So I've scraped together another chapter and I'm currently half way through the next which is coming along quite well, thankfully.

Had a couple of follows on this story in the last fortnight which has really done my heart good :-)

I'd been planning on posting this last Saturday. I spent almost the entire coach journey to London (to see Michael in the play, Off The Kings Road, at Jermyn Street Theatre), editing on my phone but then fell at the last hurdle. I discovered I'd forgotten to add the title and it wouldn't let me amend it without deleting the document and reintroducing it which I couldn't do because it was on my laptop at home. Had a brilliant weekend with The Girls though so forgot my frustrations until last night when it got even worse because all my editing didn't copy and paste back into Word right and I've just spend another far-too-long getting it into some kind of order.

P.S. Michael may be 71 years old but he's still ruddy gorgeous! :-D

Chapter 18

"It isn't like we won't see each other tomorrow," Harry told him.

The SI-10 car park was deserted save for their cars and they were stood beside Harry's Cabriolet in the gathering dusk.

"I was hopin' to see a lot more of you tonight," sulked Dempsey, arms folded against his chest and leaning back on the driver's side door, effectively barring Harry's entry.

"Were you now?" She gave him a sly smile and tapped the middle of his chest with her car key. "But I don't have any of my stuff at your place."

"I got a spare toothbrush," he offered hopefully, knowing that there was a whole list of other things she'd be wanting too.

"And make-up… a change of clothes… clean underwear? No, don't answer that," she said quickly as he opened his mouth to speak. She really didn't need to know what he had acquired in the way of 'lost property' over the time he'd been living in that flat.

"You don't need make-up on that beautiful face, baby," he tried, unfolding his arms to place his hands on her hips. "An' if we're talkin' dirty underwear, I really liked what you wore Saturday night."

Harry grinned, leaning against him now, her hands fussing with the open collar of his shirt. "I suppose you could always come back to mine again."

His suggestion that she spend the night at his flat had immediately sounded alarm bells. It had been on her mind for a while, the thought of being with him there or more specifically, sleeping with him in his bed. It made her uncomfortable, made her feel inconsequential, a number, a body when she imagined herself being drawn into that room where those unknown women before her had gone.

She supposed it would have to happen at some point but not yet – she just wasn't confident or secure enough yet.

Dempsey saw the invitation shining in her eyes and was torn. He knew Harry wasn't wild about his apartment and he knew why she was reluctant to come over if he was honest. There'd been a couple of disparaging remarks on the times she'd had cause to drop by, nothing heavy but he'd got the idea alright. He remembered Dave joking around with him maybe a year back… "You rent a bedroom with en-suite flat!" He'd laughed at the time but it didn't seem so funny these days.

So he hadn't pushed when she'd pleaded a lack of overnight effects but only because he knew he'd created a degenerate atmosphere and in the one place he could really show his love for her – his bed.

But despite the need he felt to be with her, he couldn't go to Harry's place tonight. And the reason? The reason brought a strange, unknown fear to the pit of his stomach – there was a chance he didn't have enough of those little pink pills to see him through. He'd worked it out in his head, the number of hours it would be before he could get to that drawer in the night stand that contained those precious packets of painkillers. It wasn't an addiction, no way, it was just that he needed to know he had them available, just in case. He couldn't stand the aching joints, the headaches, the pain in his shoulder which seemed to resonate throughout his entire body. When it started up, he felt like he was falling apart. He supposed it was because he hadn't rested it right, had pretty much carried on as normal with the aid of the codeine. He'd been too eager to prove to Harry that he was okay. He'd basically let his dick rule his brain and fucked himself over big-time.

"Hey, it's okay, we'll do tomorrow night."

He gave a resigned pout, pretending he thought that was what she'd been angling for. "You're okay with that? I don't wanna push you, ya know."

He detected a nervousness in her agreement; a little nod of the head that smacked of timidity and doubt.

"Will you be cooking or would we be better to order in?"

She thought they were reverting to the original plan of spending tomorrow night at his apartment? He'd only been asking if it was okay that they went their separate ways tonight.

