Chapter Text
Apart from DS Moffat and DC Hawkins, CID is empty. There are, at least, still some very small mercies left.
They look up as Felix strides in, PC Vickers on his heels.
"My office. Now."
They must hear something in his tone, or read it on his face. Banter abandoned, the detectives scramble up straight away, piling into the small room behind him.
Felix sits at his desk. Moffat takes the other seat, already opening up a new page of her spiral notebook, pen poised. Hawkins leans against the wall, watching his face carefully. Vickers hovers awkwardly at the door.
"I -" he breaks off, not knowing where to begin.
Both his detectives now look immensely worried. Felix takes a deep breath, and makes himself say the words.
"I'm being placed on leave. Effective immediately."
He tries to ignore the twin sharp intakes of breath, almost certainly picking up on the use of the passive tense. Felix ploughs on, speaking rapidly.
"The utmost priority is the Skinner case. We need an answer about remand from the CPS as soon as possible, before our custody deadline expires. DS Moffat, you're taking the lead on this. All of the documentation is filed on the system, DC Singh has been dealing with it, and you should already be copied in on the relevant emails. If they're still being obstructive by 4pm, run it up the chain - Susan Taylor should be able to help. DC Hawkins, I need you to - DC Hawkins, can you write this down, please?"
Hawkins gawps at him, before scrabbling in his pocket and producing a creased sheet of A4.
"I need you to re-interview the witnesses in the Woodingdean burglaries, we need firm intelligence that the gang is working in a pattern, and liaise with Neighbourhood to enhance street patrols in the area. Understood? Good. Everything else should be on the shared drive. Sergeant, you'll be taking over the daily briefings. DCI Collins has operational authority, but DI Taylor will be cross-covering for day-to-day queries. Any questions?"
Silence greets him, before Moffat clears her throat.
"How long, sir?"
"Pardon?" he says.
"How long are you going to be away for? Before you're coming back?"
Felix smiles, tightly.
"For the foreseeable, Sergeant." Her lips set in a firm line, which he ignores. "Well, if there's nothing else -"
"Sir?" Moffat interrupts. She looks at him intensely, and lowers her voice. "Do you need a friend, sir?" she says, the stress deliberate.
"I don't catch your meaning."
"A rep? From the Police Federation? For - whatever this is?"
Oh. He can't hold her gaze. Everyone is looking at him. Staring down at his hands, Felix swallows. His mumble is barely audible. "Possibly."
"Right."
Moffat takes a breath, and another one, and he can see her formulating a plan in real time.
"Right. Okay." Her hands flex on the arms of her chair, and then her head snaps up.
"Oi, you two, fuck off for five minutes, yeah?"
She thumbs at the door, and Vickers and Hawkins nearly trample each other in their haste to leave. Vickers tries to catch Felix's eye, but then Moffat is there firmly shutting the door in his face. She turns the lock, and closes the blinds for good measure, before returning to her seat.
The silence draws on. Outside, a seagull cries. Felix wonders if it's possible to die from mortification.
Moffat breaks first, sucking in air through her teeth and leaning forwards over the desk.
"So. First things. Does this, in any conceivable way, shape or form, involve me?"
Clever question. Important, for the next steps. He shakes his head.
"Good, okay. So, I'm a signed up as a Friend, at the Police Federation. You're a member, yeah?"
He nods. She smiles tightly.
"Okay, fantastic. Are you a member of a trade union as well?"
He shakes his head. She flips to a new page in her notebook.
"Fine, fine. Okay. But as a Friend, I can help you, in confidence, at least until we can get a rep assigned to you officially. Is it okay to take notes?"
"If you must," Felix says.
Moffat begins scribbling, firing questions without looking up.
"Have you been served with Reg 15 papers yet?"
"No."
"But there's an allegation? Of misconduct?"
"Yes."
"And you're now suspended from duty?"
"Yes."
"Are you aware of the nature of the allegation?"
"Yes."
"And it involves your work as a police officer?"
"No."
She shoots a look at him at this response, then returns to her notes.
"Have you been charged with an offense?"
"No."
"Are you being accused of a crime?"
"N-no," he stumbles, and winces when her eyes dart back to him.
"Are you sure, sir? Absolutely, positively sure?"
"I'm not aware of any way in which I've broken the law," he bites. She gives him a long look, and then turns to the next question.
"Does it involve a fellow officer? Or a civilian staff member?"
"No."
"And not actually physically at the workplace? Or involving police property or equipment?"
"No."
"And you're one hundred percent sure that you've not committed a criminal offense?"
