Volvo estate; the sort of sturdy, reliable wardrobe of a car that someone that purchased their vehicle based entirely on the practicality chose.

Inside smelled like a hospital. That was infinitely better than smelling like you would expect a morgue to smell. A desk at the front was unmanned, and Connor leaned over to make sure there was no one crouched out of view. “Hello?”

No response. No signs of life. Connor could wait until the office staff arrived, but he preferred to get the pathologist's report and leave. He stood for a moment in hesitant indecision, and then turned to make his way deeper into the building.

“Is anyone here?”

“I would love to know how you'd respond if someone answered 'no',” came a lilting, cheerful reply. Connor pushed the door open to find a tall, thin, pink haired man, wearing white glasses with a face shield, and a disposable apron standing over a covered corpse.

“DI Connor Roberts,” he said, by way of introduction. “Are you the pathologist?”

The man fixed him with a coquettish smirk. “If I say no will you handcuff me?” Eyes roved over Connor, taking in every detail twice. “Dr Granz,” the man said, stripping off the apron and gloves with practised ease. “To what do I owe the,” he paused to rake his eyes over Connor again, “pleasure?”

“A man was killed last night,” Connor began.

Dr Granz gestured around the stainless steel of the morgue. “I have an abundance of those.”

“From last night?”

“This is London,” Dr Granz replied, giving Connor a smile. He threw the apron and gloves into an orange lined bin, and then peeled the face shield off. “But at a guess, you're here about the truck driver who suffered an unexpected invasive bronchoscopy.”

Connor regarded Dr Granz. The man seemed to be playing with him, or testing him. He also had an unnerving habit of looking at your body instead of your face. He clearly liked to unsettle people. Connor stood his ground. “The one who had his throat cut?” he translated. “Yes.”

“That's the one,” Dr Granz replied, lightly. “Do you want to see him?” The face shield dangled from the tips of his fingers, and he raked his other hand through his hair before drawing his fingers down his throat and to his collarbone.

Connor didn't twitch. “Is that necessary?”

Dr Granz shrugged. “I'm very thorough,” he replied, emphasising the words in such a way that it didn't sound as if he was talking about his pathology work.

“Just the report will be fine,” Connor told him, fixing Dr Granz with a mildly awkward smile.

Dr Granz gave a weary sigh. “If you insist.” He sashayed, hips swinging as if the man was parading down a catwalk, over to a desk that was clear of surgical tools and vials. “Throat cut from behind,” he said, mimicking the action against his own neck with his own hand, “right to left, with bruising to the mouth and nose indicative of a hand clamped over them.”

“We didn't find the knife,” Connor said, quietly.

“Not that it matters,” the doctor replied, leaning his weight on one hand on the desk and jutting his hip to the side. “With a wound like this it's basically impossible to get a definite match to the blade. It looks to have been drawn back and forth a few times to ensure the damage went deep enough, and it may have been serrated, but with the mess it made it's difficult to say for sure.”

“Did you find anything else?” Connor ignored the obviously flirtatious body language as Dr Granz leaned and pulled a file off the top of a stack.

“He was overweight, constipated, and his last meal was chocolate and a sandwich roughly twenty minutes before he died. He chewed his food badly, and was borderline diabetic. The blood screen showed no drugs in his system at the time, and there were no transferred hairs or fibres on the body.” Granz offered the file out to Connor, holding it just far enough away that Connor would have to move closer to take it. “You might get lucky with forensics and their work on the interior. The blood sprayed out, away from the assailant, and mostly went over the deceased.” Dr Granz sighed pleasurably and fixed Connor with an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid he makes for a rather boring corpse, gaping throat wound aside.”

Connor frowned and stepped closer. He took the file from Granz, flicking it open. “Is there any sign that the assailant had done this before?”

Granz shook his head and perched himself on the corner of the desk like some dame that was trying to seduce the grizzled detective in a film noir. “No. He bled out, so I can't tell if they clamped a hand over his mouth to hold his head still for the sawing, or to stop him screaming. In any case, they eventually got down to his trachea.”

Connor closed his eyes, partly to block out the sight of Granz making moves on him, and pictured their victim fighting and scrabbling at some unseen person behind them. The victim would have clawed at the arm and hand that held their head back against the headrest of the cab seat while his throat was sawed open. He frowned. “That's a horrible way to die.” The victim would have screamed, bitten, scrabbled, clawed, and kicked, and whoever killed him had just hung on and kept sawing until the meaty scrape of tissue and cartilage became a gurgle, and their victim went limp from blood loss.

“I've seen worse,” Dr Granz replied. “So are you a new recruit to Marluxia's ranks?”

Connor looked up to find himself being appraised again. “No,” he replied, giving Dr Granz a smile that he didn't feel. “I'm with the NCA under DCI Anderson.”

“Oh,” Dr Granz said, disappointment dripping from the sound. “That's a pity. I was hoping to spend more time with you in future.”

Connor smiled at Dr Granz. The man clearly lived to make the living uncomfortable, and acting like a sexual predator was his preferred way to do that. He wondered what Granz did if he was sent women police officers to hand over to. Perhaps he was an equal opportunities sex pest? “The feeling isn't mutual,” he replied, cheerily. “Thank you for your efforts.”

He turned, tucking the file under his arm, and made his way back towards the front desk. The receptionist still hadn't arrived. Connor took his phone from his pocket and ordered another uber.

*

“He's like an overeager puppy,” Marluxia said, plainly. He'd told Lumi about his experience with Anderson and Roberts when he'd got back home, but the more he dwelled on it, the odder Roberts seemed. “I've never had anyone, regardless of rank, recite the facts of an incident perfectly without having to reference a notebook.”

Lumi's nose twitched in a very slight scrunch. He'd defended, last night, that a DI being interested enough to remember the details wasn't that bizarre. He'd changed his mind when Marluxia had pointed out that Roberts had used full military time in his recount, down to the minute.

Braig shrugged one shoulder. He was perched on a chair across from Lumi's desk, the excuse being that he was waiting for Anderson to roll in. It gave him a reason to make a nuisance of himself. “Maybe he wants to get in Hank’s pants,” he offered, with a smirk. “He figures he can get a promotion that way.”

Lumi's eyebrows lifted slightly. He took a breath before conceding, “He does appear singularly career-minded.” He was a young DI, and eagerly brown-nosed with DCIs. Normally Lumi didn't object to some degree of fawning awe from his lower ranked officers, but that was when it was done by people that had a clear goal, such as not being given an unpleasant partner, or getting sent to Granz. Roberts had seemed genuine about it, and that was weird and unsettling.

Larxene shook her head, making a small noise of dispute. “Not as much as you might think,” she sang, a wicked grin beginning to spread across her face.

Marluxia looked up at her. She was perched on the corner of his desk, one leg crossed over the other, dangling an expensive red-soled shoe in the air that she almost certainly hadn't paid for with her own money. “Clearly you have other information,” he said, gesturing smoothly with one hand. “That you wish to share.”

Larxene fixed Marluxia with a dangerous smile. The two got along, always had, mostly because they had similarly dangerous charm offensives in their arsenal. “He was with trafficking on a temporary basis,” she began, turning her attention to Braig, and then Lumi. “He was supposed to go back to cyber crime, and they were offering him a good shot at DCI there,” she leaned towards Lumi, just a little, “which he turned down to make his move to trafficking permanent.”

Lumi breathed in through his nose, slowly. If his name was on a list for superintendent somewhere he'd be on their doorstep tomorrow. Roberts came across as an enthusiastic, bootlicking, job-centric little lapdog, but apparently something in trafficking was more important to him than future prospects. “How old is he?”

Larxene pursed her lips before she answered, enjoying the answer before she gave it. “Twenty nine.”

“I think he has a thing for Anderson,” Marluxia said, softly. “He certainly follows him around like an overeager puppy, and if it isn't about career,” he turned his hand in the air, exposing it palm up as if presenting the notion. Everyone's motives boiled down to money or sex. If Roberts' motive wasn't the money, that only left one other thing.

Lumi murmured, wordlessly. “From what you said, it sounds as if Anderson indulges him.” The protective behaviour certainly suggested Anderson felt something more than professional concern for Roberts.

Braig gave a nasty chuckle, his eyes fixed on Lumi. “He’d be a better man than some of us if he turned him down.”

Lumi caught the barb. He fixed his attention on Braig, his voice sharp, “So which of your constables are you screwing?”

Braig laughed in response. “I'd screw Apache, but if there's two chicks in this building that have teeth down there it's her,” he gestured to Larxene, “and Apache.”

Larxene tutted sympathetically. “You shouldn't worry,” she replied, her voice dripping with false compassion, “we can only bite something big enough for us to feel.”

“You're right,” Marluxia said, turning the conversation away from the size of Braig's penis and back to the far more civilised speculation about Anderson and Roberts' relationship, “Anderson does indulge him.” The way he'd reacted to Roberts' suggestions hinted that fondness went two ways.

“Anderson's only human,” Braig opined. “I don't think he's been in a relationship since his wife left him. Some cute young DI starts making eyes at him, he'll crack.”

Lumi shook his head. “No, Roberts is naïve, perhaps, but not stupid. He won't make a move on his DCI. If he planned to do that he could have gone back to cyber crime and done it without a fraternisation issue.”

“Does Anderson even go for men?” Marluxia asked. Being formerly married certainly didn't exclude you from it, he was evidence enough of that, but not everyone was swayed by a pretty face.

“Roberts could have a girlfriend for all we know,” Larxene pointed out.

“You don't?” Lumi asked, faintly surprised. Larxene did her research, that was one of the reasons she was Marius' special little pet.

Larxene shrugged. “I tried,” she said, “but he's got no social media. There's a dead Facebook account that's about ten years old, and that is it. No insta, no twitter, nothing. He's a ghost.” She paused, and then conceded, “Or a robot.”

Lumi rolled his eyes. It wasn't often he was pushed to such extremes. “He was in cyber crime. If you could find him by googling they wouldn't have wanted him back.”

Larxene fixed Lumi with a very flat look. “He doesn't show up in anybody else's images, he's got no online friends, and nothing cross references to him. I didn't just google,” she defended, moving her hand with each word to give it more emphasis. “I think his life is the job. He must plug himself in when he gets home.”

Braig shrugged. “He's still got a weird crush on Hank.”

“I don't think he'd ever act on that,” Lumi said, quietly. “Not without Anderson doing something to prompt it.”

Marluxia shook his head, slowly. “I disagree. I think Roberts would be the one to make the first move. Anderson is twice his age, he’s not going to jeopardise his own position by risking misinterpreting the signs.” He looked at Lumi, treating him to an inviting smirk. “Should we make it a bet?”

Lumi's eyebrow picked up, just a little. Marluxia liked to play dangerous games, and sometimes, Lumi liked to join in. “What are we betting?”

“If you're right,” Marluxia began, “we upgrade your car first.”

Both of Lumi's eyebrows rose. “My car is first anyway,” he warned. He and Marluxia didn't fight, much, but they did sometimes have disagreements. Lumi's car was his pride and joy, but she was also getting on a little and was due refreshing. In truth, Lumi longed for the excuse to buy himself the F Type, but indulging himself to that extent was just a well nurtured fantasy.

Marluxia continued, undaunted, “And if I'm right, we go on holiday first.”

Lumi lifted his chin. It wasn't quite the stakes he'd expected, especially since he benefited either way.

“And a new planter for the balcony,” Marluxia added.

There it was, Marluxia’s real wish. He was good at sliding small things beneath much larger ones, so that if you agreed to the large thing you were also agreeing to the smaller. “Fine,” Lumi agreed. “Dinner at a restaurant, and the car,” he amended, “or a holiday and more plants.”

Marluxia smiled that dangerous, charming smile that was reserved solely for Lumi. “Deal.”

“Can I get in on this?” Braig asked, with a grin.

Lumi gave him a flat look. “I'm not buying you a car.”

Braig shook his head. “I think the kid'll crack first, and when he does, you're treating both our departments to pizza and drinks.”

