Disclaimer: Alas, I still don't own Ashes to Ashes.

Thank you so much to everyone who read Chapter 1, and especially those who took the time and trouble to review. I do appreciate it so much.

Sorry about the gap in transmission - the Luigi's Meet-up on 3 July (with a location tour during the day) left me with absolutely no time to post this chapter that weekend, and I was away all last week.

"Can't help lovin' that man" was written by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II for the immortal Show Boat. See Helen Morgan, the original interpreter, sing it on YouTube, and weep.

As always, please review, and I promise to reply!

All roads point at last to an ultimate inn, where we shall meet... and when we drink again it shall be from the great flagons in the tavern at the end of the world.

- G.K. Chesterton, Charles Dickens

Tony, the Skip, looked up from his newspaper in surprise. "Evening, Sir. It's late for you to be coming back."

"Yeah. I've forgotten something."

Gene marched down the darkened corridors of his kingdom to the main office, and paused in the doorway, remembering how it had used to be. Ray had sat there, and Chris there, opposite him, and Shaz over there, clattering away at her typewriter. And this desk had been Bolly's. The one with 6-6-20 carved into its surface. The same number as the epaulette number in his office.

He ran his finger over the carving. An image swam into his mind, of her slender hand stretched out to his, holding the epaulette number, and of his hand taking it. That was why he had kept it. It had been her last gift to him. But what was its significance?

He walked into his office, turned the lamp on, picked up the epaulette number from the filing cabinet, and held it tightly in his hand, willing it to be the key that would open the door to his buried memories. Smell, sight and hearing had all played their part. Now it was time for touch. He closed his eyes and focused his senses on the feel of the metal against his skin.

PC Gene Hunt. 6620. Coronation Day. A farmhouse. A weathervane. He heard a noise. Thought they were kids. He kicked the door open. The sound of the shotgun firing was deafening. The pain as his forehead shattered... then blackness. A shallow grave.

Gene sank to his knees with a groan, cluching the small scrap of metal as though it were his lifeline.

The farmhouse again. The scarecrow, with the epaulette number 6620 pinned to its shoulder. Alex, digging in front of it. The spade, striking something. The skull, uncovered by her hands, with the gaping hole in its temple. The warrant card found among the folds of the rotting coat. His warrant card.

So this was why he had sent her away. She had found out the unendurable truth he had forgotten, and could only forget again after she had gone. Keats had tricked her into doing it, by making her think that it was Sam Tyler buried at the farmhouse. He remembered Keats too, now.

A frosty night. They stood outside the Railway Arms. She held a child's scarf in her hands, her face crumpling with tears.

"My baby..."

He could not meet her eyes, and shifted uneasily on his feet. "I know, I know, I know. Way of the world, Alex. She'll be fine."

She nodded, slightly reassured. "All right," she whispered. There was a short silence as they looked at each other, as she understood what he was about to do to her.

"Lis - listen to me." She smiled. "I can stay here. With you." She reached out, lightly touching his chest, seizing his lapels as she grew increasingly desperate. Tears were pouring down her face. "You can't do this - you can't do this on your own. You need me, Gene. I can't - I can't go in there!"

In spite of himself, he smiled slightly. "Yes, you can. They've got a saloon bar." The faint ray of hope in her eyes died. "Can't 'ave you putting me off my stride, can I? I mean, I'll end up wonderin' if I'm not completely right all the time. Can't 'ave that." He looked down. "Weren't bad, though, were we?"

His use of the past tense destroyed her. She gazed at him for a moment, then looked down, reaching into her pocket. She produced the epaulette badge, number 6620, and held it out to him.

"Here," she whispered. If she had said any more, she would have broken down completely. He looked down at it, took it, and held it between his hands, gazing at it. Their eyes met again.

"See you around, Bolly Kecks."

She stepped forward, laid her hand upon his cheek, and kissed him for the first and last time. The touch of her hand and her lips was all that he could ever have imagined. But he did not let himself weaken.

She drew back, but did not withdraw her hand. "Goodbye, Guv," she said softly.

"Go."

That single, brutal syllable hung in the air between them. She stepped back, still looking at him as her face crumpled again with unshed tears, still hoping against hope for a reprieve, then turned and walked away without looking back. She had nothing to look back for. Her only reason for remaining there had rejected her. She paused at the door, then forced herself to reach out to the handle, push it open, and step inside. He watched her go...