Felix closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath in. He catches the scent of Moffat's perfume, his own half-drunk coffee, the hot plastic smell of computers. The whiff, under all that, of decades-old cigarette smoke, long soaked into the very fabric of the building. He tries to focus on the feeling of his shoe soles on the carpeted floor, the sweat pooling under his shirt at his lower back, the sag of the office chair beneath his legs. The room is stifling, very hot, and very still.
"Felix."
He opens his eyes to meet hers.
"This is in confidence, Felix, but I need to know."
He takes a deep breath.
"No."
Jo raises an eyebrow and holds eye contact.
"Well," he admits, eventually. "I hope not."
She nods, grimly satisfied, and reviews what she has jotted down.
"Okay. Good. Well, not good, but. So, you've been accused of something misconduct-related, not involving your work, or at work or with anyone from work, right? And - this is coming from the Chief Super, yeah?"
"Yes. I've just come from his office."
"And I take it this was the first you've heard about it?"
"This morning, yes."
"In writing?"
"No. It was all verbal."
Jo chews on the end of her pen. "That gives us three days, then, for written notice to be given. And another week for you to give your response. We can work with that." She drops the notebook on the desk, and pulls out her phone. "I'll email the Fed, get you sorted with someone to go to your official meeting. I take it Jake's here to supervise you collecting your personal effects?"
"And to escort me home afterwards. And to commence the protection detail."
Her head whips up at that.
"Protection detail?" Jo leans forward and drops her voice to a furious whisper. "Felix, what the actual fucking fuck is going on?"
Suddenly, it's all too much. He stands, abruptly, and crosses to the window. Outside, the sun beats down on the car park, the reflection from the patrol vehicles so bright his eyes sting.
"Blackmail," Felix tells his reflection. The University archive building lurks in the midground, the August sky an oppressive blue through the tinted glass. "I received photographs this morning, through my letterbox. With a note. Demanding money. And outlining a credible threat. I took them to Chief Superintendent Vickers, and, well. Here we find ourselves."
"He suspended you? For what was in the photos?"
"'Even when off duty, police officers do not behave in a manner that discredits the police service or undermines public confidence,'" he quotes from the regs.
"Yeah, but if it's not illegal, I fail to see why that's more of a priority than the investigation into who's doing it. If someone's making threats to you."
A hazy shape in the glass moves behind him. Felix gets the impression of a hand hovering at his shoulder.
"Did he offer support at this meeting? Or the wellbeing officer, or - no of course he bloody didn't, Robert fucking Vickers, winner of the divisional service medal for hanging his officers out to dry."
Felix's face contorts into something he hopes resembles a wry smile.
"Language, Sergeant."
Jo huffs. "Sorry. But there's no need for him to be such an arse about this."
The hazy shape resolves as she joins alongside him, leaning on the sill and looking out through the glass with him.
"Look, boss. I'm not asking, because I shouldn't know, and I don't need to know, and frankly I don't want to know. But it's - it's sex stuff, isn't it? Has to be."
He grimaces, but does not contradict her. She waits, until Felix jerks his head in the affirmative.
"And it's bad."
She waits again, for his response.
"Yes," he grits out.
"The person? Or," her reflection screws up its face, "the, um, the act?"
"Both."
In the glass, Jo's reflection raises her eyebrows, and blows out a long exhale.
"Well, shit," she says.
Felix feels his face crumple. A noise escapes him, half laugh, half sob, and for a horrible moment he thinks he might burst into tears.
He manages to clear his throat, once, then again for good measure. Composure clawed back, he turns back into the room.
Jo looks even more worried than before.
"Detective Sergeant," Felix chokes out. Thank you, he hopes she hears.
=====
Jo waits with Felix while PC Vickers signs out a patrol car from the parking garage.
"Good luck," she says, when it pulls up outside the station entrance.
The drive back to Hassocks is uneventful. Vickers follows his BMW off the A27, around the village at a regulation distance, no mishaps. Felix doesn't think they were followed, despite the late morning traffic. As he shuts the front door behind him, the PC looks at almost as much of a loss as Felix feels.
"So, um - sorry, I've not done this before, er, sir."
Felix looks at him blankly.
"But, um. What. What, er, happens next? Here, sir? As part of a close protection detail?"
Felix studies him for a moment, and then takes pity.
"You would usually update Control that you've arrived with the subject at the intended destination."
"Right!" Vickers busies himself with his radio. Felix places his briefcase in its usual place on the hall table, empty apart from personal stationery - no warrant card, no radio, no case notes, no pocketbook, all that deposited on the Chief Superintendent's desk an hour ago. Vickers trails in behind him, looking around.
"It's, er, a nice place you've got here," he says. Felix looks disbelievingly at him, and then at the mess around them.