"Is that like a test?" he asked.

She looked embarrassed. "A test?"

Testing her nerve? Testing how she dealt with the ghosts?

"My culinary skills," he clarified.

"If you like."

Dempsey lifted his hands so that they ran around her back and rested at the top of her buttocks. "I might just surprise you. My Ma made sure I had a few of her recipes nailed before I flew the nest. She used to say I shouldn't rely on always havin' a nice girl to take care o' me and she was right, I guess."

Harry was surprised. "She taught you to cook?"

"I got the basics down, ya know? You got eggs, you got a meal." He grinned broadly. "But once you got the recipe for Ma's secret sauce, you got spaghetti and meatballs that'll knock ya socks right off." He shrugged. "It ain't hard."

"Heavens! I look forward to it. And I'd always assumed Eggs Benedict was your signature dish."

Dempsey laughed. "Ah, see, I knew I'd really impressed you that time."

"Well, yes, you do always do a good breakfast, I have to give you that but your Eggs Benedict is the piece de resistance."

"Most important meal of the day – especially now."

"Is that so?" Harry snuggled against him, wrapping her arms about his middle.

With the car park devoid of any cars and not a soul in sight, she was rather enjoying the pseudo thrill of intimacy in a forbidden zone. Even the possible reason for him being such an expert at breakfast seemed incapable of fazing her.

"And why might that be, James?"

She knew the answer, of course she did but she wanted to luxuriate in his explanation.

"All that energy we're gonna be burning up, nights. Need to refuel with a hearty breakfast."

Harry's hands gripped his back a little bit harder, an involuntary action brought about by the intimate words. It could almost be a line but she knew that it wasn't by the way his eyes glowed so warmly, seeking her approval, her agreement.

"Just nights?" she purred. "I'm everso slightly disappointed now."

"I'm gonna make sure you're never disappointed, babe."

These days, she almost liked him calling her that, particularly when he kissed her like he was doing now. Who would ever have thought that a man like Dempsey, always playing the hard man, the wise-guy, the equal to the toughest of villains, could possibly also be the vessel for this most tender of natures?

"I'll see you tomorrow then." It was an effort to sound like a grown-up, her mind glowing white and feathery from his attentions.

"You will."

And his heart, she could feel it beating against her chest. She must surely have felt another's heart before but this was the first time it had made her aware of being alive. How had he done this to her? How had she fallen so hard for a man she started off feeling little more than animosity towards?

What would she do if he ever let her down? That ominous metaphor – 'let her down'. If he cheated on her, saw somebody else behind her back, slept with another woman – it would kill her.

His eyes held hers, searching for something, seeking out an answer. Did he see the turmoil inside her? Did he feel the disquiet beating in her own heart?

"I love you," she told him grudgingly, like she was apportioning blame, accusing him of passing on some affliction.

And he smiled with satisfaction. She realised then that that had been what he'd been looking for; he'd wanted her to say the words.

"I love you too, baby… like you wouldn't believe."

Holding her cheeks between his hands, he kissed her again.

Harry let the feeling of pure joy wash through her and it was only after she had got behind the steering wheel and Dempsey raised a hand in farewell that she asked herself the question, but for how long?

Raymond Rhodes had familiarised himself with the areas involved and had attempted to establish some sort of pattern to the comings and goings of both targets. It wasn't going to be easy, neither one of them had been consistent in their movements over the last two days.

Although Robert Makepeace didn't know who was living at the Stroud Street address in Wimbledon, it only took a quick search of the last census to confirm there was just a single occupant at the property. This was a man by the name of Michael Campbell who was roughly the same age as Jonathan Makepeace. Friends, he decided, seeing them go out to a local pub together for a couple of hours on the Monday evening. The following day he left early and came back forty-five minutes later sporting a new haircut and with a newspaper under his arm. Robert Makepeace had described his brother as a vagrant and a loser but it appeared to Rhodes as though he was about to turn over a new leaf.