...and she had vanished from his sight for ever, while Keats's mocking laughter rang in his ears.

He brought his fists to his mouth, trying to cram the tide of emotion back inside himself. The metal badge tasted bitter against his tongue. Taste. The last of the five senses. She had given him the epaulette number in one final, forlorn hope that, if he forgot, it would make him remember. And so, eventually, it had.

He stayed there for a long time, on his knees, in the lamplight, dealing for a second time with the rediscovery of who and what he was, and what his world was. A world inside the mind of a dead copper, cut down at eighteen years of age, who had become the guardian and guide of his dead colleagues. His mind reeled with it.

It wasn't so bad as the first time he had remembered. Now, there was no Keats to shatter his world to smithereens and disgrace him in front of his team. He was facing this alone. Looking back on it, he realised that in some respects he hadn't forgotten so much as he had before. He had always known that he had to send his charges on to the Railway Arms when their time came, and he had never held onto them for too long, as he had with Ray and Chris and Shaz. He had never again formed such close bonds with any of them. They had been valued colleagues, but never friends. He had found strength in his loneliness. Perhaps that was why Keats had never again been able to gain a foothold in his world. Gene might have forgotten the pencil-neck himself, but he had retained a memory of what the bastard, and all his kind, represented, and had been able to guard against them.

But to do it, he had had to obliterate from his memory, all the people who had ever been dear to him. He remembered now, how in the months after Alex and the others had gone, the loneliness had all but destroyed him. At first he had dealt with it in the usual way, by whipping his new team into shape with the ruthlessness of a Spartan commander, beating up any suspect unlucky enough to cross his path within an inch of their lives, and getting pissed as a rat nightly. But when even that could not dull the pain of loss, he had consciously made himself forget all of it. Who he truly was, what his world was and how it had come about, and all those who had shared it with him in the past. The loss of his memories had enabled him to survive and continue, but he knew now, what the cost had been to himself and to Alex.

He had told himself that she would be all right, once she went inside the Railway Arms, but he knew that his true reason for sending her away, had been to forget. She had already lost her child, and he had banished her, selfishly, cruelly, callously, from everything else that had given her existence any meaning - her work and himself. Because he could not bear to remember, he had broken the unbreakable bond between them, and he had broken her. She had been weeping when he exiled her from his side, and she had wept and waited ever since, while he had forgotten her and gone on to new recruits and new adventures. And her grief had reduced the paradise of the Railway Arms to a fearful, embattled outpost. All those years…

"Forgive me, Alex," he said, very low. "I am so sorry, Bols, I am so sorry..."

He knew that he still had a choice. He could allow himself to forget again, continue as he was, and go on to the Railway Arms at some time in the future, when and if he chose. There would always be new recruits to train, souls to save and scum to catch. But now he knew of Alex's despair, if he ignored it he would be living a lie. And, contrary to what Keats had said, Gene Hunt did not lie.

It might be too late for her to forgive him. The scenes he had witnessed on her television could only have happened recently, as they had included Miller's arrival at the Railway Arms just over twenty-four hours ago. She had still loved him then, but Gene knew that when she saw him again, she might hate him for abandoning her. But whatever happened, his place was with her now.

Force of habit gave him pause. If he left, who would look after his team? That was why he had remained at Fenchurch East for so long: he knew that his work there would never end. Well, that know-all twonk DI Astin would just have to step up to the mark. Maybe the next new recruit through the door would be a DCI in search of a team. Gene believed very firmly that nothing in his kingdom happened by chance. He had been sent to Alex's flat that evening, to be reminded of her. That meant that CID was no longer the right place for him to be. He unhooked the key to his desk from his keyring, left it in the lock, pocketed the epaulette number and took the bottle of single malt from his desk. Was there anything else that he should take with him? Yes - his framed firearm training certificate. He was buggered if he would leave Astin, or whoever else inherited his place, to claim that as theirs. He carefully unhooked the frame from the wall, slid it into the large inner pocket of his coat, took one final look around his office, turned off the lamp, and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

"Good Heavens, Sir, I didn't realise you were still here." He had been so lost in his thoughts that Tony's voice, as he passed the desk, made him jump. "I thought you must have left long ago, while I was away making a cuppa. Did you find it?"