"So … what do you do in your spare time? Usually? When you're not, um-"
PC Vickers tails off, perhaps realising the inappropriateness of this question, its implications, in light of recent events. When you're not … being tied to an A-frame and flogged by a bored, part-time dominatrix? Being blackmailed with evidence of the same? Being babysat, the threat to your life severe enough to justify round-the-clock close protection, but only by South Sussex Police's most junior and inexperienced officer?
"-at work?" Vickers manages to squeak out, turning a deep red.
Felix isn't even sure how to answer such a question. A month ago, before he'd admitted defeat about his dad, any scrap of time he could squeeze out in between the drudgery of textured diets and incontinence pads and 15-minute carer visits, Felix would be at the flat in Elm Grove. Text in advance, £200 in cash once inside the door. All in all, more than fair for 45 minutes of peace and quiet inside his own head. Even if the self-loathing came back ten-fold in between redressing and stepping out onto the street.
These days, Felix doesn't even have that. He hasn't been back to the girls at the flat, not since that last time. Not after Felix's foolishness, after he'd ruined it. After he'd said Collette's name and she had frozen, for a long moment, before undoing the restraints, polite but firm, not meeting his eyes.
The worst thing is, Felix understands. There are boundaries, and red lines, and Colette has her own professional registration to think about. The Nursing and Midwifery Council would probably take an even dimmer view of her extracurricular activities than the Chief Superintendent had of his.
Still, the burning shame that Felix had felt as he redressed that last time, clothes hurriedly shoved on, throat too tight to choke out, I'm sorry, I take it back, I didn't mean it, I won't say anything, please, don't, I need this -
Felix can't even pay someone to humiliate him anymore.
In truth, the evenings and weekends (the ones he can't justify spending at work) are empty. Felix visits the nursing home, and sits under his dad's accusatory glare in silence for hours, breathing in the miasma of stale piss and boiled cabbage. He spends almost as long in the shower afterwards, scrubbing himself until his skin, already inflamed, is raw and bleeding. He lies in bed for hours, lost in thought, ruminating on his failures.
"I do quite a lot of ironing?" Felix tries, instead.
Vickers, to his credit, takes this conversational non-starter and runs with it at full tilt, launching into a long and complicated anecdote about how he had once managed to ruin his grandmother's best linen tablecloth an hour before Christmas dinner in an ironing-related catastrophe. Felix makes tea, and chimes in with "Really?" and "Gosh," at the appropriate moments, and wonders what on earth is supposed to happen now.
Jake Vickers, however, appears to be on a mission to avoid this question coming up. He's a natural conversationalist, Felix realises, warm and engaging and expansive. There's none of the practised oiliness of his father, just genuine rapport. Football is raised, and immediately abandoned. Vickers tries harder with rugby; he apparently has tickets for the opening World Cup match in Brighton ("South Africa and Japan, it's going to be a snooze fest," Jake says sadly) and for one of the quarter-finals in Twickenham. Felix nods encouragingly, but apart from a vague awareness that the upcoming Rugby World Cup exists, and bad memories of Games at school, he can offer little on the topic.
Then, though, Jake mentions test cricket. Suddenly, Felix finds himself expounding on the magic of Stuart Broad's spell at Trent Bridge last week, eight for fifteen, the entire series wrapped up in a morning of furious fast bowling, Broad taking his three hundredth, the poetry of Stokes and that catch.
Jake clearly has no clue, but gamely tries to keep up, drawing Felix out with surprisingly intelligent questions about what Australia's chances going into the Ashes were, and what Felix thinks of the Twenty20 format. He does far better than most of the current batch of CID officers could manage, thinks Felix, even after the extensive programme of communication training that Felix had insisted on implementing when he'd rejoined South Sussex three years ago.
They end up in the sitting room, squinting at his dad's ancient television, a recording of the Nottingham test match in question playing from the Sky box. Felix finds himself narrating, despite himself. He catches PC Vickers looking at him oddly.
"They're not even that bad," he says suddenly. Felix is nonplussed.
"The … Australian bowlers?"
"The photos, I mean."
A wave of embarrassment, hot and prickly, washes through him. Felix swallows, staring past the television. It had been stupidly easy to forget precisely why he is sat at home with PC Vickers in the middle of the work day, watching the cricket as if they were - what, mates from down the pub? Jake Vickers in his police uniform, Felix in his suit? His mind flashes back to that morning, standing stiffly in the Chief Superintendent's office, PC Vickers summoned by his father to bear witness to Felix's disgrace, the soft pink 'O' of his mouth when he'd spotted the lurid photographs strewn across the desk for all to see. Suddenly, Felix feels rather ill.