Lumi thought about the offer. “But when you lose,” he began, “you have to get your car resprayed so it's all the same colour.”

A dangerous grin began to form on Braig's face. Lumi knew how twisty minds such as Braig's worked and moved in with the pruning shears. “In a colour of my choosing.”

The grin fell from Braig's face. “Fine,” he agreed, “but we're not gonna lose.”

“Incoming,” sang Larxene. A knock came to the office door. The glass panes revealed Roberts standing to attention.

“Enter,” intoned Lumi.

Roberts did. His eyes fell on each of the four faces in the room, all of which were turned to him like he was a lamb that had wandered into a lion's den. “DCI Anderson hasn't arrived yet?”

Braig shook his head. “Hank? Nah. Didn't you both have a late one last night?”

Roberts nodded just once. “Yes,” he confirmed, “but I thought I'd get the pathologist's report while it was fresh.”

Lumi exchanged a glance with Marluxia. It communicated many things, beginning with a judgement about Roberts' eagerness, and ending with which pathologist was on duty.

“How did you find Dr Granz?” Marluxia asked.

Braig snorted, and cut himself off quickly. Larxene swung her leg and smiled like the cat that had got the neighbour’s cream.

Roberts' face tightened up before he asked, “May I be frank?” His head moved as he spoke.

Marluxia waved a hand. “Of course.”

“Has he ever been investigated for sexual misconduct?”

Larxene slid herself off Marluxia's desk with both hands and brushed her pencil skirt straight. “Corpses don't make complaints,” she said brightly in answer, and turned her head towards Lumi and Marluxia, mouthing, 'I like him' before she announced, “I should go and see if Marius is ready to buy me a coffee.”

Roberts moved aside in the doorway to let her pass. It gave Lumi the time he needed to set his face straight and reply, “Suffice it to say that we have our reasons for liking to know where Dr Granz is. You have the report?”

Roberts stepped into the room and offered out a slim file. Lumi took it with one hand. “I do, but there isn't much of use. I think we'll get far more from close examination of the CCTV.”

Marluxia smiled, softly. “Itahyr is our tech support,” he said, “you'll find him down the hall to the right.”

“Thank you, sir,” Roberts replied, giving a polite nod before he turned to leave.

“Very over-eager,” Lumi muttered, under his breath. He passed the file over to Marluxia. Anything that had been handled by Granz should really only be touched with gloves. Lumi awaited the day they found the pages of one of his reports stuck together.

“I'm surprised Szayel didn't eat him alive,” Marluxia commented.

“There's time yet,” Braig replied, and then groaned. “If he's here without Hank, Hank's going to be hours. I'm going for breakfast.” He gestured to both Lumi and Marluxia with one single wave of his hand. “Be good boys now,” he told them, before slipping from the room. “No cheating.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” replied Marluxia.

*

Hank strolled in just before lunchtime. A scan of the desks on his way to the DCI's office told him Connor wasn't at work at any of them. He didn't bother to knock on Florent and Cacciatore's door before entering. Whatever conversation they'd been having died as soon as he entered.

“Good afternoon,” murmured Cacciatore.

He was soft-spoken, with the quiet inexpressiveness Hank had seen Connor put on when it suited. Having it turned on you was unnerving, but Hank didn't let it get under his skin. “It's still morning,” he said. “Where's Connor?”

It was Florent that spoke. “DI Roberts is currently reviewing CCTV footage from the truck stop last night.”

Hank tried not to roll his eyes. “Of course he is,” he muttered. He should have figured. Connor was a DI with the eagerness of a brand new DC. Hank put it down to the vigour of youth, at least to Connor's face. “So what do we know?” He pulled up a chair in front of Florent and sat himself down.

“The victim had a wife and a four year old in Slough, was mortgaged to the hilt,” Florent intoned, settling back in his own chair. His voice was low and deep, smooth and soothing. Hank had always hated listening to Florent talk; it was enough to put you to sleep. “As well as a couple of grand on credit card debt, and a mother recently diagnosed with dementia. He'd been taking extra runs as much as possible.”

Hank screwed up his nose. “The wife work?”

“Looking,” Florent answered. “Finding hours that suit childcare needs isn't easy, especially with a husband that works away.”

Hank nodded. That made sense. These days childcare cost as much as you earned at a job. It was certainly enough financial pressure to make somebody do something stupid and illegal, or set out to, and then get their throat cut instead. “Any mystery transactions?” he asked.

Florent shrugged with his face. His eyebrow twitched and his mouth flexed before resettling. “We're still waiting on the actual records. What we know so far comes from the wife's statement. Did you find anything?”

Hank grumbled. Judges took their time, and then banks took their time. It was annoying. “He knew our other driver. Worked the same routes for the most part. Nothing concrete.” This truck driver drove along the same roads as this other truck driver so we think they were both into shady shit your honour just wouldn't fly. “It might be time to re-question some of the cargo. They might get antsy with one of their friends turning up dead. We got the pathology report yet?”

Florent smiled like a cat that had cornered a mouse. “DI Roberts picked it up this morning.”

Hank winced. “Was the creepy one with the pink hair still on duty?” Hank had run into him at the crime scene, listened to two sentences out of his mouth, and then tried to keep Connor busy elsewhere. Just listening to the guy talk had set Hank's teeth on edge and made him feel weirdly violated. Hank didn't want to see how a freak like that would react to someone eager and attractive like Connor.

“He was,” Florent answered, still bearing that smile. “Connor survived.” He placed a strange emphasis on the first name, and Lumi glanced sidelong at him before returning to his own work.

Hank suppressed a shudder. “Why the fuck does that guy work with us?”

“So that when we find the case of the gay necro-rapist keeping rent boys in his closet, we don't have to go far to make our arrest,” Lumi replied, flatly.

Hank groaned in disgust. “I don't want to think about what he does to the bodies.”

“So long as he does it after the evidence collection, I don't really care,” replied Lumi.

Hank made another noise of disgust. Dr Granz rubbed him the wrong way, but the worst part was that Granz seemed to know that, and enjoy it, and would probably make some disgusting comment about knowing how to rub you the right way instead, all in a tone of voice that made you feel like you were being licked. “Nothing useful in the pathology report?” he asked, wanting to move off the subject of Dr Szayel Apollo Granz.

Florent shook his head. “The murderer was either cruel, amateur, or covering their tracks,” he said, pulling out the file and offering it across to Hank. “They sawed at the victim's throat,” he added, for clarification.

Hank scowled again. “Nasty bastard,” he muttered, taking the file and opening it. “And the victim didn't fight?” he asked, before reading.

“He fought,” Florent clarified, “but his nails were short, so there’s no transfer we can find.”

Hank scanned the report. “They were prepared,” he concluded. “They knew who they were after, where he'd be, and that they wouldn't be seen, and wore something that wouldn't make leaving DNA behind easy.” He heaved a sigh. “I hate these kinds of cases.”

“Possibly, someone thought they'd sprung a leak,” Florent posited, folding his arms.

Hank nodded. “We'll run with that theory and reinterview the ones we arrested. Connor can do it.”

“Not you?” Florent asked. Cacciatore's attention was also drawn to Hank's face.

Hank grinned at Florent, treating him to the big, humourless grin of someone that knows something he doesn't. “You should come and watch the kid work. You might learn something.”

*

Itahyr threw several gulps of energy drink down his throat. Everyone thought that finding and following people through London's security cameras was easy. It wasn't. It was possible, but it was only possible because you had people like him that were good with the technology and knew what they were doing.

And then you had people like Detective Inspector Connor Roberts, the android sent by cyber crime, who could hone in on what he wanted and track someone across camera footage with practised ease, but whose perky enthusiasm and devotion to the job made Itahyr want to die.

They'd started with the shop footage of the dead guy. From there Connor had got the names and registrations of every driver that had entered the stop before the victim was reported dead and left after he arrived, logged how long they'd stopped for, and whether they'd parked within the view of the cameras. The ones that had stayed in view of the cameras were checked to make sure they hadn't been out of view of the cameras when the victim was present, and then eliminated from their enquiries.

He cross checked mobile pings off the nearest tower, and requested tachograph recordings from anyone that couldn't be eliminated. Then, for good measure, and because the back of the truck stop was trees and woods that eventually came out near a residential street, had Itahyr cross-checking any registrations of vehicles stopping in the area that weren't registered locally.

Meanwhile, Connor himself was reading through communications on the dark web that might be linked to trafficking people out of the country. “The language they use is cagey,” he said, gesturing to one exchange regarding the transfer of goods, “but with practice you pick up on hidden meanings.”

Itahyr nodded and took another mouthful of Monster. “How long were you with cyber crime?” he asked, if only because the job was the only thing Connor talked about readily. The job, and how energy drinks were bad for your heart.

“Five years,” he answered.

Itahyr nodded to himself. “Figured you'd go and join the rest of your kind?”

Connor looked at him with a weirdly expressionless face that seemed to be his default whenever his brain was doing the complex calculations needed to pick his reply from an option tree. “Actually,” he said, “I wanted to train as a hostage negotiator, but cyber crime became a more natural fit.”

“Yeah,” Itahyr mused, “don't think you can pass yourself off as legitimately human yet.”

Connor's mouth settled into a frown and he sat up straighter. “I'm sorry if we've got off on the wrong foot,” he began, and he genuinely sounded it.

Itahyr waved a hand at him. “I'm messing with you,” he said, although maybe that was a lie. “You're just,” he halted, trying to find the words he needed, “really into the job. And this shit would have taken ages on my own.”

Connor smiled. “Many hands make light work,” he recited. “Your help is appreciated. This would have taken me a lot longer without someone technically competent on hand.”

Itahyr grumbled, uncertainly. The compliment felt strange in a good way. “I'm not so sure about that,” he muttered.

“How many names do we have to TIE?” Connor asked.

“Six,” Itahyr answered, “so far, but I'm still working on the residential streets. You got anything?”

“A couple of suspect conversations,” Connor answered, looking back at his screen, “but they're not necessarily linked to this case. I think our way forward will be questioning the people we currently have in custody to narrow the field.” He tilted his head, as if weighing up options. “If we can get confirmation as to their communication channels, we can work from there.”

“Hey, Ittybitty,” a jovial voice broke into the room and was followed by its owner. Braig wore brightly coloured, brightly patterned shirts that wouldn't have been out of place in Hank's wardrobe.

Itahyr checked the time on his display clock and then gave Braig a sour look. “There are ten minutes left of my day, what do you want?”

Connor threw Itahyr a scandalised look, his eyebrows raised. “He's a superior officer,” he said, his voice soft with the hissed warning.

Itahyr glanced sidelong at Connor. “And a pain in the ass,” he answered back.

Braig shrugged. Disrespect seemed to roll off his back. “I was just asking if you're coming for drinks with us tonight.”

Itahyr furrowed his brow, folded his arms, and eyed Braig. “You buying?” You learned to lay out the terms of arrangements with Braig before you agreed to anything with him, or you spent your entire life skint.

Braig shrugged, simply. “Yeah.”

That was it. Just a plain, honest, indisputable yes. Itahyr narrowed his eyes. “Then yeah, I'm coming. I gotta see this.”

“Roberts?” Braig asked.

Itahyr looked between Connor and Braig and felt a puzzle piece sliding into place. He sat back a little and grinned.

“No, but thank you for the offer,” Connor replied, as he'd probably replied at least a dozen times before people gave up on him. “I'm going to go through some more of these logs.”

Braig walked further into the room and gave Connor a friendly smack on the shoulder. “Ah, don't be a prick, come on. You gonna turn down a superior officer?”

Itahyr glanced up at Braig, but still caught the stunned puppy look Connor wore at the physical contact. Itahyr couldn't blame him. Connor's suit probably cost more than Braig's car. “You might as well,” he said, turning his attention to Connor. “Get to know who you're working with a bit better,” he added. “The data logs will still be there tomorrow, and then at least you'll be looking at them with fresh eyes.”

