The following day Ruth and Harry looked at seven cottages all close to either Felixstowe or Ipswich. None of them fully fitted the image they had of the cottage they would buy, and they had talked about it for days on end.

"If we could take the kitchen from that last one and put it in the ground floor of the one north of Ipswich ..." Ruth began.

"And relocate it to the spot where Malcolm has his cottage, it would be …."

"Rather lovely," Ruth finished. "There's only one left within our price range," she added. It was getting on for four o'clock, and they would only have a window of thirty minutes in which to inspect the last house on their wish list, although whether this house was part of a wish list or a desperation list was something which had not been openly admitted.

"That's not the one which needs `a loving owner to bring it to its former glory'," Harry continued, "which in estate speak means, `the previous owners let this place run to ruin'."

"It's less than two miles north of Malcolm's cottage, and it's close to the beach … and it has a private jetty."

"No boat?"

"No."

"No picnic hamper thrown in?"

"Sadly no." Ruth hesitated, recognising the lightness in Harry's tone as he turned the car north. "I'm sure the asking price allows the new owners some leeway for …. purchases such as a boat …."

"And a cane picnic basket."

"Yes. I'm sure that is why the price is …. so …."

"Low?"

"Well …. I think the correct word is reasonable."

"It means the same thing, Ruth."

"But it sounds better than low. We equate low with cheap. Are we looking for a cheap house?"

Harry pursed his lips and dipped his head to the side in a way which Ruth loved. She watched as he thought of an answer and then changed his mind, glancing at her with his Grid expression. She reached across and grasped his arm and just as quickly removed her hand.

Harry turned the car off Ferry Road and along a narrow lane which took them towards the coast. Once they had driven over the brow of a rise which had hidden the beach from view they each knew they had found their home. The cottage itself nestled under the brow of the rise, surrounded by flowering shrubs and a few mature trees. A car – a shiny, low slung silver Lexus – was parked in the circular drive in front of the cottage, no doubt belonging to the estate agent who was hopefully patiently waiting for them to arrive.

Very slowly Harry drove his car towards the house, giving he and Ruth enough time to take in their surroundings. The beach was perhaps only a little less than two hundred yards from the house, a line of low bushes along a rock wall protecting them from a high tide. They could just see the end of the jetty, and it appeared to require some repair. The house itself was whitewashed, with a thatched roof, itself in need of repair. Surrounding the house was a picket fence, with a gate leading to the front door, all of which clearly needed a coat of paint or two, plus a nail here and there.

"Harry …. are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"If you're thinking that we have found our new home, then yes, Ruth, I am."

Seeing them arrive, the estate agent opened the front door and ushered them inside. "Mr and Mrs Valentine," she said, "I was wondering whether you'd got lost."

Inside the cottage it was clear no-one had lived in it for some time. Walls were in need of painting, and most of the house required redecorating. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, all with rather gaudy wallpaper on the walls, and equally colourful carpets on the floors. Despite the décor which assaulted their eyes there was a warm feeling about the house. It already felt like home. Several times Harry caught Ruth watching him, trying to determine his reaction. His expression gave away nothing, but she knew he was simply containing his delight, as well as his relief.

"The floors are all timber, and can be polished once you remove the floor coverings, all of which are at least forty years old."

Ruth barely heard what the estate agent was saying as they were shown through the house. Once they were back at the front door Harry turned to the agent and shook her hand. "We'll be in touch," he said, "probably within forty-eight hours. We need to discuss this in private and to review our finances."

As they drove away Ruth turned back for one last glimpse of the view over the sea. "It's rather lovely," she said quietly, "like it's on it's very own island."

"Do you love it as much as I do?" he asked, not taking his eyes from the lane ahead, winding and narrow.

"So what was all that malarkey about needing to review our finances?"

"You never tell them the truth, Ruth. We can't have estate agents going home rubbing their hands together at the prospect of another easy sale. They have to work for their money …. like everyone else."

Ruth smiled to herself and then reached with her hand and squeezed Harry's forearm. No doubt Harry would always be a spy. He couldn't help himself.

In London Malcolm Wynn-Jones was conducting a CCTV search. There were CCTV cameras at either end of the lane through which Max Bellchambers regularly walked from the tube station to his flat, but on the night he had been attacked, the cameras at the end of the lane through which he entered were not operating, while the cameras at the other end of the showed no unusual activity. Whoever had attacked him had planned it, and had planned it with a view to their presence remaining unseen. For the six hours leading up to him being attacked there was no footage from that one camera, although a camera outside a photo shop picked him up as he'd passed the shop on his way towards the lane. Try as he might, Malcolm was unable to find anything else – no more visuals, and there appeared to be no-one following Max. Whoever it was attacked him had either set themselves up well ahead of when he was due home, or else they lived in one of the derelict buildings which flanked the lane.

Malcolm could do no more. He hoped the police had more luck and more resources.

It was a little over ten days later that Harry received a phone call from Malcolm. They had just finished eating dinner and with the weather having been fine for almost a week, they were sitting on the terrace finishing off a bottle of wine. Harry drew his phone from his trousers pocket.

