The carriage subtly swayed as the train careened along the subterranean track; its passengers silently sitting with their thoughts in the predawn commute. The wheels clicked in a soothing rhythm and Ruth's eyelids fluttered close, only to open again as she struggled to stay awake. It was proving difficult to resist the trance brought on by the movement of the train. A book rested in her hands but her ability to digest the words had exited the train a number of stations back. It was a biography of Shackleton, though for the life of her she couldn't remember how it had found its way into her possession. It certainly hadn't arrived with her new roommate – Beth had landed on her doorstep with only two suitcases and an overnight bag. She must have picked it up with the pile of books she had found in a bargain bin, purchased in an effort to alleviate the emptiness of her flat. In the end, it didn't matter where the book how the book had come into her hands, she was always interested in the lives of historical figures, the elements of their character, how they overcame adversity. Resilience, she had observed, was often the key to success. As of late, her own store of that particular trait was running perilously low. Her eyes wandered over the top of the page and she covertly glanced at her fellow passengers. She had heard to be a good spy one needed to be a good liar, but she was more than that, she was an analyst, a vocation that demanded keen observation and attention to detail. A man stood in front of her, one hand on the rail, another clutching a financial paper, his briefcase on the floor between his feet. Across the aisle sat a young woman, her head moving to an unknown beat, fingernails painted with chipped black polish frantically flying over the keys of her phone. Ruth shifted in her seat, hemmed in by the large bag of the harassed mother who sat next to her. The mother vainly tried to distract her fussy child, squirming uncomfortably in its pram. The toddler threw a bottle out over the side, the mother greeting the action with sharp words. The bottle came to a stop as it hit Ruth's boot and she reached down to rescue it, handing it back to the mother with an understanding smile. She wanted to tell her to be patient with her child, that there may come a day when without warning, it might all be taken away. But she couldn't do that so she sat back in her seat and stared down at the pages of her book, blinking rapidly as images of Nico swam in her memory.

A pleasant female voice announced the next station and Ruth tucked her book into her bag. She stood and wormed her way towards the door, squeezing out onto the platform as the door opened and a tide of new passengers entered the train. She slowed down for a moment to search her pockets for her gloves and then slumped her shoulders in dismay as she realised they must have fallen from her lap when she stood up. She turned to see the doors closing and she gave out a sigh of resignation. So much for attention to detail. Oh well, it was only a pair of gloves, she could manage without them. If Shackleton could spend months crossing a polar sea, surely she could make it the few blocks to Thames House. As the crowd pushed passed her, she watched the train crawl away unable to shake the sinking feeling that more than the gloves had slipped away. She bit her lip and took a deep breath. A hollowness opened up in her chest, a resurgence of a persistent ache, which instead of abating over time, had only deepened over the last few weeks. She could not dwell on it now, better that she persevere.

Exiting the station, Ruth walked into the grey half-light of the morning, that time of year when one came to work in the dark and left when it was as equally dark. Digging her hands into her pockets, she braced herself against the stiff wind that funnelled around the office towers and picked up speed as swept down onto the street. She raised her shoulders to her ears. She would have to invest in a hat as well as a new pair of gloves. Her boot found the epicentre of an icy puddle, the slush seeping through a seam in her sole. She silently cursed to herself and, not for the first time, missed the warmth of Cyprus while simultaneously battling the memories that it invoked. As she walked the three blocks, she focused on the day ahead, giving her mind over to planning and preparation. There were no open protocols so she could tackle her ever growing list of housekeeping. There were a number of assets to be allocated, contacts fostered by Ros now sitting in limbo waiting to be divided up between herself and Lucas. The familiar carved double doors came into view and she hurried through them, expelling a small sigh of gratitude as the heat of the inner sanctum welcomed her. She nodded to the security guard as she passed. He was by now a familiar face although not so familiar as to remember her in her previous incarnation. It was far easier to be cordial to people who had no idea of her past, far fewer explanations needed. She crossed to the lift and settled in just as the door was closing. She jumped when a set of fingers wrapped themselves around the door, interrupting the sensor and stopping the panels from closing.

"Oi, Evershed. Hold up."

With one long-limbed stride, Dimitri joined her inside the lift. Ruth pressed the button for their floor.

"I do have a first name, you know." She cocked her eyebrow at him ruefully.

"Just being professional." He rocked on his heels and then abruptly stopped, leaning down towards her. "Ruth." He pulled off his hat and gloves. "They get you out of bed for this too?"

"I'm always in at this time. Why? What's happening?"

"Got a call from Lucas to come in."