Seemingly immune to taking a hint, Vickers presses on.
"It's, like, not fair, though? For them to be holding that against you?"
His words seem to be coming from very far away. A high-pitched noise, like static, has filled Felix's ears.
"But it's nothing worse than what half the crowd are doing when they host a Spank night at Revenge, isn't it? It's, like, completely mainstream at this point."
Beneath the buzzing noise overwhelming his hearing, it slowly dawns on Felix that PC Vickers is showing - sympathy? Solidarity, even? Even if he's being particularly cack-handed about it.
"They talk enough about 'modern Policing mirroring the communities it serves', right?" the Constable continues. "But this is Brighton. I bet there's more leather daddies in the city than there are - I dunno. Gingers, probably."
"I - um. It's, um," Felix attempts. He has to say something, anything, to make this stop, but his tongue is somehow twice the size in his mouth than it was a minute ago. He swallows thickly, and tries again. "It's. The um, the perception. To the public. I believe. That's where the problem lies."
Vickers shrugs. "It's just a bit hypocritical of them, that's all." He turns back to the television, unconcerned. "Anyway, sorry, you were saying. What's the difference again? Between winning by wickets, and winning by runs?"
On the screen, Joe Root walks out to the crease, ready to make history.
=====
When interest flags in the cricket, Vickers commandeers the remote, switching rapidly between sports channels. Always an awkward host, Felix attempts to cobble together something edible from an extremely suspect block of cheddar cheese that he finds at the back of the fridge, and some microwave-defrosted bread.
His phone rings, a call from one of the Detective Sergeants at Horsham CID, arranging to visit tomorrow to take his statement. They have started to make enquiries, and she quotes him a crime reference number, but they have no updates on the nature of the threat against him or who the parties might be. He gives them the address at Elm Grove, sending a silent prayer of apology to Colette and the other girls. The photos had been taken through a window with a long-range lens, not from inside the flat - a serious lapse, but as much of an invasion of their privacy as of his. He hopes the Horsham detectives will at least be discreet.
At suppertime, Felix receives an email to his personal account from the Police Federation, as Jo had promised: Superintendent Brett, head of Operations at Crawley. Felix doesn't know of him by reputation, but the rank suggests that the Federation is taking his situation seriously. One of the knots tangled in his chest loosens, ever so slightly.
They continue in this holding pattern for hours, long after Jake's early shift must have been scheduled to finish. Finally, at 21:00, the PC's radio crackles into life, Kilo-Two-Two-Nine, this is Control. Standby for changeover, over. When the knock on the door comes, Jake is already brushing off crumbs and halfway across the room before Felix can finish standing. There's a low murmur of voices at the front door. He expects to see one of the uniformed officers, here at last to relieve Jake for the nightshift.
So it's a punch to the gut when the figure in the doorway moves, and Felix meets the patrician stare of the Chief Superintendent.
"Kane."
"Sir." Unbidden, Felix's legs give way, and he sinks into the chair.
Vickers - senior - flicks his eyes around the room. His lip curls in a sneer at the television, the takeaway remnants on the low table, the clutter on every available surface.
"I'm here to check on your wellbeing, Kane. At this difficult time." His voice dripping with contempt, Vickers stands before Felix's chair, peering down. Felix is forced to crick his head up, to expose his throat. Vickers smirks.
"I've have tried my best to keep a lid on the office gossip, but people always talk, of course. You know how it is." The Chief Superintendent voice drops to a purr. "Worse than old fish wives, coppers, when there's a good scandal going."
Vickers looms forward, now completely blocking the light, and leans in to bring his face within inches from Felix's. "And having had time to reflect, on your situation," he hisses, "I do wonder if you've had a chance? To properly consider your position?"
Felix's heart hammers in his chest. His breath heaves. His every instinct screams to run, but he is rooted in place, a cornered animal.
"I wouldn't take too long, if I were you."
Felix registers the flicking off of the overhead light, the slam of the front door.
He's alone, in the dark.
=====
The morning dawns bright and clear. Felix, jumping at every shadow, watches through the front window as a second patrol car pulls up, and PC Vickers - Jake - exits. He relieves the night officer - PC Ng, he thinks, although it's tricky to tell at a distance - and takes handover, leaning against the car bonnet and scribbling in his police notebook. The first patrol car departs, and then Jake is at the front door, juggling takeaway coffee cups and a paper bag, looking unfairly handsome and rested.
"Morning," Jake says brightly, when Felix goes downstairs to let him in, and then pauses, appraisingly. Felix supposes he must look dreadful, after last night's sleepless tossing and turning. So he's surprised when Jake murmurs, "You look good?" and promptly blushes a deep crimson.
