Harry drove himself up to Scotland. It was a long drive. But a necessary one. Nearly seven hours from London. He stopped only once to get a cup of coffee and use the facilities.
He had started early after a night of very fitful sleep. He hadn't wanted to go to bed, actually, knowing what today would bring. And he had not wanted yesterday to end.
After their trip to Cartier, Harry drove them from Mayfair to a contact he knew down in Battersea. He parked and locked Ruth in the car for her safety and walked three blocks. After purchasing what he needed—in cash, of course—he returned to her. She did not ask him what he had bought or from whom. She knew what it was for and why, and she knew not to ask questions that she could not have the answers to.
Once they finally got back to his house, things cheered up. They shared a bottle of wine and ordered Chinese food to eat in front of the television. It was the most normal afternoon and evening that Harry had ever experienced in his entire life. It was sort of a miracle, actually, that they were able to manage such a thing. Even a month ago, the thought that Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed could just sit in each other's company comfortably was preposterous. But now, there was a beautiful diamond ring on her finger and she seemed at home on the sofa beside him as they ate rice and noodles out of cartons while watching EastEnders.
Harry had wanted to watch the highlights from the cricket match that morning, and Ruth was probably bored to tears. She had settled herself beside him and finished her wine. He was focused on the cricket and did not notice what she was doing until her head came to rest on his shoulder. He nearly jumped, he was so startled at such a thing. But oh what a blessed gift it was. He reveled in it for a moment before he shut off the telly and gently brushed her hair out of her face.
"Ruth," he said softly.
She hummed in response.
"Let me drive you home."
Her eyes blinked open and she sat up. "You don't want me to stay?"
His heart flipped in his chest at the very thought that she might want to spend the night with him. Yes, they were engaged to be married, but that was somehow a bigger step for them than putting the ring on her finger. Reluctantly, he told her, "I can't have you stay tonight. I would love you to, but…not tonight."
Recognition passed over her face, and she nodded. She did not give any protest. She got her coat and Harry drove her to her flat. He wanted to walk her to the door, but parking was a nightmare and she assured him she was alright. "I'll see you on Monday," she said, knowing that he likely would not be able to be with her the following day. "Lucas will be en route to Morocco, so we'll have a lot to contend with."
"There's always a lot to contend with," he pointed out.
She gave the smallest hint of a smile at that. There was a slight pause as they just looked at each other, and then Ruth leaned in to kiss him swiftly. "Goodnight, Harry," she whispered. And then she was gone.
Harry reflected on that beautiful afternoon and evening as he drove. It passed the time well. It was early evening by the time he arrived at Fulkirk House. It was raining, which somehow seemed to fit the mood just right. Harry didn't care about such things most of the time, but there was something about having a setting match an action that felt quite satisfying.
He parked well out of the way of the security cameras that he knew dotted the perimeter of the estate. He walked with his umbrella clutched in his one leather gloved hand, covering his face from view. He had a bottle in his other hand.
When he reached the covered front door, he put the bottle in the pocket of his coat so he could properly close his umbrella and shake off the remaining water. He rang the bell as he took care of the umbrella. Harry the person slipped away. He was no longer the man who had just gotten engaged to the woman he loved. He put all thoughts of Ruth into a small part of his heart to be kept locked away. And he became Pearce, the Security Services officer who had a job to do and justice to enact.
The door opened, and he turned toward it with a friendly smile. "It's only thirty years old but should be quaffable," he said in greeting, pulling the bottle out.
Nicholas Blake met Harry's smile with one of his own. "This is a surprise. Come in."
Harry left his umbrella against one of the columns in the front of the house and followed his host inside. They went right into the sitting room, and Harry spotted the drinks cabinet with glasses set up atop it. He opened the bottle as he walked. "Forgive the haste. It's cold here," he said, pouring a generous drink for both of them.
"Cold, remote, and forbidding. Bliss," Blake said, somewhat bitterly.
"So, are you rattling around this place all alone?" Harry asked. It was friendly conversation. Small talk. Old colleagues catching up. But of course, Harry had ulterior motives. Blake should have known better. Blake shouldn't have ever let Harry in the front door.
But Blake just carried on the gentle back and forth. "Not for long, sadly. Julia and her sister come up tomorrow."
Harry knew that already, of course. He turned and handed the drink to Blake and kept a glass of his own.
"How are you, Harry? I mean, really?"
Ah the verbiage of an old friend who knew and cared about what life could be like for the Head of Section D. A somewhat sinister smirk crossed Harry's lips as he answered, "I'll be all the better for this." He held up his glass in a toast.
Blake hesitated for a moment. He looked Harry in the eye. "To Ros," he said softly.