Connor looked from Braig, to Itahyr, to his screen. Itahyr could see the indecision flitting across his face as he fought with his dual urges to be an eager, good little copper, and to keep the DCIs happy. He gave a sigh and his shoulders sagged. “I'll speak to Hank,” he said, defeated.

Braig grinned like a tiger. “Come on then,” he urged, “I can give you a lift if you're coming.”

Connor looked back at his screen, and then gave another, much smaller but more audible sigh. He stood from his chair and was almost herded out of the door by Braig.

Hank was seated at a computer terminal, nursing a coffee. He looked up when Connor approached, with Braig on his tail.

“Hank?” Connor began, his eyes flicking towards Braig. “I've gone through the CCTV and we have some names to TIE, which we're still working on, but,” he hesitated, phrasing his next piece of information carefully, “some of them are going out for a drink. Would it be okay if I went?” Connor could only hope that the words 'please say no' were evident in his face and his voice.

Hank sat back in his chair. “You,” he said, pointedly, “going for a drink?” Then his eyes landed on Braig. “This is your idea.”

Braig grinned at him. “He was here normal time this morning, and that was after picking up the path report. I figured taking him with us was the only way to get him out of here, short of a crowbar.”

Hank grunted with amusement. Braig had got Connor’s number quickly enough. “Connor,” he said, “you don't need my permission to finish for the day, and it might be good for you to go out and spend some time with people.”

Connor frowned, and he leaned in a little. “But I haven't finished,” he protested.

Hank held a hand up to stop that one in its tracks. “And it'll still be here tomorrow when you come back.” He shrugged, “Besides, I'm gonna finish up here and then go and walk Sumo, then I'll join you,” he offered. “Deal?”

Connor's shoulders sank, and his mouth pressed into a line, but he nodded, however reluctantly. “All right,” he agreed.

Braig's hand landed hard on Connor's back. The impact sent him forward half a step, and he turned. “No worries,” Braig said, far too brightly, “I'll take care of him until you get there.”

Hank wrinkled his nose, his upper lip curling just a fraction. “You had better, Braig,” he warned.

*

A squat glass of brown liquid over ice was set on the table in front of him. Connor looked up at Braig. “What's this?”

“A drink,” Braig answered, sarcastically. He slid himself into the seat next to Connor, holding a glass of his own. Connor continued to give him an expressionless look. “Whiskey,” he elaborated, before taking a sip.

“I don't really drink,” Connor confessed, hesitantly. He looked at the glass. He was sure he could already smell it, but it mostly smelled of stinging and burning, even though they weren't smells.

Braig groaned at him. “It's just one,” he said, looking at Connor as if he was being a massive pain in the ass. “Loosen you up a bit. You need it.”

Connor frowned and picked up the glass. It stuck ever so slightly to the table. The whiskey sloshed and swirled around the ice and Connor gave it a tentative sniff. It prickled at the inside of his nose. He stopped breathing and dared to try a sip. Whatever touched his tongue evaporated before he had a chance to swallow it. Instead it made its way up to the back of his sinuses and sent a shiver through him. “That's very unpleasant,” he said.

Braig's hand landed on the back of his jacket again. After riding in Braig's car the suit was in need of dry cleaning anyway. Against all reason, Braig's car looked like it had cockroaches. “The faster you drink it, the less you taste it,” he advised.

Connor looked around the room. Itahyr was talking animatedly with a short blonde woman at the bar. He also recognised a few of the others. There was DI Wolfe, with his scarred face, and DI Paine who had attended the crime scene of their murdered lorry driver, both at the bar deep in conversation.

Apache, one of Braig's officers, was combatively flirting with a man with long, blond hair that looked distressingly like Dr Granz, whose shock of pink hair was fortunately not visible. DCI Florent was also at the bar, ordering drinks.

“That seems like bad advice to offer regarding alcoholic beverages,” Connor said, giving Braig a dubious look.

Braig showed his teeth as he grimaced. “Just shut up and knock it back, kid,” he advised.

Connor looked at his drink again. Someone started music playing, low enough that conversation could still be facilitated. It wasn't the punk and metal Hank preferred, and that Connor was accustomed to, but it was inoffensive to the ears, and edged towards rock as its genre. He held his breath and gulped the drink. It sent a shiver down his spine and burned his throat and nose, making him cough. “No,” he concluded, voice strained, “that’s definitely worse.”

Braig laughed. “Congrats kid,” he said, nudging Connor in the shoulder. “That's your rite of passage. I'll get you something else.”

Before Connor could speak and stipulate that he just wanted a plain soda water Braig was gone. He moved at a surprising pace for an old DCI that didn’t do much running. After a moment Braig was replaced by Itahyr and the blonde woman.

“Johnson's car didn't fall apart on the way here then,” Itahyr said, conversationally. Something seemed to be amusing him.

Connor allowed himself to relax. At least Itahyr wasn't likely to foist terrible, burning alcohols on him. “Barely,” he admitted. “I'm sure it's held together with sticky backed plastic in some places.”

The blonde laughed, a tinkling, sweet sound that nevertheless set Connor’s nerves on edge. He turned his attention to her. “We've met,” he said, “but I don't think we've been formally introduced.”

She smiled sweetly at him, but it was like a cat that had spotted a mouse. “Larxene,” she said, offering her hand out. She wore no rings, but she did have a necklace that bore a solitaire stone the same blue as her eyes dangling above the neckline of her top.

The name she gave was familiar. Connor blinked as the memory surfaced. “Superintendent Kier's PA,” he said, before giving her a polite nod of greeting and taking her hand. “It's a pleasure.”

“And you're Connor,” she said, shaking his hand and then lacing her fingers under her chin, giving herself a stable platform to examine him from. “Cyber crime's little dynamo. How are you finding our neck of the woods?”

Connor thought about that before he answered. “The people are interesting,” he offered. “Naturally I looked up DCIs Cacciatore and Florent before we came,” he added. “There's a lot to be learned from men like them.”

“I believe you're talking about me,” came a low, smooth voice. A glass of white wine was set in front of Connor, and Florent took the seat across from him. “An apology,” he said, gesturing to the glass, “for your having to endure Granz this morning.”

Connor looked at it, and bit back an apology of his own. This was the second drink he didn't really want, but at least it was wine. He didn’t drink much, and certainly not the way everyone else here seemed to, but he was happy to have a glass of wine paired with meals on occasion so it wasn't going to be as unpalatable as the whiskey. “Thank you,” he said, as graciously as he could muster, “but it isn't necessary. It's not your fault.”

Marluxia smiled beatifically at him. Connor had never seen such a magnanimously smug look on a person's face before. “It's our fault we haven't found whatever crime he's guilty of yet,” he countered. “How long have you worked with DCI Anderson?”

Connor drew the wine glass closer, but didn't yet pick it up. It was just an object for him to focus on instead of any one of the three eager faces listening to him with their eyes. “A few months,” he answered. “One of our cases converged a while back so I was sent to support him and his team. After we closed the case I was given the option to stay.” A small smile crossed his face at the memory. “It was an easy decision,” he added.

“You were tired of cyber crime?” Florent asked, picking up his own glass of wine and taking a drink.

Connor shook his head, and then lifted his glass. “No,” he said, “I enjoyed it, but I needed to get out of my comfort zone. If you work with the same people all the time you lose the adaptability you require to do the job.” He lifted the glass and gave it a tentative sniff. It just smelled like wine. Not an especially good wine, but good enough for a bar with slightly sticky tabletops. He took a sip.

“How long were you there?” Marluxia asked, his soft smile fixed on Connor. His eyes were a dark blue, darker than Hank's, and strangely hypnotic.

Connor took another drink from his glass. “Five years,” he answered. “Long enough to start getting comfortable.”

“You wanted to be a hostage negotiator, right?” Itahyr supplied, urging the conversation forward. He took a drink from a glass of amber liquid. Connor detected the distinctive sugary smell of an energy drink.

He nodded. “Originally,” he confirmed. “I studied psychology at university, and then joined the service straight after.”

Larxene made the sort of noise people make when given the sad story of a puppy that now only has three legs. “Aww, you always wanted to be a copper,” she said, as if it was the sweetest, most naïve thing she'd ever heard.

Connor looked down at the table, searching it as if he could find a good response in the cheap grain. “Yes, I did,” he said, and took another drink from his glass to deflect from the awkward, uncomfortable feeling that he was being made fun of for it.

“Do you enjoy it?” Marluxia asked. The question was simple, and directly to the point.

Connor looked up again and found himself caught in blue eyes once more. “Yes,” he answered, more certainly.

“That's good,” Itahyr commented, “because this shit will end your personal life.”

“It's not that bad,” Marluxia scolded. He sounded like he was telling off a child that was being dramatic about broccoli.

Itahyr looked at Marluxia as if he was about to call him out on talking utter bollocks. “You, Kier, and Anderson all had messy divorces, Lumi's gay, and Braig's disgusting. You all suck at relationships.”

Marluxia’s face hardened. “My marriage broke down regardless of the job,” he replied.

Itahyr laughed. “Your marriage broke down because you were a DI fucking your DCI,” he countered.

Connor spluttered on his wine, and coughed, his eyes wide. “Excuse me,” he apologised, quietly, his eyes fixed on Marluxia. His throat burned and scratched from where he’d nearly inhaled it instead of swallowing it.

Marluxia looked at him, but turned his attention quickly back to Itahyr. “That is rumour and speculation,” he said firmly. “Lumi and I came together courtesy of circumstances pushing us towards each other, my divorce being one of said circumstances.”

“Uh huh,” Itahyr retorted. It wasn’t possible to be as clear about the fact you disbelieved someone using less syllables.

Larxene giggled. “Oh come on,” she said, grinning and gesturing with her hand for the boys to simmer down. “It was years ago, no one cares any more, and we’ve got a newbie to grill.” She turned her attention to Connor, with an excited little smile on her face. “So what about you?” she asked. “Is there anyone special in your life?”

Connor took another drink from his wine to settle the scratch in his throat that lingered. He was still trying to process the idea that Florent and Cacciatore were an item, and that, most significantly, it had started before Florent was promoted.

He looked at Larxene, unsure of how to answer. “I'm devoted to my job,” he said.

“Connor,” his name sounded strange in Marluxia's mouth, and his tone was disappointed and paternal, “you can't let the job be everything.”

Connor frowned. His glass of wine was almost gone already, and he felt oddly relaxed. Though not enough to be completely honest. “It's not everything,” he defended, looking at Marluxia, but the frown stayed on his face.

“But there's no,” Marluxia's voice betrayed a split second's hesitation in his word choice, “person special to you?”

Connor bit his lower lip and then shook his head. He wasn't about to spill the confused mess that question caused to bubble up inside his head all over the sticky table. “Not right now.”

A collection of drinks were set down in front of them. Another tall amber glass of caffeinated sugar water and god knows what was transferred to Itahyr, a multicoloured cocktail thing went to Larxene, and a tall glass of brown liquid was pushed in front of Connor.

Connor looked up at Braig. “I'm sorry,” he began, “I'd prefer a soda water.”

Braig's upper lip pulled back, and he gestured to the coke. “Sorry,” he said, “I'll remember that for next time. You okay with that one for now?”

Connor sighed and finished off the last of his wine. “Yes,” he said, not wanting to send a DCI back to change his drink.

“So how come you're not on Facebook, or Instagram?” Larxene pressed, leaning one elbow on the table, with her chin on her hand. “You've got a good face for Insta.”

Connor wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “I'm not much for photography,” he said. “I prefer to keep a low profile online.”

“You're a furry, aren't you?” Itahyr posited, with a huge, amused grin. His eyebrows wagged.

Connor furrowed his brow and looked straight at him. “No.”

“It's okay,” Itahyr pressed, maintaining his amusement,“you can tell us.”

“I'm not a furry,” Connor replied, flatly, “but nothing I have online is under my real name, so you won't find it,” he added, with a smirk. They must have tried, especially for Larxene to have specifically mentioned Instagram.

