Disclaimer: Spooks is not mine – it belongs to Kudos and the BBC.
Sorry I've not posted anything for a while but real life problems have taken up most of my time over the last few months. I know I have a couple of unfinished fics – they're not forgotten. In the meantime, this is the first part of a little pre-series 8 story. Just to be on the safe side, I'll say spoilers for the end of series 7.
Harry watches, amused, as the two officers sent to keep an eye on him attempt to feign casual conversation and not get caught observing him. It's not an ideal location for surveillance – the hotel is barely a third full and its expensive bar is obviously not the venue of choice for a Monday evening. He doesn't feel sorry for them though, quite the opposite; it's good training, they should take advantage of the opportunity.
His gaze drifts around the room as he weighs up whether anyone else is a plant; not that he doubts Malcolm's information but there's always the small risk that someone else has been brought in at the last moment. His eyes settle on a blonde perched on a stool at the bar. She looks vaguely familiar and as he's wondering whether she's one of their honey-trap agents, she smiles at him.
It takes him just a couple of seconds to make the decision to go and talk to her. He finishes his drink, stands up and walks over to the bar. His steps are even, unhurried. This is merely an opportunity to find out whether she's there to check up on him; or tempt him. He'll play along, for a while at least.
"Can I get you a drink?" he offers, placing his empty glass on the bar.
"That's very kind of you. I'll have a vodka tonic," she says, enthusiastically, and gives him a toothy smile. "I'm Valerie, by the way."
"John," Harry replies.
He discreetly appraises her as he waits for their drinks. She's not unattractive but she's overdone; trying a bit too hard, showing a bit too much cleavage, leaning a bit too close. If she is one of their agents, she's out of practice he concludes.
They make small talk, even flirt a little but Harry's heart is not in it and he finds himself reminded of a game he and Bill used to play. They would be in a bar or a pub and Bill would find the two most attractive women in the place and start to chat them up. Harry would be drawn into the conversation and would eventually end up with the girl Bill had decided was not falling for his charms
"You seem to forget I've got a wife at home," Harry would wearily remind his friend.
"Well then, make an excuse and leg it, or…"
The sentence would never be completed but Bill would wink at him and the implication was clear.
Most of the time, Harry made an excuse; on the occasions when he didn't, he'd always ended up regretting it, apart from that one girl, Maeve, a particularly pretty brunette with deep brown eyes that glittered with amusement. She was only seventeen, not that he'd known that at the time. They'd continued to see each other for several weeks but, inevitably, there had been trouble, which arrived in the form of her four older brothers. He'd been lucky to escape with a severe beating. Later, after one of Bill's girlfriends had patched him up as best she could, Harry had stood in front of his wife and lied his head off to try and save his marriage. Grudgingly, Jane had eventually agreed she believed his story about his injuries being the result of an incident connected to his work but he'd known from the look on her face that she would never trust him again.
"I said my glass seems to be empty."
Valerie's barely concealed irritation brings Harry back to the present. He smiles, apologetically, and catches the eye of the barman.
Watching his companion down half her drink in one go, Harry decides he's had enough. He reaches into his jacket pocket, locates his phone and presses a couple of the buttons. The prearranged signal works and within a minute his phone is ringing. He excuses himself and walks out of the bar towards reception.
"Is there a problem, Harry?"
"I just needed a get-out clause, Malcolm. And for you to do me a favour. You've access to the hotel CCTV?"
"Of course." The reply is accompanied by the sound of rapid typing. "What do you need?"
"There's a blonde sitting at the bar. She's wearing a dark blue dress, rather...clingy."
"The dress or the blonde?" Malcolm enquires, dryly.
"Very funny. I'm certain she's one of ours, or at least used to be. She's-" Harry pauses for a moment as a giggly young couple pass him, "she's using the name 'Valerie' but that could be one of a dozen aliases."
"Leave it with me and I'll call you back as soon as I find anything."
Harry ends the call and glances back towards the bar. Valerie is busy re-applying her lipstick, so he takes the opportunity to move out of her sightline, towards the main entrance.
He walks without purpose, crossing the hotel drive and heading towards the road. The night air is clear and cool, heavy with the scent of the sea and Harry finds himself drawn to the marina, a few hundred yards away. He sits down on a wooden bench and, as he takes in the view, he finds himself wondering if she likes boats. The irony of the thought hits him as soon as the idea forms in his head; he doubts she's set foot on another boat since she left London. Left him, his brain adds despite his efforts to ignore it. He takes a deep breath and allows himself to recall their last moments together.
The memory of that drab, grey morning hasn't diminished, and the aching loneliness that fills his heart never lessens. It's grief but not grieving, not in the true sense of the emotion. She's somewhere in the world, living her life, and occasionally thinking of him. The arrival of her first postcard had sent him into turmoil. At first, he was terrified that her actions would lead to her being caught. Then he analysed the message written on the card, torturing himself with the thought that it was her way of saying goodbye, once and for all, despite the ambiguity of the words. Seven and half weeks later, the second postcard dropped onto the doormat. And they continued, at irregular intervals; pictures of places, paintings, statues and monuments. A brightly coloured, much treasured assortment of cards, some with just a simple message, others with quotations or poetry, all written with love.
He'd thought about using the cards to try and trace her but she was too clever to give any hint of where she was. A postcard of Paris had been franked in Melbourne; one from the Grand Canyon was postmarked Berlin. And he'd had no information about her new identity or where she'd been heading on the day she'd left. But that had changed after the deaths of Adam and Zaf; now there are two small envelopes, locked away in a safe deposit box, which contain the details he needs to begin to search for her, not that he's started. He can't shake off the fear that attempting to find her will put her in danger.
He's still trying to sort out his tangled thoughts when his phone rings.
"Malcolm?"
"Your blonde in the clingy dress. Her name is Vivien Glasbrook. You were right, she was one of ours. 'Retired' in 1999, apparently after she messed up a job involving Special Branch and 6. Caused a bit of a furore."
"I remember something about that," Harry replies, "involved a Saudi businessman and a couple of MPs."
"That's right. And a tabloid reporter."
"Things must be desperate if they've resorted to using her again. God knows what they think I'm up to."
"I suppose it's because…" Malcolm's voice falters.
"Because they think I've changed sides," Harry states, dryly. "If they carry on like this, I could give it serious consideration."
Nervous laughter greets the comment.
"Don't worry Malcolm, I'm joking. Thanks for the information," he adds. "I'll let you get on with your evening."
After he ends the call, Harry is left wondering how he is going to spend the next few days. It's been so long since he's had a holiday that he can barely remember what he's supposed to do to fill the time. He won't be able to truly relax; recent events and his uninvited companions mean he needs to keep his wits about him. His gaze returns to the array of cabin cruisers and yachts, gently bobbing on the inky water. There's a sign advertising boat charters. His lips curve into a small smile and he wonders if his watchers get seasick.
Thanks for reading. Second part soon. :)