Author's Note: Sienna is an original character I created. The full story of she and Bobby's relationship can be found in my earlier fics. A summary of it can be found in the prequel to this story, "Three Conversations About One Thing", on this site.

An hour and a half later, the two of them plus DS Hood had travelled halfway across London from the task force's headquarters in the city centre, and were walking quickly up the steps of Elahi's office, the 'Towells Construction' sign gleaming in the summer sun. Bearing in mind what Davenport had told them, Goren hadn't failed to notice that Hood was the least senior officer on the team, and they already knew that Elahi had been in the habit of taking his work home, and that his house had extremely good security. Only someone who he or his wife had invited in would have been able to gain access, which was why the more senior Special Branch officers had taken a task force and gone to question the cousin.

He suspected that the real motive for this expedition was more along the lines of "get the Yanks out from underfoot, somewhere they won't be in the way". Ah well. He still felt an obligation to the dead man, and perhaps this might at least help provide some insight into the events leading up to his death. Anything they learned that might help Tim Whitefield put away Mikhail Andropov would be a plus. Or so he kept telling himself. The fact was that between the jet lag and his general feeling of weariness, he was struggling to maintain his interest, and deeply wished he could go home and just sleep.

They were met at the entrance by a young female receptionist, who explained that Towells Construction, evidently keen to be seen to co-operate with the forces of law and order (and presumably also not to do anything that might jeopardise the huge publicity opportunity the staging of the match would provide for them), had set up so that they could question Elahi's colleagues. As they walked towards the stairs, they encountered a middle-aged man in his fifties, who was obviously someone important, to judge by the way in which the receptionist smiled nervously and began babbling; "Mr Upton, this is Detective Goren and Detective Eames…"

"Ah yes. You're from New York, I understand?" the man asked, scrutinising them intently.

"Yes sir," Eames replied, smiling professionally.

He stood blocking their way for a few seconds, as though he wanted to ask them a question, but instead he simply turned and walked off. Goren shrugged, and followed the receptionist up the stairs, listening with half and ear as she muttered hastily; "That's Mr Upton, he's in charge here, our CEO" and continued to babble about the company. Nice backside, he found himself thinking as they followed her towards the room set aside for the interviews, then became aware that he was staring, then became further aware that Eames was giving him the raised eyebrow of "humouring the instincts of the fallible human male".

He dragged his eyes away, reflecting that he really ought to get on with finding another girlfriend. Lately, though, he just hadn't… well, just hadn't felt like it. In fact, he thought suddenly, it had been… what? Eight months, or thereabouts? And that had only happened because a very old acquaintance from his Army days, more of a friend than anything else, had called him to say that she was flying out to visit friends with a lay-over (giggle) in New York, and perhaps they could catch up on old times… Well, that had been a fun, if slightly drunken, night, but even so, eight months was a long time. He found himself surreptitiously eyeing the receptionist again. No. She was a blonde, and he'd really gone off blondes recently.

He and Eames began by interviewing separately, but soon moved into their usual habits, one of them instinctively sensing when the other wanted their presence and moving across, then splitting up again and repeating the process. DS Hood seemed content simply to watch and learn. As they began their final round of interviews, Hood's police radio crackled. He went into a small unoccupied room nearby, then emerged a few minutes later and gestured to the two of them. They went across, shutting the door behind them.

"We're going," Hood began without preamble. His face showed a mixture of excitement and concern. "They've arrested the cousin, plus two others; attempted murder of a police officer."

"What?"

"From what I could gather over the radio, they at first refused to co-operate, then, when it was hinted to them that the conversation might be continued at the local police station, they became angry, then violent, and the cousin pulled a knife."

"Is anyone injured?"

"Not seriously, but we've now got a real reason to hold them for as long as we like. Let's go."

They followed Hood out swiftly, or tried to; as they left the room, the young receptionist tried to catch Goren's attention. "Um… officers?"

"Yes?" Hood replied sharply. "We've got to go, ma'am, I'm afraid."

She planted herself in Goren's path, then twisted her hands shyly and blushed as he turned his attention to her. "Do you want to tell us something?"

"Well… I don't know if this is important or not…"

He ignored Hood's barely-concealed sigh of exasperation, noting that beside him, Eames had turned on her most confidence-boosting smile, the one she used for nervous witnesses who needed reassuring that this wasn't such a big deal, just a pleasant conversation, that's all, just tell us a little more, we're here to help you

He couldn't help noticing that the young woman had undone a single button at the top of her blouse and it gaped slightly; he caught an intriguing glimpse of a small tattoo, low down, just above the curve of her left breast; what looked like some kind of bird – a dove perhaps? – caught in what looked like a wolf's mouth… file that away for future consideration, he thought, and concentrate on what she's saying.

"…but Ranj seemed very upset about a week or so before he left. I tried to ask him – he was such a good friend to me during my first days here, I'm new, he was always polite and made sure to ask how I was settling in – anyway, he wouldn't talk much about it, then one evening I walked in on him in his office to ask if he had any typing he needed doing, and he was punching the wall, you know, like he was really angry."

"Did he say what he was angry about?" Goren asked softly, ignoring Hood's frantic lets-get-moving-now signals.

The receptionist gave a nervous shrug. "He just said that if you couldn't trust your own family, who could you trust? He never said anything else about it, but I wonder if maybe that's why he went to New York, you know, just to get away from that… only thing is, I don't know who he could have been talking about, because he gets on really well with his mother, and his sister's in Pakistan working as a doctor."

"Any brothers? What about his father?" They might not get chance to ask again, Goren thought, so they should be thorough now.

"He doesn't have any brothers. I know he grew up in his mum's brother's family house, with his cousins, but he told me he doesn't speak much to them, and I don't think… well," she lowered her voice, in the classic tone of one about to betray a confidence, "I don't think he ever actually knew his father. When it was Father's Day, I was going out to buy cards for people – sometimes I do things like that, when everyone's busy, just so that they can concentrate on their work – but he said he didn't need one, and he was really abrupt and quite rude, not like him at all." She sighed. "Maybe that's why he spent so much time with Mr Upton."

"Alex Upton, the CEO here? He took an interest in Mr Elahi's work?"

"Yes, that's right." She giggled. "Ranj is… well, he was a bit of a golden boy. Bit of a teacher's pet, I suppose. Everyone kidded him about it here, but I don't think anyone minded too much. We all knew Ranj was going on to better things."

"Thank you, Ms Collins. That's very helpful," Hood said from behind them, and began to hustle them out. They muttered thank-yous over their shoulders, and followed him to the waiting car. The driver set off with a scream of tyres that wouldn't have disgraced a Grand Prix driver on the starting grid, and hit the siren. They raced through London's traffic, merrily disregarding traffic lights and white vans, and Goren felt his own heart rate speeding up. Perhaps – just perhaps – they'd let him in on the interrogation. He smiled a little at the thought. He and Eames, of all the people on the task force, knew best what it was like to have your own city attacked by murderous fanatics. Let me at them, he thought grimly, and willed the driver to go faster.