Itahyr turned to Larxene and said, joyously, “Told you.” Then he turned back to Connor. “Bet I could.”

Connor raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, fixing Itahyr with a small, smug smile. “I spent five years in cyber crime,” he pointed out. “No you won't.” He picked up the glass of coke and took a drink. The flavour that hit his tongue was off. “This tastes strange,” he said, with a grimace.

“Eh, it's from the tap,” Braig replied, dismissively. He pressed on with the questioning. “So what do you do for fun?”

Connor grimaced at his drink, but took another mouthful of it anyway. The taste was unpleasant, but he'd never been a fan of coke. He indulged in the occasional cup of tea or coffee, unsweetened, but most fizzy drinks were too much caffeine and sugar combined and they made him jittery. He didn't know how people like Itahyr lived off things that smelled utterly toxic. “I read,” he answered, “and I do coin tricks.”

“Coin tricks?” Braig repeated. “Like pretending to pull one out of someone's ear?”

Connor shrugged one shoulder. “I prefer manipulations, but things like that can be done, too.”

“Show us, then,” Larxene said, smiling at him like she had a knife under the table.

Connor sighed as if he was being put upon, but the truth was that the idea of having an eager audience made him feel oddly warm inside. He reached into the top pocket of his jacket and pulled out his favourite two pound coin.

Braig snorted, and then laughed. “You keep one on you for it?”

“It's my favourite coin,” Connor defended. He’d worked with copper two pences, but found the heft of a two pound coin reassuring. It was harder to move at speed, but easier to feel where it was going. He set the coin on the backs of his fingers and set it to walking across them one by one, getting a feel for its weight again.

“Anyone can do that,” Braig said, gesturing with one hand.

“Yes,” Connor agreed, “and it gets smoother with practice.” He gave his hand a flick and stood the coin on its edge on the backs of his fingers, allowing it to roll back and forth across them like he was keeping a pet spider from escaping his hand.

Itahyr gave a slow and impressed nod. “Okay, that looks pretty cool,” he conceded.

Connor tilted his head, giving the impression that he was shrugging without actually moving his shoulder. With another flick of his wrist he tossed the coin up and caught it in his hand, and then quickly flicked it with his thumb into the other, catching it by the edge between two fingers. Then he flicked it back again and made it spin like a top on the tip of his middle finger.

Braig nodded, reluctantly impressed. He even gave a couple of claps. “Okay, I'm impressed.”

Connor smiled. “It gives me something to do with my hands while I think,” he said, tossing the coin up into the air and catching it with his right hand. He slipped it safely back into its home pocket. “Although Hank confiscates it if I annoy him with it,” he added.

“So it's like a fidget spinner,” Itahyr said, “except cheaper.”

Connor picked up the coke. The flavour seemed to bother him less now. Maybe this was how people got into the habit of drinking overly sugary things. He took a good drink before he replied. “I suppose,” he conceded.

“You're nearly done with that,” Marluxia noted, his eyes on Connor's drink. “I'll get you another. Soda water, yes?”

Connor smiled at him. “Please,” he confirmed.

Marluxia stood, nodded the once, and moved away from the table.

Connor watched him go before he turned his attention to the others. Itahyr was halfway through his second drink, and Larxene was continuing to nurse the dregs of her first cocktail. “Are he and DCI Cacciatore really..?” Connor trailed off.

Larxene laughed. It wasn't the sweet, tinkling, dangerous laugh she'd used before, but more of a schoolgirl snort. “Yeah,” she said. “You hadn't noticed?”

Connor didn't want to say that he hadn't. He had noticed something was off about them, but it was hard to tell that the thing that was off about how they were with each other was romantic in nature when you didn't have a comparison. “Is that not fraternisation?” he asked.

“Not when they're both DCIs,” Braig answered, in a lilting voice. “We all know it started before that,” he said, with a shrug. “Personally, I think that's why Marius was okay with bumping Florent up to DCI when he did, instead of being harder on him. Less paperwork, and he wouldn't have to reprimand his best copper.” Braig grinned. “Which would have been an awkward conversation.”

“I see,” Connor said, slowly. “Is it common, then?”

“Common?” Braig asked. “Nah,” he shook his head. “But it happens. The job kinda pushes people together and then,” he wiggled his fingers and curled his lip in a disgusted sneer, “feelings happen.”

Connor blinked, and thought of Hank. He wondered if he'd ever compromised himself in such a way, or if he ever would if he found the right connection. He picked up the coke and drained the last of it, working to push that thought far out of his mind.

“Penny,” Larxene said, nudging him with her hand and smiling at him dangerously.

Connor blinked, wondering if she was asking him to do another coin trick, and then caught up with her. She was offering a penny for his thoughts. Braig smiled at him like something silent and predatory that lurks in the ocean depths. Connor shook his head. “I was just wondering how they'd manage it if the relationship broke down and things got messy,” he said.

Connor looked over to where Marluxia was at the bar. DCI Cacciatore had arrived and was talking to him. It was hard to tell, because Lumi wasn't a particularly expressive person, but he looked somewhat annoyed, and he was talking to Marluxia. Marluxia raised both of his hands in a placating manner, but also seemed to be turning on the charm offensive.

Braig shrugged. “Hopefully,” he said, “they're both cold enough bastards to keep it professional in work. If not,” he considered the 'if' for a moment before he continued, “one of them would probably transfer. Or Marius will turn up dead and Lumi will have his job.”

“Whose job?” Lumi's soft-spoken voice was gentler than any other, but the look he gave Braig was icy in its warning.

Braig grinned up at him. “Just saying that if Marius died tonight you'd be applying for his job tomorrow.”

Lumi raised one eyebrow. “You think I'd wait that long?” he asked, sliding into the final empty seat at the table.

Marluxia set a soda water in front of Connor. He took it gratefully and took a drink. It still tasted off, with something sharp. “I think they need to clean their spout,” he said, quietly.

Lumi eyed Marluxia out of the corner of his eye. “So is it true you turned down a return to cyber crime?” he asked, his eyes moving slowly back to Connor.

Connor gave a single nod. “Yes,” he confirmed.

“Even though they were offering you a clear path to DCI in the future?” Lumi pressed.

Connor hesitated before answering. He was having to explain his choices to someone that wouldn't even let his Superintendent's body go cold before he made a move on his job. “I think I need a wider range of experience before I can confidently say I'm ready for DCI,” he answered, looking at his drink as he spoke, and then turning his eyes to give Lumi a sidelong look.

Braig chuckled. “And in the meantime working under Hank isn’t so bad.”

Connor nodded, slowly. He was feeling oddly fuzzy around the edges, and tired. “He's different to my previous commanding officers,” he answered, picking his words with care. “I enjoy working with him, and I'm learning a lot.”

“He's got a lot of experience with that rank,” Braig supplied. “I'm sure there's a lot he can teach you.”

Connor nodded, and blinked. “I know there is,” he said. Something was wrong. “I'm sorry, I think I need the bathroom.”

Larxene moved to allow Connor to get up. He stood slowly. His legs felt strange, and his limbs felt fuzzy. Perhaps the whiskey and wine were hitting him harder than he'd expected. It had been a while since he'd drunk more than half a glass of wine, and that had been with a meal. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, which was now a few hours behind them.

He picked his way between the tables, looking for the bathroom. Behind him he could hear the sound of Lumi talking. “I suppose you think you're clever?”

*

Hank had just returned home with Sumo when the message had come through. It was a simple, straightforward message.

You need to collect your DI

That kind of message coming from Lumi Cacciatore when a couple of hours before he'd sent Connor ahead of him to the pub with Braig Asshole Johnson meant only one thing. Which was annoying because Hank had been looking forward to unwinding in a pub, getting a drink down a reluctant Connor, and making him show him the coin tricks again. Hank was pretty sure that he could nail the one with catching the coin between his fingers if he kept practising.

He'd made sure Sumo's bowl was filled and then jumped in his car to hare it down to the pub. When he got inside Connor was easy to spot, surrounded by pricks like Braig and Florent, Cacciatore, Marius' nasty little PA, and some tech kid. He was a little flushed in the face and looked unsteady.

“You assholes,” Hank growled.

“I'm sorry, Hank,” Connor said, with a definite slur in his words even though he was obviously doing his best to speak clearly, “it's my fault.”

“No it's not,” Hank countered, and pointed a finger at Braig. “I'll deal with you later.” It was a warning, and a promise. He hooked a hand under Connor's arm. “Let's get you home, you can sleep it off.”

Connor stood unsteadily, and Hank pulled him out from the table onto wobbly feet. “I'm very sorry,” he repeated, managing to stay on his feet with a bit of a tug.

“Stop apologising,” Hank ordered. He shepherded Connor out to the car and bundled him into the front seat. If the kid was going to be sick at least Hank could pull over and lean to open the door for him. Hank would rather not have to spend time cleaning vomit from the inside of his car.

Connor leaned against the door heavily, crossed his arms over his stomach and closed his eyes. “I'm tired,” he said.

“We'll get you to bed,” Hank assured him, and winced. “You're going to suffer tomorrow.” He didn't know if Connor had ever been hungover before and now didn't seem like the time to ask.

He drove to Connor's flat. He'd picked him up from there enough times that the directions were ingrained in his muscle memory anyway. Connor seemed to drift to sleep with his head against the window pane. It was a quiet residential area, where the rents were probably extortionate for the square footage, and parking was a nightmare, but that never bothered Connor because he didn't own a car.

Hank found a space that wasn't too far from Connor's door and pulled into it. Whoever normally used the spot could take it up with him later if they really wanted. He fished in Connor's pocket for his keys, and then exited the car and went around to open the door for Connor.

The movement woke Connor up with a start as he almost fell out of the car. Hank caught him and pushed him back upright. “All right, you're home,” he said, leaning in over Connor to unclip his seatbelt. “Think you can still walk?”

“I, umm, yeah,” Connor managed. His voice came from far away. He didn't make any move to get up so Hank leaned in and pulled him out of the car, dragging Connor's weight against himself. He kicked the door shut. A button on the key fob locked the car and set the alarm.

“Come on then,” he instructed, “walk with me.”

Connor tried. Hank half carried, half limped Connor around to his door which bore the brass numbers 800 and then awkwardly fumbled with the keys to let them inside. “Which way?” he asked.

“First floor,” Connor mumbled, “on the right.”

Great, so they were going to have to navigate stairs. Hank groaned, and then adjusted Connor's weight in his arm before helping him up, one laboured step at a time. As they got around the corner Connor seemed to be waking up a little. “I'm sorry, Hank,” he said again. “I think they spiked my drink.”

“Never drink anything offered to you by a copper, Connor,” Hank advised. “All cops are bastards.” Connor's head lolled onto his shoulder, but his arm came up across Hank's chest and gripped at his shirt as Connor tried to drag more of his own weight onto his feet. “It's okay,” Hank assured him, adjusting his grip, “I got you.”

“Cacciatore and Florent are in a relationship,” Connor mumbled, his face almost buried in Hank’s shoulder.

Hank only nodded. It wasn't new information to him, but he'd stayed in touch with Marius so he still heard a lot of the gossip, and nobody gossips like coppers. That, and there was no denying the fact those two were thick as thieves together. Hank was pretty sure he knew which one wore the trousers, too. Florent would insist it was him, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. “I know,” he said. Connor's door opened, letting them into a small and pristine flat. The place was immaculate.

“It started when Florent was a DI,” Connor insisted on talking.

Hank sighed. He'd known that too, or at least he'd known that people suspected it. The lounge was small, just big enough for a sofa, book case, fish tank, TV, and coffee table. Hank guided them around it. The kitchen opened directly from the lounge and was similarly pristine. Connor kept a tidy house. “I know,” Hank repeated.

“And no one cares?” Connor asked, lifting his head to look at Hank. His face was extremely close, and Hank could smell the telltale sharpness of vodka on his breath. Those assholes were going to pay.

