Title: Changing Times
Rating: White Cortina
Word Count: 357
Spoilers: Series 2
Characters/Pairing: Gene, Sam
Summary: When valued friends leave, you pick yourself up and start again…
A/N: I thought it would be a good idea to work my way through all the 2007 challenges on 1973flashfic…. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time! This one was the very first – the New Challenge. Concrit most welcome.
DCI Hunt stared down into the freshly dug hole, the polished brass name plate on the pine box reflecting back to him the expressionless mask his team had become used to seeing over the last week or so. The vicar’s droning voice spoke of the recently deceased; of the life he’d lived and the lives he’d touched. The illness that had taken him was briefly mentioned, but nothing was spoken of the madness that had consumed his mind while the cancer ravaged his body.
Quite right too, Hunt thought approvingly. Let the poor bugger have some dignity. He can’t hurt anyone now. He’d been a good copper before the insanity took him.
The times they’d worked together as DI and DCI had been good times, enlightening times, frustrating at times, but Hunt had always felt challenged, as if it mattered, the work they did.
Except, of course, for the last case they’d worked on. Hunt hadn’t realised that anything was wrong at first. It took another member of his team to work it out, to point it out to him, and then it all dropped into place, and another of Hunt’s heroes let him down again.
Hunt couldn’t brush this under the carpet, didn’t want to. Too many people knew; one man had died and CID were being watched by others waiting for their downfall. Hunt brought him in, turned him over to the justice system and waited for the man to die. He didn’t wait long.
A hand came to rest gently on Hunt’s shoulder, warm and non-threatening, nudging him out of his reverie. The graveside was empty, silent; all the mourners bar one had gone on without him, sensing his need to be alone.
“Are you ready, Gene? The lads are at the Railway Arms.” Waiting for you.
He took one last look, remembering the man he still called ‘friend’, despite everything, then straightened up and turned to leave, his shoulder brushing against his leather-jacketed DI as they walked back to the car.
The dirt fell softly in the grave, filling it up slowly, obscuring the name on the brass plate: Harry Woolfe. 1923 -1973