Denton CID

Part 1

Drop the gun.

Bang.

Don't be so stupid mate, I said drop the gun!

Bang

No Evan! Stay where you are!

Bang.

Louis awoke with a start as the noisy vroom of a vacuum cleaner tore into his fitful sleep. Utterly disorientated, he rubbed his aching eyes with the palms of his hands and was pleasantly surprised to feel a duvet shifting under his arms. Well... at least he'd made it to bed last night. That would make it twice in one week – an impressive personal achievement, if he did say so himself. The poor couch would be getting lonely, as would his desk chair at work.

Stretching his arms up against the headboard, he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tightness of too many long nights spent hunched over a computer. Maybe he could convince Mullet to get him one of those massage chairs – out of 'Duty of Care' of course. Good posture is key to good health and good health is key to minimising the dent that long-term sick pay makes in the staffing budget.

Thud. The pitch of the vacuum cleaner suddenly changed and it was only then the noise from downstairs finally registered in his brain and Louis realised what it meant. With a groan of dread, he yanked the alarm clock off the night table and keened pitifully at the angry red 09:38. Shit, shit, buggering shit, I'm late! So, so late. Mullet's going to have me head on a block! He ran a hand through his hair and groaned at how greasy it felt. Fuck, I need a shower and a shave – there's no way I can get away without. Fuck, fuck, Mullet's going to fire my arse. Scrambling out of bed, he promptly tripped over his discarded work trousers from the night before and nearly brained himself on the en suite door. Fuck. He hastily kicked the offending item towards the wall. However, it brought up a whole new question; do I even have anything to wear today?! Cammy won't have done anything because I still haven't got the washing machine repaired and I completely forgot about the dry cleaners... Buggering, buggering fuck! Oh well, one issue at a time.

A two minute shower, a hasty shave and a quick scrub of his teeth later, Louis tore back into his room and almost ripped the cupboard door off it's hinges. Please let me have a clean shirt, please let me have a clean shirt, please let me have a clean shirt he silently begged as he rifled through the hangers. Jumper, jumper, waistcoat, jeans, another jumper, a hideous orange top he wouldn't be seen dead in, fuck, fuck, fuck. He dropped to his knees and ransacked the bottom shelf desperately, praying somewhere in the mess he would find something that had fallen off the rail. After a fruitless minute of nothing but odd items he yanked the whole mess out onto the floor. Amid the tangle there was a clean but very wrinkled light-purple shirt. It would have to do.

Camille got the fright of her life as he barrelled into the kitchen three minutes later. "Oh Mr Tomlinson!" She gasped, switching off the vacuum and clutching at her chest, "You scared me. I thought you were long gone!"

"Sorry Cammy," he apologised, "I accidentally slept in and am now running very, very late. The Super is going to have my balls on a platter."

"Not much change there then," she chuckled, putting a hand on her full hips. "Do you have time for a spot of breakfast before you go?"

Louis made a pitiful noise as he glanced at the kitchen clock. 9.50 am. He should have been in the briefing twenty minutes ago. With traffic, he was lucky if he would make it to the station within the next twenty minutes. Needless to say, he had no time to even scratch his bum. He made a sweeping grab for his shoes – wincing at how scuffed with mud and god knows what else they were, far from the polished perfection his boss expected. "I wish I did. You know I live for your omelettes Cam, but I just don't have time. I'll have to grab something later at the canteen – God help me. Nearly died of heartburn the last time I had one of their bacon butties."