Disclaimer: Bad Girls and Judge John Deed and all its characters are property of Shed Productions and GF Newman and BBC productions respectively. The author implies no ownership of these characters, and they are used in the stories without permission solely for entertainment and not for profit. The character of Kristine Thorne is based on a real person and she has given her consent for this. I am happy to accept constructive feedback openly as it will improve the quality of my writing."

SYNOPSIS

This is the sequel to Fruits of our Labours. At a time when political crises die down, past associations come back to haunt some Judge John Deed / Bad Girls characters and the limits of meaning well are exposed.

Scene One

Sir Ian's nerves were stretched drum tight as he waited to be called through the polished panelled mahogany door into the inner sanctum of the Cabinet Secretary, the highest ranking civil servant in the realm from whom all favours and dispensations flowed.. Normally, he had free access to this privileged position by virtue of his prestige as a high flier. He felt proud of himself, of his status near the very top of the hierarchy but now he felt deflated, his sense of substance mysteriously drained away from him.

It should not be this way, he reflected bitterly, as he sat on the carved mahogany bench outside the office of the head of the civil service. He knew that his conduct over the last year would be weighed in the balence and found wanting, as the ancient saying had it. He hadn't realised till now how merciless that saying was, that the scales of judgment had tipped away from him. Everything had been going for him as he ascended effortlessly up the ladder- until recently.

It was such infernal bad luck, he thought to might have wondered where he had gone wrong, but he knew better than that. He might at one time have considered that Deed was his nemesis, stalking him as he planned and schemed but he drew his net wider than that. It was all down to that gaggle of women whom he had sat behind, all watching a series of trials unfold. He could see them before his eyes so clearly as, after all, he had spent many hours sitting at the back of the visitor's gallery watching the trials disintegrate, one by one, into total farce and disorder. He could not forget the uncomfortable feel of the bench underneath him nor likewise could he forget the row of women in front and below him, There they were , that tall woman with short cropped hair whispering to the smaller woman with a short bobbed haircut and strong Scottish accent. It was curious that the strongest impression he had of this gaggle of women was from behind. In a way, he was relieved by this distancing effect as they had that same cool, mocking expression in their eyes on the occasions when he'd come across them face to face as well as the odd unseemly row.

He remembered when the fates had started to turn against him in a really big way when that dratted Wade woman had enveigled her way through the Court of Appeal hearing and the judges had succumbed to a spasm of soft-heartedness in concocting some nonsensical formula to erase the dreadful crime she'd committed. He even remembered her having the cheek to horn in on some dreadful row with Deed and she'd teamed up with him. Two of a kind they are, he fumed, no respect for authority, the inevitable demands that family upbringing demands of you. Here he is, trying his best to hold society together night and day and Deed and this gang of women just couldn't care less in letting everything fly apart, everything in a state of anarchic disorder. They're so blatent in their disregard for everything he's been brought upto hold look in their direction shows the contempt in their eyes for him ...

Suddenly way overhead, the distant sound of a jet aircraft gradually builds up and slices its way into his consciousness. The gradually sustained tearing sounds took his fevered mind in a leap of perception to a different time and place. There he was , waiting outside the front door of the Headmaster's Study. The same feeling swept through his nervous system. He knew very well that he would receive a detention from from his old headmaster at the least, if not a caning. It wasn't his fault, he rememnbered, sweating inside. All he had done was to have his attention diverted from doing his homework in on a sickening moment of horror, he'd suddenly realised it first thing in the morning and, in a blind panic, handed in his exercise book, without the precious English composition that he should have written. It didn't cross his mind to come out with a smoothly convincing story to talk his way out of trouble and his form teacher icily pointed out that the Head would be informed. Looking backwards, he blushed at his hopeless naivety when even then, he dimly sensed that others had the 'gift of the gab' as it was vulgarly phrased. He went into the room when what seemed like a dreadful bellow resonated through the door. Nervously, he ran his hands through his ruffled hair, trying to smooth it down into a presentable state. Shaking in his shoes, he let himself into the inner sanctum, which was barred to all pupils as a rule.

"Rochester, I've heard reasonable reports from your form teacher that you try hard though your work could be better. I was shocked, absolutely shocked to hear from your teacher of this latest scandalous episode."

The pause in the oration gave him just enough time for his word to shrivel his sense of self worth when the lecture carried on.

"Forgetting to do your homework is a serious enough matter but deliberately trying to pass off your homework as complete well, that's letting the side down."

It was that remark, the look of disappointment in the headmaster's eye, his tone of voice that really hit home. It was true. He had let the side down and he vowed there and then that he would never let the side down for the rest of his the relentless lecture on his shortcomings continued to be thrown in his face. All the while, he smiled upwards at the headmaster, leaning overhead, so big , tall and threatening. All the time, he shot sideways glances at the curved cane that was resting on the side. When the headmaster finally told him he was getting a detention, he so blessed the headmaster for his kindness even though his sense of well-being had been savaged. Somehow, he stumbled out of the door, vowing to do better next time.

That was the one and only time he ever received a detention and this spurred him on to be diligent and conscientious throughout his life even if he couldn't possess that careless brilliance of Deed, he could at least be hardworking and always take note of authority that hung over his head. And now he was going through that humiliation all over again...

"Sir Ian, Sir Ian," the dried up looking, severe elderly woman called repeatedly at the man whose eyes were staring wide open and through her. He didn't seem to be in the same world, the woman tut-tutted under her breath as she waited impatiently, a file under her arm.