"Pardon?"
"I mean, um, I've not really seen you out of a suit, before." He gestures at Felix with one of the coffees, and clears his throat. Felix looks down at himself, failing to see how his M&S jumper, dark jeans, and slippers are anything special.
"Anyway. Sorry. I got you a latte, by the way, wasn't sure what you'd want, but I hope that's ok."
Felix accepts the Costa cup in bemusement.
"So, what were you wanting to do today?"
My job, he doesn't say. He wonders if Skinner was successfully remanded, if Forensics have been able to trace any DNA evidence from the University sexual assault victim, if the burglary gang have struck again.
But Jake is looking hopeful, and Felix doesn't want to poison the morning air with bitterness. It's still cool out, and the officers from Horsham are not due until later in the day. He thinks again about last night's sleepless self-recriminations, and of the Self-care and Maintaining Your Mental Wellbeing During an Investigation leaflet that Brett had included in yesterday's email, and of the trainers that haven't been touched since April, even though, before his dad's stroke, Felix had been running at least fifty miles per week.
Jake catches his eye, and smiles encouragingly. Still it's a surprise that he manages what he says next.
"Would it be possible for me to go out for a run?"
They plan a route at the kitchen table, a ten mile mostly flat loop on country lanes where Jake will be able to keep eyes on without causing a traffic obstruction. Felix ignores the odd looks from the neighbours as he sets out, the patrol car creeping behind him. Even with Jake following, he feels exposed. It would be so easy for someone to be waiting in one of the parked cars.
He sets a punishing pace, focusing on his breathing and form, trying to block out the engine behind him and the imagined threat behind every corner. It still takes at least two miles to find his rhythm, to stop scanning the horizon. Four miles for the hairs on the back of his neck to stand down.
Pulling back into the village, Felix slows to a jog, and then a walk. The day is starting to heat up, and he's soaked in sweat. His Garmin watch chirps, as if it had missed him.
The patrol car pulls up alongside him, and Jake gives a sharp whistle out of the open window.
"That was well fast! What are you, Speedy Gonzales?"
Felix stops, blinking sweat out of his eyes.
Jake hands him a water bottle through the car window, and Felix takes a long drag, and another. He becomes aware that Jake is staring at him. He imagines what he must look like: wet hair plastered to his head, ugly rashes tracking down his arms, face hot and blotchy.
Felix gestures the bottle to Jake, who doesn't react. Too out of breath for conversation, Felix has to shake the bottle to get his attention. Jake starts. Their fingers brush as Jake snatches the bottle back, even as Felix looks at him quizzically.
No time to ponder PC Vickers' odd behaviour. Felix has to shower, change, and then make a rushed attempt at tidying before the detectives from the North Sussex force arrive. Jake does not reappear in the house.
=====
DC Tanner and DI Malik are prompt, polite and businesslike. Felix offers tea, they decline, and the three of them sit in the kitchen to proceed. They dispense with the usual preliminaries, address, occupation, the nature and details of the incident.
"Your statement will probably mostly cover your professional associations," says Malik. "So I was wondering, DI Kane, if we could go over some of the more, er, personal details first? To get that out of the way?"
Felix nods. This part was always unavoidable. Still, dread pools in his stomach.
"How many times have you visited the address on Lynton Street?"
"On several occasions. I'm afraid that I don't have dates."
"Roughly, then."
"Around ten or fifteen times, between May and July. Perhaps five or six times, before that, over the past year."
"To your knowledge, were photographs or video recordings ever taken there?"
"No."
"And can you make a guess as to when the photographs you showed to Chief Superintendent Vickers were taken?"
"No, but-" Felix chews his lip. "The … equipment shown in the photographs. I don't recall that until around June, of this year."
"That's very helpful, thank you."
Tanner makes a deliberate note.
The questions continue. Who, when, in great detail, but not what, or why, not even superficially. Felix feels like protesting, of spelling out every way in which he made sure that the letter (if not the spirit) of the law had been obeyed. He doesn't. Even Felix can recognise a gift when he sees one; the protectiveness they're showing to the shreds of his career is touching.
Satisfied with Felix's explanations so far, the detectives delve deeper into who might have taken the photographs. Here, they furnish him with photocopies of his own police notebooks, database entries, spreadsheets. Felix painstakingly goes over every case, every upcoming court date, every recent prison release, every career criminal who might hold a grudge. An hour in, Tanner winces, and shakes out her hand.
His years since returning to Brighton covered, next they turn to his work at the Met. More photocopies, more printouts. Malik starts highlighting names, cross-referencing and jotting down notes in the margins. Felix adds in where international agencies might have more details, who might still be working there and how to get in touch. If he squints, it's almost like he's in the office, working a case. Almost.
