Where: CID Office, Fenchurch East
It was late at night and the only light in CID was coming from Gene’s office. There was a half empty bottle of scotch and a half empty glass on the desk, a cigarette burning away in the ashtray, half of a cold bacon butty and one Gene Hunt slumped over a case file.
His elbow was rested on the edge of the desk, his cheek on his fist. He looked fed up and plain exhausted. But he showed no signs of moving from his spot any time soon.