'What's going on and where the hell have you been?' was what greeted Harry as he was ushered into the Home Secretary's office, still wearing the casual trousers and sweater, which no less than an two hours earlier Ruth had been clinging too; the memory of which, refrained him from pointing out that as it was Saturday afternoon and his weekend off, he hadn't had time to go home and change before he'd been forced to make his unplanned appearance. Instead he took the less controversial approach and gave Blake what he hoped was sufficient information to let him get back to doing his job, rather than having to explain his actions or the lack of a smart suit to a politician.
Blake then asking him if he knew why one of their own had been murdered and whether he had any idea who had done it, added fuel to Harry's already burning desire to get out of there, and it was a close - run thing not to tell him so. When he added that their chief security coordinator, namely Juliet, was on the warpath and was on her way to see him, it did little to calm Harry down, as he balled up his fists and muttered something that to an equally fired up Blake, sounded very much like 'now why doesn't that surprise me?'
'Forgive me for saying so, but aren't we all supposed to be on the same side Harry and wasn't it you who gave her a glowing reference?' and Harry was seriously tempted to tell him that everyone was entitled to a mistake, but if Blake wanted it, then he was more than willing to tender his resignation. But before that happened, could he possibly have a glass of water?
Before being summoned, he'd made a brief and very unpleasant detour to a crowded Lambeth Bridge, teeming with reporters, all eager to take a picture of what was left of Belling or more precisely his head. Over the years, he'd seen plenty of dead bodies, but never one whose face had been half eaten by what swam in the Thames and was dripping with what lurked below the surface. The manner of his death was extreme and left a clear message that none of them were safe. At more than twelve stone, there had to have been at least two assailants who'd killed Jason and strung him up and it had to have taken place between midnight and five that morning. Whether he'd been killed there was for others to decide, but early observations suggested that it was unlikely, being as Lambeth was a bridge that had easy access from the road, which in this instance had mercifully invited walkers, rather than the usual late night party revellers who'd been searching for somewhere for a quick shag on their way home.
Adam's 'how can you be absolutely sure it's him?' to one of their soco - team had seen Harry turning away, only to hear it being confirmed by the production of Belling's id card, wallet and car keys, and Adam's response, 'useful when he's got no face,' the phrase that had resulted in Harry losing his breakfast.
Dismissed by Blake with a 'go on then get on with it,' and back out in what compared to where he been earlier and the confines of Blake's office amounted to fresh air, Harry rang Thames House or more precisely Malcolm, asking him to stay in touch with Ruth and Fiona and telling him that he'd catch up with the poor devil's that had found the body as soon as he could.
That done, he finally managed to draw breath and headed home, or more precisely to Ruth's house. He needed a shower and to get a change of clothing and he needed time to clear his head and think before he did anything else. The last thing that he wanted was for Ruth to come home and be confronted with the sight of her house as well as her life ransacked, if that's what had happened. As soon as he walked through the door, he knew that everything was as it should be, but the contrast to his usual welcome was as different as night was from day. The organised chaos as Ruth like to call her home was still in evidence, but it was the silence that made it feel so alien. Jacob's toys were still piled in his toy box in the corner, rather than littering the floor, the kitchen was its usual mishmash of tidy and the radio that eased them into the mornings stood silent, just as they'd left it, but it was the void that had been created by Ruth's absence that was palpable. He'd spent the best part of god knows how many years coming home to an empty house, but this was the first time that he was doing it and wanting it to be anything but like this.
He'd had to fight hard to contain himself when he'd left her, but as he climbed the same familiar stairs that they'd climbed together every night since he'd moved in with Ruth, he didn't have to do that, and it was here that he gave way to his emotions. In the privacy of the shower where they'd had more than a handful of blissful encounters and as the hot water streamed across his weary body, Harry finally indulged himself and crumbled. For man's inhumanity to man, that in a supposedly civilised world, monsters like those who had killed Clive and now Belling were presumably able to sleep at night, but more importantly for the innocents like Ruth, Jacob and Wes, that through no fault of their own had got caught up in the chaos, that the human race seemed endlessly prepared to heap on its own.