Ruth rubbed her hands together, blowing warm air into the hollow that her fingers had created.

"You should get yourself some gloves" Dimitri dangled his own pair in front of her to demonstrate.

"Yes," she agreed flatly. "I should."

The lift bell dinged as the doors opened and they walked down the hall in companionable silence, early morning small talk not being one of her many talents. The Grid was still relatively peaceful; the only sound the whirr of terminal cooling fans and the clicking of keys. Ruth reached her station and plopped her bag down, not caring for the moment that a few of its contents had spilt out onto the desktop. Unable to shake the chill from the outside world, she decided to remain in her coat and go in search of a hot cup of tea to wrap her hands around. As she turned toward the kitchen, she came up against the unyielding bulk of familiar frame.

"Good, you're in," Harry observed.

Shocked by the sudden contact, she froze, standing against his chest for the space of a heartbeat before she came to her senses. "Sorry, I didn't see you."

She stepped back; opening up what she hoped was a more professional distance between them. He did not move away but remained solidly in place, giving no indication that he was as unsettled as she by the contact. He had the look of a man on a mission and Ruth realised the hot tea would have to wait. In the absence of its warmth, she rubbed her hands together. Harry frowned as he looked down.

"Are you all right?"

"Left my gloves on the tube."

He half raised his hand in the direction of hers but stopped in midair, artfully redirecting it to the motion of straightening out his tie. Her eyes remained on his hand. She was certain he had been about to take her hands in his to warm them. Or perhaps it was her only wishing that he would make such a gesture. It would be of course entirely inappropriate and in no way in accordance with the boundaries they had set. Still...

She raised her eyes to find him studying her and he looked away, clearing his throat.

"I sent you a name. I need you to identify the woman as quickly as possible along with any background you can find. "

"I'll get right on it. "She crossed her arms, ostensibly to warm her hands, but knew she was closing herself off from him in an effort to channel her thoughts on the assignment at hand. "Is this terror related?"

"Not as yet. She was found unconscious in an alley. She's in hospital now. We want to rule out any sort of hate crime."

"Why us and not the Met?"

"Indeed." He looked around the Grid. "Did Beth come in with you?"

Ruth shook her head.

"Get her to help you when she arrives." He stood for a moment, leaving Ruth to wonder if there was something else he needed to tell her. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. "It has been suggested that I acquire an assistant."

"A deputy head?" Ruth offered.

"No. An administrative assistant."

"Ah," said Ruth, "From that, I take it when it has been suggested; it means it's going to happen."

Harry gave her a knowing look from under his brow. For a brief moment, she wondered if he was tapping her to the position a thought which simultaneously flattered and annoyed her. She was not a secretary, she was an analyst.

"I don't know how you've managed thus far without an assistant," she said filling the silence. "It would ease the paperwork and such."

He made no comment on her observation and she felt a little lost that he did not take up the conversation. His eyes slid down to the items that had spilt from her purse. He ran a figure along the edge of her book.

"Shackleton?"

"It was handy." She gave a little shrug of explanation.

"Brave man. Excellent leader."

With those words, he gave the book a final tap with his finger and walked away. Ruth remained rooted to the spot, puzzled by their conversation. Of course, they had never been ones to indulge in idle chit chat but their exchange had seemed significantly briefer than usual. In the past, they had both been guilty of finding ways to stretch out their encounters, making their time together fractionally longer. Something had changed. Her eyes followed him as he walked back to his office, noting that the hair at the nape of his neck now curled over the top of his collar. There had once been a space, no more than the width of her finger, between his shirt and the clean cut edge of his hairline. She closed her eyes. Why on earth would that come to mind as a measurement? The idea of her finger placed along the edge of his collar, sliding across his warm skin. She inhaled a shaky breath. It was an observation, nothing more and it would behove her to stop that line of thinking. Nothing could happen between them. She had been right to say no to his proposal. A healthy relationship could never grow amongst the weeds of their combined guilt and regret. It was too much, too soon. The only thing that bound them was a broken past and the memory of something that almost was.

"I can give you a hand until Beth comes in."

Her eyes flew open and she looked into the bemused face of Dimitri. She mustered a blank look. She would reveal nothing. She had become very adept at hiding her feelings, even from herself. Lucas brushed past them, talking to Dimitri as he shrugged on his coat.

"Come on sailor, you're with me."

Dimitri gave Ruth a parting smile and followed Lucas out the door. She silently thanked Lucas for removing Dimitri before he insinuated anything. She shook off her distracted thoughts and forgetting about the promise of a tea, sat down at her desk. She switched on her terminal and opened up the email that Harry had sent her.