He shrugged, and guided Connor around to look for the bedroom. It wasn't hard to find, there weren't many rooms in the flat. A double bedroom with a neatly made bed lay behind one door. The bathroom must be the other. “No one really cares so long as it doesn't affect your work, Connor,” Hank advised, taking him into the bedroom. He sat Connor down on the edge of the bed, and Connor looked at him blearily before he slowly sank sideways and onto the mattress. “The thing about coppers is that they like to bend the rules.”

“Do you?” Connor asked, looking at him fuzzily from his position on the bed. His every movement was unfocused, and he probably wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning.

Hank pulled Connor's shoes off for him. He wanted to pull the jacket off him too, because it was probably expensive, but he didn't want to start the whole job of undressing Connor because that could lead to some really dangerous places with him in this state. “When I have to,” he answered. “Get some sleep. You'll feel like shit in the morning.”

“I really like your eyes,” Connor said in a sigh, before tucking his face into his pillow.

Hank took a deep breath and pressed his lips tightly together. Connor seemed to have already fallen asleep again. His chest rose and fell gently, and he was safely on his side if he threw up. “We are not going there right now,” Hank said, quietly, for his own benefit.

Hank turned and dragged a hand through his hair. Even though Connor was asleep in a good position he didn't want to leave him in case he woke up, rolled over, or vomited. He left Connor's bedroom, pulling the door behind him but not closing it, and made his way back into the lounge and kitchen.

The kitchen counters were spotless, and an array of utensils stood in what was obviously their proper places tucked out of the way. There was no sign of a microwave, and opening cupboards just revealed where Connor kept his crockery, glasses, and cups. There was a blender, one of those fancy top of the range types that could liquidise a body, some very sharp knives, and a glass chopping board.

When Hank opened the fridge he was met with more greenery than an expensive London garden. Connor clearly liked his vegetables. There were also eggs and chicken breasts, but nothing else. Nothing that would help Connor recover from his hangover tomorrow. The freezer was just an ice box, and it contained nothing but ice and frozen fruit. Hank shook his head, unsure of what Connor actually ate. Sure, vegetables were good for you, but you couldn't live on them.

He made his way into the small lounge. The coffee table was as immaculate as the kitchen, bearing nothing more than a bookmarked book, and an iPad. Hank eyed the title Connor was currently reading. Thinking, Fast and Slow sounded like the sort of thing he expected someone like Connor to read.

The bookcase held more books with similar sorts of themes. There were also a couple of recipe books that had little dog-eared post-its as bookmarks. He pulled one out. The Doctor's Kitchen, it proclaimed. A bookmark lay at the page for Golden Beetroot Bulgur Wheat Risotto with Spinach, Walnuts, and Fresh Thyme. Hank closed it and put it back. The very idea offended him.

A selection of colourful fish swam around in their tank. A little bit of algae growth on the glass was being worked through by a happy looking sucker. A pump in the back gave off a quiet hum that deadened the silence in the room and broke it with the soft sound of bubbling water.

“So this is your life, huh Connor?” Hank asked the room. It was clean, healthy, perfect, and lonely. He shook his head, and sat himself down on the sofa. There were no pictures, no posters. Just bare walls and a tastefully neutral colour scheme. There wasn't even a sound system that Hank could see.

He felt sorry for Connor. He always seemed so enthusiastic and perky, eager to please like a little puppy with a fiercely wagging tail, but this was what he came back to. He never talked about friends, or girlfriends. It was just him, rattling around this perfect little flat on his own, reading about how to manage his thinking, and eating healthy boring meals with lots of vegetables.

Hank sighed and pulled out his phone, drafting a quick text to his dog walker. He wasn't leaving Connor in here on his own, especially not in the state he was in. Then he flicked the TV on and settled in for a long one.

*

Connor awoke to a burst of nausea. He rolled off his bed and staggered into his bathroom just in time to hunch over the toilet and violently retch. His stomach and back heaved as his body tried to expel whatever hell he’d ingested to make him so ill. He spat acid and bile, and then heaved again.

“You're still alive,” Hank's voice came from the doorway of the bathroom.

Connor sank to his knees on the floor. His head pounded, his mouth tasted vile, and his stomach continued to roll. “For a given value,” he replied. The idea of Hank seeing him like this didn't make him feel any better about it. He pressed a hand to his head and looked up, fighting down another wave of nausea from his abused guts.

Hank was leaning against the bathroom door frame, arms crossed and a grin on his face. “First hangover?” he asked, a lilt of amusement in his voice.

Connor's stomach heaved again, although nothing came up. “No,” he answered, his voice strained.

“Really?” Hank asked. He wore a look of disbelieving surprise on his face.

Connor swallowed. The inside of his cheeks were becoming saturated again. “I did go to university,” he pointed out. The next wave hit him and he leaned over, but he heaved dry and spat saliva.

“That was a few years ago,” Hank countered. He shifted himself off the timber frame. “Get showered and changed, I'll take you for breakfast.”

The thought of eating made Connor's stomach roll unpleasantly again. “I'd rather not,” he said. “I can just drink some water.”

“Nah,” Hank replied, “you need to eat something to absorb the excess alcohol. Trust me,” he added, fixing Connor with a grin, “you'll feel better after, even if you don't feel like it now.”

“I,” Connor began, and then surrendered. He was too tired and felt too rotten to argue with Hank, especially when it would only devolve into Hank pointing out that he'd had far more hangovers than Connor over the years. “Give me a few minutes?” he asked.

“Of course,” Hank agreed, waving him towards the shower. “Shout if you need anything.”

Twenty minutes and another round of dry heaving into the toilet later, Connor was dressed in dark jeans, t-shirt, hoodie and jacket, with a woollen beanie over his damp hair, and on his way to what Hank insisted was, “The best place for breakfast in all of London.”

Which turned out to be a greasy spoon, tucked away from the main roads in Camden. Connor's stomach was still rolling, and the smell of grease didn't help as they entered. Hank pointed him to a chair while he made his way up to the counter.

Connor sank into it, and held his arms folded over his aching stomach. He hadn't retched since leaving his flat, but he felt horribly dehydrated and all he wanted was a spinach and avocado smoothie, a lot of water, and to be somewhere quiet and dark for a few hours.

Hank clearly had other ideas. He returned to the table with two mugs of coffee. Connor took it into his hands, gratefully enjoying the warmth in his fingers. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I fear I may have embarrassed myself last night.”

Hank shrugged the idea off. “Those assholes knew what they were doing.”

“I didn't see it coming, though,” Connor pointed out. He should have known what they were up to from the first drink. He took a tentative sip of scalding coffee. It was sweet, which made him grimace.

Hank just chuckled. “Drink it, you need the boost.” Then he shook his head. “I don't expect you to be able to fend off two DCIs, a dominatrix and,” he faltered, “whatever the other one was."

“Dominatrix?” Connor repeated. A woman planted the largest plate of fried beige Connor had ever seen in front of him, and put a second, identical plate in front of Hank. She gave him a wink, and Connor felt himself die inside.

“Larxene,” Hank replied, with a grin. He thanked the woman, “Looks great.”

Connor blinked. “She's?” He didn't finish the thought.

Hank nodded. “Used to be,” he said. “That's why Marius funds her shoe habit. We reckon half the superintendents and above have been spanked by her at some point.” Hank stabbed a shiny sausage with his fork and bisected it. “Really puts the wind up them if they try and bother Marius with something and get the phone answered by Mistress Savage.”

Connor blinked at his plate without seeing it, and sank down in his chair. “I didn't know,” he said.

“Of course you didn't,” Hank replied, happily and unconcerned, “It's not like she advertises it.” He considered that statement and then amended it, “Well, not anywhere that you'd see it.” He pointed with his knife to Connor's plate of glistening beige. “Eat, you'll feel better.”

Connor grimaced and picked up his knife and fork. He wasn't sure where to start. Everything was the same colour, except for the scoop of very overdone baked beans, which was just a different shade of orange-y brown. He put his fork to a triangular hash brown and split it open with the knife. “You know you shouldn't eat this,” he said, stalling before he put the sad remains of an innocent potato into his mouth. “This must contain a whole day's calories, and a whole week's worth of fat.”

Hank fixed him with a dead-eyed stare. “What's unhealthy is all that clean living,” he countered, firmly. “Now eat.”

Connor moved the hash brown to his mouth. It didn't taste bad, but then the human body was programmed to want fats and sugars. It also didn't come with a renewed wave of nausea, which was much more unexpected. He tried the end of a glittering sausage next. Nothing on the plate looked as if it wasn't processed.

“There,” Hank said, seemingly satisfied as Connor began to actually eat. “It's good, right?”

“It's okay,” Connor conceded. The more he ate, the hungrier he felt, and the salt content made the sweetened coffee more palatable, too. “But you still shouldn't live off it,” he pointed out.

Hank rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he replied, as if he'd heard that one a few hundred times before. “Next we can get you some hobbies.”

Connor swallowed another piece of sausage. If he didn't think about it too much it was easier. “I have hobbies,” he defended.

Hank looked at him the same way he looked at a suspect when he was calling them on their bullshit. “What, cleaning the house?”

Connor frowned. He'd always been tidy. He liked being tidy. “I do magic tricks,” he pointed out.

“Oh great,” replied Hank, his voice dripping with more sarcasm than grease, “so you sit at home twiddling a coin, on your own. That's not a hobby, Connor.”

“I also read,” Connor insisted. The nausea seemed to have completely abated now. Despite everything he'd ever believed about how hangovers work, somehow, Hank hadn't been entirely off the mark about eating something making him feel better.

“Yeah, I saw what you read,” Hank replied, still unimpressed with Connor's attempts to make his life sound less than isolated. “Don't you have a girlfriend?” he asked, and then swallowed, and looked away from Connor's face to his coffee mug, “Or a boyfriend?”

Connor also looked away. The strange pattern in the formica table top became suddenly fascinating. He didn't want to have this conversation, and he especially didn't want to look at Hank while they did. “No.”

“Have you ever?”

Connor looked up sharply. His face felt warm. He understood the insinuation, and the fact he was having to deny it to Hank of all people made him want to sink into a hole. “Of course I have,” he replied, a little too sharply for his own liking.

“When?” Hank’s eyes locked with his and refused to move.

Connor scowled. Hank wasn't letting this one go. He couldn't remember if he'd said anything last night. He didn't remember much about getting home, but with Hank in his flat it was an easy guess as to who had taken him there. “When I was in university,” he admitted, dropping his gaze first.

“Jesus Christ, Connor.”

Connor looked up again, defying Hank to pass judgement just because it had been a while. “I'm not alone in that,” he pointed out, sharply. “You haven't been in a relationship since your divorce.”

This time Hank looked away first. “That's different,” he said, quietly. He pointed to Connor with his fork. “You're young, and attractive. You should have,” he faltered for a split second, “people falling all over you.”

Connor swallowed, and tried not to pay too much heed to the way Hank calling him attractive made his stomach do a turn that had nothing to do with his hangover. It was an objective assessment, nothing more. “It's just hard,” Connor said, quietly, “finding someone.”

Hank gave a small, sadly amused huff. “Nurses, paramedics, and other coppers,” he said, softly. “They're the only ones that understand the commitment to the job.”

Connor's mouth felt dry. The words were at his tongue before he knew what to do with them. “Plus hoping that your affections are returned once you do find someone.”

Hank sighed. It was a long, extended breath. “Yeah,” he agreed, or conceded. Connor couldn't be sure. “How much of last night do you remember?”

Connor's guts froze. He really hoped he hadn't said something stupid in his inebriated state. “If I said or did--”

“That's not what I asked,” Hank cut him off firmly. “What do you remember?”

Connor frowned down at his breakfast. He'd made much more headway into it than he'd expected, and somehow he was still hungry. “I assume you took me home,” he finally said, his voice small.

Hank nodded, taking that information in. “How many drinks did those idiots foist on you?”

Connor shook his head. “I could have said no,” he replied, “I knew something tasted off.” He could have stopped after the first drink, or gone and got his own. He could have turned away the wine, or the coke with whatever Johnson had put in it, but he didn’t. Having people be interested and nice to him had been too enjoyable.