Still unaware that this was only the start of the revelations that were going to be heaped on him during the course of the day, he towelled himself down and pottered through to the bedroom. A suit, no sod it, he was his own man, well not entirely, not any more? Their empty bed still held her presence, as did her clothes that were strewn across the chair. Delaying things wasn't going to make him feel any better, so he changed into the clean clothes that he'd selected and made an effort to tidy up. An action that he knew that Ruth would have smiled had she been able to see him, because if there was one thing about him that would never changed, it was his inherent need to leave things tidy before he left home. Thames House beckoned and with it what he hoped were some answers to the latest question.
The horrified couple who had been walking their dog and had stumbled across Jason's body, had been waiting for someone to talk to them since Zaf had picked them up and transported them to Thames House. Well into middle age and out for their usual mid morning 'totter' as they called it, they were still reeling, not only from what they'd seen, but by the fact that they'd been brought into a horrible building that looked nothing like a police station. A nice man who'd said his name was John, although he hadn't been wearing a uniform, which again they thought was strange, had brought them and his colleague a cup of coffee. 'To keep them going until his boss arrived to talk to them,' he'd said, sending their imaginations even further up the fear scale. More than two hours later and after several more cups of coffee and in Mrs. Wilson's case as many trips to the toilet, the only happy member of their family was their dog, who'd been tucking into the plate of biscuits from the kitchen, as his owners huddled together, worry and the same threat of nausea that was gripping Harry, bouncing off them in waves. Tact and a sense of calm was what had been needed, which Zaf who'd taken over from Malcolm had been attempting to supply as the minutes ticked by into hours. When the door finally opened and Harry strode in, Zaf who breathed a sigh of relief, was surprised that Mrs. Wilson didn't actually scream.
'At the moment we've no idea who he is, and until we do and can inform his relatives, we need you to keep this to yourselves, can you do that for me?' Harry asked them, having first introduced himself as Giles Farmer head of the murder squad, an obvious title given what they'd seen, but caused Mrs. Wilson to shrink even further towards her husband. 'By the way that he was dressed poor soul, it suggests that he was sleeping rough,' still didn't get a response, from the couple who couldn't get past the state of Jason's head and had no idea what he'd been wearing. As Zaf watched Harry take a breath before changing tack and taking what Zaf considered to be the only other option left open to him, by patting the dog's head, Mr Wilson looked up. 'Want a lovely dog you have, what's his name?' Was said in a voice completely at odds with Harry's demeanour, but sufficient of a distraction that worked, when Mrs. Wilson who up until then hadn't spoken a word, dissolved into tears and appeared to call Harry Honey.
Harry's don't you bloody dare expression, insured that Zaf kept a straight face and controlled the urge to laugh.
'My colleague will take a statement and then he'll drive you home, won't you?' Wasn't a question in this case, as Harry shook hands with Mr. Wilson, before regrouping himself for the umpteenth time that day and heading first for the nearest bathroom and then to the lift.
Malcolm who'd done his best to reassure the Wilsons, had spent the best part of what had been left of the morning encouraging Ruth to press on with what she was doing, rather than gathering Jacob and their things and heading for anywhere other than where she was, was buried in data when Harry arrived back on the grid. He'd heard the real fear in her voice and rightly so, but it was far too late for him to berate himself about dragging her into all this, whatever this was. There didn't seem to be a rational reason why anyone would have wanted to kill Belling, other than given the revelations of the past hour, perhaps Harry. But Harry had been in bed with Ruth all night and in the helicopter when Jason's face had flashed onto Ruth's screen as a person of interest, rather than the faceless body that Harry had tried hard to avoid looking at.
'Michael Jarvis,' Malcolm told Harry, following him across the grid. 'Belling was one of the candidates that Ruth interviewed,' he continued, wisely waiting until Harry had sat down behind his desk, before imparting the final kick in the teeth. 'Whoever these people are, they've had Ruth earmarked from the start Harry. I feel responsible, I'm so sorry.'