Slowly, Sir Ian returned to the present. Of course he knew the woman well who was the doorkeeper of the Cabinet Secretary. No longer was he the short trousered schoolboy but the mature man in his blue Saville Row suit who had grown up to have a whole army of underlings under him. He was a knight of the realm, having been favoured for elevation and being picked out for favour amongst his were different now, surely. Nervously, he ran his forefinger round the inside of his white shirt, his tie feeling a little too tight and entered the room.

Sir Ian was ushered into a white, severe functional room where his chair was laid out for him and he was greeted by the Cabinet Secretary affably enough. They shook hands as always and he indicated the chair that was laid out for him as was Sir Ian's file, the indicator as to his future. Everything seemed as normal, wasn't it?

"I've taken a great interest in your career ever since you qualified under the fast track management scheme and I've ensured your regular advancement as a 'high flier.'

With expert timing, the Cabinet Secretary had racheted up the tension in Sir Ian, the more to cripple him morally. Sir Ian knew only too well as he had pulled the same trick on his own subordinates.

"Your problem is that you're simply failing to deliver on what's expected of you- no let me finish,' the authoritarian patrician tones commanded and beat down Sir Ian's very rare moment of protest against this harsh judgment. Sir Ian coloured, his blood pressure skyrocketed but in one fatal instant, said nothing and let that second expand outwards into minutes and then all eternity. "Your function is the smooth management of the judges on the one hand and the executive on the other hand. The fact of the matter is that you've failed to achieve your primary task and that is to achieve a harmonious relationship- in both directions. The LCD has been marginalised as a force both in government and in the wider community."

Sir Ian's nervous tension had reached fever pitch. He really did feel like an awkward schoolboy all over again. Did growing up and becoming a mature and responsible citizen mean nothing when all is said and done?

"Fortunately for you, we aren't as ruthless as outside industry and for this you must be grateful," the man said in stern tones even while the lifeline was being thrown out to him. Or was this an illusion and would he be left to drown while everyone looked on dispassionately? would his fall from grace be discussed with brief reminiscences before his public life would be discreetly packaged away, never to be mentioned again?

"It stands to reason that you will not qualify for the customary bonus," the Cabinet Secretary said in implacable tones, his razor edged gaze not quite meeting Sir Ian's nervous flickering vision. The words were like an arrow plunged into Sir Ian's vitals, not for the financial blow but what it symbolised. He was deprived of the chance of holding his head up high, alongside his colleagues in other departments. Word of this was sure to get out. He didn't know how rumours started but he knew that private and confidential affairs did leak out. After all, word had reached his ears of similar matters. He wouldn't have reached such an exalted level in the LCD if he hadn't developed such radar ears and heard similar stories. The trouble was that it was totally different being the subject of such stories and talking about such matters in amused and dispassionate terms. Beneath the refined and patrician matters, the waters in which he swam were as ruthless and dangerous as a swirling South American river, populated by cannibalistic brightly coloured Pirahna fish. .

"Let's put it this way," the relentless voice continued. "Your next appraisal year is something of a trial period. Either you pull your socks up or else you face compulsory transfer to DEFRA or the Immigration Department. It's your choice, Ian. After all, as the Americans say, it's a free country."

Sir Ian's mouth opened wide. For a moment, his ears refused to believe what his mind was telling him. When the full force of the shock announcement that he would be declared supernumary to the Lord Chancellor's Department in which he had invested so much of his life, the stress levels built up to unimaginable heights. For some reason, he had never expected anything as bad as this. What made it worse was that the Cabinet Secretary's body language was telling him that his presence was no longer required. His eye glanced at the sideboard where he was accustomed to partake of a glass of wine with his appraising officer. That too, would be denied him. One last instinct prompted him to exchange closing pleasantries and stumble out of the room.

The house Sir Ian lived in was a very neat and precisely maintained Victorian house with a Grandfather clock in the living room along with ancient furniture that had been handed down from his late and revered parents. A wide framed photograph on the wall revealed lines of fresh faced schoolboys in school blazers, white shirts and ties and a younger version of himself sitting cross-legged on the grass in the front row. He had dedicated himself unquestioningly to his upbringing all his life. This picture stared down at him as he reached for the octagonal mahogany drinks cabinet and poured himself a stiff whisky. He needed that drink to separate himself from his cares and responsibilities.

Muzzily, he reflected that the house had a chilly silent feel about it as morose thoughts whirled around his head. Everything around him felt tainted and bereft of any value and comfort. At one time, he felt that he wanted the monk-like isolation

It was only now that he started to miss the company of his separated wife, Francesca Rochester. He had married her as she was well-connected, well-bred and very charming. He had supposed that her charms were for him only to possess until he found out otherwise. It was only after being married a little while that he realised that her frivolous, pleasure seeking personality was at odds with his own serious nature and that his attempt to recreate his parents marriage in himself was going to be problematical. It was only when that bounder Deed showed up on the scene that matters went from bad to worse. Now he was well rid of her and he had supposed that he had found his true vocation, his true destiny.

In the past, he had undergone the odd brief spell of depression and had snapped out of it when the challenges of the outside world inspired and energised him once again. Of course, not even his junior confidante Lawrence James saw that side of his personality. The proverbial English stipp upper lip made sure that there was no outward expressions of these negative inner feelings. This time, as he listlessly examined his papers for the next day at work, he halfway suspected that this morose mood would take its time to shift. It wasn't something that he particularly relished nor, quite frankly, was he inclined to dwell on. He knew above all else that too much introspection wasn't particularly helpful for a man of his particular background..Wearily, he resumed his scrutiny of the important departmental paperwork.