“No you couldn't,” Hank answered, shaking his head. “I know you too well for that, Connor. You're not turning down a pair of DCIs that are pressuring you to drink.”

Connor sighed. “I guess,” he conceded, “but I'd rather you didn't say anything to them.”

“Me?” Hank asked, fixing Connor with a bright grin. “I won't say a word.”

*

Connor made better progress through his breakfast than Hank had expected. He'd even had a go at the fried bread before deciding that it was just too much grease. Hank, conversely, had cleared his own plate, and relieved Connor of his uneaten fried bread.

He delivered Connor back to his flat with firm instructions that under no circumstances was he to show up to work today. The kid had amassed enough time in lieu to take a long weekend every week between now and New Year, and he was going to use some of it if Hank had to lock him up. “Go back to bed,” he'd told him, “that's an order.” Connor, who despite eating breakfast still looked pale, hadn't had the strength to argue, and had slid out of Hank's car with a final thank you.

Hank watched him slip through his front door and then sighed. Connor set off all sorts of confused feelings in him. He wanted to hug him, and slap him upside the head at the same time. He'd never realised just how isolated Connor's life was outside of work before. He'd wasted his twenties working himself like a dog and had nothing at home to show for it.

I really like your eyes.

And then there was shit like that. What was Hank supposed to do with that? Sure, it was something Connor would never have said without several doubles in him, but was it just drunken garbage? He was old enough to be Connor's father for Christ's sake.

Hank drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. He wasn't going to torture himself by picking apart whatever Connor had said when he was drunk. Instead he was going to make sure nobody put him in that position again because the very last thing Hank wanted was for Connor to transfer elsewhere because some idiots had embarrassed him to the point that he couldn't face Hank again.

The station was a long enough drive for Hank to have slipped into a chilly calm that belied the roiling anger just beneath the surface. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to punch someone in their stupid face. Braig he could deal with. Braig had always been a prick that thought tormenting others was funny.

He spotted Florent in his office. Hank didn't pause to consider his actions. He strode through the banks of desks, walked through the door, grabbed Florent by the shirt and pinned him to the back wall with both hands. “If you ever fuck with one of my coppers again,” he growled, pressing in so close that he could only see the blue of Marluxia's eyes, “they'll never find out what happened to you.”

Marluxia's hands pulled at Hank's wrists, slowly and calmly. “I strongly advise you let me go,” he said, his voice low, and unworried. “This shirt was expensive.”

“Hank.” The voice wasn't raised, but it was a firm warning, and a call for his attention.

Hank pushed harder against Marluxia's chest. “Stay away from Connor,” he said, emphasising each word slowly, “or the shirt will be the least of your worries.” He gave a final shove and then released Marluxia, turning around to find Marius looking at him dispassionately.

“My office,” he said. It was a plain instruction, and Marius didn't wait for Hank to start following before he turned around and headed that way himself.

Hank gave Marluxia one final sour glance as the smug prick smoothed his shirt back down and fixed his collar. He sneered at Marluxia, and then followed Marius. Larxene's eyes tracked him as he passed her desk, and then slammed Marius's door shut behind himself.

“How's the kid?” Marius asked, settling himself into his chair and putting his stick to one side. A doberman lay curled up in a basket in the corner of the office, watching goings on but not moving.

“Rough,” Hank answered. Marius gestured to the chair across from his desk, and Hank sat in it with a growl.

“Florent's an asshole,” Marius said, “but he's not worth the paperwork, so if anyone asks, you've had a reprimand. He's already had one. So has Braig.”

Hank stared at Marius in confusion. Marius let him stare for a moment before he gestured back outside of his office towards his PA. “Larxene told me everything,” he explained. “Apparently Florent, Johnson, and Cacciatore made a bet, and Florent and Johnson tried to cheat on it.” Marius shrugged. The little dramas of his DCIs were just another headache in his day.

“What bet?” Hank asked, still seething. He wasn't averse to rearranging Cacciatore's face as well if he had to.

“They think the kid has a thing for you,” Marius elaborated. “Florent and Johnson were trying to get him to make a move. Cacciatore bet he wouldn't.” Hank breathed in, slowly, rolling that thought around in his mind. Marius looked at him. “Did he do something?”

Hank shook his head. “No,” he answered, “he just talked a lot of shit.” About Florent and Cacciatore, Hank thought. His stomach gave a strange wobble. “They put a lot in his head about those two pricks hooking up when they were different ranks.”

Marius nodded, slowly. “They did,” he said, “they covered it, but I only look stupid.”

“And you let them?” Hank asked, his upper lip curling with a hint of disgust.

Marius gave Hank a look as if he was the one being stupid. “Cacciatore's always been my best, although if I ever disappear, arrest him first. Florent is a smarmy prick, but he gets the results and he's a better leader than Cacciatore, if not quite as good a copper. So long as they didn't bring it in to work I didn't care. I still don't.”

Hank folded his arms. “And you don't care if they fuck with my DI either?” he asked.

“I told you they've already been reprimanded,” Marius answered, coolly. “Do you think they're right? Does he have a thing for you?”

Hank threw his arms down and stood up. He had an awful need to walk around. “For god's sake, Marius, I'm nearly twice his age.”

Marius shook his head, slowly. “That's irrelevant,” he said. “Better question,” he offered, “do you think that if he does have a thing for you it's affecting his work?”

Hank paced the back of the room. “Only in the sense that he doesn't have a life outside of work,” he said, and then re-evaluated with a pained sigh. “But he was like that before he worked for me,” he conceded. He folded his arms again, tight across his chest. “Why do they think he does?” he asked.

Marius laced his fingers together on his desk. “They know he turned down a promotion to stay with you,” he answered.

Hank's brain screeched to a halt. “What?”

“You didn't know?” Marius leaned forward in his chair. His brows furrowed as he looked at Hank.

Hank shook his head. “No.”

Marius sighed and unlaced his fingers. “Cyber crime were offering him a development plan that was pretty clearly a path to DCI if he came back. He turned them down.”

Hank took a long, deep breath, and then sat himself back down in the chair. “That fucking idiot,” he finally said, running a hand over his face. Connor had closed a door on his future for what? To stay a DI in trafficking? For more experience? He'd told Hank he was enjoying the new challenges of another field, but if he'd been offered development to build him up why would he turn that down?

Hank tried to ignore the flicker of relief and joy in his chest. He liked Connor, despite the fact that everything about Connor should piss him off. He didn't want to lose him to another department.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Marius suggested. “The offer might still be open.”

Hank scowled, wordlessly. It would be the right thing to do. He should push Connor to progress, to go as far as the little dipshit could. He had the skills, he just needed guidance. With the right push he could even go beyond superintendent someday.

“Unless you don't want him to go,” Marius said into the silence. The look he gave Hank was the old, knowing look of a man that had known him for decades.

Hank chewed on the inside of his bottom lip before he answered, “No one wants to lose their best copper.”

He left Marius's office in a cloud of dark thoughts. Cacciatore watched him go, but Hank didn't bother to say anything to him. Johnson, conversely, was sauntering through the desks as if he owned the place. “Hey!” he greeted, enthusiastically. “How's the kid?”

Hank snarled at him. “Cocksucking asshole.” He flipped Braig off for good measure, and stalked out of the offices.

“That good, huh?” Braig called after him. His laughter followed Hank out of the building.

*

Arif Najjar, on account of having tried to skip the country in the back of a van, had been remanded in custody pending trial. He'd already been charged with murder, and he was being investigated for a number of drugs offences.

Only the first part of that was why he was sitting in an interview room alone, while he was stared at like a museum exhibit through a camera.

Connor was wearing a dark Ralph Lauren suit, with a white shirt underneath. Lumi watched him adjust his tie and straighten his cuffs. “All right,” he said.

Hank gestured to the door. “Take it away,” he said. His smile was fond. Even though he'd wanted Florent to watch, he wasn't sure that being locked in a room with him was a good idea just yet. Only one of them might come out at the end.

Connor nodded, and then left the room. A few moments later he entered the interview room on the cameras.

“Mr Najjar?” Connor began. “I'm Detective Inspector Roberts,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

Najjar just shrugged. He'd strangled a man to death and viciously beaten a woman. He wasn't going to be easy to wear down, or frighten.

Connor took a seat and set a file down on the desk. “Do you know why you're here?” he asked. Najjar just stared at him, in silence. Connor nodded, to himself. “We found you in the back of an articulated lorry headed to Calais,” he said. “What can you tell me about it?”

Najjar sneered. “No comment.”

Connor tilted his head for a moment, and then pressed on, unfazed. “I understand why you might not want to talk to the police,” he said, “but this isn't about your case. At least not yet.”

Connor opened the file and pulled out a picture. He slid it across the table, in front of Najjar. “A lorry driver was found dead,” he said. “His throat had been sawed open.” The gaping, ragged wound was on full display on Granz's table in the photograph.

Najjar looked down at it, and then back up at Connor. “I didn't do it,” he said.

“We know,” Connor answered. “You were in custody. We think,” he began, “that this man was killed because the lorry you were in got caught. Someone's cleaning up a mess.” Najjar looked up and met Connor's eyes, briefly. Connor pressed on, “And anyone that might be able to connect whoever did this to smuggling people out of the country could be next.”

Najjar looked away, and then back at Connor. “I don't know who did it,” he answered.

Connor tilted his head. His voice remained calm, but there was a warning in his tone. “I don't need a name,” he said, “but if I don't find out who did this,” he explained, pointing to the photograph, “then I don't know who their associates are, which means I don't know who to protect you from.”

Najjar swallowed. Connor saw his Adam's apple bob nervously in his throat. “I don't know nothing,” he repeated.

Connor sat back in his chair and spread his arms. “Fine,” he said. “We've already got your phone, and your computer. We'll find the information eventually, but in the meantime you'll go back to prison,” he leaned forward again, “where we both know these people will have friends, and favours they can call in. If they think that killing you will buy them time to get away then that's what they'll do.” Connor tilted his head, his voice going cold. “There will be nothing I can do to help you.”

Najjar squirmed in his seat. “Can I get a plea deal?” he asked. “Lesser sentence if I help you?”

“No,” Connor replied, simply. “The offer is this: You tell me where I need to look and you go back to solitary so they think we're still trying to soften you up. We get them, and we make sure you're protected from them and their associates.” Connor tilted his head, as if weighing up something on his mind. “Maybe that will mean a cushier prison, and a cell on your own.” Connor added, looked at him. “Whatever we have to do to keep you safe. Or,” he continued, his voice taking on an edge and his face going hard, “we put you back in general population, let them think you talked to us, and hope we see who it is that comes for you before they actually get to you. The choice is yours, Mr Najjar.”

Najjar's eyes flicked back down to the picture Connor had left in front of him. He licked his lips.

Connor leaned forward again, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “If you don't talk to me, I can't help you,” he said.

Najjar looked to the side, his eyes drifting up to the cameras. Connor let him stew in silence for a few, interminably long seconds. “What about my family?” he asked, eventually.

“Your brother?” Connor clarified.

“And his kids,” Najjar added, his words coming out in a rush. “What will you give them?”

“We'll protect them too,” Connor said, “you have my word.”

Najjar's mouth worked as if he was chewing over the idea of spilling his guts. After an agonising moment he grabbed his chair and shuffled it forward, closer to the table. Connor leaned in, his eyes still fixed on Najjar's face. “There's a chat thing, on the computer,” he said, “they told me to delete everything before I left but you can still recover it, right?”

Connor nodded. Data recovery was the backbone of cyber crime. “We can.”

“That's how I talked to them. That's,” Najjar faltered for only a split second before he continued, “where we made the arrangements.”

Connor looked down at the file on the desk. “How did you get payment to them?” he asked.

“It's all crypto, isn't it?” Najjar said, his London accent thickening. “Untraceable.”

Connor smiled. “Not as much as people think,” he replied. “How did you find out about the chat client?”