The shadows have stretched across the kitchen before Malik and Tanner exchange a nod, and start to tidy away their papers. Felix doesn't envy the task ahead of them, hundreds of leads to follow. Jake - when did Jake come in? - ushers the officers out of the door. When Jake returns, he finds Felix still at the kitchen table, staring sightlessly at the sunset lighting up the western sky.
"That go ok, then?" Jake asks.
Felix considers. In the awfulness of the past 24 hours, it barely registers. Still, he feels drained, throat dry from talking for so long, nerves shot from recriminations anticipated even if they never arrived.
Jake pushes a mug of tea into his hand, and sits in the seat DI Malik just vacated.
"Couldn't help overhearing, sorry. I came in to use the toilet."
Felix wonders just how much Jake had been privy to.
Jake seems to sense that Felix won't volunteer anything. "So you worked in London? Before coming to Brighton?" he asks, his bright tone forced. Felix takes a swallow of tea before responding.
"Ten years at the Met, give or take."
Jake nods. "And what kind of stuff did you do there?"
"Serious and Organised Crime, for a lot of it."
Jake lets out the same whistling sound as earlier, which Felix is beginning to realise is how he shows that he is impressed.
"So what did that involve?"
"Middle-man ops, for the most part." At Jake's puzzled expression, he elaborates. "Targeting drug traffickers bringing in product from Rotterdam, or Calais. We would try to intercept before it made its way to downstream markets."
"And, like, did you ever go undercover?"
Felix's response is terse. "Early on."
Jake's eyes are as round as saucers. "And were you ever on the Flying Squad?"
He blinks. "I've worked with them, for a few operations, yes."
"No way! For real?" Jake gapes. "What were they like?"
Felix thinks a moment, and answers honestly. "Testosterone-heavy. Very sure of themselves."
"You ever work with Interpol?"
"Yes?" Felix answers. He can't understand Jake's sudden fascination with his ancient work history.
"And what were they like?"
"Extremely French. Less hard work than the Americans. Who," he interrupts Jake's question before it can be asked, "were very loud. And ... analogue. Everything had to be faxed."
Developing a headache, and desperate to head off further interrogation, Felix drains his tea and moves to the living room.
Jake, though, is hard to shift when he's settled on a topic. Felix tries putting on the first football match he finds, but Jake ends up with the remote scrolling through a menu of films, peppering Felix with more questions. Has he seen The Silence of the Lambs. Yes. How much was the real FBI like how they showed in the movie? Very little. What does he mean, he hasn't seen Training Day? What about The Departed? Surely he has to have seen The Departed?
Felix finally relents and suggests that Jake puts on the next thing on the screen that pops up, some sort of Hollywood flick with lots of explosions. It's loud and flashy, and Felix is asleep before the first gunfight is finished.
=====
He awakes with a start. The television set is silent. Hushed voices and shadowed figures move in the front hall.
Felix holds himself very still, measuring his breath carefully. Fight, or flight?
The squawk of a police radio puts him at ease. The shapes resolve into two figures, whispering furiously. PC Draper, who must be covering the night duty, appears to be giving PC Vickers a dressing down for not doing any formal security sweep of the perimeter since coming onto his shift. Felix catches a view of Jake's face in the low light filtering from outside the window. He doesn't look chastened at all.
Felix feels his eyes drift closed, and the darkness takes him again.
=====
The third day starts with a telephone call from Superintendent Brett. Could he come up to Crawley, for 'an informal chat'? Today, if possible?
Brett is mild-mannered in person, a short, heavy, middle-aged man in spectacles who has the air of a deeply disappointed secondary school teacher. Of a technical subject, Felix thinks, as he's ushered into the meeting room booked for this purpose. Maths, maybe, or Physics.
"You do seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a mess," Brett observes, peering at Felix over a sheaf of printed pages. "Let's start at the beginning. What are the bastards trying to get you on?"
In some ways it's the polar opposite of his witness interview. Brett isn't interested in the dates, or times, so much as the actions, their intentions, Felix's understanding and state of mind at the time.
All of his careful justifications are laid out, and inspected, and mostly found wanting. How was he sure, that there wasn't coercion? Didn't the presence of a second woman imply organisation, association, de facto brothel keeping? What pieces of whose anatomy were placed where, exactly, and at what hourly rates? Be precise, please, DI Kane, these questions aren't half of what they'll throw at you.
What seems like an age later, Brett takes a big exhale, and surveys the sorry case in front of him.
"There's one more thing to establish, Felix, if you'd be able to help me."
Felix gives Brett blank look. What more, possibly, in this whole sordid affair, could there be to trawl through?