The bastard. If Harry were younger and less trained, he might have thrown the drink in the man's face and proceeded to wring his neck. Instead, Harry just murmured, "To Ros."
They each took a drink. Well, Blake took a drink.
Harry tipped the glass so the scotch would touch his lips and then he let it fall back into the glass. But it was enough to fool.
"Mmm. Highly quaffable," Blake complimented.
He turned to walk toward the fireplace, and Harry followed him. They took seats across from each other.
"I wanted to ask you, was there anything I could do for Ros? Some recognition I could procure for all the work she did?"
Harry put his hand over his face, hardly able to bear sitting there across from that snake of a man and hear him carry on the farce of honoring the woman who had been killed in a bombing he had ordered. But Harry knew he only needed to stay calm and to wait. His contact in Battersea made some very elegant chemicals. The effect would not take long. Not when Harry had dumped such a large amount of it in the scotch that he had uncorked without Blake ever seeing that the seal had already been broken.
Blake noticed Harry's silence but had not discerned the reason. "Well, come on, man. Make yourself at home. You've still got your gloves on," he teased, taking another sip of scotch.
And then the penny dropped. Harry watched with cold eyes as the understanding dawned on Blake, even as he held the glass to his lips and swallowed. Harry just watched. Blake lowered the glass, looking down at it in horror. His eyes turned back to Harry, and his breathing started to increase as panic started to set in.
Harry Pearce had killed a lot of people in his long, brutal life. He had seen countless people die. But rarely was it ever like this. Cold and calculated and vicious. Harry rubbed his temples with his gloved hand, closing his eyes to block out the image of a colleague-turned-friend-turned-traitor realize that he was about to die.
Blake put the glass down on the side table. His movements were already starting to be the slightest bit clumsy. The drug was already starting to take effect. Though the terror coursing through the man did not help.
"I don't suppose it's worth my calling for help," Blake said quietly. "Making myself sick, anything like that?"
Harry did not bother to look at him as he shook his head. Couldn't look at him. Could not bear that he had to sit calmly and take this man's life. He still had trouble accepting that Nicholas Blake had done things that put Harry in the position to kill him. To need to exact this revenge. He just let out a small, sad sigh.
Blake sat forward. "How did you find out?"
"Ruth," Harry answered simply, removing his hand from his face. He could look at the man to talk to him. But not just to quietly watch him die.
"That dogged, brilliant bitch," Blake muttered.
"We're engaged to be married," Harry informed him. "She agreed to marry me just before she showed me the file and evidence of what you've done. An odd series of events following a funeral. And I am only telling you any of this because, in another circumstance, I might have been proud to tell you. To share my good news with a friend. I suppose I wish for the simpler times of my former ignorance."
Blake had nothing to say to that. Harry didn't expect him to. After a pause, Blake just asked, "Will it hurt, Harry?"
"Not for long," Harry assured him.
That seemed to ease his distress. "My family?" he asked.
"It'll look like a heart attack. There'll be no disgrace."
He nodded. "Thank you."
Terrible as it was, this was not the first time a dying man thanked Harry. It was not the first time a dying man whose death Harry had caused had thanked him. It was never a nice feeling. Very far from it, in fact.
"I'm truly sorry about Ros," Blake said.
Harry had to put his hand over his face again. He did not think that he would ever be able to properly recover from losing Ros. Ros, who had become his right hand when Ruth was gone and Adam was losing grip. Ros, who had faltered countless times and always found a way to rise from the ashes. Ros, who had learned and fought and become something close to a mirror of Harry himself. Quite recently, Harry had given some serious thought to retiring and felt comforted with the knowledge that Ros would be able to take his place on the wall. But that was never to be. Nicholas Blake had taken that away from all of them.
"Even if the plan had worked," Blake continued, "I would have regretted her sacrifice." He shifted and took a shaky breath. His voice was starting to grow hoarse. "You know, I always liked you, Harry. I envied you, actually. Your sure moral sense." Blake's fingers were twitching. "The thing is, though, that kind of certainty limits a man. Keeps him small. That's why you'll never have what I had with Nightingale. The chance, even for just one moment, to really change everything."
Harry spared a glance to the man's face as the dark, power-hungry tenor of his voice betrayed the ugly ambition and megalomania that every politician seemed to have. Harry covered his eyes again.
"You'll never know what that's like." Blake was close now, hardly able to speak. He fell forward onto his knees, wheezing. His hand reached out to clutch Harry's shoe. Harry did not move or react. He kept his eyes covered and waited until the gasping, dying sounds had quieted and stillness filled the room. And Blake was gone.
Harry stood up and calmly walked past the body to collect the glasses. He took them and the bottle with him, and he shut the door to the sitting room behind him. It was a long drive back to London. Harry wanted to go home.