Post by Rae on Mar 23, 2009 16:06:07 GMT
It was cold, clinical and he hated it. He hated every second of time that was taken from his bloody life that he had to spend down here, among the bottle-green tiles and the smell of meths rising from that white and chrome hole at the bottom. The closer you get, the more the smell changes. It's still strung mainly with the clinical disinfectant that is clearly tearing holes in your lungs, but there's something else. A musty, sickly scent. The smell of death. And, on this occasion, he would very much have liked not to be here.
Gene Hunt, with his swept back hair, camel coat and driving gloves, an almost dead cigarette slowly smouldering between his lips as he came to that most despised doorway at the end of the corridor, facing it for a moment, sniffing before turning to glance at the vacant bench that he usually occupied while the post mortem took place. This time, he had been as far away as possible. He picked the fag-eng from his teeth and flicked it to the tiled floor, stepping on it to extinguish the last burning embers before he pressed a hand on the door, casting a last look across his shoulder before entering the mortuary. As usual, the silver-haired pathologist stood, wearing a bloodstained apron, peeling latex gloves from his fingers. He looked up, catching sight of the expression on the DCI's face, deciding that this would not be a good time to cause the man any slight pang of irritation.
"Mrs Ethel White." He said, folding back the crisp white linen sheet that covered the deceased woman's colour-drained face, and Gene felt his stomach constrict.
There she was, Ethel. Her dark brown hair matted, just tickling her bare shoulders as her head lolled unforgivingly to one side. There was nothing else for it to do, her neck had been...
"Complete, clean break. Caught the jugular. Very clean, very quick. One would almost say professional, don't you think Mr Hunt?" The doctor asked, looking up at the man as he lifted his blue eyes from the woman's lifeless face.
"Anything else on her body?" He asked, a certain amount of rage now rising in his guts. His eyes now boaring into the face of the rather nervous man on the other side of the table, as if defying him to say no. The pathologist swallowed, and looked down at the body.
"Forced entry... she was raped." He said. That was the final straw. Gene turned swift on his heel and slammed back out through the doors that hammered against the walls, echoing along the domed corridor as he stormed out.
Ethel White was a family friend. A good housewife with a teriffic arse that would never be implicated in anything that could directly cause her death. This crime was targeted, vindictive, and worst of all, without reason. Well, visible reason, but that wasn't on Gene's mind at all. There wasn't a chance in hell she was involved with anything. Not Ethel. Our Ethel.
He slammed the car door shut behind him and exhaled through his nose sharply, nostrils flared as he gripped the steering wheel contemptuously, glancing back at the unforgiving grey facia of the building he had just vacated. He grunted, turning the ignition and pulling the choke, before heading back to CID. Another day, another bastard murderer. Only this time it was personal. It affected him. And he knew if he didn't do something about it the missus would be on his back for a bloody month. Mind you, it wasn't as if he wanted to do nothing. Far from it. When it came down to it, anything this far in the shit couldn't be cast aside as ongoing. A woman had been found by the canal with a broken neck, unidentified female. And he had turned up to look into the face of his wife's best friend. It had never been so hard to break the news to anyone before. Ever. He ran a hand through his dusty blonde hair, driving with his elbows for a moment so he could light a cigarette with both hands, just as he parked vaguely where there was a parking space in the box-like car-park. He stepped out, tundered through the offices and into the lift, down into CID, out the other side, slammed the door of his office and sat down, pressing his hands over his face. He needed a drink.
Gene Hunt, with his swept back hair, camel coat and driving gloves, an almost dead cigarette slowly smouldering between his lips as he came to that most despised doorway at the end of the corridor, facing it for a moment, sniffing before turning to glance at the vacant bench that he usually occupied while the post mortem took place. This time, he had been as far away as possible. He picked the fag-eng from his teeth and flicked it to the tiled floor, stepping on it to extinguish the last burning embers before he pressed a hand on the door, casting a last look across his shoulder before entering the mortuary. As usual, the silver-haired pathologist stood, wearing a bloodstained apron, peeling latex gloves from his fingers. He looked up, catching sight of the expression on the DCI's face, deciding that this would not be a good time to cause the man any slight pang of irritation.
"Mrs Ethel White." He said, folding back the crisp white linen sheet that covered the deceased woman's colour-drained face, and Gene felt his stomach constrict.
There she was, Ethel. Her dark brown hair matted, just tickling her bare shoulders as her head lolled unforgivingly to one side. There was nothing else for it to do, her neck had been...
"Complete, clean break. Caught the jugular. Very clean, very quick. One would almost say professional, don't you think Mr Hunt?" The doctor asked, looking up at the man as he lifted his blue eyes from the woman's lifeless face.
"Anything else on her body?" He asked, a certain amount of rage now rising in his guts. His eyes now boaring into the face of the rather nervous man on the other side of the table, as if defying him to say no. The pathologist swallowed, and looked down at the body.
"Forced entry... she was raped." He said. That was the final straw. Gene turned swift on his heel and slammed back out through the doors that hammered against the walls, echoing along the domed corridor as he stormed out.
Ethel White was a family friend. A good housewife with a teriffic arse that would never be implicated in anything that could directly cause her death. This crime was targeted, vindictive, and worst of all, without reason. Well, visible reason, but that wasn't on Gene's mind at all. There wasn't a chance in hell she was involved with anything. Not Ethel. Our Ethel.
He slammed the car door shut behind him and exhaled through his nose sharply, nostrils flared as he gripped the steering wheel contemptuously, glancing back at the unforgiving grey facia of the building he had just vacated. He grunted, turning the ignition and pulling the choke, before heading back to CID. Another day, another bastard murderer. Only this time it was personal. It affected him. And he knew if he didn't do something about it the missus would be on his back for a bloody month. Mind you, it wasn't as if he wanted to do nothing. Far from it. When it came down to it, anything this far in the shit couldn't be cast aside as ongoing. A woman had been found by the canal with a broken neck, unidentified female. And he had turned up to look into the face of his wife's best friend. It had never been so hard to break the news to anyone before. Ever. He ran a hand through his dusty blonde hair, driving with his elbows for a moment so he could light a cigarette with both hands, just as he parked vaguely where there was a parking space in the box-like car-park. He stepped out, tundered through the offices and into the lift, down into CID, out the other side, slammed the door of his office and sat down, pressing his hands over his face. He needed a drink.