"I understand that you were - if I have this right - at boarding school when you were younger?"
Felix goes very still.
"St Aldhelm's College, is that correct?"
Brett seems to be waiting for him to respond. Felix stares very deliberately at the wall opposite, and says nothing. Brett sighs.
"I understand this is incredibly difficult, but it would enormously help your case if we could establish membership of a vulnerable group."
Felix remains silent.
"I'm sure you're aware of recent allegations of historic -"
"No," he says flatly.
Brett winces, but continues. "Even if we're able to hint at -"
"No."
Brett, to his credit, merely regards Felix over the rim of his glasses.
"If you're sure, DI Kane."
"I am." Felix takes a deep, shaky breath. Brett gives him a sad smile.
=====
The call comes through on day four. The morning had exchanged PC Ng, on nights again, for PC Moretti, blinking in the bright August light on his doorstep.
"Jake says that you have Sky Sports?" he says, hopefully.
Felix gestures him inside.
Moretti is a low-effort jailor, happy to leave Felix unbothered once he has a cuppa to hand and the Premier League on in the background. Felix sets to boxing up some of the medical detritus that has accumulated in his dad's old study.
His phone rings from a withheld number as he is wondering whether unused urine bottles can be recycled, or have to go straight to landfill.
"Hello?"
"Horsham CID have been in touch," oozes the voice on the other line. "You'll never guess what they have to say."
Felix straightens, his breath coming quickly.
"You must be very pleased with yourself. It seems that they've been unable to find any evidence of criminality. On your part at least."
He's frozen in place, as Vickers continues.
"Needless to say, you are still under disciplinary investigation. And your vetting status is certainly under review. But your suspension is rescinded." For now, is unsaid.
"I expect a full accounting of how your team has managed to cock up the charges in the Skinner case on my desk at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow."
The call disconnects. He stares at his phone.
A notification pops up. An email, from Brett.
They've backed down for now. Expect official notice shortly but no longer under suspension. Official misconduct interview Friday next week, see you then. Will send through a draft statement in a couple of days. Let me know asap if anything else comes up in the meantime, you have my number. And keep your nose clean. See you Friday.
When Moretti wanders through to let Felix know that he's been stood down from the protection duty, he's still holding his phone in his hand, disbelieving.
=====
Work is the same, and also not.
Felix parks in the senior permit holders' section, as usual.
The officer on reception, a new probationer whose name he doesn't know, nods at him blankly as he signs in for a temporary visitors' pass. He passes PC Draper on the stairwell, who gives him a choppy head jerk. On the executive floor, the Chief Superintendent's PA has his radio and warrant card ready. Within half an hour of arriving, Felix is walking into CID, heart in his mouth.
He thinks the hubbub of background conversation dries up on his arrival, but before he can think what to do, the Major Crimes team are waving and several members are giving him rather obvious thumbs up. As he arrives at his office, their voices erupt.
"Morning, boss!"
"Sir, sorry to interrupt, but I've a quick update for you on the -"
"- just to say, we're all very glad to have you back -"
"- what an absolute bloody stitch-up -"
"You won't believe what those bastards at the CPS are saying about the threshold for -"
"It's just, I forgot to put in my annual leave request -"
They crowd into the briefing room behind him, where Jo is already waiting. She catches his eye, and gives him a deep, genuine smile. Then, her attention turns to the room at large, and it's down to business.
"Thanks, everyone, right, shut up you lot. As we can all see, DI Kane is back on duty, welcome back to the madhouse, sir. There's handover sheets going around. But first, can someone help me here please, the bloody powerpoint's still on the blink."
=====
Between catching up on the work he's missed, and reviewing his official response with Brett over email, the rest of the week slips away. At the nursing home on Friday night, Felix bumps into Colette outside the dining hall. She glares at him furiously over the hunched back of the resident that she's assisting, but no words are exchanged. Probably for the best.
Felix sits with his dad as the evening meal is served, and tries not to gag at the smell of pureed carrots that he tries to spoon into Leslie's mouth. His dad spits most of it out. You can't even get this right? Leslie's eyes seem to say. Pathetic, boy, pathetic.
So far, so normal. Until Saturday morning, when his staring at a mildewed spot on the bedroom ceiling is interrupted by a hammering on the front door.
Cautiously, Felix peers down at the street. There's a black '04 plate Polo newly parked on the road, but the visitor at the door is obscured by the overgrown shrubbery. The door rattles again. Sharp, insistent. A policeman's knock.
What greets him on the doorstep, though, is entirely unexpected. Jake Vickers, in an Abercrombie hoodie and tracksuit bottoms, a supermarket carrier bag in his hand and a sheepish expression on his face.
