Summary: Details of a shadowy organisation operating within London have come to light, and Ros Myers and Lucas North are on the case. Thinking the investigation is going nowhere, things take a sudden turn for the worse when a young journalist connected to the gang leader turns up dead. They find themselves on a clandestine path deep into London's underworld. AU, and two major pairings: Harry/Ruth and Lucas/Ros.
Author's Note: My first ever attempt at a full Spooks fanfic, and really very nervous about it! I own none of this, all credit to BBC/Kudos. I hope people enjoy (even though this is just a short introductory chapter), and reviews would be appreciated. Thank you.
Chapter One: Popping the Question (Introduction).
Roisin Hicks lit her fifth cigarette of the day – her fourth since giving up smoking at the stroke of midnight. But, she reasoned as she straightened her skirt and strode off towards her office, she was celebrating. Cigarettes smoked during celebratory occasions don't count, everyone knew that. It all started seven days ago, when she found – quite by accident – the jeweller's receipt in the pocket of Darren's jeans as she went to load them into the washing machine. She could recall, with acute precision, the moment when she held the crumpled scrap to the sunlight, and picked out the gratifyingly large sum of money he'd spent on just one ring. She racked her brains for alternative explanations for his purchasing such an item, and several crowded in all at once. He's having an affair; it's for his Mam, or ... her thoughts trailed off as she fought to keep her emotions in check.
Thus, her seven days of anxiety had begun. Every time they fell into a natural silence, she would glance at him expectantly, careful not to speak a word lest she accidentally cut across him at this pivotal moment in their relationship. But normally, he would return her look with a frown, and resume regaling her with his opinions of the fluctuating fortunes of Celtic Football Club. She would hide her dismay; let his football waffle wash over her as if he were speaking a foreign language, and try to second guess the next opportunity for the question to be popped. The possibilities were frustratingly endless, and the question remained unasked.
Like a speeding train, she didn't see it coming. It was the previous night, in the car-park at the Bear and Ragged Staff pub just off Damascus Street. It was kicking out time, and they'd been disgorged from the building in a swell of other drinkers, cllinging to each other as though swept up in a tidal wave in which they'd proceeded to become separated from one another anyway. When they found each other again, he was breathless and disheveled. His dark eyes glittered in the floodlit grounds, and it was right there and right then that he finally took the plunge and asked. Not exactly down on one knee, but with the open box out in the palm of his trembling hand. She didn't answer, she just sort of squealed, and kissed him deeply, passionately. His hands crept up to her breast, the one on the left – he swore – was that little bit sweeter than its counterpart.
So, Roisin was happy. She glanced to her left, checking her ghostly reflection in a shop window and noting that even the slight smudge of her lipstick only added to her euphoria; the way her heels made her walk with a slight wobble in her step only made her feel more alive. Nothing was going to dent her happiness. Not even the prospect of another meeting with Anthea Clements; despite how badly their first had gone. That woman was rude and frosty, Roisin had been disinclined to cooperate from the start. It was only the prospect of an apology that had made her agree to this second meeting.
She checked her watch; almost ten am. So immersed in her thoughts of Darren, and the eternity stretched out in front of them, she had neglected to get her breakfast. Rather than an abrupt, and frankly embarrassing, u-turn in the middle of the street, she carried on until a sudden change of direction could be naturally incorporated into her route. She paused at a zebra crossing, glanced left and right as the traffic drew to a gradual halt, and smiled at the man standing beside her, even though she'd never met him before in her life.
She reached a small patisserie and stepped inside, holding the door open for the zebra crossing man who had come to the same place. She ordered a lukewarm, over-priced and under-sized croissant, before setting off back towards the office. Her boss had called the previous evening, a message on the answer machine informed her of the new assignment waiting on her desk. The old tease give no more information than that. But, as she chewed the last of her croissant, she realised she couldn't summon up the enthusiasm for work. Not with Darren waiting at home for her with the promise of a night of passion in store.
Running almost twenty minutes late, she arrived at the arcade that formed a short cut to her office. She picked up her pace a little more, and shivered against the sudden chill of the shadowy arcade. There was never anybody about in this neglected part of the city; the shops were boarded up and only a stray vagabond populated the once sparkling awnings. Today, there was no sign of even him. But she was not alone. Footfalls fell into step with her own just as her mobile phone burst into life from deep within her shoulder bag. She halted suddenly to answer it. Expecting it to be her boss, she had the excuse already to hand for her lateness. She dug around frantically, shoving aside the empty, dented ciggaratte packets; matted make-up brushes and a winter's worth of crumpled pocket tissues. Somewhere, in that tomb of detritus, her phone rang off. She cursed, got ready to make a run for the office, but stopped short as she noticed the man at the zebra crossing, the same one in the patisserie, had stepped out in front of her from within one of the old shop awnings. Flustered, she went to excuse herself, but before the words left her lips, she had ceased to exist.
