[b]Scotland Yard
6:12 AM[/b]

McEntyre was on the verge of collapse. The second wind he caught was close to eight hours ago now. The adrenaline had carried him through the work at the crime scene with the rest of the Flying Squad. But now, it was only caffeine that kept him awake. He'd been up now for a solid twenty-four hours. Yesterday seemed like two decades past now. One look around the squadroom told McEntyre he wasn't alone in his weariness. His squad lounged in their office chairs, some leaning back but most of them sleeping upright.

But the Super?

"We need to do a deep dive into the deceased's life."

He whizzed by McEntyre's desk without looking up from the folder in his hands.

"He either owed someone money, a bookies or some drugs dealers or a shylock, or was being coerced by force. Regardless of the outcome, someone from this crew made contact with him and he became their inside man. Someone scary. Someone who could either drive him to suicide, or kill him and make it look like a suicide."

"On it, guv," he mumbled, rubbing his face. "Oi!" 

Morgan's head rolled back before it jerked forward.

"I'm awake - I'm awake, you bastard."

"Let's go down to the Ministry of Health and the Social Security office," said McEntyre. "Find out if this bloke had any family."

"Alright then."

"Champman!"

"What?" Chapman said, not bothering to pick his head up off the desk.

"Go see that fella who grasses to you, see if he knows anything about the robbery or this Cecil."

McEntyre stood and yawned. 

"On your bike," he said to Chapman, who hadn't moved. "We got police work to do."


---


[b]Lignum Vitae Ltd.
Fulham, London
8:02 AM[/b]


Charlie sat on the edge of the Murphy bed, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Red left a half hour earlier, trying to make as little noise as possible on the way out. Charlie pretended as if he didn't hear him, as if he were asleep. In truth, he hadn't slept a wink all night. He felt weary, but not tired.

He replayed last night's events over and over in his mind. He'd forced Cecil down, a gun shoved in his face, and slit both his wrists. It was a sloppy suicide, one Old Bill would figure out quickly. But if the heat on them was as hot as Charlie thought it was, then the coppers wouldn't let it slip out that they wanted the Crew for a murder charge less it spook them out of the country. Yes, his job would be good enough that the word on the street wouldn't change and Red would never be the wiser.

Flicking ash away, Charlie thought back to seeing the moment Cecil died. He saw the light leave his eyes. The moment when he gave it all up and just let go. That wasn't what kept Charlie up. He wouldn't be haunted by seeing Cecil's lifeless body floating in the tub, he would never hear again his cries of mercy, feel the hot blood splash against his fingers as he cut the wrists.

No what kept Charlie up was how little he felt. He'd taken a human life. For all his crimes, this was a first for him. There was this belief that taking a life was something sacred. Not only did you take away everything that person was, but everything they could be. You erased their future and all promise it held. There should have been a weight behind that decision. But to Charlie, it was as easy as taking the trash out. He felt no remorse.

He stood up, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray, and shuffled across the floor to the bathroom. He had to take a piss. By this afternoon, he would stop thinking about killing Cecil. It would pop up occasionally over the next few weeks, either through talking with Red or just an absent thought. But after that, it would go to the back of his mind and he would think nothing of it again. The same way a particularly rough day at work eventually fades from memory.