A/N: Rather a brief one, this; it just worked out that way. Many thanks for all the lovely reviews, here and elsewhere; much appreciated.

As ever, thanks to that beta plus, Lucida Bright; the voters' choice ;-)

3. Close of Play

It was only in retrospect that Alex was able to piece together exactly what happened. No, not exactly. As the man said; anyone who claims to remember every punch in a fight is a liar. But after talking it over, she was fairly sure she had a reasonably accurate idea of what happened.

Gene started it.

He looked around from his position of victory, happily basking in the glow of adulation, and swore. Walking round the corner of the pavilion, large as life, was Gary Saunders. Ray, his antenna ever tuned to Radio Guv, turned to Gene, frowned, followed his line of sight and went red.

"Gaz bloody Saunders," he exclaimed. "I'll fucking kill him, the little toe rag."

"Ray! Ray, don't you dare! Raymondo!"

Gene's injunctions were in vain; Ray was already haring after Saunders, cricket bat still in hand.

"Shit."

With no Ray to anchor the innings, Fenchurch East's already slim chances were as good as gone. Gene let his gaze sweep round the ground again; now was as good a time as any. With great deliberation, he threw his bat to the ground and followed it with his gloves. It was a dramatic gesture, totally out of place in the 1980s in the middle of a suburban London park. Had any passing 18th century duelists seen it, they would probably have asked for his tips on throwing down a gauntlet.

Alex, seeing it, frowned in puzzlement. What the...? She watched as Gene started to unbuckle his pads, but was distracted as a movement to her left caught her eye. One of the reggae boys was on the move. And you'll be sorry you crossed me. You'd better understand that you're alone. A long way from home. The lyrics echoed across the ground as he made his way towards the still sprawling figure of DCI Stillgoe.

"Hey, man."

Stillgoe looked up and scowled.

"Philips? What the fuck do you want, you black bastard?"

"Now, now, Mr Stillgoe, that ain't the way to speak to me," reproved the young man. "And here's me just wanna talk to you about me mother."

"Ted," murmured Alex, starting towards the confrontation. "You'd better get out of here."

"Me? No fear, Alex," Ted responded, sitting tight. "They won't bother me and I'm too old to run."

"Your mother, Philips?" Stillgoe's voice dripped with disdain. "Thought you'd still be trying to find out who your father was."

"Me mother. Who you fitted up, man," said Philips.

"Fuck your mother," Stillgoe responded, starting to get to his feet. He had other things on his mind; he'd get even with Gene bloody Hunt if it was the last thing he did...

"Whoops. Wrong answer," muttered Ted.

Alex began to quicken her pace towards the pair, but she was still yards away when she saw the first kick hit its target.

It was Stillgoe's. Desmond Philips rolled away, clutching his groin. Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Philips' mates begin to move towards Stillgoe. She started to run.

"Don't be a bloody fool," commanded a voice, grabbing her arm and propelling her backwards.

It was Gene.

"We can't just leave..."

"Can't we? Anyway," he nodded his head backwards towards the alerted Kennington players on the other side of the ground. "Team mates on both sides are coming to help. It'll be mayhem in a minute.'

"But..."

"Shut up, Alex. D'you really think they're going to be stopping to find out who's on Stillgoe's side and who isn't?"

"But..."

He ignored her and ran to the nearest stand of trees, towing her behind him. They reached the safety of the largest plane tree and leant against its trunk, breathing hard. Gene popped his head round, stared intently for half a minute, then withdrew.

"That's okay; our lads have made themselves scarce. God knows where Ray's got to."

"Well good for them, Gene. What about us? We're on the wrong side of the sodding pitch with a gang war going on between us and the car park." Alex was a little scared, and it manifested itself as anger.

"Gang war?" He rolled his head sideways against the tree trunk and looked at her in surprise. "Nah, that's just Desmond and his mates. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Most of the time."

"What? You know them?"

"We've not been formally introduced, but yes, I know him. Why d'you think he's here?"

"Wha...?"

"More to the point, why is Gaz Saunders still here?"

Gene levered himself off the tree and stood facing her.

"What?"

"You were supposed to warn him off."

"I did."

"So why was Raymondo chasing off after him like an overweight greyhound?" Gene demanded.

"What? But that wasn't..." Alex recalled the figure Ray had been heading for; it was definitely not the man she'd approached.

"It bloody was. D'you think I don't know the low life on my patch?"

"I..."

"Christ Almighty, Bolls," Gene sighed. "Don't tell me you chased off the wrong bloke?"

