Gene snorted, taking the glass and pouring himself a drought before passing the tin back to Diva. The fact they were sitting here, on a picnic blanket, chatting and drinking when a timer was counting down their living moments wasn't missed. The whole bloody thing was ludicrous, but what was he going to do? Kill Diva? Even if he'd been able to, he couldn't do it. Gene Hunt was no murderer, and he'd be damned if some poofter managed to get him to off one of CID. He'd shoot himself, first.

Which was still an option. At least saving Diva would mean Gene had done something rather than sit back and let that Weber bastard have his way with the Plane-goers.

"Hate the place myself," he grunted, glancing toward the stands, none too happy to see some other bloke up there with the sodding prick. "Place is nothing more than a headache."