"Alright, mystery woman" she whispered, "Let's see who you are."

After two hours of fruitlessly searching databases, Ruth began to seriously doubt her competency as an analyst. Her concentration was interrupted when an advert from a used car magazine dropped unceremoniously on her desk. Startled, she looked up into the bleary eyes of her roommate.

"What's this?" Ruth asked.

"That's the car you are going to buy," Beth informed her. "So we don't have to take the bloody tube to work." Beth struggled out of her coat and hung it on the back of the chair, giving out a sigh of exasperation when the bulky garment slipped onto the floor.

"I can't afford a car," Ruth countered.

"If I'm paying half the rent the must be a few coins in the couch."

Ruth picked up the advert and scrunched up her nose. "It's American"

"Then get an Astra. There are always reasons not to do something. Why not try saying yes?"

Ruth froze and gave Beth a wary look. She had never divulged anything personal to the young woman. Even over many a shared bottles of wine after work, Ruth had not opened the stopper to her own life. How she had envied Zoe and Danny, the intimate connection they enjoyed, the ability to confide in someone at the end of the day. She could never share her secrets with Beth. It would be a betrayal to Harry, it would undermine his authority, and it would leave her exposed. The wounds were all too fresh. The beep of her phone interrupted her thoughts and she reached for the receiver. The deep voice of Lucas came down the line.

"How are you coming along with your search?"

"Not a blessed thing."

That's because she doesn't exist. That name is a fake.

"That's a relief," Ruth smiled, "I thought I was losing my touch."

"After some persuasion, we were able to find out her real name. It's Amaani Faroole."

"Okay." Ruth found a pen and paper and wrote down the name.

"I need you to find out if she has entered or left the country within the past few weeks."

"Sure." The phone went silent as Lucas rang off and she handed the piece of paper to Beth. "We're looking for any information on this woman. Address, movement, passenger manifest for airlines, ferries, Eurostar. "

"What's up?"

"She was found unconscious in an alley. Ruling out hate crime."

Now that she had a real name, government databases readily gave up a stream of information. Twenty-three years old, daughter of Somali immigrants, UK citizen, still sending money back to family in Mogadishu. Nothing out of the ordinary. She clicked and copied files into a dossier and then moved onto searching the Met database. As she worked, a band of tension formed across her shoulder. She had sat in the same position for too long. She closed her eyes and slipped her fingers under the neckline of her shirt, pressing against the corded muscles. She abruptly stopped when she felt the back of her chair move as the weight of a hand descended on it. Harry leant down over her shoulder and looked at her screen.

"Anything?"

"Yes, now that we have her real name. Amaani Faroole - works as custodial staff in a nursing home, lives with her mother in Walling. Pretty usual stuff."

"Any form?"

"No priors, no involvement with police or drugs. Beth is looking into her travel."

Keeping his arm on her chair, he raised his head a fraction and looked at Beth. His face was close to her own and she studied the faint stubble at the line of his jaw, wondering if he used a razor or an electric shaver. A small nick was visible near his Adam's apple. Razor, she concluded. Her fingers flexed involuntarily on her desk as she resisted the urge to touch the spot. What other wounds lay beneath his suit, scars she could touch with tender hands. She knew the scars that she had caused. She turned her attention back to Beth's voice.

"Nothing has come up so far. She seems to have never left the UK."

"Are you sure?" Harry pressed.

"Not by official channels at least."

Harry turned to Ruth. "Can you dig into that?"

With one hand on her chair and the other on her desk, he brought his face level to hers. For the first time that day she looked directly into his eyes.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked quietly. The brown of his eyes clouded over and he lowered his lids, shutting her out. She had not worked beside this man for years not to know when he was withholding information. Although there were times when he was hard to read - he wore secrets like a second skin. She raised her eyebrows at him in challenge. "Shackleton told his men everything."

"Not his worst fears," he whispered, his mouth close to her ear, the words meant only for her. "Those he left for his diary."

Only a breath separated them and she sifted through her mind for the perfect question that would draw the information from him, but her synapses refused to work, her thoughts strangely jumbled. He straightened up.

"I'm off to meet Lucas. Ring me if anything out of the ordinary crops up."

Ruth watched him walk away. She had always been his confidant, the one he could trust no matter what, but now he was withholding information. Her heart beat loudly, echoing in the hollowness of her chest and the feeling from the morning returned with an even greater intensity. It wasn't from her misplaced gloves or the utter abandonment of her life in Cyprus; it was the loss of something far more immediate. And she wondered if she had been right to let it go.