"I... Well how the hell was I supposed to know, Gene? You wouldn't let me look at him!" Attack is the better part of defence, she told herself.

"Oh for... How the hell you ever got to be an inspector is beyond me."

"I know the criminals on our patch, Gene," she protested. "But Saunders isn't one of them."

"But he was!" Gene retaliated.

"So? Am I supposed to know the identity of every blagger who's ever set foot in Fenchurch?"

"Yes!"

"And what about 'Desmond'?" In her annoyance, Alex reverted back to her finger waggling quotation marks. "Was he once on your patch?"

"He... No. He's... "

"Let me guess; he's from Kennington as well?"

"No, he's from Brixton."

"What?"

"His mum lives in Kennington."

"Wha...? What the hell's going on, Gene?"

"Desmond lives with his auntie Vi on the Stockwell Park Estate, but his mother lives in Lambeth Walk. Honest, God-fearing woman, so I understand..."

"Gene! I don't need his entire family history. What's this got to do with..."

"Last month Stillgoe raided Mrs Philips' flat and found Desmond's stash of weed."

"So?"

"So he arrested her for possession and intent to supply," Gene finished.

"He what?"

"She's been too ashamed to go out ever since. Not even to church," Gene finished, quietly. "Desmond isn't very happy about it."

Alex looked at him in appalled silence.

"You tipped him off," she whispered. "You deliberately told Philips to be here so he could do your dirty work for you. My God, Gene, what if they're tooled up? What if someone's killed?"

"D'you think I'm stupid, Drake?" He rasped back. "Desmond isn't like that. You saw who landed the first blow; Stilgoe. Desmond just wanted a word, didn't he?"

"And now it's kicked off. For God's sake, Gene..."

"Yes," he said deliberately. "Now it's all kicked off."

"What d'you mean 'now'? It..." Alex let her brain catch up with her mouth and suddenly everything fell into place. The reggae boys had been hanging around the park all afternoon, but no-one had made a move until now. Why now? "Throwing down your bat like that. It was a signal to Desmond."

Gene looked smug.

"No, that can't be right. They had a go at you when you were fielding over there at... Oh." Another penny dropped. "That's when you set up the signal."

Gene contrived to look slightly more smug.

"But why? Even for you, it's a pretty low..."

"Stillgoe started it," Gene said, shortly. All smugness vanished; he was not overly keen on hearing Alex's low opinion of him.

"Two wrongs don't make a right," she responded, piously.

"How about two set-ups making a right?" Gene asked.

"Huh?"

"Oh for..." Gene rolled his eyes again. Really, for a clever woman she was being surprisingly dense. "Harry Webber's hand injury? The one man who gave us the best hope of winning the match? Some piece of scum just happens to try nicking a motor right under his nose? Just happens to injure Harry's bowling hand? And just happens to have recently moved..."

"...to Kennington," she finished. "So I was right. Stillgoe arranged for Saunders to have that run-in with Ray and Harry?"

"Looks like it."

"For money? Or what?"

"Probably to avoid Stillgoe fitting him up for something nasty," Gene said. "Unless... If it was money that might explain why he showed up today. Maybe Stillgoe was slow to pay up."

"But that worked in Stillgoe's favour. Ray saw him and gave chase."

"Just as well I took out the insurance then, wasn't it?" Gene observed.

"Being a smug know-it-all isn't an appealing look, Gene."

"No idea where I got the habit from, Bolls," he retaliated, pointedly.

"Did Desmond know it's a police cricket match...?" Alex asked, changing the subject.

"It's possible I neglected to mention that," Gene admitted. "Didn't want to put him off, did I?"

"He's not going to thank you when he's arrested for affray. Or beaten to a pulp."

"Him? He'll be all right. It's Stillgoe that's got to worry."

"Stillgoe? Why?" Alex frowned.

"Well let's see; white police officer assaulting a black man in a public park in front of witnesses." Gene ticked off the points on his hand as he listed them. "A black man from Brixton, no less. And a police officer who, until last year, was enthusiastically making use of the Sus law right on Brixton's doorstep. And is number one on the Officers We'd Really Like to Get Rid Of list? They'll fall over themselves to hang him out to dry, Bolly. Lord Scarman will probably dance at the wake."

Alex looked at him, her mouth open in a mixture of shock and, loathed as she was to admit it, admiration. Of all the devious...

"Now, you going to stand there gaping like a cod all evening, or will you shift your big arse before plod arrives?" He demanded.

Gene wasn't a gentleman. He was a player.

The End.