The bullet entered via her recently praised left breast, tore through her heart and smashed its way back out of her body through her shoulder blade, taking a stream of gore with it. Her heart pulvarised, she was dead before she hit the ground. A narrative cut short, a loose thread left hanging, Roisin Hicks, the bride to be, didn't feel a thing when her finger was severed, engagement ring still attached.
No answer; straight to voice mail. Ros Myers jabbed the 'end call' button on her phone and sighed impatiently as she slipped the device back in her jacket pocket. Ten more minutes was all she could afford, and if her potential new Asset had not arrived in that time, then she would have to get angry. And was she worth it? She was a journalist in a small-time, local newspaper who just happened to have fallen into some very dubious company. From what Ros could tell, the daft bint wasn't even aware of it. She was going to be a handful, and for what?
Distracted, Ros began unconsciously chewing at the nail of her index finger, weighing up the cost and comparing it to the effort involved. It all seemed very disproportionate. All around her swarms of people on lunch release from their offices, she felt like the perfectly still eye at the center of a human storm. Still, that is, until her mobile phone chimed shrilly into life, vibrating gently against her ribs in a dual assault of an intrusion.
"Ros Myers," she declared brusquely, turning to face the Thames in an attempt to shut out the ever swelling crowds.
"Ros, it's Lucas."
She breathed a sigh of relief; now she could have a chance to walk away from this place without looking like a jilted lover and attracting the maddenly sympathetic stares of strangers.
"Any news?" she asked.
"Something's come up, I need you back at Thames House, now."
"I'm on my way."
No questions asked, Ros set off immediately towards the spot where she'd left the car. Anything was better than hanging around a streets waiting for a low-grade, would-be Asset that couldn't even afford you the courtesy of showing up. She reached the car in double-quick time, casually tore off the parking ticket she'd picked up and tossed it into the bin before revving the engine into life.
Lucas let the papers he was holding drop to his desktop and buried his face in his hands. It was one of those cases that started off small, but was threatening to mushroom into something major. Each small incident seemed to light the path a few steps ahead, leading them deeper into a treacherous wilderness. He rubbed his eyes, cleared his mind, and sipped at now cold cup of tea that had sat, almost completely forgotten, at his elbow. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he was about to dispose of it when Ros finally emerged on the Grid.
He waved her over, snatched up the papers from his desk and got up to take her aside. But the moment she got within hearing range, she began holding forth: "Bloody Asset didn't turn up," she stormed irritably as she slumped into Lucas's recently vacated seat. "I waited for an hour, and no show. Which means I'll have to go sniffing around her flat-"
"Ros, listen," Lucas interjected the moment she paused for breath, "she's dead."
"What?" asked Ros, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and glaring at Lucas from across the desk.
"Homeless guy found her body in an old Arcade," Lucas explained, handing over the papers he had been studying. "It was a short cut to her office she used every day; the homeless guy even knew her name. It's definitely her, Ros. I think this is bigger than you realise."
Ros took the papers and read in silence. Meanwhile, Lucas looked about the Grid. The only sounds now are Ruth shuffling papers; Malcolm tapping interminably at a keyboard – probably hacking into the FSB for fun – and Harry, locked in his office and raging into his telephone. With the door closed, no sound comes out, and it looks like someone simply pressed a mute button. He smiled as he watched the muted Harry Pearce gesticulating wildly. No doubt they would end up having to send in the big guns – or, Ruth as she was more commonly known – to calm him back down again.
"This came from Scotland Yard?" asked Ros, her voice cutting across his thoughts, jolting him out of his reverie. "Ring finger severed? What's that all about? Nothing taken - except a finger - burglary ruled out. When did this come in?"
"An hour ago," Lucas confirmed. "Do you have any idea what we're dealing with here?"
Ros rolled her eyes. "That was the point of me buttering up a new Asset, Lucas: so I could bloody well find out," she retorted. "All we know is, that boyfriend of hers had some seriously dodgy connections, and now we're back to square one."
"Let it go and hope for the best?"
"Not a chance!"
It was a vain hope. Appearances could be deceptive, and they still didn't know how much of a threat these people posed. It could be something, it could be nothing. But while a shadow of doubt remained, Lucas knew they had to get back in there and find out.
"Better run it past the boss, first," said Lucas, with a nod to Harry's office. "I say we go round there, check out the boyfriend, bring him in. Take it from there."
Ros nodded, glanced over towards Harry's office. The incendiary phone call had ended, but he was still glowering dangerously at his computer screen. It must have been the Home Secretary.
"Do you want to ask him?"
Ros's question was rhetorical. In unison, they both turned to their left, and as one they chorused her name: "Ruth!"