The two men laughed as they left the pub. One, thickset and shorter, was gesticulating wildy, doing an impression of some suspect or another. The other one, tall and lanky, was laughing as they walked away from the lights of the public house.

"I still find it funny how he seemed more worried about the accusation of visiting a brothel than the one of murder sir." This was the tall one speaking. His manner portrayed his rank. He looked directly at the older man when he was speaking. Even though they were off duty he called the man 'sir'.

"Aye Hathaway, but a man of his standing" he puts on as posh an accent as his own will allow, "from Oxford don't you know" He reverts back to the default Geordie tones. "Couldn't have allowed himself to be seen in that light." His age belies the higher rank but his mannerisms do not. He pays equal attention to the younger man's words, he uses the man's name instead of his working title.

"He'd have preferred to be seen as a murderer than seen in a house of ill repute?"

"Aye, sad as it is lad. Oxford's only ever about reputation. Nothing like Tyneside." The sergeant nods. He can imagine it isn't, but decides not to make a witty comment. They start to split up as they head to their respective houses and the man in the bushes that has been watching them, uncovers him self and begins to follow the one that is closest.

Lewis stands at his front door. Something is niggling him but he can't work it out. It's something he was supposed to do, something that someone needed to be told. He decides that it can't have been that important and shrugs as he heads inside. He blames the beer for the unsteadiness of his actions and for the loss of memory. He is by no means legless, but tipsy wouldn't be the wrong word to describe him. Deciding that this is probably a good time to stop drinking he goes to make himself a cup of tea and fix himself a sandwich. He smiles as he recounts one of the jokes Hathaway made during the evening. The lad has a far dirtier mind than his appearance gives him credit for. As he gets into bed he remembers that it was Hathaway he needed to tell...whatever it was. He sighs, hopefully he'll remember what in the morning.

James walked unsteadily back to his flat. Something tells him he was a little more intoxicated than his inspector. He smiles as he remembers Lewis trying not to laugh at his dirty joke. In hindsight he should have told that after Innocent and Hobson had left but, beer tends to make you forget about stuff like that. Especially a significant about of beer like he'd had. He pulled his jacket tighter around him. It was cold tonight. A bracing cold. The warmth of the beer has long left his body and he craves getting into his flat and climbing into his nice, warm bed. He hears a sound behind him and turns but there is nobody there. James laughs to himself, hearing things sergeant, he can almost hear Lewis' voice in his head. A second noise and he turns again, too late to stop the punch that canons into his stomach. Retching, he brings his hands up, determined to give this attacker a taste of his own medicine. Yet another thing that beer has an effect on, a man's bravado. Another punch and he is sprawled on the floor. As he gets up, something metal and heavy is slammed into his head and he blacks out, crumpling into a heap on the cobbles.

The man, gloved hands opening a blue car boot, drags the unconscious man over and heaves him in. He doesn't notice the sergeants eyes flicker open as he shuts the large door.

James starts as he is plunged into darkness. He scrambles for his mobile phone, his primary focus being to get some light on the matter. After a few minutes he realises that the signal bar isn't empty and he brings up his contact list. Ins. Lewis. He presses call, hoping against hope that his friend hasn't already gone to bed and curses when after 15 rings, he is put through to voice mail.

"Sir. This is James, I've been, er, abduted sir. This is ridiculous." He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, tries to hide the pain in his stomach and the throbbing of his head. He doesn't succeed. "I'm in the boot of a car sir. Think its blue. Ouch. Would appreiciate it if you'd-" He hadn't heard the car stop. The first thing he knows about it is when the boot flies open and a punch is delivered to his stomach once again. He cries out as another is landed, this time on his ribs. Gasping for breath he is powerless to stop his phone being wrenched out of his hands and he hears it slam shut, the call cut off. He's dragged out again and an attempt to overpower his attacker is swiftly dealt with by another blow to the head.

Meanwhile. Inspector Lewis turns over in his bed and carries on sleeping.