"Eh?"

"You said you'd forgotten something, Sir. Did you find it?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

Tony looked concerned. "Sir, look at your hand."

Gene looked at his left hand. He had been gripping the epaulette number so tightly that he had driven its prongs into the flesh of his fingers, and they had drawn blood.

"I can't feel it." He drew a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wrapped it around the injured digits. Sam had told him long ago, that Nelson had told him: When you can feel, then you're alive. When you don't feel, you're not. "I'll survive."

"Good." Tony smiled. "See you tomorrow, then, Sir."

"Goodbye, Tony." Gene swept out of his kingdom for the last time, without a backward glance.

Gene got into the Merc and dropped the bottle into the glove box. The Quattro was another thing he'd forgotten. It was still the best car he'd ever owned. The Merc had been nothing but trouble from day one. He could not imagine now, what could have possessed him to buy a diesel car. He was convinced that Keats must have left that brochure on his desk in a final act of revenge. The temptation to crash it and claim the insurance had been overwhelming but he had nobly resisted it. Now, though, he would have his revenge on this bloody car for all the times it had failed to start or stalled in mid-chase.

He fired up the Merc, screeched away from Fenchurch East for the last time, and lit out east. Docklands had been regenerated long ago, but he knew of a slipway out beyond Silvertown which would suit his purpose. He tore past Tower Bridge, wistfully recalling how he, Ray and Chris had commandeered the Prince Charlie to rescue Bolly and Shaz, when they took Layton down. That had been his first case with Bolly. Now all his cases were done for ever.

Cruising along by Blackwall Reach, he spotted a man forcing open the lock of the gate to a gangway leading onto a moored boat, and stealing into the cabin. The name on the hull struck a chord. Princess Di. He pulled the car over and drew his gun. Perhaps, after all, there would be time for one last case before the Lion hung up his claws. But before he could get out of the car, a young plod came hurtling from the shadows and raced past him down the gangway.

Oh, no, not like that, you twat. He may be armed. You're not Gary Cooper in High Noon. He'll hear you coming...

He leapt from the car and pursued the boy down the gangway, but the lad had already vanished into the cabin. A youthful voice rang out: "Stop right there!"

The gunshot echoed in the confined space of the cabin, and Gene heard a body drop to the ground. Enraged beyond words, he charged down the gangway, hurled himself into the cabin, and fired with murder and vengeance in his heart. The startled gunman went down with a bullet between the eyes.

Gene laid his gun aside and knelt beside the young bobby, who lay stretched out, clutching his chest, blood seeping between his fingers. Shit, I haven't got a radio. He felt in the boy's pocket and pulled a radio out. Bingo.

"Officer down. Get an ambulance. Moored boat, the Princess Di, Blackwall Reach, north bank."

"But who - " a woman's voice crackled over the radio.

"Ambulance, NOW, you silly cow! Or a man will die!"

Something unintelligible crackled back at him before the batteries died with a thirsty whimper. Trust someone to give the rookie the dodgy radio. He didn't think that his summons would make much difference. The ambulance would not arrive in time. But at least he had tried. He cradled the boy in his arms. Skinny lad. Needed fattening up.

"Easy, lad. You've done your job. He's dead, an' the ambulance is on its way. Stay with me. Won't be long." He gently smoothed back the dark curly hair from the boy's clammy forehead.

"Who... you?" The kid's voice was weak, fighting to be heard through mortal pain.

"I'm a copper too. What's your name?"

"PC... John... Burroughs..."

"Proud to know you."

"Don't tell her..."

"What's that, lad?"

"Don't tell her. Don't tell my mum."

"Don't tell 'er what?"

"Don't tell her that I was... scared..."

"You're not scared, John. You're a brave man."

The lad looked up into his eyes, and subsided with a final groan. Gene felt for a pulse, found none, tenderly laid him down on the dirty floor, and bowed his head, fighting back tears. A young copper, spick and span and very proud, ready to set the world to rights, cut down by one senseless bullet. Just as another young copper had been, once...

What a waste. But maybe, on this night of all nights, Gene could ensure that it would not be waste after all.

"You've got the heart of a lion, John," he said softly. "You'll become the copper you always imagined yourself to be. You'll be the new Lion of Fenchurch East."