Najjar scowled, and his voice went low and quiet. “You can't use any of this against me without a lawyer here, right?”

Connor shook his head. “I'm not interested in adding more charges to your list, Mr Najjar. You're already making enough work for people. This is just helping us with our enquiries about a different case, for which you have an alibi,” Connor added, laying it on thick.

Najjar's nose screwed up. “I used to run drugs for someone,” he admitted, and then added, firmly, “I'm not giving you a name.” He paused, and shrugged. “He put me in touch. I got an email. Deleted that too.”

Connor nodded. “Thank you,” he said, “that's all I needed.”

Connor left the interview room with a soft, subtle smile on his face. When he got back into the observation room Hank fixed him with a proud, lopsided smile that sent a pleasant shiver down Connor's spine.

“Not bad,” Lumi admitted. “That was colder than I thought you were capable of being.”

Connor beamed at the faint praise. “Now all we have to do is retrieve the chat logs, cross-reference the conversations, and see what else we can find being said.” His mouth twitched as his smile slipped. “They’re probably using a VPN, everyone does these days, but the cryptocurrency blockchain will definitively link us to a wallet. Then we can go from there.”

“Sounds like a lot of work for some tech nerds,” Hank said, still grinning at Connor. He stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “You're in for a long one.”

*

Hank hated dawn raids. He understood the reasoning behind them. They were supposed to work by catching people at their most unwary, such as when they were still pretty much asleep tucked up in their bed. You went in with a lot of people, made a lot of noise, and hopefully pinned everyone in place before anyone had the wherewithal to run, or fight back.

The major downside to dawn raids, and one that anyone of Superintendent rank or above always forgot, or just didn't think was important, was that they also required a bunch of coppers to be up and ready to go long before dawn. It was a big ask. Especially because it was also before anywhere that served decent coffee opened, meaning that everyone was running off the horrible cheap shit they kept just for breaking a suspect's will.

Connor seemed far too alert for four thirty in the morning. He wore the stupid little black vest with NCA stamped on the back, and kept an eager eye on the rear exit of the miserable little motorway service station hotel. Truckers stayed here when it was easier than going all the way home between jobs. It was a greasy, smelly little Travelodge that nobody stayed in for more than a night.

It was also where someone was having people that wanted to skip the country without showing a passport prepare to jump on their illegal transport. It had taken four days of careful forensic study of Najjar's computer, and then a further two days with the information in Connor's skilled hands to track the conversations.

They were most interested in the driver. If they could grab him they could get out of him where his payments were coming from, and then they could follow the money chain. Connor had said they could track the blockchain transactions from Najjar's crypto-wallet easily enough, but proving ownership of the wallet on the other end was harder. Hank had heard nothing but technobabble bullcrap, but he understood the words 'indisputable proof of money changing hands' and that was enough. If they found the guy on the other end of the blockchain then they could prove the transaction, and since that was the only reason Najjar even had a crypto-wallet, it was an easy case from there.

“You think our throat slitter will be here?” Hank asked. He curled his hands around a travel mug of coffee that Connor, god bless his foresight, had brought with him. It was good coffee, not as sweet as Hank liked it, and a little stewed with being in the travel mug, but a thousand times better than the sludge he'd forced down himself at the station earlier.

“It's unlikely,” replied Connor, watching out of the window of Hank's car, “but stranger things have happened.” He turned away from watching the dark shadow of the building to flash Hank a smile. “Maybe they're also looking to flee the country?”

Hank took another sip of scalding travel mug coffee. “Maybe,” he agreed.

The radio hissed. “All units in position,” came a voice. NCA people circled the hotel, and a couple of cars had taken up posts at the on and off ramps to the service station. Hank and Connor were eyes on the back. They weren't going in themselves. That job was reserved for big guys in noisy boots.

Hank put the lid back on the travel mug. Raiding a hotel was a pain in the ass. Aside from the whole part where they couldn't risk alerting the staff just in case one of the staff was behind everything, there was also the number of fire exits needed. The staff car park wasn't completely empty, but it was dark and badly lit, covered by a single security camera that Connor was pretty sure didn't actually work.

Connor remained as alert as he'd been since the moment he and Hank had pulled into the car park. If Hank didn't know better he'd suspect he'd been drinking one of those disgusting cans that came with names like 'Bull Jizz', and 'Monstar'.

“Go, go, go,” came the command over the radio.

Hank switched his headlights on at full beam. The back wall of the small, grubby hotel lit up, and lights started to flicker on throughout the building, showing the spread of the commotion inside as it made its way deeper into the little hotel. It only had eighteen rooms.

One of the first floor windows burst through, sending shards of glass everywhere. Then legs stuck out of the window and dangled.

“We've got a runner,” Hank said, into the radio strapped to his useless little vest.

“I've got him.”

Hank didn't register that it was Connor's voice until he saw him running in front of the car. The fleeing suspect hit the ground awkwardly, but managed to clamber back to their feet just as Connor was within reach.

“Connor! Get back here!” Hank shouted, his heart leaping into his throat as he watched Connor grab for the person and miss. They took off, at a full sprint across the car park and out onto the open land of the service station. Connor followed.

“Connor!” Hank shouted again, and then smacked his steering wheel. He pulled his radio back up to talk into it hurriedly. “We've got a runner out back, he went left. DI Roberts is in pursuit.” He couldn’t risk leaving until he got the all clear that they’d pinned down everyone they needed to pin down.

After a moment that took far, far too long the radio crackled to life with a reply. “Copy that. Building secure.”

Hank fired up the engine and gunned it in the direction Connor and the suspect had run. He wasn't sure if he was going the right way until he saw a speck in the distance. It resolved into two people, one chasing the other. Hank floored the accelerator as the chaser caught hold of their quarry.

Hank watched a fist swing. Connor dodged that, and then blocked an awkward kick while still keeping one hand on the suspect's clothing. The suspect moved into Connor, trying to knock him down as Hank pulled the car to a screeching halt.

Connor fell to his knees on the floor at the push, and the suspect slipped from his grasp and took off again. Hank dove out of his car. “Stop right there!” Hank called.

“Hank.” Something was wrong about the way Connor said his name. It was strained, and quiet, like he was talking through being strangled. “He's got a knife.”

Hank looked down at Connor. His breathing was fast, and strained, and he held one hand across his chest. His whole body seemed to rise and fall as he fought for air.

“Shit,” Hank cursed, and dropped to his knees beside Connor. All thoughts of their suspect left him. Connor pulled his hand away from his chest. It shone wet with blood.

Hank's heart froze. Connor looked up at him, his eyes wide and his face pale. “I'm sorry.”

Hank barely heard himself put out the call for medical aid. He didn't hear whatever nonsense he said to try and reassure Connor either. He did remember dragging his own shirt off and clamping it over Connor's chest, and he remembered pulling Connor against him when his arm gave out and he started to collapse. But mostly he remembered the wet, bubbling sounds that came from the wound with every one of Connor's shallow, desperate breaths.

*

Machines beeped in a steady rhythm. Wires and cables lay in lines across the bed. A mask hung on the wall behind it, connected to a tap, not currently in use. A bucket on the floor containing pink tinged water connected to plastic tubing that led under the sheets.

Marius set the basket down on the little table that rolled over the bed to allow people to eat without getting up. Hank snored in the chair beside Connor's bed.

“Hank?” he asked, tapping his stick against the metal bedframe.

Hank woke with a start, snorting and blinking, and then looked at Marius and took a breath. His eyes fell to the gift basket on the table. It was laden with fruit, a bouquet of flowers, and a large card proclaiming 'Get Well Soon'. Hank coughed, and ran a hand over his face, sitting up straighter.

“You should go home,” Marius advised.

Hank shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied. He rubbed at his face again and then yawned.

Marius frowned. “Did they say when he'd be out?”

Hank looked at Connor. He looked small, and pale, and painfully young, asleep in the hospital bed with tubes and wires poking out of him everywhere. “Depends,” he answered. “They operated on him again this morning. They think they should be able to take the drain out tomorrow.” He shrugged and frowned. “After that, we don't know. He'll be on strict R and R for weeks when he does get out. Might be better if he stays in here strapped to a bed, at least then I know he'd do it.”

Marius shook his head. “You can't stay with him the whole time, Hank. Hasn't he got family?”

Hank laughed, bitterly. “Yeah, I met his adoptive mother today. She's a piece of work.” He looked at Connor with a frown. “Amanda, she's called,” he added, distantly. “No wonder he pushes himself so hard when he's had her in his ear most of his life.”

Marius gave a thin smile. “That's families for you.” He made his way around the bed and settled himself on the only clear space on it. “You can't watch him every second, Hank. You're going to have to go home eventually.”

“I can if I take him home with me,” Hank answered, defiantly. He sounded as if he'd been mulling the idea over for a while. A couple of days, perhaps. Or maybe only a couple of hours. Time moved at a different speed in hospital. Hours became years, and days became minutes.

“Is that a good idea?” Marius challenged.

Hank sighed and put his head in his hands with his elbows on his knees. “I can't let him go back to that flat on his own.” He ran his fingers down his face again. “They warned him his lung could collapse again if he overdoes it.”

Marius frowned and leaned on his stick. “Is this professional concern for your officer, Hank,” he asked, his voice low, “or something else?”

Hank looked him dead in the eye. The silence lasted just long enough that it was uncomfortable. “It doesn't matter,” he said, eventually, looking away at last. He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “Have we got enough evidence to nail the bastard that nearly killed him?”

Marius nodded, slowly. “I sent the evidence over to crown prosecution today,” he said.

Hank's shoulders dropped. “Good,” he said, with a hint of relief.

“Hank?” Marius said, drawing his attention.

“Yeah?”

Marius gave him a small, friendly smile. “You look like shit.”

Hank frowned, and then nodded. “Thanks Marius.”

*

Sumo trotted obediently beside Connor. He probably didn't even need the leash that sat loose in Connor's hand. Hank let them stay a step ahead of him. Connor had emerged from the bathroom this morning all done up in one of his fancy designer work suits with a tie, and it had been so long since he'd seen Connor in a tie that Hank had dragged him into a hug. He looked like himself again.

The faces in the station all perked up at the sight of him. Well, at either Connor or the dog anyway. Connor smiled and nodded and thanked people as they passed and he received a bouquet of 'Welcome back's. Hank let his hand rest briefly on the back of Connor's shoulder as they rounded the desks, and then made their way to Marius' office.

Larxene watched them pass with eyes like a hawk. “Good to see you up and about,” she chimed, smiling at Connor.

Connor gave her a gracious, genuine smile. All the attention was making his cheeks go pink. “Thank you,” he told her, “it's good to see you too, Larxene.”

“His nibs is waiting for you,” she said, gesturing to Marius' office door. “Go on in.”

Sumo paused to sniff something on the ground, and then rejoined Connor's side when he said, “Come, Sumo.”

Hank pushed the door open to let Connor and Sumo in ahead of him. The doberman sat up in her bed at Sumo's entrance but didn't do anything else.

Marius gestured to the chairs in his office, inviting them both to sit down. “Good to see you, DI Roberts,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Connor replied. Sumo took up position beside Connor's feet and crossed his giant paws as he lay down.

“How long until you're back?” Marius asked, conversationally.

“I have two weeks left on my current sick note,” Connor answered, and then gave a slightly irritated frown, “but the doctor has already told me he won't be signing me off to return to work just yet.”

Marius nodded. “It was six months for my knee,” he said, and gestured to the silver topped walking stick beside his desk, “and I still have to use that thing if I'm going far.”

“It's irritating,” Connor said, the frown remaining on his face. “I want to be back at work.”

Marius shook his head and shared a glance with Hank that said a lot about young idiots that wanted to work their lives away. “You nearly died,” Marius said, firmly, “give yourself time.”