'How do you know it was Jason?' was answered with a click on Harry's keyboard, which saw Harry clamping his hand across his mouth, his eyes saying everything, before reaching towards the phone and telling Malcolm it wasn't his fault and to give him a moment.
Is that wise? Had long ceased to exist when it came to Harry and Ruth, and Malcolm was well aware that it was Ruth that he intended ringing.
'I'll make us some coffee,' he told him. He was getting good at it.
Left alone, Harry was at odds as to what to say to Ruth, that didn't sound patronising or would frighten her even more. After what Malcolm had told him, it was comfort and reassurance that Ruth needed to hear, but the end of a phone wasn't the best place to be handing out either. Deciding that apologising had to be avoided at all costs and that using the phone that had links to the Thames House switchboard, which should anyone decide to listen could prove suicidal, he took out his dedicated phone and rang her number. That Ruth had the phone right in front of her was evident, as it barely rang one time before she answered him. Since she'd seen Belling's picture on the screen, she'd been frozen in some sort of terrifying time capsule where nothing made sense and unable to concentrate, she'd been going through the motions with her search. Jacob had been the warm and comforting lifeline that she'd clung too and he'd been sitting on her lap while she'd been waiting to hear from Harry.
It wasn't as though Harry had deceived her in any way. He'd been honest from the start about the negatives that were involved when it came to having a relationship with a spy, although she was far too entrenched in what they already had to walk away. Adam brandishing a gun, well more trying to hide it was what had sent her reeling, not that she was under any illusion that they hadn't played a part in Harry's life at some time, having seen the multiples of scars that were impossible to hide. But it was Malcolm's absolute refusal to tell her how the man who less than a week ago, had sat on the other side of her desk and convinced her into believing he was a solicitor, had died, that was fuelling her imagination.
That Ruth was more worried about Harry than she was for herself became evident the moment he heard her voice.
'Are you OK?' was barely audible as Harry heard her swallow hard and presumably try to compose herself. 'Jacob's here he wants to talk to you, do you have the time?' was the most ridiculous thing that she could have said given the circumstances, but he assumed it was her attempt at deflection and not that she didn't want to talk to him. He could hear the tremor in her voice and knew that she was fighting hard not to cry. 'It's Harry sweetheart, 'he heard her whisper, as he tried desperately to think of something to say to a small child, that would keep the conversation going, as he walked across his office and locked the door. He needed to keep them on the line, not lose them if someone walked in and disturbed him.
Had he ever had a conversation over the phone with Catherine or Graham when they'd been three years old? He very much doubted it and if he had then he certainly couldn't remember. Most of the time he'd never bothered to ring home, and even when he had, Jane had invariably told him that the children were already in bed and asleep.
Until the previous evening, Peter Rabbit had belonged to him and his own children but inevitably this was what Jacob had decided he wanted to talk to him about, in a short interlude that for Harry changed everything.
For the next few minutes, during what was a very one - sided disjointed conversation from someone who had only just turned three, Harry was transported back to another time such as this. It was on a night when he'd known that Jane was going out so he'd rung, and the baby sitter had passed the phone to Catherine. She'd asked him why he was never there and was he coming home to read to them before they went to sleep? Which of course he hadn't. As he listened to Jacob's wavering voice, telling him that Fiona had been reading some more of Peter's adventures to him and to Wes, because he and Adam had to go away and that Ruth was too busy it was almost déjà vu.
'Bye - bye Harry,' and he was seriously done for and made what he knew was a promise that he intended to keep, no matter what the consequences to his career, such as it was. Adam, Zaf and Malcolm were more than capable of coping in London, it was Ruth, Fiona and the boys that needed his support. Two heads were better than one or so they said, even if he wasn't an analyst. He was going back to Oxford.
'I don't know what time it will be, but I'll see you tonight, I promise you,' he told Ruth.