He placed his hands on the boy's temples, concentrating intently, and felt a great weight slip from his shoulders, as though his mantle of power were falling away from him.

He breathed deeply. It was done. He should go quickly, before help arrived. At least he had been able to alert John's station. This boy's body would be found, and he would be given the decent burial that had been denied to that other boy. Ballistics would prove that he had been shot by the gun still clutched in the dead intruder's hand. The only mysteries would be, that the intruder had been shot by a bullet from a gun of the same make and calibre as those issued to armed police in the Met, and that an unknown person, presumably the one who had killed the intruder, had used John's radio to call his station about the shooting, and then disappeared.

Gene picked up his gun, holstered it, rose, and looked cautiously out of the cabin onto the gangway. All was still and quiet. He stole up the gangway, crossed the road, got into the Merc, and drove away. At the first opportunity, he turned into a side street, and stopped there, in the shadows, just as an ambulance and a patrol car tore along the riverside, heading for the Princess Di. Their noise and light was the perfect cover for Gene to pull out and head off, unnoticed, down the road. They never saw him go.

Out at Gallions Reach, he found what he had been looking for, an old slipway, secured only by a padlock and chain, loosely slung between two low metal gateposts. It was gone 3am by now, and everything was still and quiet. He drove the car at the chain, and one of the gateposts was pulled from the ground by the impact. He got out, heaved the gatepost and chain out of the way, and, with the brake off and his hand on the steering wheel, he ran the Merc down the slope and into the river. It sank into the dark water like a stone. Gene stood watching at the foot of the slipway for a couple of minutes, but it did not resurface.

This worked for Sam, so it'll work for me. If the Merc was ever found, it would be with the driver's door open and a half-empty bottle of single malt in the glove box. Perhaps a legend would arise, that the Gene Genie might have escaped drowning and would return some day.

He walked back towards the city, avoiding the river as much as he could lest the vehicles answering his call to the Lady Di should sight him. He saved time by keeping to the hinterland, cutting off the great loop of the Isle of Dogs. Even so, dawn was about to break by the time he crossed London Bridge and headed south to the Railway Arms.

It was long past closing time for any normal pub, but the windows glowed their customary welcome. Gene knew that it would never be shut against him. Even now, he hesitated a little in front of the door, but not for long. He knew that he was done with this world. His place was with her. Like Alex, long before, he did not look back as he reached out to the handle, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

It was just as he remembered from the old days, but... larger. Far larger. The interior of the pub seemed to stretch on to infinity, every chair and settle, every inch of the bar, occupied by the souls for whom he had cared, and whom he had sent to their rest in this place. All conversation stopped as he entered. There was a few seconds' deep silence, then a familiar figure in a black leather jacket rose to his feet, clapping. They all rose, rank upon rank of them, applauding and cheering. It was the greatest "copper's ovation" ever, and it seemed as though it would never end. Gene stood there and let it all wash over him, unaccustomed tears prickling behind his eyes. It was the proudest moment of his afterlife. Then they all surged forward, Sam, Ray, Annie, Chris, Shaz, Penfold, Miller, Hammon, all of them, shaking his hand, clapping him on the shoulder, hugging him. Everyone was there, except the person for whom he had come here.

"Guv!" Sam wrung his hand, again and again. "Good to see you! It's been too long."

"I know that, Sammy-boy." He hugged him. "Where - "

"Never mind, Guv. You're here now." To his great embarrassment, Annie kissed him.

"Yeah, any particular reason you've come now, Guv?" Chris said confusedly, and yelped as Shaz nudged him in the ribs.

"I knew you wouldn't leave us." She stood on tiptoe and kissed Gene's other cheek.

"What'll you 'ave, Guv?" Ray gripped his hand. "Nelson's got the best collection of single malts in the world, you've never seen anything like it, an' however much you drink 'ere, you never get pissed or get a hangover."

"What's happening outside, then, Guv?" Penfold called out, trying to struggle through the throng engulfing Gene.

Nelson forged his way through the crowd to grasp Gene's hand. "Welcome, Mr Hunt, mon brave! Good to see you! You know the house rules. You have whatever you want, and everything's on the house. I just put on a fresh barrel. What can I get you?"