Connor glanced sidelong at Hank. He'd thought he was dying as he lay bleeding in Hank's arms on that cold car park tarmac. It was like suffocating, or drowning. Every breath he took wasn't enough, and the pain of each breath had ripped through him. He remembered the paleness of Hank's face, and the horror and fear as he kept repeating that Connor would be all right, and to just hold on, just breathe.

He didn't remember being dragged into the ambulance. Hank had told him later that they hadn't bothered to get him in it before they jammed a needle in his chest to reinflate his lung, but it had started to collapse again on the way to hospital as his chest cavity started to fill with blood. He'd been dragged in for emergency surgery as they repaired the tear to his lung, and then had spent a couple of days on oxygen and drains.

When his lung had collapsed again it required another surgery. The area they'd repaired in the initial surgery had opened again.

Connor didn't remember any of that, but he did remember that Hank had been there when he'd woken up, holding his hand with breathless relief on his own face. He'd smothered him in a hug to the head, which was the only part of Connor's body that wasn't hooked up to some tube – he'd even had to deal with the indignity of a catheter – and promptly been told off by a nurse to give Connor some space.

“I know,” he said, eventually, offering Hank a small smile before he turned his attention back to Marius. “I wanted to thank you for the gifts, and card.”

Marius shook his head. “Thank Larxene and Itahyr, they're the ones who mugged everybody in the station.”

Connor bowed his head. He'd kept the card, although the flowers had long since died. Itahyr had written that he guessed Connor wasn't really the T1000 after all, which had made him laugh, which had hurt. “I will,” he said. He definitely intended to.

“So where are we at with the case?” Hank asked. He'd asked for a few minutes alone with Connor's assailant and been flatly denied by Marius because Marius knew exactly what Hank would do.

Marius gestured to Connor, “Your case is waiting on a date. Eira Cacciatore will be prosecuting,” he added, with a smile that told Hank that was much better than him getting five minutes with the asshole and no cameras. “The trafficking case is going back to the NCA for review. My,” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “understanding is that this small case has given them leads on a much bigger ring that might be shipping underage girls in and out of the country, so they're focusing their efforts.” He nodded to Connor, “They're going to be glad when you get back.”

Connor smiled a warm, genuine, and slightly flattered smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“But even though you won't be working here, you're welcome to stop by,” Marius added.

Connor bowed his head. “I may do that,” he answered. Then, almost nervously, he asked, “Is it all right if I pet your dog?”

Marius thought about it for a moment before he replied, “She bites – Oh,” he corrected himself, “you mean Daisy. Sure.”

Connor stood up from his chair and approached Daisy, holding his hand out for her to sniff. She sniffed it, and then returned to sitting primly upright. Connor sank to his knees and started to massage behind her ears, first with one hand, then the other.

Daisy gave the low, grumbling murr of a happy dog, and Marius smiled. “You like dogs?” he asked.

“I do,” Connor replied, his attention still firmly on Daisy. “I always wanted one, but I wasn't allowed one at my flat.”

Marius' eyes flicked to Hank at Connor's usage of the past tense about his flat. Hank watched Connor with his arms folded and a grin on his face. “Yeah,” he said, “so now he walks Sumo for me four times a day as part of his recovery. I think that damn dog loves him more than he loves me.”

Connor finally stopped petting Daisy. “She's a beautiful dog, sir,” he said, standing up.

Marius smiled at him. Compliments to his dog were better than compliments to his car, because any idiot with enough money could buy his car, but there was only one of Daisy. “Thank you,” he said, and then gestured to his office door, “now get out. You're still on sick leave.”

Connor gave a small laugh and retrieved Sumo's leash. “Come, Sumo.” Sumo got up, slowly and reluctantly, but followed Connor more obediently than he'd ever followed Hank. Hank put it down to the intelligence of dogs, and knowing that Connor still wasn't well, but also the fact that Connor kept buying him balls and rawhide to chew no matter how many times Hank told him to stop buying his dog's affections.

Marius stood up as well, and touched Hank's shoulder, giving him a look. It held a lot of unspoken questions, including what he was doing with Connor and whether he thought this was a good idea.

Hank looked back at him and gave a one shouldered shrug, disregarding every one of them. “None of your business,” he said, quietly, so that Connor wouldn't hear. Connor was thanking Larxene again, this time for the card and fruit basket.

“Just so long as you don't ruin his career as well as yours,” Marius warned, but it was a warning between friends.

“What do you think I am?” Hank asked.

“Do you really need an answer?” Marius retorted.

Hank huffed with a quiet laugh, and then patted Marius on the shoulder. “Still an asshole,” he commented.

Marius smiled at the insult. “Always,” he agreed.

Hank left Marius in his office and followed Connor and Sumo back out to the main desks. Connor hesitated, “I want to say goodbye to Cacciatore and Florent,” he said.

Hank couldn't say he was surprised, and he gestured towards the DCI's office door with his hand. “Be my guest,” he said.

Connor made his way over there, Sumo in obedient tow, and knocked on the door before opening it.

Lumi looked up first, and then gestured with one hand that Connor should come in. Connor opened the door and let Sumo in ahead of him.

Lumi sat up straighter in his chair. “What is that doing in here?”

Connor gestured to the dog. “This is Sumo,” he answered, “he's Hank's dog.”

Lumi's upper lip pulled back, just enough to express his disgust and distaste. “That's not a dog, that's a slobbering carpet.”

Connor reached down and ruffled the fur on top of Sumo's head. “He's very well trained,” he said.

Lumi's expression didn't shift. “I should hope so,” he replied, “or I'll give you the dry cleaning bill.”

Connor stood up straighter again and smiled at Lumi. “You don't need to worry about your Paul Smith suit, sir,” he said, pointing out, less than subtly, that he knew roughly how much the thing had cost based on the designer.

Lumi eyed him, carefully, and then conceded to drop his objection. “To what do we owe the visit?” he asked.

Connor smiled at him. It was a charming, warm smile, the sort that would win someone with more heart than Lumi over quickly. “I just wanted to thank you and DCI Florent,” he said, “I learned a lot while I was here.”

Marluxia settled back in his chair, and smiled beatifically at Connor. “Such as not to take drinks from strangers?” he asked.

“Beginning with that,” Connor agreed, amusement bubbling through. “I’ve chosen to forgive you.”

Marluxia's smile changed to become a little more warm, and a lot less smug. “It was nice to work with you, Connor,” he said.

“Now stop darkening my doorway before I find you a permanent job,” Lumi added, dismissing him in as friendly a way as he could bring himself to manage.

Connor nodded at the order. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Come, Sumo,” he called, as he turned. Hank leaned in the doorway, a grin on his face and his arms crossed. He unfolded them as Connor passed him, and settled one hand on Connor's shoulder. It drifted down his back fondly as Connor kept walking.

Lumi turned to Marluxia, his eyebrows raised. “I believe,” he said, “you owe me a car.”

Marluxia opened his mouth to try and argue, but found he came up empty. It was hard to deny that DCI Anderson spending almost a solid week by his DI’s hospital bed wasn’t prompting, and certainly, from that touch, it wasn’t the only gesture. He closed his mouth again and dipped his head in acknowledgement. “It appears I do.”

*

Sumo jumped into the back seat of Hank's car without needing a command. Hank closed the door behind him, and then slipped into the driver's seat. Connor had his licence but no car, and wasn't allowed to drive until the doctor said he could anyway. Driving was considered a high risk activity following a collapsed lung.

“You know,” Hank said, starting up the engine, “if you went back to cyber crime you could be back at work by now.”

Connor's nod was faint, barely perceptible. “I know,” he said, distantly.

“Would you consider it?” Hank pressed.

Connor looked at him with big, brown, honest eyes. “No.” His answer was firm and unhesitating.

“Even though they were priming you for DCI?”

Connor's eyes widened and his mouth opened, and then closed again. He looked away, and down at the centre console of Hank's car. He didn't say anything.

“Did you think I wouldn't find out?” Hank asked.

Connor sighed, and quietly admitted, “I had hoped you wouldn't.”

Hank pressed his lips tightly together and inhaled through his nose. “Why did you turn it down?” he asked, after a moment. The car idled, engine running, but they hadn't moved yet.

“Because,” Connor began, and then faltered, searching the interior of the car for an answer that could only come from inside his own head, “there was something else I wanted more.”

Hank nodded. His heart didn't dare to beat in his chest. “And what was that?” he asked.

Connor looked at him. Hank felt himself fixed in the puppy dog gaze. God those brown eyes were going to give him a problem. “Do I need to say it?” he asked.

Hank smiled. A breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding released. “It'd be nice to hear,” he admitted. “I think it's a stupid decision,” he added, and then turned away because those big brown eyes were still trained on him and it was unbearable, “but I'm glad that was the decision you made.” A knot appeared in his throat. Hank tried to ignore it. “I don't want to lose you, Connor.”

Connor's smile was gentle and understanding. His hand reached out, settling on the back of Hank’s wrist, delicate fingers brushing the back of Hank's hand. “You won't,” he promised.

Comments

[azi]

Lumi doesn't care what happens so long as he gets his beautiful new car. He's going to insist upon it.

Also Connor's terrible, that his boss. He'd hardly be the only one, but y'know. Marluxia's boss was pretty. Hank's a proper gremel. That being said, smooch your DCI, Connor, you dweeb.

[chlorhexidine]

Lumi wants that one, Marluxia. You lost fair and square. He might have been prepared to be talked down to a new XE, but you were a prick so he wants the F-Type.

And Connor can't smooch his DCI in public! You know they're both losers even after Connor's moved in, anyway. Hank has to deal with eating more vegetables, and having homecooked meals six nights a week, and Connor has to try having a beer with pizza on the sofa on a Saturday night.

[azi]

Connor might want to keep his nice, neat little flat.

Moving in with him properly is jumping the gun a bit. They'll never convince anyone they aren't thing if he just moves straight in. XD

Lumi wants his F-type. Now. Silver. All the fancy things.

[chlorhexidine]

Connor would be of the opinion that he's not actually moved in until he brings the fish. Otherwise he's just staying with Hank on a temporary basis. Plus it's nice to be able to go back to his own bed sometimes.

Lumi, you and Marluxia don't have infinite money, calm down.

[azi]

Good. Hank can look after him while he recovers. 'cos his mom's a bitch.

:C LUMI WANTS.

[chlorhexidine]

His mom's mean. Hank doesn't like her.

Yes, Lumi, you can have the impractical sports car. Marluxia will have to put off his own car upgrade for longer.

[azi]

Good, he wants the lovely sports car. He wants fancy things.

So on a scale of 1-10 how horrified is Connor re: Lumi and Marluxia? XD

[chlorhexidine]

He has fancy things, he has Marluxia.

And a solid 7. Maybe an eight.

[azi]

This is why he needs to talk to Larxene at the bar about how to spot this sort of thing. =D

Also why horrified, is it because Marluxia's a smarm gremlin..?

[chlorhexidine]

Oh, he absolutely needs to spend time with Larxene, and Itahyr.

And mostly, yeah. Lumi's... cold and calculating and a really good DCI, and Marluxia's... A smug asshole.

Connor may be slightly influenced by Hank's opinion of Marluxia.

[azi]

He really does.

An evening with those two and he'd be able to identify who tops and bottoms of everyone in the entire bar and who'd be okay with being tied up. XD

[chlorhexidine]

And who likes to be spanked, and who'd rather do the spanking.

He may not want to know some of it. No one needs to look at Braig and be able to figure out his weird predilections.

[azi]

Braig is neither a top nor a bottom, not could he be tied up.

Because that'd require a willing partner. And no.

[chlorhexidine]

This is why "Breathing" is optional in the list of qualities he requires in a partner.

[azi]

Ewwwww. He should talk to Szayel, he'd be able to hook him up. Or hit on Apache.

[chlorhexidine]

Hitting on Apache is how you end up not breathing yourself.

And even Braig isn't touching Szayel. That's how new illnesses get found, and nobody wants to be patient zero for Dick Falling Off Disease.

[azi]

Yeah, it's unfair to give Szayel Dick Falling Off Disease. Better if Braig stays away. XD