"Sorry. I thought you'd be up already."
Felix blinks at him. He considers his old t-shirt and yesterday's boxers, the threadbare dressing gown, his hairy legs and bare feet on the quarry tiles. The silence drags on.
Jake's smile tightens into embarrassment. He proffers the shopping bag, and Felix takes it automatically.
"I brought beer? And, um, crisps."
Not quite sure how to respond, he opens the door wider. Jake squeezes past, talking over his shoulder.
"I was wanting to check to see how you were doing. With, you know, everything. And then I saw that the cricket's on again this week. So I thought … ?" Jake trails off, looking all of a sudden very unsure of himself, and very young.
Felix abruptly realises that he is being unconscionably rude. He forces his face into a smile.
"That's very kind of you. Jake." His voice is gravelly.
Jake's face breaks into a beaming smile.
"I'll make tea?"
When Felix comes downstairs, having hurriedly dressed and brushed his teeth, Jake has already switched on the television.
"So England has won the Ashes, already?"
"Yes, at Trent Bridge the other week. They've won three of the four tests so far, and it's best of five."
"But Australia is winning at the moment?"
He takes a seat, and a drink of his tea, eyes drawn to the screen. "This test, yes. They've been remarkably good all week. Siddle, in particular - there, look at his accuracy with that ball, you'll see it on the replay. And our batting has absolutely collapsed, of course. Look at what Lyth's doing. Flailing around like he's playing bloody rounders, come on, man - oh!" he cries, as Siddle's ball finds the outside edge, Clarke catching Lyth out.
Jake snickers into his mug.
"You know, sir, I don't think I've heard you swear before."
"Mmm?" asks Felix, distracted by Cook finally getting some runs in for England. His brain catches up with his ears, and he feels his face heat. "Oh," he says. "I'm not that straitlaced."
His and Jake's eyes meet, as the implications of his words strike both of them. Jake's eyebrows rise in challenge.
"There's a joke in there about corsets that I could make. Sir."
Felix narrows his eyes. The moment draws out. "Don't you dare, Constable."
"Or what?" Jake juts out his chin in challenge. "You'll cane me?"
There's a split second where he feels winded, and sees Jake's eyes widen, starting to panic that he's pushed it too far. Until Felix throws a cushion across the room, and Jake erupts in laughter as he dives for cover to the other end of the sofa.
"Call me 'Felix', by the way," he says, feeling rather brave. "We're not at work. And you did bring provisions."
"Alright, Felix. You want to try one of my world-famous crisp sandwiches?"
=====
One must dress for battle when going to war, his father always said.
Charcoal pinstripe, wool (despite the heat), with waistcoat. White shirt in twill, double cuff, collar pressed with starch that morning. Silver cufflinks, retrieved from a dusty drawer, tarnish carefully rubbed off. Black oxfords, toe cap, high polish. Silk tie in ox-blood red, half-Windsor. His reflection in the mirror nods, level, collected. Felix remembers dressing on the morning of his first A level exam. More wrinkles, now, fewer spots, same amount of existential dread.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead.
Melodramatic. But fitting, for what's to come.
Felix's footsteps are muffled by the carpeted floors. The view from the senior management floor is spectacular, the pier and the sea stretching out on two sides of the room. The conditioned air is crisp.
Felix is more relieved than he'd like to admit to see Harry Brett already in the meeting room. They're kept waiting for what feels like a deliberately disrespectful fourteen minutes, before the Chief Superintendent arrives, HR rep in tow. They take seats across the meeting table.
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage.
Vickers activates the interview recorder, not breaking eye contact as the shrill warning tone fills the room.
"The time is nine-forty-six-a-m, on Friday the 28th of August, 2015. This is an official misconduct meeting under the 2008 Police (Conduct) Regulations. Those present are myself, Chief Superintendent Robert Vickers, from South Sussex Police; Detective Inspector Felix Archibald Kane, from South Sussex Police, who is the subject of these proceedings; Superintendent Harry Brett, from North Sussex Police on behalf of the Police Federation; and Carol Sykes, HR Operations Team Lead at South Sussex Police. All parties are aware that this interview is being recorded.
"DI Kane, I'm reminding you that whilst you do not have to say anything, it may harm your case if you do not mention when interviewed or when providing any information during these proceedings something which you later rely on in any misconduct proceedings or special case hearing, or at an appeal meeting, or appeal hearing."
Let pry through the portage of the head like the brass cannon.
"DI Kane would like to make a statement," says Brett. He pulls out a printed version of what they had batted back and forth for the past week, and slides it deliberately across the table to Felix.
Now set the teeth.