Before Gene could reply, there was a commotion at the edge of the crowd, and Phyllis came charging through like a vengeful cottage loaf. She stopped in front of Gene, glaring up at him with a fury which had cowed lesser men during her days on the desk at GMP. He returned her glare, grim-faced. There was a silence, which was broken as she dealt him a stinging blow across the face.

"That's for her."

Everyone held their breath and waited for Gene to go nuclear. One or two fainter spirits looked as though they were about to hide behind the nearest available pieces of furniture. But Gene only nodded slightly, acknowledging the rightness of her rebuke.

"Where is she?" His voice fell into the pit of silence.

Phyllis tossed her head. "Saloon bar. Follow me."

The crowd parted like the Red Sea before them. As he passed them, Gene noticed Ray holding out his hand and Chris reaching into his pocket and giving him a fiver.

Phyllis paused with her hand on the door. "She's asleep. We've had to drug her."

Gene nodded his understanding. "Ta, Phyllis. I'll sit with 'er till she comes round."

She opened the door. Most of the lights had been turned out or dimmed, but a brave huddle of drinkers sat at the far end. At the sight of their Guv, they rose and cheered. Phyllis indignantly shushed them, fixed them with her best glare, and pointed to the door. They picked up their glasses and filed out without a murmur. She turned to Gene and pointed to the figure lying on the settle, covered by a blanket. Gene nodded again, reached for a chair, and pulled it over to the settle. He looked back, but Phyllis had gone and Shaz was standing there.

"It's good that you're here, Guv," she said softly. "She's been in a bad way ever since she came here, crying for you all the time, trying to escape whenever anyone new arrives, asking them all if you remember her - and you didn't."

The quiet accusation in her voice cut through him like a knife. "I know, I know," he said wearily, and she looked surprised. He remembered that she did not know what he had learned in Alex's flat. "Thanks for looking after 'er, Shaz. I'll owe you girls a drink later."

Shaz nodded and left, and he sat beside Alex. He would not try to awaken her. He knew how little peace she must have had, since he sent her from him. She had waited so long for him, that the least he could do, was to wait now for her. He had never imagined that he would spend his first hours in the Railway Arms sitting in near-darkness beside a sleeping woman, but he knew beyond any doubt that this was the right place to be.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, when he saw her stir. Instantly he reached out and gently took her bandaged hand in his.

"Gene?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Yes, Bols. S'me."

Her eyes opened sharply, and she gave a little whimper of joy, raising herself onto one elbow. "Gene! Oh, Gene, can it really be you? I've waited so long…"

"Who did you think it was, David Bowie?" His voice was gruff even by his standards as he strove to conceal his emotion.

Her eyes filled with tears. "No… no. It can't be true. I've dreamt of this so many times, and I've always woken up."

He squeezed her hand. "It's me, you daft tart! An' if you want to sleep on the job, join the fire brigade!"

She reached out to touch his face, still scarcely daring to believe. "Gene…"

The feel of her cool, delicate fingers on his cheek awakened a sharp memory, painful even now, of their parting all those years ago. He turned his face into her cupped hand, letting his lips brush her fingers.

"I've waited for you, and waited, and waited - bastard, bastard, bastard!" Her bandaged hands beat feebly at his chest, and she buried her face in his shoulder, weeping for the last time as all her joy and grief flooded out of her. His arms closed around her and held her tight. If he got what he deserved, she would send him away, but if she allowed him to stay with her, he would never let her go.

At last the tempest of her tears ceased and she rested quietly against him, her head upon his shoulder. His lips brushed her forehead with infinite tenderness.

"All the time I was with you, I was trying to get home to Molly." Her voice, small and accusing, came to him from the semi-darkness. "But even while I was trying to fight what I felt for you, because I was afraid that it might keep me from her, even then I used to think - if I couldn't get home, at least I'd have another life, in your world. With you. I knew that, whichever happened, I'd be leaving half of my heart behind. But I never imagined anything so awful as losing both Molly and you. You left me with nothing. Nothing."

"Shouldn't 'ave sent you 'ere," he muttered. "Got it wrong. I thought I was doin' the right thing. I'd never 'ad to deal with anyone - feeling anything for me before. Thought it'd be best for you. You'd done your bit in purgatory. It was time for you to move on."

"You rejected me. Just after I'd found out that I'd lost Molly. I didn't know that anything could hurt so much."