A patrol of Camberwell Grove on Monday night had indicated that the ex-wife was home alone and tucked up in bed by ten o'clock when the lights went out. On the Tuesday, she had gone to work in her car, arriving at the offices of SI-10 at a little before eight. He didn't stick around – a building full of high-end coppers wasn't exactly the most logical of places to carry out a surveillance. Neither was it advisable to be following her about London so when she left with a dark haired man in a leather jacket and sunglasses a while later, he switched back to tracking Jonathan Makepeace's movements.

It was actually going to happen. He had actually arranged for the death of his own brother. Robert kept going over and over it in his mind, couldn't concentrate on anything else because of it.

There had been no second meeting with Rhodes.

'I'll contact you regarding payment' he had said and sure enough, the next morning, a brief 'phone call from a telephone box had been made, instructing him on when and where the money was to be dropped off. Just like a television crime drama, used bank notes wrapped up in newspaper and put into a plastic carrier bag had been deposited under the fire escape of a derelict industrial unit in Hammersmith. Eight grand now and another four when the job was done.

It had wiped Robert out completely but he didn't have a choice. Speculate to accumulate.

Twelve thousand pounds. How had he come up with that figure, Robert wondered. How had he decided upon the value of a human life? It had been relatively easy negotiating terms with the likes of Gerald and Don. In his capacity as a solicitor practicing criminal law, he was privy to the going rate for such activities and as for street scum like Kitch, well, sometimes just the price of a hot meal was all it took to get the desired information. The twenty pounds he had tipped him last time (four crisp five pound notes because psychology had taught him the importance of quantity alongside worth) was sufficient to ensure a certain brand of loyalty. Not that he was fool enough to believe that he had Kitch in his pocket but like a trained monkey, he would keep returning whilst there were treats to be had.

Maybe a few hundred pounds would have been enough for someone like Kitch but who in their right mind would trust him with that sort of thing.

He had no idea when the job was to be done. Rhodes had told him it would be in the next few days but it was better that he didn't know precisely – the less he knew, the safer they would both be.

He had been thinking too damn much about Jonnie; letting memories in, dwelling on childhood reminiscences that had no place in the here and now. It wasn't that he hated his brother, in fact, if he felt anything it was neutral indifference. Jonnie had always been the weak one, letting himself be pushed around and put upon. A soft touch. Robert despised that particular personality trait. Growing up, Jonnie had been labelled the kind, sensitive, considerate child and he, the ambitious, strong-minded and wilful one. Neither one of them had followed in their father's professional footsteps – a highly regarded Harley Street neurosurgery consultant who had made a name for himself in the mid 1970's with the series of papers he wrote on the use of deep brain stimulation in the treatment of Parkinson's Disease. No doubt a combination of the brothers' personal attributes was required for such a profession and so their father's hopes for his sons went unfulfilled.

His father used to be proud of him. Robert had always been one of life's winners; excelling at most things when he put his mind to it. And he still did only for some reason, his father had stopped viewing his successes as worthwhile accomplishments. He remembered vividly a few years ago being deemed as 'ruthless' and 'callous' by him after describing his method of taking out the competition when a promotion opportunity arose. His closest rival for the position had been Scott King and Robert had seen nothing wrong in acting chummy and exchanging ideas and tips in the spirit of comradeship... And going out every night straight after work for a few drinks in the bar round the corner – plying a man with a hidden alcohol problem with enough booze to wreck his chances in front of the interview board on that Tuesday morning. Robert had thought his actions rather clever if a little underhand whereas Patrick Makepeace had branded him amoral. They had crossed swords on numerous occasions over the years, drifted apart mentally if not physically. Both sons were regular visitors to the family home, well, had been up until the last eighteen months anyway.

Although out of favour with his father, Robert had always had a soft spot for his mother. How he wished that brain haemorrhage had taken him and not her. Thirteen years his junior, she had no business dying so soon before him. He would probably have lost contact with Patrick Makepeace at that stage if it hadn't been for Jonnie visiting even more regularly after her death, playing the dutiful son, the kind, sensitive, considerate child again.

The dementia took a hold with alarming swiftness and it was at that point that Robert had discovered the full and dramatic extent of the damage to the fractured relationship between father and son.