A/N: The plot/framework for this fic came from a "60 Minutes" story which aired on Australian TV on 19th July, 2015. Whilst I have based this story on what came out in that preliminary investigation, my own story is fictional, and all (non Spooks) characters are fictional, including the names of ministers in Margaret Thatcher's government.

I am rating this chapter M, chiefly for adult concepts.

Being back on the Grid was like diving into the ocean after not having been in the water for several years. Thinking of the ocean had him contemplating the last time he'd swum; it would have to have been the south coast of France in 2006, almost five years ago. He'd taken two weeks leave, planning to look for Ruth, but after wandering around Paris, hoping to see her on some street corner, in an art gallery or museum, or perhaps wandering by the Seine, he realised how foolish had been his plan. So he'd headed instead to Nice, where he'd swum, drank wine, wandered around the Old Town, ignoring other holiday makers, still hoping to find Ruth. When he'd arrived back on the Grid all he had to show for his break was a suntan and a trimmer physique.

He needed to visit Nice again some day. Maybe Ruth would agree to accompany him. Maybe not. Their drive back from the tribunal had been a quiet one, the few sentences spoken dripping out a few words at a time. Harry had interpreted Ruth's near silence as chastisement – chastisement for his taking risks, for handing a weapon of mass destruction to a desperate and unbalanced man, chastisement for valuing her life over and above the lives of many, chastisement for his overt display of love for her. On the other hand, her silence may have been embarrassment over what to say to him after their weeks apart. What does one say to someone who has so openly declared their feelings through their actions?

Harry felt most at home on the Grid. It was where he had experienced his greatest triumphs, and perhaps some of his lowest moments. The Grid had provided the oven in which he had been fired and honed and fully formed as a man. Whilst not proud of much of what he had done as a spy, he was proud of the man who had chosen to save Ruth's life. At the time he'd handed Albany to John Bateman, Harry had proved to himself that he loved Ruth more than he feared the inevitable repercussions emanating from that decision. He was (almost) a free man, so he was lucky. He had dodged a bullet, and deep inside himself he knew he had to once again work hard towards regaining Ruth's respect.

"I'm not worth that," she'd said as she'd settled into the front seat of his vehicle, looking straight ahead as he skilfully drove the Land Rover through the traffic. "You acted from your heart and not your head, Harry." He'd turned towards her then and held her gaze. As he saw it, acting from his heart only served to prove that inside his chest was a heart, hopefully beating in sync with Ruth's own heart. That was a good thing. Could Ruth not see that? He'd saved the news that Albany had been inoperable for another day.

Harry's first few days back on the Grid were frantic ones. He'd had to catch up with all that had happened in his absence as well as much of what was pending. Between Erin and Ruth he discovered that the situation was as normal, and that agents full time in the field were monitoring eight different groups whose potential for violence was considered worrying. The remaining junior field agents were moving between another fifty to sixty people who had been flagged as `potential threats'. In other words, it was business as usual.

During his first fortnight back at work Harry spent most of his time off Grid, chiefly in meetings, and it wasn't until late on his second Friday afternoon that he was free once more to return to the Grid. As he walked towards his office he glanced over at Ruth's desk to find her talking on her mobile phone, her face animated, her free hand moving through the air as she spoke. He sighed heavily as he sat down before glancing around the Grid. Towards the back of the Grid Erin and Dimitri were engaged in a deep and private discussion, while Tariq worked at his desk, his immediate environment temporarily beyond his conscious awareness. Harry kept his eye on Ruth until she ended her call. As she gathered together her bag and coat, searching her desk for anything else she may need, he quickly stood up and left his office, hoping to catch her before she left for the day. They had barely spoken during the two weeks he'd been back, and suddenly he desperately needed to be with her.

"Ruth," he said, stopping in front of her desk just as she stood to put on her coat.

"Is it important, Harry? I have to go. I'm meeting someone and he's on his way to my house as we speak."

"Right," he said, his spirits suddenly flagging. "It can wait."

"Perhaps you can call me at home …. if it's important. It's just that Jerry is a journalist and he needs to be somewhere else by eight …..." She quickly wrapped her scarf around her neck, and then she was gone, bustling across the floor towards the doors.

He watched her until she was out of sight and then he dropped his head and sighed heavily. That was that then. He had waited too long and now she had found someone else, which put a different slant on his Grand Gesture. In saving Ruth not only had he risked imprisonment, but he had also freed her to find someone else, someone more suitable, perhaps someone closer to her own age. He just hoped this Jerry would make her happy. While on enforced leave he had tried to shut out all thoughts of her, but while lying in bed in the dark each night she had filled every corner of his mind, creating a longing which bordered on being painful. When he'd made the decision to hand Albany over to John Bateman, Harry had told himself that he was liberating Ruth, so that she could live her life freely; the world needed her, and Ruth needed the world. Of course he'd been fooling himself. He'd wanted Ruth for himself, and now it was too late.