He shook his head unhappily. "Thought that you'd be safe an' happy 'ere. Now I know, all I did was send you away when you needed me most. I was needed, an' I wasn't there."

"You forgot me."

"Yeah." He did not deny it. "Not just you. Forgot everything. Sam, Annie, Ray, Chris, Shaz, Phyllis, even Keats. Even you. I'm sorry, Bols. So sorry."

"I knew it." Her voice was quiet, resigned, leached of bitterness. "As soon as you got yourself a new team, you forgot all about us. You never even talked about us. About me. I've asked everyone who's come here since. I was right. I mean nothing to you."

"Don't say that," he said roughly. "You all meant too much to me. Especially you. That's why I couldn't talk about you. Even think about you. Didn't you notice, I wouldn't talk about Sam or Annie when I got down south? Same reason. Remembering hurt, so I didn't. Made myself forget everything."

"You told Ray to get one in for you. You said you'd see me around." Her voice was flat and emotionless. "You broke your promise to us."

He shook his head again. "Didn't know I had. Wouldn't do that to you on purpose. Hoped you'd know that."

She shifted against him. "So, how come you're here now?"

"I went back to your flat tonight. First time I'd been there since - " He hesitated. "Since you'd left it. I'd kept it locked up ever since. Forgotten why. Landlord 'ad asked me if 'e could clear it. I found all your things an' started remembering little bits an' pieces, but I still didn't remember you. Then the TV set turned on by itself an' showed me what was 'appening 'ere. I remembered all of you then, couldn't imagine 'ow I'd ever forgotten. It hit me like your left 'ook. But I still couldn't remember why you'd gone. I went back to CID, an' I found the answer there."

She sat up and looked at him. "What was it? The answer?"

He reached into his pocket and brought out the epaulette number. The metal gleamed in a ray of light. "This." She gave a little cry and took it almost reverently in her hands. "I'd had it on my filing cabinet all the time. I'd forgotten why it was there or what it meant, but when I saw it tonight it made me remember everything." He looked at her. "That's why you gave it to me, wasn't it? So I'd remember?"

"Yes," she said softly. "It's brought you back to me at last."

She handed it back to him, and he pocketed it. "As soon as I'd remembered, I knew I 'ad to come 'ere right away. Where I'm needed. I'd stayed away too long. I drove the Merc out to Silvertown an' pushed it down a slipway, then came straight 'ere."

She looked shocked. "Do you mean that you abandoned your team?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I've left 'em, but I'll 'ave a successor. Time for someone else to inherit the Lion's den."

"You left everything and came here, for me?"

He took her clasped hands between his. "For you."

She regarded him narrowly."Why?"

He felt cornered, but he knew that he owed her the truth. "Because - "

"Ye - es?"

He made an effort. "Because I bloody love you." She relaxed, and her face broke into the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. "Always 'ave an' always will, you daft, crazy tart. Couldn't tell you before. You'll know why."

"Because the Gene Genie doesn't do love?"

He looked down. "Can't be seen to."

"Thank you," she whispered. "I love you too, Gene Hunt. So much, you miserable, grumpy bastard. While I've been waiting for you, there were times when I wanted to hate you. It would have made it so much easier for me, if I could. But I found that I couldn't. It's just like a song my grandmother used to sing to me when I was very little.

He can come home as late as can be,

Home without him ain't no home to me,

Can't help loving that man of mine."

Gene blinked, more moved than he would admit. "Thanks, Bols. Thanks for givin' me another chance. Didn't know if you'd be able to forgive me."

Her fingers touched his lips, as light as a butterfly. "You're here now. That's enough. I thought you'd never come."

The corner of his mouth dimpled. "You won't say that in a couple of hours."

"Why not?"

"This is the Railway Arms. You can 'ave whatever you want. That means they do rooms upstairs. I think we still 'ave unfinished business, Bolly."

"Yes." She stroked his face tenderly. "Yes, we do."

Slowly, they moved towards each other. Their lips brushed softly, then they were clinging together, passionately exploring one anothers' mouths with a hunger all the greater for their long separation. She entwined her fingers in his hair, pulling him ever closer.

There was a knock at the door, and they sprang apart.

"Mr Hunt, mon brave?"