"Yes?" he said curtly, hoping that Malcolm would not be bringing them bad news of any kind.

"Harry," Malcolm said without preamble, "I have a suggestion to make. It's about where you are living."

"Go on."

"I heard via William Towers that the Bellchambers' are finding it difficult to fit back into normal life."

"That's …. understandable," Harry said, briefly remembering a time over a decade ago when he had been afraid that his own son would not make it past the age of twenty-one, and how shattering that had been, leaving him feeling powerless and ineffectual, both as a father and as a man.

"It's just that they ….. want to stay in the farm house …. where you are, and they would like to move in this weekend."

"And so we have to leave."

"Yes. I took the liberty of telling them I could provide you with alternate accommodation."

"In your cottage outside Felixstowe."

"Yes. I hope you ….. don't mind. It's awkward, I know, but these people are in a -"

"Malcolm, it's fine. Ruth and I have been talking about when it will be time for us to move back … closer to civilisation."

And then Harry told Malcolm about the house they were buying, and how it would be beneficial for them to be living closer to it once they took possession, which was to be in six weeks. When the call ended, Harry again pocketed his phone and turned towards Ruth, who had been listening in.

"We're moving?" she said.

"Mmm, and soon. We've been requested to leave by the weekend, because the owners need …."

"A safe place in which to grieve."

"Yes."

Two days later, with car packed, they headed south out of Norfolk. Ruth was relieved to be headed somewhere a little less cold, while Harry had mixed feelings about leaving the remote farm house behind.

"I enjoyed staying there," Harry said, as he turned the car on to the A140.

"My feelings about it are …. mixed," Ruth said, staring ahead through the windscreen. "As much as it started off as being like a honeymoon destination for us, I will forever associate that house with Max, and how his inquisitiveness, his desire to do the right thing ultimately led to his death."

Harry had nothing at all to add to that. Over and over they had discussed Max's visit and then his untimely and tragic death, and no amount of turning the events over and over, looking at them from every possible angle had made a jot of difference. Nothing they said and nothing they decided after the event could change the fact that he was dead, and that they were moving on to allow his parents a place to stay until they were again able to face the world. As far as they knew, Ross and Julie Bellchambers still had no idea that Max had visited them that day, and that his talking to `a couple of old spooks', followed by his passing on information to another spook may have played a part in him being targeted by some rather nasty people. Harry and Ruth could no longer afford the luxury of guilt. Guilt would only eat away at them, and no matter for how long they wallowed in their guilt it would never, could never bring Max back.

Two hours and ten minutes after they had left the farm house just outside Cromer, Harry was able to again park his car beside the road, giving them a view of the small jetty and the roof of Malcolm's cottage. It was on this very spot, when Harry drove Ruth from Oxford the previous month that they had stopped and engaged in a rather delicious snog, their first ever proper snog. Harry lifted one eyebrow as he looked across at Ruth.

"What does that mean?" she said, knowing very well what he was suggesting.

"I was remembering, Ruth. How long ago was it that I drove you here from Oxford?"

"To me it feels like ten years …. and yet it's only been a couple of months."

"It feels like a long time. So much has happened." Harry reached out with his hand and cupped Ruth's cheek. "I love you," he said, "and I always will."

"You can't know that."

"I can, and I will. There is not a lot I can promise you, but I can promise you that."

Harry started the car and headed for home – their temporary home, but closer to their about-to-be home.

Later that night, after they'd unpacked and eaten a slap up meal of bacon and eggs, they fell into bed, tired and drained. Their time in hiding, whilst enjoyable, had also exhausted them.

"Did you check the doors and windows?" Ruth said, suddenly remembering they were closer to other dwellings.

"Of course," Harry murmured, shuffling closer to Ruth and sliding an arm around her shoulders. They each turned a little so that they almost faced one another in the dark.

"Harry …." Ruth asked after a few minutes of silence, "do you ….. miss seeing your children?"

Harry took almost as long before he answered. "I …. I'm so used to not seeing them that … I never think about it."

"Harry …. they're your children. You must miss them."

What followed was a rather long and awkward silence, during which Ruth could feel Harry's discomfort through the tension in the arm he had around her shoulders. She was sure he had moved just perceptibly so as to give himself a little distance from her and her questioning. Then he sighed.

"What is this about, Ruth?"

"About? I thought the question to be rather straightforward. Do you miss your children?"

"They're grown up, and I've not seen them on a regular basis for well over a decade."

"It's just that ….. were I to have had children, I'd want to see them all the time."

Harry pulled his arm from around her, and turned to that he lifted himself on to one elbow and gazed down at her. Even in the darkened room she could see his eyes boring into her. "Is that was this is about, Ruth? Is this about the children you never had?"

Without warning Ruth turned from him and got out of bed, flinging the duvet towards him so that the corner flicked his cheek. She then grabbed her dressing gown and slid her feet into her slippers and almost ran from the room. Harry flopped back on to his pillow and covered his eyes with his forearm. "You're an idiot, Pearce," he said aloud. The thing about words spoken in haste – without adequate prior thought - is that they can never be taken back.