Ruth had only been home fifteen minutes when she heard a knock on her front door. She still lived in the flat she'd shared with Beth. She'd grown accustomed to the place. It had none of the spaciousness or the character of the house she'd lived in before she'd had to leave London to go into exile, but for a safe house it was better than most, with a roomy dining room off the living room, the rather old-fashioned kitchen taking up another corner of the living area. Over the past eighteen months Ruth had furnished it with things she liked, and to her it felt warm and familiar. She hurried down the short hallway to open the front door.

"I'd kill my own mother for a hot cup of coffee," Jerry said as he followed Ruth to the kitchen, his lanky frame towering over her.

"Coming up," she replied, pointing him to a chair at the round wooden dining table just off the kitchen. "How do you have it?"

"White, no sugar, hot enough to scald my tongue" he said, sitting at the table. "I hope you have a strong stomach," he added once Ruth joined him, placing mugs of coffee in front of each of them.

Ruth sat across from Jerry, holding her mug of coffee between her fingers, her elbows resting on the table. He was beginning to show signs of aging, but he still had the longest eye lashes she'd ever seen on a man. "You said on the phone that you've stumbled upon something ….. how did you describe it?"

"Hot enough to melt the pavement outside Parliament House." Jerry had placed a leather brief case on the table beside him. He reached inside it and drew out an electronic tablet. "On here," he said, his eyes on Ruth, "I have images which will change the way we see those in power in this country. Firstly the Catholic Church, and now … the British Government."

Ruth very carefully placed her coffee mug on a coaster, and then gave all her attention to Jerry. "I hope you haven't done anything stupid," she said. "I know how much you want to make a difference, Jerry, but you have to have evidence."

While she'd been speaking, Jeremy Nevill had turned on the tablet and scrolled through some images until he came to the one he wanted. Very carefully he placed the tablet flat on the table in front of him and looked across to where Ruth was frowning. "This … evidence is … explosive."

"But why me? We haven't spoken to one another in … at least six years, and I'm an intelligence analyst, not a newspaper editor. Perhaps you need to be talking to the police."

"In this instance, the police are on the other side of the law. They are involved in ways they'd rather the public not know about. Besides … I trust your judgement, Ruth. We were once ... something to one another."

"We went out for no more than six weeks, and after that we …."

"- enjoyed being friends with benefits."

Ruth sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "We were?" How could she have forgotten that?

"We-ell … maybe that's a slight exaggeration. We had sex maybe …"

"- around half a dozen times, Jerry. Why does our personal history matter? Everyone at university was shagging someone. It didn't mean anything back then."

"So it means something now?"

"I like to think so." Ruth was baffled by Jerry's segue into their personal liaison, which she only remembered as being a close friendship which continued for several years after they'd left university. She knew they'd had sex a few times, but it had been so unremarkable that she'd forgotten the details.

"What is this about? I haven't all night, and you have a meeting."

"A date actually."

"Well, good for you," Ruth was beginning to feel mildly annoyed.

"Her name is Amanda."

Ruth sighed heavily and widened her eyes, hoping to convey to Jerry her increasing irritation. Taking the hint, he looked down at the electronic tablet on the table in front of him and he woke it up, turned it and pushed it across the table until she could reach it. "Take a look at this. Take a close look."

Ruth placed her hands either side of the tablet and looked down at an image which had her drawing in her breath. "Bloody hell, Jerry. What is this?"

She lifted her eyes to him, and he pointed towards the tablet. "Come on, Ruth. Surely it hasn't been that long since you've seen one of those. Tell me what you see."

She dropped her eyes again, and since the initial shock had worn off she began to describe what she saw. "Well … the first thing I noticed was the bottom half of what is clearly a a man – a naked man – with an erection, sitting on the edge of a bed. It appears to me that he's … uncircumcised."

"Tell me more. I need to see it through your eyes."

"There's a hand about to touch his … penis … and …" Ruth took in an audible breath. "That's a child's hand. The child's body is mostly out of shot. I can't see enough of the child to determine if it's a girl or a boy, or … the child's age."

"It's a girl, Ruth. This girl," and Jerry pointed towards the tablet, "is now aged twenty-six, and she's talking." Ruth had seen enough. She pushed the tablet away, looking up at Jerry, who could see how disturbed she'd been by the image. Ruth Evershed had always been a sensitive soul, which was partly what had initially attracted him to her. Investigative journalism had deadened his senses, but fortunately not his ability to be outraged. "That photograph was taken in 1993. The girl's name is Melanie, and at the time of this incident she was eight years old. She grew up in a children's home, and she – along with many others - was used by a group of powerful men who … were sexually attracted to children."

"It's no surprise to me that there are paedophiles amongst the rich and powerful. And it doesn't surprise me that they photographed their exploits, but why are you showing this to me?"

"When Melanie told me the identity of that man I immediately thought of you."

"Me? Why?"

"Because, Ruth, that man is your boss."

"My boss? Who? The DG of MI5?"

"Closer to home, Ruth. The man in that image is Harry Pearce."