"Bloody 'ell, Nelson, you're as bad as Keats!" Gene radiated embarrassment as he tried to straighten his ruffled hair. "Doesn't this place 'ave a Do Not Disturb sign?"

"Sorry, mon brave." Nelson winked. "I'll remember that for next time."

"Well, since you 'ave disturbed us, the lady an' I require a room, toot suite." He wrapped an arm around Alex, who leaned happily against his chest.

"Er, well, that's why I knocked." It was Nelson's turn to look embarrassed. "If you don't come into the bar now, the counter might collapse."

"Eh? Why?"

"Mr Hunt, mon brave, have you any idea how many coppers you've sent here, and told them to get one in for you?" He stood back, and they could see through into the main bar. The counter was covered with full glasses in serried ranks as far as the eye could see.

Gene fairly goggled at the sight. "You mean - ?"

"That's all your orders, right back to when you sent me your first copper. Now you're here, everyone's got you the drinks you asked for."

"Oh. Er. But - " He glanced down at Alex, and she laughed joyously.

"Go on. You mustn't disappoint them."

"What about us bein' disappointed?"

She kissed him. "We can wait. We have all the time in all of the worlds."

"That's true." Nelson beamed. "And now Mr Hunt's arrived, I'd bet my last barrel that things'll never be the same around here again."

-oO0Oo-

DCI Gene Hunt's funeral service was held a fortnight after the discovery of his car, submerged in the Thames near Silvertown. Despite an exhaustive search, no trace of him had been found, but as the Merc had been discovered with the driver's door open, the coroner had concluded that DCI Hunt must have managed to escape from the car after it sank and attempted to swim to the bank. He would have been disoriented by cold and shock, and as the accident had occurred at night, he would have been unable to see where the bank was. Given the strength of the currents in the area, and the direction of the tide on the night he disappeared, it was probable that he had been swept out towards the Thames estuary, in which case it was unlikely that the body would ever be recovered.

DI Shaun Astin, the member of his team who had worked with him for longest, was chosen to give the eulogy.

"A lot of people couldn't accept the way he worked. They called him old-fashioned, a Neanderthal, an anachronism. Some of that was true. Hard-driving, hard-drinking, hard-living, a hard man, he seemed like a throwback to an earlier age. He resented the rules and restrictions of the modern police force.

"When I joined his team, I'd come from a long way away, from a place where things were done very differently. I thought I'd never get used to the way we work here, or to him. But as time went on, I came to appreciate this place, and him, more and more. Where I'd worked before, I'd become bogged down in rules and restrictions. But from him I relearned the fire and passion for policing that I'd felt as a young man, when I first joined the Force as a raw young constable.

"Those of us who worked on his team can testify that there has never been a Guv like him. He worked us all to our limits and beyond. He bullied us, belittled us, and brought out the best in us. He made us discover qualities that we didn't know we had. He took a perverse pride in being a bastard. There were times when we all hated him. But, God, how we loved him. A gruff "Well done" from him was worth more than a chest full of medals or a wall covered in framed commendations. There was not a person who worked for him, who was not changed for the better by the experience. He would have risked his life for any of us, just we would for him.

"Beneath that tough exterior was a heart of gold, although he would have slaughtered anyone who said so. He touched countless lives. I see many here today, who were victims of crimes which he investigated. Many of them will have been grateful for his compassion when he comforted them, in his rough way, after tragedy struck their lives. Others he bawled out until they managed to remember the vital detail which enabled him to bring the perpetrators to book. One thing is certain - nobody who knew him will ever forget him.

"Now the Manc Lion has gone to his den for ever. Nobody will ever know what was going through his mind, on the night when he left us for the last time. All we do know, is that earlier that evening, he had visited a long-abandoned flat formerly occupied by a woman who had once worked on his team. It had been preserved like a shrine, perhaps to a lost love. Who knows how much his thoughts may have been clouded by sad memories while he drove along by the river? A small lapse of concentration sent his car off course and robbed us of him for ever.

"He is gone, but his work will never be over. He will never be forgotten. Everything his team do from now on will be dedicated to his memory. He is, and always will be, the Guv."

-oO0Oo-

The following morning, a tall young man with dark, curly hair strode confidently into Fenchurch East CID. He wore a smart charcoal grey suit, and a black overcoat was draped about his shoulders.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is John Burroughs. I'm your new DCI."

THE END