Ruth had just sunk beneath the bubbles when she heard the doorbell. For a moment she considered getting out of the warmth and padding downstairs, then she reconsidered and let herself slide slowly under the water. As she resurfaced the bell rang again. And again. It must be the lad next door, locked himself out yet again. Suppressing a curse she clambered out of the bath and grabbed the towelling dressing gown off the hook behind the door. Tying it tightly around her, she went downstairs.

In the hallway she paused. The silhouette through the glass was too tall, too broad. Too..

Wishing she'd taken the time to dry her hair or throw on some clothes, she opened the door. 'Harry!'

He looked exhausted; pale and gaunt, and he obviously hadn't shaved for a couple of days. His eyes flickered up and settled somewhere around her knees. 'Sorry. I...sorry, I know it's your day off. I just...'

She stepped back, opening the door wider. 'Come in.' Following him into the lounge she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and, mortified, brushed a clump of bubbles from her hair. He was standing in the middle of the room, hands shoved into his armpits, shoulders hunched.

'Can I take your coat?'

'Hmm? Oh. Yes, thank you.' She took the macintosh from him and hung it up in the hall. When she returned he was still standing there, his mind obviously a million miles away.

Gently she touched his arm. 'Sit down, Harry, you look exhausted. I'll put the kettle on. Would you like something to eat?'

He flinched. 'No. No thanks. But tea, tea would be lovely.'

She smiled, knowing he'd really rather have a whisky, or a coffee at a push. She cursed herself for not having picked up a bottle of Laphraoig last time she'd done a supermarket shop. Putting the kettle on to boil she glanced through the oven door at the casserole she'd put in earlier. A few hours to go yet, but it should be delicious. Well, so she'd been promised; it was Dimitri's grandmother's recipe and he'd said if she didn't enjoy it he'd do her filing every day for the next month.

'Anything I can do to help?' Harry stood in the doorway.

'It's just tea! But you can talk to me while the kettle boils.'

He gave a watery smile. 'Sure.'

Ruth felt helpless. The depths of his grief, his despair, was palpable. She hadn't a clue what to do or say. She went over to him, rested a hand on his arm. 'I'm so sorry, Harry.'

He didn't ask her how she knew; for all the nature of their job some things were never going to stay private. He tried to smile. She could see he was on the verge of tears. She cupped his face in her hands. 'You are allowed to cry, Harry. You're allowed.'

He threw his head backwards. 'Oh, Christ, Ruth. Oh Christ!' And at that, the dam wall burst, and over 20 years of hurt and guilt and pain and regret spilled over and he cried as he had never done before. Ruth did the only thing she could and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her. Harry, his body racked with sobs, clung to her, barely aware of her gently rubbing his back, whispering consoling words in his ear. The water in the kettle had boiled and cooled by the time he calmed down and gently disentangled himself. He dragged his palms across his blotchy, tear streaked face.

'Oh god, Ruth, I'm so sorry.' He sagged back against the wall, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She whispered 'it's okay, it's okay', one hand still rubbing his arm as if to calm him. After a few moments he took a deep breath and regarded her anew. For the first time the informality of her attire struck him. 'You're in your dressing gown. You're not poorly, are you? Did I just get you out of bed?'

She brushed her thumb across his cheek, eradicating a stray tear. 'No, I'm fine. I was just having a bath. As he started to apologise she gently touched her fingers to his swollen lips. 'Hush. It's fine.' She switched the kettle back on and took his hand. 'Come on, let's get a comfy seat while that boils.'

This time she sat down on the sofa beside him, curling her legs up underneath her and taking his hand in hers.

'So how was the funeral?' she asked gently.

He blew out a wobbly breath. 'You're supposed to say 'as you'd expect' to that kind of question, but this, it was a million miles from what I could have expected. Not that I ever expected to...to...bury my daughter.' His voice cracked, but he carried on. 'It was bad enough that she...that she was dead, but to bury her in a strange country, thousands of miles from where she was born, where she grew up, where her friends and family are. I mean...she had lots of friends there and they were lovely to us, but...I didn't understand what was going on. All I knew was that Catherine was dead and that the only people that were there to mourn her who knew her, really knew her, were her mother and me.' He turned an anguished face towards her. 'I mean, that's not right, is it? That's not right.'

Ruth's hand slowly stroked to and fro across his upper back. 'I'm sure the others that were there...her friends...I'm sure they knew her, and loved her. Just because you haven't known someone from childhood doesn't mean they matter any less to you, that the relationship you have isn't so important.'

Harry's head shot up, obviously startled at what he took to be a rebuke. 'Thanks, Ruth.' He didn't bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

'No, Harry.' Ruth sighed and tried again. 'What I mean is that for Catherine to have explicitly instructed that she be buried out there means that the place must've meant a lot to her, and if the place meant a lot to her it stands to reason it was because of the friends she had there, the memories they shared.'

'So London means nothing to her then? Her friends and family here? Is that what you're saying?'

'No, it's not what I'm saying and you know it. I'm saying...Harry, I'm saying that...oh god, I don't know what I'm saying, other than that this is no indictment of you or Jane or her life here. She was loved, Harry, and she loved in return and whoever and wherever that was, surely that's all that matters?'

Harry sagged back against the sofa. 'I suppose so.'

Ruth uncurled herself and stood up. 'Kettle's boiled. I'll just make that tea.' She padded through to the kitchen and retrieved a couple of mugs from the mug tree, putting a generous splash of milk and extra sugar in Harry's before adding an English Breakfast teabag. After some deliberation, she put a herbal teabag in hers. Tea made, she shouted through to ask if Harry wanted any biscuits. No response. Assuming he'd got engrossed in the newspaper she picked up the mugs and returned to the lounge. Placing his on the coffee table in front of him she repeated the question, then glancing up at him realised he'd fallen asleep.

'Oh, Harry,' she whispered. Leaning over, she kissed his brow, furrowed even in sleep, and taking her tea with her went back upstairs to resurrect her bath.